[ 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 β Verso loves him β 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 β or after, more likely, exhausted and damp with sweat and still twined together because they can't bear to let go β 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'sβ merdeβ
[ 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'mβ 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'sβ 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 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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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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 β Verso loves him β 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 β or after, more likely, exhausted and damp with sweat and still twined together because they can't bear to let go β 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'sβ merdeβ
I'm the problem. Not you.
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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. ]
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Mon cher, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'mβ 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'sβ 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?
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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. ]