Eight

JULIEN

When Julien arrives at Studio Artiste, he takes in the colorful walls, the craft supplies for sale in the front right corner, and the smooth jazz lilting out of the speakers. Margaret, the white, very pale class instructor with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and glasses resting on a chain around her neck, readies the easels and distributes the paint.

He always arrives early to help for two reasons. The first is that he likes Margaret. He's been coming here for almost two years now, and from his first class he's sensed that Margaret is a kindred spirit. Meticulously organized. Impassioned about her craft. Diligent and timely and sometimes gruff with her feedback but never cruel, and once she warms up to you, she's a loyalist.

"Class won't start for another twenty minutes," Margaret says, not looking up as she unpacks some new canvases from their plastic casings. She's wearing a clean, teal-colored smock.

"Oh, it's just me," Julien says. He shimmies his way into the far corner, reserving his favorite easel where he can be most alone in the crowd. Then, he remembers Greg is coming, so he sets his bag on the stool next to his.

"Ah, Julien, I should've known," she says before cocking an eyebrow at Julien's NPR tote on a second stool. "The lone wolf brings along a member of the pack?"

He becomes bashful as he claims a smock of his own and a paint palette. "Oh. Yeah. Coworker."

"Is this the wavy brown-haired fella with the big arms who came in here earlier in the week?" she asks.

"Greg. Probably. Yes."

"He's a chatty one."

"Yeah."

"Unlike you."

"Yeah."

"Is this a date?"

"Ye—" Julien flushes, then stammers. "No!" Though his ego inflates for a second that someone like Margaret thinks he could get with someone like Greg.

Margaret laughs lightly to herself. "Almost got you there, didn't I?" She makes her way to the front of the room, instructing him to grab some paint bottles from storage.

"Greg and I, we're just... Well, I don't know what we're doing here, but we're working together to retool happy hour at Martin's Place, and we figured this was a nice, neutral place to meet and plan." He refrains from adding that he spruced up his apartment anyway on the off chance that their outing is to spill past the class's end time. Not that he's expecting Greg to want to spend his entire evening off with him, but still, if the possibility exists, he likes to be ready.

He promised Aunt Augustine he'd give this a try, so he's putting his best foot forward.

"Happy hour, huh? Sounds fun."

"If anyone shows..."

"You're skeptical?"

"I'm skeptical."

But Julien's skepticism is swept into a dustpan when the class attendees begin filing in and Greg is there looking handsome in another solid-colored T-shirt—this one hunter green—and another pair of jeans that hug his muscular legs in all the right places.

"Hey, Julien."

How does he do that? How does he make Julien's name sound like the greatest word ever invented in any language? It's exasperating.

"Saved you a seat." Julien moves his bag, doesn't make direct eye contact. He's afraid if he does that Greg will somehow know he vacuumed for him.

"Thanks. I'm excited." It sounds as if Greg genuinely means it.

Margaret is setting up the sample painting at the front of the class. It's a nighttime cityscape. Julien senses Greg tense beside him, the way he did in Uncle Martin's office two days ago, and wonders what exactly is triggering Greg. Part of him wants to ask. Another, more vexing part of him wants to place his hands on Greg's prominent shoulders and rub until the muscles relax.

"Full disclosure, I've never painted before, so this is going to be a fun new challenge for me," Greg says, borderline sheepishly. "Unless you count elementary school art classes."

"I don't," Margaret says, appearing suddenly behind them, handing out the brushes. "But don't worry, even mistakes can be art." Her deadpan makes Julien laugh.

"Not exactly a vote of confidence," Greg says. Making Julien laugh a second time.

"That's just Margaret." Julien shrugs. "You get used to it. I mean, you have to have a sense of humor when half your business is keeping women from getting so absurdly drunk they start an all-out paint war in your shop."

"Has that happened before?"

"More than once," Margaret says, deadpan once again, on her way to the front of the room.

Greg leans in and whispers, "How does she do that?"

Julien doesn't allow himself a moment to relish the nearness of Greg's lips or the heat of his breath this close to his ear. "Like I said," Julien whispers, straining for breath. Just beneath his skin, a soft, pleasant rumbling starts. "That's just Margaret."

After lowering the music and clapping her hands, Margaret introduces herself and welcomes everyone to Studio Artiste. She does a safety rundown and describes the evening's piece and wine pairing. It's a barrel reserve chambourcin which is poured liberally for each guest.

From his bag, Julien pulls out a small stainless steel spittoon. Usually, he wouldn't be so secretive about this. The people at these classes are more interested in their friends and the drinks than his habits. Sometimes his whole row of easels is empty. But with Greg right beside him, he can't see a possible way to avoid the questioning.

Margaret leads the class in painting the purple-blue background. Julien picks up his brush, tunes into the smooth jazz, and follows the instructions to a T.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Greg using one hand to sip his wine and the other to cause chaos across his canvas. Artistic license is certainly one way to describe the route Greg is taking in this class. He's using a different style of brush and a different color combination. It doesn't look bad, but Julien could never be so bold.

Instead of harping on that, Julien swirls the wine in his plastic wineglass (they used to be glass pre–paint war) before bringing it up to his nose for a deep inhale. Notes of berries, perhaps blackberries, grace his nostrils. Following that, he swishes the robust red around in his mouth. He tastes something smoky like tobacco. The chewing type would be another use for his swill—though he'd never touch the stuff despite his strange, uncharacteristic craving for a cigarette that night in the restaurant when he was obsessing over Braydon and Greg together.

What was that about anyway?

Release, probably. He's been sorely needing release for a while now. Something—or someone—to untie him like a bow atop a present.

Once he's satisfied that he's gotten all the flavors he can from his sip of wine, he spits it out.

As assumed, Greg's curiosity comes blurting out immediately. "What is that?"

"A spittoon," Julien says, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"What's it for?"

"I don't drink the wine, so I need somewhere for it to go," he says quietly.

"You're a sommelier who doesn't drink wine?" Greg's confusion is grooved across his forehead and on the sides of his pouty mouth. Stark interest blazes in his chocolate-brown eyes.

"I know it's oxymoronic or whatever, but I don't drink alcohol at all, actually," Julien clarifies, hushing up with enough time to hear Margaret's next instruction. He switches out his brush for a thinner one and goes for the black paint.

"How does that work exactly?" Greg asks.

"I swill. You don't need to swallow the wine to taste it." Julien hopes this explanation is enough, but he knows it won't be. Greg is inquisitive. And for a change, maybe Julien enjoys that.

Greg sets his brush down and looks at Julien with such an intense gaze that Julien does the same. "Is that why you declined my cocktail sample?"

Julien nods. "I'm sorry about the whole shirt debacle."

"It's no sweat," he says, effortlessly forgiving. What an admirable trait. "I'm sorry I tried to push the sample on you. Can I ask...why you don't drink?"

It's not a judgmental question by any means, but it still chokes him up. Knocks him back for a second. Should he give the easy answer or the real one? Greg's deep eyes, filled to the brim with a startling sincerity, make the decision for him.

"My parents were both alcoholics. When I was young, my mom got a DUI with me in the car. CPS opened an investigation afterward. That's how I ended up being raised by Martin and Augustine and why I don't drink," Julien says, voice barely audible, even to himself.

It's wounding that his parents loved alcohol more than they loved him. He knows intellectually that alcoholism is a disease, and like cancer, it's not easy to overcome. And he wouldn't trade his childhood for anything. It was under Uncle Martin and Aunt Augustine's care that he came into his own, came into his sexuality, and learned about his love of service and wine.

Greg doesn't speak right away. Then: "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"Thanks. It's okay." Julien erases the upset from his expression. Turns back to his easel. "I was six when it all happened, and there's a no-contact order, so yeah. It all worked out for the best." He couldn't understand that fully at the time, but he knows it deep in his heart now that born of a terrible situation came a better, more secure life. The wounds of his childhood have largely healed, but the scars remain, and if he presses them hard enough, they still hurt. If he scratches the wrong way, they still bleed.

Greg has mostly abandoned his painting. Other students are chatting. Julien faintly hears the sound of smooth jazz in the background and the beating of his own heart rising inside his chest. Greg's unwavering gaze has this bizarre effect on him.

"Can I ask you another question?"

Julien swills, spits, steels himself because he's not used to anyone taking this much of an interest in him, and then finally nods.

"Why do you want to be a sommelier then?"

Julien goes blank, having never been asked that before by someone outside of his sommelier courses. He's not sure how vulnerable he wants to be with this mixologist he barely knows because in most cases people can't wrap their head around his rigmarole logic. His brain doesn't work like everyone else's, so he's largely stopped expecting understanding from others.

But once more those deep brown eyes, crinkled lightly at the edges, override his filter.

"Because I like being an expert on it. It makes me feel powerful. I get to be in control of the thing that my parents had no control over." A tension somewhere south of his heart unfurls a little. Confidence over how far he's come bolsters his posture and his mood.

Greg nods slowly, clearly taking this in. Then he smiles, a small, strong smile, and says, "That's kind of incredible."

Kind of incredible. Incredible.

The word vibrates through Julien's whole body.

In the back of Studio Artiste with Margaret talking and smooth jazz playing, Julien's spirits lift exponentially. Greg the sunshiny mixologist should not be able to make Julien glow like this. Like he's complimentary moonlight.

"Sorry. That was, uh, kind of dark." Julien might be buoyed by Greg's praise, but he still feels exposed, self-conscious.

"Can't have the light without the dark now, can we?" Greg's expression shifts, growing wistful. "I guess I'm sort of oxymoronic, too. I bartend for a living, but I have to be careful how much I drink."

Julien's rib cage laces up tight with fear. The red-faced ghosts of his past swoop down around him and slur hideous remarks into his ears. They thrust him into the back seat of that car with a broken taillight, the memory of him straining to hear the radio over the drunken shouting match happening in the front seat.

Bang.

The sound is only in his head, yet it still causes him to startle and drop his paintbrush.

Is Greg admitting his own issues with alcohol? While he wouldn't hold that against Greg, Julien's life has been touched by it too harshly. Maybe his initial instinct for distance between them was the right one. Self-preservation has always been Julien's number one priority. His feet instinctively angle away as if prepared to run.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Julien asks, concern making his throat thick.

Greg's eyebrows shoot up. "Nonononononono. Sorry. That was cryptic. No. I take a medication for my mental health that doesn't play well with alcohol. That's all."

"Oh, got it." Relief sweeps through Julien's shoulders.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"No." Julien shakes his head, a sign of acceptance. He would ask more about the medication, but he doesn't want to overstep. Especially because, for the first time, he sees a direct connection between him and Greg. Neurodiverse minds gotta stick together in this world. "Like you said, the light with the dark. It's my fault for assuming." He turns his attention back to his painting and realizes he's fallen behind. He swills, spits, and picks up his brush again to dab yellow into the windowpanes. Small pools of light emanating into the nighttime.

That's kind of what Greg's aura is like: bright yellow in the middle of a mostly purple-blue existence.

While reaching for a sip of water, that contagious aura spills into Julien's body when he accidentally brushes Greg's arm. That glow fuels him for the rest of the class.

After their bout of honesty and the loaded arm-brush, they sit in mostly companionable silence and paint side by side, occasionally sneaking glances at one another or throwing out a suggestion or two for various happy hour themes.

At the end, Julien signs his name in the bottom right corner, sets his canvas on a rack to dry, and gathers his belongings. Outside, Julien and Greg linger on the sidewalk once all the other students have trickled out—to restaurants or parking lots. Julien decides to speak first. "Thanks for, uh, listening to me back there and for sharing. I'm sure that wasn't easy."

"Easier than packing up my life in New York and moving out here."

"Talk about a culture shock."

"A necessary one."

Julien glances in the direction of the bus stop as Greg swirls his key ring around his pointer finger. Round and round. A light clatter fills the air. Julien doesn't want to be obvious about it, but he is rather hoping Greg will offer him a ride again, even if he was curt about it the last time. He deeply regrets that.

Julien looks at his watch. "It's getting late."

"Yeah, should probably get going."

The key circling stops. Greg holds the fob in his fist. Julien registers, in person and not on his phone screen, how large Greg's fists are. How soft the backs of his hands, lightly dusted with hair, look. What might one of those knuckles feel like wrapped around his...

"This was fun," Greg says, rocking on his feet. "Should we trade numbers so we can continue spitballing ideas for happy hour?"

Julien agrees, and they swap phones, but it's when they swap back that his heart glitches. Greg pulls Julien in for a tight hug.

Julien is shocked at first but settles in. There's instant comfort to be found inside those arms, like Greg's aura is now an external armor of light surrounding them.

"I'm glad we did this," Greg says, still holding on.

"Yeah, uh, me too." Julien is being slightly crushed by Greg's strong arms. He likes it. He likes it a lot. Almost too much. Because when Greg pulls away, he finds himself wishing him near again. Wishing him close.

"Text me when you get home so I know you got back safely," Greg says, backing toward his car. "Good night, Julien."

When he boards the bus, Julien doesn't even need to put his headphones on because his heart is already loudly beating the tune of Vivaldi's "Summer" (even though it's fall) for everyone to hear.