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**


4. First day of a dream


That next morning I got a very courteously formulated e-mail from a certain Paul Higgins. It told me to meet at Bercy, the largest and most famous stadium arena in Paris, at 11 a.m. sharp. When I first saw the words I couldn’t believe my own eyes: My dream of playing concert in a place as big as Bercy was finally becoming real.

Now that I am standing in front of the doors to the large stadium, the excitement are boiling up inside of me and making my fingertips feel numb from the blood pumping through my veins. I take a deep breath before stepping through the last doors and into the arena. My mouth drop when I see how big the place is. No, actually big is an understatement: Gigantic would describe the room better. Throughout the years I’ve lived in Paris I’ve surprisingly never been inside the Bercy stadium. The only concert I’ve ever been to would be my big brother’s band’s three years ago, and since we only were 200 people at the maximum I won’t call it a real gig. Standing here and knowing that the Bercy can house up to 17.000 people at an event, I for the first time in my life feel a presentation pressure surrounding my mind. I guess I will have to get over it sometime; I can’t spend the whole summer worrying if I might mess up the concert of a specific night.

I find a large, wide stage on my right hand and my eyes immediately glue to the keyboard standing on the very edge of it. A smirk creeps over my face as I hurry to the stage and climb onto it, already imagining the crazy crowd of teenage girls that’s going to be screaming on the—at the moment—empty floor a couple of nights away. I sit myself down at the keyboard chair and place my fingers on the shiny tangents, which you in the spotlights of the stage almost are able to see your own reflection in. When I start playing, it is the first song that comes to my mind that sounds through the notes. I hum along the beautiful lyrics of the slow tune: “Same bed, but it feels just a little bit bigger now. Our song on the radio, but it don’t sound the same.

I lift my head from the keyboard and stare at the large, but yet unfilled concert venue. Just thinking about the thousands and thousands of people that are going to hear me play in this place throughout the summer make my head spin around. I smile when I think of how crazily happy I surely am going to look on my first concert night. I’m most definitely not going to be myself: Letting myself go with a keyboard on a place like this is like a rush of ecstasy.

Right in the middle of a note, I from the corner of my eye observe someone walking onto the stage. This causes me to mishit a tangent, and I stop the playing before I will get to mess the song up any further. I nervously turn around in my seat to get a look at the person who’s entered the stage—or maybe, I should say persons.

“Get your hands away from me, Lou. They’re gross—just like your smelly feet,” I hear a voice offend. In cause of the comment, another one of the voices breaks out in an incredibly loud and funny laugh. It’s first when the strangers locate me sitting by the keyboard that the laughter stops and they go completely still.

The first impression I get of the five foreign boys standing in front of me are that they are all incredibly good-looking. They each have very different looks, but there’s no doubt about it: They are all in a rare case of handsome. One is blue-eyed with blonde-brown locks, one has a couple of warm brown eyes that goes well with his kind smile, one is rocking a styled, black quiff and has the pretties hazel eyes, one is blue-eyed with a nice, brown hairdo and has a couple of remarkable biceps, whilst the last one has cute brown curls and deep green eyes.

I’m ripped out of my own little world when suddenly one of the boys smiles kindly at me with his brown eyes and politely greets me with a, “Hey, my—”

“Wait, what are you doing here?” one of the other boys cuts him off. His hazel eyes stares confusedly at me as his eyebrows moves together in a single, furrowed line. “How did you get in?”

What is he talking about? I have my rights to be here! Right? Or did Paul send me some wrong information by an incident and made me come to the arena at a wrong time? I really hope he didn’t. If he did, I had just gotten myself into a very awkward and unwanted situation.

“How come people always manage to sneak past security?” the brown-haired one with the noticeable biceps notes to the other boys. The blonde one carelessly shrugs his shoulders and answers him with a simple, “Dunno.”

That’s when the boy with the curls takes the word and nods towards me: “Don’t you see? She would have mugged us a long time ago if she knew us—therefore she can’t be a fan.”

I have to concentrate on not letting my mouth drop to my chest when I realize who is standing in front of me: One Direction, my new world-famous—and apparently extremely hot—colleagues.

“No!” I exclaim, abruptly breaking off my excessive thoughts in a loud tone. I calm my voice down to a reasonable level when I present myself, almost tripping over my words: “I’m Gabrielle Moreau, the replacement of your pianist. You know, the one who's stuck back home in England with some kind of disease.”

Wow, I’m not very good at handling being around famous people. It’s no wonder, either: I’ve never been closer than fifty meters to a famous person, which in my case was the fashion designer Vera Wang at one of her shows in Paris a couple of years back.

“Oh!” the brown-eyed says and smiles at me. “Happy to meet you, then. We’re One Direction.”

“Yes, I figured.”

“Are you all right? You look a bit pale.” Oh no. This has to happen now of all times, right? The nervousness always overwhelmes my body at the worst timing. 

“Yes,” I reply and send a direct nod at him. The least I can do is try to act normal. “I’m just fine.”

“I’m Liam,” the boy introduces himself, making me sigh of relief. I still didn’t know any of the boys’ names, and if you ask me that would leave me looking pretty dumb once I had to interact with them.

“I’m Zayn,” the boy with the black, styled quiff tells me.

“I’m Louis,” it sounds from the blue-eyed boy with the nice arms.

“I’m Niall,” the blonde-haired boy says, revealing his thick Irish accent.

“And I’m Harry,” the curly-haired boy with the pretty green eyes at last introduces himself.

I swallow the anxious lump in my throat as I lift my head to regard them with a timid look hiding in my eyes. Now there is only one thing left for me to do: Calm my nerves down and get to know the superstars that had now become my closest colleagues throughout the summer. 

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