Chapter Ten. Julian
TEN
JULIAN
Yadriel had turned his room into a Walmart endcap for “comfort.” Blanket. Candle. Steam curling out of a chipped mug that smelled like someone had boiled a bush.
“I’m not drinking plants,” Julian said, arching an eyebrow as he sat cross-legged on Yadriel’s bed.
“You are,” Yadriel told him, tucking the blanket around Julian’s legs as if he were a burrito. His voice was soft but tight at the edges. “Warm helps.”
Purrcaso hopped onto the bed as though she were supervising. Julian tickled his fingers down her bony, crooked spine.
He sniffed the tea. Hedge in a cup. Great. He took a token sip anyway and grimaced. He caught the way Yadriel’s mouth pinched, as if he were bracing for refusal, and took a second sip just to keep that look from getting worse.
Great—now he’d officially reached “delicate Victorian invalid” status. Still, Yadriel’s hands trembled when he lit the candle, and Julian’s stomach knotted. For someone who always had answers, Yadriel looked one wrong breath away from breaking.
Julian’s chest ached with something equal parts guilt and warmth. He hated being the reason Yadriel’s voice went all careful like that—and hated more that he needed it.
“Ruda’s not here to impress you,” Yadriel said, lighting the candle. “Breathe with me. In four, hold two, out six. Think roots.”
Witch cardio, but he did it. Inhale four, hold two, exhale six. The flame wobbled when he blew too hard.
“Slower on the out breath,” Yadriel murmured, scooting close until their knees touched.
His hand hovered, then found the St. Jude medal at Julian’s throat.
His thumb brushed the charm as if it might break.
Julian swallowed. No one ever handled him gently, like he was something worth protecting.
“Anchor. If it pulls, you grab this. No listening for whispers—”
“I’m not listening for them. They keep coming for me,” Julian muttered.
“If anything says your name, you turn away and call me,” Yadriel told him. “Names are hooks.”
“Names are hooks?” Julian frowned, tilting his head to the side. “What’s that mean?”
A flush rose in Yadriel’s cheeks. “I’m not sure—just, please.”
“Drama,” Julian muttered, but Yadriel’s eyes were steady, worried, and very not dramatic. He nodded. “Okay.”
“Limpia,” Yadriel said. His hand shook once as he lifted the little dish of copal. He steadied it and pretended he hadn’t. Sweet smoke rose. He wafted it over Julian’s head and chest—small circles, careful and slow.
The room smelled like church, if church didn’t judge him. He could feel the seriousness rolling off Yadriel in waves, as if he were holding the whole world still with breath and a candle.
“Okay?” Yadriel asked.
Julian shrugged, softer than a joke. “Better than detention,” he said, which earned the tiniest twitch of a smile.
Yadriel passed over a pen and a small spiral notebook, first page labeled in neat block letters: DATE / TIME / WHERE / WHAT IT FELT LIKE / AFTERCARE.
“You made me a homework sheet for my soul?” Julian chuckled.
“Start logging every time it happens,” Yadriel said, ears coloring. “Time, place, how you felt, what you saw.”
Julian stared at the notebook like it was written in hieroglyphics. “You’re asking me to remember all that when I can’t even remember how this sentence started,” he joked.
Yadriel tried very hard not to smile. “Patterns help. If it flares, write it down. If it doesn’t, write that, too.”
Julian flipped the cover and slid the notebook into his jacket pocket. They breathed with the candle again. In four. Hold two. Out six. Somewhere between rounds three and four, the static under Julian’s ribs dipped from mad hornet to annoyed fly.
“Huh,” he said, rubbing his chest. “It actually helped.”
Yadriel sat up straighter, his big, beautiful brown eyes going wide. “Really?”
“Don’t get too excited,” Julian said with a tired grin. He slouched into Yadriel’s shoulder, borrowing the steadiness. “The mark is still there, but I’ll take what I can get. And I still hate the tea,” he added, teasing.
“You don’t have to like it,” Yadriel said, resting his temple against Julian’s. “You just have to let it help.”
Julian grinned at his boyfriend. “I appreciate you.”
Yadriel smiled.
“Hey,” Julian said, noticing something. “You’re still wearing your binder. Five-minute break, yeah?”
“After,” Yadriel promised.
Julian narrowed his eyes. “Maritza told me to stay on you about it.”
“I know,” Yadriel said, flushing. “Just not right now. I will take it off early tonight, promise.”
On the quilt, Julian’s phone buzzed. Angel’s text popped up on his cracked screen.
Headed to Denny’s. See you there.
He flicked the notification away, thumb hovering for a second over his notes app.
Half of it was chaos—dumb joke ideas, ghost theories, reminders he never followed—but pinned at the top was one tiny note that was just Yadriel’s exact coffee order.
Vanilla syrup, soymilk, extra shot with a sprinkle of cinnamon.
He kept it there so on bad days he could show up with the right drink without asking, like it was no big deal.
The old itch tugged his attention toward the corner where the shadows pooled. He caught his St. Jude medal in his fist and looked at Yadriel instead.
“Hey,” Yadriel said quietly, catching the glance. “Eyes here.”
Julian exhaled, long, like they’d practiced. “I’m good,” he said. Not totally true, but truer than before.
“Text me if anything bad or weird happens,” Yadriel said. “And if you hear your name—”
“I call you,” Julian finished. He knocked their knees together, then hesitated. The candlelight put gold in Yadriel’s lashes. Up close, the worry was obvious. His too-bright helpfulness, the way he’d overprepared the room, that single shake of his hand.
Trying so hard it hurt.
“Hey,” Julian said, voice low. “Thank you. For … all of this. Even if I act like a jerk about the hedge tea.” His mouth pulled to one side. “You’re trying really hard. I see it.”
Some of the tension eased out of Yadriel’s shoulders. “You’re not a jerk,” he said. “You’re my boyfriend.”
The word still startled Julian sometimes—“boyfriend”—like he’d stolen something precious and somehow gotten to keep it.
“Gross,” Julian said automatically, but it came out warm. He grabbed his board and patted the notebook in his pocket. “Keep the candle for when I’m back?”
“And the tea,” Yadriel said, teasing on purpose now, as if he knew Julian needed the tone lighter. “In case you survive and need more.”
Julian rolled his eyes, stood, and pressed a quick kiss to Yadriel’s forehead. “I’ll text you,” he said. “Promise.”
“Be safe,” Yadriel said.
Julian stepped into the hall, walking a little lighter than he had all day. He was not sold on plants or smoke. But the space in his chest wasn’t quite as sharp, and someone who loved him was keeping a candle lit. For now, that was enough.
The neon OPEN sign above Denny’s flickered, casting red light over Julian’s face as he stepped inside. The scents of grease, coffee, and syrup-smothered stress smacked him square in the face.
It was crowded—truck drivers hunched over bottomless mugs, parents herding overtired kids, couples scrolling silently through their phones. The hum of life, soft and aimless.
Angel sat alone near the back, stretched across one side of a booth. Leather jacket, one boot up, one down, mug in hand, gold eyes already on him. She looked relaxed, but Julian could feel the tension coiled beneath her skin—like a panther sunbathing with one eye open.
He hesitated just inside the doorway. Something poking at the back of his head thought this was a bad idea, but Luca’s Marca Hueca wasn’t getting better, and if Angel really knew how to fix it, Julian didn’t have the luxury of common sense.
“You made it,” Angel said, her voice low and amused. She raised her mug to her lips but didn’t drink. Steam curled around her jawline.
Julian slid into the seat across from her. “You thought I’d flake on diner coffee?” he said, leaning back as if he weren’t vibrating with nerves. He kept it casual. Kept it funny. If he pretended he was fine long enough, maybe he would be.
Angel raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You’re twitchy.”
“Thanks,” Julian replied, resting both forearms on the sticky table. His fingers started drumming. Nothing said “mentally stable” like Morse-coding your panic into laminate.
Her smirk deepened. “Good. Keeps you sharp.”
Angel leaned forward. The movement was small, but her gaze sharpened—like she’d just flipped a switch. “You ready?”
His first instinct was to joke, to deflect—but the look in her eyes made it impossible. He was here for Luca’s sake, so he wouldn’t back out.
Julian nodded. “Just tell me what to do.”
Angel straightened a little. “You keep saying you hear things—caves, whispers, shadows. Don’t fight it tonight. Try opening. See if anything answers.”
Julian nodded, but Angel just kept staring at him.
He blinked. “What, like, right now? Here?” he said, glancing around at the very full diner.
Angel arched an eyebrow. “Just trust me.”
Julian did. He turned his head slowly, trying to let his eyes relax. Booths. Greasy menus. The same tired server topping off mugs. A man in a puffy jacket snoring into his pancakes. A couple holding hands but not talking. A teenager scrolling through TikTok with dead eyes.
Just people.
And then … not just people.
The shadows deepened at the edges of his vision.
At first he thought it was the dim lighting, but then—there they were.
Like oil slicks spreading across shirts and jackets.
Faint and flickering at first, but as he looked harder, they thickened into shapes.
Writhing black masses clung to the chests of nearly everyone in the room, pulsing like second hearts made of smoke.
Julian’s spine stiffened. “Holy shit.”
Angel took a sip of her coffee, unfazed. “Yeah. Denny’s is a great place for spotting emotional decay.”