[ His hand is gripping the pistol so tight it hurts, the dream of Verso closing its fingers around his, but the other hand, the one at his cheek, is so gentle and shaking so fervently it's almost like lying back in that garden again, the way he sometimes did when he couldn't stand it any longer, when he'd go up and lie back, looking up at the ivy, breathing in the flowers, feeling the breeze sift through his hair. When he closed his eyes, he could almost pretends it was Verso's fingers and not just an errant, playful gust.
Mon chou. That sweet endearment Verso had murmured and teased him with, that had hurt so much to remember. Gustave turns his head to kiss the thumb tracing over his lips, to press another, gentler kiss into the palm he wishes really where there at his cheek. ]
How I would love to hear you play again.
[ He knows now, at least, at last, those few bars of music Verso had left for him all those months ago: it had required a little bit of a ruse, but he'd finally heard it, plucked from the strings of Lune's guitar a year or so ago. It had been lovely. But it hadn't been Verso playing it, and he knew he never would hear Verso playing it.
But sometimes he would try to imagine it: to picture Verso back there on the concert hall stage, his hands moving gracefully over the keys. He would hum the tune and do his best to pretend it was a sweeter, clearer sound than his own voice and think about the bouquet he would have brought to make him laugh. That amused voice that lives in his dreams, so different from the one he's conjuring up now. Please, Gustave.
He swallows, turning back to the dream of a man he'll never see again, and wants so badly to lean forward, to brush his lips over his, and to believe it's really real. ]
They're all gone.
[ His voice a whisper, his hand relaxing in Verso's and his arm softening, no longer so stubbornly bent on bringing the gun back to his temple, though he doesn't let the pistol dissolve into nothing. The eyes that meet those desperate, clear, fog-colored ones are dark and empty of everything but bewildered pain. ]
Lucien, Alan, Margot.
[ His throat works as he slides a glance to his right, tears trickling from the corner of his eyes, cutting muted lines through the blood and grime on his face. ]
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Date: 2025-05-30 11:00 pm (UTC)Mon chou. That sweet endearment Verso had murmured and teased him with, that had hurt so much to remember. Gustave turns his head to kiss the thumb tracing over his lips, to press another, gentler kiss into the palm he wishes really where there at his cheek. ]
How I would love to hear you play again.
[ He knows now, at least, at last, those few bars of music Verso had left for him all those months ago: it had required a little bit of a ruse, but he'd finally heard it, plucked from the strings of Lune's guitar a year or so ago. It had been lovely. But it hadn't been Verso playing it, and he knew he never would hear Verso playing it.
But sometimes he would try to imagine it: to picture Verso back there on the concert hall stage, his hands moving gracefully over the keys. He would hum the tune and do his best to pretend it was a sweeter, clearer sound than his own voice and think about the bouquet he would have brought to make him laugh. That amused voice that lives in his dreams, so different from the one he's conjuring up now. Please, Gustave.
He swallows, turning back to the dream of a man he'll never see again, and wants so badly to lean forward, to brush his lips over his, and to believe it's really real. ]
They're all gone.
[ His voice a whisper, his hand relaxing in Verso's and his arm softening, no longer so stubbornly bent on bringing the gun back to his temple, though he doesn't let the pistol dissolve into nothing. The eyes that meet those desperate, clear, fog-colored ones are dark and empty of everything but bewildered pain. ]
Lucien, Alan, Margot.
[ His throat works as he slides a glance to his right, tears trickling from the corner of his eyes, cutting muted lines through the blood and grime on his face. ]
Catherine.
Everyone... everyone is gone.