superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

The flush of intimacy suits Gustave, he thinks. His gaze lingers for a moment before he rolls off of Gustave to offer him some breathing room, lying beside him as he buttons up his own trousers.

"I should've led with it, huh?" he asks, amused. It's flattering, even if Gustave is probably only saying so because he thinks his days of getting laid might be numbered. He turns his head to steal a glance, suddenly very aware of the fact that Gustave's days are numbered, win or lose at the Monolith. As good as dead. The thought makes him a bit queasy, but he grins. "I didn't know then that all I had to do was ply you with wine. And even if I had, I might not have been so willing to give up my stash without your sensitive brooding."

Gustave lifts his hips just enough to tug his own pants back into place, to make himself mostly decent again, but he doesn't bother grabbing for his belt again yet. He rolls into him instead, one arm draped across Verso's waist like Gustave really thinks he can be casual about this pseudo-cuddle.

"Oh, the wine helped, but I don't think it was necessary. It's us repressed nerds, we're a dodgy sort." Their faces are close. Unless Verso recoils, Gustave will just let himself enjoy that.

Merde. Gustave tries to, what, post-coital cuddle him, and Verso feels even queasier. Not long ago, he'd had Gustave's cock in his mouth, and this still somehow feels like the most intimate thing they've done so far. Their faces are inches away, and Verso can feel Gustave's breath on his face, can still see the faint bits of dried blood Lune didn't manage to clean up during her healing. His chest tightens.

"We should get back to the others."

"Right, of course. Sorry," he says hastily, trying hard to shutter his own expression as he pulls away and rolls into a crouch to start collecting his own discarded clothing. "I didn't mean to-" Gustave stumbles over his own words, then seems to decide that the only thing that could make that little faux pas more awkward is acknowledging it, so he drops it abruptly and clears his throat. "I should find a place to wash up," he settles on finally, instead.

This is why he'd aborted that half-formed line about being an alternative cuddle buddy than Monoco!!!

Gustave practically jumps away like he's been burned. Verso wonders if maybe he should say something, explain that it's not that it was unpleasant, but that he can't get close to someone like that, because— what? Because he killed the last person he got close to? Or because he's going to kill Gustave and all of his friends, so he can't bear to like them too much?

Obviously not. He just sits up and grabs his own clothes, pulling on his now fully grass-stained shirt. "Yeah," he says distractedly, fitting his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. "I'll, uh, see you back at camp."

"Sure, right. Back at camp." Gustave had been entirely certain they'd gotten the awkwardness out of the way, culminating in the way he'd been able to casually ask Verso to "take a walk" with him - but now he's just more sure than before that he's reset that progress.

He finds a trickling stream not far off, uses it to rinse his face (and various stickier parts of his body.) He tries his best to ward off mild humiliation - why had he done that? - and reminds himself that this doesn't matter. They literally do not have enough time left for this to matter.

His hair is still a completely lost cause when he returns to camp, and mostly he's just going to spend the rest of the night looking pensive.

Whatever Gustave's hair looks like when he returns, Verso doesn't see, because he instantly heads toward the outskirts of camp to brood silently, brushing off any attempts at questioning his now heavily green shirt. He thinks about Gustave a little, the way he'd gasped into Verso's mouth and slung an arm around him, and he thinks about Julie a lot. But it isn't about Gustave, or even really Julie; it's about him, and how caustic he is to everything he touches.

He owes it to Gustave—and the entire team, really, considering the rancid atmosphere this awkwardness will cultivate—not to leave him feeling like he did something wrong. So, the next morning, when everyone is readying themselves for the trip toward the next Axon, Verso does the sane thing and chops off his hand.

It's an icebreaker. A little physical comedy never hurt anyone. While Gustave is bent over his pack, Verso gives him a quick tap on the shoulder. "Hey, uh. You know, I could... really use a hand."

When Gustave returns with similar smeared in stains from the grass and looking - well, undeniably shifty, he gets a thumbs up from Sciel and a glare from Lune. He's relieved when no one actually broaches the subject with him, and when Lune - queen of compartmentalization - doesn't change her actual attitude toward him at all the next morning.

He's anticipates that things will be again be a little weird with Verso, but he's not actually concerned about it compromising the mission. It is, in the scope of things, an insanely trivial thing to worry about. With the sunrise, he's mostly just ashamed for jumbling up his own priorities.

Gustave has his hair pulled back into that ugly little bun and he's just finished latching his pack when he feels the tap on his shoulder; he makes it halfway through What do you need help with when the sight registers.

He bluescreens.

"Verso, I- why did- did you cut off your hand for a gag?" Losing a limb hurts! Really bad!! He knows from experience!!!

Because I didn't know what to say is probably not the right answer here (although it is the truthful one). He made things weird, and he doesn't want them to be weird, so— a little lost limb gag had seemed the perfect option to someone who's pathologically incapable of being disliked.

"It's funny," he says, as if maybe explaining it to Gustave will make him laugh. His disembodied hand scuttles around Gustave before stopping and waving. "I need a hand. Get it?"

If it helps, Gustave doesn't seem particularly upset. Distracted, maybe, though it's pretty much impossible to focus on distractions with a disembodied hand scurrying around his feet.

"You're an insane man. You know that, right? Entirely too much time with nothing but gestrals for company." And then his brow knits thoughtfully. "I wonder what my arm is up to these days." What's left of it, anyway.

"Wine and women, probably," Verso jokes, because he's pretty sure Gustave's arm isn't up to anything besides rotting somewhere, or maybe being a pile of ashes. He never got around to asking about what actually happened to it. He probably never will, now that they're so close to the end.

The disembodied hand wilts a little, and Verso leans down to pick it up. Once he does, he shakes it in Gustave's direction. "I chopped off my hand for this, you know. No pity laugh?"

Gustave gives him a bewildered look, but he does laugh - though it's clearly more at Verso's indignation than the actual act itself. "I am not going to encourage you to maim yourself for laughs," he says. He's trying to be firm, but the fondness on his face is both quiet and unmistakable. "You're immune to death, not pain."

"Oh, it doesn't even hurt."

It hurts so fucking bad. He's in agony. It's whatever.

"But I... realize now I probably should have chosen a different limb." He hadn't considered that it might be insensitive to wave around a chopped-off hand in front of someone who's short one arm. At least, not until this exact moment.

"I don't believe you," Gustave says in a bit of a deadpan, but it's clear he has no plans to push the issue. Verso is somehow maintaining control of the limb; he rejects the notion that somehow pain is the one sensation he's lost.

He's smiling a little to himself when he reaches for his pack, swinging it onto his back. "And why's that? This arm is way cooler than my other one was, I'm not particularly sensitive about it."

Verso would be sensitive about it if he lost a limb, but Verso is sensitive about everything. He's coming to realize that Gustave is significantly more well-adjusted than he is, and that he probably didn't even feel bad about what happened last night while Verso was ruminating over it, and that he just acted like a clown for no reason.

"Sure," he says distantly, lining up the hand with his self-created stump. "Guess there's benefits to a bionic arm." He sticks the disembodied hand back in place, wincing as the cells stitch back together. A quick string of expletives: "Merde, putain, fuck." And then he lets out a breath, wiggling his fingers. "See? Nothing to it."

Oh, Gustave had done his fair share of moping about it, but all frustration had been fully aimed at himself. It wasn't like Verso had been subtle about the lines established between them; it was his own fault for acting on ridiculous impulse. He just wasn't a guy inclined to desperation-fueled hookups.

"Hm," he says instead of any of that, reaching out to catch Verso's wiggling fingers. He pulls his hand a little closer for inspection, studying what must be the seam where the flesh had knit itself back together. "I'm a little offended that you thought you need an excuse to talk to me," he murmurs, squeezing his hand and releasing it. "I didn't think last night was that bad."

Shouldn't even be on their minds, not while they're preparing to head out for the day, but it is what it is.

"That bad," he echoes, incredulously. Not to brag, but he's pretty sure Gustave hadn't thought it was bad at all; Verso can still remember those little sounds he'd made. "I recall you having a pretty good time." But it's possible, he considers, that the ending soured all of it for Gustave. An overreaction to something that didn't even mean anything.

"But it's probably not a good idea to do it again." Quickly, he adds, "Just to avoid distractions." Another quick addition: "For me." You know, it's not you, it's me.

"I was trying to play it cool," Gustave protests quietly, but the last part gives him pause. "But, uh. Sure." He's not exactly upset by this - it makes sense, actually, because it probably is completely idiotic for them to disappear until the woods to debase each other. Selfish, even.

But it still obliquely like a breakup?? He watches him for a moment, considering, before he adds almost carefully: "I'll be around, though. For a little while, at least. If you change your mind."

Verso realizes that he was hoping for more of a reaction than uh, sure, which is confirmation that he's doing the right thing by shutting this down. He's so close; the last thing he needs is to get his priorities muddled. He is absolutely doing the right thing, and it doesn't bother him at all that Gustave is probably going to spend his last moment of existence hating him.

"I just think that we should conserve our energy," he says by way of explanation. It's not untrue, but it's not really authentic. Verso was willing to selfishly waste his energy until the exact moment that it made him experience the smallest inkling of doubt. A pause, then a light, "Can't keep picking up your slack forever."

"It's alright, Verso," Gustave says after a moment, and they really should be getting on their way, but he's stalling. "You don't have to make excuses. I-"

He's struggling to find words, like he occasionally does. "For what it's worth - I'm sorry to have made it weird."

Verso stares for a second, then actually laughs a little. "—You can't even let me take credit for this," he says, a little disbelieving. He's the one who made it weird, dammit. Gustave was, yes, more affectionate than he really should have been by force of habit, but Verso's the one who actually felt something about it, so it's pretty squarely his responsibility.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He'd been hoping to keep it light and casual, avoid any uncomfortable conversations. That's what the dismembered hand had been for. "You didn't do anything wrong. It just made me remember someone, that's all."

"I'm the one who crossed the line," Gustave says, equally a little disbelieving. "I've never - obviously I've never been great at separating sex from-"

He's struggling again, hates that he can feel a little heat of embarrassment in his ears.

"This is such a- even if we don't, I'm glad that we- fucking hell," he swears under his breath, shaking his head. "Look. Let's talk tonight. Or- not, that's fine, too."

Wow. Gustave just started and didn't finish, like, five sentences.

"All right. Yeah. You're right, we should focus on getting to the next Axon." Gustave didn't say that, exactly, but the meaning feels clear enough. Interpersonal drama is small potatoes compared to what they're dealing with. "This one will be tougher."

Gustave has always been very good at that.

"You're right," he says, and then laughs - it's humourless, exasperated at himself, and he dips his head and shakes it. "But I do have considerably less incentive to make it through this time. I'll let you have that."

Verso shakes his head back, crossing his arms. Ridiculous. "Sure you do," he drawls, tone entirely casual even though his stomach flips at the very real possibility that Gustave—or Sciel, or Lune—doesn't make it through. Stupid. He's so stupid. "If you make it through, you'll be one step closer to beating Sixty's record."

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