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.
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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.