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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35. Shed of treasures

 

>>Harry<<

Rows upon rows of bright plastic boxes meet my eyes as I stroll down the narrow isle, eyes scrolling down the pathway of their endless colors. The many different shades of blue is now standing before me; I reach out a hand and pick on the navy paint's prize. Quickly I pull it back in alarm. The boxes is staggering on the small shelves and the awkwardness of splashing a brand new box of color across the floor and ruin my neatly picked-out clothes by Lou should defiantly not be taken out on me.

"What are we doing here again?" I turn towards Gabrielle, forgetful. I know she told me just minutes ago what we're going to find in the shop, but somehow the information has already slipped from my brain in stupidity.

Her hand grasps around mine and she starts towards the counter, absentmindedly zig-zagging through the tall shelves and narrow pathways in the small shop. "We're going to get the last few colors for my little painting-project." A mischievous smirk forms on her lips. "And as you've probably forgotten, you promised to help me do it days ago."

I raise my eyebrows. "I did?"

"Yes, ma chérie, you did." A shiver goes down my spine when she leans in to place a fast kiss on the corner of my mouth, her lips as soft as silk. I love it when she speaks French.

We stop in front of an ancient wood counter. The carvings in the tree seems to become alive when my fingers questioningly reach out and trail the carefully decorated patters of flowers down to the middle of the counter--
I jerk back when an unfamiliar face suddenly is in front of me, black eyes staring back at me with a hardness that quickly makes me feel uncomfortable. Beneath the counter's surface I feel Gabrielle's hand slipping into mine. 

The man--probably the shop's owner, I remind myself--places his large, strong hands on the old wood. With an raised eyebrow he looks expectantly at me. For a moment I stand there in amazement; then I blink, and seize back into reality. He wants me to give him an order and I'm just standing here all blanked out. 
"Uh," I mumble, a tad stupidly. Coughing to clear my throat and raising my voice to an audible level, I pull the brains of my lacking skills in French together, "Je veux les peintures. Ils
 résistant à l'eau, s'il vous plaît."

"Quel voulez-vous?" the man questions me, leaving me in dumbfounded bewilderment. I hadn't expected him to understand a word of what I said, yet reply me with something I barely understand a word of due to his fast mouth. My mouth drop open as I search for the right thing to say, but to my luck Gabrielle is quick to notice my uncomfortable behavior and saves me by uttering a few short sentences in French to the owner of the shop, who soon turn around to go find the colors Gabrielle has told him to. With a wide grin on her face she turns away from the desk to face me.

"Your French is terrible," she laughs.

I raise my eyebrows in slight surprise. "Pardon me?"

"I thought you were fluent in French? At least that's what I've comprehended from what people are saying."

"Well, 'people' always fancy up the truth."

"You're referring to the media when you say 'people', right?" she slowly speaks after a moment of considering silence.

I nod. Popping the p I say, "Yup."

Even though my try of impressing her had gone wrong, I still can't help slipping an arm around her small waist and pulling her a tad closer. The admittance of my failed attempt at French can wait for later. Right now, she is by my side.

 

 

 

The pointy corners of an old heap of wooden boards falls within my view as I step outside, thrusting the glass door behind me securely shut. It's the only thing I see except the lush green grass and a simple deep-blue pond in the backyard; the old shed with small dirtied-up windows towering before us. Weed is stuck in the dirt between the tiny tree house and the ground and the planks that makes out the sheds four walls has become grey and colorless throughout the many rainy days, storms and thunder it has lived through. To say it's worn would be a heavy understatement.

"I see now why this needs a makeover," I admit, crinkling my nose in slight disgust. "It's a dump."
Gabrielle hooks another box of the weighty 5-liters paint on me. I wince, but a fast smile flashes on my face anyway; she is punishing me on purpose because I never can keep my mouth shut--not even when it comes to her old childhood's playhouse.

"It's not a dump," she tells me off. A relaxed smile slips onto her lips when her eyes with a warm spark glide to the shed. "It's home." She picks up a box of paint herself and we move towards the small treehouse's entrance, almost synchronic. She pushes the door open with her shoulder and it bursts open by her touch. "Besides, my dad promised me he'd take care of the outsides as long as we fix up the inner parts."

I drop the paint boxes to my feet, staring in awe at my surroundings. Gabrielle hadn't been wrong when she said the shed was something special. I can speak my opinion without a doubt: It certainly is. "Wow."

On shelves, small tables and even on the surprisingly clean cement floor around us are low-burned, white candles, paintings and photographies scattered. Showing faces of Gabrielle, Mr. Moreau and a lot of unfamiliar young persons, the portraits and pictures shows me the connections of her family; posing in front of the Statue of Liberty, with flowers around their necks by an exotic dinner table on Hawaii and with tanned children's legs in the ocean by an unknown beach at the southern coast of Provençe, they learn me where she has been and with whom of the family I have barely met yet. It's like all her memories are placed inside this single room; ushered to the side and hidden away for a stranger like me to gain knowledge about. And somehow the sense of it makes my head go dizzy with amazement.

Gabrielle urges forward into the small room with the hint of a mournful smile. "You like it?"

I release a breath I haven't realized I've been holding. "It's like an old treasure box: Worn and unpleasant on the outside but hiding something of a very great value on the inside."

I don't get an answer back. The room has been put in silence. I spot her a few steps away by a round table, eyes gazing emptily down at a picture clutched inside her small hands. Within the moment I'm at her side, sending a tad worried glance down at the framed photography. Behind the slightly stained glass the image of a beautiful black-haired woman in her early 30's and a young girl are captured; the love in the woman's dark-brown eyes radiates through the picture and the child's joyful laughter is undeniable.

I point to the woman, by far having figured out who the pretty, young girl by her feet is. "Who's that?" 

Gabrielle's hands clutches the picture tighter. "No one special," she swallows.

"Is it that old maid from Bradford you used to have?"

"Uh." She hesitates a little. "Yeah. Sure." Resistantly putting down the framed photography on the table, she turn around to face me with a small smile. "Let's get going with that paint, shall we?"

And so we do; soon the paintbrushes are drawn and the progress in the room becomes visible before I can even get to turn around and memorize the shed's old planks. Illuminating the room in the colors of the wind, the green, blue, white as well as the red does their job fully.

A rough surface brushes past my cheek in a sliding movement. I jolt forwards in surprise and lightly hit by head against the wall I just gave a new layer of paint a moment ago. I draw backward, resignedly; paint is not only only on my cheek now, but also on the tip of my nose and my forehead--which basically is my whole face. Gabrielle breaks out laughing beside me and I turn towards her with a serious facial expression. 

"This is not amusing," I growl, poking a finger at her chest.

This only makes another giggle escape her. The worst part: She doesn't even try to hide it. "Oh yes, it is."

"You shouldn't have done that." My eyes fall upon the paintbrush in her hand, stained with the bright color of white. The color she not longer than a moment earlier had marked on my cheek. My eyes search back to her face, her expression now suddenly not so cocky. "This means war."

I dip my hands in the blue paint below my feet, and then, I launch forward. To my luck Gabrielle is not prepared of my move and I easily lock her inside my arms before smearing the paint across her face. "Oh my gosh, this is so amusing!" I intimidate her with a laugh. Even through the blue paint is all over her face, I can see the red burning through as she blushes.

To my surprise she wiggles out of my grip before I'm aware of it. Dipping her hands with the brush in her own white paint, she's quick on her reflexes to throw it at me. Only having one thing in mind, I set after her once again: To make her clothes just as stained in bursting colors as mine.

   We run around the room in what feels like ages; splashing our colors at each other like there's no tomorrow and obviously seeming to enjoy it--even if you want to, you can't deny the grins on our faces.

A laugh escapes Gabrielle when she once again gets a hold of me; even though I'm the strongest one of us, it's still not a fair game with her small figure constantly sneaking out of my grip. Padding her palms against my cheeks and smearing out the white on my skin yet again, I at last manage to finally rip her hands away from me and tackle her.

We end up on the floor with a thump, limbs tangled together in a mess that forever will be unsolvable. My eyes find hers from the short distance there's between our faces and at once it's like we drop the paint-stained fight. Our hands doesn't drop back into the paint boxes, but in stead to our sides where they slowly find each others. As we lie there on the cold cement floor, my hand reaches out to touch her face. A finger slowly traces down her temple, caressing the fine features that stun me every time. How many times I've kissed those faint pink lips, felt the softness of them against my skin and only craved for more. The brown eyes that can show so much emotion, how the color changes from dark to lighter brown between the pupils and the white. How I so easily get lost in them; like now.

I peer into her eyes for just a second longer. Then, the fatal words slips. "Gosh, I love you."

For a moment, the amazement takes control of her eyes and her mouth slides open, the upper lip trembling slightly. Then the glorious spark I know better than anything else ignites and she flashes me the very same smile that makes my legs go jelly beneath me. 

"I love you, too," she whispers in my ear.

The words are still echoing inside my head when she forcefully pulls my head down towards hers to let her lips press firmly against mine.

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