[ He breathes: in, out, a little shaky. His brow tugs lightly into the barest hint of a wince — he's no coward, but he does fear this, even now, even when it's the only path left. It'll be fast; he'll feel nothing. Just a shift of his finger and he won't have to feel anything anymore, including this vast, oceanic grief that threatens to swallow him whole.
But the shift that comes isn't his finger on the trigger; it's a swirl of air and the warmth of a hand that comes to rest over his. There are fingers gentle at his chin, a hand cradling his face, and it almost makes him weep, this tenderness, after so much pain and violence. And that voice...
He sighs, a long shudder that lowers his shoulders even as he doesn't lower the gun. He doesn't know what splintering connection in his mind has let go to produce that voice, this touch, but he knows what he'll see even before he opens his eyes: an intent, fog-colored gaze. The scar he can still recall tracing with his fingers. The mouth he'd kissed over and over and over again, lost and drunk on the taste of him.
Verso.
Gustave smiles, slight, a tiny flicker of his lips as his eyes grow warm and wet. Maybe this is a reprieve, of sorts. A desperate last stand of that deepest part of himself that can't bear the thought of destruction, of no longer existing. It's a comfort, in a way. Maybe he'll die alone, but for just this moment, he can pretend he isn't.
His voice is a broken, hoarse mess of itself, thick and wet in his throat, and he's miserable, and he's happy, and he doesn't want to blink and find that the man has once again disappeared, vanished into nothingness. ]
I should have given you another flower.
[ He doesn't answer Verso's statement; why should he? It's not as though the man is really here, warm though those hands feel, distantly through the muffling blanket he can't throw off. He's even managed to dress the man in an Expedition uniform; a nice touch. Gustave shakes his head, very slightly, his temple pushing into the muzzle of the pistol he doesn't set down. ]
no subject
But the shift that comes isn't his finger on the trigger; it's a swirl of air and the warmth of a hand that comes to rest over his. There are fingers gentle at his chin, a hand cradling his face, and it almost makes him weep, this tenderness, after so much pain and violence. And that voice...
He sighs, a long shudder that lowers his shoulders even as he doesn't lower the gun. He doesn't know what splintering connection in his mind has let go to produce that voice, this touch, but he knows what he'll see even before he opens his eyes: an intent, fog-colored gaze. The scar he can still recall tracing with his fingers. The mouth he'd kissed over and over and over again, lost and drunk on the taste of him.
Verso.
Gustave smiles, slight, a tiny flicker of his lips as his eyes grow warm and wet. Maybe this is a reprieve, of sorts. A desperate last stand of that deepest part of himself that can't bear the thought of destruction, of no longer existing. It's a comfort, in a way. Maybe he'll die alone, but for just this moment, he can pretend he isn't.
His voice is a broken, hoarse mess of itself, thick and wet in his throat, and he's miserable, and he's happy, and he doesn't want to blink and find that the man has once again disappeared, vanished into nothingness. ]
I should have given you another flower.
[ He doesn't answer Verso's statement; why should he? It's not as though the man is really here, warm though those hands feel, distantly through the muffling blanket he can't throw off. He's even managed to dress the man in an Expedition uniform; a nice touch. Gustave shakes his head, very slightly, his temple pushing into the muzzle of the pistol he doesn't set down. ]
I'm sorry. I never did tell you goodbye.