[ He should stop this, he knows. Should push Verso away and keep him at arm's length until he's answered Gustave's questions, explained himself. But his mouth is hard against the fluttering pulse in Gustave's throat and his hands are everywhere, running over the material of Gustave's shirt and working at buttons, and Gustave thought he was dead, it's been two years.
Two years since the garden and the last time he felt this, tasted Verso on his tongue, breathed him in, and he finds his own hands are busy now with the buttons and clasps of Verso's unfamiliar expedition uniform, his fingers shaking. They pause as Verso leans up to kiss him, deep and drowning and with a slight but aching tenderness to it, and Gustave's right hand finds its way to his cheek, curving there as he kisses him back, brows pulling together like it hurts. And it does, more than a little. It feels like pressing deliberately on a bruise, savoring the soreness.
He shakes his head โ first at the apology, two words he has already heard and read too many times from Versoย โ and then at the rest. ]
You think I could ever forget you?
[ Mon monsieur le pianiste almost falls from his lips onto Verso's, but he can'tโ he can't. Not yet. Not with all these complicated feelings still storming him, clogging up the inside of his chest and swirling in dizzying spirals through him. It would lay him open, make his heart too vulnerable a target.
So he doesn't say it, the affectionate nickname he'd so accidentally bestowed on the man. Instead, he kisses him again, deep and with all the longing that's been tangled up inside him for so long now, stays close enough to brush their foreheads and noses together as he murmurs: ]
Verso.
[ He can't remember the last time that name passed his lips before today. It clutches in his stomach, shudders in his heart. The shape of it is intimately familiar on his tongue: not from saying it aloud, but from speaking it over and over again in dreams. Verso. ]
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Date: 2025-06-03 02:37 am (UTC)Two years since the garden and the last time he felt this, tasted Verso on his tongue, breathed him in, and he finds his own hands are busy now with the buttons and clasps of Verso's unfamiliar expedition uniform, his fingers shaking. They pause as Verso leans up to kiss him, deep and drowning and with a slight but aching tenderness to it, and Gustave's right hand finds its way to his cheek, curving there as he kisses him back, brows pulling together like it hurts. And it does, more than a little. It feels like pressing deliberately on a bruise, savoring the soreness.
He shakes his head โ first at the apology, two words he has already heard and read too many times from Versoย โ and then at the rest. ]
You think I could ever forget you?
[ Mon monsieur le pianiste almost falls from his lips onto Verso's, but he can'tโ he can't. Not yet. Not with all these complicated feelings still storming him, clogging up the inside of his chest and swirling in dizzying spirals through him. It would lay him open, make his heart too vulnerable a target.
So he doesn't say it, the affectionate nickname he'd so accidentally bestowed on the man. Instead, he kisses him again, deep and with all the longing that's been tangled up inside him for so long now, stays close enough to brush their foreheads and noses together as he murmurs: ]
Verso.
[ He can't remember the last time that name passed his lips before today. It clutches in his stomach, shudders in his heart. The shape of it is intimately familiar on his tongue: not from saying it aloud, but from speaking it over and over again in dreams. Verso. ]