𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

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[demainvient]

[ Verso could push his hands away, button up his trousers, make his adieus and leave. He could certainly do all those things, and in the end — if he really wanted to leave — Gustave would be powerless to stop him. Certainly he wouldn't try to hold the man here against his will.

But Verso doesn't do any of those things, and in fact his arm stays around Gustave, coaxing him even a little closer, his fingers carding gently through the hair he'd mussed so thoroughly, and he doesn't look all that unhappy about it. His throat moves beneath Gustave's mouth, a sigh lowering his chest, and Gustave wants to drink every part of it in: the sounds he makes, the way he tastes, the feeling of his skin beneath the tips of Gustave's fingers as he works at the buttons of his shirt, methodical. And he laughs— merde, Gustave could go drunk on that laugh. He wants to pour it into himself like wine. ]

I do want to get you more flowers.

[ For this performance. For the last one. Simply to try and spark that surprise and that smile again. Or maybe because he has known Verso for less than two hours but the man is already doing his best to run off with a significant chunk of Gustave's heart and attention. He's... irresistible.

The last button parts easily from its buttonhole and Verso's shirt swings open, baring a wide swath of pale skin and firm muscle, the lines of him as beautiful as any of the statues gracing the streets and galleries and museums of Lumière. Gustave pulls back just enough to lean his forehead against Verso's shoulder, eyes hooded as he watches his own hand palm over his exposed chest and stomach. Slipping up over the muscle of his abdomen to rub the pad of his thumb over a nipple before his fingers drift lower again, to his side, the angle of his hip, the loosened waist of his trousers. ]

Would you like more?

Flowers, I mean?

[ And not just flowers, he means. ]

[versorecto]

[ This is a little different than before, when he'd been the one pushing Gustave against a wall and crushing him against it, running his hands all over his body, mapping him out with mouth and tongue. Gustave's interest in him is hardly subtle, but now that Verso isn't just holding him down and smothering him with his own attentions, now that Verso isn't himself wholly consumed by just wanting to see him break -- he can see a bit more of how Gustave is really looking at him. Wanting, longing, casting his gaze over Verso's muscled chest once he gets his shirt open, his heated touch.

Verso tucks his face against Gustave's, kissing at his cheek and jaw, his breath catching noticeably when that thumb moves over his nipple. And down, to his already loosened trousers, still just barely staying slung around his hips.

It's intoxicating. He wishes he could stay, that he could just -- forget everything else, for longer than this.

He haind cards through his hair, slipping down to Gustave's jaw, tipping his head up -- getting briefly distracted just looking at him, how fucking beautiful he looks with those lips bruised with his kisses and cheeks still flushed from everything he's done to him before now -- before kissing him on the mouth again. ]

You make that sound hard to resist, monsieur le fleuriste. [ A laugh there. The guilt wallowing in his chest is still a bit distant, hasn't fully hit him yet. Maybe he'd like to keep it at bay just a little longer, even if it's going to make the regret that much work. ] I think I would like more flowers.

You have me here now.

[ And later, he'll still have to leave. Time to make the most of it, Gustave. His other arm wraps around him again, keeping him close, his hand palming up over the back of his thigh, squeezing over toned muscle. ]

[demainvient]

[ He laughs against Verso's mouth as his fingers drift along the line of his slack trouser waistband, kisses him again, warm and deep, tongue licking for a moment into the other man's mouth. ]

Do you think I'm a florist?

[ It's cute, a mirror to his own monsieur le pianiste, a title that might be more playful than wholly accurate, and he finds himself not caring at all if Verso calls him monsieur le fleuriste. What do they know about each other, really? One of them plays the piano, the other brought flowers. Perhaps it's enough.

He meets that laughing mouth again for another kiss, then works his way across cheek and the angle of his jaw to the other side of his throat, mindfully attentive to all the patches of skin he'd neglected kissing earlier. He mouths down along Verso's neck, paying particular attention to this spot or the next, whichever the man seems to like best, sweeping his tongue against warm, salt-spiked skin, nipping at the curve of his shoulder.

Verso had seduced him like a hunter, predatory intent in every touch, every kiss, burning him down to the ground. Gustave is warmer, sweeter, less taking and more giving, offering the adoration of his mouth and fingers to this man he has not been able to forget in nine long months. He shifts a little to give himself room, dips his fingers into the open front of Verso's pants to wrap warm, firm fingers around him. His own breath shudders out of him at the touch, lust curling back into his gut in a slow hot coil. He moves his hand firm and slow, long languid strokes as he lifts his head to watch Verso's face, studying his reactions, wanting to learn what makes him feel best. ]

Good.

[ A rough edge to his own voice as he savors the sensation of Verso in his hand: the weight and shape and length of him, soft hot skin hard against his fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb over the ridge of flesh, gently over his head. ]

I want you here.

[versorecto]

[ Of course Gustave isn't really one. But; ]

I think you can be my florist.

[ Already a bit breathless, a bit of emphasis when he says my -- a dangerous amount of it, maybe, like everything else about this is. Much like how he can be Gustave's pianist. Verso knows that Gustave couldn't hope to understand that, really, how much it makes Verso's heart ache for someone to know him just as that. Still a few lies, they are a loadbearing pillar of Verso's entire existence, now, but few enough that it doesn't matter, that Verso could almost convince himself they're harmless. Someone who knows him for music played to an empty concert hall for no one else's ears, someone who knows him for the heat of their bodies tangled together. No shadows. No memories of fire and waking up to lungs that feel like they're full of ash and soot. No staring down the face of death and never reaching it, knowing the blood he tastes is just ink. No staring past the veil and wondering if any of him is real or it's all just an echo, resounding miserably into nothing. No lies. Or at least, almost no lies. Just -- monsieur le pianiste.

It might register as nonsense to Gustave. And that's fine.

He sinks into Gustave's attentions, his kisses. It's easy to be swept away by his own aggression, by the predatory intent which which he zones in on people, but Gustave's lavished adoration is intoxicating all on its own, even if -- subtly, but distinctly, there's part of him that's almost uncomfortable with it, holding himself back from relaxing into it completely. Little shivers and groans when Gustave finds the right places in his neck, his shoulder, holding himself back, just slightly. Gustave is painfully earnest and disarming as always, even here, maybe especially here, and right now Verso is still thinking enough to remember he shouldn't be here. To feel like he can't possibly deserve even half of Gustave's gentle adoration.

But then Gustave's fingers are wrapping around him, and that goes a good way to a suitable distraction. He's been hard and aching this entire time, just tends to give himself over to focus on another person, but that doesn't mean he didn't feel that strain and want and having it finally met by a touch that isn't his own, is enough to make his head spin, his eyes briefly falling shut on a groan.

Verso shifts against the grass until he's not just on his knees, but seated down, propping his back against the edge of some raised flowerbed, using that arm still wrapped around Gustave's waist to pull him in between his thighs, keeping him close, lifting his hips slightly against his touch, leaning up to press another kiss to the corner his mouth, mouthing hot and hungry down over his neck. There's something in him, for a moment, that clearly just wants to push Gustave down again, to roll him beneath him on the ground --

-- But he'll hold back. This once. Leaning back again to look at him through lidded eyes, pulling his hands back so he can palm up over Gustave's chest and then start plucking at the buttons of his shirt in turn. ]

-- Yeah.

[ Breathless, encouraging, his hips rolling once to press against Gustave's palm. ]

[demainvient]

[ Perhaps he could be. Perhaps for just a few stolen moments, he simply be a man who offers flowers in exchange for beauty instead of in acknowledgment of grief. All his responsibilities set aside, just for a little while; a few moments where he doesn't worry over the stability of the Shield Dome or find his mind unable to move on from some small incorrectly calibrated detail of the Lumina Converter he's banking all his hopes for his own Expedition on. Right now, he isn't a young man trying to be the head of his family, or a mentor to his apprentices, or a guardian to Maelle, caught between brother and father and never quite sure which he ought to be more, which she needs more. Perhaps, for one afternoon, he can pretend he's like one of those who cherish life and enjoy it to the fullest extent over the harsh realities of grief and duty.

Verso shifts back, sprawled against the edge of a raised bed, looking like a dream of desire with his shirt awry, baring the expanse of a pale, perfect chest and his trousers hanging loose on his hips. Sunlight pours down over him like molten gold, kissing the white streaks in his hair and tracing loving fingers over his skin, and beautiful doesn't even seem like enough for the way he looks, open and inviting and half debauched already.

Gustave shifts, too, moving forward to brace himself on the wooden edge of the flower bed with his metal left hand as Verso trails his mouth over his neck, meeting those heavy, half-lidded eyes so full of promise and desire with his own intent and flickering with heat. Verso's hands start working at the buttons of his shirt and Gustave lets him, bending his head to catch the man's mouth with his again, harder now and deeper as he works his own hand lower, caressing soft, heavy pouches of skin, cradling him in his palm as he traces the pad of a finger in a firm, deliberate line between the man's legs.

It's been a while since he's done any of this to anyone but himself, but he has never been anything but dedicated and intent in his work, focused on every small detail. He listens to the way Verso breathes, the sounds he makes, and focuses on the way he moves, when he moves into Gustave's hand, wanting more, or not, and adjusts accordingly, hand moving with him, running back up to curl fingers around him again in a firm caress, following the rise and fall of his hips, never letting him escape sensation for even a second. He wants to surround him with it, like he's sinking into a warm bath, fill Verso's whole world, just for these moments, with him alone. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso leans back, smells flowers and grass and sun-warmed earth, the raised flowerbed at his back, stray blades of grass and twigs pressing it slightly behind him. He sees the rest of the garden, metal frames and trellises growing with vines and flowers, the sky and the dome overhead, the shattered Continent beyond. Gustave moves forward with him, and then all he sees is him, framed in flowers and green with the sun shining through his hair, leaning over him as his metal hand braces against the flowerbed. He plucks at those last few buttons until Gustave's shirt falls open, making a low, pleased sound in his throat as he runs his hand up over his stomach, his chest, thumb lingering over a nipple and tracing over the nub, leaning up just enough to meet him when Gustave catches his mouth again in a kiss.

And there's his touch. Its been so long that Verso can't even really remember what the last time he let someone do this with him was like, likely some flickering moment of heat and and comfort with an Expeditioner a world away from their home -- and Gustave is a great deal more attentive and sweet than any touch Verso remembers, especially his own. It's different, but good, groaning low and quiet against the other man's mouth as Gustave cradles him against his palm, feeling those by now familiar calluses against him -- from a grip of a sword, he knows. And he wonders what how he fights. How long he's been with the Academy. If he has an Expedition in mind, how far away he might be.

He keeps one hand pressed against his chest, his other hand reaching up, tangling back through Gustave's hair again ( he does love the feel of those curls parting through his fingers ), tugging gently to pull him closer into their kiss, down to this nape and over his back, just -- feeling him, the shape of him, his muscles and angles and lines. Gustave's touch seems to move with him, every slight instinctive twitch of his hips or an upward press into a certain touch or pressure, the other man responding attentively to his every breath, every twitch of muscle, every pulse of heat under his fingers to chase after just what he likes. It's good, makes him think of wine, sinking into it deeper, more.

And it's -- subtle, but present. Not impossible to notice, especially for someone who's currently trying to pore attention over every part of him. A bit of tension that he seems to be carrying everywhere, in his shoulders, the pit of his stomach, in his chest. Gustave is beautiful and his hand and his mouth feel so fucking good, drawing a breathless curse from him that's completely lost against the other man's mouth and tongue, in their kiss. He's so attentive, feels like he's set on lavishing him with adoring attention. And Verso can't quite -- relax into it. Not completely. Not as much as he wants to. Not because there's anything wrong, or because Gustave is doing anything wrong.

But when Gustave is as painfully earnest as he is, especially now, he can't help but think -- whoever might deserve something as perfect as this, this man's focus and attentions and touch and his hands and mouth and tongue -- it's not him. He doesn't deserve this. Couldn't deserve anything even half as good. He can only pretend to and leave Gustave to wonder why when he vanishes, yet again.

He breaks from the kiss, ducking his head to kiss over his neck again, over the bruise he'd left at the join of his shoulder, even darker now than it was before. Pulling Gustave over him a bit more, like he just wants Gustave to really surround him, everywhere, pulling him a bit further down so he can mouth hotly from the jumping pulse in his throat down to his clavicle, over his chest, tonguing languidly over a nipple, his gaze still lustful and with that hunter's focus as he watches him through lidded eyes. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso is responsive and active under his touch, his kisses, arching up into Gustave's hand and muttering curses into his mouth, and it's almost perfect. It's very nearly perfect, when his shirt falls open and Verso's there, running warm hands over his skin like he's always been allowed, like touching Gustave is not only his prerogative but his mission.

Verso's thumb rubs over his nipple, which tightens at the touch, sending a flare of electricity through him that's dragged deep into his gut by the fingers that sink into his hair again. It's impossibly mussed, and he can't care. He can't remember the last time anything felt so good as Verso's fingers sifting through those soft waves.

So yes: it's very nearly perfect, as Verso coaxes him even closer, shifting below Gustave to trail a path of heated kisses over his throat, his collarbone, down to his chest, but... it's not, quite. Something's wrong. The man is warm and languid beneath him, a gleam of wolfish desire in his eyes, and he's letting Gustave touch him however he likes, hips rolling up into each stroke of his fingers, but—

Something's wrong. However much Gustave tries to coax him from his thoughts, from that last inch of reservation, of distance between them, Verso stays just slightly out of reach. An absurd thought, maybe, when the man is dragging him close and arching into his hand and his mouth, drinking down everything Gustave can offer him and seemingly wanting more, but it's there, he can feel it. A slight stiffness, something still withheld.

It hadn't been there when Verso had been so utterly focused on burning him to the ground, and now there's a slight hesitation in the way Gustave touches him, too, his mind worrying over the problem like a dog gnawing on a bone. Maybe Verso wants something faster, harder, more like what he'd done to Gustave himself; maybe he regrets staying, after all. Maybe he's already thinking about leaving. Maybe there's something wrong in the way Gustave is touching him, something he doesn't like but is too polite to mention.

He doesn't understand, and now something new curls into his stomach: frustration with himself, with the way he's not getting it quite right, not offering whatever it is Verso needs. Verso's tongue slides warm and wet over the taut bud of his nipple and he groans, the sound singed at the edges, and redoubles his efforts, hand firmer now around him, stroking faster, more deliberately as Gustave shifts his weight and winds his metal arm around Verso's waist, his knees spreading between the man's legs, pushing them further apart. Taking room that he needs to tighten his left arm around the man and lift as he himself twists, aiming to lay him back down again on the grass beside the flowerbed and following him down with his mouth chasing hard kisses along Verso's neck. ]

[versorecto]

[ It's difficult for him to let go. Be vulnerable. To really put himself in someone else's hands, to open himself up -- and most of the time, that's fine. Because he shouldn't be, he can't afford to be, when there's always so much at stake. When he knows things he can't possibly unknow. When he works to a cause that no one would forgive him for if they knew, and he could never blame them for hating him for it. There are things he chases to force himself out of his thoughts: a good fight, a good fuck, earning him some desperately fleeting reprieve for moments at a time from the crushing weight on his shoulders and in his heart.

He wants this, wants Gustave, wants to lose himself in his touch. Earlier it'd just been easier, when he was just acting, taking, raw and aggressive, still chasing and hunting even when he'd started to slow down to match himself better to what Gustave seemed to want. He's just -- good. Earnest, sweet, wanting to make him feel appreciated and wanted and just awash in pleasure, but Verso's thoughts just can't help but linger a while on all the ways in which he's already lied to him and remind himself he doesn't deserve it at all.

Verso's surprised when he starts feeling that hesitation in Gustave's touch. Slight flickers of hesitation, uncertainty, worry. At first he just keeps leaning into him, drawing the nub of his nipple briefly into his mouth and sucking, a hand urging him closer, trying to be encouraging, assumes that like Verso himself it has just been a while. It takes him a few moments, his mind hazed by easy pleasure, to realize that Gustave is probably noticing, and, ah.

A twist of guilt through his stomach. He isn't lying in this. This isn't performance. Gustave above him with the sun in his hair and his shirt pieced apart looks like he might as well be an angel, and the way he works his hand over him feels incredible, every bit of friction making him feel like he's sinking deeper and deeper into some warm, intoxicating bath. He doesn't want the man to think he's doing anything wrong, but how does he even say anything to assure him?

Gustave takes care of part of that, at least. ]

Gustave -- [ breathed on a moan, saying his name because that's what's in his mind and on his tongue when he feels Gustave's hand work over him even faster, firmer, harder. Even feeling that arm braced around him he simply wasn't expecting for Gustave to literally lift him, even just partially, and lay him down. He's already breathless and so muddled with heat and want that the movement is enough to make his head spin, and again when he looks up the other man is already bearing down and Gustave is all he can see.

He wants to let go. Wants to give him this. Wants to be able to give himself over completely, even if just for this moment before reality sweeps him back to the Continent and beyond. And if anyone can quieten that last quiet tension that Verso is carrying -- it has to be this man, who'd been so captivatingly disarming even the first time they met with nothing more than a look and a smile. Verso arches slightly into his touch with a low groan, tilting his head to the side to give Gustave better access to his neck, throwing an arm back around him, sliding up over his back to twist once more through his hair and pull him down. He doesn't know how to put this into words, and so doesn't try, but in the way his hands roam hungrily over Gustave's body, his fingers pressing into the notches of his spine, the way he pulls him down to try and fit their bodies together, he hopes something gets through:

More. More of him. Gustave doesn't need to change anything, to try and chase after what Verso himself did or whatever else he thinks might "work" -- he wants the man himself, the same man who's been the most intoxicating wine he's had in what feels like a decade. So more, more of him, whatever he wants to give, until Verso stops thinking. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's better, when Verso is on his back in the grass and Gustave can blanket him, pressing their bodies together as he breathes in the scent of green things and Verso, warm and sweet and salt-spiked, a little like the breeze that blows in off the waves that lap through the harbor. His name groaned in that voice, searing itself into his chest, his memory, a brand only he can see and feel. He'd already told Verso the man had marked him. This just carves it a little further into flesh, sore and bleeding and perfect. He wants more. ]

Yes.

[ His own voice is rough, more of a rumble than Verso's growl, but low and sandpapered with desire all the same.

His hand is pressed between them, working hard and relentless against Verso, wanting to feel him arch up again, and his knuckles brush against himself, too, sending showers of sparks through his own system once more, and it's his turn to groan against Verso's skin, head dropping for a moment to press his forehead against Verso's chest, trying to catch his own breath before he pushes onward. Verso's fingers are in his hair, running up his back, and he wants so much more of that touch, wants to feel it skating over every inch of bare skin, firm and gentle and burning and sweet, however the man wants to touch him.

And he wants this, too: to work his way down Verso's chest, setting his mouth over a nipple and drawing up tender flesh up into his mouth, hard and intent, before sweeping over it with the flat of his tongue. But even now, even as he works to set the man alight any way he can, thumb running over his head and fingers stroking, dedicatedly adoring him with mouth and tongue and touch, the edge that had been everywhere in Verso's touch, in his seduction, is missing, replaced instead by a stubborn, persistent sweetness.

He can try to emulate the other man, and it's true that there's another side to him, something harder and stronger than the kind and slightly awkward engineer who offered that purple flower what feels like an eternity and yet only seconds ago. There's something in him that's resilient, marked on his body in the calluses on his own hand, the strength of his shoulders, the intent way he moves. And yet, in the end, he can only be himself, and that self is a mix of both: the engineer and the expeditioner. A man whose broken heart is finally starting to beat again, and remembers what it is to want to lavish all the affection and warmth in him on someone else.

He kisses Verso's chest again and lifts his head to look up along the man's body, his shoulder moving with the rhythm of his hand. ]

Be with me.

[ Let him draw Verso out of his head. Let him coax apart those last lingering hesitations, until there's nothing left between them but the heat of their own bodies. ]

Here, now. Right here with me.

[ The last words muddled into Verso's skin as he lowers his head and presses kisses there, beginning to shift his way down the man's body, deliberate and determined. ]

[versorecto]

[ When Gustave had spread him out on the garden floor, Verso felt his head start to spin -- and it doesn't stop. Gustave is everywhere, all over him, his mouth hot and sweet against his chest, those fingers stroking him firm and warm and affectionate. The scent of him is in every breath until he feels like his lungs are full of him, too. Even more than before, the entire world seems to shrink away, and he feels like he could drown in this, in him.

Again his body arches up into his mouth when Gustave's tongue lathes over his nipple, and again Verso's hand clutching at the expanse of his back for something to hold onto finds itself moving to his hair, twisting, tangling -- holding on a bit too tight, pulling him in, keeping him close. This feels good, feels maddeningly good, but the walls he's built in himself in his heart and in his mind have been built over decades and will never crumble. And that's fine. That's fine. That's what the walls are for, and he never expected them to fall away for anyone, and that's for his own good, for Gustave's, too. The lies will come back eventually, and there are only more to come.

-- Then there's Gustave's voice. It breaks through everything, has his eyes flickering open, Verso only just now realizing he's been squeezing his eyes shut tight enough that he sees stars. He sounds a little rougher, but its otherwise clear and sweet, cutting through the fog like a bell, and Verso can feel the way it gives him something to anchor onto as he was lost adrift and drowning in that sea of pleasure. He looks down, sees Gustave looking up at him with those kiss-bruised lips and dark eyes, sees how the muscle of his shoulder works as he keeps touching him.

Be with me, he says, and Verso isn't sure if he actually manages to nod or if the little breathless yeah he thinks actually leaves his mouth as a sound at all or if it's just something that gets formed by his lips that's immediately stolen away by a groan. Gustave's attention and touches are so distinctly adoring, almost worshipful, still has something in his mind wanting to push away because he's not fucking worthy of it, but he keeps talking and somehow it becomes clear that -- it doesn't matter. Right now, it doesn't matter. It feels like Gustave not tearing any wall down but somehow just turning a corner and finding a door that was always there and pushing it open, immediately finding his way past any lingering defenses, pouring himself in like he means to stay there forever. Like he's somehow heard that Verso keeps thinking that he doesn't deserve this, that there are things he can never say or never tell that would change Gustave's mind about him forever, and the other man had simply pushed them away. Right now, here with him, Gustave seems to say, he can deserve it.

Another shudder moves through him, his hips rolling against Gustave's hand, his head tipping back against the grass and the sun-warmed earth. That last tension in him melts away. His fingers scramble through his hair, to the back of his neck. Gustave had said earlier that he played him like a song, and Verso feels like Gustave is hearing him like one. The man couldn't possibly know anything that's in his head, but just like sitting at that piano drags truths from his fingers that he could never bring himself to tell, it feels like Gustave just -- heard him, somehow, just like how he'd seemed to hear everything that night nine months ago, and with nothing but his continued insistence on his adoration, wore it down. ]

Putain -- [ he can feel himself getting closer. His fingers drag through Gustave's hair to the back of his neck, his other hand reaching out for something to hold onto and finding his arm, gripping onto him tight enough to almost leave bruises in his skin. ]

[demainvient]

[ He can feel it, more than hear it, when Verso agrees, when he listens and those last clinging barriers filter away like they were never there. And really, it's the man's own fault, isn't it? If he can't promise another time, another few stolen moments, another chance for Gustave to see him — if all he can offer is here and now and whatever they can glean from these moments — then he can't be surprised when Gustave asks the same of him.

If he's going to be here, then be here. Let just this hour they've carved out from the world exist. If Gustave can't let himself wonder about the past or worry about the future, Verso can't either.

And it works, Verso's hands roaming even more desperately over him, carding through his hair, blunt fingers and nails digging into his back as Gustave continues to push himself lower. He follows the graceful slant from Verso's ribs to his stomach, kisses along firm muscle, the rough-soft scratch of his beard dragging over skin that's flushed and pink with heat and need. He can feel Verso's movements growing jerky, needy, his hips pushing helplessly up into Gustave's hand with every stroke as he curses into the warm air.

It makes Gustave smile, pleased, and press another kiss low along Verso's belly before he braces himself on his left elbow and strokes his right hand down along Verso's length, following it with his mouth, taking the man in just like had with his fingers, earlier.

It's not deep and drowning, the way Verso had attacked him, but it's dedicated all the same, Gustave sliding him against his tongue, lips wrapped around him, sucking as he moves his head and hand in tandem, stroking Verso with mouth and tongue and fingers all. He can't look up along the man's body to see the effect, but he's attuned to it anyway, listening, following every buck and shift of his hips, relentlessly surrounding him with friction and firm wet warmth. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso's fingers squeeze and relax and tighten again over the back of Gustave's neck as he eases down over his body, a kiss pressed against the flat of his belly and the hint of his lips so close to him already enough to drive him a little insane. There's a moment where Verso shifts slightly against the ground, like he's trying to prop himself up a little onto his elbows so he watch him, but that thought quickly leaves his mind with that firm stroke of his hand, chased immediately by Gustave's mouth and tongue.

His head falls back against the soft grass on a low moan, and its incredible how even though Gustave isn't blanketing him with his whole body anymore he still thinks he can feel him everywhere. And he is everywhere, wet and hot around him, suction and friction flooding through him and setting his nerves on fire.

Earlier when he's sunken down onto his knees to take Gustave into his mouth, Verso had been able to feel the tension wound up in him, how he had to stop himself from immediately moving and rutting against him. Right now, especially with the way he can barely hear himself think -- Verso is less concerned with stopping himself. His fingers fist through his hair once more, instinctively pushing his head down even as he lifts his hips into that sweet slick perfect heat of his mouth. He does get some hold of himself a moment or two later, breathing heavy, grip relaxing to card lightly through the strands almost in brief apology, but that thought can't last long in his mind either, not with Gustave's tongue and hand and mouth still on him.

Again, his fingers relax and then tighten, finding their grip just against the nape of his neck, but instead of forcing him down he's just working with the rhythm that Gustave finds, urging him up, urging him down. His body arches as he rocks his hips into his mouth, body arching along with it. He's already so close, Gustave already driven him there as he'd managed to finally lock him down into the hear and now and away from thoughts of the past or future. and it shows in how the rhythm of his movements starts to quicken and quicken. ]

Gustave -- [ His name, again. Verso's beginning to love how it feels falling from his lips. Its in part a warning, in part just the first thing to come to mind to say, and it does seem like he was going to have more words to follow, but they die and vanish in his throat. Instead he urges his head down again, hips shuddering and snapping up into that slick heat, an almost violent shudder running through his spine as he comes. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso comes alive under him, in his mouth and against his tongue, and when that hand grips his hair and presses down, Gustave allows it, sinking deeper, hoping not to awkwardly choke as he tries to relax his throat — it's been a while, but he's determined. His own hand stops him before he can get too deep, but by then Verso's simply moving with him, hips rocking and hand pushing in that perfect rhythm that Gustave starts pushing faster, harder, deeper.

Merde, but he almost never wants to hear his name said another way again, the way that it falls from Verso's desperate lips, breathless and hapless and with that air of warning that Gustave ignores in favor of taking him deeper once more, running his tongue up against him as he draws firmly on him. And when Verso comes, hard and shaking, he stays there, swallowing him down, ignoring the burn at the back of his throat and the ache in his jaw until the man's shudders subside and he starts to soften against his tongue.

Carefully, Gustave draws back, uncurling his fingers as the skin beneath them softens, and gently lays him down before turning his head to press a kiss to the rise of his hip, the V of his groin. Every kiss is gentle, his touch light and warm, taking as much care as he can.

It's his turn now to smile, self-satisfied, when he tips his head back to look up at the man, wanting to see the effect he'd had on him, and he needs a moment to catch his breath, too, before he can reach down to drag his own pants back up to hang loosely from his hips and press himself up on his fabricated left hand to crawl up along Verso's side until he can lie there next to him, pressing lazy kisses to his shoulder, his right hand languid on Verso's belly. ]

[versorecto]

[ And what an effect Gustave's had. Verso feels like he takes far too long to catch his breath, to remember where he is again, to feel the earth behind him and for something that isn't the static fuzz of pleasure and the echoing linger of Gustave's name on his lips to ease back into his mind. And the first thing that does catch his thoughts again -- is still Gustave, his mouth wet and hot around him as he rides it all out, his touch almost achingly gentle when he pulls back, ghosting kisses against his skin.

He feels the weight of his hand against his stomach, the weight at his side of Gustave laying beside him. He turns, slowly, like his body needs a moment to remember how to move, rolling onto his side so he can look at him when he opens his eyes. Dimly, he imagines that there's a version of this happening where somehow he'd be stirring to life in a bed, sheets warm and tussled around them, that he'd be seeing Gustave's face nestled against a pillow -- but this. With a shaft of sunlight cut down through some of the ivy growing overhead, drawing a perfect lines that follow the lines of his neck and throat down towards his bare chest. another burst of light catching against his hair, shining in those eyes. The scent of crushed grass and leaves, and the flowers that in his mind almost seem to arrange themselves around him, purples and yellows and pinks and whites. This is good, too. Maybe better. This is real.

( There is no question or thought about how real this really is. The moment lasting a bit longer, stretching on. He'll savor it. )

Verso is there just looking at him for a few seconds too long before he reaches out, a hand lazily drifting against Gustave's chest before catching at his chin and drawing him in for another kiss. Languid, warm, quietly satisfied but still with the glow of heat and want beneath -- he can taste himself on his tongue. They can taste each other.

He presses their foreheads together when he breaks from the kiss, a breathless laugh falling from his lips. ]

You're beautiful too, you know.

[ He didn't actually return that compliment earlier. But merde he is, just look at him, in so many ways that he Verso doesn't even begin to understand, that he wishes he could take the time to twist his fingers into and unravel thread by thread. His fingers, again, try to push some mussed lock of hair out of Gustave's face, only for it to fall back, his mouth quirking in amusement and fondness from it both. ]

Infuriatingly so. [ His fingers play a little with that lock of hair, idle. ] Mon chou.

[ That too, falls from his mouth without much actual thought behind it. Just letting himself be carried by the warmth until it might inevitably ebb back with the tide. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso opens his eyes and looks back over at him, and he feels once again like that grapple point is crumbling, he's falling, because Verso's eyes are soft and drowsy and he's bathed in dappled sunlight, lying there relaxed and sated in soft grass with flowers all around him. He's so beautiful it hurts, squeezes his heart painfully in his chest.

Watching him at the piano had been compelling enough. But here, now, with fingers of sunlight idly playing over his bared chest and stomach, his hair mussed and wild around his face, his lips pink and swollen and a few red marks just beginning to show on his throat and at the curve of his neck, he's utterly impossible.

He reaches out, lazy fingers catching Gustave's chin, and Gustave leans willingly into this kiss, savoring it, letting it linger, sweet and deep and feeling like taking a long breath after waking from a dream. When their lips part and Verso nudges their foreheads together, he slides his hand across the man's stomach, under the edge of his shirt to curve his fingers at his side, and smiles, the same smile he's given him so many times now: warm and sweet and creasing his eyes, a smile that lets Verso look directly into his heart. It's open, if cautiously so, even knowing, even remembering what Verso said before. That there are no promises.

But he's never been able to make his heart follow any kind of logic. If he could, he would have stopped loving Sophie all those months ago, right?

For now he smiles, and turns his head slightly into Verso's fingers as the man plays with that wayward lock of hair, loving the feeling of it, wanting this bubble around them to stay solid and unbreachable for as long as possible. His thumb smoothes over Verso's side as he chuckles, turning his head to press a lazy, affectionate kiss to Verso's palm. ]

What's infuriating about it?

[ Mon chou. Dropping from Verso's lips like an afterthought, and it's sweet, another tiny golden nugget of a memory for him to tuck deep into his chest and keep for himself. It's sweet, just like monsieur le fleuriste, and he's happy to be this, just for a little while. His florist. His cabbage. His sweetheart.

How he would like to be this beautiful man's sweetheart, to win these smiles over and over and over again, to try and understand what it is when Verso looks at him to have his expression soften this way. How he would like to stroll along the harbor, and bring him a real bouquet, and fall into a bed of muddled sheets that they could wreck together.

Maybe just tomorrow. He could be satisfied with just tomorrow, surely. It could... it could be enough. ]

[versorecto]

[ It's so easy to imagine that its dangerous. Gustave kisses at his palm, affectionate, lazy, and he can just imagine this moment stretched out into forever. Into more mornings where their kisses are languid lazy with the simple satisfaction of being near each others, into evenings or stolen moments where instead they're all-consuming flames. More nights at the opera house, alone or otherwise, playing to him even in the middle of a crowd. Walks up here, in the gardens littered across Lumiere's rooftops. Maybe a little more careful about whose flowers they might be rolling into.

But that, well. None of that is real, and none of it can be. Slowly, inevitably, Verso can feel himself -- waking up, and hating himself for it.

He lets his fingers slip up to cradle his cheek against his palm, tender and affectionate, thumb sweeping Gustave's lower lip. ]

Just makes it hard to believe.

[ Someone that beautiful, someone that perfect -- and especially in that smile. Earnest and open in the same way that'd utterly captivated him nine months ago, that draw him in now but also remind him of what he is, and what he isn't. His gaze drops briefly, his other hand moving to settle against Gustave's waist. Gentle, cautious, remembering where he'd been hurt before. ]

Almost like a dream.

[ Maybe he doesn't have to go just yet. Maybe they can just -- spend some time. What for? To invite questions that would only make everything worse? Knowing that if there will ever be a time when this man learns more of the truth, that it'd likely come with him hating everything he stands for -- is it cruel or kind, to keep it away?

It's about time to wake up. ]

[demainvient]

[ 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? ]

[versorecto]

[ Even with everything, Verso is somehow still a little surprised when Gustave's hand pulls away and then comes back with -- another flower. He's already smiling, but that has his mouth twitching even more, relaxing into that kiss as Gustave leans down over him again. And once more surprised when he feels those fingers in his hair, what he must be doing.

He laughs a little into the kiss with that realization, but doesn't move to pull away or stop him, eyes still shut and languidly dipping his tongue past his lips to taste him a little deeper. Its only when Gustave breaks away from that kiss when he opens his eyes again, and -- well, he can't see himself. But he can just about feel where that flower is tucked into his hair behind his ear, a soft pale purple in the middle of mussed dark waves. ]

Mon monsieur le floriste. [ Another laugh, warm, genuine -- even as the end of it starts to rail off into something quieter. ] I hope it looks good.

[ But then, that statement. The smile freezing on his lips for a few moments, starting to edge away, the quiet yearning in his eyes self-evident, unusually honest on Verso's face. He'd really like to. But it is a dream. Worse than a dream. It's someone else's dream, all of them bound in a pain that runs so deep through the very fabric of their world that most of them could never hope to understand. And he's already been here far too long. ]

It might have to be. [ He wishes he could explain. Slowly he starts to push himself up on one elbow, reaching up to touch callused fingertips to Gustave's face, tracing over his cheekbone. Affectionate and fond. It's absurd for him to feel like this for a man he may have watched for so long but -- that he doesn't know. But when he smiles, when he sees into his eyes, into his heart . . . ] But maybe you can convince me. To dream a little longer.

[ It won't ever feel like enough. ]

[demainvient]

[ 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?

[versorecto]

[ 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. ]

[demainvient]

[ 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'était peut-être le coup de foudre— 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 mystérieux 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.

[versorecto]

[ Verso likes the warm weight of Gustave's hand on his stomach, likes how much the man just seems to want to keep touching him. He finds his gaze dropping briefly to the other man's stomach, not at all hiding the way his eyes drag up over the length of his body, the lean muscle of his chest, lingering over that bruise to the side of his neck, his throat, his lips. Even now, with the warm afterglow from before still pooled in his belly, he wants to chase that line with his fingers and tongue, wants to continue the work it feels like he only just barely started with learning and mapping out every heated inch of his body.

His eyes fall shut a little with a quiet half-laugh when he calls him that. He'd really, really like to be his mystérieux monsieur le pianiste, but when the dream ends, he simply isn't. Maybe this way, when he finally gathers the will to leave like he's keeps saying he should, he can stay the mystérieux monsieur le pianiste -- instead of everything else. The things that Gustave would no doubt fight him for and hate him for, if he knew. ]

It would be nice, mon chou.

[ It really would be.

He shifts, properly seated down, now -- and reaches for him again, callused fingers spreading across his shoulder, his nape. Pulling him close until he can press another kiss to his neck, mouthing over scruff, up to his ear. Warm, heated, still quietly wanting. ]

-- And what would you have us do? If you did have that chance?

[ Lie to him a little. ]

[demainvient]

[ He goes, easily coaxed, shifting carefully to put his weight more on the hip that doesn't hurt so much even as he chuckles at the sensation of Verso's kisses, his voice rumbling against his ear. ]

Take you out? Is that what people do?

[ As if he really were the old man Maelle teases him about being, out of touch and too rusty to remember what a man who has found someone who makes his heart speed and skip and yearn might do. As if it had been more than not-quite-two years since Sophie, as though he hadn't been on any dates since then.

He has, it's just that none of them... Well. None of them were anything like this, and none of the people anything like Verso. ]

First I would have to ascertain your likes and dislikes vis-à-vis dinner, yes? And try to find someplace suitably up to standards that also allows for a dark, quiet corner where I could attempt — and probably fail — to romance you over a bottle of wine.

[ It's the same kind of humorous story he might spin for Maelle, one that casts him in the role of earnest but ultimately ineffectual hero. Maybe it'll make Verso smile, too.

He turns his own head into the other man, ghosting light kisses over his cheek, his ear, whatever part of him he can reach as he goes on, a chuckle in his voice. ]

Tragically, at some point, I would have to admit to you my true occupation... that I am not a florist after all, only an engineer. Extremely prosaic, I know. And hopelessly ignorant in the matters of music and art, so I imagine you would quickly lose interest, perhaps even before the dessert was brought out.

[versorecto]

[ 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.

[demainvient]

[ He snorts, good-humored, amused that Verso has taken up the joke again, just like he had back at the opera house. They don't know each other, it's true, but... this feels easy, anyway, like it's a rhythm they've fallen into many times before. ]

I must have been doing something wrong, all this time... I've been reliably informed that stories about my work are deeply boring, not sexy and seductive.

[ True, most of that criticism comes from Maelle, who is still young enough to be horrified by any mention of romance or physical attraction, and who seems to consider it her sacred sisterly duty to ensure Gustave's ego is regularly cut down to size.

Verso coaxes him even closer, a summons Gustave is nothing if not willing to obey. He pushes up onto his knees and turns to face the other man completely, lifting one leg over Verso's and sliding his knee between his thighs as he leans to bracket the man with his arms, one to either side of his body, hands braced on the wooden edge of the flowerbed Verso leans against.

It leaves him looking down into Verso's face for a moment before he leans down to answer those kisses Verso had been trailing along his neck with kisses of his own, warm and deliberate at the curve of his neck and shoulder. ]

Fortunately, I think I'd be happy enough listening to you talk about music and art. No need to get into the minutiae of everyday mechanical engineering.

[ He'd enjoy it enough just seeing the expression on Verso's face as he talks about something he loves, he thinks. There is certainly more to his monsieur le pianist than his music, but it's easy to recognize how much of his heart lies in it.

He presses another kiss to Verso's neck, lips lingering, breath warm. ]

And then, perhaps — if I am feeling very bold — I might take your hand on the walk back after dinner has finally ended, well after everything else in Lumière has closed down and the staff has finally told us we really must leave.