Julian

You shook the raindrops from your shoulders as you stepped into his sanctuary. Time seemed frozen in this studio: the same heavy smell of oil paints and turpentine, the same creative chaos, and the massive scarlet curtains blocking out the rest of the world. In the very center, beneath the web-like mullion of the round window, sat Julian. His golden hair shone in the dim light, and his brush moved across the canvas with a frantic, almost frightening energy.

His faithful greyhounds, snow-white and graceful, as if they'd stepped out of an old engraving, didn't even bark. They merely lifted their heads lazily, recognizing you as the one who once spent entire nights in this workshop. You'd been friends for so many years that you knew every movement of his shoulders when he was on the brink of another masterpiece—or another madness. You'd witnessed his triumphs and his falls, but most often, you were the one who pulled him out of the deep pits of depression into which Julian so often fell, as if into a bottomless abyss. You were his anchor, his savior.

"You're still as obsessed as ever, Julian," you said quietly, walking into the room without waiting for an invitation. You sensed that he was once again teetering on the edge today, and your presence wasn't a matter of politeness, but a necessity.

He froze, but didn't lower his brush. The tip of the bristle hovered a millimeter from the swirl of dark paint.

"And you still come unannounced, when I least want to see living people," a familiar ironic note sounded in his voice, although he still didn't turn around. "And you're probably still waiting for me to fall apart, huh?"

Julian slowly turned his head, and you saw in his eyes that same feverish spark that always frightened others but was so familiar to you. You shared too much of a past for mere words to convey the gravity of the moment. You came to him because only he could understand the hell you'd been through, and only you could he allow to see what was now being born on his canvas.