Paris is dead.

Chaerin laughs wryly as she pulls her silver cigarette case from her studded clutch, her long nails clinking against the metal.

It's fashion week and they both should be somewhere else.

Key glances at her profile illuminated  by the sparkling lights of France, all leather, lace and sweet smelling smoke.

He scoffs as soft music begins playing from afar.

"Paris is dead and you know it," he continues while leaning against the stone archway.

Key grimaces as his silk jacket scratches against the ancient structure, his mind imagines a thousand miniscule rips forming on the 1,000 dollar fabric.

Chaerin rests her elbow on top of her hand and flicks ash onto the cobble stoned street.

Her eyes lift up to gaze at the eiffel tower in all of its glory.

"Paris isn't dead," she mumbles, "It's in hibernation."

Key scoffs and turns around  to glare at his phone.

You have 0 new messages.

"A watched phone never rings," chaerin chuckles as she holds out her arm to offer him the still burning cigarette.

He takes it, but not without a snarl.

They stand in silence watching lovers cuddle and kiss in the cool parisian air.

"Do you think we're the only ones," chaerin ponders almost to herself.

Key tilts his head back and looks up into the starry skys.

"They're are lonely people everywhere," he says finally, "We're just the unlucky bastards lonely in Paris.

Chaerin let's out a shout of laughter as she bends down to wipe off imaginary dust marring her heel.

Key closes his phone with a sharp snap and walks over to stand beside her.

"Is this home too you?" key whispers softly after catching the flicker of fondness in her eyes.

Chaerin let's out a shaky breath and  snatches the cigarette back, her fendi sunglasses hiding her tears.

"Something like that," she breathes, "but not quite."