[ Verso hears it immediately, even if takes few slow seconds for him to realize what it means: he's gone back to that garden. More than once. Over and over again. Again, its sweet, but it makes something in him ache -- he feels like he's going to keep learning, over and over again, just how much he's hurt this man in his time away, how much he held on despite everything. Something he still fundamentally doesn't believe he could ever deserve.
He languidly pulls his own pants up as he watches Gustave gather his things, his jacket, his cloak, the trinket that he's seen them call the lumina converter that he doesn't quite think he fully understands yet, but if it does what he thinks it does, it's something incredible. His eyes do linger on it for a moment, but as curious as he is, Gustave is the much more alluring sight, his eyes moving up over his body as he moves over to sit with him -- and as he's pulled in, he goes easily, letting himself be pulled between his knees. One hand settles over Gustave's thigh, the other lifting to fit fondly against his cheek.
There's questions Gustave must have. Answers he can actually give. But a little selfishly, he hopes Gustave might be willing to stave off for a while longer, just a bit longer, pushing it all away more and more, tomorrow, the day after, maybe longer still. The illusion is already a little shattered -- it's already all too obvious that he far, far more than his Monsieur le pianiste, but for all the secrets he has, for all the weight the world pushes on his shoulders . . . Just a little longer. He'd like to hold onto that lie for just a while more, knowing that that's still who Gustave sees when he looks him in the eyes.
A small smile, soft and tinged with something a little sad. Meeting Gustave's gaze easily, seeing that hunger, that desperation. The man still doesn't entirely believe it, but he wants so, so badly for him to be real. ]
It's really me.
[ He doesn't say I'm sorry again only because he thinks Gustave must be at least a bit tired of hearing it, by now. But the apology is there, in his voice. He's sorry for leaving. Sorry for being -- this. Sorry for everything he's done and everything he's still going to do. Sorry he left you for so long, that it must've hurt so deeply for all this time. His thumb strokes over a cheekbone, slow, unmistakably fond. ]
And it's really you.
[ Verso's had quite a bit more time than Gustave to adjust to this revelation, but he's still only ever watched him from afar ( aside from when he'd brought him to the field, or when he followed him into the cave, his hand tight over Gustave's trying to keep himself from trembling as his fingers closed around the grip of his gun ). Finally having him in not just in arm's reach but here, beside him, warm and real with the taste of him still lingering on his tongue, with his skin all covered in marks and bruises that trace all the attention he's been poring over him -- it still feels surreal. ]
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Date: 2025-06-06 05:46 pm (UTC)He languidly pulls his own pants up as he watches Gustave gather his things, his jacket, his cloak, the trinket that he's seen them call the lumina converter that he doesn't quite think he fully understands yet, but if it does what he thinks it does, it's something incredible. His eyes do linger on it for a moment, but as curious as he is, Gustave is the much more alluring sight, his eyes moving up over his body as he moves over to sit with him -- and as he's pulled in, he goes easily, letting himself be pulled between his knees. One hand settles over Gustave's thigh, the other lifting to fit fondly against his cheek.
There's questions Gustave must have. Answers he can actually give. But a little selfishly, he hopes Gustave might be willing to stave off for a while longer, just a bit longer, pushing it all away more and more, tomorrow, the day after, maybe longer still. The illusion is already a little shattered -- it's already all too obvious that he far, far more than his Monsieur le pianiste, but for all the secrets he has, for all the weight the world pushes on his shoulders . . . Just a little longer. He'd like to hold onto that lie for just a while more, knowing that that's still who Gustave sees when he looks him in the eyes.
A small smile, soft and tinged with something a little sad. Meeting Gustave's gaze easily, seeing that hunger, that desperation. The man still doesn't entirely believe it, but he wants so, so badly for him to be real. ]
It's really me.
[ He doesn't say I'm sorry again only because he thinks Gustave must be at least a bit tired of hearing it, by now. But the apology is there, in his voice. He's sorry for leaving. Sorry for being -- this. Sorry for everything he's done and everything he's still going to do. Sorry he left you for so long, that it must've hurt so deeply for all this time. His thumb strokes over a cheekbone, slow, unmistakably fond. ]
And it's really you.
[ Verso's had quite a bit more time than Gustave to adjust to this revelation, but he's still only ever watched him from afar ( aside from when he'd brought him to the field, or when he followed him into the cave, his hand tight over Gustave's trying to keep himself from trembling as his fingers closed around the grip of his gun ). Finally having him in not just in arm's reach but here, beside him, warm and real with the taste of him still lingering on his tongue, with his skin all covered in marks and bruises that trace all the attention he's been poring over him -- it still feels surreal. ]