Notes: Originally posted on tumblr as a gift-fic for kelissa as part of the aphsecretsanta rare pair exchange ! Set in the present day, with very light allusions to current events. (Ahh, I've never written FraPol so non-angsty!)
"Phew!" Poland collapsed into a seat at the Café Campana. "Art gallery fatigue!"
"Eh?" France asked, sitting down opposite.
"Art gallery fatigue," Poland repeated. "As distinct from normal tired or sightseeing or even museum fatigue, it's a really specific thing. In the bones, faints my heart I know not how I can go no longer. You know I love it here, but it was like, if I don't sit down and get caffeine and something with sugar I'm gonna keel over right now."
France nodded sagely. "Ah. That's a good concept; probably Germany allegedly has some silly compound word for it… So! What can I get you?"
Poland flicked the menu. "Oooh… it's all so expensive!"
"Surely that's not a surprise? We could go somewhere a little less central if you're that worried about my bank balance."
"Nooo, art gallery fatiiiigue, don't make me move," Poland whined. "Anyway I like it here; look at the awesome clock."
France smiled and looked at the huge clock the made up the most part of the cafe window at the Musée D'Orsay. "You really do like it here, don't you?"
Poland pulled a face. "Duh," he said. "But don't get a swelled head or anything."
"A swelled head? Moi?"
They ordered coffee, and for Poland a selection of four tiny eclairs—vanilla, raspberry cream, lemon, and pistachio-chocolate; for France, tarte aux pommes.
"You look like you're memorizing your food!"
"Huh?" Poland blinked up from his plate. "Aren't they cute? And green. Cute green patisserie stuff, I don't know how you make that work, but it's totally adorable." He paused. "Paris is a lot of nice memories, though, yeah."
(It's become an annual event, this visit. It is a little different this winter.
"Don't bring a backpack," France had told him over the phone, "they've upped bag searches and such in most places, so, you know. So inconvenient."
"Backpack, as if!" Poland was ready at once with his response and a laugh. "Dude, I'm not a tourist."
"Of course not!"
"Anyway," Poland continued, "they've always been like at the Louvre and places, haven't they, to make sure you're not carrying e.g. a craft knife and a poster tube that you could fit a small Monet or whatever in…"
"D'Orsay this year, isn't it? Or we could do both if you like…"
"Yeah, d'Orsay, but hey could we just pop in and wave at Liberty Leading the People?"
"For certain! I like a man who appreciates a good Delacroix…"
"Totally. Anyway, someone has to; you remember when were there and there was everyone crowding around the tiny Mona Lisa that's all covered in glass anyway and there opposite is this MASSIVE Raft of the Medusa and no one looking at it? Weirdos. Anyway! So, I'll see you on the 23rd!"
"I shall look forward to it!")
"Ready to face more art, or are we done for the day?" France asked. "Any last-minute shopping?"
"Mmm… can we go sit in the gardens?"
"In this freezing temperature?" France exclaimed, as he always did.
"Yeahh, we always go," Poland cajoled, because it was true, and off they went across the street to the Tuileries.
Walking Paris with France at your side is like: not having to worry about the crowds, which part about him as if by magic. (France, with an air of offended dignity: "Are you saying I smell?") And the crowds seem a lot more friendly too, both tourists and locals. ("Of course! I am the big brother to the world, everyone knows it!") And you feel a kind of glow, reflected sunbeams, people looking at you both for all the right reasons. (France has made no comment on this particular observation, because Poland has never said it aloud.)
"It's actually… not freezing at all, is it?" said France, squinting into the white-grey sky, as they sat on a bench looking out at the lines of trees that were this year as bereft of snow as of leaves.
"Noo. Isn't it like the warmest and floodiest European winter on record or something?"
"The which is a great shame, because you look adorable all bundled up for the weather like that."
Poland hunched his shoulders, making his face below his hat half disappear into his scarf, like a fluffy tortoise. "Mmm. Cosy. Hey, you like my coat?" He stood up and twirled.
Poland's coat was sky-blue wool, knee-length and belted, with eight mismatched buttons down the front.
"I do indeed. Custom job on the buttons, I take it?"
"For sure!"
"Well!" France tugged his own coat's collar up again against the wind that had suddenly sprung up. "Should the catastrophic climate change we hear of come to pass, your chic winter outfits will be much lamented. Along with other things."
"Oh, dude, yeah. That shit's… really shit."
They sat in silence for a moment. France was thinking of Seychelles, putting down her notes and shrugging, saying to the half-full conference hall: I don't want to drown.
"Still!" France added brightly, breaking the gloomy mood. "Chez moi, we have now completely solved that problem, haven't we?"
"Oh for sure!" Poland agreed in the same spirit. "Nothing more to do at all, problem solved." He rolled his eyes. "…But seriously: it was still pretty good, though. And, you did good with the hosting, and stuff."
"Thanks."
France covered Poland's gloved hand on the bench with his. Being halfway serious around each other is still a strange kind of intimacy.
They went to dinner at an old favourite place. Old, as in, centuries.
"It's just as good as it was in 1860!" France promised. "A dip in quality in the first half of the twentieth century, but the son of the guy now is - mwah! - a culinary genius."
"This place!?" Poland crowed as they turned the corner. "It's still here? This is where we used to hang with all your weird artist friends, right?"
"Weird artist friends indeed!" huffed France. "You were just appreciating some of their work earlier in the gallery!"
"Weird is good, weird is good. I love your weird artist friends. Wow." He whistled, looking at the interior of the restaurant. "They've cleaned it up a bit in here, haven't they?"
"Eh, some; it could be all chrome and white wood, be grateful… Good evening, Élodie dear!" he greeted the hostess. "Table for two if you have it… And the street's almost the same…" he continued, "no beautiful grand and obnoxiously barricade-proof boulevards here…"
"Huh. I guess those would be pretty barricade-proof, wouldn't they?"
"Don't think we didn't try… But it's why they built them, you know!"
"Totally rude," was Poland's succinct comment on this.
In Paris, Poland has memories everywhere, and he likes to keep them topped up. Old conversations tucked into these old winding streets. Elegant silhouettes recalled by the exquisitely tailored coat France still sports, the scarf that is worn just so, like a cravat. Snatches of music catch like cobwebs up in the high ceilings. The view of the lights from a third floor window is warm with the memory of France's arm around him, sitting together in the quiet.
They're almost exclusively good memories. City of lights, city of fantasy, city of escape.
Poland sipped his wine, and thought about what it meant that for France, Paris was that more complex, wonderful and potentially painful concept: home.
After dinner, they walked out to see the lights, hand in hand, as they used to walk arm in arm when this was even social convention.
Under cover of darkness, still more Serious Topics of Conversation could sneak out.
(A few years ago, for instance, Poland's talk had swerved from "I know those fibre optic Eiffel Towers are probably a total rip-off but I still sort of want one" to –
"You… would tell me if you'd gotten bored with me, wouldn't you?"
"Bored? With you?" It was easy to answer instantly and honestly. "Not possible. You still worry? Come to that, haven't you grown bored with me?"
"What?"
"Oh your incredulity is gratifying. I do like to think that age cannot wither my infinite variety, et cetera et cetera—"
"Shakespeare again?"
"Of course. Some of the finest poetry in the French language. But nevertheless, there are some who that say my act is rather… how to say… old hat?"
"Nah," said Poland, "you've got just tons of nice new hats, I've seen 'em. And duh, no, of course you're not boring, I can't believe I'm having to say this, I bet I'm totally stoking your ego…"
"Well—I think you understand a little about appearing confident when in fact…?"
"Yeah, 'course," said Poland. "But… not you?"
"You'd be surprised."
"I am!")
Most Christmases, though not all, are spent at home with one's own people. This year, however…
"Are you still coming?" France asked, as he had done more than once, oddly unsettled.
"Yeah, of course?" Poland said, gesturing generally with his fork. "You're throwing the party of the century, everyone will be there, why wouldn't I be?"
"Because I know you don't always like big parties, chou."
"Eh, thanks, but I'll be fine. It's at your place, I know your place okay."
"Speaking of which!" France said. "You know where also has a glorious view, and a half bottle of a superb red waiting..?"
—It was the same pattern the day of their very first visit to the Musée D'Orsay, shortly after its opening, in 1986. Browsing the galleries, coffee, a walk through memory, dinner, the lights and then home to sit together on the couch by the cosy fire, or to lean against one another on the balcony looking out on the city.
And Poland looked down, pulling at some loose thread in his shirt. "You should, um," he said after a pause, "you should come to Warsaw sometime. And, sightsee, how it's going and stuff. Like, we're not there with the shinies yet but there's, you know, some nice bits again."
France measured his very breathing. "Are you… is this you inviting me to come stay with you sometime?"
"Yeah. I guess it is."
France flung his arms around Poland and kissed him, suddenly, joyously, soundly, on the mouth. "Of course! Of course I will!"
"Hey!" Poland laughed and turned his face away, embarrassed, "No need to go all mushy, like you've been to my place before for things—"
"—This is different…"
"It's no big thing, I just. Since I always have such a nice time here, and you make me feel all like welcome and stuff… wow this isn't coming out right. You know what I mean." He laughed again, but shakily, and tears sprang into his eyes.
"Poland—!" exclaimed France, noticing this, "are you—?"
Poland waved away his concern. "Nah, I'm fine, I'm fine, just like, tired and stressed out a bit, you know? I'm going back tomorrow. It'll be nice to have you visiting to look forward to."
"For me too! And you must come visit again—whenever you like, but come again before Christmas! Every year! Let's make plans! That is, as long as it's alright with your bosses?"
Poland just snorted. "Ugh, don't even. They have nothing to do with my plans, okay? Not the way things are. Let's make plans."
France embraced him again, but carefully and deliberately, drawing him close, Poland snuggling up into his chest, France stroking his hair. "Let's make plans," he repeated, murmuring low. "It's cold… come inside, darling. Let's make plans."
Notes: Look at a pic of Café Campana at the Musée d'Orsay and the clock.
Poland's coat and France's are the ones Hima drew last year ^^
"age cannot wither her / nor custom stale her infinite variety" from Anthony and Cleopatra
so uh. France obviously took Poland's invitation to visit anytime very much to heart and Poland continued to be cool with it, because look at the deleted Xmas strips on hetarchive and see what happened when he rocks up with England and America in 2007… Eating oranges in the nude. Random gatecrashers. What a party!
By the way, on the Collections / Overview page of the Musée d'Orsay website is a video looks like a beautiful bearded France/Poland hybrid or lovechild walking around the museum!