For a fun little writing exercise I’ve been rewriting the first chapter from my gay romance webnovel Fractured Heart from Lys’s perspective, and man he really was lovestruck-at-first-sight 😂
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Several others had also climbed the stairs onto the stage with him along with Lindsay—techs, the tour manager, the head stylist who’d come along just case a single mesh shirt rhinestone or pink boa feather had been disturbed out of place. He was in the midst of going over positional cues with the head lighting tech James when Lysander became dimly aware of another person hovering at the foot of the stairs, obviously waiting for an opportunity to rise up and join them. Keeping half an ear towards what James was saying, Lysander swept his eyes sidewards to get a better look at who that person was.
And beheld the most beautiful-fucking-creature he’d ever seen.
Asian and with a diminutive, lithe build evident despite his shapeless work uniform, the young man’s hair—straight and black as midnight—hung in a sheath over part of his face in what was a stylish though no doubt inconvenient Goth aesthetic. That sheath shielded one black eyeliner-rimmed eye from view as the other fixed on Lysander with mild suspicion, reminding him instantly of an untamed feline nervously backed into a corner.
The rest of his face, unshaded by that sheath, appeared androgynous, almost elfin; he looked like some fey creature, trapped temporarily in the mortal realm and forced to toil in mundane labor until he’d recovered whatever sacred artifact had been stolen away from him so he could return to his sacred forest home.
Finally, the burning in his chest reminded Lysander to breathe again, and, unbidden, a true, unaffected smile burst across his face. The young man looked startled in response, his own eyes—too dark to see their color clearly without Lysander stepping closer, but likely brown—widening subtly, body jerking just the tiniest bit backwards. The gesture tugged at Lysander, like a hook tugging at a baited fish; it took concerted effort not to let himself take an automatic step forward in response to that slight retreat.
“James,” someone said, and belatedly Lysander realized it was his own voice, his brain carrying on quite sensibly while his heart was still lurching like a caged sparrow in his chest. “Could you step to your right? I think you’re blocking our friend there from climbing the stairs.”
Movement beside him indicated that the lighting tech had stepped back as bidden, but Lysander didn’t look in his direction to verify it. Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anything beyond that youth, shy and bewitching, his wary expression igniting some part of Lysander’s subconsciousness that had it ridiculously screaming at him to step closer and take that delicate face between his hands. He wanted so badly to stare into those black-lined eyes, to whisper words of reassurance that Lysander meant him no harm, to enfold that slim body against his own broad chest and pour everything within him into protecting the young man, cuddling him close like a fragile, broken-winged bird.
“Uh—n-no, i-it’s fine,” the youth rasped out at last, his soft voice and slight stutter as vulnerable and protectiveness-invoking as his physical appearance. “I can—I c-can just climb up the s-side—”
The youth was actively retreating now, one slight, flighty step at a time, and some small, rational part of Lysander was commanding him to rein himself in, to restrain those urges he was already fighting against to close in even closer. He knew he had to prevent himself from giving in to that pleading voice inside of him that was trying to bid him to chase after the stranger, even if it felt like the youth was a faerie that would disappear forever if Lysander didn’t immediately take him into hand.
So, with his teeth that were still flashing in a bright smile gritting ever so slightly with determination, Lysander took his own step backward and said with a calmness that was far from what he was actually feeling, “No, no, don’t be silly. We can move.” Then, with practiced grace, he swept his arm to the side to make sure the route was cleared; aware despite his spellbound stupefaction that they were blocking access to the stage where the youth was obviously headed, it was the least he could do. Again, almost without his conscious involvement, Lysander heard his voice say genteelly, “What can I help you with, friend?”
The youth responded with another startled blink, his tone even shyer as he muttered, “Oh…I-I’m just doing s-sound check.” Then, with obvious reluctance, he plodded up the four steps that separated the stage from the cement flooring, his thin, pale fingers clinging to the railing as if he were forcing himself upward through heavy winds.
Lysander knew he was still partially blocking the way with his own big form, but his legs seemed to have locked in place after his first step back. Instead he kept his enraptured gaze fixed on the young man, watching him trudge upward even after his dark eyes had dropped demurely to the steps beneath his feet. Only once the youth was scarcely more than arm’s length away did Lysander manage to force himself further back, still feeling powerless against the urge to keep staring at the stranger. He knew he likely looked deranged, but he was unable to tear his gaze away nonetheless.
If the others around him noticed how oddly he was behaving, none had the temerity to say anything about it; instead, just as the youth closed in on his destination—flitting about the stage between amps and instruments, checking connections, turning dials, making sure everything was set up properly for the show—James started speaking to him again, resuming his break-down of performance cues that Lysander was having a very hard time caring about in that moment. But at last, his work ethic prompting him not to let a little heart-stopping enchantment get in the way of him doing his job, Lysander reoriented himself towards his entourage. He did his absolute best to pay no attention to the burning awareness in his periphery that the spellbinding young man was still right there.
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