The two of them could give him everything in the world he wanted; that was the truth. Sean was overwhelmed by the wealth that he possessed, honestly believing that at any moment he would mess up and lose it just like he had with all of his other relationships, but no matter what these men had stayed with him--and there had been tough times, really tough times. There was no love in his heart greater than the love he had for them both, and that was why they were still together even now; it was how he had weathered this whole thing with Viggo and the press, exposing the deepest part of himself to people who only ever saw what the paparazzi and journalists published about him, that couldn't understand the heart of him. He had hurt, and struggled, and now there was this, and it was more beautiful than he had ever imagined he deserved. He imagined it should fall apart, because it was like a dream, Christian and Viggo both, and neither of them insisting that he go without the other.

He was so distracted by how lucky he was, just caught in the spell of watching them, that he almost didn't know what they were talking about when they looked back up at him. He blinked back in startled confusion. Choose? Choose what? His mind had been elsewhere, and he strained to work out what they'd just been talking about. Fortunately it looked like he was thinking about sonnet numbers, because when he finally realised what it was he'd been asked, he let out a sharp laugh, looked back down to Viggo and then laughed again.

A sonnet. Of course he was asking for a bloody sonnet. And when his mind was so far outside of his head that he wasn't sure he'd know one if it bit him in the ass. He looked up at the cracked ceiling, as though in prayer or mere exhasperation, then dropped his eyes back to Christian.

"The one that's about the fella in love," he challenged, because most of them were, and he was just being damned cheeky.