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Naim shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against a light pole, trying not to shiver in the frigid autumn air. He had thought himself used to the cold, but he’s rapidly being proven wrong the longer he waits on the sidewalk.
The wind picks up, whistling, pulling dead leaves and cigarette butts into the briefest of twirling dances before discarding them, flying onwards and away. Naim wishes he could follow, that he was as insubstantial as air. At least then he could disappear in the blink of an eye; high, high, high above the ground, nestled … wherever the wind goes. He hadn’t been paid enough attention in year ten science to know.
The minutes are lengthening now. Naim’s shoe crunches down on rubbish beneath his foot and he nudges it away, the skitter of it grating in the silence. Silence.
He glances nervously around. There’s a group of people on the opposite footpath, walking quickly, jabbering away at each other. The distance and layers of scarves and jackets keeps their conversation from him, but their presence is enough to calm him a little. Naim just wishes they would slow down a little. He watches hopefully as they pause, a woman looking in her coat for something, but then they start forward again and turn down a cobbled path, disappearing from view.
Naim searches the top of the street for more people as the chill creeps through his puffer jacket. It pokes its way through his layers, cold fingertips brushing his skin before plunging inwards, nails piercing his flesh, digging past bone, until they begin to wrap around his thudding heart. He’s alone. Unguarded.
He glances toward the window of the shop across from him, and his reflection peers back.
And so does someone else.
He whips around. There at the mouth of the alleyway he stands. Fluffy blonde curls. The same jeans and orange-and-black singlet, entirely inappropriate for the weather. Stiff and boardlike he takes a step forward.
Naim’s fear spikes, terror washing over him. A longer step, his gait picking up, arms pumping and face flat and impassive, yet still so fucking beautiful. Both home and horror at once.
Naim takes a step backward, toward the door of the shop, his right hand fumbling for the lighter he keeps close. He’s thirty metres away now, but Naim doesn’t want to run. Is sick to death of running. He withdraws his lighter and flicks it open as the entity’s lips peel back into a snarl.
Twenty metres.
Fifteen.
Ten.
“Maybe this time the coffee won’t be so fucking terrible,” says a cheerful voice behind him.
Naim turns around abruptly to find Ryan grinning and holding up two coffees, a takeaway bag slung over his wrist.
“You alright?” Ryan questions, studying his expression.
Naim licks his lips nervously and glances over his shoulder. The street is empty. “Yeah,” he hears himself say. Ryan’s expression is doubtful, but they’ve both been at this too long by now. Ryan lets it go.
“You bought all that?” He blurts out, glancing in the glass again. It’s gone; of course it’s gone. His heart rate is slowing almost to normal. He’s getting better at this.
“Re-lax, mate. Take your coffee. Come on.”
Swallowing hard, Naim accepts the coffee thrust in his hand and follows Ryan down the path. His curly blonde hair is wilder than normal, and his cheeks are wind-bitten. His blue eyes seem brighter now that they’re free. He tries not to stare, but Ryan notices anyway.
“What?”
Naim looks away quickly, a little embarrassed. “Nothing.”
“You were fuckin’ staring at me,” Ryan points out. He takes a sip of his drink—hot chocolate, because he doesn’t like coffee— and nudges Naim. “What was it!”
Naim scowls and elbows him. “You know.”
“Know what?”
He looks away, eyes lifting to the sky. It’s sunny and clear, though he’s heard it will rain later. “You know,” he mutters absently, feeling his cheeks heat
After a long moment, Naim realises they’ve been walking in silence and glances over toward Ryan. He’s smiling to himself. His nose twitches. Naim groans.
“Fuck off.”
“See something you like?”
“Nah.” Naim takes a sip of his coffee. There’s syrup in it this time. His stomach clenches at the thought of their precious savings being wasted, but Ryan seems to not care at all. He’s still grinning.
“Where are we going?” Naim tries again.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Ryan says cheerfully.
“That’s why I asked,” Naim throws back. Still, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as Ryan lightly nudges him with his shoulder. Looking about furtively, he reaches his left hand out until it brushes with Ryan’s.
Electricity shoots up his arm and he hides his smile from Ryan by turning his face. A tug has him turning back, though, looking down at their now twined pinkies. “You’re sure?”
Ryan glances around them and shrugs. “I think they’re a little more laidback here.”
“A little bit,” Naim says.
They walk together in silence, drinking their beverages, Naim content to follow Ryan’s lead. It’s busier now, large groups of tourists and citizens alike filling the footpaths. Naim studies them all while keeping an eye on the path ahead. They’re not that different, just a little better dressed with prissier accents. He’s a bit let down by the lack of berets.
“I googled it,” Ryan says suddenly.
“Googled what?”
Ryan glances over, his blue eyes bright. The corner of his mouth lifts up into a crooked smile. “Whether people like us are, you know, more accepted here.”
Naim’s throat tightens. “And?”
“And,” Ryan says, unhooking their pinky fingers. For a moment Naim’s worries spike, and then an arm hooks over his shoulder and draws him close.
There’s a good ten centimetres height difference between them, and Naim feels every one of them as he’s tucked into Ryan’s side. For a heartstopping moment he can’t breathe, but Ryan is solid and warm against him, the weight of his arm grounding. The bolt of fear dissipates, though he feels the echo of it reverberate through him. Lingering. Turning his mouth sour.
But, no one gives them a second look as they continue on their path. No one seems to care at all. Naim had figured this would be the case. The logical outcome. Here is nothing like home; it’s sprawling and vast and full of strangers. But, logic is hardly a notion one would ascribe to his and Ryan’s situation. And he’s still fighting the kneejerk fear that comes with every brush of Ryan’s skin.
He just wants the sweetness. The flood of it that comes after he bites a crisp apple or lets a fruit tingle dissolve on his tongue.
It’s better these days. The further they leave Bandi in their rearview mirror, the freer he feels. Like he can slip out of his restraints. He doesn’t have to twist himself into shapes to fit in, or hide behind silence and small talk. Instead, he can grow.
Naim feels it then. The nudge inside him. A chrysalis splitting open, a thousand butterflies spilling out and ricocheting around his stomach. He glances up at Ryan and realises he’s smiling. Not the tiny polite one reserved for his Mum or Churchgoers or school teachers, but something full—something much brighter that only Ryan seems to elicit from him.
“I like this,” he admits.
“Me too,” Ryan agrees. He glances around before leaning over and pressing a kiss to Naim’s temple and grinning. “See? No pitchforks.”
“The guillotine, maybe.”
“Let them eat cake!” Ryan says and wiggles his bag of goods.
Despite himself, Naim laughs. He’s so fucking in love—he knows he is— and the feelingis so big that it fills his chest to the very brim. Asshole.
They walk for a few more minutes before jumping on the metro. It’s brightly lit and crowded, but the two of them huddle together against the door. Naim watches for pickpockets but their station arrives quickly and he follows Ryan, so close he almost steps on his heels.
“Will you tell me where we’re going now?” he asks, kicking the back of Ryan’s shoe.
“You haven’t guessed?”
“Should I have?”
“You are such a fucking dickhead, Naim.” Naim opens his mouth to retort but then they exit the station and he immediately realises that, yeah, he is a bit of a dickhead.
He blinks in astonishment at the iron tower, reaching high into the perfectly blue sky, sunlight bouncing off its lattice structure. Tall and dominating the cityscape and no longer a wild fucking dream, The Eiffel Tower sits waiting for them, truly only a few minutes walk away.
When Ryan had asked him where they should go, Naim had dug up the silliest most childish fantasy he could think of. What little television he’d been allowed as a child had imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, and something about Madeleine had simply stuck with him. Perhaps because he had always been the smallest for his age, or because he often felt like the odd one out.
So he’d blurted out France and that had been it. Some tendril of hope had attached itself to the idea and soon it had become a mantra. Don’t look back. Keep going. Look forward, to the future, to what they might forge for themselves in another place. France. As if it were achievable. As though either of them had any fucking idea how to learn the tiniest bit of French.
“It’s like the pictures,” he manages, glancing at Ryan. He’s watching Naim keenly, blue eyes bright behind a tangle of curls.
He must be just as mesmerised as Naim because he half huffs, half laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Come on, a bit closer.”
Naim follows him, but his eyes keep drifting up, trailing over the edges of the tower and following its ascent into the clouds. He’d never quite let himself believe that he’d leave Victoria, never mind Australia. Fuck, he had never let himself think he remotely deserved the opportunity. The disconnect between his past beliefs and his reality tangle, lodging painfully in his throat.
“Naim.”
His eyes jump to Ryan. Ryan scans his face, expression gentle. “We deserve this, Naim.”
He sucks on his front teeth, but he nods. They do. They’re here. They got here by working themselves to the bone, and by banding together. And this thing, can go fuck itself. What he feels … it’s normal. It's allowed, and even celebrated, and there are people and communities and acceptance within arms reach, if he’s brave enough.
With Ryan by his side, he will be. Someday, soon. He’ll keep trying, smoothing over his fears, reorganising his thought processes. One day he’ll step out their bubble and be able to live freely for the first time without fear, nor the lingering edges of disgust and embarrassment.
First, though, he wants this day with his boyfriend. His boyfriend.
“Yeah, we do,” Naim agrees, and it’s him that takes Ryan’s hand this time. It’s warm in his own, and calloused in some places. He likes the texture, and the way it fits against his own palm. Fuck, he likes it a lot.
They find a spot on the grass in the park sprawling out either side of the Eiffel Tower. Ryan pronounces the name of it —Champ de Mars— so terribly that a passing woman sends them a scathing look that has them bursting out laughing.
They sprawl together and Ryan flings a pack of cigarettes at him before unloading his other purchases—a stack of pastries, enough to make them sick, and bottles of water. Naim snatches a croissant and drops in his lap before digging out his lighter.
“Can we smoke here you reckon?”
Ryan considers their surroundings and shrugs. “Dunno. D’you reckon anyone will care?”
Naim glances around furtively. They’re far enough away from other groups of people, and the wind isn’t strong. Feeling a little rebellious, he lights up a cigarette and takes a drag anyway.
Across from him, Ryan zips his jacket up higher and cradles his drink. He’s relaxed, his shoulders slouched, and his hair looks like spun sunshine. Naim’s eyes drop to the tender smile on Ryan’s face and he promptly tries not to blush.
“Here,” he says, thrusting the cigarette toward Ryan.
He doesn’t take it. Instead, he leans forward, eyes darting between the cigarette and Naim’s face. Waiting. Larrikin smile creeping wider. Naim considers him before taking the cigarette from his own mouth and blowing out. With another quick glance around, he leans through the smoke and presses a quick kiss to Ryan’s mouth before poising the cigarette over his lips.
Ryan takes it, eyes locked on Naim. “You think you’re cute,” he says through the cigarette in his mouth.
“Nah.”
“Eh. You’d be right, thought,” Ryan says, and he looks away, maybe a little abashed. Naim can’t help but stare at him as the pleasure bubbles in his chest. He likes it when he’s complimented. Especially … like that.
He knows the thing takes the form of who you most desire. That knowledge is sometimes diluted for him a little—by fear, by proximity. They’ve been alone for so long, with only each other to truly rely on. But, when Ryan looks at him, compliments him. Touches him. It hits Naim all over again.
I only want it to look like you.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he scrambles up and kneels in front of Ryan.
“What are you-”
Naim takes Ryan’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. He tastes like hot chocolate and smells like his godawful deodorant. It’s still still the sweetest kiss he’s ever experienced, Ryan’s hand cupping the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the baby hairs at the nape.
“Thanks,” he says breathlessly.
“For what?”
“For…” Naim waves his hands, unable to get the words out. “Everything,” he decides. “Everything.”
And he shoves Ryan down, laughing at Ryan’s surprised delight, and kisses him again under the bright Parisian sun.