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Apr. 30th, 2025 11:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
demainvient
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demainvient๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โน ๐๐๐๐๐๐
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Date: 2025-05-21 08:57 pm (UTC)He'd been there in the next moment, kneeling to examine the poor scraped knee and telling her silly jokes until she could blink away the surprised dampness in her eyes and laugh, but there had been a moment, just before he moved to her assistance, when he thought he saw a shifting, abortive motion in the shadows of a nearby building. A man...?
Maelle's distress had taken precedence, though, and when he'd looked again, the figure in the shadows had gone, if indeed he had ever been there at all. For a moment he thinks he sees someone — an expedition uniform, dark hair — but then there's nothing but the shift of the usual marketplace crowd, flowing into place like schools of fish. Gustave shakes it out of his head and turns his focus back to Maelle, fondly scolding her for rushing about and hurting herself while she smiles at his lack of sternness. A pain au chocolat later, he watches her already back to running full-tilt through the crowd, ponytail swaying, on her way home to Emma with a bag of fresh viennoiseries.
The evening is too fine for him to rush along with her, though, and he takes his time, wandering along a few of Lumiere's quieter streets, up towards the garden and the cracked tower.
It's as he's passing the opera house — closed for the season and with that strange, almost expectant feeling of an unused building — that he hears it: a clear, ringing note, chasing through the air like a bird in flight.
Others follow: lingering chords and triplets that flow into one another like water bubbling around rocks in a stream, and he's heading to the opera house before he can stop himself. The door is cracked open, the building cool and quiet and dim inside. It feels strange to be here on an evening with no performance and no crowd of chattering people, but he knows the way in, quietly pushing open one of the heavy, intricately carved doors to the theatre itself, following the lilting notes as if each one were a breadcrumb scattered along a path.
There's a man on the stage, sitting at the piano like he's been there all along, a gleam of white tracing through dark waves of hair. Gustave watches for a moment, listening. The song is lovely, it's—
The man stops abruptly, stiffens, all the relaxed ease draining out of him, and Gustave grimaces at himself before lifting a hand in an awkward greeting as he steps out from the shadow of the balcony above. ]
Sorry— sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.
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Date: 2025-05-22 12:01 am (UTC)Gustave. Verso knows his name. How could he not, when Maelle calls him so often, laughing, taunting, often with a roll of her eyes. These past thirteen years since Clea had entrusted him with yet another painful truth of the world he cannot choose to unknow, entrusted him with another quiet task -- he's come back to Lumiere. Not too often, never for too long. Just enough to make sure the girl is well. Not enough to know when her parents gommaged except that it was clearly far too soon, not enough to know how many doors she'd been through in the orphanage except it'd clearly been too many. Just enough to know how much she clearly seemed to like being apart from most of the people in her city -- enough to know when someone else started stepping in to watch over her, to take care of her, and to notice how much more she seemed to smile.
And Gustave might've seen him earlier, just watching her, merde --
Breathe. Think. It was a brief moment of carelessness ( much like this was a greater moment of carelessness ), could easily have not been enough for the man to get a good look at him. Right now, he needs to be just -- a stranger, a sentimental one, who couldn't help himself with an unattended piano. Which has just enough truth to it. Slowly, muscle by muscle, he forces himself to relax, his shoulders rolling slightly to shake some of that stiffness out of him. He drops his head slightly, sheepish, embarrassed, again, all true feelings in the moment, pivoting slightly on the piano bench to face his surprise audience fully. ]
No, no. [ Putain, its been yet another long while since he's just talked to someone. He manages a smile, still sheepish. Light. ] I'm flattered, for my playing to draw someone's attention.
Sorry. I -- Couldn't quite help myself. [ He lifts a hand, a gesture towards the piano. The kind of man who felt such a call to an untouched instrument he couldn't help but sound a few notes: again, not at all untrue. That weakness was real. ]
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Date: 2025-05-22 01:58 am (UTC)[ Both hands come up, now โ one flesh and blood, the other dark metal laced with gold, glimmering in the dim light โ as Gustave walks forward, down the sloping aisle between empty seats. ]
Please, don't apologize. I've always found it a bit sad that when this place closes down, empties out. It always seems like it's just... waiting. You know? For the lights to come back on. People to come back in.
[ He gestures at the piano, there in the middle of the stage. ]
Someone to get up there and... play.
[ He doesn't recognize this man, who almost seems to have materialized out of the shadows backstage. It's strange, but not impossible: Lumiรจre is such a small island that most people know one another, but not everyone. And he would have remembered meeting this man before. The pale eyes that glance his way are so startlingly clear, he doubts he'd ever have been able to forget them. ]
Have you performed here before? I don't think I remember seeing you.
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Date: 2025-05-22 02:26 am (UTC)-- But a few things. Its been a long, long while since he's had an honest to god conversation with someone that wasn't already weighted down by a burden too heavy for any one man to bear. Its been a while since he's talked to anyone, too. And all these years, watching Maelle, trying to look out for her. It's this man who's really been looking out for her. Who's seemed nothing but kind and selfless with her, in the brief glimpses he's always seen, and surely it would do no harm to talk with him a while. Maybe it would even be a benefit, to learn more about this man who's clearly become important to her.
Gustave has a kindness to his eyes. A genuine curiosity to his expression, and his voice, it rings true, earnest. He means that when he says it, Verso thinks to himself. That he feels a bit sadly for the hall, empty and waiting to be filled with music again. Verso realizes he's just been staring back at him for maybe a second too long, forces his gaze to break, looking back to the keyboard, one hand still positioned delicately over the keys. ]
It does seem lonely, doesn't it?
[ the opera house. the hall. the piano. he's thought about trying to sneak back into the back when some opera was playing before, but it always seemed a bit too -- ]
But no, I've not. [ Anyone who'd have ever remembered him performing here is already long gone, washed away in dust and flower petals. ] Just a personal hobby, one I don't get to indulge in very often.
[ He can't let Gustave lead in asking too many questions. ]
Are you much of an opera lover?
no subject
Date: 2025-05-22 02:52 am (UTC)Not opera, especially, but I do enjoy music.
[ He sets a hand on the curving back of the nearest seat, thumb running over the textured fabric. The man at the piano watches him with those fog-colored eyes, almost unblinking, but he doesn't seem annoyed. If anything, he seems willing enough to have this conversation, strange as it is, though it'sโ it's strange. The melody he'd been playing had been simple but wistful, so full of some emotion Gustave couldn't quite name, but the man himself is almost reserved.
Or maybe he just feels awkward. If so, that's a sensation they share.
Gustave lifts his hand and gives the top of the seat a few pats, unsure if he should simply leave the piano player to his music and the empty hall, if the man is just politely waiting for him to go.
But he speaks about playing, his hobby, he calls it, and Gustave's brow flickers into a quick frown that clears up again almost instantly. Hobby it might be, but it means something to the man, he can tell. A little of that wistfulness from the melody that had led him here was there, just now, in his voice. ]
I'm not exactly a connoisseur, but if you'd like an audience, I promise to be both attentive and appreciative.
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Date: 2025-05-22 03:14 am (UTC)His fingers move, almost involuntarily -- a brief snippet of the melody from before, unaccompanied, just a few notes on his right hand. Even that brief string has a yearning wistfulness to it, aching, pained. For all the masks he tries to wear, when it comes to music. Its hard for the notes to do anything but sing true. ]
Only if I'm not keeping you from anything important, monsieur. I promise I've not enough of an ego to demand a captive audience.
[ A smile, a bit warmer now, trying to be friendly. Surely just because learning about him is a good idea, might earn him a foot in the door somewhere down the road -- surely. ]
You can come up here too, if you like. [ That seems like a bad idea. But its already said. He tilts his head slightly, lifting his eyes across the rows of empty seats, to the cracked open door. ] Its not actually a show. Acoustics might be better down there, though.
[ A simple invitation to close that distance a little. Literally, but maybe figuratively, too. Down there, it seems like all Gustave can do is watch and listen to a man on a stage -- that barrier crossed, they could simply talk. If he likes. ]
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Date: 2025-05-22 12:53 pm (UTC)[ Stumbling over his words again. He wets his lip and ducks his head, half-smiling, half-grimacing at himself, before he looks up with a shrug. ]
Nothing terribly important. And I don't mind being a little late for dinner if it means a private concert. I think my sisters would understand.
[ Emma would, anyway. In the year since ending things with Sophie, he'd largely kept his head down, focusing on his work, his family, his friends, without too much deviation from routine. She'd be pleased, he thinks, that he's easing out of the norm, meeting someone new.
The suggestion that he come up on stage himself... well, this whole thing is strangely intimate, considering it's a passing interaction with a stranger. They are the only two souls in this whole huge building, and without the murmurs of many other voices, the muffling effect of many other bodies, their words carry through the theatre as clearly as if they were standing next to one another. Gustave's lips part; he plans to demur, to take his seat down here as any polite member of the audience might, until a thought strikes him and he lifts a finger in the air, shaking it as he turns around and away: one moment.
His steps are brisk as he walks back up the aisle to the door that had been left ajar and that he now reaches to pull closed, effectively sealing them off from any other curious passers-by. It isn't locked, anyone could come in, but as the door slides closed, he can't help feeling a sense of having slipped into some bubble no one else can enter or even see, like the impossible, elusive worlds in pocket universes that populate so many of the books he's read with Maelle.
It's just a closed door. Nothing more. He turns and comes back down the aisle again, and this time he doesn't stop at the bottom, goes around the pit and up the stairs at the side to walk up onto the stage, every step sounding impossibly loud. ]
Who am I to pass up a chance to watch an artist at work?
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Date: 2025-05-22 01:32 pm (UTC)Something in him relaxes a little more, when Gustave pulls the door shut, a quiet relief -- he'd like to play more, would like to have less chance of the music drawing any more attention from any curious passerby, god forbid, from Maelle coming to look for her guardian. And as the sliver of light that pours in from Lumiere beyond vanishes, it feels almost like the space in the hall doubles in size. The silence that much more profound, a building designed to ensure even whispers on stage can echo out to the furthest seats and the balconies, but not beyond them, to keep it all in. But its just them here. Anyone could open that door, but there's something that makes this feel -- private. Intimate.
Still a bad idea, probably. Something he'll berate himself for later. But like Gustave can't pass up a private show, maybe he genuinely can't pass up a private audience, a rare chance to just have someone hear him, for however long this moment lasts. Every footfall echoes throughout the opera house, every step louder and louder, suddenly giving Verso plenty of time to ponder how he's invited the man closer.
Verso watches Gustave move up, his gaze lingering briefly on his face, his frame, a curious flick towards his arm before his eyes turn back to the keys. After a moment of pause, wordlessly he shifts slightly along the piano bench, a silent invitation to sit beside him. ]
Now I have to make this private show worthy of your time, and your sisters'?
[ A quiet, amused sound. he flexes his fingers over the keys, and even the quiet crack of his knuckles sounds a little too loud, in the space. ]
I hope I'm up to the task.
[ Part of him feels almost -- nervous. Absurd. Not like he hasn't lied to expeditioners before. ... Maybe its the opera house, being on stage again. But as Gustave's footsteps sound louder and louder, approaching from behind him on the stage, that feeling only heightens, and Verso just does what comes naturally: he plays. A little slow to start, a gentle hesitancy to the notes falling slightly behind their own rhythm, like he's a little unsure. But only for the first phrase, before Gustave even gets too close. The music is so natural, to him, flows from his fingertips like nothing. He knows a thousand songs by heart, but the tune that comes first is always the same, the one that Gustave heard briefly before, too: what he used to play for his sister, what feels like a lifetime ago.
When was the last time he played for someone? When was the last time he let himself play at all? There's a moment where the thought occurs to him that this instinct he has, to hide behind music instead of conversation when he's invited the man up here himself -- that he can't hide behind it at all, that it's more honest and intimate than any words he ever chooses to say. But the thoughts fade the more he plays, the more his hands remember what they've always loved to do. The music rings out, slowly filling that vast echoing emptiness in the opera house with a sweet and wistful yearning for a time long gone -- until a few minutes later as the melody finally resolves, his fingers lingering on those last notes as they echo and echo and echo, the quiet starting to return. ]
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Date: 2025-05-22 03:23 pm (UTC)[ And not even then, really. Their young minds are too lively for him to want to shutter them in any way with criticism, and so he chooses instead to lead, to discuss, to encourage. In return they've bloomed for him; open to a world of possibility, they see options instead of problems, opportunities instead of roadblocks. He couldn't be prouder than if they'd been the children he'd one day hoped to have.
His footsteps echo through the open space around them, floorboards creaking beneath his weight, the only sound in this enormous and empty place, until it isn't anymore. The man has shifted along the bench but turned back to the keys, and the first phrase โ he recognizes it, the one that had floated through the open door and compelled him to follow โ drifting gently into the waiting hush.
It's not a grand concerto, or a lush, layered classical piece of the kinds he recalls hearing in this place in the past. As Gustave sits down on the bench โ towards the edge, to give the man as much polite room as he can manage โ the melody expands, fills out, but it stays gentle and wistful and almost heartbreakingly beautiful in its simplicity.
Gustave keeps his own hands in his laps, but his eyes are fixed on the way the other man's hands move over the keys, as graceful as a dance. It feels like watching someone pen a love letter, sitting so close as the man plays this song. The theatre is vast around them, but he feels that sensation of being in a bubble again, more intensely still. In all this space, his focus is caught by the drift of clever fingers as they coax impossible beauty from something as prosaic as carved keys, padded hammers striking strings. He can't remember the last time he'd experienced something so captivating.
When the song ends, the last notes drifting slowly into silence, he takes a deep breath, like a man waking from a dream. ]
See?
[ He glances over his shoulder to look at the stranger, now only inches away. As the gentle clinging haze of transportation lifts away from him, Gustave smiles, warm and artless. It crinkles the corners of his eyes. ]
Worth it.
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Date: 2025-05-22 04:21 pm (UTC)-- Until it breaks. Interrupted just by Gustave's voice. Jarred back to reality, and as he lets go of a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding, Verso might have been unhappy about being snapped back, except his head turns, and well. Gustave's smile is warm, painfully earnest, clearly genuinely appreciate of what he's just heard and witnessed, but the combination of that smile, those words.
Verso laughs, a quiet sound, half to himself but unquestionably genuine, twisting slightly to face Gustave properly and flourishing an arm in front of him. A performer's bow, or at least gesturing towards one without standing. But as the music fades -- everything else begins to settle back in. Not quite fully held at bay by the silence of the hall, the now-closed doors. Part of Verso's mind reeling back and taking careful stock of what he can and can't say, of the utter absurdity of this man's earnest appreciation next to someone who's been secretly watching him and Maelle for a while, now.
An idle trill sounds out from the piano, reflexive and involuntary, from his hand still on the keys. He doesn't quite want that reality to set back in, just yet. Those few notes aren't enough to hold it at bay. ]
-- Thanks. [ He means it. He tilts his head to the side, wayward hair falling slightly into his face in a way that frames his quiet smile, his tone dry but in obvious good humor. ] Should I ever headline my own show, worth it will grace the cover every brochure.
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Date: 2025-05-22 05:07 pm (UTC)And yet the silence fills, anyway, with a ripple of notes beneath the man's fingers, his dryly sardonic words. He's close, very close, but with the way he's turned towards the keys, Gustave can still only catch glimpses of his face from behind the dark wave of his hair. He can see the straight line of a strong nose, expressive lips that twitch into tiny, self-effacing smiles; the glint of those strange pale eyes.
A mystery, but a beguiling one. ]
It may shock you to learn my opinion on musical ability might not be enough to sway the general populace. You should probably seek out a more distinguished reviewer. Or sometime a degree more skilled with words.
[ He leans forward a little, trying to get a better look at the man's face, his own inquisitive. That smile still plays around his mouth, quirking one corner more than the the other but never disappearing entirely. ]
What's your name?
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Date: 2025-05-22 05:35 pm (UTC)No use, of course. And why does he even try.
He notes the clear curiosity in Gustave's expression as he leans forward ever so slightly, and Verso himself doesn't lean back or away in turn, but he matches that curiosity with his own. He's caught quite a few glimpses of this man over his years of returning to Lumiere, but Verso's focus has always been on -- Alicia, on Maelle. Watching from afar, a distant guardian, but could never be as impactful as someone actually standing by her side like Gustave. He seems a good man, from the way he treats her.
And here, up close? Verso finds his eyes following the line of the other man's jaw, the shape of his lips as he holds his smile -- his eyes, bright, how his smile reaches the corners of them. A beat passes, a breath that's yet again a bit too loud in the silence. Staring for just a beat too long, or measuring out what to say. A bit of both. ]
You mean the words of a man drawn to strangers playing piano alone in the shadows aren't to be trusted, when it comes to musical quality? [ Another amused sound, a huff through his nose. Inwardly, Verso wonders how many would even be left in Lumiere by now who would consider musical critique a primary profession or necessity. With the way things are, with how few people remain . . . ] I happen to think the people might find an outsider review more compelling.
[ A pause. He finds his voice instinctively quieting the more he talks, especially with Gustave beside him now rather than standing in the aisles, less need to project to catch his ear -- but also every word, every breath still rings a little too loud. Especially when he answers; ]
Verso.
[ With a smile, a nod in greeting. ]
And who can I thank for my glowing review?
[ And so the lies begin again. Perhaps one day, Gustave might be one of those who might hear an apology. Right now, Verso thinks he probably won't. ]
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Date: 2025-05-22 05:55 pm (UTC)I'm Gustave.
[ Introductions complete, it now feels as though something has slid into place. They're no longer two strangers sharing a piano bench and a song; not entirely. It's strange, now that he's getting a better look at the man: Verso's eyes are as clear as water, but though Gustave spends a few long seconds studying them, the deepest parts remain unreadable.
He thinks Verso doesn't mind the company, but there is something here, isn't there? Some reluctance, some reticence. It could be that he's used to performing for large audiences that nevertheless feel so much more anonymous, shrouded in shadow while the stage lights paint only the piano into existence. Even Gustave knows the audience isn't supposed to join the artist on the stage, at the instrument, so close their shoulders almost brush with every movement.
His glance falls away from Verso's face, to the fingers that linger on the keys, light and expectant. When he glances back up, the corner of his mouth flickers upward again. ]
You might not be able to tell, since I'm being so subtle, but I'm hoping you'll decide to play another song.
Would it help I promise to be just as effusive in my praise when you finish?
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Date: 2025-05-22 06:27 pm (UTC)But its also just -- nice. Even through through the mask. ]
Gustave. [ He echoes back, acknowledging, like it's unfamiliar -- but he's never said the name before, at least, has only really heard it from Maelle. And whatever Verso's expecting, somehow it isn't the way Gustave looks down towards his hands, almost expectant, and back up. Smiling, even brighter somehow in a way that again just lights up those eyes, bold enough to just ask.
Merde, how utterly, worryingly disarming. The man is adorable. Verso laughs to himself again, playing another idle trill across the keys, a running scale that has him leaning further up the keyboard, enough for his shoulder to not just brush but press slightly against Gustave's, for him to lean cross his body slightly to reach the highest keys. Definitely on purpose, especially with how he takes the opportunity to let his voice lower just a little more, and answer him -- ]
How did you know I'm starved for praise?
[ The lot of artists and creatives and performers, he supposes, following the idle scale back down, pulling back away from him again. Still close. ]
Any requests? I'll take specific songs, if you have any in mind, but you can just give me -- a mood. A feeling. Anything.
[ Its been a long time since he performed. Its been even longer since he sat at a piano and played, in the sense of someone playing with his skills, with what he can do, having fun with the instrument, the music, the sounds. There's no lies in the music, for better and for worse. ]
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Date: 2025-05-22 08:05 pm (UTC)He's only human. He'd dare anyone in his position not to feel... something at the contact, at the question that's almost but not quite a murmur, as though he and Verso are sitting in two of those seats down below and the man has had to lean close to speak low into his ear so as not to disturb the performance. ]
I assume all artists are some variety of starving. Besides that...?
[ He pretends to mull it over, give it some thought, before giving a small shrug that pushes his shoulder against the other man's. ]
Lucky guess.
[ And then the pressure is gone, inches of space between them once again, and he feels strangely untethered and conscious of the coolness of the air where only a moment ago there had been solid warmth.
This question deserves real consideration, and he gives it, thinking for a long moment as his glance drifts back toward the hands on the keys. Surgeon's hands, artist's hands; his own are dexterous and used to precision work, and the things he creates are beautiful in their own way, but he has no idea how someone can coax so much emotion from such mundane elements. Music, he supposes, is its own kind of magic. ]
Can you play me a happy memory?
[ Something to offset the wistful melancholy of the piece he'd chosen before, maybe. Or maybe Gustave would just like to see him smile again. ]
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Date: 2025-05-22 11:45 pm (UTC)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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-23 01:24 am (UTC)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 Lumiรจre, 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, andโ
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?
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Date: 2025-05-23 02:17 am (UTC)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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-23 02:35 am (UTC)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 concertโ
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 โ it feels like finally, though in reality it can't be more than a handful of seconds after Verso had first offered his hand โ he lifts his right hand โ flesh and blood, human, warm โ 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? ]
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 03:00 am (UTC)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. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 03:51 am (UTC)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?
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 04:21 am (UTC)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. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 04:37 am (UTC)[ 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 justโ
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, wellโ ]
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
Date: 2025-05-23 05:00 am (UTC)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
Date: 2025-05-23 02:31 pm (UTC)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. ]
(no subject)
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