The streets blurred behind him, as Selucas drifted toward the park— half-distracted with the thoughts about that red-haired girl. The bottle of water swung lazily from his fingertips, and his sneakers crunched softly over the gravel path leading into the open green of the city park.
He was quite distracted and therefore wanted to take a detour, take a long walk to sort out his thoughts.
It was early evening. That amber hour where the light wasn't harsh, but soft and gilded, casting long shadows and draping everything in a honeyed glow. Birds chirped lazily, distant laughter drifted from a group of teens sprawled on a hill, and the breeze fluttered the trees with a whispering hush.
He walked toward a glassy stretch of water near the edge of the park, one of those decorative ponds with ducks and reeds and the occasional lone swan. The surface reflected not just the sky but the boy who stepped closer. And for the first time in his life, Selucas didn't just see his face or his body.
He saw a possibility. Swagger.
Selucas liked it. I look good. Maybe not as much as Jake, but still.... My potential is high. That encounter minutes ago was proof of that!
Selucas turned away from the pond and took a few slow steps along the winding park path. Then, he stopped.
This walk's too normal, he thought. Too stiff. Too "I-don't-want-to-be-seen."
No. That wasn't him anymore.
He squared his shoulders, loosened his arms at his sides, and took a step with his left foot just slightly extended, toe-first, followed by a sway of the hips. The jacket flared subtly behind him.
Better.
He tried again; longer strides, one hand swinging with purpose but relaxed, the other hand in the pocket of his pants. He walked like someone with full self-confidence, someone who didn't mind showing a little pride and being a bit haughty, not afraid of social structures preaching modesty and accommodating. Socially desirable behaviour is boring. Selucas thought. Standing out is way more fun, way more exciting.
He stopped again near a wooden railing that overlooked a small garden of wildflowers. He leaned against it— not carelessly, but with intention. One leg bent, heel against the railing, hands casually in his pockets. He tilted his chin just a little higher than usual. His eyes half-lidded, surveying the world like he already knew what it was going to offer him.
This is it, he thought. Swagger's not about doing too much. It's doing just enough— letting people wonder. Making people curious about you.
His phone buzzed. It was Darcy!
~ Don't forget. Tomorrow evening. Dress like you did today. Or better 😘
He smiled. I must take this opportunity. I must go to that party!
There was one final test Selucas wanted to do.
Selucas found a secluded corner of the park near the big marble statue of Ardenburg's founder. No one was around. Here, among the old oaks and the long golden grass, he tried it.
He grabbed the waistband of his cargo pants, gave a soft tug. Lower. The waistband of his Aldorqvist boxers now rose proudly, and the colour of his white underwear prominently visible— branded and taut. Just like the gangsters on TV.
He looked around once again; no one in sight. Now he sagged the cargos just enough that they hugged the lowest slope of his hips. I want to know how it feels.... To be completely shameless; free from all those binding and restrictive norms and values!
With his pants sagging low, Selucas felt different. Exposed, yes. But also liberated.
Like a second skin had been peeled away to reveal something truer underneath. His walk shifted automatically. The subtle hitch of needing to keep his pants from slipping entirely changed his gait. Made it slower. Smoother. More.... Calculated.
Swagger's not accidental, he thought. It's curated.
And God help him, it felt good.
Too good.
A flicker of guilt rose in Selucas. He hadn't sagged his pants before. He had seen people doing it, and back then he always thought of those people as low trash and dangerous gangsters— now he was one of them, and it felt good looking dangerous!
Even being low was not something Selucas thought bad of now, because being low means nobody has expectations from you— everything is immediately settled; everyone knows exactly what you stand for and will expect absolutely nothing from you. No heavy expectations to bear!
Except for my pants of course. Selucas thought with a smile. If my mother sees this.... I can't do that to her— she would cry and pray for my soul. And father would've talked for hours about pride, about modesty, about "carrying yourself with dignity as a child of the Gods.''
Selucas couldn't do that to his parents— not yet. If I'm outside the park I will pull my pants up again.
He felt so powerful. Seductive. Touched by the forbidden fruit of attention. He wanted to hang it just a little bit longer, so he took one last small detour. One last swagwalk.
He turned, sauntered down the path, letting his cargo pants ride low, but never messy. One hand in his pocket, the other holding on the cargo's front waistband. Shoulders relaxed. Every step a silent, practiced pulse.
Eyes low, lids half-dropped, lips relaxed: Seductive. Brush back hair after every someone passed by: Timed elegance.
Selucas was rewriting himself. No more background boy. No more clumsy in wide, crumpled clothes. No, this felt too good, swagger is too sweet.
This is magic I want to preserve, something that needs to be further refined. Selucas thought proudly. This is me reborn. From soggy-boy to cool-boy.
He walked towards a reflective metal bench near the trees and sat— not slouched, not stiff. Casual. One leg stretched out, one arm draped along the backrest. The wind tugged lightly at the hem of his jacket. The city buzzed gently in the distance, but he sat inside a calm bubble of pride and possibility.
He had never felt this much attention before. Never felt this magnetic. All people were staring at him, certainly not in a good way, but strangely that didn't matter for Selucas. Being seen was good enough.
This feeling was dangerous. Selucas knew that. Back home, his mother said pride was the devil's whisper. That to seek the eyes of others was to trade one's soul for fleeting fame.
But honestly.... He wasn't sure he cared. He felt freedom, and that freedom had a flavour; sweet, spiced with sin, served cold and clean with a side of power.
The looks. The vanity. The slow intoxication with his own image. It was dangerous. Of course. But dammit....
He liked it.
He wanted more.
He wanted tomorrow night.
He wanted eyes. Craving. Admiration.
He wanted to walk into Sami's party and be the one they whispered about.
Who is that guy?
Was he always this fine?
Where does he come from?
He wanted to be the flame in the centre of the room. The spotlight without even needing a stage.
Selucas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking down at his sneakers. The sag of his cargos showed more than half his underwear now. He adjusted them subtly. Just a little lower.
He decided to move again. Swaggering forth.
His shirt clung tight to his chest as he moved, and he caught sight of his reflection in a nearby park mirror pole meant for cyclists.
He smiled. Cocky. Confident. Charming. He liked the image. He loved himself.
But then....