[ His mind is being kind to him, he thinks, giving him so many reasons why Verso couldn't come find him again, giving him this vision of Verso in the first place. It's such a comfort, gazing at that face he recalls so clearly, feeling his touch again, gentle and firm and a little aggressive, just like he remembers. His glance shifts up and to the side, to the spot in Verso's dark hair where he'd slipped that second flower, and he lifts his hand to gently thread his fingers through those dark waves, tucking them back over the shell of his ear, seeing purple petals appearing there as clearly as he sees Verso himself. ]
I never did find anyone else to give flowers.
[ Except Sophie, and he thinks Verso would understand: the Gommage, a lost love, a last chance at reconciliation, a last few stolen moments together. His lifted hand curves against Verso's face, the tips of his fingers still lost in the thick soft waves of his hair. ]
None of them were you. Mon monsieur le pianiste.
[ And so he'd spent the last two years of his life working, enjoying his time with Maelle and Emma and his friends, planning for this very Expedition... his breath catches, his brow furrows, his glance tries to slide sidelong to Catherine again. Gone, all gone. They're all dead, and so is he, no matter what this vision is trying to tell him. ]
... I'll bring you flowers. When I find you again. Flowers for your music.
[ Now his hand is the one that trembles, his thumb shaking as it carefully, lightly touches the corner of Verso's mouth. ]
For your smile. For everything I've wanted to tell you since the garden.
[ There's so much he's wanted to say to this man over the last two years, all of it locked away deep inside him. Absurd, perhaps idiotic, to have let him burrow so deep on the strength of a chance meeting, a rescue, a passionate tumble in the sunlight, but Verso had stolen his heart as easily as another man might shake his hand. He'd done his best to deny it, even while Emma watched him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but it hadn't been of any use.
He's grateful for that, now. For this last chance. ]
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I never did find anyone else to give flowers.
[ Except Sophie, and he thinks Verso would understand: the Gommage, a lost love, a last chance at reconciliation, a last few stolen moments together. His lifted hand curves against Verso's face, the tips of his fingers still lost in the thick soft waves of his hair. ]
None of them were you. Mon monsieur le pianiste.
[ And so he'd spent the last two years of his life working, enjoying his time with Maelle and Emma and his friends, planning for this very Expedition... his breath catches, his brow furrows, his glance tries to slide sidelong to Catherine again. Gone, all gone. They're all dead, and so is he, no matter what this vision is trying to tell him. ]
... I'll bring you flowers. When I find you again. Flowers for your music.
[ Now his hand is the one that trembles, his thumb shaking as it carefully, lightly touches the corner of Verso's mouth. ]
For your smile. For everything I've wanted to tell you since the garden.
[ There's so much he's wanted to say to this man over the last two years, all of it locked away deep inside him. Absurd, perhaps idiotic, to have let him burrow so deep on the strength of a chance meeting, a rescue, a passionate tumble in the sunlight, but Verso had stolen his heart as easily as another man might shake his hand. He'd done his best to deny it, even while Emma watched him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but it hadn't been of any use.
He's grateful for that, now. For this last chance. ]
....Yes. I'll see you again.
I'll see you again.
[ If not in this life, then maybe the next one. ]