His eyes are hard, watching Verso, and they only soften a little when his glance flickers down to meet Maelle's. She's defending him, this man she's come to care for and who Gustave hardly knows, but even her excuses sound weak. Of course they do: what excuse would do?
His head moves, turning just a little like an abortive shake, tipping just slightly, and he lifts his eyebrows at her as she goes on: Verso chose us. His voice, when it comes, could almost seem to be just for her: quiet, almost gentle, but there's a hard edge to it. "Are you sure?"
It's not really a question, is it? The truth is he isn't sure. He doesn't have all the context, the information, but how would any of it help? If Verso had good intentions, is he supposed to forgive the lie that came out of them?
But the man himself is moving now, taking a step forward, and here they come: the excuses, offered in a reasonable, apologetic tone that might soften a harder heart than Gustave's, if he weren't already so wounded and furious. It wasn't information I felt you needed to hear, Verso says, and now Gustave looks right at him, over Maelle's head, leaning forward like a dog straining on a leash. His right hand comes up, stabbing at him in a gesture. His voice is no longer raised, but that edge is still there, razor-sharp. "You don't get to to decide that for me."
And if he's decided that, what else has he decided is for the good of this person he barely knows, and coincidentally also beneficial to him? He goes on, more excuses โ there wasn't a good time, I would have told you eventually โ and Gustave snorts, straightening. His hand drops to his side, and he shakes his head, very slightly, eyes still fixed on Verso.
His voice, still quiet, is no longer edged. Instead, the words, almost gently placed into the air between them, have the simple finality of a closing door. "I don't believe you."
And isn't that the crux of all this? Who believes Verso. Who doesn't. Gustave steps back, lifting his hands, shaking his head again, more fervently this time. "One window's not enough. I need some air. You guys... I'll be back. Later."
Which is all he'll say before he's turning, heading to the door andโ through it, steps fading along the hall.
no subject
His head moves, turning just a little like an abortive shake, tipping just slightly, and he lifts his eyebrows at her as she goes on: Verso chose us. His voice, when it comes, could almost seem to be just for her: quiet, almost gentle, but there's a hard edge to it. "Are you sure?"
It's not really a question, is it? The truth is he isn't sure. He doesn't have all the context, the information, but how would any of it help? If Verso had good intentions, is he supposed to forgive the lie that came out of them?
But the man himself is moving now, taking a step forward, and here they come: the excuses, offered in a reasonable, apologetic tone that might soften a harder heart than Gustave's, if he weren't already so wounded and furious. It wasn't information I felt you needed to hear, Verso says, and now Gustave looks right at him, over Maelle's head, leaning forward like a dog straining on a leash. His right hand comes up, stabbing at him in a gesture. His voice is no longer raised, but that edge is still there, razor-sharp. "You don't get to to decide that for me."
And if he's decided that, what else has he decided is for the good of this person he barely knows, and coincidentally also beneficial to him? He goes on, more excuses โ there wasn't a good time, I would have told you eventually โ and Gustave snorts, straightening. His hand drops to his side, and he shakes his head, very slightly, eyes still fixed on Verso.
His voice, still quiet, is no longer edged. Instead, the words, almost gently placed into the air between them, have the simple finality of a closing door. "I don't believe you."
And isn't that the crux of all this? Who believes Verso. Who doesn't. Gustave steps back, lifting his hands, shaking his head again, more fervently this time. "One window's not enough. I need some air. You guys... I'll be back. Later."
Which is all he'll say before he's turning, heading to the door andโ through it, steps fading along the hall.