[ Gustave paints ( haha ) a lovely picture, simple as it were. Being asked on a date, taken out to dinner. It's been -- so many years, decades and decades since he's genuinely thought of being able to do something so normal that wasn't just a wistful memory that brought more pain than joy to think of. In the memories he has of his life before -- everything, he was never exactly hurting for a bit of attention. Might've even wined and dined a little too much, or skipped that part all together. Enjoying life, as it were, taking his time, and then there was Julie. He doesn't know how much of these memories he'd actually gotten to live, which, if any, are really his own, but. Julie, he's sure, he 'd actually lived. For better and for worse.
But he can picture it. Half-remembers, half-imagines the kind of place Gustave might've taken him to dinner for. Sat across from each other at an open-air table, the night sky filled with stars overhead, the hum of Lumiere fading away from their little bubble until its just them, Gustave pouring them a glass of wine. Eager, nervous, maybe a bit awkward. Some flowers resting neatly on the table, that he'd brought for him that night.
Gustave describes himself as failing, and that does earn him a bit of a laugh, from Verso. Dryly amused -- and continuing to do a terrible job at actually disentangling himself from Gustave at all. Pulling him a bit closer, trailing heated kisses back down his neck, his hand settling against the small of the other man's back. ]
Ah, but your utterly pedestrian tastes for music and art might only romance me more. Imagine what good it would do my starving artist's ego when I could hum you a simple tune and have you doubling over in praise. [ With a smile, too, of course. Playing up himself as the artist, Gustave as someone hapless in the face of that. ] Or maybe you could seduce me with stories of your work. Tell me how much Lumiere itself lives and breathes on the work of your very own two hands.
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Date: 2025-05-29 10:50 pm (UTC)But he can picture it. Half-remembers, half-imagines the kind of place Gustave might've taken him to dinner for. Sat across from each other at an open-air table, the night sky filled with stars overhead, the hum of Lumiere fading away from their little bubble until its just them, Gustave pouring them a glass of wine. Eager, nervous, maybe a bit awkward. Some flowers resting neatly on the table, that he'd brought for him that night.
Gustave describes himself as failing, and that does earn him a bit of a laugh, from Verso. Dryly amused -- and continuing to do a terrible job at actually disentangling himself from Gustave at all. Pulling him a bit closer, trailing heated kisses back down his neck, his hand settling against the small of the other man's back. ]
Ah, but your utterly pedestrian tastes for music and art might only romance me more. Imagine what good it would do my starving artist's ego when I could hum you a simple tune and have you doubling over in praise. [ With a smile, too, of course. Playing up himself as the artist, Gustave as someone hapless in the face of that. ] Or maybe you could seduce me with stories of your work. Tell me how much Lumiere itself lives and breathes on the work of your very own two hands.