Word Count: 1455

“So, where are you from?”

They were in a restaurant—not of the cheap or fast-food chain variety, but nothing Paris would consider especially romantic either. It was the sort of place he could imagine meeting a group of friends if he’d had enough of them to make a proper lunch date out of it. Instead, it was just he and Ross-the-Nutcracker-Prince sitting across from one another, eating sandwiches that were decent but nothing to rave about, and fresh made hot chips that were quickly growing cool. He could only describe the atmosphere as “average,” perhaps catering to a more intellectual crowd than what he was used to spending a majority of his time around, but it was peaceful and the pace was unrushed, and it beat spending most of his nights at home or out scouring the city for monsters.

“Where am I from?” Paris repeated, amused by the sudden question and not quite understanding the reason for it. He was sure he didn’t give off the impression of someone who was well-traveled. The adventurous tales he had to tell were a bit far from the ordinary, in any case. “I’m from here,” he said.

“Your whole life?” Ross wondered.

“Yup. I’ve never left the state.”

Unless, of course, one counted his travels in space, but that wasn’t something he could discuss with just anybody, and because the experiences were so bizarre to begin with, he didn’t really count them.

“And the only time I’ve ever really left the city has been to go to the beach, and then this summer when I volunteered at camp,” Paris continued, leaning against the table with his face propped on one hand as he nudged his chips around his plate with the other. “I’m home grown talent.”

“Oh. Wow,” Ross said. Paris couldn’t tell if he was surprised or not. His brows were slightly raised, but other than that he didn’t look like he thought too much of it. Then again, Ross seemed the sort to have been places and done things with his young life. A skinny kid from Destiny City probably didn’t seem as glamorous in comparison.

In an attempt to make a better impression, Paris delved a bit into his relatives. “My mom’s from here, too, though she moved to New York a while back, and my dad’s from Louisiana. La Nouvelle-Orléans.”

“What?”

“New Orleans,” Paris said.

“Oh. Duh. I should have known that,” Ross replied with a laugh. He seemed a touch more engaged now. “You speak French?”

“It was the only subject I ever made an ‘A’ in at school,” Paris admitted. “My dad’s parents came here from France and opened up their own restaurant in the French Quarter, so my old man’s fluent in both English and French and my mom got it into her head when I was born that she wanted to raise me bilingual.”

“What part of France are your grandparents from?” Ross asked, his mouth quirking into a tiny smirk. “Paree?”

“Funny,” Paris said, “but no. Try further south. My grandfather was from Marseille and my grandmother was from another town about an hour away from there. Arles.”

“Arles?”

“It used to be its own Kingdom a long time ago, I think, but most people know it as the place where Van Gogh cut off his ear.”

Ross’s lips twisted into another smile. “Charming place,” he commented.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever seen it in pictures.”

“And you’ve never been down to see your grandparents?”

“Nope. They don’t really talk to my dad much anymore. Probably for one of those petty reasons, like he wanted to be an artist instead of taking over the family business, or something like that. He’s s**t at cooking, so he wouldn’t have been very good at it anyway.”

“Are you the only dancer in your family?”

“As far as I know,” Paris said. “Honestly, the LeFays aren’t a very interesting bunch.”

“Chefs, an artist, and an aspiring dancer,” Ross observed. “Seems pretty interesting to me.”

Paris stared across at him uncomfortably, taking in the expression on his face, the amusement in his eyes, and trying to gauge what he was thinking. It had been a bit tricky so far, keeping his distance from someone who’d expressed such an obvious interest already, and he was often hesitant to go out alone with him. Usually some of the other dancers would accompany them if they went to a movie or stopped by a bar on the way home, and after a couple of weeks of group outings he’d thought it was safe enough to agree to a dinner just between the two of them, without it seeming to be anything special. He thought he’d gotten the “we’re just friends” point across well enough.

He couldn’t help but remember his first few dates with Chris and all the questions they’d exchanged between them—Where are you from? Where do you go to school? What are you studying? What do your parents do?—and he noted how closely Ross’s inquiries had begun to mirror some of those. He tried to tell himself it was just friendly curiosity, but then again, he’d never really asked things like that about his friends. What he knew about them, he knew from observation and casual conversations. The problem was that he didn’t know if that’s how it was normally done, or if Ross’s way was just as acceptable.

Paris didn’t go around with the intention to making friends. If it happened, it happened; if it didn’t, it didn’t. He didn’t usually date either. He didn’t typically get to know the finer details of his friends’ pasts. He wasn’t sure where the line was between the two, when simple curiosity became interest of a different sort.

When the waitress came to place the check on the table, Paris reached out for it but was beaten by Ross, who scooped it up and slipped a card inside and gave it back to the waitress before she could even begin to walk away.

“I could have paid,” Paris told him. “At least for my part.”

Ross waved him off and sipped at his drink. “It’s fine.”

Paris eyed him closely, releasing the side of his face and dropping his hand on the table as he acquired more of a serious expression. “This isn’t a date,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t pay,” his companion argued.

“I mean it, Ross. This isn’t a date.”

“I know. You tell me that all the time. Every time I see you, you seem to think you need to remind me that it’s not because we’re dating. I know you’re not available. You’ve made that clear enough. Although, I don’t know what you’re waiting for, unless you plan on getting back together with your ex.”

“Of course I don’t,” Paris said. “I’m not stupid enough to think he’ll take me back.”

“Was it really that messy?” Ross wondered.

“It was… complicated.”

“Isn’t everything?”

Paris frowned and glanced away, picking at his last few remaining chips but not having the appetite for eating them.

“Seriously, Paris. I get it, even if I think you’re way over sensitive about it.”

He made no attempt to argue. Paris didn’t think he was over-sensitive, just cautious. He didn’t like the idea of leading on another nice guy, especially one he only had an interest in being friends with. He didn’t need any more guilt weighing him down, not when he was still very attached to the idea of Chris and all that Chris had represented to him. He wasn’t sure how long that attachment would last, but it hadn’t gone away yet. He didn’t expect it would be ending anytime soon. It had already been two months.

And even when he did finally manage to move on, how could he be sure he’d even want to try another relationship at that point? As much as he hated the idea of being alone, he was beginning to think he was better off keeping his distance—remaining friends, allowing some benefits when he felt he could handle it, but keeping the emotions out of it.

It would be easier that way in the long run.

When the waitress came back, Ross signed the receipt and stood from the table. Paris followed suit, ready to go home and mope around in his room for a while before just calling it a night and going to sleep.

“Come on,” Ross said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

Paris sighed but accepted the offer.

For a moment, he wondered if things post-Chris would ever go back to normal, but then he quickly realized he didn’t even know what normal felt like without him anymore.