𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

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[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. ]