He really did look pitiful like this. Gaunt, frail. Atrophied. Hardly the strong man he might have otherwise remained, if he'd dedicated himself to anything other than dying again and again. Not that Gustave had any suggestions as to how else he might spend his time, when he still knew so little about him.
Or did he?
Verso was immortal. Verso was a liar. Verso was a swordsman, a dual-wielder. Verso was a musician. Verso was an artist. Verso liked dogs, and swimming, and the smell of fresh bread. Verso loved his sister. Verso bore many regrets, and many more secrets. Verso was kind, and cruel, and callous, and sweet, and so very handsome and charming.
But all of that knowledge was secondhand. Gustave had never been given the chance to interact with the man himself. He'd only ever heard stories, and not all of those stories were necessarily true. It left Gustave to only speculate as to the depths of the man's many mysteries.
"But you can," Gustave argued, maybe a bit more passionately than he'd intended. "You can and you have. I-I mean, I know we haven't known each other all that long, but I like you. I... I like you a lot."
And there was plenty to like.
Verso was thoughtful. Verso was empathic. Verso was a brother, a son. Verso was an inventor. Verso was an artist. Verso liked dogs, and slow walks through the city, and the taste of freshly-baked bread. Verso loved his sister. Verso bore many regrets, and many more secrets. Verso was kind, and cruel, and callous, and sweet, and so very handsome and charming.
And Gustave knew all of it, firsthand.
something i really like doing in my writing is throwing in little call-backs like this. these passages are from chapters 2 and 4 of #tbhbom. i hope some of our readers took notice. #verstave
