(Leo)

 

Queasiness dominated my senses for a few seconds; I knew I soldered something that could not be undone without a violent wedge.

After that confession, Sinclair's smile grew even larger, but they kept themself from getting too giddy. Instead, they placed their free hand along the side of my neck, rubbing their thumb over my jaw until the area's sensitivity became obvious to me.

I grew slightly anxious. It was a situation I only seldom was in before. I was unused to the earnestness of emotions in this way, terrified of the possibility of becoming vulnerable again.

They removed their hand from mine, threading their arm around my waist so that our torsos were nearly flat against each other. With a sliver of deep pink around the periphery, their eyes were dark. Pounding veins were overwhelming.

Leaning over, they made their intent obvious to me. There was no use in trying to resist what my heart told me by then. I felt a magnetic pull towards them after nodding my head that—yes—this was okay with me somewhere deep inside. Yes, I had wanted this for a long while. I knew I wasn't perfect, but I could do so much better for them than the scum that was Algor.

The moment we connected lips in a chaste kiss, tears threatened to escape my closed eyes, my face looking so pitiful just out of sight.

What kind of person would get so emotional over something so small? Apparently me, except that it wasn't over something small.

When two people touched without being attracted to one another, it was as invigorating as a dead battery without a socket. However, when two people touched with some sort of magical attraction, it transformed into something electric—shocking—as if that battery became connected to a live wire. There was a gentle tingling that felt good in as innocent of a way as possible, but it soon turned addicting.

I did not understand until then how someone could try something once and crave it like a necessity.

I placed my hands along the nape of Sinclair's neck to keep them there and laced my fingers through their hair, longing to sink more into that feeling like quicksand. I didn't want that fantasy to end—wanted to drown in the electricity. Even if it could shock me, I'd gladly take the scars in return.

If the soft motion of Sinclair's lips wasn't anything to go by, then the hand that moved from my face to grip my bicep in ebbs and flows told me they were feeling the same thing, seeking to be grounded before quickly letting their inhibitions go with the tides of passion. I could understand them when they opened their mouth to drag their tongue along my lips in that they yearned for something more intoxicating as well. If they didn't drink alcohol for the feeling, then that must have been its replacement.

My head felt a bit dizzy as I opened my mouth for that new experience, and Sinclair placed one hand so that it cradled my cheek again. The taste of their tongue was like how I imagined wine, situated somewhere between sour and sweet in such a way that my brain was overwhelmed by the flavor and overcome by a daze that evoked a soft noise from my throat.

…That wasn't to say the kiss felt entirely right at that moment despite all the prerequisites being met, though.

Something again told me what I was doing wasn't right. Something nagged at the back of my skull that it wasn't the right time—that we were too hung up on our pasts to enjoy our present together.

As badly as I had wanted to, I couldn't get lost solely in the feeling.

It didn't seem like Sinclair intended on stopping there either when they brought their hands to my wrists, dragging fingertips along my arms. Sinclair gripped them in a manner that I thought would be much too harsh for their liking given their gentle nature and moved my arms upwards before slowly leaning me over to pin me against the flowers, deepening the kiss in the process.

As they did that, something cold and smooth brushed against my forearm, and my mind became bombarded by its implications.

The bracelet from Algor. It all comes back to him.

Before my back hit the flora, the bitter feeling lying dormant in me grew so fast that it consumed my thoughts. I could barely enjoy the moment with my insecurities storming to the forefront of my mind as I tried concealing my internal trepidation.

For some reason, I had no physical desire to do this with Sinclair.

(With a certain epiphany, actually, I had never wanted to touch someone with sexual intent.)

"Stop," I commanded as my back gently crashed against the flowers we used as a bed, and Sinclair was kissing sweetly along my jaw and nipping at my neck while they reached to unbutton my shirt.

"I don't mean this to pressure you but why?" they asked as they leaned away instantly, hands unmoved from my arm and chest.

The lower part of their face was doused in spit, and their eyes were dilated alongside labored breaths, which I noticed as their chest beat softly against mine. I furrowed my brow slightly, but I was too dumbfounded to appear hurt.

"You're doing the same as Algor did to you—rushing into things too fast."

My face was still warm as I said this, and the heat from before was replaced by a distinct coldness. I tried to mask the self-consciousness I felt in this way, not wanting to admit the dissonance of our emotions.

"At least we're in love with each other," they deadpanned, barely shifting from their position on top of me. They sounded distraught, asking, "What's wrong with this?"

"This isn't the same thing." Shaking my head, I swallowed. "I don't want to do this."

"Then, that's fine."

In the end, there could only be a front of apathy.

We both sat up, and I was disheartened when that comforting weight came off me despite my heart telling me that going too fast was a bad idea.

With eyes that suddenly dampened and glistened like glass, Sinclair peered at the ground.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable with that," they said as they hugged their legs to their chest.

"It's fine." I paused to gesture for them to sit up straight and spoke carefully, "But… I don't think you entirely understand what I mean."

"Then, what do you mean?" they asked as they settled upright, shaggy hair covering sections of their face.

I inhaled deeply to release the tightness—the guilt—in my body.

"I think we need to wait on all this—a relationship in itself. We both need time to heal."

Their eyes turned red and fiery, undertones from previous pain and manipulation. "After all our time together and the conversation we just had, you still want to say that?"

Shaking their head, their irises cooled to a darker shade of crimson as a crooked thought came to them. "You only talk like that because you're a widower."

Had it been anyone else, I would have resorted to violence.

But how the heck do they know that?

"What makes you say that? I've never talked about anything of the sort."

"Your wife, Marietta… She fell in love with you because of my doing. I knew that all along," they stated with a shaky voice while on the verge of crying. "I took that damn wedding photo you always carry around."

Damn. I had forgotten for a moment they were once cupid, even when they literally said it less than ten minutes ago.

But that name… Every syllable seized each nerve in my body, wringing it dry of what little optimism remained like a tattered towel. Even in my mind, I never thought I'd hear that word spoken again. I had wished for the memory to be sealed in a locket, a little time capsule with a forgotten date.

Plus, the photo… That mysterious stranger who took it… The lines of their face sharpened in my recollections upon the revelation.

"And so what?" I said less maliciously than intended after snapping out of my thoughts. It was difficult for me to talk rudely, even when Sinclair shot an arrow so close to my heart with that topic.

"You can't let Algor go even after the way he treated you," I retorted.

That hit their soft spot, and they looked at the ground again as if they were kicked in the stomach. "Does that mean we can't try to move on?"

"It means we need to before we go any further."

They were temporarily silent. "I can't argue with that."

I nodded, tears from before making themselves apparent on my face.

I'm so sorry, Sini.

"I think we need to both work on ourselves, and then"—I sniffled and pointed to a structure in the distance—"I want us to meet each other as lovers again atop the mountains at Caelum. I want us to go into this where we can fully love each other without resorting to the past excesses biting at our tails."

I paused to inhale after my rambling. I did not know I could be quite so serious, and it threw me off as my voice softened to heal the damage I inflicted. "Is that okay with you?"

After thinking, they simply replied, "You can be selfish with something like that. I can wait if it's for you."

They tried to grin through a sad expression with obvious feelings; a mix of pink and royal blue streaked their eyes above a gray background.

"So can I," I stated earnestly, and I held up my pinky like before in the storage room. "Let's promise each other we'll be lovers when we're ready."

They refused to take it, knowing damn well what it represented this time, before they went straight for a hug while nodding. Warm tears dotted the shoulder of my shirt.

"I promise… we'll give each other a chance to love then."

I wondered—if their sorrowful eyes were a good basis—whether they thought this as they said that to me: Why do two people who are in love willingly hurt each other so badly?

I was certain neither of us would have known how to respond if they had vocalized such a thing. Why did two people who loved each other cause the other pain?

I ran my hand over their back to soothe them, and I couldn't hold back my crying and the accompanying sobbing noises.

Why did the spears of self-doubt overtake my mind? But I did this for myself, too.

A person did not have to be completely fixed to love another, but they had to be malleable enough for that to be possible. The way we were, we still lingered on the tendrils and traumas of the past, minds still wandering away from each other no matter how much we tried to keep them en route. What we needed was time and whatever help we could get to overcome our previous troubles so that the rock could be converted into clay.

I held Sinclair tightly against me, savoring the moment and all the warmth I was offered. I wanted to inhale their scent—though my stuffy nose prevented me from doing so—so that I would not forget the essence of a hug from the one I loved. I wanted to feel their soft locks and touch their muscles as their biceps flexed, wishing to not forget the strength Sinclair showed in the face of adversity or the softness with which they always treated me.

Between my arms and fingertips, I ingrained their physical presence, but what would I have to do to save the memories of who they were in my brain? Would I simply treasure the thoughts, or would I have to keep Sinclair close but still at a distance?

I wasn't sure if I had the best answer for that.

When we broke away from each other, I decided I could not stand seeing them hurt like that anymore, and I shook my head violently.

I was ashamed of my own hesitancy, but I knew a partnership required both people were ready—not just one. I figured Sinclair could easily understand that.

But, no, no—the way I was acting wasn't right. Why was I running away from the person who I loved the most?