[ He doesn't understand how this man, with music and fire at his fingertips and a voice as rough and silky as the feeling of lips and scruff dragging over skin and those eyes that make him feel like Gustave should able to see straight to the center of him can look at him like this: like he's the answer to a question Verso's forgotten he asked.
Or maybe it's more like he's a fresh steak, and Verso is a man who hasn't eaten in a month. There's something undeniably wolfish in the way the man studies him, like he's determining the best course of action to take him apart, piece by piece. There's something of the satisfied artist in his expression, too, reminiscent of the smile he'd had when Gustave applauded his performance all those months ago, like he's already pleased with his work.
He should be. Gustave swallows, his throat tight and his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pulls what air he can into himself before Verso's there again with a bright scrape of teeth against his throat and an actual, quick sting of pain that's immediately soothed by the flat of his tongue. This time, the sound Gustave makes comes from his throat, not his chest, more a cry then a groan, cut off and caught against the back of his tongue. ]
Ah—
[ But then the kiss that lands on his lips is almost gentle and even Verso's rough voice is as soft as the puff of breath it's carried on. Okay. A question no longer forgotten but asked and answered and acknowledged. ]
Okay.
[ His own voice is low, almost a whisper, and Gustave's hand relaxes in the material of Verso's jacket as he leans to press another, gentler, lingering kiss to Verso's mouth. His fingers let go of cloth and spread instead over his chest. He thinks he can feel the man's heart beating even through the metal of his palm.
Somehow, he manages to force himself to let go of the man when Verso backs away, leaving him bereft and weirdly cool in the breeze that sweeps over the roof and tugs at his mussed hair, the collar of his shirt, the vines and flowers behind him. They rustle and shift, but his eyes stay locked on Verso, watching the way his jacket shifts off his shoulders. Verso glances down, then up again with that slanted smile, and Gustave laughs, breathless, heady. There's so much he doesn't know and more he doesn't understand — where has Verso been all this time, if this is what he wanted why did he leave that night? — but right now all he can focus on is that little shrug and the apologetic tip to the man's head. ]
I can always get you more flowers.
[ He'd like to get Verso more flowers, he thinks, and not only to see that look on his face again, the one that crossed his features seemingly unbidden and made him look for a moment so much younger, surprised and a little bemused. A bouquet for a concert, a boutonniere for his jacket, petals strewn in the thick, richly dark and stark white waves of his hair.
The jacket hits the rooftop with finality, and Verso's already in his arms again, body one long perfect line pressed to his as his mouth finds Gustave's throat, roaming over skin like the space Gustave bares with a tip of his head belongs to him, has always belongs to him. Gustave closes his eyes to the attack, another low sound punching out of him as he runs both hands, fingers spread possessively, over the cloth of Verso's revealed shirt from back to ribs to the lean slopes of his side. He palms the man's trim hips with firm hands, dragging him closer, slotting them against each other until they're pressed to one another from knee to chest. ]
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Or maybe it's more like he's a fresh steak, and Verso is a man who hasn't eaten in a month. There's something undeniably wolfish in the way the man studies him, like he's determining the best course of action to take him apart, piece by piece. There's something of the satisfied artist in his expression, too, reminiscent of the smile he'd had when Gustave applauded his performance all those months ago, like he's already pleased with his work.
He should be. Gustave swallows, his throat tight and his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pulls what air he can into himself before Verso's there again with a bright scrape of teeth against his throat and an actual, quick sting of pain that's immediately soothed by the flat of his tongue. This time, the sound Gustave makes comes from his throat, not his chest, more a cry then a groan, cut off and caught against the back of his tongue. ]
Ah—
[ But then the kiss that lands on his lips is almost gentle and even Verso's rough voice is as soft as the puff of breath it's carried on. Okay. A question no longer forgotten but asked and answered and acknowledged. ]
Okay.
[ His own voice is low, almost a whisper, and Gustave's hand relaxes in the material of Verso's jacket as he leans to press another, gentler, lingering kiss to Verso's mouth. His fingers let go of cloth and spread instead over his chest. He thinks he can feel the man's heart beating even through the metal of his palm.
Somehow, he manages to force himself to let go of the man when Verso backs away, leaving him bereft and weirdly cool in the breeze that sweeps over the roof and tugs at his mussed hair, the collar of his shirt, the vines and flowers behind him. They rustle and shift, but his eyes stay locked on Verso, watching the way his jacket shifts off his shoulders. Verso glances down, then up again with that slanted smile, and Gustave laughs, breathless, heady. There's so much he doesn't know and more he doesn't understand — where has Verso been all this time, if this is what he wanted why did he leave that night? — but right now all he can focus on is that little shrug and the apologetic tip to the man's head. ]
I can always get you more flowers.
[ He'd like to get Verso more flowers, he thinks, and not only to see that look on his face again, the one that crossed his features seemingly unbidden and made him look for a moment so much younger, surprised and a little bemused. A bouquet for a concert, a boutonniere for his jacket, petals strewn in the thick, richly dark and stark white waves of his hair.
The jacket hits the rooftop with finality, and Verso's already in his arms again, body one long perfect line pressed to his as his mouth finds Gustave's throat, roaming over skin like the space Gustave bares with a tip of his head belongs to him, has always belongs to him. Gustave closes his eyes to the attack, another low sound punching out of him as he runs both hands, fingers spread possessively, over the cloth of Verso's revealed shirt from back to ribs to the lean slopes of his side. He palms the man's trim hips with firm hands, dragging him closer, slotting them against each other until they're pressed to one another from knee to chest. ]