Disclaimer: I don't own the song "You Give Love a Bad Name"…if that is the title.
Ever Again
Oneshot
Never once did it cross his mind that he would be walking down the familiar paths of Luxembourg Park at his age.
To Oliver Les Desmond, the gray streaks of cement seemed so small now.
It was exactly seventeen years since he had left France to pursue an international career as a roaming chef, if that could be permitted as a job. Until now, he hadn't stepped foot in the country, not that he was avoiding the place. True, it was his initial reason, Paris held so many memories, and too much of them painful.
Today, no matter how intense these memories came back to him, they seemed childish. It was quite nice being back in his home country.
The Frenchman passed a quaint cemented area with surrounded with sparkling fountains and shapely trees. A smile graced his lips, was that where he used to play…what was is called? …beyblade? Oh how long ago that was.
From the tops of the greenery he could see a competition of high rise buildings behind an old homely establishment. Perhaps this joint was the restaurant he owned when he was thirteen. How was managing it right now? Ah yes, Aline…his sous-chef. He wondered how she was now.
All the stimuli around the greenette sent waves and waves of familiarity almost sparking a memory in his head. Somehow, for some reason, his heart ached for the past. Coming back gave him the old twinge in his gut that Life wasn't always so kind as to give him the happiness he had right now.
The attention of dark lavender-lilac eyes was curiously caught by a tall, lanky man around his late thirties sitting on one of the park benches with a pensive look on charmingly callous features.
Oliver stood staring at the individual for a good five minutes before a name, along with an endless train of recollections, hit him with the numbing force of a bullet.
With light foot, he hasted nearer and studied his subject more carefully, to make sure that his old mind was not playing tricks on him.
"Enrique Giancarlo Tornatore?"
The orange-blonde head of the other person shot up and ogled with piercing summer blue eyes.
"Holy crap," was the deep-toned reply. "Oliver?"
"ENRIQUE!!!"
"OLIVER!!!"
The pair of childhood friends collided in a fierce hug. Enrique was the first to pull away and give his best friend a head-to-foot examination.
"What has happened to you? You look perfectly manly!" exclaimed the Italian. "Short hair? That tan! Wow! Muscles! Where have you been? What have you been up to?"
Oliver quieted him with a flamboyant wave of a wrist. "I'm still the same old me, nothing fancy. I've gone around the world not really doing much…cooking. Look at you! Are you recovering from a rebond? What's with that uniform?"
Enrique smiled. "I'm working as an orthopedic surgeon in Berlin. I thought I'd come to Paris for a little sunshine."
"How many girls have you scored?"
The blonde scoffed and stood up so they could take a leisurely stroll. "Don't be daft. It's been ages since I swung that way."
The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. "How many men have you scored?"
He was shot an accusing look. "Less than you think. I don't go around much anymore, fell out of the sort."
"Casanova has retired, that's a miracle."
The comment was duly ignored. "What brings you back to Paris? How long has it been since you left?"
Oliver made a pout as he thought. "Seventeen years, I guess. Perhaps that long a time is good enough reason for me to come back to my place of origin?"
Enrique laughed.
--
For an entire afternoon, the pair went sight-seeing in the City of Lights, vivaciously exchanging stories of their lives, reminiscing of the past and making guesses of what had become of their old friends and, of course, laughing about it.
Sunset brought tired feet back to Luxembourg Park. The 'playboy and the snob' as they had been so fondly called had taken to a slower pace.
"Hey Oli, do you know what day it is?" asked Enrique.
"No. Why?"
"The 9th of November." The Italian stopped underneath a huge, ancient-looking cypress tree standing regally among neatly trimmed grass. Vegetation of its kind looked small and worthless against the proud mass.
Oliver stopped too and considered his best friend's thoughtful look with slight confusion.
He was crying under the cypress tree in Luxembourg Park. He didn't want to see him. He was firm in not seeing him. Doing that would only cause him pain.
"Oliver, I'd like to talk. Please?"
The French boy acted like a total snob toward his best-friend-turned-lover-turned-ex-turned-other-party-of-sorts. Enrique, though, wasn't intent on passing an opportunity and imposed his presence upon the greenette whether he liked it or not.
"Either it's him or me, Enrique. I'm already telling you to choose him. I've gotten over my issue with you two before. Believe me, I have a better chance of coping than he does."
"Will it really make you happy?"
It was clear that this was the conclusion of a long thick string of arguments concerning their clandestine, aberrant relationship.
"It would not make me happy, but it would do me good."
The silence was deafening. When Oliver looked up from sobbing with his head in his hands, Enrique was gone.
Summer blue eyes were downcast as the green-haired man gave him a look. Both of them were quiet, similar that very day they had only been barely sixteen.
The pain was and old scar that hardly mattered on the skin of the new horizon, but just could not be erased.
Oliver smiled. "Those were the good days." He was no longer versed in hiding behind a mask as he roughly swung an arm over the blonde's shoulder.
"To think," he continued. "Will we ever fall in love again?"
Shot through the heart, and you're too late. You give love…a bad name.
Enrique had another reason why he returned to Paris. Unfortunately, the greenette was unreachable now.
END
A/N: …it was blah…again! Please tell me I'm losing my touch on my Gianoli fics. I need new inspiration! …enjoy!xD and ciAo…
Tell me if you guys would like this to remain a oneshot, though…