Chapter 6: Eight months
The city had carved him into something sharper, something brighter. Eight months in the relentless heartbeat of the industry had sanded down his rough edges and replaced them with a gleaming, precise confidence. He’d arrived as an intern, trembling over a repaired lace bodice. He was leaving as the name on everyone’s lips.
Atelier Marceau had been a beautiful, brutal education. He’d fetched coffee that cost more than his weekly food budget, yes. He’d also repaired a beaded gown for a Best Actress nominee two hours before the Oscars red carpet, his hands steady while senior stylists panicked. He’d learned that "genius" was often just obsessive attention to detail, and he had that in spades. He’d taken critiques from legends without flinching, incorporating their vision until his own emerged, stronger and more distinct.
The industry knew his name now. Not just as a promising student, but as "the new face of fashion," according to a gushing profile in a major magazine. They loved his androgynous aesthetic, his delicate features framed by hair he now wore in a sleek, platinum knot at his nape. They loved the story: the wunderkind, the fierce blonde vision who could drape silk like a second skin and deconstruct tailoring with a rebellious glint in his eye.
The pinnacle had come last week. Over espresso in a sun-drenched studio, Elodie Marceau herself had offered him the impossible: a spot to showcase a full collection at the Lumina Festival, the most lucrative, eye-catching runway show of the season. It was a gamble for the house, promoting an unknown to that stage. It was a coronation for him.
“The sketches in four weeks,” Elodie had said, her voice smoky with decades of Gauloises and good taste. “We will make monsters of beauty, no?”
He’d agreed, his heart a hummingbird in his throat. He’d promised to send the concepts once his internship formally ended and he’d had a breath to think. But first, he had to go home.
He’d avoided it with a dedication that felt like self-preservation. Short visits were cancelled with fabricated deadlines. Holiday breaks were spent "networking." He spoke to Maeve weekly, her voice a warm, guilty anchor in his new, polished life. He’d asked after Liam only once, casually. “He’s fine,” Maeve had said, a pause hanging after the word. “Quiet. Busy with finals. You know him.” Finn did know him. Or he had.
The four-hour drive south loosened the knots the city had tied in his shoulders. The skyscrapers gave way to hills, the concrete gray to autumn gold. He rolled the windows down, letting the familiar, damp-earth scent of home flood the car. The weight of his portfolio case on the passenger seat—full of Marceau’s confidential fabrics and his own nascent sketches—was a tangible promise. He was returning different. Proved.
He turned onto his street, the asphalt cracked in the same places. His childhood home sat at the end, unchanged, a monument to a life that felt like someone else’s story. His hands tightened on the wheel.
Maeve was already on the porch, a silhouette against the warm light of the open front door. She was waving before he’d even killed the engine. The sight of her, of the simple, eager love in her posture, unraveled something tight in his chest. He was out of the car, the gravel crunching under his boots, and wrapped in her arms before he’d even fully registered moving. She smelled of lavender detergent and the same perfume she’d worn forever.
“Oh, my boy, my brilliant boy,” she murmured into his hair, squeezing him so hard he felt his ribs protest. He hugged her back just as fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder. For a second, he was just Finn again, not a rising star.
Then he looked over her shoulder.
Liam stood in the doorway, framed by the hall light. He hadn’t come out onto the porch. He was just… watching. Eight months had filled him out further, his shoulders broader beneath a simple black henley. His jaw was clenched, the muscle leaping. His short dark hair was slightly longer, messy as if he’d been running his hands through it. His warm brown eyes, fixed on Finn, were utterly unreadable. There was no smile, no nod of greeting. Just a quiet, intense absorption, taking in the sight of him—the tailored wool coat, the sharp cut of his trousers, the new sharpness in his face.
The silence between them stretched, a live wire thrumming over Maeve’s head. Finn felt his newfound confidence waver, old insecurities rushing back in the wake of that silent, heavy scrutiny.
Maeve pulled back, holding Finn at arm’s length, her eyes shining. “Let me look at you! You look so grown up. So sophisticated! City life agrees with you.” She finally glanced back at Liam, still statue-still in the doorway. “Liam, come say hello to your brother! Don’t just stand there gawping.”
Liam’s gaze finally broke from Finn’s. But it didn’t settle on Finn’s face. It slid past him, over his shoulder, towards the car. His expression shifted. The blank intensity dissolved into something else—confusion, then a slow, dawning comprehension that sharpened into something sharper, colder. His brows drew together.
Finn felt a warm presence step up just behind his right shoulder, a hand coming to rest gently, possessively, on the small of his back. He’d almost forgotten, in the tidal pull of homecoming.
He followed Liam’s gaze.
A man stood there, having gotten quietly out of the passenger side. He was tall, with an easy grace, dark curly hair pulled into a small, stylish bun at the back of his head. He wore thick-framed glasses and a smile that was both kind and quietly confident. He held a bottle of wine and a small bouquet in his hands.
Finn felt Maeve’s hands drop from his shoulders. He saw Liam’s face fully transform, the color leaching from his skin, his lips parting slightly. The air on the porch went very still.
Finn took a soft breath, the sound loud in the quiet. He leaned back, just a fraction, into the reassuring touch at his spine, and found his voice. It was calm, clear, meant to cut through the stunned silence.
“Mom, Liam,” he said, his green eyes meeting Liam’s shocked ones before turning to include his beaming, slightly confused mother. “I’d like everyone to meet my boyfriend, Julian.”
The silence on the porch was absolute, broken only by the distant bark of a dog. Maeve blinked, her smile stiffening for a fraction of a second before widening with forced, maternal effort. “Oh!” she exclaimed, the sound too bright. “Well! Hello, Julian! What a wonderful surprise.”
She moved past Finn, a woman on a mission to rectify the social stumble, and took the wine from Julian’s hands to pull him into a brief, cheek-pecks hug. “Any friend of Finn’s is so welcome here. Come in, come in, you must be exhausted from the drive.”
Julian’s smile was effortless, his hand finding Finn’s again, lacing their fingers together. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. O’Connell. Finn talks about you all the time.” His voice was smooth, cultured, a stark contrast to the ragged quiet.
Finn couldn’t look away from Liam. His stepbrother hadn’t moved from the doorway. He was a statue carved from shadow and tension, his eyes narrowed not on Julian’s face, but on their joined hands. The earlier shock had been burned away, replaced by a cold, assessing glare that Finn recognized. It was the same look Liam used to give opposing players on the field, right before a tackle.
“Liam,” Finn said, the name a challenge thrown into the stillness.
Liam’s gaze finally snapped up to meet his. A beat too long passed. “Julian,” he said, voicing the name like it was a foreign object in his mouth. He gave a single, sharp nod, nothing more. He didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t step aside to let them in.
“I told Finn these pop-in visits were breathtaking,” Julian said lightly, squeezing Finn’s hand. The pressure was solid, steadying. “Shall we move this fantastic reunion party to somewhere with central heating?”
That broke the spell. Liam finally stepped back, clearing the threshold with a stiff, robotic movement. Maeve herded them all inside, a flurry of chatter about the drive, the weather, the damn casserole in the oven.
The house felt smaller. It smelled the same—lemon polish and Maeve’s rosemary bread—but the walls seemed to press closer. Finn watched Liam’s retreating back as he stalked towards the kitchen. Every line of him screamed a silent, furious question.
Dinner was a masterpiece of politeness over fault lines. The casserole was eaten. The wine, a rich Burgundy Julian had brought, was poured. Maeve asked a hundred questions about the city, about Atelier Marceau, her pride palpable.
Finn answered, aware of Julian’s warm thigh pressed against his under the table, a point of contact that felt both like a lifeline and a provocation. He was hyper-aware of Liam diagonally across from him, methodically cutting his food into precise, too-small pieces, speaking only when directly addressed.
“So, Julian,” Maeve said, topping up his glass. “How did you two meet?”
“At a gallery opening,” Julian said, his thumb stroking the back of Finn’s hand where it rested on the tablecloth. “This vision walks in, wearing a piece I swear was spun from midnight and spiderwebs. I spilled my champagne trying to get to him to ask who the designer was.”
“He was the designer,” Finn finished, a small, private smile touching his lips. It was their story, polished from telling. It was true. It just excluded the terrified, lonely months preceding it, the ache of silence he’d been trying to drown out.
Liam’s knife screeched against his plate. He put it down with careful control. “What do you do, Julian?” he asked. His voice was low, flat.
“Art curation. Mostly contemporary, with a focus on textile and wearable art.” Julian turned his open, engaging attention to Liam. “I actually helped secure a small grant for Finn’s festival collection. The intersection of fabric and form he’s exploring is breathtaking.”
Another silence, deeper this time. Finn felt a flush creep up his neck. He hadn’t told anyone about the grant. It felt too much like bragging, or like admitting how deeply entangled his and Julian’s lives had become.
Liam leaned back in his chair, the legs creaking. His eyes, dark and unreadable, swept from Julian’s face to Finn’s. “Fast worker,” he said, the words devoid of inflection.
The comment hung in the air, ambiguous and poisonous. Was he talking about Julian’s career? Or something else?
“Liam,” Maeve chided, a warning note in her voice.
“It’s a fast industry,” Finn shot back, his own voice sharper than he intended. He felt Julian’s hand tense slightly. “Opportunities don’t wait. You learn to move quickly or get left behind.” He was no longer talking about grants. They both knew it.
Liam held his gaze for a long, charged moment. A flicker of something raw—pain, maybe, or rage—crossed his face before it was shuttered again. He gave that same, curt nod. “Apparently.”
He pushed his chair back, his meal only half-eaten. “I have an early lab tomorrow. Congratulations on the collection, Finn.” The words were correct, empty. He didn’t look at Julian. “Thanks for dinner, Mom.”
He took his plate to the sink and left the room. His footsteps on the stairs were heavy, final. A door closed upstairs with a soft, definitive click.
The air in the kitchen felt thin, exhausted. Maeve looked suddenly tired. “He’s… stressed with his senior thesis,” she offered weakly, a useless bandage over a wound everyone could see was gushing.
Later, in the familiar confines of his old bedroom—now with Julian’s leather duffle beside his own suitcase—Finn finally let his shoulders slump. He leaned against the closed door.
Julian was sitting on the edge of the neatly made bed, sliding his glasses off to clean them. “Well,” he said quietly. “That was… illuminating.”
“I’m sorry,” Finn breathed out, the word a sigh. “He’s just… he’s always been like that. Guarded.”
Julian put his glasses back on, his perceptive eyes softer now. “Finn. Look at me.” He waited until Finn met his gaze. “That man isn’t guarded. He’s devastated.”
The simple, stark assessment landed like a physical blow. Finn shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself. “No, he’s not. He’s judgmental. He thinks I’m… a problem he solved by ignoring.”
“He hasn’t solved a thing,” Julian said, standing and crossing the room. He took Finn’s face in his hands, his touch gentle. “He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost he’d been trying to forget. And he looked at me like I was the grave he’d buried it in.”
Finn wanted to argue, to deflect with a sassy retort. But the memory of Liam’s face, pale in the doorway, the sound of his knife on the plate, the hollow congratulation—it all coalesced into a truth he couldn’t deny. The silence, the distance, hadn’t been a solution. It had been a slow rot.
“I don’t know what to do,” Finn whispered, the confession leaving him defenseless.
“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Julian said, pulling him close. “Just breathe.”
Outside, the autumn wind picked up, rattling the windowpane. Finn listened to it, and to the heavy silence emanating from the room down the hall. He’d come home prove he was fine, that he’d moved on, that he was loved. He hadn’t anticipated that the proof would feel like a weapon, or that the person it would wound most deeply was the one he’d originally forged it for.
Downstairs, a faucet turned on and off. A floorboard creaked. Then, the faint, unmistakable sound of the back door opening and shutting.
Finn pulled away from Julian and went to the window. He peeled back the blind just enough to see the moonlit backyard.
Liam stood by the dark, closed pool house, a stark silhouette against the white siding. He wasn't moving. He was just standing there, head bowed, as if in prayer or surrender. He held something small and dark in one hand, turning it over and over under the cold light of the moon. From his vantage point, Finn couldn't make out what it was. He just watched the figure, still as a sentinel, guarding a empty room full of ghosts.
He watched until the cold from the windowpane seeped into his own bones. Liam never moved. Eventually, Finn let the blind fall back into place, a silent curtain closing on the scene. He turned to find Julian already undressed for bed, his expression unreadable in the low light.
“He’s still in love with you, you know,” Julian said, his voice a soft, clinical scrape in the dark.
Finn flinched. “Don’t.”
“It’s just an observation.” Julian slid under the duvet, patting the space beside him. “Come to bed. You need your rest.”
The next morning was a brittle performance of normalcy. Finn chose a high-necked knit sweater, the soft wool covering the faint, yellowing bruise just above his collarbone. It had been an accident, Julian’s hand slipping during a heated discussion about fabric suppliers. Just an accident.
Downstairs, Maeve was nursing a cup of coffee, her eyes rimmed with a tiredness that seemed deeper than sleep. She offered a weak smile as Finn entered. “Morning, sweetie. Sleep okay in your old bed?”
“Like a rock,” Finn lied, pouring his own coffee. The silence of the house felt watchful.
“Julian still sleeping?” she asked, her gaze drifting to the staircase, then back to Finn. It lingered on his sweater.
“He’s a night owl. City hours.” Finn leaned against the counter, trying to mirror a relaxation he didn’t feel. “It’s good to be home, Mom.”
“Is it?” The question was quiet, loaded. She set her mug down with a soft click. “You never mentioned him, Finn. In all our calls. You talked about work, the city, the rain. Never a Julian.”
He shrugged, a practiced, casual motion. “It was new. I didn’t want to jinx it.”
“Hmm.” Maeve’s eyes flickered toward the back window, toward the pool house, then back. They held a knowing gleam that made his stomach clench. “You know… after you left last fall, after that awful silent week you two had, I knew something had happened.”
Finn’s blood went cold. He said nothing.
“I didn’t ask,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “A mother knows when a room has held a scream, even if it’s long gone. I thought the distance… I hoped it would give you both space to work it out. Whatever it was.” She reached out, covering his hand with hers. Her skin was warm, papery. “You’re both my boys. You both deserve to be happy. Truly happy.”
The back door opened, cutting off any reply he could have formed. Liam walked in, bringing a gust of cool morning air and the scent of damp grass. He stopped short, taking in the intimate scene at the counter. His jaw tightened.
“Morning,” he grunted, heading straight for the coffee pot. He moved around Maeve and Finn as if they were furniture.
“Sleep well, Liam?” Maeve asked, her tone forcibly bright.
“Fine.” He didn’t turn around. The muscles in his back were visible through his thin t-shirt, coiled tight.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, light and deliberate. Julian entered, impeccably dressed in dark jeans and a cashmere blend sweater. “Good morning, everyone,” he said, his voice a warm melody. He went straight to Finn, kissing his temple. “Something smells amazing.”
“Just toast,” Maeve said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “I can make eggs.”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself on my account.” Julian slid onto a stool beside Finn, his knee pressing close. “I’m perfectly happy with coffee and the company.”
Liam turned, leaning against the counter with his mug. His eyes, flat and assessing, swept over Julian’s affectionate posture. “Big plans while you’re here, Julian?”
“Just supporting Finn, really,” Julian said, his arm sliding around Finn’s waist. The pressure was just shy of painful. “He’s under immense pressure with this collection. I’m here to make sure he eats, sleeps, doesn’t burn himself out.” He smiled, all perfect white teeth. “He tends to get… overwhelmed.”
Finn stared into his coffee cup. The implication—that he was fragile, needed management—hung in the air.
“He used to handle pressure just fine,” Liam said, his voice low. “On his own.”
The kitchen clock ticked. Julian’s smile didn’t falter, but his fingers dug imperceptibly into Finn’s side. “Well, we all need someone sometimes, don’t we?”
Liam’s gaze dropped to where Julian’s hand gripped Finn. His knuckles were white around his coffee mug. “Guess we do.” He pushed off the counter. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
He left through the back door again, letting it swing shut behind him with a soft thud. Maeve watched him go, a deep sigh escaping her. She began scrubbing an already-clean spot on the counter.
Later, Finn escaped to his room under the pretense of reviewing fabric swatches. He spread the luxurious samples from Marceau across his bed—silks, technical meshes, a feather-light leather. The touch of them usually centered him. Today, they just felt like props.
The door opened without a knock. Julian stepped in and closed it softly, locking it.
The pleasant mask was gone. His expression was cool, bored. “This is agonizing,” he stated, picking up a swatch of black lace between two fingers before letting it drop with disdain. “That troglodyte brother of yours glares at me like I’ve stolen his favorite hammer.”
“He’s just protective,” Finn murmured, focusing on a length of ivory silk.
“He’s in love with you.” Julian said it like he was noting a stain on the carpet. He came up behind Finn, his hands settling on Finn’s shoulders. They were heavy. “It’s pathetic. And inconvenient.”
His thumbs pressed down, finding the knots of tension, but the pressure quickly crossed from massage into something punitive. Finn stiffened.
“You’re hurting me.”
The hands stilled. Julian’s breath was warm against his ear. “Am I?” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “Or are you just overly sensitive? You know how you get when you’re stressed. You imagine things.”
He turned Finn around to face him. His eyes were like polished stone. “You love me, don’t you, Finn?”
The answer was required. It was part of the architecture of their life, a load-bearing wall. “Yes.”
“And you’re happy.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Julian’s hand came up to cradle Finn’s jaw, his grip firm, tilting his face up. “Then smile for me. The way you smile for them.”
Finn felt the phantom ache in his ribs from last week, a reminder of what happened when the architecture cracked. He pulled his lips into a curve.
“Better.” Julian kissed him, hard and possessive. When he pulled back, his expression was smooth and pleasant once more. “I’m going for a walk. Reassure your mother I’m not offended by the charmingly hostile welcome.”
He unlocked the door and left, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Finn stood there, his cheek burning. He slowly gathered the fabric swatches, his hands trembling. He folded the black lace last, the material he’d painstakingly rebuilt after Liam tore it. A hollow ache bloomed behind his sternum, vast and cold.
He needed air that didn’t smell like lavender polish and control. He slipped downstairs and out the front door, circling around toward the back yard, drawn to the one place he knew Liam would be.
The pool house door was ajar.
Finn stood at the threshold, the familiar scent of chlorine and mildew washing over him. Liam was inside, his back to the door. He was staring at the worn-out couch, its cracked leather holding the ghost of every secret they’d ever buried there.
He must have heard Finn’s breath catch, because he spoke without turning. “He’s wrong, you know.”
Finn didn’t move. “About what?”
“You never got overwhelmed.” Liam finally turned. His face was shadowed, but his eyes caught the light from the doorway. “You got fierce. You’d get quiet and your eyes would go sharp and you’d sew for sixteen hours straight. That’s not being overwhelmed. That’s being a goddamn force of nature.”
The words, so specific, so seen, unraveled something inside Finn. He looked away, his throat tight.
“Why him, Finn?” The question was raw, stripped of all pretense. “The polished, talking art catalog. What does he give you that’s worth… this?” Liam gestured vaguely, encompassing the strained silence, the distance, the sheer wrongness of Julian in this house.
Finn thought of the grant, the connections, the way Julian curated his life like one of his exhibitions. He thought of the locked bedroom door, the careful hiding of bruises, the voice that never rose in front of an audience. “Stability,” he whispered, the word tasting like ash. “Understanding.”
Liam took a step forward, then stopped himself, his fists clenching at his sides. A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Understanding? He looks at you like you’re a difficult exhibit he’s trying to mount. He talks about you like you’re a client.”
“You don’t know him,” Finn shot back, a weak defense.
“I know he makes you fold in on yourself.” Liam’s voice dropped, urgent, pained. “I watched you at breakfast. You were wearing a turtleneck in a sixty-five degree house. You flinch when he touches you in front of people, like you’re waiting for a command. That’s not happiness, Finn. That’s fucking captivity.”
“Stop it.” Finn’s heart was hammering, a trapped bird against his ribs. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to ignore me for a year and then suddenly be an expert on my life. You gave up any right to have an opinion when you chose silence.”
The truth of it hung between them, brutal and final. Liam looked as if he’d been physically struck. He nodded, a slow, defeated motion. “You’re right. I did.” He ran a hand over his face. “I’m not… I’m not trying to start a fight. I just need you to be okay.”
“I am okay,” Finn insisted, the lie automatic now, a shield.
From around the side of the main house, Julian’s smooth voice cut through the tense air. “Finn? Darling, are you out here?”
They both froze. Liam’s eyes locked onto Finn’s, and in them, Finn saw a reflection of his own trapped panic. Julian’s footsteps crunched on the gravel path, approaching the pool house.
In a swift, silent movement, Liam reached out. His hand, calloused and warm, closed around Finn’s wrist. His touch was nothing like Julian’s. It was an anchor, a question, a confession all at once. The shock of it, the first real contact in over a year, shot through Finn like a current.
He didn’t pull away.
Julian rounded the corner and stopped. He took in the scene: Finn and Liam standing close in the dim pool house doorway, Liam’s hand encircling Finn’s wrist. His pleasant smile remained, but his eyes turned cold and calculating, missing nothing.
“There you are,” he said, his voice still a melodic hum. His gaze fixed on their connected hands. “Am I interrupting a… family moment?”