[ Verso lets Gustave guide him back up towards his mouth, lips curving into a hint of a smile against the other man's lips -- but there is, for the smallest fraction of a second, a hint of a pause, a brief stillness. A moment of reality seeping back in when he's desperately trying to put it aside and escape it. Wouldn't it be nice to just be invited to dinner? Wouldn't it be nice to be a man in Lumiere, a pianist who's just been a bit busy these past nine months, who's taken interest in the engineer with a kind eyes. Wouldn't it be nice to know nothing, to understand nothing, to not know that the taste on his tongue when they kiss is ink and paint and blood.
But that's not the world they're in. The world they're in is Verso once again vanishing without a word, and maybe Gustave might be alive the next time he comes to Lumiere or maybe he'll be gone, and Verso will simply press on, watching Expeditioner after Expeditioner hurl themselves into certain death --
-- Refocus. Not this, not now. It's selfish, and Gustave may not forgive him for this ( if he lives long enough for it to be an option ), but for as long as this lasts Verso would like to pretend to be his monsieur le pianiste in a world where nothing matters but the breathless groans he can draw from his throat when he touches him just right. The moment passes, helped along by the heat of Gustave's mouth against his shoulder, his collarbone, his throat. He groans appreciatively, tucking his lips against Gustave's ear, the edge of a growl in his voice; ]
-- Maybe I want someone to see it.
[ Not just Gustave's sister, of course. And in the end, that slight bruise he'd managed to leave before Gustave urged him away is still somewhere hidden enough. But there is truth to that, a hint of a possessive heat under his words, a desire that many in Lumeire could probably empathize with: the want to leave a mark, that says after. And Verso knows, he knows he will have to leave Gustave again, and while its better for the man to simply forget him and move on, he can't help but want part of this to linger with him.
That edge of possessiveness is there when he twists his fingers back through his hair. Pulling his head up, gentle but firm, until he can crush their mouths together again. The kiss starts off a little lighter but then just like before starts to deepen, growing into something hungry, devouring. his hand sliding up further under the material of Gustave's shirt. The way he palms over his chest, calloused fingers tracing over lean muscle and skin, almost like he's learning him, mapping out his body with his fingers. His hand eases back down, over the muscle of Gustave's stomach, further down to pluck pointedly at the front of his pants, punctuated with that thigh still pressed between Gustave's legs, pressing up against him. The question is there, not verbalized, though this time, with the way he's tonguing into his mouth, Verso seems distinctly impatient for a response. ]
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But that's not the world they're in. The world they're in is Verso once again vanishing without a word, and maybe Gustave might be alive the next time he comes to Lumiere or maybe he'll be gone, and Verso will simply press on, watching Expeditioner after Expeditioner hurl themselves into certain death --
-- Refocus. Not this, not now. It's selfish, and Gustave may not forgive him for this ( if he lives long enough for it to be an option ), but for as long as this lasts Verso would like to pretend to be his monsieur le pianiste in a world where nothing matters but the breathless groans he can draw from his throat when he touches him just right. The moment passes, helped along by the heat of Gustave's mouth against his shoulder, his collarbone, his throat. He groans appreciatively, tucking his lips against Gustave's ear, the edge of a growl in his voice; ]
-- Maybe I want someone to see it.
[ Not just Gustave's sister, of course. And in the end, that slight bruise he'd managed to leave before Gustave urged him away is still somewhere hidden enough. But there is truth to that, a hint of a possessive heat under his words, a desire that many in Lumeire could probably empathize with: the want to leave a mark, that says after. And Verso knows, he knows he will have to leave Gustave again, and while its better for the man to simply forget him and move on, he can't help but want part of this to linger with him.
That edge of possessiveness is there when he twists his fingers back through his hair. Pulling his head up, gentle but firm, until he can crush their mouths together again. The kiss starts off a little lighter but then just like before starts to deepen, growing into something hungry, devouring. his hand sliding up further under the material of Gustave's shirt. The way he palms over his chest, calloused fingers tracing over lean muscle and skin, almost like he's learning him, mapping out his body with his fingers. His hand eases back down, over the muscle of Gustave's stomach, further down to pluck pointedly at the front of his pants, punctuated with that thigh still pressed between Gustave's legs, pressing up against him. The question is there, not verbalized, though this time, with the way he's tonguing into his mouth, Verso seems distinctly impatient for a response. ]