[ He wants to wrap himself fully around Verso, with legs and arms and body, the way he hadn't in the garden. Maybe that will finally convince him this is real, maybe that will finally make him feel like Verso might stay, like he really will be back tomorrow. When Verso settles himself comfortably there between his thighs, Gustave slides his metal left arm around him, his right hand coming to rest on his chest, unwilling not to be touching him however he can. He tips his head into Verso's touch, his eyes still fixed on this face he hasn't seen in so long.
He looks almost exactly the same as Gustave remembers, aside from the change in clothing: that white-streaked hair, those startling eyes, his lean, muscled body. Gustave himself has changed only a little: he's thinner than he was, the weeks spent here on the Continent whisking away any softness to him. But there are other, less visible changes, he's sure. They're both two years older, with everything that means. He feels the shortening of his days like a weight on his shoulders, getting a little heavier all the time. ]
It's really me.
[ How? That's the question he wants to ask most, the one that keeps almost falling off his tongue. How is Verso here? How has he survived all this time? What has he been doing?
Who really is his mysterious monsieur le pianiste?
But he doesn't want to ask and be given another evasion; he doesn't want Verso to decide he has to go or stay and be interrogated. He wants to know; he's terrified the man will leave. Maybe it can wait, just for a little while longer. Maybe he can just savor this, the feeling and weight of him in his arms, leaning against him, as the cool wind brushes over them, salt-spiked and with some of the wildness of the sea as it combs invisible fingers through his hair, through Verso's.
He leans his head back against the rock and into Verso's hand, and after a moment huffs out a laugh, slightly self-effacing. ]
All this time, and everything I've wanted to say to you, and now... I don't even know where to start.
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Date: 2025-06-06 07:29 pm (UTC)He looks almost exactly the same as Gustave remembers, aside from the change in clothing: that white-streaked hair, those startling eyes, his lean, muscled body. Gustave himself has changed only a little: he's thinner than he was, the weeks spent here on the Continent whisking away any softness to him. But there are other, less visible changes, he's sure. They're both two years older, with everything that means. He feels the shortening of his days like a weight on his shoulders, getting a little heavier all the time. ]
It's really me.
[ How? That's the question he wants to ask most, the one that keeps almost falling off his tongue. How is Verso here? How has he survived all this time? What has he been doing?
Who really is his mysterious monsieur le pianiste?
But he doesn't want to ask and be given another evasion; he doesn't want Verso to decide he has to go or stay and be interrogated. He wants to know; he's terrified the man will leave. Maybe it can wait, just for a little while longer. Maybe he can just savor this, the feeling and weight of him in his arms, leaning against him, as the cool wind brushes over them, salt-spiked and with some of the wildness of the sea as it combs invisible fingers through his hair, through Verso's.
He leans his head back against the rock and into Verso's hand, and after a moment huffs out a laugh, slightly self-effacing. ]
All this time, and everything I've wanted to say to you, and now... I don't even know where to start.