Verso keeps making these damn decisions with this man, pressing things here and there, chasing after something he isn't quite sure he really wants. He keeps thinking he can just step out of it, if it goes too wrong or out of hand. What he was hoping for or was expecting here was maybe just a quiet acknowledgment, and then just -- moving on, maybe pressing a little further just for a moment, depending on how he felt, how Gustave responded to his hand over his wrist.
He isn't expecting this. And it's such a simple thing, a single flower, freshly plucked. ( Julie brought him flowers, once, a bouquet for one of his first performances. They'd been red, for love, association with the Gommage not a horror they needed to think of back then, but now whenever he thinks of her, the red, it just blends, and bleeds, and -- ) In the moment, blinking at the offered gift, he dimly realizes that Gustave is saying he had gotten him more flowers, that night. A bouquet. His fingers twitch slightly against Gustave's wrist. How --
Disarming. That's what he'd thought that night, too. His smile, the kindness in his eyes, earnest and eager, his stumbling over his own words. Like something reaches in to the part of Verso that's always holding a sword and dagger at the ready, that's always listening and watching for the right things to do and say to get what he wants and needs, always looking for the right mask slip behind, the opportune shadows to slip away -- and maybe it doesn't rip them from him, but its almost like he can feel a hand on his arm, forcing his sword down.
A blink. And a laugh, quiet and rumbling. At the situation, at Gustave's charm, at -- himself. He's awful. Doesn't fucking know how to interact with people anymore, especially someone earnest as Gustave, and he really should stop fucking with him before he regrets all of this more than he already does. But Verso knows, he already knows, that he can't help himself. ]
I don't think I have anywhere to put it.
[ His thumb circles ever so slightly against the pulse point in Gustave's wrist. Following the vein, his voice sliding just ever so slightly lower, softer. ]
no subject
Verso keeps making these damn decisions with this man, pressing things here and there, chasing after something he isn't quite sure he really wants. He keeps thinking he can just step out of it, if it goes too wrong or out of hand. What he was hoping for or was expecting here was maybe just a quiet acknowledgment, and then just -- moving on, maybe pressing a little further just for a moment, depending on how he felt, how Gustave responded to his hand over his wrist.
He isn't expecting this. And it's such a simple thing, a single flower, freshly plucked. ( Julie brought him flowers, once, a bouquet for one of his first performances. They'd been red, for love, association with the Gommage not a horror they needed to think of back then, but now whenever he thinks of her, the red, it just blends, and bleeds, and -- ) In the moment, blinking at the offered gift, he dimly realizes that Gustave is saying he had gotten him more flowers, that night. A bouquet. His fingers twitch slightly against Gustave's wrist. How --
Disarming. That's what he'd thought that night, too. His smile, the kindness in his eyes, earnest and eager, his stumbling over his own words. Like something reaches in to the part of Verso that's always holding a sword and dagger at the ready, that's always listening and watching for the right things to do and say to get what he wants and needs, always looking for the right mask slip behind, the opportune shadows to slip away -- and maybe it doesn't rip them from him, but its almost like he can feel a hand on his arm, forcing his sword down.
A blink. And a laugh, quiet and rumbling. At the situation, at Gustave's charm, at -- himself. He's awful. Doesn't fucking know how to interact with people anymore, especially someone earnest as Gustave, and he really should stop fucking with him before he regrets all of this more than he already does. But Verso knows, he already knows, that he can't help himself. ]
I don't think I have anywhere to put it.
[ His thumb circles ever so slightly against the pulse point in Gustave's wrist. Following the vein, his voice sliding just ever so slightly lower, softer. ]
-- My collar, maybe?
[ Tuck it in there, for him, will you? ]