The moment Boris leapt from the low stone wall and landed in a full, theatrical bow, arms wide and hair a mess from the wind, Theo groaned and nearly dropped the paper bag of churros they’d been sharing.

“Stop it,” Theo hissed, his voice sharp with laughter he was trying not to let out. “You’re such a—”

“—Performer?” Boris cut in, grinning up at him with flushed cheeks and a glint of mischief that always meant trouble. “Yes. Is true. I am very dramatic. Very sexy also. Especially for American tourists.”

“You’re literally disgusting.”

“And yet! You smile.”

They were in a small plaza outside a museum in Madrid—at least, they thought it was Madrid. They hadn't been looking at maps lately. Hadn’t looked at calendars, either. Their days blurred into one long and perfect sequence of being young and together and untethered.

Behind them, a tour group of high schoolers had started to trickle in, herded by teachers in lanyards and sensible sneakers. Most of the kids were clearly bored—scrolling on phones or adjusting earbuds—until Boris vaulted up onto the fountain’s edge with the grace of someone who’d done a lot of things more dangerous than this.

Theo didn’t even try to stop him.

“What’s he doing?” one of the American students asked, eyes wide.

“Is that guy in our group?”

“No, he’s—oh my God, he just—what is he saying?”

Boris was telling an impromptu story in a tangled mess of English and Russian, punctuating it with wild gestures, exaggerated accents, and the occasional spin or pirouette that made people giggle or shake their heads. He looked like some half-wild European prince pretending to be a street performer for fun.

His accent was thick—unmistakably foreign—and his grin even thicker. One of the teachers was clearly debating whether or not to intervene. Another was recording it.

Meanwhile, Theo sat on the fountain's base, legs stretched out and eyes full of quiet fondness, tearing a churro in half and handing the bigger piece to Boris without looking.

“Your mouth,” he called lazily. “Shut it.”

“Isn’t that why you love me, Potter?” Boris called back. “For the chaos, the sex appeal, the unbearable noise?”

Someone gasped. A girl clutched her friend’s arm. Another boy laughed out loud.

But Theo only rolled his eyes and leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the blue, burning sky. His smile was lazy, private.

They didn’t belong here—didn’t belong anywhere really—but for once, that didn’t matter. Not when the whole world seemed to pause for a second and look at them. The boy with his foreign fire and the other with his museum-heart and marble bones, free and loud and unbothered.

They weren’t part of the school trip.

They weren’t even part of anyone’s plan.

But somehow, they were still the most unforgettable thing in the plaza.