[ One of the things that's drawn Verso into this man so completely is how much he seems to lay himself bare, earnest, heart on his sleeve. He doesn't know if he's always like that, but in their brief time together it's felt like he could see into his eyes into his heart and soul, something that Verso finds -- impossible, terrifying, fascinating and disarming, all at once. The problem with this is that when Verso finally manages to untangle himself from Gustave's grasp, the space between them slowly growing he just has to look at him to see how much it shatters him.
Verso feels his lungs tighten, an awful ache in his own heart, but -- its harder to see. The walls that Gustave had so effortlessly managed to pull down and move past, nine months ago at the opera house, earlier with the a flower plucked from the garden, just before with heated words murmured against his ear and his hand on him and the earnest plea to be with him, here, now -- they've already built themselves back in place. Its for the best. Its for the best. For Gustave. For both of them.
He reaches over to retrieve his jacket where he'd shrugged it off his shoulders and left it forgotten, his gaze falling to that gentle purple bloom still tucked into his lapel. Partially crushed between their bodies, crushed a little more since he cast it off -- they'd likely accidentally stepped on it at least once in all of this. Gently, Verso's takes a moment to make sure the flower stem is secure enough in the buttonhole, fingers brushing over the single delicate petal still left intact.
Verso looks back up at the sound of his voice. Its a joke, clearly, however dark it may be. But; ]
You're worth more than that. [ Even as a joke. ]
[ Surely there are other people? Surely Gustave has no shortage of suitors, whether they're the kind looking for a few nights of indulgence in the fleeting lives they live or the kind that wants to find someone to stay with until the inevitable end. Verso doesn't know him, but he feels like he can say he knows he's a good man, and with those eyes, that smile. Maybe Gustave's number is up soon, he thinks. Maybe there's just no time. He wants to ask, but he's a little uncertain, and -- clearly, now, that might be a bit too personal to ask. Gustave's life is his own. Verso has no part in it. ]
-- You should forget me. [ I thought you would before, he thinks. ] There must be someone more deserving of your flowers, monsieur le fleuriste.
[ Maybe calling him that right now is the wrong thing to do. He looks away, back down to his jacket -- moves to shrug it back on. He can't help himself, though, still quietly fond, just. He can't stay. ]
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Verso feels his lungs tighten, an awful ache in his own heart, but -- its harder to see. The walls that Gustave had so effortlessly managed to pull down and move past, nine months ago at the opera house, earlier with the a flower plucked from the garden, just before with heated words murmured against his ear and his hand on him and the earnest plea to be with him, here, now -- they've already built themselves back in place. Its for the best. Its for the best. For Gustave. For both of them.
He reaches over to retrieve his jacket where he'd shrugged it off his shoulders and left it forgotten, his gaze falling to that gentle purple bloom still tucked into his lapel. Partially crushed between their bodies, crushed a little more since he cast it off -- they'd likely accidentally stepped on it at least once in all of this. Gently, Verso's takes a moment to make sure the flower stem is secure enough in the buttonhole, fingers brushing over the single delicate petal still left intact.
Verso looks back up at the sound of his voice. Its a joke, clearly, however dark it may be. But; ]
You're worth more than that. [ Even as a joke. ]
[ Surely there are other people? Surely Gustave has no shortage of suitors, whether they're the kind looking for a few nights of indulgence in the fleeting lives they live or the kind that wants to find someone to stay with until the inevitable end. Verso doesn't know him, but he feels like he can say he knows he's a good man, and with those eyes, that smile. Maybe Gustave's number is up soon, he thinks. Maybe there's just no time. He wants to ask, but he's a little uncertain, and -- clearly, now, that might be a bit too personal to ask. Gustave's life is his own. Verso has no part in it. ]
-- You should forget me. [ I thought you would before, he thinks. ] There must be someone more deserving of your flowers, monsieur le fleuriste.
[ Maybe calling him that right now is the wrong thing to do. He looks away, back down to his jacket -- moves to shrug it back on. He can't help himself, though, still quietly fond, just. He can't stay. ]