11. Cinn
eleven
Cinn
C inn stumbled through Paris Orly’s passport control and customs, attempting to speak as little as possible. Which was easy, given that his whiskey-operated brain had nothing useful to say, anyway.
Head down, he followed the three pairs of feet as they swiftly traversed the airport and headed out into the chilly night.
Someone pushed a bottle of water into his hand, and he looked up to see Darcy’s kind eyes twinkling. “I would blame Julien, but to be fair, he didn’t actually tell you to drink all five double shots.”
He downed the entire bottle, the icy cold doing nothing to clear his head.
“Get a good night’s rest,” Darcy continued, ushering a tired Elliot into the nearest taxi with its sign illuminated green.
Feeling like an abandoned child, Cinn’s arm itched to stretch out to keep her with him. Why couldn’t they all stay at Julien’s together? He was more than slightly nervous to meet the formidable Lucien Montaigne. He spun to face Julien too quickly, resulting in powerful arms steadying him.
“How are you this much of a lightweight for your size?”
Cinn scrambled for a witty response but became paralysed by Julien’s grip on his arm. Julien’s captivating grey eyes locked on his. Julien’s dimples as he smirked.
“I…” he started, then pushed Julien off him to stride towards the next free taxi without looking back .
Julien laughed as he followed him, tugging off Cinn’s rucksack for him to hand to the driver. Then he slid into the back of the taxi, and Cinn bounced on the balls of his feet for several moments.
He should join him in the back, like a normal person.
But.
He needed to be as far away from Julien as possible while he was this plastered.
Cinn took the passenger seat in the front, sliding his beanie down over his eyes like that could make him disappear.
Once they’d sped off, Julien and the driver started a rapid exchange of French which, even in his inebriated state, he sensed was about him.
“Il a un problème votre ami?”
“Six, en réalité. Un voyage en avion traumatique et cinq double shots de whisky.”
By the end of the journey, a headache had replaced most of Cinn’s haziness. Looking out of the window, the soft glow of landmarks and winding foreign streets caused a tiny flicker of excitement to catch light within him. This was the third country he had ever set foot in—though he could barely count Switzerland, as he’d only been to Auri, Talwacht town centre, and the corner shop down the road from his house.
He managed to go the entire journey without saying a single word to Julien, and their silence continued as the taxi slowed down and came to a stop outside a black gate. Cinn climbed out—trying not to feel sickened by the enormous wad of notes Julien passed the driver—to find a single building on the road.
What the fuck?
To call the ‘house’ grand would be an understatement.
The elaborate carvings on its imposing facade bore a striking resemblance to the intricate stone detailing on London’s Natural History Museum, where he and Tyler had spent many an hour wandering around, mainly in the dinosaur section .
And the windows! There were too many of them to count, their expensive panes gleaming in the bright moonlight.
In the middle of two colossal flaming torches, a black metal gate adorned with intricate designs blocked their path. If that wasn’t ridiculous enough, through the grates, Cinn saw the icing on the cake: water fountains.
Internally, he howled with laughter. How was this his life?
“Please tell me you don’t actually live here? It’s not a house, it’s a bloody palace !”
Cinn had known Julien was rich, but this was rich , rich. Filthy rich. Disgustingly rich.
Perhaps he should ask for the tiny scrap of aeroplane-ticket money back?
“It’s not as central as I’d prefer, personally. That’s the price my father pays for having an ostentatious mansion.” Julien slid a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, took a deep drag, and passed it to Cinn.
“Cheers.”
A long puff in, the cigarette’s tip flashing red, then Cinn tipped his head back and blew the smoke at the stars.
“But if my palace doesn’t suit you, there are many alleys you can test out. Just don’t blame me when you wake up naked.”
Cinn scoffed. “Are you telling me all French people are as sexually depraved as you?”
Julien accepted the offered cigarette, wrapping his lips around it with a deliberate sensuality that made Cinn want to rip it out of his mouth.
To put it back in his own mouth, of course.
Nothing else.
“I meant the homeless Parisians would steal your clothes, but yes, I’m sure they’d find you irresistible. Especially in that hat.”
Their eyes locked, and Cinn’s breath caught in his throat .
Julien passed him the end of the cigarette, which he finished in two long drags, all the while continuing their intense staring match.
Just when he was going to flick the butt on the ground, Julien snatched it carefully from his hand. “It’s bad to litter,” he said, tutting. Julien threw it into one of the fiery torches with impressive aim.
Was it bad that Cinn wanted to be punished?
That’s enough.
Cinn shook his head violently to clear it. It was decided: he was never touching whiskey again.
Julien turned to the gate, but instead of locating an intercom system, he stepped on a shiny part of the ground Cinn had presumed was a drain cover.
Incorrect.
Two flashes of brightness lit the night sky as a fervent energy surged through the fire torches. A strange glow seeped up from the ground, curling around the iron bars.
Slowly, the gates opened with a slight screech, dragged by swirling flecks of light.
“Are those… motes? Did they recognise you and open the gate? Oh, also, are motes ‘alive?’ Like, can they see and hear us?”
Julien laughed. “I think there are a few chapters debating that, within that book from Noir that you’re currently meant to be reading.”
“I brought it with me,” Cinn muttered. “No need to be the homework police.”
“Definitely not. That sounds awfully dull.”
Increasingly awestruck as they approached the house, Cinn couldn’t shake off a sense of severe dissociation—not for the first time since he left London. He was about to sleep in this ‘house’, meet Julien’s prestigious family. He was in Paris , of all places!
The ghost of a palm against his cheek. “One day, you’ll escape this fucking cycle, Cinn. You’re too good for this rat race. You deserve the world. ”
At the time, Cinn had shaken his head at Tyler, who was high as a kite on whatever he’d been able to buy that day. Now, approaching the mansion, he found himself echoing that action.
Tyler . He hadn’t been able to reach him this morning. Tomorrow, he’d try again.
“Excited to be home?” Cinn asked Julien, as the double doors somehow sensed their presence and flung open for them.
After a moment’s pause, Julien cast a sad smile toward him. “This place,” he remarked softly. “Hasn’t felt like home in quite some time.”
Exhaustion weighed Cinn down with every step as he followed Julien down a maze of corridors, their shoes against the marble the only sound.
Up two flights of stairs, to the guest wing—honestly, who needed a guest wing ?—and finally he was delivered to his room.
“How will I, uh… find you tomorrow?” said Cinn, not bothering to hide his panic.
“I’ll come get you. Unless you’d rather come sleep in my bed?” A wide, gleaming white predatory smile.
Cinn rolled his eyes and closed the door on Julien’s face.
“ That is for making coffee? I have one of those in my new house.”
“How do you not know what a cafetière is?”
“Heard of a little thing called Nescafé?”
“Ah, that granulated disappointment, the mud-like residue of regret? Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
Julien passed Cinn a steaming cup of coffee, then obliged his request for milk, but drew the line at sugar.
Cinn’s eyes widened as he took in the sheer expanse of the room. Stainless-steel appliances gleamed against expansive countertops, and an oversized island stood as a centrepiece. His fingers itched to use the industrial-sized gas stove, which sat below lines of gleaming pans hung from the wall.
“You realise this kitchen is basically the same size as my old restaurant, right?”
Julien shrugged. “Our chef never complains.”
Your chef?!
At the look on Cinn’s face, Julien continued, “You can judge her cooking tonight when we eat dinner with my father. You can give her your culinary feedback.”
Cinn scowled.
“My father sends his apologies, by the way. Organising tomorrow’s birthday event is keeping him and Carrie from the house until this evening.”
“Why do you always say that? My father, in that weird voice?”
The purse of Julien’s lips shut down that conversation. Cinn followed Julien through the house into the conservatory, where beaming sunlight bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. According to Julien, they had two hours to kill before they met the others in Paris, in which Julien had work to do. So before leaving his room that morning, Cinn reluctantly delved deep into the bottom of his rucksack to find the library book he was supposed to have already read.
In the centre of the conservatory, a substantial walnut table dominated the space, its polished surface reflecting dappled sunlight. Cinn slid out a high-backed chair, sinking into the plush navy upholstery. Maybe he could just chill here with his music instead of reading. He glanced over to the other side of the table and flinched.
Julien, already studying his paperwork very intently, had slipped on a pair of glasses, circles of thin golden wire that Cinn couldn’t tear his own eyes away from .
Why, oh why , was this development causing his heart to tap dance against his ribcage?
Every flutter of Julien’s long lashes had Cinn resisting the urge to reach out towards him. Touch his face. Slide his hand down to the patterned wool cardigan he was wearing over his buttoned shirt. Maybe take the cardigan off. Maybe take some other stuff off too.
No .
Cinn needed to stamp down these dangerous waves of attraction. Because even if Julien looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine with those dimples and that gorgeously touchable shiny hair, and even if he possessed a voice made of honey with that French accent that did all sorts of things to Cinn’s insides—
“What? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. You look strange in those glasses.”
You look hot as hell in those glasses.
“Read your book.”
Cinn forced his head down to the colossal tome that awaited him— Motecraft: Unveiling the Arcane Threads —glaring at it like it was the problem. He opened it to page three.
He read a sentence. Had a few more sips of coffee. Read another sentence. Read the first one again. Was that a raven outside the window, or a crow? Julien would probably know.
“Cinn, you’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”
“Why are you watching me?” he snapped. “Do your own work.”
“You’re tapping your foot and look like you’re going to throw that book through the glass. It’s distracting.”
“Is that a raven, or a crow?”
“What’s wrong with the book?”
“I think it’s a crow because I heard somewhere that crows are more common in urban areas, and this place seems more like a crow kind of neighbourhood. Plus, crows are smaller, right? This bird looks not as big as those ravens you see in movies. So, yeah, probably a crow.”
“Cinn.”
He looked at Julien. “What?!”
“What is wrong?”
At once, Cinn burst out of his chair, book in hand. “This book is fucking stupid! I can’t even read the first fucking sentence!”
He threw the book onto the table, where it bounced. Calmly, Julien reached over and opened it.
“Motes exhibit a characteristic oscillation between spectral frequencies, akin to the ethereal dance of cosmic energies.”
“Exactly! What does that even mean? I was expecting practical information, not this… this… poetic nonsense!”
Julien blinked at him.
“I’m not stupid. But all these books Noir sets for me are stupidly written in ways that don’t even make sense… and the text is so bloody small that the letters keep jumbling about.”
Cinn collapsed back onto the chair, pressing his forehead to the table. Julien was silent, so silent he eventually forced himself to sit back up. He found that Julien was scrutinising him carefully, fingertips pressed together in an arch.
Abruptly, Julien stood, and said, “Stay here.” Then left the room for an eternity, in which Cinn sulked, lightly kicking the table legs.
When Julien returned, he carried a thin, rectangular object, like a giant bookmark, translucent yellow in colour with a thin blue line across it. He picked up the book to return it back to Cinn, leaning over behind him to open it on the table, the smell of the fancy coffee just detectable on his warm breath.
Julien placed his… thing…. on the first page, and instantaneously the text under the overlay magnified, and even seemed to magnetise to the blue line, preventing the words from jumping around. There were subtle tweaks to the font as well—larger spaces between words and the bottom of the letters looked a bit thicker.
Cinn removed the overlay, then placed it back onto the book again. Then he openly gaped at Julien.
“Okay, wow.”
“Helpful?”
“What… is it?”
“Béatrice was diagnosed with dyslexia when she was twelve. I made it for her quite a few years back. It utilises a blend of lumenmotes and stabilimotes to trick your vision. You can have it now. Were you ever tested for dyslexia?”
“I don’t think so?”
They’d mentioned it a few times to him in juvie, when he complained about finding the lessons hard, but nothing was ever done about it. Julien rested his hand on Cinn’s shoulder. He fought the urge to rest his own on top of Julien’s.
“Sounds like your school teachers were the stupid ones then, not you.”
“Well, to be fair, I didn’t go all that much.”
“Do you want me to ask Eleanor to tell Noir that he needs to teach you this stuff himself, not give you ‘stupid’ books to read?”
Cinn eyed the book in question. “I’ll try again. With your thingy. Thanks.”
With a squeeze, Julien released his shoulder. Then, curiously, he tugged lightly on Cinn’s beanie hat, an almost absent-minded, affectionate gesture.
“Oh shit, before I forget, can I use your phone to ring Tyler quickly?”
A few days after he’d provided Julien with Bradley’s bank details, Julien gave him the receipt for the transaction. Cinn had called Tyler to confirm the money had gone into his friend’s account, and Tyler babbled grateful sobs down the phone to him.
Cinn was elated until Tyler had asked when he was coming home .
And so his routine of ringing him every few days had started.
Asking him how he was, how his day had been.
Of course, Tyler knew what Cinn was really asking: how are you, and did you use today?
Julien’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and for a moment it seemed like he wasn’t going to reply, but then he gestured to the corner, where a bright red desk phone lay waiting on a marble pedestal.
Cinn slid the number out of his wallet. “Will your dad mind the international call charges?” He was banking on Auri covering the astronomical charges that he was surely racking up on his own line. With a raised eyebrow, Julien gestured broadly to the space they occupied. “I think he’ll just about be able to afford his newspaper still, yes.”
Phone to his ear, Cinn paused. “Is it still the same number at the beginning, to make it connect to England? What button do I press next?”
Julien sighed, walked over, snatched the receiver and scrap of paper, and proceeded to jam the buttons. Passing the phone back, he returned to his seat. After a long silence, the phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And rang.
It disconnected.
“I’ll quickly try once—”
“Well, we have to go now, anyway,” said Julien, snapping his work shut and catapulting up.
“I thought we had anoth—”
“I’ve just remembered how long it takes to walk there. We don’t want to be late.”
Cinn placed the phone back into the holder. “Okay…” he said slowly. “I’ll go get my coat.”
Although Julien’s palace seemed to float by itself in some distant rural location, the walk to civilisation was strikingly quick. With every step, Cinn’s excitement at the prospect of sightseeing grew.
“Oh, can we go to the—”
Julien put his hand up. “ Non . Don’t say it.”
Cinn scowled. “You don’t know what I was about to ask.”
With arms crossed, Julien sucked in a deep breath before declaring, “You were about to ask me to take you to that giant iron eyesore that blights Paris’s skyline. The epitome of overrated tourist traps. Who in their right mind would want to spend precious time staring at a bunch of metal beams stacked together?”
“I actually thought we could go up —”
“And the crowds! There are so many other beautiful places in Paris, but no, everyone just has to go gaga over that rusty lattice. It’s a symbol of hype over substance, and I refuse to contribute to the madness.”
Cinn snapped his mouth shut as they continued onwards. The long walk into the city centre seemed to be suspiciously convoluted, but what did he know? He allowed Julien to drone on about annoying tourists, the ‘decrepit’ Parisian metro system and their overflowing rat and pigeon problems all the way to a bike rental store, where they met Elliot and Darcy.
To his surprise, Darcy threw her arms around him. Cinn weakly returned the gesture, patting her back.
“You survived!” she said.
Julien cackled. “Well, he hasn’t actually met my father yet, so…”
Their first activity of the day was to hide in a side alley with their rented bikes, while Julien installed some sort of new invention he was trialling on the spokes of each of them. Attached to the hub, it looked like a twenty-four legged spider.
“They should give us a little boost,” he said with a proud grin that Cinn couldn’t help but smile back at.
“We’re not entering the Tour de France today, Julien,” said Elliot. “I’m sure we could have managed.”
“Now we can manage even more effortlessly.”
Dodging weaving traffic and navigating through the chaotic maze of honking horns and impatient drivers, they cycled in tandem across frighteningly busy city streets. The mopeds whizzing past, pedestrians darting unpredictably, and the cacophony of street sounds created a pulse of frenetic energy that was almost overwhelming, even for a seasoned Londoner like Cinn.
When they reached the Seine, hopping off to push their bikes alongside the river, Cinn breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well?” Julien demanded. “Did it work for you?”
Cinn pressed his hand to his heart. “Too well. I went so fast I thought I was going to start flying.”
“Maybe that will be my next project.”
Meandering along the riverside was a serene contrast to the city streets, although still busy to bursting.
“l’?le Saint Louis.” Julien pointed across the river.
“A little island,” translated Darcy. “We need to cross through it.”
Two bridges, one coffee stop, and several horrendous main roads later, they were at their next destination: an extraordinarily busy glass pyramid, next to a water fountain where parents were letting their children splash around in the freezing water.
Cinn nudged into Julien. “Thought you weren’t a fan of overrated tourist traps?”
“I make an exception for the Louvre.” He winked. “It’s Paris’s greatest jewel. ”
Once they’d descended under the pyramid, Cinn gaping at the impressive architecture, Julien swiftly paid for all of their tickets in the spacious underground lobby before leading them down a corridor to the exhibits.
The echoing footsteps of other visitors and the hum of quiet conversations reverberated through the grand halls, and soon they were surrounded by centuries of artistic expression that Cinn couldn’t even fathom understanding.
At once, Julien and Darcy entered full-on art-historian mode, heads pressed closely together as they discussed brushstroke techniques, cultural references, hidden symbolism, and the subtle nuances of the paintings that surrounded them.
Cinn trailed after them for a few rooms, attempting to listen to the duo passionately debating artists’ influences until his sense of being out of his depth, a novice in a world of masterpieces, forced him to retreat to a red velvet bench in the corner of the Denon Wing.
“Don’t worry, they usually run out of energy after about six hours here.”
Elliot joined him on the bench, initiating their first time alone together. Cinn side-eyed him, instantly tense. In their few weeks in each other’s company, Elliot had given off strong ‘don’t bother with me’ vibes, and Cinn was happy to oblige him.
Elliot pulled at one of his many dark blond corkscrew curls. “When we had Béatrice, the two of us would drop them here, then fuck off down the road to a coffee shop. This was never our scene.”
“Really? I kind of imagined Béatrice like Julien.”
“What, a pretentious twat?”
Cinn snorted, the sound loud compared to the quiet hush of the other tourists, and quickly covered his mouth .
“Béatrice was far more into practical stuff. She was one of those people who was always learning a new skill. She even got me to teach her how to ride my motorbike. Julien doesn’t even trust me enough to ride pillion.”
“He probably wouldn’t want to cheat on Maz.”
Elliot gave a soft chuckle, then gazed over at Julien’s back with a faraway look in his eye, a sliver of a smile on his lips. “Did you know he’s working on this side project, a mote-powered special varnish that’s invisible and undetectable to art conservators? It’s to help preserve and even restore art to its original form.” Elliot’s voice dripped with so much pride and admiration, Cinn couldn’t help but suck it up like a sponge.
Elliot, chattier than Cinn had ever seen him, seemed like he was in a sharing mood, and questions about the exact nature of his relationship with Julien danced on the tip of his tongue. His infatuation—or whatever it was—seemed one-sided, but had it always been? Was Elliot counted alongside Julien’s ‘many, many ’?
Abruptly, Elliot stood. “Come on. I’ll take you to see the Mona Lisa . Julien refuses to go to that bit.”
Cinn rolled his eyes. “Of course he does.”
Elliot darted off, forcing Cinn to chase after him. As he soon discovered, ‘seeing’ the Mona Lisa was a challenge. Not only was the woman herself bloody tiny, crowds of tourists clambered over each other to get to the artwork. Eventually reaching the front, Cinn faced the small painting encased in glass, not really understanding the fuss, but feeling the weight of the crowd’s collective awe, nevertheless.
“Now let’s go to the only exciting bit,” Elliot announced, leading Cinn on a ten-minute march, all the way to a large open space within the Richelieu Wing, where glass ceilings bathed a bountiful collection of statues in natural light.
Now these were impressive. Their colossal size, the way the sculptors made the stone seem like it could be soft fabric or real muscles… Cinn’s fingers twitched to reach up and touch the marble, only held back by the security rope.
When they got to Hercules Fighting Achelous Transformed into a Snake , Elliot initiated a silly game where they personified the statues, dramatising their thoughts out loud.
At Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss , Elliot declared, in a truly ridiculous voice. “Oh, woe is me! Cupid, darling, did you have to wake me up with such drama? A shake would have done the trick.” Cinn bit his fist to suppress a roar of laughter.
Then at Venus de Milo, Cinn pretended to lean on the armless statue, saying, “Oh dear, oh dear, I used to hold something fancy but it got so heavy that my arms fell off. Now I look like a T-Rex who wants some hugs. Plus, I can’t even flex anymore!”
Elliot’s whole body shook, and the pair of them gave up any pretence of respecting their surroundings to howl with laughter.
“What on earth?”
They turned to find Julien, mouth slightly parted and eyes wide.
Cinn tensed. Even if Julien wasn’t bothered by their childish behaviour, his unpredictable jealous streak might rear its head.
But then he smiled.
Julien raised his hand to his mouth, pretending to look shocked. “Having fun without me? Surely not.”
Cinn’s face broke into a smile of its own.
After the Louvre, their final mission was to cycle to a long row of patisseries , where Darcy and Elliot spent ten minutes arguing about which one to go into. Cinn eventually chose for them by walking into the nearest one. Named Stohrer, it held a small sign bragging about being Paris’s oldest patisserie . However, what drew Cinn in was a thick crowd packed together at the back, watching a live demonstration of a pastry chef in action .
Crossing the quaint patisserie , he resisted the rows of meticulously crafted desserts with their glossy glazes and delicate toppings that promised indulgence in every bite to reach the plump, moustached man in the show kitchen. He was combining sugar and water to create gently sizzling caramel, demonstrating precise timing and skill as he dipped cream-filled choux puffs into the molten delight to create a shiny coating.
“He’s making croquembouche,” whispered Julien into his ear, startling him. The crowd had increased further, and perhaps this was what forced Julien to press up against Cinn’s back. Then a light pressure on his left hip registered, and he glanced down to see Julien was securely holding it, his fingertips drawing tiny circles in the waistband of his jeans.
Cinn swallowed, fixing his gaze back onto the demonstration. “What’s that dessert again?” he mumbled.
Over his shoulder, Julien leaned his face in even closer. “It’s a tower of temptation,” Julien breathed, his voice a seductive murmur, and Cinn shuddered so violently against him he surely felt it. Julien’s other hand slid up his thigh to rest on his right hip. Then he pressed himself even closer to Cinn’s back, closing any remaining space between them.
Cinn made no attempt to shuffle free; his strategy of simply ignoring Julien’s flirtations had been working well for him so far. However, if the princeling kept holding him so firmly for much longer, he might end up with a larger problem, if the subtle ache in his groin was anything to go by. He forced himself to focus on the pyramid of glossy balls being assembled in front of him.
Julien continued, his lips brushing against Cinn’s earlobe as he whispered, “Each bite, a sweet surrender.”
The low, husky sound of his voice sent a jolt straight to Cinn’s dick.
Nope. That was enough for one day.
Cinn wiggled out of his grip, weaving through the throngs of captivated watchers to dive out of the shop, straight into Elliot and Darcy .
“We got you two these chocolate éclairs.” Elliot held them up. “What were you doing in there for so long?”
Cinn snatched one out of his hand, turning his flushed face away from everyone to eat it in three hungry bites.
After another hour or so of aimless wandering, they returned their bikes—sans mote-powered spider things—and said goodbye to Darcy and Elliot.
“See you tomorrow at the party.” Elliot grinned at him and offered him a fist bump. “If I manage to break in, that is.”
The victorious feeling Cinn experienced at earning some shard of Elliot’s approval felt pivotal—he hadn’t even known how much he wanted it. Turning to say goodbye to Darcy, he pleaded, “Can’t you two come back to Julien’s?”
The apprehension surrounding his evening back at Julien’s mansion had only grown since the bakery.
She barked a laugh. “Not a chance in hell I’m signing up for extra Lucien Montaigne time. You’ll survive him for one dinner though.” She stepped back, adding, “Won’t you?”
Cinn glanced at Julien, standing apart from them, watching passersby. I’m not so sure.
The setting sun painted Paris in deep shadows and gorgeous orange hues as they walked back. Trees were shedding their last few stubborn leaves, a few falling on them as they walked.
Julien brushed one off Cinn’s shoulder. “So, now you’ve experienced true Parisian culture, I’m sure you have no regrets about not going to visit the metal beam monstrosity?”
“Nope. I still want to visit it, I’m afraid.” Cinn smirked at Julien. “There’s just something about overrated tourist traps that I can’t get away from. Comes from being a Londoner, I guess.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Julien ran his hand down his face. “I always forget Londoners have no taste.”