Work Text:
canicule -
noun
1. heat wave
2. dog-days
nom féminin
période de grande chaleur.
the room is dark. it's the kind of blackness that makes you try to hold your hands parallel to your face and start wiggling your fingers, eyes searching for a glimpse of skin.
the only source of light breaking your pitch surroundings is a blur of moonlight coloring the window, and a sliver of the wall next to it.
idly, your eyes adrift across the ruffled sheets to the dim red numbers on his alarm clock.
4:23AM
that's right, his alarm clock.
your eyes move to him.
you can only see bits of him in the faint light--the arch of his shoulder, that strong jawline, a thick set of eyelashes. you can also see the sheen of sweat covering what bare skin isn't hidden under thin sheets; a sign of the midsummer heat.
"canicule," you think humorously to yourself.
it's a word you learned from him, incidentally. the week prior, he had recommended a book on french vocabulary, saying something like, "I thought something like this might interest you." with that same smile he always wore--like the cat who caught the canary.
"canicule."
"canicule...that means heatwave, yes?"
you give a short nod and handed the well worn book back to him, and he tucked it safely in his bag.
"well then, my little dove, let me know if you want to borrow something similar again."
that smile was on his face again, you recall. like he knew the effect he had on you, like he knew exactly how you felt about him and his stupid stupid, handsome face.
you swallow dryly.
and then like eve reaching out for the forbidden apple, your hand searches for his on the bed with trembling fingers.
his hand lain outstretched in front of you, palm facing upward and wrist bent gracefully. it's another reminder to you how beautiful he and his brothers are, how they achieve such grace with a simple bend of the wrist.
it's more than your mortal self could dream of.
that kind of grace is only granted, once you lose your own.
carefully, your palm presses flat to his, and absent-mindedly you hope that your hands aren't sticky with sweat.
of course, they are, but he doesn't seem to mind.
the blonds fingers lace with yours, and again you quietly think. this time about the size of his hands, much larger than yours.
startled you glance up at his once sleeping face, (or at least, you thought he was asleep.) eyes now open.
and you think he's the most holy thing in the world. nevermind that he had never been an angel, never been celestial in the first place, he was holy.
and nobody could convince you otherwise that this demon was not made by god.
a smile graces your face as you titter a bit, the expression on his face if he were to ever hear that you had compared lucifer to a god, would be priceless.
the light highlighting his irises in iridescent shades of chartreuse brings you back to the present.
with his pupils black slits against the beauty of his eyes, so full of darkness and power--two thoughts come to mind.
you decide that if he is indeed something holy, he is the darkest holy thing to ever exist, and that you love him terribly for it.