The sheer, unadulterated beige-ness of it all was starting to give Rory a headache. He squinted at the wall of paint chips, each one promising a slightly different shade of 'neutral,' 'warm,' or 'timeless'—all code for some variation of beige. Julian, on the other hand, looked like he was dissecting a complex philosophical treatise, brow furrowed in concentration, a tiny pencil clutched between his fingers as he compared 'Desert Sand' to 'Cashmere Cream.'
"See, Rory, 'Desert Sand' has too much yellow in the undertone. It'll clash with the existing fixtures," Julian declared, holding up a chip like it was evidence in a courtroom. His voice was precise, every word enunciated with a certainty that left little room for debate. Rory just nodded, already knowing that any opinion he offered would be meticulously dismantled.
The hum of the industrial fluorescent lights above seemed to vibrate directly in Rory’s teeth. He hated this store. The smell of fresh primer and damp sawdust clung to everything, a synthetic, vaguely suffocating odor. He was wearing the sweater Julian had picked out for him that morning—a beige, naturally—and it felt like it was slowly absorbing all the joy from his skin. The collar was itchy, too, making him constantly adjust it, a small, fidgety motion that Julian hadn't noticed, or more likely, ignored.
"What about 'Pebble Path'?" Rory mumbled, pointing vaguely at a chip that looked, to his untrained eye, identical to the last five. He really just wanted to be home, maybe re-read that graphic novel Julian found 'too childish' for the living room coffee table.
Julian scoffed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound that nonetheless landed with the force of a full-blown sigh. "Rory, darling, we went over this. 'Pebble Path' is far too cool. It lacks the warmth we need for the north-facing wall. Remember the architectural brief? Optimal light reflection, minimal absorption. It's about *enhancing* the space, not just filling it."
Rory's shoulders slumped, a silent confession of defeat. He hated being called 'darling' when Julian was explaining something. It always felt less like affection and more like a gentle, condescending pat on the head. He just wanted to pick a paint, any paint, and escape the beige purgatory. He rubbed a finger over a particularly smooth tile on the display, tracing an imaginary pattern. The slight grit of a tiny imperfection under his nail was a welcome distraction from Julian's monologue about spectral reflectance.
Just as Julian launched into an explanation of chromatic value, a shadow fell over their perfectly curated selection. Rory looked up, half expecting to see a giant can of 'Off-White' hovering ominously. Instead, he saw a face he hadn't seen in over a year, a face that instantly felt like a jolt of cold water on a hot day.
Declan. He was leaning against a display of paint rollers, a smear of grease on his cheekbone, a wrench still clutched in one hand. His dark work shirt had the logo of 'Grease Monkey Garage' stitched over the pocket, and his jeans looked genuinely lived-in, not artfully distressed. His hair was a bit longer, falling messily over his forehead, and his eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on Rory.
A weird, hot flush crept up Rory's neck. He felt like his vocal cords had suddenly seized up. His brain did a quick, panicked inventory: <em>Sweater's itchy, probably got a crease in it, oh god, is my hair doing that thing where it sticks up in the back?</em> Declan just looked… exactly like Declan. Unfiltered. Real.
"Rory?" Declan's voice was a low rumble, a little rough around the edges, like he hadn't used it much that morning. It wasn't loud, but it cut through Julian's detailed explanation of 'eggshell versus satin finish' with surprising ease.
Julian, startled, spun around, bumping his elbow on the paint chip display. He gave Declan an icy once-over, taking in the grease, the worn clothes, the general air of not belonging in a pristine home decor section. Rory, meanwhile, felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. It wasn't fear, exactly, more like the sudden, electric awareness of a live wire.
"Oh, hey, Declan," Rory managed, the words catching in his throat. He felt a weird mix of elation and dread. Elation because it was Declan, and dread because Julian was standing right there, radiating disapproval like a low-grade microwave.
Declan pushed off the display, taking a step closer. His presence was solid, grounded. "Been a while. What are you doing here?" He glanced at Julian, then back at Rory, his gaze lingering, making Rory feel strangely seen.
"Uh, paint," Rory supplied, gesturing weakly at the wall of beige. "For… the study. Julian's redecorating." He felt like he was explaining himself, not to Declan, but to some invisible jury. He could feel the heat radiating off Declan, a warm, earthy scent of oil and something vaguely metallic. It was a stark contrast to Julian's crisp, almost clinical, scent of expensive cologne.
Julian cleared his throat, a subtle, but pointed, interruption. "Julian Fairfax," he said, extending a hand to Declan with an air of forced politeness. "And you are?"
Declan's eyes, still on Rory for a beat too long, shifted to Julian. He took Julian's hand, his grip firm and brief. "Declan Hayes. Old friend of Rory's." His tone was neutral, but his gaze was sharp, dissecting Julian with an efficiency that made Rory’s breath hitch. He noticed Declan’s thumb, smudged with what looked like engine oil, brush against Julian’s immaculately clean knuckles. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk played on Declan's lips.
"Ah, a childhood acquaintance," Julian corrected, pulling his hand back a little too quickly. The way he said 'acquaintance' made it sound like a rare, endangered species. "Rory's moved on to, shall we say, more refined interests now."
Rory felt a flush creep up his face, a burning indignation. He wanted to argue, to say something, anything, but the words felt trapped. He glanced at Declan, whose expression remained unreadable, though a slight tension had entered his shoulders.
"Still messing with cars, Declan?" Rory asked, desperate to change the subject, to bridge the awkward chasm Julian had just opened.
"Yeah, still. Got my own shop now. Over on Elm Street, you know, near the old diner?" Declan replied, his voice softening slightly when he addressed Rory directly. He ignored Julian completely, a small act of defiance that made Rory’s heart give a strange, hopeful lurch.
"Oh, wow, that's… that's great!" Rory chirped, genuinely pleased. He remembered Declan's obsession with engines, the way he could take apart a lawnmower and put it back together blindfolded when they were kids. It felt like a lifetime ago, a memory from a different, brighter version of himself.
"We were just discussing the merits of a warm undertone for the south-facing aspect, actually," Julian interjected, his voice dripping with an almost theatrical patience. He picked up two beige chips again, holding them side by side as if to illustrate a profound truth. "Rory was suggesting 'Pebble Path,' but as I explained, it lacks the necessary… depth."
Declan's eyes flickered between Julian and Rory. He watched Rory's face, the subtle flinch when Julian spoke, the way Rory's gaze drifted downwards. Then he looked at the paint chips, a slow, deliberate assessment. "'Pebble Path' is fine," Declan said, his voice flat, devoid of any attempt to engage with Julian's pedantic explanation. He looked directly at Rory, a spark of something unyielding in his eyes. "It's a good color. Unpretentious."
Julian's jaw tightened. Rory felt a strange thrill, a tiny, almost rebellious flicker in his chest. Declan wasn’t just contradicting Julian; he was dismissing Julian's entire persona of refined taste, reducing it to mere pretension. Rory loved it. He loved Declan for it.
"Well, 'fine' isn't really the aesthetic we're aiming for," Julian said, his voice now noticeably tighter. "It's about sophistication, a certain je ne sais quoi."
Declan just shrugged, pulling his wrench out of his pocket and twirling it once, slowly. The metallic glint caught the artificial light. "Looks like paint to me. Whatever makes you feel good, right?" He turned back to Rory, completely cutting Julian out of the conversation again. The move was so fluid, so effortlessly rude, that Rory almost laughed.
"Listen, I gotta grab some WD-40 before they close," Declan said, his gaze fixed on Rory's face. He reached into his other pocket, pulling out a small, dog-eared notepad and a stubby pencil. He scribbled something quickly, then tore off the sheet. He held it out to Rory. "Here. New number. Call me. If you ever need a hand with anything, you know. No questions asked."
The way he said 'anything' was loaded, a subtle emphasis that felt heavy and meaningful. Rory's fingers brushed Declan's as he took the slip of paper. The contact was quick, but it left a lingering heat on his skin, a ghost of warmth. Declan's eyes, dark and knowing, held his for a moment longer than strictly necessary. It was a silent promise, an open door that Rory hadn't realized he was craving.
"Thanks, Declan," Rory managed, his voice barely a whisper. He clutched the paper, feeling its slight crumple, the texture of the cheap notepad. He felt a weird prickle behind his eyes, a sensation he hadn't experienced in ages. Declan gave him a short, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture of understanding that felt incredibly personal.
Then, with another brief, unreadable glance at Julian, Declan turned and walked away, his heavy work boots thudding softly on the polished floor. The grease on his cheek seemed to glow faintly under the harsh lights. Rory watched him go, the broadness of his shoulders, the easy swagger of his walk. He felt a sudden, profound emptiness in the space Declan had occupied, a chill where the warmth had been.
Julian, meanwhile, was already back to comparing paint chips, seemingly having brushed off the entire interaction. "Now, about 'Almond Cream'… it has a surprising depth, a subtle richness that could truly elevate the space," he mused, oblivious, or perhaps willfully ignorant, of the tiny earthquake that had just rumbled through Rory's carefully constructed calm.
Rory just stood there, the small slip of paper warm in his palm, feeling the dull ache of nostalgia. Declan. He hadn't realized how much he missed that directness, that uncomplicated honesty. He missed the version of himself who used to laugh easily with Declan, who didn't analyze every word, who wasn't constantly trying to blend into a neutral background. The beige of the paint chips seemed to press in on him, suffocating him with its insistent blandness. He traced the numbers on the paper with his thumb, a desperate tether to a world where 'fine' was sometimes more than enough, and 'no questions asked' sounded like the most liberating phrase he'd ever heard.