16. Julien
sixteen
Julien
“ W hat now? Back to your father’s party?” Cinn asked Julien.
He blinked, unsure for once; he’d reached the end of his roadmap for their night.
“Let’s go out,” suggested Darcy. “Show Cinn Parisian nightlife.” At this, she grabbed his hand and spun herself around into his arms. He looked far less than comfortable.
“Well, there’s no way we’re going anywhere playing trashy pop music.” Elliot gave one long shake of his head. “No offence to that crap that leaks out of your headphones, Cinn.”
“It’s mostly R’n’B, actually,” Cinn mumbled.
“What about Café Crescendo, that jazz fusion bar we found last winter?” Julien interjected and was promptly ignored.
“And I’m not going to any of Darcy’s places,” Elliot continued. “Shit gets crazy in her drum and bass basements.”
“God, that was one time!” Darcy moaned, rolling her eyes. “And nobody forced you to take that random pill from the stranger you met in the bathroom.”
Cinn shuffled on his feet. “I second no drum and bass. Tyler’s dragged me to a few gigs, and I hated every second of them. There’s no—”
“There’s no soul,” Julien chimed in. “We want none of that synthetic beat nonsense. Café Crescendo has the perfect vibe—smooth jazz, low lights—”
“No!” shouted Darcy and Elliot simultaneously, so loud Julien flinched.
“Sounds like you’re picking then, Elliot, doesn’t it?” Julien wouldn’t sulk. It was beneath him.
After flagging down a taxi, and taking a quick detour so that Darcy could store Béatrice’s rib in her hotel room, and change out of her muddy heels—why did she never listen to Julien?—they were dropped in the heart of Paris’s Le Marais district, which Darcy argued would please everybody.
Tall, centuries-old buildings lined the narrow road, with people smoking out of balconies and wooden shutters, leaning their bodies over to watch the merriment below.
One look at the neon lights, rainbow flags, and scantily clad revellers spilling out into the cobblestone streets, clinking drinks and shouting loudly, and Cinn took a full step backwards, as if he was about to take flight.
“This isn’t really my scene.” Panic wrote itself all over Cinn’s face.
Julien raised his eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
Darcy linked her elbow through Cinn’s and dragged him across the street to the nearest bar, which was pumping heavy music and teemed with people.
Cinn froze at the threshold. “But aren’t we overdressed?”
“Darling, in the city that lives and breathes fashion, one can never be overdressed,” Julien replied with a smirk, pushing Cinn the final few steps.
Inside, the dance bar throbbed with the pulsating beats of electronica, disco lights enveloping dancers in a kaleidoscope of colours. Fog from a machine merged with smoke from cigarettes to form a hazy mist, transforming swirling figures into intangible shapes.
Straight to the bar, of course .
“Five double whiskeys for you then, Cinn?” Elliot shouted over the cacophony.
Shaking his head, Cinn looked less than impressed, but Julien smiled to himself—Elliot had certainly taken his time warming to Cinn, but the two of them seemed to be becoming fast friends.
Julien easily jostled his way to the front of the queue, to order two Hennessys for Elliot and Darcy, a Kronenbourg for Cinn, and a glass of red for himself—wrinkling his nose at the selection of wine on offer.
Sans Elliot, who’d slipped away from them, they headed into the narrow alleyway garden, where Darcy immediately jumped at the chance to join in with an impromptu poetry slam that was being held. Her floor-length green gown did indeed stick out next to the casual attire of the others. She rocked it though, naturally, throwing her head back and gesturing wildly as she spun out rhythmic prose far easier than Julien could ever dream of, even though she was speaking a second language. If Béatrice were here, she’d be clapping along, encouraging Darcy to climb on top of the bistro table to perform on a makeshift stage.
“What are they shouting about?” Cinn furrowed his eyebrows, head cocked to one side, attempting to glean meaning from the rapidly spoken French.
“Oh, just the fervent echoes of discontent. Societal injustices, the sting of inequality, that sort of thing.”
“Just that, then, huh?”
Julien chuckled and pushed him back inside to the warmth, leaving Darcy to her new friends.
Within moments, Cinn’s jaw hung slack. Julien followed his gaze to find Elliot dancing with a stranger, bodies pressed tightly together as they danced to a rhythm all of their own. Elliot had his tongue deep down the tall, pretty-looking man’s throat, clasping his long blond hair, which was not dissimilar to Julien’s own …
“That was… fast,” Cinn quipped, averting his eyes from Elliot but not quite meeting Julien’s. And then, said so quickly it was as if the words were burning his tongue, Cinn asked, “What’s the deal with you and him, anyway? I mean, have you ever…?”
One week ago, Julien and Elliot sprawling together on Darcy’s rug, several empty bottles of red wine on the coffee table.
Cinn and Darcy asleep on the sofa, mirrored snoring twins.
Elliot, staring into the fire, blurting out, “Are you going to fuck him?”
Julien considering replying, “Who?” but settling for silence to give Elliot the answer he didn’t want.
Elliot leaving the room, and Julien turning to watch Cinn’s sleeping form, studying the rise and fall, rise and fall of his chest.
“ Non ,” said Julien, emphasising the word with certainty. With two fingers, he gently tilted Cinn’s face to meet his. “He’s my best friend. But we’ve never. And will never.”
Cinn’s golden eyes drilled into his. “And how does Elliot feel about that?”
“Well, he certainly isn’t sitting around crying about it.” Julien gestured to Elliot, who was now grinding against the stranger with remarkable enthusiasm.
From the day they’d met over a decade ago at summer camp—the day Julien had thrashed him at every activity, and Elliot had grinned in delight in response—Julien had loved Elliot. Just not in the exact way Elliot wanted to be loved. However, their relationship had long since moved past the barriers that the situation had created. Mostly.
With a subtle shift of his body, Julien crowded Cinn against the shallow alcove they’d found themselves in. He plucked the beer out of Cinn’s hand and placed it on a shelf.
“What are you doing?” Cinn asked, but the slight hitch of his breath made it clear he knew exactly what was happening .
He didn’t resist when Julien pushed him so far back he hit the wall, Cinn’s hands snaking around to rest on Julien’s hips. Needing no other encouragement, Julien pressed himself into his space, so close their chests collided, and he could feel the thump, thump, thump of Cinn’s rapidly increasing heartbeat, that seemed to correspond with his own then sync with the upbeat tempo of the music.
Julien cupped Cinn’s face with one hand, and Cinn leaned into the touch at once, closing his eyes and placing his own hand on top. Sliding his hand free, Julien brushed Cinn’s jaw with his knuckles before dusting his thumb over his collarbone, then dipped lower to find the bruise his mouth had marked Cinn with last night. Eyelashes fluttering against Julien’s cheek, Cinn slid slightly down the wall when Julien pressed on the mark while taking the tip of Cinn’s ear between his teeth.
Pulling him upright, Julien stepped back, gripping Cinn’s wrist to drag him past the bar, across the dance floor, out the front door, up the busy street, and down a quiet side alley, a whirlwind journey that knocked the breath out of them.
Face dazed, Cinn half stumbled as Julien perched on a low wall and tugged him onto his lap. Julien smiled against the soft skin that was back against his, where it belonged. He hooked his fingers through the belt loops of Cinn’s trousers, then pulled on the material of his shirt until he’d freed it from his trousers, to slide his fingers up the expanse of warm skin he’d craved since yesterday.
But Cinn had fallen very still, freezing Julien’s exploration. Cinn leant his forehead against his. In the quietest of voices, a whisper in the cool wind that whistled down the cobbled alley, he said, “I can’t.” And then, still with his forehead touching Julien’s: “I’m sorry.”
In lieu of a reply, Julien froze stone still himself, hoping to calcify the feeling of Cinn’s weight on him, the warmth of his minty breath, the subtle shift of his forehead rocking gently left, then right across Julien’s own .
If Julien didn’t move, perhaps they’d remain suspended in time, and he wouldn’t have to hear Cinn’s next words.
“I can’t. I want to. God help me, I want to so much, but I can’t.”
“Why?” Julien whispered.
“I can’t do casual , Julien. It’s not me. I haven’t actually been with anyone else since Tyler, and that was years ago now.”
Swallowing his choked sound of surprise, Julien considered his next words, twisting them around his tongue.
What if—
You don’t—
But we could be—
If I—
Maybe this time —
He’d taken too long. Cinn was unwrapping himself from him, sliding away, away from him , and then he was pressing his lips to Julien’s forehead, the spot where they’d just been touching, and walking away without looking back.
When he turned the corner, Julien expelled an almighty gasp, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The visceral ache in his chest saw him sliding off the wall, onto the ground, to lean his head back against the cool brick.
What had just happened? Why did it feel like Cinn had just stabbed him in the heart? Julien had only been seeking physical intimacy from him anyway, and he could get that anywhere. This was no great loss. They would simply go back to being friends.
Then, Cinn’s golden-hazel eyes filled his mind, blinking once, and Julien reached out his hand into empty air to tug on a beanie hat that wasn’t there.
He shook his head at himself. Waves of dissociation collided with unrecognisable desires of wanting . Longing .
Julien didn’t have many people in his life he was close to. Scrap that, he had only two. A potential three if Cinn didn’t get sick of him. But two very special, treasured jewels he’d do anything for. He felt no urge to ever surround himself with a wider group of people who’d never truly know him.
Within his inner circle, he had trust. Security. It was so easy for a lover to drop out of your life—this he knew first-hand. He’d done it to others, when he’d gotten too close to them. Here one day, then gone the next, as fleeting as a passing breeze. Don’t get attached, don’t get hurt.
Yes, having a partner was a risk. A risk he’d never taken.
And wasn’t the ache in his chest right now the perfect reminder why? If he felt this awful now, what would he feel like if he had his already-fragile heart broken?
Béatrice’s dismayed face appeared in his mind, shaking her head sadly. So your plan is to be alone forever? she said. Sounds great.
In response to the figment of his imagination, Julien tore at his hair, expelling an almighty groan. Calme-toi. Je suis ridicule.
Forcing himself to his feet, he dusted himself off before using two hands to pull his cheeks upwards, forcing his lips into a smile. Because Julien didn’t skulk in alleys after being rejected.
He could go back onto the main street and find a different bar, pick up a different body to fill the void inside him.
However, Cinn was staying at his house, and he couldn’t simply abandon him. The thought was unthinkable.
Plus, you don’t want anybody else. You only want him.
But he couldn’t have him, because Julien had fucked it up. Messed up any chance of being with him, because he was clearly hell-bent on self-sabotaging any chance of happiness.
You’d have only hurt him in the long run. It’s better this way.
Rare tears, hot and angry, threatened to burst out, so Julien squeezed his eyes shut.
He’d give himself one more minute, then he’d drag himself out of the alley, plaster on his best smile, and go and pretend the last hour hadn’t happened.
Julien could do that.
He was the master of pretence.