#Chapter3
/"Man up,/" Lucien breathed to himself. His eyes were closed. His hands were clenched so tightly his nails had begun to bite into the fleshy banks of his palms. His heart beat so fast that the sound seemed to thunder through his chest, echoing around the washroom. /"Just man up./"
It was easier said than done. The theory of it, of standing up straight, squaring his shoulders and just getting on with it, was simple enough. It was a pretty picture, held together by a series of straightforward instructions.
But the reality? He stood there like a quivering mess, his lower lip trembling, his stomach turning, going over like he'd just freefallen from a great height. His limbs had closed the shutters on logic's demands, refusing to obey the commands they sent out.
/"Please,/" he whispered, cracking a single eye. Against the black and white diamond tiles, the oval swirl of the mirror's walnut frame broke away from the colour scheme. His reflection leered back in a pathetic rebound; the rosy hue had faded from his cheeks, giving birth to an unyielding paleness, and sweat had begun to gather along his brow. /"Please, don't screw this up./"
The prayer was an offering to anybody who was willing to listen. Any divine being with the power to help him out. But he must have been unworthy of their time, or beneath their attention because as he waited for a miracle, for a stroke of courage to fill him, nothing came.
Descending further into panic, Lucien screwed his eye back up. He breathed in steeply. Exhaled slowly. Then repeated the process a few times. His elder brother, Joel, used to make him do that every morning before school. Every morning had been a crying fit and a full-scale breakdown to avoid going. The bullying was out of control and his parents were old school: his father believed it would make a man out of him, while his mother preached 'sticks and stones' to him.
His brother had been the only one to care. He'd been his defender, but being almost four years older, he graduated long before he did and the torment spiked to an all time high.
He wasn't sure how the two situations related, but almost as though his brother was right there with him, whispering soft, calming words, the tight knots that pulsated in his lower abdomen seemed to lessen.
Think positive.
As he tried to drill the command home, his eyes once again fell to the root of his despair: his Charmander onesie.
The bright burn of orange material was neatly folded. It sat on the downturned lid of the toilet seat, his pacifier, a black hunk of plastic with a skull and crossbone design, on top. They were part of his nighttime routine. He'd find his cosiest pyjamas. He'd find his fluffiest socks. The stuffie of the night would be chosen and he'd kill the hours until his bedtime in a gentle state.
But tonight the routine presented a problem. He wasn't at home. He wasn't alone. And he'd been mostly Little when he'd packed his bag. The results were . . . he swallowed hard.
His relationship with Angel had taken a step forward. It had been almost two weeks since their first date. They'd texted every day since and been on two other official dates. They'd met up for breakfast a handful of times too.
Angel had been a true gentleman. He'd bought him flowers. He'd refused to let him put anything towards the costs of their dates. He'd been polite and kept his hands to himself. It had been on their second date, as he'd dropped him back off home, that they'd shared their first kiss.
But what was a kiss to sex?
This was going to be their first night together. Angel had asked him if he'd like to spend the night at his place and he'd agreed. Which opened the door to the heart of his dilemma: the stupid pyjamas.
It was going to be their first night together. There was an expectation there. It was an unspoken rule that they were going to have sex. And without thinking, he'd managed to ruin the mood before it had even had a chance to be created.
Kyle used to hate his character's pyjamas. They were silly and childish, he used to say. Mood killers.
Angel was nothing like any of the men he'd dated in the past. He was something else entirely, even if Lucien wasn't entirely sure what that was. But he was still a man and a man had needs.
So how was he supposed to walk back out to him dressed like a fire lizard?
/"Angel isn't mean,/" Lucien whispered to himself. His eyes had cracked open again and his reflection was suffering from an extreme case of the frowns. His brow was burrowed and his eyebrows had knitted together. Tears shimmied in his dark green eyes. /"Angel is nice and he won't be mean./"
He hoped.
No, he corrected. He knew.
Be positive? Then he was being positive. Thinking about it logically, dividing fear from the equation, his eyes fell down to his bag that was spilt out on the cold marble at his feet.. It was pink and white, and very clearly Hello Kitty.
Again, in his defense, he'd been mostly Little when he'd packed— Angel had called him an hour before he picked him up to make sure he was ready and there had just been something about the stroke of authority in his tone, the no-nonsense, straight to the point manner that had pushed him over the edge. He'd regressed somewhat, and now these were his consequences.
But the bag was all the proof he needed that Angel was a different breed of male to that he was used to.
Six foot and three inches of pure menace, paired with the teeth-stomping military boots and the 'darker than the pits of hell' wardrobe choice, Angel Toussaint was the kind of man that had little old ladies scurrying across to the other side of the road. The kind of man that had mothers tightening their grip on their little ones' hands.