olive honeyworth loved travelling, as an artist of sorts, he of all people could appreciate a change in scenery even more. another perk of getting to explore europe was obviously getting to explore it with you.

travelling with olive was minimalistic, lazy, and did not conform to any schedules; but perhaps it was more fruitful that way. late night flights, self-led tours in paris one day, and staying in your hotel room to nap and lounge around like cats in the sun the next while he wrote some essays for college with coffee in hand.

obviously, some boundaries had to be stretched when travelling as a pair of course, such as being shoved together in buses and deciding who got the nicer bed in the lodgings-- hand grazing, perfumed whispers of late night conversations, catching him shooting you lingering looks while you focused on your surroundings; but it was all in good fun.

"i'm not ordering lunch, you are." olive huffed softly, humor lacing its way into his tone as he leaned over your shoulder, regarding your phone screen as the two of you walked through a parisian park just after noon. the fluid murmurings of france were your ambience, the french conversations, the calastine rustling of trees, and live music by the fountain.

his glasses were perched low on his nose, lips pursing slightly as he offered you a look which could be a pout. "you just want to hear me fuck up my french again." he was quintessentially an english speaker, and although he could articulate himself beautifully when he wanted to, it was not to say he didn't utterly mangle other languages when he attempted to take a gander at them.

"you're diabolical, cupid, nefarious."