[ His head turns just enough to catch a glimpse of the figure stepping forward from the shadows, but just from the light cast from the still-open door ( How, when did he get so careless? ), catching the edges of his frame, the curls of his hair -- he thinks he knows who it might be. That ever-present dreadful weight in his chest returns, all the heavier for the brief blissful moments in that music when it'd almost seemed to disappear, even more when he hears the man's voice.
Gustave. Verso knows his name. How could he not, when Maelle calls him so often, laughing, taunting, often with a roll of her eyes. These past thirteen years since Clea had entrusted him with yet another painful truth of the world he cannot choose to unknow, entrusted him with another quiet task -- he's come back to Lumiere. Not too often, never for too long. Just enough to make sure the girl is well. Not enough to know when her parents gommaged except that it was clearly far too soon, not enough to know how many doors she'd been through in the orphanage except it'd clearly been too many. Just enough to know how much she clearly seemed to like being apart from most of the people in her city -- enough to know when someone else started stepping in to watch over her, to take care of her, and to notice how much more she seemed to smile.
And Gustave might've seen him earlier, just watching her, merde --
Breathe. Think. It was a brief moment of carelessness ( much like this was a greater moment of carelessness ), could easily have not been enough for the man to get a good look at him. Right now, he needs to be just -- a stranger, a sentimental one, who couldn't help himself with an unattended piano. Which has just enough truth to it. Slowly, muscle by muscle, he forces himself to relax, his shoulders rolling slightly to shake some of that stiffness out of him. He drops his head slightly, sheepish, embarrassed, again, all true feelings in the moment, pivoting slightly on the piano bench to face his surprise audience fully. ]
No, no. [ Putain, its been yet another long while since he's just talked to someone. He manages a smile, still sheepish. Light. ] I'm flattered, for my playing to draw someone's attention.
Sorry. I -- Couldn't quite help myself. [ He lifts a hand, a gesture towards the piano. The kind of man who felt such a call to an untouched instrument he couldn't help but sound a few notes: again, not at all untrue. That weakness was real. ]
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Date: 2025-05-22 12:01 am (UTC)Gustave. Verso knows his name. How could he not, when Maelle calls him so often, laughing, taunting, often with a roll of her eyes. These past thirteen years since Clea had entrusted him with yet another painful truth of the world he cannot choose to unknow, entrusted him with another quiet task -- he's come back to Lumiere. Not too often, never for too long. Just enough to make sure the girl is well. Not enough to know when her parents gommaged except that it was clearly far too soon, not enough to know how many doors she'd been through in the orphanage except it'd clearly been too many. Just enough to know how much she clearly seemed to like being apart from most of the people in her city -- enough to know when someone else started stepping in to watch over her, to take care of her, and to notice how much more she seemed to smile.
And Gustave might've seen him earlier, just watching her, merde --
Breathe. Think. It was a brief moment of carelessness ( much like this was a greater moment of carelessness ), could easily have not been enough for the man to get a good look at him. Right now, he needs to be just -- a stranger, a sentimental one, who couldn't help himself with an unattended piano. Which has just enough truth to it. Slowly, muscle by muscle, he forces himself to relax, his shoulders rolling slightly to shake some of that stiffness out of him. He drops his head slightly, sheepish, embarrassed, again, all true feelings in the moment, pivoting slightly on the piano bench to face his surprise audience fully. ]
No, no. [ Putain, its been yet another long while since he's just talked to someone. He manages a smile, still sheepish. Light. ] I'm flattered, for my playing to draw someone's attention.
Sorry. I -- Couldn't quite help myself. [ He lifts a hand, a gesture towards the piano. The kind of man who felt such a call to an untouched instrument he couldn't help but sound a few notes: again, not at all untrue. That weakness was real. ]