Work Text:
playlist: [ willem & jude ]
Jude moved around the kitchen of their Lispenard Street apartment with practiced ease, his hands deftly chopping vegetables and seasoning the chicken, his mind drifting between thoughts of his friends. Cooking had always been his way of caring for them, a way to show love without having to speak it aloud. Tonight was especially important—it was their last night together before JB’s big exhibit, a night that felt like a turning point for all of them. He wanted it to be perfect, a meal that would bring them together
Jude thought of JB, his mind buzzing with excitement and nerves over the exhibit. He could almost see JB now, pacing his studio, his hands stained with paint, that wild, untamed energy radiating off him in waves. JB had always been a force of nature, driven by an insatiable hunger to make his mark, to be seen, to be adored. Jude couldn’t help but smile, imagining JB’s face lighting up when the first review came in. They had all believed in him from the start, had always known he was destined for something bigger, something that would take him far beyond the world they shared.
Then there was Malcolm, the quiet force among them, whose kindness ran deep, like the foundations of the buildings he designed. As an architect, Malcolm's precision and care extended beyond his work; it touched every part of his life, especially his friendships. He was the one who noticed the small things, who offered help without making a show of it, who quietly ensured that everyone felt seen and valued. Jude often thought of Malcolm as the bedrock of their group—steady, dependable, but never seeking the spotlight.
And then there was Willem.
Jude’s thoughts lingered on him the longest, as they often did. Willem, with his quiet strength, his unwavering kindness, his ability to make Jude feel safe in a way that no one else could. Jude admired everything about him—the way he moved through the world with such grace, the way he seemed to understand Jude without needing words, the way his presence alone could calm the storms that raged inside him.
There was a closeness between them that Jude couldn’t quite define, a bond that felt different from his friendships with JB and Malcolm. It wasn’t something he could easily put into words, but he felt it deeply, in the way his heart settled when Willem was near, in the warmth that spread through him when Willem smiled in his direction. It was a kind of intimacy that Jude didn’t fully understand, but he cherished it all the same. He wanted to be near Willem, to spend time with him, to keep that connection alive, even if he couldn’t name what it was.
Jude found himself thinking of Willem often, replaying moments they had shared—late-night conversations, quiet walks through the city, the way Willem would look at him with such care, as if he was someone worth protecting. Jude couldn’t imagine his life without Willem in it. There was a deep sense of comfort in knowing that Willem was always there, that he could rely on him no matter what. And though Jude didn’t grasp the full extent of his feelings, there was a part of him that felt an unspoken connection, a tie that bound them together in a way that was unlike anything else in his life.
He was lost in the rhythm of the preparation, the soothing repetition of cooking, when he first felt it—a tingling in his feet, faint at first, almost pleasant. He adjusted the apron around his waist, the one Willem had given him, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks as he thought of how domestic he must look, how he loved seeing the quiet contentment in Willem’s eyes whenever he wore it. The fabric was soft, familiar, and in a strange way, it made him feel beautiful, made him feel like he was part of something shared, something safe.
But as he stirred the pot, the tingling began to intensify, the warmth spreading up his legs, shifting from a faint buzz to something sharper, more insistent. The apron, once a source of comfort, felt heavier now, as if it were binding him to the ground, pulling him down as the pain started to creep up his spine. Jude paused, his hand gripping the counter as he tried to push the sensation away, tried to focus on the meal he was preparing for his friends, for Willem. But the sharpness in his legs was becoming impossible to ignore, slicing through the warmth like a blade, each step sending a jolt up his body. The apron’s strings seemed to tighten around him, a reminder of the life he wanted to share with Willem, the life he feared he could never fully give.
The tingling had transformed into a burning sensation, an electric pain that shot through his nerves, making his movements slower, more labored. He tried to keep going, to finish what he had started, but the pain was too much. The warmth that had once made him feel beautiful was now overshadowed by the creeping dread of what was coming. Jude swallowed hard, blinking back tears as he turned off the stove, the scent of the unfinished dinner lingering in the air. He wanted so badly to be strong, to brush off the pain and continue on, to welcome his friends with a smile and act like everything was fine. But he could feel his body betraying him, his legs trembling, his back aching as if it were about to snap. The apron felt like a cruel joke now, a symbol of everything he wanted to be for Willem but couldn’t. He reached up to untie it, but his hands were shaking too much, the pain in his legs making it difficult to stay upright. So instead, he clutched the counter for support, his breaths coming out in harsh, uneven gasps.
He knew he should call Willem, should ask for help before it got any worse. But the thought of letting Willem see him like this, so weak, so broken, was unbearable. The tingling had turned into full-fledged pain, shooting up his spine and into his lower back, making him grit his teeth as he forced himself to take one last look at the kitchen. The pots and pans were still on the stove, the vegetables half-chopped, the table only half-set. It was a mess, a disaster, just like him.
Not now, he thought. Not tonight.
He could feel his legs starting to give out, and he knew he didn’t have much time. The distance from the kitchen to his bed seemed insurmountable now, but he forced himself to walk, each step a battle against the electric fire that pulsed through him. By the time he reached the living room, his steps had turned to shuffles, and then, finally, to a crawl. He dragged himself the last few feet, his body heavy with pain and exhaustion, until he reached his bed and crawled onto it, the cold sheets against his burning skin a brief relief.
As Jude lay there, every nerve in his body aflame, he thought of Willem. The thought cut through the haze of pain, sharp and clear, slicing through the fog that had settled in his mind. How he wished he could call out to him, how desperately he wanted Willem to walk through the door and find him like this, to take one look at him and know what he needed without Jude having to say a word. He wanted that so badly it ached almost as much as the pain itself. But he didn’t call. He never did.
What was the point? Jude thought bitterly. What was the point of asking for help when he knew deep down he didn’t deserve it? He had always been a burden, a weight on the shoulders of those who cared about him, dragging them down with his endless needs, his relentless pain. He hated himself for even wanting Willem to come to his aid, hated how weak and pathetic it made him feel. He was supposed to be stronger than this, supposed to handle his pain on his own. But here he was again, helpless and desperate, craving the comfort he knew he had no right to ask for.
And what if Willem did come? What would he see? Just the same broken, fragile thing Jude had always been, someone who could never truly be whole, no matter how much Willem might try to help. Jude couldn’t bear the thought of Willem’s pity, of that look in his eyes that said he was trying to understand something he never could. He didn’t want to be seen like this—vulnerable, exposed, a mess of nerves and pain that never seemed to end. No, it was better to stay silent, to let the storm rage within him without dragging Willem into it. Better to suffer alone.
There had been so many times before—times when he should have reached out, when the pain had twisted him so tightly he thought he might break, when the darkness had threatened to swallow him whole. He remembered that night in college, when he had collapsed in the bathroom, the water scalding his skin. Willem had found him then, had dragged him back to their dorm room and sat with him through the night. Jude should have called for him, but he hadn’t. Just like he hadn’t called Andy last month, when his back had seized up so violently he couldn’t even move to get his aspirin from the nightstand. He had lain there for hours, waiting for it to ease, praying it would stop. But he hadn’t called. He couldn’t. He refused to let anyone see him like that—so broken, so weak.
And now, as the pain tore through him, Jude could feel that same stubbornness rise up inside him, mingling with the fear and the exhaustion. He clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white, gripped the mattress as if it could anchor him to something solid, something real, and waited for the storm to pass. He wouldn’t call Willem. He couldn’t let him see this, see him like this, reduced to nothing by the pain that raged inside him. He wouldn’t burden him with it. He couldn’t stand the thought of Willem looking at him with pity, of him seeing the cracks Jude worked so hard to keep hidden. So he lay there, his body a battlefield, his mind a prison, and he waited, alone, as he always did
Willem noticed Jude’s absence in the kitchen the moment he walked through the door, tired from a long shift at Ortolan and the two-mile walk home through the city. He had expected to see Jude there, moving with quiet purpose as he put the final touches on dinner, a meal meant to bring them all together one last time before JB’s art exhibit, “The Boys,” opened tomorrow. It was supposed to be a special night—Malcolm’s idea, of course, his insistence that they gather for what he had called a final supper. The four of them needed to be together, he had said, in that almost sacred, ritualistic way they had developed over the years. Because after tomorrow, everything would change. JB’s career would launch with the kind of force that left everything behind it in pieces. Malcolm knew this. Knew that the simple life they had all known—of JB collecting scraps of dirty hair for his projects, of losing him at parties only to find him transformed into a walking, invisible camera, of those endless nights spent at the magazine company trying to carve out a name for himself—those days were over. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of something new, something that would take JB away from them, make him unreachable, a name known by many but known truly by none. So Malcolm had insisted on this supper, in case it was the last time they could all be together as they were, before fame and the world’s demands swept JB away from them for good.
The kitchen, when Willem entered, was like a scene frozen in time—almost eerily so. A pan of chicken sat askew on the stove, as if placed there in haste and then forgotten. Vegetables, half-cut, lay in a bowl with the knife beside them, still and sharp. Plates, bowls, utensils were scattered across the folding table they always used, abandoned mid-motion, as if Jude had suddenly been called away, or as if something had interrupted him so profoundly that he had simply… stopped.
So Willem had wandered back, past the living room and the bathroom, until he reached their shared bedroom. There, he found Jude lying in bed, clearly in the throes of an episode. Jude lay on his bed, his left fist clenched tight, his right hand gripping the mattress with a desperate rhythm, squeezing, releasing, squeezing again. His knuckles had taken on a sickly, sallow hue, the skin stretched taut over bone, over tendons pulled like wires, over and over, the repetition an attempt at anchoring himself to something, anything.
The apron Willem had bought him the year before still hung from his neck. “Judy, you need this to keep the food from splattering on your nice shirts,” Willem had said when he gave it to him, though he hadn’t mentioned how beautiful Jude looked in it, how the entire atmosphere of the kitchen shifted, softened, transformed when Jude wore it. It was as if the act of tying that apron behind his back turned Jude into something more—something sacred. Sometimes, when Willem walked through the door after a long day and saw Jude standing there, his face brightening as he looked up, that familiar warmth in his eyes, the apron cinched gently at his waist, it stole Willem’s breath. Jude was already the most beautiful person he had ever seen, but in those moments, with that apron on, he was something else entirely. It was as if Willem was coming home to his beloved, his heart catching in his chest, the ordinary world outside fading as he stepped into the life they had made together.
"Jude," Willem whispered into the stillness of the room. It wasn’t a question, not a plea or a request. It was a statement, a quiet acknowledgment that he was home, that he was here, and that Jude wasn’t alone anymore. This wasn’t their first time going through this; living together meant they had weathered these storms often enough. Willem knew better than to ask if Jude needed anything, if he should call Andy, if more drastic measures were necessary. He knew that any attempt to help could only deepen Jude’s pain. All he wanted was for Jude to know he wasn’t alone.
He watched as Jude’s fingers clenched and released the mattress, pain written across his face, his muscles stiff, jaw tight, every part of him a silent scream. Willem could hear Jude’s breath, steady but ragged, could see the tension in the way his eyes were shut so tightly. It tore at him, being here and feeling so utterly helpless. There had to be something he could do. He was tired of being the coward, tired of standing on the sidelines, feeling lost and worthless as his best friend drifted into those dark places. Normally, Willem would step back, leave Jude to return when he was ready, but he remembered that one night in college—when he had found Jude in the showers and dragged him back to their dorm, had held his hand through the night, keeping a vigil beside him. It had seemed to help, hadn’t it?
As he watched Jude’s face for another minute, Willem made up his mind. He wouldn’t be a coward anymore.
He started slow, kneeling beside Jude’s bed and whispering softly, "Jude, I’m here. It’s Willem. I’m here, and you’re not alone." He wasn’t sure what he was doing, wasn’t sure what to say. He just let his heart guide him, and his words followed. "Jude, can you hear me? I’m here, and I’m going to help you." He pushed past the fear, the anxiety gnawing at his stomach. "Jude, I’m going to hold your hand now, is that alright? If it is, open your hand and turn your palm up so I can hold it." His voice was gentle, hopeful. He prayed that Jude could hear him, that he would allow him to help. Willem braced himself for disappointment as Jude’s hand continued its relentless clench and release. Seconds passed, and just as hope began to fade, he saw it—Jude’s hand slowly releasing its grip on the mattress. Instead of clenching again, the tension eased, and his hand trembled as it turned over, palm up, vulnerable.
Willem exhaled a shaky breath, shifting from his crouch to a seated position. Slowly, gently, with all the care in the world, he intertwined his fingers with Jude’s. The angle was awkward, his wrist bent unnaturally, but it was perfect. It was a step forward, the first time he had asked to help and was allowed to.
They sat there together, Willem on the floor between their two beds, and Jude, trapped in his body, lay on his bed. Time passed, measured only by the rhythm of their breaths, the soft hum of their quiet inhalations and exhalations filling the room. Willem used his free hand to text JB and Malcolm, letting them know dinner was delayed, maybe even canceled. He’d keep them posted, once Jude emerged from this bout of sickness.
As Willem held tight, feeling the tension ebb and flow through Jude’s grip, he watched the light outside slowly fade, dusk settling around them. He found himself counting each of Jude’s breaths, silently marking them in his mind. One, two, three, and on he went, four hundred fifty-five, four hundred fifty-six, until he reached a thousand. Then he started over, having lost count when his gaze flickered to Jude’s face, where the tension had deepened between his brows, a vein in his neck pulsing before retreating into that all-too-familiar silence—a silent scream instead of a pained expression.
Willem began counting out loud this time, his voice as quiet as a breath of wind through a barely open window. He counted higher and higher, his words soft and measured, and as he did, he noticed something: Jude was softening. The higher the count, the more relaxed Jude seemed to become. Was it helping? Willem wondered, his heart fluttering with the possibility. Was this his doing? But then he shook the thought away. He wasn’t naive enough to think he could truly make a difference in Jude’s suffering.
“Jude,” Willem whispered as he felt the grip of Jude’s hand begin to loosen. He watched as Jude’s head nestled deeper into the pillow, saw his limbs start to twitch, subtle movements that signaled his slow return to himself, to Willem, to life. It was like witnessing a miracle, this gradual ascent from the darkness, as Jude made the long journey back from the depths. It was as if he were emerging from a distant, shadowed land, each inch forward a testament to his will, his resilience.
Willem didn’t move, even though every instinct urged him to. He wanted so badly to reach out with his other hand, to caress Jude’s face, to run his thumb along those high cheekbones, wiping away the invisible tears he knew Jude had shed in silence. He wanted to thread his fingers through Jude’s soft brown hair, to massage the back of his head as consciousness slowly returned. More than anything, he wanted to lean in close, to press their faces together, cheek to cheek, and let his warm breath infuse life back into Jude. To watch the color bloom again in Jude’s cheeks, to count the few freckles scattered along his cheekbones. He wanted to tell Jude that it was over, that he was okay now, that they—both of them, not just Jude, but Willem too—had survived another episode.
Willem stayed there, suspended in the quiet aftermath, his heart beating steadily in time with Jude’s breaths. The room, once thick with the weight of Jude’s pain, now felt lighter, as if the very air had been cleared by his return. Willem could see the faint rise and fall of Jude’s chest, the subtle movements that spoke of a man reclaiming his body, piece by piece. It was a process both delicate and profound, a reminder of the thin line Jude walked between presence and absence, and how easily he could be lost to the darkness. But not tonight. Tonight, he had found his way back, and Willem was here to witness it, to be his anchor.
He wanted to say something, to break the silence that had settled between them, but the words felt unnecessary, inadequate. What could he say that wouldn’t sound hollow, that wouldn’t diminish the gravity of what they had just endured? So instead, Willem shifted slightly, his fingers still intertwined with Jude’s, and simply watched him. He studied the soft lines of Jude’s face, the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he began to drift into a more natural sleep. Willem felt an overwhelming tenderness wash over him, a quiet, fierce love that made his chest ache. In that moment, it was enough just to be here, to hold Jude’s hand, to know that they had faced the storm together and come out on the other side. He didn’t need to say anything. His presence was enough, his silent promise that he would always be there, whenever Jude needed him.
Willem couldn’t take his eyes off Jude as he slowly began to wake. Even in the dim light of the room, Jude’s beauty was undeniable, almost ethereal. The soft curve of his lips, the delicate sweep of his lashes, the way his hair fell in gentle waves across his forehead—it all seemed to belong to another world, a place untouched by the pain and turmoil that so often seized him. As Jude’s eyes fluttered open, Willem could see the deep brown of his irises, a color that seemed to hold every emotion he’d ever felt, every secret he’d ever kept. Jude turned his head slightly on the pillow, his gaze locking onto Willem’s, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
Jude’s voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything he’d been through. “Willem,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You stayed with me… again.”
“Of course I did,” Willem replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m always going to stay with you, Jude. You know that.”
Jude’s smile faltered, and he looked away, his expression clouded with something darker, something heavier. “I hate that you have to,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “I hate that I need you like this. That I can’t—” He broke off, shaking his head slightly, as if trying to rid himself of the thoughts that plagued him. “I hate that I’m so… weak.”
“You’re not weak,” Willem said, squeezing Jude’s hand gently. “You’re strong, Jude. Stronger than you know. What you go through… it would break most people. But you’re still here. You’re still fighting.”
Willem leaned in closer, his eyes searching Jude’s face, trying to convey everything he felt, everything he wanted Jude to understand. “You don’t have to do it on your own. That’s the point. You have me. You’ll always have me. And that doesn’t make you weak, Jude. It just makes you human.”
Jude’s eyes filled with tears, and he turned his face into the pillow, trying to hide the emotion that was threatening to overwhelm him. Willem reached out with his free hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from Jude’s forehead. He leaned in even closer, their faces just inches apart. “You’re the strongest person I know,” he whispered, his breath warm against Jude’s skin. “And I’ll keep reminding you of that as many times as it takes. Because I love you, Jude. I love you just as you are.”
Jude closed his eyes, letting Willem’s words wash over him, his breath hitching slightly as he fought back the tears. “Thank you,” he managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for… everything.”
Willem didn’t respond with words. Instead, he pressed his forehead gently against Jude’s, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breath. They stayed like that for a long time, the world outside slipping away as they held onto each other, finding solace in the simple act of being together.
Inside Jude’s mind, the episode had felt like a storm that refused to break. The pain in his back and legs was a constant, gnawing agony, like a thousand needles pressing into his skin, radiating from his spine and coursing through his limbs. It was relentless, the way it seized him, wrapping around his bones and muscles, making it impossible to move, to think, to breathe. He had been drowning in it, the physical torment amplifying the mental anguish until there was nothing left but suffering. The edges of reality had blurred, and all that remained was the crushing weight of it, pressing down on him until he didn’t think he could take another breath.
The pain was worse this time—deeper, more consuming. It had spread through his body like wildfire, turning every muscle into a battleground. He hadn’t thought he’d make it out. He hadn’t wanted to. The storm was too powerful, too overwhelming, and he felt himself sinking into it, letting it pull him under.
But then, through the fog of pain and despair, he’d heard it—Willem’s voice. Soft at first, like a distant echo, counting. One, two, three… Jude had clung to the sound, focusing on it like a lifeline. He hadn’t expected it to help, didn’t think anything could. But as Willem’s voice continued, steady and calm, it became an anchor, something to hold onto in the midst of the chaos and pain. The numbers seemed to cut through the noise in his head, through the burning in his back, the ache in his legs, giving him something to focus on, something to pull him back from the brink. It was like a rope tossed into the abyss, and against all odds, Jude found himself reaching for it.
He hadn’t wanted Willem to see him like this, hadn’t wanted to need him, to rely on him. But as the numbers kept coming, each one pulling him further from the darkness and the pain, Jude realized that Willem’s presence, his voice, had made all the difference. It wasn’t just the counting—it was knowing that Willem was there, that he hadn’t left, that he never would. It was knowing that Willem would always reach into the darkness to find him, no matter how far he had fallen.
When Jude had finally felt the tension in his body begin to ease, when the storm inside him—both the physical agony and the mental torment—had started to quiet, he’d known it was because of Willem. Because Willem had refused to let him go. And as much as he hated needing that, as much as he despised his own weakness, he couldn’t deny the comfort it brought him, the way it made the darkness and the pain a little less terrifying.
Willem’s counting had been like a beacon, guiding him back to the surface, back to the light. And as he lay there now, with Willem’s hand in his, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—a flicker of hope. It was fragile, tentative, but it was there. Willem had given him that. And as much as Jude hated himself for needing the help, he was grateful. Grateful that Willem had stayed. Grateful that he had been there when Jude couldn’t fight on his own.
Jude turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting Willem’s. “The counting… it helped,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think anything would, but it did.”
Willem’s eyes softened, and he squeezed Jude’s hand gently. “I’m glad,” he said simply, his voice filled with quiet relief. “I’ll always be here, Jude. Whenever you need me.”
Jude swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. “I hate that I need you,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “But I’m so… so thankful that you’re here.”
Willem didn’t say anything, just nodded, his expression filled with understanding. And in that moment, Jude thought that maybe it was okay to need someone. That maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let someone in, to let them help pull you out of the darkness.
As the last remnants of the storm inside him—both the pain and the despair—faded, Jude let himself lean into that comfort, into the safety of Willem’s presence. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, with Willem by his side, he could keep fighting. That maybe, he wasn’t as alone as he’d always feared.
As Jude’s breathing finally evened out and the tension in his body began to dissipate, Willem felt a profound sense of relief wash over him. He gently disentangled his fingers from Jude’s, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jude’s forehead before standing up quietly. The episode had passed, but the night was far from over.
Willem sat beside Jude on the bed. The room was silent except for the soft sound of their breathing, and for a moment, Willem wondered if he should suggest they cancel the dinner. JB and Malcolm would understand. They had been through so much together, and one missed dinner wasn’t going to change that.
“Hey,” Willem whispered, his voice tender as he brushed his thumb along the ridges of Jude’s knuckles. “We can cancel tonight, you know. JB and Malcolm wouldn’t mind. We could just stay here… together.” He hesitated, feeling the weight of the words he hadn’t said—how he sometimes wished it could always be like this, just the two of them, locked away from the world in the small apartment that had become their sanctuary. His heart tightened as he realized how much Jude had become his home, how much he wanted to protect him from everything, even if it meant pulling them both into this quiet, cocooned world where nothing else mattered.
Jude’s eyes flickered open, and for a moment, Willem saw the same longing reflected in them, an unspoken desire to stay in this space forever, where they didn’t have to face anything or anyone else. But then Jude sighed, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He shook his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“No, we can’t cancel,” Jude murmured, though his voice was strained. “I don’t want to let them down. I don’t want to let my stupid weakness stop us from celebrating. JB’s exhibit… they’ve been looking forward to this… They’re our friends. They deserve this.”
Willem nodded, though a part of him still wished they could just say “fuck it” and stay here, wrapped up in each other, away from everything else. But he knew Jude was right. Their friends meant too much to him—to both of them. And Jude, despite his pain, wasn’t the type to back down from something that mattered. It was one of the things Willem loved most about him, even if it tore at him to see Jude pushing himself so hard.
“Alright,” Willem said softly, squeezing Jude’s shoulder. “We’ll still have dinner.”
Jude closed his eyes for a moment, a flood of emotions washing over him. The longing, the pain, the love he couldn’t quite understand. But he took a deep breath and nodded, feeling the comfort of Willem’s presence beside him, the steady warmth that had become his anchor. “Thank you, Willem,” he whispered. “I… I’m okay. Let’s do this.”
Willem smiled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Jude’s forehead. He could see the conflict in Jude’s eyes, the struggle between wanting to hide away and the determination to push through. But he knew that Jude, for all his angst and doubt, was stronger than he realized. And he would be there, every step of the way, to remind him of that.
He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time—nearly 2 a.m. With a soft sigh, Willem sent a quick text to JB and Malcolm in their group chat:
Willem: “Dinner’s still on if you guys are up for it. Might be the latest dinner we’ve ever had, though.”
He hit send and waited, leaning against the wall behind the bed and keeping one eye on Jude, who was now resting peacefully.
JB: “2 a.m. dinner? That’s basically brunch in art-world time.”
Malcolm: “I’m in. No such thing as too late when it comes to food, right?”
JB: “Plus, it’s not like we haven’t had weirder dinners. Remember that time at the all-night diner after the gallery crawl?”
Malcolm: “The one where Harold insisted on ordering every dessert on the menu? Classic.”
Willem smiled at the memory, a warmth spreading through his chest. He knew how much these small moments of camaraderie meant to all of them—especially to Jude, even if he didn’t always say it.
Willem: “Alright, see you guys soon. Just… be gentle, okay? It’s been a long night.”
JB: “We’ll be on our best behavior. And hey, we’ll help clean up too. It’s the least we can do.”
Malcolm: “We got you guys. See you in a bit.”
Willem put his phone down and looked back at Jude, still laying down but looking much more at peace. His friends’ support was something he never took for granted, and he knew Jude felt the same way, even if he struggled to show it.
The evening air was heavy with the smell of roasted chicken and sautéed vegetables, a scent that seemed to breathe life back into the apartment. Willem had saved what he could, carefully finishing the meal Jude had started earlier. The plates were set, the wine was poured, and now, as the doorbell rang, there was a quiet understanding between them—tonight was going to be okay.
JB and Malcolm arrived together, a swirl of laughter and energy as they entered the apartment. They paused briefly in the doorway, sensing the subtle shift in the room, the unspoken gentleness that hung in the air. Jude, standing at the kitchen counter, was softer somehow, his usual tension smoothed over like a wrinkle ironed out. Willem watched him closely, noticing the way Jude’s shoulders had relaxed just slightly, the way his eyes, though still shadowed, held a trace of something lighter.
“Dinner smells amazing,” JB said, clapping a hand on Willem’s shoulder as he walked past, and Jude offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but was genuine nonetheless. Malcolm followed, glancing between Jude and Willem with a knowing look but said nothing. There was a mutual understanding among them all—no words were needed, no explanations required.
They sat around the table, the four of them acting as if the evening hadn’t been interrupted at all. JB, with his usual flair, joked that dinner should always be served at 2 a.m., prompting Malcolm to chime in, “It’s the perfect hour for culinary inspiration.” Their laughter echoed through the apartment, light and carefree. Jude couldn’t help but feel a flush of embarrassment, his earlier collapse still fresh in his mind, but something about the way Willem looked at him—calm, steady—helped the tension in his chest ease. Jude listened to his friends with a quiet presence, but now there was a warmth to him, a softening around the edges that wasn’t usually there.
He didn’t speak much, letting the others fill the space with their banter, but when he did, his voice was gentler, less guarded. Willem, ever attuned to the subtle shifts in Jude’s demeanor, noticed how the light from the overhead lamp played across Jude’s face, casting gentle shadows that highlighted the sharpness of his jawline and the soft curve of his lips. As he watched Jude, Willem found himself captivated by the way Jude’s eyes softened when he glanced around the table, how his smile, though small, felt more genuine.
There was something so undeniably beautiful about Jude in these moments, something that made Willem’s heart swell with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to reach out, to touch the hand that rested on the table, but he held back, knowing that just being here, close enough to see Jude like this, was enough for now.
At one point, Willem couldn’t help but say it, almost without thinking. “You look… different tonight, Jude,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “Beautiful.” He saw the way Jude’s cheeks flushed slightly, the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable before he rolled them, pretending to be annoyed.
“Stop it,” Jude muttered, but there was no real anger behind the words. Just that familiar warmth, that softness that made Willem’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t fully understand. “You always say things like that.”
“And I always mean them,” Willem replied, his voice gentle, and Jude shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a way that made Willem’s heart ache just a little.
The meal carried on, the conversation flowing easily among them all. JB and Malcolm teased and laughed, and Jude, though quieter, was present in a way that he hadn’t been before. There was a lightness to him tonight, a softness that Willem knew had come from the battle he’d fought and won earlier, with Willem by his side. It was as if the storm that had raged inside Jude had finally passed, leaving behind a calm, a peace that Willem was grateful to see.
As the night wore on and the dishes were cleared away, the four of them settled into the living room, the remnants of their dinner scattered across the table. Jude sat beside Willem on the couch, their shoulders brushing, and Willem found himself glancing over at him again and again, caught up in the way Jude seemed to glow in the low light.
There was a moment, just before JB and Malcolm started talking about the exhibit again, when Jude turned to Willem, his eyes soft, his expression almost vulnerable. “Thanks,” he said quietly, so that only Willem could hear. “For earlier. For… everything.”
Willem just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He could feel something warm and powerful rising up inside him, something he couldn’t quite name, something that made his heart beat a little faster. He wanted to say more, to tell Jude how much he meant to him, how he would always be there, how he would never let him face the darkness alone. But the words wouldn’t come, and instead, he just reached out and took Jude’s hand, squeezing it gently.
And as the night drew to a close, with JB and Malcolm finally saying their goodbyes and heading out into the cool evening air, Willem felt a strange sense of contentment settle over him. He didn’t fully understand it, didn’t quite grasp what it meant, but as he watched Jude clean up the last of the dishes, his movements slow and deliberate, he felt something deep inside him shift. It was a feeling he couldn’t shake, a warmth that spread through him as he realized just how much he cared about Jude.
Willem found himself smiling, a soft, almost wistful smile as he watched Jude from across the room. There was something there, something he couldn’t quite put into words, but it was enough to make him feel that maybe, just maybe, this was more than just friendship. Maybe it was something deeper, something that had been growing for a long time, something that Willem wasn’t quite ready to face but couldn’t deny any longer.
Willem didn’t know what the future held for them—didn’t know if Jude’s heart mirrored his own—but for now, this moment was all he needed. Just being here, with Jude by his side, felt like the greatest gift he could ever receive. As they settled into bed that night, the quiet darkness wrapping around them, Willem’s thoughts drifted to a future where they grew old together, where he could spend a lifetime learning every part of Jude, every hidden corner of his soul. Whatever came next, whatever storms they might face, Willem knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would be there for Jude, unwavering and steadfast, for the rest of their lives. Always.