Lucas Collapses the World
“Hi,” I managed, barely above a whisper. “Um. Can I . . . come in?” Like I’m a vampire. Nice Barclay, very smooth.
He nodded wordlessly, staring at me as I stepped inside, as if I might disappear. Once I was fully in the living room, the scent of something amazing filled my nose. I cleared my throat. “You’re baking?”
Armand nodded again, breaking my gaze long enough to glance back at the kitchen nook, which looked like a Food Network show had exploded in there. “Er. Yes. Babka.”
Right, he’d said he baked when he was upset. Guilt gnawed at my stomach. “It smells great.” I braced myself to say what I needed to say, barely getting a handful of words out before Armand jumped in, overlapping me in a chaotic verbal soup.
“Wait, wait, wait.” I did my best to cut him off. “I really think I should go first, if that’s okay.”
Armand swallowed, a knuckle nervously making its way up to his mouth.
Okay, Barclay, you’re already in too deep—you gotta do it.
Even if he breaks up with you. “I’m sorry,” I began, knowing that was the tip of the iceberg.
“For a lot. First of all, that it’s four in the morning.
But I knew you’d probably be up, and I couldn’t sleep, and I had to get this out.
” I took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry for how I’ve acted the last few months.
I barged into your life, expecting to immediately be part of it.
I wasn’t thinking straight, but that’s not an excuse.
” My fingertips were cold and shaky. “And I really regret how I acted when you told me . . . what you told me. I lashed out and made your trauma about how I was feeling—”
“I was lying to you,” Armand interrupted, cheeks coloring prettily.
God, I was going to miss that. “I pretended I was being open about my past, about everything, and I knew you weren’t bloody stupid, that you knew I was going to meetings, but I hoped you would .
. . infer without me having to do or say anything—” He stopped for breath, his knuckle returning to his mouth.
“You said you wanted to go first, sorry. Shutting up now.”
I wanted to smile but my chest still churned. “The point is, I acted horribly the other night. I felt so betrayed, and I made it about me. We’ve both been so swept up in this, we let ourselves get carried away. I think my expectations were completely out of proportion.”
Now for the hard part. Do it, Barclay. You owe it to you both. “My mom’s flying back to California next week,” I whispered, “and I’m going to go back with her.”
Armand crumpled right as the timer went off.
It was bizarre to watch him turn dead-eyed to the oven, pull out two beautiful marbled loaves, and absently set them on the stovetop, keeping his back to me the whole time.
I wanted to go to him, to hug him and tell him it was all going to be okay, but that was how we got into this mess in the first place: me taking what I wanted, demanding things I hadn’t earned.
“I’m sorry I lied.” Armand’s voice was low and hoarse.
“You didn’t lie,” I said. “You didn’t tell me everything, and I understand why because that never should’ve happened to you. I just hoped that we could tell each other anything—”
“It’s my go.” Armand’s shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned to face me.
I expected tears, but he wasn’t crying. “You have to let me apologize for Jean. For treating the ugly bits of me like they couldn’t hurt you.
I didn’t want you to see.” Now Armand looked ill, almost like he had that night in the gallery.
“Because some of it is really quite bad, and I . . . I can’t even admit to myself that it was . . . what it was.”
That was huge, monumentally huge, as Armand stood emotionally vulnerable in front of me, eyes both younger and older than he was.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly.
He laughed bitterly. “It really isn’t, love.”
Hearing him call me that sent a painful spasm up my throat. “I meant it’s okay you didn’t tell me—”
“It isn’t.” He took off his baking mitts and gripped the counter behind him, knuckles going white. “I put you in danger. I let my . . . my need for delusion take precedent over your safety. Nothing could be further from okay. And I shouldn’t have called you out the way I did, with, with the . . .”
“Eating disorder?” The words felt ridiculous, but I tried to hold on to them.
“Aye.” He ran a hand through his hair, sending up a little cloud of flour. “That. It wasn’t my place, and it certainly wasn’t the time, and I’m sorry.”
My throat had never stopped hurting, and now my eyes prickled. “I'm sorry this happened. That Jean happened.”
“I’m not.” Armand saw my face and amended quickly, “What I mean is, I’m not sorry you got an exhibition, and that Ichika Ito saw how talented you are, and now everyone knows your work is incredible.”
“But that’s not worth—”
“It is. Jean can’t hurt me anymore. Or at least, he shouldn’t be able to.
” Armand flexed his hands and stood up straighter.
“Don’t let him ruin this; it’s really, truly yours.
Like Surrogate Goose is really, truly mine.
He caused it, aye, but it’s nothing to do with him.
It’s mine. And Dead of Summer is yours.”
I was crying. I wanted him to be right. I wanted us to be right. More than anything, I wanted to curl into his arms and pretend none of this had happened.
But it had.
“Thank you.” I sniffled, wiping at my eyes. “It’s a little bit yours too.”
“And the comic’s success is yours.” He gripped a hand in his shirt, somehow leaving another floury handprint.
No one could make a mess like this man. I glanced around the kitchen and finally noticed the truly breathtaking number of dishes he’d dirtied.
Flour and chocolate was smeared on the walls.
How did that even happen? I started laughing through my tears.
“I leave—” I snort-sniffled and indicated the halo of flour, baking chocolate wrappers, and cocoa powder that surrounded him “—for one day, and you’ve destroyed the place.”
Armand looked around in confusion, then went pink again, and it hurt so much not to hug him. “Aye. Sorry.” Then he swallowed and looked me in the eyes. “Guess I’d better get used to it, again.”
“Or”—I kept his gaze, tears still rolling down my cheeks—“you could clean as you go.”
“Not gonna happen, love.” His breathing had gotten ragged, and he was so beautiful, and I’d had him. I’d had this wonderful man, and I’d ruined it all by being impulsive, and impatient, and greedy.
So, I kissed him.
Or he kissed me, or we kissed each other; it didn’t matter because we were finally whole again, breathing each other in.
I managed to come up for air briefly and whispered, “We should think this through.” I brushed a thumb over his cheekbone, my stomach flipping as his eyelashes fluttered.
“We can stop if you want to, love.” He groaned, starting to pull away like every movement hurt. “But . . .” He never finished.
But this is goodbye.
“I don’t want to stop.”
He swooped in, kissing me as gently as the first time. He tasted like sugar and chocolate, and I wanted to lick every part of him clean. I started with the flour dusting his face, flicking my tongue across his jaw, then his temple, then the soft skin below his ear.
He rumbled a low moan, his hands steadying at my waist. We were moving, neither of us leading or following, until the back of Armand’s legs hit the edge of the mattress.
He pulled me down with him, lips finding mine again in a burning kiss.
It was intoxicating; it always was—Armand never did anything by halves, and this was no exception.
Reluctantly, I inched back to kneel above him.
I looped my fingers at the hem of his shirt, easing his back off the mattress enough to pull his shirt and pants off.
He did the same to me, perched on his elbows and blinking dazedly up at me.
We’d done this plenty of times, but seeing Armand naked now—after learning about his past, knowing what he’d been through, the storms he’d weathered to be here right now, with me—I knew exactly how much I was being offered.
The trust that was openly bared before me.
If only for the last time.
Light as a feather, I brushed the pads of my fingers across the firm planes of his warm brown chest, the muscles jumping delicately under my touch.
He mirrored me with trembling hands, one flirting over my gradually hardening nipple and the other trailing down to trace the ghostly white lines at my hip. I threaded my fingers with his.
“I love you,” I breathed, heart dancing at Armand’s ragged inhale. “I’m so sorry I didn’t say it before, I should’ve said it back immediately. I wanted to, but I’m an idiot, I really do though, I love you so mu—”
Armand swallowed my words with a kiss, all but yanking me down flush against him again.
His fingers roamed the length of my back, nails scratching lightly as I ground against him, using one of my knees to spread his legs.
God, I wanted to do it like this, with Armand arching his back, chasing my touch, his growing erection needy against my own.
But my legs remembered the workout from yesterday and ached in protest. I buried my face in his neck, sucking gently as I pulled on his shoulders to flip us over.
“Is this okay?” I managed, throat going dry at the heat of Armand’s piercing gaze bearing down on me.
He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him—his face was an open book, every micro-expression screaming his reciprocation.
It didn’t seem possible. He loved me. He loved me.
Even if that didn’t matter in the long run, it made this moment so perfect it felt like a hot white light.
Armand hummed in affirmation. “Love, it’s more than okay.” He kissed me deep until we were both gasping, our bodies lit up where they touched. I moaned at the loss as he rocked back, reaching for the lube on his bedside crate, and moved like he would prep himself.