Wynn awoke slowly, almost as if suffering from a minor hangover, a small part of him wondering what was different from the previous mornings, then he felt something soft and lacy between his fingers and turned to see them resting on Mihhaelo’s hair as it lay across the central pillow, the boy now facing towards him rather than lying on his back as he had gone to sleep the previous evening.

The gentle curve of Mihhaelo’s throat and neck passed under the cover, with the blanket half-thrown off during the night to now hang over the far side of the bed, and though his breathing was quiet and regular an occasional tremor swept through him, presumably the lingering effects of his sudden illness.

Wynn carefully slid out of bed and turned to look down at Mihhaelo’s slumbering body, noticing the subtly toned musculature of one exposed arm as it was accentuated by the diffuse light coming in through the curtains and blurring around the slim forearm, then he sighed lightly with regret at lost pleasures and went into the bathroom to wash.

Returning to the bedroom, Wynn dressed in fresh clothes, though he only had three sets which he wore on a repeating cycle so as to keep his amount of luggage to a minimum, but as he bent over to pick up the unused bin and almost empty bottle of water his gaze could not help but sweep across Mihhaelo’s partially exposed back.

Although only the top of the boy’s spine and shoulders were visible, there was something very wrong with the colour and texture of the otherwise clear skin near his shoulder-blades, and Wynn barely had time in which to swallow the gasp of horror he would otherwise have uttered as Mihhaelo turned over.

“What…?” the boy asked weakly, then panic snapped his eyes wide open and he sat up, pulling on the duvet to hide his body, his limbs suddenly tense with nervous energy.

“It’s all right, “Wynn managed to calm his own racing heart as he tried to dismiss the awful image from his mind, and he placed the bin back under the table.

“Oh, it’s you,” Mihhaelo replied, but his relief was clear as his fingers relaxed their grip.

“And good morning to you, too,” Wynn forced a smile. “You weren’t sick again during the night, which is a good sign; how do you feel?”

“Weak as hell,” Mihhaelo’s response was surprisingly honest, his actions no longer fretful. “What happened?”

“You threw up a rather nice bolognaise.”

“Oh, right, I remember. How did I…?” Mihhaelo looked along his own body as it lay under the cover.

“You changed and I put you to bed,” Wynn explained. “It’s true that we slept together, but only in the most literal sense. I stayed up for as long as I could to make sure you were all right, and we both went to sleep.”

“Thanks,” his gratitude was genuine.

Wynn emptied the remains of his bottle into the cup and held it out, “You need to have plenty to drink today to replace all the fluids you lost, and you must have something to eat, but light meals only, at least until your tummy settles. I thought you were pretty weak last night, but you’re even worse now. I’ve no idea how you manage to carry on.”

Mihhaelo pushed himself upright against the headboard to sip the water, and he spoke in a tone that demanded no sympathy, “I do what I have to.”

“I’m not judging you,” said Wynn.

“You think I’m a fucking hustler?” Mihhaelo would have shouted had he the necessary energy, but his anger was more than obvious even without the uncharacteristic swearing.

“It crossed my mind,” Wynn admitted. “You’re fighting so many things, but I think that’s all that’s keeping you going at the moment.”

“Stop trying to psych me out,” Mihhaelo swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to stand up, but he lost his balance and slid off the edge of the bed to land with a bump on the floor. Mihhaelo turned to gather the duvet so it did not fall around him, but his movements had the opposite effect to his intention for he revealed even more of his upper body as he twisted around, and the ragged lines at the top of his bare back came into full view.

“Holy Mother…” Wynn could not help but gasp in shock, knowing only too well the scars were not due to any kind of accident, “who did that to you?”

No wonder the boy had reacted so strongly to last night’s comment about being an angel who had torn off his own wings, but who could have done such a terrible thing? It looked as though he had been whipped repeatedly over the course of months, if not years, for flesh that was still healing lay alongside overlapping ridges of pale white.

“Just leave me alone.” Mihhaelo wrapped the cover around himself and sat on the bed again, then he bowed his head and protested weakly, all the strength having gone from his body, “I’m not an angel.”

Wynn’s stomach churned with revulsion at the almost rote words, for their meaning became terribly clear, and there was nothing he could say in reply that would not make matters worse.

Whether it was a jealous sibling or so-called ‘friend’, a parent or teacher or priest, someone had spent a very long time forcing that single idea into the boy’s head at the expense of everything else, but what kind of monster would do that to someone who was barely out of their childhood? Mihhaelo’s overall vulnerability was more than apparent, even allowing for a slow decent that by his own admission had lasted a few months, but if these physical wounds were typical of his upbringing it was a minor miracle that his emotional state was not also torn to shreds rather than severely weakened.

Wynn held back a chaste desire to gather the boy into his arms and hug him, just to let him know that not everyone would treat him badly, but he forced himself to breathe calmly and said, “I sometimes have breakfast downstairs, but it would look a bit suspicious wrapping things up to bring to you. If you’re feeling up to, it we can go out instead, and it works out better value for money anyway.”

Mihhaelo looked up at him from under half-closed eyelids, and his voice was as full of incomprehension as it had been when dinner began yesterday, “Why are you doing any of this?”

“I don’t know where it comes from, Amar would probably be able to tell you, but there’s a saying along the lines of helping someone means you then become responsible for them. It’s meant to be in a nice way, though, not as a burden. I suppose it goes back to what I was talking about last night, about doing good things for people because you can.”

“Amar? Who’s he, your boyfriend?”

Wynn laughed at the prospect, “No, he lives with Miyu as well. Not that they’re a couple, she’s still single and he’s…” Wynn paused slightly, wondering how best to quickly explain his friend’s ascetic lifestyle, “Amar is just weird; he studies philosophy and psychology.”

“Nothing strange about that,” Mihhaelo commented flatly, then his stomach rumbled.

“Come on,” Wynn smiled, “let’s get you up.”

“I can dress myself,” the boy glared at him, but unlike his previous behaviour this comment had no animosity behind it, just irritation.

“I’ll see how the cemetery is doing,” Wynn entered the bathroom to pick up Mihhaelo’s clothes, which he placed on the bed before returning to the bathroom, where he pushed the door closed behind himself and opened the window.

“What cemetery?” Mihhaelo asked just over a minute later as he stood barefoot in the open doorway.

“Montparnasse,” Wynn left the window so the other boy could look out.

“All you can see from the road are trees; I thought it was a park or another one of those gardens.”

“Lots of famous people are buried there, and there are some nice sculptures; I can show you later, if you like.”

“Why are…?” Mihhaelo began, then stopped himself from repeating his question.

Wynn shrugged, “I owe you a meal, remember? You gave me a refund on the last one.”

“Sorry,” Mihhaelo hid his embarrassment at the incident by bending over the sink and splashing cold water onto his face, then rubbing it dry with a towel and combing his hair with his fingers. “You’re barely old enough to be one of my brothers, and you’re behaving like a sugar-daddy,” his protest was ineffectual.

“What does it take to convince you?” Wynn asked rhetorically, then explained. “I have two and a half days left of a holiday I’ve saved all year for, and I’m not having it spoiled. You know perfectly well I’m not making a move on you, so what’s wrong with teaming up for a while? Tourists meet and do it all the time, and even arrange to go away together afterwards; that’s how friendships are made. Besides, if I was a sugar-daddy, I’d be plying you with dodgy pills instead of giving you this to help settle your tummy,” he held out a white capsule which had been pressed from its foil container. “I can’t see there being any trouble if we leave the same way as before, but this time we’ll stay together, all right?”

Mihhaelo nodded as he swallowed the medicine.

“If we take the lift, there will be less chance of other people seeing you, and then we can… I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”

“You’re asking me?” Mihhaelo’s surprise was more than evident as he sat on the bed and leaned forward carefully to pull on his boots.

“Why not? The Eiffel Tower, Sacré Cœur, the Louvre… your choice, unless you’ve seen the obvious places, in which case I know some lovely walks if you feel up to it. We could just stroll along the Rue De Rivoli and come back along the Quais to look at all the bookstalls, and have dinner looking out at Notre Dame, or wander through the side-streets that most tourists don’t bother with. This is Paris, you know; there’s so much to see, and no hurry for anything.”

“You really like the place, don’t you?”

“I first came here on a day-trip with school when I was fifteen, and I’ve been back every year since. You can leave that here, if you like,” he added as Mihhaelo stood up and turned to collect his bag.

“Why?” the question was full of suspicion again.

Wynn shrugged, “If we can get away with it you may as well stay here rather than doss out on a bench somewhere, so you can stay tonight and tomorrow if you want to, but I’m leaving first thing Thursday morning. Unless you don’t trust me?”

“I still don’t understand you,” Mihhaelo said. “When you found me you couldn’t wait to get your hands on me, and now…”

“I explained why,” Wynn replied in a tone to indicate the subject was closed, and he was glad there would be no further discussion, not because it would weaken his resolve but simply that analysing instincts based on desire would completely ruin any experience, whether committed or not, and had that been their understanding of last night then they would have done more than merely sleep together and so no further talk would be needed then, either. “Or do you want me to…?” he moved forward purposefully.

Mihhaelo’s eyes widened in fright and he almost fell over the corner of the bed as he quickly moved backwards, though Wynn had only taken a single step.

“I’m so sorry,” Wynn spoke as gently as he could, and moved away so there was plenty of space between them. “I wouldn’t have done anything, but you’ve proven my point, haven’t you?”

Mihhaelo’s sigh of relief was long and low, and when next he spoke his voice was both free from anger and hesitant at the query, knowing that in asking his question he was revealing something of himself, and that the answer would expose even more, “Am I really that obvious?”

“At the moment you’re as transparent as a glass book,” lying would not help him at all, “or at least you are to me. Your entire body shows your deeper emotions as well as the surface ones, but I think it’s only because you’re so weak that you have no control over them. I know you might feel threatened by me being able to read you so easily, but I assure you there’s no need to be.”

“Right,” Mihhaelo said neutrally, drawing out the vowel.

“I didn’t do anything last night, did I? and I won’t now.”

“No, I meant… what you just said. Basically, I’m a nervous wreck.”

“I just think you need lots of rest. You should be better in a few days,” Wynn tried to sound hopeful, “that’s why I suggested you stayed here; if you want to, of course.”

“So, this walk…” Mihhaelo’s tone was pensive, “how long is it?”

“As a distance, I’ve no idea, but it can take all day if we go slowly enough, and there’s plenty to see, never mind all the places to have a bite to eat and watch everyone. Would you like that?”

“I think so,” he was still unsure.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Wynn picked up his bag and approached the door. “Whatever you do, don’t force yourself, so if you don’t feel up to it, let me know and we can find something like a museum or gallery. Or if you simply don’t want to be with me, then just say so; I’m not going to be offended.”

“As long as I can stop if I need to,” Mihhaelo spoke as if he was asking for special consideration.

“This is a holiday,” said Wynn as he opened the door to let the other boy pass outside, “not a route-march,” then he closed and locked his room before calling the lift to take them downstairs.

Ensuring Mihhaelo was on his right again, and as with all of his previous departures from the hotel, Wynn left without handing over his key to the receptionist as he was supposed to, for despite the number of times he had stayed there over the past couple of years he had never been warned about it, so he continued out of habit even though he knew all the chambermaids had master keys, but the main reason he kept it with him was in case of accidents as the large plastic key-fob had the hotel’s full address and contact details embossed into it with gold lettering.

Although they had not walked together that way last night, they retraced part of their individual journeys northwards to the main junction, and as before turned to the left, but rather than travel very far stopped at the first brasserie that had plenty of empty tables, and sat down to order their breakfast. Wynn had croissant and orange juice, whilst Mihhaelo seemed content with a double espresso and a thick waffle smothered in syrup, even though having something like that on top of an empty and possibly upset stomach might not have been the best choice.

“You do like your sweet stuff, don’t you?” Wynn smiled as Mihhaelo stabbed his last piece of waffle with the fork and used it to mop up the remaining syrup. “There are a couple of pastry shops at the end of the High Street where I live, but they’re nowhere near as nice as these.”

“You can live on tarts and flans for ages,” Mihhaelo commented neutrally.

“Too much sugar ruins your skin, though,” Wynn replied.

“I’ve got slightly more important things to think about, like how to eat for less than ten Euros a day, never mind getting decent water. Ever tried that?”

“No, I haven’t,” Wynn’s tone was placatory. “I’m sorry, I only meant that from what I’d seen at the hotel you wanted to keep yourself healthy, so it’s a pity to spoil it.”

“Like I have so many choices,” Mihhaelo’s sarcasm was obvious, “or do you think I actually want to be like this?”

“Of course you don’t, who in their right mind would?” Wynn tried to re-establish their fragile connection, “Was there any particular reason you came to Paris?”

“Just moving around,” he took a sip of the hot coffee.

“You’re from Ireland, originally, though? Your accent is hardly noticeable, but there’s still a pleasant lilt to it at times.”

“I’m from wherever I was yesterday,” Mihhaelo clearly did not want to admit anything of his past. “Why did you leave Wales?”

“Touché,” Wynn smiled. “I came down with Peter, my ex, which was the best thing that ever happened to me. If I’d stayed, it would probably have killed me just as surely as if I’d gone down the mines, only a lot slower.”

“I didn’t think there were any left,” Mihhaelo’s comment advertised both his puzzlement and his sense of not wanting to appear ignorant.

“Not where I came from, thank God, otherwise my father would have been a miner, and because it was good enough for him and his father it would have been good enough for me, and why do I think I’m so much better than them by not wanting to go and what’s the point of education, etcetera, etcetera.” Wynn sighed, but not heavily, “No imagination, no conception of what was in the world if it wasn’t in the pub or on the telly, no prospects, and no life. I was stuck in a rut for so long I thought I’d go mad, then I met Peter and he showed me so many things I was almost overwhelmed, so when his job moved to London I upped and came down with him.”

“You mean you just left home?”

“I’d already walked out as soon as Peter and I became official, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve done everything except disown me by now. Even if I’d known at the time how it would end, I would still have done it just to get away, and the first year with him was very good, I can’t deny that. Water under the bridge,” Wynn smiled easily in dismissal.

“But what about school and stuff?”

“What do you mean?” Wynn frowned momentarily. “Oh, that. I was sixteen by then, and in any case they’d never done anything about half the class who never bothered showing up in the first place. I went to the local comprehensive, where despite their best efforts at making us remember things by sheer repetition I not only learned but discovered I wanted to learn, and even later thought about doing something like an OU course, but once I got to London I went through a variety of jobs before settling with Gerry, so now I’m studying just for the fun of it. I’ll never get any formal qualifications, but that doesn’t worry me; half of them are worthless anyway, especially when they’re even given away to so-called ‘celebrities’ who’ve done nothing except be famous for fifteen minutes.”

“Is Gerry your…?”

Wynn smiled at the thought, “God, no, he’s happily married with two kids, and not my type at all. Gerry Phillips, or Géraud Philippe as the salon is called, came from Balham, though he now lives in Chelsea. He’s been in the High Street since before I was born, and has another branch out in Ealing somewhere, but I’ve no idea where.”

Mihhaelo almost laughed, “You’re working in a hairdressers? That’s so camp!”

Wynn shrugged in a nonchalant motion, “I like it, and I’m pretty good at it; and being a family business it’s a lot nicer than one of the franchise places where it’s all about products and image. There are a couple of other teenagers who work Saturdays and a few week-days, just sweeping up and doing the odd wash or blow-dry, but it’s only pocket-money to them, whereas I already have my own small clientele, and Gerry’s even given me the keys to open up on days when he’s not there. That’s how I pick up so much… I’m used to listening to people and watching them, and sometimes even fitting in with what they expect, though that last bit has led to…” he raised a hand dismissively, “that’s more than enough about me, or I’ll bore you to tears.”

“No, it… it’s nice to hear you talk about yourself,” Mihhaelo replied, then, realising what he had said, he tried to hide his embarrassment by drinking his coffee, even though it was still rather too hot for comfort. “Where’s this observatory, then?” he asked when he had finished.

“You mean the fountain? It’s not far. Would you like to see it?”

“Why not?”

“All right, then,” Wynn tucked a couple of small denomination notes under his plate and beckoned Mihhaelo forward, then they left the brasserie and crossed back over the main junction, but as they reached the far side Mihhaelo’s face suddenly lost some of its colour again, and his steps almost faltered. “We can go back to the hotel if you need to,” Wynn’s concern was evident, “or there are some benches up ahead.”

“I’m fine,” Mihhaelo said, even though something was obviously affecting him, but the reason for his discomfiture quickly became clear as they passed the railings, for huddled beneath old cardboard boxes strewn with torn plastic bags was a large tramp whose dirty flesh was barely distinguishable from his tattered layers of darkened clothing, whilst around him was an almost palpable aura that reeked of ingrained dirt and sodden paper. Mihhaelo visibly shuddered, his face showing neither revulsion nor compassion but rather a visceral fear, not of the homeless man himself but rather everything he represented and the depths to which he had sunken, where he seemed without chance of reprieve.

“You’ll never be like him,” Wynn hoped he had sounded encouraging, though in truth he had no idea what could prevent the slow fall, and he remembered the floral scent of the other boy’s hair, fresh from washing.

“Stop it,” Mihhaelo’s voice was weak because of his dread of that particular future, rather than as a further objection to being analysed so easily, and unlike his protest of the previous evening, there was no antagonism.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.”

“It’s not high on my list of priorities, either, but I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” Wynn replied, not wanting to add the obvious question of how much longer the other boy could endure.

“Anyway, why?” Mihhaelo asked after they had passed a few more of the closed shops, then in response to the look of puzzlement, explained, “Why don’t you want to see me get hurt?”

“I don’t like seeing anyone in pain,” Wynn answered simply.

“Because you’ve been through some yourself?”

“I suppose so,” Wynn nodded at the observation, “though I don’t want to make it sound as if I’ve actually suffered.”

“Last night you said…” Mihhaelo was clearly unsure whether or not he might go too far, “…you said you had nightmares, of burning in hell. Don’t you think that counts?”

“At the time I would have done, but not now. The analogy can be rather trite, but I think of them as memories locked away in a part of my mind, like a room, along with the boy I once was. He was frightened by them, but I’m not.”

“So you shut things out?”

“No,” Wynn knew where the conversation was heading. “Shutting yourself off doesn’t do you any good, and in a very real sense it means you’ve let them win because they still affect you that way. I once heard some rather bad advice given to a rape victim that she was to think of the event as having happened to another part of her, but that’s not what I mean at all, because that only leads to a form of disassociation where you refuse to admit you were involved, which in the worst case means outright suppression and denial. Look back if you want to and even enjoy the view if you can, but leave things like that in the past, where they belong.” They reached the end of the block and turned to the left, then just in front of them was Jardin Marco Polo, “Well, here it is.”

Passing around the fountain, they began a leisurely walk along the slim garden, flanked on either side by ornate lamp-posts. At that time of the day there were hardly any of the people who met to relax after work or school, so after pausing to regard at the statues that stood in a line along the centre of each garden, they stepped onto the grass to look back at the far side of the fountain before turning and passing the isolated columns and sculptures as they headed slowly northwards.

At the far end of the second narrow garden, standing behind an octagonal pond in which even at that early hour a few children were sailing toy boats, was the Palais Du Luxembourg, its yellow stonework accentuated by the sunlight whose relatively low angle gave soft shadows to the columns and statuary.

On either side of where they stopped to admire the view were two large semi-circles of solitary statues, and it was to the right they eventually turned, ascending shallow steps to walk slowly alongside the Palais and find, nestling at the end of a long pond bordered by an avenue of overhanging trees, the Fontaine De Médicis.

The two boys passed along a narrow path to reach the secluded fountain of Leda at the back, then they left the Jardin Du Luxembourg through one of its ornate entrances and saw the Panthéon a short distance away, but no sooner had they crossed to the beginning of Rue Soufflot than Mihhaelo’s already slow pace almost came to a standstill.

“I’m sorry,” Wynn guided him to a table in front of the nearest café, “I forgot how weak you were, and I’m used to walking for hours. You should have said something.”

“I’ll be all right,” Mihhaelo’s weak voice did not protest the concern.

“I’d planned on having lunch later by the river, but we can have something now and stop whenever you want to. It’s not as though we have to search for somewhere to eat, is it? and you need to get your strength back from last night.” He looked at the display of multi-coloured pastries on offer beneath the glass counter, “The strawberry tarts look nice, what about you?”

“Oh,” Mihhaelo was startled, “that was… I mean I… I’ll have the same.”

Wynn hide his smile at their shared tastes as he also ordered a pair of coffees, then they sat in silence for a while as the food and drink was consumed at a leisurely rate, though the time was not in any way uneasy as they idly watched locals and tourists alike passing by.

“You…” Mihhaelo spoke suddenly, then just as quickly held back what he had been going to say.

“Mmm?” Although he could never forget the other boy was almost beside him, Wynn had for a brief moment been lost in a slight reverie as he absorbed the atmosphere surrounding them. He looked at the few remaining crumbs on Mihhaelo’s plate, and the empty cup, “Would you like some more?”

“No,” the response could have appeared terse but for the fact it was clear he was thinking of something else and had thus been startled by the question.

“You must tell me if you think I’m dragging you around for the sake of it,” Wynn said. “I’m only showing you what I enjoy, but if you don’t like it or just want to go somewhere else, you must let me know, all right? or if you just want to go off by yourself.”

“No, I… I think I like it,” Mihhaelo’s response was quiet, then he looked up. “You really want me to like it, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Wynn smiled, “but not because I want you to, and you have nothing to apologise for, so don’t even think about it. Just be yourself.”

Mihhaelo did not reply directly, but pointed to the large building at the end of their road, “What is that thing? I suppose it could be a church, but it looks more like a museum.”

“The Panthéon,” Wynn left some money with his bill under the plate, and once they had reached the end of the block he pointed down to the Seine and the large building on their left, with its astronomical domes. “There’s the Sorbonne, and just beyond it is the Cluny museum where I went yesterday.”

They continued walking along the Rue Soufflot, during which Wynn briefly explained the building’s history and named some of the people who had recently been interred there, then they ascended the steps and looked at the ornate ceilings whilst walking around the heavily-carved columns.

Having passed through the entrance and paid at the kiosk, they were presented with the open expanse inside, and as they began to slowly walk around the perimeter to look at the sculptures and pictures, Wynn explained the significance of Foucault’s Pendulum in the centre, and how it demonstrated the Earth’s rotation without needing an external reference such as the stars.

Their tour was as a leisurely pace, and when they finally emerged into the sunlight they were surprised to discover that almost an hour had elapsed, so they turned northwards again, pausing to look at the sculptures of an adjacent church before slowly walking down the hill past the Ecole Polytechnique.

Fifteen minutes later, the boys arrived at Pont de Sully, but rather than crossing to the far end of Ile Saint-Louis they remained on the Left Bank, walking along the Quai and pausing every few metres to look at the bookstalls that lined the parapet.

At that distance from Notre Dame, Les Bouquinistes had none of the common drawings and souvenirs that catered for tourists who were happy with bright trinkets, rather there were collections of newspapers and magazines from the 1930’s and 1940’s, small books of modern literature mixed with classics that in some cases were over two centuries old, whilst many specialised in art and architecture or history, and all of the items were neatly wrapped in various kinds of cellophane, arranged on narrow shelving or propped upright in display frames.

Wynn was particularly taken with one woman’s stall that was full of fashion magazines and drawings, and was soon conversing with her in a combination of French and English, then as he idly tilted each mounted image forward he found a delightful drawing of a soft red hat, apparently done for a graduation exam though its date was not known, but as it was literally a unique piece and more than affordable, he carefully slid it into the side of his bag.

Notre Dame, which had been visible ever since their arrival at the river, slowly came into fuller view as it appeared through gaps in the trees, whilst below them could be heard the occasional sound of a tourist guide’s amplified voice as a long boat passed slowly through the waters, but although wanting to show such an obvious point of interest to his temporary companion, Wynn suggested they continue for a little while longer and stop for a much-deserved meal.

Reaching Quai Saint-Michel, Wynn indicated the other side of the Sorbonne observatories further up the hill on their left, then they went to the end of the next block and with almost palpable sighs of relief after their long walk from the hotel sat outside a restaurant on the corner with Boulevard Saint-Michel, where they could look across to Ile de la Cité and see the delicate spire of Saint Chapelle.

“You should feel at home here,” Wynn smiled as they perused the menu.

“Why’s that?”

Wynn pointed first to the Metro sign on their left, its red lights appearing like fruit at the end of ornate ironwork branches, then beyond it to the fountain, “That’s Saint Michael.”

“Oh, right,” Mihhaelo looked at the statue brandishing his sword, and the pair of leonine fountains, then returned his attention to the menu, which this time presented no difficulty for him as it also contained smaller text in English. “Ooh,” his head moved forward slightly, and he blinked slowly.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” Wynn was concerned he had tired the other boy.

“I was fine when we were walking, but now we’ve stopped I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.”

“Well, there’s no hurry for anything, and going for a long walk straight after a meal is never a good idea. One of the many good things about restaurants here… well, Paris in general, really, is that they never rush you. In fact, I think they’d be offended if you gulped everything down and left after fifteen minutes or so.”

“You and your food,” Mihhaelo’s smile was little more than a flicker in the corners of his mouth, but the motion was no less sincere because of it.

“Tuna salad for me, I think. And you?”

“Nothing too heavy, not after last night; a chicken one, I think.”

Wynn ordered their meals with a large bottle of mineral water to be shared between them, and as they waited for the food to be prepared they watched with an unspoken amusement as a rather diminutive female warden directed traffic at the busy junction, occasionally blowing a whistle that was always in her mouth and pointing with dramatic gestures at drivers who stopped less than a metre from her, whilst the profusion of vehicles and cyclists vying with pedestrians for right of way at the crossings seemed destined for accidents that thankfully never happened.

“This is half the bird,” Mihhaelo’s voice was full of amazement as he stared at the large plate which had suddenly been placed onto their table, its contents almost overflowing the rim.

Wynn smiled as he thanked the waiter, “Food is relative cheap here; it may seem expensive as an actual amount, but the value for money is extremely high, and so is the quality. Enjoy it, and take your time; I’m certainly going to.”

“I’d better not do much talking, just in case.”

“As long as you don’t feel uncomfortable. I don’t know why, but some people don’t like silence, as if they need noise so they don’t have to think about anything.”

“No, quiet is good; it lets you listen to things.”

Wynn lifted off the peppers from his salad and put them on the side of his plate, and having tried one of the glistening anchovies hurriedly reached for his glass of water, but everything else about the meal was as he had come to expect from the restaurants in central Paris, and though not wanting to keep enquiring as to Mihhaelo’s wellbeing he glanced occasionally at the other boy, only to see him eating slowly and contentedly as if he had always been as happy as he now appeared, and whilst enjoying his meal was almost oblivious to everyone else around him.

Glad of the change that had occurred since the initially awkward morning, Wynn was nevertheless acutely aware of how temporary this respite was, but other than hoping their sleeping arrangements were not discovered and that he provided Mihhaelo with as much food as he needed, Wynn also knew there was little else he could do to better the other boy’s life. Had they known one another for a longer time, and there were obviously shared feelings between them, he may have risked suggesting that Mihhaelo return to London with him and they share his room in the maisonette, but given their current situation that was nothing more than a pleasant fantasy of the kind that would not even be used by the yaoi authors whose works he had seen in one of the shops where Miyu purchased her fantasy manga.

… … … …

… … … …