—— verso dané.

It was the same as listening to him compose, they may not be finished, but they still warm something within Gustave's chest, filling him with contentment - a lazy sort of satisfaction at getting to hear work that others may never. But they're both painfully self flagellating when it comes to their skills, to their chosen hobby or profession, and it's ever easier to ease that burden on someone you love and are impressed by.

Verso smirks, and Gustave's lips curl a little, equally pleased as they pass through the science hall. There's a thrill in knowing that Verso wants him equal to the way Gustave wants him. In the way that his chest coils with a bit of heat, pooling through his core like molten lava.

It's no secret that Verso enjoys praise; in the bedroom, it stokes passion and sends that flame burning hotter — but out here, it just shows as a pleased and faint flush, a slip of his gaze sidelong, a little dance of a smile. " I don't pretend to be well versed in the world of engineering, " he says, smoothly. " But I do think you don't give yourself nearly enough credit. Your mind works in ways I can't begin to comprehend. "

They're similar in many ways, it's true — but they are, in part, science and art, though it's not really a divide of opposing interests so much as something that can be appreciated from different sides.

But they walk, and he listens, and —— he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit some parts of it all didn't frustrate him just a little, even though he'd never say it out loud. It's less a worry over a sense of shame than just the reality of watching someone he cares for build walls around themselves —— ( not that he'd be a hypocrite to mention ).

The playful smile with his flirty little wink should be ridiculous or cocky, but all it does is pull a warm, deeply affectionate smile from Gustave. He finds himself boring, too married to his work to be near the attentive lover that Verso deserves. Or any lover he's ever attempted to take deserves. But Verso likes being with him and Gustave isn't willing to just give that up. He gives a dramatic little gasp, playful as he presses his prosthetic to his chest - just over his heart. "Me? I'm perfectly innocent." He says it with a level of playful mock offense that was completely ruined by his own flirtatious nature in his office not five minutes prior.

Gustave doesn't miss the murmured aside, his lips curving a little into a smirk. "Naughty." He murmurs, but it's light, and Gustave is faintly pleased with the way Verso is just as hungry for him as Gustave was for him. The door is locked behind him and Gustave tucks the key away as they make their way down the dim halls, the echoing tap, tap of their shoes as they walk along marble floors.

Composing is —— fickle. He's good at it, but finished works are few and far between. They often land somewhere without proper endings, and perhaps that's why he's teaching instead of writing and performing, but, well — life ends where it will. He has no regrets — and besides, it leaves less pressure on him for doing it when he enjoys doing it, which for someone who puts an outrageous amount of pressure on himself as is ——

Naughty. The accusation earns a little smirk that just buzzes with knowing, but he says nothing else of it for now, content to let that yearning settle. He's never been shy about his wanting; it burns as hot as so much else ever does, with him.

Oh, how innocent he pretends to be. Julie has never seen someone so keenly aware of the effect they have, and at this point, it's blatantly unfair.

A subtle frown creases between her brows. This is precise work, and she absolutely cannot look over at him, no matter what he says, no matter how oblivious he claims to be-- And... yes. Too late.

Her eyes flicker for the briefest second to Verso's annoyingly captivating visage. Damn him and the way he drapes himself over that chair. Still smiling. There are many ways coming to mind of how she might deal with that, and she's certain he'll enjoy many of them far too much. The corner of her mouth twitches.

"Flatterer," she accuses coyly as her eyes remain resolutely locked on the paper beneath her. Fingers rest against the ruler, guiding her lines, before deftly picking it up and tapping it against his hand with a satisfying yet soft thwack. "Consider yourself chastised. You must have learned by now that'll get you nowhere."

The ruler taps him across the knuckles; it's barely enough to feel, let alone to actually sting, and even so he flits his fingers back with a laugh, a protest in the way of an, " Ow, " and a dramatic rub of the back of his hand. " Hey, maybe I should be a distraction more often, then, if getting chastised by the prettiest girl in Lumiére is my punishment. "

Oh, yes, he's laying it on thick: there's a playful jaunt to it, certainly, but he's laying it on. Not that it's not true — god, he's felt himself pulled towards her with a dramatic yearning since the very first days they met — but he's not above being him, either.

And oh, he sees that little grin when she looks his way, catches his eye; he burns with pleasure from it, warm in a way no one else makes him feel. It's the kind of warmth that makes him feel as though his entire heart may melt away and he'd let it: god, he'd let it.

Gustave hums softly then, as he shifts his bag on his shoulder, where it crosses his body. "Mm, do I now?" It's playful, flirty as he leans forward. "I'm not sure what you mean, I'm just a boring science teacher~." He croons playfully as he looks at Verso. But he reaches out, taking Verso's hand to bring his knuckles up, brushing his lips soft against them before straightening up properly.

" You're as much as a boring science teacher as I am a dull music teacher, " and it's low and with a tip of his brows, the smile lingering and dancing as lips brush his knuckles. It's a soft gesture, warm and easy, and it warms his heart with an almost embarrassing weakness in his knees every time. " And we all know I'm anything but dull. "

And it would be cocky coming from most — it still is, a little — but it's paired with a little silly grin and a flirty wink, and he's not taking himself terribly seriously in this moment at all —— though he is adamant that Gustave is anything but boring. " And I think I'd like to hear your definition of innocent, because if we're going with the one I know, you, my dear, are anything but. "

Another cheeky little grin, and he gives an agreeable sound to the offer — and of course can't help the little muttered aside, " Hungry for something anyway, " but they're leaving so he exhales a sigh and behaves otherwise. It's strange this time of night — these halls are almost creepy in their own way, dim and quiet, and their steps echo. There's a certain liminality to these moments that his older artistic heart doesn't miss.

" The perfect kind of death, " he murmurs muzzily in response, the smile still stretched lazily wide. And it's strange, too, because that's a hard thing normally for him to joke about — he often feels like he subverted fate that one day when he survived the fire and that he narrowly escaped something that was supposed to be written in stone. But that's a dour thing, isn't it? Dour and silly and stuck in some old nonsense circling 'round fate.

But now it's hardly a thought at all, and he stretches and groans a little at the satisfying pull of muscle. He ducks his head, burying his nose in Gustave's throat and breathing him in, still a little needy for touch, for closeness. " —— hmph. I take it back. Maybe that will be the cause of our death: not wanting to get out of bed to eat because it's too far away. "

[TXT]: And then you cry about being a tortured artist...

[ SMS ] :: I like how you have to qualify "figuratively"

[ SMS ] :: Honestly wise, considering this conversation

[ SMS ] :: Hang on a minute

—— about ten minutes later, a photo is sent of a very carefully curated two shelves of bookshelf. there's a separator between two sections.

[ SMS ] :: So the top shelf and about a third of the bottom are the standard faire, but all great. The bottom two thirds is very gay. there's nothing on either i wouldn't enthusiastically recommend. and for more reasons than the smut; there's some great story in most of them. And none of that fairy dragon nonsense, either.

Their knees press together and Gustave brushes his tongue against Verso's - a response to him, open and willing - the potential for deeper passion makes his stomach flip and he knows they'll behave, but the potential hits him with a surge of interest. Gustave responds with his own noise - faint - wanting and he can't stop the soft, soft protesting noise when Verso pulls back.

Gustave's cheeks are flushed, all the way to his ears and he swallows, lightly looking at Verso as his hand slips to cradle his cheek, thumb stroking lightly as he does. This space has certainly been used for dalliances far beyond their soft, traded kisses of exploration, but nonetheless Gustave flushes. He's never done this before. Too caught up in expectations and requirements as the eldest son to even consider doing something just for himself. And it warms him from the inside out.

It's difficult to make those plans and he knows it. It's not as simple as dating, courting —— for as complicated as even that can be, at least it's something that's out in the open. This is so much more layered and complex, more difficult, and he's always known it would be. There's a part of him that resents it — god, he's a romantic at heart and would love nothing more than to step into the world openly with it all — but that's not their reality.

Still: even so, his heart thuds in his ears, and the flush of relief is hot and total; he hadn't even realized he'd tensed while waiting for a response. He can't help but grin, a bright flicker of a thing, and he leans into the touch with an open warmth; his hand comes up to close over Gustave's, holding it there for just a moment longer.

" The day after next. Le Dôme Café? " It's newer, and a place that appeals to a more bohemian art crowd, even if it's often crowded. " If we arrive after breakfast, around ten? It won't be so crowded. " God, he feels almost giddy; he can't even remember the last time he felt so.