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The first time Verso notices is in Summer.
It’s the first Summer in Lumière since they defeated the Paintress, struck a deal with both Renoir and Alicia, and the Canvas is theirs again—and Verso’s mortal life, finally, his own.
The sun is a fierce thing, cold a long forgotten sensation, and the ladies are out in their light skirts and fans while the men wear loose linen pants with shirt sleeved shirts.
Gustave, however, seems to always wear long sleeves. He rolls them up during the day, up until his elbows, and doesn’t quite care that some might find it scandalous that he opens up the top three buttons as well in an ill attempt to stave off the worst of the afternoon heat.
When Verso mentions a shorter sleeved shirt, he is brushed off.
He pays more attention after that.
Notices that Gustave doesn’t take his prosthetic off around company, even when it’s bothering him—possibly hurting him.
Even if that company is Verso.
It stirs a suspicion in him.
He is well accustomed with the insecurities that come with a body you think has failed you. His scars and aches have accumulated over the years, after all, and there are days where he feels like his body is an ugly, painful prison more than anything else.
Verso’s suspicions are confirmed when he walks into their bedroom late one afternoon to find his love shirtless in front of the floor-length dressing mirror, his prosthetic on their bed.
Gustave must be deep in thought not to hear Verso approach, but it gives him just enough time to see Gustave’s frown as he looks at, pokes and prods at his stump and decade-old scars.
He looks conflicted, unhappy, and Verso’s heart aches in compassion and understanding.
Verso’s weight shifts, and the floorboards beneath his feet creak in protest.
Gustave turns around right away, a soft gasp from his lips and his eyes wide. His hand shoots up almost right away, covering his stump.
It is in that moment that Verso comes to the startling realisation that he can count on his two hands the times he has seen Gustave without his prosthetic, and they’ve only been intimate a bare handful of times without Gustave wearing it.
Verso wants to hit himself for not noticing before.
But now that he has, he won’t allow it to continue.
“Verso! You’re home early,” Gustave greets, insecure and with a fake smile on his lips. He moves to the bed to, presumably, pick up either his prosthetic or shirt.
“Just in time to tell my partner how beautiful he is,” Verso says, stepping into the room with a soft smile.
Gustave grimaces.
“I’m serious,” Verso says. He takes a few steps to close the distance between them and kisses Gustave, gentle and reverent. “You’ve been hiding from me,” he whispers, raising a hand and trailing the back of it over Gustave’s naked left shoulder. “Why?”
Gustave lowers his eyes with a hapless shrug as he tries to angle his body away from Verso.
“Turn around,” Verso says softly, a gentle request that Gustave can easily deny if he wanted to.
He doesn’t.
Turns to face the mirror again.
Verso shrugs off his vest and tugs off his shirt. He sees Gustave watching him through the mirror, eyes roving his chest. His arms. A furrow on his brow.
“I don’t have many scars because my body would heal them by itself,” he says. He steps up to Gustave and presses his chest against the other’s back, bringing his arms around the other’s body. He settles his right hand in the curve of Gustave’s waist and brings the other up to caress his left shoulder. “I would be covered in them if it hadn’t.” He raises his eyes to catch Gustave’s hazel ones in the mirror. “What would you think of me if that had been the case? Would you think me ugly?”
Gustave shakes his head without hesitation. “Of course not!”
Verso hums. He strokes his fingers down, towards the scars surrounding his stump. He lightly touches the raised skin, waits until Gustave’s eyes are drawn down to it, before he murmurs: “Then why do you insist on seeing yourself that way?”
Gustave lets out a harsh breath. “I— I am missing an arm.”
“And has that made you any less capable?” Verso challenges. He trails his finger along the curve of Gustave’s arm, along the scars, the skin so sensitive that Gustave shudders under the soft touch. “Less smart? Less caring?”
Gustave’s eyes are firmly on Verso’s fingers, taking in the way the other touches him so gently over the part of him that is so ugly. But Verso’s touch, his words, are reverent. Filled with praise and love.
Gustave can’t help but shake his head.
No, the loss of his arm did not take away his qualities.
Verso makes a pleased sound at Gustave’s agreement. He presses a lingering kiss just below his ear in appreciation. Then, with his warm breath against Gustave’s neck a caress just as gentle as his fingers on their exploration to map every bit of scarred skin, does Verso murmur: “You are not less of anything because you lack one arm, mon trésor.” Gustave gasps at the words that speak out loud the root of his insecurities.
Verso kisses his cheek, the arm on Gustave’s waist tightening as he pulls the other man closer against him. “You are beautiful, with or without arm. With or without these scars.” His fingers draw lazy circles against Gustave’s waist as Verso leans his head down to kiss Gustave’s shoulder. Down his arm, to the scars. Soft presses of his lips he hopes push all the love he feels for this man right into his very skin. “They show your strength, your resilience, your survival. They are a part of you, make you into the gorgeous man that you are.”
Gustave trembles in his arms, his body leaning back against Verso’s, bringing them almost impossibly close.
Verso nuzzles the sensitive skin beneath Gustave’s ear. “The man that never fails to steal my breath away, even now.” He wraps his hand around Gustave’s stump, thumb gently caressing the scars at the edge of it. “Especially now.”
“Verso…” Gustave breathes, something between a gasp and a forced down sob.
Verso looks up, catching Gustave’s awe-struck, slightly overwhelmed eyes with his. “This is who you are, Gustave.” He smiles. “I love you.”
Gustave smiles back at him through the mirror. “I love you too. So much.” He turns around, Verso’s hands falling away. Gone are his insecurity, his shyness. Replaced by grateful eyes and a fond grin. “But by the Paintress do I need you on our bed right now so I can kiss you silly.”
Verso laughs. “My pleasure,” he murmurs.
Although if Gustave thinks moving to the bed will make Verso stop worshipping him, he’s wrong.