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The city of love is beautiful. But it is less beautiful when Thomas is alone, which he is. He misses Alexander. He was supposed to come here with him. They were supposed to be laughing at all the other tourists, making fun of their poorly-accented French. They were supposed to be sipping wine, admiring the Eiffel Tower, pretending to not admire each other instead.
If you ask him, he'll tell you that they're not in love. He'll tell you that they barely even get along; they merely tolerate each other.
But don't ask him; just watch. Watch the glances they pass back and forth, the lingering touches, the little smiles as they turn away.
Sure, they're not in love; but they could be. They could act so hopelessly in love that the city itself would believe them.
Thomas knows this, secretly, but he ignores it in favor of being angry that Alexander backed out of this trip. Technically it was for business, but it wasn't. It was actually just for them. If they got away from work, maybe – hopefully – they would get swept up in Paris, the city of love, and –
Thomas doesn't know, really. He doesn't know what he wishes would come after and. He just knows that he wants something to come after it.
He tries to put the thought aside, but here he is, staring up at the Eiffel Tower, and it feels like a joke. The entire city feels like a joke, and he's the punchline. His hands are empty, but all he can think is that at least one of them should be filled with one of Alexander's.
At least, with Alexander not here to hold his hand, he has avoided the trap of clichés. They won't take tacky photographs in front of the Tower, they won't sip wine together, leaning over a tiny table just as the sun goes down. They won't stay in their hotel room, ordering expensive dinners and champagne after –
Well. It doesn't matter. There is no after. Alexander is not here. Alexander is not in Paris with Thomas, and that's that.
Thomas sighs, challenging himself to not check his phone in case of a text or call from Alexander.
Thomas loves France, really, he does; but how had he never noticed how boring it was when alone? It's a beautiful city for saps, for lovebirds, for couples. But for the lonely? France is just another country, just another place to feel sad.
Thomas gives in and pulls out his phone. It doesn't help; Alexander hasn't texted him since yesterday, when he apologized again for not being able to make it. Thomas hadn't answered.
He shoves his phone back in his pocket and starts walking back to his hotel, hoping to get a bottle of any kind of alcohol and sleep until the trip is over.
He looks down the street both ways, about to cross, but before he can get a foot on the pavement, someone calls out his name. He turns his head to find whoever shouted.
And Alexander is standing there, looking to the world like a man in love, smiling lopsidedly and hopefully. He meets Thomas's eyes and conveys I'm sorry, I'm here.
Thomas approaches him, unable to keep the grin from forming on his lips. "Alexander."
Alexander smiles. "Thought I might find you here."
Thomas raises an eyebrow, stopping just a foot away from him. "Why are you here?"
Alexander adopts a cheeky grin, shrugging. "I couldn't let you be in the city of love all alone, could I?"
Thomas glares at him halfheartedly. "But you were going to."
Alexander's face falls. He looks up at Thomas seriously, honestly. "I'm sorry, Thomas."
Thomas shrugs, acting as if it was no big deal in the first place. "It's not like it was some special tr –"
"But it was," Alexander interrupts pointedly. He takes a step forward. They're close now, toes almost touching. "Wasn't it?"
Thomas stares down at him, the man he is most definitely not in love with, and he determines that never mind, he definitely is, and he takes Alexander's face in his hands, crashing their lips together.
Alexander lets out a gasp of surprise, but then he reacts, reaching up to clasp Thomas's arms, pushing back, holding him close.
Thomas pulls away after a moment, leaning their foreheads together, his breath hot as it mingles with Alexander's. Their eyes meet, and they say what they wouldn't have – couldn't have – if they were anywhere else.
The city of love, indeed.