[ Verso had acted before thinking, and even in this painfully critical moment where something so precious hangs in the balance -- part of him had been afraid, for himsef. For what Gustave might think on seeing him, that somehow expects that either Gustave would not know him ( and that would be fine, wouldn't it, for him to have been forgotten? It's been two years, and all that matters now is for Gustave to hear him, for it to be enough to pull him back from the brink, and yet he'd still feared it -- ), or expects anger ( and that would be fine, as long as it distracted him from this ).
But of course, this isn't about him, and the stupid self-concerned fears his mind had managed to summon into his thoughts even as his heart had clawed out of his chest to make sure he saves him, that he doesn't let this man let go. He hears that shuddering sigh, and even like this, broken up and pained with grief welling up in the other man's throat, for a moment he sees -- Gustave. Two years ago, a golden beam of sunlight pouring itself over him from overgrown ivy overhead, leaning into his touch, kissing at his fingertips. Sighing, happy and content.
Gustave's eyes open. Verso thought he would be ready for it, but he isn't. Even here, even now, he feels immediately arrested where he is, because just like he remembers it feels like he can see straight into his eyes, to his bared-open heart, to his soul. Pain. Desperation. Grief. So much loss and nowhere where to go, an endless, welling pit of despair, but at the same time. A moment of happiness. A smile that manages to form on his blood-cracked lips. Tears welling in his eyes. A painfully familiar and genuine adoration.
He's happy to see him.
Verso feels his head spin, for a moment finding it hard to think. His heart aches in a way that he almost doesn't understand, a pain he hasn't felt since -- two years ago, when he'd murmured a final I'm sorry and vanished, leapt from roof to roof to roof until he couldn't look back, his heart shattering a little more each grapple he made. Gustave shakes his head. He can feel the Gustave's grip shift ever so slightly against the pistol, but to hold it more firmly against himself, if anything. Even with that smile. That apology. The affection in his eyes.
For an awful, awful moment, Verso thinks of letting go. He's tired. So tired. He's lost track of the number of times he's tried to stop. How long he's let himself lie in darkness, sometimes, willing it to have worked, begging a power that will never listen to him to just let him go. Maybe this time, if he does it right, it might stick. Maybe this would be the right way to finally reach that nothingness, some awful moment of feeling something that he thinks might be love, of feeling loved in turn. Maybe Gustave is tired, too.
A moment passes. He feels his heartbeat roaring in his chest and pounding in his ears. Gustave's finger twitch against the trigger --
Verso moves, and again without thinking. This time, its not gentle, some instinct in him buried deep that he sometimes thinks he doesn't have left. The will to live, to go on, the belief that there is something still worth fighting for, latching onto Gustave if not himself. His grip tightens over the pistol, hard enough that his knuckles bleach white, forcing his hand away so the muzzle of the pistol is pointed up and away --
-- And he kisses him. Desperate for something he doesn't even know the name to, like he needs the air from Gustave's own lungs, like he wants Gustave to have the air from his own, hand gripping Gustave's jaw to pull him into it as he crushes their mouths together, his fingers not just trembling but shaking against his skin. ]
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But of course, this isn't about him, and the stupid self-concerned fears his mind had managed to summon into his thoughts even as his heart had clawed out of his chest to make sure he saves him, that he doesn't let this man let go. He hears that shuddering sigh, and even like this, broken up and pained with grief welling up in the other man's throat, for a moment he sees -- Gustave. Two years ago, a golden beam of sunlight pouring itself over him from overgrown ivy overhead, leaning into his touch, kissing at his fingertips. Sighing, happy and content.
Gustave's eyes open. Verso thought he would be ready for it, but he isn't. Even here, even now, he feels immediately arrested where he is, because just like he remembers it feels like he can see straight into his eyes, to his bared-open heart, to his soul. Pain. Desperation. Grief. So much loss and nowhere where to go, an endless, welling pit of despair, but at the same time. A moment of happiness. A smile that manages to form on his blood-cracked lips. Tears welling in his eyes. A painfully familiar and genuine adoration.
He's happy to see him.
Verso feels his head spin, for a moment finding it hard to think. His heart aches in a way that he almost doesn't understand, a pain he hasn't felt since -- two years ago, when he'd murmured a final I'm sorry and vanished, leapt from roof to roof to roof until he couldn't look back, his heart shattering a little more each grapple he made. Gustave shakes his head. He can feel the Gustave's grip shift ever so slightly against the pistol, but to hold it more firmly against himself, if anything. Even with that smile. That apology. The affection in his eyes.
For an awful, awful moment, Verso thinks of letting go. He's tired. So tired. He's lost track of the number of times he's tried to stop. How long he's let himself lie in darkness, sometimes, willing it to have worked, begging a power that will never listen to him to just let him go. Maybe this time, if he does it right, it might stick. Maybe this would be the right way to finally reach that nothingness, some awful moment of feeling something that he thinks might be love, of feeling loved in turn. Maybe Gustave is tired, too.
A moment passes. He feels his heartbeat roaring in his chest and pounding in his ears. Gustave's finger twitch against the trigger --
Verso moves, and again without thinking. This time, its not gentle, some instinct in him buried deep that he sometimes thinks he doesn't have left. The will to live, to
go on, the belief that there is something still worth fighting for, latching onto Gustave if not himself. His grip tightens over the pistol, hard enough that his knuckles bleach white, forcing his hand away so the muzzle of the pistol is pointed up and away --
-- And he kisses him. Desperate for something he doesn't even know the name to, like he needs the air from Gustave's own lungs, like he wants Gustave to have the air from his own, hand gripping Gustave's jaw to pull him into it as he crushes their mouths together, his fingers not just trembling but shaking against his skin. ]