Lucien Short Story

“You want me to what?” Lucien bursts out, staring at you as if you’d suddenly grown another head.

To be perfectly fair to him, it is a highly unusual request. Cutting your hair is something you haven’t done in a very long time, aside from Taisiya trimming the dead ends. It’s been your shield, your armor, something to hide you away from the world. You can let it fall over your eyes and believe, even for the briefest moment, that you’re hidden.

You’re not the Unchosen One. You’re not a cambion. You don’t even exist.

Then your fantasy is inevitably tarnished, something or someone dragging you back to reality kicking and screaming. You’re tired of it, exhausted from hiding, and weary of the guilt you feel just for existing.

You just want to be you.

“I said I want you to cut my hair.” You repeat, “Short, with an undercut.”

You run your fingers through the long strands, questioning if you really want this. To lose your coping mechanism…your eyes trail back over to Lucien. Losing one thing, gaining another. This is your closing door, you just hope Lucien will unlock the one you want next.

“But…” The nephilim trails off, “Me?”

There’s an unspoken inquiry there, something that toes the line of your re-discovered friendship. It makes your chest ache from the force of your longing. Your fingers twitch to reach out and grasp familiar hands, but you force yourself to remain still.

“Yeah,” You confirm quietly, “You.”

“Not Viktor?” Lucien questions, voice trembling ever so slightly, “Or Theo?”

You purse your lips, pain lancing through you at his non-answer. Is that an awkward thing to ask of your ex-boyfriend, who you still have feelings for and who also definitely knows how important your hair is to you? Maybe. Was this a bad idea? Also maybe.

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine.” You say, regret lacing your words like poison, “I can find someone else-”

He interrupts you, paling rapidly, “No!”

There’s panic in his voice, and your brow furrows, “No, you don’t want to? Or, no, you do want to?”

“I…if you want me to,” The words are rushed as they fall from Lucien’s mouth, “Then I want to.”

“Oh,” You say.

Oh.

It’s not that he couldn’t be bothered, or didn’t want to be a part of something so deeply personal to you. He wanted to make sure that you wanted him to be the one.

Of course, you do. It’s a silly thing for him to worry about, in your opinion. He’ll always be the one.

“I’ll do it.” He says again, seemingly more for his own constitution than yours, “You don’t have to find anyone else.”

There’s an edge to those last few words you don’t want to linger on for long, something that sounds almost jealous of the notion. If you think about it too hard, your hopes will get the best of you. So you drift to the kitchen, thankful Theo is still in class, and grab the scissors with a sense of finality.

You’re doing this.

You return to Lucien, passing them over without even the faintest tremor in your hands. The same can’t be said for him; his hands shake, like always. They shook when you held them for the first time, when they stroked your face, when you shared your first kiss.

They shook when he left.

Your body acts on its own, cupping his hands in your own once he holds the scissors. He stills; his entire body freezes, locking up in a way that nearly has you concerned.

Then he croaks, “I can’t do an undercut with scissors.”

You can’t help but smile, small and relieved, “Theo has clippers in the bathroom. Just…get most of the length off first.”

Getting the hair cut before you panic and change your mind is unspoken, but he clearly understands. You sit sideways on a chair by the window, and you hear Lucien take a deep breath before the first cut.

Hair falls at your feet and just keeps falling. Long strands pool around you, white and wavy.

“I probably could have donated that,” You say belatedly.

Lucien falters behind you, grimacing, “I didn’t think of that.”

“It’s fine,” You dismiss mournfully, “No one wants cursed hair, anyways.”

Fingers brush your neck as he begins to make cuts carefully, shaping what remains into a hopefully stylish pixie cut.

Hopefully. God, you really hope you don’t regret this.

Still, his touch sends shivers up and down your arms. It’s as if your body has awakened at the touch of familiar skin, as if your soul never really forgot what his hands felt like.

“Mal,” He says, quiet, reverent.

You feel your heart stutter but force yourself to try and remain casual, “Yeah?”

It’s quiet for a beat, like he’s trying to form the right words.

“You’re not a curse,” Lucien speaks with an unusually steady voice, “It’s not cursed hair. If it’s yours, it’s anything but-”

The words die out, stranged by suffocation as he seems to quit breathing entirely. You turn when you feel his hands fall away and find him standing, lost, with his arms at his side. He opens his mouth and then shuts it, wordless.

“Lucien-” You try to reach out, only for you hand to freeze halfway through bridging the gap, “Please-”

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly, and you note with horror that his lip trembles while he speaks, “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Why?” You ask, nearly pleading, “Just give me a reason-”

“Because this is important and I-” He sucks in a sharp breath, face tightening as he forces the next words out, “I can’t keep pretending to be worthy of it, Malak.”

“Worthy?” The word is parroted incredulously, “Who ever said anything about being worthy?”

“You don’t have to say it,” Lucien insists, “Because I…I know.”

“Know? Know what?” You can’t help but laugh a little, helpless, “Clearly it’s something I’m not aware of, so feel free to enlighten me.”

“I’m the one person who shouldn’t be doing this,” The nephilim glances away, eyes glossy with unshed tears, “I left you-”

“And I trust you.” You interrupt swiftly, not wanting to rehash the past five or so years of trauma on either of your ends, “I trust you, Lucien. You can’t logic me out of it.”

The way they look at you in horror nearly breaks your heart. You stand, inching closer, wrapping your hand around the one of his that isn’t holding the scissors.

“I trust you because I want to trust you.” You say, your words firm but kind, “Because I want-”

You. Because I want you.

You don’t finish the thought, but you see his throat bob. You wonder if he’s swallowing down words the same way you are.

“Okay,” He says, glancing toward your bathroom, “I think we need the clippers now, though.”

You lead him there, not dropping his hand until you absolutely have to. Maybe this is a step in the right direction, or maybe you’ll regret it later; who knows? All you know now is that you want the world to see you, not just an Unchosen cambion.

Maybe you want Lucien to see that, too. With the way he looks at you, all soft dark eyes and open vulnerability, maybe he already does.