He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting as Basil took the letters and undid the ribbon to flip the papers. Some Gus had read a thousand times over. Some served as a reminder for why he steered clear of England. At seventeen he’d thought he’d had the world figured out and had left with his tail between his legs after a harsh rejection; when he felt like giving up and going home (which hadn’t been a thought that crossed his mind often), the letters served as a starch reminder that he didn’t want to face a public rejection he was sure Basil was ready to dish out. Some of them reminded him he wasn’t ready to let him go; that if perhaps Gus had fought a little harder they could have been happy, perhaps he could have shown Basil that he was capable of loving him just as much as he would love his wife. Some of them he read when  he was feeling sorry for himself, some of them when he needed to feel loved. The daft boy’s letter had become his rock in a way because he’d been afraid to put himself out there in the same way he had with Basil.

(Of course he read them less and less as the years went on. It just took some time to get some confidence back.)

Gus fidgeted as the brunette flipped through the letters. It wasn’t until he spoke his name that he stepped forward and pressed a hand against his back, stepping over a few letters that had fallen next to his feet; he’d deal with those later. Basil held his head like he was in a sheer amount of pain and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to comfort him. Instead Gus focused on the words he was saying. “Yeah. Ok. That’s a good idea.” He tried to keep the panic from clawing up his throat as he saw the blood across Basil’s hands. That certainly wasn’t looking good.

The redhead guided them out of the chambers, ensuring to put the wards back up before he turned toward him. “I… can you walk? I’m sorry, Basil. I shouldn’t have… it was too much.” His hand didn’t leave his back. What a day this was shaping out to be.

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