[ 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
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. ]