53 Lucas Sets the Pace

August 15th

Thankfully Takoyummy wasn't far from the convention center and we beat the dinner rush, because we'd no sooner been seated when the restaurant flooded with teenagers dressed head to toe in costumes, each more cumbersome and vaguely impractical than the next.

Kinda made me wish one of the Surrogate Goose penguin cosplayers would show up, just to see the look on Armand's face.

As it was, he visibly relaxed the moment we settled into our corner booth and I'd ordered for the both of us. His hulking frame, which he'd held so rigid during the panel, slumped into the upholstery.

I grinned, reaching for my water glass. "That bad, huh?"

"No, not really. That was barely the eighth worst experience of my life." He gave a rueful grin, settling further into the comfort of the booth. "So ... ‘Tell us about your artistic process,' huh?"

I nearly did a spit take as laughter bubbled out of me. It had been a split-second decision, as dozens of fans had lined up to ask Armand questions about his craft and the enigmatic narrative of his comic (only one of which he attempted to answer), and I couldn't help myself. "I was simply giving the people what they want, Armand—everyone wants the dirty, dirty secrets about what goes on behind the scenes. And it just so happens that I've had a front row seat to the carnage."

Armand blushed prettily, so I continued, "But seriously, though, your talk was so good. I'm a lowly peasant so I didn't understand all the art terms, but the way you held command of the room ..." I cupped the back of my neck and rested my elbows on the table. "It was incredibly impressive."

My god, his face was so red. "Are—" he swallowed "Are you taking the piss?"

"Not even a little bit."

The same shy, crooked smile I'd seen slip when he'd caught sight of me from the stage made a stunning reappearance. "Fingers crossed that Drake House agrees with you. Which—" His face suddenly fell. "I guess I'll find out on Sunday. When I'm back in London."

I'd almost forgotten he was leaving the day after tomorrow. For a moment, the fun, tingly tension that had surrounded us turned into a much more urgent and melancholy tension. "Right."

"You know," he rumbled softly, clearly trying to recover the date-atmosphere. "You're not what I expected."

I knew it. I knew he'd be disappointed. And why wouldn't he be?

I forced a playful tone. "What, were you expecting a slobby, butt-ugly troll?"

"No," Armand said, and his cheeks had never stopped being pink. "I suppose I just never expected you'd be a sexy cowboy." He then tried to adorably cover his eyes with his hand and disappear into the booth.

I coughed in shock, and this time my face joined Armand's in the fiery color palette. "You're not exactly what I expected either."

"I-I'm not?"

"Well no, I hardly recognized you—what with clothes and all. Let alone a turtleneck in August."

Armand bit his lip. "Would you believe I didn't choose this ensemble?"

I smirked at him over the rim of my water glass. "I was wondering what the ghost of Steve Jobs was up to these days."

"I had ground to make up," Armand insisted, "what with the blood and the ink, a-and the naked ..."

"I wasn't that much better." I grimaced—if only I could purge that night from my mind forever. "I'm sorry I was so bossy. I mean, I just started ordering you around; I can't imagine what you think of me—" And this was it, this was when he would tell me it had been too much, that I'd already showed too much of my ugly side and it had ruined everything.

Armand had gone very still and was staring at me wide-eyed. "Right." He coughed. "How dare you be competent and comfortingly assertive in your care." He smiled. "It was lovely—er, as much as anything involving that much blood can be lovely, that is. I felt safe with you, Lucas. You weren't bossy, you were—" His face was practically glowing. "Thank you. For ordering me around and taking care of me. E-especially since you seemed to have been having a rather rough night to begin with?"

I'd nearly slumped in relief at, "I felt safe with you, Lucas." No one had ever said that to me before. "Yeah, I'd just come from Milkshake's deathbed."

Armand blinked at me. "Pardon?"

Oh god, way to kill the mood, Barclay."Grandpa Milkshake, one of our senior horses ... he passed. Old age, nothing traumatic. And that's where I was right before—" I offered him a gentle, sympathetic smile "—you impaled yourself on an inkwell, like I kept saying you would if you keep leaving them on the floor—"

Armand's hand had snuck across the table and rested over mine. Warm and smooth and beautiful.

"I'm sorry." He withdrew it immediately and fisted it in his lap. "That must have been terrible for you, I've seen how much you love your horses."

His face scrunched up, as if he thought he'd crossed a line. But all I wanted was that hand back. I snuck mine closer, letting our fingertips graze. "That's okay. It was his time, and he went quietly without pain or fear ..." Oh god, don't think about a dead horse right now. Talk about something, anything else!

Armand beat me to it.

"I have to say, though," he said thoughtfully, "you do look familiar, from somewhere other than that humiliating little episode last night."

My eyes snapped back to him in amusement. "You mean you think you might've seen me before, not covered in hay and mud?"

Armand nodded and squinted at me. "Aye, I'm quite sure of it, especially when you smile. I've seen you somewhere before ... happy." He paused for only a second, then his lips pulled up in a grin. "The airport. When I arrived at the baggage claim. I think you were texting."

Noway. "You were the werewol—" I cut off with a choked laugh as I gaped at him. "I do remember you! You didn't respond when I talked to you. Kinda looked like you were in your own little angsty world."

Armand chuckled awkwardly. "That does sound like me. I remember you looking disgustingly full of joy. Who were you talking to? Was it Skyler?"

The other shoe on the subject change came crashing down. My throat went cold as I swallowed. "Darren."

"Oh, aye, right. The ex." He fiddled with his chopsticks. "Sorry."

I forced a shrug, hoping it was nonchalant. "No worries. It wasn't a big deal."

"Oh?" Armand asked, a little pointedly. Okay, maybe a lot pointedly.

I picked at a loose thread in my rolled-up napkin. "Right, I forget you were actually there to witness the dramatic aftermath ..." I gathered from the strength I'd pulled out of my ass this morning. Please don't think worse of me after hearing this.

"He, uh—" God it was really going to suck having to say this out loud. "He's a piece of shit, and the fact that I didn't see it for like ten years makes me extremely stupid and pathetic ..." My gaze drifted down to the table instead of staying on Armand's distracting face. "He was always jealous, he wanted to be in charge of how I acted and how I dressed, but I think I always kind of knew he was embarrassed by me. He never even publicly admitted our relationship—whatever it was—until, well." Until I'd lost weight, until he'd deemed me acceptable. I shrugged again, braving a glance back up. "I was the only one that ever called us boyfriends. And then he has the absolute audacity to ambush me at my favorite bakery this morning to convince me to take him back. Obviously I didn't," I added at the look that flittered across Armand's face. "But, yeah. That's the highlights for you. Feel free to run out of here in disgust should the impulse strike you."

But there was nothing on Armand's face but kindness—not pity, not judgment—that stole the breath from my lungs. "That's not an entirely unfamiliar story," he said quietly, gently.

Okay now there was a definite lump in my throat. "I know I've already mentioned it," I said, and it wasn't enough, "but thank you. Again. For everything. The muffins. The notes. For, um, caring."

Armand hunched further in on himself. "Oh, er. It was nothing. I just ... I'm glad you're feeling better."

"I am." Which was so startlingly true that my skin buzzed. I raised a playful eyebrow at him. "Nothing snaps you out of your funk like finding a large, naked man bleeding in your bathroom. And you're blushing again."

"I am?" Armand reached up, like he had to touch the warmth of his cheek to believe me. His jaw was lightly stubbled and defined, and I knew I was staring but I couldn't stop. He smiled crookedly. "I am."

"It's weird though; I thought for sure I was going to run into you the night of my breakup. Aren't you normally home around that time?"

Armand's Adam's apple jumped. "Oh, heh, I was busy being thrown out of someone's bed." Then his eyes shot wide open in a visible panic. "No! Not because— Rrrg, his wife was coming home, n-not that I knew he had a wife before. I-I was drunk, which, not that I do that often! G-go home with people, at least, not anymore. It—" He put his face in his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Just ... let's just say it wasn't a good night for either of us."

There was such awkward vulnerability in the way he stuttered through the explanation. Did he think I was going to judge him? And the idea that anyone would throw this man out of bed, or out of anywhere, made me absolutely indignant on his behalf. "Well, clearly it was his loss, and he sounds like a raging asshole."

Armand's lips pulled into an embarrassed smile past the hair hanging in his face, and then he smoothed it back. "Actually, it's even worse than that. He's the utter toss-pot who wrote Finch's play."

"I read the reviews." I shook my head at him in disbelief. This was the drama I missed out on by staying at the ranch with a dying Milkshake? "You slept with ‘Neverland-is-a-metaphor-for-middle-aged-mediocrity' guy? Gross."

"I only saw half the play myself. And then I went outside and Neverland-is-a-metaphor-for-middle-aged-mediocrity guy tried to pull me again."

"Oh my god—did it work?"

"I am pathetically proud to say that it did not."

So we both shot down our exes to be here today.This tidbit quickly turned into a mass of warm nerves the longer we smiled at each other. I struggled for breath and for a coherent sentence. "You know, even though you're not what I expected, I'm pleasantly surprised. Turtleneck and all."

Armand sighed helplessly. "You do enjoy making me blush."

"Well," I teased with a quirk of my lips, "you make it pretty easy."

He leaned forward a little, and now our entire forearms were brushing. "I know."

Despite the restaurant's air conditioning, my skin felt flushed. I took a sip of water and didn't realize until after I'd set the glass down that Armand's eyes had moved from mine and had fixated instead on where—without knowing I'd been doing it—my finger was tracing the rim of the glass.

The opportunity was too good to pass up. With extreme slowness, I dipped the finger into the water and brought it to my lips to linger there.

Armand looked like he would spontaneously combust. Which was when I returned my finger to the water and flicked it at his face.

He had no sooner squeaked in surprise when our waiter approached with our platters of food.

We continued to sneak glances at each other throughout the meal. I had loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar, and rolled up my sleeves ages ago. Which meant that Armand had also rolled up the sleeves of his ridiculous turtleneck, putting me entirely—despite my best efforts—at risk of a premature heart attack.

We chatted between bites and discovered that we both loved Space Trip, and Discworld, and it was so easy. Every time I made him laugh or blush, or said something that made him cock his head thoughtfully and bite his lip, his eyes bright and interested and with an intensity that lit my skin on fire, my heart flipped over. The way the hanging lights caught in his endless dark eyes ...

I'm going too fast.

But he's leaving. Is it now or never?

My heart pounded. I swallowed and cleared my throat. "Hey, so. I guess it's best to get this out in the open sooner rather than later, but ..." I took a deep breath, cursing the fact that outside of Darren—because of him—I had no idea how to do any of this. "If it's not too presumptuous, I feel like I'm not the only one feeling like there's ... chemistry here?"

Armand coughed in a way that sounded like maybe he'd swallowed his tongue. "Er. Um. Yes. You're ... you're ... nope. Not the only one."

"Right." I forced the words out while I still had the nerve. "I like you a lot. And you're really fun to talk to, and I'll be real, I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time. But we barely have any time left, and I know part of it's because neither of us got our shit together sooner, but if you're leaving on Sunday—" I swallowed, terrified to try and put this into words. "I want to see where this goes. I'm just not sure what I'm ready for, and I don't want this to be something rushed, or a one-night thing, or ..." My nerves got the best of me.

"Me neither!" Armand's voice was a squeak. He rubbed the back of his neck. "The last thing I want is a one-night stand."

"So you understand why I want to wait?"

He cleared his throat and sat back, his body hunching in on itself. "Of course. I understand. Of course I understand. Obviously. Naturally. Er. Yes. Quite. I understand completely."

He was so flustered that I couldn't help my smile widening into a grin, barely containing a laugh. "So you understand, then?"

Armand bit his lip and nodded. "Not to be glib, but it won't be the end of the world if we don't ... ehrrm. And I know I'm rubbish at writing, or texting, but ... we could still talk."

Awkwardness aside, talking about this so directly—to be able to discuss what I wanted with clear boundaries and intentions—was unfamiliar but more comfortable than I'd any right to expect. "Right—I'm sure it'll be just as hard to get ahold of you on a regular schedule in England as it was here," I teased, fighting the urge to reach out for him again while he was here, in front of me, within touching distance.

Armand chuckled, sending a warm ripple through me. "I'll just need to figure out how to draw on your mirror from a continent away."

I laughed, and he was so charming and devastating, I wondered how the hell I was supposed to make it out of this alive.