[ There's a moment's pause before a quick laugh, and Gustave thinks Verso isn't a man who is often surprised. Or maybe it's that other people don't often try to surprise him.
Or perhaps it's just been a long time since someone offered him flowers, which would be a shame. They shouldn't only be for the grief of the Gommage. Either way, it seems he likes it: there's a brightness to those incredible clear eyes of his that had been missing before. ]
Mm.
[ Hummed in consideration as he twirls the flower for a moment between metal finger and metal thumb (a good test of his remaining fine motor control as much as it is fiddling, his nerves all cautiously alight). He shifts his weight to his other leg, tipping his head as he gives the other man a considering look: true, not many places for a flower, and he hadn't happened to be carrying a pin of any kind. His gaze flickers up for a moment to Verso's face, to the dark waves of hair that frame one side and the streaks of white marking the other. An image floats unbidden into his mind, of putting this flower not somewhere safely into a pocket or buttonhole, but of stepping close, pushing those thick waves gently out of the way, and slipping the green stem into the soft mass of Verso's dark hair, tucked snugly behind his ear.
No part of that thought escapes his mind and becomes real except for the way his eyes soften, his lips quirk momentarily into the ghost of a smile, and in the next moment he's lifting his hand out of Verso's gentle grasp and taking a step closer so he can use it to help slip the flower neatly into the buttonhole of the man's lapel, eyes dropping to watch his own work.
And then it's there, as secure as he can make it without a pin, soft and lush against the fabric, a light scent lifting on the breeze, and Gustave doesn't let his fingers linger for longer than a heartbeat before he's lifting them away and stepping back again. ]
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Or perhaps it's just been a long time since someone offered him flowers, which would be a shame. They shouldn't only be for the grief of the Gommage. Either way, it seems he likes it: there's a brightness to those incredible clear eyes of his that had been missing before. ]
Mm.
[ Hummed in consideration as he twirls the flower for a moment between metal finger and metal thumb (a good test of his remaining fine motor control as much as it is fiddling, his nerves all cautiously alight). He shifts his weight to his other leg, tipping his head as he gives the other man a considering look: true, not many places for a flower, and he hadn't happened to be carrying a pin of any kind. His gaze flickers up for a moment to Verso's face, to the dark waves of hair that frame one side and the streaks of white marking the other. An image floats unbidden into his mind, of putting this flower not somewhere safely into a pocket or buttonhole, but of stepping close, pushing those thick waves gently out of the way, and slipping the green stem into the soft mass of Verso's dark hair, tucked snugly behind his ear.
No part of that thought escapes his mind and becomes real except for the way his eyes soften, his lips quirk momentarily into the ghost of a smile, and in the next moment he's lifting his hand out of Verso's gentle grasp and taking a step closer so he can use it to help slip the flower neatly into the buttonhole of the man's lapel, eyes dropping to watch his own work.
And then it's there, as secure as he can make it without a pin, soft and lush against the fabric, a light scent lifting on the breeze, and Gustave doesn't let his fingers linger for longer than a heartbeat before he's lifting them away and stepping back again. ]
It suits you.