tfln overflow / open post

[superniceone]

(open / overflow)

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[recreatable]

The light, tinkling notes slow a little as he thinks. He remembers it being a birthday gift, can recall ripping off the wrapping paper with crystal-like clarity. Now, though, he has to wonder if that ever really happened or if it's just a memory that came preloaded into his head to make this all more realistic.

"The trains had little motors," he recalls. "So they could drive down the track on their own."

This is by far the most childish thing he has ever said, and he's vaguely aware of that. "Pretty cool, I know. First thing I showed girls when I took them to my room."

[superniceone]

Gustave does not, in fact, think it's childish. He thinks it's pretty neat. "Well," he says, "I would have been impressed." He nudges Verso with his arm again, his expression a little amused. "'When you brought girls back to your room.'"

He's laughing a little bit, trying to figure out what, exactly, it is he wants to say to that.

"It's no good. I wouldn't have stood a chance. You would have been too cool to ever talk to me."

[recreatable]

Usually, Verso would be more than happy to let Gustave imagine him as wildly popular and impossibly cool, but he doesn't like the added implication that Gustave would be somehow inferior. Sure, he'd had plenty of friends; he'd been good at nearly everything he tried; he'd been the pride of his family. But none of that had been real—half the time, he'd only ever brought those girls to his room as a distraction from the bone-deep feeling of wrongness he'd never quite been able to shake.

"I was a grown man with a model train set in his bedroom." Still is. "I think you might be overestimating how cool I was."

[superniceone]

Gustave would be flattered if he'd known Verso's exact thought process. He's never really thought of himself as lesser, has never had trouble making or keeping friends, but it stands true that he often has very little in common with the sort of person who flits between lovers like a hummingbird in a garden of flowers. He'd spent time in his room with girlfriends; that seemed quite different than bringing girls to it.

"Wow, look at you, turning down a compliment," he says, rolling his shoulders back in a silent laugh. "What do we call that? Personal growth?"

[recreatable]

There's a flutter of his fingers, a little musical imitation of the sound of laughter that Gustave doesn't make. "Now you see how annoying it is," he teases. Not his intention, but Gustave could stand to get a taste of his own medicine once in a while, too. It's exhausting trying to compliment a beautiful man who just brushes you off!

"I would have talked to you." This, he thinks, is probably true. He'd always been gregarious, and he would have been interested in whatever Gustave would have been tinkering with. "And I definitely would have invited you to come check out my train set."

A couple contemplative notes— "And you'd be so oblivious that you'd just take a look at it and leave."

[superniceone]

He can't help but find the improvised sound effects added to their conversation anything but intensely charming, and Gustave shakes his head before he has another nip from the bottle. "In another world," he says, and allows that same powerfully bittersweet feeling to wash over him. There's no sense in running away from it; best to just acknowledge it and be grateful for what he does have.

"And you think I would be oblivious?" he says, scoffing, clearly oblivious to his own obliviousness. "I made the first move on you, monsieur."

[recreatable]

He's not sure what Gustave did could be considered a 'move'. It was weird and halting and awkward. Most things out on the Continent were, so he can hardly be blamed, but—

"You were lonely," Verso says. "And scared. And a little wine-drunk." Thinking you're going to die within the next few weeks—or maybe days—is a far cry from living regular life in Lumière. "I wasn't oblivious, I just didn't want to make things... complicated."

Not because he'd been under the delusion that Gustave had some sort of schoolboy crush on him, but because he'd sort of expected him to get weird and regretful about it. His position in the group had felt very tenuous, and he'd been uncomfortably aware of how souring his camaraderie with Gustave could push him out.

Also, there was the whole 'almost let him die' thing. But Gustave doesn't need to know about that.

"Pretty sure I made them complicated."

[superniceone]

"You made them complicated?" The words come in an incredulous sort of exhale — but still soft, unconsciously very careful not to step over any music Verso might add to their exchange. "I was the who one—" Caught feelings immediately, incapable of untangling the notions of sex and emotional intimacy despite his insistence otherwise. Who had found refuge in Verso when his own fear and uncertainty about the newfound nature of their world had flung him into mental turmoil. Who was acting like an anchor to him even now, when he clearly had no interest or intention of remaining in Lumière.

Gustave cuts himself off with another sip, stalling, and doesn't say any of that.

"I wouldn't have just looked at the model train and left," he says instead. "I would have wanted to take it apart, started crushing hopelessly on the boy with the fancy gadget, and then left. It's a very important distinction."

[recreatable]

"Oh, so you'd only want me for my fancy gadgets," he shoots back, although he's clearly happy with the response, ears pink with pleasure. Gustave is so very sweet; he can hardly believe he's the recipient of it. There have to be at least fifteen people in Lumière who'd like to be in his position, and who are more deserving of it, too.

"That would have been nice," is accompanied by a few chords, idle movements of his fingers more than real music at this point. "If you'd known me before." Instead of now, after he's crossed so many lines. It had all been fake and wrong, but at least he didn't have the last 67 years weighing on his conscience.

"Although I think I'd be too embarrassed to try again, after the model train fiasco."

[superniceone]

Gustave is— well. Not surprised, really, at the idea that Verso can't even imagine a happy outcome for the two of them in their verbal game of pretend, but it does make him a little sad. Not because their own relationship is any more doomed than it's ever been; it just feels more evident than ever, in moments like this, that Verso is unable to imagine a happy life for himself at all.

"That's the sort of thing that qualified as a fiasco for you?" Gustave laughs, and then hesitates, because there's something there that doesn't sit right with him.

"Hey," he continues after a moment, putting the bottle down by his feet. He angles himself slightly on his seat, reaching to try to coax him into a quick kiss. "I'm into much older guys, remember? I prefer you the way you are now."

It's his extremely clumsy and intensely dorky way of trying to reassure him that he likes him the way he is, that he doesn't yearn for Verso-but-better.

[recreatable]

"That's on me. I forgot what a grave robber you are."

There's no way Gustave prefers him the way he is now. Or, if he does, it's only because Verso has unintentionally tricked him into it somehow. The sentiment is nice all the same even if he can't really make himself internalize it, and he slings an arm across Gustave's shoulders to pull him in for a very daring kiss on the cheek. He's never done this before, not with Gustave; despite the fact that he's had his mouth far more scandalous places, it's a little shy.

"I was just saying all of that to make you think I was appealingly moody. Did it work?"

[superniceone]

It's true that Gustave wishes that Verso lived a less burdened, but that's for Verso's sake, not for his own. Things are messy and weird and difficult between them, sure, but the world is messy and weird and difficult, too.

But it's easy not to dwell on that right now; he grins when Verso pulls him in, playfully melodramatic as he briefly tucks his face against Verso's shoulder. "Practically swooning," he says, matter-of-fact and muffled by his shirt.

[recreatable]

A squeeze to Gustave's shoulder, and then Verso lets him go, hand resting on the keys again. "All according to plan." Gustave should be swooning! "So—what kind of music do you like?"

[superniceone]

Gustave straightens up, his smile a little sheepish at his own childish-feeling affection. "Are you going to boot me out if I tell you I don't have a strong opinion? I mean—" Hastily added. "I do like music." He has that gramophone in his room, but he's always just sort of picked things to play arbitrarily. "I just, you know—"

He raises his hand to pick out a basic scale, one note at a time with his index finger. "I never really had enough time to just enjoy it for its own sake." It had only been background noise is what he'd started to say, and realised just in time how poor that phrasing was.

[recreatable]

Quelle offense! Verso absolutely reels back at 'don't have a strong opinion'. "I should boot you out." What the fuck, he accidentally got into a relationship with a guy who 'doesn't have a strong opinion' on music. This is the stuff of nightmares! He's laughing, though, clearly not actually offended although he's trying very hard to look it.

"I like nocturnes." Does Gustave even know the difference between a nocturne and an etude? Oh, this is horrible. "They're... contemplative. When you play them, it's like someone else's thoughts flowing through you."

Which, obviously, he likes. His own thoughts suck.

[superniceone]

Gustave's brow genuinely furrows at that. He's heard the word!! "Do you know any?"

Show him! He can study!!

[recreatable]

Does he know any!!! He represses the urge to kick Gustave under the piano. "Yeah, I know a few," he says with a scoff, obviously understatement. It's not like he's been playing for a hundred years or anything.

"Chopin's are probably the most famous." He presses down on the keys again, a wandering tune, dolce. "But I'm more fond of Fauré's." Not that any of the composers he used to look up to even truly exist in this world. He'll never hear a new Debussy piece. "They're more introspective. Feels like... you know him."

Like a friend. Not something he's had a lot of in the past sixty or so years.

[superniceone]

Gustave rolls his eyes at the scoff, casting a sidelong glance at him that is clearly mock-annoyed. He's never seen Verso at a piano; he has no idea what he's got in his head versus what he might need to have sheet music for. The fact that he can just start playing is deeply impressive.

"Should I be taking notes?" he asks, but it's an errant remark, lighthearted teasing. It's clear by the tilt of his head that he's really listening to the tune being played. "Who is this?"

[recreatable]

The doglike tilt of his head is cute (even if that word is apparently barred!), and so is the interest Gustave takes in the music. It's nice to feel as if someone enjoys that he's passionate about it, when for much of his life it's seemed like a disappointment.

"This one's Dessendre, actually. Little known Lumièran composer." A nudge of his knee against Gustave's as he presses down on the pedal. "And yes, there will be a test after."

[superniceone]

Gustave seems first a little surprised, and then visibly pleased. It's sometime he probably won't be able to hear on record, then, so he'd best pay attention. "An exclusive showcase," he murmurs. "I'm flattered."

But he lapses into a silence that will last as long as Verso's playing does, closing his eyes like that will help him hear it better, understand it more. Understand Verso more, even. Music is nice, but Verso's explanation of the feelings it can elicit in him really does make Gustave feel like a philistine, but he's trying.

[recreatable]

The music is exactly what one might expect from Verso: very melancholic, perhaps to an overdramatic degree. Wistful, a little bit. As one would also expect, it's also full of opportunities to show off. Complex rhythms, wide leaps. Things inserted not for the sake of musicality, but because they're impressive. Somewhat inauthentic even in his own private compositions.

It ends softly. "And here's where the crowd would applaud," he points out.

[superniceone]

Gustave claps his hands politely at Verso's remark, wishing he had Lune nearby so he could lean in and ask her the perfect thing to say. "That was excellent. I thought you said you were rusty." He's impressed because it really is impressive; he might not listen deeply to music often, but he's still able to recognise the technical skill.

He thinks it sounds more like something he'd expect to hear in a grand concert hall than on a record, but he's got no idea if that's a compliment or an insult, so he doesn't say it.

"It is starting to feel a little unfair. You've got to be bad at something." Besides home assembly.

[recreatable]

Verso hums, contemplative, trying to figure out what to say.

"I'm bad at lots of things," he lands on. He's good at lots of things, too, but every one of those took considerable effort. He's bad at being a natural. Bad at existing without hurting people. And, it turns out, he's really bad at letting Gustave go when he should; he feels such misery at the thought that Gustave might never sit next to him and listen to him play again that he could burst with it.

"Like... cooking."

[superniceone]

"Oh, yeah. That's a good point, actually. Those eggs— yikes." Gustave is dramatically somber about the memory, bringing his hand back to the keys to try the first few measures of the song from before again.

Ultimately, his coping mechanism of living only in the present isn't any healthier than way Verso gets stuck on the impending future.

"I'm glad," he says, pausing a few bars into the melody, "that we went out tonight."

[recreatable]

I'm glad I didn't let my father kill you, Verso doesn't say, because that would be insane.

"Yeah," he agrees, although he has that classic Sad Dog™ look on his face. He is glad. It made him happy. It's just that he's incapable of feeling happiness without fearing the moment it inevitably turns to dust in his hands, and knowing that this is all temporary does make him feel a bit as if he can already see it crumbling.

"Me, too." He presses a hand between Gustave's shoulder blades, soft and warm. "Mon beau." The touch lingers for a moment before he says, "I should probably go change those sheets, unless you want both of us and Monoco to sleep on the divan."