[ He comes to a semi-abrupt halt, unable to move any further, and the only way out now would be to push past Verso and away from him and he doesn't... he doesn't think he can. Not when his heart still feels so sore and fragile from losing Sophie, from losing all his friends, from two whole years of never seeing this man again. Everything that had flooded him as he listened to Esquie talk about Verso and his flowers, Verso and his piano playing is still there, sloshing in his chest and filling his heart so profoundly he's certain it's about to crack all over again. ]
Verso.
[ It's different than before, quieter, almost helpless as his eyes search this face he's never been able to forget. Verso looks much rougher around the edges, no longer dressed in the trim fashion of Lumiere, but he's still so beautiful that dirt-flecked and disheveled as he is Gustave can't remember a time he's seen anything more captivating. He doesn't come closer, only waits, and that confidence would infuriate Gustave if he didn't know this was always going to be a lost cause. He wants answers, but he wants Verso just as much, maybe more.
Still, when his hands do finally lift and reach for the man, it's not to draw him closer, not yet. His fingers drift over the unbuttoned edges of his shirt before gripping gently into the fabric without either pushing or pulling, and when Gustave draws his gaze back up from where it had fallen to look at the way his own fingers were curling into that gauzy fabric, he knows he can't hide his heartbreak, his happiness, two years worth of wishing and wanting and longing that at times felt like it was going to drive him mad.
Verso had said I'll teach you. Verso said I'm a good teacher, with the hint of a promise lacing those words. But almost three years ago, Verso had said I'll be here with that same promise, and nothing had come of it but a note and a wilted bouquet. ]
Are you going to leave again?
[ Will you break his heart again, Verso? Here, now, too? ]
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Verso.
[ It's different than before, quieter, almost helpless as his eyes search this face he's never been able to forget. Verso looks much rougher around the edges, no longer dressed in the trim fashion of Lumiere, but he's still so beautiful that dirt-flecked and disheveled as he is Gustave can't remember a time he's seen anything more captivating. He doesn't come closer, only waits, and that confidence would infuriate Gustave if he didn't know this was always going to be a lost cause. He wants answers, but he wants Verso just as much, maybe more.
Still, when his hands do finally lift and reach for the man, it's not to draw him closer, not yet. His fingers drift over the unbuttoned edges of his shirt before gripping gently into the fabric without either pushing or pulling, and when Gustave draws his gaze back up from where it had fallen to look at the way his own fingers were curling into that gauzy fabric, he knows he can't hide his heartbreak, his happiness, two years worth of wishing and wanting and longing that at times felt like it was going to drive him mad.
Verso had said I'll teach you. Verso said I'm a good teacher, with the hint of a promise lacing those words. But almost three years ago, Verso had said I'll be here with that same promise, and nothing had come of it but a note and a wilted bouquet. ]
Are you going to leave again?
[ Will you break his heart again, Verso? Here, now, too? ]