Baguette Rhymes with Dead || ONC 2024 | ✔

Chapter 1: Paris Syndrome

"That book is huge," he stated, half-awed and half-questioning my sanity, words tinged by a very light French accent. "Don't tell me you read that for fun."

I looked at the speaker, my heart skipping a beat when I recognised him as one of my four roommates. Specifically, my breathtakingly hot roommate whose acquaintance I'd made the previous morning. Luc Lauzon, I'd learnt, was the same age as me, hailed from Montréal, and, like me, had opted for taking a gap year after completing his secondary education. He intended to travel the world for a full year, he'd said, having spent a month or three roaming South America before setting foot in Europe for the first time.

He'd told me all of that while traipsing around our room in a glorious state of shirtlessness, which had been rather distracting and had probably rendered me more flustered than was good for my health. Still, considering how much I'd been gay-panicking over it, I figured I'd managed to retain an impressive amount of information and mentally patted myself on the back for that.

"I do, actually," I replied, face heating up. "It's a good story. You should give it a try sometime."

As if he'd be interested in reading the book after what he'd said about it. Maybe I was a little too hasty with my mental back-patting. Luc smiled in amusement, though, running a hand through his black hair, cheeks dimpling adorably. My eyes drifted to his arms: he wore the sleeves of his checkered flannels rolled up, exposing a colourful, galaxy-themed half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm. It was a mesmerizing sight.

"Thanks for the recommendation, but I think I'll pass." Luc closed a text message he'd received on his smartwatch. "You're the Irish guy from my dorm, right? What was your name again?"

Ouch. I'd hoped I'd been a little more memorable, but apparently, that wasn't the case. Was it because I didn't look nearly as good as he did? I'd always been slightly chubbier than I wanted to be and my face was plainer than plain. I'd held out for some facial hair to improve my looks, but had only succeeded in growing a wispy moustache that was probably better off not existing at all.

"Dominic," I reminded him. "If you're going to shorten it, a lot of people go with Dom, but somebody made a bad sex joke about it once and I've sort of preferred Nick ever since."

"See, that's why I couldn't remember. You introduced yourself with three names at once." Luc's eyes wandered to my book again. "And I'm only into good sex jokes. Are all your nights this exciting, Nick?"

I had to strain to hear him over Broken Dishwasher's loud crescendo; the poor lead singer failed to hit her final note in a spectacular fashion, making me feel like I'd gotten my head gently bashed in with a hammer. I now understood why the band members called themselves 'Broken Dishwasher'. They sounded like one.

"I guess. It's not every night I have the honour of listening to Broken Dishwasher."

"Give it up for Broken Dishwasher," Luc shouted at the band in reaction, pairing the statement with a whoop and vigorous applause. The smattering of other guests in the bar followed his example, albeit with less enthusiasm and more confusion. Lead Girl took a bow, wearing a true super-star smile, and I concluded she was going places. Not the Paris La Défense Arena for sure. But places.

"Besides, your night doesn't seem much more exciting than mine," I pointed out to Luc when the noise had died down. My Pepsi had finally been brought to me and I took a grateful sip. "We're both sitting at this bar tonight. The only difference is you don't have a book."

"Tonight isn't my most exciting one, I'll admit." A wicked grin formed on Luc's face. "But tomorrow, at midnight, I'll be breaking into a cemetery, so things are bound to get interesting, then."