"Between friends, unspoken feelings can feel like a fragile thread pulled taut; one denies its existence while the other hides behind its delicate weave, both yearning for the courage to unravel what lies beneath."
Ian and Julian, long-time best fri...
Now Would Be A Good Time To Be Anyone But Me -Ian Mitchell. ★
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Consciousness bloomed inside me like a sunrise painted in sherbet colors, peach, gold, and the softest blush pink spilling warmth across the corners of my mind. The air was something out of a storybook, thick and velvety and absolutely intoxicating, wrapped in the deep, honeyed perfume of old oak barrels and a thousand slumbering wines. It hugged you, like your favorite oversized sweater on a lazy Sunday, whispering tales of patience and buried treasure.
But threaded through that sweet, earthy lullaby was a little note, the crisp sting of rubbing alcohol like a glittery alarm clock tapping me cheerfully back to the land of the living. My eyelids, heavy as river pebbles, finally fluttered open to a soft reddish-golden light pressing through them, warm, honeyed, and absolutely gorgeous, like sunlight filtered through amber glass. My mind snapped to attention with a little electric pop, adrenaline fizzing through my veins like champagne bubbles. My body, however, remained stubbornly, delightfully anchored to the floor, cool stone humming softly beneath me.
I was floating in a sea of comfortable numbness, a dreamy, distant ache pulsing through my right arm like a lullaby drum. The air held traces of the night before, faint, sparkling remnants of laughter and music woven sweetly into the atmosphere. My eyes found their focus on the sunbeams, those cheeky golden fingers that had sneaked through the tiny high window casting a luminous, fairy-light glow across the concrete floor like a little private spotlight just for me.
The Allens' wine cellar. Of course. A magnificent kingdom of vintage treasures, archways of bottles standing tall like glittering sentinels in a palace. A familiar little flutter danced in my stomach, this was Julian's world, his beloved sanctuary of corked walls and dusty labels. And here I was, sprawled across the cool stone like a dropped ragdoll, bathed in flickering light. Even before my eyes fully adjusted, a soft and certain knowing settled over me, sweet as caramel: I was not alone.
My head throbbed, a spectacular, confetti-cannons-gone-sideways kind of throbbing, dazzling in its intensity.
But my location? Never a mystery. That knowledge was painted right into my bones in bright, cheerful colors. Slowly, like sugar dissolving into warm tea, the hazy, sparkling memories of last night began to coalesce, each one tumbling into place like a glittery snow globe settling after a shake.
I turned my head, slow and dreamy, like moving through warm honey. My gaze landed on my right hand, lying there looking wonderfully useless. And then my vision drifted just beyond it.
Oh.
My breath did a little vanishing act.
A rush of pure, ice-cold electricity shot through me, fizzy and sharp all at once and my heart went absolutely wild, hammering against my ribs like an enthusiastic little bird auditioning for a percussion solo. There, just inches from me, was Julian.
