Killua was always interested in fashion. Matching his outfits, reading about it, or just even designing— if doodling in class was it— was something he did way too often to be ignored. So, when one of the girl in his class asked him why wasn't he planning to go to a fashion school after high school. The white haired boy didn't know what to answer at that time because he realized that he never thought of making a career out of fashion, and was too scared to talk about it to his family.

As months went by, Killua was still thinking about it. He was on the verge of starting high school, so he thought about making a deal with his father. The Zoldyck family was known a very powerful enterprise, and Silva, his father, was planning to make the teenage boy his heir, although he had two older brothers, with Illumi already working for him. What a shame that the boy that looked so much like his father absolutely did not want to comply to the rules that was imposed to him. His tuition for that Ivy League business school was already put on a bank account as if Killua was about to graduate.

In August, the pale young man entered Silva's office in the manor. The old man was quite surprised as he hardly did so, but he knew it was important every time.

Silva accepted the deal.

That was so unreal for Killua, who breathed as if it was the first time ever when he got out of the room. They had a deal, because the father couldn't let his son change his imposed path so easily. If, during his four years of high school, Killua had not more than 90 on a grade, he would go that business school every member of his family graduated from. That deal seemed pretty easy if he wasn't attending a private high school with too much straight A's student.

Killua received different reactions from the other members of his family. His oldest brother tried everything to dishearten the boy, to guide him out of his foolish dream of his, to keep his family all together, to ease their parents p, but mostly because he was afraid of such a crude and harsh world he knew nothing about. If Illumi knew nothing about the gears in the fashion world, how would his precious little brother survive, how could he protect him?

But the boy was now determined, he wanted more from school, he wanted more from life, he wanted to do things he actually liked.

On his birthday, after graduation, the white haired boy was called in his father's office. That was a taller teenager that entered the room, but he had still the same sparkle in his eyes, defying his father for his own good. However, he was still fidgeting, worried that Silva would cancel the deal they had for four years, even after graduating as a valedictorian.

But at his surprise, the broader man slid a letter on his desk, not saying a word. Killua stared at his father, frowning in incomprehension before ripping the letter open, and as he unfolded the letter, he thought he might have died on spot. His heart was beating too fast or too slow, he didn't know, but he knew for sure from where this letter was : Paris, France.

His father had enrolled him to the oldest fashion school in France, maybe the oldest in the world. Killua couldn't pronounce a whole sentence without stuttering, putting a smile on Silva's lips. The father of five decided that the boy had had proven his determination and his will so he chose one of the best school, like he always did.

He wanted the best for his son, and so Killua left home for France.

—

Life in France wasn't peaceful.

Life in Paris was not a nice trip made of wine, love and cheese.

Life in France was Hell.

He ended class too late, he had to commute too much, and the worst part was that he didn't even like French cheeses. His American habit— and his sweet tooth— led him to the nearest Starbucks he could find open after class, becoming his own part of his life, where he would come to do his homework. Of course, he couldn't bring his modelism work, but he could work on Fashion History or his stylism assignments.

Employees would welcome him with, for most of them, the same horrible accent that made him struggle in class the first two weeks, because who the hell was teaching to foreign students while pronouncing words in such wrong ways?

Killua's classes weren't incredibly hard to understand, once he grabbed the essence out of it and with his tidiness, he kept giving in perfect skirt construction, perfect half muslins which were perfectly pinned and ironed. He tried not to overwork himself, doing the most of his work in class and the quicker he was done with his work, the quicker he could drink his white mocha Frappuccino and eat his chocolate donut.

It was not like Killua had made friends either. He had made acquaintances, like that one Russian girl named Palm, with long black hair that were surely longer than Illumi's, or that small Japanese boy named Ikalgo, with hair so puffy that he would look like a squid because of the shape of his head contrasting with the length of his limbs. But it was October and even though he tried to be appreciated by his classmates, he never went to their parties, to the restaurants they all went, he never hang out with them and that was how school was going for Killua, and he was far more happy like that, or so he convinced himself.

Killua had days he would walk to his designated Starbucks after school. He was there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but just before the class would be dismissed for holidays, his timetable changed. The young man couldn't go to his favorite place during his usual time as he would be going out of modelism class, and he was definitely not going to transport his laptop on top of his already too heavy bag on modelism days.

When he entered the café, he found out that most of the employees he knew worked those days too, except for a few of them.

What else he found out was that there were other employees than those he knew. Other employees that looked nice, especially the one preparing his drink.

« Fuck » Killua cursed in his head, slapping his own mind as he was gaping at the brown young man with damned freckles and greenish spiked hair who was struggling with the whipped cream.

He didn't even mind waiting more time he should have. For one who was easily pissed off by lateness, Killua could not hold any grudges against someone who was casually flexing while looking cute. He just didn't want to stay standing near the straws and napkins, irritated by his own gaping

The barista finally put a lid on his drink before reading the name handwritten on the venti cup, frowning as he was concentrating on how he had to pronounce it. He tried to look around before asking loudly for Killua, who was lifting his hand to grab the cold drink, before almost dropping it on the marble-like counter, as he got blinded by a beaming smile, introducing the two small dimples decorating his cheek.

Killua never got to his non officially assigned seat this quick. He needed air, he needed order in his mind, and Fucking hell, he never gaped at boys in France like that before.

He took a huge sip of his Frappuccino, before letting go a small screech out of his throat, now with a huge brain freeze.

Plugging his earbuds in this ears after his recovery, the white haired boy tried to concentrate on his flat drawings. Pulling out his laptop, he got absorbed by his homework until he felt something, more like someone tapping on his shoulder, as he had laid down on his chair, his two knees on the armrest, dangling his feet in the air.

The barista from earlier was here to tell him that they were nearly closing the shop for the day, however, talking to him in French was not helping him.

The way words he couldn't understand rolled on his tongue and made his voice deeper sent him a chill on his spine, still looking at him confused, holding one of his earbuds.

« Eh ? » he blurted, as Killua only got a grasp on the Starbucks word « I can't understand French. »

« Oh right, sorry ! » the barista laughed, holding on his broom. Killua swore, as he was repeating himself in a somehow acceptable English, because he might have had missed his last bus home, packing in urge, before remembering he now took the subway.

The sun-kissed boy laughed again, and the Zoldyck thought he might kick him for having such a graceful laugh.

Killua quickly left, emptying his platter in the garbage bin near the small stairs.

What was he supposed to do now ?

—

He was doomed.

That was what Killua thought as the friends he had brought him to the same Starbucks he was subtlety avoiding for the past two days. He couldn't bring himself to met that barista again, even though the boy was just doing his job. The white haired boy was just angry at himself for gaping at the poor kid and was afraid to blurt something stupid, something he had never done before.

Palm was holding him hostage, shouting stupidities about how she spotted the cutest guy she could have met in Paris. Ikalgo was following too, but he was not the one dragged by the wrist, or the center of a scene. He sighed when his eyes glazed over the employees and couldn't find the dark spiked hair of a certain barista.

Retrieving his wrist, he shoved his hand in his pocket, shaking his head. Of course, he couldn't be working every time Killua would have showed up. He was certainly a student, looking around his age, he had to be busy enough not to work that much.

Before he could even reply something snarky to the Russian girl about her tantrum, already waiting in a line, he could feel his face draining the blood of his face. Palm started to shine and tug on the grumpy boy's sleeve, as the exact person he feared rose from behind the counter, combing his spiky hair with one hand.

"See ? It was him I was talking about to you guys !" She gossiped to the two boys. The dark haired girl tried to catch a glimpse of the barista, tip toeing and embarrassing Killua even more. "Isn't he, like, the cutest guy you ever seen ?"

"I'm straight, Palm." Ikalgo stated, adjusting his beanie on his curly hair. "However, I think Killua is not feeling well…"

"What ? I'm perfectly fine." He lied as his face was slowly regaining the little colors he had. "Let's get this bread."

"That's a Starbucks." Palm frowned.

The boys exchanged a look. They were aware that the girl was missing some jokes, but at this point ?

Killua even forgot his worries as they were queuing, as they were discussing the last class they had. They started the longest assignment of their school year, and Palm and Ikalgo might come here after school to work on it too, as the white haired boy had explained that he did his homework here.

Getting closer to the two of them cheered the lonely kid. Even though he tried to act tough since the beginning, he could have used a friend or two, and seeing his classmates getting along and being more than acquaintances made him feel lonelier than he ever was. Being in another country, far from all he ever known, and not being able to make friends was a burden.

Lurking at the chocolate fondant through the glass display, he didn't notice the change of tone in Palm's voice, or even the employees shifting positions.

He was not ready to face the sun kissed boy. A surprised "Ah !" came out of their mouth simultaneously, and if Killua weren't embarrassingly covering his mouth, he would have laughed.

"You're Killua !" The boy continued, overly cheerful. That sentence alone killed the pale teen, making his heart sink so low it was now under the Parisian sewers. "Why the fuck does he remember my name?!"

"Uhm, yeah. Hi." he mumbled, too stiff to even think about answering something else. He tried so hard to avoid his gaze that he didn't notice how wide were Palm's eyes, and how hard Ikalgo tried not to laugh at the situation.

"Do you remember all your customers' name, Gon ?" She tried to ask, full of hope and reading his name tag pinned on apron. "Like… mine for example?"

"You were one of my customers ?" He bluntly answered, before apologizing, scratching his neck. "I'm sorry, I have a very selective memory… I remembered him because of his hair and his cute eyes !"

Killua died, and Ikalgo wasn't trying to save him.

The Japanese boy laughed like it was the funniest situation of his short life, when in reality, it wasn't. The American boy was about to throw hands, to his friend Palm for bringing him here, to Ikalgo for finding that hilarious, to the barista named Gon that was blurting awkward compliments to customers and to himself for being a helpless gay man.

The thin girl abruptly turned the conversation to their order, wanting nothing than flee this situation as they were, once again, creating a scene.

Killua never ordered and got his cake and drink that fast, but he was so grateful for it.

"I can't believe you met him before me and didn't tell us about it !" whined the Russian as they sat with their platters. Killua sank in his seat, burying his face up to his nose in his sweatshirt. "What the hell was that ?"

As red as a peony, he sighed.

"To be honest, I don't really know." He tried to bring coldness to his cheeks by sticking his Frappuccino to him. "Are all French boys like that ? Why the hell was he blurting embarrassing stuff to customers ?"

"What I do know is that you're not mad about it." Ikalgo started, a grin on his face. When Killua's face exploded into lava, the short boy finally bursted out laughing, hugging his sides. "You are attracted to the sun boy."

And he couldn't deny that, this was the worst part about it.

"Okay, so, the White Project, guys ?" He grabbed his laptop, anxiously. He was not having this talk right now. "Have you found your artist yet ?"

Palm and the Japanese boy exchanged a look.

"Killua." She said, putting a hand on his knee, very motherly. "You should make a move. It wouldn't hurt and if it backfires, we won't go to this Starbucks ever again and burn this one during the night. Molotov style."

The white haired boy laughed at her joke, before realizing she might be honest. He didn't really knew the girl, after all.

He left that subject on the side, a bit relieved. They spent a nice evening and they even took the subway all together, making Killua experience a glimpse of what friendship tasted like.

Turning the keys in the old key lock made way to much noise at 11pm for his old Haussmannian building, making the sound echoes around the high ceiling and the wooden doors. The white haired boy threw his bag on the sofa while removing his shoes.

What a day.

Killua loved his appart. It was his own bubble, with his comfy he shipped from his own room in America, his consoles and his coffee machine. It wasn't a large apartment, rather small, but he liked it that way. At least he had a nice view and his own bathroom. He was forced to do his patterning and cutting his muslin on the wooden planks of his floor, but what can he do ? That's fashion design life, after all.

Plugging his iPhone, he changed into his pajamas before slipping in his bed sheets. The mild cold of October was harsh during the night, even more as his place was not isolated correctly and the old windows were leaking icy wind through microscopic gaps in the wooden frames. He lived under the roof, for a cheaper rent. Killua was the one to choose the flat, and frankly, it pissed his mother to live here and not in the €3,000 per month loft she choose for him.

He didn't want to stay in that golden cage, and seeing some of his rich classmates made him frown his face in disgust. No thank you.

The marble stairs of that building made him think of another kind of marble, and suddenly he felt like burying himself in his pillow and scream.

He didn't get why the barista was like that, and his question about French boys was still up. Were they all like that ? Didn't their mother teach them boundaries and how to act in public ? Killua didn't even understand why they had to kiss the girls' cheeks to say hi but only shake the guys' hand for them.

France was confusing.

But at least he could put a name on that freckled face.

Gon.

—

His morning classes were bullshit, why was he taking English classes for ? He was American for god's sake.

He couldn't stand those days. Having to go to an useless class 45 minutes away from his campus, had a discourse with the duo about where they were about to eat. Sometimes they tagged along with a bigger group, or someone tagged with them. But the discourse was still there and most of the time they ate KFC as the fast food was next to the other campus. If time was afforded, the nice italian restaurant near their school was privileged, but sometime they just bought sandwiches and snacks from the grocery store a street above the bigger campus.

The last option was today's lunch, as the chaotic trio wanted to avoid the rain that had been pouring since last night.

"What do you mean none of us have a pass ?" Cried the white haired teen. "Come on guys, what the fuck ?"

"It's in my other purse."

"I can't find it !"

And today was the day Killua brought an umbrella but left the white card on his table, as his morning classes were ridiculously early compared to at what time he finished them and sleeping through this alarms won't help him get there faster.

Thus, they had to wait for another fourth student to open the door, protected by the rain in the hall, but not from the wind that was hurling.

Once safe and sound in their classroom, they allowed themselves to eat and chat for the time left, when a mail notification on Killua's phone distracted him.

"Oh god, they finally added it !" He cried with joy while reading his phone

"What ?" Ikalgo tried to talk, but his mouth full and his own energy made him choke.

"My fave drink is now available in France for the season."

And that one announcement for a Starbucks Gold member meant one thing.

Free drink.

Although they had modelism, that his day was long enough not to go to the café, Killua was now determined to get his hot drink. He could survive that day, it was all worth it for the Toffee Almond Milk Hot Cocoa.

And after endless yelling by his teacher, endless draping and endless pining, he was finally free. His fingers hurt, as he stabbed himself a dozen of times, and the break he had around 4pm wasn't helping. It was still raining, and the wind was turning his cigarette off and his hand into ice. The last hour had been long and difficult, his concentration long gone and the sky becoming darker behind the huge clouds above Paris.

Saying goodbye to his friends, he lit up another Marlboro as his path to the Starbucks was protected by the scaffolding in the streets and the covered yard of the Galerie Lafayette. When he arrived to Paris's Opera, he had opened his umbrella and threw his cigarette in a trash can.

He had never been that grateful for a shop being heated before, but he guessed that fall had never been that cold in South California. Shaking his umbrella to get rid of most droplets of water, he started to get in line as he took his phone out.

Slaloming slowly around the display shelves full of mugs and water bottles with shimmering colors and graphic designs, he finally faced the cake display. He was not particularly hungry, nor he let enough time between his last visit to crave one of Starbucks' sugary goods. He got his mail out to show the barista he was offered a free drink.

Barista who was no one else than Gon.

"For real," Killua scoffed, too baffled to be flustered. "You're working every day or what ?"

"Uhm, yes actually." He shyly answered, scratching his cheek with an embarrassed smile. The other teen gulped. "My classes finish at 3pm, I can take all the closing shifts."

It was useless to avoid the shop now that Killua knew he would be there everyday. He internally sighed before finally order as the queue was getting more impatient as they talked. Leaning on the gray wall as he was waiting for his drink, he realized it was quite easy to talk with the barista. Was it because Gon was outgoing or because it was him the tanned boy was talking to ? He couldn't figure it out, so he shook his head. "Ne pas mettre la charrue avant les bœufs" was a French saying, and it suited perfectly this situation.

Gon only wanted to be friendly, he thought while retrieving his hot chocolate.

Killua couldn't see the boy's coworkers teasing him or elbowing him while laughing. He couldn't notice that the barista was staring at his back while he was climbing the small stairs and disappearing into the salons in the back.

What Killua could notice was the abnormal amount of writing on his venti cup when he put it down. Turning the drink around, the teen choked on his own saliva

Gon had given him his number.