[ Gustave shoves at him, and Verso lets himself fall back, one hand falling back to the front of Gustave's uniform, fisting in the material. Not wanting to let him go, wanting to pull him close, wanting to push him away, and his voice carries with it a real anger, almost dripping venom as much as it's dripping a clear and deep desperation. ]
What do you mean how else you should have done it?
[ He understands, of course. Even as he raises his voice to answer him, even through the utterly dizzying clash of emotions tearing through him, he understands. Verso had promised him that he'd see him again, something he isn't sure Gustave even remembers, and he still hasn't shown himself in the weeks Gustave and his companions have been trudging teir way through the Continent. He was never going to show himself, might've kept hidden until Renoir himself decided to cut short their expedition, however long that took.
The only thing that was ever going to force him out of hiding was something like this. Gustave's life, in danger, with no one else around to save him. ]
Fucking -- Anything else! Merde, if I wasn't here, if I was a little slower, you could have died, I would have lost you --
[ Lost you all over again when you were just within reach. After two years, after keeping himself away, afer trying so hard to do everything right and failing over and over again, after missing you so desperately he felt fucking pathetic for it for how little you've ever actually had each other.
Verso could've never forgiven himself for it. He would've never been able to leave him there, either, no, not his Monsieur le fleuriste, would've forced himself to go looking for a broken battered body shattered against the shoreline, on the rocks, gathered him up shaking and trembling from letting him slip through his fingers.
Two years. It's been two years. ]
I didn't know you were alive, either. [ He could have found out, though. Esquie would've taken him back, whenever he wanted. But he didn't. Too cowardly, too afraid, just kept drowning his sorrows in wine and flowers and a sorrowful song he'd shaped over months and months of playing until it felt like his fingers blistered. ] I -- putain.
[ He steps in, lifts his hands to Gustave's face, tangling fingers through his hair and holding him there, thumbs brushing against his cheeks. He's beautiful. He's angry. He's missed him so much, and watching him from afar for these weeks hasn't helped at all. ]
This was stupid. This was a stupid thing for you to do, I'm not worth this, Gustave.
[ There's something about even being able to say that name to him that makes his head spin, that knocks the air from his lungs. ]
no subject
What do you mean how else you should have done it?
[ He understands, of course. Even as he raises his voice to answer him, even through the utterly dizzying clash of emotions tearing through him, he understands. Verso had promised him that he'd see him again, something he isn't sure Gustave even remembers, and he still hasn't shown himself in the weeks Gustave and his companions have been trudging teir way through the Continent. He was never going to show himself, might've kept hidden until Renoir himself decided to cut short their expedition, however long that took.
The only thing that was ever going to force him out of hiding was something like this. Gustave's life, in danger, with no one else around to save him. ]
Fucking -- Anything else! Merde, if I wasn't here, if I was a little slower, you could have died, I would have lost you --
[ Lost you all over again when you were just within reach. After two years, after keeping himself away, afer trying so hard to do everything right and failing over and over again, after missing you so desperately he felt fucking pathetic for it for how little you've ever actually had each other.
Verso could've never forgiven himself for it. He would've never been able to leave him there, either, no, not his Monsieur le fleuriste, would've forced himself to go looking for a broken battered body shattered against the shoreline, on the rocks, gathered him up shaking and trembling from letting him slip through his fingers.
Two years. It's been two years. ]
I didn't know you were alive, either. [ He could have found out, though. Esquie would've taken him back, whenever he wanted. But he didn't. Too cowardly, too afraid, just kept drowning his sorrows in wine and flowers and a sorrowful song he'd shaped over months and months of playing until it felt like his fingers blistered. ] I -- putain.
[ He steps in, lifts his hands to Gustave's face, tangling fingers through his hair and holding him there, thumbs brushing against his cheeks. He's beautiful. He's angry. He's missed him so much, and watching him from afar for these weeks hasn't helped at all. ]
This was stupid. This was a stupid thing for you to do, I'm not worth this, Gustave.
[ There's something about even being able to say that name to him that makes his head spin, that knocks the air from his lungs. ]