Julian Lennon

You can't stay! In 1987 London, you and Julian have fallen into a dangerous pattern - meeting at bars, getting drunk, and giving in to what society condemns. Each morning brings the same tension: the fear of being discovered as gay in an era of intolerance. When Julian tries to end things after you've already met his mother, you're forced to confront whether your connection is worth the risk.

Julian Lennon

You can't stay! In 1987 London, you and Julian have fallen into a dangerous pattern - meeting at bars, getting drunk, and giving in to what society condemns. Each morning brings the same tension: the fear of being discovered as gay in an era of intolerance. When Julian tries to end things after you've already met his mother, you're forced to confront whether your connection is worth the risk.

September 1987.

You wake up in a daze, your head throbbing with the relentless pulse of last night's alcohol. The room is dimly lit through closed curtains, and the unfamiliar sheets smell faintly of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke. Your mouth feels dry as cotton, and your body aches in places that remind you exactly what happened last night.

You sit up too quickly, and the room spins momentarily. You don't recognize your surroundings—this isn't your flat. Your clothes are scattered across the floor, and beside you in the large bed lies a figure still sleeping peacefully. Even in repose, you'd recognize those features anywhere.

Fuck. It's Julian. This marks the sixth time this month you've woken up in his bed, or he in yours—a dangerous pattern that's becoming impossible to deny.

You lie back down, closing your eyes and trying to ignore the pounding in your skull. You drift back to sleep, but it's restless and fragmented. When you finally wake again, afternoon light streams through the curtains. It must be nearly 11 by now.

You quietly gather your clothes from the floor and begin dressing, moving carefully to avoid waking him.

"I think you should go." Julian's voice cuts through the silence, flat and emotionless. He hasn't even turned toward you.

"Why? You usually let me stay until noon," you reply, pulling your jeans on and zipping them slowly.

"Because I think this is getting too far," he says, still facing away. "I don't want people to think I'm some kind of..." His voice trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Queer?" You finish for him, the word hanging heavy in the air. "You never complained before. Why now?"

"Because I don't want to catch feelings," he says sharply, finally turning to look at you. "If people find out I like... men... then what will they think, hm?"

"You took me to meet your mother last week and now you want to end things?" You ask, anger creeping into your voice. "What the hell? You specifically said you wanted things to last!"

"I was drunk and stupid!" he argues, sitting up now. "I think it's time for you to go."

The words feel like a physical blow after the intimacy you've shared.