[ It lasted for months after he left Lumiere, at least, probably longer. Verso feels like he spent weeks doing nothing but lying in flower fields staring up at the sun and dreaming of ivy crawling over trellises and turning his head to see a beautiful face next to his own. Imagined whispers and stolen dalliances, dreamed conversations, moments stolen in the shadows. For how much he kept looking for them Verso has learned just about everywhere this half of the Continent where those delicate purple blossoms bloomed, liked to pick one to keep by his side, to watch with aching longing as it slowly withered and died, precious and fleeting like all life is in Lumiere.
And there's the poetry. Merde, the poetry, a habit that rubbed off on him from Alicia. Esquie can't remember any of them, can he? There's so many things he wrote. And even more that he did --
Gustave brings him back from his silent spiral with nothing but the sound of his laugh and the softest touch against his cheek. Immediately he melts into it, still a little reticent and embarrassed until he meets his eyes again and sees that light, there, warm and sweet like the golden gleam of sunlight that had poured over them both that day in the garden.
Again: I missed you. But said with more meaning, each word given weight. Verso can feel the way his heartrate picks up, how blood rushes everywhere, makes his head start to spin. It's ridiculous, how much this man can affect him with so little, but he thinks he wouldn't have it any other way, his eyes fluttering shut at those kisses he brushes against his cheek, at those aching words.
( He remembers Gustave in the cave. Blood, death, the crushing weight of grief and loss. He remembers bloodstained smile only barely reaching hollow, sunken eyes. Mon cher, have you come to return my heart? But the other words he's saying reach his ears, sink into his chest, Gustave calling him Monsieur le pianiste again after all this time, and that image fades away. ) ]
-- I've guarded it how I could. [ Aching, wistful, maybe a little lonely. Its been a long two years. Much like he'd told Gustave he should forget him, Verso had thought it best to move on himself, except -- he doesn't know about how it was for Gustave, back on Lumiere. But in truth, Verso never really tried. He wanted to linger in it, for as long as he could, even it it hurt. ] Mon chou --
-- You must have known. [ His hands slip between them, warm as he runs his callused palms over Gustave's chest, settling over his stomach, against his sides. ] That I left mine with you.
no subject
And there's the poetry. Merde, the poetry, a habit that rubbed off on him from Alicia. Esquie can't remember any of them, can he? There's so many things he wrote. And even more that he did --
Gustave brings him back from his silent spiral with nothing but the sound of his laugh and the softest touch against his cheek. Immediately he melts into it, still a little reticent and embarrassed until he meets his eyes again and sees that light, there, warm and sweet like the golden gleam of sunlight that had poured over them both that day in the garden.
Again: I missed you. But said with more meaning, each word given weight. Verso can feel the way his heartrate picks up, how blood rushes everywhere, makes his head start to spin. It's ridiculous, how much this man can affect him with so little, but he thinks he wouldn't have it any other way, his eyes fluttering shut at those kisses he brushes against his cheek, at those aching words.
( He remembers Gustave in the cave. Blood, death, the crushing weight of grief and loss. He remembers bloodstained smile only barely reaching hollow, sunken eyes. Mon cher, have you come to return my heart? But the other words he's saying reach his ears, sink into his chest, Gustave calling him Monsieur le pianiste again after all this time, and that image fades away. ) ]
-- I've guarded it how I could. [ Aching, wistful, maybe a little lonely. Its been a long two years. Much like he'd told Gustave he should forget him, Verso had thought it best to move on himself, except -- he doesn't know about how it was for Gustave, back on Lumiere. But in truth, Verso never really tried. He wanted to linger in it, for as long as he could, even it it hurt. ] Mon chou --
-- You must have known. [ His hands slip between them, warm as he runs his callused palms over Gustave's chest, settling over his stomach, against his sides. ] That I left mine with you.