DOWN BAD | JULIAN CASABLANCAS

XVIII.

           Amber wafted through Julian's bedroom as Stella slinked across the room. Paco Rabanne sequin sparkles glinted brightly in the light, brushing up against her thigh. His teeth bit into her neck from behind eliciting a squeal from the brunette, "Julian!" she'd scold. It was a hot June night in the city and celebration lingered in the air alongside weed. He had done it; The Strokes had released their very first full-length record and there would be a huge celebration at The Mercury Lounge. She was a space age vision of golden cascades coupled with long, dark hair waving down her back. In all his nonchalant beauty, Julian wore his usual stage uniform of half schoolboy half indie rocker. "You look like if Saturn were a person," he murmured into her ear already half drunk and squeezing her hip. "Then try to stay in my orbit." She chuckled softly.

      The hot June night wilted her hair almost immediately as they walked from the cover of darkness into the packed lounge. Congratulations were sprinkled everywhere as he made his way through the room, hand entwined with Stella who graciously greeted every passerby. She felt like the queen of the world on his arm. Or at least the queen of SoHo as she paraded and waved like a first lady at the inauguration. Fame had once been a plague, but here in the underbelly of the scene, it was a soft welcome filled with admiration. On his arm, Stella could escape the looming shadow that constantly hung above her. Ominously referencing the shotgun, the house, the illness, the sheer melancholy that weaved its way into every nook and cranny of her being.

     "This is Stella, Stella Cobain." The interviewer shifted his eyes from Julian to her, she sat in his shadow nearly hiding. "I'm well aware," he paused, "How has your...relationship, with Stella influenced the music?". Julian lingered on the question for a second as he traced the label on his beer. "Stella is my Confidant. I'd call her a muse but that's too cliché. She sits in on the sessions sometimes and she's the first to read my lyrics." Her eyes glimmered with adoration as he spoke, quietly playing with a flap on his jacket to keep her blushing face hidden. "Let's keep the focus on music," she murmured, "it's the only thing worth talking about." The interviews became endless. The album had practically become a success overnight with critics praising it endlessly and the reviews rolling in never had anything less than four stars. It was the high all of them had been chasing.

       And it was visible in that room. The energy ran wild like an untamed powerline, celebration filling every beer and cigarette. The band seemingly had this proud, almost smug attitude about them. Nikolai played pool with a certain sureness in his smirk. Fabrizio smiled deliriously as he posed for pictures between drinks and drunken monologues. Albert chain-smoked like there was no tomorrow and Nick joined him while Stella and Amanda danced to the record. Chloë had been present, laughing as she threw her arms over her best friend and squealed in ecstasy. Julian watched through lidded eyes, face warm as Stella tugged him onto the floor with her. He protested; she ignored him. Their usual agreement. Success radiated from the air vents in and filled that lounge. It seemed endless, eternal, and inevitable as if they knew they had been the saviors of rock all along.

      

       Mouths drunkenly entwined in a secluded corner full of smoke. Stella's rings caught in his hair as he stole all her breath. His hands tangled beneath the chainmail of her dress and his fingers splayed across the soft side of her breast. Both fought to conquer the other. The heightened sensuality of the moment drew moans from her mouth as he stirred her pride. She pulled back, staring at his reddened eyes - her hair undone, falling over her face in small strands. "I'm sorry," she admitted, "About the drink incident. It was childish." Silence filled the space between them except for Raphael's production from the overhead speaker. His face twitched in recognition with a soft delay, "Oh come on Stell. Don't ruin the moment." She grinned faintly as he kissed the corner of her lips and squeezed her, taking in the scent of her perfume with a soft nuzzle.

       Julian wasn't expecting to say it. It had been a while since he had thought about the drink incident. A while since he had pondered about the humiliation or the sheer anger he felt. How Stella at her core was truly entitled and sheltered and even a bit out of touch with reality. He had, however, thought about the way her warmth lingered in his bed long after she was gone for school. The way she left a toothbrush in his bathroom or balled up socks in his laundry basket. Her head on his hand over the mixing board during late night studio sessions like a kitten begging to be pet. The affection that stemmed whenever he saw her wearing his shirt to sleep. How her laugh resounded off his apartment walls and into phone receivers. Stella had been there for every step of the way. Why would that change now? Or ever?

     "Ilove you." The words molded into her neck like a tattoo she wanted to weareverywhere. Her lips tilted upwards as she kissed the space behind his ear,hands shaking in anticipation and love. She had comforted many men in her shorttime, none of them like Julian. They nudged noses softly and melted into a kissthat spoke for itself. A kiss that replayed sitting at the rocks in Dumbo andsmoking on the fire escape in Chelsea. Sunday mornings at the studio and sweetlyrics scribbled on excess paper. Stella felt whole the second he uttered thosewords, a large sigh escaping her lips. "I love you too," she murmured mindlesslybetween soft kisses. When all was said and all was done, they both knew where theybelonged. It was clear as day amidst the smokey room