A slice of Life

Angel Part Two

The only thing worse than a date was a blind date.

There was a bitter taste in Angel's mouth, the kind that if given a name would have sounded suspiciously like 'fuck this shit', and as he spied upon the neat, suburban house that was seated on the outskirts of the city, he found himself damning Ronan fucking Elmore to hell.

Why'd he agree to this again? Oh, that's right! Because he owed the glittery idiot. Like a lot.

The neighborhood was a sickly, homely place, all pleasant rows of happy families with their two cars logging the driveways. The kind of place he expected to see knee-high brats sprinting down the streets in barrels of cheery laughter, or driving their bikes in the middle of the road.

After checking the address for a third time, he killed the engine, pocketed the keys, and fished long and far for any degree of excuse that would get him out of this. Annnnd yup, he came up zero for squat. Then again, he'd never been the imaginative type — that was his brother's department.

The hours had dipped into the late clutches of evening, the summer sky tinged with streaks of pinkened sadness as gray splices lashed against the horizon. Still, there was enough light to navigate his way along the sidewalk and up towards the open yard that led to a narrow house. It was slightly smaller than the others on the block, but they all resembled. The same long, sloping roofs and tall, beanstalk-like supported lip above the front door.

What the heck had he gotten himself into, he found himself thinking as he came to a stop in front of the home's entrance. The bright, canary yellow door clashed harshly against the faded brickwork. Yup. That was reassuring.

Before he knocked, he strummed over what feeble information Ronan had drip fed him. The man's name was Lucien. He had a hot brother — yeah, cuz that was really fucking relevant — and had a bad habit of biting his nails when he was nervous.

And that was all she wrote.

He felt well and truly prepared.

The knock he threw out was firm and steady. His hand fell back to his side and he took a step back, feet planting apart. It took mere seconds for the door to open and he had to wonder if the man had been lingering behind, ready to yank it open.

It was hard to say what he was expecting. When it came to Ronan and his wonderful collage of pets, they ranged anywhere between full-blown drag-queen to the homeless person he'd sat down with and shared his sandwich with. There was rarely an in-between.

Still, the normalcy caught him momentarily off guard. The man was on the short-side, his head barely coming to Angel's shoulders, and the look on his face gave off the impression that he was torn between pissing his pants, puking, or both. But other than that, this Lucien, or whatever the fuck he was called, looked like an everyday kind of guy.

There was a pause, a current of static-charged silence as they took each other in — Angel drank in the guy, gaze sweeping over the fancy dress shoes, the neatly pressed slacks, and the snug navy sweater that hinted at softness rather than muscle or bulk . Then he turned his focus to his hands. They were small. Tiny, even, and unburdened by the trails of hard work. Desk job, perhaps?

He saved the face for last. Faces told the least about a person, and just from what little he'd already seen, he already deduced a delicate, fragmented image of what kind of person he was.

He wasn't striking, was Angel's first thought. He was good enough looking, sure, but in the plain Jane, every-day-face in the crowd kind of way. A narrow face that sank in at the cheeks, and gentle cheekbones that were flushed with a blush.

Nice eyes, though, he thought, lingering on the too-wide, olive green peepers that gawked up at him. Expressive, too. If the trembling and the hand-wringing wasn't an indication that the man was well out of his comfort zone, then the fear that blistered between each slow blink sure as hell was.