[ It's the first time in a long while that he's given a flower to someone simply for the joy of seeing them smile, and whatever Verso says about it being a dream, he thinks this, at least, is real: Verso's smile, and the gravelly affection in his voice when he murmurs those fond words. Gustave gives him a critical glance, studying the effect of the light purple petals in those dark waves, and feels his heart trip on itself in his chest. ]
I'm not sure you'd be able to look anything but good. But yes.
Yes, it looks good.
[ Good, and something more than good that squeezes his heart the same way watching that smile slowly fade into something else as Verso reaches for him feels. He turns his head a little into that touch, focusing on the feeling of rough fingers brushing over his skin, and wonders again what sort of life his monsieur le pianiste leads that his hands are strong and callused and he gazes out at Gustave from behind a scar that could only have come from a fight.
Again and again he wonders: who is Verso? Where has he been all this time, where is he going? Lumiere isn't a big island. It doesn't make sense, none of it.
He reaches to gently catch Verso's hand in his, bringing those fingers back to his lips to press soft, languid kisses against them again, lashes lowered. It still seems like a miracle to him, the things Verso can do with these fingers, strong and elegant and skilled at coaxing what he wants both from a piano and from Gustave himself. ]
I'd like to. I don't know why you say it can't be this way... I don't know what to say to change your mind. But how I feel... how you make me feel...
[ Like a book opening. A few notes of music poured into a long-abandoned concert hall. A door cracking, sunlight and fresh air beyond. ]
Isn't the time we have limited enough already, without taking even more away?
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Date: 2025-05-29 12:58 pm (UTC)I'm not sure you'd be able to look anything but good. But yes.
Yes, it looks good.
[ Good, and something more than good that squeezes his heart the same way watching that smile slowly fade into something else as Verso reaches for him feels. He turns his head a little into that touch, focusing on the feeling of rough fingers brushing over his skin, and wonders again what sort of life his monsieur le pianiste leads that his hands are strong and callused and he gazes out at Gustave from behind a scar that could only have come from a fight.
Again and again he wonders: who is Verso? Where has he been all this time, where is he going? Lumiere isn't a big island. It doesn't make sense, none of it.
He reaches to gently catch Verso's hand in his, bringing those fingers back to his lips to press soft, languid kisses against them again, lashes lowered. It still seems like a miracle to him, the things Verso can do with these fingers, strong and elegant and skilled at coaxing what he wants both from a piano and from Gustave himself. ]
I'd like to. I don't know why you say it can't be this way... I don't know what to say to change your mind. But how I feel... how you make me feel...
[ Like a book opening. A few notes of music poured into a long-abandoned concert hall. A door cracking, sunlight and fresh air beyond. ]
Isn't the time we have limited enough already, without taking even more away?