[ Music is a universal language, something that would speak to any who are waiting and willing to hear it. But even then, not everyone can really hear it, give themselves to it, let it move them. Often because they hold themselves off, it takes a certain willingness to let yourself be vulnerable and connect to art, and often because they don't really need or want to, are happy to hear something pleasant and enjoy it on that level. But Gustave, Verso observes, almost can't seem to help himself. He can almost see how Gustave loses himself to his own quiet reverie, to a life and memories that Verso doesn't know about and has no right to, to whatever joys and pains the man has found for himself in oppressive shadow that looms over Lumiere.
Its nice to be -- heard.
Verso isn't expecting Gustave to literally rise to his feet, but, he supposes he did say effusive. The applause, so small and singular in the echoing opera house, might seem almost unintentionally sarcastic, especially with the overwrought praise, except for how there's so clearly a sincerity to it, an earnestness, how he'd seen in the moments before he asked for his praise that Gustave had been struck genuinely speechless.
Perhaps he was wrong, before. There is clearly part of him that might like a captive audience.
Verso stands to take his bow, a grand flourish, overexaggerated, and there's a moment somewhere there in that movement where he pauses. Considers. Makes a decision. And in that same movement of a bow, in the way of a stately gentleman at court ( a little comical given his rough-around-the-edges appearance ) -- he extends his hand, palm up. Offering it for Gustave to take, his head tipped up just enough to be looking up at him, meeting his eyes. Curious, letting it linger, though its clear he'll simply pull back if not taken, awkward as it may be. ]
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Its nice to be -- heard.
Verso isn't expecting Gustave to literally rise to his feet, but, he supposes he did say effusive. The applause, so small and singular in the echoing opera house, might seem almost unintentionally sarcastic, especially with the overwrought praise, except for how there's so clearly a sincerity to it, an earnestness, how he'd seen in the moments before he asked for his praise that Gustave had been struck genuinely speechless.
Perhaps he was wrong, before. There is clearly part of him that might like a captive audience.
Verso stands to take his bow, a grand flourish, overexaggerated, and there's a moment somewhere there in that movement where he pauses. Considers. Makes a decision. And in that same movement of a bow, in the way of a stately gentleman at court ( a little comical given his rough-around-the-edges appearance ) -- he extends his hand, palm up. Offering it for Gustave to take, his head tipped up just enough to be looking up at him, meeting his eyes. Curious, letting it linger, though its clear he'll simply pull back if not taken, awkward as it may be. ]