Pascal's Box

“Calm down. You can do this. You’ve rehearsed it a million times over. Just be yourself. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Well, he could reject me, and never want to see me again...

Shaking his head, Pascal smooths down his shirt and adjusts his tie in the mirror. His head and heart are pounding, and there are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes that make up has only been able to partially conceal, but other than that, he doesn’t think he looks too bad. Not perfect, of course, but not bad either, which is crucial considering that what he is about to do will change the whole course of his life: and someone else’s too.

With that weight on his mind, it’s no wonder last night was sleepless and rough. Admittedly, he’d drunk a little too much, which resulted in an impulsive night time walk to try and cool his nerves and an altercation with a taxi driver when he accidentally stepped out into the road. Although he was to blame, Pascal hadn’t been able to contain himself when the guy honked his horn and started cursing and gesturing at him through the window. Pascal might have overreacted when he decided to approach the window and yell back, but the guy had provoked him first, so it wasn’t entirely his fault. There was no need for that many expletives and it was an accident after all. Plus, he didn’t even bother to ask if Pascal was okay. He just started ranting and cursing, and because Pascal’s nerves were highly strung enough as it was, it was only natural that he started yelling back.

This little incident wouldn’t have caused any real harm if that one bystander hadn’t decided to get the police involved. Sure, Pascal was being aggressive, but not threatening, which apparently everyone but his friends Owen and Cyrus who picked him up from the station seemed to think he was being. Even then, Owen and Cyrus also appeared annoyed at him to start with. On the drive home to Pascal’s flat, Pascal wasn’t spared a sharp lecture from the two of them about how reckless he had been, as he sat trying to swallow down his nausea in the backseat. Their irritated frowns soon softened into looks of concern and even something like pity, however, and that was when Pascal couldn’t keep down the vomit any longer. He doesn’t remember much after that.

Fortunately, Owen and Cyrus could be trusted not to tell him about what happened. Although disgruntled, they knew why Pascal was so on edge lately and thus wouldn’t let anything slip that might harm his prospects of success tonight. The only thing that could do that would be Pascal himself, a scenario which, in all fairness, wouldn’t be that unlikely when he thought about it.

Suddenly overwhelmed with another bout of nausea, Pascal scrambles in his desk drawers for some antihistamines and washes them down with some whiskey. The consequential burning sensation this creates sends a shudder down his spine, but it is nothing compared to the feeling that surges through him when he turns back to face his reflection in the mirror.

Look at the state of you. If you’re like this now, how can you possibly ask him to marry you? And if you’re being honest with yourself, why would he even want to marry you in the first place? You’re a mess. A pathetic mess who can’t hold himself together. Arlo deserves better and you know it...

“Stop it, shut up,” Pascal hisses, scrunching his hair in his hands.

He immediately regrets it, and starts frantically scraping it back into its original style whilst pulling a few strands loose to make it look more casual. He doesn’t want Arlo to think he’s trying too hard— but what if he doesn’t think he’s trying hard enough? Does he actually look okay or is he just deceiving himself? No, Arlo said he liked this outfit: the light blue shirt and navy blazer made his eyes shine, and Arlo had never been one to keep quiet about how mesmerising he found his eyes. At the same time, it wasn’t like he thought Arlo would want to marry him based on looks alone; he wasn’t like that and neither was Pascal. But still, everything mattered. It all had to be perfect, because that’s what Arlo deserved. Or at least, they had to be as close to perfect as Pascal could possibly make things.

Cripplingly conscious of his faults, Pascal has wondered for years what Arlo sees in him. Really, it was a miracle he ever attracted his attention in the first place, never mind the fact that Arlo then went on to continually choose him over everyone else. How does something like that even happen? Dozens of men and women with all their unique, dazzling attributes have failed where Pascal has repeatedly succeeded, and yet, what does Pascal offer that always makes it so Arlo’s heart never sways elsewhere? He has no doubts that he is faithful, but Pascal hadn’t even been able to properly look him in the eye when they first met. So what did he find so attractive about him?

If Pascal is being charitable towards himself, part of the reason behind his awkwardness that first night couldn’t entirely be attributed to the fact that he was a terrible flirt. As a matter of fact, he had been on edge long before he encountered Arlo, simply by finding himself in the middle of a busy pub with only Owen and Cyrus there as his points of familiarity. Such a place was not his scene whatsoever, but he had been unable to refuse Owen’s heartfelt request that he and Cyrus come along to support him during his first ever live gig. Music was Owen’s world, and so the thought of dimming his friend’s excitement by staying home had overridden the torrent of doubts which flooded him the moment the idea was presented to them. The anxiety was still bubbling in his chest, of course, but for Owen, he resolved to keep it hidden behind a polite smile. It was the very least he could do for him— what kind of a friend would he be if he had turned him down?

As a result, although his mind didn’t stop racing until the moment he was back inside his own home, Pascal settled by the bar at the Cross Keys pub with Cyrus and offered Owen bright smiles whenever he looked his way. Fortunately, Owen was often distracted by the friends he had made amongst the regulars, meanwhile Cyrus was making small talk with a bargirl who had taken a fancy to him, meaning that Pascal didn’t have to maintain a consistent energetic appearance. Instead, he was given leave to spend most of the night hunched over and sketching the scenes around him— a practice he adopted regularly to soothe his nerves about being somewhere new.

Cautious not to catch anyone’s eye, Pascal drew dozens of faces that night, many of which were fascinating enough to brand themselves into his memory for a long time after. There were people with strange hairstyles, tattoos that told wild stories, scars that told even wilder ones, voices and gestures thick with the essence of character, but only one of these made his heart pound with something other than surface level intrigue. He was stood in the corner talking to Owen whilst helping him set up the stage equipment, and was quite possibly the most beautiful man Pascal had ever seen.

Although he was short and petite, it was clear from the start that the young man was no wallflower. Dressed in ripped black jeans and a burgundy waistcoat, a long set of silver chains dangled from his belt loop which jangled whenever he moved. If this didn’t catch people’s attention, the glittery nail polish and black eyeliner ringing his vibrant eyes did, along with the charming smirk which seemed to be a permanent feature on his face. His voice, though loud, also had a soft edge to it which tempered the acidity behind some of his witty comments, meanwhile the loose way he held himself gave off the impression that he viewed neither the world nor himself too seriously if he could help it. He was the epitome of sharp but gentle, and Pascal couldn’t tear his eyes off him.

Oblivious as to how long he had been staring, Pascal was suddenly thrown out of his trance when the man turned to shoot a playful wink at him. The gesture was harmless enough, and the man didn’t seem to be showing any signs of discomfort at being stared at, but this didn’t stop Pascal’s cheeks from burning bright red as he turned back to his sketchpad and prayed that that would be their one and only interaction for the night. If the man came up to talk to him now, he might just keel over out of embarrassment, especially if he was as close to Owen as he appeared.

As fate would have it, however, the pair would meet once more that night, kickstarting the beginning of something neither of them could ever have anticipated.

Pascal didn’t even notice he was there at first. Owen had just finished his set and wandered off to talk the manager, whilst Cyrus had slipped off to the bathroom, leaving Pascal alone at the bar engrossed in his drawing. Deep in concentration as he was, the small clinking sound and flash of silver settling into the stool next to him failed to make him look up, and resulted in him jumping out of his skin when someone asked out of the blue: “Is that me?”

Already startled, Pascal flushed crimson when he locked eyes with the man who made him forget himself earlier. That signature smirk was still dangling on his lips, but there was a softness in his eyes which just about made it possible for Pascal to blurt out a coherent response.

“Oh… er, yeah, it is. Sorry, I hope it was okay for me to draw you.”

“Okay? Hell, I’m flattered! My name’s Arlo, by the way. I was going to say hi earlier but Owen needed help with a few things and then I got distracted,” Arlo winked, making the blush creep to Pascal’s ears.

“Are you good friends with Owen?”

“I’d say so, though he’d probably say I’m a royal pain in the ass who just so happens to be entertaining and is therefore worth keeping around. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I caught your name? Do you know Owen too?”

“Oh, yeah… my name’s Pascal—”

“Ah! So you’re Pascal! I’ve heard a lot about you. Owen failed to mention how handsome you are, though; I’ll get him back for that. These are amazing, by the way,” Arlo added without pausing to take a breath, and pointed to the sketches whilst Pascal struggled to compose himself.

Did he just call me… handsome? Did he mean that? Or is Owen up to something?

“The sketch of me is just missing one thing.”

Still dazed, Pascal didn’t object when Arlo grabbed his pencil and pulled the pad over to write something down. With a smile of triumph, he then slid it back over to Pascal and jumped from his seat, before patting his arm and disappearing back into the crowd like he was never there.

In the space underneath the sketch of him, Arlo had scribbled an eleven-digit number along with the words “Call me” and a wonky heart. It was such a commonplace thing to do, trading numbers with someone you found attractive, but to Pascal it felt like Arlo had just knocked the wind clean out of him.

This definitely had to be a trap of some kind. Or a set-up. Someone like Arlo couldn’t be interested in someone like him… could they?

No. He was a mess. He found basic tasks like going out to the supermarket overwhelming, and it wasn’t like his appearance made up for his awkward, anxiety-riddled behaviour. He was tall and scrawny, his hair was thin and stuck out all over the place, his nails were raw from being picked at, acne scars covered his face and deep purple bags often underlined his eyes … and yet, Arlo chose him over everyone else.

He still does now. From the long list of eligible partners he’s been presented with over the years, Arlo continues to surprise Pascal by waking up each day and actively choosing to surrender his heart to him. Yes, it’s Pascal who he buys flowers for. It’s Pascal who he holds hands with in the street and fiercely defends until he turns blue in the face. It’s Pascal who he holds at night, whispering sweet words to and guiding him through his anxiety attacks. Wherever he goes, whatever he needs, no matter what happens, Arlo is always there.

Yet, try as Arlo does to convince Pascal that he is worthy of his love, Pascal has always felt like a failure in this respect. He never asked to be so sensitive, to get worked up so easily over minor things, and it pains him to see Arlo trying to shoulder some of the consequential weight of this for him. Why can’t he just be normal? It’s not fair. He’s tried his best to be a good partner, but he’s seen the toll his anxiety can take on Arlo at times, and he can’t help but feel as though he deserves better than this. Than him. Yet, he’s too selfish to let him go, and now he wants to tie him down for good...

No, I’m doing this because I love him. Not to trap him. I don’t want him to feel like that. He doesn’t feel like that, right? Oh god, does he? Is that why he’s still with me? Out of fear?

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!” Pascal shouts, scrunching his eyes closed and digging his nails into his palms.

After downing another drink, he turns once more to the mirror and pushes his shoulders back in an attempt to appear confident. It doesn’t look convincing, but it’s the best he can do, and with a sigh, he reaches into his blazer pocket for the velvet box he placed in there earlier. His shoulders slump as he takes it out, and he sighs in relief when he sees the glint of an emerald shining through the cracks of the lid. Okay, the ring is still there. Good. That’s one thing you can’t afford to lose.

Because it contained an authentic emerald, the ring had been expensive, but Pascal was adamant that Arlo should have one with this particular stone in it to match his eyes. Pascal never got tired of looking into those gorgeous green eyes, and he wanted Arlo to feel some of the same joy he experienced whenever he had the honour of gazing upon them. With that being said, Pascal felt as though he would still be the more privileged of the two, because whilst emeralds were precious, they had a price on them: Arlo did not.

Chuckling to himself knowing that Arlo would tease him for being such a hopeless romantic, yet secretly be touched, Pascal stuffs the box back into his pocket and opens his phone screen to read over Arlo’s last text again.

“On my way! I’ll see you at the harbour at midnight. But why am I getting the feeling you’re plotting something? Hmm, I guess I’ll have to wait and find out. See you soon my love x”

As his confidence revives at reading these words, Pascal grabs his keys, takes one last final glance in the mirror and leaves his apartment, knowing he will return as one of two different types of men.

He just hopes it won’t be the one in pieces.