Lucas Locks In
So, this was what death felt like.
What day was it? What year was it?
I could hear my mom now: Aww, baby’s first jetlag.
It took all the strength in my very stiff, very heavy body to blink again and adjust to the dark.
The mattress creaked loudly as I struggled to sit up and ground myself.
Claustrophobic room, no external light whatsoever, a vague and musty smell in the air .
. . I gripped the mattress as the panic of an unfamiliar environment prickled my skin.
There was breathing next to me. And it started coming back.
I was with Armand, in his squeaky bed, in his tiny apartment, in London.
I was in another country with a man I had only recently met in person.
A man who—my body took great care to remember pointedly—had kissed me gently and then proceeded to go down on me without the slightest hesitation.
I hadn’t had to beg, had never expected that someone like him would ever consider . . .
It’s because he doesn’t know you that well, yet.
You literally met like five seconds ago.
My brain cells were slowly returning and brought familiar self-consciousness with them.
You’re having a whirlwind European romance with a perfect stranger, but that’s all it is.
Enjoy it while it lasts, you needy bitch.
Even in the dark, Armand was beautiful, like a painting; his muscled shoulders rose and fell gently as he slept.
His nose was smushed adorably into the pillow, the rest of him splayed out on the mattress like a collapsed rag doll.
The jetlag must’ve come for him too—if we’d learned anything from our time cohabiting through completely polar-opposite schedules, the middle of the night was when he was most likely to be awake.
I carefully navigated by the dim light of my phone over to my suitcase, forgotten by the front door—I hadn’t even unpacked yet; god, I was a mess already.
I grabbed clean clothes for a shower, and my feet did need to remember how to walk a couple of times, so it was probably best that Armand wasn’t conscious to perceive me.
As quietly as possible (though Armand was grumble-snoring quite loudly), I shuffled into the bathroom.
Where I was hit with a wave of déjà vu, only worse.
The bathroom was barely large enough for one person, let alone two—I could practically touch every single wall.
Absolutely no counter space, there was a bar of soap and nothing else, and yep, there were definitely strands of dark hair in the tub.
Which looked like it hadn’t met bleach in months.
Everything was tinted yellow, with none of the homey touches I’d added to our Briars apartment to offset the barren wasteland that was the bathroom.
This was how Armand had been living this whole time? How was he still alive?
Stay strong, Barclay. You very much signed up for this.
I tore my eyes away from the half roll of toilet paper sitting on top of an empty roll—my god—and settled instead on the line of mildew on the tiny windowsill and brown-ish mold in the grouting.
Okay, first on the task list: white vinegar and baking soda, need to get rid of that stat.
Swallowing my panic, I turned to the mirror over the sink, and—
Doodles. Layered and intricate, the designs swirling around the edges of the mirror and leaving only a head-shaped usable space in the center.
I let my finger hover over the ink, tracing the lines and spotting small drawings hidden within the geometric mess—there was a penguin, a frog, and .
. . an amorphous jelly creature of some kind?
I snagged my cleaning wipes from my luggage to scrub the daylights out of the sink and tub. I left the mirror untouched.
It did take a few minutes for hot water to run, but eventually I managed something akin to a shower and then attempted my skincare routine with the mirror space available.
My colorful, meticulously organized toiletry bag hung on the towel-less towel rack in stark contrast to the dingy nothingness of the bathroom.
While waiting for my facemask to dry, I checked my phone for messages.
There were several texts and voice notes from Skyler, all of which filled me with a rush of homesickness.
Skyler: hi so you wanted me to tell you when we made it to seattle in one piece so here’s proof of life
He’d also sent a selfie: Skyler in the foreground looking as photogenic as he did on The End is Neigh’s website, care of my expert photographer’s eye.
I recognized Robin in the background, sitting cross-legged on a couch and midreach for what looked like a charcuterie board on the coffee table.
On the same couch but some distance away was another young man who I assumed was Matt, Skyler’s brother.
If I’d calculated time zones correctly, it was midafternoon back home; he’d be at work with our horses. I left him a voice note in response, quiet though Armand surely wouldn’t wake up. Then I finished in the bathroom, got dressed, and remembered it was still the middle of the damned night.
I sat down for some internet research on the London area: best places to eat, touristy-spots I could trap Armand into a photoshoot .
. . The rabbit hole bought me a few hours, and the moment light finally began to peek into the apartment, I ordered a smorgasbord of emergency groceries to fill Armand’s abandoned fridge.
They arrived with a loud knock a half hour later. Armand, bless him, remained asleep.
I looped as many bags as I could onto my forearms, because multiple trips were for losers. Across the hall, another apartment door opened, and a cute old lady with gently faded purple hair gave me a gummy smile.
“Oh, hello dear! I heard a commotion at Armand’s door, and he doesn’t tend to have visitors.” Her eyes lit up behind very round (also purple) glasses. “Especially handsome ones. You his new fella?”
I returned the grin, my cheeks heating up. “Um. Sort of. I’ll be staying with Armand for a bit.” I extended what I could of my arm. “I’m Lucas.”
“Ooh, American!” She delicately shook my hand. “Winifred, but do call me Winnie.” She took in the mountain of groceries I’d confiscated. “And what a nice lad to do the shopping! Certainly nicer than his last fella, is what I heard, poor darling.”
The gossip in me was begging for details, but I was losing circulation in my arms. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m so glad he has such lovely neighbors.”
Winnie blushed, waving away the compliment. “Ooh, since you’re here, would you mind giving Armand—just a tick—” She disappeared back inside for a minute, then reemerged with an enormous pair of pants. “Would you pass these along?”
I let her drape the mysterious pants that definitely wouldn’t fit Armand over my shoulder. “Sure. Uh, thanks. It was nice meeting you.”
“Have a good one, dearie!”
After bidding her adieu, I shuffled back into Armand’s kitchen and attempted to free my arms from the bag straps.
Unsurprisingly, there was nothing in the fridge that needed rearranging, so I set to work organizing everything by shelf and expiration date.
I crouched to place the newly purchased cleaning supplies under the sink.
It was even emptier in there—a half-empty dish soap and a generic “multi-purpose surface cleaner,” and that was it.
No extra sponges, no plunger, no gloves.
It felt like staring at an empty armory.
As if I was going to, unprotected, tackle the gargantuan task of making this apartment habitable.
I spent a moment admiring my handiwork before embarking on the process of persuading Armand to wake up. Lakshmi had texted me about an hour ago, wanting to sit us both down for a business brunch to discuss much-needed marketing plans, and Armand did in fact need to be both there and conscious.
“Armand?” I poked his shoulder, to no avail. Then I shook it. Then I shook it again. Still nothing. He was probably dead.
This called for drastic measures. It was a bold move, one that would’ve never flown with Darren. But if I was going to start being brave by going on this trip, then I could be brave with this. And Armand was nothing like my ex.
I sank onto the mattress beside him and kissed his neck, my fingers brushing the shell of his ear, my heart slamming in my throat. It felt forbidden, like I shouldn’t be able to touch him whenever I wanted.
His eyes fluttered open as he grumbled into wakefulness. “Wha?” he managed, then as his long-lashed dark eyes focused, “Lucas?”
“In the flesh.” I swallowed past the thundering in my ears. This time I remained still, our lips a breath apart. I lingered in the purgatory of waiting for him to decide. Seeing if this would be the moment he changed his mind about me.
But in a second he’d closed the distance, lips sweet and shy against mine.
“You’re here,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You’re in my flat.”
“I hope that’s okay.”
His thumb traced my cheekbone, lightly, as if I was breakable. “Thought maybe I dreamt it. It doesn’t . . .” He shook his head and didn’t finish. Instead, he squinted at the sunlight fighting its way in. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to rise and shine so we can meet with Lakshmi about your future.” I got to my feet, hoping that removing myself might inspire him to follow. “Come on, up and at ’em. I’ll make breakfast.”
The confusion on his face graduated into full bewilderment. “But . . . I don’t have food.”
“Correction: You didn’t have food. I ordered groceries. Also here—” I tossed him the mysterious neighbor pants.
Armand stared down at the pants in his lap. “Ah, I see you’ve met Winnie.”
“Should I ask about why she’s giving you clothes?”
“Mmm, best not.”
“I will retract my offer of breakfast if you don’t get up.”
There was more grumbling, but Armand finally lumbered to his feet.
Cooking in a kitchen shared with Armand but with him actually present this time was cute in theory but deeply inefficient.
There was barely any counter space for food prep, and I did my best to avoid eye contact with the grease stains on the wall tiles.
The magic erasers I’d anticipated needing would be getting a workout later.
Finishing breakfast gave me a perfect excuse to start the pre-cleaning process, beginning with the stovetop.
“Love,” Armand cut in right as I’d fallen into a good rhythm, “you don’t need to do all that—”
“I kind of do, though,” I explained. “Besides, we have a couple hours before meeting Lakshmi. I should—”
“Or—” Armand slid in closer, trailing his hands across my shoulders “—we could do something else to pass the time.”
I swallowed, and Armand’s fingers moved down my back to settle at my hips.
“This okay?” he asked quietly, sneaking his way around my waist.
It was definitely okay, though I needed to sanitize first.
The cafe Lakshmi had suggested wasn’t too far from Armand’s apartment, so Armand drove the two of us to Cuppa Feel.
Lakshmi was already there, dressed in a crisp navy blazer, long black hair tied up at her neck, highlighting her sharp cheekbones.
She waved us over, then nodded at Armand.
“Sit your arse down, Demetrio. We got our work cut out for us.”
We had no sooner sat and ordered coffees than Lakshmi jumped right in.
“Relatable is the new mysterious,” she briskly explained. “Demetrio here’s been a social enigma for years, and that served well enough in the early days, but not anymore. You’ve sparked interest just by showing your mug in public and speaking relatively coherent words.”
Armand’s ears went red, and he scowled at her. “Thanks for that.”
“Pleasure.” She took an elegant sip of her black coffee.
“People need to see the underbelly. It’s all about the internet these days, the parasocial relationships people develop with their favorite artist.” Her eyes met mine over the rim of her mug.
“That’s where you come in. Armand Demetrio isn’t only a man—he’s a brand.
We need to make this boy interesting. But . . . palatably so.”
I playfully bumped Armand’s shoulder with mine, shooting him an encouraging grin and opening my notes app. “I have some ideas. We could do a Surrogate Goose tour, swing by all the places that inspired you to create your comic, visit the spots where the story came to life—”
“So, my flat.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’ll be good for photo ops as well as some question-and-answer soundbites.”
Lakshmi was tapping away at her tablet at lightning speed. “Brilliant. We have a month and a half before the anniversary, so that means churning out content and posting everywhere there is to post several times a day. You can handle that?”
I sipped my matcha latte and waved off her question.
“I work around dying horses for a living. I can manage a few hashtags. I could do an interview-style blog column on the comic called Goose Gab . . . Oh, and after all the hints you gave about your writing process, we could definitely do some Day in the Life reels.”
Armand sat in silence, picking a bigger hole into his already ripped-up jeans.
He must’ve been apprehensive at the prospect of baring his soul to the internet for the sake of marketing.
Which was understandable—I couldn’t stomach taking photos of myself, and here we were, asking him for more vulnerability than the art he already created.
To his credit, he lasted longer in the meeting than I’d expected before announcing that there was “somewhere he needed to be.” Lakshmi seemed prepared to continue in Armand’s absence, but a second wave of jetlag hit me square in the chest.
Disgusting. Barely one in the afternoon and I needed to crash out again. Jetlag is such a waste of time, why does anyone travel ever? How does anything get done?
I promised I would keep Lakshmi up-to-date, and Armand dropped me back off at the apartment before he went wherever he had to run off to.
I’d planned to be productive—start drafting posts and maybe wonder what Armand was up to—but I barely made it inside before my body called me a clown and fully gave up. I collapsed on the mattress.