What am I not looking for? Perms & Prefs / Kinks + Open post where I keep some recent meme top levels, and I'm open to talk about ideas you might have, gen or shippy or smutty!
Anyone: Camp conversations and discussions about things light and airy or deep and dark. Exploring AUs where for some reason Verso sucks less and actually tries to tell the truth to his new friends, or is just forced into a situation where he has to reveal them. Pre-Fracture scenarios with various characters, AUing characters into Expedition 0 or pre-Fracture times and meet Verso when he's less depressing and more of a french-flavored fuckboy. Maelle!Ending continuity scenarios, probably deeply angsty, where DepressoVerso is the most miserable man who has ever lived, but maybe interacting with some other characters might help wake some people up, expose some truths, or instead find some new meaning in this new world.
Fambly (real or painted): I'm especially missing some cute and painful stuff with Alicia and Clea if any of them are out there. I need Verso and his sisters being cute and/or sad, he loves them so much, pre!Fracture or otherwise. Painful reunions with post-fracture Clea also wanted. Exploring complicated feelings between real/painted family member cross-occurences, negative or positive. Also interested in exploring Verso's gradual fallout with his family, like a big angsty teenager. I'm open to incest trash, hit me.
Gustave: What-ifs and missed connections, romantic or otherwise, Verso as a pile of guilt for various reasons. Fix-it AUs but also break-its because I love pain? Exploring jealousy wrt: Gustave as an ideal brother-figure.
Lune: Music, questions, interrogations. Moments of comfort or maybe actual feelings. Break-it or fix-it after The Reveal, Verso probably deserves more shit than he actually got in the game lbr.
Sciel: Moments of comfort or maybe actual feelings. Some brutal honesty in both directions in the face of Revelations, Verso actually telling her things for Reasons and working it out. Swimming. Sciel being able to read Verso in general and giving him some much deserved shit.
Maelle: I'm really interested cute adoptive brother things and bonding early on, and also various post-reveal fallouts. Let him braid her hair, I demand it. Have interesting thoughts regarding Verso seeing Maellicia as distinct from Maelle and exploring that tension: guilt he feels about Maelle as he knew her being gone, Alicia's feelings about him now that she knows that he's a dead brother replacement goldfish, etc, or even RP magic being able to explore a post-act3 Verso interacting with Maelle as she used to be and the guilt involved. I'm also interested in exploring their dynamic *during* Maelle!Ending (its probably bad!).
Verso: You heard me. I think characters interacting with themselves is really interesting and Verso is such a bundle of piles and lies with severe problems of selfhood and selfhatred, I think it'd be delicious. Different interpretations of Verso are only a bonus here. Sexy stuff not required, but my arms are always open for selfcest. RP magic can be how it happens, I dunno.
Julie: Suffering!!!!!
AUs and Things: I feel like I'm very far from exhausting the depths of canon so I've not thought much about AUs that move past the setting, but I am open to things and ideas!
Verso has been on the Continent a long time, has seen so many Expeditions come and go, and he isn't naive to the role he often comes to play with them. Sometimes he's a mentor or guide, other times he only helps from a distance, and other times an actual enemy. But often, spending time with a group of people stressed out of their minds and staring down the end of their lives, he can also offer them some simple, physical comfort. And he doesn't mind that ( even if he's not always as good at keeping distance as he thinks he is, even if sometimes his heart just sinks and sinks ).
Expedition 33 is different. He's been waiting for the opportunity to finally come, and he's taken care to not just immediately fuck it up, tried to keep his distance -- but soon enough he's there at camp, not quite a friend but a teammate nonetheless. Maelle gives him an armband, Sciel teases him, and Lune -- asks him questions. So many questions, over and over again, getting questioned ( or outright interrogated ) by Expeditions is hardly new to him, but Lune is persistent. She's sharp, analytical, and doesn't quite know how to take his evasiveness as an answer. She's sharp, she's beautiful, she doesn't trust him.
And she tastes like wine.
Verso's fingers are rough and callused with years of life on the Continent with sword and dagger in hand, gliding across the skin of her thighs, pulling them apart as he nestles himself between her legs. They've not quite managed to fully undress, parts of the uniforms hanging off of them in pieces, but its enough that he can look up at her through his half-lidded eyes and see her laid out over the bedroll they've haphazardly kicked out, her already-mussed hair framing her like a -- well. Like a painting.
The questions had been exhaustive. He'd moved closer. And now they're here, and Verso reaches for her hand with his own, mouthing hotly along her inner thigh, teasing until he reaches her core. His head spins with the heady scent of her, gripping onto her hand tightly as much to anchor himself as it is to anchor her, his eyes falling shut again as he ducks his head and laps over her, into her, tasting her. ]
but a calculated one, maybe; less of a mistake and more of an... indulgence, perhaps. ever critical, ever logical, lune weighs her options and balances the consequences. the path in the pursuit of knowledge isn't always so clearly defined—sometimes, you have to give more of yourself in order to obtain the desired result. but here is where it gets a little muddy: she doesn't know what that desired result is. not enough to clearly voice it.
there's a lot about verso she doesn't know. she pushes and persists, yes, is unrelenting in her questions, of course, but she always lets him go in the end. if she had her way, she'd keep him by the fire through the night just to shake him down for all the knowledge he has. maybe then she could figure out what that look in his eyes mean when he thinks no one is looking at him, or the way his expression shifts ever so slightly when they land on a certain topic. he's evasive (the less charitable would consider him disingenuous, perhaps) and yet he has a great capacity for sincerity, for kindness. he's contradictory in the most frustrating way, and sometimes, she just wants to reach out—
her fingers sink into his hair, a fine tremble shivering down her spine at the drag of his calluses against her thighs. they're further from camp, but the firelight still reaches their corner, licking along her skin to illuminate one side of her face. anticipation simmers low in her abdomen, a tight knot of tension that winds tighter the closer he gets to the apex of her thighs, but the hand that finds hers eases it just enough that when he finally gets his mouth on her, she doesn't immediately shatter. she melts instead, breathing a shaky sigh on the exhale as she widens the spread of her thighs, lacing their fingers together.
belatedly, she realizes with some dry amusement that with his mouth so occupied, he can't answer anything else she wanted to ask. it's almost as if he'd planned this all along. ]
[ rendering himself functionally unable to answer may have been part of the plan, or at least what planted the seed of the thought somewhere in his mind -- but that's quickly been melted away just in favor of simple want. her fingers tangle through his hair, and he makes some low, appreciative sound, mostly muffled against her skin.
it's been a little while since he's done anything like this, but verso settles back into it readily enough. it's easy to tell that he means to take his time, to savor this savor her, some quiet humming sound thrumming in his throat and tongue, enough for her to feel it as he licks against her folds -- but its' a war in his mind. that, and simple impatience, heat and want and the need to taste her more, to feel her coming apart under his mouth and tongue. she sighs, spreads her thighs to invite him in deeper, and verso briefly lifts his head, just enough to look at her as his eyes flicker open, pupils blown, dark and hungry, and for just enough time for her to see how the corner of his lips quirks into a smirk.
he winds an arm around one of her legs, skin against skin, callused fingers settling somewhere over her thigh and pressing hard enough to dip against tender muscle. his other hand squeezes tightly over hers as she threads their fingers together, anchoring them both to each other as he ducks down again. this time he tongues directly into her, shameless about how he breathes her in, tongue sliding as deep as he can reach.
the arm wrapped around her leg shifts, hauling himself closer to her, angling until he can let is hand slide up over the flat of her belly. feeling the tension held there, thumbing lightly over her navel, paying attention to any sound she makes, to how he can feel the muscle in her stomach twitch and flicker in response to his mouth and tongue, turning towards anything that gives him a bit more response and chasing it down. ]
[ it's been so long for her that it may as well be her first time now, body alight with a potent sensitivity that has her closing her eyes to it, her hips twitching up against his mouth at his groan. her legs shift against his face as if to find purchase, but the feeling of his stubble prickling along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs only adds to the onslaught of sensation, dragging out a shaky gasp as her eyes flutter open again in time to catch his smirk. the sight makes her stomach clench, makes her fingers tighten in his hair; something adjacent to annoyance flares alongside the slow burn of arousal, but it's fleeting, banking quickly once he works his tongue into her.
it's a gentle stretch but has her twisting beneath him all the same, a more pronounced shudder chasing heat down her spine. lune is quiet in her pleasure, but her body makes up for it: fingers gripping his hand tightly, the heel of her foot digging into his back to encourage him closer. she barely registers the way her hips squirm, trying to grind down on his tongue, his face, anywhere else she can find. it's only the fact that she may actually smother him that she relents, a low moan caught in her throat. ]
Verso— [ barely above a murmur, but in the quiet of the night, she's certain he wouldn't miss it. whatever else she wanted to say slips immediately from her mind like sand between her fingers; her world narrows down to each point of contact they share, her pulse loud in her ears. she's so—she's close, she can feel it as the tension winds tighter, pushing his hand on her abdomen down until he meets his mouth, until she can guide his thumb to press against her clit. ]
[ Please, Verso says, and he's squeezing his eyes shut, grimacing, wanting to curse at himself. He shouldn't, he shouldn't, this is the last thing he should be doing. It would be better for both of them, for their careers, if he weren't such a fucking coward, if he'd just pull the bandage off and end it. No matter how much it feels like Verso is the reason his heart keeps beating, it can't be worth it, to put them both through so much misery. ]
All right.
[ ... But he was always going to give in, even before he heard Verso says please in that voice, wrenching and almost desperate. He glances up, looking over the crawling bars on his screen, and shakes his head at himself. He's such an idiot. ]
I'm leaving now.
[ It'll take him about fifteen minutes to get across the city โ forty, if he doesn't want to use a rideshare, and he doesn't. It's too easy for things to be leaked, he'd wake up tomorrow to headlines splashed across the digital front pages of the celebrity news sites, how he'd gone to Verso's apartment in the middle of the night.
He walks, and tries not to run, tries to let the cool night air bring him back to himself, but it's no use and by the time he's at the building and letting himself in, he takes the stairs two at a time until he's on the right floor, standing in front of Verso's door, his chest heaving. Gently, he leans his forehead against the door, lifts his handโ hesitates.
Finally, a soft rap of his knuckles, and an equally soft voice. ]
[ There are a number of different reasons why Gustave could be coming over. It could be that maybe he's finally had enough, and he's kind enough, a good enough man to know that it should at least mean as much as a conversation in person. It could be that fighting over texts and disjointed calls happens to be both painful and also extra difficult, and just having that argument in person might clear the air, or make things worse. It could be, and verso is hoping that this is the case, that Gustave just misses him, too, that for everything that's pulling them apart there's also something that keeps them crashing together, inescapable and final as gravity itself.
He spends the time thinking about what to do when Gustave gets here ( if he gets here, maybe he'd think better of it, maybe he'd change his mind ). What to do, what to say. It hasn't been that long since they've seen each other but they both know they've never been more far apart, and he feels like if he says the wrong thing then they'll peel so far apart there may be no mending it. He feels awful, sick, mutes that notification on his computer and his phone that keeps track of his increasingly overfull request inbox, message after message of demands, whispers of empty sweet nothings, gifts and promises.
And then -- the gentlest rap on his door. Soft and light, like he's afraid of something. Even though the door, hearing is name in his voice aches, and he's already standing, already crossing the floor, already undoing a latch and opening the door before he can even think through all those plans he had of what to do.
Gustave is lovely. He always is. Verso is a bit of a mess, as much as he can be, hair still pulled up into a messy bun, slightly oversized t-shirt hanging loose over his shoulders, comfortable pajama pants fit close to his waist. His eyes are faintly red, and there's a hint of color to his cheeks, his nose. He's been crying, at least a little somewhere over the past few hours, though when in their mess of texts it was is hard to say.
His own voice is soft as Gustave's knock on his door had been. ]
Gustave . . .
[ Yearning, wanting, desperate, and he knows he shouldn't, that they should at least talk a little, try to clear some air, at least, at least. But he's already reaching out, fingers curling into the front of Gustave's shirt, taping a step backwards as he pulls Gustave in through the threshold of his doorway, another, leaning into crash their mouths together in a bruising, aching kiss. ]
[ Verso opens the door, and he looks... he never looks terrible, but it's the worst Gustave's seen. Another side of him his adoring, panting fans will never see: the messy hair (truly messy, not artfully mussed), the too-big shirt, the redness around his eyes that cuts straight to Gustave's heart like a knife. His shoulders slump as he looks up, as he sees Verso and all those signs of misery, and he's shaking his head when Verso reaches for him, grips his shirt and drags him through the doorway directly into a kiss.
Gustave's reaching hand finds the edge of the door and pushes it behind him until it shuts with a soft slamming sound, only to join his other hand that's already on Verso's body, palming over that shirt and pressing it to the form beneath, running over him like it's been months, years since they saw each other and not only days. He kisses Verso back, desperate and needy, everything that's been rolling around in his head and chest only expanding: the hurt, the longing, the anger he wishes he didn't feel but can't seem to escape no matter how many things he sets on fire or blows up on his own channel. ]
Verso.
[ His hands go to Verso's head, cradling him, as he presses kisses to his cheek, tasting salt on his skin before pulling away enough to push his forehead against Verso's, thumb running over his cheekbone, feeling utterly helpless at the redness he sees in those eyes. ]
[ Verso mostly feels anguish and want and dread. This has happened before, he's pretty sure -- again, Gustave is far from his first relationship. The tensions aren't the same in all of them but they all had the same shape, and in the past, if he's honest, Verso hadn't fought to keep them very hard. When things started to slide this way and circle the same drain, he'd push back a little against it, but never too strongly, and in the end when they spiralled down he'd suffer the heartbreak and pick himself back up again.
The moment that felt like it was starting here, it felt a little like his world was going to fall apart. This time he wants to fight it, but feels like there's nothing he can do. And maybe he's wrong, he'd like to believe he's wrong, but if this is the way everything has gone before, then why does he think this will be different, when it's also been so much worse? They've reached higher heights, and he swears sometimes with him he's never felt his heart so soar so lightly, but he's never crashed quite like this, either, never felt himself hurtling so far.
Gustave says his name again, and Verso shudders, wanting to lean into it, kissing him deeper like he thinks he can taste it on his tongue, and when Gustave breaks the kiss enough to just cradle his head close, all he can do is shake his head. He clutches at Gustave's wrist, thumb pushing into his pulse, leaning into his familiar touch, cool metal and warm skin both. ]
Don't be. Don't.
[ What is there to be sorry for? Gustave is right, in a lot of ways. He has every right to be upset, to be mistrustful, to be unhappy with the way things have gone. He hates that he was crying, even for a little while, hates that he knows Gustave must be able to see it. ]
Just -- be with me. Mon chou, I've missed you so much.
[ Days apart and it feels like months and decades, because it feels like those days keep stretching and stretching and if Verso doesn't do something to keep him close that they might just stretch into forever. ]
[ Enough that he spent much too much time scrolling back to old videos, all the way back to the very first time he'd had Verso on the channel, back when they'd only been together for a little while and they were still so giddy with it that they couldn't imagine any downsides. Or he couldn't, anyway.
He's watched that video, the two of them at the piano, Verso's hands moving gracefully over the keys, the way he could watch himself sway to the side, closer, how they let their shoulders bump, how they laughed, more times than he'd be willing to admit in the last week or so. It never helps.
He's not sure this is helping, either. If anything, the ache is worse than ever when Verso's clutching him close and begging him to stay, to be with him, and it's all he wants to do, but it won't solve anything, not really. ]
I neverโ I never wanted to stay away from you. I've hated being away from you.
[ He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, face tightening like he's in pain, even as his hands stay gentle, cradling Verso's head, keeping him near. ]
[ This definitely isn't helping. It hurts to have him close, but it would hurt even more to pull away, so all Verso can do is wrap his arm around him and clutch him close like nothing else matters. He keeps shaking his head, saying no to something that Gustave isn't even saying, but deep down he thinks he knows he's going to say. His other hand is still clutched tight over Gustave's wrist, and he turns his face against that hand, nuzzling his cheek against him slightly, his eyes falling shut for a moment just to savor the feeling or keep a tear from falling or both.
Why does it feel like everything is falling apart? Nothing's happened yet. Gustave hasn't said anything. Maybe he's imagining this. Maybe everything is fine. He relaxes his hand from his wrist, and it trembles slightly when it slides up to card through his hair, gentle, feather-light, feeling the strands sift through his fingers like he has countless times before. He loves playing with those curls, twisting them around a finger until they leave slightly too-coiled tuft of hair that might linger there for hours and make him smile when he sees it. ]
-- Why do you have to do anything?
[ It's fine. Isn't it? It's hard right now, but Gustave just needs some time, like he said, and it'd take some work but they can just go back to how it was before. Verso's watched their old videos too many times, too, even though he can remember back then, telling him he isn't sure if posting them would be a good idea. He remembers laying in bed, Gustave sitting up at the foot of it and typing out a caption for the video on his phone, remembers pushing himself upright to press against his side, the sheets still angled around them. It is very cute, he remembers himself saying. But Gustave as more than a bit of a golden child, even if some of his fans always had a bit of a hungry edge to them -- for the most part, they all loved him, comment after comment calling him their wholesome excitable teacher that they wished they had. It might cause a bit of a scandal, Verso remembers saying, with a laugh, even as he pressed a kiss to Gustave's cheek.
He leans in, lips brushing against his cheek, mouthing down to his jaw. ]
You said you just needed time. I -- I'm sorry. I can give you more time.
[ As much as he needs, right? Anything he wants. Anything. ]
[ Verso's hand slides up into his hair, and Verso's brushing kisses over his cheek, and Gustave thinks his heart will break simply from this, just from the way Verso's arm tightens around him and he's shaking his head like he knows. He knows what Gustave has to say, what he should have said weeks ago, maybe, what he's been too weak to do in order to save them both from more of this pain.
It was never supposed to go this way. He's been in this apartment now countless times, wrung-out and exhausted on that bed, or draped over Verso while he plays the piano, working out some new measure to some new song that he won't think is good enough to post but which Gustave thinks is no short of staggering genius. He remembers rehearsing a show with Verso here that devolved into a playful wrestling match full of laughter and then heat and moans and his mouth of Verso's and both their hands everywhereโ
He has so many good memories here, far more than sad ones. But it was here, too, that he got the first notification that made him frown, bemused; a wholly different tone than he was used to. What's this all about? he'd asked, turning his phone to Verso to see. They'd had weeks of great promotion and PR after their accidental soft launch, and little by little that uncertainty he'd seen in Verso's eyes had faded away, as both their numbers climbed and engagement with their collaborations skyrocketed. Their AMA had gotten such high numbers the platform had sent him a plaque.
So the first message had been jarring, but not worrying. But then there had been another, and another, and now a solid third of his comments are about Verso, but not in the way he'd come to expect. They're disdainful, sometimes outright cruel: sometimes saying Verso isn't good enough for him, sometimes saying he's not good enough for Verso. Attempts to find him in his normal, private life escalated. Some of them even managed to get his home address, a development he never had shared with Verso, not wanting him to worry.
It's the nature of the beast, he'd told himself. And things were still much better than they weren't.
But then the screenshots started coming. The video clips. The links to threads upon threads of people sharing every last detail of their private calls and chats with Verso. And now here they are, and maybe he does know what to do.
He just doesn't want to do it.
His right hand cups Verso's face, his left arm goes around him, holding him close as he leans into Verso's kisses, his touches. ]
Because this isn't good for either of us. Don't you think I see how much it hurts you, too?
[ He had needed time. Time to think, time to decide what to do, time to... to brace himself.
His voice is soft, still warm despite the ache in it, the misery. ]
[ Verso can feel it, how more of the floor is sliding out from beneath him. The pull of gravity that's drawing them together, inescapable, also just pulling him down. He'd felt that awful spiral swirling beneath him the last time, too, and in the end he'd barely fought it, just let himself slide down. Gustave -- was different. He had to be. No one's ever really made him feel like Gustave has, who slid into his heart so quickly, found his way into his thoughts and made himself feel at home. Being with him, sometimes Verso thinks he almost felt whole, like something he was missing his entire life had finally settled into place.
He really wanted Gustave to be different. He really thought he was different. He keeps shaking his head, slower now. Verso wants to fight it, to hold onto to him, but all that's doing is making feel utterly helpless, because he knows there's nothing to say.
Gustave slides his arm around him, and Verso shivers -- that touch is familiar, too, cool metal, strong and firm. It'd taken him a bit to get used to it. Just a few weeks ago, he remembers that arm strong against his chest, pushing him back against a wall as Verso had laughed breathlessly into Gustave's mouth, a little surprised but delighted by how forward he was being. A little possessive, apparently, after some message he'd read or the other. Verso had teased him for it after, when they'd sank down to the floor where they stood, smiling languidly into each other and laying there just as comfortably as if they'd managed to make it to an actual bed. Maybe he shouldn't have. Would that have given them more time? A few weeks? Days? Hours?
Verso's eyes are still red as he peels back just enough to look at him properly, his voice whisper soft. ]
-- How do you feel about me?
[ An echo of Gustave's own question from before. Maybe he should've answered -- better. There were probably better words to use. Maybe Gustave would know what to say to make it better, and he would, wouldn't he? He always seems to know, could always somehow tell when something was a little wrong even when Verso is too-practiced at hiding it from people, always seemed to somehow find the right thing to do or say to make him laugh or gasp or moan and have it all melt away. ]
[ Maybe if he just holds on tight enough, maybe if he loses himself in Verso's touch, maybe if they just talk, maybe... maybe they can figure it out.
Maybe that's why he came, because even now he's still trying to find some other way forward, something that won't break both their hearts. It's not even anything either of them is doing, it's just this thing they can't control; it's Verso's subscribers and his own, and he can't see an end to it, not unless something else ends first.
Verso pulls back, asking that question like he doesn't already know, and Gustave can't remember now if he's said it before, mumbled it into skin or whispered it at the end of some phone call, some time when Verso might not be able to hear him quite right, when there was some plausible deniability even when he knew it was shining out of him like a spotlight. It must be obvious to everyone; how could it be anything else?
But this is the first time he's reaching up to carefully tug Verso's hand out of his hair so he can curl his fingers around it, so he can meet those too-red eyes, so his throat can work and his voice can come out soft and a little raspy, shaking. ]
Je t'aime.
[ It's so simple. It's everything. It's the only thing he has to offer, the only real thing, the only one that matters. Isn't it? Isn't this more important, more precious than numbers and followers and bank accounts that grow more flush by the day?
His hand is a little too tight on Verso's; he's nervous, but he refuses to water it down with anything else, to hide. ]
There's something in Gustave's eyes -- he's always liked those eyes, sweet and kind, that seem to draw him in until he can see everything written plainly across his heart. The way he forces himself to look at him, the way he clasps his hand, and Verso almost thinks he can see it before he even says the words. Je t'aime, and it's somehow a surprise and something he feels like he's always known both at once. He feels everything in him swept away, the air stolen from his lungs in a hurricane, his own heart hammering so loud in his ears that he thinks Gustave must be able to hear it, too, that he has to be able to hear his heart answering in tune even if the words are so hard for him to say.
Verso knows he's not said it before. He knows he's come close. He knows he's barely allowed himself to think it, even if he feels like he's just being pulled slowly into its orbit, chasing around in an endless dance until he finally admits it to himself and could maybe admit it out loud to someone else. He remembers, early on, when things were still brighter after they'd inadvertently revealed themselves to the wider world, when they were both utterly caught off guard by how much more attention it was getting them, how much wild fervent support and new fans and higher numbers, he'd also just seen -- comment after comment after comment, even entire articles. They're so in love. They must be in love. Look how much they love each other.
Maybe that should've been the first sign, even he remembers both of them laughing about it at the time, Gustave's cheeks growing pink even as he rolled his eyes as Verso laughs, lying in bed with his head in Gustave's lap, thumbing through some awful list of the top ten ways Verso and Gustave help us believe in love and reading it out loud. That if words like that could be put on them, stolen from them, that things could only get worse. Like now, when he knows months ago to hear him say this would only make him soar, would make him feel nothing but joy, only make him feel whole -- he does still feel that, his heart swelling until it could burst, but its trapped in his ribcage, threatening to tear itself apart, but he can't get swept away because he's still sinking, drowning, falling down.
Verso clasps his hand tightly onto Gustave's. He's spent the past weeks weakly thinking that this time, he wanted to fight it, but it was like he had no way to. This is way, isn't it? It's this. He meets Gustave's eyes readily, breath rattling in his throat. ]
I -- I know.
[ Of course he does. How could he not? Maybe Gustave had never said the words, but Gustave had shown him, every day, every hour they were together. In the way he held their hands together, in the way he looked at him, in the little gifts he'd bring him sometimes of silly trinkets he'd made for him in his workshop, in the meals and the wine and the late night talks and the staring into each other's eyes, in their kisses and and time they'd spend in each other's company without needing to say a word, in the heat of Gustave's mouth around him and his hands on him and feeling his body fit so perfectly against his own. He can only hope he's made Gustave feel the same way, too, because -- ]
I know. Because I --
[ Why is he nervous? Why is it harder for him to say? Gustave had managed it so clearly, so firmly. The least he can do is give him this, his heart bleeding in his hands. ]
-- Je t'aime. [ He manages it, at least, and its like something in him breaks. He almost feels like he could fall over, but his grip tightens over Gustave's hand, also too tight, knuckles bleaching white. His other hand lifts, trembling, fingers just barely ghosting over Gustave's cheek. ] I love you. I love you. Mon chou, sometimes I feel like you've had my heart since the day we met, long before I even asked you on a date, and the more I knew you, the more I knew I'd chosen right. Je t'aime.
[ He's searching Verso's face, trying to read that expression, those eyes, still so clear despite the redness around them, his heart hammering in his chest, leaping into his throat, choking him. The last time he'd said those words, it had been to Sophie, years and years ago, and he'd been awkward and babbling and full of hope. He'd loved Sophie with his whole heart, his whole being, but in the end they'd gone their separate ways... it hadn't been enough.
He doesn't know if it'll be enough here, if this is what Verso wants, if all of him, every part of him he can offer, heart and mind and body, is enough. Maybe he's left it too late, maybe he should have said it weeks ago. Maybe he should have said it months ago, right when this thing started and he'd already fallen harder and faster than he ever had for anyone ever before, when all he could think about was Verso's smile and laugh and the look in his eyes when he glanced over at Gustave. Get you a man that looks at you like Verso looks at Gustave had trended for a week and sparked a new meme template; he'd been embarrassed, blushing, but Verso had laughed.
He'd known even then, hadn't he? What this was. What it really could be.
But he hadn't said it, and he hadn't said it, and he hadn't said it, and now things are... they're broken and he doesn't know if he can fix them or even if he should try. Maybe he should let Verso go, the way he let Sophie go. They want different things, too. Love wasn't enough before, and now...
But Verso's eyes are lighting with surprise, and then realization, and now something else, something nervous and intent, his eyes shifting rapidly back and forth like he doesn't know where to look, what to say. Obliquely, Gustave realizes his hand hurts, Verso's gripping it so tightly the bones are creaking andโ
And, oh god. The words that spill out of his mouthโ
They're hesitant at first, but as soon as the first ones are out โ je t'aime, je t'aime, it touches lightly and in the next second a bonfire is roaring to life ins Gustave's chest, huge and uncontrollable, and he can't breathe, he can't think, je t'aime โ the others come tumbling out after, Verso now the one who doesn't seem like his tongue can keep up with his heart. I love you, he says, over and over, I love you, since the day we met and Gustave can't hold himself back any longer, surges forward in a sudden rush to crush his mouth to Verso's, hands back on his body, pushing him back into the room. He doesn't care if they fall to the floor, if they make it to the bed, he doesn't care, Verso loves him. ]
Versoโ mon amourโ please, I love you so much it makes me crazy, I've missed you, Iโ je t'aime de tout mon coeur, with all of meโ
[ Despite everything Verso's somehow still nervous as to what Gustave might say or what he might do the moment those words leave his lips. That even if moments before Gustave was telling him he loved him, he might still take his offered still-beating heart and knock it from his hands. He expects to hear that it doesn't matter, that it's good to get this out of the way so they both know without a doubt exactly what they've lost, that this isn't enough to bridge the rift that had started growing between them and is now so wide they can barely reach across it to still hold hands. He expects to hear some apology, mumbled and low.
Instead, Gustave hurtles into him so fast it takes his breath away. That aching distance between them is suddenly nothing at all and is still too much, Gustave's hands are on him, his mouth is on his own, and all he can do is let himself be pushed back and swept away, his hands instinctively reaching back, twisting through his hair to hold him close, anchoring their bodies together so nothing can ever pull them apart again. Verso has wanted him so badly that being inundated by his warmth and his presence and Gustave all around him so suddenly means he can barely think, kissing him back desperately, bruising and harsh.
And then he's actually hearing what he's saying. Gustave says mon amour, and it's enough that he feels his entire world shift, stolen away from him even as he's quite literally swept off his feet by Gustave pushing him back, and back. He tries his best to move with it, his footsteps stumbling on the floor, unwilling to let his hands leave Gustave's body for long enough to brace or balance himself on any of the walls or furniture, but he feels the back of his legs hit something and they're already tumbling over.
Its the couch, apparently, and it's messy and overwhelming as he spills over the arm of it and collapses across, but he's holding onto Gustave so tightly that he pulls him down with him, on top of him, and he doesn't care about anything except that Gustave is still close, and as Gustave keeps talking he finds himself answering, in the same breathless, barely coherent babble, everything he's ever though the should say or couldn't say rising up into his throat and spilling out. ]
I -- I'm sorry, I never said it before. I love you. [ Apologizing seems the wrong thing to do, right now. But it's also all he can think to do when the gaping wound that's been torn between them hurts so much, when he knows it's his fault, when he knows that he just isn't enough to make it work. It never hurt so much before, but he never cared that much before, and it's been so many long years since herthat he felt like he needed someone so badly, that he would simply fall away and crumble into dust if they left him here. ] You can have me. All of me. Just you, please, I love you, I'm sorry --
[ He arches up against him, just trying to feel as much of him as he can, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He thinks he's happy. But it's messy, just crashing into each other over a mess of everything they've turned into. Gustave deserved to hear a confession somewhere beautiful, in a garden where the flowers were all in bloom, laying on their backs across a lonely rooftop with only the stars overhead, hand in hand in a quiet corner of a the restaurant where Verso had taken him on their first real date after weeks of not-quite-dates and hanging out, spelled out in rose petals or fireworks or the stars themselves for all he thinks would be good enough. But it's just this, messy words over tears, pulled on him on what feels like the verge of them falling apart. He doesn't know if it's enough. He wants to be enough. ]
[ They go stumbling across the room and then Verso trips and goes down and he follows, unwilling or maybe even unable to let go of him, leaving them in a tangled mess on the couch. He kisses Verso down into the cushions, then tracks hard, needy kisses over his cheek and jaw to his throat as Verso gasps out word after word like a man throwing logs into a bonfire, all of it just building up and up and up. He apologizes again, again, like he's desperate to find the right things to say, and Gustave doesn't know if it is the right thing, he knows Verso's sorry. That's never been in question.
But he adds you can have me, all of me, just you and that hits somewhere Gustave didn't expect, somewhere soft and sore and already raw and bleeding. Just you. And maybe it's true only he might have Verso's heart and soul and only he gets to actually put his hands on this body, feel Verso's hands on his, but there's always going to be parts of Verso that he shares with the world, with anyone willing to pay for it, and even that was fine until it started touching this. Until the parts that were just his weren't anymore.
His throat burns, thick, and he presses his eyes closed hard against the tears he hasn't let come all night, buries his face in Verso's neck as he slides his arms around his body, blanketing him here on this couch like if he just covers enough of him maybe the world won't be able to touch this anymore. Maybe Verso really can just be his, like he's Verso's. He never expected to hear Verso say he loved him only for his heart to break.
His kisses have given way to just his face pushed there into Verso's neck, his arms tight around him, body shaking, everything feels so fragile right now, like one wrong word, one wrong move will shatter it all, break them apart with the finality of snapping bone. ]
I should have told you every day.
[ Every word fights against the expanding tangle of everything in his chest, the heat behind his eyes, the thick feeling in his throat; his hands, caught between Verso and the couch cushions, grip into that too-big shirt that he loves so much, the way it drapes off Verso's shoulders, how it makes him look younger, softer. ]
Every day, Iโ youโ you deserved to know every single day how Iโ how much Iโ
[ His whole body tightens; he can't, he can't, not now, he's got to be able to tell Verso the things he needs to hear, like maybe one of them will somehow save them. ]
That first day we met, I couldn't think about anything else but you... you're my air, all of me is yours. I love you. Pleaseโ please just be mine.
[ Verso is gasping, winded and breathless, Gustave's kisses leaving fire in their wake across his cheek and down to his neck and throat -- it hasn't been that long but it already feels like too long since he's last felt him here, since he'd stumbled lazily into the bathroom in the morning to wash up, smiling a little when he sees some darkening bruise at the hinge of his shoulder, since Gustave steps in after him a few minutes later to press himself against his back with lazy just-woken-up kiss.
But something in his words seems to hit him -- just right, or just wrong. Something shifts, and Gustave is just clinging onto him, now, face buried against his neck, arms wrapped tight around him and pressing him down against the couch cushions. Verso's arms are immediately moving to wrap around him, too, hold him close, fingers sliding up over the familiar line of his back to tangle through his hair, the way he always loved to. Just weeks ago they were lying together on this couch, not unlike this, light flickering over them from some movie they were supposed to be watching on the computer screen he'd angled over to use as a TV. They'd already forgotten it, much more interested in being with each other, in long, slow, languid kiss that felt like they were melting into each other.
That felt like it could never end. This, whatever it is, feels like it's on a brink. An edge of something Verso is afraid of and doesn't entirely understand. Gustave starts talking, again, and Verso just turns to tuck his face against his hair, closing his eyes, breathing him in and trying to lose himself in him, in everything about him, fingers stroking gently through his curls at the back of his neck. ]
I -- I'm already yours.
[ But it's not enough, isn't it? He's not enough. ]
I'm sorry. I should've told you -- you deserved to hear this somewhere beautiful, somewhere perfect. [ A better memory than this mess to look back on, wherever they go from here, if they can go anywhere at all. ] I was just always afraid. I know I shouldn't have been. I'm sorry.
[ His hand is slightly shaking when it tracks from Gustave's nape along his jawline, dragging through scruff, gripping his chin enough that he can gently guide his head up, away from his neck, so he can look him in the eye. Verso is guarded and careful, hides behind a hundred masks, that's just who he is, who he's always been, mask after mask shifting in and out and each one promising someone everything with a smile. But this is him, past the masks, peeling everything away, even if he knows its hard to believe, that no one would believe it, even Gustave. Why wouldn't it jsut be another mask? Why would it be anything else?
[ He's got to relax, he's got toโ at the very least he needs to loosen his left arm before he accidentally cracks some of Verso's ribs. The haptics are improving with every iteration but he still needs to be careful with it, unable to always feel how hard he's holding something, someoneโ
Verso's hands run over his, familiar and perfect, and just the way his fingers thread into Gustave's hair makes him want to cry. Verso's always loved playing with his hair, toying idly with it while they're lying in bed, stroking fingers through it while they're sitting on the couch, braiding small locks of it for his own amusement while Gustave is trying to put the finishing touches on another vide, and now this feels likeโ likeโ like Verso's trying to ground him, or maybe himself, like he's trying to soothe him, but it doesn't feel like he can ever be soothed. He feels like a million jagged pieces of himself, a bag of broken glass poured out into Verso's hands, threatening to cut even with the gentlest, most careful touch.
Fingers come gently to his chin to coax his head up, and he resists it for a moment, but he can never resist Verso long, lets him guide him up so they can look each other in the face, and he knows he must be a mess. His own eyes are glossy, he keeps blinking too much, trying to keep everything at bay, and his face is flushed. He's shaking like this is some kind of life or death emergency, like he's just been rescued from the brink of some disaster and his body has only just realized he's still alive.
He doesn't know what to do. He's supposed to know what to do, how to fix things, that's what he does, he finds solutions and implements them and everything works better and more smoothly than before. And it's not like Verso isn't right here, underneath him, almost as close as he could possibly be, telling him he's always had him, that he loves him. Verso is pouring out his heart, stripped down to something bare and raw and aching, and Gustave believes him. So why does he still feel so impossibly far away?
His head lowers, briefly, and he swallows hard, before he looks up again and leans down, catching Verso's mouth in another kiss, this one a little more gentle than before, but long and lingering, every fractured, bloody piece of his breaking heart offered up in it. He wants to press his face back into Verso's neck again when it breaks, but he doesn't, lets his forehead rest against Verso's and tries to force himself to relax his grip a little. ]
I don't want to lose you. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, and it, it, it feels like you're slipping away from me.
You aren't losing me. [ It's immediate, punctuated by his arms tightening around him, holding him close as much as he is clinging to him, anchoring them both to each other. His fingers are still playing a little with his hair, featherlight compared to everything else. Soothing him, but if Verso's honest, it's more about grounding himself. Remind himself that Gustave is right here, still right here, literally on top of him, his weight warm and familiar. ]
I'm here. I'm -- I'm not going anywhere.
[ But it feels like things are slipping away anyway, aren't they? Like they're in a current they can't see but they can definitely feel, like they're holding on for dear life. Maybe it's inevitable, but even if it is, Verso doesn't care -- he's let too many things go before, and this, this actually matters. He'll fight it for as long as he can. Claw through that current and hold so tightly his fingers bleed. Anything. He'd do anything.
Verso pulls him into another kiss. Tries to sink into it like they have countless times before, something sweet and loving that deepens and deepens until they're pouring their hearts into each other, but something about this feels different and if he tries to figure out what it is he thinks its going to break. He pulls back after a little while, wetting his lower lip with his tongue, looking at him so helplessly, curling a lock of hair around some trembling fingers. ]
-- Right?
[ Why doesn't it feel right? When they're both telling each other they love each other, when that moment when they finally brought words to their feelings should have been nothing but beautiful, should've been both of them falling into each other deeper and deeper. It should be enough to soothe over whatever this hurt is. It should be enough to make things better, ease the pain away until they can just lose themselves in each other all over again in a tangle of bedsheets and kisses and they wake in the morning in each other's arms, tired and together. ]
[ Maybe he's not going anywhere. Maybe Gustave is the one who's drifting away, caught in some tidal pull he doesn't know how to fight, something so much bigger than him, bigger even than him and Verso, who kisses him and Gustave kisses him back, but something's wrong, they're not connecting like they usually do. He's too in his head, maybe, or maybe... maybe it's something worse than that. Maybe it's that he knows this is doomed, that no matter how much they love each other the facts of the situation don't change. It's Sophie all over again, and as he realizes it, he can feel his heart crack from top to bottom. ]
I don't know.
[ Whispered as he slides a hand out from under Verso, reaching up to stroke those wayward locks of hair that always slip out from the messy half-bun when he ties his hair up like this. His hand is trembling, shaking, but his touch is gentle, fingers brushing over Verso's hair like he's the most precious thing Gustave has ever touched, like any wrong move might shatter him as easily as if he were made of spun sugar.
Maybe this is the problem: that he can't see a way out. He's always been someone who has looked to the future, made plans and indulged in dreams, but lately the path to that future is murky, he can't find his way through. He doesn't know how to fix this, or if it even can be fixed. Maybe it's not broken at all, maybe they just... don't fit together the way they used to. I love you, they've both said, but love wasn't enough with Sophie. He doesn't know if it'll be enough now. ]
All I want is to be with you. I just... I just... I don't see....
[ He can't say it. If he says it, it makes everything, all of this real, and it'll spin out of control and he knows how that ends, it ends with them slowly pulling apart from each other on this couch, with distance that starts as an inch and opens its mouth to swallow them whole until it's been years and he can't remember the last time he saw Verso that wasn't on a screen. ]
[ Gustave's voice is soft, something about it seeming almost fragile, and Verso knows they both feel it. Something here, delicate and frail, held on the thread that binds their hearts together. If they speak too loud, if they move too fast, it just might shatter and break, and there'll be no coming back from that, no matter how much Verso might try to sweep up every piece and spend hours fitting them together again with trembling, bleeding hands. It just might shatter anyway. No matter what he does.
He touches him like he's something precious, almost sacred, and Verso shivers. Verso knows that touch, has it burned into memory, waking up in his bed as the sun streams in through a crack in the curtains, sleeping in after a long night of just being lost in each other, exhausted and pleasantly sore. Gustave has been awake for at least an hour or more, perched patiently by the bed, waiting, and the moment he sees him waking he's reaching over with a smile, fingers brushing over his hair, gently easing it out of his eyes.
Verso just wants to go back. To that morning, the night before, to everything they've ever shared, to the first day they met when Verso already thought that maybe he might be a little in love, laughing to himself about how stupid that is but how happy it made him feel when they parted ways at the cafe. When he thought better of it and turned back, catching up to Gustave with a little jog, moving close enough next to him that their shoulders brushed as he shoots him a grin and asks if he'd want to be walked home. A whole hour's walk? All the better. Verso shivers again, and he keeps slipping into reveries and memories flickering as vividly in front of him as anything, and he hates it. He needs to be here. In this moment. Fighting.
But he just -- he doesn't know what to do. Or say. He opens his mouth, and all that comes out is something aching and soft. ]
-- Please don't.
[ He closes his eyes even as he hears it leave his lips. Is that all he has left? Pleas and begging? Is that all he can think to do? His fingers twitch where they're tangled through Gustave's hair, almost involuntary.
Maybe there really is nothing here for them. Maybe he always knew they'd end up here. For as long as this has lasted, he's felt truly, truly happy, but maybe he was a fool for thinking this could ever be different than anything he ever had before. He's never been able to hold onto anything. And worst of all, maybe every damn comment or message that's ever said he doesn't deserve him -- has always had a grain of truth to it. More than they could ever know. ]
[ Verso shivers under his touch, and he could push all the rest of this away, he thinks, and chase that shiver down along his throat, pull another and another out of him. He can see how it would go, his hands slipping up under Verso's shirt, dragging it off him, letting Verso pull his own clothes off, pinning him gently down right here on the couch and kissing him everywhere until Verso is panting and pleading, until there's nothing but them grounded in their bodies and all he can taste, touch, feel, hear is Verso.
He could do it. They'd fall asleep wrapped up together, and by morning he'll have convinced himself that they'll be able to fix this, that it's not so bad, and it might last for a few more weeks, maybe a month or even two, but then they'd be right back here again. Because it's never going to stop.
But then Verso opens his mouth and that whisper comes out, softly begging, and Gustave can feel the moment he simply cracks in half, the second he simply can't take any more. Something in his chest snaps, sudden and wet like breaking a bone, and Verso's eyes are closed so he can't see the way his face crumples, all at once. His head drops like some string that had been holding it up was cut, his forehead dropping to Verso's shoulder, and he's shaking, shoulders and back, his metal hand clutching Verso's shirt and the patch of cloth he's pressed his face into growing more and more damp, hot tears finally flooding out of him and it hurts. No part of this feels like a release, it feels like the world is ending.
Please don't, but what is he supposed to do? He can't ask Verso to give up his career, or even part of his career. He can't ask Verso to make rules just for him. He can't find a way to ignore the comments, the screenshots, the video clips, when they feel like being surrounded by thugs who punch him over and over again in the stomach, the chest, the jaw. Every muscle is thrumming tight, his whole body clenched and shaking until he can't swallow it back anymore and his breath comes in a wet sob against Verso's shirt. He can't ever remember feeling so helpless in his whole life as he feels now, with Verso here in his hands and his arms and falling away from him anyway.
His eyes squeeze shut but his face is wet and so is Verso's shirt, and he can't stop. He doesn't want any of this, but he can't see a way out. ]
[ Verso's eyes are still closed, more than a little afraid to open them. He isn't even sure what he's afraid of seeing -- Gustave face above him, pitying him for being reduced to just pleading and begging him to stay, Gustave's lips pressed into a thin line, angry and unhappy. But no, he knows him well enough. It'd never be anything like that. He'd just be sad, he'd just be upset, because neither of them want this. They wanted anything but this. But they're here anyway, and maybe he's afraid that seeing that would just have him fall apart, would have what precious he's still managing to hold in the balance finally shatter into pieces on the floor.
He doesn't expect Gustave just -- crumpling. He feels it even if he doesn't see it, Gustave collapsing further on top of him and burying his face against his shoulder. Verso still has an arm wrapped around him, and he can feel it when he starts to shake, feel his metal hand clutch onto his shirt, damp with tears. And Verso just feels his heart break, his arm tightening around him, helpless. What are they supposed to do? What else can they do? Verso can beg him, and they can try, and they can probably fool themselves again, if they want -- and part of him thinks maybe that'd be worth it. Just a few more months. A few more weeks. Days. Wouldn't that be worth it? Wouldn't anything be worth a bit more time with him, a bit more time of this, this thing that somehow fell into his life and made him feel happy for the first time in years?
But he knows the answer, deep down. It's already gone.
Hearing him sob, feeling it in his arms, Verso finds himself moving without thinking. His eyes flicker open, and he looks down to see Gustave sobbing into his shirt, trying to stop himself from crying even as the tears keep coming. This man, god, this beautiful man, Verso never wanted to see him like this, to do this to him, to make him cry or make him sad, to make him hurt in any way at all. Gustave brings so much joy to so many people, brings so much to him, and it's all about to fade away from his grasp. Gustave is falling away on the tide, and he's left standing on the shore, staring out through the fog, waiting and waiting for something that he already knows will never come.
His hands stroke through Gustave's hair, again, soft and gentle, playing with a curl and coiling it a bit too tight around his finger, so that when it springs from his hand it'll stay that way for a while -- something he always likes to do, makes him laugh when he sees it later. Verso can feel the sting of hot tears running down his own cheek, but he ignores it, just keeps stroking his hair, easy, comforting, shifting slightly on the couch until he can push himself up just a little against the arm of it behind his shoulders, until he can look down at him. Smiling a little, through his tears, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek, tasting salt on his lips. ]
-- You're okay.
Yeah? [ He murmurs, stroking his hair. Cradling him close, holding him tight. ] It's -- going to be okay. It's going to be okay.
Just say it, Gustave. I promise. It's okay.
[ He won't just beg, again, desperate and pleading and leave Gustave to be the only one standing there, to make him feel like he's doing something terrible instead of something they both know they've been falling towards for a while. They both know it. It's okay. It -- it has to be okay. ]
[ He shouldn't have come here. He should have just texted something silly and lighthearted back to Verso and swallowed the rest, and then he could have come by tomorrow with flowers and a funny story from his trip and everything would have been... maybe not good, but manageable, for at least a few weeks and maybe by then he would have figured something out.
But like a fool he'd come here, and now he's trying to keep from sobbing his breaking heart out on the shirt and shoulder of the man he loves, the man whose heart he's breaking, too. Verso doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to have to try and comfort the man who's hurting him so badly, and yet he does anyway, his voice coming soft and almost steady. It's okay. You're okay. Putting himself in front of the gun Gustave's holding and pressing the muzzle to his own chest as he smiles and reaches to help fit Gustave's finger to the trigger. Playing with his hair the way Gustave loves most, because he knows how much Verso loves it, twirling a lock around his finger until it curls into a spiral that makes him smile, makes him laugh every time he looks at it afterward. Like they're lying in bed together and Verso is idly toying with his hair and everything is fine. No one's heart has to break, no one has to say something they can't take back. ]
I'm not.
[ His voice is thick with tears; he shakes his head over and over again, unwilling to accept this grace Verso's offering him, a chance for him to just say the words he'd rather rip his own ribs out than say. He lifts his head, and his face is flushed and tear-streaked, eyes red and glossy as they search out Verso's. He's crying, too, tears slipping down his cheek, and Gustave can't bear to see it, to know he's the cause of it when all he's ever wanted to do was make Verso happy. When what Verso deserves is nothing but happiness.
He reaches to cup Verso's cheek, thumb smearing away those tears even as more trickle from the corners of his eyes. He can't see how he could ever feel happy again. ]
It's not, it's not okay. Don't say that. How, how could it be okay?
[ No part of this is okay, and right now he feels like maybe nothing will ever be okay again. The world is cracking apart, and he doesn't know how to stop it. ]
Ask me to stay. Please, just.... I don't want you to make this easy. I don't want this at all.
Edited (adding stuff! and things!) 2025-06-22 03:31 (UTC)
[ Gustave is a good man. Beautiful, charming, beloved. He's kind and good-hearted and sure, how good he looks with his rolled-up sleeves has always been a part of his popularity no matter how much he seems to disbelieve it, but Verso knows its more than that, too. His heart has always shined through, earnest and true, with so much genuine enthusiasm for what he was doing and for how he could help the world, just one man telling his own stories and teaching his lessons and still with a whole-hearted belief that he was doing his small part to change the world. People were drawn to him because of that. Verso was drawn to him, because of that.
This will shatter them. This will hurt. This will take this small and sacred thing they've nurtured between themselves until it grew and grew and started to thrive and snuff it out before it has a chance to really spread its wings, drive a sword through its heart and a bullet into its skull. But Verso thinks the world of Gustave, and the world thinks so much of him. He will be okay. Eventually.
( And surely, better off without this, without him. )
Before, when Gustave had been the one gesturing at an awful truth neither of them wanted to name, Verso had already started pleading, and he was prepared to beg. He was already sure in his mind that no matter what Gustave said he couldn't let this go, that if he was forced to go he would go bleeding and crying and dragging his nails through him until Gustave couldn't leave him without also leaving bleeding parts of him behind. He'd already made up his mind that he'd be stubborn, do anything it takes to make this last for even a few more empty days again and again and again, force Gustave to deal with the worst of him. But then Gustave just told him he loved him, fell into tears above him, and --
-- He can't do it. He can't. He loves this man, he loves him so much, he loves him too much to be so cruel to him. If anything Verso is amazed at how simple it suddenly seems in his own mind. Of course, when it comes down to it, he'd be willing to let go, because he just can't bear to hurt him. Gustave wouldn't have stayed away, said all these things in their fights, came all this way in the middle of the night to tell him that it's never going to stop if he wasn't already thinking the same thing, if he hadn't just come to try in some vain last-ditch effort to see if they could find a way to fix this, or else force himself to finally face the truth.
He turns his head against his touch, another tear rolling down his cheek, his lips brushing against the pad of his thumb. ]
I want you to stay. Love, I want you to stay more than almost anything -- [ Verso's voice stalls there, for a moment, something flickering in his eyes. What had he just called Gustave, without even thinking about it? Love. It'd fallen from his lips so naturally, so easily, and just the thought of that makes his heart wrench. He should've told him before. He should've said he loved him -- maybe not from the start, but once it'd become clear, inevitable, once he knew. He should've taken him somewhere beautiful to watch the sunset, tucked his hair behind his ear and watched how the warm light seemed to make him glow, reached out to turn his head so that he was looking him full in the eyes when he told him: Je t'aime.
Too late. Too far gone. He was always a fucking coward. Maybe this, at least, he can face with some kind of hollow dignity. This is what he deserves, and Gustave could always have done better. ] -- But more than even that. I don't want to hurt you.
[ He's still stroking his hair, achingly gentle, his other hand slowly lifting to cradle Gustave's face, thumb stroking gently across his cheek, wiping away some tear -- ineffectively, as more just follow after. Gustave is so beautiful. How could he have hurt him so much? He doesn't deserve this. ]
[ He shakes his head, a small movement but over and over against Verso's hand. No, he won't be okay. He might eventually feel like it's possible to breathe without Verso, he might be able do his work and talk to people and even laugh, but his heart has already broken once and he doesn't think it'll recover from this second hit. He's not even sure he'd want it to. If he can't have Verso, if he can't have this thing that's grown between them and made him so deliriously happy, this precious thing he's tried to cup in his hands and protect, then the only thing left is to harbor this broken heart, clinging to it as the only part of it all that still remains to him.
He doesn't want to be okay. Being okay would mean he's okay with hurting Verso, with being the one to give up and give in, to close the door that's opened between them. He isn't okay with any of that, he hates it so much he's starting to feel sick, his stomach twisting and churning as Verso tries to make this easy for him, turning his face into Gustave's touch and lightly kissing the thumb that's wet and salty with the tears Gustave has made him cry, his voice gentle. Love.
Hearing it feels like being stabbed. His heart tries to fly โ Verso loves him โ but it's all in the bloody, shattered pieces he himself is tearing it into. Maybe if he'd said it earlier, if he'd told Verso how much this, how much he means to him, they wouldn't be here right now. Maybe if he'd told Verso when things first started to bother him, instead of laughing it off and convincing himself it wasn't anything to get worked up about, he would have come over here tonight only because he hadn't seen Verso in over a week and was desperate to get his hands on him. They'd already be wound together in Verso's bed, bodies sliding beneath the sheets.
Maybe he'd finally have taken his heart in his hands, while they were in the middle of undoing each other โ or after, more likely, exhausted and damp with sweat and still twined together because they can't bear to let go โ he'd have been able to say it: je t'aime. Soft and warm and sweet and a little shy, a gift instead of an attempt to stop an avalanche. Je t'aime, I love you. He'll never forgive himself for waiting until those words only blew open an enormous hollow cavern in himself instead of letting them fill each other up. ]
I don't want to hurt you, either. I hate that I'm hurting you.
[ And he is, god, he is, he's being such a coward, he's hurting Verso even more by letting this linger, by still fighting as if it might be possible to stumble on some other way through before he has to finally say the words. He should say them and go, leave Verso to his own pain without twisting the knife. ]
I hate that people are telling you those things, asking you to say those things about yourself, about us, because of me, it's, it'sโ merdeโ
[ Gustave keeps shaking his head, small but jerky, and Verso doesn't know what to do. Of course he doesn't think he could ever be okay, he loves him, and -- he's not spoken too much about her to him, but Verso has heard enough about Sophie from Maelle, from Emma. Would this really scar him so deeply he could never heal from it? Verso -- finds it hard to believe, even now, even clinging onto him and believing whole-heartedly that he himself would likely never find anything like this again. Gustave is lovely and warm and good, and he deserves nothing but happiness. Surely, if there's any justice in the world at all, some happiness would find him someday.
Just not here. Not with him. He'd wanted so badly for it to be this, and for a while, with how happy he was, Verso really belived with his whole heart that this -- might be it. That everything he's ever suffered would all be worthwhile, because it's finally led him to Gustave. That this could be where he could choose to place his heart, and it would rest safe and protected for the rest of their lives together. And he thinks, bitterly, even with the small faint smile he's still trying to hold: that's still true. Gustave would've been the one to hold his heart forever, and probably still will be.
Verso's just not good enough, in turn.
His voice is a little hoarse, his throat thick with tears, even as he tries to keep it steady and unwavering, soothing as he can manage. ]
We're not going to agree on that, I think.
[ Gustave's not the problem. He's perfect. He never could be, and Verso's not even going to open the opportunity for the back and forth to happen. He can already hear it: Gustave insisting no, no, it's me. It's me. And Verso taking him by the hands and telling him no. There's no point to circling that drain when they're already here. ]
But the world is cruel, mon chou. I know we can agree on that. And --
[ His voice catches, wavers. He's trying so hard. He doesn't want to break. ]
-- And on how much we don't want to hurt each other.
[ That not-quite-smile tugs a little more at his lips. A brave face, as much of one as he can put on while there are still hot tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, while he keeps playing with his hair, keeps trying to thumb away Gustave's own tears. He can't take much more of this, he's going to break again. He's going to slip from the couch and beg on his knees, going to grab him by the ankles and keep him from leaving, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks. He's going to pour his broken heart all across the floor and plead and plead that he's never going to be the same without him and if Gustave cared for him at all surely he wouldn't be so cruel as to leave him there, like this. He's going to be a pitiable fucking mess, because what is there left of him, when Gustave is gone?
He can't do that to him. God, he can't. Verso's lip is starting to tremble, and he's trying as hard as he can. ]
[ He's the worst kind of person, he thinks, looking into Verso's tear-streaked face, seeing how brave Verso is trying to be for him, how hard he's working to make this easier, to try and give him a smooth way out, and all it's doing is hurting him more. He cups Verso's face in his hand, touching the pad of his thumb to that trembling lip, and swallows back his own tears. ]
Mon cher, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'mโ I'm making this so much worse, I'm being so selfish.
[ Letting Verso impale himself just so that he'll feel a little better. Dragging this out instead of making the swift cut that's the only kindness he can offer now. Watching as Verso shatters his own heart, as if it could possibly heal his own, when the only thing he's ever wanted to give Verso was every possible happiness. He deserves everything, his beautiful, vibrant musician; Verso, who is so generous and filled with so much sweetness and warmth and goodness beneath the masks he wears. Sometimes Gustave wonders how he could ever have thought he really saw colors, or appreciated the beauty of the stars, or listened to music before Verso came into his world, a storm of passion and life and exuberance.
His throat works again, and he dips his head to wipe his tear-stained face on his own sleeve, taking a deep, shaking breath. He doesn't... he doesn't want Verso's last memories of him to be a sobbing, tear-soaked mess. The faint shade of a smile he drags out of the deepest parts of himself, feeling like he's reaching in to grip his own lungs and tear them out, doesn't crinkle his eyes, doesn't to more than flicker, heartbroken, at the corners of his mouth, but he tries. He has to try.
His voice is soft, trembling. He feels like he's slowly driving a sword into his own body, but he has to actually say it, doesn't he. He owes Verso that much at least, in return for the lifetime he'd wanted to offer him. ]
If there was some other way... some other life, you know, some other...
But the way things are, I don't see how... some part of it has to stop in order for us to get out of this, this spiral, and the only part I have any control over is whether I stay or not.
[ Misery clogs up his chest, a cold wet mist that clings to everything, makes each breath, each beat of his heart feel slow and heavy and exhausting. He doesn't know how he'll survive this, but he'll have to try. A fresh flood of tears glosses his eyes, floods his throat, turns his voice thick, but he presses on, just like he forced himself to do with Sophie, knowing it's the only thing he can do that will let Verso live the life he wants. ]
So I, I have. I have to go. It'sโ nothing else would be fair. To you. To both of us.
[ Verso shakes his head a little, even if he doesn't give voice to it, leaning against his touch. He's not being selfish, he's not making this worse, he's not, he's not. He's beautiful and perfect and everything Verso could've ever wanted. Kind, loving, always knowing the right thing to say even if he sometimes stumbled over the words, somehow always knowing when something was wrong, even if Verso was trying to hide it behind a dozen different masks, somehow always knowing the right thing to say or do to coax him out from under them. He always makes him laugh, makes him feel like the world falls away and its just the two of them, where it's when they're holding hands and walking outside, leaning against each other and giggling as they went, or when they're tangled up in each other in bed and Gustave is arching against him with his name on his lips.
He was always perfect. He is perfect. This is just -- Verso's own doing. The world's doing. Their audiences, the gossip blogs, everything else. It could never be Gustave.
Gustave slowly starts to smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. Verso knows what it means, feels that crack running through his heart start to deepen, a violent fissure tearing itself through his soul, and he braces for it as much as he can, tries to smile back. Every word feels a little like dagger being driven through his ribs, but he swallows thickly, tries to hold back even more tears, just stays quiet, and listens. He bites back the urge to argue, to say no, to claw onto any desperate piece of this he can hold onto, but when Gustave says I have to go part of him just -- breaks. He has to close his eyes to keep it from being too obvious, tears immediately rolling down thicker over his cheeks, those fingers in Gustave's hair tightening through the familiar curls, gripping onto him a bit too tightly.
Still, he doesn't say anything. He waits until Gustave is actually done, until there's silence hanging in the air, then he can hear his own heart tear itself in half. It feels like the world goes with it, fractured and torn asunder. It feels like nothing will ever mend it again. It feels like all the parts of him are scattered everywhere, weeping and bleeding and broken, and he really, really doesn't want Gustave to know how deeply he believes that he will never find anyone else ever again, that he's had his one taste of what happiness could be like, and now he'll live the rest of his life in miserable payment for how he'd fucked it up so badly.
When Verso does open his eyes again, he has to take a few moments to blink away tears, his vision blurry, before he can really see Gustave above him. Both of them smiling, no matter how pained, both of them trying to make this easier for the other. It'd be sweet if it wasn't utterly devastating, if he didn't know that nothing would ever be okay, ever again.
He nods. ]
I -- I know. [ His voice is trembling. ] I know, Gustave. You're -- you're right.
[ He's always, right, isn't he. ]
I'm so sorry. I wish . . .
[ Some other way. Some other life. Those fingers in his hair slide to the back of his neck, and there's a moment where any other time he would've tightened his grip there, pulled him closer, leaned in for a kiss. Soft and sweet, lingering with a smile, or deep and heated, wanting, desperate, yearning.
Now, there's just. Nothing. His fingers twitching against the back of his neck, his heart empty and cold. ]
I'll let you go.
[ Before he tries to stop him. Before he makes it so much worse for either of them. He has to let him go. ]
[ He hadn't known until just now, until right this second as Verso says you're right and releases the tight grip he has in Gustave's hair, as Verso says I'll let you go, how much he'd been hoping Verso would tell him no, would argue and hold onto him and refuse to let go. Verso's as stubborn as he is, and this means so much to both of them, and some huge part of him had been expecting Verso to fight back, to try to keep him, to shout or get angry or do anything other than what he's doing, which is just.... giving in.
Letting go.
Gustave bows his head under that touch, his own hand still gentle where it's cupping Verso's face, and tries not to think about how this is the last time he'll feel Verso warm beneath him, feel every breath and every shift of his body, listen to that voice murmuring words that are only for him. A fresh flood of tears streams from Verso's eyes, and he can barely see through his own, can barely breathe through his choked throat and aching lungs as the life he'd hoped for, wanted, had started planning for slips through his fingers for the second time.
He won't try again. He knows it with the same bone-deep certainty as he does the fact that he has to do this, for both of them. It's the only way they can live their lives with the choices they've made for themselves, no matter how painful it might be.
He sniffs, shakes his head, wipes his face on his sleeve again, and slowly draws his thumb one last time over Verso's lip, over the scruff of his beard and the angle of his jaw one last time before he lifts his hand away. Carefully, he uncurls the fingers of his left hand from Verso's shirt, realizing as he does that in his panic and desperation he'd torn holes right through the material, visible proof of the destruction he's wreaking.
Pushing himself up, slowly peeling himself away from Verso to sit at the edge of the couch feels like peeling his own chest open, layer by layer, cracking his own ribs, reaching in to that hollowed out, damaged space to drag his own heart out still, bloody and beating. He can't stay here, he has to, has to go, every second he stays here is an eternity of agony, every moment is another moment closer to when he'll simply crack and find himself on his knees apologizing, begging Verso to let him stay.
Standing feels like he's moving some other person's body, or someone else is moving his; he barely feels it aside from the weight that rounds his shoulders, makes every movement slow and weary. But he still holds out his hand to Verso, half reflex, to help him up, too. They both deserve to be on their feet for this, surely.
But once his fingers curl around Verso's hand, he can't find it in himself to let go. Lingers there for a moment, looking down at the way his thumb brushes over Verso's fingers. He wishes he'd gotten to see him play the piano one more time, before... before.
His voice is low, almost a murmur, words for Verso and Verso alone as he finally looks back up to meet those stricken eyes, his own desolate and dark with pain. ]
My heart is... it's yours. Keep it safe for me, all right?
[ The world is ending and Verso is trying as hard as he can to just stay standing. It already feels helpless, a yawning chasm dragging him under, burying him six feet under rubble and earth, telling him he will never breathe again. Everything in him wants to beg for Gustave to stay, wants to scream at him for letting it get this far, wants to take his hands and laugh and just say that they can try again and be a little more careful and talk things through and everything will be fine, won't it, he's fine. But they've been moving in quicksand for months, spats and squabbles that got soothed over with sweet apologies and kisses and Verso's body arching up into Gustave's own between gasps and moans, only the scar remained and never healed and they grew and grew, and.
Gustave thumbs over his lip and jaw with a tenderness and finality that makes his already broken heart shatter that much further. Verso knows what he's thinking, and he can almost hear it, feel it. This is the last time they'll see each other anything like this. The last time he'll touch him like this. There are holes in his tear-stained shirt, but Verso doesn't entirely register them or care, not when the love of his life is drifting away and these are the last precious moments of everything, of feeling him close, feeling those fingers against his skin. This is the last time he'll feel his heart beating, Verso knows. The moment Gustave steps out that door ( and just having the thought feels like another dagger slid through his ribs ), his heart will stop, falling from his chest all across the floor, and all he'll be able to do is try desperately to pick it back up with bleeding, trembling fingers, and.
To give it to him. To Gustave. It was always his. He was always his. And now Gustave can just cast him away and forget him and leave it behind and Verso -- doesn't even mind. That's what comes with giving someone your heart so completely, isn't it? It's theirs, theirs to do anything they want, even this, and Verso could never dream of taking it back.
Verso's hand is trembling when Gustave takes it, when he guides him back up to his feet. He tries not to think of the dozen times Gustave's done this before, held his hand and pulled him up, from mornings where they woke up next to each other in bed smelling of the sheets and each other, from times when they're spilled out across the floor because they never made it to a bed and they're still laughing from it as much as they're basking in the afterglow, from when he's just been sitting at the piano practicing for hours and pouring everything into it and Gustave has been watching the entire time, gently urging him to rest, if only because he can't keep his hands off of him. From sitting together in a quiet cafe with masks drawn over their faces and hoods drawn up, an attempt to have something sweet and quiet together without someone finding them, Gustave pulling him to his feet unhappily when they spot some photographer -- but they're laughing as they leave, hand in hand. From Gustave gently peeling himself from his side where they were tucked together in the back of a rideshare car, stepping outside first so he can offer his hand and help him out, holding him close and so tightly as they stumble upstairs to an entire evening together.
Verso takes a deep breath, squeezing Gustave's hand so very gently, drawing it to his chest, just over his heart. His voice is thick with tears, whisper-soft. ]
Mon coeur.
[ Verso doesn't want to let go. He should let go. He says he's letting go. But he's still clinging to his hand like the only anchor he has left, and he knows he shouldn't, that if he keeps making exceptions he might just fall to his knees and beg for all this to stop and go back to what it was before, but he still can't help but lift that hand to his mouth, to brush a gentle kiss against the back of his hand with the trembling reverance of a pilgrim meeting something truly sacred. ]
I know you will do the same for me.
[ His own heart, tucked safe deep into Gustave's chest, wherever he chose to keep it when he first took it from Verso -- the very first day they met. ]
[ He can feel Verso's hand shaking โ or maybe that's his own. His whole body feels weird and disconnected, his metal left arm the only part of him that's not trembling, not flushed with a disorienting cocktail of stress chemicals as his body attempts to identify and respond to what it perceives as a threat. And it is: his heart is stumbling, his breathing is too light and too fast, he feels like a hole's been blown in his chest, his lifeblood leaking away.
He should let go. He needs to let goโ but Verso's lifting his hand and brushing a kiss over it, gentle, almost worshipful, and he can't stop the sob that drags air abruptly into his lungs. All he can think of is all the times Verso's lifted his hand, pressed his lips to the back of it, starting with the very first day they met: Verso stealing his hand and bringing it to his lips, looking up through his lashes with that sly, mischievous smile that Gustave would later come to know so well, the one that's all invitation and promise, like but not like the ones he gives to his fans, his subscribers. Despite everything, Gustave knows some things were just for him. He knows. It just doesn't change anything.
His fingers tighten on Verso's, clinging so tight his knuckles bleach, so tightly that if someone were to try to pull them apart, they'd have to break his fingers to make him let go. If he lets go, it really is over, and he'll leave this apartment feeling like it would hurt less, be less lethal to simply step off the roof and let himself plummet to the ground. It already feels like every bone in his body is broken, as crushed as his foolish, miserable heart. He doesn't want to make it real. He doesn't want this to be the last time he feels Verso's hand in his this way, the last time he can look into this face he loves so much, so beautiful even tear-stained and flushed and etched in lines of misery, and see how much Verso loves him in return. ]
Mon amour.
[ โEven that, just that, chokes him, stops him from even being able to speak at all as his throat closes. Verso should have heard those words from him every day โ Verso, mon amour, Verso my love, my darling, my heart โ and instead they'll forever be tainted by this, by him destroying this thing that's so precious to both of them, instead of Verso hearing them as Gustave chuckles and scolds indulgently at some mischief Verso's getting up to in public; over a glass of wine as they sit at some rooftop cafe looking out over the city as the sun sets, Verso painted in suffusing golden light and looking like an angel sent directly from heaven; whispered across the pillows as they fall asleep together.
God, he can't imagine falling asleep tonight, or ever again. How can he sleep without being able to breathe Verso in, without hearing him there, without being able to reach a lazy hand out and touch him? How can he sleep, how can he live, how will he be able to do anything at all when his world is shattering around him?
Before he knows it, he's taking a short, sudden step closer, dragged in by Verso's gravity and his own breaking heart that's crying out for Verso, only Verso, to touch him and hold him and kiss him and promise that it'll be okay, they can make it work, he loves him so much, so muchโ
โHe can't, he can't do this to him, to himself. His hand squeezes Verso's, hard enough it hurts, before he forces his fingers to let do, driving that blade once again between his own ribs. ]
I have toโ I have to go, Verso, Iโ if I don't go now I never will, Iโ I love you. I love you. Je t'aime.
[ One last time he curves his fingers around the back of Verso's head; one last time he drags himself close to press a fervent, desperate kiss to that perfect mouth; one last time, one last taste, before he rips himself away, steps back rapidly, and now he's weeping again, tears streaming down his face. ]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I love you.
[ The last thing he can say before he's making his way blindly to the door, shoulders shaking with the sobs that are trying to wrench their way out of him, fumbling with the knob before he manages to get the door open, to push himself out of the flat and into the hall, steps quick. He doesn't look back. He can't. ]
[ Gustave is holding onto him so tightly that it feels like his fingers could break. Verso is looking straight into his eyes, forcing himself to not look away, watch as Gustave collapses into another tearful sob. All he wants to do is hold him, wrap his arms around him and plead with him to stay, comfort him, murmur something sweet into his ear that they can just put all this behind them and everything would be alright. Lie to him, even, sweet and honeyed, they can just be together, they don't have to fight, nothing is wrong and they can just go back to the way things were, it's okay, it's okay, it's.
It's not. Nothing will ever be okay again. And Verso, maybe, is alright with that, for himself, at least. Already quietly resigning himself to a life of misery, to a world that will never know happiness or color the way Gustave brought it into his life. That, clearly, is all he deserves, for finding someone as lovely as Gustave who only ever deserved joy and love and goodness in his life. It's what he deserves for being the man that's taken this beautiful thing and broken his wings and dragged him down and left him scrambling across the floor, who's made him cry, who's broken his heart. The world has opened up beneath his feet, a yawning chasm to sink into and drown forever, and all Verso can think to do is to just go into it willingly and pray fervently to anything that would listen that the world is just enough to bring Gustave out whole on the other side.
Mon amour, Gustave calls him, and just when Verso thinks his heart has taken as much as it can, it just shatters all over again. More and more, with every word Gustave says, with just looking at him in the eyes every shard fragmenting fractals into tinier pieces, each one pointed glass embedded into his ribs, cutting him deeper, weeping blood and tears. Gustave looks like an utter wreck, and Verso knows it's his fault.
Gustave steps towards him, sudden, sharp, and Verso barely stops himself from flinching. He doesn't know if it's to flinch back and away, or closer to close the aching distance between them, both forces pulling at him like an impossible gravity, unable to push him either way, only resulting in tearing him further and further apart. Gustave lets go, and Verso feels the miserable remnants of his heart sink. It's over. It's done. It's over --
Then one moment. One last, fleeting moment of desperation, Gustave's fingers in his hair at the back of his skull, Gustave's lips against his own. All he can hear is his blood pounding in his ears and the echo of Gustave's words, fervent, desperate, falling over themselves, I love you, I love you, Je t'aime, and feeling Gustave's lips against his own and tasting him again, his hands instinctively move up, desperate to hold onto him --
-- But he grasps nothing. Empty air. Gustave is still telling him he loves him, but he's already stepping back, staggering away, tears streaming down his cheeks, the door rattling in its frame. For all of his defeatism, for all of his resignation, for all of his determination that he has to let him go because Gustave deserves better, Verso still feels what's left of his shriveled heart leap up into his throat, reaching out, his fingers trembling. ]
Wait --
[ There's no one to hear it. His voice is hoarse, throat thick with tears, awful and broken and barely a voice at all. The door swings back on its hinges, not even closing shut, and Verso can see through the gap to the shadow of someone stumbling down the stairs, hear the footsteps echoing in the stairwell. If he looked out the window, he might be able to see him, one silhouette in the dead of night, fleeing further and further until he blends in with the city and shadows.
He stands there for what feels like far too long, his outstretched hand reaching for nothing, before he takes one staggering step back, another. He collapses against the far thing he hits ( the arm of the couch, again, his head falling back against the cushion ), sinking down onto the floor in a miserable mess, closing his eyes only to find the tears have stopped coming, just because he simply has nothing left, his breath struggling to leave his lungs. It's like he's dying, like Gustave has slipped a dozen blades into his chest, each one reading I love you as every last echo of those words hangs in the air, as he burns the sound of Gustave's broken voice telling him those words into his heart and memory.
The door hangs, swinging empty on its hinges. Verso can't muster the energy to bring himself to his feet, almost feels like if he closes it then it closes out the last whispers of him that he may have left trailing in his wake. He curls up where he is, knees tucked to his chest.
The world has ended. There's nothing left. Its only when the sun rises, when a neighbor leaving for work pokes a curious concerned face against the open door, when Verso finally stands to close it, staggering wordlessly back into his apartment to collapse face-down into an empty, lonely bed. ]
[ never let it be said that lune isn't a woman of her word.
instead of sending verso eight pictures, she sends just one: the night sky over their camp as a backdrop, her outstretched arm in the center with her fingers folded in as if to show off her nails. at first glance, there's nothing different about them—clean, trimmed, and slender. guitarist fingers.
but on the second glance, he might see the way the firelight catches at the sides of her fingers and nails; the way they shine wetly in the low light. unconventional for a sext, and maybe a little too subtle, but no one can say she's not creative. ]
[ definitely unconventional, and it takes verso a moment to see it -- at first he thinks it's just an artsy framing of her hand, beautiful as it is, as much as he's talked about how much he enjoys watching her play, as much as she's seen him watch her, his eyes fixed on the way her fingers play across the strings.
but then there's the shine, the wet glimmer, and ah.
subtle. and effective. he can feel his breath catching, when he realizes sees it, realizes it. ]
[ there's some time between his text and her next response, but it does eventually come in the form of another picture, this time on the lower half of her face, her bare shoulders and her rumpled uniform beneath them. she has her fingers on her mouth, her lower lip streaked with that same wet from the previous picture. ]
[ oh, god. verso stares at this one for some time, at her rumpled uniform and how it fells around her neck, her hair framing her face, her fingers against her own lips.
[ it wouldn't do if she couldn't manage a tasteful sort-of-nude or two after dragging his eight dick pics last time. it's a point of pride, or something. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
x
- Picture Prompts
- First Impressions
- End of the World
- Smut Picture Prompts
- Gen Texting
- I Thought...
- I Want to Know
- Uunsent Texts
- Regency AU
- Moment After
EMP PSL/Thread ideas dump
@revitalization, smut pic prompts (nsfw obv.)
[ This is probably a mistake.
Verso has been on the Continent a long time, has seen so many Expeditions come and go, and he isn't naive to the role he often comes to play with them. Sometimes he's a mentor or guide, other times he only helps from a distance, and other times an actual enemy. But often, spending time with a group of people stressed out of their minds and staring down the end of their lives, he can also offer them some simple, physical comfort. And he doesn't mind that ( even if he's not always as good at keeping distance as he thinks he is, even if sometimes his heart just sinks and sinks ).
Expedition 33 is different. He's been waiting for the opportunity to finally come, and he's taken care to not just immediately fuck it up, tried to keep his distance -- but soon enough he's there at camp, not quite a friend but a teammate nonetheless. Maelle gives him an armband, Sciel teases him, and Lune -- asks him questions. So many questions, over and over again, getting questioned ( or outright interrogated ) by Expeditions is hardly new to him, but Lune is persistent. She's sharp, analytical, and doesn't quite know how to take his evasiveness as an answer. She's sharp, she's beautiful, she doesn't trust him.
And she tastes like wine.
Verso's fingers are rough and callused with years of life on the Continent with sword and dagger in hand, gliding across the skin of her thighs, pulling them apart as he nestles himself between her legs. They've not quite managed to fully undress, parts of the uniforms hanging off of them in pieces, but its enough that he can look up at her through his half-lidded eyes and see her laid out over the bedroll they've haphazardly kicked out, her already-mussed hair framing her like a -- well. Like a painting.
The questions had been exhaustive. He'd moved closer. And now they're here, and Verso reaches for her hand with his own, mouthing hotly along her inner thigh, teasing until he reaches her core. His head spins with the heady scent of her, gripping onto her hand tightly as much to anchor himself as it is to anchor her, his eyes falling shut again as he ducks his head and laps over her, into her, tasting her. ]
no subject
but a calculated one, maybe; less of a mistake and more of an... indulgence, perhaps. ever critical, ever logical, lune weighs her options and balances the consequences. the path in the pursuit of knowledge isn't always so clearly defined—sometimes, you have to give more of yourself in order to obtain the desired result. but here is where it gets a little muddy: she doesn't know what that desired result is. not enough to clearly voice it.
there's a lot about verso she doesn't know. she pushes and persists, yes, is unrelenting in her questions, of course, but she always lets him go in the end. if she had her way, she'd keep him by the fire through the night just to shake him down for all the knowledge he has. maybe then she could figure out what that look in his eyes mean when he thinks no one is looking at him, or the way his expression shifts ever so slightly when they land on a certain topic. he's evasive (the less charitable would consider him disingenuous, perhaps) and yet he has a great capacity for sincerity, for kindness. he's contradictory in the most frustrating way, and sometimes, she just wants to reach out—
her fingers sink into his hair, a fine tremble shivering down her spine at the drag of his calluses against her thighs. they're further from camp, but the firelight still reaches their corner, licking along her skin to illuminate one side of her face. anticipation simmers low in her abdomen, a tight knot of tension that winds tighter the closer he gets to the apex of her thighs, but the hand that finds hers eases it just enough that when he finally gets his mouth on her, she doesn't immediately shatter. she melts instead, breathing a shaky sigh on the exhale as she widens the spread of her thighs, lacing their fingers together.
belatedly, she realizes with some dry amusement that with his mouth so occupied, he can't answer anything else she wanted to ask. it's almost as if he'd planned this all along. ]
no subject
it's been a little while since he's done anything like this, but verso settles back into it readily enough. it's easy to tell that he means to take his time, to savor this savor her, some quiet humming sound thrumming in his throat and tongue, enough for her to feel it as he licks against her folds -- but its' a war in his mind. that, and simple impatience, heat and want and the need to taste her more, to feel her coming apart under his mouth and tongue. she sighs, spreads her thighs to invite him in deeper, and verso briefly lifts his head, just enough to look at her as his eyes flicker open, pupils blown, dark and hungry, and for just enough time for her to see how the corner of his lips quirks into a smirk.
he winds an arm around one of her legs, skin against skin, callused fingers settling somewhere over her thigh and pressing hard enough to dip against tender muscle. his other hand squeezes tightly over hers as she threads their fingers together, anchoring them both to each other as he ducks down again. this time he tongues directly into her, shameless about how he breathes her in, tongue sliding as deep as he can reach.
the arm wrapped around her leg shifts, hauling himself closer to her, angling until he can let is hand slide up over the flat of her belly. feeling the tension held there, thumbing lightly over her navel, paying attention to any sound she makes, to how he can feel the muscle in her stomach twitch and flicker in response to his mouth and tongue, turning towards anything that gives him a bit more response and chasing it down. ]
sorry for the wait!!
it's a gentle stretch but has her twisting beneath him all the same, a more pronounced shudder chasing heat down her spine. lune is quiet in her pleasure, but her body makes up for it: fingers gripping his hand tightly, the heel of her foot digging into his back to encourage him closer. she barely registers the way her hips squirm, trying to grind down on his tongue, his face, anywhere else she can find. it's only the fact that she may actually smother him that she relents, a low moan caught in her throat. ]
Verso— [ barely above a murmur, but in the quiet of the night, she's certain he wouldn't miss it. whatever else she wanted to say slips immediately from her mind like sand between her fingers; her world narrows down to each point of contact they share, her pulse loud in her ears. she's so—she's close, she can feel it as the tension winds tighter, pushing his hand on her abdomen down until he meets his mouth, until she can guide his thumb to press against her clit. ]
tfln overflow, content creator edition
All right.
[ ... But he was always going to give in, even before he heard Verso says please in that voice, wrenching and almost desperate. He glances up, looking over the crawling bars on his screen, and shakes his head at himself. He's such an idiot. ]
I'm leaving now.
[ It'll take him about fifteen minutes to get across the city โ forty, if he doesn't want to use a rideshare, and he doesn't. It's too easy for things to be leaked, he'd wake up tomorrow to headlines splashed across the digital front pages of the celebrity news sites, how he'd gone to Verso's apartment in the middle of the night.
He walks, and tries not to run, tries to let the cool night air bring him back to himself, but it's no use and by the time he's at the building and letting himself in, he takes the stairs two at a time until he's on the right floor, standing in front of Verso's door, his chest heaving. Gently, he leans his forehead against the door, lifts his handโ hesitates.
Finally, a soft rap of his knuckles, and an equally soft voice. ]
Verso?
no subject
He spends the time thinking about what to do when Gustave gets here ( if he gets here, maybe he'd think better of it, maybe he'd change his mind ). What to do, what to say. It hasn't been that long since they've seen each other but they both know they've never been more far apart, and he feels like if he says the wrong thing then they'll peel so far apart there may be no mending it. He feels awful, sick, mutes that notification on his computer and his phone that keeps track of his increasingly overfull request inbox, message after message of demands, whispers of empty sweet nothings, gifts and promises.
And then -- the gentlest rap on his door. Soft and light, like he's afraid of something. Even though the door, hearing is name in his voice aches, and he's already standing, already crossing the floor, already undoing a latch and opening the door before he can even think through all those plans he had of what to do.
Gustave is lovely. He always is. Verso is a bit of a mess, as much as he can be, hair still pulled up into a messy bun, slightly oversized t-shirt hanging loose over his shoulders, comfortable pajama pants fit close to his waist. His eyes are faintly red, and there's a hint of color to his cheeks, his nose. He's been crying, at least a little somewhere over the past few hours, though when in their mess of texts it was is hard to say.
His own voice is soft as Gustave's knock on his door had been. ]
Gustave . . .
[ Yearning, wanting, desperate, and he knows he shouldn't, that they should at least talk a little, try to clear some air, at least, at least. But he's already reaching out, fingers curling into the front of Gustave's shirt, taping a step backwards as he pulls Gustave in through the threshold of his doorway, another, leaning into crash their mouths together in a bruising, aching kiss. ]
no subject
Gustave's reaching hand finds the edge of the door and pushes it behind him until it shuts with a soft slamming sound, only to join his other hand that's already on Verso's body, palming over that shirt and pressing it to the form beneath, running over him like it's been months, years since they saw each other and not only days. He kisses Verso back, desperate and needy, everything that's been rolling around in his head and chest only expanding: the hurt, the longing, the anger he wishes he didn't feel but can't seem to escape no matter how many things he sets on fire or blows up on his own channel. ]
Verso.
[ His hands go to Verso's head, cradling him, as he presses kisses to his cheek, tasting salt on his skin before pulling away enough to push his forehead against Verso's, thumb running over his cheekbone, feeling utterly helpless at the redness he sees in those eyes. ]
Mon cher, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
no subject
The moment that felt like it was starting here, it felt a little like his world was going to fall apart. This time he wants to fight it, but feels like there's nothing he can do. And maybe he's wrong, he'd like to believe he's wrong, but if this is the way everything has gone before, then why does he think this will be different, when it's also been so much worse? They've reached higher heights, and he swears sometimes with him he's never felt his heart so soar so lightly, but he's never crashed quite like this, either, never felt himself hurtling so far.
Gustave says his name again, and Verso shudders, wanting to lean into it, kissing him deeper like he thinks he can taste it on his tongue, and when Gustave breaks the kiss enough to just cradle his head close, all he can do is shake his head. He clutches at Gustave's wrist, thumb pushing into his pulse, leaning into his familiar touch, cool metal and warm skin both. ]
Don't be. Don't.
[ What is there to be sorry for? Gustave is right, in a lot of ways. He has every right to be upset, to be mistrustful, to be unhappy with the way things have gone. He hates that he was crying, even for a little while, hates that he knows Gustave must be able to see it. ]
Just -- be with me. Mon chou, I've missed you so much.
[ Days apart and it feels like months and decades, because it feels like those days keep stretching and stretching and if Verso doesn't do something to keep him close that they might just stretch into forever. ]
no subject
[ Enough that he spent much too much time scrolling back to old videos, all the way back to the very first time he'd had Verso on the channel, back when they'd only been together for a little while and they were still so giddy with it that they couldn't imagine any downsides. Or he couldn't, anyway.
He's watched that video, the two of them at the piano, Verso's hands moving gracefully over the keys, the way he could watch himself sway to the side, closer, how they let their shoulders bump, how they laughed, more times than he'd be willing to admit in the last week or so. It never helps.
He's not sure this is helping, either. If anything, the ache is worse than ever when Verso's clutching him close and begging him to stay, to be with him, and it's all he wants to do, but it won't solve anything, not really. ]
I neverโ I never wanted to stay away from you. I've hated being away from you.
[ He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut, face tightening like he's in pain, even as his hands stay gentle, cradling Verso's head, keeping him near. ]
I just, I don't. I don't know what to do, Verso.
no subject
Why does it feel like everything is falling apart? Nothing's happened yet. Gustave hasn't said anything. Maybe he's imagining this. Maybe everything is fine. He relaxes his hand from his wrist, and it trembles slightly when it slides up to card through his hair, gentle, feather-light, feeling the strands sift through his fingers like he has countless times before. He loves playing with those curls, twisting them around a finger until they leave slightly too-coiled tuft of hair that might linger there for hours and make him smile when he sees it. ]
-- Why do you have to do anything?
[ It's fine. Isn't it? It's hard right now, but Gustave just needs some time, like he said, and it'd take some work but they can just go back to how it was before. Verso's watched their old videos too many times, too, even though he can remember back then, telling him he isn't sure if posting them would be a good idea. He remembers laying in bed, Gustave sitting up at the foot of it and typing out a caption for the video on his phone, remembers pushing himself upright to press against his side, the sheets still angled around them. It is very cute, he remembers himself saying. But Gustave as more than a bit of a golden child, even if some of his fans always had a bit of a hungry edge to them -- for the most part, they all loved him, comment after comment calling him their wholesome excitable teacher that they wished they had. It might cause a bit of a scandal, Verso remembers saying, with a laugh, even as he pressed a kiss to Gustave's cheek.
He leans in, lips brushing against his cheek, mouthing down to his jaw. ]
You said you just needed time. I -- I'm sorry. I can give you more time.
[ As much as he needs, right? Anything he wants. Anything. ]
no subject
It was never supposed to go this way. He's been in this apartment now countless times, wrung-out and exhausted on that bed, or draped over Verso while he plays the piano, working out some new measure to some new song that he won't think is good enough to post but which Gustave thinks is no short of staggering genius. He remembers rehearsing a show with Verso here that devolved into a playful wrestling match full of laughter and then heat and moans and his mouth of Verso's and both their hands everywhereโ
He has so many good memories here, far more than sad ones. But it was here, too, that he got the first notification that made him frown, bemused; a wholly different tone than he was used to. What's this all about? he'd asked, turning his phone to Verso to see. They'd had weeks of great promotion and PR after their accidental soft launch, and little by little that uncertainty he'd seen in Verso's eyes had faded away, as both their numbers climbed and engagement with their collaborations skyrocketed. Their AMA had gotten such high numbers the platform had sent him a plaque.
So the first message had been jarring, but not worrying. But then there had been another, and another, and now a solid third of his comments are about Verso, but not in the way he'd come to expect. They're disdainful, sometimes outright cruel: sometimes saying Verso isn't good enough for him, sometimes saying he's not good enough for Verso. Attempts to find him in his normal, private life escalated. Some of them even managed to get his home address, a development he never had shared with Verso, not wanting him to worry.
It's the nature of the beast, he'd told himself. And things were still much better than they weren't.
But then the screenshots started coming. The video clips. The links to threads upon threads of people sharing every last detail of their private calls and chats with Verso. And now here they are, and maybe he does know what to do.
He just doesn't want to do it.
His right hand cups Verso's face, his left arm goes around him, holding him close as he leans into Verso's kisses, his touches. ]
Because this isn't good for either of us. Don't you think I see how much it hurts you, too?
[ He had needed time. Time to think, time to decide what to do, time to... to brace himself.
His voice is soft, still warm despite the ache in it, the misery. ]
You know how I feel about you.
no subject
He really wanted Gustave to be different. He really thought he was different. He keeps shaking his head, slower now. Verso wants to fight it, to hold onto to him, but all that's doing is making feel utterly helpless, because he knows there's nothing to say.
Gustave slides his arm around him, and Verso shivers -- that touch is familiar, too, cool metal, strong and firm. It'd taken him a bit to get used to it. Just a few weeks ago, he remembers that arm strong against his chest, pushing him back against a wall as Verso had laughed breathlessly into Gustave's mouth, a little surprised but delighted by how forward he was being. A little possessive, apparently, after some message he'd read or the other. Verso had teased him for it after, when they'd sank down to the floor where they stood, smiling languidly into each other and laying there just as comfortably as if they'd managed to make it to an actual bed. Maybe he shouldn't have. Would that have given them more time? A few weeks? Days? Hours?
Verso's eyes are still red as he peels back just enough to look at him properly, his voice whisper soft. ]
-- How do you feel about me?
[ An echo of Gustave's own question from before. Maybe he should've answered -- better. There were probably better words to use. Maybe Gustave would know what to say to make it better, and he would, wouldn't he? He always seems to know, could always somehow tell when something was a little wrong even when Verso is too-practiced at hiding it from people, always seemed to somehow find the right thing to do or say to make him laugh or gasp or moan and have it all melt away. ]
no subject
Maybe that's why he came, because even now he's still trying to find some other way forward, something that won't break both their hearts. It's not even anything either of them is doing, it's just this thing they can't control; it's Verso's subscribers and his own, and he can't see an end to it, not unless something else ends first.
Verso pulls back, asking that question like he doesn't already know, and Gustave can't remember now if he's said it before, mumbled it into skin or whispered it at the end of some phone call, some time when Verso might not be able to hear him quite right, when there was some plausible deniability even when he knew it was shining out of him like a spotlight. It must be obvious to everyone; how could it be anything else?
But this is the first time he's reaching up to carefully tug Verso's hand out of his hair so he can curl his fingers around it, so he can meet those too-red eyes, so his throat can work and his voice can come out soft and a little raspy, shaking. ]
Je t'aime.
[ It's so simple. It's everything. It's the only thing he has to offer, the only real thing, the only one that matters. Isn't it? Isn't this more important, more precious than numbers and followers and bank accounts that grow more flush by the day?
His hand is a little too tight on Verso's; he's nervous, but he refuses to water it down with anything else, to hide. ]
I love you. You must know I love you.
no subject
There's something in Gustave's eyes -- he's always liked those eyes, sweet and kind, that seem to draw him in until he can see everything written plainly across his heart. The way he forces himself to look at him, the way he clasps his hand, and Verso almost thinks he can see it before he even says the words. Je t'aime, and it's somehow a surprise and something he feels like he's always known both at once. He feels everything in him swept away, the air stolen from his lungs in a hurricane, his own heart hammering so loud in his ears that he thinks Gustave must be able to hear it, too, that he has to be able to hear his heart answering in tune even if the words are so hard for him to say.
Verso knows he's not said it before. He knows he's come close. He knows he's barely allowed himself to think it, even if he feels like he's just being pulled slowly into its orbit, chasing around in an endless dance until he finally admits it to himself and could maybe admit it out loud to someone else. He remembers, early on, when things were still brighter after they'd inadvertently revealed themselves to the wider world, when they were both utterly caught off guard by how much more attention it was getting them, how much wild fervent support and new fans and higher numbers, he'd also just seen -- comment after comment after comment, even entire articles. They're so in love. They must be in love. Look how much they love each other.
Maybe that should've been the first sign, even he remembers both of them laughing about it at the time, Gustave's cheeks growing pink even as he rolled his eyes as Verso laughs, lying in bed with his head in Gustave's lap, thumbing through some awful list of the top ten ways Verso and Gustave help us believe in love and reading it out loud. That if words like that could be put on them, stolen from them, that things could only get worse. Like now, when he knows months ago to hear him say this would only make him soar, would make him feel nothing but joy, only make him feel whole -- he does still feel that, his heart swelling until it could burst, but its trapped in his ribcage, threatening to tear itself apart, but he can't get swept away because he's still sinking, drowning, falling down.
Verso clasps his hand tightly onto Gustave's. He's spent the past weeks weakly thinking that this time, he wanted to fight it, but it was like he had no way to. This is way, isn't it? It's this. He meets Gustave's eyes readily, breath rattling in his throat. ]
I -- I know.
[ Of course he does. How could he not? Maybe Gustave had never said the words, but Gustave had shown him, every day, every hour they were together. In the way he held their hands together, in the way he looked at him, in the little gifts he'd bring him sometimes of silly trinkets he'd made for him in his workshop, in the meals and the wine and the late night talks and the staring into each other's eyes, in their kisses and and time they'd spend in each other's company without needing to say a word, in the heat of Gustave's mouth around him and his hands on him and feeling his body fit so perfectly against his own. He can only hope he's made Gustave feel the same way, too, because -- ]
I know. Because I --
[ Why is he nervous? Why is it harder for him to say? Gustave had managed it so clearly, so firmly. The least he can do is give him this, his heart bleeding in his hands. ]
-- Je t'aime. [ He manages it, at least, and its like something in him breaks. He almost feels like he could fall over, but his grip tightens over Gustave's hand, also too tight, knuckles bleaching white. His other hand lifts, trembling, fingers just barely ghosting over Gustave's cheek. ] I love you. I love you. Mon chou, sometimes I feel like you've had my heart since the day we met, long before I even asked you on a date, and the more I knew you, the more I knew I'd chosen right. Je t'aime.
no subject
He doesn't know if it'll be enough here, if this is what Verso wants, if all of him, every part of him he can offer, heart and mind and body, is enough. Maybe he's left it too late, maybe he should have said it weeks ago. Maybe he should have said it months ago, right when this thing started and he'd already fallen harder and faster than he ever had for anyone ever before, when all he could think about was Verso's smile and laugh and the look in his eyes when he glanced over at Gustave. Get you a man that looks at you like Verso looks at Gustave had trended for a week and sparked a new meme template; he'd been embarrassed, blushing, but Verso had laughed.
He'd known even then, hadn't he? What this was. What it really could be.
But he hadn't said it, and he hadn't said it, and he hadn't said it, and now things are... they're broken and he doesn't know if he can fix them or even if he should try. Maybe he should let Verso go, the way he let Sophie go. They want different things, too. Love wasn't enough before, and now...
But Verso's eyes are lighting with surprise, and then realization, and now something else, something nervous and intent, his eyes shifting rapidly back and forth like he doesn't know where to look, what to say. Obliquely, Gustave realizes his hand hurts, Verso's gripping it so tightly the bones are creaking andโ
And, oh god. The words that spill out of his mouthโ
They're hesitant at first, but as soon as the first ones are out โ je t'aime, je t'aime, it touches lightly and in the next second a bonfire is roaring to life ins Gustave's chest, huge and uncontrollable, and he can't breathe, he can't think, je t'aime โ the others come tumbling out after, Verso now the one who doesn't seem like his tongue can keep up with his heart. I love you, he says, over and over, I love you, since the day we met and Gustave can't hold himself back any longer, surges forward in a sudden rush to crush his mouth to Verso's, hands back on his body, pushing him back into the room. He doesn't care if they fall to the floor, if they make it to the bed, he doesn't care, Verso loves him. ]
Versoโ mon amourโ please, I love you so much it makes me crazy, I've missed you, Iโ je t'aime de tout mon coeur, with all of meโ
no subject
Instead, Gustave hurtles into him so fast it takes his breath away. That aching distance between them is suddenly nothing at all and is still too much, Gustave's hands are on him, his mouth is on his own, and all he can do is let himself be pushed back and swept away, his hands instinctively reaching back, twisting through his hair to hold him close, anchoring their bodies together so nothing can ever pull them apart again. Verso has wanted him so badly that being inundated by his warmth and his presence and Gustave all around him so suddenly means he can barely think, kissing him back desperately, bruising and harsh.
And then he's actually hearing what he's saying. Gustave says mon amour, and it's enough that he feels his entire world shift, stolen away from him even as he's quite literally swept off his feet by Gustave pushing him back, and back. He tries his best to move with it, his footsteps stumbling on the floor, unwilling to let his hands leave Gustave's body for long enough to brace or balance himself on any of the walls or furniture, but he feels the back of his legs hit something and they're already tumbling over.
Its the couch, apparently, and it's messy and overwhelming as he spills over the arm of it and collapses across, but he's holding onto Gustave so tightly that he pulls him down with him, on top of him, and he doesn't care about anything except that Gustave is still close, and as Gustave keeps talking he finds himself answering, in the same breathless, barely coherent babble, everything he's ever though the should say or couldn't say rising up into his throat and spilling out. ]
I -- I'm sorry, I never said it before. I love you. [ Apologizing seems the wrong thing to do, right now. But it's also all he can think to do when the gaping wound that's been torn between them hurts so much, when he knows it's his fault, when he knows that he just isn't enough to make it work. It never hurt so much before, but he never cared that much before, and it's been so many long years since herthat he felt like he needed someone so badly, that he would simply fall away and crumble into dust if they left him here. ] You can have me. All of me. Just you, please, I love you, I'm sorry --
[ He arches up against him, just trying to feel as much of him as he can, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He thinks he's happy. But it's messy, just crashing into each other over a mess of everything they've turned into. Gustave deserved to hear a confession somewhere beautiful, in a garden where the flowers were all in bloom, laying on their backs across a lonely rooftop with only the stars overhead, hand in hand in a quiet corner of a the restaurant where Verso had taken him on their first real date after weeks of not-quite-dates and hanging out, spelled out in rose petals or fireworks or the stars themselves for all he thinks would be good enough. But it's just this, messy words over tears, pulled on him on what feels like the verge of them falling apart. He doesn't know if it's enough. He wants to be enough. ]
no subject
But he adds you can have me, all of me, just you and that hits somewhere Gustave didn't expect, somewhere soft and sore and already raw and bleeding. Just you. And maybe it's true only he might have Verso's heart and soul and only he gets to actually put his hands on this body, feel Verso's hands on his, but there's always going to be parts of Verso that he shares with the world, with anyone willing to pay for it, and even that was fine until it started touching this. Until the parts that were just his weren't anymore.
His throat burns, thick, and he presses his eyes closed hard against the tears he hasn't let come all night, buries his face in Verso's neck as he slides his arms around his body, blanketing him here on this couch like if he just covers enough of him maybe the world won't be able to touch this anymore. Maybe Verso really can just be his, like he's Verso's. He never expected to hear Verso say he loved him only for his heart to break.
His kisses have given way to just his face pushed there into Verso's neck, his arms tight around him, body shaking, everything feels so fragile right now, like one wrong word, one wrong move will shatter it all, break them apart with the finality of snapping bone. ]
I should have told you every day.
[ Every word fights against the expanding tangle of everything in his chest, the heat behind his eyes, the thick feeling in his throat; his hands, caught between Verso and the couch cushions, grip into that too-big shirt that he loves so much, the way it drapes off Verso's shoulders, how it makes him look younger, softer. ]
Every day, Iโ youโ you deserved to know every single day how Iโ how much Iโ
[ His whole body tightens; he can't, he can't, not now, he's got to be able to tell Verso the things he needs to hear, like maybe one of them will somehow save them. ]
That first day we met, I couldn't think about anything else but you... you're my air, all of me is yours. I love you. Pleaseโ please just be mine.
no subject
But something in his words seems to hit him -- just right, or just wrong. Something shifts, and Gustave is just clinging onto him, now, face buried against his neck, arms wrapped tight around him and pressing him down against the couch cushions. Verso's arms are immediately moving to wrap around him, too, hold him close, fingers sliding up over the familiar line of his back to tangle through his hair, the way he always loved to. Just weeks ago they were lying together on this couch, not unlike this, light flickering over them from some movie they were supposed to be watching on the computer screen he'd angled over to use as a TV. They'd already forgotten it, much more interested in being with each other, in long, slow, languid kiss that felt like they were melting into each other.
That felt like it could never end. This, whatever it is, feels like it's on a brink. An edge of something Verso is afraid of and doesn't entirely understand. Gustave starts talking, again, and Verso just turns to tuck his face against his hair, closing his eyes, breathing him in and trying to lose himself in him, in everything about him, fingers stroking gently through his curls at the back of his neck. ]
I -- I'm already yours.
[ But it's not enough, isn't it? He's not enough. ]
I'm sorry. I should've told you -- you deserved to hear this somewhere beautiful, somewhere perfect. [ A better memory than this mess to look back on, wherever they go from here, if they can go anywhere at all. ] I was just always afraid. I know I shouldn't have been. I'm sorry.
[ His hand is slightly shaking when it tracks from Gustave's nape along his jawline, dragging through scruff, gripping his chin enough that he can gently guide his head up, away from his neck, so he can look him in the eye. Verso is guarded and careful, hides behind a hundred masks, that's just who he is, who he's always been, mask after mask shifting in and out and each one promising someone everything with a smile. But this is him, past the masks, peeling everything away, even if he knows its hard to believe, that no one would believe it, even Gustave. Why wouldn't it jsut be another mask? Why would it be anything else?
He swallows thickly. ]
I love you. Gustave, you -- you've always had me.
no subject
Verso's hands run over his, familiar and perfect, and just the way his fingers thread into Gustave's hair makes him want to cry. Verso's always loved playing with his hair, toying idly with it while they're lying in bed, stroking fingers through it while they're sitting on the couch, braiding small locks of it for his own amusement while Gustave is trying to put the finishing touches on another vide, and now this feels likeโ likeโ like Verso's trying to ground him, or maybe himself, like he's trying to soothe him, but it doesn't feel like he can ever be soothed. He feels like a million jagged pieces of himself, a bag of broken glass poured out into Verso's hands, threatening to cut even with the gentlest, most careful touch.
Fingers come gently to his chin to coax his head up, and he resists it for a moment, but he can never resist Verso long, lets him guide him up so they can look each other in the face, and he knows he must be a mess. His own eyes are glossy, he keeps blinking too much, trying to keep everything at bay, and his face is flushed. He's shaking like this is some kind of life or death emergency, like he's just been rescued from the brink of some disaster and his body has only just realized he's still alive.
He doesn't know what to do. He's supposed to know what to do, how to fix things, that's what he does, he finds solutions and implements them and everything works better and more smoothly than before. And it's not like Verso isn't right here, underneath him, almost as close as he could possibly be, telling him he's always had him, that he loves him. Verso is pouring out his heart, stripped down to something bare and raw and aching, and Gustave believes him. So why does he still feel so impossibly far away?
His head lowers, briefly, and he swallows hard, before he looks up again and leans down, catching Verso's mouth in another kiss, this one a little more gentle than before, but long and lingering, every fractured, bloody piece of his breaking heart offered up in it. He wants to press his face back into Verso's neck again when it breaks, but he doesn't, lets his forehead rest against Verso's and tries to force himself to relax his grip a little. ]
I don't want to lose you. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, and it, it, it feels like you're slipping away from me.
no subject
I'm here. I'm -- I'm not going anywhere.
[ But it feels like things are slipping away anyway, aren't they? Like they're in a current they can't see but they can definitely feel, like they're holding on for dear life. Maybe it's inevitable, but even if it is, Verso doesn't care -- he's let too many things go before, and this, this actually matters. He'll fight it for as long as he can. Claw through that current and hold so tightly his fingers bleed. Anything. He'd do anything.
Verso pulls him into another kiss. Tries to sink into it like they have countless times before, something sweet and loving that deepens and deepens until they're pouring their hearts into each other, but something about this feels different and if he tries to figure out what it is he thinks its going to break. He pulls back after a little while, wetting his lower lip with his tongue, looking at him so helplessly, curling a lock of hair around some trembling fingers. ]
-- Right?
[ Why doesn't it feel right? When they're both telling each other they love each other, when that moment when they finally brought words to their feelings should have been nothing but beautiful, should've been both of them falling into each other deeper and deeper. It should be enough to soothe over whatever this hurt is. It should be enough to make things better, ease the pain away until they can just lose themselves in each other all over again in a tangle of bedsheets and kisses and they wake in the morning in each other's arms, tired and together. ]
no subject
I don't know.
[ Whispered as he slides a hand out from under Verso, reaching up to stroke those wayward locks of hair that always slip out from the messy half-bun when he ties his hair up like this. His hand is trembling, shaking, but his touch is gentle, fingers brushing over Verso's hair like he's the most precious thing Gustave has ever touched, like any wrong move might shatter him as easily as if he were made of spun sugar.
Maybe this is the problem: that he can't see a way out. He's always been someone who has looked to the future, made plans and indulged in dreams, but lately the path to that future is murky, he can't find his way through. He doesn't know how to fix this, or if it even can be fixed. Maybe it's not broken at all, maybe they just... don't fit together the way they used to. I love you, they've both said, but love wasn't enough with Sophie. He doesn't know if it'll be enough now. ]
All I want is to be with you. I just... I just... I don't see....
[ He can't say it. If he says it, it makes everything, all of this real, and it'll spin out of control and he knows how that ends, it ends with them slowly pulling apart from each other on this couch, with distance that starts as an inch and opens its mouth to swallow them whole until it's been years and he can't remember the last time he saw Verso that wasn't on a screen. ]
It's never going to stop.
no subject
He touches him like he's something precious, almost sacred, and Verso shivers. Verso knows that touch, has it burned into memory, waking up in his bed as the sun streams in through a crack in the curtains, sleeping in after a long night of just being lost in each other, exhausted and pleasantly sore. Gustave has been awake for at least an hour or more, perched patiently by the bed, waiting, and the moment he sees him waking he's reaching over with a smile, fingers brushing over his hair, gently easing it out of his eyes.
Verso just wants to go back. To that morning, the night before, to everything they've ever shared, to the first day they met when Verso already thought that maybe he might be a little in love, laughing to himself about how stupid that is but how happy it made him feel when they parted ways at the cafe. When he thought better of it and turned back, catching up to Gustave with a little jog, moving close enough next to him that their shoulders brushed as he shoots him a grin and asks if he'd want to be walked home. A whole hour's walk? All the better. Verso shivers again, and he keeps slipping into reveries and memories flickering as vividly in front of him as anything, and he hates it. He needs to be here. In this moment. Fighting.
But he just -- he doesn't know what to do. Or say. He opens his mouth, and all that comes out is something aching and soft. ]
-- Please don't.
[ He closes his eyes even as he hears it leave his lips. Is that all he has left? Pleas and begging? Is that all he can think to do? His fingers twitch where they're tangled through Gustave's hair, almost involuntary.
Maybe there really is nothing here for them. Maybe he always knew they'd end up here. For as long as this has lasted, he's felt truly, truly happy, but maybe he was a fool for thinking this could ever be different than anything he ever had before. He's never been able to hold onto anything. And worst of all, maybe every damn comment or message that's ever said he doesn't deserve him -- has always had a grain of truth to it. More than they could ever know. ]
no subject
He could do it. They'd fall asleep wrapped up together, and by morning he'll have convinced himself that they'll be able to fix this, that it's not so bad, and it might last for a few more weeks, maybe a month or even two, but then they'd be right back here again. Because it's never going to stop.
But then Verso opens his mouth and that whisper comes out, softly begging, and Gustave can feel the moment he simply cracks in half, the second he simply can't take any more. Something in his chest snaps, sudden and wet like breaking a bone, and Verso's eyes are closed so he can't see the way his face crumples, all at once. His head drops like some string that had been holding it up was cut, his forehead dropping to Verso's shoulder, and he's shaking, shoulders and back, his metal hand clutching Verso's shirt and the patch of cloth he's pressed his face into growing more and more damp, hot tears finally flooding out of him and it hurts. No part of this feels like a release, it feels like the world is ending.
Please don't, but what is he supposed to do? He can't ask Verso to give up his career, or even part of his career. He can't ask Verso to make rules just for him. He can't find a way to ignore the comments, the screenshots, the video clips, when they feel like being surrounded by thugs who punch him over and over again in the stomach, the chest, the jaw. Every muscle is thrumming tight, his whole body clenched and shaking until he can't swallow it back anymore and his breath comes in a wet sob against Verso's shirt. He can't ever remember feeling so helpless in his whole life as he feels now, with Verso here in his hands and his arms and falling away from him anyway.
His eyes squeeze shut but his face is wet and so is Verso's shirt, and he can't stop. He doesn't want any of this, but he can't see a way out. ]
...Verso.
no subject
He doesn't expect Gustave just -- crumpling. He feels it even if he doesn't see it, Gustave collapsing further on top of him and burying his face against his shoulder. Verso still has an arm wrapped around him, and he can feel it when he starts to shake, feel his metal hand clutch onto his shirt, damp with tears. And Verso just feels his heart break, his arm tightening around him, helpless. What are they supposed to do? What else can they do? Verso can beg him, and they can try, and they can probably fool themselves again, if they want -- and part of him thinks maybe that'd be worth it. Just a few more months. A few more weeks. Days. Wouldn't that be worth it? Wouldn't anything be worth a bit more time with him, a bit more time of this, this thing that somehow fell into his life and made him feel happy for the first time in years?
But he knows the answer, deep down. It's already gone.
Hearing him sob, feeling it in his arms, Verso finds himself moving without thinking. His eyes flicker open, and he looks down to see Gustave sobbing into his shirt, trying to stop himself from crying even as the tears keep coming. This man, god, this beautiful man, Verso never wanted to see him like this, to do this to him, to make him cry or make him sad, to make him hurt in any way at all. Gustave brings so much joy to so many people, brings so much to him, and it's all about to fade away from his grasp. Gustave is falling away on the tide, and he's left standing on the shore, staring out through the fog, waiting and waiting for something that he already knows will never come.
His hands stroke through Gustave's hair, again, soft and gentle, playing with a curl and coiling it a bit too tight around his finger, so that when it springs from his hand it'll stay that way for a while -- something he always likes to do, makes him laugh when he sees it later. Verso can feel the sting of hot tears running down his own cheek, but he ignores it, just keeps stroking his hair, easy, comforting, shifting slightly on the couch until he can push himself up just a little against the arm of it behind his shoulders, until he can look down at him. Smiling a little, through his tears, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek, tasting salt on his lips. ]
-- You're okay.
Yeah? [ He murmurs, stroking his hair. Cradling him close, holding him tight. ] It's -- going to be okay. It's going to be okay.
Just say it, Gustave. I promise. It's okay.
[ He won't just beg, again, desperate and pleading and leave Gustave to be the only one standing there, to make him feel like he's doing something terrible instead of something they both know they've been falling towards for a while. They both know it. It's okay. It -- it has to be okay. ]
no subject
But like a fool he'd come here, and now he's trying to keep from sobbing his breaking heart out on the shirt and shoulder of the man he loves, the man whose heart he's breaking, too. Verso doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to have to try and comfort the man who's hurting him so badly, and yet he does anyway, his voice coming soft and almost steady. It's okay. You're okay. Putting himself in front of the gun Gustave's holding and pressing the muzzle to his own chest as he smiles and reaches to help fit Gustave's finger to the trigger. Playing with his hair the way Gustave loves most, because he knows how much Verso loves it, twirling a lock around his finger until it curls into a spiral that makes him smile, makes him laugh every time he looks at it afterward. Like they're lying in bed together and Verso is idly toying with his hair and everything is fine. No one's heart has to break, no one has to say something they can't take back. ]
I'm not.
[ His voice is thick with tears; he shakes his head over and over again, unwilling to accept this grace Verso's offering him, a chance for him to just say the words he'd rather rip his own ribs out than say. He lifts his head, and his face is flushed and tear-streaked, eyes red and glossy as they search out Verso's. He's crying, too, tears slipping down his cheek, and Gustave can't bear to see it, to know he's the cause of it when all he's ever wanted to do was make Verso happy. When what Verso deserves is nothing but happiness.
He reaches to cup Verso's cheek, thumb smearing away those tears even as more trickle from the corners of his eyes. He can't see how he could ever feel happy again. ]
It's not, it's not okay. Don't say that. How, how could it be okay?
[ No part of this is okay, and right now he feels like maybe nothing will ever be okay again. The world is cracking apart, and he doesn't know how to stop it. ]
Ask me to stay. Please, just.... I don't want you to make this easy. I don't want this at all.
no subject
You will be.
[ Gustave is a good man. Beautiful, charming, beloved. He's kind and good-hearted and sure, how good he looks with his rolled-up sleeves has always been a part of his popularity no matter how much he seems to disbelieve it, but Verso knows its more than that, too. His heart has always shined through, earnest and true, with so much genuine enthusiasm for what he was doing and for how he could help the world, just one man telling his own stories and teaching his lessons and still with a whole-hearted belief that he was doing his small part to change the world. People were drawn to him because of that. Verso was drawn to him, because of that.
This will shatter them. This will hurt. This will take this small and sacred thing they've nurtured between themselves until it grew and grew and started to thrive and snuff it out before it has a chance to really spread its wings, drive a sword through its heart and a bullet into its skull. But Verso thinks the world of Gustave, and the world thinks so much of him. He will be okay. Eventually.
( And surely, better off without this, without him. )
Before, when Gustave had been the one gesturing at an awful truth neither of them wanted to name, Verso had already started pleading, and he was prepared to beg. He was already sure in his mind that no matter what Gustave said he couldn't let this go, that if he was forced to go he would go bleeding and crying and dragging his nails through him until Gustave couldn't leave him without also leaving bleeding parts of him behind. He'd already made up his mind that he'd be stubborn, do anything it takes to make this last for even a few more empty days again and again and again, force Gustave to deal with the worst of him. But then Gustave just told him he loved him, fell into tears above him, and --
-- He can't do it. He can't. He loves this man, he loves him so much, he loves him too much to be so cruel to him. If anything Verso is amazed at how simple it suddenly seems in his own mind. Of course, when it comes down to it, he'd be willing to let go, because he just can't bear to hurt him. Gustave wouldn't have stayed away, said all these things in their fights, came all this way in the middle of the night to tell him that it's never going to stop if he wasn't already thinking the same thing, if he hadn't just come to try in some vain last-ditch effort to see if they could find a way to fix this, or else force himself to finally face the truth.
He turns his head against his touch, another tear rolling down his cheek, his lips brushing against the pad of his thumb. ]
I want you to stay. Love, I want you to stay more than almost anything -- [ Verso's voice stalls there, for a moment, something flickering in his eyes. What had he just called Gustave, without even thinking about it? Love. It'd fallen from his lips so naturally, so easily, and just the thought of that makes his heart wrench. He should've told him before. He should've said he loved him -- maybe not from the start, but once it'd become clear, inevitable, once he knew. He should've taken him somewhere beautiful to watch the sunset, tucked his hair behind his ear and watched how the warm light seemed to make him glow, reached out to turn his head so that he was looking him full in the eyes when he told him: Je t'aime.
Too late. Too far gone. He was always a fucking coward. Maybe this, at least, he can face with some kind of hollow dignity. This is what he deserves, and Gustave could always have done better. ] -- But more than even that. I don't want to hurt you.
[ He's still stroking his hair, achingly gentle, his other hand slowly lifting to cradle Gustave's face, thumb stroking gently across his cheek, wiping away some tear -- ineffectively, as more just follow after. Gustave is so beautiful. How could he have hurt him so much? He doesn't deserve this. ]
I know I'm hurting you.
no subject
He doesn't want to be okay. Being okay would mean he's okay with hurting Verso, with being the one to give up and give in, to close the door that's opened between them. He isn't okay with any of that, he hates it so much he's starting to feel sick, his stomach twisting and churning as Verso tries to make this easy for him, turning his face into Gustave's touch and lightly kissing the thumb that's wet and salty with the tears Gustave has made him cry, his voice gentle. Love.
Hearing it feels like being stabbed. His heart tries to fly โ Verso loves him โ but it's all in the bloody, shattered pieces he himself is tearing it into. Maybe if he'd said it earlier, if he'd told Verso how much this, how much he means to him, they wouldn't be here right now. Maybe if he'd told Verso when things first started to bother him, instead of laughing it off and convincing himself it wasn't anything to get worked up about, he would have come over here tonight only because he hadn't seen Verso in over a week and was desperate to get his hands on him. They'd already be wound together in Verso's bed, bodies sliding beneath the sheets.
Maybe he'd finally have taken his heart in his hands, while they were in the middle of undoing each other โ or after, more likely, exhausted and damp with sweat and still twined together because they can't bear to let go โ he'd have been able to say it: je t'aime. Soft and warm and sweet and a little shy, a gift instead of an attempt to stop an avalanche. Je t'aime, I love you. He'll never forgive himself for waiting until those words only blew open an enormous hollow cavern in himself instead of letting them fill each other up. ]
I don't want to hurt you, either. I hate that I'm hurting you.
[ And he is, god, he is, he's being such a coward, he's hurting Verso even more by letting this linger, by still fighting as if it might be possible to stumble on some other way through before he has to finally say the words. He should say them and go, leave Verso to his own pain without twisting the knife. ]
I hate that people are telling you those things, asking you to say those things about yourself, about us, because of me, it's, it'sโ merdeโ
I'm the problem. Not you.
no subject
Just not here. Not with him. He'd wanted so badly for it to be this, and for a while, with how happy he was, Verso really belived with his whole heart that this -- might be it. That everything he's ever suffered would all be worthwhile, because it's finally led him to Gustave. That this could be where he could choose to place his heart, and it would rest safe and protected for the rest of their lives together. And he thinks, bitterly, even with the small faint smile he's still trying to hold: that's still true. Gustave would've been the one to hold his heart forever, and probably still will be.
Verso's just not good enough, in turn.
His voice is a little hoarse, his throat thick with tears, even as he tries to keep it steady and unwavering, soothing as he can manage. ]
We're not going to agree on that, I think.
[ Gustave's not the problem. He's perfect. He never could be, and Verso's not even going to open the opportunity for the back and forth to happen. He can already hear it: Gustave insisting no, no, it's me. It's me. And Verso taking him by the hands and telling him no. There's no point to circling that drain when they're already here. ]
But the world is cruel, mon chou. I know we can agree on that. And --
[ His voice catches, wavers. He's trying so hard. He doesn't want to break. ]
-- And on how much we don't want to hurt each other.
[ That not-quite-smile tugs a little more at his lips. A brave face, as much of one as he can put on while there are still hot tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, while he keeps playing with his hair, keeps trying to thumb away Gustave's own tears. He can't take much more of this, he's going to break again. He's going to slip from the couch and beg on his knees, going to grab him by the ankles and keep him from leaving, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks. He's going to pour his broken heart all across the floor and plead and plead that he's never going to be the same without him and if Gustave cared for him at all surely he wouldn't be so cruel as to leave him there, like this. He's going to be a pitiable fucking mess, because what is there left of him, when Gustave is gone?
He can't do that to him. God, he can't. Verso's lip is starting to tremble, and he's trying as hard as he can. ]
no subject
Mon cher, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'mโ I'm making this so much worse, I'm being so selfish.
[ Letting Verso impale himself just so that he'll feel a little better. Dragging this out instead of making the swift cut that's the only kindness he can offer now. Watching as Verso shatters his own heart, as if it could possibly heal his own, when the only thing he's ever wanted to give Verso was every possible happiness. He deserves everything, his beautiful, vibrant musician; Verso, who is so generous and filled with so much sweetness and warmth and goodness beneath the masks he wears. Sometimes Gustave wonders how he could ever have thought he really saw colors, or appreciated the beauty of the stars, or listened to music before Verso came into his world, a storm of passion and life and exuberance.
His throat works again, and he dips his head to wipe his tear-stained face on his own sleeve, taking a deep, shaking breath. He doesn't... he doesn't want Verso's last memories of him to be a sobbing, tear-soaked mess. The faint shade of a smile he drags out of the deepest parts of himself, feeling like he's reaching in to grip his own lungs and tear them out, doesn't crinkle his eyes, doesn't to more than flicker, heartbroken, at the corners of his mouth, but he tries. He has to try.
His voice is soft, trembling. He feels like he's slowly driving a sword into his own body, but he has to actually say it, doesn't he. He owes Verso that much at least, in return for the lifetime he'd wanted to offer him. ]
If there was some other way... some other life, you know, some other...
But the way things are, I don't see how... some part of it has to stop in order for us to get out of this, this spiral, and the only part I have any control over is whether I stay or not.
[ Misery clogs up his chest, a cold wet mist that clings to everything, makes each breath, each beat of his heart feel slow and heavy and exhausting. He doesn't know how he'll survive this, but he'll have to try. A fresh flood of tears glosses his eyes, floods his throat, turns his voice thick, but he presses on, just like he forced himself to do with Sophie, knowing it's the only thing he can do that will let Verso live the life he wants. ]
So I, I have. I have to go. It'sโ nothing else would be fair. To you. To both of us.
no subject
He was always perfect. He is perfect. This is just -- Verso's own doing. The world's doing. Their audiences, the gossip blogs, everything else. It could never be Gustave.
Gustave slowly starts to smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. Verso knows what it means, feels that crack running through his heart start to deepen, a violent fissure tearing itself through his soul, and he braces for it as much as he can, tries to smile back. Every word feels a little like dagger being driven through his ribs, but he swallows thickly, tries to hold back even more tears, just stays quiet, and listens. He bites back the urge to argue, to say no, to claw onto any desperate piece of this he can hold onto, but when Gustave says I have to go part of him just -- breaks. He has to close his eyes to keep it from being too obvious, tears immediately rolling down thicker over his cheeks, those fingers in Gustave's hair tightening through the familiar curls, gripping onto him a bit too tightly.
Still, he doesn't say anything. He waits until Gustave is actually done, until there's silence hanging in the air, then he can hear his own heart tear itself in half. It feels like the world goes with it, fractured and torn asunder. It feels like nothing will ever mend it again. It feels like all the parts of him are scattered everywhere, weeping and bleeding and broken, and he really, really doesn't want Gustave to know how deeply he believes that he will never find anyone else ever again, that he's had his one taste of what happiness could be like, and now he'll live the rest of his life in miserable payment for how he'd fucked it up so badly.
When Verso does open his eyes again, he has to take a few moments to blink away tears, his vision blurry, before he can really see Gustave above him. Both of them smiling, no matter how pained, both of them trying to make this easier for the other. It'd be sweet if it wasn't utterly devastating, if he didn't know that nothing would ever be okay, ever again.
He nods. ]
I -- I know. [ His voice is trembling. ] I know, Gustave. You're -- you're right.
[ He's always, right, isn't he. ]
I'm so sorry. I wish . . .
[ Some other way. Some other life. Those fingers in his hair slide to the back of his neck, and there's a moment where any other time he would've tightened his grip there, pulled him closer, leaned in for a kiss. Soft and sweet, lingering with a smile, or deep and heated, wanting, desperate, yearning.
Now, there's just. Nothing. His fingers twitching against the back of his neck, his heart empty and cold. ]
I'll let you go.
[ Before he tries to stop him. Before he makes it so much worse for either of them. He has to let him go. ]
no subject
Letting go.
Gustave bows his head under that touch, his own hand still gentle where it's cupping Verso's face, and tries not to think about how this is the last time he'll feel Verso warm beneath him, feel every breath and every shift of his body, listen to that voice murmuring words that are only for him. A fresh flood of tears streams from Verso's eyes, and he can barely see through his own, can barely breathe through his choked throat and aching lungs as the life he'd hoped for, wanted, had started planning for slips through his fingers for the second time.
He won't try again. He knows it with the same bone-deep certainty as he does the fact that he has to do this, for both of them. It's the only way they can live their lives with the choices they've made for themselves, no matter how painful it might be.
He sniffs, shakes his head, wipes his face on his sleeve again, and slowly draws his thumb one last time over Verso's lip, over the scruff of his beard and the angle of his jaw one last time before he lifts his hand away. Carefully, he uncurls the fingers of his left hand from Verso's shirt, realizing as he does that in his panic and desperation he'd torn holes right through the material, visible proof of the destruction he's wreaking.
Pushing himself up, slowly peeling himself away from Verso to sit at the edge of the couch feels like peeling his own chest open, layer by layer, cracking his own ribs, reaching in to that hollowed out, damaged space to drag his own heart out still, bloody and beating. He can't stay here, he has to, has to go, every second he stays here is an eternity of agony, every moment is another moment closer to when he'll simply crack and find himself on his knees apologizing, begging Verso to let him stay.
Standing feels like he's moving some other person's body, or someone else is moving his; he barely feels it aside from the weight that rounds his shoulders, makes every movement slow and weary. But he still holds out his hand to Verso, half reflex, to help him up, too. They both deserve to be on their feet for this, surely.
But once his fingers curl around Verso's hand, he can't find it in himself to let go. Lingers there for a moment, looking down at the way his thumb brushes over Verso's fingers. He wishes he'd gotten to see him play the piano one more time, before... before.
His voice is low, almost a murmur, words for Verso and Verso alone as he finally looks back up to meet those stricken eyes, his own desolate and dark with pain. ]
My heart is... it's yours. Keep it safe for me, all right?
no subject
Gustave thumbs over his lip and jaw with a tenderness and finality that makes his already broken heart shatter that much further. Verso knows what he's thinking, and he can almost hear it, feel it. This is the last time they'll see each other anything like this. The last time he'll touch him like this. There are holes in his tear-stained shirt, but Verso doesn't entirely register them or care, not when the love of his life is drifting away and these are the last precious moments of everything, of feeling him close, feeling those fingers against his skin. This is the last time he'll feel his heart beating, Verso knows. The moment Gustave steps out that door ( and just having the thought feels like another dagger slid through his ribs ), his heart will stop, falling from his chest all across the floor, and all he'll be able to do is try desperately to pick it back up with bleeding, trembling fingers, and.
To give it to him. To Gustave. It was always his. He was always his. And now Gustave can just cast him away and forget him and leave it behind and Verso -- doesn't even mind. That's what comes with giving someone your heart so completely, isn't it? It's theirs, theirs to do anything they want, even this, and Verso could never dream of taking it back.
Verso's hand is trembling when Gustave takes it, when he guides him back up to his feet. He tries not to think of the dozen times Gustave's done this before, held his hand and pulled him up, from mornings where they woke up next to each other in bed smelling of the sheets and each other, from times when they're spilled out across the floor because they never made it to a bed and they're still laughing from it as much as they're basking in the afterglow, from when he's just been sitting at the piano practicing for hours and pouring everything into it and Gustave has been watching the entire time, gently urging him to rest, if only because he can't keep his hands off of him. From sitting together in a quiet cafe with masks drawn over their faces and hoods drawn up, an attempt to have something sweet and quiet together without someone finding them, Gustave pulling him to his feet unhappily when they spot some photographer -- but they're laughing as they leave, hand in hand. From Gustave gently peeling himself from his side where they were tucked together in the back of a rideshare car, stepping outside first so he can offer his hand and help him out, holding him close and so tightly as they stumble upstairs to an entire evening together.
Verso takes a deep breath, squeezing Gustave's hand so very gently, drawing it to his chest, just over his heart. His voice is thick with tears, whisper-soft. ]
Mon coeur.
[ Verso doesn't want to let go. He should let go. He says he's letting go. But he's still clinging to his hand like the only anchor he has left, and he knows he shouldn't, that if he keeps making exceptions he might just fall to his knees and beg for all this to stop and go back to what it was before, but he still can't help but lift that hand to his mouth, to brush a gentle kiss against the back of his hand with the trembling reverance of a pilgrim meeting something truly sacred. ]
I know you will do the same for me.
[ His own heart, tucked safe deep into Gustave's chest, wherever he chose to keep it when he first took it from Verso -- the very first day they met. ]
no subject
He should let go. He needs to let goโ but Verso's lifting his hand and brushing a kiss over it, gentle, almost worshipful, and he can't stop the sob that drags air abruptly into his lungs. All he can think of is all the times Verso's lifted his hand, pressed his lips to the back of it, starting with the very first day they met: Verso stealing his hand and bringing it to his lips, looking up through his lashes with that sly, mischievous smile that Gustave would later come to know so well, the one that's all invitation and promise, like but not like the ones he gives to his fans, his subscribers. Despite everything, Gustave knows some things were just for him. He knows. It just doesn't change anything.
His fingers tighten on Verso's, clinging so tight his knuckles bleach, so tightly that if someone were to try to pull them apart, they'd have to break his fingers to make him let go. If he lets go, it really is over, and he'll leave this apartment feeling like it would hurt less, be less lethal to simply step off the roof and let himself plummet to the ground. It already feels like every bone in his body is broken, as crushed as his foolish, miserable heart. He doesn't want to make it real. He doesn't want this to be the last time he feels Verso's hand in his this way, the last time he can look into this face he loves so much, so beautiful even tear-stained and flushed and etched in lines of misery, and see how much Verso loves him in return. ]
Mon amour.
[ โEven that, just that, chokes him, stops him from even being able to speak at all as his throat closes. Verso should have heard those words from him every day โ Verso, mon amour, Verso my love, my darling, my heart โ and instead they'll forever be tainted by this, by him destroying this thing that's so precious to both of them, instead of Verso hearing them as Gustave chuckles and scolds indulgently at some mischief Verso's getting up to in public; over a glass of wine as they sit at some rooftop cafe looking out over the city as the sun sets, Verso painted in suffusing golden light and looking like an angel sent directly from heaven; whispered across the pillows as they fall asleep together.
God, he can't imagine falling asleep tonight, or ever again. How can he sleep without being able to breathe Verso in, without hearing him there, without being able to reach a lazy hand out and touch him? How can he sleep, how can he live, how will he be able to do anything at all when his world is shattering around him?
Before he knows it, he's taking a short, sudden step closer, dragged in by Verso's gravity and his own breaking heart that's crying out for Verso, only Verso, to touch him and hold him and kiss him and promise that it'll be okay, they can make it work, he loves him so much, so muchโ
โHe can't, he can't do this to him, to himself. His hand squeezes Verso's, hard enough it hurts, before he forces his fingers to let do, driving that blade once again between his own ribs. ]
I have toโ I have to go, Verso, Iโ if I don't go now I never will, Iโ I love you. I love you. Je t'aime.
[ One last time he curves his fingers around the back of Verso's head; one last time he drags himself close to press a fervent, desperate kiss to that perfect mouth; one last time, one last taste, before he rips himself away, steps back rapidly, and now he's weeping again, tears streaming down his face. ]
I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I love you.
[ The last thing he can say before he's making his way blindly to the door, shoulders shaking with the sobs that are trying to wrench their way out of him, fumbling with the knob before he manages to get the door open, to push himself out of the flat and into the hall, steps quick. He doesn't look back. He can't. ]
no subject
It's not. Nothing will ever be okay again. And Verso, maybe, is alright with that, for himself, at least. Already quietly resigning himself to a life of misery, to a world that will never know happiness or color the way Gustave brought it into his life. That, clearly, is all he deserves, for finding someone as lovely as Gustave who only ever deserved joy and love and goodness in his life. It's what he deserves for being the man that's taken this beautiful thing and broken his wings and dragged him down and left him scrambling across the floor, who's made him cry, who's broken his heart. The world has opened up beneath his feet, a yawning chasm to sink into and drown forever, and all Verso can think to do is to just go into it willingly and pray fervently to anything that would listen that the world is just enough to bring Gustave out whole on the other side.
Mon amour, Gustave calls him, and just when Verso thinks his heart has taken as much as it can, it just shatters all over again. More and more, with every word Gustave says, with just looking at him in the eyes every shard fragmenting fractals into tinier pieces, each one pointed glass embedded into his ribs, cutting him deeper, weeping blood and tears. Gustave looks like an utter wreck, and Verso knows it's his fault.
Gustave steps towards him, sudden, sharp, and Verso barely stops himself from flinching. He doesn't know if it's to flinch back and away, or closer to close the aching distance between them, both forces pulling at him like an impossible gravity, unable to push him either way, only resulting in tearing him further and further apart. Gustave lets go, and Verso feels the miserable remnants of his heart sink. It's over. It's done. It's over --
Then one moment. One last, fleeting moment of desperation, Gustave's fingers in his hair at the back of his skull, Gustave's lips against his own. All he can hear is his blood pounding in his ears and the echo of Gustave's words, fervent, desperate, falling over themselves, I love you, I love you, Je t'aime, and feeling Gustave's lips against his own and tasting him again, his hands instinctively move up, desperate to hold onto him --
-- But he grasps nothing. Empty air. Gustave is still telling him he loves him, but he's already stepping back, staggering away, tears streaming down his cheeks, the door rattling in its frame. For all of his defeatism, for all of his resignation, for all of his determination that he has to let him go because Gustave deserves better, Verso still feels what's left of his shriveled heart leap up into his throat, reaching out, his fingers trembling. ]
Wait --
[ There's no one to hear it. His voice is hoarse, throat thick with tears, awful and broken and barely a voice at all. The door swings back on its hinges, not even closing shut, and Verso can see through the gap to the shadow of someone stumbling down the stairs, hear the footsteps echoing in the stairwell. If he looked out the window, he might be able to see him, one silhouette in the dead of night, fleeing further and further until he blends in with the city and shadows.
He stands there for what feels like far too long, his outstretched hand reaching for nothing, before he takes one staggering step back, another. He collapses against the far thing he hits ( the arm of the couch, again, his head falling back against the cushion ), sinking down onto the floor in a miserable mess, closing his eyes only to find the tears have stopped coming, just because he simply has nothing left, his breath struggling to leave his lungs. It's like he's dying, like Gustave has slipped a dozen blades into his chest, each one reading I love you as every last echo of those words hangs in the air, as he burns the sound of Gustave's broken voice telling him those words into his heart and memory.
The door hangs, swinging empty on its hinges. Verso can't muster the energy to bring himself to his feet, almost feels like if he closes it then it closes out the last whispers of him that he may have left trailing in his wake. He curls up where he is, knees tucked to his chest.
The world has ended. There's nothing left. Its only when the sun rises, when a neighbor leaving for work pokes a curious concerned face against the open door, when Verso finally stands to close it, staggering wordlessly back into his apartment to collapse face-down into an empty, lonely bed. ]
no subject
instead of sending verso eight pictures, she sends just one: the night sky over their camp as a backdrop, her outstretched arm in the center with her fingers folded in as if to show off her nails. at first glance, there's nothing different about them—clean, trimmed, and slender. guitarist fingers.
but on the second glance, he might see the way the firelight catches at the sides of her fingers and nails; the way they shine wetly in the low light. unconventional for a sext, and maybe a little too subtle, but no one can say she's not creative. ]
text
but then there's the shine, the wet glimmer, and ah.
subtle. and effective. he can feel his breath catching, when he realizes sees it, realizes it. ]
Lovely.
Just the one?
no subject
no subject
would you let me make at least one request?
no subject
Make your request.
no subject
[ a few moments later, after realizing there is perhaps some ambiguity; ]
Your face, I mean.
no subject
no subject
finally; ]
You're much better at this than I am.
no subject
I had some practice.