Lucien

Lucien stood nervously at the little café terrace, hands folded neatly over his lap, the soft honey-brown waves of his hair catching the golden light of late afternoon. He smoothed his pastel blue jacket for the third time, adjusting the little ribbon at his collar — he had no idea why he was so jittery. He liked people. He was good with people. So why did his heart feel like a Sylveon caught in a whirlwind?

"It’s just a blind date," he muttered under his breath, cheeks pink. "Nothing serious. A casual meeting. Just coffee."

Still, he found himself anxiously rearranging the little bouquet he'd brought — a small bundle of forget-me-nots — and checking his reflection in the café window. Too much? Too little? He looked soft, delicate, approachable — everything he usually was — and yet somehow it felt different today. Maybe this time, he thought, it’ll be real.

The bells above the café door chimed.

Lucien turned—and froze.

The man who stepped out was nothing like he had prepared himself for. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little rough around the edges with just enough polish to look like he belonged in a magazine without even trying. Dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and eyes so kind they knocked the breath straight from Lucien's lungs. He wore a simple, slightly loose shirt and rolled-up sleeves, but somehow he looked effortlessly perfect.

The stranger caught his eye — smiled — and Lucien's heart exploded into a thousand starbursts.

Oh, Lucien thought in sheer horror. I'm doomed.

The man approached, easy and relaxed. "Lucien, right?"

Lucien nodded so fast he nearly spilled his tea. "Y-yes! You must be—" (He had been told the name, but right now it was gone — vanished completely from his overwhelmed mind.)

The man chuckled softly, sitting across from him, the sound so warm and safe that Lucien physically ached.

Small talk happened — somehow — but Lucien wasn’t hearing half of it. His mind was a chaotic mess of sparkling hearts and screaming panic.

"Don't say it," Lucien chanted silently, smiling, nodding, laughing a little too much. "Do not say it. It's been ten minutes. You can't just say it. You'll scare him. You'll ruin it. Please, please, keep it together—"

He opened his mouth, fully intending to ask a normal question.

Instead—

"I love you."

The words tumbled out in a breathless, unfiltered whisper.

Dead silence.

Lucien's face went nuclear. His entire body seized up as he slapped both hands over his mouth, horrified. Eyes wide, he stared at the man, mortified beyond words, wishing the ground would open and swallow him whole.

The man blinked — once, twice — then, slowly, smiled. A real, wide, heart-aching smile.

Lucien squeaked — actually squeaked — behind his hands.

"I, um—" he stammered, trying to recover, "I mean—! You're very... um... nice...and you have a beautiful—no, wait—"

The man laughed — and it wasn't cruel, or mocking — it was warm, golden, like sunlight breaking through a storm.

He leaned forward, resting his chin casually on his hand. "Well, that's the fastest I've ever made an impression. I'm honored."

Lucien thought he might die. Right here. On this chair. Death by embarrassment.

But somehow, underneath the sheer mortification, something giddy and bright bloomed. Maybe — just maybe — this was the beginning of something beautiful after all.

The cozy little cottage smelled faintly of fresh tea, polished wood, and... something else. Something warm, musky, and unmistakably him.

Lucien stood in the laundry room, frozen like a Deerling in headlights, clutching a crumpled, sweat-damp shirt to his chest.

It had been innocent — at first. He’d gone to tidy up, humming to himself, when he spotted the discarded workout clothes lying in a lazy heap next to the laundry basket. One shirt in particular — stretched, rumpled, and still radiating his husband's scent — had practically called to him.

And now here he was, cheeks burning a furious red, nose buried shamelessly in the worn fabric.

Lucien inhaled deeply, involuntarily shuddering as the familiar, comforting smell wrapped around him like a weighted blanket. It smells like him. It's warm. It's safe. It's—

Snap.

The door creaked open behind him.

Lucien jerked around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. There — standing in the doorway, a towel slung over one bare shoulder, damp hair curling slightly from the shower — was the man himself, blinking in sleepy confusion.

Lucien, still clutching the shirt like a lifeline, stared at him, wide-eyed.

There was a full second of deafening silence.

Lucien scrambled to stuff the shirt behind his back, but it was far too late. A little bit of it stuck out from under his arm like a guilty puppy tail.

"I-I was just!" Lucien squeaked, voice about two octaves higher than usual. "I was — um — laundering! Yes, laundering!"

The man quirked an eyebrow, arms folding leisurely across his chest. "Laundering by sniffing it?"

Lucien let out a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak.

"No!" he said quickly — far too quickly. "I mean yes! I mean — no, I mean— I love you and your smell is very nice and I'm sorry!!"

The words spilled out in one frantic, breathless tumble.

Heat flooded his face, so intense he thought he might actually catch fire.

The man stared at him for a beat... and then, to Lucien’s horror, smirked. Not unkindly — no, it was a slow, fond smirk, like he’d just caught his favorite Pokémon doing something adorable and very, very dumb.

Without a word, he walked past Lucien, ruffling his hair in a teasingly affectionate way as he grabbed a fresh shirt from the dryer.

"You're ridiculous," he said, voice warm and amused.

Lucien, still paralyzed, clutched the sweaty shirt tighter, biting his lip to hold back an absolutely mortified squeal. Part of him wanted to run and hide under the bed forever. Another part of him — the part hopelessly in love — just wanted to stay like this: warm, humiliated, but ridiculously, unreasonably happy.

It had been three months since Lucien had officially — and somewhat chaotically — moved in. Three months of coffee shared in bed, sleepy kisses before work, and clumsy, starry-eyed moments that made him feel more loved than he ever thought possible.

And yet, somehow, despite the newness and the joy of it all... Lucien still had no idea how to act normal around the man he adored.

Which was precisely how he found himself, at this very moment, crouched in the laundry room like a criminal, clutching his boyfriend’s sweaty workout shirt to his chest, sniffing it with a blissful, almost dazed expression.

The scent was intoxicating: earthy, salty, undeniably him. Lucien’s bright green eyes fluttered closed for half a second as he hugged the shirt tighter, drinking in the comforting smell like it was some secret forbidden treasure.

"This is fine," he reasoned to himself wildly. "Totally fine. I'm just... appreciating... appreciating his hard work! Yes!"

The door creaked.

Lucien’s heart stopped.

He whipped around so fast the world blurred, frantically trying to shove the shirt behind a nearby laundry basket. In his panic, he fumbled it, the sweaty fabric flipping comically into the air and smacking him right in the face before sliding pathetically down into his lap.

Lucien sat there frozen, wide-eyed, face flaming, as he stood in the doorway — sweaty towel slung around his neck, arms crossed, eyebrows lifted in clear amusement.

There was a heavy, painful silence.

Lucien scrambled, gathering the shirt into a messy ball against his chest like a guilty little Eevee hoarding stolen berries. "I— I was just—!" he blurted out, his voice pitching embarrassingly high.

The man didn’t say a word. Just kept watching. Patient. Calm. Way too amused.

Lucien gulped.

"I... was... doing laundry?" he offered weakly, voice cracking near the end like a teenage boy hitting a growth spurt.

The man raised an eyebrow, glancing meaningfully at the crumpled shirt Lucien was very much not putting into the washing machine.

"...By making out with it first?" he said dryly.

Lucien made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a squeak, clutching the shirt tighter as if it could shield him from the sheer mortification burning through his body. He wanted to melt into the floor. Disappear. Cease to exist.

Instead, he blurted out — miserably and sincerely — "I just missed you!"

The man finally smiled, a slow, soft, devastating smile that made Lucien's knees turn to jelly.

He walked over, gently prying the shirt from Lucien’s trembling hands, and tossed it casually into the laundry basket — before leaning down and kissing the top of Lucien’s honey-brown head.

"You're an idiot," he murmured affectionately.

Lucien buried his burning face into his boyfriend’s chest, fists bunching in the man's clean shirt this time, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

Maybe he was an idiot.

But he was his idiot — and honestly? That was all Lucien ever wanted to be.

The atmosphere in the cozy little house was unusually tense — or at least, Lucien was determined to make it so.

He sat stiffly at the kitchen table, arms crossed, lips pursed in a stubborn pout, emerald green eyes fixed firmly on the far wall. Across from him, he (the man Lucien adored but currently despised) leaned casually against the counter, sipping coffee, pretending he didn’t notice the chilly silence.

Lucien shifted dramatically in his chair, huffing under his breath. He doesn't even care, Lucien thought bitterly. He's acting like nothing happened.

Last night, Lucien had carefully saved a few of his precious chicken nuggets after dinner — the perfect golden ones, crispy, tender, perfect. He’d packed them neatly into a little container, lovingly placed them into the fridge, and gone to bed dreaming of the wonderful leftover lunch he'd have the next day.

Only to wake up and find the container... empty.

Devastation. Betrayal. Despair.

And the worst part? The man had the audacity — the sheer gall — to look completely unbothered about it!

Lucien fumed silently, glaring daggers into the countertop.

The man finally set his coffee down and walked over, towering beside Lucien’s chair. "You’re mad," he said, very matter-of-fact.

Lucien sniffed indignantly, flipping his honey-brown hair out of his face. "I’m not mad," he lied, voice clipped and high. "I’m devastated. There's a difference."

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly biting back a smile.

"Is this about the nuggets?"

Lucien turned his face away with a dramatic little toss of his head. "I wouldn’t know," he said haughtily. "I wouldn't know anything about that since, you know, they're gone. Vanished. Stolen from me in the dead of night like some cruel culinary heist."

There was a small pause.

"...You told me to eat them," the man said gently, almost apologetically.

Lucien froze.

Memories flickered in his mind — him, last night, stomach full, leaning into his boyfriend’s side with a sleepy little laugh, saying something like "You can have the rest, babe, I’m too full."

Oh. Oh.

Lucien's ears burned bright red.

But there was no way he was backing down now. He had committed to being righteously offended.

"I was clearly delirious!" Lucien said grandly, standing up with a dramatic flourish that nearly knocked over his chair. "You should have known not to listen to me in my hour of weakness!"

The man chuckled — an unfairly warm, low sound that made Lucien’s knees threaten to give out.

He reached out, snagging Lucien by the waist and pulling him gently against him.

Lucien wriggled half-heartedly, but the second strong arms wrapped around him, all the fight drained out of him like a deflating balloon.

"Tell you what," the man murmured, smiling into Lucien’s hair. "I'll buy you your own nuggets. And fries. And a milkshake. Whatever you want."

Lucien grumbled into his chest. "I want two milkshakes. And your firstborn child."

The man laughed, hugging him tighter. "Deal," he said easily.

Lucien allowed himself to melt completely, burying his red face against him, feeling both victorious and hopelessly in love all over again.

The cozy kitchen buzzed with laughter and the sizzling of lunch cooking on the stove. It had been three years since Lucien had moved in — and now, life was more beautiful and chaotic than ever, especially with the latest addition to their little family: Vivi, their bright-eyed, mischievous adopted daughter.

Lucien leaned dramatically against the counter, green eyes wide and scandalized as Vivi, perched on a kitchen stool with her chin held high, crossed her arms in determined defiance.

"I'm telling you, fries are way better than chicken nuggets, Papa!" Vivi declared, her little voice full of the absolute certainty only a six-year-old could muster.

Lucien gasped, clutching his chest like he'd been mortally wounded. "Blasphemy!" he cried, staggering back a step. "How can my own flesh and blood betray me like this?!"

Vivi giggled, kicking her feet playfully.

Her father — Lucien's husband — watched from the kitchen island, hiding his grin behind a coffee mug, wisely choosing not to get involved just yet.

"Fries are crispy, and salty, and you can dip them in anything!" Vivi argued, counting on her fingers. "Ketchup, ranch, honey, cheese... they're the best!"

Lucien squinted at her suspiciously. "Chicken nuggets can do all of that and more," he said with the utmost seriousness. "Nuggets are versatile. They're heroic. They're bite-sized pieces of joy sent from the heavens!"

Vivi stuck out her tongue. "Fries are cooler."

Lucien gasped again, grabbing a kitchen towel and pretending to weep into it. "This is the greatest betrayal since the Great Nugget Heist of '23," he sobbed dramatically.

Vivi burst into giggles, sliding off the stool and running over to tug on Lucien’s sleeve.

"Papa," she said between giggles, "you're so silly!"

He peeked over the towel at her, pouting. "I raised you better than this, Vivi! I thought you understood the sacred bond of nugget loyalty!"

Vivi just laughed harder, throwing her arms around his waist. Lucien bent down immediately to scoop her up, twirling her once until she squealed happily.

"You know what?" he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, "I'll forgive your treachery... if you promise to always share your fries with me."

Vivi scrunched up her nose, pretending to think very hard. Then she beamed and said, "Okay! But only if you share your nuggets!"

Lucien gave an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. "Fine. But only because I love you."

From the other side of the kitchen, their husband — still sipping his coffee — finally spoke up, chuckling. "Looks like you're outnumbered, babe. Two to one. Team Fries wins."

Lucien turned and shot him a mock glare. "Et tu, Brute?!" he cried.

Vivi giggled so hard she nearly slipped out of his arms, and Lucien just hugged her tighter, heart feeling so full he thought it might burst.

Maybe she liked fries better. Maybe she had betrayed the noble nuggets.

But honestly? With her little arms wrapped around him and her laughter filling the house, Lucien didn't mind losing this battle at all.