𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

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[versorecto]

[ And what an effect Gustave's had. Verso feels like he takes far too long to catch his breath, to remember where he is again, to feel the earth behind him and for something that isn't the static fuzz of pleasure and the echoing linger of Gustave's name on his lips to ease back into his mind. And the first thing that does catch his thoughts again -- is still Gustave, his mouth wet and hot around him as he rides it all out, his touch almost achingly gentle when he pulls back, ghosting kisses against his skin.

He feels the weight of his hand against his stomach, the weight at his side of Gustave laying beside him. He turns, slowly, like his body needs a moment to remember how to move, rolling onto his side so he can look at him when he opens his eyes. Dimly, he imagines that there's a version of this happening where somehow he'd be stirring to life in a bed, sheets warm and tussled around them, that he'd be seeing Gustave's face nestled against a pillow -- but this. With a shaft of sunlight cut down through some of the ivy growing overhead, drawing a perfect lines that follow the lines of his neck and throat down towards his bare chest. another burst of light catching against his hair, shining in those eyes. The scent of crushed grass and leaves, and the flowers that in his mind almost seem to arrange themselves around him, purples and yellows and pinks and whites. This is good, too. Maybe better. This is real.

( There is no question or thought about how real this really is. The moment lasting a bit longer, stretching on. He'll savor it. )

Verso is there just looking at him for a few seconds too long before he reaches out, a hand lazily drifting against Gustave's chest before catching at his chin and drawing him in for another kiss. Languid, warm, quietly satisfied but still with the glow of heat and want beneath -- he can taste himself on his tongue. They can taste each other.

He presses their foreheads together when he breaks from the kiss, a breathless laugh falling from his lips. ]

You're beautiful too, you know.

[ He didn't actually return that compliment earlier. But merde he is, just look at him, in so many ways that he Verso doesn't even begin to understand, that he wishes he could take the time to twist his fingers into and unravel thread by thread. His fingers, again, try to push some mussed lock of hair out of Gustave's face, only for it to fall back, his mouth quirking in amusement and fondness from it both. ]

Infuriatingly so. [ His fingers play a little with that lock of hair, idle. ] Mon chou.

[ That too, falls from his mouth without much actual thought behind it. Just letting himself be carried by the warmth until it might inevitably ebb back with the tide. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso opens his eyes and looks back over at him, and he feels once again like that grapple point is crumbling, he's falling, because Verso's eyes are soft and drowsy and he's bathed in dappled sunlight, lying there relaxed and sated in soft grass with flowers all around him. He's so beautiful it hurts, squeezes his heart painfully in his chest.

Watching him at the piano had been compelling enough. But here, now, with fingers of sunlight idly playing over his bared chest and stomach, his hair mussed and wild around his face, his lips pink and swollen and a few red marks just beginning to show on his throat and at the curve of his neck, he's utterly impossible.

He reaches out, lazy fingers catching Gustave's chin, and Gustave leans willingly into this kiss, savoring it, letting it linger, sweet and deep and feeling like taking a long breath after waking from a dream. When their lips part and Verso nudges their foreheads together, he slides his hand across the man's stomach, under the edge of his shirt to curve his fingers at his side, and smiles, the same smile he's given him so many times now: warm and sweet and creasing his eyes, a smile that lets Verso look directly into his heart. It's open, if cautiously so, even knowing, even remembering what Verso said before. That there are no promises.

But he's never been able to make his heart follow any kind of logic. If he could, he would have stopped loving Sophie all those months ago, right?

For now he smiles, and turns his head slightly into Verso's fingers as the man plays with that wayward lock of hair, loving the feeling of it, wanting this bubble around them to stay solid and unbreachable for as long as possible. His thumb smoothes over Verso's side as he chuckles, turning his head to press a lazy, affectionate kiss to Verso's palm. ]

What's infuriating about it?

[ Mon chou. Dropping from Verso's lips like an afterthought, and it's sweet, another tiny golden nugget of a memory for him to tuck deep into his chest and keep for himself. It's sweet, just like monsieur le fleuriste, and he's happy to be this, just for a little while. His florist. His cabbage. His sweetheart.

How he would like to be this beautiful man's sweetheart, to win these smiles over and over and over again, to try and understand what it is when Verso looks at him to have his expression soften this way. How he would like to stroll along the harbor, and bring him a real bouquet, and fall into a bed of muddled sheets that they could wreck together.

Maybe just tomorrow. He could be satisfied with just tomorrow, surely. It could... it could be enough. ]

[versorecto]

[ It's so easy to imagine that its dangerous. Gustave kisses at his palm, affectionate, lazy, and he can just imagine this moment stretched out into forever. Into more mornings where their kisses are languid lazy with the simple satisfaction of being near each others, into evenings or stolen moments where instead they're all-consuming flames. More nights at the opera house, alone or otherwise, playing to him even in the middle of a crowd. Walks up here, in the gardens littered across Lumiere's rooftops. Maybe a little more careful about whose flowers they might be rolling into.

But that, well. None of that is real, and none of it can be. Slowly, inevitably, Verso can feel himself -- waking up, and hating himself for it.

He lets his fingers slip up to cradle his cheek against his palm, tender and affectionate, thumb sweeping Gustave's lower lip. ]

Just makes it hard to believe.

[ Someone that beautiful, someone that perfect -- and especially in that smile. Earnest and open in the same way that'd utterly captivated him nine months ago, that draw him in now but also remind him of what he is, and what he isn't. His gaze drops briefly, his other hand moving to settle against Gustave's waist. Gentle, cautious, remembering where he'd been hurt before. ]

Almost like a dream.

[ Maybe he doesn't have to go just yet. Maybe they can just -- spend some time. What for? To invite questions that would only make everything worse? Knowing that if there will ever be a time when this man learns more of the truth, that it'd likely come with him hating everything he stands for -- is it cruel or kind, to keep it away?

It's about time to wake up. ]

[demainvient]

[ Under his rumpled clothes, more black and blue marks are slowly blooming, littering his skin with the proof of a much harder landing than the second one that had brought him to the grass and ground of this rooftop garden. Verso's hand is warm against his skin, but as the flood of adrenaline and pleasure slowly subsides, he can feel more of the aches and soreness again.

Still, he doesn't flinch away, only makes a wry face when Verso's fingers run over a newly swollen lump welling over his ribs, the aggravated result of how he'd hit the ground. His hip, too, hurts, and so does his left arm, but he can't bring himself to care yet. He can be sore and stiff tomorrow. For now, he just lies here, studying Verso's face, the shifting expression of those impossibly clear eyes, and only after a long moment there does he move at all.

Even then, it isn't away, just slipping his hand from beneath Verso's shirt to stretch across him, fingers brushing clumsily through the grass and vines and leaves until he finds what he's looking for, plucks it with a quick snap of the slender stem.

He rolls back, bringing his hand with him, and another flower — as promised. This one is a paler violet, with a white heart, and Gustave twirls it for a moment in the air before deciding he might as well indulge himself, once more. Pushing up on his left arm, he leans over Verso, bending down to press his mouth to the other man's in a kiss once more before he lifts his head and carefully reaches to tuck the flower into those dark waves of hair. His fingers are gentle, placing it amid coarse, mussed strands, and again as they ghost over the shell of Verso's ear, making sure the stem is neatly tucked behind it. ]

It doesn't have to just be a dream, you know.

[ It could be like this again. They could have dinner together and talk over wine; he could find some excuse for Emma and Maelle and find some bed and fall into it with his fingers sinking into this hair and his arm wrapped around that waist. Maybe it doesn't have to only be this. Why should it be? ]

[versorecto]

[ Even with everything, Verso is somehow still a little surprised when Gustave's hand pulls away and then comes back with -- another flower. He's already smiling, but that has his mouth twitching even more, relaxing into that kiss as Gustave leans down over him again. And once more surprised when he feels those fingers in his hair, what he must be doing.

He laughs a little into the kiss with that realization, but doesn't move to pull away or stop him, eyes still shut and languidly dipping his tongue past his lips to taste him a little deeper. Its only when Gustave breaks away from that kiss when he opens his eyes again, and -- well, he can't see himself. But he can just about feel where that flower is tucked into his hair behind his ear, a soft pale purple in the middle of mussed dark waves. ]

Mon monsieur le floriste. [ Another laugh, warm, genuine -- even as the end of it starts to rail off into something quieter. ] I hope it looks good.

[ But then, that statement. The smile freezing on his lips for a few moments, starting to edge away, the quiet yearning in his eyes self-evident, unusually honest on Verso's face. He'd really like to. But it is a dream. Worse than a dream. It's someone else's dream, all of them bound in a pain that runs so deep through the very fabric of their world that most of them could never hope to understand. And he's already been here far too long. ]

It might have to be. [ He wishes he could explain. Slowly he starts to push himself up on one elbow, reaching up to touch callused fingertips to Gustave's face, tracing over his cheekbone. Affectionate and fond. It's absurd for him to feel like this for a man he may have watched for so long but -- that he doesn't know. But when he smiles, when he sees into his eyes, into his heart . . . ] But maybe you can convince me. To dream a little longer.

[ It won't ever feel like enough. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's the first time in a long while that he's given a flower to someone simply for the joy of seeing them smile, and whatever Verso says about it being a dream, he thinks this, at least, is real: Verso's smile, and the gravelly affection in his voice when he murmurs those fond words. Gustave gives him a critical glance, studying the effect of the light purple petals in those dark waves, and feels his heart trip on itself in his chest. ]

I'm not sure you'd be able to look anything but good. But yes.

Yes, it looks good.

[ Good, and something more than good that squeezes his heart the same way watching that smile slowly fade into something else as Verso reaches for him feels. He turns his head a little into that touch, focusing on the feeling of rough fingers brushing over his skin, and wonders again what sort of life his monsieur le pianiste leads that his hands are strong and callused and he gazes out at Gustave from behind a scar that could only have come from a fight.

Again and again he wonders: who is Verso? Where has he been all this time, where is he going? Lumiere isn't a big island. It doesn't make sense, none of it.

He reaches to gently catch Verso's hand in his, bringing those fingers back to his lips to press soft, languid kisses against them again, lashes lowered. It still seems like a miracle to him, the things Verso can do with these fingers, strong and elegant and skilled at coaxing what he wants both from a piano and from Gustave himself. ]

I'd like to. I don't know why you say it can't be this way... I don't know what to say to change your mind. But how I feel... how you make me feel...

[ Like a book opening. A few notes of music poured into a long-abandoned concert hall. A door cracking, sunlight and fresh air beyond. ]

Isn't the time we have limited enough already, without taking even more away?

[versorecto]

[ Lumiere's time is short. Gustave's is. And Verso's -- isn't. It's stretched onto long, made him so tired, years stretching into decades of watching Expeditioners throw themselves into the void and watching an entire city of people dwindle steadily into nothing. The losses stack up until they become numb, and they stay numb until they don't because try as he might to harden himself to the realities of everything they live through, some awful bleeding part of his heart always stays. There are countless reasons he's learned over the years that only letting himself affect Lumiere and the Expedition from afar is best, and the selfish one is simply because it just hurts.

This loss will hurt. Whenever it happens. He still hasn't asked how old Gustave is, and he doesn't want to know. He lets his fingers linger on Gustave's lips as he brushes those kisses against them, turns his hand against Gustave's until he's threading their fingers together, holding him tight for a moment, keeping Gustave there, keeping himself here. A little bit of both. He draws their hands to his mouth in turn, kissing lightly over Gustave's knuckles. ]

You barely know me.

[ It's gentle and teasing in tone, but there's a quiet edge to it -- because it's true. They don't know much about each other. And that's what's so powerfully dangerous about this in amongst everything else, that just from that one night in the opera house nine whole months ago, just from this that would never have happened if Gustave hadn't nearly fallen from a rooftop -- that Verso can feel his chest ache. The comment is meant for Gustave as much as it meant for Verso himself. He barely knows the man -- but also knows so much. The taste of him on his mouth and tongue, feels like its burned into his memory, now. The heat of his skin under his fingers. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

He feels it. He thinks Gustave feels it, too, just from the way the man is looking at him. That there's something of him that's already been wound up inextricably with him, and he won't ever get it back.

It just doesn't change anything.

He unlaces his fingers from Gustave's, his touch lingering briefly against his cheek, tracing down the curve of his throat -- and drawing away, fixing his own trousers, pushing himself up a little more so he can rest an elbow over the raised flowerbed behind him. ]

[demainvient]

[ Yes, he barely knows Verso. And what he does know hardly paints a complete picture: the elegant pianist and the almost feral lover somehow existing in the same person. Hands that drift with so much emotion over piano keys, but which are strong and callused from sword work. The way he'd swung to intercept Gustave's fall. His mysterious references to some external factor that makes it impossible for him to promise when Gustave will see him again, even as he looks at Gustave with those eyes that are so full of yearning and sorrow and heat. He's even more mysterious now than he was nine months ago.

Gustave lets him claim his hand, running his thumb fondly over Verso's cheek, through the thick scruff there, unwilling to stop touching him for more than a moment. Even when Verso's hand drops and he shifts to sit up a little more, Gustave only pushes himself up on his left arm, letting his right hand rest warmly on the man's stomach. ]

Wouldn't it be nice to change that?

[ Wouldn't it be nice for Gustave to ask him to dinner, to share a bottle of wine and talk long into the night over it, the way people do when they've been struck this way? C'était peut-être le coup de foudre— it feels like he's been struck by a bolt of his own lightning. And all it is, really, is possibility. Potential.

He's never been able to abide lost potential, and to have this stolen from his fingers before he can even have an idea of what it is, what it could be, sparks a familiar frustrated helplessness deep in his chest. ]

I'd like to get to know you. Mon mystérieux monsieur le pianiste.

[ A small smile, the words falling fondly from his tongue, low and murmured in his own softer, warmer voice. ]

I'd like to have that chance.

[versorecto]

[ Verso likes the warm weight of Gustave's hand on his stomach, likes how much the man just seems to want to keep touching him. He finds his gaze dropping briefly to the other man's stomach, not at all hiding the way his eyes drag up over the length of his body, the lean muscle of his chest, lingering over that bruise to the side of his neck, his throat, his lips. Even now, with the warm afterglow from before still pooled in his belly, he wants to chase that line with his fingers and tongue, wants to continue the work it feels like he only just barely started with learning and mapping out every heated inch of his body.

His eyes fall shut a little with a quiet half-laugh when he calls him that. He'd really, really like to be his mystérieux monsieur le pianiste, but when the dream ends, he simply isn't. Maybe this way, when he finally gathers the will to leave like he's keeps saying he should, he can stay the mystérieux monsieur le pianiste -- instead of everything else. The things that Gustave would no doubt fight him for and hate him for, if he knew. ]

It would be nice, mon chou.

[ It really would be.

He shifts, properly seated down, now -- and reaches for him again, callused fingers spreading across his shoulder, his nape. Pulling him close until he can press another kiss to his neck, mouthing over scruff, up to his ear. Warm, heated, still quietly wanting. ]

-- And what would you have us do? If you did have that chance?

[ Lie to him a little. ]

[demainvient]

[ He goes, easily coaxed, shifting carefully to put his weight more on the hip that doesn't hurt so much even as he chuckles at the sensation of Verso's kisses, his voice rumbling against his ear. ]

Take you out? Is that what people do?

[ As if he really were the old man Maelle teases him about being, out of touch and too rusty to remember what a man who has found someone who makes his heart speed and skip and yearn might do. As if it had been more than not-quite-two years since Sophie, as though he hadn't been on any dates since then.

He has, it's just that none of them... Well. None of them were anything like this, and none of the people anything like Verso. ]

First I would have to ascertain your likes and dislikes vis-à-vis dinner, yes? And try to find someplace suitably up to standards that also allows for a dark, quiet corner where I could attempt — and probably fail — to romance you over a bottle of wine.

[ It's the same kind of humorous story he might spin for Maelle, one that casts him in the role of earnest but ultimately ineffectual hero. Maybe it'll make Verso smile, too.

He turns his own head into the other man, ghosting light kisses over his cheek, his ear, whatever part of him he can reach as he goes on, a chuckle in his voice. ]

Tragically, at some point, I would have to admit to you my true occupation... that I am not a florist after all, only an engineer. Extremely prosaic, I know. And hopelessly ignorant in the matters of music and art, so I imagine you would quickly lose interest, perhaps even before the dessert was brought out.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave paints ( haha ) a lovely picture, simple as it were. Being asked on a date, taken out to dinner. It's been -- so many years, decades and decades since he's genuinely thought of being able to do something so normal that wasn't just a wistful memory that brought more pain than joy to think of. In the memories he has of his life before -- everything, he was never exactly hurting for a bit of attention. Might've even wined and dined a little too much, or skipped that part all together. Enjoying life, as it were, taking his time, and then there was Julie. He doesn't know how much of these memories he'd actually gotten to live, which, if any, are really his own, but. Julie, he's sure, he 'd actually lived. For better and for worse.

But he can picture it. Half-remembers, half-imagines the kind of place Gustave might've taken him to dinner for. Sat across from each other at an open-air table, the night sky filled with stars overhead, the hum of Lumiere fading away from their little bubble until its just them, Gustave pouring them a glass of wine. Eager, nervous, maybe a bit awkward. Some flowers resting neatly on the table, that he'd brought for him that night.

Gustave describes himself as failing, and that does earn him a bit of a laugh, from Verso. Dryly amused -- and continuing to do a terrible job at actually disentangling himself from Gustave at all. Pulling him a bit closer, trailing heated kisses back down his neck, his hand settling against the small of the other man's back. ]

Ah, but your utterly pedestrian tastes for music and art might only romance me more. Imagine what good it would do my starving artist's ego when I could hum you a simple tune and have you doubling over in praise. [ With a smile, too, of course. Playing up himself as the artist, Gustave as someone hapless in the face of that. ] Or maybe you could seduce me with stories of your work. Tell me how much Lumiere itself lives and breathes on the work of your very own two hands.

[demainvient]

[ He snorts, good-humored, amused that Verso has taken up the joke again, just like he had back at the opera house. They don't know each other, it's true, but... this feels easy, anyway, like it's a rhythm they've fallen into many times before. ]

I must have been doing something wrong, all this time... I've been reliably informed that stories about my work are deeply boring, not sexy and seductive.

[ True, most of that criticism comes from Maelle, who is still young enough to be horrified by any mention of romance or physical attraction, and who seems to consider it her sacred sisterly duty to ensure Gustave's ego is regularly cut down to size.

Verso coaxes him even closer, a summons Gustave is nothing if not willing to obey. He pushes up onto his knees and turns to face the other man completely, lifting one leg over Verso's and sliding his knee between his thighs as he leans to bracket the man with his arms, one to either side of his body, hands braced on the wooden edge of the flowerbed Verso leans against.

It leaves him looking down into Verso's face for a moment before he leans down to answer those kisses Verso had been trailing along his neck with kisses of his own, warm and deliberate at the curve of his neck and shoulder. ]

Fortunately, I think I'd be happy enough listening to you talk about music and art. No need to get into the minutiae of everyday mechanical engineering.

[ He'd enjoy it enough just seeing the expression on Verso's face as he talks about something he loves, he thinks. There is certainly more to his monsieur le pianist than his music, but it's easy to recognize how much of his heart lies in it.

He presses another kiss to Verso's neck, lips lingering, breath warm. ]

And then, perhaps — if I am feeling very bold — I might take your hand on the walk back after dinner has finally ended, well after everything else in Lumière has closed down and the staff has finally told us we really must leave.

[versorecto]

I think I'd enjoy hearing about your work anyway, if I overcame my shock at losing mon fleuriste. But I think I'd forgive you if you kept plying me with flowers.

[ The self-effacing humor is charming -- and Verso does wonder how much truth there is to that, at all. Part of his surprise about all of this had been that Gustave had remembered him so strongly even all this time after. He's an attractive man, with a good heart, would likely make someone else in Lumiere very happy for all the time they had left together. Whatever it is has seemed to keep him like this, he doubts its the work stories.

Besides, verso really does think he'd like to hear them. He remembers Gustave's bright-eyed enthusiasm for hearing him play at the opera house, endearing, adorable -- he can imagine him just as eager over some mechanical contraption. He remembers earlier after they'd picked themselves up from their spill across the rooftops, when he'd fished that device out and worked away at something in his mechanical arm as they talked, easy, effortless, second nature. He's not actually seen the man work. He thinks he might like to.

Gustave's knee slides between his thighs, his arms on either side of him again. Taking the chances that Verso is continuing to give him even if he keeps thinking he shouldn't. He really does know better, but when Gustave is braced over him like that again, and then his mouth is back on his neck -- he can't help but let his head hall back on a low, pleased sigh.

He tucks his head against Gustave's for a moment, face against his hair, just breathing him in -- the scent of him is warm and sweet, lingering with everything else in the air, crushed flowers and fresh grass and the still-lingering smell of sweat and sex. ]

Hand-holding? [ A little nip to his ear, muffling a laugh against his skin. Verso's other hand sliding just under his shirt, fingertips pressing into the notches of his spine. ] After a first date? Mon ingénieur really is more bold than I realized.

Next thing you'd tell me that you wouldn't just walk me home for the night, gentleman as you are.

[ utterly scandalous!! ]

[demainvient]

I'd be sure to bring you flowers.

[ As many as Verso wants. He can picture himself buying a nosegay or little bouquet of fresh-cut flowers, how he would ask the server for a glass of water to set them in so they don't wilt through the evening. And then, maybe, when they're alone again, setting one in Verso's lapel once more, or in the buttonhole of his shirt, or slipped behind his ear, like this pale purple blossom Gustave is careful not to disturb with his kisses.

He chuckles too, and leans back just enough to give Verso a mock-innocent look, eyebrows raised and his hand lifting to his chest. ]

But of course I would walk you home. The streets are dangerous, who knows what terrors you might encounter?

And once we're at your door...

[ He lowers his hand to palm Verso's side, leaning in to press his mouth against the man's in a deep, drowning kiss. He doesn't mean for it to linger, but he finds it difficult to pull away once he's there, coaxes Verso's lips apart so he can tongue into his mouth, a little sound tugging unbidden from deep in his chest before he finally pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Verso's, his eyes lidded. ]

Maybe a kiss goodnight. If I've earned it.

[versorecto]

[ Verso never had any strong feelings about flowers -- he's gifted a few, received some in his time, sees the petals strewn in the wind and scattered across empty floors in the wake of the Gommage. But he certainly likes them from Gustave, liked the aching mental image of him bringing a bouquet to that lonely opera house, liked the single flower he'd given him tucked against his jacket lapel. And that will stay now, he knows. The memory of Gustave's fingers in his hair, tucking a single flower stem gently behind his ear. His monsieur le fleuriste.

There's part of him that thinks to break from the kiss, but it simply drowns and flickers away the moment Gustave's tongue is in his mouth, his fingers idly circling over the small of his back as he sinks into it. When Gustave thinks to pull away, Verso's other hand lifts to his neck, preventing him from it -- but just for a few moments more. Enough to get a slightly longer taste, to catch his teeth against his lower lip and tug on it slightly when he does break it himself.

With their foreheads pressed together, he smiles, lidded eyes gazing straight into Gustave's. He feels like he can see everything, so much warmth and gentle adoration. He knows it wouldn't be the same for him. ]

And if you did earn it?

Would you leave for the night?

[demainvient]

[ He sinks into the second, extended kiss, his own hand warm against Verso's neck, enjoying the feeling of Verso's fingers idly rubbing over the small of his back. It feels nice; he'd definitely wrenched a muscle back there in the fall.

At the question, he huffs out a breath that's not quite a chuckle and shakes his head, rolling his forehead gently against Verso's. The little breeze that puffs around them tugs idly at the waves of Verso's hair, ruffling the petals of the flower he'd tucked there. ]

How could I?

Just like now, I wouldn't want to let you go.

[ Verso has been saying almost since they first landed on this rooftop that he needs to go, that he should leave, and Gustave... hasn't been stopping him so very obviously, but he knows he keeps interrupting the man's plans. Verso being willing to let them be interrupted doesn't change that fact.

His lips press into a rueful half-smile as he looks into those startling eyes, knowing his own will betray him more thoroughly than any words he could offer. ]

I would stay as long as you wanted me.

So I think the real question is: would you invite me in?

[versorecto]

[ Verso keep saying he needs to leave and means it every time. Nine months ago the plan had been to leave Lumiere after a day or two, stopped by a moment of weakness in an empty concert hall and the man who'd just happened to be there to hear him. Today the plan had been to stay no longer than a day, to make sure no one sees him, this time, least of all his one painfully endearing audience member from all that time ago. Verso's plans rarely go well, and he's usually able to roll with the punches well enough to see where they land, but this has generally been an extraordinary failure even if Verso thinks, right now at least, he wouldn't want it any other way.

He'll still regret it later, when he's far away enough from this. When he doesn't have Gustave right here in front of him, when he can't still taste him lingering on his tongue. But when he is here, for as long as Verso lets him, he's just going to keep tangling him up more, and he leans back in, brushing another sweet kiss to his mouth. ]

Not that night.

[ He has to draw the line. As much as he hates to do so. For your own sake, he thinks to himself, but that justification really doesn't matter when Gustave couldn't possibly know it, and it barely does anything to make himself feel any better. ]

I would if I could.

[ If he was less of a coward maybe he'd be able to let that rest instead of trying to soften it, trying to add caveats. He is telling the truth here, at least, even if he's hiding a thousand things by omission -- he does regret that. He wishes he could. The gentle yearning in his voice for a simpler answer and a simpler time is as real as anything else. He draws a deep breath, and for the first time in a while, purposefully breaks his gaze from Gustave's to look away -- just at the garden. Where they are. The sun, starting to sink down. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso looks away, and Gustave's expression shifts, too: his smile fades, his eyes turn more somber. All the teasing light filters away, leaving something a little too bare and a little too reconciled behind. ]

If I asked you, would you tell me why you can't?

[ None of this seems like an impossible dream to him, but Verso acts like it is, somehow. A dinner date, flowers, a slow stroll to someone's home, a kiss at the door — even in Lumière, these are still things people do. They meet, feel a spark, fall in love; all this despite the grief that is the inevitable reward for their optimism, their hopes. So why shouldn't they do the same? What makes this so impossible, why can't they see each other tomorrow, and the next day, and again the day after that?

Where has he been for the last nine months?

He hasn't pushed, but it hasn't been because he isn't curious. He's been biding his time, waiting for the right moment, trying to figure out a way to ask that won't lead to Verso simply saying something vague and drifting off like he had before.

But this really is absurd, isn't it? It shouldn't be this difficult for them to meet again, not if they both want to. So where, exactly, does the problem lie? ]

[versorecto]

[ Their time here in the garden has felt like nothing less than a dream, floating in a haze of warmth and pleasure, letting himself get washed away by the gentle but insistent heat of Gustave's attentions. Every little thing he's earned from him today, from the smiles and laughter to the desperate groans of his name falling breathless from his lips, have made him feel -- incredible. A moment where Gustave really did manage to pull him out of his own head, urging him to be with him, here, now. And he was.

This feels like something of the same magnitude, something in him shattering when he looks back at Gustave to see smile fades away. Verso knows he's a coward, because he wishes he'd found it in him to leave earlier, just so he wouldn't have had to see it with his own eyes.

He could lie, of course. There are a number of reasons he could make up that would at least seem plausible, if maybe not enough to entirely dissuade him, or at least give him something else to hold onto other than the emptiness of never knowing. But, selfishly, Verso just -- doesn't want to. He doens't want to lie to him.

Someday, if they do meet again, he might have to. But right now.

He sways forward, catches himself in the movement, clearly hesitant where everything up til now had been easy and languid and effortless -- but the last pieces of that moment are breaking apart. After a moment of hesitation, he eases forward again, this time to just press a gentle kiss against the corner of his temples. ]

I think you know the answer to that.

[ Why else would he ask it in that way? ]

[demainvient]

[ His eyes press closed as Verso sways forward, brushing his lips over a spot at his temple: not his mouth, not his jaw, not his throat. It feels like a goodbye, and Gustave swallows, curves one hand at the side of Verso's neck, the other gently over his ribs.

He does know the answer; of course he does. He would simply have asked if he'd thought some other answer would be forthcoming.

Gustave leans forward before Verso can sway away again, catching his mouth in a warm, gentle kiss, unwilling to let reality seep fully between them. His voice, when he speaks, is a low murmur, brushed against the man's lips. ]

Come back. Let me take you to dinner, and... and tell you my stories, and listen to you talk about music, or whatever you want.

[ His lips part, but he has just enough pride left still that it doesn't come out: please. ]

I just... I would really like to... It's been a long time since...

If there's any way things could be different, you know, I'd like... I'd like....

[ But he's made himself clear, even if his words are failing him now. He shakes his head at himself again and curves his hand at the corner of Verso's jaw. ]

You know what I'd like.

[versorecto]

[ This hurts, and Verso knows he deserves it.

Gustave's not quite begging but it's almost there, pleading and desperate in his tone, in his eyes, in the way he immediately tries to pull him back into a kiss. Verso lets him do it, even kissing him back. But the words come tumbling out from his mouth, sound almost involuntary, him stumbling his own words -- Its like the night at the opera house, him standing there with his heart on his sleeve and the concert hall echoing around him.

Except that had been full of hope, anticipation, eager nervous excitement for a new possibility. Nervous and sheepish but still with a smile. And this, well.

He lifts both his hands, this time, one hand twisting back through his hair, fingers carding through the mussed curls with a distinct familiarity. His other hand, too, settles against his cheek with a certain familiarity, like he already knows the shape of him, like his touch belongs there. Verso pulls him in for another kiss, full but bittersweet. When he pulls, away, eyes still shut, his lungs burning a little from lack of air and a sweet ache both, keeping their foreheads pressed together, his voice soft. ]

Gustave. [ Low and quiet, his breath warm against Gustave's skin. ] There is nothing you can do.

[ There is nothing he could have done. It isn't his fault.

And slowly, as gently as he can bear, like he's afraid that if he says much more or does too much these newfound cracks will just shatter -- he starts to pull away. Pushing his weight up to perch on the edge of that flower bed. Getting himself a bit more space.

That care is as much for himself as it is for Gustave, but. It is what it is. ]

[demainvient]

[ Helplessness is the feeling he hates worst of all. They are all so helpless, in Lumière, in the end: helpless in the face of the Gommage, in the shadow of the Paintress. He's spent his life battling against that helplessness, tryin to find some edge that hadn't been discovered yet, looking for another way. The opposing force to helplessness is hope, at least for him, and so he hopes, stubborn more than optimistic, and keeps trying.

But there is nothing he can do here, and he doesn't know what else to try without losing what little dignity he has left. Verso kisses him, long and sweet and sad, and his own fingers curl into the loose fabric of the man's shirt, only to let it slip from his grasp when Verso finally begins to move away. He has to shift, letting Verso move his leg out from beneath him, until he's left kneeling there, his hands loose on his thighs, watching as Verso slowly closes this door between them.

Maybe if he understood why, this wouldn't be so frustrating, he wouldn't feel so utterly powerless, but he doesn't. Nothing he can think of, no obstacle that he knows of, makes this decision make sense. Perhaps Verso will Gommage in a year — but he'd already murmured soft words about taking what they could in the time they have, so wouldn't that make him more rather than less likely to want to grasp this thing, the potential of it, in both hands?

Maybe he needs to focus on an Expedition; that's more likely, but if that's the case Gustave will see him at the Academy, surely.

No, the only thing that makes sense is that he simply doesn't want to try, to see him again, and even that... he doesn't think he's been misreading the looks in those eyes, the tenderness in those touches. But it's the sole possibility that fills in all the blanks.

It's not a big island. He's managed to avoid Sophie, for the most part, but he still sees her everywhere. Won't that be true of Verso, too?

He sits back on his heels, looking up at Verso sitting there on the edge of the flowerbed, fingers curling into his palms there on his thighs, and wets his lip. It feels a little sore, swollen, kiss-bruised and maybe split there from their first clash, and he's going to have to explain this to Emma, he knows. After a long moment, he forces his hands to uncurl and lifts them to start buttoning his shirt back up. This — whatever stolen moments they'd managed to glean — is over, and one thing everyone in Lumière is familiar with is an ending. ]

I could always try throwing myself off a rooftop again.

[ As a joke, it falls a little flat. But he tries anyway. He doesn't know how to do anything else. ]

[versorecto]

[ One of the things that's drawn Verso into this man so completely is how much he seems to lay himself bare, earnest, heart on his sleeve. He doesn't know if he's always like that, but in their brief time together it's felt like he could see into his eyes into his heart and soul, something that Verso finds -- impossible, terrifying, fascinating and disarming, all at once. The problem with this is that when Verso finally manages to untangle himself from Gustave's grasp, the space between them slowly growing he just has to look at him to see how much it shatters him.

Verso feels his lungs tighten, an awful ache in his own heart, but -- its harder to see. The walls that Gustave had so effortlessly managed to pull down and move past, nine months ago at the opera house, earlier with the a flower plucked from the garden, just before with heated words murmured against his ear and his hand on him and the earnest plea to be with him, here, now -- they've already built themselves back in place. Its for the best. Its for the best. For Gustave. For both of them.

He reaches over to retrieve his jacket where he'd shrugged it off his shoulders and left it forgotten, his gaze falling to that gentle purple bloom still tucked into his lapel. Partially crushed between their bodies, crushed a little more since he cast it off -- they'd likely accidentally stepped on it at least once in all of this. Gently, Verso's takes a moment to make sure the flower stem is secure enough in the buttonhole, fingers brushing over the single delicate petal still left intact.

Verso looks back up at the sound of his voice. Its a joke, clearly, however dark it may be. But; ]

You're worth more than that. [ Even as a joke. ]

[ Surely there are other people? Surely Gustave has no shortage of suitors, whether they're the kind looking for a few nights of indulgence in the fleeting lives they live or the kind that wants to find someone to stay with until the inevitable end. Verso doesn't know him, but he feels like he can say he knows he's a good man, and with those eyes, that smile. Maybe Gustave's number is up soon, he thinks. Maybe there's just no time. He wants to ask, but he's a little uncertain, and -- clearly, now, that might be a bit too personal to ask. Gustave's life is his own. Verso has no part in it. ]

-- You should forget me. [ I thought you would before, he thinks. ] There must be someone more deserving of your flowers, monsieur le fleuriste.

[ Maybe calling him that right now is the wrong thing to do. He looks away, back down to his jacket -- moves to shrug it back on. He can't help himself, though, still quietly fond, just. He can't stay. ]

[demainvient]

[ His head is a little lowered with the excuse of watching himself do up his buttons and tuck the rumpled, stained shirt into the waistband of his trousers, but his glance shifts up from under his brows to watch as Verso retrieves the jacket, watching how he runs his fingers carefully over the flower there, and again: he doesn't understand.

He looks down again before he has to actively avoid meeting the man's eyes, unwilling to let him see any more of the confusion and disappointment and frustration and bewildered longing he needs to just... he needs to find a way to tamp down on. It's absurd to feel hurt, it's absurd to have let himself indulge this way. Passionate interludes with handsome, mysterious strangers aren't something he engages in; he has more practical matters which require his time and focus and energy.

His head dips a little more at Verso's voice, that comment. Forget me. Find someone else. ]

Yeah.

[ More just to say something, anything, than to agree. Maybe it would be best if he just... forgot all this, turned his mind back to Emma and Maelle and the lumina tech, to his apprentices and his training. He could, he supposes, see if there's someone else here in Lumiere who would like a flower from him, who would want to go to dinner and talk late into the night over glasses of wine. They might even make him feel this way, like he's come alive again for the first time since Sophie. ]

Right.

[ It's sensible, of course. Forget the man he can't have, for whatever reason that for some other mysterious reason cannot be detailed. Seek out someone else more inclined.

He thinks he probably won't. Two heartbreaks in as many years is enough for him, surely.

He gets a little stiffly to his feet, wincing slightly at the aches and soreness of every abused muscle and joint as he goes to pick up his bag of tools, forgotten on this rooftop what feels like so long ago but had to have been less than an hour. It seems deeply unfair that he should also be injured and sore right now, as well as romantically frustrated, but when has life in Lumiere ever been fair? ]

I hope...

[ But he trails off with an awkward, forlorn lift of his hand. He has no idea what to hope for, for Verso. He knows almost nothing and it seems that's as much as he'll ever know. He presses his lips together and shakes his head before finally letting his glance flicker back over to the other man. ]

I hope you'll be well.

Try not to... hurt yourself falling onto any more roofs. If possible.

[versorecto]

[ Verso winces a bit inwardly. Just -- the tone of Gustave's voice, those flat short answers, hints at a wealth of something he simply doesn't know. A life of heartbreak, maybe, with himself at the end of it, punctuating a pattern. Or just a deeper level of hurt that he doesn't understand. Either way, with the distance he's so definitively just drawn between them and the doors sliding shut -- there's nothing he can do or say. Any offered comfort would just feel strange and hollow, from a man who doesn't know him.

He can assure him of how much this -- mattered, how much he enjoyed this, how it feels like something of Gustave has slipped through the cracks and will stay nestled in his chest, how different that is for Verso in all of his decades. But it seems like to him, the more he says, the worse this will be. Its not like he was subtle, knows that Gustave must've felt that spark and connection just as strongly as he did, but that just leads him down a path of not understanding why Verso has to leave.

So this is probably for the best. Quiet, silence, awkward and uncomfortable as it is, a unmistakable tension, empty and bitter. It feels almost unthinkable that moments before they were tangled all up in each other, that Gustave was laughing, pressing soft kisses to his neck and shoulder.

He puts fixes his shirt as he puts on his jacket -- takes a moment to check for the flower still tucked in his hair. ]

I'll take that to heart.

Stay well. [ A beat, as he just -- looks at him. Dressed back up, but his hair still mussed, shirt in disarray, kiss-bruised lips, eyes that still say too much even if all the adoring light is gone from them now. Beautiful, right in front of him, and out of reach.

He closes his eyes. ]

I'm sorry.

[ Verso's gaze goes straight to the horizon, the setting sun, the monolith beyond. He wills himself to not look back, moving forward, brushing past Gustave a little closer than he means to, their shoulders barely brushing -- the sound of chroma grappling, and he's gone. ]