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“How many more stops?” Seokjin asks, looking at the panel above Namjoon’s head, standing close to him in the crowded car of the Parisian metro.
“Two more,” Namjoon answers, loosely holding his hand and playing with his gloved fingers.
“Trocadéro,” Seokjin tries to read out loud, gently smacking Namjoon on the chest when the younger smirks fondly at his pronunciation. “Stop it, not everybody speaks French fluently like you do,” he pouts. “Where are you taking me?”
“You are too cute. I’m in love,” Namjoon smiles, stepping a little closer when the train stops and people get on and off the car, shuffling past them.
“Fine. Don’t answer,” Seokjin scoffs playfully, a light blush on his cheeks even after three years, and Namjoon puts his free hand on the pocket of his coat to check for the nth time if the little black box is still there.
Namjoon is in one of those music moods again, so classic French songs are blasting from the stereo in the living room all the way to the kitchen, where Seokjin is facing the stove and stir frying noodles with Namjoon’s arms wrapped around his waist as the younger hums the lyrics of Edith Piaf’s La vie en rose behind him.
“We should go to Paris for Valentine’s Day,” he says when the music stops and the next song starts playing, nosing the short hairs of Seokjin’s nape.
“We should be thankful your manager received my grocery list this afternoon and had them delivered to your apartment so I could make us dinner tonight,” Seokjin replies, teasing.
“When you come here we usually order food,” Namjoon says amusedly to justify the emptiness of his fridge, placing a kiss behind the elder’s ear. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“Absolutely positive, Mister Kitchen Terrorist,” Seokjin answers, and he can feel Namjoon’s laughter through his back, pressed to the younger’s chest. “I’m almost done anyways,” he adds, moving the noodles to a large mixing bowl with the rest of the ingredients. He recognizes the chorus of the song playing from the living room as one of Namjoon’s favorites, Sous le ciel de Paris, and Namjoon’s suggestion begins to tempt him. “February 14th is less than a month away,” he tries to argue.
“We are both in between schedules that week,” Namjoon replies, grabbing Seokjin’s hands when they are no longer busy, spinning him around and bringing him close so they can sway to the rhythm of the music. “We can use our well deserved time off to visit the Louvre, go up the Tour Eiffel, shop in the Champs-Élysées, walk around the Jardin des Tuileries, have dinner near the Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre...”
“Show-off,” Seokjin comments, almost giggling, because the growing excitement with which Namjoon lists these lovely sounding places is contagious enough for him to give in. “Let’s go to Paris for Valentine’s Day,” he agrees, grinning, and Namjoon hugs him tight as he leans down to kiss the corner of his mouth.
The cold winter air hits their faces when they climb the stairs to exit the metro station, and Namjoon holds onto Seokjin’s arm to seek for warmth as he guides him past the entrance of the left wing building of the Palais de Chaillot.
They turn left and Seokjin gasps quietly as they keep moving forward: the wide esplanade in front of them leaves an open view from the Place du Trocadéro to the Eiffel Tower, whose illumination against the clear night sky makes for a breathtaking sight he thought he would only ever see in photographs.
“I wanted to save the best for our last night in Paris,” Namjoon tells him with a dimpled smile as they walk through the crowd of people scattered all over the esplanade. “It’s going to start soon,” he adds, briefly glancing at his watch.
Seokjin decides against asking him what exactly is going to start soon, because the past few days Namjoon has insisted on keeping most of the sightseeing they have done a secret and it has always turned out to be a pleasant surprise.
Groups of tourists are gathered against the concrete railing at the end of the Place du Trocadéro, taking pictures and looking at the scenery, and Namjoon and Seokjin search for an open spot to stand in and admire the view, taking in the splendor of France’s most iconic landmark and the City of Lights surrounding it.
“No matter how many times I’ve come here in the past, it always takes my breath away,” Namjoon admits, and Seokjin can see in his eyes the nostalgia of the teenage years he has spent in the suburbs of Paris.
“It’s so beautiful,” Seokjin replies, joyful. “This has to be my favorite part of the trip so far,” he says, tilting his head up for a quick smiling kiss just as a collective ‘oh’ from the people around them brings his attention back to the Eiffel Tower, now bright golden and sparkling white in an effervescent display as its beam lights up the city, like Seokjin couldn’t love this view even more.
He’s too engrossed gaping at the light show to notice Namjoon has taken the little black box out of his coat’s pocket, and he turns to him when the younger gently tugs at their intertwined fingers so their eyes can meet again.
“Do you remember,” Namjoon starts softly, “when I went to visit my grandmother’s home last fall?” He nods. “It was so she could give me my late grandfather’s wedding ring and I could have it fixed for you.”
They have talked about it, about spending the rest of their lives together, but Seokjin can’t help it that his eyes widen and the beating of his heart speeds up when he glances down at the velvet box the younger is holding between them. “Namjoon,” he whispers, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth, “are you...?”
“I didn’t think it was possible to love so deeply and to feel so deeply loved until I met you,” Namjoon says with a fond smile, and Seokjin is grinning, happy tears starting to well in his eyes. “We don’t know what the future may hold, but I know I want you to be part of mine, for as long as you’ll have me. Kim Seokjin,” Namjoon moves to get down on one knee, but Seokjin stops him with a squeeze of his fingers.
“You don’t have to do that, it’s too cold, you sappy fool,” Seokjin says affectionately, tears of joy running down his cheeks. Namjoon chuckles as he lets go of the elder’s hand so he can open the box and look straight into his eyes. Behind them, the Eiffel Tower continues to sparkle as the rest of the world is forgotten to them.
“Kim Seokjin, will you marry me?” Namjoon asks, smiling so brightly his dimples are fully showing and Seokjin hasn’t been more sure of anything else in his entire life.
“Yes,” Seokjin answers, pulling him close for a tight embrace, “a thousand times yes.”