[ Verso's eyebrows lift ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward when Gustave hesitates. That moment of sheepishness, tongue flicking out over his lower lip -- almost cute? Yes. Cute. But if there's some teasing about it in his eyes, he doesn't give voice to it, just watching as the other man considers his offer to cross the threshold the stage creates between them, until he makes his mind. He keeps watching him as he turns away, considering his words ( sisters, one is Maelle, surely -- ) and how they pull a little a the quiet weight in his chest.
Something in him relaxes a little more, when Gustave pulls the door shut, a quiet relief -- he'd like to play more, would like to have less chance of the music drawing any more attention from any curious passerby, god forbid, from Maelle coming to look for her guardian. And as the sliver of light that pours in from Lumiere beyond vanishes, it feels almost like the space in the hall doubles in size. The silence that much more profound, a building designed to ensure even whispers on stage can echo out to the furthest seats and the balconies, but not beyond them, to keep it all in. But its just them here. Anyone could open that door, but there's something that makes this feel -- private. Intimate.
Still a bad idea, probably. Something he'll berate himself for later. But like Gustave can't pass up a private show, maybe he genuinely can't pass up a private audience, a rare chance to just have someone hear him, for however long this moment lasts. Every footfall echoes throughout the opera house, every step louder and louder, suddenly giving Verso plenty of time to ponder how he's invited the man closer.
Verso watches Gustave move up, his gaze lingering briefly on his face, his frame, a curious flick towards his arm before his eyes turn back to the keys. After a moment of pause, wordlessly he shifts slightly along the piano bench, a silent invitation to sit beside him. ]
Now I have to make this private show worthy of your time, and your sisters'?
[ A quiet, amused sound. he flexes his fingers over the keys, and even the quiet crack of his knuckles sounds a little too loud, in the space. ]
I hope I'm up to the task.
[ Part of him feels almost -- nervous. Absurd. Not like he hasn't lied to expeditioners before. ... Maybe its the opera house, being on stage again. But as Gustave's footsteps sound louder and louder, approaching from behind him on the stage, that feeling only heightens, and Verso just does what comes naturally: he plays. A little slow to start, a gentle hesitancy to the notes falling slightly behind their own rhythm, like he's a little unsure. But only for the first phrase, before Gustave even gets too close. The music is so natural, to him, flows from his fingertips like nothing. He knows a thousand songs by heart, but the tune that comes first is always the same, the one that Gustave heard briefly before, too: what he used to play for his sister, what feels like a lifetime ago.
When was the last time he played for someone? When was the last time he let himself play at all? There's a moment where the thought occurs to him that this instinct he has, to hide behind music instead of conversation when he's invited the man up here himself -- that he can't hide behind it at all, that it's more honest and intimate than any words he ever chooses to say. But the thoughts fade the more he plays, the more his hands remember what they've always loved to do. The music rings out, slowly filling that vast echoing emptiness in the opera house with a sweet and wistful yearning for a time long gone -- until a few minutes later as the melody finally resolves, his fingers lingering on those last notes as they echo and echo and echo, the quiet starting to return. ]
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Something in him relaxes a little more, when Gustave pulls the door shut, a quiet relief -- he'd like to play more, would like to have less chance of the music drawing any more attention from any curious passerby, god forbid, from Maelle coming to look for her guardian. And as the sliver of light that pours in from Lumiere beyond vanishes, it feels almost like the space in the hall doubles in size. The silence that much more profound, a building designed to ensure even whispers on stage can echo out to the furthest seats and the balconies, but not beyond them, to keep it all in. But its just them here. Anyone could open that door, but there's something that makes this feel -- private. Intimate.
Still a bad idea, probably. Something he'll berate himself for later. But like Gustave can't pass up a private show, maybe he genuinely can't pass up a private audience, a rare chance to just have someone hear him, for however long this moment lasts. Every footfall echoes throughout the opera house, every step louder and louder, suddenly giving Verso plenty of time to ponder how he's invited the man closer.
Verso watches Gustave move up, his gaze lingering briefly on his face, his frame, a curious flick towards his arm before his eyes turn back to the keys. After a moment of pause, wordlessly he shifts slightly along the piano bench, a silent invitation to sit beside him. ]
Now I have to make this private show worthy of your time, and your sisters'?
[ A quiet, amused sound. he flexes his fingers over the keys, and even the quiet crack of his knuckles sounds a little too loud, in the space. ]
I hope I'm up to the task.
[ Part of him feels almost -- nervous. Absurd. Not like he hasn't lied to expeditioners before. ... Maybe its the opera house, being on stage again. But as Gustave's footsteps sound louder and louder, approaching from behind him on the stage, that feeling only heightens, and Verso just does what comes naturally: he plays. A little slow to start, a gentle hesitancy to the notes falling slightly behind their own rhythm, like he's a little unsure. But only for the first phrase, before Gustave even gets too close. The music is so natural, to him, flows from his fingertips like nothing. He knows a thousand songs by heart, but the tune that comes first is always the same, the one that Gustave heard briefly before, too: what he used to play for his sister, what feels like a lifetime ago.
When was the last time he played for someone? When was the last time he let himself play at all? There's a moment where the thought occurs to him that this instinct he has, to hide behind music instead of conversation when he's invited the man up here himself -- that he can't hide behind it at all, that it's more honest and intimate than any words he ever chooses to say. But the thoughts fade the more he plays, the more his hands remember what they've always loved to do. The music rings out, slowly filling that vast echoing emptiness in the opera house with a sweet and wistful yearning for a time long gone -- until a few minutes later as the melody finally resolves, his fingers lingering on those last notes as they echo and echo and echo, the quiet starting to return. ]