author's notes: special thanks to my beta Inwenalas.

characters: June Wilder (OC), Sebastian, Belle Smythe (OC)

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Sebastian's point of view on the time he spent in Paris.

BUT YOUR WORDS ARE LIKE WEAPONS;;

chapter seven

(1)

The wind whistles in his ears when they finally reach the top; he'd dared her to climb the steps instead of taking the elevator, but he's regretting that now. His calves are burning up. He never thought she'd be able to keep up.

"Is it everything you thought it would be?" he asks, looking out over Paris, stretched out below them not unlike it had done in miniature in Brussels.

"We're on top of the Eiffel tower," she answers, standing close to him because of the crowd. "In Paris," she stresses. "It's better than I ever imagined."

He shrugs. "It's just a city." He doesn't mean it. Paris isn't just a city, it was his mother's favorite place in the world, and it's the reason his father still returns to it every year. His stepmom thankfully never minded. His mom loved everything about Paris: the fashion, the language, the people, the wine, the food. He knows he loves it for all those reasons and more. He has so many memories here.

"Why did you ask me to come?" June asks suddenly—he expected the question weeks ago, but he thinks maybe she chose to show gratitude up until now rather than tempt fate by asking.

So he lies, for fun. "Charity," he says.

June rolls her eyes.

He grins, and leans closer to her, hands in his pockets. "You're not the worst company," he confesses. The one other person who would have been even better company is still in Ohio, saying goodbye to his boyfriend. No, June was definitely the better choice. Blaine would have turned him down.

"And Belle loves you," he adds.

June doesn't say anything. She just stands and stares out over Paris and smiles, content. Just like his mother used to.

(2)

"The Rathaus Schöneberg," June reads aloud from her tourist guide (he doesn't know where she keeps getting them) once they're all settled down in the shade.

Belle giggles. "That sounds silly."

"Where Kennedy gave him infamous speech and said Ich bin ein Berliner," he says, lounging back in the grass. He doesn't know how he remembers these things—politics isn't in his blood even though that's what he tells people, it's just something he got into for his father.

"Ten points to Smythe house," June says; she's been reading Belle the Harry Potter books to get her to bed at night.

She takes off her shoes (it seems to be a thing) and stretches her legs out in front of her.

For a gay guy he's always quite appreciated the female body, curvy in ways a man's simply isn't. June's no Santana, but she has her attributes; long brown hair curled up in a bun now, a tiny nose that does not lend itself to sunglasses because she keeps having to push them back in place. She's not athletic but she's naturally slim, her breasts two perfect handfuls, flat stomach that dips a little lower—he's lucky she seems distracted by the view.

That is until Belle gets up, attracts both their attention, points a tiny finger at the city hall and shouts: "Ik bin an believer!"

It happens simultaneously; he snorts and June belts out a laugh so loud almost everyone in the square hears it—she slumps down in the grass and just keeps laughing, a hand on her stomach, her entire body shaking. It gets to the point where he has to run after Belle, because she's stomping away, angry over June's reaction.

(3)

"You've never been to London?" she asks loudly, and several people on the subway (or rather, underground) stare at them. "Sebastian, you've been everywhere!" she adds, her voice more controlled now. "You're a Warbler!"

"What does that have to do with anything?" he asks. He's already decided he doesn't like London; he's been to a lot of metropolitan cities but this underground system is entirely too claustrophobic for him. He knew there was a reason he'd never been here.

"The West End?" she asks, and he's glad she doesn't add a 'duh.' They already look American enough. "I feel like any moment you're going to tell me you've never been to New York."

"Who knew you were such a fangirl for the performing arts?" he asks, looking for a distraction in any form. They get on the Piccadilly Line to get to Leicester Square, but just the sight of the jam-packed cart makes his head spin. But he's not about to show that to June. "I always thought Blaine had to force you into New Directions."

"I love to sing." She shrugs. He wonders if she's any good; so far he's only heard her sing with the rest of the New Directions. "I was just never brave enough to be on a stage." She grabs hold of a yellow bar over his head, trying to keep her balance. "I still get shaky every time."

The words are out before he realizes: "Most performers do."

She looks up at him, a twinkle in her eye. "Even Sebastian Smythe?"

"No," he lies, but doesn't know why. He shouldn't feel this incessant need to prove himself to her. He's only ever felt like this once before: when he found out about Karofsky's suicide attempt. The need to prove himself, to apologize to Blaine, to make sure someone knew he wasn't the villain of the story had been overwhelming. That's how he feels around June too.

"Tell you what—" he says, another way of distracting himself from things he thought he'd long since put behind him. "I'll treat you to a West End musical if you take Belle off my hands for the next two weeks."

She smiles wide. "That's not even a challenge."

(4)

"Come on, dance with me," she begs, attempting to tug him to the dance floor. They arrived in Madrid only a few hours ago, but the hot weather and long journey had exhausted them both, so he'd suggested they just go out for a light dinner and some drinks.

"You're drunk," he says, even though he's already had one too many as well. Luckily they're only down in the hotel bar and won't need to go far to find their hotel rooms again. The downside is they're only playing traditional guitar and flamenco music.

"Not that drunk." She points at him. He raises an eyebrow. "Oh come on, you're the one always telling me to loosen up. To let go," she lowers her voice mockingly.

And then, he doesn't know what happens or why, but she transforms in front of his eyes—she changes from a pouty drunk teenage girl into someone who knows her body, glides a step closer to him, one hand on his chest, staring up at him from under her eyelashes.

"Dance with me," she demands.

He swallows hard. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the warmth of another human body pressing against his own that he responds to, but his cheeks (and something else much lower) flush hot and he can only think of one thing. He wants to kiss her, sink down to meet her lips, wrap his arms around her—

He shakes his head. No, this isn't him, this must be the booze going to his head, messing with his brain. He's gay. He doesn't feel this way around girls. And June shouldn't be acting like this around him.

She's definitely drunk; she pushes her body up against his and oh boy, he really needs a distraction. Maybe he should take her up on her offer.

"Do you even know how?" he asks, in as straight a tone of voice as he can muster. Not that she'd notice.

She smiles up at him. "Do you?"

He grins. He has no clue how flamenco works, but he does know how to dance. And he's pretty sure he's better at it than her. He takes her by the hand and leads her to the dance floor—she laughs when he twirls her around under his arm.

"You've been holding back, Mr Smythe," she says once she's settled against his chest again, her eyes alight with blues and greens and reds.

He shouldn't have had those drinks.

"I wasn't aware I was meant to impress you."

He shouldn't have let her drink.

(5)

After Amsterdam and London he didn't think he could see June more excited over visiting museums. That is until they hit Rome. This time she recognizes Piazza Navona and the Trevi Fountain without needing a book to tell her what they are. She all but squeals when she lays eyes on the Pantheon and immediately positions herself between the tall circular building and her camera—apparently her mother had insisted she take pictures of herself as proof.

He thinks it's cute, except he'd never say that about anyone, let alone a girl. Still, there's something about June, in her interactions with him, his sister and even his parents—maybe it's because they're vacationing, but she's let her guard down. There's no parents to worry about, no one that'll run home and tell them what they saw their little girl do. She's unafraid; she's not editing herself like she sometimes does even in Blaine's company.

Maybe that's why he does it, to ensure her fearlessness even when she returns home, maybe it's something he hasn't figured out himself yet—he manoeuvres himself in front of her camera as well, and presses a kiss to her cheek just as she takes the picture.

"What are you doing?" she asks, jerking away from him violently.

"We have to make it look good, right?" he asks and looks down at her, not sacrificing an inch of space between them.

She frowns. "What for?"

"For your parents."

June casts down her eyes and takes a step back. He hates how it shows, her fear and panic, even though there's no need for it in front of him. He knows Dave Karofsky felt that same fear, of being found out, of being exposed, and look where that landed him. They're not the same people, June isn't in denial about her feelings, but she hides who she is from the two people who are meant to care for her above everything else. He couldn't help Karofsky, he didn't help Karofsky, no matter what sad excuses he made about raising money for charity. If he can help June by posing for some silly pictures—where's the harm in that?

"It's okay." He shrugs. "I don't mind."

She shakes her head. "It's not okay." Her eyes dig their way into his. "I don't enjoy lying to my parents."

"What they don't know can't hurt them."

"That's just the thing—I want them to know," she stresses. Her eyes are fearless. "I want to be brave like my brother was. Like Blaine and Kurt are." She takes another step back and turns her back on him. "Like you are."

"I'm not—" He shakes his head and looks away too. Brave? he thinks, he's not brave. He just got lucky with his own parents (though that's only a matter of perspective). His mother died before he'd figured out much of anything with regards to liking boys or girls, and his father was always too busy to really care. June's parents—he suspects they care, but for all the wrong reasons.

He shrugs. "That's what friends are for."

She looks at him, but doesn't ask. Are they friends?

(6)

"Hey, rug rat," he says softly. Belle's snuggled safely under June's arm, her tiny frame in the crook of June's body on the sofa. When Belle looks at him he puts his index finger to his lips, then points back at June. Belle looks up at June.

Her mouth forms around a silent 'oh' before she looks at him. "She's asleep!" she whispers.

"Come here," he says softly, hoping he doesn't wake June. She had a long and eventful night out—it was his fault, he'd insisted she go clubbing at least once while they were here, but she'd seemed to have had fun. A lot of fun, judging by the Italian exchange student she ended up dancing and making out with most of the night. And disappeared with for a good twenty minutes.

Belle eyes him suspiciously. "Come on," he says, and holds out his arm so she can snuggle up to him instead. "I won't bite."

She looks back at June once before looking at him with big eyes. "But June always sings the songs with me."

"That'll wake her up," he says, but then she does that little pout thing with her lips June (and who's he kidding, almost everyone else) always falls for. She knows what effect it has on people and it works every time—strangely this time, it also works on him. He sighs: "We'll go watch in your room."

He gets up from the couch, his head throbbing from his hangover.

"Bastian, here!" Belle says, and how she manages to squeal even in a whisper is beyond him. There's a rolled up blanket in her arms, and he knows it's meant for June—she spends entirely too much time watching television, he thinks, who does this in real life? But he does as he's commanded, to avoid any anger tantrums or another pout, and carefully drapes the blanket over June. She moans and shifts slightly, but she doesn't wake up.

He makes his way to Belle's bedroom, which is about as pink as her, and sits down on the floor, leaning back against the bed, while Belle plunks down behind him on her belly.

They're halfway through the movie when he feels Belle's arms wrap around his neck. "Bastian," her tiny voice asks. "Why's June not your girlfriend?"

He laughs, and wonders if he'll ever hear the end of this. "It's not that simple," he says.

Her arms tighten around his neck. "Why not?" she asks seriously.

Part of him envies his little sister's naïve look on love, but for him it stopped being simple when he met Pierre—he didn't know what he was feeling, his mom was gone, and he couldn't talk to his stepmother about being attracted to boys. He had to figure things out himself and that didn't always go as planned. He got hurt and broken and rejected, but he'd learned how to get by.

He would give about anything not to have this conversation with a six-year old. How do you tell your fairy-tale princess sister that her brother likes boys and her new best friend likes girls?

"June doesn't like boys," he answers eventually, because when it comes between his own 'dislike' of girls and June's love of girls, he thinks his stepmother would prefer Belle hear the latter.

Belle answers in the only way she knows how: "She likes you."

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