[ Verso lets himself be coaxed down easily, his eyes briefly sliding shut as he leans against his chest, Gustave's arms around him, their fingers laced together, sighing at that kiss Gustave brushes over his fingers. He's warm and solid and real, something that his mind is starting to really come around to only to reel back again and marvel at what a miracle it really is.
He can tell Gustave is thinking through their options, when it comes to Renoir. Verso's seen them get stronger and stronger, has seen some of what that lumina converter of theirs can do, but . . . Renoir is more powerful and can reach much further than any of them can likely imagine.
Gustave agrees to keep the secrets, for now, and Verso noticeably relaxes with a quiet sigh. At the end of the day, after he'd chosen to trust Gustave with even this little bit of information, he can't actually stop him from sharing it ( not unless he takes extreme steps, anyway ). But it would be messy, difficult to wrangle, complicate everything when all Verso wants to do is keep to the plans he's laid over the years and try and spend what time he an with Gustave along the way. And even if Gustave changes his mind, tomorrow . . .
He lifts his head from his chest looking him in the eye, pressing his own kiss against Gustave's hand held in his own. ]
Thank you.
[ For keeping the secret. For trusting him. With this, and with the idea of tomorrow, he's sorry, he's so sorry, for leaving and hurting him and for everything and all the lies he's just told and all the lies he still needs to tell. He doesn't deserve this, or deserve him, and he's sorry for taking what he can, anyway. ]
I'll tell you what I know.
[ A pause, for a moment, and -- a small, sad smile. A look coming across his gaze that's almost a little wistful, a bit faraway. ]
I'm -- Sorry. I know I've been selfish. [ To not say any of this earlier, among other things. ] But, mon Monsieur le fleuriste, since I first met you . . .
I just wanted to be what you called me. Your Monsieur le pianiste. Nothing more. No one else.
[ No lies. No shadows. No memories of fire and blood and nightmares waking up tasting ink and ash. Just them, the empty opera house, and the garden after. He knew it wouldn't last, but wanted it to, for as long as he could make it stay. ]
no subject
He can tell Gustave is thinking through their options, when it comes to Renoir. Verso's seen them get stronger and stronger, has seen some of what that lumina converter of theirs can do, but . . . Renoir is more powerful and can reach much further than any of them can likely imagine.
Gustave agrees to keep the secrets, for now, and Verso noticeably relaxes with a quiet sigh. At the end of the day, after he'd chosen to trust Gustave with even this little bit of information, he can't actually stop him from sharing it ( not unless he takes extreme steps, anyway ). But it would be messy, difficult to wrangle, complicate everything when all Verso wants to do is keep to the plans he's laid over the years and try and spend what time he an with Gustave along the way. And even if Gustave changes his mind, tomorrow . . .
He lifts his head from his chest looking him in the eye, pressing his own kiss against Gustave's hand held in his own. ]
Thank you.
[ For keeping the secret. For trusting him. With this, and with the idea of tomorrow, he's sorry, he's so sorry, for leaving and hurting him and for everything and all the lies he's just told and all the lies he still needs to tell. He doesn't deserve this, or deserve him, and he's sorry for taking what he can, anyway. ]
I'll tell you what I know.
[ A pause, for a moment, and -- a small, sad smile. A look coming across his gaze that's almost a little wistful, a bit faraway. ]
I'm -- Sorry. I know I've been selfish. [ To not say any of this earlier, among other things. ] But, mon Monsieur le fleuriste, since I first met you . . .
I just wanted to be what you called me. Your Monsieur le pianiste. Nothing more. No one else.
[ No lies. No shadows. No memories of fire and blood and nightmares waking up tasting ink and ash. Just them, the empty opera house, and the garden after. He knew it wouldn't last, but wanted it to, for as long as he could make it stay. ]