𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑⁰¹ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ✓

⁴⁷the french and their attractive views

[dedicated to every single one who reads,
votes, and comments on this book. ily]

luke

I've longed before — for materialistic objects that I didn't own and wished I had, physiques that my body didn't conform to, and voices that I couldn't emulate when I sang. Though, never had I longed for someone as I do now for Clementine.

Sulky boy, I think to myself.

Each song I sang as best I could, imagining she was right by the stage admiring the show, ready to greet me when I'm worn out, the songs taking each breath I have until I've nothing left in me.

Days formed into weeks, and I tried my best to talk to her after every show. My body would feel exhausted and used, but once I'd hear her voice, enthusiastically talking about art or fawning over her cats, it never fails to rejuvenate me.

She bought her return ticket for Paris when December just rolled in, and she couldn't stop talking about what gifts she'd bought her siblings and parents, excitement practically seeping through the phone and into my ears.

She mused about taking passport photos for Darth, how he refused to stay still as she tried her best at photography. In the end, she sent in his vet results and seemed pretty excited he'd get his own passport.

She packed her bags a day before her flight, telling me how one should always pack way ahead, so as to not be caught surprised when you remember you've forgotten to pack something else.

Now, on the last show before our Christmas break, the same excitement she felt about meeting her family again is now filling me, adrenaline pumping through my veins as the boys and I hype ourselves up for the oncoming show.

I take a step closer to the mic stand, strumming my guitar softly as the crowd rages in front of me. "Grazie, Milan, for choosing to spend you evening with us tonight, just three days before Christmas, so Merry Christmas to those who celebrate," I say, my voice being projected from the speakers around us. "So, as we won't be seeing you again until next year, we'd love if you danced with us for this last song,"

The crowd screams, jumping up and down as the music continues.

I hear the soundcheck guy counting us down to the next song. "And five, four, three, two, one," He goes before the boys and I slowly ease out of the transition from our last song, Want You Back, to the last song of the set list, Youngblood.

The boys and I lose ourselves to the song, the beat reverberating in our bodies, the crowds whistles and encouragements making me want to sing and play louder, or jump my highest and land back with my head in the clouds.

My forehead is probably shining clear with sweat, and my legs want nothing more than to sit down after an hour of standing and dancing around, but the music moves through me, the bass beating my heart, and my guitar singing as I pluck each string in time.

I move through the song effortlessly, and before I know it, it's ended, and the boys and I have greeted the crowd one last well-wishing before we bow.

I wave to a few fans, laughing as I see them jump and scream when I make eye-contact. But I look down when I feel something hit my leg.

My brows furrow over a black sharpie pen with a note tucked under the clip of the cap.

I bend down to grab the curious gift, taking the note and unfolding it, revealing a message written in bold black letters. "Who was the girl you were hugging?" It asks, and a sly smirk comes upon my face as I recall the slight panic the sequence of photos had made.

We never actually said anything about it. We let it be, staying silent and letting people ask whatever they wanted to ask, sliding away from questions that revolved around our romantic lives.

It's been weeks since the photos released, and miraculously, nobody has figured out it was Clementine — not even the fans that we took photos with that evening, though I did happen upon them on another show in Dublin, and I figured they probably followed the boys and I there.

They came up to me backstage — how, I have no clue — and asked if I remembered them from New York, that they took photos with Ashton, Michael, and Calum, but not me.

I, having read the article and what they said about Clem holding me away from them and recalling how opposed they were to what she hadn't done, shrugged and said I didn't remember, said that I hoped they enjoyed the show, and walked away.

Granted, our manager and publicist were not too happy with this, getting all concerned about the media and our reputation, which I wholeheartedly ignored. If it ever comes up, I have a good reason, don't I?

I take the sharpie and lay the note flat on the back of my guitar, scribbling a little heart right under the question before folding it up and putting it back under the clip.

I look back at the crowd and see two girls up front, pointing to themselves and mouthing something I can't hear.

"You threw this?" I shout back and they nod.

I hand the pen with the note to a security guard near the stage, pointing at the two girls and watching as they hand it to them.

I stand back up and head backstage with the boys, wiping off sweat and resting our instruments on their stands.

I feel fatigue come over me, but it doesn't beat the feeling of excitement reeling around my stomach, losing me a night of sleep last night.

Last week, upon deciding with the boys where we want our Christmas break to take place, Calum rose up the suggestion of spending it in Paris.

Immediately seeing how interested I was in the idea, Michael and Ashton agreed, and we managed to make plans to spend our break in this ski resort whose French name I can barely remember, even more so pronounce — which I'm sure Clem's mother would be slightly disappointed at.

But it's right outside the French capital, offers great views of the French mountains, and, as Ashton pointed out to me, is just an hour away from where Clem's family apparently resides. From where he got the information of where her family lives is beyond me.

The photos of the resort was enough to make me look forward to the weeks ahead of me, but the fact that Clem would be so near would probably keep me awake.

"Sparring between two French views, hm?" Michael joked when he saw the expression on my face after hearing of how close Clem would be.

I scoffed and ignored him. Damn the French and their attractive views.

╳╳╳

a surprise chapter for you guys
because PW HAS REACHED 100K
AND IM SO JKSHSJSHSGGFFDJS
THANK YOU SO SO SO SO MUCH

thank you so much for reading, and
i can't believe we're still entering act 2
eye-  guys i lub u 🥺 thank you so much

this chapter is dedicated to those who
ghost read pw, and especially to those who
vote, comment, and basically just
give pw sm love. ily ily ily ily ily ily ily.