[ The days after the Gommage, after the next expedition has left, are always strange and somber in Lumiere. The most fortunate of the orphans find themselves living with family; others with strangers. The least lucky are left to the care of the orphanage while they grieve their losses. The little island, the city, feel bruised. Another year ticked away, all of them another year closer to their own imminent demise.
Gustave chooses to funnel his grief into work. The lumina tech is coming along, and there are other expeditions to supply and prepare for, and even without either of those, Lumiere is a shattered city with a limping infrastructure. It isn't hard to find projects and repairs enough to keep him busy and focused for days at a time, his grief a quiet, constant background hum, a reminder to do the best work he can, to expend every ounce of his creativity and expertise in pursuit of a way to break the cycle.
(Two years until Sophie's Gommage, and the expedition he already plans to join. It's not enough time.)
His work today sends him high above the city, fixing one of the emitters they'd rigged up to bolster the Shield Dome. It's too high for his apprentices and he'd forbidden Maelle from joining him, so he's alone as he finishes the climb to the roof of what must have once been a grand building. There are handholds, at least, and grapple points, and he doesn't mind being up so high, really. The wind tousles his hair and the collar of hist shirt — no suit today, he's wearing workaday clothes of a loose white shirt and comfortable trousers — and he feels as though it's washing him clean, in a way.
He's less fond of the heights when he goes to make his way back, and the grapple point crumbles and breaks off just as he's about to land on the next building down. Gravity swoops in, instant, and before he can do more than reach for the edge of the roof with his metal left hand hand, he's falling.
The only sound that leaves his lips is a sharp gasp of surprise. ]
[ Verso has only been in Lumiere for the Gommage once or twice, in all these years, out of some strange sense of feeling like he at least -- owes that much, to them. But somehow, even after the countless friends he's buried, the Expeditioners he's seen throw themselves to their deaths over and over again -- the Gommage is still worse. The waiting. The anticipation. The flowers. The way everyone knows, and waits. How the Expeditions dwindle, year by year.
This time, he's here after, when the city is still in a mix of quiet mourning and vain hope for the Expedition just gone. Most of the petals have been swept from the streets, but they still linger in the corners, on less-walked paths. He needs to be careful, he always does, but its the awful, sentimental man in him that can't help but want to spend a passing moment at some of the lonelier looking makeshift memorials, scattered around street corners still stacked with unclaimed furniture, across the rooftops. Like he hasn't seen so many deaths, like he hasn't just stood by and watched so many die, and die, and die.
He means this to be a quick visit. He'd told Esquie to hold him to it, after the -- unexpected detour, last time. Maelle is getting harder for him to find each time, moves quick and fleet-footed through the city she knows so well, but when he catches sight of her moving past, this time, she's alone. He doesn't know how old the man was -- is. Is he -- gone? Has he left with the new Expedition? Is he just now arriving on whatever shores this crew had chosen to land on? Dead, gone, or about to die, and for the instinctive twisting feeling that moves through his gut, Verso just shoves it down. What right does he to feel that way? Besides, Maelle seems fine, so maybe, maybe. He's just elsewhere.
Verso doesn't mean to go looking for him. But he often likes to take a look at what the locals are doing to the dome that he and Renoir helped build with their own hands, and keeping to the rooftops seems a good way to keep a lower profile, for this visit. And somehow it doesn't take long at all for him to see a figure climbing across the rooftops, to notice the gleam of light coming off a metallic arm.
Alive after all. He -- does his best to ignore the rush of relief, but he does let himself pick his way closer across some of the various rooftop gardens. Is he working on something for the dome? An engineer, he should've guessed, from the arm. It's fine. He can just get a look at what he's working on, satisfy some curiosity, watch him for a while, perhaps, and move on. Gustave grapples across the rooftops with obvious skill, and Verso watches, quiet, until --
Verso is moving before he even realizes it, sprinting across the rooftops, chroma surging through him. There's another grapple point nearby, and he hurtles through the air, reaching out, just barely makes it in time to catch Gustave by his outstretched metal arm, cursing under his breath as he hauls them both through the air. The landing isn't the most graceful with how he's had to interrupt the trajectory (it was messy, the leap of a man who knows he doesn't have anything to fear but pain if he did fall), but it's a landing. He almost throws himself across floor of the rooftop garden he's managed to swing them into, managing to pull Gustave with him until they've both spilled messily across the dirty and concrete.
Fuck. Merde. Is Gustave okay? He's fine, he can pick himself up from a spill like that. He should leave. No, what's wrong with him, he needs to at least check on the man, no, this is stupid, he knows better than this. He scrambles to gathers himself, pushes himself upright, head snapping around. Where can he go? Staying hidden on the rooftops only works from people down below, and as his gaze settles on Gustave as he realizes its too damn late. ]
You. [ Catch your breath. Breathe. ] -- You okay?
[ He's glad. He's glad, really. Don't mind how his eyes are still darting around slightly, still looking for a way out. ]
[ He's falling, and there's nothing below to catch him except cobblestones some sixty feet down, and this is such a stupid way to die. Not by Gommage, not on an expedition, just betrayed by old infrastructure and bad luck. Merde.
The shock of something catching his arm is so unexpected that he can't prepare for it, and he yells in pain and surprise and fear as the metal tugs at the stump of his arm. Fuck, what if it detaches? It was never meant for this kind of strain—
But then he's arcing up and over the edge of another roof, one filled with green plants and the yellow and pink and orange flowers that no one picks or buys for the Gommage. Gravity kicks in again, but it's a much shorter drop this time. He lands heavily in a mess of limbs, some other body half-wrapped around him as they both go rolling over brick and crashing into flower pots. And then, abruptly, everything is still.
His chest works like a bellows, trying to get enough air in his shock. Everything hurts. He lifts a shaking hand to run it over his own head and is vaguely relieved not to come away with blood or any evidence of a traumatic hit, but his shoulder hurts, his left arm where the metal prosthetic attaches is on fire, and his right hip feels very much as though he'd cracked or deeply bruised something important. He groans, rolling onto his side, coughing, and hears his rescuer get unsteadily to their feet. ]
I'm alive.
[ It's as much as he can say truthfully, because he certainly doesn't feel okay. Gustave sets his scraped, bloodied right hand on the brick, pushing himself up on his shaking right arm. Only now does he lift his head, blinking, and look to see who had swept in at the last second. He owes his life to them, to—
A moment of stillness, as he takes in a face he thought he'd never see again. ]
[ Well, there goes the wayward hope that Gustave might just have not remembered him. The Opera House was poorly lit, but not that dark, after all.
He really, really never meant for Gustave to meet him again -- Leaving it there, with that note, would've been . . . Not the right thing to do, but certainly the kindest with the circumstance he'd managed to get himself into, mistake after mistake. It'd been a good moment of connection, something Verso would like to pretend he didn't think back to in the months since, but he absolutely has, and if they'd never met again then it would've just been that. A blip in each other's lives.
But now he's here ( and picking himself up surprisingly easily, when his own landing hadn't been any more graceful than Gustave's ), eyes briefly scanning the horizon. There's no easy way out, but he could simply leave, the man's hardly in a state to chase him down across Lumiere's rooftops -- putain, what was he supposed to do, just let him fall? Of course he couldn't do that, except he has, just sat by and watched and made the choice to not act when so many died.
He's made this choice now. And he's glad, he really is. Gustave's a good enough man, deserves a better death, and the less tragedy in Maelle's life the better, except what does he even say.
Verso steps over, scans over Gustave quickly. He seems hurt, but not too badly, the metal arm is still attached but he doesn't know enough about it to see if its damaged. He offers a hand to pull him up, if he wants it, head tilting to the side in a silent question -- can you stand? Do you want to? ]
I think you should be thanking me.
[ Humor, relief, still a bit breathless. All real enough. ]
[ He's still staring when the man shifts and offers a hand out to pull him up, rocking him with a bizarre sensation of déjà vu. He remembers setting his hand into those waiting fingers. He remembers the way the dim light shone on the man's dark hair as he bent his head and brushed his lips and a few too-sweet words over his knuckles. Verso.
Gustave doesn't bat the hand away, but he doesn't take it either, leaning instead on his own knee to push himself up to standing. Verso seems to have taken the hit a little better; he's already up and moving almost as easily as if they hadn't just slammed into a brick roof. ]
I suppose I should.
[ There are other things he remembers, too, like the way he'd turned toward the flower stalls on his way to the opera house that day only to chastise himself for a fool and turn away again. He'd only made it a few steps before he'd returned, conscious of the absurdity of it all but unable to stop himself. The flowers he'd selected had been a lot like the ones that surround them now: bright yellows and soft pinks and a few deep violet — colors not of the Gommage but of possibility. A new beginning. A bouquet for a performer, to congratulate them on a concert.
And he remembers the sound the door had made when it creaked open into a totally silent building, how his footsteps had echoed. He remembers the note, reading it, the way the ink smeared. If he hadn't stopped for flowers, maybe he would have made it in time. I'm sorry. A cluster of musical notation Gustave has no idea how to play and can't begin to understand.
The note has spent the better part of a year tucked away into a drawer in his study at home. The flowers he'd left behind to gather dust and wilt where they lay, alone on the piano bench they'd shared.
[ Verso isn't exactly expecting warmth, but that's -- colder than he expected. His stomach churns, and absurdly in his mind he reminds himself that even if he had the moment to consider letting Gustave just fall, it would've been for the sake of preserving secrecy, his family's safety, the possibility that Alicia -- that Maelle-- represents.
Not just to avoid a painfully awkward encounter with a man he'd stood up on a . . . meeting.
The hurt from that has clearly reached deeper than Verso thought it might. He'd sat in the front row seats in the opera hall, hours earlier than Gustave could've ever thought to arrive, soaking in the quiet. His mind going back and forth between staying just for a while, staying another night, leaving now, waiting a bit longer, leaving something, leaving nothing. What he'd arrived at, with the note, the music, seemed the best way out. But that was -- how long? Eight, nine months ago. Seeing Gustave up close now, for the first time full light, he remembers with startling clarity how brightly his eyes shone when he'd urged Verso for another song, the light pink dusting his cheeks when he'd asked him about the next night, stumbling on his words over and over. A night he'd genuinely thought of fondly, in the months since, even if he'd often kick himself for letting it happen at all whenever the memory surfaced.
None of that light is here.
Verso drops his hand awkwardly, instead taking a step back to give the man space -- watching as Gustave manages to push himself to his feet. He does seem well enough. Good. That's -- good. ]
You're welcome.
[ The teasing tone is gone now. Clearly not the mood. ]
Just -- stay careful, Gustave.
[ Verso takes another step back. There's some uncertainty in it ( ridiculous, he'd already been looking for a way out, why hesitate now when there's an even better reason for it? ), but the man isn't happy to see him again, and that had never been the plan, anyway. Maybe for the best to just leave now, happy enough to give him a few more years of life, let him go back to forgetting that they'd ever met. ]
[ He'd been a fool, he knows. He'd realized his foolishness that very same evening and had spent the weeks after cringing at the memory. Verso hadn't owed him anything: not another song, not another few moments of his time. He'd left an apology; it should be enough.
And yet it had felt like a door slamming in his face, and now the man is back again — and where had he even been? In nine months, Gustave hadn't caught even a glimpse of him — and his features are as expressive as Gustave recalls, that teasing light bleeding away, shifting into something closed off and unreadable.
But when he steps back, Gustave steps forward, his right arm belted across himself so his fingers can curl around the sore place where his prosthesis connects to the stump of his left arm. For every step away Verso takes, Gustave takes one forward, closing the gap between them again, a confused frown flirting between his brows before it settles there for good. ]
How did you even manage to catch me? Where were you?
[ None of this makes sense, least of all Verso himself. For a while, Gustave had thought perhaps the man had backed away from their meeting because his number was coming up and nine months would be just enough time to build up a truly crippling heartbreak. Then he'd thought maybe Verso was a member of the expedition, too busy training and too focused on their goal, and, again, too close to his number being painted onto the Monolith.
But it turns out he wasn't either of those things, and, even stranger, had somehow managed to be right in the perfect spot to leap into action the moment Gustave fell. ]
[ A rooftop garden isn't all that much space, and unless Verso feels like hurtling over the flowerbed and off the roof entirely ( which he does, briefly, actually consider -- unfortunately his obvious survival would only lead to more questions and maybe an entire search party ), he quickly runs out of room to step backwards. He does his best to not make it too obvious he was seeking an escape, instinctively straightening more as Gustave keeps closing the distance between them. His eyes flicker from the other man's eyes, to his hair, the curve of his lips, back up to the now obvious furrow in his brow. Putain.
Verso's answered questions before. He's practiced, even, different Expeditions, gotten to try different variations on what truths to tell, which ones to conveniently omit, what outright lies to say. Sometimes he's paid for the lies. Other times he's paid for the truth. Every time, it ends up not mattering, because all of them die, bodies cold and preserved forever unless they managed to reach the mercy of the Gommage ( or fell to someone else ). But they're not on the Continent, they're in Lumiere, and anything he says has a chance of going straight to the Expedition. Truths, out of the question. The wrong lies, could almost be just as disastrous.
What can he do? Dodge. Distract. Never come back again. He lifts his hands in an almost surrendering gesture, offering truce -- he's not an enemy, this isn't an interrogation, right? No need to be so aggressive with the questions. Calm down, Gustave. ]
I just like it up here, sometimes.
[ The gardens are nice. Lumiere's learned to use the structures it has left in any way it can. People visit the rooftops and make use of them from time to time, but it's still often quieter, easier to stay out of sight -- believable for a man who clearly keeps to himself, right? ]
I saw someone climbing, I didn't know if it was you. [ but he might've thought it was. ] And once I saw you start to fall --
[ And had rushed over there, lightning fast. Trained, clearly. But that's fine, plenty of people train with the Expedition, drift in and out of the Academy all the time as their priorities change, as they figure out how their last years are best spent. He's just picked up something, at some point. That's all.
He frowns, lets his gaze drop from Gustave's face over his body, to his hip, his legs. Is he really not hurt? Is he really okay? Lets talk about that instead for a bit, hopefully. ]
[ He comes to a halt a few feet away, more because he doesn't really know what to do if he'd closed the space between them completely than before Verso puts his hand up. I just like it up here sometimes.
Another commonality. It's almost amusing, after nine months of wondering what had happened, if he'd said the wrong thing, read the wrong tone. But it does make a kind of sense, doesn't it? He knows he's not the only one to enjoy the space and freedom up here. His jaw works, a small motion, and he glances away to take in the flowers, the view of the arcing dome overhead. When he looks back, it's to find Verso frowning, glancing over him with narrowed eyes, and Gustave sighs, just a little. ]
I'm okay.
[ Mostly, anyway. He lifts his right hand from the joint of his left arm and turns his palm up to study it and his forearm. Both are scraped to hell and back, bright smears of blood marring pale skin, and there's some gravel caught in the abrasions. It's his turn to look himself over, cataloging the injuries, the places where he feels stiff and bruised. It's nothing compared to what would have happened if Verso hadn't caught him, but it certainly doesn't feel great. There's a crimson splotch dampening his shirt at his side; another scrape, shallow but stinging.
He looks up from his self-assessment, frowning right back at Verso. ]
[ Verso follows Gustave's gaze as he checks over himself. Scrapes, cuts, clearly not unhurt, but also still standing there without looking like he's in much obvious pain. He does seem well. And importantly, Gustave's questions seem to have at least temporarily left the "where have you been" track, and as long as Verso can keep it that way until he makes his leave. This will all be an unnecessary but ultimately harmless mistake.
And when Gustave asks? Verso glances down briefly, but he only takes a brief check of his arms, shifts his weight from foot to foot -- making too much of a show of it would only make it seem more suspicious, in hid mind. Verso is entirely capable of not healing his wounds immediately, and now and then he's realized that he should do that sometimes, keep some scrapes and bruises. Unfortunately, he tends to forget in the moment, his body taking over to mend itself a new. ]
Not too bad.
[ He immediately moves on. ]
I hope I didn't damage your arm.
[ Verso gestures vaguely in the direction of Gustave's metallic arm, on the socket, lips briefly thinning into a line as he studies it for a few seconds, trying to ascertain how its attached and how much strain he'd put on it by forcing it to bear the man's whole weight. But its nothing he can tell on sight. He has to ask some questions, push the conversation in an actual direction. Get Gustave talking. The arm seems like a good bet -- and Verso is curious. ]
[ He's going to be black and blue all over tomorrow, and he'll either need to get up early and dress himself from chin to toe or face down the likely storm of Maelle's concern if she catches a glimpse. It's all right, he'll be fine. The bigger problem right now is just how shaken he is by his near escape. Getting back off this roof might... take a while.
That's a problem for later. For now, he follows Verso's gesture and looks back down at his arm, which definitely doesn't feel quite right. He rotates his shoulder, testing the weight and response of it, and grimaces. ]
I'll check it later.
[ His sleeve covers the joint where it meets his stump, and he's not exactly thrilled about the idea of taking off his shirt just now to examine the arm and connection point more carefully. It can wait until he's home.
... There is one thing he can do, and he slaps at his back for the pack that holds his tools, dropping it down to the ground so he can rummage through and retrieve the thing he needs: a delicate probing instrument, not unlike a screwdriver. Straightening, he lifts his left hand and starts prodding carefully into the wrist joint with the tool, looking for loose connections.
It gives him a little bit of a reprieve from looking up at Verso, though he does flick a glance up from beneath his brows now and then. Like he's worried the man will vanish in the seconds where Gustave isn't watching him. ]
[ It's a good instinct to have, because Verso absolutely still has a non-zero chance of just disappearing. Resigned to having to look for a more graceful exit from an actual conversation, but. Still looking for a way out.
Once Gustave is working a little on his arm, it gives Verso a bit more breathing room, too -- studying his actions with genuine interest and curiosity ( the machinery looks complex, delicate, but clearly robust enough to take a hell of a beating given everything he's just seen -- well built to purpose ), but also just. Studying him. Without that distinct stiffness in him that was very clearly cast in his direction, Verso can see more of what he remembers. The kindness in his eyes, crinkling slightly at the corners. Light catching against the the soft curls of his hair.
The statement catches him a bit off guard. Naively hoping they might just quietly agree to not talk about it. A pang of guilt -- he may not have fully wanted to lead him on, but he still absolutely did, and with full knowledge of what he was doing. But in the moment, he'd just wanted to act. To seize on that connection they clearly had, in that fleeting moment, that had somehow felt like it could actually mean something even when Verso already knew that it simply never could.
Verso lowers his gaze, uncertain. What's useful now? Maybe playing into things a bit would actually help the situation. Maybe it's awful that he's even thinking about things that way at all. Maybe he just needs to get the fuck over his guilt, because he's already told a thousand lies and will tell a thousand more to get the people around him where he needs them, and he should just be used to it, shouldn't he. ]
I -- [ he wets his lower lip with his tongue. ]
-- I did leave an apology.
[ He knew he would hurt him, but also hoped it would be forgotten in a few months. A blip in another man's life. Perhaps he should feel a bit flattered that it lingered longer, except that emotion doesn't make it through all the layers of guilt. He was already lying to him then, in a dozen different ways Gustave has no way of even knowing, and -- he's still lying to him now. That's all he ever does. All he can do. ]
[ 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. ]
[ It's exactly that the opera house that Verso imagines: Gustave in the audience, maybe with Maelle. Enjoying himself and moved by the music all the same, but maybe as the curtains fall swaying forward slightly in his seat to see if there was a certain familiar face among all the performers, or among any of the crew that had come on during a curtain call. And every time, disappointed.
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. ]
[ He huffs a breath that's almost a laugh and slides the probe out from within his wrist, turning his hand to test the feeling. Better. ]
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 — or stupid — 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?
[ Whenever Verso's thoughts had wandered back to that night, he hadn't quite dared to imagine what might've happened if he did turn up again. But his thoughts have always went where they pleased no matter what he wants, and he may have played out some things in his mind about what the hell he may have wanted. But he still doesn't know. Just a distraction, maybe. Something else. Something more.
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. ]
[ His hand stops, arrested mid-fall by Verso's fingers as they catch him, again. Never mind that this fall was far less lethal than the other.
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, searching— 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.
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. ]
[ There's a moment's pause before a quick laugh, and Gustave thinks Verso isn't a man who is often surprised. Or maybe it's that other people don't often try to surprise him.
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. ]
[ Verso sees that slight curve of a hidden smile, wonders what he might've been thinking. When the other man moves closer, just a step, he can feel some of the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a not-quite shiver running through his nerves, electric, his own pulse quickening ever so slightly as the warmth of Gustave's hand slips from his grip. He turns ever so slightly into him as his fingers search for the buttonhole on his lapel.
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. ]
[ His motion backwards is arrested — again, again, it keeps happening, that he falls away and Verso catches him — by fingers in his collar, and then he's being pulled forward and his hand comes up to catch himself, except Verso's already caught him. Again.
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. ]
[ Again, Verso keeps doing these things, pushing right against the line -- and then pulling back. Testing the waters, seeing how Gustave might respond, fully aware that he's doing more than he should but unable to resist, and at the same time he's not doing enough. A coward, in a way. Doing just enough where he would need Gustave to not just answer but to cross the line, meet him more than halfway.
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. ]
[ In contrast to his own moment of shock, Verso responds immediately, wholeheartedly. Those clever fingers that had coaxed such beautiful music from the keys of a lonely piano now reach firmly to the angle of Gustave’s jaw and his arm is tight around Gustave’s waist, encouraging, almost commanding him closer. It’s the easiest thing in the world for Gustave to close his eyes tight and fall right into him.
It feels like falling into a fire. Verso is— 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 Gustave’s chest. He groans, the sound tugging out of him, and his lips part until he’s meeting Verso’s open mouth with his own, wet and hot and needy. It’s been so long since anyone’s 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 man’s hair, into the cloth of his jacket, and he should really be careful not to tear it, but he’s been careful for so long, really, and just for this moment he wants to forget that it’s necessary, that careful people live longer. He runs the edge of his teeth over Verso’s 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. ]
[ Verso doesn't know enough about Gustave's life to know if this is unusual him or not, how long it may have been -- but for Verso himself, its been a while. Long enough that he'd almost forgotten how good it feels to be tangled up in someone else, how nice it is to get out of his own damn head and focus entirely on another person. He can almost completely shut off the running calculations in his mind, or at least turn them to another purpose: less concerned about masks and lies and truth and more about the other man's body against his own and what he can do to make him fall apart.
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. ]
[ None of this is anything like it ever was with Sophie, and definitely not with anyone since; it’s gripping, biting want that chases through him like the chain lightning of his own attack striking him over and over again. It would feel almost like a fight if they weren’t so busy trying to haul each other closer; Verso’s hand pulls hard at the small of his back and Gustave fists his fingers in the material of his jacket and pulls right back, shoving himself close at the same time as he drags Verso directly into him, and that flower he’d so carefully placed in that lapel can’t possibly survive the way they collide.
His back slams into something hard, smacking what little air he’d managed to get right back out of him again, and when Verso’s 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 doesn’t 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 that’s pressed irrevocably against his, covering him like a landslide. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anyone else this way before, where his hands can’t grip hard enough or touch enough; the hand in Verso’s 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 doesn’t 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 Verso’s neck, thumb running along skin, and nods. Once, twice, again and again. ]
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𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒 —𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒐
Date: 2025-05-23 04:03 pm (UTC)Gustave chooses to funnel his grief into work. The lumina tech is coming along, and there are other expeditions to supply and prepare for, and even without either of those, Lumiere is a shattered city with a limping infrastructure. It isn't hard to find projects and repairs enough to keep him busy and focused for days at a time, his grief a quiet, constant background hum, a reminder to do the best work he can, to expend every ounce of his creativity and expertise in pursuit of a way to break the cycle.
(Two years until Sophie's Gommage, and the expedition he already plans to join. It's not enough time.)
His work today sends him high above the city, fixing one of the emitters they'd rigged up to bolster the Shield Dome. It's too high for his apprentices and he'd forbidden Maelle from joining him, so he's alone as he finishes the climb to the roof of what must have once been a grand building. There are handholds, at least, and grapple points, and he doesn't mind being up so high, really. The wind tousles his hair and the collar of hist shirt — no suit today, he's wearing workaday clothes of a loose white shirt and comfortable trousers — and he feels as though it's washing him clean, in a way.
He's less fond of the heights when he goes to make his way back, and the grapple point crumbles and breaks off just as he's about to land on the next building down. Gravity swoops in, instant, and before he can do more than reach for the edge of the roof with his metal left hand hand, he's falling.
The only sound that leaves his lips is a sharp gasp of surprise. ]
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Date: 2025-05-23 04:49 pm (UTC)This time, he's here after, when the city is still in a mix of quiet mourning and vain hope for the Expedition just gone. Most of the petals have been swept from the streets, but they still linger in the corners, on less-walked paths. He needs to be careful, he always does, but its the awful, sentimental man in him that can't help but want to spend a passing moment at some of the lonelier looking makeshift memorials, scattered around street corners still stacked with unclaimed furniture, across the rooftops. Like he hasn't seen so many deaths, like he hasn't just stood by and watched so many die, and die, and die.
He means this to be a quick visit. He'd told Esquie to hold him to it, after the -- unexpected detour, last time. Maelle is getting harder for him to find each time, moves quick and fleet-footed through the city she knows so well, but when he catches sight of her moving past, this time, she's alone. He doesn't know how old the man was -- is. Is he -- gone? Has he left with the new Expedition? Is he just now arriving on whatever shores this crew had chosen to land on? Dead, gone, or about to die, and for the instinctive twisting feeling that moves through his gut, Verso just shoves it down. What right does he to feel that way? Besides, Maelle seems fine, so maybe, maybe. He's just elsewhere.
Verso doesn't mean to go looking for him. But he often likes to take a look at what the locals are doing to the dome that he and Renoir helped build with their own hands, and keeping to the rooftops seems a good way to keep a lower profile, for this visit. And somehow it doesn't take long at all for him to see a figure climbing across the rooftops, to notice the gleam of light coming off a metallic arm.
Alive after all. He -- does his best to ignore the rush of relief, but he does let himself pick his way closer across some of the various rooftop gardens. Is he working on something for the dome? An engineer, he should've guessed, from the arm. It's fine. He can just get a look at what he's working on, satisfy some curiosity, watch him for a while, perhaps, and move on. Gustave grapples across the rooftops with obvious skill, and Verso watches, quiet, until --
Verso is moving before he even realizes it, sprinting across the rooftops, chroma surging through him. There's another grapple point nearby, and he hurtles through the air, reaching out, just barely makes it in time to catch Gustave by his outstretched metal arm, cursing under his breath as he hauls them both through the air. The landing isn't the most graceful with how he's had to interrupt the trajectory (it was messy, the leap of a man who knows he doesn't have anything to fear but pain if he did fall), but it's a landing. He almost throws himself across floor of the rooftop garden he's managed to swing them into, managing to pull Gustave with him until they've both spilled messily across the dirty and concrete.
Fuck. Merde. Is Gustave okay? He's fine, he can pick himself up from a spill like that. He should leave. No, what's wrong with him, he needs to at least check on the man, no, this is stupid, he knows better than this. He scrambles to gathers himself, pushes himself upright, head snapping around. Where can he go? Staying hidden on the rooftops only works from people down below, and as his gaze settles on Gustave as he realizes its too damn late. ]
You. [ Catch your breath. Breathe. ] -- You okay?
[ He's glad. He's glad, really. Don't mind how his eyes are still darting around slightly, still looking for a way out. ]
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Date: 2025-05-23 05:22 pm (UTC)The shock of something catching his arm is so unexpected that he can't prepare for it, and he yells in pain and surprise and fear as the metal tugs at the stump of his arm. Fuck, what if it detaches? It was never meant for this kind of strain—
But then he's arcing up and over the edge of another roof, one filled with green plants and the yellow and pink and orange flowers that no one picks or buys for the Gommage. Gravity kicks in again, but it's a much shorter drop this time. He lands heavily in a mess of limbs, some other body half-wrapped around him as they both go rolling over brick and crashing into flower pots. And then, abruptly, everything is still.
His chest works like a bellows, trying to get enough air in his shock. Everything hurts. He lifts a shaking hand to run it over his own head and is vaguely relieved not to come away with blood or any evidence of a traumatic hit, but his shoulder hurts, his left arm where the metal prosthetic attaches is on fire, and his right hip feels very much as though he'd cracked or deeply bruised something important. He groans, rolling onto his side, coughing, and hears his rescuer get unsteadily to their feet. ]
I'm alive.
[ It's as much as he can say truthfully, because he certainly doesn't feel okay. Gustave sets his scraped, bloodied right hand on the brick, pushing himself up on his shaking right arm. Only now does he lift his head, blinking, and look to see who had swept in at the last second. He owes his life to them, to—
A moment of stillness, as he takes in a face he thought he'd never see again. ]
...You?
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 05:41 pm (UTC)He really, really never meant for Gustave to meet him again -- Leaving it there, with that note, would've been . . . Not the right thing to do, but certainly the kindest with the circumstance he'd managed to get himself into, mistake after mistake. It'd been a good moment of connection, something Verso would like to pretend he didn't think back to in the months since, but he absolutely has, and if they'd never met again then it would've just been that. A blip in each other's lives.
But now he's here ( and picking himself up surprisingly easily, when his own landing hadn't been any more graceful than Gustave's ), eyes briefly scanning the horizon. There's no easy way out, but he could simply leave, the man's hardly in a state to chase him down across Lumiere's rooftops -- putain, what was he supposed to do, just let him fall? Of course he couldn't do that, except he has, just sat by and watched and made the choice to not act when so many died.
He's made this choice now. And he's glad, he really is. Gustave's a good enough man, deserves a better death, and the less tragedy in Maelle's life the better, except what does he even say.
Verso steps over, scans over Gustave quickly. He seems hurt, but not too badly, the metal arm is still attached but he doesn't know enough about it to see if its damaged. He offers a hand to pull him up, if he wants it, head tilting to the side in a silent question -- can you stand? Do you want to? ]
I think you should be thanking me.
[ Humor, relief, still a bit breathless. All real enough. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 06:05 pm (UTC)Gustave doesn't bat the hand away, but he doesn't take it either, leaning instead on his own knee to push himself up to standing. Verso seems to have taken the hit a little better; he's already up and moving almost as easily as if they hadn't just slammed into a brick roof. ]
I suppose I should.
[ There are other things he remembers, too, like the way he'd turned toward the flower stalls on his way to the opera house that day only to chastise himself for a fool and turn away again. He'd only made it a few steps before he'd returned, conscious of the absurdity of it all but unable to stop himself. The flowers he'd selected had been a lot like the ones that surround them now: bright yellows and soft pinks and a few deep violet — colors not of the Gommage but of possibility. A new beginning. A bouquet for a performer, to congratulate them on a concert.
And he remembers the sound the door had made when it creaked open into a totally silent building, how his footsteps had echoed. He remembers the note, reading it, the way the ink smeared. If he hadn't stopped for flowers, maybe he would have made it in time. I'm sorry. A cluster of musical notation Gustave has no idea how to play and can't begin to understand.
The note has spent the better part of a year tucked away into a drawer in his study at home. The flowers he'd left behind to gather dust and wilt where they lay, alone on the piano bench they'd shared.
A little stiffly: ]
Thank you. You saved my life.
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 06:29 pm (UTC)Not just to avoid a painfully awkward encounter with a man he'd stood up on a . . . meeting.
The hurt from that has clearly reached deeper than Verso thought it might. He'd sat in the front row seats in the opera hall, hours earlier than Gustave could've ever thought to arrive, soaking in the quiet. His mind going back and forth between staying just for a while, staying another night, leaving now, waiting a bit longer, leaving something, leaving nothing. What he'd arrived at, with the note, the music, seemed the best way out. But that was -- how long? Eight, nine months ago. Seeing Gustave up close now, for the first time full light, he remembers with startling clarity how brightly his eyes shone when he'd urged Verso for another song, the light pink dusting his cheeks when he'd asked him about the next night, stumbling on his words over and over. A night he'd genuinely thought of fondly, in the months since, even if he'd often kick himself for letting it happen at all whenever the memory surfaced.
None of that light is here.
Verso drops his hand awkwardly, instead taking a step back to give the man space -- watching as Gustave manages to push himself to his feet. He does seem well enough. Good. That's -- good. ]
You're welcome.
[ The teasing tone is gone now. Clearly not the mood. ]
Just -- stay careful, Gustave.
[ Verso takes another step back. There's some uncertainty in it ( ridiculous, he'd already been looking for a way out, why hesitate now when there's an even better reason for it? ), but the man isn't happy to see him again, and that had never been the plan, anyway. Maybe for the best to just leave now, happy enough to give him a few more years of life, let him go back to forgetting that they'd ever met. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 06:49 pm (UTC)And yet it had felt like a door slamming in his face, and now the man is back again — and where had he even been? In nine months, Gustave hadn't caught even a glimpse of him — and his features are as expressive as Gustave recalls, that teasing light bleeding away, shifting into something closed off and unreadable.
But when he steps back, Gustave steps forward, his right arm belted across himself so his fingers can curl around the sore place where his prosthesis connects to the stump of his left arm. For every step away Verso takes, Gustave takes one forward, closing the gap between them again, a confused frown flirting between his brows before it settles there for good. ]
How did you even manage to catch me? Where were you?
[ None of this makes sense, least of all Verso himself. For a while, Gustave had thought perhaps the man had backed away from their meeting because his number was coming up and nine months would be just enough time to build up a truly crippling heartbreak. Then he'd thought maybe Verso was a member of the expedition, too busy training and too focused on their goal, and, again, too close to his number being painted onto the Monolith.
But it turns out he wasn't either of those things, and, even stranger, had somehow managed to be right in the perfect spot to leap into action the moment Gustave fell. ]
Did you know I was up here, somehow?
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 07:08 pm (UTC)Verso's answered questions before. He's practiced, even, different Expeditions, gotten to try different variations on what truths to tell, which ones to conveniently omit, what outright lies to say. Sometimes he's paid for the lies. Other times he's paid for the truth. Every time, it ends up not mattering, because all of them die, bodies cold and preserved forever unless they managed to reach the mercy of the Gommage ( or fell to someone else ). But they're not on the Continent, they're in Lumiere, and anything he says has a chance of going straight to the Expedition. Truths, out of the question. The wrong lies, could almost be just as disastrous.
What can he do? Dodge. Distract. Never come back again. He lifts his hands in an almost surrendering gesture, offering truce -- he's not an enemy, this isn't an interrogation, right? No need to be so aggressive with the questions. Calm down, Gustave. ]
I just like it up here, sometimes.
[ The gardens are nice. Lumiere's learned to use the structures it has left in any way it can. People visit the rooftops and make use of them from time to time, but it's still often quieter, easier to stay out of sight -- believable for a man who clearly keeps to himself, right? ]
I saw someone climbing, I didn't know if it was you. [ but he might've thought it was. ] And once I saw you start to fall --
[ And had rushed over there, lightning fast. Trained, clearly. But that's fine, plenty of people train with the Expedition, drift in and out of the Academy all the time as their priorities change, as they figure out how their last years are best spent. He's just picked up something, at some point. That's all.
He frowns, lets his gaze drop from Gustave's face over his body, to his hip, his legs. Is he really not hurt? Is he really okay? Lets talk about that instead for a bit, hopefully. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 07:24 pm (UTC)Another commonality. It's almost amusing, after nine months of wondering what had happened, if he'd said the wrong thing, read the wrong tone. But it does make a kind of sense, doesn't it? He knows he's not the only one to enjoy the space and freedom up here. His jaw works, a small motion, and he glances away to take in the flowers, the view of the arcing dome overhead. When he looks back, it's to find Verso frowning, glancing over him with narrowed eyes, and Gustave sighs, just a little. ]
I'm okay.
[ Mostly, anyway. He lifts his right hand from the joint of his left arm and turns his palm up to study it and his forearm. Both are scraped to hell and back, bright smears of blood marring pale skin, and there's some gravel caught in the abrasions. It's his turn to look himself over, cataloging the injuries, the places where he feels stiff and bruised. It's nothing compared to what would have happened if Verso hadn't caught him, but it certainly doesn't feel great. There's a crimson splotch dampening his shirt at his side; another scrape, shallow but stinging.
He looks up from his self-assessment, frowning right back at Verso. ]
Are you all right?
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 07:47 pm (UTC)And when Gustave asks? Verso glances down briefly, but he only takes a brief check of his arms, shifts his weight from foot to foot -- making too much of a show of it would only make it seem more suspicious, in hid mind. Verso is entirely capable of not healing his wounds immediately, and now and then he's realized that he should do that sometimes, keep some scrapes and bruises. Unfortunately, he tends to forget in the moment, his body taking over to mend itself a new. ]
Not too bad.
[ He immediately moves on. ]
I hope I didn't damage your arm.
[ Verso gestures vaguely in the direction of Gustave's metallic arm, on the socket, lips briefly thinning into a line as he studies it for a few seconds, trying to ascertain how its attached and how much strain he'd put on it by forcing it to bear the man's whole weight. But its nothing he can tell on sight. He has to ask some questions, push the conversation in an actual direction. Get Gustave talking. The arm seems like a good bet -- and Verso is curious. ]
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 08:00 pm (UTC)That's a problem for later. For now, he follows Verso's gesture and looks back down at his arm, which definitely doesn't feel quite right. He rotates his shoulder, testing the weight and response of it, and grimaces. ]
I'll check it later.
[ His sleeve covers the joint where it meets his stump, and he's not exactly thrilled about the idea of taking off his shirt just now to examine the arm and connection point more carefully. It can wait until he's home.
... There is one thing he can do, and he slaps at his back for the pack that holds his tools, dropping it down to the ground so he can rummage through and retrieve the thing he needs: a delicate probing instrument, not unlike a screwdriver. Straightening, he lifts his left hand and starts prodding carefully into the wrist joint with the tool, looking for loose connections.
It gives him a little bit of a reprieve from looking up at Verso, though he does flick a glance up from beneath his brows now and then. Like he's worried the man will vanish in the seconds where Gustave isn't watching him. ]
I was hoping you'd show up, you know.
no subject
Date: 2025-05-23 08:21 pm (UTC)Once Gustave is working a little on his arm, it gives Verso a bit more breathing room, too -- studying his actions with genuine interest and curiosity ( the machinery looks complex, delicate, but clearly robust enough to take a hell of a beating given everything he's just seen -- well built to purpose ), but also just. Studying him. Without that distinct stiffness in him that was very clearly cast in his direction, Verso can see more of what he remembers. The kindness in his eyes, crinkling slightly at the corners. Light catching against the the soft curls of his hair.
The statement catches him a bit off guard. Naively hoping they might just quietly agree to not talk about it. A pang of guilt -- he may not have fully wanted to lead him on, but he still absolutely did, and with full knowledge of what he was doing. But in the moment, he'd just wanted to act. To seize on that connection they clearly had, in that fleeting moment, that had somehow felt like it could actually mean something even when Verso already knew that it simply never could.
Verso lowers his gaze, uncertain. What's useful now? Maybe playing into things a bit would actually help the situation. Maybe it's awful that he's even thinking about things that way at all. Maybe he just needs to get the fuck over his guilt, because he's already told a thousand lies and will tell a thousand more to get the people around him where he needs them, and he should just be used to it, shouldn't he. ]
I -- [ he wets his lower lip with his tongue. ]
-- I did leave an apology.
[ He knew he would hurt him, but also hoped it would be forgotten in a few months. A blip in another man's life. Perhaps he should feel a bit flattered that it lingered longer, except that emotion doesn't make it through all the layers of guilt. He was already lying to him then, in a dozen different ways Gustave has no way of even knowing, and -- he's still lying to him now. That's all he ever does. All he can do. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 12:17 am (UTC)[ 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.
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Date: 2025-05-24 01:19 am (UTC)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? ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 02:23 am (UTC)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 — or stupid — 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?
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Date: 2025-05-24 02:52 am (UTC)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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 03:36 am (UTC)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, searching— 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.
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Date: 2025-05-24 04:15 am (UTC)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? ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 11:47 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2025-05-24 01:37 pm (UTC)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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 03:11 pm (UTC)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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 03:49 pm (UTC)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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 04:10 pm (UTC)It feels like falling into a fire. Verso is— 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 Gustave’s chest. He groans, the sound tugging out of him, and his lips part until he’s meeting Verso’s open mouth with his own, wet and hot and needy. It’s been so long since anyone’s 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 man’s hair, into the cloth of his jacket, and he should really be careful not to tear it, but he’s been careful for so long, really, and just for this moment he wants to forget that it’s necessary, that careful people live longer. He runs the edge of his teeth over Verso’s 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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 04:38 pm (UTC)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. ]
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Date: 2025-05-24 05:23 pm (UTC)His back slams into something hard, smacking what little air he’d managed to get right back out of him again, and when Verso’s 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 doesn’t 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 that’s pressed irrevocably against his, covering him like a landslide. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anyone else this way before, where his hands can’t grip hard enough or touch enough; the hand in Verso’s 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 doesn’t 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 Verso’s neck, thumb running along skin, and nods. Once, twice, again and again. ]
Yeah. Yeah.
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