August 16 [c.l & p.g]

𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

┌────────────┐
gonna hold ya,
gonna kiss ya in my arms,
gonna take ya away
from harm
└────────────┘

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 ˖*°࿐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟐𝟏𝐬𝐭.

Oblivion might not be one of the seven deadly sins, but it sure is mine.

How long can I truly live in blissful naivety with Charles and Pierre at my side. We're not dating. Not officially. Nobody has spoken of any such thing. But whatever this is, it's not just fucking. It can't be; it feels like so much more than that. Maybe I truly am oblivious and I'm letting my emotions rule when I should be casting them aside.

I love them.

There are two things I know with absolute certainty. The first is that I will love them until we're nothing but stardust. The second? I will find them in the next life and the one after that.

How do I find myself so lucky that I'm on this rock hurtling through space and time with these two men? I must have been a saint in a past life.

How do I find myself so lucky that these two men snuck into my hotel room–despite the fact I refused to be a distraction to their race prep–in the middle of night, under the cover of night like a secret ops mission, just to lay by my side?

I wake up sandwiched between their lithe bodies; our limbs nothing but a tangled mess beneath the sheets. Warmth radiates in every direction, and Pierre in particular feels like my own personal furnace pressed against my backside. Deft fingers brush through the hair behind my ear, the strong arm attached falls over one of my shoulders; its weight comforting and cocooning me in this gentle moment of time.

I never want this to end.

The fantasy of this casual intimacy feels like a dream.

And while we've woken up in bed together before, this feels different. Something pivotal is about to change the course of everything we've agreed on. This isn't sexual in the slightest, as opposed to past mornings we'd found ourselves in a tangle. And yet still, we haven't gone any further than what we've already done. I'm completely satisfied and not at the same time. I truly don't think I've experienced this much sexual frustration than since I was a teenager discovering my own sexuality. But there's an unexplainable force greater than all three of us that holds us back.

Once I've convinced myself that this isn't just another one of my fairytale dreams, I blink away the haze of sleep and finally begin to feel my toes again.

"You look beautiful like this," Charles says. His voice is as soft as his kisses.

A sliver of light breaks through the curtains, bathing him in a golden glow. He is ethereal. I trace my thumb over his bottom lip and he nips it gently with his teeth.

"Good morning," I blush.

His fingers stop their languid strokes to caress my cheek. His eyes follow the movements of his hand as it traces under my eyes, the tail of my brow, and around the side of my face to cup my chin. It's as if he's committing this picture to memory. And then they flick over my shoulder, and it's like the green turns from a simmer to a blaze. I catch flecks of gold and they're like molten ore swimming in the blaze.

"Charles," I whisper, finding my voice lodged in the back of my throat. "Has anyone told you how beautiful you are?"

He chuckles and takes hold of my hand that cups his jaw to bring it to his lips. He kisses my palm, eyes cast down to the soft skin of my wrist. And then he kisses his way up my arm, finding his destination at my shoulder.