Chapter Text
Julien is used to seeing his father disappointed. It has become his default expression, it seems, whenever he looks upon his eldest son’s face, and Julien has long since stopped trying to prove him wrong.
This time, his father does not look disappointed, which is refreshing. No, he looks tired, instead. Resigned, tense. It is somehow so much worse.
“Very little has been asked of you, Julien,” Raimond says. “After everything, this is the least you can do for your family.”
“But I don’t even know him,” Julien says steadily, having stayed mostly silent until now. “And since when do we need this kind of alliance?”
“Since most of our crops decided to die, and kill most of our income along with them,” Raimond says with some irritation, seemingly looking for new ways to phrase the same thing he has already said a dozen times. Julien vainly hopes that his answer will somehow be different, from one time to the next. He didn’t realize how serious the situation was, until this moment. “This is the solution that has been offered, but if you have a better one, please, by all means.”
He spreads his hands in a presenting, prompting gesture, and Julien exhales slowly through his nose.
“Is marriage not a little extreme?” he says, with the failing arguments of a man who knows he has already lost. “The crops will thrive next season, surely we have enough in our coffers to hold us over until then.”
“And how do you propose we fill our tenants’ coffers?” Raimond says. “Shall we let them starve? We have a responsibility to those who serve us, as well as the other way around. They will not survive, and we simply cannot afford to go into more debt than we are already in.”
“We are far from the only House affected by this scourge,” Julien argues. “Plenty of others have suffered, as well.”
“All of whom have more resources, and more varied avenues of income.” Raimond takes a deep breath, hands folded behind his back. “The Halovar are the only House wealthy enough, and willing, to solve this problem for us. Perhaps marriage will be good for you. Perhaps, what you need is for something to actually tie you down, so you can finally find some real use and purpose.” A pause, as he studies his son. “You will meet the Lord Wicander at the Cormoray ball, and we shall have proper introductions. And you will behave.”
And that is how Julien finds himself in a grand ballroom, two days after his father’s news, waiting with patience that he simply does not have, for a future betrothed whom he has never met.
Has the eldest Halovar been informed about this impending engagement beforehand, or was he blindsided as well? Julien does not know, and he did not ask. He simply held his tongue once his father’s command was stated, and retreated for the night, before he could have a chance to say or do anything truly foolish.
He has never met the Lord Wicander. He has seen him plenty, of course, but only in an official capacity, and from a distance, through his work within the Candescent Creed. He seems kind enough. Soft. Plain. Perhaps that would be for the best―plain is much easier to handle than headstrong.
It is roughly thirty minutes after his arrival, that Julien is approached by a footman, beelining for him through the crowd.
“Sir Julien Davinos?” he asks, and Julien nods. The footman hands him a folded note, pressed with the Halovar seal. “This just came for you, sir.”
Julien takes the note, and the footman gives a small bow, before returning to his post, leaving Julien to step a little further to the side of the room to read the message. It is brief, but clear, and he heaves a heavy sigh. A missive from Lord Wicander, profusely apologizing for not being able to attend the ball, due to sudden illness, as well as an assurance that he is looking forward to a proper introduction at a later time.
Typical. It seems that Julien pulled himself together and got dressed up for nothing.
The Halovar. Of all the Houses, it is the last one Julien ever would have expected to marry into, but he supposes that it could be worse. And it’s better than the alternative, which was for his sister to take on this task, instead. Julien could not allow that. He may be an utter disappointment, but he does love his family, and will do what it takes to keep them happy and protected. Even if it means giving up his freedom―he may be a rake, but he is loyal.
Perhaps his father is right. Perhaps it is time to simply… stop.
It’s not like Julien to slip away to the sidelines, especially not at an event like this, but for once, he mustn’t make himself the center of attention. It wouldn’t look good, not with his current reputation, not when he’s about to enter into a likely very public betrothal.
Julien is both relieved and frustrated that the man in question wasn’t able to attend. One more night of freedom, but just putting off the inevitable.
He reaches the drinks table, grabbing a flute of champagne and emptying it much quicker than would be considered appropriate, before setting it down and picking up another. He takes a breath, exhales, before taking a sip.
He stands there for a few moments, just staring at the massive flower arrangement covering the equally ornate wall behind it, glass in hand and mind pleasantly starting to get a little soft around the edges. This is what he needs. He no longer needs a clear head to make polite conversation and make a good first impression, so he might as well just do what he does best, and enjoy it while he can.
Movement in the corner of his eye makes Julien turn slightly, taking a glance, before turning back to the flower arrangement.
“Sorry,” a newcomer says, reaching halfway across in front of Julien to pick up a glass of his own. Julien hadn’t realized that he was practically blocking the whole thing, but he doesn’t really move.
“Don’t be,” he says, taking another sip. “I am the one who is in the way.”
An admission of responsibility, however small. His father would be proud.
The person beside him breathes a surprised laugh.
“It’s alright,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind if I hide here for a bit. Just… need a minute.”
Julien turns properly now, taking a better look at the man beside him. Young, early twenties, with olive skin and fantastic bone structure, dressed in a sharp black suit with purple detailing. Tall, slender figure, with posture and bearing too immaculate to be anything but noble-born. Julien eyes him up and down, appreciating the view, before reminding himself that he is not here for that.
You will behave. His father’s bitter words ring in his ears. Julien turns back to the flowers, takes a not particularly dignified swig of his champagne.
“What are you hiding from?” he asks, despite himself.
“Um,” the young man says, his voice a little reedy, a little raspy, but not at all unpleasant. “Nothing in particular. I’m just not a big fan of these things. Balls, I mean.”
Julien respectfully holds back the innuendo that’s desperate to crawl out of his mouth, by taking another sip of champagne.
“I suppose that once introductions and a few dances are done,” he says, “there is not much left to do but drink.”
The man looks at him, he can see in the corner of his eye.
“That’s pretty sad,” he says, but it’s with dryness rather than sympathy, and Julien turns to him.
“There are also other activities to engage in,” he says. “If one were so inclined.”
He raises his eyebrows a little, before reminding himself once again that that is not the purpose of tonight. Even though his intended match isn’t here, he must behave, all the same.
Sir Julien Davinos. A respectable gentleman. A joke.
“Is that what you would normally do?” the man asks, eyebrows raised as well, the dryness still in his voice. He and Julien are about the same height, so Julien ends up eye to eye with a lovely shade of green.
“Perhaps,” Julien says.
“Then why are you standing here?” The man gestures vaguely at the crowded ballroom behind them. “Go frolic.”
Julien pulls back a little, pleasantly surprised by the sheer confidence of this boy.
“Are you saying you’re not enjoying my company?” he says. The edges are getting a little blurrier now, the influence of alcohol light but still very much there. He needs to be careful.
The man smiles a little, a surprisingly shrewd expression.
“I didn’t say that,” he says. He takes a sip of his champagne, holding Julien’s gaze over the rim of the glass, in a way that somehow does not match Julien’s first impression of him.
Intriguing.
“Then, perhaps you won’t mind if I hide here with you for a moment longer?” he says, shifting just a little closer, and the man turns to him fully.
“Perhaps not,” he says. “I think that maybe I actually am enjoying your company.”
Julien chuckles, with a smile.
“Please, be more ambiguous,” he says, tilting his head slightly, and the young man laughs. Actually laughs. It’s small and mostly a breath, but it’s genuine in a way that makes a strange flutter spread in Julien’s chest. He takes a deep breath, watches the way a stray tuft of dark hair falls over the young man’s forehead as he looks down at his glass. Julien wants to reach out and push it back. His fingers twitch at his side.
“I can be direct,” the man says. Then he looks up, a different look in his eyes that hits Julien like a physical push. “I am enjoying your company.”
The look isn’t inviting, per se. Not seductive, not teasing, there’s no innuendo or hidden meaning. It’s just… intense. It’s genuine. Refreshing, and deeply attractive in its sincerity.
Suddenly, Julien wants nothing more than to grab this man and lead him to the nearest available room, where he can lock the door and push him up against it, to show him just how fully they could both enjoy each other’s company tonight.
Julien leans back a little, as though to physically restrain himself.
“Who are you here with?” he says, taking a sip of champagne. It’s a bold question, wrapped in politeness, and the man seems to take it exactly for what it is.
“Am I here with anyone, you mean?” he says, taking a sip of his own, eyebrows slightly raised in a shrewd, slightly amused expression.
Oh dear, Julien may have not thought this through.
“That is highly presumptuous of you,” Julien drawls, without arguing, and the man breathes a laugh.
“Maybe you’re just not as smooth as you think you are,” he says, smiling. There’s something about his expression, gradually growing more confident in a way Julien can’t quite put his finger on. A little bit reckless, maybe. He likes reckless.
He should behave. But perhaps, he can be himself for just a little bit longer. Just for tonight, just until everything changes.
Julien takes a step closer, and the young man quickly eyes him up and down, but does not move. One arm is crossed over his chest, his right elbow resting against the wrist, as he holds his champagne flute aloft, elegantly, between slender, leather-gloved fingers.
Julien just holds his gaze for a moment, almost challenging him to look away. He does not. Instead, those stunning eyes stay locked on his, unwavering. It stirs a buzzing feeling in the tips of Julien’s fingers, in a way he suspects has little to nothing to do with the alcohol.
“Perhaps I am simply making conversation,” he says, his voice dropping slightly as he moves in closer. Not too close, not so close as to draw attention, here on the sidelines. Still at a borderline appropriate distance.
“Is this how you usually make conversation?” the young man asks, his voice lowering as well.
“Well, these are not usual circumstances, are they?”
“And what makes them unusual?”
Julien has to take a moment, stunned by how this boy seems so completely unflustered by him, despite clearly being fully aware of what Julien is doing. It’s refreshing. It’s fun, it’s appealing, this stranger is attractive, and Julien is frustrated and intrigued and a little drunk, and may be getting ahead of himself. But when those eyes hold his with something almost like a challenge, he can’t help it.
“I am not sure.” Julien unabashedly runs his gaze over the young man’s features, down to his mouth, to his throat, only partially exposed but so inviting. “But am I wrong to assume that you agree?”
Silence lingers, and Julien wonders if he has perhaps read all of this entirely wrong. Maybe he is more drunk than he thought, maybe he is simply so wrapped up in his own frustration and sense of being trapped, that he is imagining things.
“No,” the man says, his voice solid but oddly distracted, as his gaze drops to Julien’s mouth. “You’re not.”
Behave.
Julien leans in slightly, gives in to the impulse to push that tuft of hair back with his fingers―
The boy pulls back, very suddenly. His shoulders tighten, and he blinks, as though taken completely by surprise. Julien lowers his hand, utterly confused―he wasn’t imagining this, he knows that. There was clearly something happening, he really is not that drunk, and it was clearly a mutual feeling between himself and this beautiful stranger. And yet, he is being rejected.
“I’m, uh,” the young man says, looking around and putting his barely touched champagne flute down on the table. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” He looks back up at Julien, who must look just as stunned as he feels, unable to hide it. The man flashes an awkward, genuinely apologetic look. “I have to go.”
With that, he simply leaves, and Julien just blinks, frozen, before jolting back into action. He puts his glass down and follows, momentarily forgetting all about his future betrothed that he was here to meet, all the expectations of good behavior, instead single-mindedly focused on finding this new, shining, stunning person that was actually able to hold his undivided attention for more than just a moment. Just for tonight. Just for now. It’s all he needs.
But as he searches the crowd, this stunning person is nowhere to be found.
Julien doesn’t pursue further. Instead, he ends up just standing there, at the edge of the dancefloor, wondering what the hell just happened. This isn’t right. He was fine, just minutes ago. He is not the type to be left flustered, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, alone for the night, rejected and lost.
Perhaps it is for the best, he reminds himself. This is ridiculous. If the man hadn’t pulled away, who knows what could have happened.
Julien takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The champagne he drank far too fast is catching up with him, and he suddenly feels that he would rather be anywhere else, but here.
He tells himself that it would not have been worth risking the standard he has promised, over one night with a handsome stranger. No matter how magnetic he may have been.
Fuck this.
Julien cannot stay here another moment. He promptly makes his way out of the crowd, out of the ballroom, to immediately hail a carriage and go home. No detours, this time. No drinking, no brothels. He needs to behave.
Ever unlucky, it seems, he is spotted by his father as he goes. He grabs Julien’s upper arm in a firm grip, making him stop dead.
“Where are you off to?” Raimond says, making it clear in tone alone, that his assumptions about Julien’s reasons perfectly match up with what Julien would normally do. What he is determined to avoid, tonight.
“Home,” Julien says, wrenching his arm free from the grip. “My head hurts, and my suitor is not here anyway. There is no reason for me to stay.”
Raimond looks at him suspiciously, before nodding, seemingly choosing to momentarily believe his notorious reprobate of a son.
“Very well,” he says. “Sleep it off. We shall speak in the morning.”
Julien does not respond. Instead, he simply leaves, and does not stop to think until he reaches his darkened chambers at the Palazzo Davinos. Where he drinks, and paces, and eventually collapses into bed, green eyes haunting his thoughts until he finally drifts off to sleep.
It is another two days before Julien hears anything from House Halovar again; it seemed prudent to wait, rather than press, given the circumstances. The Lord Wicander’s illness has improved, the missive says, and Julien is urged to call on him at his earliest convenience.
They move fast, Julien will give them that. His father seems to see no issue in their apparent haste, and practically orders Julien to stop by that very same day. And who is Julien to argue? At this point, he has all but accepted that he is simply a pawn, from this moment on. One intended to serve his family, in apparently the only way he is good for, anymore.
The Halovar estate is large and ostentatious, white marble and details of light blue and gold. So tightly entwined with the Church, the symbols of which decorate the walls and pennants, and Julien feels strangely out of place as he enters the grounds. Once there, he is guided to a separate, smaller building, though still large by any standard―Wicander’s own abode, he guesses. The villa sports the same color scheme as the main estate, and once his intentions for the visit have been declared, Julien is guided into a splendid drawing room.
There, he finds the Lord Wicander. He is seated on an ornate couch, the décor of the room light and smooth, as is the way of the Halovar, but it somehow feels… oppressive. It’s not open and bright, like the Palazzo. Instead, it’s all heavy stone and marble, and any plants are stylized and curated to perfection. Nothing like the natural gardens that Julien is accustomed to. It toes the line just between tasteful and too much, between impressive and imposing.
“Sir Julien,” Wicander says, with a polite smile and a slightly hoarse voice. “Forgive me if I do not come to greet you properly, I’m still rather convalescent.”
It shows. Wicander is a handsome man, with a kind face, one currently plagued by dark circles under the eyes, and poorly disguised fatigue beneath the light blue tattoos of his faith. There is an elegant, patterned blanket draped over his lap, though he is impeccably dressed, the ceremonial staff Julien recognizes leaned against the armrest of the couch. Julien smiles.
“Not at all,” he says, with a small bow. “I am simply grateful that you have taken the time to see me, all the same.”
“I really am sorry about the ball,” Wicander says, and he clearly means it. “I kept feeling worse throughout the day, and by the evening, I could barely stand. I tried to hold out for as long as I could, but It did not seem right for that to be your first impression of me.”
“Of course,” Julien says. “Your health is far more important than appearances. How are you faring?”
Wicander lets out a tired, hesitant sound.
“Better, I suppose,” he says. “Though, with how bad it was, that’s not saying much. I still feel quite awful, if I’m being honest. But I’m being well taken care of.” Julien offers a sympathetic smile, just as Wicander turns to the door, at the sound of footsteps in the carpeted hallway outside. His expression relaxes into one of relief. ”Oh, thank the Light. Did you bring it?”
“I brought it.” A small chuckle, fond albeit a bit exasperated. “Here.”
A young man steps into the room, a cup in his hand, and as Wicander reaches for it, Julien trails his attention up along the newcomer’s arm and to his face. His eyes go wide, before he instantly schools his features, well-practiced in hiding surprise and shock. He keeps his composure, despite his reaction being mirrored in the boy as their eyes meet.
“I’m afraid I’m rather useless on my own,” Wicander says with a soft, somewhat self-deprecating laugh, turning back to Julien, whose eyes are still on the young man who just entered the room. The one from the ball. “I have perfectly capable staff, but it seems they can’t quite get my tincture right.”
The newcomer takes a moment, just staring at Julien, before remembering his manners.
“Occtis,” he says, holding out a leather-gloved hand, before adding almost as an afterthought, “Tachonis.”
He holds Julien’s gaze, and Julien swears he can feel the pushing tension between them, as he takes the offered hand in his own. A jolt of sensation, the physical touch he longed to make just the other night suddenly a jarring reality, despite the barrier of leather. The room seems to tilt slightly, before righting itself.
“Sir Julien Davinos,” he says, and the boy―Occtis―blinks.
“Right,” he says. “Of course. A pleasure.”
He’s still shaking Julien’s hand, and seems to catch himself, releasing his grip.
“Likewise.”
Tachonis. Julien doesn’t recognize him from anywhere outside of the ball, though he supposes that Occtis does have the family look about him. This must be the youngest, then. The pariah. The one that the great noble family prefers not to mention in any kind of decent company, and who might as well have been dead. From what Julien has heard, he has all but withdrawn from society.
Interesting.
“I’m so sorry to make you come here,” Wicander says, and Julien’s eyes go from Occtis to him, a little too slowly. “My parents― Well, they didn’t want to waste any time, so.”
He offers a genuinely apologetic, sincere smile, and Julien holds up a hand.
“It is no bother,” he says. “Rather, it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Wicander.”
“Oh, just Wicander, please. Or Wick.” He shrugs. “I’d prefer Wick, actually. Less formal, considering.”
He gestures a little awkwardly, before clearing his throat. Julien smiles politely. In another life, he may have enjoyed trying to seduce this sweet lord, but this is different. He needs to be respectful. Wants to be.
He risks a glance at Occtis, who seems to be struggling to look away, as well. His eyes dart off the moment Julien’s land on them, and Julien follows his example.
“Wick, then,” Julien says. “And I insist you call me simply Julien.”
Wick smiles.
“Wonderful.” He clears his throat a little, before sniffing the contents of the cup in his hands. Julien can smell the bitter, herbal nature of it, all the way from where he stands, and Wick makes a face, lowering the cup again. “Did you enjoy your time at the ball, at least?”
Julien keeps his eyes off of Occtis.
“I did not stay long,” he says. “But it was grand, the music was lovely, the gossip was rich. Not that I indulge in such things, myself.”
It’s not a lie―he has never been one for gossip, especially since he often finds his own name mixed into it―and Wick takes it as the soft jest that it is.
“You’re a better person than me,” Wick says with a laugh. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do enjoy hearing what goes on in society.”
Something forlorn seeps into his tone, and Julien absently wonders if he is lonely. He has never seen Wick at any ball or social function before, from what he can recall, and mingling isn’t exactly something that is usually encouraged by the Church, to begin with.
The fact that they want him to marry shows just how much they need the benefits of this union, Julien realizes.
“Oh, Occtis was there,” Wick says, looking up at his friend, who has settled into standing with his hands folded behind his back. “Did you enjoy it?”
Occtis keeps his eyes off of Julien.
“It was fine,” he says, a little awkwardly. “Not really my thing.”
Wick tugs fondly on the edge of his jacket―still black, with silver details now along with the purple, but not as formal as what he wore, the other night.
“I know,” Wick says. “I’m glad you came through for me, even though I couldn’t make it.”
Occtis puts a hand on Wick’s, pats it lightly, as though unpracticed.
“It’s alright,” he says. “I survived.”
Julien can’t put his finger on why, but he suddenly feels bad. Guilty? Surely, they should mention running into each other. They should. And yet, it feels… private. Something that should not be shared.
“I’ll be there next time,” Wick says with a genuine smile, releasing his loose grip and settling his hand back on his lap, where he goes back to cradling the steaming cup. “Promise.”
Occtis offers a small smile, and Julien shouldn’t be as softly stunned by it as he is, if just momentarily. He turns back to Wick. His de facto fiancé, who suddenly droops slightly where he sits.
“Are you alright?” Occtis puts a hand on his shoulder, and Wick takes a deep breath, exhales.
“I’m fine,” he says, exhausted. He makes a face. “Actually, I’m not sure. I think I need to lie down. I’m so sorry,” he adds, meeting Julien’s eye.
“You must stop apologizing,” Julien says, softening his tone. “Illness is what it is. I shall take my leave and let you rest, for now.”
Wick gives a tired, but grateful smile.
“Thank you,” he says. “I shall do my best to get better. Occtis.” He looks up at his friend. “Would you see him out, please?”
“Sure,” Occtis says, without hesitation. He points at the cup in Wick’s hand. “Drink all of it. I know it tastes awful, but it’s good for you.”
Wick makes a face, one similar to a petulant child.
“Can’t you make it at least a little sweeter?”
“No.”
Wick sighs, turns back to the cup, looking forlorn.
“Fine,” he says, taking a sip. His face scrunches up, just as Occtis turns to Julien and gestures at the door.
“Until next time, then,” Julien says, with a small bow, which Wick returns with a smile. “When you are recovered.”
He follows behind Occtis as they leave the drawing room―he does his best not to let his gaze drop down and follow the movements of his body from this new angle―entering the hallway outside. Once they have walked a few paces down it, Julien takes a quick look around them to ensure their privacy, before leaning in a little as they walk.
“So this is who you are?” he says, almost whispers, and Occtis pulls back with a softly outraged expression.
“Is that an accusation?” he replies, in the same low tone. “It’s not as if you mentioned who you were. More importantly, why you were at the ball.”
“It was not relevant, at the time,” Julien retorts.
“Exactly,” Occtis says. “I didn’t owe you anything, and I still don’t.”
“Perhaps,” Julien says. “But all the same.”
Occtis slows to a stop, takes another look around the empty hallway.
“We had a conversation,” he clarifies, facing Julien. “A very short one. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Really?” Julien says, and the question alone makes Occtis’s expression shift just a little. “Then why are you flustered?”
Occtis straightens.
“I am not flustered,” he says. Julien takes a step closer, but the young man doesn’t flinch.
“A shame,” he says, feeling bold, maybe even a little petty. “Because it left me flustered. Our very short conversation. If that is what you would like to call it.”
He emphasizes Occtis’s repeated words, and Occtis swallows. Oh, that is a nice reaction. For a moment, Julien forgets all about where they are and why he’s there, lets himself indulge in the hypothetical scenario of where this might have gone, if things were different. If Occtis hadn’t suddenly left, and vanished into the crowd, the other night. His imagination has been doing its work, in the back of his mind, and it seems to have left him rather thrown, upon seeing the object of those thoughts once again.
“That’s not―” Occtis says. Then he blinks, as though clearing his head. “Look, I know who you are. Well, now I do. And I know you don’t mean that. And I know that we shouldn’t be talking like this, especially not when you’re about to become engaged to my friend.”
“That has not been decided,” Julien says.
“It already has,” Occtis says. “You know that.”
Julien narrows his eyes, leans back a little.
“Perhaps you should not flirt with handsome strangers, then,” he says, without any actual accusation. But Occtis looks oddly surprised and embarrassed, before his expression shifts into something more sheepish.
“I wasn’t flirting,” he says, then glances around. “And I don’t usually do that. Talk like that. I don’t know why I did.”
“So you were flirting.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Julien hums.
“Is that so?” he asks. “Too much to drink, then?”
“I don’t really drink much,” Occtis says. “That glass was my first for the night.”
“Then, why?”
“I don’t know.” Occtis shrugs, a little awkwardly, as though being put on the spot. “Maybe there’s just… something about you?”
He says it with a breathy laugh, as though joking and trying the break the tension, but he seems to regret it immediately. Julien can see why; it’s clear that he just accidentally spilled something true.
Suddenly feeling dumb and reckless, just like the other night, Julien takes a step closer.
“You are quite memorable yourself, my Lord Tachonis,” he says in a low voice, and Occtis surprises him with a quiet scoff. Julien tilts his head slightly. “You don’t believe me?”
“Well, sure,” Occtis says, with a small smile. “But I’ve never been told that in a way that’s good. So it’s just… funny, I guess.”
“What’s funny?”
“That you think I’d believe it the way you mean it.”
There’s no self-deprecation, no self-pity. It’s simply a statement, one that settles the awkwardness in his expression into one of more steady confidence, as though coming back to his senses. An expression formed by experience, years of it, and a plain and simple resistance to Julien’s words. As though they simply cannot be anything but untrue.
Julien has never had a compliment so pragmatically rejected, before. It’s a strange feeling, and he can’t tell if it’s a good one, or not. This Occtis feels different from the one he met the other night, but in a sense of it being a different side of him, rather than a different person. As though he wasn’t pretending, but rather was just at ease.
“Is it so hard to believe?” Julien says.
“Like I said,” Occtis says evenly. “I know who you are.”
It’s strangely hurtful, more so than just wounded pride, but Julien does not let it show. Why should he care what this stranger thinks of him? He shouldn’t even be talking to him at all, let alone be having a conversation like this. He doesn’t even have alcohol to blame it on, this time.
What was he thinking?
“Very well,” Julien says, taking a step back again. “Perhaps it is for the best.”
It’s only when he says it out loud that he once again remembers where they are―in a hallway, outside the room where he was just introduced to his future fiancé for the first time. How could he forget? Just one glance at Occtis and his… everything, is seemingly enough to have left him completely off-balance, if just for a moment.
God, this boy is making him stupid. One conversation at one ball at one time, and he is already making him stupid. Perhaps it has simply been too long. Too long since Julien properly got all of the stress out of his system, in every necessary way. This is a passing fascination, nothing more. It has to be.
Occtis steadily holds his gaze.
“Perhaps it is,” Occtis says. He glances away, his face settling into something more tired and oddly focused. Then he looks back at Julien. “I assume you can find your way, from here?”
It’s a request, more than anything, and Julien does not immediately reply. It is for the best. He likely will not be seeing Occtis again, anyway.
Julien bows his head.
“I believe so,” he says. “Thank you for accompanying me, Lord Tachonis.”
He catches Occtis’s gaze again, which is suddenly completely unreadable.
“Thank you for your visit, Sir Julien,” he says.
The gaze lingers, far longer than is appropriate, and Julien has to take a deep, discreet breath to steady himself in place.
Occtis smells pleasant, he absently realizes. Warm and sharp, reminiscent of cardamom, as well as an undertone of something chemical in nature. It should perhaps be off-putting, but Julien unconsciously locks it away in his memory, all the same.
Without another word, Julien turns and leaves down the hallway, a light-headedness settling in and forcing him to focus far too much on how to just move the way he is supposed to. He does not look back, but he also does not hear Occtis’s steps recede in the other direction. Not until he reaches the end of the hallway, when he knows he is just out of Occtis’s sight.