what happened after the lucy and julien kiss after re:set new york ‼️‼️
re:set NEW YORK
the night had gone off without a hitch. they’d premiered something different tonight. a new song, therefore unseen and unknown by the audience, which was always an exciting surprise, watching everyone’s face light up and the subsequent screams that ring out at the idea of something unfamiliar being played just for them.
it makes you smile, laugh to yourself under the bass boosted sound of the guitar and drums, enough to make you feel almost stupid for grinning so much. especially when you watch her perform.
julien always played as if it was her last show, fingers and pick strumming unequivocally, as if to make up for the pure adrenaline or unhinged anxiety that you know coursed through her body everytime she was up there. and yet, she dominates on stage. it thrummed through her, enough so that just from watching, you could feel the same radiant energy pulsing through you as well.
it filled your heart with a kind of glee that you couldn’t explain.
altogether they screamed, they sang, they fucking thrived. even from your seat, right off of stage right, you could see every emotion that crossed her face. from 20$, to graceland too, to even salt in the wound, you could see the pure emotion that crossed julien’s face, and it fueled some part of you that wanted to run out there, gather her in your arms, and kiss her until the conflict eased in her brows.
and yet, you did the only thing you really could do, and watched. a silent surveyor in a part of her life that you felt she needed people most — the part you yearned to be apart of, but knew the carefully delicate balances that held her together weren’t meant to be tipped.
when lucy kissed her, it didn’t really surprise you, no. it also didn’t really piss you off either, miraculously for some, but you had always been nonchalant about things like this, especially when it came to the boys. especially when it came to her.
if it took fervent affection, especially with julien’s initial distaste and discomfort with it and with herself receiving it, to realize just how much she was fucking loved, who were you to reject that?
after shows were always chaos. stagehands and managers running back and forth as the crowd screamed until the last echoe of a cheer was nothing but a single piercing cry among the daunting silence.
“hey punk,” you hear her before you see her, and you roll your eyes as you feel a sweaty presence against your back from where you sat on a stray amp, not wanting to be in the way and also fighting the yearn to help as much as you could. you knew she was the exact same.
“jb,” you can’t help but grin, turning to look up at her from your seated position. looking up at julien certainly wasn’t something that happened often. “you were incredible tonight.”
she pants out a chuckle. “right? they always fuckin’ kill it. it’s like, impossible for them to play a bad show.” she’s out of breath still, her skin hot to the touch. you can tell she didn’t take the compliment personally, that she immediately directed it towards phoebe and lucy — who were doing just as fantastic, of course, but julien could never quite beat the self deprecating allegations even if she tried.
“i know. you’re killin’ it too,”you remind her, grabbing her by a belt loop and tugging her closer until she’s basically stepping into the speaker, arms raising as if to brace her fall. she’s such a fucking dork.
julien doesn’t grant you with a response, just gives you this smile that’s frustratingly sheepish for someone who just shredded her fucking strings out there, that you have no choice but to lean up and kiss that same smile lightly, before standing up to your full height. you weren’t tall, really, but somehow you still had the inches over her, enough to make you subconsciously satisfied when you got to see her from this perspective.
“i’m going back to the bus, yeah? i don’t wanna be in the way or—“, “you’re not gonna be in the way. is everything good?” it’s immediate to come out of julien’s mouth, and you can tell even under the hustle and bustle of everyone still running around and putting shit away, there’s a slight uptick in her voice that betrays whatever semblance of calm she must’ve mustered.
her big eyes flashed with something that made you reach out and tuck her sweaty hair behind her ears, and chuckle a little, “yes, jules. promise.” she doesn’t step away. and neither do you. both of your eyes remain on each other, as if challenging the latter to appear as surrender to this impromptu staring contest, and slowly you both start to crack into a smile.
“you’re ridiculous, you know that?” and you tip your head down to kiss the corner of her mouth instead. “like, actually so fuckin’ ridiculous.” you’re still giggling though, as you gather your things beside the amp and start trekking out of the venue, lest you turn around and catch those big brown eyes — you’d be stunted for sure.
the bus wasn’t anything exciting, mainly because everyone had gathered in there far before you did. hugs were shared, cigarettes were smoked, cackling, wheezing laughs were had — as it always was with phoebe and lucy around. you kept a stray hand on julien’s thigh, that she responded with a heavy lean against your side. she was still sweaty, and yet you leaned into it anyway.
getting to the hotel was only half the trouble — actually getting inside, was a seperate ordeal where you genuinely could only shut the fuck up and follow suit. there was a high laced tension they all had to entertain. the boys all stuck behind while all the regulars — basically just you, friends of the band and roadies — checked in first.
by the time she’d arrived up there, you’d already showered, changed, laid back against the crisp hotel pillows and looking suspiciously at the door as the hotel lock flipped, wondering if you’d just gotten broken in on until julien appeared.
she was wordless, exaggerating the way she dragged her feet, closing her eyes each step until she dropped onto the side of the bed. she was sorta hunched, her knees up and legs spread slightly to support her elbows as she unlaced her shoes first to kick them off. then, she was fiddling with her neck, and it didn’t take long before you breathed out an exasperated laugh, and sat up.
naturally, you crawled up behind her now, sitting up on your knees to throw yourself at her back. “you’re such a fuckin’ weirdo.” it’s a mutter, but she’s still laughing when says it, and it makes you roll your eyes. “says the one who can’t undo a tie that you’ve worn for the entire tour.” you murmured in her ear, using only the sense of touch to figure out the pull in the loop of the tie, somehow getting it loosened, and then pulling it off entirely.
then? well, you throw your arms over her shoulders, and practically bear hug her.
“you’re sweaty—” you complain softly. “you hugged me?” “— like you’re kinda fuckin’ gross,”, “you literally hugged me”, you grin, “…it’s kinda hot.” “okay, you’re the weird one now.”
you lean around her head, tilting yours sideways to try and land some semblance of a kiss on her lips, and it’s only then in the light that you notice the stain of lucy’s red lipstick there as well. it makes you snort in response, reaching around to trace your thumb there. “someone’s been busy.”
god, the way it makes her blush.
“i didn’t realize she was gonna do that.” julien’s murmurs, and her voice had gotten unforgivingly soft, and she offered you a smile that feels weaker than the rest. “is that, uh… why you went to the bus earlier?” she speaks as if she’s choosing her words carefully, like she doesn’t wanna say the wrong thing. she’s been like that as long as you’d known her, and you still rub your hand against her knee as if to remind her that she doesn’t have to.
“no? “ you’re reassuring, uncaring, but you both crash into sentences that bleed out the other.
you start, “it’s lucy, that’s just how she’s always been—“, julien defends “i think she just gets really into the moment, and like, i dunno, maybe it’s because—“, you squeeze her knee now, sensing how easily this could work her up again.
“maybe it’s because,” you pause as if to remind her that she doesn’t have to explain herself, “she just loves you julien. like i do, y’know? like phoebe does, like everyone in the whole world fucking should.” you add for a tinge of humor, but your words mean exactly what you say them to be.
“that’s, like…. incredibly unrealistic.” her voice had gone soft on you again, little and pitched a bit higher, and you press a kiss to her cheek, and her jaw and her neck and then stayed there for a second, nose pressed to the flushed surface of her skin that smelled of perspiration and leftover cologne.
“sometimes people show love in the only ways they know how.” you tell her softly, voice oddly reminiscent on… something you can’t place,
then, as if in response, julien tilts her head back and kisses you.
and it’s sweet. it’s slow and gentle and kind and everything julien had been to you for as long as you’d known her, even before things lead to another and you ended up together. ended up, in the same sense that you never chose to fell in love with her — it just came as natural as breathing.
“y’know what is realistic?” you ask once your lips finally part, and the breathing exchanged between are heavy and panted, “you taking a shower because you’re actually, like, sticky with sweat.” and that’s enough to make that cheesy grin return to her face, and she laughs so hard she leans back against your chest and your arms entwine around her. you squeeze her hard, bury your face in the strings of her hair that were still plastered to her forehead, and left peppered kisses there until she’s trying to escape.
“and yet, you stay with me. there’s definitely something intellectually wrong about that.” she murmurs, and now you have to laugh. “yeah, like the fact that you’re still completely dressed. c’mon, i’ll start a cigarette and you can go—“
immediately, she whipped her head around with a look similar to a pout. “now? we’re in a fuckin’ hotel room.”
“you’re dramatic. go shower.”
and she did. it was only a few moments until your lit your own cigarette, following her inside as you heard her hum the words to some song or tune yet to be written, the steam and spray of the shower covering it.
“in here?” you heard her ask over the water, and you couldn’t help but shrug with a smirk, stepping forward to hold it out to her beside the shower curtain that’s only half closed anyway.
“you’re insane.” but her dripping fingers reached out and took it regardless. the subsequent smoke blended with the water vapor from the steaming shower, and you couldn’t help but let out a satisfied sigh. “told you i know my shit, baby.”
you can only imagine she’s blushing, and after the cigarettes finished you go out to lay in the bed until she appears, hair wet and slicked away from her face, clad in a larger t-shirt and boxers.
“you’re so pretty.” you teased, though you meant every word, letting her crawl in beside you, and you take practically no time at all to bring her close again. you trace the same tattoos you’ve seen for almost a year now, and hum to yourself the same tune she sang in the shower.
“you heard me?” she asks, quiet and sated. she’s probably exhausted, you know how prone to falling asleep she is, and yet you always seem to start a conversation before bed. as if she doesn’t know just how much of a goddamn motormouth you can be.
“i always do.” your finger outlines each of the letters imprinted on her knuckles, and conceal a short smile, “is that okay?”
there’s no response at first, then she’s stirring slightly, huddling against you before stretching out as long as she can — as long as she could even manage at her height.
“mhm. i wanna…”—yawn —“…show it to you… tomorrow…” then, from her slumped position against your shoulder, she kisses the spot where your skin peeks out from your shirt, and mumbles something you can’t decipher, but you squeeze her hand anyway in response, lift her knuckles to your lips and kiss them too.
you could assume maybe she’s drowsily telling you goodnight, maybe even that she loves you — but you both have never been great at saying those three little words, and instead find ways to show each other instead.
it still flusters you to know she wants to show you the things she’s so passionate about, like music and her friends and her art. you hope she never loses that same lust for those things that kept her alive to get to this moment, you hope you’re there to see every minute of it.
when you think about the idea of people showing love in the only ways they know how to, you realize that somehow, you were always thinking of julien.
you go get a tattoo. julien is your tattoo artist. cute awkward flirting ensues.
it’s your first tattoo.
probably not smart considering the monstrosity of a design your friend had so willingly sketched out for you to try and scale it, nor was it intelligent considering your little to practically nonexistent pain tolerance.
and yet, here you were.
“k. inks.” which, funnily enough, wasn’t a racy pun, but a lazy excuse of a tattoo shop name in your opinion, especially in a place as rich in conservatism and modesty as this; ketchum, idaho — born and raised.
in all honesty, you didn’t even wanna go anymore. especially after seeing the absolute beast of a design you’d wanted (in theory) on your ribcage,, before you actually saw how it would look (in practice), you were sure that you were in wayyyy over your head. like, you had to be full of shit. but god, you were the only one in your friend group without any tats and if you could just bite the bullet this one time, then maybe you’d be able to start your sleeve if you liked it enough and it was a really cool design you’d thought of.
but man, you really just hoped you were gonna like it — and that whoever worked in this godforsaken tattoo shop that had taken almost way too long to find, was somewhat good at their job so you didn’t waste your entire savings.
it started with a semblance of normalcy. you sat in a plastic chair up front, surrounded by walls of designs that ranged from colored, intricately, shaded traditional tattoos, to even long and small angular, minimalist tattoos, all lines and curves with no definition. pretending you were just here for a consult rather than an appointment took away most of your anxiety, even when the moment your name was called, you could only offer a brief stint of labored breathing, before grabbing your shit and hauling ass down the makeshift hallway to where the receptionist — some guy who, in lieu of hair, had tattooed lizard scales instead — directed you inside.
it was empty at first, so you used what little bit of common sense you assumed you still had (for even continuing with the appointment) to plop down on the long, leaning seat, resembling somewhat of a doctor’s office.
during the maybe five minutes it took for the artist to appear, you were more than ready to pay the hefty cancellation fee if you managed to talk yourself out of it — that is, until the curtain swung back, and a flurry of brown hair and tattooed arms overtook your vision instead. she was moving so quickly, back facing you, voice quiet yet firm as she started moving here and there around her station putting things away and pulling things out, “oh man, i’m so sorry about the, uh, the wait. i’m just — all my shits disorganized, i apologize.”
“no, you’re totally good — honestly just,” you breathe out a chuckle, “trying to work up some nerve anyway.”
there’s a light laugh that comes in response, one you still can’t match to a face as she finished whatever task she’d dutifully started, before letting out a short exhale, and turning around finally. it was easier to see now that she was… different than she’d expected. her exterior seemed practically the complete opposite of the warm look on her face, the lilt and tone of her voice, almost timid in nature. with the juxtaposition of her nearly completely tattoo covered arms and hands, to the dark outfit she’d donned at a height that you somehow towered over — when even *you* were considered mostly average. it was pathetically enough to steal the little bit of breath you hadn’t hyperventilated out of your lungs yet.
“i can, uh, definitely promise you that shit isn’t like, transient. but, it does get easier, y’know? if you get too freaked out, we can take breaks, no worries.” then, “oh! by the way, i’m, uh, julien.” she sounded so nonchalant, as if she’d done this a million times before — which, duh, you could only hope that she has — but it’s enough to ease the thudding in your chest, which causes you to respond with a slow nod that soon quickens, as if trying to reaffirm your point. “yeah, yeah — that would honestly be dope.”
“dope?” it earns you another one of her laughs, bright and somewhat chill-inducing, and you try to hide the glint of embarrassment in your eyes, tinged only slightly with awe, before she commends, “that’s sick phrasing.”
“oh i know,” then, after a beat, “but sick?” you can’t help but mostly mock back to her, shaking your head to feign disapproval, though your lips are already pulling upwards into a smile that you can’t really hold back. “dope is way better..”
you can’t help but feel as lame as it sounded to debate over such a useless topic, and somehow she picks up on that feeling immediately once she dissolves into a cutting laughter that sneaks its way right back into your stomach, making your lips pull into an involuntary grin. it was criminally annoying how quickly your mood had flipped, and how it all came from her in the span of maybe five minutes.
she can only shake her head now, turning back to prepare her needles and inks, granting you only access to the back of her head that shakes slightly with each rejecting bob. “can’t believe people still say fuckin’ dope.” she murmured, setting them all down at the chair side table with a picky grin towards you.
“just gonna lean you back, alright?” the words are in the air at the same time you feel a warm hand press to your shoulder, then one on your arm, pulling you backwards until you’re flush against the seat. then, with a lone glance up at her, you took notice of the slight pink that dusted her cheeks, “well, guess you know the drill.” considering it was your first tattoo, you didn’t, but it was cute that she’d said it anyway. “would you… rather take your top off, or just hike it up?”
it comes to you in an instant. “off is fine.”
“then, uh, get naked.”
and perhaps if her voice wasn’t so sickeningly gentle, tinged with an air of cautious optimism and laughter that breathed right beneath it, you could fathom being flustered or taking it as anything other than what it was. but, in actuality, did you want it to be more? was it wrong to hope that it was?
you couldn’t tell.
while julien busied herself with doing whatever the fuck all those needles meant while pulling out the reference sketch to prepare it transfer onto you, the oversized tee you’d been wearing was now tugged off, rolled into a ball on your lap now, leaving you in your sports bra. you couldn’t help the way your arms crossed over your chest, swallowing harshly as she prepared the paper with a wet washcloth. “this is gonna be real cold, okay? tell me if it’s bad.” it’s only then that you can sense something southern within her accent, and it makes you smile wider than you even had before.
enough so, you barely feel the wet and somewhat dripping transfer sheet on your side — cold maybe, but shit, you felt on top of the moon.
“do you always get your customers shirt off so quickly?” you can’t help but go to ask, a small grin pulling at your lips as you watch julien, and she chews the inside of her cheek while she thinks and it’s so obvious it makes your heart thump inexplicably. is this… flirting?
“depends on the tattoo,” and, “ if i do, i’ve gotten pretty skilled at it,” and there’s still a chuckle teasing the edge of her words, the shy smile on her face remaining while she patted down the design, peeling off the sheet before she lets out a quiet hum of excitement. “oh fuck yeah. that looks badass.”
after holding out a mirror to you, it’s almost as if there’s a newfound excitement that blooms within you at the aspect of you actually liking it. and her thinking it looks good — or, rather badass.
there’s subtle banter back and forth in between, quiet retorts that make you both laugh, and sometimes blush, until you hear the familiar buzzing of the tattoo gun, a sound that seems almost too quiet compared to your laughter and jokes.
“so, think you can handle it?” then, julien’s standing before you, close enough you can see the green and gold flecks in her eyes, that you can identify the little tattoos on the side of her neck that you’d never noticed, or the dimples under her eyes that made your own lips curl upwards, then open to let out a breath of a sigh, before you threw your hands up as if in mock exasperation. “if i have to.”
“‘course you have to, you’re gonna look dope.”
it’s enough for you to realize she didn’t say it’s gonna look dope, and more so that you were going to. and that she’d even said dole in the first place.
for the most part, it’s bearable. you hiss and wince but stay as still as possible, and surprisingly — unfortunately — julien’s mostly quiet while she works, and you start to find yourself missing her voice, her stupid humor that you already became fond of in their short time. it was the only thing keeping your palms from sweating, your mouth from drying.
it’s only towards the end when she gets to a bad spot, her warm hand pressed against the side of your torso, thumb digging gently into the skin as if to try and soothe the stinging only a few inches away where her needles are digging microscopic little paper trails into your body. it feels like a hard pinch, by someone with like talons, or something and you let out something alike to a loud yelp, then an indignant huff. “fuck—“ and almost immediately, the needle is off your skin, replaced by the tissue julien frequently interchanged with to clean it up, eyes never leaving her work, bottom lip still squished between her teeth when she mumbles just beneath her breath, barely loud enough to be heard, “you’re good babe, just breathe.”
babe. babe. babe!
it’s enough to balm the pain that radiates up your ribcage, swallowing heavily as you could only respond with a nod, letting your eyelids squeeze shut until that poking and prodding trade of the needle over the spots she’d started at first finally ceased, and the light throbbing that remained became something a lot more bearable. how could it not be when julien’s last words played on a repeat in your mind?
“you did so well for me,” she encouraged softly, finally sparing you a glance where you hoped you didn’t look as fucking disgruntled for as you felt, “‘m real proud of you.” and though it sounded more teasing, the hand that rested on your side, patted the skin there gently before withdrawing.
it’s like a signal of sorts that you can’t help but follow, wincing only slightly as she holds up a mirror that you can only gawk at in amazement. it looks fucking incredible, and your mouth is working faster than your mind as you stumble over your praises, “holy shit, man, this looks — you did incredible, julien.” to which her face is now a pretty shade of pink as she bears a smile that splits her whole face, and she turns to bush herself as if she’s embarrassed to let it show, before she’s laughing, “that’s all… your ribcage and design, babe — i’m, uh, i’m just the middleman.”
there it is again. babe. maybe it wasn’t uncommon in situations like this, where there’s a service being exchanged and pain is usually at the forefront — hell, when you’d gotten each of your piercings, they’d all be done by friendly women who offered a honey or sweetheart in exchange for the probable pain they could be putting you through.
but babe? julien didn’t seem the type to honey anybody, and yet you can’t help the giddiness that rises within you at the prospect of being babe to her, even if just for the three hours you’d sat there.
“genuinely though,” and you’re already starting to pick up that compliments might not be her exact forte, “you did amazing. i wish there was a better way to tip you or something, like — fuck, i dunno. a hug?”
for some reason, that cracks julien up and she manages to squeeze in between her wheezing laughter, “that’s so cute, what? best fuckin’ client, man.” and before you know, she’s on your other side, mindfully away from your fresh tattoo, and you’re wrapping an arm around her as tight as possible. she’s so small, you’re fighting back a chuckle yourself in pure adoration, and yet it’s still over way too soon.
she prepares your ticket, and as you sit there, mulling over the smell of obvious cologne that she was wearing now pleasantly in your mind and the ghosting warmth of her hand on your side and her body inside your arm, you concoct a plan that’s equally as juvenile as it is hopefully endearing.
you pay, she smiles, you smile, she blushes, and then you go for it. naturally, you jump the gun. “well, if you get off soon, or you’re not busy, maybe i can see you again?” and your number is being scribbled on the paper before you can convince yourself not to, your nerves getting the better of you as you rush to say,. “and your tattoo shops says kinks. by the way.” you can’t help but grin as you’re stepping out of her little cubicle, wishing more than anything that you had more game or better flirting skills to leave her with, but it seems to be doing the trick.
because she’s laughing for a moment, but she’s got this look in her big brown eyes, lips shifting as she’s biting the inside of her cheek with a smile, before she lets out a chuckle. “that’d be dope.”
dope. it’s like a kiss goodbye with stupid phrases with too much meaning, that truly don’t mean anything at all.
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