Requested by Lycorice13

Harua had always wanted to go.
Not for the tourist sites, not for the food.
But for that feeling. The kind Lauv sang about.
Paris in the rain.
Being there with someone who made the city mean something.

Nicholas was the one who finally made it real.

"You always take pictures of other people," he'd said one night, sprawled across Harua's floor as they flipped through old prints. "Come with me. Be my photographer. Europe—just us."

It sounded too perfect to be true.

Harua said yes anyway.

They made it to Paris on the fourth stop of the trip.

Rain started the moment they stepped off the train.

Nicholas beamed. "You manifested it, didn't you?"

Harua only rolled his eyes. But he smiled, too—quiet, grateful.

But the rain wouldn't stop.

They missed the Eiffel Tower glow.

Their favorite café was closed for renovations.

And Nicholas—he started drifting.

He wouldn't say why.
But the way he stared too long at postcards.
The way he stopped asking Harua to take pictures of him.

It felt like something had shifted.

Harua didn't push.

He took photos instead.

Nicholas in the window light.

Nicholas with a plastic fork stuck in his hair after cheap takeout.

Nicholas when he thought no one was watching—shoulders tense, eyes far away.

Harua labeled the folder "Rue Nico."
Because he looked like a street you could get lost on.
And Harua... had.

The storm hit on their sixth day.
Literal and emotional.

Nicholas missed a train.
Harua snapped something too sharp.
And suddenly they were fighting in a cramped hotel room, half-packed bags between them.

"You don't even want to be here," Harua had said.

Nicholas's voice cracked when he replied, "I wanted to be here with you. That's the whole point."

Then quieter, "But I'm not really myself right now. I didn't know how to tell you."

That night, Harua stayed up editing.

Not to fix the lighting or blur the flaws.
But to find the moments Nicholas forgot were beautiful.

He printed three shots.

Taped them to the bathroom mirror the next morning:

Nicholas smiling mid-laugh, hair wind-blown, blur of Paris behind him.

Nicholas watching street musicians, hands clasped behind his back.

Nicholas, unguarded, asleep on a park bench, camera strap still across his chest.

Underneath, in scribbled handwriting:

"You don't have to be okay every day to be worth seeing."
—Rue

Nicholas didn't say anything.

He just hugged Harua like he meant it.

And whispered, "Let's chase more rain."

On their last night, they found a rooftop.

The sky cracked open in soft silver.
Paris below glimmered like it was waiting for them.

Nicholas held Harua's hand.

"Play the song," he said.

Harua did.

And they danced. No one watching. No steps. Just them.

"Paris in the rain," Nicholas murmured.

Harua leaned in, forehead to forehead. "We made it."

Months Later

The exhibit was small.
Indie. Raw. Personal.
Titled: "You, Before You Knew You Were Loved."

In one corner, a candid of Nicholas with raindrops in his lashes.
In the center: a photo of two hands clasped, silhouetted by city light.

A note in the guestbook, written in Nicholas's handwriting:

"If you're lucky, someone will see you the way Harua sees me. And if you're luckier, they'll let you see them, too."

In Paris or not—there's something about dancing through the ache that makes the sky feel like home.

Sequel to "Paris in the Rain"

They didn't talk about Paris every day.

It wasn't a fairytale ending. It didn't need to be.

Nicholas moved into Harua's apartment with one duffel bag and a box labeled "Stuff That Makes Me Cry (Handle With Care)."

Harua cleared half a closet and taught Nicholas how to fold his socks the way he liked them: in tiny, gentle rolls.

Nicholas burnt toast three mornings in a row before learning the toaster had a trick lever.

Harua let him try again anyway.

Some days were quieter than others.
The glow dimmed. The rain never came.

Nicholas picked up freelance gigs.

Harua printed new portfolios.

There were deadlines, dishes, missed trains again.

But every now and then—

Nicholas would sit on the kitchen floor, coffee in hand, and say, "Remember Rue Nico?"

Harua would nod, already smiling.

The apartment was cluttered with memories.
Photos taped to the fridge.
Concert wristbands in a glass jar.
Postcards on the bathroom mirror from places they hadn't been yet—but planned to.

There was one shoebox they both refused to open.

It held the unedited shots from Paris.

The ones too blurry.
Too raw.
Too full of almosts.

One night, Nicholas found Harua on the balcony.

Barefoot. Hoodie too big.
Camera dangling from his fingers.

He didn't say anything.

Just held out a cup of hot cocoa.

Harua took it, murmuring, "I think I'm scared."

Nicholas leaned on the railing beside him. "Of what?"

"Of forgetting how it felt," Harua said quietly. "Paris. The rain. You—back then."

Nicholas tilted his head, smiled crookedly. "You didn't fall in love with a moment, Rue. You fell in love with me."

"And I'm still here."

Later, they pulled the shoebox down.

No dramatic music. No tears.

Just quiet commentary:

"Wow, that one's awful."

"Why are my pants doing that?"

"Look how tired we were..."

"Look how in love we were."

And still are.

They printed three new photos.

Nicholas asleep on the couch, Harua curled up beside him like gravity itself.

Their intertwined hands, mid-laugh, covered in flour from a failed baking night.

A photo Harua didn't remember taking—Nicholas looking at him like the sun had risen in his bones.

They didn't frame them.

They taped them to the ceiling above their bed instead.

Epilogue — Rain Again

One year later, a knock at their door.

Rain outside. Light and steady.

A kid with a camera bag stood awkwardly in the hallway.

"Hi... sorry, are you the photographer from Rue Nico?"

Harua blinked.

Nicholas peeked over his shoulder. "Depends. Are you lost?"

"I'm not sure yet," the kid said, then grinned. "But I think I want to learn how to be found."

Nicholas stepped back. Harua opened the door wider.

"Then you better come in."

Love is never just one photo. It's the whole messy roll of film. And the life you build after the shutter clicks.