[ Gustave is all ease and languid smiles and letting Verso kiss over his neck and jaw -- until says something that might even suggest that he should leave. And Verso can feel it, the tension suddenly wound through him, how Gustave suddenly drops his hand to grip tightly at his half-open shirt. Eyes open, head shaking, and Verso knows what he's saying before he ever says any words No. Don't leave. Don't leave me again.
He really does mean to be back tomorrow. But it's his own fault, for pushing Gustave this far, to have him so convinced his Monsieur le pianiste might just vanish into the air itself for all he knew.
Verso lets him guide his head up, meeting his gaze, and just like every other time before it feels like he can look straight into those eyes and see into his heart and soul. All eager and earnest, maybe a little desperate, wanting to hold onto him so badly, wanting him to stay, to never leave again. Bringing him to the others would surely invite questions, but he doesn't care, he'll answer them ( and he'll want quetions of his own, too ), he'll make it work, he'll explain it away until they understand.
He knows he can't. And its worse the more he talks, when he mentions their names, Lune, Sciel, Maelle -- as if Verso doesn't already know, as if he hasn't been watching them from the shadows for weeks, as if he hasn't been a distant presence in Maelle's life since she was born. Too many secrets and shadows, too many lies.
Verso lifts a hand to cover Gustaves, curled into his shirt, squeezing lightly and urging him to let go so he can lift his hand to his lips, leaning in to brush the faintest kiss to the back of his hand, to his knuckles. A little like he had three years go, in a dark and quiet opera house. ]
-- I can't.
[ Simple. Honest. Lets try and start there. He presses more kisses against the back of Gustave's hand, his eyes lowered. ]
You shouldn't tell them about me, just yet. And you shouldn't keep them waiting, so they won't come looking for you.
Tomorrow. [ Meeting Gustave's eyes, again. He simply can't do what Gustave can, can't just summon up that earnestness and the depth of his soul into his gaze, but he does try to show him that he's being honest, that he means it with his whole heart, that he doesn't want to hurt him again at all. ] I promise, Monsieur le fleuriste. You will see me tomorrow -- after you make camp, after dark. Get somewhere far enough away from camp, alone, and I'll come find you.
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Date: 2025-06-06 08:34 pm (UTC)He really does mean to be back tomorrow. But it's his own fault, for pushing Gustave this far, to have him so convinced his Monsieur le pianiste might just vanish into the air itself for all he knew.
Verso lets him guide his head up, meeting his gaze, and just like every other time before it feels like he can look straight into those eyes and see into his heart and soul. All eager and earnest, maybe a little desperate, wanting to hold onto him so badly, wanting him to stay, to never leave again. Bringing him to the others would surely invite questions, but he doesn't care, he'll answer them ( and he'll want quetions of his own, too ), he'll make it work, he'll explain it away until they understand.
He knows he can't. And its worse the more he talks, when he mentions their names, Lune, Sciel, Maelle -- as if Verso doesn't already know, as if he hasn't been watching them from the shadows for weeks, as if he hasn't been a distant presence in Maelle's life since she was born. Too many secrets and shadows, too many lies.
Verso lifts a hand to cover Gustaves, curled into his shirt, squeezing lightly and urging him to let go so he can lift his hand to his lips, leaning in to brush the faintest kiss to the back of his hand, to his knuckles. A little like he had three years go, in a dark and quiet opera house. ]
-- I can't.
[ Simple. Honest. Lets try and start there. He presses more kisses against the back of Gustave's hand, his eyes lowered. ]
You shouldn't tell them about me, just yet. And you shouldn't keep them waiting, so they won't come looking for you.
Tomorrow. [ Meeting Gustave's eyes, again. He simply can't do what Gustave can, can't just summon up that earnestness and the depth of his soul into his gaze, but he does try to show him that he's being honest, that he means it with his whole heart, that he doesn't want to hurt him again at all. ] I promise, Monsieur le fleuriste. You will see me tomorrow -- after you make camp, after dark. Get somewhere far enough away from camp, alone, and I'll come find you.
[ Please don't walk off a cliff again though. ]