He has yet to figure himself out, because he still thinks that he’s invincible. Sitting on the couch with his pants unbuttoned, hand searching a cereal box and coming up coated in crumbs. He dusts himself off only to be disappointed again, because the patterns on the cottage cheese ceiling aren’t nearly as interesting as he’d thought that they would be. Because he can’t stop thinking.
That’s his problem; thinking. Leo gives him this disgusted look, and throws the ring box at his head. “Just ask her, asshole. Worst thing she can do is say no, and we both know that she’s not going to say no.” He pauses. “Though given your current state, she could very well say no. Take a shower before you go over to hers.”
Lorcan gives it a thought, then buries the box as deep as he can behind a couch cushion.
The first time he tried, they were watching Tiffany’s. And she called it their movie, because they were two wild things that didn’t belong to anyone except each other. He thought it was stupid. But he started choking on the words, “I—Elphie?” She looked at him all expectantly and they’d stuck in his throat; it took two glasses of water for him to start breathing normally.
“Nevermind,” he said. “Another time.”
It’s raining the next time.
They’re sitting with their legs tangled up, his hands on her waist. “I’ve been thinking,” he’d started. She twists to look at him and he’s struck, for the second time, with the sort of stage fright he’s not accustomed to. So he can’t do it. Again. He twists away and cracks his joints. “It’s cold. I’ll make us some tea.”
Her face falls, but she nods. “Lots of sugar!”
“I know.”
He dumps half the container of the stuff in her cup and sets it in front of her on the coffee table.
“You look weird,” she frowns. “Like you don’t feel well, or something. Do you have a temperature? Should I owl Leo? Or—are you okay?”
Lorcan’s trying not to wince. “I’m fine.” Almost slipping up, though. Reverting back to when he gave her snide looks and sarcastic little girls because she was just this thing on the bottom of his shoe that he didn’t give a fuck about until two years ago. A little while after they kissed behind an ice cream shop and he walked around with a shit eating grin on his face the rest of the day.
They drink their tea in silence until he makes up some half-assed excuse and exits stage left.
Sometime after Leo leaves, throwing out the suggestion that he should shower, maybe, so he doesn’t scare her off, Lorcan pulls his shirt over his head and leaves it on top of the empty cereal boxes; takes one of Leo’s out of the laundry and then re-buttons his pants.
His eyes are bloodshot, his hands are shaking—but he runs all the way to Elphie’s like he’s never smoked a day in his life, takes the stares at her walk up three at a time, fishes the spare key from underneath a gnome.
“Elphie?” He’s met with the sound of the television turned up to top volume in the next room. “Elphie!” She has a bowl of popcorn on her lap—completely engrossed by whatever’s playing on the TV. He gives her shoulder a light tap, and her face lights up when she sees him.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming over!”
Lorcan falters—third time’s the charm—before dropping down on one knee and presenting her with that grubby box that’s played ring-around-the-rosy with his back pocket and the couch cushion for the last five months. “I’ve been trying to get this out, but I haven’t—I haven’t been able to. All I know is that I love you, for some unfathomable reason, and thinking that someone else could ever have the privilege of spending the rest of his life with you makes me sick, and—”
She’s gaping.
“—And will you marry me?”
