Lucien - Please Don't Call

 And the toughest part is that we both know what to happened to you, why you're out on your own. Merry Christmas, please don't call.

It was a wet kind of snow that fell the night of Christmas Eve. Lucien didn’t mind; the drinks he’d had earlier still burned through him even as he shivered. It wasn’t enough to make him stumble, or fall, or forget. How unfortunate, during a time when the memories are so potent they hurt.

Everything was closed this late, only a scarce few restaurants still packed with the last dredges of procrastinating shoppers. Everyone else was home, with their family and friends, warm and happy and safe. You were, he hoped. It was a foolish notion; the Volkovs would ensure that you were that and more. 

Still. Still. The desire to hold you, to hear your voice, to see for himself that you’re okay and-

Lucien was inherently selfish, he’d long since come to terms with that flaw of his. It was selfish to want to pull out his phone and call you. He’d deleted your contact, trying in vain to move on, but his fingers still itched with the familiar pattern of your number. He knew it by heart, even as the world started to feel a little fuzzy around the edges. He couldn’t forget them, couldn’t forget you, no matter how desperately he tried.

His phone buzzed and his heart leapt to attention. It wasn’t you, he knew that, but he still wished it was. He slumped on a bench, letting the cold chill him to the bone as he disregarded Cameron’s text. Come home, his friend had said, only he didn’t have a home. He had a couch at Cameron’s place, and nothing else. 

He once called you home, probably still would if it wouldn’t make him feel exceptionally pathetic, but he’d been thoroughly evicted since. Rightfully so, but the pain was still there even if it was his own fault. Lingering, stinging, festering under his skin. He didn’t think it would ever leave him; just like the rest of his baggage, it would rot him from the inside out.

He stood once more, his hands in his pockets, the wind freezing whatever tears were likely to slip out. His regrets made semi-decent company; far better than what he himself would make, at least. He would walk with them tonight, walk until he was numb, and then he would go back to his couch and the present under the tree that Cam’s aunt bought him out of pity. 

It’s a slow death, and it’ll take years, but he refused to trouble you any longer. You deserved more than him and his regrets. Still, he ached for the way you used to run your fingers through his curls. How you’d smile and the way it made everything feel better. How you would be able to banish this cold just by looking in his direction, his eyes meeting yours. He had loved your eyes.

Lucien wouldn’t call you, but he sure as hell would be the one to pick up if your number lit up his screen.