[ 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 β 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 goβ 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.
[ βEven 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 β Verso, mon amour, Verso my love, my darling, my heart β 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 muchβ
βHe 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 toβ I have to go, Verso, Iβ if I don't go now I never will, Iβ 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. ]
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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 goβ 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.
[ βEven 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 β Verso, mon amour, Verso my love, my darling, my heart β 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 muchβ
βHe 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 toβ I have to go, Verso, Iβ if I don't go now I never will, Iβ 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. ]