Sixteen

JULIEN

Uncle Martin decides that the number one happy hour spot in the Lehigh Valley should host its own New Year's Eve party: Pop Off for the New Year. Julien cringes at the name, but Uncle Martin seems proud that he's up-to-date with the TikTok lingo, so Julien doesn't dare question it.

Besides, they're sold out. All seventy tickets went quickly. Eighty dollars (pretax and tip) gets entrants all-you-can drink party punch and house wine. Mixing not encouraged for the sanctity and cleanliness of their toilets.

Mixing, however, is exactly what Rufus is doing, back behind the DJ booth once again as he spins records, playing some sort of Mariah Carey cover/remix of "Auld Lang Syne" that Aunt Augustine requested.

Julien has escaped the crowd for a moment, grabbing a glass of water on the quiet side of the bar. Only one person is sitting down here—a brown-skinned woman wearing a dress that makes her look like a chic disco ball. She looks up from her phone, and they lock eyes. Her expression says she knows him, but Julien swears he's never seen this woman before.

"You must be the mysterious Julien," she says with the air of a femme fatale in a film noir.

Julien sips his water. "I'm guessing you've seen the TikToks?" He's getting better at this social interaction thing. The more time he spends around Greg, the easier small talk gets. He had to work tooth-and-nail to pass the service portion of his first sommelier exam. Tableside manner doesn't come naturally to him, the same way bedside manner doesn't come naturally to most doctors. Not that wine is anything like open-heart surgery, but in another life, he might've been deft enough to study medicine.

"I've done one better. I've seen the location where you've filmed the TikToks," the woman says.

"Oh."

"The green screen, I mean. I'm Jessica. Rufus is my boyfriend."

Julien understands at once and meets her extended hand. "Oh. Hi. I've heard a lot about you."

"Like. Wise." Why does she break up the word like that? He can't imagine it's for any good reason. "Greg barely shuts up about you." Her brown eyes flick toward where Greg is refilling the party punch and chatting up a college girl wearing a red flannel and light-wash jeans.

"All good things, I hope." Julien hadn't known Greg was talking him up at home. Since Christmas when Aunt Augustine pointedly noted that nobody had slept on the couch the night before, Julien has barely brought up Greg around Aunt Augustine and Uncle Martin for fear they might get the wrong idea. The wrong idea that might be the right idea if Julien were a different person at a different point in his life.

That's all his brain's confusing way of phrasing that he's beginning to develop meaningful feelings for Greg, but that seems unwise. Their sex is good, their conversation is better, but friendship-land is where their relationship should remain.

When Julien's SKA scores came in, they were competitive enough to obtain a spot in the advanced course coming up in March in Texas, which means in a little over a year's time, he could be sitting the advanced examination. With that under his belt and that new pin on his lapel, he'll be hirable in a whole different echelon of establishments that could take him someplace new. Someplace far from the foreboding memories.

Someplace Greg won't be.

And that's all far away, and a million and one things could change over the course of a year. But as it stands, Julien has been wise to steer clear of romantic entanglements so that if the right opportunity arises, he can leave at a moment's notice. Aunt Augustine and Uncle Martin wouldn't be thrilled by that, but they love him too much to hold it against him.

Would Greg hold it against him?

Jessica calls Julien back to the moment. "Excellent things. He's really impressed by you. Some might even say enamored."

He can tell that Jessica has dipped into the wine significantly. An empty glass sits in front of her. Perhaps she's saying more than she should be. "I don't think that's quite true."

"It's more than quite true. It's honest-to-God true." She smiles warmly at Julien. "I'm in school part-time getting my master's in psychology, and that guy is the textbook definition of crushing hard."

"I hope you're not paying too much for those textbooks. Think they might need some updating." Julien's surprised he can even make a joke right now. A confirmation of Greg's feelings from an outside party is both elating and alarming, causing his heart to thud.

"I guarantee he's going to ask to kiss you at midnight."

This is starting to sound very high school. Not that he really knows what high school romance is like because he self-selected out of it at every turn. Too many unknowns. Too many trappings for someone to uncover his OCD when they already hounded him about not having traditional parents. Whatever that was even supposed to mean.

Despite the childishness of it all, a flock of butterflies flaps inside Julien's stomach. He's never been kissed in a crowded room by a handsome man on New Year's Eve before. Everyone else will be kissing, too. It's not like anyone will be looking.

And ever since Christmas Eve, he's been kissing Greg. Usually horizontally and one time completely upside down, Spider-Man-style—but a vertical, right-side-up kiss could be in the cards tonight. It didn't need to be intrinsically complicated.

"Are you studying to be a psychologist or a psychic?" Julien asks, discovering that he likes Jessica. He doesn't like many people right off the bat, but he likes her, and their easy banter reminds him that friendship doesn't always have to be so laborious.

"I'm multifaceted," she says, flipping her long hair over her right shoulder. "By day I sling burritos, and by night I memorize the functions of the brain. Nowhere in my textbooks does it say being psychic isn't possible."

"Seriously, where is your school getting these books?"

"It's a liberal arts college!"

They share a good laugh just as Greg materializes beside them. "What are you two cackling about?"

Greg looks exceptionally good tonight. He's wearing this midnight blue button-down with the top couple buttons undone, giving a free peek at his well-groomed chest hair. He smells fresh and clean, but Julien notices he isn't wearing any of the signature aftershave he's seen on Greg's bathroom counter. He has mentioned that some scents trigger his OCD; that's probably why Greg has stopped using it, which may just be a piece of evidence in Jessica's case.

"You had to be there," Jessica says. "The countdown is coming up soon. As the DJ's number one groupie, it's time to take my place up there beside him. See you guys later." She dips into the crowd that's partying the night away beneath dim lights.

Julien's heart grows louder than the music.

GREG

Greg's hands are slick with nerves.

Kissing Julien while they fuck is one thing. Kissing Julien in their place of employment is another. Julien said there were no rules in Martin's Place about employees dating other employees. He can at least rest easy that he's not going to be fired for entertaining such a fantasy, but still.

He accepts the glass of chilled water Julien hands him, and it nearly slips right out of his grasp. Thankfully, he catches it before it hits the floor, only spilling slightly, which he cleans up right away, so nobody falls.

"Everything okay?" Julien asks. There's an unnatural note to Julien's question, a crack Greg has never heard before. Is this what Julien sounds like when he's nervous? Why would he be nervous? Maybe Jessica said something. She's not the best with secrets, which raises a major red flag when it comes to her patient confidentiality once she becomes a psychologist.

"Of course. Everything is fantastic." Greg busies his mouth by sipping his water, glancing out at the crowd. He hates that he's lying. Well, not lying, but stretching the truth. Nothing is fantastic right now, but it will be if he gets the midnight kiss he's been craving, going on about.

Poor Rufus probably wasn't expecting such a lovesick roommate. In truth, Greg wasn't expecting this himself. The burns Stryker left behind still stung when he arrived in Allentown. Falling for the curmudgeonly king of wine wasn't on Greg's agenda, and yet...

And yet he has. And yet Julien isn't so curmudgeonly after all. And yet Julien is standing in front of him, wearing a formfitting turtleneck, holding an empty water glass, waiting for Greg to say something, only Greg has completely missed the question.

"I'm sorry. Did you say something?" A light line of sweat arises on the nape of Greg's neck. The restaurant is swarmed with bodies, and the heat is on. Good thing he thought to wear an undershirt beneath this thin stretchy button-down, otherwise he'd be stain-central.

Julien furrows his brow. "Really, what's going on with you?"

"Would you like to dance?" Greg asks, deflecting. If he can just get Julien out on the dance floor, if he can get his body moving and out of his head, maybe he can make this happen for them both.

Julien scratches his neck. "I don't really dance."

"Don't or won't?" Greg asks because he needs this. Desperately. He needs a moment of movement, of release, to shed the worry rising inside his gut over whether to go through with this, even though he wants to. He so, so wants to.

"Can't," Julien corrects himself. "I don't have an ear for this kind of music or a body that responds very well."

"Counter—your body is quite responsive," Greg says, overriding his nerves with sultry jokes.

Julien flushes. Even in the half light, it's obvious. "Different context."

"Guess I've never asked," Greg says. "What kind of music do you like?"

"Classical, mostly."

"Who's your favorite composer?"

Julien's thinking face is beyond adorable—eyes shifted up and to the left, mouth a tight pull. "Tchaikovsky."

Greg soaks that in, nodding with approval even though he wouldn't know Tchaikovsky from Mozart from Stravinsky. "Okay. Be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"I know the DJ, remember?" Greg doesn't wait for Julien to protest. He beelines for Rufus.

Jessica bops her head behind him, eyes closed, mouthing the lyrics to a Cardi B song. Rufus releases one ear from the padded prisons of his overly large headphones when Greg taps him on the shoulder.

"This is incredible!" Rufus cheers. He's all shimmery from the glittery makeup Jessica put on him so he matched her dress. It looked great in the photos they took earlier. It looks even better in person. "Thanks for this! I'm having a blast."

"So is everyone else!" Greg shouts over the tunes, gesturing at the crowd that is awash with smiles. "Hey, listen, do you have anything classical on there? Tchaikovsky, maybe?" He knows it's a long shot, but for Julien he'd walk across hot coals. For a perfect moment, he'd step barefoot on broken glass.

It's funny, this feeling he's experiencing. It's like he's drunk but he's not. He knows he's not. He's been hawking drinks all night, of course, but he's not been drinking the drinks. It's so different from New York. Back there, on New Year's Eve of all nights, he'd be boozy, sweating his ass off, spending more than he could possibly ever earn while trying to impress people. Here, he's enjoying providing the experience—a safe and fun one—to this community of people rather than swiping himself into oblivion.

"I've got one track that might work, though I'm not sure it's what you're looking for." Rufus fiddles with the trackpad on his laptop while shrugging a bit.

"Is it Tchaikovsky?"

"It is." Rufus taps a few keys.

"Then it's what I'm looking for!" Greg declares. "Thank you. A million times, thank you." He departs right as the songs begin to transition.

Greg has just enough time to sweep Julien out from behind the bar and onto the makeshift dance floor. He has no frame of reference for this long-dead composer who sounds like a fancy, secret-menu coffee drink, but he's certain the mood has shifted when the requested track comes on.

Julien, not yet moving beyond a very tepid step touch, scrunches up his face. "Is this a dubstep remix of...‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy'?" The scrunching morphs into a stupefied smile. The twinkling notes mix with a surging, industrial whirr that grates.

"Maybe?" Greg says with his palms up to the ceiling.

Then the beat drops, and the techno kicks in, and the crowd is jumping, and the lights are going haywire. Greg's heart is going haywire, too.

"This is an abomination of music," Julien insists. His stuck-smile belies what he's saying.

"But you'll dance to it?" Greg asks, flashing a grin that has never once lost him his way.

Julien bites his lip.

God, Greg wishes his lip was the one between those pretty teeth.

Julien eventually nods. "I'll dance to it."

After asking if it's all right, Greg places his hands on Julien's waist, using his palm to twist his slender frame side to side. Julien's hands find their way onto Greg's shoulders, so warm they sear through the fabric of both of his shirts.

He likes the way Julien's body possesses a fire other people can't see. The nights they've spent together—not just the ones where they've had sex, but the ones where they've had sleepovers since Christmas—Greg loved waking up in the middle of the night to a radiator beneath his sheets. Julien is a mostly motionless and soundless sleeper, so those lapping waves of heat were a sweet reminder that he wasn't sleeping alone. That Julien was beside him, creating a second (hopefully permanent) indent in his mattress.

Together, they bounce and dip as this ridiculous holiday remix blares through the restaurant. Their eye contact never breaks, not even as their foreheads touch. As their chests press together. As the countdown begins.

"Okay, everybody, it's almost that time. Grab a glass of something bubbly and grab your special someone," Rufus declares into a microphone.

But Greg is already grabbing onto his someone special. And even though he's too scared to say it with his voice, he says as much with his mouth. Right as the countdown ends, he kisses Julien in the middle of Martin's Place, surrounded by friends, buoyed by cheers, and Julien kisses him back. Julien presses up and into him, and he swears he's never felt a better sensation in his life.

For once, Greg's resolutions couldn't be clearer: make a home in the Lehigh Valley and make Julien Boire his.