[ They're both a mess, again, and he can't care even a little bit, because Verso is slumped bonelessly against him, his hand still lazily stroking over them both, slick, coaxing the last few shudders from them both. It's almost painful, almost too much, and perfect all at the same time, and when Verso finally lets go and presses his palm to Gustave's stomach, Gustave wraps shaking arms around him and draws him in, pressing his face into Verso's hair and trying to remember how to breathe.
It's not like the garden. It's everything like the garden, and like every fervid, heated dream he'd allowed himself late at night when no one else was awake and he could pretend his own hand was Verso's instead.
Words and thought have been knocked right out of him. All he can do is mouth blurry kisses over Verso's ear and cheek as his heart slowly, slowly begins to calm, as his breath slowly returns. He almost doesn't want it to, remembering all too clearly how Verso had left so soon afterwards, in the garden. He doesn't want this to be over, not again.
But there's a faint laugh on his breath, his voice stripped raw from pleading, from calling Verso's name over and over again. ]
The garden was a little more comfortable.
[ And even the garden wasn't actually comfortable at all, not the way a bed would be. But they're tragically short on fluffy mattresses and fresh linen sheets here, and he'd rather have Verso here in his arms than be in the most comfortable bed in the world, all alone and yearning. ]
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It's not like the garden. It's everything like the garden, and like every fervid, heated dream he'd allowed himself late at night when no one else was awake and he could pretend his own hand was Verso's instead.
Words and thought have been knocked right out of him. All he can do is mouth blurry kisses over Verso's ear and cheek as his heart slowly, slowly begins to calm, as his breath slowly returns. He almost doesn't want it to, remembering all too clearly how Verso had left so soon afterwards, in the garden. He doesn't want this to be over, not again.
But there's a faint laugh on his breath, his voice stripped raw from pleading, from calling Verso's name over and over again. ]
The garden was a little more comfortable.
[ And even the garden wasn't actually comfortable at all, not the way a bed would be. But they're tragically short on fluffy mattresses and fresh linen sheets here, and he'd rather have Verso here in his arms than be in the most comfortable bed in the world, all alone and yearning. ]