𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

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[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. ]