[ Verso aches. His heart thrums in his chest, breath swelling in his lungs, nerves on fire with the heady feeling that he's somehow here and alive. He needs so badly to reach this man, to pull Gustave into his own chest, to tell him how even in the two years they've spent apart he's never been away from his thoughts for too long, to apologize for never going back to Lumiere -- too afraid to see him, or even worse, to see what's left of him, a whirl of dust and petals in the wake of his Gommage. To make him understand that he really would've stayed, that he wanted more than anything to stay, wanted it so deeply in a way he didn't even understand until he was already back on the Continent and felt a yearning that he couldn't give a name to.
He tastes like he remembers. Sweet, sharp against his tongue -- with the tang of coppery blood, the sting of salt from tears, his own or Gustave's, he doesn't know. Verso's hand is still shaking where its cradled against his cheek and jaw, thumb soothing over a cheekbone, his other hand more steady only because of how tightly he's holding onto him where he's still holding the gun. He can feel it, Gustave's finger still against the trigger, a little tense but not letting go. Gustave says his name, and he hears in it the echo of every time he'd said his name before, with a smile or laugh, on a breathless groan, everything within the space of that one sliver of time they'd shared in the garden. It hurts to hear, but in a good way. If only --
God. Mon cher Monsieur le pianiste. He thinks he isn't here. Verso hadn't fully wrapped his mind around it before, but hearing him now, he understands -- Gustave thinks he isn't real. Thinks he's an extension of his mind, some desperate dying dream. ]
I will see you again soon. I promise. [ Murmured almost against his lips, an air of quiet desperation and want and in those breathless words. ] And mon chou, I will play for you again, too, if only you promise me flowers --
[ His grip tightens even more over Gustave's hand. He's strong, and while its not quite enough to be very painful, its enough for him to be pressing marks into his skin even through their gloves. A sharp contrast to his other hand, almost painstakingly gentle as he tries to keep it steady against his cheek, his thumb trembling as he draws it over Gustave's lower lip. ]
Please, Gustave. Put it down.
[ And it is a plea, doesn't hold back from sounding like begging. He can't lose this. Not after finding it again. Gustave deserves better, and he can't lose this. ]
I want mon Monsieur le fleuriste to be here to hear it.
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Date: 2025-05-30 10:21 pm (UTC)He tastes like he remembers. Sweet, sharp against his tongue -- with the tang of coppery blood, the sting of salt from tears, his own or Gustave's, he doesn't know. Verso's hand is still shaking where its cradled against his cheek and jaw, thumb soothing over a cheekbone, his other hand more steady only because of how tightly he's holding onto him where he's still holding the gun. He can feel it, Gustave's finger still against the trigger, a little tense but not letting go. Gustave says his name, and he hears in it the echo of every time he'd said his name before, with a smile or laugh, on a breathless groan, everything within the space of that one sliver of time they'd shared in the garden. It hurts to hear, but in a good way. If only --
God. Mon cher Monsieur le pianiste. He thinks he isn't here. Verso hadn't fully wrapped his mind around it before, but hearing him now, he understands -- Gustave thinks he isn't real. Thinks he's an extension of his mind, some desperate dying dream. ]
I will see you again soon. I promise. [ Murmured almost against his lips, an air of quiet desperation and want and in those breathless words. ] And mon chou, I will play for you again, too, if only you promise me flowers --
[ His grip tightens even more over Gustave's hand. He's strong, and while its not quite enough to be very painful, its enough for him to be pressing marks into his skin even through their gloves. A sharp contrast to his other hand, almost painstakingly gentle as he tries to keep it steady against his cheek, his thumb trembling as he draws it over Gustave's lower lip. ]
Please, Gustave. Put it down.
[ And it is a plea, doesn't hold back from sounding like begging. He can't lose this. Not after finding it again. Gustave deserves better, and he can't lose this. ]
I want mon Monsieur le fleuriste to be here to hear it.