[ The corner of his mouth quirks upward slightly when Gustave says it was just a lucky guess -- when his shoulder pushes just slightly against his own. He notes that the other man never leaned back or pulled away, and as his hand settles back on the center of the keys, notes that Gustave is giving the request some real, actual thought. He takes those few moments of quiet comtemplation to study him a little more. The line of his nose, strong, bold, gaze once again tracing his jawline, to his lips, his throat. A brief glance down his hands, gleaming metal and not. Verso doesn't know what the man does, has never observed that much. Perhaps that arm in his own work. He doesn't stare at it too much (it feels -- impolite), but he sees some of the mechanisms, the lines of engraved pictos.
And when Gustave decides . . . A happy memory, huh. He acknowledges request a thoughtful hum, another slightly amused smile when he turns his gaze back to the keys again. Something happy. Music is a language all of its own, and Gustave may have called himself no connoisseur, but how much did he hear in what Verso had played before? How much of that longing, how much of that -- pain?
Happy memories are few, now. Tinged with bitterness, with regrets, with the weight of the awful truth of everything. Often in the lonely nights he tries to see if he can tell which memories are his own, and which -- aren't. A futile exercise, a miserable one. Even papa, even Renoir, would tell him not to, that it only led to misery. But he can't help but wonder just where the seams are, where he was stitched together, where things were made -- and between all that. What happiness was there?
He starts to play. Like before, the first notes seem to come a little slowly, but this time its not quite because of nerves, but because he's finding te melody itself. No specific song, something improvisational, and happy or not there's something bittersweet to that first line or two as he settles in. Couldn't he just make something up, just play something generically playful, make up a story if he's asked to talk about it? Yes. Of course he can. But he's learning today just how much music will pull the truth from him compared to words, and he remembers family. Remembers Lumiere, before the Fracture. Taking off Alicia's mask, distracting her from her uncertainty but convincing her to dance with him a while, watching a smile form on her lips through the scars, Clea rolling her eyes nearby but not hiding her own little smile, too. He remembers this, remembers music, remembers playing for some of his family, or for people, for Julie, for others, a welcome sliver of happiness before he going back to the pressures of his family. And even after so much pain, out on the continent, desperate, alone -- he remembers things like having Monoco, playing games with him, blatantly cheating. Esquie not even minding.
The song is a little more technically complex than the one before -- perhaps in improvisation he can't resist the urge to show off just a bit to his audience. Its not quite purely bright and joyful and sounds more like finding those happy memories where he can. Clawing what joy he can manage from the jaws of something painful. The melody is bright, playful, sometimes dragged under by something but always soaring back. Pushing forward. Somehow. Somehow. Again, the last notes linger, defiant even as they strike out into the waiting silence.
Verso isn't quite smiling when he plays. But when he looks up from the keys and turns to Gustave, waiting for his promised praise, eyebrows lifted -- there's the smile, a little playful, expectant. ]
no subject
And when Gustave decides . . . A happy memory, huh. He acknowledges request a thoughtful hum, another slightly amused smile when he turns his gaze back to the keys again. Something happy. Music is a language all of its own, and Gustave may have called himself no connoisseur, but how much did he hear in what Verso had played before? How much of that longing, how much of that -- pain?
Happy memories are few, now. Tinged with bitterness, with regrets, with the weight of the awful truth of everything. Often in the lonely nights he tries to see if he can tell which memories are his own, and which -- aren't. A futile exercise, a miserable one. Even papa, even Renoir, would tell him not to, that it only led to misery. But he can't help but wonder just where the seams are, where he was stitched together, where things were made -- and between all that. What happiness was there?
He starts to play. Like before, the first notes seem to come a little slowly, but this time its not quite because of nerves, but because he's finding te melody itself. No specific song, something improvisational, and happy or not there's something bittersweet to that first line or two as he settles in. Couldn't he just make something up, just play something generically playful, make up a story if he's asked to talk about it? Yes. Of course he can. But he's learning today just how much music will pull the truth from him compared to words, and he remembers family. Remembers Lumiere, before the Fracture. Taking off Alicia's mask, distracting her from her uncertainty but convincing her to dance with him a while, watching a smile form on her lips through the scars, Clea rolling her eyes nearby but not hiding her own little smile, too. He remembers this, remembers music, remembers playing for some of his family, or for people, for Julie, for others, a welcome sliver of happiness before he going back to the pressures of his family. And even after so much pain, out on the continent, desperate, alone -- he remembers things like having Monoco, playing games with him, blatantly cheating. Esquie not even minding.
The song is a little more technically complex than the one before -- perhaps in improvisation he can't resist the urge to show off just a bit to his audience. Its not quite purely bright and joyful and sounds more like finding those happy memories where he can. Clawing what joy he can manage from the jaws of something painful. The melody is bright, playful, sometimes dragged under by something but always soaring back. Pushing forward. Somehow. Somehow. Again, the last notes linger, defiant even as they strike out into the waiting silence.
Verso isn't quite smiling when he plays. But when he looks up from the keys and turns to Gustave, waiting for his promised praise, eyebrows lifted -- there's the smile, a little playful, expectant. ]
-- I was promised effusive.
[ Pay up, bucko. ]