20. Julien
twenty
Julien
M oments Julien would never forget:
The sight of Béatrice’s dead body, burnt and broken, after he’d insisted he be the one to formally identify it.
The first day of university, when a single ray of sunshine had shone through his impenetrable darkness.
The day he’d killed his mother.
And now, the collection of these present ones:
The umbraphage making its relentless charge towards the four of them, the rising sense of terror increasing as it closed in.
Cinn’s scream of sheer agony as his gold band burned blisters into his skin.
Julien attempting to wrench the fucking thing off his body by any means possible but being pushed away.
The nightmarish shadow creature lunging itself at Cinn, a hair’s breadth from touching him.
Julien urging himself to reach for the motes so easily within his grasp, within his control, but doing nothing. Nothing to save him.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Elliot miraculously appearing next to them, pushing Cinn and Julien out of the way to throw himself in front of the umbraphage, hands manipulating a sphere of lumenmotes .
And then, the sight of the monster lashing out at his best friend’s chest, splitting his torso open in a gruesome gash that Julien himself felt every inch of, a visceral echo of anguish.
The next few moments were a black hole in his tapestry of memory. At some point, he must have realised Cinn had shadowslipped, because next he was half carrying, half dragging his limp body as far away from the scene as he could, before collapsing with him in a long narrow path between two houses.
Then he’d simply sat there, back against a wall, breathing hard.
It could only have been moments before Darcy, breathless and wild-eyed, came rushing up the path. “Elliot is okay. Genuinely. His wound isn’t that deep. The paramedics are treating him now. And they’ve managed to get the umbraphage back into the light cage. Though now they’ve knocked out our radio signal somehow. Eleanor is supporting the commander, and I’m running back to the van to tell them what’s going on. Stay here with Cinn.”
Julien blinked at Darcy’s ramblings until they started to sink in. Sickening panic at being left alone to protect Cinn’s lifeless body gripped him, and he almost begged Darcy to stay, but then he nodded.
“You could try this,” Darcy said, uncertainty lacing her tone as she rummaged through a first-aid kit she must have borrowed. “I know it’s not really the time to be experimenting, but…”
She tossed him a vial of thick, milky blue liquid.
He eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Zenolique. It’s a calming drug most often used in our psychiatric wards. It should reduce his adrenaline levels.”
He was fairly certain Cinn would have hesitations if he were awake to have an input, but he wasn’t, so Julien nodded. “I’ll see how we go.”
Carefully, Julien rearranged them so that Cinn was slumped against his chest, in between his parted legs. He pressed Cinn’s head to his ribs, keeping it there with a hand that rubbed soft circles into his scalp. With his other hand, he gingerly peeled back Cinn’s left sleeve to look at his wrist. The gold band, still slightly warm to the touch, had left a canvas of destruction on Cinn’s soft skin. A circlet of grotesque, raised welts, with the surrounding skin charred and blistered. Julien brushed his fingers near the burn that was furthest up his arm. His skin was too hot—even the air around his wrist was warm with residual heat. His stomach twisted in sympathy at the pain he’d felt—he’d surely feel —once he woke up. There would be damage to Cinn’s hand too, where he’d tried to remove the band, but Julien couldn’t face looking at that right now.
“Mon ange,” he murmured into Cinn’s hair, gently lowering his ruined arm. Cinn shifted in his arms, but didn’t wake. Julien pressed his palm against Cinn’s forehead. He felt cold. Too cold.
How much longer was Darcy going to be?
What if she didn’t make it in time?
At any moment, one of the umbraphages could escape again, find them here in this alley.
And Julien would be powerless to protect them.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Cinn, torturing himself by replaying that moment earlier where he didn’t reach for the motes at his fingertips, didn’t protect him, only stood there and awaited fate.
Wasn’t that what he was doing right now, really?
He twisted the vial of Zenolique around in his hand. Darcy was correct, now wasn’t the time to be experimenting, but neither was it the time to be unconscious and defenceless, slumped against a wall.
He tipped Cinn’s head back and placed the vial at the back of his throat, emptying every last drop of the milky blue substance into him.
Wait. Darcy hadn’t told him how much to administer. What if it was only meant to be a drop? Making a strangled sound, Julien clutched both sides of Cinn’s head and pressed it to his lips. What have you done? His fingers flew to Cinn’s pulse point on his neck, but the fumbling shake of his hand made the effort futile .
Should he stick his fingers down Cinn’s throat?
Although, what if that caused him to choke on it?
Cursing himself every vile name under the sun, he pulled Cinn tightly against him, leaning his head against his shoulder now, and resorted to praying.
Then, he felt it: the smallest stir of Cinn’s body, the slightest tickle of a fluttering eyelash against his cheek. Julien gasped, pulling back Cinn’s head to see his eyes were open . Beautiful hazel-gold orbs of pure sunshine. Eyes that were looking at him sleepily, dazed and disorientated. Relief coloured his face as he gazed up at Julien.
His expression was also communicating something else. Something else entirely. The slightest flicker of longing. A soft, lingering gaze that dropped to Julien’s lips before looking back up into his eyes with dilated pupils.
Cinn’s bottom lip slid between his teeth as he gave him a barely perceptible teasing smile that played at the corners of his mouth. Then Cinn’s hand reached up to fist Julien’s shirt, as if steadying himself, tethering himself to him.
Julien swallowed.
Wordlessly, they stared at each other, existing in the space between heartbeats, each frozen still.
Anticipation hung in the air like static electricity.
As one, they moved their heads towards each other, drawn together by an invisible force, magnets irresistibly pulled toward each other.
When their lips touched, the rest of the world faded away.
Their first kiss was trembling, tentative. Cinn wrapped his arms around Julien’s chest, anchoring himself in his lap, as Julien brushed his lips over his, feather-light, basking in their glorious softness, as soft as they’d always looked. Cinn exhaled an unsteady breath, and for a heart-wrenching moment, Julien feared he was about to push him away, to get up and walk away again, but then Cinn pressed his lips firmly against Julien’s own. Then he did it again. And again.
Julien needed no more encouragement. He fused his mouth to Cinn’s, allowing no space between them. He cupped Cinn’s neck, then glided gentle fingers through his hair while his other hand ran up and down his spine.
Julien’s teeth sought out the plump swell of Cinn’s bottom lip, pulling his lips open so his tongue could slip inside. The delightful taste of mint sweets danced across his tongue. Mint sweets and sunlight breaking through clouds. Moving his tongue slowly in a gentle caress, he felt the delicious sensation of Cinn’s own moving against it.
Cinn ran his hand up Julien’s arm, gooseflesh erupting in its wake. Then Julien was weightless, floating with an expansive feeling in his chest, as if Cinn was filling him with air. Filling him with life.
Out of Cinn’s mouth came a tiny sigh of contentment, and Julien wanted to swallow it, devour it, devour Cinn.
So he did.
He lost himself completely to the kiss, feeling the world spin around them and enjoying the dizzy whirlwind they’d created. Julien pulled Cinn’s body even closer to him, gripping his hip as hard as he dared. He wanted to melt into him, to climb into him. He settled for exploring every inch of Cinn’s mouth, carving into it with his tongue, his hand now fisting Cinn’s hair as he pushed their lips together.
Julien broke away to kiss Cinn’s forehead, drag his lips over his jaw, kiss the pulse point on his neck, blissfully beating. Then he pulled Cinn back into his chest, to feel his warm, alive body against his. “Mon dieu merci! J’ai cru… J’ai cru que je t’avais perdu, Cinn,” he breathed into Cinn’s hair, feeling his own heartbeat finally slow down in time with his deep, shuddering breaths.
Cinn’s fingers brushed against his cheek. Wiping them. “Why are you crying? ”
Julien hadn’t realised that he had been. “I thought I’d killed you.”
“What? You saved me.”
“ Elliot saved you. I just dragged you here.” After he himself was as much help as a potato. “Elliot…” he managed, before his guilt forced his throat shut. “We need to go find him. The umbraphage sliced his chest open.”
Cinn slowly unpeeled himself from the cocoon he’d made in Julien’s arms. As he stood up, he sucked in a breath of air, wincing and holding up his damaged wrist. “The burns hurt where the band is touching them.”
“Take it off,” said Julien, reaching for Cinn’s injured palm to assess it. At least that injury wasn’t as bad as he’d thought—raw, red skin, yes, but no welts. He brought it to his lips. “We can move it to your other wrist.”
Cinn held the band for a moment, closing his eyes in concentration as he widened the metal, then slid it off himself with great care not to touch his skin.
He held it up in the light. “I guess the umbraphage… overpowered it somehow? But I better keep it on,” he said with reluctance, slipping it onto his other wrist.
“He’s awake!” came a shout from the path’s entrance, and Darcy’s beaming smile appeared like the rising sun. “Did you use the Zenolique?”
Julien nodded, hoping Cinn didn’t ask what questionable substance he’d forced down his throat.
“Elliot’s been taken back to the van. The rest of them have finally dispersed the two umbraphages. For now, obviously.” She frowned. “Madame Sinclair said that it was the trickiest battle against them so far. There was one more casualty. One of Elliot’s friends, I think. They became moteblown, collapsed unconscious, and then one went for him.”
“They channelled too much?” Cinn asked .
“Channelled motes for too long, or in too large a quantity. It rarely kills you, but you can become seriously weakened. Moteblessed that focus on physical channelling spend hours training and priming their body, but it still occasionally happens.” Julien recalled those gruelling days all too well. He and Elliot would often spend hours and hours together, at the camp they both attended every summer as teenagers, pushing their bodies to the limit as they challenged each other to channel more at once and for longer.
Returning to the van, they found things in a state of disarray, with many wounded members of the gendarmerie slumped on crates. Even the uninjured officers looked awful, displaying the telltale signs of over-channelling—pale, trembling, disorientated. They were lucky only one of them had become moteblown.
Finding Elliot wasn’t hard. He came charging towards them, a disgruntled paramedic shouting after him. He was shirtless, his torso wrapped in white bandages. Inwardly, Julien let out a sigh of relief, gazing up at the heavens in thanks. What he’d have done if Elliot had died because of him, he couldn’t begin to fathom.
“It’s just one more battle scar,” Elliot was saying to Darcy’s fussing.
Julien shuffled forwards, to quietly say, “Thank you.”
“I was hardly not going to rush to your rescue, was I? Especially as Cinn decided to have a nap on the ground.”
Cinn scowled at him, but there was a playful edge to it.
What Elliot should be doing was calling Julien out on his shortcomings. He should shout at him, tell him he should have reached for the lumenmotes himself, even though he was extremely out of practice, to at least have attempted to protect the three of them.
Of course, Elliot wouldn’t do that to him. Julien offered him a grateful smile, which he returned, albeit with eyes crinkled with worry.
Eleanor appeared, barking orders at them to go and find a bathtub, shooting Julien a withering glare. Yes, it was true, they’d definitely been more hindrance than help today, but Julien was still glad he’d forced his way into the Baths. Because if he hadn’t, who else would have been there to drag Cinn out of danger?
And then cuddle him until he woke up, to be kissed half to death?
Julien’s eyes slid sideways to Cinn. For an electric moment, their gazes burrowed into each other, until dots of dark pink bloomed on Cinn’s cheeks and he looked away.
“I can’t. I want to. God help me, I want to so much, but I can’t,” he’d whispered to Julien in Paris.
Later, Cinn would likely inform him the kiss was a temporary lapse of judgement.
A one-time thing, never to be repeated.
For now, Julien would cherish the lingering feeling of his lips on his.