[ 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. ]
[ It is a bit like a fight, for Verso -- the constant guilt and measuring of tone and spiraling and everything else only ever quietens when he has something else to really focus on, when it's life or death, or when its heat and pleasure and want. Its not like he can't be gentle, soft, romantic, and while he hasn't known Gustave long enough to really know, it's not like he doesn't think he could be interested in him in that way. But this is a moment of weakness. Indulgence. Getting himself a taste of something he hasn't had a long, long while. And that tends to lend itself to a certain path of action, for Verso, at least.
Gustave's responses are everything. He's reactive, vocal, a live wire under his fingers and tongue. Verso looks at him like he's drinking in the sight of him, his hair already a mess, pupils wide and dilated, lips kiss-bruised, and just seeing the effect he has on the other man is in itself intoxicating. He leans into Gustave's touch, fingers at the back of his neck, thumb along his skin -- waits for the nods. The halting, but very clear affirmation. Keep going.
He lets his teeth catch against the pulse in Gustave's throat, soothing over the slight nick he leaves in his skin immediately with his tongue, keeps moving upwards until he's pressing another kiss to his lips. This one a bit lighter, sweet, a vehicle for the answer; ]
-- Okay.
[ His voice is breathy, rumbling deeper. Answering him with actual words, just so Gustave understands he's listening, he can tell him to slow down, keep going, stop. Right now, though, Gustave's message is clear, and Verso doesn't feel like talking. He actually does peel back from him, for just a moment, straightening back up to his full height, taking a moment to start to shrug his own jacket off of his shoulders, pausing somewhere in that movement to glance down at the flower tucked against his lapel. It's still there, barely, half of its petals crushed down, some purple stained against his jacket. His gaze flickers up to Gustave's almost apologetic, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. Oops.
The jacket gets shrugged off completely, falling to the ground behind him -- the rest of the flower might well survive. But Verso's moving back in again almost before the jacket even hits the floor, this time going straight for the side of his neck, heated open-mouth kisses trailing down over his skin. One hand tangles back through Gustave's hair, the other finding his waist, keeping him still against the frame behind him as he fits their hips together. ]
[ He doesn't understand how this man, with music and fire at his fingertips and a voice as rough and silky as the feeling of lips and scruff dragging over skin and those eyes that make him feel like Gustave should able to see straight to the center of him can look at him like this: like he's the answer to a question Verso's forgotten he asked.
Or maybe it's more like he's a fresh steak, and Verso is a man who hasn't eaten in a month. There's something undeniably wolfish in the way the man studies him, like he's determining the best course of action to take him apart, piece by piece. There's something of the satisfied artist in his expression, too, reminiscent of the smile he'd had when Gustave applauded his performance all those months ago, like he's already pleased with his work.
He should be. Gustave swallows, his throat tight and his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pulls what air he can into himself before Verso's there again with a bright scrape of teeth against his throat and an actual, quick sting of pain that's immediately soothed by the flat of his tongue. This time, the sound Gustave makes comes from his throat, not his chest, more a cry then a groan, cut off and caught against the back of his tongue. ]
Ah—
[ But then the kiss that lands on his lips is almost gentle and even Verso's rough voice is as soft as the puff of breath it's carried on. Okay. A question no longer forgotten but asked and answered and acknowledged. ]
Okay.
[ His own voice is low, almost a whisper, and Gustave's hand relaxes in the material of Verso's jacket as he leans to press another, gentler, lingering kiss to Verso's mouth. His fingers let go of cloth and spread instead over his chest. He thinks he can feel the man's heart beating even through the metal of his palm.
Somehow, he manages to force himself to let go of the man when Verso backs away, leaving him bereft and weirdly cool in the breeze that sweeps over the roof and tugs at his mussed hair, the collar of his shirt, the vines and flowers behind him. They rustle and shift, but his eyes stay locked on Verso, watching the way his jacket shifts off his shoulders. Verso glances down, then up again with that slanted smile, and Gustave laughs, breathless, heady. There's so much he doesn't know and more he doesn't understand — where has Verso been all this time, if this is what he wanted why did he leave that night? — but right now all he can focus on is that little shrug and the apologetic tip to the man's head. ]
I can always get you more flowers.
[ He'd like to get Verso more flowers, he thinks, and not only to see that look on his face again, the one that crossed his features seemingly unbidden and made him look for a moment so much younger, surprised and a little bemused. A bouquet for a concert, a boutonniere for his jacket, petals strewn in the thick, richly dark and stark white waves of his hair.
The jacket hits the rooftop with finality, and Verso's already in his arms again, body one long perfect line pressed to his as his mouth finds Gustave's throat, roaming over skin like the space Gustave bares with a tip of his head belongs to him, has always belongs to him. Gustave closes his eyes to the attack, another low sound punching out of him as he runs both hands, fingers spread possessively, over the cloth of Verso's revealed shirt from back to ribs to the lean slopes of his side. He palms the man's trim hips with firm hands, dragging him closer, slotting them against each other until they're pressed to one another from knee to chest. ]
[ Verso is a wolf that hasn't eaten in years, and Gustave is sweet and tempting, a meal he intends to savor. He doesn't trouble himself much with tracking the exact passage of time anymore, with much of it blending together after all these years, save for the monolith itself counting the years as they go by, and the Expeditioners he sometimes lets himself meet have human needs just as much as anyone else. But really interacting with them is far and few between, and he really does try, however unsuccessfully, to keep himself from getting too tangled up in them each time. Its been a while, and Gustave is an attractive man with a way of pulling at the walls he's learned to build up for himself.
That, and he's by nature focused, intent. Cautious to a fault until the moment is right, and then throwing himself into it with reckless abandon after. Flirting around the edges, seeing what Gustave might let him do, and the moment its clear the man wants him -- he likes getting out of his head, and where better else to go than just narrowing in on making someone feel good. And Gustave, earnest and expressive as he is, seems like an especially potent drug for this, his every catch of breath something Verso drinks down with hunger and want, that quiet cry, the way he's breathless around his words, the taste of him under his tongue, warm and sweet.
He shudders appreciatively from Gustave's touch, his hands over his shirt, over his hip, the way the other man drags him closer. Without the jacket it feels that much easier to fit their bodies together, to feel how the other man's angles and lines mesh against his own, and he kisses his way over beard and scruff. He nips at the shell of his ear, murmuring against it; ]
-- For my performance?
[ Low, with a laugh. The piano, or this? He chases the question with another kiss, open-mouthed and wet and needy just under his ear, back down the side of his neck, latching onto the join of his neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to start to leave the hints of a bruise -- considerate enough to do that where it's reasonably easily hidden, at least. Reasonably.
He rolls his hips forward against Gustave's, shoving his thigh between the other man's legs, pushing his knee against that metal frame behind him, pressing up. One hand pressed against Gustave's side starts to tug a little at the material of his shirt, freeing the hem enough for him to push his hand underneath it, fingers dipping past the fabric to reach bare skin. ]
I hope it's still deserving.
[ He wouldn't mind more flowers. Wouldn't mind seeing him again. He knows he can't, he really fucking can't, but right now what he should know just fades back to what he wants and needs, and right now he thinks he'd like to see this man again tomorrow, and the day after, just as much to taste him more, just as much to see him breathless in wonder as the night he'd played for him on that lonely stage. ]
[ Hot breath and an amused low voice scud across his skin, muddled against the sensitive edge of his ear, and it feels like Verso's pouring hot water over him with the way sensation moves in a wave from the top of his head through his body, fingers dragging against skin and muscle from the inside. A lean, muscled thigh slides between his and presses up not so sweetly at all against him.
He groans again, left hand gripping Verso's hip, rocking his own hips reflexively into the pressure. It's impossible to miss the effect the man's having on him, the heat and strain between his legs. His blood is at a hard simmer at the multi-pronged attack on his senses, mouth and body and leg and hands all working in tandem to play him as easily as Verso had played those melodies all those months ago. ]
Hey—
[ Laughed, breathless, as his right hand comes skating up Verso's back to fist fingers into his hair, drawing firmly to guide his head back up from where the man's dedicatedly trying to drive him crazy, mouth moving over the curve where his neck meets his shoulder and lighting every nerve there into fizzy life. Gustave tips his head to kiss the angle of his jaw, lips brushing over the soft roughness of beard and scruff, coaxing Verso back into meeting his mouth again. ]
Don't make me have to explain bruises like that to my sister unless you want her to invite you over for dinner.
[ Not that he precisely wants to think about Emma in this moment, but there's never a time when she and Maelle aren't always somewhere there in the back of his head, two constants within every equation he calculates. No life in Lumière belongs only to the person living it, and he's no different: every choice he makes affects not just him but the two people dearest to him in the entirety of this shrinking world.
It doesn't stop him from releasing his fingers from Verso's hair to slide them over his shoulder, folding back his loose collar to bare more of the man's skin, even as he shivers at the touch of Verso's fingers against his side. He ducks his own head to run his mouth over warm skin, following the graceful line of his throat down to the rise of his collarbone, tracing angles and curves with mouth and tongue and the edge of his teeth. ]
[ Verso lets Gustave guide him back up towards his mouth, lips curving into a hint of a smile against the other man's lips -- but there is, for the smallest fraction of a second, a hint of a pause, a brief stillness. A moment of reality seeping back in when he's desperately trying to put it aside and escape it. Wouldn't it be nice to just be invited to dinner? Wouldn't it be nice to be a man in Lumiere, a pianist who's just been a bit busy these past nine months, who's taken interest in the engineer with a kind eyes. Wouldn't it be nice to know nothing, to understand nothing, to not know that the taste on his tongue when they kiss is ink and paint and blood.
But that's not the world they're in. The world they're in is Verso once again vanishing without a word, and maybe Gustave might be alive the next time he comes to Lumiere or maybe he'll be gone, and Verso will simply press on, watching Expeditioner after Expeditioner hurl themselves into certain death --
-- Refocus. Not this, not now. It's selfish, and Gustave may not forgive him for this ( if he lives long enough for it to be an option ), but for as long as this lasts Verso would like to pretend to be his monsieur le pianiste in a world where nothing matters but the breathless groans he can draw from his throat when he touches him just right. The moment passes, helped along by the heat of Gustave's mouth against his shoulder, his collarbone, his throat. He groans appreciatively, tucking his lips against Gustave's ear, the edge of a growl in his voice; ]
-- Maybe I want someone to see it.
[ Not just Gustave's sister, of course. And in the end, that slight bruise he'd managed to leave before Gustave urged him away is still somewhere hidden enough. But there is truth to that, a hint of a possessive heat under his words, a desire that many in Lumeire could probably empathize with: the want to leave a mark, that says after. And Verso knows, he knows he will have to leave Gustave again, and while its better for the man to simply forget him and move on, he can't help but want part of this to linger with him.
That edge of possessiveness is there when he twists his fingers back through his hair. Pulling his head up, gentle but firm, until he can crush their mouths together again. The kiss starts off a little lighter but then just like before starts to deepen, growing into something hungry, devouring. his hand sliding up further under the material of Gustave's shirt. The way he palms over his chest, calloused fingers tracing over lean muscle and skin, almost like he's learning him, mapping out his body with his fingers. His hand eases back down, over the muscle of Gustave's stomach, further down to pluck pointedly at the front of his pants, punctuated with that thigh still pressed between Gustave's legs, pressing up against him. The question is there, not verbalized, though this time, with the way he's tonguing into his mouth, Verso seems distinctly impatient for a response. ]
[ Someone certainly will see it, even if Emma doesn't. Gustave will know it's there, hidden beneath a neat collar and tie; he'll feel it when he tips his head to stretch the muscles of his neck and shoulder. A little souvenir, just for him, courtesy of the mysterious pianist he'd met almost a year ago and hadn't managed to forget in all that time. A bruise smudged into his skin the way ink had smudged on that note; another ephemeral bar of music, this time written on his body instead of on paper. A signature, maybe.
As if there were any way Gustave would be able to forget him now, even without any visible reminders. The fresh green summer-hot scent of crushed plants that wafts through the air now will always carry a little of the taste of Verso's kisses on it. It'll be a long while before he'll be able to see a purple flower and not remember the one that was smashed between their bodies, how it looked, tucked snugly into Verso's lapel, in the moment before he kissed him. ]
You think you haven't marked me already?
[ Not visibly so, but it's there, drawn along the inside of his chest in lines of fire, a little uncomfortably similar to the way he can tag a target with pictos for an attack. Verso is there already, bruises and the pink flush of a bite mark just superficial remnants of his touch, his mouth, the path he's taking along Gustave's body. They will fade far sooner than the true mark he's leaving behind.
Verso's hand runs over his skin, traveling beneath the light material of his shirt, not hard but firm and it feels so good that it's an enormous shock when those fingers slide over a section of his body and are met with a surprised flinch of pain instead of pleasure. The side he'd landed on when they crashed onto this roof is scraped and sore, bruises blooming beneath the surface of his skin; he'd forgotten about it, lost in the heat and sensation of Verso's mouth against his and Verso's leg pressing between his and his own hands desperate to feel more of the man beneath his fingers.
It's a jolt, enough of one to feel for a moment like he's stuck his head into a bucket of cool water, clearing his steam-filled mind for long enough to lift his own hand away from Verso for the moment, lay it over the one the man has working at the front of his trousers. ]
—wait. Wait.
[ It's almost the last thing he wants to do — wait — but he pulls his head back from Verso's devouring kiss, enough to take a breath, to try and calm his wildly sprinting heart. His fingers curl around the hand he's stopped, and all he wants is to let go, to urge him onward, to take that hand and guide it lower to where he's so desperate for the man's touch, but this is all so sudden. He just— needs a moment.
Gustave licks at his lip, sore and bruised with kisses, and smiles, searching Verso's expression, wanting to know what he's thinking beyond the need that's driving them both; if he's thinking at all. ]
[ Verso notices when Gustave's response shifts to something else instead of just pleasure, that flinch, a ripple of tension throughout the other man's body. He does immediately adjust, making sure to not brush up against what's clearly bruised and sore from his tumble before. Even then he still wants to keep going, keep pushing, wants to touch him, and when he feels Gustave's hand settle over his own there's a moment where he wants to just push it away or ignore it, a tension wound through his fingers, his wrist.
Then Gustave says to wait, and he does. His hand is still curled into the front of his trousers, but he settles his fingers against the hem, thumb running just underneath it against and soothing against heated skin, running over a button but not actually popping it open. The other man breaks away from his kisses, catching his breath, and Gustave might be able to see it in the way he almost but not quite sways back forward, in that burning hunger in his still half-lidded eyes. He has to actively push down the impulse to kiss him again anyway, to drown any protests on his mouth and tongue, to devour him whole.
But he does give him the space. His other hand, still tangled through his hair, slowly starts to relax, Verso forcing himself to do so, one finger at a time, until its just a gentle touch carding through those dark curls. And as Verso himself gets to breathe again, it's like his lungs only just remembered how much they were burning, there's a certain halting, hesitant quality to his response. Its not anything bad -- its more like being jarred, woken from a dream. If it weren't for that sharp, almost predatory hunger still lurking in his eyes, the distinct want with which his gaze briefly drops down to Gustave's lips, tracing the curve of his throat, it'd almost be like they're back in the opera house and Gustave had just interrupted him in the middle of his playing. Reality, unwelcome, seeping back in.
His fingers twitch. He wets his own lower lip with his tongue without realizing it, has to force himself to meet Gustave's actual gaze again rather than just keep staring at his mouth and thinking about how he just wants to keep kissing him. ]
-- I think. [ Breathe. And a bit of a laugh, as if at himself for realizing how out of breath he actually is. ] I think all artists are, monsieur.
Especially when struck by -- something inspiring.
[ Or someone inspiring, as it were. His hand shifts through Gustave's hair, watching some of those mussed curls fall back against his face. ]
[ He leans his head into Verso's gentler touch, watching the way the other man hauls himself back from his own all-encompassing desire. He manages it, but it was a near thing for a moment, Gustave thinks. Both of them are breathing hard, flushed and dark-eyed with want, and seeing the effect he's somehow had on Verso only makes him want to lean back in and capture that mouth, those full and expressive lips, with his again.
His own lips tug into another, smaller smile, one that isn't so wide and laughing but which seeps into his eyes and warms them, crinkling them up into fond half-moons. It's a little bit of an effort with his shoulder and arm joint still wrenched and awkward, but he lifts his left hand to curve it at the side of Verso's neck, running a cool metal thumb over warm, flushed skin. ]
Monsieur le pianiste. You play me like a song.
[ And like a song, he finds himself coming alive under Verso's touch, under the skill and passion in those fingers. His other fingers curl around the hand Verso has low against his belly, gently coaxing Verso to let go and let Gustave take his hand and lift it between them. He lowers his head to meet it, pressing a kiss to the tips of the fingers that had been driving him so mad with need. Another follows, gentle against calloused skin before Gustave parts his lips to slip the tips of those two fingers shallowly into his mouth, tasting the salt and warmth of them against his tongue, gently nipping at them with the lightest possible edge of his teeth.
He lingers a moment there, then turns Verso's hand over so he can press a kiss into his palm, against the thin delicate skin just over the pulse point at his wrist. ]
Are we in some kind of rush?
[ His voice low and still more than a little rough with lack of air, and despite his gentleness, there's heat in the way he presses his mouth to Verso's skin. ]
Must I take what I can now?
Will it be another nine months before I see you again?
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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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? ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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? ]
no subject
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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Date: 2025-05-24 05:51 pm (UTC)Gustave's responses are everything. He's reactive, vocal, a live wire under his fingers and tongue. Verso looks at him like he's drinking in the sight of him, his hair already a mess, pupils wide and dilated, lips kiss-bruised, and just seeing the effect he has on the other man is in itself intoxicating. He leans into Gustave's touch, fingers at the back of his neck, thumb along his skin -- waits for the nods. The halting, but very clear affirmation. Keep going.
He lets his teeth catch against the pulse in Gustave's throat, soothing over the slight nick he leaves in his skin immediately with his tongue, keeps moving upwards until he's pressing another kiss to his lips. This one a bit lighter, sweet, a vehicle for the answer; ]
-- Okay.
[ His voice is breathy, rumbling deeper. Answering him with actual words, just so Gustave understands he's listening, he can tell him to slow down, keep going, stop. Right now, though, Gustave's message is clear, and Verso doesn't feel like talking. He actually does peel back from him, for just a moment, straightening back up to his full height, taking a moment to start to shrug his own jacket off of his shoulders, pausing somewhere in that movement to glance down at the flower tucked against his lapel. It's still there, barely, half of its petals crushed down, some purple stained against his jacket. His gaze flickers up to Gustave's almost apologetic, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. Oops.
The jacket gets shrugged off completely, falling to the ground behind him -- the rest of the flower might well survive. But Verso's moving back in again almost before the jacket even hits the floor, this time going straight for the side of his neck, heated open-mouth kisses trailing down over his skin. One hand tangles back through Gustave's hair, the other finding his waist, keeping him still against the frame behind him as he fits their hips together. ]
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Date: 2025-05-26 01:52 am (UTC)Or maybe it's more like he's a fresh steak, and Verso is a man who hasn't eaten in a month. There's something undeniably wolfish in the way the man studies him, like he's determining the best course of action to take him apart, piece by piece. There's something of the satisfied artist in his expression, too, reminiscent of the smile he'd had when Gustave applauded his performance all those months ago, like he's already pleased with his work.
He should be. Gustave swallows, his throat tight and his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pulls what air he can into himself before Verso's there again with a bright scrape of teeth against his throat and an actual, quick sting of pain that's immediately soothed by the flat of his tongue. This time, the sound Gustave makes comes from his throat, not his chest, more a cry then a groan, cut off and caught against the back of his tongue. ]
Ah—
[ But then the kiss that lands on his lips is almost gentle and even Verso's rough voice is as soft as the puff of breath it's carried on. Okay. A question no longer forgotten but asked and answered and acknowledged. ]
Okay.
[ His own voice is low, almost a whisper, and Gustave's hand relaxes in the material of Verso's jacket as he leans to press another, gentler, lingering kiss to Verso's mouth. His fingers let go of cloth and spread instead over his chest. He thinks he can feel the man's heart beating even through the metal of his palm.
Somehow, he manages to force himself to let go of the man when Verso backs away, leaving him bereft and weirdly cool in the breeze that sweeps over the roof and tugs at his mussed hair, the collar of his shirt, the vines and flowers behind him. They rustle and shift, but his eyes stay locked on Verso, watching the way his jacket shifts off his shoulders. Verso glances down, then up again with that slanted smile, and Gustave laughs, breathless, heady. There's so much he doesn't know and more he doesn't understand — where has Verso been all this time, if this is what he wanted why did he leave that night? — but right now all he can focus on is that little shrug and the apologetic tip to the man's head. ]
I can always get you more flowers.
[ He'd like to get Verso more flowers, he thinks, and not only to see that look on his face again, the one that crossed his features seemingly unbidden and made him look for a moment so much younger, surprised and a little bemused. A bouquet for a concert, a boutonniere for his jacket, petals strewn in the thick, richly dark and stark white waves of his hair.
The jacket hits the rooftop with finality, and Verso's already in his arms again, body one long perfect line pressed to his as his mouth finds Gustave's throat, roaming over skin like the space Gustave bares with a tip of his head belongs to him, has always belongs to him. Gustave closes his eyes to the attack, another low sound punching out of him as he runs both hands, fingers spread possessively, over the cloth of Verso's revealed shirt from back to ribs to the lean slopes of his side. He palms the man's trim hips with firm hands, dragging him closer, slotting them against each other until they're pressed to one another from knee to chest. ]
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Date: 2025-05-26 02:56 am (UTC)That, and he's by nature focused, intent. Cautious to a fault until the moment is right, and then throwing himself into it with reckless abandon after. Flirting around the edges, seeing what Gustave might let him do, and the moment its clear the man wants him -- he likes getting out of his head, and where better else to go than just narrowing in on making someone feel good. And Gustave, earnest and expressive as he is, seems like an especially potent drug for this, his every catch of breath something Verso drinks down with hunger and want, that quiet cry, the way he's breathless around his words, the taste of him under his tongue, warm and sweet.
He shudders appreciatively from Gustave's touch, his hands over his shirt, over his hip, the way the other man drags him closer. Without the jacket it feels that much easier to fit their bodies together, to feel how the other man's angles and lines mesh against his own, and he kisses his way over beard and scruff. He nips at the shell of his ear, murmuring against it; ]
-- For my performance?
[ Low, with a laugh. The piano, or this? He chases the question with another kiss, open-mouthed and wet and needy just under his ear, back down the side of his neck, latching onto the join of his neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to start to leave the hints of a bruise -- considerate enough to do that where it's reasonably easily hidden, at least. Reasonably.
He rolls his hips forward against Gustave's, shoving his thigh between the other man's legs, pushing his knee against that metal frame behind him, pressing up. One hand pressed against Gustave's side starts to tug a little at the material of his shirt, freeing the hem enough for him to push his hand underneath it, fingers dipping past the fabric to reach bare skin. ]
I hope it's still deserving.
[ He wouldn't mind more flowers. Wouldn't mind seeing him again. He knows he can't, he really fucking can't, but right now what he should know just fades back to what he wants and needs, and right now he thinks he'd like to see this man again tomorrow, and the day after, just as much to taste him more, just as much to see him breathless in wonder as the night he'd played for him on that lonely stage. ]
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Date: 2025-05-26 01:11 pm (UTC)He groans again, left hand gripping Verso's hip, rocking his own hips reflexively into the pressure. It's impossible to miss the effect the man's having on him, the heat and strain between his legs. His blood is at a hard simmer at the multi-pronged attack on his senses, mouth and body and leg and hands all working in tandem to play him as easily as Verso had played those melodies all those months ago. ]
Hey—
[ Laughed, breathless, as his right hand comes skating up Verso's back to fist fingers into his hair, drawing firmly to guide his head back up from where the man's dedicatedly trying to drive him crazy, mouth moving over the curve where his neck meets his shoulder and lighting every nerve there into fizzy life. Gustave tips his head to kiss the angle of his jaw, lips brushing over the soft roughness of beard and scruff, coaxing Verso back into meeting his mouth again. ]
Don't make me have to explain bruises like that to my sister unless you want her to invite you over for dinner.
[ Not that he precisely wants to think about Emma in this moment, but there's never a time when she and Maelle aren't always somewhere there in the back of his head, two constants within every equation he calculates. No life in Lumière belongs only to the person living it, and he's no different: every choice he makes affects not just him but the two people dearest to him in the entirety of this shrinking world.
It doesn't stop him from releasing his fingers from Verso's hair to slide them over his shoulder, folding back his loose collar to bare more of the man's skin, even as he shivers at the touch of Verso's fingers against his side. He ducks his own head to run his mouth over warm skin, following the graceful line of his throat down to the rise of his collarbone, tracing angles and curves with mouth and tongue and the edge of his teeth. ]
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Date: 2025-05-26 01:41 pm (UTC)But that's not the world they're in. The world they're in is Verso once again vanishing without a word, and maybe Gustave might be alive the next time he comes to Lumiere or maybe he'll be gone, and Verso will simply press on, watching Expeditioner after Expeditioner hurl themselves into certain death --
-- Refocus. Not this, not now. It's selfish, and Gustave may not forgive him for this ( if he lives long enough for it to be an option ), but for as long as this lasts Verso would like to pretend to be his monsieur le pianiste in a world where nothing matters but the breathless groans he can draw from his throat when he touches him just right. The moment passes, helped along by the heat of Gustave's mouth against his shoulder, his collarbone, his throat. He groans appreciatively, tucking his lips against Gustave's ear, the edge of a growl in his voice; ]
-- Maybe I want someone to see it.
[ Not just Gustave's sister, of course. And in the end, that slight bruise he'd managed to leave before Gustave urged him away is still somewhere hidden enough. But there is truth to that, a hint of a possessive heat under his words, a desire that many in Lumeire could probably empathize with: the want to leave a mark, that says after. And Verso knows, he knows he will have to leave Gustave again, and while its better for the man to simply forget him and move on, he can't help but want part of this to linger with him.
That edge of possessiveness is there when he twists his fingers back through his hair. Pulling his head up, gentle but firm, until he can crush their mouths together again. The kiss starts off a little lighter but then just like before starts to deepen, growing into something hungry, devouring. his hand sliding up further under the material of Gustave's shirt. The way he palms over his chest, calloused fingers tracing over lean muscle and skin, almost like he's learning him, mapping out his body with his fingers. His hand eases back down, over the muscle of Gustave's stomach, further down to pluck pointedly at the front of his pants, punctuated with that thigh still pressed between Gustave's legs, pressing up against him. The question is there, not verbalized, though this time, with the way he's tonguing into his mouth, Verso seems distinctly impatient for a response. ]
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Date: 2025-05-26 03:51 pm (UTC)As if there were any way Gustave would be able to forget him now, even without any visible reminders. The fresh green summer-hot scent of crushed plants that wafts through the air now will always carry a little of the taste of Verso's kisses on it. It'll be a long while before he'll be able to see a purple flower and not remember the one that was smashed between their bodies, how it looked, tucked snugly into Verso's lapel, in the moment before he kissed him. ]
You think you haven't marked me already?
[ Not visibly so, but it's there, drawn along the inside of his chest in lines of fire, a little uncomfortably similar to the way he can tag a target with pictos for an attack. Verso is there already, bruises and the pink flush of a bite mark just superficial remnants of his touch, his mouth, the path he's taking along Gustave's body. They will fade far sooner than the true mark he's leaving behind.
Verso's hand runs over his skin, traveling beneath the light material of his shirt, not hard but firm and it feels so good that it's an enormous shock when those fingers slide over a section of his body and are met with a surprised flinch of pain instead of pleasure. The side he'd landed on when they crashed onto this roof is scraped and sore, bruises blooming beneath the surface of his skin; he'd forgotten about it, lost in the heat and sensation of Verso's mouth against his and Verso's leg pressing between his and his own hands desperate to feel more of the man beneath his fingers.
It's a jolt, enough of one to feel for a moment like he's stuck his head into a bucket of cool water, clearing his steam-filled mind for long enough to lift his own hand away from Verso for the moment, lay it over the one the man has working at the front of his trousers. ]
—wait. Wait.
[ It's almost the last thing he wants to do — wait — but he pulls his head back from Verso's devouring kiss, enough to take a breath, to try and calm his wildly sprinting heart. His fingers curl around the hand he's stopped, and all he wants is to let go, to urge him onward, to take that hand and guide it lower to where he's so desperate for the man's touch, but this is all so sudden. He just— needs a moment.
Gustave licks at his lip, sore and bruised with kisses, and smiles, searching Verso's expression, wanting to know what he's thinking beyond the need that's driving them both; if he's thinking at all. ]
Are all musicians this passionate?
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Date: 2025-05-26 04:23 pm (UTC)Then Gustave says to wait, and he does. His hand is still curled into the front of his trousers, but he settles his fingers against the hem, thumb running just underneath it against and soothing against heated skin, running over a button but not actually popping it open. The other man breaks away from his kisses, catching his breath, and Gustave might be able to see it in the way he almost but not quite sways back forward, in that burning hunger in his still half-lidded eyes. He has to actively push down the impulse to kiss him again anyway, to drown any protests on his mouth and tongue, to devour him whole.
But he does give him the space. His other hand, still tangled through his hair, slowly starts to relax, Verso forcing himself to do so, one finger at a time, until its just a gentle touch carding through those dark curls. And as Verso himself gets to breathe again, it's like his lungs only just remembered how much they were burning, there's a certain halting, hesitant quality to his response. Its not anything bad -- its more like being jarred, woken from a dream. If it weren't for that sharp, almost predatory hunger still lurking in his eyes, the distinct want with which his gaze briefly drops down to Gustave's lips, tracing the curve of his throat, it'd almost be like they're back in the opera house and Gustave had just interrupted him in the middle of his playing. Reality, unwelcome, seeping back in.
His fingers twitch. He wets his own lower lip with his tongue without realizing it, has to force himself to meet Gustave's actual gaze again rather than just keep staring at his mouth and thinking about how he just wants to keep kissing him. ]
-- I think. [ Breathe. And a bit of a laugh, as if at himself for realizing how out of breath he actually is. ] I think all artists are, monsieur.
Especially when struck by -- something inspiring.
[ Or someone inspiring, as it were. His hand shifts through Gustave's hair, watching some of those mussed curls fall back against his face. ]
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Date: 2025-05-26 05:54 pm (UTC)His own lips tug into another, smaller smile, one that isn't so wide and laughing but which seeps into his eyes and warms them, crinkling them up into fond half-moons. It's a little bit of an effort with his shoulder and arm joint still wrenched and awkward, but he lifts his left hand to curve it at the side of Verso's neck, running a cool metal thumb over warm, flushed skin. ]
Monsieur le pianiste. You play me like a song.
[ And like a song, he finds himself coming alive under Verso's touch, under the skill and passion in those fingers. His other fingers curl around the hand Verso has low against his belly, gently coaxing Verso to let go and let Gustave take his hand and lift it between them. He lowers his head to meet it, pressing a kiss to the tips of the fingers that had been driving him so mad with need. Another follows, gentle against calloused skin before Gustave parts his lips to slip the tips of those two fingers shallowly into his mouth, tasting the salt and warmth of them against his tongue, gently nipping at them with the lightest possible edge of his teeth.
He lingers a moment there, then turns Verso's hand over so he can press a kiss into his palm, against the thin delicate skin just over the pulse point at his wrist. ]
Are we in some kind of rush?
[ His voice low and still more than a little rough with lack of air, and despite his gentleness, there's heat in the way he presses his mouth to Verso's skin. ]
Must I take what I can now?
Will it be another nine months before I see you again?
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