Archive of Our Own

“There's the Eiffel Tower,” Harry hushed into Zayn's ear as he leaned over their shared armrest.

“Where?” Zayn asked as he turned to glance back at Harry.

“Right there. That black thing sticking out over all those other buildings. You see it now?” Harry murmured against his ear as he touched the edge of his index finger on the small glass window.

Zayn and Harry were currently in a 747 jet flying over the city of Paris, preparing to land at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Zayn's seat was already in the upright position, and he looked to where Harry pointed against the thick window pane.

Amid a clear blue morning sky, he just saw a cluster of buildings and something dark that kind of poked out above the rest. He turned back to Harry.

“The Eiffel Tower,” Zayn remarked with an eye-crinkling grin.

“Or as the French say, la tour Eiffel,” Harry responded, exaggerating his vowels and squinting his eyes into pretentious slits.

Zayn chuckled into his chest at this as Harry jerked his head to look out of the opposite side of the plane.

Zayn was glad to have such a short flight from Oslo, but that meant his nap got cut short to only fifteen minutes.

He shortly laughed at himself. How accustomed he had become to the feeling of flying... Even the drop in his stomach that accompanied the descent no longer caused his heart rate to accelerate.

Zayn definitely wouldn't miss all the other trouble that came with flying, though. He and Harry had missed two of their flights, a workers' strike caused a delay in Portugal, and running between Customs and their boarding gate with two minutes to spare was a frequent delight.

Zayn looked to Harry, who was sitting with his hands clasped between his legs, eyes bright and turned to the window across the aisle, peering to look down at the green countryside of the Île de France, now that their side was only showing blue sky, due to the tilt of the plane. Harry didn't have a scarf in his hair for once, and his curly locks were pushed back across his forehead, having unraveled into unruly waves. Still had those pointed boots on though, scuffed and turned brown from all the dust and track they had travelled over the past two weeks.

Zayn let a gentle smile spread itself across his lips. For some reason, seeing Harry take in and enjoy their travels always made him feel a sense of unbridled joy in his chest. Harry was just so pure in his admiration, and Zayn didn't feel so bashful for being excited about flying and seeing small grids of land or admiring blankets of clouds when everyone else on the plane seemed to deem it as unremarkable. Not when he had Harry to share in his awe.

He would miss travelling with him.

That's definitely a thought he wouldn't have predicted having, not two weeks ago. Oh, how Harry frustrated Zayn in the beginning...

The first time they missed their flight from Portugal to Barbados, Harry had asked Zayn if he had “any Bukowski” in his rucksack. Zayn thought he was joking. He wasn't.

And Harry was always wasting time shopping for things on the street or talking to random strangers—which was why they missed their flight from Montréal to San Francisco. And they had arrived to late to Montréal because Harry let Zayn oversleep in the airport at Miami. Zayn doesn't get angry often, and neither does Harry—but they both nearly throttled each other that day.

Things got better after San Francisco. Zayn's still trying to block out the memory of being naked on a public beach—and on camera. But getting the Express Pass allowed him and Harry to take a few hours to explore the city a bit. They went to the Fisherman's Wharf, took the cable car all the way up and down the hills and slides of California Street, and made sure to take photos in front of the Painted Ladies at Alamo Square. Then they went to Haight and Ashbury, of course, and Harry decided to get a heart tattooed on his arm, nearly identical to the one on Zayn's hip.

“I thought it looked really cool, so I wanted one, too,” Harry told Zayn right after the tattoo artist had stencilled the pen art onto Harry's arm.

Zayn didn't know how to feel about this because the only time Harry saw his tattoo was when he had stripped of all his clothing on the beach. And he didn't know how to respond to the fact that he'd have a matching tattoo with another bloke—a heart tattoo, at that. He took it as flattery, though, when Harry remarked feeling a million times cooler because now at least two square inches of his skin resembled Zayn.

That's when Zayn realised that anyone who looked to him as a “cool guy” and was able to still show him that much kindness—even after Zayn had been a right twat to him earlier that week—was a good person.

Even if they glorified Bukowski.

After they landed at CDG, it was another rushed dash out of the gate to Customs. The airport was stuffy because of the late morning July heat, with no cooling air to relieve Zayn of the borderline sticky sensation on his back.

“Come this way!” Harry told Zayn as he started off running past the baggage claim area and out to the roadway.

“You know where you're going, lad?” Zayn asked as he held the straps of his rucksack close to his ribs, bouncing after Harry.

“Yeah—I've been here before!” Harry answered without looking back as he bounced along.

“You've been to Paris before?” Zayn gasped out after they had stopped to join the queue along the kerb of one of the Les Cars Air-France bus stops.

“Yeah, last year,” Harry replied with a smile at Zayn. “Stick with me, Zaynie, and you won't get lost.”

Zayn breathed out a laugh. Sure...

“Deux billets, s'il vous plaît,” Harry said as he climbed onto the steps of their bus.

“Vous-deux?” the driver asked, as he pointed his chin at Zayn.

“Oui,” Harry replied.

Zayn's eyes grew twice their original size.

What the hell—Harry is speaking French?

“Merci,” Harry mumbled as he turned and handed Zayn the white slip. Zayn barely even registered that it was a bus ticket because he was too busy staring after Harry, who finally sank down into an empty, velvet-red bus seat.

Zayn plopped down next to Harry, his brow furrowed, his lip slightly protruding.

“What?” Harry asked as he raised an eyebrow.

Zayn cleared his throat and sat back against the seat, pressing his fingers onto the rucksack sitting atop his lap. “Nothing.”

“Zayn, trust me,” Harry told him with a serious stare. “I mean—I know I've kind of led us astray on accident in the past, but this time, I really know where I'm going! We get off at Champs Élysées,” Harry pointed to a small square on the map he picked up from the front of the bus. “And then from there, we can quickly make our way to the Eiffel Tower to go do our challenge. Easy!”

Zayn softened his eyes and gave Harry a small grin. “I trust you, mate.”

Harry kept Zayn's gaze for a couple seconds, though he bit his lip to play down the grin that was growing wider and wider. “Cool.”

“So... you're my tour guide, then?” Zayn joked. “Know this place like the back of your hand?”

“Yeah, studied for a few weeks here last summer,” Harry answered seriously. “Amazing. You're going to love it, Zayn.”

Zayn raised his eyebrows as he “hmm”ed. “You speak French too?”

“Just a little,” Harry said with a shrug. “Enough to get by. French people appreciate it if you try—at least a lot more than if you just speak slow English.”

“Isn't slow English your natural dialect?” Zayn softly chuckled.

“Which is why I prefer to speak French when I'm here,” Harry replied, his lips pursing as he tried not to show his frustration at Zayn's ribbing.

Zayn smiled at this, then the bus lurched into motion.

----

In about an hour, the bus finally dropped Zayn, Harry, and the other passengers on Avenue Carnot at Place de l'Étoile, the place where all the great boulevards in Paris converged to meet Champs Élysées, the grand avenue capped by the Arc de Triomphe and flanked on either side with designer boutiques and luxury hotels Zayn knew he could never afford to spend a night in.

After Harry and Zayn got onto the pavement with their rucksacks firmly strapped upon their backs, they turned to walk under the clean, wide pavement towards the Arc de Triomphe. As they walked under trees, their yellowing leaves filtering sunlight through their branches, Zayn held a palm up over his eyes and stared at the arch. It was much bigger than he imagined. He had only got a quick glimpse of it as the bus wound its way through the roundabout and came to a halt at the kerb. As they got closer, Zayn studied it from the side, surprised to see the river of cars that flowed in a current around it, accompanied by the erratic chorus of honking car horns. For some reason, he had always believed that cars drove under the arch, but there was a great circular perimeter around it. Zayn cast his eyes upon the stone, the Neoclassical architecture spitting out loads of symbols of triumph, military pride, and what he guessed was French patriotism in its massive statues of winged figures and naked warriors.

“Come on, this way!” Harry tugged at Zayn's elbow and Zayn finally broke his eyes away from the arch to look down Champs Élysées.

“Whoa,” he whispered out as he walked behind Harry, who was bouncing along in front of him. The avenue was wide and went on and on until the horizon faded everything into a haze, even under a clear sky. Zayn noted the bordering Haussman buildings with their navy blue rooftops, limestone finishes and elegant grills upon the balconies, perfectly symmetrical and precise in their design. There was something satisfying about seeing architecture that provided both the accuracy and symmetry of geographical planes, yet the aesthetic of the softness of curves and warm colours.

Zayn could explore no further than the sight he held in his eyes at that moment, for Harry then led him down an escalator that descended from the pavement to the number 9 métro line. After a short journey on the crowded métro wagon, Zayn and Harry emerged at Place du Trocadero, the beige buildings and golden statues framing the image of the Eiffel Tower straight ahead, the dark figure that had presented itself to Zayn just a couple hours before. The great water fountains below the stairs were on, jets shooting curved streams of water that sparkled under the sun, seeming to celebrate Zayn and Harry's presence.

Zayn is really here. He's in Paris.

“I wonder what we're going to do for our challenge,” Zayn said as he and Harry walked along the bridge that neighboured the tower, which had made Zayn crane his neck farther back with each step so he could see the top.

“Hmm... No, no, that's silly. They wouldn't do that,” Harry seemed to mutter to himself.

Zayn turned to him with an arched eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Climb the tower. Although, I never did get to do that when I was here last summer,” Harry answered with a tilt of his head.

“Like... stairs?” Zayn asked, trying to hide his apprehension with a half grin.

“Yep! Over 700 steps! 'Course, you could take a lift. But who wants to do that when you can climb it?” Harry grinned widely as he directed this to Zayn.

Zayn wheezed out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh yeah... who wouldn't choose pain and prolonged suffering over a nice little ride on a lift?”

Harry tucked his teeth under his lip. “You're saying you wouldn't do it?”

“No fucking way, mate,” Zayn chuckled as they walked along.

In just a minute, they met up with a bespectacled, wavy-haired French man named Baptiste just in front of the ticket office at the foot of the tower. He was identifiable by the blue flag with Around the World in 30 Days' logo printed on it.

“Bonjour, Harry and Zayn!” Baptiste greeted them as he shook each of their hands. “Your challenge today is to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower on foot. However, you have a time limit of only one hour and only one of you may take a step at a time.”

“What?” Harry asked with a furrowed brow.

The blood seemed to leave Zayn's limbs and his face. Fuck, he had just jinxed himself a minute ago, didn't he?

“That is all I am allowed to tell you,” Baptiste replied with a grin. “Once you both reach the second level, your challenge will be completed. Meanwhile, I will be taking the lift. À bientôt!”

Zayn and Harry exchanged glances with a gulp as Baptiste left them alone with their new camera crew. After a mutual shrug, they entered through the box office and walked past the threshold. Once they reached the first staircase, Harry turned to Zayn.

“What the hell does that mean—only one of us can take a step at a time?” he asked.

Zayn tensed his brow as he tried to think the phrase through.

Does that mean that only one of us can walk... and the other has to stay still where they are? Or... maybe...

“If I carry you, that way only one of us is walking,” Zayn told Harry with a bright look to his eyes.

“You're going to carry me up all these steps?” Harry's brow was furrowed and his lips were scrunched a bit like he was in pain.

Zayn shrugged and smiled to ease Harry's concern. “I can take a few rest stops.”

Harry swallowed as he looked up the stairwell.

“I might be skinny, mate, but I'm strong,” Zayn smirked.

Harry turned back to Zayn and curved his lips up. “All right,” he finally conceded with a shrug.

“Hop on,” Zayn told him as he turned around. A couple seconds later, Zayn nearly toppled over his own two feet because he hadn't expected Harry to literally heed his words. His arms clumsily draped along Zayn's chest, meanwhile Zayn grunted as he had to shift to accommodate Harry's long legs, the heels of his boots grating against Zayn's thighs.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked.

“I mean, I wish you gave me a bit of warning, mate,” Zayn breathed out a laugh. He shifted once more, until he felt a comfortable sense of balance in the centre of his back and a firm grip on Harry's legs.

Zayn glanced at the first flight of steps, then craned his neck back to look up at the vast webs of iron above him. “Let's go!” he told Harry with a smile.

The first two flights weren't bad at all. If anything, the only hard part was making sure that Zayn placed a foot on each step. But once the sun's heat began to build up on his bare skin, and after his arms, back and thighs began to burn, he slowed down. Even though the sleeves only reached to his elbows, he regretted wearing the black henley shirt today, wishing he had on one of his tank tops.

There was a cameraman in front of him and a cameraman in back, and every time Zayn would see that cameraman several steps above him, just waiting, with that damn lens pointed on him—it aggravated him. He felt like some type of circus act almost. A spectacle, attempting to achieve this great physical feat in front of the whole world. Yeah, yeah... this was a reality show, and he knew about the cameras beforehand, and he'd already got naked in front of them—but right now, their presence was only causing more discomfort.

After a particularly gruelling set of stairs, Zayn found himself wavering off balance until he lurched towards one side of the stairwell, clanging against the iron rail. He breathed out raggedly, the sweat beading down his temples.

“Hey... if you need to stop, we'll stop,” Harry told him in a solemn voice.

Zayn shook his head. “I'm all right. It's just a few more flights up, yeah?”

“Zayn,” Harry replied with an edge to his tone.

Zayn swallowed as he looked down toward his hands. His joints were tense and the skin between his thumbs and forefingers had become ashy, having rubbed against Harry's jeans for the past thirty minutes.

“I'm getting off!” Harry announced as he tried to sidle from Zayn's grip.

“No, Harry—wait—” Zayn protested as he tried to hold onto him. The result of their struggle was a clumsy tangle of limbs as they nearly fell down the stairs. But once they righted themselves up, Harry clamped a hand on Zayn's shoulder.

“You've done your part, Zayn,” Harry replied with a stern look, line formed on the bridge of his nose. "It's my turn now. I'm gonna carry you."

Zayn blinked, then shook his head. "Harry, it's okay—"

"No. We're partners,” Harry interrupted. “And you've been carrying me—literally now—through most of this race. It's my last chance to do something for you. So let me do this." Harry turned to face the edge of the stairwell, bent his knees and put his arms out to his sides as he waited for Zayn to climb onto him.

Zayn hesitated. Harry wasn't the most coordinated person in the world. And even he had a tough time carrying Harry on his back. If Harry tripped, they would both probably tumble down all the steps of the Eiffel Tower or break their necks in the process.

Harry slightly turned his head to glance an eye toward Zayn. "Come on, Zayn."

Zayn took three steps forward until he was directly behind Harry, whose muscles were already tensed and waiting.

Zayn gingerly placed his hands onto Harry's shoulders and then lifted one foot onto one of Harry's palms that was waiting for him. He dug his hands into Harry's collar bone and tried not to put too much pressure on his back as he made the final step up onto his back. Harry tightened his grip under Zayn's thighs and Zayn fought not to let himself giggle at the tickling sensation. Instead, he spread his arms over Harry's chest and gently rested his chin on Harry's shoulder.

"Sure you got this, Harry?" Zayn murmured into Harry's neck.

"There's no way I'll let you fall, Zayn," Harry said as he turned his head sideways, brushing his curls against Zayn's cheek. Zayn blinked as he felt the tickle next to his eye, then smiled.

"Okay. I trust you,” Zayn answered.

Harry turned and gave Zayn a sheepish grin. "Won't let you down!”

Harry surprisingly possessed a great deal of strength for someone so clumsy. Zayn had never noticed how his biceps bulged or how sinewy his thighs were, especially with how spindly they usually looked in skinny jeans. He made a steady, quick climb up the rest of the stairs, and in only five minutes, he had carried them to the first level of the Eiffel Tower.

There was a restaurant here, chairs and tables outside, spread out, and even a souvenir shop. Zayn was still on Harry's back as Harry walked around the edge to find the staircase that would take them to the lift, and finally to the top of the tower.

“Are you looking at this Harry?” Zayn exclaimed as he glanced out of the gaps in the tower's framing. All of Paris's landmarks were on a 360-degree display, and Zayn was currently admiring the glistening gold basilica of Hôtel des Invalides.

“A bit busy, mate,” Harry grunted. “I'll have a look once we get up top.”

“Harry, we can switch if you want,” Zayn offered.

Harry tightened his grip on Zayn's thighs. “No way! We're almost done! Not letting you down just yet.”

Zayn wistfully raised an eyebrow and smiled at Harry, though he couldn't see it. What a brave lad...

When Harry and Zayn finally emerged from the lift out to the topmost level of the Eiffel Tower, they met Baptiste, who was lounging against the railing on the north side.

“Ah, you've arrived!” Baptiste smiled wide.

Harry was breathing out hard as he asked, “So are we done?”

“Yes! Yes, well done!” Baptiste cheered. “And with twelve minutes to spare!”

Harry let out a groan of relief and slackened his grip on Zayn. Zayn gingerly hopped off, then gently squeezed at Harry's shoulders.

“Thank you, Harry. You did it!” Zayn gushed as he hugged him close, feeling the dampness underneath Harry's black AC/DC t-shirt.

Harry weakly smiled back as he let himself fall onto Zayn's shoulder, his nose nestled between Zayn's neck and clavicle. “Told you we could do it...”

“Congratulations Zayn and Harry, you have completed your challenge! And here is your final itinerary.” Baptiste clapped his hands together, then handed Zayn a blue envelope. “Additionally, there are the reservation papers for your hostel, which is in Le Marais. Bienvenue á Paris—bon journée!”

“Bon journée!” Harry greeted.

“Bongiorno!” Zayn waved as Baptiste turned to walk away.

Harry stared at him, his eyebrows slightly drawn and his mouth pulled down into a frown.

“What?” Zayn asked.

“You're not speaking French, mate,” Harry told him with a derisive shake of his head.

Zayn protruded his lips into a pout and narrowed his eyes. “I was just trying to say what you said. You said as long as I try, it doesn't matter!”

“Well, yeah, but maybe don't try so hard,” Harry said with a wicked raise of his eyebrow.

Zayn let a corner of his mouth open into a grin. “Arsehole.”

Harry grinned at him, his green eyes twinkling with delight.

"So what do you think of the view?" Zayn asked as he grabbed onto the railing and finally took in the panoramic view of Paris. Everything looked so tiny, but there was so much to look at, it was a bit intriguing.

Harry was silent as he scanned his eyes along the horizon, tracing a path from the Arc de Triomphe to Place de la Concorde, to the faraway Sacre Coeur (faint but visible), back down to Notre Dame, and finally to the tower Montparnasse.

"S'not that great," Harry finally muttered as his lower lip protruded into a pout and a line formed at the bridge of his nose.

Zayn's eyebrows shot up. "That's surprising to hear. I thought you loved views like this."

Harry leaned his elbows onto the railing as he kept his eyes on the horizon. "I like views that let you see places in ways that allow you to see beauty that you can't get from down on the earth. But here... I feel so... disconnected from Paris. The real beauty of Paris isn't in the horizon, it isn't in the huge landmarks. It's in the city life, the small cafés, the intricacies that you have to squint for in all the architecture, in the cobblestone you walk along, in the métro... Paris is a city that you need to see up close and personal. Up here... it just feels... like I might as well be flying over in a plane."

"So no photos?" Zayn asked as he leaned against the railing. "I mean, we made it all this way up here, half-killed ourselves doin' it."

Harry blinked and stared at Zayn. Then his lips curved into a smile. "Can I take a photo of you?"

Zayn tilted his head, then gave a nod as he hunched his shoulders close to his neck and slouched further back into a relaxed stance.

Harry scrambled into his rucksack and took out the disposable camera.

Zayn stuck a hand into a thumbs up sign as he gave Harry a graceful smile. Harry clicked the shutter, then lowered his camera. He wistfully sighed as he wound the camera roll.

Zayn looked past Harry at the camera crew who were following them. The irritating sensation of the wire and mic became ever more present. He was sick of being followed around by strangers. He and Harry are having such a nice time—and he'll be damned if he has to go through his only day in Paris with these annoying wankers following him around.

He and Louis had devised a plan for this before the show even started, though he had deemed Harry's nature too non-confrontational to ever carry it out.

Until now.

Zayn met eyes with Harry and beckoned him with a hand.

Harry, inquisitive eyes, approached Zayn. “What?”

Zayn reached forward and wrapped a hand on Harry's neck as he whispered in his ear. “We're goin' to lose these cameras. You ready, lad?”

Harry creased his brow and stared at Zayn.

“Just follow me,” Zayn said. He pushed himself off of the railing and walked along the edge of the tower with Harry until they turned to go back to the lift. Zayn made sure to pack into the crowded queue, as to make sure he and Harry would be the last people able to get onto the lift.

The employee in charge of facilitating the lift queue, a pretty brunette girl with a thick French accent, stopped Harry and Zayn after letting a large group enter before them. “Are you all together? Only two more can fit,” she told them.

Zayn glanced at Harry, then he turned back to the camera crew.

“Oh, you don't mind if we go first, right?” Zayn asked, making sure his eyes looked sympathetic, to appear a bit guilty about it. “We'll wait for you on the lower level.”

“All right. Be there shortly, lads,” one of their cameramen, Todd, replied with a grin.

Zayn nodded and smiled. “Cheers.”

It really paid off to give such a polite impression for the bulk of this race, as well as for life in general. Because now nearly no one would suspect Zayn of any mischief.

He and Harry squeezed onto the lift and descended among a group of chatty Spaniards. Once they were out of view of the cameramen, Zayn put a finger to his own lips and stared at Harry. “Shh.” He reached over and under Harry's shirt, then pulled off the wire.

Harry's eyes widened as he looked at the mic and wire, following its tragic descent to the floor of the lift.

“What are you...?” Harry started, his mouth open in simultaneous amusement and confusion.

Zayn pulled his own mic off. “When we get out of this lift, you and I are going to run as fast as we can, get out of here, and we're going to lose the cameras for our last day.”

“Isn't that... not really fair to the rules of the show?” Harry asked.

Zayn flattened his eyes. “Who cares about the rules? I want to enjoy Paris. Like you said to. And the best way I can think of to enjoy a beautiful city, at the very least, is to not have a cameraman breathing down my neck and getting in the way of me having a normal experience of seeing this city for the first time.”

Harry grinned at Zayn. “Well, that's all you had to say...”

----

Ten minutes later, they were running through Trocadero station, side stepping travellers through the corridor, amid an echoing dissonance of accordion and violins from the street performers nesting in the corners.

Zayn giggled, “Okay, where do we go next?!”

“You were the one leading the way!” Harry laughed as he skipped alongside him.

“I have no idea where I'm going!” Zayn laughed as he ran down the nearest stairwell.

“Wait—wait, wait, wait... I know where to go!” Harry announced with a bright, open-mouthed grin. “Let's get on this train—but the other side!”

They ran back up the stairs to the annoyance of the crowd of travellers, then got onto the line 9 train, transferred onto line 1, then made another transfer onto line 11 going towards Belleville.

“So, where are we going?” Zayn asked as they stood in the centre of the métro wagon, hand gripped on a pole to keep his balance.

Harry gave him a smirk. “Can't spoil a good surprise.”

When they finally stepped out of the station in Belleville, Zayn was met with the sight of a crowded market in the middle of the street, cars running on either side of it. Even a minute glance allowed Zayn to see that this wasn't like the Paris he was used to seeing in films or adverts. There were brown people all over and the streets were grimy, the buildings smaller, the streets a bit broken, but a slowness of life that was a bit refreshing after having been at the crowded Champs Élysées and the Eiffel Tower, which were littered with tourists.

“What's so amazing that you had to show me here?” Zayn asked Harry as he crossed his arms.

“Erm... hold on... I know it's down one of these... This way!” Harry said as he spun around and pointed down the road next to them. They walked along the slightly cracked pavement among slanted houses, until Harry randomly turned into an alleyway.

Zayn chuckled. “How do I know you're not taking me to my grave?”

Harry turned around and stuck out his pink tongue. “I'm taking you to something real cool. Now shut up and follow me!”

Zayn raised his eyebrows in amusement and said no more, following a few paces more until he was met with a breathtaking sight. He finally knew why Harry had brought him here.

The walls on either side of Zayn were bursting with all kinds of colour and ART. This was street art, graffiti, paint, chalk, all in a melange of different styles, but so vibrant and clean that it all looked like it belonged together. Tags all over from the ground to the roof, paintings of animals, caricature-like images of people's faces, plastered liberal messages, and everything in so many different colours—orange, pink, green, blue, purple, red, black—leaving no space in this alley free of a creator's mark. Even the potted plants along the walls and the poles were covered in tags or drawings.

Zayn realised his jaw had been dropped this whole time and he swallowed as he closed his mouth. He shortly glanced at Harry, who was smiling, his smug dimples pressing so far into his face. Zayn let out a gleeful squeak of a laugh and turned back to the walls, examining every inch.

“This is so... so sick!” Zayn breathed out.

He wanted to reach out and touch the walls, but he also kept his hand clenched at his side, because the art was so beautiful he didn't want to chance ruining it. How something this beautiful exists in the middle of a bustling, run-down neighbourhood was a bit baffling. Like a diamond in the rough. And the fact that it was preserved, like there was a respect for this urban artistry... Zayn felt a bit more appreciative of this city's culture.

Sick.

Zayn whipped his head at the sound of a click. Harry was winding down the film roll on his camera.

“Sorry... Couldn't resist,” Harry quietly apologised.

Zayn gave Harry a warm gaze. “Nah, it's all right. This was a special moment.” He looked back at the wall he had been admiring. “I'm glad you got it on film.”

Harry ducked his head and nodded.

Zayn still smiled wide. “How did you know...to take me here—it's perfect!”

Harry shrugged as he shifted his eyes to the side. “Erm, well... I gathered from the tattoos on your arm and some of the sketches you did in your journal, this might be something you'd be into. Glad I was right.”

“Definitely were,” Zayn replied before he looked back at the wall.

Harry cleared his throat as he approached Zayn. “So... I know you don't like Bukowski, but what are your opinions on Oscar Wilde? Or Jim Morrison? Frederic Chopin?”

“What are you going on about?” Zayn asked as he crossed his arms.

“Père Lachaise. It's the cemetery where they're all buried. Along with hundreds, maybe thousands, of other dead French people. A lot of old famous artists, musicians, writers... You in?”

“We come to Paris for a day and you want to go take me to see some dead artists?” Zayn asked with a short laugh.

“We don't have to—”

“I'm in!” Zayn cheered, his eyes squinting together. This was gonna be sick.

Harry grinned. “Really? Great! I never did get to go when I was here!”

----

After having taken the métro and having walked up the steep, cobblestone hill of the cemetery, Zayn and Harry admired all the intricate gravestones, family crypts, and several different artists' graves until they finally reached Oscar Wilde's grave—an ostentatious stone figure of a naked winged man with a headdress, whose penis had unfortunately been vandalised and apparently never properly replaced. The grave was bordered by glass with adoring messages scrawled all over in marker, in many different languages. At the foot of the grave, there were baskets full of roses, some dead, some fresh, and several love notes to the famous writer.

“Shame about the glass,” Zayn remarked. “It would look better without it, but I suppose then you couldn't have all these messages. I should hope to still be getting love letters and kisses a hundred years after I've died.”

“With that face? You're definitely getting a temple in your honour,” Harry told Zayn with a smirk.

Zayn bent his eyebrows and laughed at this. “I've not done anything notable with my life, Harry! Oscar...he's kind of changed the world a bit. Had a lasting impact.”

“Please. Someday, someone's going to discover that face and give you a modelling contract, and in a hundred years it'll be the new Mona Lisa.” Harry argued.

“Fuck off,” Zayn said as he turned around laughing.

They trekked back down over the bulging, crooked cobblestones for what seemed like an eternity to Zayn's aching feet. He yawned as they got back on the street, walking towards the métro station. “We've been walking too much...”

“What? This is nothing! What about that twenty mile trek in Bali?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, this is nothing if you're comparing it to the hardest thing I've done in my life,” Zayn chuckled. “Just an hour walking on boulders and nearly breaking my ankle every other five minutes. After having walked up the bloody Eiffel Tower!”

Harry pursed his lips into a grin. “I'm sorry. I just thought the graves would be cool to go see.”

“Oh, yeah—it was sick!” Zayn beamed. “But if I don't get to a bed soon, I'm goin' to drop dead!”

“So... the hostel it is?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. Let's go see how much trouble we're in,” Zayn giggled.

---

When they finally made it to their hostel on the edge of Le Marais, just a short walk away from the métro station Saint-Paul, Zayn and Harry were not surprised to see the two cameramen waiting for them in the lobby, frowns on their faces.

“We found these in the lift,” one of them grumbled as he held out the mic receivers in his hand.

Zayn and Harry sheepishly looked at each other, then back to the cameraman.

“Must have fallen off. All that sweat...” Harry mumbled.

Zayn couldn't hold it together and a laugh burst out of his lips as he ducked his head.

“You know the rules—you must wear these at all times!”

Harry and Zayn took back their mics and taped them on again before they checked into the hostel, thankfully having a separate room from the cameramen. The building was actually a renovated 17^th century mansion, the architecture particular to Le Marais, made of beige stone, filled with glass stained windows, four floors, and centred around a small courtyard. The lift was out of order, so Harry and Zayn had to walk up a tightly zig-zagged staircase on one side of the building to make it up to the second floor.

Their room was small, two twin-sized beds adjacent at one corner of the room, which had forest-green wallpaper that was peeling a bit, pink flowers and a floral-like design striping down to the floor. There was a desk and a wooden wardrobe on the other side of this tiny room, and of course, a small toilet with a small sink and a shower that Zayn was sure he would bruise himself just trying to get into. The wooden floor creaked as Harry walked across, dropping his rucksack then sinking into his bed. Zayn followed suit, dropping his bag and plummeting backwards onto his mattress, which shook and creaked as he lied on it. Resting his head back all the way, he could see out of their window, noting another building.

Zayn rolled over and leaned forward on his knees so he could properly look out, noting the quaint, shaded courtyard down below, tables, chairs, a couple cats meandering along the cobblestone, and even what looked like a stone well in the corner garlanded with vines and pink flowers. This was proper quaint. The very definition of the word.

Zayn looked down, noting the bushes and the carved protruding edges of their side of the building. It was only a short drop from their room to the ground.

“Harry, come look at this!” Zayn called.

Harry rose up from his bed, then walked over to sit beside Zayn. “Quaint,” he uttered in his morbid voice.

Zayn chuckled.

“Oi, when you lads are ready to go out, don't try nothing like you just did! There's fine print to be considered!” one of their cameramen warned from just beyond the door.

Zayn met Harry's eyes and groaned. “Me and Louis read all the fine print. There's not any legally binding statement that says we have to wear our mics, or even that we have to let them follow us everywhere.”

“Really?” Harry asked, his eyes widening.

“Mmhm,” Zayn heartily nodded. He turned his head back out to the courtyard. “Look down, Harry.”

Harry did as he was told. “Aww, look, kitties!”

Zayn smiled, “Yeah, the kitties are so close you could just jump down and greet 'em. So... you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?”

A slow grin curved on Harry's face, then he nodded.

----

Zayn was giggling the entire time he and Harry ran through the small courtyard, through the corridor, and out to the street back the way they came.

“Is Saint-Paul a good métro to go on?” Zayn asked.

“Let's just go anywhere!” Harry laughed back as they continued running down the street.

They took a short journey on the métro and emerged in front of Hôtel de Ville, the resilient, aged city hall of Paris standing tall against the golden sunlight, with its statues of prominent French figures and revolutionaries letting no shadow cast them from view. From here, Zayn could see so much of Paris life, back to the bustling lights on his right, and to his left, the Seine river and what looked like a church and bell towers.

“This is gorgeous...” Zayn exhaled as he took in the scene.

He and Harry walked towards Notre Dame and Zayn had to stop in his tracks once they were in the middle of Pont d'Arcole. He placed his hands on the green railing and looked out at the Seine, motor bikes and cars drifting on the bank, bridge after bridge ricocheting along the shining reflection of the water. He could even see the Eiffel Tower from here, peeking out beyond all the buildings and the river. He then looked to the isle with the small buildings and houses, alternating colour in their rooftops, all crowded together, the green and yellowing leaves of the trees shading those below who decided to lounge or sleep with their feet hanging over the river's edge.

Zayn cleared his throat as he finally noticed Harry, who was gazing at him this whole time with a faint grin on his lips.

“Sorry... I just got a bit excited.”

“Zayn, you should never apologise for being excited. Especially with me!” Harry protested with a bright look in his eyes.

Zayn shrugged a shoulder and sheepishly ducked his head.

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked. “I know a good crêpe place just around here!”

“Sure,” Zayn nodded, his lips curved up.

He and Harry continued along the bridge until they reached the crossing of Quai de la Corse, Hôtel Dieu at the corner and the cathedral of Notre Dame just straight ahead, its famous bell towers already visible.

Zayn looked up at the signpost on the corner of the pavement and pointed an index finger at one sign that made him smile “Île St. Louis...”

He chuckled and clapped a hand onto Harry's shoulder. “You know, if Louis were here, he'd claim that was named after him!”

“Well, that's quite the popular name here in France, isn't it?” Harry asked as they continued walking.

“Louis is definitely not a saint, though,” Zayn giggled as he thought of his best mate.

“Well it's not like Saint Louis did much to earn his title.”

“What d'you mean?” Zayn asked, genuinely curious.

“Well, since he was a king, all he had to do was die during the Crusades,” Harry explained as they walked past several souvenir shops. “Some kind of Catholic Church-instituted drivel about getting more people to sign up for war. All your sins would be forgiven if you fought in the war, since you're dying in the name of God or summat. So it was purported that if a French king died in the war, he would become a saint.”

“Well, I suppose that's a bit noble, though, innit? Like Joan of Arc? Wasn't she a warrior?” Zayn asked.

Harry chuckled. “Not sure dying of dysentery would classify as 'noble.' At least Joan made it onto the battlefield before she died. And she was a lot braver. Struggled through a lot more. And she only got canonized in 1920.”

Zayn tilted his head. Then he studied Harry, who was explaining all this with a blasé tone, hands behind his back. “How do you know about all this?”

“I told you, mate—came here last summer. Took a history class. It stuck.”

Zayn nodded. “All right, so maybe Louis is more of a saint than Monsieur Saint-Louis, if we're going by Joan of Arc standards.”

“I get the impression that he's more of a Roi Soleil.”

“A what?”

“The Sun King. Louis XIV. His image is all over Paris. That's why there's L's on everything.”

“Well...that's something Louis would definitely do if he ran a country,” Zayn conceded.

He smiled to himself. He wished Louis were here to see Paris. 'Don't see any Z's anywhere, do ya, Zayn?' he'd probably say. Zayn wouldn't stoop to inform him that Malik actually meant King in Arabic, although he supposed Louis had the name of a king, too. At least, the French liked the name so much they named at least fourteen of their kings Louis. Maybe their shared namesake was another reason they got on so well...

"Have I lost you again?" Harry asked, snapping Zayn out of his reverie.

"No. Let's continue," Zayn said as they crossed the street and approached Notre Dame.

"Do you miss Louis?" Harry asked Zayn, an amused smile playing on his lips.

Zayn laughed into his chest. "Do I really talk about him that much?"

Harry tilted his head and nodded. "Yes."

"Well, he's my best mate. He's really....the best friend I ever had. We were supposed to travel the world together. One last hurrah before we had to go back to our last stretch of uni before we became teachers. Last chance to really have fun and be reckless."

Harry nodded as he looked down, blinking in what looked like contemplation. "I'm sorry you couldn't be with him."

Zayn looked over at Harry and tensed his brow. "Don't be. I'm still having the greatest time of my life. With you," he said as he wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder and squeezed at it.

Harry revealed a smile just before turning back to face Notre Dame, in its modestly towering glory. Right now a queue was spilling out of the front doors to the cathedral, so Harry and Zayn were content just admiring it from several metres away.

The sun beat against the face of the building and Zayn focused his eyes on each small detail he could see from here. The warm, rounded Gothic arches, the petal-like stained glass windows, the sculpted saints or kings resting upon the ledges, at least twenty of them crowded above the door in their arches, like little bats staring down at who entered and left the cathedral. He half-jokingly wondered if there still might be a hunchbacked, tortured soul working the bells up on top of the bell tower. The gargoyles were there, anyway. He wished he could go up to the top and maybe catch a great view of the city. Perhaps from there, it felt more intimate than being all the way on top of the Eiffel Tower.

….Oh dear, here he was thinking about great views... Had he turned into Harry?

As they walked along the side of the cathedral to gain access to the garden, Zayn asked Harry, "Hey, don't you miss... well, who were you supposed to do the race with again?"

"My sister, Gemma," Harry replied.

"Oh, your sister!" Zayn exclaimed. "I bet it must be hard for you, being separated."

"Ehh, not that much. Well, the truth is we've been separated for a while now. This challenge was just a way for us to spend the summer together. Of course I love her to death, but she's very independent. I'm not worried about her at all."

Zayn couldn't comprehend this. If it were any of his sisters, even Doniya, he'd be doing nothing but worrying about their safety while they were separated around the world.

"She's older than you, isn't she?" Zayn asked.

Harry blinked and raised his chin in an amused narrow of his eyes. "How did you know?"

Zayn laughed. "Because if you were the older brother, you'd be worried sick! I bet she's worried sick 'bout you!"

"Yeah, maybe..." Harry replied.

"Definitely. Especially considering you can't take ten steps without endangering your own life," Zayn giggled out.

"Hey... don't be rude!" Harry pouted.

They circled back along the garden, and from this vantage point, the sun hit at just the right angle that the light spilled from the side and the centre of the two towers, so that the rest was cast in shadows, the many different shapes creating a beautiful spectacle among the greenery and soft beige stone. And then of course, just to the left were the river and the buzzing Left Bank.

Zayn wished he could stay in Paris for longer than a day. For at least a week so that he could sketch all the beauty around him.

Harry finally led Zayn across the river to a crêpe stand in the area known as Saint-Michel. They had both a savoury and a sweet crêpe, unable to choose between the two and unwilling to share, as both of their stomachs were growling by then. They sat down in front of Shakespeare and Co. to eat, then decided to wander around the rest of Saint-Michel. It was a cloistered den of restaurants, épiceries, bars, cafés, hotels, and book shops, teeming with tourists like a busy beehive. Everyone was moving along the cobblestone every which way, pausing to look into the windows, leaving and entering the shops in a continuous flow.

It was a bit much for Zayn to be honest, and he was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. Harry seemed to take note and tugged at the hem of Zayn's henley.

“Got another cool place to show you,” he said, barely making a sound above the din of the crowd.

----

A short walk back along the edge of the river—where Zayn finally felt like he could breathe again—led them to Pont Neuf. Zayn noted the dark statue of Henri IV atop a horse just before Harry slunk behind it and down a stone staircase.

Once they got to the lower level, the two made their way down the Square du Vert-Galant, a green patch of grass with with flowers, benches and water surrounding each side of this small, narrow island. Harry and Zayn walked until they reached the willow tree at the end and sat on the stone, mere feet away from the water.

Zayn inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, letting the soft breeze caress his face. He and Harry sat in comfortable silence like this until the faint sound of music approached.

Zayn and Harry both turned their heads to spot two grey-haired men walking in their general direction. One man was pressing his fingers on the keys of an accordion while his companion strummed his nails on the strings of a mandolin.

Zayn liked the tune, it sounded like something typically Parisian, a change in the notes that reminded him of a pendulum, going back and forth, up and down the scales. It was beautiful and bright, perfectly fitting for the golden afternoon he, Harry, and the rest of Paris seemed to be basking in.

“Do you know what song they're playing?” he asked Harry.

Harry's eyes brightened. “I could go ask!”

“Oh, Harry—That's not necess—” but Zayn was too late. Harry had already jumped and darted over to the musicians. Zayn couldn't hear too well from where he sat, but he could tell Harry was speaking in French. The man with the accordion replied by holding out his hand—and predictably, Harry deposited two Euros, and the men continued to play.

Harry ran back, out of breath as he sat next to Zayn. “It's called.. Sous le Ciel de Paris.”

“You'll have to write that down for me, mate,” Zayn answered with a curved grin. “Thanks.”

Harry nodded, his curls shaking along his temples. “Mmhm.”

They sat in silence for another minute, hearing the gentle wave of the water, the music fading as the musicians walked back up the island, the birds in the tree making periodic chirps.

“This is proper romantic, isn't it?” Zayn remarked with a laugh as he gestured to the vista of the Seine, reflecting gold rays beyond the horizon of bridges.

Harry looked down and laughed, his eyes blinking shut as he did so. Then he licked at his lips and looked over at Zayn. “It would be, if we were a couple...”

Zayn laughed at the prospect. He and Harry would be a bit of an odd couple. Not based on outward appearance, although there was no shortage of contrast in that department. But just the way each of them approached life. Harry was bright-eyed, curious, and approached everything and everyone with open arms—literally. Zayn was curious as well, but he was guarded, quietly fascinated, and tended to test people like one tests the water at a swimming pool—make sure it's comfortable before you jump in.

What he and Harry did have in common was that they both were hiding pieces of themselves. Harry, though he was so youthful in so many ways, was very much an old soul. Zayn supposed he was, too, but only in the conventional way that he preferred to stay indoors, read, and enjoyed quiet. Harry, on the other hand, it was like he belonged in a different era—and not just in the hipster “vintage” longing for the past way—his manners, his way of speaking and getting to know people... he really was from a different era. Different universe, really. And Zayn... well, the part he hid from most of the world was his eccentric side. Only those closest to him got to hear his unbridled laughter, hear his playful shrieks when he goofed around, or got to know how grumpy he could get when woken up too early. It wasn't that Zayn was shy, it was that he just liked to save the best parts of himself for the people who deserved to be let in. Harry, on the other hand, he was all too willing to give out those parts of himself. But Zayn wondered how many people got to know the real, intelligent, wise part of Harry. The kind of Harry that could just sit here, quietly enjoy the river, and take in Paris.

“I wonder what that must be like,” Harry said as he looked over at Zayn, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“What?” Zayn blurted out.

Harry grinned, his green eyes glowing with the sun's light in them. “To lose yourself so easily in your own thoughts.”

“You making fun of me?” Zayn asked as he flattened his eyes.

Harry giggled. “No, not at all! Must be something quite engrossing, to take your mind off of this lovely picture.”

Zayn took note of his surroundings again. Along the quay couples laid down, drank wine, small liners gently streamed and cut through the river, and there was a sleepy stillness in the air. Time had slowed. The colours in the sky all blended in a smooth gradient from pink to orange to blue. The buildings that had been standing here for hundreds of years weren't going anywhere any time soon. They were contentedly basking in the sun just like the Parisians at their feet.

“And there he goes again...” Harry remarked, grin curving crookedly up his cheek.

“Oi, I was actually paying very much attention to the picture, mate!” Zayn retorted as he poked his index finger into Harry's dimple..

Harry chuckled as he ducked away, then he stretched his arms up behind his head and inhaled.

“This is nice. I like just sitting here. I feel... at peace,” Zayn thought aloud.

Harry turned to him. “Hey, Zayn...”

“Yeah?”

“Would you let me kiss you?”

Zayn rapidly blinked, and breathed out a laugh. “What?”

Harry ducked his head, his cheeks growing taut. “Forget it...”

Zayn snorted, “Wait—Harry. Hold on a minute—did you just ask to kiss me?”

Harry squirmed as his long fingers grasped at the stone of the bench. “Well, it was worth a shot. To be able to kiss the most beautiful boy in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, beautiful sunset on the Seine. Can't blame me for trying...”

Zayn wanted to laugh, but something in Harry's tone told him that would be rude. He just stared at him. Studying the way he stared towards nothing in particular, his green eyes holding a certain depth to them. His lips were drawn tight. He wasn't looking at Zayn.

“Harry...” Zayn began, testing the gentleness of his tone.

Harry turned to face him. The slightest crease was formed at the bridge of his nose, his eyes still full of so much that was unsaid.

Zayn blinked. “Harry, are you... “ He tried to think of a way to ask this without offending him. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Harry.

Harry let his eyes flicker down for a half second, then he spread his lips into a grin. “I'm not in love with you, if that's what you're asking.”

Zayn's eyebrow lifted of its own volition. Not that he should be surprised that Harry's not in love with him—what an arsey-sounding notion—but why did he just ask to kiss him?

Zayn was brought back to reality when he heard the lump in Harry's throat as he swallowed.

“I just thought... seeing that beautiful expression on your face, this beautiful place... I just thought in that moment, I'd quite like to kiss you.”

Zayn looked down, his silver belt buckle blinding him with its reflection of the golden sun. “Listen, Harry... I'm quite fond of you. Really. But... I...”

“Rien de rien,” Harry breathed out.

Zayn creased his brow. "What?"

Harry glanced at him. "It's from La Vie En Rose. Edith Piaf?”

Zayn blinked and hunched his shoulders up and down.

Harry pursed his mouth and tilted his head. “It's a song. Non, rien de rien. Je ne regrette rien. I regret nothing.”

Zayn nodded his chin. Then glanced down at the stone between where he and Harry sat.

“Can't really blame you for asking,” Zayn finally said.

Harry rose an eyebrow, his mouth puckered as if he were about to laugh.

Zayn blinked and shook his head. “Not, like... I'm not saying—“ He stopped and sighed. “What I mean to say is... this moment, it's not going to last long. When is the next time I'm going to be sitting on a riverbank in Paris watching a beautiful sunset? Might as well make the most of it, right? Still not gonna kiss ya, though.”

Harry breathed out a laugh as he glanced down with a smirk.

“You deserve better than that, anyhow,” Zayn continued as he patted Harry's knee. “You should only kiss someone who means it back. Besides, isn't it enough like this? Me and you?”

Harry's mouth relaxed as he continued to stare at Zayn. “Yeah, yeah it is...”

“But I get it,” Zayn continued as he kept his eyes along the water. “When I get back home, this will all just be a lovely memory. So I want to take it all in. In case I never see it again.”

Harry nodded. “You'll see Paris again, Zayn.”

Zayn slightly turned up one corner of his mouth to smile at that. Harry was always such a romantic. But it was nice to hear anyway.

“She calls you back, you know...” Harry continued with an arched eyebrow.

“She?” Zayn asked.

“Paris. Against your will, against your knowledge, she takes a hold of your heart. I don't know...there's something about being in this city that makes you feel like you're in love. Like you belong to someone. But at the same time, you don't really have a grasp on them at all. But it doesn't matter. Because you have them right now, and it's this moment that matters. Even if it might be gone in a second.”

“You're supposed to be the happy one,” Zayn dryly remarked.

Harry darkly chuckled. “All I'm saying is... this city will steal your heart. So you'll eventually find your way back. Because... that's what love does to you. I think that's why they call it the city of love. Not because it's a place for lovers—but because this city makes you fall in love with it.”

“Hmm...” Zayn took in this idea.

“I would like to add that officially, this is the City of Lights!” Harry announced with an index finger in the air.

Zayn softly chuckled. “Look at you, expert French scholar... I can see why people call this place the city of love, though.” He laughed. “Louis and Liam should have come here.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Why is that?”

Zayn raised his eyebrows. “C'mon, it's obvious... Those two idiots are in love.”

“What?!” It was Harry's turn to be astonished. “What makes you say that?'

Zayn chuckled. "All you had to do was look at them. Not able to keep their eyes off each other for more than a minute, bickering with each other all the time, giggling at each other all stupid-like with that shite excuse of a game you were all playing last night."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Harry asked, quickly blinking his eyes.

"Louis blushed when Liam laughed at him about the Westside photo!" Zayn stared across the water, laughing to himself about it.

"Well, that is an embarrassing thing you two do. Tsk, tsk," Harry shook his head and pursed his lips.

Zayn laughed. “Listen, I've known Louis three years. And I've never seen anyone make him feel ashamed about pulling a Westside pose. And he only tells me to shut up when he's embarrassed.”

“He really should feel ashamed, though,” Harry remarked. “Both of you. It doesn't even look cool. And west side of what? Last I checked, Yorkshire wasn't the west side of anything.”

Zayn pushed at Harry's shoulder and smiled. “Anyway, you see the way he and Liam were looking at each other? I've never seen Louis look so enamoured with someone else. Or so happy. I'm really surprised about Liam, though. Thought he was going to burst a blood vessel in his head the first day after bein' put together with Louis,” he giggled. “They didn't quite get on at first... but look at them now. Liam's not the uptight wanker Louis thought he was. And Louis's gone from shooting daggers to hearts at Liam with his eyes.”

"So... you really think they're together?" Harry asked.

"Well, if they're already not, they're definitely going to get there.” Zayn shrugged. “And Louis would be stupid not to keep someone who plays all his silly games and laughs at all his jokes with as much joy as he does. "

Harry looked at a small liner sailing past on the water. “That must be special... to fall in love with someone whilst you're seeing the world together. Maybe the best way. Because when you're in a country you know nothing about, a place you've never been to, you're just yourself.”

Zayn glanced at Harry carefully. He wasn't sure he entirely got the meaning of those words, but the way Harry was staring at the water... he felt like he just got a glimpse of Harry that maybe he hadn't afforded to many other people.

Zayn placed his palms to either side of him on the brick, then hoisted himself up.

“Enough talk! Let's go do something mad!” he suggested with a grin on his lips.

Harry glanced up at him and smirked. “What's this?”

Zayn giggled. “Last night in Paris, baby! Let's live it like it's our last night on Earth!”

“Zayn, my my!” Harry remarked with a short laugh. He stood up and swung an arm over Zayn's shoulder. “Shall I lead the way, then?”

----

Zayn and Harry walked back up the river on the opposite side this time, stopping to look into each Bouquiniste along the bank and even into a pet shop—which was a mistake because both of them were heartbroken by the time they left. Zayn bought a couple miniature Eiffel Towers and music boxes for Safaa and Waliyha (“La Vie En Rose” and “Hymne á l'Amour” by Edith Piaf, recommended by Harry), and a jewelry box with neoclassical engraved art on it for Doniya. He went around winding up all the tiny music boxes, trying to find the tune he heard down by Pont Neuf, but came to no such luck. He'd have to remember to look it up on Youtube or something when he got back home. Harry in the meantime, bought a poetry book in French. Of course, Zayn laughed to himself. Thankfully, Harry always brought a small leather satchel with him everywhere they went, so they were able to put their small treasures there for safekeeping as they continued to explore.

Eventually they made their way to the Latin Quarter and stayed there until it got dark, looking through bookshops and walking past old churches and museums. It wasn't often they had this much time to wander around a city after a challenge. They had a train to catch in the morning to go back to London, but the rest of the day was theirs. Zayn really just wanted to relax, and it was nice to just walk around a beautiful city. He still could not get over how old these buildings were and how lovely they were. Different from London, everything here seemed to serve an aesthetic purpose, and it was a hell of a lot easier moving from place to place on foot.

A wild thought came to Zayn: he might see himself living in a city like this. Everyone just seemed to enjoy life so much, take it easy, and there was art everywhere, culture, history around every corner. Lovely little parks where people just lounged on the grass and read novels, smoked freely, and drank wine outside in broad daylight. Zayn could see himself not working too hard to blend in with the Parisians—except for the fact that he spoke absolutely no French, of course.

Then Harry went on and on about Parisian customs and what was normal, what was not. Zayn probably would have been annoyed had it been anyone else. But Harry spoke with such genuine fascination and in such a revelatory tone, that he couldn't help but genuinely be charmed by the informal cultural lesson.

And then as you do in Paris, Zayn and Harry drank wine. And then some more. And then they moved on to a piano bar on Rue de la Huchette after finishing their bottle, and drank champagne with new acquaintances, only half of which spoke English.

After his third glass of champagne, things got a bit hazy for Zayn, although he remembers being absolutely in the moment singing a duet with Harry atop the piano bench, singing an Amy Winehouse tune. The rest of the night, they sat and listened to other people sing, until Zayn started to feel sweaty and pulled at the collar of his shirt.

“Mate, I'm feeling so hot right now,” he had to yell over the music to Harry, who was sat across from him with a girl on each side, who were teaching him how to say naughty phrases in German.

“Harry!” Zayn yelled again, growing evermore conscious and irritated of the sweat in the sockets of his eyes and on the dip above his lip.

Harry finally glanced over, and met eyes with Zayn, furrowing his brow.

“What's wrong?” Harry yelled.

“Let's get out of here,” Zayn pleaded.

Harry nodded, politely said his goodbyes, then Zayn grabbed onto his elbow as Harry led the both of them outside, back onto that small crowded street full of loud conversations.

Zayn stood back against the wall of the bar, leaned his head back and tried to breathe. It didn't help that the outside air was still warm, even though it was less hot than in the bar.

“Hey, you good?” Harry asked Zayn as he bent his head to try and look Zayn in the eye.

Zayn wasn't that drunk any more, but he was feeling a bit light-headed. “Just need a smoke,” he murmured as he looked Harry in the eye.

Harry intently nodded, then wrapped an arm around Zayn's waist, walking him until they found a stand that sold cigarettes.

Zayn didn't even care what brand they were; most of the ones in the stand were French anyway. But just having them in his hand, pulling one out of the carton between his fingers, then tucking it between his lips had him feeling a bit more like himself already. He fished for his plastic red lighter out of the front right pocket of his jeans, lit the tip of the cigarette, inhaled, then pulled it away from his mouth. He closed his eyes, then let the smoke spill from the corner of his mouth, making sure to aim it away from Harry.

When he finally did look at Harry again, though, he was struck with panic. Harry had an intent stare, his brow seriously furrowed, his mouth wrinkled in concern, his hand almost outstretched towards Zayn.

Zayn looked down. “Why're you looking at me like that?”

Harry swallowed. “Well, just... Are you okay, mate?”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to worry ya,” Zayn said as he rubbed at one of his eyebrows. “S'pose I was just... overstimulated. Can't believe we've done so much today. Or drank so much, heh.”

He sighed, then took another drag.

“You should have said something earlier,” Harry said, a stubborn line between his eyebrows. “We could have gone back to the hostel, I wouldn't have minded.”

Zayn turned to him and smiled. “But I was honestly having a good time! Just needed some air. And water. Too much wine!”

Harry's tense expression broke, then he chuckled. “Drank like a camel, you did.”

“Well, let's keep walking! We've been on this side of the river for so long, let's go to the other side!” Zayn said as he linked his elbow in Harry's.

Harry smiled and they walked and walked until they stopped in front of Centre Pompidou in the 4^th quarter. The building was strange, modern-looking and made of glass, with tubes running along all the sides.

“I should have taken you here! What was I thinking? This is a modern art museum, and look at these works of art here! I mean, it's dark, but like... in the daytime...” Harry rambled as he stuck his mouth in an exaggerated pout. “And I didn't even take you to the Louvre! Bad tour guide! Very, very, bad...”

Zayn clapped a hand on his shoulder. “S'alright, Harry. You've already shown me a bunch of sick things today.”

“Yeah, but...” Harry sighed, “There was still so much that you didn't get to see.”

Zayn smiled, then sucked a bit at the cigarette in his lips. He blew a quick swirl of smoke straight up into the air. “What was that you said earlier? Rien?”

“Rien de rien,” Harry replied with a smirk.

“Rien de rien,” Zayn repeated, exaggerating the throaty pronunciation of his R's.

Harry laughed as they continued up Rue Saint-Martin in the dark, the small lanterns posted at the edges of closed carte shops. No one else was on this road, and most of the lights in the surrounding buildings were off.

Zayn shuffled along the cobblestone, making sure not to step on any cracks, though he could barely see under the dim street lighting.

Harry smiled at him. “Where to now?”

"I'm kind of tired...” Zayn said as he scratched the back of his head. “But I've no idea how to get back to our hostel. And we don't have a map."

“We... we can go back to Hôtel de Ville. That's where the métro was,” Harry answered.

Zayn nodded as he pointed at Harry's chest. “Good thinking! You're the expert on Paris. I'm gonna follow you.”

Harry nodded and started off. “You know, if you're ever lost in Paris... just walk towards the river. Like... that's what I'm doing now. Cos Hôtel de Ville is just right there.”

“Hmm,” Zayn nodded. “What street are we on anyway?”

“Saint-Martin,” Harry replied.

"This city is just full of saints!" Zayn cheered. “Saint Louis, Saint Michel, Saint Paul—are there any Saint Harry's? There's no Saint Zayn's...”

Harry laughed. “I'm glad to see you've got your saints figured out now.”

“Saint Joan of Arc,” Zayn added. “Is there a street for her?”

“Haven't seen it yet.”

“Bugger that,” Zayn narrowed his eyes and clucked his tongue. “She's probably the most badass saint of them all—where's her statue? Where's her road? Where's her church?”

Harry giggled. “Zayn, calm down.”

Zayn looked over at Harry, and then a laugh burst from his lips. “I've gone a bit mental haven't I? It's all your fault, Harry. You let me drink all that champagne. Did we pay for all of that?”

“Don't you remember—we told them you were an international model for Versace and I was your assistant, and they decided to treat us.”

Zayn quietly snorted. “Oh yeah.”

“Anyway... I am in charge of taking care of you tonight,” Harry told him with a thumb pointed at his chest.

Zayn laughed. “All right.”

They had just crossed the street to get to Hôtel de Ville, and though the lights of the adjacent busy street were still on, it was practically empty.

“Oh, look! Carousel's still on!” Zayn blurted out, threw down his cigarette, then ran toward the lit up object. It was stationary, but still lit up with hundreds of small light bulbs, the structure glowing golden against the darkness.

"Get down from there—you're going to hurt yourself!" Harry cautioned with a breath of a laugh as he watched Zayn leap up onto the platform.

"I'm not you," Zayn quipped as he jumped from one horse to another, swinging around from one pole to another in the interim.

"Zaynnnn.... C'monnn..... I'm so tired...." Harry whined as he sat down on the ground.

"All right..." Zayn hopped off the carousel and bent down to help Harry up, who was nearly lax, as if he was already asleep. Zayn had a tight grip on his biceps, and Harry grinned up at him through curls that fell over his eyes.

"You're so damn beautiful," Harry whispered, his cheeks still flushed from the wine they were drinking.

"You are, too," Zayn blurted out, not sure that he should be saying that while they were so close together. But it was true. Harry was unreal. Bright green eyes, long eyelashes, cutting angles of his facial bones, dimples, and the glorious crown of curls. Harry bit his lip as he grinned, a grin that could weaken anyone. Lips that always seemed to be so rosy and looked so tender that Zayn kind of wondered what they'd feel like between his teeth and against his tongue.

Zayn closed his eyes and took his hands off of Harry. He doesn't like boys. At least... he never had before. And he loves Harry, but... not like that. Harry's just very good looking. Maybe the most good-looking boy he's ever seen.

"Had a good day in Paris?" Harry finally broke the silence.

Zayn looked down the street, noting the beauty of the emptiness, the glowing towers of Notre Dame in the distance, the hazy purple sky. So quiet that you could barely hear the Seine flowing by, even from this distance.

This was the last time he was going to see the place like this. Maybe the only time. Maybe the only time he and Harry would ever be here like this.

A sudden panic came over Zayn, and his heart started to pound.

He looked back to Harry. "Still want that kiss?"

Harry's mouth hung open, and his eyes widened. "What?"

"Harry, I just—” Zayn flexed his fingers and brought them into fists as he struggled to come up with the right words. Grinding his nails into his palms, he maintained his gaze with Harry. “I just feel so alive right now—and Paris—Paris is amazing but the clock is ticking and it's going to be morning in a few hours—a new day—a day where we have to leave—but I like it here right now—I like this! I like being here. Being on this empty street. With this carousel. And we're the only ones out here and Paris is so beautiful and private and I feel like it's mine and I have never felt so sure of myself as I have in this moment—I love Paris! And I love being here with you! And I don't want to leave, and now I know why all these great artists, these writers, why they fall in love with this city. The streets are euphoria; the glittering Seine, the resilient cobblestone, the warm glow of the street lamps, the cigarette smoke that lingers anywhere you step outside, the art that is displayed on every building, every balcony, every roof, every bridge, and every garden—there's just something about this city that is so shameless about its beauty—so unafraid. I'm not afraid of anything right now, Harry. And we're a part of Paris now—me and you. Paris, in all its beauty, in all its unafraid splendour!"

Zayn's chest was heaving as he finished, having got most of his monologue out in one breath, and now catching back that same breath. He felt strangely buoyant, like everything in his body that had been weighing him down had been released through his words.

Meanwhile, Harry swallowed and then let his mouth hang open as he rapidly blinked. Zayn could hear the croak in the back of his throat. He was literally speechless, though he stared at Zayn's face.

Zayn swallowed and looked down. "Or forget it... I'm still a bit drunk. I'm talking out me arse." He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath through his lips, hoping somehow that the air would put some sense into his head. At least enough to not say these kinds of things out loud.

"No, not at all. That was...beautiful," Harry breathed out. "Me and you... we are a part of Paris now. And this...who knows if we'll ever have this again?"

Harry looked around him, tilting his chin up as he gazed at Hôtel de Ville. Zayn remained silent, noticing that Harry still had a glow in his face. So perhaps his rambling had not put him off.

"But you're wrong about one thing—I am afraid sometimes," Harry said with a tense of his brow. He stepped close to Zayn, until Zayn felt his wine-tinged breath on his lips. "Everyone always tells me not to be so open... to watch out for people who might use me or otherwise mistreat me... but what's the point of living life within bars you set up yourself?"

When Zayn heard this, he thought about himself. He's closed off from most people. He only lets people in who he believes have earned it. But from day one, Harry's embraced him. Harry's let him into his space so willingly. And everywhere they've gone, Harry's talked to locals, asked for advice, got strangers to smile. His gentle and bright nature was always so welcoming.

"So what are you afraid of?" Zayn thought out loud.

Harry looked down. "I get attached to people. I fall in love all the time, with friends, with a place, the occasional romance. But I've come to find that... a lot of things don't last forever. I'm so afraid of losing people, and yet... I leave a piece of my heart with almost every single person I meet. Some bigger than others... And when they leave..." Harry looked at Zayn, his moist eyes twinkling against the bulbs of the carousel. "I reckon I'm leaving a huge chunk of my heart with you, Zayn.”

Zayn inhaled sharply, softly, so Harry could barely hear it. "I'm not going anywhere, mate. This won't be the last we see of each other."

Harry smiled, though he was still crying a bit, so it looked like a strange pout. Zayn gently laughed at this.

"So... you up for that kiss, then?"

"Not when I'm blubbering like a toddler," Harry croaked out as he wiped his eyes with two of his fingers.

Zayn laughed, then swung an arm around Harry's shoulder. He stretched his neck and planted a kiss on Harry's cheek.

"How's that for now?" Zayn asked.

Dimples formed in Harry's cheek as he smiled and turned to Zayn.

----

Harry and Zayn conveniently forgot that the métro closed at midnight, so they were forced to walk back through the streets of the 4^th arrondissement anyway. It was less than a half hour's walk down Rue de Rivoli until the métro station Saint-Paul came into clear view, but enough time had passed for Zayn to feel an ache in his heels and his knees, and the bubbly optimism of the champagne from earlier was now diluted to the gentle madness of physical fatigue.

“How am I not dead yet?” Zayn asked as they crossed the empty street, regardless of the walk sign being red.

Harry swung an arm around Zayn's neck. “Almost there, babe!”

“Harry, we've been walking so much today. I hate you,” Zayn pouted as he turned to face him.

Harry laughed and pointed an index finger at Zayn. “But, hey—last time we have to feel this tired from walking. Silver lining!”

“Silver lining,” Zayn bitterly repeated into the air.

They had to gain entry into their hostel by entering a code on the door, which luckily had been scrawled onto the sticker of their room key. After crossing the emerald carpet of the lobby, Zayn and Harry climbed up the dimly lit staircase to reach their 2^nd floor room.

Zayn stopped in the middle of the second flight of stairs, then looked to Harry. “Carry me the rest of the way.”

“What?” Harry asked with a laugh.

“Carry me,” Zayn repeated with a matter-of-fact stare. “I'm absolutely knackered.”

Harry crossed his arms and pursed his lips. “Climbed the Eiffel Tower today and you're scared of one more flight of stairs.”

“Wait. Wait... “ Zayn cleared his throat. “You're right. It's your turn. Get on me back.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You're the weirdest person I've ever met.”

“I'll take it as a compliment. Hop on!” Zayn waved his hands toward his back as he squatted.

“Nuh-uh,” Harry said as he crossed his arms.

Zayn turned and slumped his forehead against the wall. “You're annoying.”

Harry put his chin up into the air and walked forward to step over Zayn's legs, which were bent and stretched across the stairway. But his boot caught onto the back of Zayn's calf and Harry stumbled forward. Zayn was too slow to catch him, or to even watch the beginning of the fall.

“...Ow,” Harry croaked. He was on his hands and knees on the stairs, one of his legs draped over Zayn's and the other one bent on the floor.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Zayn asked as he crouched down and gently rubbed Harry's wrist. “Come on. Seriously, Harry... what are you going to do without me?”

Zayn brought Harry's arm around his shoulder as he grabbed him by the waist, then walked the both of them upstairs.

Once they got into their room, Harry immediately put down his satchel and bolted to the toilet to relieve himself, not even bothering to close the door. The room was dark, but turning on a light switch was not necessary, since orange light from the neighbouring rooms and lanterns in the adjacent courtyard spilled enough to illuminate the room so that Zayn could still see, only the corners obscured by shadow.

Zayn rubbed a hand through his hair, which had become so limp that it was flopping down over his forehead now. He scratched at his chin, a light stubble that felt soft under the touch. He could still feel the wine in his veins, making him somewhat sleepy and yet like he could still walk around the city some more. He was still standing near the door when Harry came up and clamped a hand onto Zayn's left shoulder from behind, then swung his other arm across his chest. Harry leaned his chin onto Zayn's right shoulder, his soft curls caressing the bare skin on Zayn's neck.

"Merci," Harry whispered before reaching up, tightening his grip and planting a drawn-out peck on Zayn's cheek. “For helping me up the stairs.”

Zayn giggled and turned his head to face Harry, who was still staring at him complacently, reminding him of a cat.

Cheshire cat, Zayn laughed to himself.

Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips to Zayn's cheek again, this time close to his nose. "The French never kiss just once..." he slurred.

Zayn gulped as he kept an eye on Harry and became all too aware that Harry's hands were still on him.

"How about one more for good luck? You know, for the race?" Zayn mumbled as he turned his body fully to face Harry.

Harry smirked and pressed his lips near Zayn's mouth, his curls tickling at Zayn's eyelids as he closed his eyes.

Zayn felt the tip of Harry's nose brush his own, their hot, wine-laced breath misty on each other's lips. He slowly opened his eyes again, staring into Harry's, which were dark, pupils dilated.

Zayn swallowed and instinctively licked his lip, nearly catching Harry's lower plush lip. Harry gasped, his lips now parted, not keeping his eyes off Zayn's.

"Zayn—"

Zayn had lurched forward and grasped Harry's jaw as he took Harry's mouth into his lips. Harry stood rigidly, hands frozen clamped on Zayn's shoulders while Zayn kept his lips pressed against his. Just before Zayn started to feel self conscious, Harry reciprocated with a furrow of his brow as he kissed back, opening his mouth wider to suck on Zayn's lower lip. Zayn slid his hand onto the back of Harry's neck and tugged gently at his curls as he pushed off his toes and lapped his tongue inside Harry's mouth, just to taste him. Harry bent to Zayn's pull without resistance and moaned against Zayn's mouth. They swayed and nearly lost balance as Harry caught himself against the wall, Zayn's mouth dragging on his lower lip and then the edge of his jaw.

“Fucking hell, Zayn,” Harry moaned again before he took Zayn's face into his hands and kissed him once more, licking into Zayn's mouth, making Zayn shudder this time. Harry's long fingers kneaded into Zayn's scalp as he continued to work his tongue in Zayn's mouth. Zayn bit and tugged onto Harry's lower lip as he brought a hand to Harry's shirt collar, then pulled away with a winded gasp. He flicked his eyes upward and finally got a good look at Harry. His mouth was just as wet and red as he imagined it would be after he had his way with it.

He had satisfied the curiosity.

Curiouser and curiouser...

Harry was breathing out hard, a hand grasping the wall as he stared at Zayn.

Zayn cleared his throat as he looked down. "Erm, was that good for you?"

"Oh, yeah..." Harry croaked as he blinked.

Zayn breathed out a short laugh. "Well, we've gone a bit backwards; first we saw each other naked and now we've kissed."

"We French kissed," Harry corrected with a grin.

Zayn flattened his eyes at Harry. Then he broke into a giggle.

He put a hand behind his head and rubbed at his hair. "So..."

"So now I can die and say I've kissed the prettiest boy in the prettiest city in the world," Harry told him with a warm smile.

"Me, too," Zayn replied.

Harry's eyes widened. "Shut up..."

"You shut up," Zayn mumbled as he wandered over to his bed. He stripped off his shirt and kicked off his boots. Meanwhile, Harry peeled off his own shirt and got half of his jeans off as he wandered over to his own bed, just a few feet across from Zayn's.

After Zayn peeled off his own jeans, he sank down onto his mattress, and immediately felt his head spin. The thing was... he wasn't entirely sure if it was from the alcohol he drank earlier or from the kiss he just shared with Harry.

But that was all it could be. Just a kiss. Anything more than that wouldn't be fair to Harry.

"You're not in love with me, Zayn, are you?" Harry interrupted the silence after they had been lying in the dark for a minute.

Zayn curled into himself and rested his cheek on his bicep. "Sorry, Harry..."

"Don't be. This means I get to keep you longer."

Zayn smirked and picked his head up to glance over at Harry, who was flat on his back but staring over at him with a gentle smile of his own.

Zayn felt a warmth in his chest that wasn't due to the wine. There was the promise of Harry in his life. It wasn't just a promise. It was a certainty.

And maybe someday there could be more between them. Or maybe there would never be more. Maybe what happened in Paris would never happen again, and only stay between him, Harry, and the City of Lights. And that was all right, too.

"Goodnight, Harry."

“Goodnight, Zayn.”

----

"Zayn! Zayn! We have to get up!"

Zayn stretched his neck as he leaned his head into the down pillow, keeping his eyes shut. He was too comfortable to do anything that required more energy.

"Zayn!" Harry hushed out as he clamped a hand onto Zayn's bare shoulder this time, and gently shook him.

"Mm...what, Harry?" Zayn groaned. He looked out the window next to his bed, which was left ajar all night. The courtyard was still cloaked in shadow, though he could see the sky brightening above it.

"It's eight o'clock. We have to get to our train in an hour."

"Fuck the train... let me sleep..." Zayn mumbled as he turned on his side and curled the white sheet into his hands, wrapping it over his shoulder.

Harry breathed through his mouth, his pink lower lip protruding in exasperation. "I'm only doing this for your benefit..." He reached forward and grabbed handfuls of Zayn's hair into his fingers and tugged.

"Sod off, Harry!" Zayn growled as he batted away at Harry's hands.

Harry didn't let go. "Zayn, you're the one who always shouts at me when we're late for anything! Quit being such a first-rate knob."

"Oh," Zayn uttered as he relaxed his arms. He turned back to Harry and lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, mate. You know how pissy I get when I'm woke up by anything but an alarm."

"You were quite rude," Harry frowned, pursing his lips into a pout.

"Don't have such a cow..." Zayn cooed.

A laugh burst forth from Harry's mouth. He grinned until his teeth were pressed into his lower lip. "Who even talks like that?"

"C'mere, let me apologise proper," Zayn said as he waved a wrist toward his own chest.

Harry wrapped his arms in front of his bare chest. "Do it in French."

Zayn chuckled. "Mate, I don't know how to say shit in French."

"Merde," Harry said with a smirk.

"What?" Zayn questioned.

Harry laughed. "I'll teach you."

"Okay," Zayn tilted his head in support.

"Je suis," Harry said, the last word forming into a wide grin as his green eyes dazzled Zayn.

"Je suis," Zayn parroted with the drawn-out vowels of Harry's speech.

"Desolé.”

"Desolé.”

"Je suis desolé," Harry concluded.

"Je suis desolé," Zayn slowly let the words glide off his tongue.

"Bon," Harry remarked with a grin.

"Bon," Zayn repeated.

"No,” Harry shook his head. “I was saying 'bon', you just say 'je suis desolé.'"

"Oh—how do you say... I want to stay in bed?" Zayn asked.

"Je veux rester au lit—wait." Harry closed his mouth into a line as the line between his brows grew deeper. "This is serious, mate. We're about to reach the finish line. Haven't you been freaking out about this like...since the beginning?"

"Je veux rester... what was the rest?" Zayn questioned with a squinted eye.

"Zayn," Harry nearly scolded.

Zayn breathed in deep through his nose. "I don't care about the race any more."

The pupils in Harry's eyes expanded. "What?"

"I don't care if we win." Zayn stretched his arms above his head and breathed in deep. As he exhaled, he dropped his torso back down onto his pillows as he stared up at Harry.

Harry approached the bed. "Are you sure you didn't take any absinthe last night?"

"You were with me all night, mate. If I took absinthe, you'd've known," Zayn argued with a flat look.

Harry closed his eyes as he exasperatedly sighed. "Fine, you didn't take any absinthe. But Zayn—"

Zayn reached forward and latched a hand onto Harry's wrist. He grinned, then pulled him forward, making the lanky boy tumble forward and into the bed. Harry twisted around in the sheets trying to right himself up. Zayn laughed. It was like the laws of physics hated Harry.

"Just get back into bed," Zayn told him as he closed his eyes, smile on his face. "Five more minutes."

Harry blinked as he stared at Zayn, a line forming at the bridge of his nose. "Why are you acting so..."

"So what?" Zayn asked as he opened one eye.

"Different," Harry answered as he held a steady gaze with Zayn. "I thought you didn't like it when I let you oversleep. And...now you don't care about the race?"

"Oh, that," Zayn remarked with a breathy laugh.

Harry bent his eyebrows at this.

Zayn laughed again, unable to contain his wide smile as his eyes scrunched closed.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Zayn?" Harry joked, though he looked serious.

Zayn closed his mouth and cleared his throat. "You know, I haven't even had French cup o' coffee yet? Or escargot. Harry, we haven't even gone out to get a fresh, hot baguette! A baguette, Harry! And what about the Louvre, or...or the Arc de Triomphe? We should climb on top of it, yeh? There's so much history here in this city, living history! Right here, right under our feet. The bloody Bastille is down the street!—and I'm supposed to go back to London now?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Actually...the Bastille was burned down, that was kind of the whole point of the—"

Zayn breathed out a huffy sigh. "Harry, mate... when am I going to be in Paris again?"

"But what about the race?" Harry cautiously asked. "If we win, you can come back to Paris any time you want."

Zayn set his mouth into a line as he kept his stare on Harry. "And what if we don't win? What if Louis and Liam get there before us? What if another team has already won?"

"But after everything we've done? After all the hard work, all the running, all the obstacles we've overcome?" Harry asked as he sent Zayn a deep, imploring look.

Zayn glanced his eyes downward. "I suppose I'm being quite selfish, aren't I? I haven't even asked you... This is your race, too, Harry. You want to win just as much as anyone else. And I've been pushing you so much on this race. And I suppose...it's only fair if I let you decide. What do you want to do?"

Harry looked down and swallowed. "I wanted to win this for you."

Zayn's eyes widened. "Harry..."

Harry kept his eyes down. "Then it will all have been worth it, right? All the trouble?"

"Harry..." Zayn reached a hand over and enclosed it over Harry's wrist. "You are worth it."

Harry looked back up at Zayn, his bright eyes growing moist. Zayn gently squeezed Harry under his grip, then rubbed his thumb against the tendon on the inside of Harry's wrist.

Zayn turned his head as he reclined into his pillow. "Let's just enjoy our last day together. Let's enjoy Paris while we still can."

Harry stared over at him as he swallowed, blinking the mist out of his eyes. "Yeah. Okay."

Zayn complacently smiled as he stared over at Harry, who had finally relaxed his shoulders and sank into the mattress next to Zayn.

----

After a half hour's more rest in bed, Harry and Zayn finally rose up out of bed to shower, get dressed, and go out for a morning stroll through Le Marais. The morning was calm, the alleyways shaded beneath crooked buildings. Few cars and scooters sped down the streets and the artisan, vintage, and specialty shops, cafés, kebab corners, and book stores were not quite fully awake yet, either.

Zayn and Harry found themselves leisurely seated outside of a boulangerie upon wicker chairs, a black circular table between them. They had both finished their coffee and Zayn was now smoking a cigarette, meanwhile Harry took his time parcelling out the last flaky pieces of his pain au chocolat.

In true Parisian fashion, there was no rush to leave. Harry sat with his arms outstretched along the back of his chair and the chair next to him. Meanwhile, Zayn had one leg resting on his other knee, watching the random passersby, who were occasionally peeking in to examine the golden glow of croissants, baguettes, loaves of brioche, tartes aux fruits, and all other sorts of pastries from behind the glass of the establishment.

“Harry, how do you say... I'm very happy to be here with you?" Zayn asked after letting out a breath of smoke through the corner of his mouth.

Harry blinked. "Je suis très heureux d'être..." his eyes widened as he caught Zayn's fond stare, his eyes soft and glistening even under the shadow of the canopy. "Oh." Harry had his mouth left hanging open.

"Je suis très... zooroo...d'être..." Zayn attempted.

"Heureux," Harry purred out, as soon as he composed himself again, getting the thickness of the 'r' through his throat.

"Mate, I'll never get the pronunciation," Zayn giggled. "I don't have nearly enough phlegm in my throat to do that.” Harry chortled and gave Zayn a raise of his eyebrows.

"Je suis très heureux d'être ici avec toi," Harry finally finished, a grin across his lips.

"Je suis très heureux... d'être ici..."

"Avec toi."

"Avec toi," Zayn repeated.

"Moi aussi," Harry replied.

"What does that mean?" Zayn asked.

"Me, too." Harry's lips were pressed together into a grin, deep dimples in his cheeks.

"Bon," Zayn added with a nod of his head, smile splayed on his lips.

"...et le ciel de Paris a son secret pour lui... depuis vent siècles il est épris de notre Île Saint-Louis ," sang out the shrill voice of a young girl who was clearing a table after its guest had left. With a lilting tone betraying her weak vocal chords, she continued, " ...quand elle lui sourit il met son habit bleue...hum, hum..."

There was that tune again. The one Zayn had heard at the river bank. Why, out of all the random boulangeries that he and Harry could have run into, did they end up at the one where a girl would be singing this song? It's not like they heard it anywhere else. It's not like it was even popular enough to be in one of those wind-up music boxes in the stands next to the Seine. It's not like he even chose this boulangerie—Harry was the one who saw the grey-and-black striped cat in the window and flitted inside to caress it until Zayn felt guilted to buy something.

There was only one explanation: Zayn was exactly where and when he needed to be. But more importantly, he was with who he needed to be with.

He stared at Harry, who had directed his eyes to the street, watching children skip over the pavement without stepping on the cracks between the cobblestone.

"C'est la vie, n'est-ce pas?" Harry exhaled as he rested his head back, curls brushing along his cheeks.

"Oui," Zayn replied with a hearty nod. He took a drag of his French cigarette and released it through the side of his mouth, watching the tendrils of smoke curl and evaporate into the air. Watching Harry study it with genuine, wide-eyed amazement as it dissipated.

Zayn's lips curled up into a grin. Then he ducked his head low as he looked down at his small, white demitasse of espresso, which was now empty except for the spots of grounds concentrated at the bottom of the porcelain.

Oui, he repeated to himself. Je suis très heureux ici, avec toi.