𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

Comments

[versorecto]

[ The corner of his mouth quirks upward slightly when Gustave says it was just a lucky guess -- when his shoulder pushes just slightly against his own. He notes that the other man never leaned back or pulled away, and as his hand settles back on the center of the keys, notes that Gustave is giving the request some real, actual thought. He takes those few moments of quiet comtemplation to study him a little more. The line of his nose, strong, bold, gaze once again tracing his jawline, to his lips, his throat. A brief glance down his hands, gleaming metal and not. Verso doesn't know what the man does, has never observed that much. Perhaps that arm in his own work. He doesn't stare at it too much (it feels -- impolite), but he sees some of the mechanisms, the lines of engraved pictos.

And when Gustave decides . . . A happy memory, huh. He acknowledges request a thoughtful hum, another slightly amused smile when he turns his gaze back to the keys again. Something happy. Music is a language all of its own, and Gustave may have called himself no connoisseur, but how much did he hear in what Verso had played before? How much of that longing, how much of that -- pain?

Happy memories are few, now. Tinged with bitterness, with regrets, with the weight of the awful truth of everything. Often in the lonely nights he tries to see if he can tell which memories are his own, and which -- aren't. A futile exercise, a miserable one. Even papa, even Renoir, would tell him not to, that it only led to misery. But he can't help but wonder just where the seams are, where he was stitched together, where things were made -- and between all that. What happiness was there?

He starts to play. Like before, the first notes seem to come a little slowly, but this time its not quite because of nerves, but because he's finding te melody itself. No specific song, something improvisational, and happy or not there's something bittersweet to that first line or two as he settles in. Couldn't he just make something up, just play something generically playful, make up a story if he's asked to talk about it? Yes. Of course he can. But he's learning today just how much music will pull the truth from him compared to words, and he remembers family. Remembers Lumiere, before the Fracture. Taking off Alicia's mask, distracting her from her uncertainty but convincing her to dance with him a while, watching a smile form on her lips through the scars, Clea rolling her eyes nearby but not hiding her own little smile, too. He remembers this, remembers music, remembers playing for some of his family, or for people, for Julie, for others, a welcome sliver of happiness before he going back to the pressures of his family. And even after so much pain, out on the continent, desperate, alone -- he remembers things like having Monoco, playing games with him, blatantly cheating. Esquie not even minding.

The song is a little more technically complex than the one before -- perhaps in improvisation he can't resist the urge to show off just a bit to his audience. Its not quite purely bright and joyful and sounds more like finding those happy memories where he can. Clawing what joy he can manage from the jaws of something painful. The melody is bright, playful, sometimes dragged under by something but always soaring back. Pushing forward. Somehow. Somehow. Again, the last notes linger, defiant even as they strike out into the waiting silence.

Verso isn't quite smiling when he plays. But when he looks up from the keys and turns to Gustave, waiting for his promised praise, eyebrows lifted -- there's the smile, a little playful, expectant. ]

-- I was promised effusive.

[ Pay up, bucko. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's remarkable, really, the difference between the way Verso talks and teases, and when he turns back to the piano, the focus that overtakes him. His shoulders are relaxed, his spine straight without being stiff; he settles into the bench, the keys, like this is the position his body was always meant to take.

And then he begins to play.

Slowly, at first, picking his way along as if trying to recall an old and overgrown path. The notes sound as individual clear tones, a little uncertain. They pick up, though, and soon enough Verso is playing with both hands widespread and rapid, fingers flitting over the keys with what seems to Gustave to be impossible speed and skill, and the music follows in his wake like a river released from a dam.

It seems to fill this whole auditorium, this single piano with its dedicated soloist, and as Verso plays, Gustave can almost feel his own happiest memories come flooding back. The day he and Emma brought Maelle home. The day he first kissed Sophie. The day he and his apprentices perfected the first iteration of the left arm he now wears.

But joy and grief are inextricably intertwined in Lumière, and he hears that, feels it, too, as Verso's song rises and falls; sometimes settling low into a minor chord before brightening back up again, and—

Who is this man?

The last notes ring out and fade away back into the silence, and it's less that Gustave waits until Verso lifts his hands from the keys than that he's struck almost speechless until the man turns to him and that mischievous smile shiunes out again, like they're already sharing a joke only they know. Maybe they are. ]

So you were.

[ He takes a breath and clears his throat, then brings his hands up to applaud once more, shifting on the piano bench until he can get to his feet to give a standing ovation. After the piano's waterfall of sound, his applause sounds tiny even to his ears, but he only has the two hands. ]

Marvelous, monsieur le pianiste. Exquisite. I was transported, delighted. Truly you are the most brilliant jewel in this theatre's crown.

[ Bombastic, a little. Ridiculous: certainly. But there's sincerity, too; he means it, even if the words themselves aren't what would come most naturally to him. That was beautiful, he might have said, were he only speaking for himself and not in pursuit of a joke they're both in on. And it was beautiful, and playful... and sad. He doesn't think he'll ever hear anything else like it ever again. He doubts he'll ever forget it. ]

Effusive enough?

[versorecto]

[ Music is a universal language, something that would speak to any who are waiting and willing to hear it. But even then, not everyone can really hear it, give themselves to it, let it move them. Often because they hold themselves off, it takes a certain willingness to let yourself be vulnerable and connect to art, and often because they don't really need or want to, are happy to hear something pleasant and enjoy it on that level. But Gustave, Verso observes, almost can't seem to help himself. He can almost see how Gustave loses himself to his own quiet reverie, to a life and memories that Verso doesn't know about and has no right to, to whatever joys and pains the man has found for himself in oppressive shadow that looms over Lumiere.

Its nice to be -- heard.

Verso isn't expecting Gustave to literally rise to his feet, but, he supposes he did say effusive. The applause, so small and singular in the echoing opera house, might seem almost unintentionally sarcastic, especially with the overwrought praise, except for how there's so clearly a sincerity to it, an earnestness, how he'd seen in the moments before he asked for his praise that Gustave had been struck genuinely speechless.

Perhaps he was wrong, before. There is clearly part of him that might like a captive audience.

Verso stands to take his bow, a grand flourish, overexaggerated, and there's a moment somewhere there in that movement where he pauses. Considers. Makes a decision. And in that same movement of a bow, in the way of a stately gentleman at court ( a little comical given his rough-around-the-edges appearance ) -- he extends his hand, palm up. Offering it for Gustave to take, his head tipped up just enough to be looking up at him, meeting his eyes. Curious, letting it linger, though its clear he'll simply pull back if not taken, awkward as it may be. ]

[demainvient]

[ It feels a little like playing around with Maelle, this little game. He lavishes praise on the man, and Verso himself gets up to take an extravagant bow, and... that will be the end of it, he supposes. He's late as it is, and surely Verso himself has somewhere else he needs to be. Perhaps a family of his own that's waiting for him, supper on the table, a record on the music player.

What a strange end to an otherwise mundane day. Gustave ceases his applause, smiling, and tips his head just a little to the side, preparing to speak the words that would call an end to their impromptu concert—

Only Verso isn't rising, and this... isn't the ending Gustave had anticipated. He blinks, brows flickering together in a bemused frown that shifts across his face and is gone again, and — it feels like finally, though in reality it can't be more than a handful of seconds after Verso had first offered his hand — he lifts his right hand — flesh and blood, human, warm — and sets it into the other man's palm.

It's a little uncertain, the movement. He doesn't know what Verso's doing, what he might be planning. Is this still a joke, something for them both to laugh over? If it is, why do the man's eyes seem so intent?

Still, he's here now, his hand relaxed even as a bewildered smile follows that frown to flit across his face. He lifts his eyebrows, questioning. Now what? ]

[versorecto]

[ The hesitation, Verso was expecting, confusion, hesitation -- though it still lasts a bit longer than he was perhaps hoping for. What was he hoping for? Merde, he doesn't know, but any longer and he would've had time to second guess himself and think and remind himself how this is all a terrible idea. He has reasons for making sure few people manage to see him, let alone talk to him, in all of these little visits to Lumiere. Reasons for making sure he keeps the Expeditioners at arms length or even further whenever he meets them on the continent.

But he fails, doesn't he? He fails all the time at keeping himself distant, keeping away. That moment stretches just enough where Verso is about to maybe pull back, but then Gustave's hand settles in his own. Warm, solid, and immediately Verso realizes how goddamn long it's been since he's had any kind of contact with another person, his own fingers briefly twitching instinctively against Gustave's.

This clearly wasn't super well thought through, given how after he takes his hand, there's yet another beat, a hesitation hanging in the air. But then he moves, his hand squeezing gently over Gustave's, drawing it close as he drops his gaze. Its so light that it might even be scarcely called a kiss, his lips brushing against the back of his palm, dusting over his knuckles. ]

-- I am glad to play something worthy of my audience, monsieur.

[ There's humor in the words, but it's softer, quieter, a bit above a murmur that would be lost against his skin, just loud enough to be heard.

Its just nice to be heard. This could be useful, later. Maybe he'll never see him again. Maybe he just can't help himself with someone so earnest and eager to listen to him, in his appreciation of his music. Maybe its nice to have someone refer to him as a musician and not know him as anything else, as anyone else. Maybe, maybe --

-- In that same movement he straightens back to his full height. His thumb (rough, calloused, decades of living out in the Continent outside the mansion, of fighting with a sword and dagger) brushing against the side of Gustave's hand, fingers curling lightly into his palm before he lets his hand fall away completely. ]

[demainvient]

[ ...

Maybe they're both a little unsure of what's happening here. There's a long second where Verso does nothing, his hand warm and curling just barely around Gustave's, and he's about to lift his hand away with a self-conscious laugh when suddenly Verso does the lifting for him and ducks his head at the same time to brush the ghost of a kiss over his knuckles.

It's barely a touch at all, just enough for Gustave to feel the barest pressure of soft lips and the sensation of a mustache brushing against his skin and a puff of warm breath as the man speaks. He feels himself grow still.

How long has it been since he's felt anything like this? Not since Sophie, and that was a year ago now; long enough that he doesn't wake up every day to refreshed heartbreak, but not so long that he's been able to even think about attempting anything like romance with someone else. If that's even what this is, and he's by no means sure it is. Verso has exaggerated and embellished so many gestures and words in only these few moments that he's known the man; this could easily be more of the same.

But his hand is so warm, and when his fingers curl just barely around Gustave's before letting go, Gustave's press back. Careful and quick, almost something that could be mistaken for a twitch of muscle, a reflex. ]

Any audience would be fortunate to listen to you, I think.

[ He's dropped his own act, and now he's studying the other man curiously, a little unsure. A moment ago, he'd been thinking without enthusiasm that this chance meeting was coming to an end. Now he's not so sure that's really what he wants. ]

...where were you going, after this?

[versorecto]

[ A little unsure, definitely adrift, but Verso is not naive, understands what he did. There are a thousand reasons he should have just slipped away into the shadows once he realized he wasn't alone here, but even outside of that, he didn't have a right to do this. Too forward, too much, knowing that Gustave is unlikely to see him again. But -- he'd wanted to.

That's it, at the end of the day. Gustave was there next to him, his eyes bright and earnest in his appreciation of what he'd just seen and heard. The out-of-season opera house is hardly well lit, but the bare shafts of light catch against the soft curls of his hair, the frame of his shoulders, the line of his nose. He likes the way he smiles.

The way Gustave's fingers had pressed against his own was featherlight and quick, could've been almost accidental. But they're standing there now, looking at each other, and Gustave's clearly not trying to leave. ]

Home.

[ Not a lie. Not a truth. The Continent is home in a way, and he's already been on Lumiere a bit too long this time. He leans his hip slightly against the piano behind him, not stepping away, just -- almost grounding himself slightly. His tongue wets his bottom lip as he looks back at Gustave. ]

-- Don't you have your sisters to attend to?

[ Its not meant to urge him away. A reminder and an actual question, both. ]

[demainvient]

Yes.

[ Dinner on the table, and chatting with Maelle and Emma, and maybe a glass of wine with Emma once Maelle has gone to bed, over which he could tell her the slightly bewildering story of this chance meeting. ]

Although I think they'd forgive me if I told them I'd encountered a fascinating stranger, and hadn't just fallen into a ditch somewhere.

[ Verso leans easily against the piano, and the slope of his shoulders, the shift of his weight onto one hip, the way the shadows of this empty building darken those remarkable eyes is almost as appealing a song as the music he'd played earlier. There's something about the way he moves that's almost lupine in its grace, and a little niggling voice at the back of Gustave's head murmurs: dangerous.

But how, in what way, he isn't sure. Dangerous to Gustave's self-control, at the very least, because the next thing he knows he's opening his mouth and: ]

... but if not tonight, maybe I can see you tomorrow.

[ Did he just—

It's his turn to wet his lip, face scrunching into a self-conscious grimace, and his metal left hand lifts into the air, gesturing aimlessly as he tries to marshal his thoughts, his words. They keep piling up, tripping his tongue, and it's all, well— ]

If you want, that is. I mean... if you aren't...

If it wouldn't be too... I was just thinking, you know, maybe...

[ Awful. He grimaces again, head ducking, and glances up with a chastened expression. ]

Sorry.

dork

[versorecto]

[ Verso's already starting to regret this, should have regretted this more before doing anything, enough to have taken it all back. Merde he knows better than this, and usually when he makes these mistakes at least its with Expeditioners on the Continent, never right here in Lumiere. Too dangerous, too risky, he shouldn't take chances, he was just here to continue keeping an eye on Maelle, for a time in the future, when the moment is right. His thoughts go in spirals sometimes, and he can feel himself tumbling down one now even as none of it reaches his eyes or his expression, even as he just seem sto quietly listen as Gustave talks.

Fascinating stranger? He liked just being monsieur le pianiste, but that's an additional role he's played before -- and admittedly, likes playing, even if it's usually in different circumstances. Gustave was always watching him closely, but he can see the slight shift in his eyes, uncertain but definitely interested, and Verso wonders just how the hell he can live with himself ( because he has to, because he has no choice ). What is he going to do? He should just leave. Make an excuse. He knows the opera house's backstage area, the back door, Gustave probably wouldn't, he could slip away before the other man has a chance to follow him.

But then Gustave keeps talking, asks about maybe tomorrow. His face scrunches up, that metal hand grasping at the air as if trying to find something for his words to hold purchase to, but it clearly doesn't work, because the man just keeps talking. And trailing off. And talking. And trailing off. And ... Suddenly that spiral is torn from him before Verso even realizes it, because he's laughing, again. Quiet, not mocking, just amused and almost fond. He looks like a puppy, it's adorable, it's disarming, it's --

Dangerous, his mind supplies. Absolutely dangerous.

He nods. His voice soft, except for that gravelly rumble in his chest. ]

I'll be here.

[ Putain de merde, if he's going to do this, he has to make sure the man doesn't at least accidentally invite him to a cafe in the middle of the city. ]

if the shoe fits

[demainvient]

[ There's a laugh, but it isn't cruel, and when Gustave chances a look up, it doesn't seem as though Verso's making fun of him. It's impossible to tell what the man's thinking as he leans there, all idle grace and minute, shifting expressions, but the answer is clear enough: a nod. I'll be here.

And all it is, really, is an understanding that there's another opportunity to meet, but this time it would be deliberate. He'll have to choose to come here, to believe that Verso is telling the truth. And then...

And then he doesn't know. It doesn't feel like making plans with his friends, easy and casual. There's something else at work here, an energy that has him rubbing his fingers together at his side, awkward and uncertain. ]

Then I hope I'll see you tomorrow.

[ Hope, he adds. It gives them both a sense of plausible deniability. Things come up, plans change, intentions shift, courage wavers. He isn't even sure he'll turn back down the street that led him here again tomorrow, despite being the one to suggest it.

But maybe he won't be able to get the music out of his head. So maybe he will. ]

[versorecto]

[ Unfortunately, when tomorrow night comes: Verso is nowhere to be seen. The off-season opera house is back to being as lonely a it always is. But the fallboard is lifted, the keys exposed, and if that wasn't enough of a sign that someone had still been by, there's a note, tucked neatly on the corner of the music rack. The paper is a bit worn, one edge uneven like its been torn from a journal. The ink is fresh enough that depending on how early Gustave comes by, it might even smudge under his fingers, the script neat, legible, a well-trained hand.

Just two words: ]

I'm sorry.

[ But a little more: in the corner, off-kilter enough to be clearly hand drawn: musical staves, a treble clef. A simple melody, just over two bars. Its based in something from the improvisation he'd played for Gustave: something bright that seems to almost get pulled under by some dour notes, but then pulls free again. ]