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demainvient) wrote2025-04-30 11:56 am
demainvient) wrote2025-04-30 11:56 am
๐๐๐๐.
๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐
no subject
[ And it hadn't even been all that surprising, not really. He'd given them both an out, hadn't he? They hadn't made solid plans. No one twisted his arm and made him buy those flowers.
But... ]
I meant... after.
[ After. When despite his bruised pride Gustave had wandered past the opera house every now and again, first in the weeks when it was closed, and then again once it opened once more. He'd gone with Emma and Maelle to concerts there and cast a searching glance over the performers, the audience, but the white-streaked hair he'd been looking for remained elusive.
It wasn't exactly that he'd been looking, searching. He hadn't asked around to see if anyone else had met the mysterious and all-too charming Verso, hadn't let it color his days, his weeks. It had been a chance meeting of moments only. A spark of possibility, not a promise made and broken.
His glance flickers back down again, to where he's probing deep inside the joint of his wrist, tightening a connection that had pulled loose, and it's a little easier when he's not looking directly into those startling eyes. ]
I hoped you would show up... again.
no subject
There are ways to play this. He's not directly answered Gustave's question of where he's even been, and the man hasn't chased after that too much -- Lumiere is even smaller now than it was nine months ago, but not quite so small and desperate that not seeing a certain stranger in that time is unthinkable. If all Verso wants is a clean escape, then it seems like he has one, find a graceful way to exit this conversation, or maybe even just excuse himself for a meeting that doesn't exist.
But, it seems he's fucking learned nothing, because instead. ]
I don't think you needed to go as far as to hurtle yourself off a roof to try and meet me.
[ . . . Not a great joke. Everyone's learned to be a bit laisseiz-faire about death in Lumiere, but Verso's even worse about that than most. He grimaces, looking away, sheepish -- not nearly as devastatingly embarrassed as Gustave had seemed that night, not even fully breaking eye contact -- looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Even if it was just a chance meeting, a fleeting moment, a not-quite-promise, that connection had felt real enough that he couldn't help himself but act on it. That there was something there he wanted. Something he might still want.
He rolls his shoulders back slightly, tilting his head back, hair falling slightly out of his face as he looks back at him, a question in his eyes. ]
But it worked.
[ You found him.
Now what? ]
no subject
I think an old grapple point is more to blame for that than my desire to see you.
[ Which... does it still exist? He looks at the man, taking in details he hadn't been able to easily see that night in the dim, empty opera house: the scar over his eye, the way the waves of his hair flow together, the lazy grace in every movement. Even his self-conscious wince at a joke that's a little darker and a little more blunt than might be considered polite is fascinating to watch; the way his expression shifts and smooths.
He isn't surprised to feel that same tug, deep in his gut, that had prompted him to ask for more of Verso's time all those months ago. The man is just as beautiful as he remembered, and just as distant, and just as impossible to read. ]
But I guess it did.
[ And now here they are, standing a few feet from one another with a fresh wind from the harbor tugging at Verso's hair, at the hem of his jacket, at the collar of Gustave's shirt. Is this what he had wanted? What had he imagined might happen, if he ever saw this man again? ]
Why?
[ His voice is quieter now, his head lifted and his gaze steady on the other man. There's a question here, too, but at least he'll be brave โ or stupid โ enough to voice it aloud. ]
Why didn't you stay, that night? Why'd you leave?
Did I...
[ His hand lifts, helpless, palm up in the air, and falls back to his side. ]
Did I do something wrong? Or was it not about me at all?
no subject
The earnestness in Gustave's expression when he asks is familiar. A different emotion, now, but just as honest, vulnerable, open. Verso reaches out, again without thinking, already regretting the movement partway through but its too late to change his mind, fingers curving over Gustave's wrist before his hand falls back to his side completely. He's warm, solid, his own touch light but firm, and -- putain, the last time he's touched a nother person was this, wasn't it. His moment of weakness with this same man, nine months ago. ]
No. [ He shakes his head -- the corner of his mouth quirking upward ever so slightly, not wanting to make fun of him but definitely a little amused. How could Gustave had done anything wrong? All they'd done was talk for a while, all Gustave had done was ask for another song, ask to see him again. A beat, and he lets his fingers shift against his hand, calloused ragging against skin, thumb slipping over his pulse. A gesture that's -- intimate. That makes it clear the touch is intentional. ] I hope you didn't get that impression, from me.
[ But now comes the problem. He needs to pick a lie. Or at least gesture at the right kind of lie. ]
It was only that . . .
[ Verso lets his voice trail into quiet. Lets his eyes drift away from Gustave's. Over the other man's shoulder, across the rooftops of shattered Lumiere, over the horizon, ad the Monolith. His heart aches whenever he looks at it, but for -- a different reason, than most of Lumiere. The Paintress form', or a version of her, cured up and sobbing, always sobbing, her shoulders shaking with a sorrow too deep for any of them to understand.
He could mean he's close to his Gommage. He could mean leading in to an Expedition. He could mean that, just like some find it best to throw themselves into what pleasures they can as their life dwindles down, others find it only painful, futile, pointless. Whichever one it might be, or something else, Verso doesn't seem to want to give voice to it, except to assure Gustave that it wasn't him.
That part, at least, isn't a lie. Even if everything else is. ]
no subject
He doesn't try to pull his hand away, but nor does he turn it in Verso's grasp. He simply... lets the man hold on, and tries to ignore the way his heart gives a strange lopsided thump in his chest at the brush of that thumb over the pulse point in his wrist, calloused skin running gently over a thinner, much more delicate spot than the man had touched before.
Does it help, hearing that whatever the problem was, it wasn't him? A little, but then he'd never really thought it had been. Not without Verso being... far from whatever it was Gustave had thought he might be. Complicated, yes. A mystery. But there had been kindness in him, too.
He studies the man for a long moment, thoughtful, then cuts his glance to the side, turning his head and leaning to the left while he allows his right hand to stay relaxed in Verso's grip. His eyes shift from side to side, searchingโ ah. There.
Another, deeper lean and a quick motion of his hand, and then he's straightening, a freshly plucked flower held carefully in the metal fingers of his left hand. It's deep purple, the petals velvety and soft and fluttering gently in the breeze as he holds it out, offering. His head tilts a little to one side, lips pursing thoughtfully and his glance on the flower before it lifts back to Verso's face. ]
The others were nicer. But I think you've forfeited your right to an entire bouquet, no matter how deserving your performance might have been.
no subject
Verso keeps making these damn decisions with this man, pressing things here and there, chasing after something he isn't quite sure he really wants. He keeps thinking he can just step out of it, if it goes too wrong or out of hand. What he was hoping for or was expecting here was maybe just a quiet acknowledgment, and then just -- moving on, maybe pressing a little further just for a moment, depending on how he felt, how Gustave responded to his hand over his wrist.
He isn't expecting this. And it's such a simple thing, a single flower, freshly plucked. ( Julie brought him flowers, once, a bouquet for one of his first performances. They'd been red, for love, association with the Gommage not a horror they needed to think of back then, but now whenever he thinks of her, the red, it just blends, and bleeds, and -- ) In the moment, blinking at the offered gift, he dimly realizes that Gustave is saying he had gotten him more flowers, that night. A bouquet. His fingers twitch slightly against Gustave's wrist. How --
Disarming. That's what he'd thought that night, too. His smile, the kindness in his eyes, earnest and eager, his stumbling over his own words. Like something reaches in to the part of Verso that's always holding a sword and dagger at the ready, that's always listening and watching for the right things to do and say to get what he wants and needs, always looking for the right mask slip behind, the opportune shadows to slip away -- and maybe it doesn't rip them from him, but its almost like he can feel a hand on his arm, forcing his sword down.
A blink. And a laugh, quiet and rumbling. At the situation, at Gustave's charm, at -- himself. He's awful. Doesn't fucking know how to interact with people anymore, especially someone earnest as Gustave, and he really should stop fucking with him before he regrets all of this more than he already does. But Verso knows, he already knows, that he can't help himself. ]
I don't think I have anywhere to put it.
[ His thumb circles ever so slightly against the pulse point in Gustave's wrist. Following the vein, his voice sliding just ever so slightly lower, softer. ]
-- My collar, maybe?
[ Tuck it in there, for him, will you? ]
no subject
Or perhaps it's just been a long time since someone offered him flowers, which would be a shame. They shouldn't only be for the grief of the Gommage. Either way, it seems he likes it: there's a brightness to those incredible clear eyes of his that had been missing before. ]
Mm.
[ Hummed in consideration as he twirls the flower for a moment between metal finger and metal thumb (a good test of his remaining fine motor control as much as it is fiddling, his nerves all cautiously alight). He shifts his weight to his other leg, tipping his head as he gives the other man a considering look: true, not many places for a flower, and he hadn't happened to be carrying a pin of any kind. His gaze flickers up for a moment to Verso's face, to the dark waves of hair that frame one side and the streaks of white marking the other. An image floats unbidden into his mind, of putting this flower not somewhere safely into a pocket or buttonhole, but of stepping close, pushing those thick waves gently out of the way, and slipping the green stem into the soft mass of Verso's dark hair, tucked snugly behind his ear.
No part of that thought escapes his mind and becomes real except for the way his eyes soften, his lips quirk momentarily into the ghost of a smile, and in the next moment he's lifting his hand out of Verso's gentle grasp and taking a step closer so he can use it to help slip the flower neatly into the buttonhole of the man's lapel, eyes dropping to watch his own work.
And then it's there, as secure as he can make it without a pin, soft and lush against the fabric, a light scent lifting on the breeze, and Gustave doesn't let his fingers linger for longer than a heartbeat before he's lifting them away and stepping back again. ]
It suits you.
no subject
Gustave's head is lowered to watch himself work, and Verso finds himself studying him. Eyes soft, brow ever so slightly creased as he focuses on the simple task, the lingering traces of that private smile still tugging at the corners of his lips. He's dressed plainer, today, comfortably and practically for the work he was doing, and the shirt's slightly loose but still enough for him to see the frame of his shoulders. Verso's thought of that night in the opera house over the past months -- misremembered a few things, or changed over time.
Verso's fingers twitch at his side. The flower stem is neatly threaded into place, a soft purple against his lapel. As Gustave pulls way, he breathes, the faintest curse muttered curse under his breath, he should know better than this --
The movement is more sure than he actually feels, Verso's hand coming up between them, fingers skipping over Gustave's shirt, two fingers neatly curling into his collar. Just enough to pull him forward, for him to lean down -- and like that night, the brush of his lips is light, but this time, more purposeful. Ghosting against Gustave's mouth, his lower lip, leaning into him and turning his head until his lips are pressed against the corner of Gustave's mouth, a murmur against his skin. ]
-- So it does.
[ And he starts to lean back. ]
no subject
But this time the man keeps moving, tipping forward, and then his mouth is there, warm and gentle, almost the idea of a kiss more than the actual thing, but it still feels like Gustave has been jolted back into mid-air and into gravity's clutches again. The feeling in his stomach when Verso kisses the corner of his mouth and murmurs a few quiet words there can't be all that dissimilar to the sudden and inexorable thud of hitting the pavement. The one is almost equally shocking to the other, and for a moment it leaves him almost as incapacitated.
And then his own hands are coming up, too fast and more than a little awkward, reaching for Verso before the man can step away again. His right hand comes to the side of his head, fingers sinking into dark waves of hair and sliding against the curve of his skull; his left hand... can't quite reach that high that quickly and instead lands on Verso's upper arm, fingers gripping there, and now it's Gustave's turn to pull: Verso toward him or himself toward Verso, he's not sure.
What is sure is how he's tipping his head just slightly to meet Verso's mouth again, a kiss that's no longer just the idea of the thing but the thing itself, firm and warm and just a little awkward, the way he himself is.
He had a chance before and missed it. He's not missing it again. ]
no subject
He tends to think he can get away with it, has been surprised when he can't, but this time, well. This time he's waiting for it. He pulls back deliberately slowly, lingering in that moment when Gustave seems caught completely off guard, giving him time to respond -- and he pulls back on purpose. Forcing Gustave to have to reach for him if he wants to keep him there.
And he does. Hurried, a little awkward, but very clear in intention. Verso lets him, leans into it, his breath catching slightly when he feels the other man's fingers twist through his hair, slightly cool metal as he Gustave grips his arm, as Gustave clearly, unambiguously, kisses him.
And just like that, there's a shift in Verso's demeanor. Immediate, like a switch being flipped: it seems all he needed was permission. He winds an arm around Gustave's waist, hand pressed to the small of his back, lifting the other man's body against his own. His other hand lifts to his cheek, cradling his jaw. Where his touches before were fleeting and featherlight, this is a firm, warm weight. Where everything before was more of a gentle question, this starts to edge into a hint of demand -- most of all in the way Verso kisses him back. Thumb soothing through scruff and against his beard to press into the hinge of his jaw, urging his lips to part further so he can tongue into his mouth, teeth catching against his lower lip. Warmth edging into heat, a quiet rumble in his throat, sounding in his chest like the gravel in his voice. ]
no subject
It feels like falling into a fire. Verso isโ everywhere, hands and mouth and tongue and teeth, and the sound he makes feels like someone shoveled coal into the flames now licking up the inside of Gustaveโs chest. He groans, the sound tugging out of him, and his lips part until heโs meeting Versoโs open mouth with his own, wet and hot and needy. Itโs been so long since anyoneโs kissed him this way, like oxygen is a thing that happens to other people. He could breath Verso in and drown and barely care at all.
His fingers fist, gripping into the manโs hair, into the cloth of his jacket, and he should really be careful not to tear it, but heโs been careful for so long, really, and just for this moment he wants to forget that itโs necessary, that careful people live longer. He runs the edge of his teeth over Versoโs bottom lip, nips not quite gently; presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth, stubble and soft warm skin and hot breath all combining to fill his head like champagne. ]
no subject
He'll still regret this later, probably. But he'd have regretted not doing anything just as much, and Verso's hardly above indulgence.
The more Gustave gives him, the more Verso takes. Gustave leans into him, and that hand Verso has pressed against the small of his back all but hauls him against his chest, sliding down to the base of his spine. He groans against his mouth, and Verso answers it with a sound that's more like a growl, wanting to hear more as much as he wants to make it so Gustave can't make any sound at all. His other hand drops from Gustave's cheek to his shoulder, squeezing, feeling -- and getting a bit more leverage. Easier to move him, taking one step, another, until he's pushing him against -- something, some metallic trellis frame, decorative, grown over. Verso barely registers what it is and doesn't care, only that he's using it to make it easier to crowd Gustave completely, pinning him there with his weight.
That hand lifts from his shoulders to fist through his hair, fingers carding through those soft waves and curls. When Gustave nips at his lip, Verso answers with something that's bordering on a bite, and when his lungs finally burn enough that it forces him to actually pull back to breathe, he uses his grip in his hair to push his head back, baring the curve of his throat, mouthing down over his neck.
The bit of air he's getting there does seem to clear his head enough where he slows down slightly -- another question, somewhere in there. His eyes flickering open, eyes half-lidded, a hunger and absolute focus in them that borders on predatory. All he needs is permission -- and if Gustave hasn't already started to realizing it, he might quickly learn that Verso really will keep taking, as much as Gustave keeps giving. ]
no subject
His back slams into something hard, smacking what little air heโd managed to get right back out of him again, and when Versoโs mouth finds his throat the sound he makes is charred around the edges, singing the breath he manages to drag in right before he loses it again. He doesnโt think anyone has ever wanted him this way, rough, hunting, taking and taking and painting every nerve and vein into life with the sweep of hands and sharp grazing teeth and a body thatโs pressed irrevocably against his, covering him like a landslide. He doesnโt think heโs ever wanted anyone else this way before, where his hands canโt grip hard enough or touch enough; the hand in Versoโs hair releases to run a palm roughly over his neck, blunt fingernails scraping against skin. He smells something crushed and green and fresh behind him, feels plants and leaves break between his back and the thing Verso has him pinned against. The back of his shirt is going to be stained indelibly green. He doesnโt care.
His own eyes are huge and black, widely dilated when Verso looks up at him; his mouth is flushed and pink and a little sore from where the man had bit him, from the force of his kisses. Gustave swallows, curves his hand around the back of Versoโs neck, thumb running along skin, and nods. Once, twice, again and again. ]
Yeah. Yeah.
no subject
Gustave's responses are everything. He's reactive, vocal, a live wire under his fingers and tongue. Verso looks at him like he's drinking in the sight of him, his hair already a mess, pupils wide and dilated, lips kiss-bruised, and just seeing the effect he has on the other man is in itself intoxicating. He leans into Gustave's touch, fingers at the back of his neck, thumb along his skin -- waits for the nods. The halting, but very clear affirmation. Keep going.
He lets his teeth catch against the pulse in Gustave's throat, soothing over the slight nick he leaves in his skin immediately with his tongue, keeps moving upwards until he's pressing another kiss to his lips. This one a bit lighter, sweet, a vehicle for the answer; ]
-- Okay.
[ His voice is breathy, rumbling deeper. Answering him with actual words, just so Gustave understands he's listening, he can tell him to slow down, keep going, stop. Right now, though, Gustave's message is clear, and Verso doesn't feel like talking. He actually does peel back from him, for just a moment, straightening back up to his full height, taking a moment to start to shrug his own jacket off of his shoulders, pausing somewhere in that movement to glance down at the flower tucked against his lapel. It's still there, barely, half of its petals crushed down, some purple stained against his jacket. His gaze flickers up to Gustave's almost apologetic, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. Oops.
The jacket gets shrugged off completely, falling to the ground behind him -- the rest of the flower might well survive. But Verso's moving back in again almost before the jacket even hits the floor, this time going straight for the side of his neck, heated open-mouth kisses trailing down over his skin. One hand tangles back through Gustave's hair, the other finding his waist, keeping him still against the frame behind him as he fits their hips together. ]
no subject
Or maybe it's more like he's a fresh steak, and Verso is a man who hasn't eaten in a month. There's something undeniably wolfish in the way the man studies him, like he's determining the best course of action to take him apart, piece by piece. There's something of the satisfied artist in his expression, too, reminiscent of the smile he'd had when Gustave applauded his performance all those months ago, like he's already pleased with his work.
He should be. Gustave swallows, his throat tight and his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pulls what air he can into himself before Verso's there again with a bright scrape of teeth against his throat and an actual, quick sting of pain that's immediately soothed by the flat of his tongue. This time, the sound Gustave makes comes from his throat, not his chest, more a cry then a groan, cut off and caught against the back of his tongue. ]
Ahโ
[ But then the kiss that lands on his lips is almost gentle and even Verso's rough voice is as soft as the puff of breath it's carried on. Okay. A question no longer forgotten but asked and answered and acknowledged. ]
Okay.
[ His own voice is low, almost a whisper, and Gustave's hand relaxes in the material of Verso's jacket as he leans to press another, gentler, lingering kiss to Verso's mouth. His fingers let go of cloth and spread instead over his chest. He thinks he can feel the man's heart beating even through the metal of his palm.
Somehow, he manages to force himself to let go of the man when Verso backs away, leaving him bereft and weirdly cool in the breeze that sweeps over the roof and tugs at his mussed hair, the collar of his shirt, the vines and flowers behind him. They rustle and shift, but his eyes stay locked on Verso, watching the way his jacket shifts off his shoulders. Verso glances down, then up again with that slanted smile, and Gustave laughs, breathless, heady. There's so much he doesn't know and more he doesn't understand โ where has Verso been all this time, if this is what he wanted why did he leave that night? โ but right now all he can focus on is that little shrug and the apologetic tip to the man's head. ]
I can always get you more flowers.
[ He'd like to get Verso more flowers, he thinks, and not only to see that look on his face again, the one that crossed his features seemingly unbidden and made him look for a moment so much younger, surprised and a little bemused. A bouquet for a concert, a boutonniere for his jacket, petals strewn in the thick, richly dark and stark white waves of his hair.
The jacket hits the rooftop with finality, and Verso's already in his arms again, body one long perfect line pressed to his as his mouth finds Gustave's throat, roaming over skin like the space Gustave bares with a tip of his head belongs to him, has always belongs to him. Gustave closes his eyes to the attack, another low sound punching out of him as he runs both hands, fingers spread possessively, over the cloth of Verso's revealed shirt from back to ribs to the lean slopes of his side. He palms the man's trim hips with firm hands, dragging him closer, slotting them against each other until they're pressed to one another from knee to chest. ]
no subject
That, and he's by nature focused, intent. Cautious to a fault until the moment is right, and then throwing himself into it with reckless abandon after. Flirting around the edges, seeing what Gustave might let him do, and the moment its clear the man wants him -- he likes getting out of his head, and where better else to go than just narrowing in on making someone feel good. And Gustave, earnest and expressive as he is, seems like an especially potent drug for this, his every catch of breath something Verso drinks down with hunger and want, that quiet cry, the way he's breathless around his words, the taste of him under his tongue, warm and sweet.
He shudders appreciatively from Gustave's touch, his hands over his shirt, over his hip, the way the other man drags him closer. Without the jacket it feels that much easier to fit their bodies together, to feel how the other man's angles and lines mesh against his own, and he kisses his way over beard and scruff. He nips at the shell of his ear, murmuring against it; ]
-- For my performance?
[ Low, with a laugh. The piano, or this? He chases the question with another kiss, open-mouthed and wet and needy just under his ear, back down the side of his neck, latching onto the join of his neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to start to leave the hints of a bruise -- considerate enough to do that where it's reasonably easily hidden, at least. Reasonably.
He rolls his hips forward against Gustave's, shoving his thigh between the other man's legs, pushing his knee against that metal frame behind him, pressing up. One hand pressed against Gustave's side starts to tug a little at the material of his shirt, freeing the hem enough for him to push his hand underneath it, fingers dipping past the fabric to reach bare skin. ]
I hope it's still deserving.
[ He wouldn't mind more flowers. Wouldn't mind seeing him again. He knows he can't, he really fucking can't, but right now what he should know just fades back to what he wants and needs, and right now he thinks he'd like to see this man again tomorrow, and the day after, just as much to taste him more, just as much to see him breathless in wonder as the night he'd played for him on that lonely stage. ]
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He groans again, left hand gripping Verso's hip, rocking his own hips reflexively into the pressure. It's impossible to miss the effect the man's having on him, the heat and strain between his legs. His blood is at a hard simmer at the multi-pronged attack on his senses, mouth and body and leg and hands all working in tandem to play him as easily as Verso had played those melodies all those months ago. ]
Heyโ
[ Laughed, breathless, as his right hand comes skating up Verso's back to fist fingers into his hair, drawing firmly to guide his head back up from where the man's dedicatedly trying to drive him crazy, mouth moving over the curve where his neck meets his shoulder and lighting every nerve there into fizzy life. Gustave tips his head to kiss the angle of his jaw, lips brushing over the soft roughness of beard and scruff, coaxing Verso back into meeting his mouth again. ]
Don't make me have to explain bruises like that to my sister unless you want her to invite you over for dinner.
[ Not that he precisely wants to think about Emma in this moment, but there's never a time when she and Maelle aren't always somewhere there in the back of his head, two constants within every equation he calculates. No life in Lumiรจre belongs only to the person living it, and he's no different: every choice he makes affects not just him but the two people dearest to him in the entirety of this shrinking world.
It doesn't stop him from releasing his fingers from Verso's hair to slide them over his shoulder, folding back his loose collar to bare more of the man's skin, even as he shivers at the touch of Verso's fingers against his side. He ducks his own head to run his mouth over warm skin, following the graceful line of his throat down to the rise of his collarbone, tracing angles and curves with mouth and tongue and the edge of his teeth. ]
no subject
But that's not the world they're in. The world they're in is Verso once again vanishing without a word, and maybe Gustave might be alive the next time he comes to Lumiere or maybe he'll be gone, and Verso will simply press on, watching Expeditioner after Expeditioner hurl themselves into certain death --
-- Refocus. Not this, not now. It's selfish, and Gustave may not forgive him for this ( if he lives long enough for it to be an option ), but for as long as this lasts Verso would like to pretend to be his monsieur le pianiste in a world where nothing matters but the breathless groans he can draw from his throat when he touches him just right. The moment passes, helped along by the heat of Gustave's mouth against his shoulder, his collarbone, his throat. He groans appreciatively, tucking his lips against Gustave's ear, the edge of a growl in his voice; ]
-- Maybe I want someone to see it.
[ Not just Gustave's sister, of course. And in the end, that slight bruise he'd managed to leave before Gustave urged him away is still somewhere hidden enough. But there is truth to that, a hint of a possessive heat under his words, a desire that many in Lumeire could probably empathize with: the want to leave a mark, that says after. And Verso knows, he knows he will have to leave Gustave again, and while its better for the man to simply forget him and move on, he can't help but want part of this to linger with him.
That edge of possessiveness is there when he twists his fingers back through his hair. Pulling his head up, gentle but firm, until he can crush their mouths together again. The kiss starts off a little lighter but then just like before starts to deepen, growing into something hungry, devouring. his hand sliding up further under the material of Gustave's shirt. The way he palms over his chest, calloused fingers tracing over lean muscle and skin, almost like he's learning him, mapping out his body with his fingers. His hand eases back down, over the muscle of Gustave's stomach, further down to pluck pointedly at the front of his pants, punctuated with that thigh still pressed between Gustave's legs, pressing up against him. The question is there, not verbalized, though this time, with the way he's tonguing into his mouth, Verso seems distinctly impatient for a response. ]
no subject
As if there were any way Gustave would be able to forget him now, even without any visible reminders. The fresh green summer-hot scent of crushed plants that wafts through the air now will always carry a little of the taste of Verso's kisses on it. It'll be a long while before he'll be able to see a purple flower and not remember the one that was smashed between their bodies, how it looked, tucked snugly into Verso's lapel, in the moment before he kissed him. ]
You think you haven't marked me already?
[ Not visibly so, but it's there, drawn along the inside of his chest in lines of fire, a little uncomfortably similar to the way he can tag a target with pictos for an attack. Verso is there already, bruises and the pink flush of a bite mark just superficial remnants of his touch, his mouth, the path he's taking along Gustave's body. They will fade far sooner than the true mark he's leaving behind.
Verso's hand runs over his skin, traveling beneath the light material of his shirt, not hard but firm and it feels so good that it's an enormous shock when those fingers slide over a section of his body and are met with a surprised flinch of pain instead of pleasure. The side he'd landed on when they crashed onto this roof is scraped and sore, bruises blooming beneath the surface of his skin; he'd forgotten about it, lost in the heat and sensation of Verso's mouth against his and Verso's leg pressing between his and his own hands desperate to feel more of the man beneath his fingers.
It's a jolt, enough of one to feel for a moment like he's stuck his head into a bucket of cool water, clearing his steam-filled mind for long enough to lift his own hand away from Verso for the moment, lay it over the one the man has working at the front of his trousers. ]
โwait. Wait.
[ It's almost the last thing he wants to do โ wait โ but he pulls his head back from Verso's devouring kiss, enough to take a breath, to try and calm his wildly sprinting heart. His fingers curl around the hand he's stopped, and all he wants is to let go, to urge him onward, to take that hand and guide it lower to where he's so desperate for the man's touch, but this is all so sudden. He justโ needs a moment.
Gustave licks at his lip, sore and bruised with kisses, and smiles, searching Verso's expression, wanting to know what he's thinking beyond the need that's driving them both; if he's thinking at all. ]
Are all musicians this passionate?
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Then Gustave says to wait, and he does. His hand is still curled into the front of his trousers, but he settles his fingers against the hem, thumb running just underneath it against and soothing against heated skin, running over a button but not actually popping it open. The other man breaks away from his kisses, catching his breath, and Gustave might be able to see it in the way he almost but not quite sways back forward, in that burning hunger in his still half-lidded eyes. He has to actively push down the impulse to kiss him again anyway, to drown any protests on his mouth and tongue, to devour him whole.
But he does give him the space. His other hand, still tangled through his hair, slowly starts to relax, Verso forcing himself to do so, one finger at a time, until its just a gentle touch carding through those dark curls. And as Verso himself gets to breathe again, it's like his lungs only just remembered how much they were burning, there's a certain halting, hesitant quality to his response. Its not anything bad -- its more like being jarred, woken from a dream. If it weren't for that sharp, almost predatory hunger still lurking in his eyes, the distinct want with which his gaze briefly drops down to Gustave's lips, tracing the curve of his throat, it'd almost be like they're back in the opera house and Gustave had just interrupted him in the middle of his playing. Reality, unwelcome, seeping back in.
His fingers twitch. He wets his own lower lip with his tongue without realizing it, has to force himself to meet Gustave's actual gaze again rather than just keep staring at his mouth and thinking about how he just wants to keep kissing him. ]
-- I think. [ Breathe. And a bit of a laugh, as if at himself for realizing how out of breath he actually is. ] I think all artists are, monsieur.
Especially when struck by -- something inspiring.
[ Or someone inspiring, as it were. His hand shifts through Gustave's hair, watching some of those mussed curls fall back against his face. ]
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His own lips tug into another, smaller smile, one that isn't so wide and laughing but which seeps into his eyes and warms them, crinkling them up into fond half-moons. It's a little bit of an effort with his shoulder and arm joint still wrenched and awkward, but he lifts his left hand to curve it at the side of Verso's neck, running a cool metal thumb over warm, flushed skin. ]
Monsieur le pianiste. You play me like a song.
[ And like a song, he finds himself coming alive under Verso's touch, under the skill and passion in those fingers. His other fingers curl around the hand Verso has low against his belly, gently coaxing Verso to let go and let Gustave take his hand and lift it between them. He lowers his head to meet it, pressing a kiss to the tips of the fingers that had been driving him so mad with need. Another follows, gentle against calloused skin before Gustave parts his lips to slip the tips of those two fingers shallowly into his mouth, tasting the salt and warmth of them against his tongue, gently nipping at them with the lightest possible edge of his teeth.
He lingers a moment there, then turns Verso's hand over so he can press a kiss into his palm, against the thin delicate skin just over the pulse point at his wrist. ]
Are we in some kind of rush?
[ His voice low and still more than a little rough with lack of air, and despite his gentleness, there's heat in the way he presses his mouth to Verso's skin. ]
Must I take what I can now?
Will it be another nine months before I see you again?
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It always was, but its easier to forget and let that slip away when he's just carried by the moment, by heat and want and the desire to pull someone apart beneath him. Having space to breathe and think means his mind can't help but latch back on to the reality of things, who he is, where they are, who Gustave is, how much of a fucking idiot and a terrible person he's being for letting anything get this far -- and how he couldn't help himself, not nine months ago and not now. He doesn't know this man. He knows him more than Gustave thinks he does, with the time he's spent watching him from afar, but he still doesn't know him. But the immediate connection he'd felt that night was unmistakable. In the months since, he's thought back on it. Was it just music, was it just being able to play for someone again after literal decades? Yes, at least in part, he thought. But not entirely.
Because there's also this. That smile and how it stirs something in him, a faint fluttering that makes him feel almost a bit absurd when moments before he'd been kissing him like he needed the air from Gustave's own lungs more than his own. His touch, gentle and earnest even after Verso had distinctly tried to flood him out with something much more heated and raw. And just like before, the only word that Verso can find for it in the haze of his thoughts is -- disarming. And dangerous, for it.
For the incredible effort it clearly took for him to stop, Verso's easily coaxed into letting Gustave take his hand. He watches, pupils blown under half-lowered lids, as Gustave kisses delicately at the tips of his fingers ( the calluses there maybe a bit more coarse and rough than might be expected, for a pianist, not to mention spread across his palms ). His eyes widen noticeably when he takes those fingers into his mouth, his fingers twitching, pressing slightly down against his tongue. Watching him take them in so gently with those lips, kiss-bruised as they are, has a little almost-growl sounding in his throat, a reflexive tension through his shoulders before he pushes it down. Putain de merde, he just wants to push him down to the ground, right here on the rooftop.
There's that question, though. And again, a bit of a stillness in answering it. A flicker of something across his eyes that isn't just want. He keeps his hand relaxes in Gustave's grip, letting him do as he will -- only turning it only just enough to lightly trail his thumb against his lower lip. The gesture soft, affectionate -- and delaying the answer yet another moment more. ]
The only rush is mine.
You can forgive me, I hope, for being so -- inspired. [ The corner of his mouth twitches upward, something that's a bit more of a smirk than just a smile. Surely he can be forgiven for the great sin of finding Gustave so infuriatingly tempting that he's just desperate to get a taste of him, get a feel of him, to take what he can, before.
He wishes he could be honest. He wants to be. But especially when they're here on Lumiere, when Verso doesn't have the additional safety net of the sheer impossibility of Expeditioners making it home -- he can't afford the risk. But as always, while he'll lie through his teeth when it comes to it, if he can simply -- evade. Then that's better. ]
I can't tell you when you might see me again.
[ There's a sadness in his words, thats at least partially performance -- but its performance that comes from something true. It sounds like a man that could be talking about his own Gommage, or anything else that might be in his future that might take him away from this, from the world. Verso doesn't know how old Gustave is, and will not ask, because it invites the question in turn, invites a necessary lie. So he genuinely doesn't know if he might see him again. And when life in Lumiere is what it is, desperately clawing something for itself out of the dark . . . His fingers curve slightly to gently press under Gustave's jaw, guiding his head up ever so slightly, to look at each other full in the eyes. ]
-- But I think we're all always taking what we can.
[ In the time they have. ]
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He presses a last kiss to warm skin, then allows Verso to tip his head up so their eyes meet, and Verso is... wistful, maybe. The ripple of sorrow underlying every note he'd played those months ago now seeps into his eyes, the line of his mouth, the timbre of his voice. ]
I don't understand.
[ It's a kneejerk reaction to that sadness, not the words that come after — Gustave is plenty familiar with those in Lumiere who choose to grab hold of anything they can, savoring it, lingering in it, indulging in the physical and whatever small delight they can. He doesn't think they're wrong — they all do that here, to a greater or lesser extent — but Verso hasn't struck him as that sort of person. If he were, wouldn't he have shown up that night at the opera house? Wouldn't he have coaxed Gustave to stay longer during their very first meeting?
His metal hand isn't as desirable for touch as his flesh and blood right hand, maybe, but Gustave shifts it a little up the line of Verso's throat anyway, thumb rubbing through scruff along the angle of his jaw. ]
If you want to see me, you can.
[ So there must be some other element to all this. Maybe he's married; maybe he's spoken for in some other way. Maybe he's throwing himself into training for the next Expedition. Maybe he has some disease which will steal him away even before the next Gommage.
Gustave shifts the way he's holding the man's hand and guides it back towards himself again, to his chest, settling Verso's palm back on his belly. If you want to see me, you can. If you want to touch me, you can. ]
I'd like to see you again. But I think you know that already.
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But in this, for a fleeting moment, he feels something twist in his chest. He wishes someone could, wishes Gustave could, but no -- no. With the weight of what he knows . . . He wouldn't wish it on anyone.
He leans into Gustave's touch, grounding himself back in this, in him -- the metal is cooler than his other hand, yes, but its a touch all the same, still has his warmth and intention to it, still has comfort. He can tell Gustave is trying to understand, to figure out what is holding him back, what keeps him away. And Verso will have to let him keep wondering. He'll never know. He turns his head slightly against his hand, metal as it is, brushing a kiss against his fingers, and his eyes flicker noticeably when Gustave guides his hand back down.
That's something he can focus on again. He thumbs over his navel, fingers curving back into the hem of his trousers. ]
I know. [ He knows now, though he's still at least a little surprised, had hoped that their encounter from nine months ago would be the last, unfortunate but forgotten in Gustave's mind. But now, after this, after learning he'd turned up that night with a bouquet in hand, after hearing Gustave's breathless voice tell him about how he's left a mark already. He knows. And feels awful for it, as much as he savors it, and feels awful for that in turn. Push that aside, swallow it down. Back to this, now. More -- urgent, matters. ] I can't promise that.
But I can give you something else.
[ Similar to before, his demeanor shifts. It isn't quite as instantaneous, not like a light switch, but an easing from one stance into another, almost the way one would shift in a fight, aligning his body to a different purpose. That hunger in his eyes never went away, but it did quieten down, patient enough, waiting -- and now it it surges back as he ducks his head. His other hand moves up to Gustave's hair, again, he does love how it feels between his fingers, tightening hard through the curls and yanking his head back to bare his throat so he can mouth hungrily over his pulse, pushing him up against the grown-over frame behind him as he kisses even further down towards the dip of his throat.
He shifts his knee again, pressing up between his thighs, rocking purposefully against him. His thumb plucks at the button of his trousers, pops it open -- but doesn't work on them past that. Instead he lingers there, fingers resting against him through the material, and it'd be easy to slip his fingers under the material to touch him, or even just palm at him over his trousers -- but he doesn't. His hand is just there, fingers resting over him but applying no pressure. All the while his kisses only get more heated, his body molding itself to Gustave's again, pinning him bodily to that trellis behind him. He kisses his way back up to his ear, his voice a murmur; ]
-- If you ask for it.
[ There's a hint of something teasing there, but there's also something else under the heat, an air of authority, a demand. With Gustave teasing him before, he might like to extract a little bit of petty revenge -- you told him to wait. Now you want him to touch you? He wants to hear you say it. ]
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His fingers curl hard around Verso's wrist as the man undoes with a flick the button at the waist of his trousers but makes no other move aside from to press his thigh back up until Gustave groans, the sound falling off his lips as thick as tar, heat shooting dully up into his gut. All he can do is hold on, his left hand leaving Verso's neck for fear of tangling his hair in metal fingers and instead goes to his back, fisting in the material of his shirt. Hot breath scuds across his ear, carrying a growled order, and Gustave makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan before he turns his head to try and crush their mouths together. ]
Show me.
[ The hand at Verso's wrist loosens, runs warm fingers up his forearm, leaving Verso's hand where it is, teasing and warm and not close enough. Gustave pulls against the fingers in his hair, wanting more: more of Verso's mouth against his, more of that growled voice, more of his touch, more. If he can't be promised more tomorrow, or the day after that, then he wants it now.
But his own voice, though it's rougher around the edges now, tight with desire, is still warmer, softer than the other man's, murmuring his name against his mouth before Gustave kisses him again. ]
Verso.
Show me, please.
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