#perhaps even

[znt999]

good dogs follow orders

[cicadaaas]

old man

[danhowellbignaturals]

Diva…………………..

[penguinzeza]

I like the concept of Tenna fourth wheeling.

[edelslow]

[twotimescloaca]

it's peak time (I spent hours absolutely locked in on this and now my body hurts from not moving for so long)

close ups + fixed two times hair

tags my two(2) oomfs cutely..

@bun-che @enygmaconundrum

[bardicinsomnia]

Verso shouldn’t care. He almost didn’t.

Life is a lot easier when he doesn’t, Verso acknowledges. But he made his choice, even if he hesitated, and Gustave would have paid for it either way. 

Having a very physical reminder of his choices, though, one that requires significant upkeep… that hits harder. A knife to the gut rather than a punch. Verso wipes Gustave’s face with a damp cloth and swallows the bile trying to rise.

He should just tell them. Or let Monoco tell them. Worst come to worst, none of them can break the curse, and they can finally convince Maelle to leave Gustave to heal in the Manor. Best case scenario, Monoco is wrong and Gustave wakes up on his own after a few more days or weeks of healing sleep. Either way, no harm would be done and the situation would finally be laid to rest. 

But Verso hesitates even now, with Gustave sitting half-draped over him to make it easier to change his bandages. He’s lighter than Verso expected. Leaned down to muscle and bone, like his prosthetic arm, with all excess trimmed away in the name of pragmatic functionality. 

It’s a hard way to live. A bit like dying by inches. Verso’s been there.

“I wasn’t joking when I said I’d never join you again.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

Monaco stares at him from the entrance of the alcove. Measures him up. Verso tries not to let it get under his skin as he ties off the bandages and gently eases Gustave back to the bedroll. Two clean, through and through blows. One would be enough to kill a lesser man. To take one to the chest and turn to fight still– 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care. 

But.

“What are you doing, Verso?” Monaco sighs, and it’s a question, it’s accusation, it’s condemnation. It makes Verso’s ears burn, makes his stomach twist in uncomfortable knots.

“Better,” Verso manages, barely a whisper that he still nearly chokes on. “I’m doing better.”

There’s another thing Monoco learned from Verso: 

Pity.