The tavern is alive tonight, warmth spilling from the hearth and laughter weaving through the air. The musicians in the corner play with raucous energy, strings quick, drums thunderous, a fiddle that seems just a little out of tune but only adds to the charm of the song. Tankards slam on tables, dice roll, and the scent of spiced wine clings to the heavy wood and plaster.

Julian is, of course, in the centre of it all. His coat is half-unbuttoned, his curls wild from too many times raking his fingers through them. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, wine-stained and radiant, and his smile is wider than it has been in days.

When the music swells, he grabs your hand with little warning, pulling you to your feet with a flourish that’s almost courtly, if not for the way he stumbles a fraction too far in the same motion. He laughs, boisterous, the sound carrying over the din, and steadies himself by holding you perhaps a bit too close.

“Dance with me,” he declares, as though it isn’t already happening. His steps are clumsy, an odd mixture of elegance and reckless sway, but his grip is sure as he twirls you amidst the crowd. Patrons cheer, some clapping along to the beat, others heckling the doctor who is clearly a touch too drunk for his own good.

Julian only leans into it, dramatic as ever. He spins you beneath his arm, narrowly avoiding knocking a tankard from someone’s table, and then bows with exaggerated flourish, coat tails sweeping dangerously close to spilled ale. His grin never falters.

“You’re marvellous!” he insists, breathless with laughter, as if you were the one carrying him through the steps rather than the other way around. His joy is infectious, his laughter spilling out in bursts that set the room alight with more smiles.