[ A white-hot blaze of fury spirals up in him, stealing his air and his thoughts both, burning out everything but the anger that's been building and building and building since the moment he heard a familiar name drop, unlooked for and shocking, from Esquie. It flashes in his eyes — he never has been any good at keeping his feelings shuttered behind oblique glances and cool words — and his fingers clench so hard in the fur that the knuckles of his right hand pale almost to a stark bone-white. His voice rises to a shout, unfiltered, the words shoving out of him. ]
You would have lost me?! You already gave me up! You left!
[ He left, and Gustave, stupid man that he is, had been left to linger in Lumiere with his broken heart and all the many ways he could berate himself for it: for letting any of it happen to begin with, for letting him go, for not managing to be whatever it was Verso might have needed to coax him to stay.
It was a stupid thing to do, but he's been so stupid over Verso for so long now that he's not sure he could recognize a good idea even if he had one. Verso's hands come to cradle his face, and his thumbs stroke over his skin in a way he hasn't felt for two whole years, and it breaks his heart all over again. His eyes squeeze shut, as if in pain, before he immediately wrenches them open again, terrified that if he looks away too long the man will disappear no matter how tightly Gustave clings to him.
But Verso is still there, and he hits him with a one-two, straight to the gut: I'm not worth this, he says, and Gustave doesn't have time to argue that before his name is falling off Verso's lips, the first time he's heard it since the garden.
It spears him as effectively as a Lancelier's lance, slides through skin and muscle and ribs as though they weren't even there to slip into Gustave's shattered heart. No shield could ever protect him from this; it feels like being stabbed. He wants to grip that word in that voice and shove it even further into himself, up to the hilt. He stares at the man for a wordless moment, drowning in everything he can't name and the few feelings he can. ]
— Putain, putain de merde—
[ Cursed low and vicious as he threads his fingers through the thick waves of hair at the back of Verso's head and drags him forward, leaning in to meet his mouth with another kiss, solid as a punch. He's starving for this, the feel of Verso's mouth against his, the taste of him, everything he remembers and so much more now that it's back in his arms again.
He's missed him so much, this man he barely knows, and only now does he think he's really feeling the extent of that longing, the ache of it that's been here, sunk into muscles and mind and heart for so long. He feels sore all over; this is almost as painful as watching Verso leave. His broken heart isn't mending, it's grating edges against itself, and he's still hungry for more. He's famished. ]
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Date: 2025-06-02 10:52 pm (UTC)You would have lost me?! You already gave me up! You left!
[ He left, and Gustave, stupid man that he is, had been left to linger in Lumiere with his broken heart and all the many ways he could berate himself for it: for letting any of it happen to begin with, for letting him go, for not managing to be whatever it was Verso might have needed to coax him to stay.
It was a stupid thing to do, but he's been so stupid over Verso for so long now that he's not sure he could recognize a good idea even if he had one. Verso's hands come to cradle his face, and his thumbs stroke over his skin in a way he hasn't felt for two whole years, and it breaks his heart all over again. His eyes squeeze shut, as if in pain, before he immediately wrenches them open again, terrified that if he looks away too long the man will disappear no matter how tightly Gustave clings to him.
But Verso is still there, and he hits him with a one-two, straight to the gut: I'm not worth this, he says, and Gustave doesn't have time to argue that before his name is falling off Verso's lips, the first time he's heard it since the garden.
It spears him as effectively as a Lancelier's lance, slides through skin and muscle and ribs as though they weren't even there to slip into Gustave's shattered heart. No shield could ever protect him from this; it feels like being stabbed. He wants to grip that word in that voice and shove it even further into himself, up to the hilt. He stares at the man for a wordless moment, drowning in everything he can't name and the few feelings he can. ]
— Putain, putain de merde—
[ Cursed low and vicious as he threads his fingers through the thick waves of hair at the back of Verso's head and drags him forward, leaning in to meet his mouth with another kiss, solid as a punch. He's starving for this, the feel of Verso's mouth against his, the taste of him, everything he remembers and so much more now that it's back in his arms again.
He's missed him so much, this man he barely knows, and only now does he think he's really feeling the extent of that longing, the ache of it that's been here, sunk into muscles and mind and heart for so long. He feels sore all over; this is almost as painful as watching Verso leave. His broken heart isn't mending, it's grating edges against itself, and he's still hungry for more. He's famished. ]