Talking to the Moon // dreamnotfound

i sit by myself

"God, Clay, we're such cliches," George chuckled as he held onto my arm while we walked. 

It was completely dark outside, except for the golden glow of the Eiffel Tower not too far in the distance. The lights reflected off the peaks of ripples in the river that otherwise looked as black as tar that we were walking along. And yeah, Paris at Christmas time was cliche, but it didn't mean it wasn't romantic or we didn't have a good time. 

We didn't go away much, but we decided to this year because if we can, there's no reason not to explore. 

I was holding a cardboard container with a proper crepe in it that we were going to share. There was a drizzle of chocolate, a dusting of icing sugar, a whirl of whipped cream and even sliced plump, juicy strawberries dotting it. 

"All I'm saying is that while it is a crepe, I would also call it a pancake," George reasoned but I thoroughly disagreed. "You're thinking of American pancakes."

"You literally just called them pancakes," I protested.

"Yeah, my point is not that American pancakes aren't pancakes. My point is that this crepe is a pancake," he told me, raising his eyebrows as we found a place to sit by the water. Luckily for us, there was a bench somehow not occupied. Maybe because it was the middle of winter and freezing, but who could tell?

I rolled my eyes at him. "Shut up and eat a fucking strawberry," I grinned, picking one up on the wooden spork that came with it and holding it up to his lips. He smiled before accepting it into his mouth.

"Well, the strawberries here are already way nicer than that cuisine wasteland we call the USA," he concluded after he'd swallowed. "Tastes like nature."

I chuckled a bit at that, trying one myself and agreeing. "Mmm, nature." George gave me a whack on my shoulder.

We sat there, making our way through the crepe, talking about whatever we did. The moon right behind us, though the stars were drowned out by the light of the city. I made George laugh at something so hard at one point that he had to hold onto my shoulder for support. George's face when he laughed like that, even just the sound of him laughing was beautiful. His eyes would all scrunch up and crease at the edges, his lips open so wide that all of his straight, white teeth (felt like I should've written men there) were shamelessly on show and I loved that sight, soaked it up like a sponge does water.

"That wasn't even funny," he spluttered, seeming like he couldn't even breathe. 

"Oh sure, sure," I smirked. "That's why you can barely sit upright from my intensely amazing comedy."

"Shut up, you're so stupid," he said, taking his hand away from my shoulder and actually wiping a tear from his eye, though he was calming down.

"Stupid but funny?"

"Idiot," George muttered and I giggled; I'd been waiting for him to call me that.

"There it is," I sighed contentedly.

There was a bin conveniently right next to us so I reached over and dropped the empty cardboard in it. Looking over to George now, I wanted to kiss him so bad it hurt, but doing things like that in public was still scary. Though being somewhere that our existence had been legal for decades, even if marriage wasn't yet, brought me some confidence that people here were more accepting. It was 2009 after all.

"Uh, Clay," George said suddenly, much softer. "Could you stay there for a second?"

He was looking right into my eyes and I furrowed my brows but stayed. He stood from his seat and moved so that he was right in front of me and was smiling softly at me. When he started lowering himself, I wondered if he was trying to give me a blowjob in front of the Eiffel Tower. I wouldn't put it past him.