superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

Verso still fully intends to play piano for Gustave; all the better if it's during the afterglow, considering that being intimate with Gustave this morning had put him in a rather musical mood. He can't remember the last time he'd hummed a little tune while getting ready in the morning. Pre-Fracture, probably.

He hums again now, more thoughtful than melodic. Then, incurably smug: "Well, the sounds you make are music to my ears."

Gustave genuinely has no idea if Verso's theory will hold water, or if they'll be able to action anything for it in time even if it does. That matters less than the fact that the idea at all had blown away some of the clouds in front of his eyes. He approached every other problem from a dozen different angles, and it had startled him somewhat to realise he'd been so narrowly focused on this one.

(And, well, to a lesser but not insignificant degree — having a baked in excuse to keep Verso in his life a little while longer made it easier to feel like he was drawing a full breath when he thought about the future.)

There's a break of tension in the way he carries himself — it feels not unlike one of Lune's healing spells with all the really good healing buff pictos equipped — and the exaggerated way he rolls his eyes is softened by the way he's grinning. ('You roll your eyes a lot,' Lune had pointed out once, amused, to which Gustave had reminded her he lived with a teenage girl.)

"You're the worst," Gustave says, voice low and rich. "Why do I want you all the time?"

Verso is the worst. Like, objectively. Completely undeserving of being here right now, trapping Gustave against the wall, face pressed against the warmth of his neck. But Gustave had encouraged him not to preemptively ruin things, so he bats away any feelings of guilt or shame, tries not to think about all of the things that Gustave still doesn't know about him.

"It's okay," he says, blindly unbuttoning Gustave's pants. Softly, like it's a romantic confession and not a statement of how quickly Gustave can give him an erection, "I want you all the time, too."

There is some level of romance to it, he thinks. It's a very different sort of wanting when there's feelings involved, an intention beyond distracting himself from how awful everything is. Casual sex in the woods had felt like trying to quiet the pesky buzz of desire for human contact. This is more like a full-body ache to be close to someone for the sake of being close.

Embarrassing. He laughs. "Je suis fou."

"Yes," Gustave says, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Verso's neck. "You are. I have no idea when the girls are going to be back." This is extremely irresponsible!! It had been bad enough when Maelle stumbled upon them post-make out; he might actually die on the spot if they find him squirming against the wall with Verso's hand in his pants.

Which probably means he should push him away instead of gently holding his face there, but what can you do.

"Oh," he says, a little surprised. He'd assumed that Gustave knew that his house would remain unoccupied for at least long enough to see this hanky panky to completion, given that he'd started it in the first place; it's unlike him to be so careless and irresponsible, which is both a little hot and a little anxiety-inducing—

It's been weeks since he's been able to speak to Maelle without awkwardly fumbling over all of his words, and the last thing he wants is for her to walk in on him defiling sweet, innocent Gustave. Emma, too—they've barely met, and he'd be inclined to find a cure for his immortality if this was one of her first impressions of him. At the same time, they aren't here right now, so it's a little difficult to peel himself away for a hypothetical when he's turned on in a very non-hypothetical way.

"Do you want me to stop?" He doesn't really want to stop, which is evident by the way he slips his hand underneath Gustave's waistband, but it seems like he should ask.

Gustave would argue that he hadn't meant to start anything — though he's realizing now that maybe it was naive of him to assume Verso would laugh his flirting off.

Not that intention matters right now, because he's flustered and aroused and maybe a little annoyed by how effortlessly Verso seems to have him wrapped around his finger.

"No, I don't want you to stop," Gustave huffs in a whisper, his fingers stroking through the fine hair where Verso's neck meets his skull. "They, uh— probably won't be home for a— while."

It's actually Verso's fingers that are wrapped around Gustave. It's all a little bit clumsy, his hand practically trapped between Gustave's skin and the fabric of his pants, very little room for proper movement. He palms at Gustave the best he can anyway, noting in some distant way how it feels so different than this morning, when he'd had science supplies. Quite a lot more friction.

"Mon dieu, I hope not." He really, really doesn't want to have to pull himself off of Gustave and hold a pillow over his lap while trying to act normal.

Then: "—Here?" That is, in the hall? "To clarify, I'm not opposed."

"Absolutely fucking not," Gustave blurts, a little flushed in the face, and then he gives a sort of horrified laugh when he's forced to confront the fact that Verso's hand is on his dick in the entry hallway of his home. "Putain," he groans, "we're worse than teenagers."

He grabs Verso's wrist to guide it out of his loosened waistband (though he does make a marked little noise of disappointment while he does.) Gustave nudges Verso off of him enough to slip from the wall, hooking a finger into Verso's belt and giving him a little tug. "One room over, come on."

Verso is visibly disappointed at being pulled away from, although his mood perks back up with the tug to his belt. (God!!! Why did he wear a belt to this thing!!!) "You're worse than a teenager," he accuses as he follows Gustave. Once he makes it to the doorway, he leans against it, long-suffering. "I am but a victim of your lust."

Gustave snorts aloud, making a point to lock the bedroom door behind them. "Well, who am I to disagree," he says as if he's resigned to it. He steps in to kiss Verso hard again, hands returning to his belt to start working it loose as he attempts to walk him backwards toward the bed.

Locks!! Still something he's learning to get used to. Either Gustave is going to have to be the one to remind him every time, or he's going to have to get traumatized by Monoco bursting in on him in flagrante delicto.

Not today, though, so—he settles on the mattress and tugs Gustave along by the collar of his shirt. "You were right," he gripes. "I shouldn't have worn a belt."

Not exactly what Gustave had said, but still true. He hadn't expected to get lucky tonight, didn't think his vague hypothesis would make Gustave so happy.

"Did I comment on your belt?" Gustave asks, faux-innocent. He's laughing a little as he follows Verso to the mattress, straddling his legs as he finishes pulling the buckle loose. "Because I don't normally go this far the night I meet someone, monsieur."

It's not happiness, necessarily, as much as it relief, and he's sure it'll run thin sooner rather than later; he'll revel in the lightness of his heart now anyway.

"Me, neither," he says, although it's a bit of a lie. Verso has always been the opposite of precious about sex; in the fantasy scenario where he meets Gustave for the first time in Lumière, he would absolutely try to get some that very night. He likes to think that he would succeed, too, although the accuracy of that remains debatable.

As he undoes the gold buttons of Gustave's vest, he says, "But there was just something about you."

He can't say for sure if he really would have been drawn to Gustave under these circumstances. Before the Fracture, before all of the horrible truths, he'd been a different person; Gustave would have been, too, if he were around then. Maybe they would have passed each other on the street and not even looked twice. He likes to think they would have been friends, at least, and that he would have spent all of his time teasing Gustave to get his attention.

"You know, I lied when I said your sister sent me over. I just wanted an excuse to dance with the most handsome man at the party."

It's probably his affection for the other man that causes Gustave to imagine such an idealized version of pre-Fracture Verso in his head. It has nothing to do with comparing him to the Verso outside the Canvas; instead, he can't help but imagine the charm and the talent without the aching pain. Verso would absolutely fail, if only because it would never occur to Gustave that he was trying in the first place.

But Gustave has a better read on him now, and he knows that sidestepping compliments like that — no matter how silly it feels to accept them — rankles Verso a little bit. He swallows the deflection on his tongue, shrugging the vest off and letting it fall to the floor.

"Good," he says, and then laughs, a little tongue-tied as it becomes clear he has no idea how to respond to a statement like that in earnest. "Merde. The smoothest talker in Lumière, aren't you?"

It's all right with him if Gustave doesn't know how to respond to flattery. Endearing, even, to watch him flounder. What bothers him is when Gustave lets the compliments slide right off of his shoulders like he doesn't want them, or maybe doesn't even believe that Verso actually thinks those things. (Like Verso is known for lying, or something!) But he's trying, and that's what matters; gold star.

"Only when I'm trying to charm the pants off of a beautiful man," he says with a grin, reaching to pull Gustave's shirt over his head next. Aware, distantly, that they are under a bit of a time crunch here. Maelle knocking on the door and calling Gustaaaave, are you home? would kill the mood, and he'd really like to not have to avoid Maelle directly after getting down and dirty with her father-brother.

Appreciatively: "And you are a beautiful man, mon beau."

It's just not the sort of flattery he's used to hearing, though it's not as if he dislikes it. His insecurities are odd. Speculative, almost, in a way, where idly he wonders if they'd ever started something like this at all if Lune had been warmer to Verso, if Sciel hadn't been promised Pierre's return.

Gustave likes himself fine, but he'd had similar thoughts even with Sophie. She was funny, brilliant, interesting, outgoing — and a quiet part of him had taken it for granted that her interest in him would, eventually, wane. She and Verso are nothing at all alike, but it's a hard thought process to shake.

"So are you," Gustave says, quietly and earnest as he shifts to urge Verso's back down against the mattress. He follows him down and kisses him soundly, before he sits up to start Verso's pants down far enough down his thighs. He looks quite pleased with himself for now. He will look much less pleased with himself when he hears Emma, who is currently en route to change a wine-stained dress, arrive home.

Blissfully unaware of the fact that he's apparently about to be caught with his pants down, Verso laughs, "Copycat." Come up with your own compliments! Not that he really minds; Gustave is brilliant, but gifted in (intentional) charm and flattery he is not. If a little plagiarism helps him feel less awkward, then a little plagiarism he can have.

But— "You could have complimented how clever I am," he points out. "Or how intriguingly tormented." Not feeling very tormented at all in the moment, he tugs down on the waistband of Gustave's pants. "Or how good I am with my hands."

"You are very good with your hands," Gustave agrees, and— sure, there's an implicit urgency to this that didn't exist this morning, but he's still pleased at the way he's able to hike Verso's shirt up and skim his fingers against his bare stomach. Knowing the affection isn't unwanted is warming. "You're very good at making me feel good with them, too."

His hand slips down, cradling Verso's dick more than actually stroking it. The words that follow are just as sweetly sincere as most things that he does. Hardely sexy at all, but genuine as it is stream-of-thought. "When you came back from the bath this morning— your hair was still damp? If you'd wanted the moon right then, I would have started building a rocket."

Very cute, very sweet. Verso is inclined to complain that Gustave still hasn't done any work on the trains that he requested, but that gripe can wait for another day. Maybe when he has damp hair and can use that to his advantage.

In the meantime, he reaches for Gustave, too, a little more eager to get to the point; it's not that he minds the gentleness or the slowness, but this isn't really the ideal 'take their time and explore each other's bodies' sort of situation. If Gustave didn't want a quickie, he shouldn't have initiated a quickie. The movement of his hand is light, still, but it's movement all the same.

If pressed, he will blame the lack of blood flow to his brain for his next confession: "I must have spent ten minutes in the bathroom right before that trying to make it look casually tousled."

Gustave's encouraging groan at the touch turns into a breathless laugh. His hand tightens on Verso. "Is that why you took so long—"

The front door slams shut and Gustave's mouth snaps closed, straining hard to listen for footsteps.

Suddenly the hypothetical he hadn't wanted to worry about in favor of non-hypothetical boners materializes, and his hand stills instantly. He recalls how he'd been willing to do this in the entry hall and thinks about how one or both of Gustave's housemates would be staring at him with his nice trouser pants halfway down his thighs right now (provided that they didn't just scream and cover their eyes in horror).

Small blessings, maybe, that Emma and Maelle are still yet to see his privates. Hard to count those blessings, though, when his body hasn't gotten the memo that this is no longer an arousing situation.

He'd like to make a cheeky comment about how the boyfriend Gustave mentioned earlier is home, but they should probably drop the roleplay. "Putain," he whispers instead.

There's some rustling near his door, and Emma will call— "Gustave, are you home? The door was unlocked." But she didn't see his shoes; she's not sure if he's here or if they'd just forgotten to lock the door on the way out. There was hardly a crime epidemic in Lumière. She hesitates for a moment, then follows up with, careful: "Well, if you are, I hope you're having a good night. I'll be back later."

Gustave cringes, carefully peeling himself off of Verso and rolling onto his back. He can't seem to decide if he finds this hilarious or if it makes him want to die. "I'm the worst brother on the planet," he whispers. Did it sound like she was leaving again?? Jesus Christ he hopes she's leaving again.

Verso shifts to allow Gustave room to lie back, then turns his head to the side to look at him, laughing (silently!) despite himself. Ridiculous—Gustave isn't even the worst brother in this room.

Case in point: "...Did that kill the mood?" he whispers.

"Verso." If the answer were yes, Gustave wouldn't sound so guilty. He's trembling with silent laughter, his hands on his face.

Verso, he scolds, as if Verso isn't the one at the greatest risk here. He doesn't even know what Gustave has told Emma about him, if anything at all—perhaps this would have only been her second impression of him. She's important to Maelle and Gustave, and therefore she's important to him, and he wants her to think highly of him. She wouldn't have, if she'd caught him with his pants around his knees.

All the same, he turns onto his side, sliding a hand across the plane of Gustave's stomach. "You're cute when you're embarrassed." Which is to say that the mood hasn't been killed for him.

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i don't like that while i wrote this you dmed me "speaking of gay incest"

😎

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