It's not really his intention to split anything open for Phillip, but he's also not particularly contrite about it, either. This needs to happen, and he trusts both of them know it. If there's something that has always been true about Gustavain (and also Azem, and also everyone he's been since then) it's that there's no easy way out. It's like his soul was born to break down the barriers people build that keep them comfortable and safe, but separated from their truths and the beauty of themselves.
There's no real emotion that wells up in him when Phillip confirms what he's already guessed was true, which surprises him a bit, but there's a soft swell of rightness that settles in his chest, something that makes the rest of everything feel far away. The guilt comes with it, though, the understanding that he's killed all the others, now. Phillip is alone and it's his doing, if not exactly his fault. When does he get to wash the blood off his hands?
There's something fiercely protective that rises up in him at that, a sudden desire to make sure nothing happens to Phillip-- who will outlive him, who will have to wonder if he'll ever find him again through the march of time, who will not know if they will meet on the same side or even at all. When he draws off of him and looks up, his eyes are golden for a moment, devoted.
But whatever that is, it doesn't last longer than a moment as he dips his head back down, slick fingers tracing a slow path between Phillip's legs. There's been no visible effort to get any kind of lube, but Phillip knows it's more likely to have been slight of hand than some kind of magic-- after all, there's a very good chance he'd been prepared for something like this the moment he walked into Phillip's room-- having something serious to discuss has never stopped them from falling into bed with one another before.
"What was Azem like?" he asks, a minute or so later, absorbed in a slow-but-steady bit of preparation, "As a lover, I mean."
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There's no real emotion that wells up in him when Phillip confirms what he's already guessed was true, which surprises him a bit, but there's a soft swell of rightness that settles in his chest, something that makes the rest of everything feel far away. The guilt comes with it, though, the understanding that he's killed all the others, now. Phillip is alone and it's his doing, if not exactly his fault. When does he get to wash the blood off his hands?
There's something fiercely protective that rises up in him at that, a sudden desire to make sure nothing happens to Phillip-- who will outlive him, who will have to wonder if he'll ever find him again through the march of time, who will not know if they will meet on the same side or even at all. When he draws off of him and looks up, his eyes are golden for a moment, devoted.
But whatever that is, it doesn't last longer than a moment as he dips his head back down, slick fingers tracing a slow path between Phillip's legs. There's been no visible effort to get any kind of lube, but Phillip knows it's more likely to have been slight of hand than some kind of magic-- after all, there's a very good chance he'd been prepared for something like this the moment he walked into Phillip's room-- having something serious to discuss has never stopped them from falling into bed with one another before.
"What was Azem like?" he asks, a minute or so later, absorbed in a slow-but-steady bit of preparation, "As a lover, I mean."