Three Means 1

Chapter 7: Drowning in thoughts

"Yeah, sorry, I- I'll be right back," were the last words Dulce spoke to Arthur before heading straight to the door and disappearing into the streets of Paris.

The outside did nothing to calm the chaos within her. The laughter from inside was replaced by the shouting of protesters, dancing gave way to fighting, and the music dissolved into revolutionary songs chanted by furious youth. But Dulce was deaf to it all. Her thoughts screamed louder than any riot.

She never went back.

Instead, she returned straight to the house. The first thing she did was open the fridge and devour most of the pastries Angelo had carefully baked for the week. She wanted to feel sick. She wanted to purge every ounce of shame and taboo that had been building in her since her arrival in Paris. The place, once sugar coated, now reeked of sin.

Eventually, she collapsed on the kitchen floor, curled up among frosting and crumbs, her black dress smeared with the evidence of her undoing and fell asleep.

~

Dulce woke up drenched in sweat, but not on the cold floor. She was in bed, clean, clothed, and oddly comforted. Her makeup had been removed, her hair tied neatly into pigtails, and she now wore a fresh pair of socks. She assumed it had been Pierre... though, knowing Angelo, it was hard to say. Not that she had the energy to care.

She stood and opened her bedroom door. The scent of cleanliness hit her immediately. The hallway was no longer a mess, no shoes scattered about, no trash, no dust. The place looked almost sterile.

"Do you need further examples of what these hands can do?" Angelo's voice was heard as she stepped into the space between the kitchen and the living room. She glanced toward him and saw him pressing down dough, methodically shaping it. Beside him were already formed doughnut rings. The image triggered memories from the night before. She mentally slapped herself.

"I'm so sorry about last night," she said, the guilt rising fast, knowing full well she'd destroyed nearly a week's worth of pastries.

Angelo glanced over his shoulder, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "I don't blame you. My desserts are magic."

"No, I mean it. I was lost. I shouldn't have."

He paused, the silence settling like fog. Then, he said, "My brother and I have a bond no one else will ever understand."

The remark caught her off guard. "What do you mean?"

He wiped his hands, stepped around the counter, and met her gaze.

"We were born conjoined."

More silence.

    It wasn't new to Dulce; he'd already shown her their scars on their temples.

Angelo stepped closer, wrapping his hand around her wrist. She gasped, not from pain, but from the intimacy of it.

"Don't worry," he reassured.

Then, slowly, he hooked her finger on the waistband of his pants. Dulce didn't move, too stunned to react. He lowered them just enough to reveal the upper part of his hips.

She didn't understand at first. She didn't know what he was showing her, until she saw it.

Another scar.

It stretched over his side, pale and nearly faded now, but long and once angry looking. It had likely been hypertrophic once but had softened with time. She wondered how she hadn't realized before.

Her heart dropped. She didn't fully understand the meaning of the moment, but she gently pulled her hand away, not out of disgust, nor anger. Just confusion. Angelo seemed to sense it.

"Pierre and I were meant to be one, you see? Connected in different parts of the body, not just one."

Before she could respond, a presence emerged from behind.

"Oh, hello, sleeping beauty. I was just telling the real princess about our conjoined experience."

"Of course you are," Pierre muttered, half amused, half irritated, his voice thick with sleep. "You have to tell everyone we meet."

Pierre crossed the room, unhurried, and gave Dulce a kiss, first on the cheek, then trailing down to her jaw, her neck. "Did I have your permission to change you last night?" he whispered playfully into her ear.

"You changed my clothes last night?" Dulce asked, trying to reset her mind.

"It was certainly not Angelo. He got home pretty late," Pierre replied.

"Do I have your permission to change you whenever I please?" he whispered in her ear, his voice laced with flirtation.

She shivered, half from the whisper, half from the confusion. "Stop," she murmured, brushing him off. "Angelo, why were you home so late?"

"Got into it with Fleur."

"Into it?" she asked.

"A fight."

The simplicity of the word made her stomach drop and images of Arthur's family event flashed in her mind.

"I didn't let her cause a scene," Angelo said casually. "Just took her into one of the side rooms and argued there."

Pierre went behind Dulce and slowly slipped his arms around her waist. Dulce shrugged him off gently, trying to concentrate on Arthur's story.

"What did you two fight about?"

"Oh the same old bullshit: I was the worst, we were perfect, blah blah. Fleur lives in contradictions. Nothing new." He went on but Dulce's concentration was coming to an end. Pierre's hands returned to her waist, more insistent this time. She brushed them off again, firmer now, but this time, he didn't budge. Instead, he lifted her over his shoulder in one swift motion, drawing a scream from her lips.

"What's up with you, huh?" Dulce yelled

Pierre's grip tightened slightly around her thighs. "Nothing's wrong. I just want your attention. You rarely act like this with me. You usually like it when I touch you... even when you're busy."

"Put me down," she said, voice stern.

"Only if you're sweet to me," he growled, spinning her slowly in his arms.

"Stooop! Okay, okay, I'll be sweet!" she shouted, already dizzy. "But put me down!"

At last, she felt the cool counter beneath the backs of her thighs. She had been sat right next to Angelo's doughnuts.

Angelo didn't say a word. He kept shaping the dough, his face unreadable.

"Don't worry," Pierre said, kneeling in front of her, eyes gleaming as he looked up between her legs. "These angel thighs won't contaminate a thing." He kissed her inner thigh slowly. "These thighs are the treat."

"Stop it," Dulce whispered, her voice trembling. "Especially in front of your brother."

The smacking of dough stopped.

Angelo stood still, eyes fixed on the table. Then, without a word, he moved beside Pierre. His gaze met hers, intense and strangely calm.

"Didn't I tell you my brother and I are one?" he murmured.

Then, placing his hand at the nape of her neck, he pulled her closer and kissed her.

——-

A/N: It's been a few months since my last update; I know, and I truly appreciate your patience. Thank you all for the incredible support; this story has been gaining momentum lately, and I'm beyond grateful for the love it's received. Unfortunately, life has left me with very little time to write, but I want to reassure you: this story will be finished. I'm not giving up on it. So please, keep showing it love. It means more than you know.