[ Whenever Verso's thoughts had wandered back to that night, he hadn't quite dared to imagine what might've happened if he did turn up again. But his thoughts have always went where they pleased no matter what he wants, and he may have played out some things in his mind about what the hell he may have wanted. But he still doesn't know. Just a distraction, maybe. Something else. Something more.
The earnestness in Gustave's expression when he asks is familiar. A different emotion, now, but just as honest, vulnerable, open. Verso reaches out, again without thinking, already regretting the movement partway through but its too late to change his mind, fingers curving over Gustave's wrist before his hand falls back to his side completely. He's warm, solid, his own touch light but firm, and -- putain, the last time he's touched a nother person was this, wasn't it. His moment of weakness with this same man, nine months ago. ]
No. [ He shakes his head -- the corner of his mouth quirking upward ever so slightly, not wanting to make fun of him but definitely a little amused. How could Gustave had done anything wrong? All they'd done was talk for a while, all Gustave had done was ask for another song, ask to see him again. A beat, and he lets his fingers shift against his hand, calloused ragging against skin, thumb slipping over his pulse. A gesture that's -- intimate. That makes it clear the touch is intentional. ] I hope you didn't get that impression, from me.
[ But now comes the problem. He needs to pick a lie. Or at least gesture at the right kind of lie. ]
It was only that . . .
[ Verso lets his voice trail into quiet. Lets his eyes drift away from Gustave's. Over the other man's shoulder, across the rooftops of shattered Lumiere, over the horizon, ad the Monolith. His heart aches whenever he looks at it, but for -- a different reason, than most of Lumiere. The Paintress form', or a version of her, cured up and sobbing, always sobbing, her shoulders shaking with a sorrow too deep for any of them to understand.
He could mean he's close to his Gommage. He could mean leading in to an Expedition. He could mean that, just like some find it best to throw themselves into what pleasures they can as their life dwindles down, others find it only painful, futile, pointless. Whichever one it might be, or something else, Verso doesn't seem to want to give voice to it, except to assure Gustave that it wasn't him.
That part, at least, isn't a lie. Even if everything else is. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 02:52 am (UTC)The earnestness in Gustave's expression when he asks is familiar. A different emotion, now, but just as honest, vulnerable, open. Verso reaches out, again without thinking, already regretting the movement partway through but its too late to change his mind, fingers curving over Gustave's wrist before his hand falls back to his side completely. He's warm, solid, his own touch light but firm, and -- putain, the last time he's touched a nother person was this, wasn't it. His moment of weakness with this same man, nine months ago. ]
No. [ He shakes his head -- the corner of his mouth quirking upward ever so slightly, not wanting to make fun of him but definitely a little amused. How could Gustave had done anything wrong? All they'd done was talk for a while, all Gustave had done was ask for another song, ask to see him again. A beat, and he lets his fingers shift against his hand, calloused ragging against skin, thumb slipping over his pulse. A gesture that's -- intimate. That makes it clear the touch is intentional. ] I hope you didn't get that impression, from me.
[ But now comes the problem. He needs to pick a lie. Or at least gesture at the right kind of lie. ]
It was only that . . .
[ Verso lets his voice trail into quiet. Lets his eyes drift away from Gustave's. Over the other man's shoulder, across the rooftops of shattered Lumiere, over the horizon, ad the Monolith. His heart aches whenever he looks at it, but for -- a different reason, than most of Lumiere. The Paintress form', or a version of her, cured up and sobbing, always sobbing, her shoulders shaking with a sorrow too deep for any of them to understand.
He could mean he's close to his Gommage. He could mean leading in to an Expedition. He could mean that, just like some find it best to throw themselves into what pleasures they can as their life dwindles down, others find it only painful, futile, pointless. Whichever one it might be, or something else, Verso doesn't seem to want to give voice to it, except to assure Gustave that it wasn't him.
That part, at least, isn't a lie. Even if everything else is. ]