[ Yes, he barely knows Verso. And what he does know hardly paints a complete picture: the elegant pianist and the almost feral lover somehow existing in the same person. Hands that drift with so much emotion over piano keys, but which are strong and callused from sword work. The way he'd swung to intercept Gustave's fall. His mysterious references to some external factor that makes it impossible for him to promise when Gustave will see him again, even as he looks at Gustave with those eyes that are so full of yearning and sorrow and heat. He's even more mysterious now than he was nine months ago.
Gustave lets him claim his hand, running his thumb fondly over Verso's cheek, through the thick scruff there, unwilling to stop touching him for more than a moment. Even when Verso's hand drops and he shifts to sit up a little more, Gustave only pushes himself up on his left arm, letting his right hand rest warmly on the man's stomach. ]
Wouldn't it be nice to change that?
[ Wouldn't it be nice for Gustave to ask him to dinner, to share a bottle of wine and talk long into the night over it, the way people do when they've been struck this way? C'รฉtait peut-รชtre le coup de foudreโ it feels like he's been struck by a bolt of his own lightning. And all it is, really, is possibility. Potential.
He's never been able to abide lost potential, and to have this stolen from his fingers before he can even have an idea of what it is, what it could be, sparks a familiar frustrated helplessness deep in his chest. ]
I'd like to get to know you. Mon mystรฉrieux monsieur le pianiste.
[ A small smile, the words falling fondly from his tongue, low and murmured in his own softer, warmer voice. ]
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Date: 2025-05-29 05:49 pm (UTC)Gustave lets him claim his hand, running his thumb fondly over Verso's cheek, through the thick scruff there, unwilling to stop touching him for more than a moment. Even when Verso's hand drops and he shifts to sit up a little more, Gustave only pushes himself up on his left arm, letting his right hand rest warmly on the man's stomach. ]
Wouldn't it be nice to change that?
[ Wouldn't it be nice for Gustave to ask him to dinner, to share a bottle of wine and talk long into the night over it, the way people do when they've been struck this way? C'รฉtait peut-รชtre le coup de foudreโ it feels like he's been struck by a bolt of his own lightning. And all it is, really, is possibility. Potential.
He's never been able to abide lost potential, and to have this stolen from his fingers before he can even have an idea of what it is, what it could be, sparks a familiar frustrated helplessness deep in his chest. ]
I'd like to get to know you. Mon mystรฉrieux monsieur le pianiste.
[ A small smile, the words falling fondly from his tongue, low and murmured in his own softer, warmer voice. ]
I'd like to have that chance.