Paris-Gare de Lyon
"I would have bought something if I'd known that he'd be sick," Francis whispers; Berwald only shrugs in response, watching his son head down the train car to the bathroom. Luckily they'd gotten the one train up to Paris that Francis has yet to get sick on (so long as he's facing forward). He doesn't think he could stand it if he got sick in front of Berwald and Peter.
"Iffy with him. Never sure when'll kick in." Shifting the Swede moves to sit beside his fellow nation, wrapping an arm around him nonchalantly. The train car is mainly empty, most of its original occupants having gotten off at the last stop. "But he likes you," Berwald whispers quietly. Francis smiles.
"You've got a good boy there mon chéri." He kisses his companion's cheek. Sometimes Peter reminds him of a young Alfred, sweet and innocent, but Francis had always known he'd grow up to be a trouble maker. "Then again, Peter does have a wonderful father." When Francis places a hand on his lover's chest, one of Berwald's takes it, kissing it gently.
"You like words."
"I suppose I do."
"I like you."
"I suppose I like you too."
When they arrive in Paris's Gare de Lyon Francis has to admire the way Berwald's fatherly instincts kick in, holding his son to him as his eyes narrow, searching for something. The timing has them moving through the metro during rush hour just before Christmas, but it's a familiar route for the French nation back to his Parisian apartment and so he is unflustered by the gratuitous amount of people in the station. The older men take turns leading, Peter between them, as they go from the upper platform down to the underground tracks. Francis doesn't realize the boy's holding his hand until they get on the metro. Berwald continues reading the map, though the French nation is pretty sure he saw a smirk on those lips.
The apartment itself's already been made up, the view a worthy trade-off for a lower pay from his country. Even Berwald, who paces to the window as Peter darts about, is mildly impressed.
"Louvre?" Coming to stand beside him Francis nods. "And Eiffel Tower?" Francis takes his lover's hand, squeezing it. "She's beautiful, Paris, just like you." That's the comment that takes the Frenchman aback.
"Thank you." It's a borderline question, his heart beginning to race as Berwald's large hands cup his face. The Swede's always so careful as to what he lets his son see; he's never been this daring with the boy so close. Peter must know Francis is different, he's sure he must, but they've yet to give what they have a label. To have « that » talk.
"Love you." Berwald's lips taste like the chocolate bar he'd shared with Peter, of the café au lait he'd bought for Francis and himself. Francis melts into the touch, still not used to a lover like Berwald. A lover that's bigger, stronger, more sure of himself, more unpredictable but surprisingly romantic. A lover Francis can surrender to and let lead for the first time in all his life. A lover who's strong arms can pull his back in, their chests coming together to warm their bodies despite the cold just outside the window beside them.
A small voice announces Peter's returned to the room. "Papa?" Maybe he hadn't realized.
Francis feels a guilt he didn't know he was capable of, his face burning as hands grip at Berwald's sweater, trying to hide his face from the boy's piercing gaze. But the Swede only looks up, rubbing his lover's back the way he does his son's. "Yes Peter?" His voice is as calm as it ever was.
"I- I-" The boy stutters, only Berwald seeming to not feel the awkwardness in the room. "I'm hungry, Papa."
His father grunts.
And that's that.