[ Lumiere's time is short. Gustave's is. And Verso's -- isn't. It's stretched onto long, made him so tired, years stretching into decades of watching Expeditioners throw themselves into the void and watching an entire city of people dwindle steadily into nothing. The losses stack up until they become numb, and they stay numb until they don't because try as he might to harden himself to the realities of everything they live through, some awful bleeding part of his heart always stays. There are countless reasons he's learned over the years that only letting himself affect Lumiere and the Expedition from afar is best, and the selfish one is simply because it just hurts.
This loss will hurt. Whenever it happens. He still hasn't asked how old Gustave is, and he doesn't want to know. He lets his fingers linger on Gustave's lips as he brushes those kisses against them, turns his hand against Gustave's until he's threading their fingers together, holding him tight for a moment, keeping Gustave there, keeping himself here. A little bit of both. He draws their hands to his mouth in turn, kissing lightly over Gustave's knuckles. ]
You barely know me.
[ It's gentle and teasing in tone, but there's a quiet edge to it -- because it's true. They don't know much about each other. And that's what's so powerfully dangerous about this in amongst everything else, that just from that one night in the opera house nine whole months ago, just from this that would never have happened if Gustave hadn't nearly fallen from a rooftop -- that Verso can feel his chest ache. The comment is meant for Gustave as much as it meant for Verso himself. He barely knows the man -- but also knows so much. The taste of him on his mouth and tongue, feels like its burned into his memory, now. The heat of his skin under his fingers. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
He feels it. He thinks Gustave feels it, too, just from the way the man is looking at him. That there's something of him that's already been wound up inextricably with him, and he won't ever get it back.
It just doesn't change anything.
He unlaces his fingers from Gustave's, his touch lingering briefly against his cheek, tracing down the curve of his throat -- and drawing away, fixing his own trousers, pushing himself up a little more so he can rest an elbow over the raised flowerbed behind him. ]
no subject
This loss will hurt. Whenever it happens. He still hasn't asked how old Gustave is, and he doesn't want to know. He lets his fingers linger on Gustave's lips as he brushes those kisses against them, turns his hand against Gustave's until he's threading their fingers together, holding him tight for a moment, keeping Gustave there, keeping himself here. A little bit of both. He draws their hands to his mouth in turn, kissing lightly over Gustave's knuckles. ]
You barely know me.
[ It's gentle and teasing in tone, but there's a quiet edge to it -- because it's true. They don't know much about each other. And that's what's so powerfully dangerous about this in amongst everything else, that just from that one night in the opera house nine whole months ago, just from this that would never have happened if Gustave hadn't nearly fallen from a rooftop -- that Verso can feel his chest ache. The comment is meant for Gustave as much as it meant for Verso himself. He barely knows the man -- but also knows so much. The taste of him on his mouth and tongue, feels like its burned into his memory, now. The heat of his skin under his fingers. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
He feels it. He thinks Gustave feels it, too, just from the way the man is looking at him. That there's something of him that's already been wound up inextricably with him, and he won't ever get it back.
It just doesn't change anything.
He unlaces his fingers from Gustave's, his touch lingering briefly against his cheek, tracing down the curve of his throat -- and drawing away, fixing his own trousers, pushing himself up a little more so he can rest an elbow over the raised flowerbed behind him. ]