[ Verso is as much a force of nature as he remembered, pushing forward and sending Gustave back into a rock wall with an abrupt thump that does nothing to stop the way Gustave's head is spinning, how untethered he feels. In a day, a week, a month of impossible things, this might be the most impossible of all: Verso, here, real and in his arms and crowding him against a wall as Gustave works to push his jacket off his shoulders.
Maybe it's a dream. Maybe he hit bottom after all and this is what the afterlife chose to give him: not Sophie, smiling and sweet, but Verso, feral, attacking him like a starving animal, saying his name like it's the one word he can remember, the only word that means anything at all. He's on his feet with his back against a wall and then he's down, stretched over cold rock, his hands still shoving at Verso's clothes, working their way under the shirt that was beneath the jacket, and Verso is trailing fire down his chest. His tongue swipes rough and wet and warm over a nipple and Gustave arches up into that sweet ache, his right hand leaving Verso's shirt and its buttons to tangle in his hair and press his head down.
I missed you. He almost says it, feels it clogging up his throat, his chest, his head, swelling hard through every part of him and chased by all the endearments he used to whisper in his dreams. Mon Monsieur le pianiste. Mon cher.
All of it is still tangled up in the very real bewildered anger he still feels, sharp and burning, the confusion, the shock of hearing his name, of the fall and the catch and of seeing his face again for the first time after so long. He wrestles back the sweeter words, everything he feels and stubbornly won't say tangled up together in the only word he needs right now, half-gasped, half-groaned as his body pushes up, eager for more of Verso's touch, his kisses, everything he can possibly get. ]
no subject
Maybe it's a dream. Maybe he hit bottom after all and this is what the afterlife chose to give him: not Sophie, smiling and sweet, but Verso, feral, attacking him like a starving animal, saying his name like it's the one word he can remember, the only word that means anything at all. He's on his feet with his back against a wall and then he's down, stretched over cold rock, his hands still shoving at Verso's clothes, working their way under the shirt that was beneath the jacket, and Verso is trailing fire down his chest. His tongue swipes rough and wet and warm over a nipple and Gustave arches up into that sweet ache, his right hand leaving Verso's shirt and its buttons to tangle in his hair and press his head down.
I missed you. He almost says it, feels it clogging up his throat, his chest, his head, swelling hard through every part of him and chased by all the endearments he used to whisper in his dreams. Mon Monsieur le pianiste. Mon cher.
All of it is still tangled up in the very real bewildered anger he still feels, sharp and burning, the confusion, the shock of hearing his name, of the fall and the catch and of seeing his face again for the first time after so long. He wrestles back the sweeter words, everything he feels and stubbornly won't say tangled up together in the only word he needs right now, half-gasped, half-groaned as his body pushes up, eager for more of Verso's touch, his kisses, everything he can possibly get. ]
Verso.