[ Under his rumpled clothes, more black and blue marks are slowly blooming, littering his skin with the proof of a much harder landing than the second one that had brought him to the grass and ground of this rooftop garden. Verso's hand is warm against his skin, but as the flood of adrenaline and pleasure slowly subsides, he can feel more of the aches and soreness again.
Still, he doesn't flinch away, only makes a wry face when Verso's fingers run over a newly swollen lump welling over his ribs, the aggravated result of how he'd hit the ground. His hip, too, hurts, and so does his left arm, but he can't bring himself to care yet. He can be sore and stiff tomorrow. For now, he just lies here, studying Verso's face, the shifting expression of those impossibly clear eyes, and only after a long moment there does he move at all.
Even then, it isn't away, just slipping his hand from beneath Verso's shirt to stretch across him, fingers brushing clumsily through the grass and vines and leaves until he finds what he's looking for, plucks it with a quick snap of the slender stem.
He rolls back, bringing his hand with him, and another flower — as promised. This one is a paler violet, with a white heart, and Gustave twirls it for a moment in the air before deciding he might as well indulge himself, once more. Pushing up on his left arm, he leans over Verso, bending down to press his mouth to the other man's in a kiss once more before he lifts his head and carefully reaches to tuck the flower into those dark waves of hair. His fingers are gentle, placing it amid coarse, mussed strands, and again as they ghost over the shell of Verso's ear, making sure the stem is neatly tucked behind it. ]
It doesn't have to just be a dream, you know.
[ It could be like this again. They could have dinner together and talk over wine; he could find some excuse for Emma and Maelle and find some bed and fall into it with his fingers sinking into this hair and his arm wrapped around that waist. Maybe it doesn't have to only be this. Why should it be? ]
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Still, he doesn't flinch away, only makes a wry face when Verso's fingers run over a newly swollen lump welling over his ribs, the aggravated result of how he'd hit the ground. His hip, too, hurts, and so does his left arm, but he can't bring himself to care yet. He can be sore and stiff tomorrow. For now, he just lies here, studying Verso's face, the shifting expression of those impossibly clear eyes, and only after a long moment there does he move at all.
Even then, it isn't away, just slipping his hand from beneath Verso's shirt to stretch across him, fingers brushing clumsily through the grass and vines and leaves until he finds what he's looking for, plucks it with a quick snap of the slender stem.
He rolls back, bringing his hand with him, and another flower — as promised. This one is a paler violet, with a white heart, and Gustave twirls it for a moment in the air before deciding he might as well indulge himself, once more. Pushing up on his left arm, he leans over Verso, bending down to press his mouth to the other man's in a kiss once more before he lifts his head and carefully reaches to tuck the flower into those dark waves of hair. His fingers are gentle, placing it amid coarse, mussed strands, and again as they ghost over the shell of Verso's ear, making sure the stem is neatly tucked behind it. ]
It doesn't have to just be a dream, you know.
[ It could be like this again. They could have dinner together and talk over wine; he could find some excuse for Emma and Maelle and find some bed and fall into it with his fingers sinking into this hair and his arm wrapped around that waist. Maybe it doesn't have to only be this. Why should it be? ]