[ It's exactly that the opera house that Verso imagines: Gustave in the audience, maybe with Maelle. Enjoying himself and moved by the music all the same, but maybe as the curtains fall swaying forward slightly in his seat to see if there was a certain familiar face among all the performers, or among any of the crew that had come on during a curtain call. And every time, disappointed.
There are ways to play this. He's not directly answered Gustave's question of where he's even been, and the man hasn't chased after that too much -- Lumiere is even smaller now than it was nine months ago, but not quite so small and desperate that not seeing a certain stranger in that time is unthinkable. If all Verso wants is a clean escape, then it seems like he has one, find a graceful way to exit this conversation, or maybe even just excuse himself for a meeting that doesn't exist.
But, it seems he's fucking learned nothing, because instead. ]
I don't think you needed to go as far as to hurtle yourself off a roof to try and meet me.
[ . . . Not a great joke. Everyone's learned to be a bit laisseiz-faire about death in Lumiere, but Verso's even worse about that than most. He grimaces, looking away, sheepish -- not nearly as devastatingly embarrassed as Gustave had seemed that night, not even fully breaking eye contact -- looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Even if it was just a chance meeting, a fleeting moment, a not-quite-promise, that connection had felt real enough that he couldn't help himself but act on it. That there was something there he wanted. Something he might still want.
He rolls his shoulders back slightly, tilting his head back, hair falling slightly out of his face as he looks back at him, a question in his eyes. ]
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There are ways to play this. He's not directly answered Gustave's question of where he's even been, and the man hasn't chased after that too much -- Lumiere is even smaller now than it was nine months ago, but not quite so small and desperate that not seeing a certain stranger in that time is unthinkable. If all Verso wants is a clean escape, then it seems like he has one, find a graceful way to exit this conversation, or maybe even just excuse himself for a meeting that doesn't exist.
But, it seems he's fucking learned nothing, because instead. ]
I don't think you needed to go as far as to hurtle yourself off a roof to try and meet me.
[ . . . Not a great joke. Everyone's learned to be a bit laisseiz-faire about death in Lumiere, but Verso's even worse about that than most. He grimaces, looking away, sheepish -- not nearly as devastatingly embarrassed as Gustave had seemed that night, not even fully breaking eye contact -- looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Even if it was just a chance meeting, a fleeting moment, a not-quite-promise, that connection had felt real enough that he couldn't help himself but act on it. That there was something there he wanted. Something he might still want.
He rolls his shoulders back slightly, tilting his head back, hair falling slightly out of his face as he looks back at him, a question in his eyes. ]
But it worked.
[ You found him.
Now what? ]