Greg was never quite able to predict Jules. Hell, he didn't even know what Walt saw in him at first. Every time Greg swung by his manager's office boat for at least a month he'd be kicked back and slowly swiveling in his chair, puffing on a joint, listening to that damn tape, that damn voice-- crooning, in a way, but almost too high-pitched to call it crooning. Not quite a woman's voice, but also not really like any other man's voice Greg had ever heard. You'd almost think the tape was recorded at the wrong speed; even the vibrato seemed unnatural somehow, uncanny, especially when you knew it was coming from a man. And he had to figure out how to sing with that?? "You already hired the guy, right? What's the big deal?", Greg had asked him one of those times. Walt had turned to him with an odd little smile. "Getting you all acclimated, that's all."
Once he met Jules in the flesh-- Walt introduced him to the band, not counting their doomed current lead singer, back stage one day-- Greg figured Walt simply saw a pretty face. He was small, thin, shy (Walt probably liked the shyness, too, Greg thought); that face of his was often half-hidden behind a curtain of straight, shining jet-black hair, but every so often he would carefully tuck some of that hair behind an ear, look up and around at everyone; his gaze stopping and hovering for awhile over each member of the band, his expression remaining mostly flat. Eventually, his eyes traveled over to Greg. Greg met them, and was nearly taken aback for a moment: they were resting under well-groomed thick eyebrows; big, long-lashed, a firey copper with mossy green lining the edges, some lines of it creeping their way to the center like vines. He had high, rounded cheekbones, smooth olive-tan skin (the landscape of which was marked by the occasional dark mole), a strangely feminine heart-shaped face interrupted by a more masculine squared chin and a long, curved scimitar of a nose. Jules's full lips were naturally curved into a slight upward bow-- and when the corners of them tilted even higher into a more obvious, questioning smile, Greg hastily forced himself to shift his own gaze away. Yeah, a pretty face. That's what Walt was after. He was going to be their lead singer-- it made sense.
...Then, Greg actually heard him sing, in the flesh. It was something he had been admittedly reluctant about: he'd think of Jules singing and all he could remember was Walt on his boat, listening to that damn tape on repeat, a cloud of pot smoke hanging over their heads. But one day, during a soundcheck, Walt turned to Jules. "You're gonna make your debut today." "...WHAT?" "Not for the whole SHOW, reLAX. Just one song. You can do that. Can'tcha?" Jules paused, opened his mouth to protest for a moment before he thought the better of it and nodded.
Making the guy sing one of Robert's songs was a real piece of work, but Walt was just like that. Greg had long since gotten used to it. He almost felt bad for Jules at first, though-- clutching the microphone so tightly his knuckles were bone-white, eyes shut tight (those long lashes resting gently on his cheeks), taking deep breaths (too frequently to really be meditative) before the music kicked in. But once it did, it was like a switch flipped in him somewhere. He was still physically nervous. He still couldn't open his eyes for very long. He still seemed glued to the spot he was standing in. But his VOICE... it was still uncannily androgynous, the gender of it so slippery you couldn't grasp it for more than a moment. The more Greg listened, though, the more he realized that Jules's voice didn't WANT to be grasped: the less he tried to wrap his head around it and "understand" it, the less he tried to fit it into one category or another, the more he could simply enjoy it for what it was. A clear bell, a woodwind viola, an alto saxophone, a choirboy; an increasingly coherent amalgamation of Donna Summer annunciation, Sam Cooke phrasing, Aretha Franklin power, the occasional Robert Plant scratch. He wondered, then, if Walt noticed all of that from the beginning, and that's why he couldn't stop listening to that damn tape. He was their manager for a reason.
That performance had sealed the deal for everyone, not just Greg (and Walt seemed to know that it would). Jules was still shy after that-- especially around Greg, it seemed. It made sense to him: he was the original singer; Jules probably was afraid of stepping on his toes. But how the hell could Greg ever compete with that? He knew his days were either numbered or about to change in quite a drastic fashion. So why not lean into it; accept it? At the end of that tour, while studio time for the next album was being planned, Jules mentioned to all of them, very off-hand, with a nervous and apologetic laugh, that he was living with his mother off in the boonies somewhere, miles away from the city. "I got a place.", Greg had said-- really, it leapt from his mouth, before he could even think. Jules's pretty eyes widened, he clutched a hand to his chest, said "Oh, God, I could never--" "--I'm offering, man. It's fine." "I-if you're sure..."
And of course he was. Somehow. It wasn't something he wanted to question or think about too much. He'd offered, he wasn't going to take it back, now.
Living with Jules at first was like living with a newly adopted stray cat. He was still nervous. Exceedingly careful. Quiet-- even his walking was quiet, so quiet that Greg wouldn't notice he was there until he cleared his throat, or sniffed a little (and he'd cringe once Greg turned to look at him, he'd hastily apologize-- for what??). Greg didn't know what changed, exactly. Maybe it really was just time. Jules would always have a deadly-serious, purely work-focused side, but as the months wore on and as the two of them worked together, more facets of him were increasingly revealed. He could be playful, mischievous; once, right after the two of them had went out for coffee, Jules had handed him some wrapped-up pastry. "On the house!", He'd said in a near sing-song, turned to him briefly with a flash of a wink and a grin. "So you just... took that?", Greg had asked. Jules shrugged. "Yeah! It looked good enough to make you less hungry, but not good enough to PAY for. And it was just sitting right there! Someone has to teach them how silly that is, so why not me?" Greg let out a quiet snort. "Man, you're almost as bad as Nate, huh? Were you raised by wolves, too?" Jules paused; a look of panic flitted past his eyes for a moment before he smiled slowly again. Gave Greg a careful sideways glance. "...More like I ran with 'em for awhile."
Jules changed the subject so effortlessly afterwords that Greg didn't even think to ask another question about it. Jules would always be surrounded by little mysteries, and he didn't seem interested at all in clearing the air about him. Maybe more of him was unable to be grasped than just his voice: maybe the whole of him was floating a little off-center, uncanny and strangely beautiful somewhere. Regardless, he was great at his job, and dedicated to it. And singing WITH him... Greg had been so worried about being replaced, but it was becoming clear that Jules didn't really want to replace him. His voice never overpowered Greg's-- or, if it did, he would quickly adjust so that it wouldn't. It was a blend, something increasingly smooth, complementary... easy. Sometimes it felt like he was being guided, gently, by the hand, to some place that only Jules knew about. It was like some spell that only broke once the music completely stopped.
One time, though, it didn't stop even when the music itself had. They had been writing and practicing together for a couple months, at that point, and the blend they'd found together had become something they already seemed to have down to a science. Greg knew, from years of experience, that it would only sound better once they got on stage. He really had to hand it to Walt-- he DID know what he was doing. That particular day, thinking about that as the chorus of a song they were practicing drew to a close, made a ball of excitement bloom inside his chest. He turned to smile at Jules (who was standing next to the piano bench Greg was sitting on), and he was momentarily caught in his eyes again. "Wow, man, that was perfect.", he remembered saying to him, admittedly half in a daze.
Jules had smiled back, softly. Leaned close (he smelled warm, gently spicy... floral; even his smell was an uncanny razor's edge between masculine and feminine). Touched their lips together for a single moment-- and then, once Greg's body tensed, Jules gasped, threw himself near-across the room. The stray cat, again. "I am SO SORRY, oh my god, I-I-I--I wasn't thinking, it didn't mean anything, I swear, it was stupid and I wasn't thinking and it'll never EVER happen again, I--"
Greg wasn't offended-- he'd been around long enough, Jules wouldn't be the first homosexual he ran into. Hell, he wouldn't have even been the first homo to try and come on to him. They usually weren't this direct, though. Or, they were, they could be, but not like that. He remembered, then, in a flash, the first time he'd kissed another man. He was already drunk. It was a packed bar. He felt somebody's foot hook around his calf and stroke it, and it was shocking, especially once he turned to see another man there, looking at him, sizing him up, checking him out. Was something about him giving off the wrong idea, somehow? It was something he was thinking of again, with Jules, but back at that bar, he'd been too drunk to question it for long. Things were moving forward in one direction, and the direction had been pleasant enough. It happened, he sobered up (for that night), he moved on. Every so often, things like that would happen again, and he'd sober up and move on again, without giving it a second thought. It was the road. He was lonely, stupid, horny. Whatever.
Jules gave him the smallest whisper of a kiss and ripped that all open. He couldn't speak as it all washed over him, even when he saw Jules's body tremble with panic. "Can... we.... uh... move to the living room, maybe? Somewhere with more... space?", Greg said carefully, awkwardly, eventually. Jules's face flushed red before it fell behind a curtain of hair. He nodded quickly, wordlessly.
For awhile, they just sat on opposite ends of the couch. Jules was leaning as far away from him as he could, curled up in a ball, staring at something to his right, chewing on his nails. "It's... okay, y'know.", Greg said. Jules only barely relaxed. He let out a sharp, quick laugh. "I-I mean, yeah. Yeah! It is. It's fine. Right? Didn't mean nothing! I just got carried away a little, caught up, and, um--" Greg scooted over to him. He was tired of shy stray cat Jules now that he'd seen so much more of him than that, and he was certain that any word he'd say would only make the stray cat take over more. He placed a hand on the side of Jules's neck. He turned to Greg, looked up at him. Jules's eyes were full of hope, restrained passion, still a touch of fear. A question spoken in a single look.
Greg had no idea what it was about Jules or about that look he gave him, but in that moment all he wanted to do was hold him. Tight enough to feel secure, loose enough to not feel trapped. Just enough to be... wanted.
He kissed Jules as gently and carefully as Jules had kissed him. But he let his lips linger there for awhile longer, stayed close until he felt Jules's body begin to relax, until Jules's own lips parted just a little. Another kiss. A little deeper. Just a hint of tongue, a suggestion, an invitation. And Jules smelled so good in that strange way of his, and it was just like his voice, just like the rest of him; a mystery that only unfolded before you the second you stopped trying to solve it. He pulled away with reluctance. Smiled a little. "Well, now we're even."
The shyness in Jules's eyes finally began to evaporate, and the passion that remained was intense enough that it would've scared Greg a little if he'd been in the wrong mood. But he was already completely bought in, enveloped in Jules's strange, floaty, alien warmth. "D'you wanna owe me some more?", Jules murmured. It was a silly question, but that mattered as little as everything else.
Each kiss flowed into the next with increasing ease; their bodies soon blended together as well as their voices had. The feeling of Greg's dick beginning to thicken and throb against Jules's leg (and then against Jules's own cock) filled up any of the remaining room shyness tried to lurk in. Greg seemed strong in a gentle way, sturdy, capable, confident; it was something Jules had been drawn to near-immediately, though he could barely admit that to himself. His heavy green eyes were so calm, his speaking voice so laid-back, his singing voice smooth, velvety. His body was as strong and sturdy as his personality, fuzzy with body hair; that and the feeling of Greg's mustache bristling against his own upper lip as they kissed, or against his neck, his shoulders, was so... comforting. If Jules was invitingly alien, Greg was happily familiar. He wanted to make him feel good. He knew exactly how to make him feel good. Jules wrapped an arm around him tighter, leaned his head back more, basked in those bristly kisses as he unbuttoned Greg's jeans, felt him up with increasing deliberateness, let out a quiet moan as he felt his mouth begin to water--
Greg pulled away just enough to look Jules in the eye again. He nodded towards his dick, ran a hand through Jules's hair (and how the hell was it so soft), kept it there. "D'you wanna--?" Greg hadn't fully asked the question before Jules nodded, the intensity in his eyes joined by a sort of pleading. Greg nodded gruffly in return, plopped his head back with a sigh as he spread his legs open, as Jules slid down him, unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, kissing him as he went. What the fuck.--It was sort of a question, something that echoed in Greg's mind as things went on; as Jules gave a tiny smile up at him before kissing the tip of his cock, something he groaned out in pleasure as Jules took all of him into his mouth at once, as he saw and felt Jules's lips form something of a proud smirk around him, as Jules sucked him and swirled his tongue around him and cupped his balls, stroked them with his thumb. Greg sighed, moaned, kept stroking Jules's impossibly soft hair, thrust himself gently but insistently into Jules's mouth, saw Jules stroking himself up out of the corner of his eye-- the one clearest reminder that Jules was a man-- and for some inexplicable reason, that's what made an orgasm start to pull at him.
"Fuck!", He muttered, hastily pulled his cock out of Jules's mouth, jacked himself off until he finished on his own chest. Jules was kissing and nipping at his thighs, pumping away at himself, and Greg felt it all come on even more for him as he heard a quiet gasp escape Jules's mouth, as he felt him tremble, as Jules brought his free hand quickly down to catch his cum. They stayed there, catching their breath, clutching at each other, until something switched again. The curtain descended, the music stopped, the magic ceased, and both of them were hastily cleaning up, throwing their clothes back on, insisting to the other that no one would ever know.
Greg never saw stray cat Jules after that. He was on an upward trajectory in life and he was taking Greg along for the ride. That ride, in the beginning, was as magical as that afternoon in his house. Eventually, he would come to almost miss stray cat Jules. There was an intensity in Jules's eyes, something that only deepened when he looked over at Greg. What had started as a gentle guided tour through the outer atmospheres of Jules's world became an increasingly forced series of expeditions that bore less and less fruit. The mysteries surrounding Jules became less of an alien mist and more of an oppressive storm cloud. Greg would never be able to fully predict Jules, Jules would never allow himself to be grasped by anything or anyone, and that became more and more of a problem.
But that wouldn't happen for awhile. Until it got bad, Greg could simply be another one of Jules's mysteries. He would be a moon orbiting around his alien world, and that was okay.