[ The hesitation, Verso was expecting, confusion, hesitation -- though it still lasts a bit longer than he was perhaps hoping for. What was he hoping for? Merde, he doesn't know, but any longer and he would've had time to second guess himself and think and remind himself how this is all a terrible idea. He has reasons for making sure few people manage to see him, let alone talk to him, in all of these little visits to Lumiere. Reasons for making sure he keeps the Expeditioners at arms length or even further whenever he meets them on the continent.
But he fails, doesn't he? He fails all the time at keeping himself distant, keeping away. That moment stretches just enough where Verso is about to maybe pull back, but then Gustave's hand settles in his own. Warm, solid, and immediately Verso realizes how goddamn long it's been since he's had any kind of contact with another person, his own fingers briefly twitching instinctively against Gustave's.
This clearly wasn't super well thought through, given how after he takes his hand, there's yet another beat, a hesitation hanging in the air. But then he moves, his hand squeezing gently over Gustave's, drawing it close as he drops his gaze. Its so light that it might even be scarcely called a kiss, his lips brushing against the back of his palm, dusting over his knuckles. ]
-- I am glad to play something worthy of my audience, monsieur.
[ There's humor in the words, but it's softer, quieter, a bit above a murmur that would be lost against his skin, just loud enough to be heard.
Its just nice to be heard. This could be useful, later. Maybe he'll never see him again. Maybe he just can't help himself with someone so earnest and eager to listen to him, in his appreciation of his music. Maybe its nice to have someone refer to him as a musician and not know him as anything else, as anyone else. Maybe, maybe --
-- In that same movement he straightens back to his full height. His thumb (rough, calloused, decades of living out in the Continent outside the mansion, of fighting with a sword and dagger) brushing against the side of Gustave's hand, fingers curling lightly into his palm before he lets his hand fall away completely. ]
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But he fails, doesn't he? He fails all the time at keeping himself distant, keeping away. That moment stretches just enough where Verso is about to maybe pull back, but then Gustave's hand settles in his own. Warm, solid, and immediately Verso realizes how goddamn long it's been since he's had any kind of contact with another person, his own fingers briefly twitching instinctively against Gustave's.
This clearly wasn't super well thought through, given how after he takes his hand, there's yet another beat, a hesitation hanging in the air. But then he moves, his hand squeezing gently over Gustave's, drawing it close as he drops his gaze. Its so light that it might even be scarcely called a kiss, his lips brushing against the back of his palm, dusting over his knuckles. ]
-- I am glad to play something worthy of my audience, monsieur.
[ There's humor in the words, but it's softer, quieter, a bit above a murmur that would be lost against his skin, just loud enough to be heard.
Its just nice to be heard. This could be useful, later. Maybe he'll never see him again. Maybe he just can't help himself with someone so earnest and eager to listen to him, in his appreciation of his music. Maybe its nice to have someone refer to him as a musician and not know him as anything else, as anyone else. Maybe, maybe --
-- In that same movement he straightens back to his full height. His thumb (rough, calloused, decades of living out in the Continent outside the mansion, of fighting with a sword and dagger) brushing against the side of Gustave's hand, fingers curling lightly into his palm before he lets his hand fall away completely. ]