[ Gustave is finally pulling him in to kiss him back, and Verso feels like his heart could burst. Earlier -- that had been good, too, as confusing as it was, how they'd grabbed and clawed at each other in a mix of want and fury both, anger and heartbreak and desperate longing clashing together in a vibrant mess. But this is unambiguous. Simpler. He's sure some of that anger is still in him, much like some of it still coils in the pit of his own stomach, but it all gets flooded out by everything else. It feels almost like relief, impossibly warm, sliding into a hot spring after a long day in the bitter cold of the Continent's mountains. Like a puzzle piece, long forgotten, gathering dust, finally found, maneuvered gently into place. It feels good. Right. Like something almost, finally, clicks.
He pours everything he can into that kiss. Apologies, regrets, what more he could have done, the mistakes he's obviously made ( and will still make ), want that's sweet and aching and yearning and want that's deep and fierce and sets every nerve on fire. Verso groans into it, pressing close, his hand slipping around Gustave's hip to his wind around to the small of his back. He moves to start hauling him away from the wall and against him, eager to fit their bodies together, to feel the other man's skin against his own --
And then he stops. Something uncomfortable twisting in his gut. Absurdly, he feels his cheeks flush a little, despite everything they've already done and everything they're already doing, his gaze flicking away from Gustave's for a moment. ]
Putain. [ Just barely muttered under his breath. Fucking Esquie. He'd only heard the first part of things before he'd immediately (and rightfully) fled, what the hell else did the damn marshmallow tell him? ] -- No . . .
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He pours everything he can into that kiss. Apologies, regrets, what more he could have done, the mistakes he's obviously made ( and will still make ), want that's sweet and aching and yearning and want that's deep and fierce and sets every nerve on fire. Verso groans into it, pressing close, his hand slipping around Gustave's hip to his wind around to the small of his back. He moves to start hauling him away from the wall and against him, eager to fit their bodies together, to feel the other man's skin against his own --
And then he stops. Something uncomfortable twisting in his gut. Absurdly, he feels his cheeks flush a little, despite everything they've already done and everything they're already doing, his gaze flicking away from Gustave's for a moment. ]
Putain. [ Just barely muttered under his breath. Fucking Esquie. He'd only heard the first part of things before he'd immediately (and rightfully) fled, what the hell else did the damn marshmallow tell him? ] -- No . . .
[ HE SURE DID.]