𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

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[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. ]

[demainvient]

[ I'm sorry. Another apology to match the one he'd left before. Now, when he looks at that note, he'll be able to hear Verso saying the words; he'll know exactly what tone he uses, how they rumble in his chest with the gravel in his voice. ]

Yeah. Me too.

[ Said low and almost only to himself as Verso brushes past him. He sees that flower, pale purple and still fresh, tucked into dark waves of hair, and sees the man silhouetted for a moment against the glowing evening sky, the setting sun, and then Verso lifts his hand and is gone in a flicker of chroma and a brief breeze that stirs the broken plants at his feet. Gustave watches for a moment, eyes following the figure as he grapples rapidly away, but he loses sight after only a few seconds, and then he really is alone again, here in this garden they'd ruined.

He looks around, taking in the broken flowerpots and crushed plants, goes to the trellis to examine the spot where he'd gripped the metal grid too hard and bent it. The place is a mess, and he's a mess, but he can at least start fixing one of those things, even if the other will... well. Be harder.

He spends some time working the bent metal back into shape, collecting shattered pieces of pottery and depositing them into a mostly-intact pot he can carry back with him for disposal, then sweeps up the scattered dirt and pebbles and tips it back into the raised beds. The grass they'd landed on is more difficult, smashed flat in places and ripped in others, and the flowers have taken a beating.

He does what he can to clean them up and promises himself he'll do more, making it up to whichever poor citizen of Lumiere had their garden destroyed by a man who simply... should have known better. By the time he finishes, evening has settled in, blue and clear violet, the same colors as the petals of the flower he'd tucked into Verso's lapel, into his hair, and the man is surely long gone. Gustave won't need to worry about accidentally catching up with him, seeing him, trying not to see him.

His own walk to the roof's edge is slower, less intent, and he lingers there for a long moment before finally lifting his arm and letting the chroma carry him through the air to the next building down and over.

Time to let it go. Time to go home. ]