[ He's still staring when the man shifts and offers a hand out to pull him up, rocking him with a bizarre sensation of déjà vu. He remembers setting his hand into those waiting fingers. He remembers the way the dim light shone on the man's dark hair as he bent his head and brushed his lips and a few too-sweet words over his knuckles. Verso.
Gustave doesn't bat the hand away, but he doesn't take it either, leaning instead on his own knee to push himself up to standing. Verso seems to have taken the hit a little better; he's already up and moving almost as easily as if they hadn't just slammed into a brick roof. ]
I suppose I should.
[ There are other things he remembers, too, like the way he'd turned toward the flower stalls on his way to the opera house that day only to chastise himself for a fool and turn away again. He'd only made it a few steps before he'd returned, conscious of the absurdity of it all but unable to stop himself. The flowers he'd selected had been a lot like the ones that surround them now: bright yellows and soft pinks and a few deep violet — colors not of the Gommage but of possibility. A new beginning. A bouquet for a performer, to congratulate them on a concert.
And he remembers the sound the door had made when it creaked open into a totally silent building, how his footsteps had echoed. He remembers the note, reading it, the way the ink smeared. If he hadn't stopped for flowers, maybe he would have made it in time. I'm sorry. A cluster of musical notation Gustave has no idea how to play and can't begin to understand.
The note has spent the better part of a year tucked away into a drawer in his study at home. The flowers he'd left behind to gather dust and wilt where they lay, alone on the piano bench they'd shared.
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Date: 2025-05-23 06:05 pm (UTC)Gustave doesn't bat the hand away, but he doesn't take it either, leaning instead on his own knee to push himself up to standing. Verso seems to have taken the hit a little better; he's already up and moving almost as easily as if they hadn't just slammed into a brick roof. ]
I suppose I should.
[ There are other things he remembers, too, like the way he'd turned toward the flower stalls on his way to the opera house that day only to chastise himself for a fool and turn away again. He'd only made it a few steps before he'd returned, conscious of the absurdity of it all but unable to stop himself. The flowers he'd selected had been a lot like the ones that surround them now: bright yellows and soft pinks and a few deep violet — colors not of the Gommage but of possibility. A new beginning. A bouquet for a performer, to congratulate them on a concert.
And he remembers the sound the door had made when it creaked open into a totally silent building, how his footsteps had echoed. He remembers the note, reading it, the way the ink smeared. If he hadn't stopped for flowers, maybe he would have made it in time. I'm sorry. A cluster of musical notation Gustave has no idea how to play and can't begin to understand.
The note has spent the better part of a year tucked away into a drawer in his study at home. The flowers he'd left behind to gather dust and wilt where they lay, alone on the piano bench they'd shared.
A little stiffly: ]
Thank you. You saved my life.