We'll Always Have Paris - A Harry Styles Fanfiction

Gabrielle Moreau is a 19-year old French girl living in Paris, the “capital of love”. To most people she looks ordinary, but behind her high-built façade hides a girl that suffers. She tries to shut the inferior sides of her life out by doing the things she loves and letting her thoughts circle around something elsewhere—and she succeeds in focusing on the good things in life flawlessly.
When Gabrielle an early morning gets a call from One Direction’s manager, who offers her the opportunity of working with them on their summer tour in Paris, she immediately replies him with a yes. She doesn’t know it just yet, but within the next few months she will get to grow a close bond to each of the boys in the band—and particularly one of them. Before she knows it, Gabrielle has been thrown into something she this time won’t be able to pull herself out of … Will she finally start opening herself up to someone and let them in without any conditions? **Check out the trailer in the right sidebar**

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33. Capture the moment

 

>>Gabrielle<<

Our intimidate moment is roughly interrupted when the alarm clock of the oven echoes through the flat. We both jump out of our heated positions, almost knocking our foreheads against each other by coincidence in the rush. Whilst Harry hurries to the kitchen, I mischievously yelp, "don't burn the potatoes!" after him. A smirk forms on my lips. You only have the fun you make yourself, right? 

"Love, do me a favor and put the plates and silverware by the coffee table in the living room? I wanna watch telly," it sounds from Harry as he takes out the burning hot metal tray from the oven, dropping it on the stove when he arises from the ground. 

His request makes my body go still. Since when does he think he can demand something like that from me? "Oh, that's all right. The quality time I was looking forward to spending with my boyfriend doesn't matter anyways," I sarcastically speak, raising an eyebrow at him. 

He drops the plate with beef in his hands. Then he moves back towards me, stepping close and lifting my face with a finger to force me to look into his eyes. He can easily spot that I am not amused. 

"Babe. I wanna watch telly because there's football on the program. England versus Italy. And you love football, so there's no need to act stubbornly mad, is there?"

"Oh," I realize out loud with a giggle. "Didn't think about that."

   We make ourselves comfortable in the couch with our plates of steaks, potato chips - and for the healthy side, rods, but no one eats those of they have the choice anyways. The television is turned up, the channel switched to the one we're looking for and our legs swung comfortably onto the sofa, twisting and turning in a tight mess we can't care less about. Being intertwined up with him yet again felt strangely nice. Something about it all has a feeling of those slumber parties you always used to have when you were younger; maybe it's the way we yelp at the players on the screen, pretending that they actually can hear us or just the fact of what a nice time you can have with tasty food and someone special.

My stomach is quickly filled with the delicious meal and as I can't reach to the edge of the coffee table, I place the dirtied up dinner plate on my swelling belly. I feel a burp coming up, but I hold it in within the very last moment. Harry might be my boyfriend, but I have to draw some limits in the sand at some point. Bad hygiene manners is going to be one of the options on the forbidden side.

My eyes glue to the screen when one of the English players cross a rather large part of the field, entering an unguarded point of Italy's goal area. Without a single consideration on mind, he kicks the ball powerfully. To my recognition it misses the goal keeper's fingertips by an inch before it strikes fast into the net behind him.
Harry shoots straight up. His curls are all messed up when he aggressively punches holes in the air with his fist. "Yes, that's how it's done! Yes, yes, yes!" he shrieks, completely unable to stop himself. "Italy wipes England's arses and you know it!"

He turns around in his seat and send me a long gaze, looking like he almost anticipates me to start cheering as loud as him. But I don't do what he prefers; a tad provokingly I sigh and roll my eyes at him before speaking my mind, "You're such a nationalist."

"I am not," he strongly insist. "Italy just sucks."

I cough. "Dick." Again, I cough.

"Pardon me?" I watch in deserved amusement as his face twists into something that is anything but nice.

I carelessly shrug my shoulders. "Dick."

Harry doesn't utter as much as a word. His facial expressing turns blank. For a few long moments, our eyes staring piercingly through each other is everything. Then, a grin breaks his well-held façade of sulkiness. He launches forward, pulling a cushion with him on the path towards me. I discover what's going to happen just before he strikes and hopelessly roll out of the couch, dropping the dinner plate on my stomach on the soft grounding whilst trying not to get caught in between Harry's long, strong arms which I know will be able to capture me within a minute if he only wants to. I run up the staircase, learning that he is right in my tracks when I turn my head back to take a look. He's laugh echoes against the narrow, oblique walls, but I only keep on taking every step in a rush. 

The door is quickly shut behind me when I enter my room. In a try to ensure myself I lean against its tall frame, but not more that a moment later I feel Harry's weight being pressed against it and the door swings open due to my body automatically backing away. Standing incredibly still with my legs pressed up against the edge of my bed, I freeze. I see Harry bursting through the door and coming towards me. A laugh escapes me when he tackles me, and I take him with me down in the fall to my bed--an action that isn't surprising.
I find myself curled up beside him on the dark-red sheets. Our chests are raising rapidly, almost in the same pace.

And here we are once again. Each time we go to my bedroom, we always end up in this exact position. On my bed, bodies lying so close together we can feel each other's heart beat.

I notice Harry's handsome face hovering above me when I glance up. The sun has without me realizing it disappeared behind the tall skyscrapers outside my window, now gradually being replaced by the silvery moonlight. With no lights switched on in the dim room, everything around me twists into another view by the new illumination. 

The rays of silvery light casts shadows across Harry's face, only leaving half his face visible to me. My eyes finds his by routine, and once again I have to surrender into the greenish wonder of them.

I'm ripped out of my trance when he gives my hips a playful squeeze. "Gottcha," he breaths, a raspy laugh sounding from his throat as he pecks the spot where my shoulder and neck meets.

An idea pops into the back of my mind.

Reaching past his chest, I fumble to get my hands on the small vintage camera on my beside table. When I finally catch hold of it, I pull it back towards me and switch it on. I lay down on my back beside Harry, holding the camera out in front of us.

The good thing is that I don't even have to tell him what I'm doing; he put the pieces together long ago, already when I reached for the device, and that is something you cannot demand from many guys. It's as if he has tried this thing multiple times before.

He tilts his head to the side, a wide smile planted on his lips when he presses a kiss against my temple. I close my eyes. Then I snap the picture.

By pulling out the small piece of photo paper I retrieve our award. Knowing that it will have finished in a few minutes, I put the snapshot in the corner of my bed.

We keep on shooting pictures for God knows how long. Twisting our faces into unfortunate grimaces and taking those cliché couple pictures you always see in teenage gossip tv-shows, we show the affection we share for each other to the camera like it's our only guest. Slowly the pile of photos on my bedsheets grow, but we don't take any notice of just how much of my camera's expensive film we're using. 

I raise to sit on my knees, slipping one leg on each side of his torso. A small smile is placed on my lips when I through the camera peer down at the boy beneath me. I snap a shot of him just before he pulls on a smile; making the sense of him on the picture so much more beautiful.

I lower the camera. Tilting forward I pretend to want to kiss him, but just before my lips is about to touch his I pull away, a cheeky smirk spreading on my lips.

His face shows me his obvious startle, then suddenly it twist into an odd kind of aggravated expression. If it in reality wasn't aggravation--

Fast his big hands slide around my neck, cupping my cheeks as he forces my face down to his. Our lips meet without any kind of resistance. 

Shutting everything out of mind, I let myself go.

I toss the camera aside. This time I want to feel as close to him as humanely possible, even if the lens of my vintage camera will be the price. The feeling of Harry's lips against mine gets passionated when he deepens the kiss with a touch of his tongue, making me swell just by the thoughts wondering about in my mind. Still trapped between my legs and beneath me, he pulls away to strip off his black T-shirt. For a second, his green eyes finds mine from behind his tousled, messed up curls. Then, he roughly pulls me back down on top of him in another deep kiss.

I barely notice how my worn tee is peeled off my skin and thrown away on the floor; everything is happening too fast for my eyes to follow. 

My kisses trail downwards. From his neck to the toned muscles on his stomach to his...

And that's when I sit up straight. Damn it. Everything I want to happen always has to happen at the most unpleasant time, doesn't it?

I tuck the loose hair flowing around my shoulders behind my ear in a try to pull myself together. "We can't do this."

Harry pulls himself up on his elbows, driving a sloppy hand through his dark-brown locks. His lips part slightly as if he wants to say something, but no words is spoken. Hurt shines through his eyes and his facial expression tells me that he is nothing but disappointed. 

Believe when I say that I feel the same way, too. 

"My dad will be home any minute," I  finally hear myself explain with an annoyed tone. "I just wouldn't want him walking in on-- You know..."

I watch as he falls back onto his back, frowning. A heavy sigh escapes his lips before he glances over at me, resignedly raising his eyebrows. "Timing is a bitch."

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