[ Gustave won't let go of this. Verso does understand, even if he can't -- he can't give in. As Gustave explains himself, tries to find some compromise, any way to get him to agree -- Verso can feel his heart sink a little in his chest. One step forward, two steps back, it feels like. It's nice, it's really nice, to be able to be here with him, to talk to him and sit beside him, to no longer have to hide. It genuinely does feel a little like he can just be a part of his Monsieur le fleuriste's life, whatever little of it remains, and for how much he's desperately yearned to even see him again for two whole years, it really feels like a dream.

But this is a reminder, as unwelcome as it is, that -- he's still just playing pretend. Still lying to him, still lying to everyone, and even if he's willing to give Gustave some truths there are certainly others that he would never tell. Verso is still working to his own ends, and as much as Gustave has carved a little place for himself in his heart, has shamelessly given Verso a piece of his. He doesn't deserve it. He simply can't. Gustave hates lying, and Verso is here, lying through his teeth as easily as he breathes.

Especially when he mentions Maelle, something in him aches. How much he has to lie to him about Alicia, about Maelle, hurts the most -- he's seen how much they clearly mean to each other, how Gustave would do anything for her. But especially when it comes to her -- drawing Renoir's attention could be disastrous. ]

Gustave. If there was a better way, I wouldn't ask this of you.

But this -- [ his hand slides from Gustave's jaw to his hair, careful not to upset the flower tucked behind his ear, curving against the back of his neck. ] -- This isn't just for me. It's better for you, and for them.

[ For Maelle. ]

Just -- hold off a while longer.

[ The right time may never come. But maybe it will. ]