[ He's here on the Expedition, after all. While there has been the occasional rare exception over the years, Verso knows what to expect. It doesn't stop his heart from dropping when he hears it, like putting voice to it gives it weight and truth, like it wasn't already irrevocably true. The Expedition sets out just after every Gommage to give themselves the most time they can. A year, less than that, and then.
Verso wishes he could at gesture at promising what's doubtless been promised between Expeditioners before: that this time, they'll make it. They'll reach the Paintress, break the cycle, earn their lives together. But even more than any of those failures before, Verso knows that can't be. There is nothing for him to promise, nothing he can say that would make any of them hate him less, that would make the truth any easier to bear. He can only think to himself that: he's looking forward to the nothingness. To rest. To oblivion, wrenched from his fingers so many times, finally swallowing him whole. But . . . For the first time in so many, many years, he thinks a bit more time with Gustave wouldn't have been terrible at all. That he might've even liked it.
Pity it doesn't matter.
A soft sigh leaves his lips when Gustave's touch slowly eases under his mostly-open shirt, one button still clinging on, despite everything. His touch was searing and desperate just before, when they'd found each other again after all this time, and this isn't nearly as angry or as desperate but the touch is still delicate, wanting, welcome.
( Two years is a long time. Verso had let his thoughts wander, here and there, to what could've been. If he'd gone back. If he'd never left. If he'd just taken a chance. Maybe it wouldn't have been to terrible, maybe he could've found a way -- and at the end, the only conclusion he can reach is that he was just a coward. And he always will be. ) ]
I missed you too. [ His hand moves from Gustave's jaw to his hair, carding so fondly through those curls just like he had two years ago, gently guiding his head up so he can meet his gaze. ] Mon Monsieur le fleuriste.
[ The words almost hurt, falling from his lips, but he doesn't care. He's waited so long to call him that again, in a way that he'd hear and recognize, and he leans in, his other hand squeezing over Gustave's hip as he catches his mouth in an aching kiss. ]
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Date: 2025-06-05 12:52 am (UTC)I know.
[ He's here on the Expedition, after all. While there has been the occasional rare exception over the years, Verso knows what to expect. It doesn't stop his heart from dropping when he hears it, like putting voice to it gives it weight and truth, like it wasn't already irrevocably true. The Expedition sets out just after every Gommage to give themselves the most time they can. A year, less than that, and then.
Verso wishes he could at gesture at promising what's doubtless been promised between Expeditioners before: that this time, they'll make it. They'll reach the Paintress, break the cycle, earn their lives together. But even more than any of those failures before, Verso knows that can't be. There is nothing for him to promise, nothing he can say that would make any of them hate him less, that would make the truth any easier to bear. He can only think to himself that: he's looking forward to the nothingness. To rest. To oblivion, wrenched from his fingers so many times, finally swallowing him whole. But . . . For the first time in so many, many years, he thinks a bit more time with Gustave wouldn't have been terrible at all. That he might've even liked it.
Pity it doesn't matter.
A soft sigh leaves his lips when Gustave's touch slowly eases under his mostly-open shirt, one button still clinging on, despite everything. His touch was searing and desperate just before, when they'd found each other again after all this time, and this isn't nearly as angry or as desperate but the touch is still delicate, wanting, welcome.
( Two years is a long time. Verso had let his thoughts wander, here and there, to what could've been. If he'd gone back. If he'd never left. If he'd just taken a chance. Maybe it wouldn't have been to terrible, maybe he could've found a way -- and at the end, the only conclusion he can reach is that he was just a coward. And he always will be. ) ]
I missed you too. [ His hand moves from Gustave's jaw to his hair, carding so fondly through those curls just like he had two years ago, gently guiding his head up so he can meet his gaze. ] Mon Monsieur le fleuriste.
[ The words almost hurt, falling from his lips, but he doesn't care. He's waited so long to call him that again, in a way that he'd hear and recognize, and he leans in, his other hand squeezing over Gustave's hip as he catches his mouth in an aching kiss. ]