[ Stumbling over his words again. He wets his lip and ducks his head, half-smiling, half-grimacing at himself, before he looks up with a shrug. ]
Nothing terribly important. And I don't mind being a little late for dinner if it means a private concert. I think my sisters would understand.
[ Emma would, anyway. In the year since ending things with Sophie, he'd largely kept his head down, focusing on his work, his family, his friends, without too much deviation from routine. She'd be pleased, he thinks, that he's easing out of the norm, meeting someone new.
The suggestion that he come up on stage himself... well, this whole thing is strangely intimate, considering it's a passing interaction with a stranger. They are the only two souls in this whole huge building, and without the murmurs of many other voices, the muffling effect of many other bodies, their words carry through the theatre as clearly as if they were standing next to one another. Gustave's lips part; he plans to demur, to take his seat down here as any polite member of the audience might, until a thought strikes him and he lifts a finger in the air, shaking it as he turns around and away: one moment.
His steps are brisk as he walks back up the aisle to the door that had been left ajar and that he now reaches to pull closed, effectively sealing them off from any other curious passers-by. It isn't locked, anyone could come in, but as the door slides closed, he can't help feeling a sense of having slipped into some bubble no one else can enter or even see, like the impossible, elusive worlds in pocket universes that populate so many of the books he's read with Maelle.
It's just a closed door. Nothing more. He turns and comes back down the aisle again, and this time he doesn't stop at the bottom, goes around the pit and up the stairs at the side to walk up onto the stage, every step sounding impossibly loud. ]
Who am I to pass up a chance to watch an artist at work?
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Date: 2025-05-22 12:53 pm (UTC)[ Stumbling over his words again. He wets his lip and ducks his head, half-smiling, half-grimacing at himself, before he looks up with a shrug. ]
Nothing terribly important. And I don't mind being a little late for dinner if it means a private concert. I think my sisters would understand.
[ Emma would, anyway. In the year since ending things with Sophie, he'd largely kept his head down, focusing on his work, his family, his friends, without too much deviation from routine. She'd be pleased, he thinks, that he's easing out of the norm, meeting someone new.
The suggestion that he come up on stage himself... well, this whole thing is strangely intimate, considering it's a passing interaction with a stranger. They are the only two souls in this whole huge building, and without the murmurs of many other voices, the muffling effect of many other bodies, their words carry through the theatre as clearly as if they were standing next to one another. Gustave's lips part; he plans to demur, to take his seat down here as any polite member of the audience might, until a thought strikes him and he lifts a finger in the air, shaking it as he turns around and away: one moment.
His steps are brisk as he walks back up the aisle to the door that had been left ajar and that he now reaches to pull closed, effectively sealing them off from any other curious passers-by. It isn't locked, anyone could come in, but as the door slides closed, he can't help feeling a sense of having slipped into some bubble no one else can enter or even see, like the impossible, elusive worlds in pocket universes that populate so many of the books he's read with Maelle.
It's just a closed door. Nothing more. He turns and comes back down the aisle again, and this time he doesn't stop at the bottom, goes around the pit and up the stairs at the side to walk up onto the stage, every step sounding impossibly loud. ]
Who am I to pass up a chance to watch an artist at work?