Work Text:
PARIS
The little white mug clinks against the frame of Thom’s glasses, like a smaller version of the bells tolling down the cobblestone block. His coffee has finally cooled down to a manageable temperature and now all he has to deal with is the ridiculous bitterness that the French insist on imbuing their espresso with, black and thick and much too strong. It’s perhaps the only thing that feels wrong to him about this city. Sighing a bit, with the steam hitting his nose and the sun soaking into the back of his shoulders, he ventures to Rook, “We could just stay here, you know.”
Across the table, Rook gives him a look over his espresso. “No,” he says, “We said we’re gonna go across the continent. So that’s what we’re gonna do.” He punctuates it with a sip of coffee. It is a little ridiculous that Rook, instigator of bar fights across the globe, has to sip his espresso out of a tiny cup. He thinks if he brought it up that he’d be dead in the alleyway, though.
“Europe is not a continent,” Thom corrects him, peering into the street just across from the café. Even with the shop signs and shadows twining into the distance, it still feels new and open. The composition is just right, he decides, and goes to pull his camera out of his backpack.
“Is too,” Rook snaps back, his voice as biting as the espresso.
Thom peers for a moment, then tilts the camera sideways and peers through the viewfinder. “Europe is a geopolitical region,” he tells Rook as he waits for someone to finish walking past a sign he particularly likes- the one with the nice gloves. “Eurasia is the landmass, so it’s the continent.”
He can hear Rook snort and grumble, “That’s bullshit.” Thom has a feeling he’s just grouchy because the waiter wouldn’t serve him Parisienne coffee yet. He snaps the photo and catches the polaroid as it slides out, not paying Rook any attention. He’s having too good of a time to get into a debate with him.
“I’m just saying, it is rather nice here,” he continues as he waves the picture with one hand and sips his coffee with the other. “The music is fine, the culture is spectacular, and we can actually find somewhere decent to stay. Plus, no one pays attention to anyone else here. It’s refreshing.” He quickly checks in his bag to make sure he has enough film. He’d hate to run out- refills of the right size are so hard to find in street shops and he hasn’t quite figured out how to shop online in Europe. The mechanics should be the same, he knows, but his miserable attempt to purchase a new slouchy hat spoke otherwise. “Besides, isn’t that girl band you like staying for a month before resuming tour?” Rook narrows his eyes at him, so Thom sets his cup down with a clink and continues, “That one with the metal and the pyrotechnics and all of the foul language. Oh, you know.”
Rook says nothing, so Thom knows he has a point, and they’re silent for a long while. “Everyone goes to Paris,” Rook finally mutters and pulls out a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He has a point too. “Have you taken a picture of that yet?” Rook asks, pointing down the main street with his lighter at the gold war statues.
Thom is ready to sigh at the obvious ploy, and the fact that those statues have been photographed more times than Shakespeare has been misquoted, but gets up anyways and downs the last of his coffee. “Fine, let’s go.”
Rook is on his feet without another word and they’re gone like a whirlwind.