(A/N: More gentle not-quite-FranPol angst! in the same timeline as the other Poland-staying-with France fics... at the end, obviously.)
So France is sending him on his way with the Beethoven editions they bought together (it isn't as if he, France, will have the time or inclination to learn them), and a package of the soap made with Provençal lavender that Poland adopted for daily use. Also the new Parisian clothes and shoes in which he looks so very fine.
This isn't a real goodbye, of course it isn't. He may not be leaving the country immediately, nor even the city: large numbers of his people are living here now and perhaps Poland will stay with them for a time. There was even some talk, was it serious? of Poland taking his place in the ranks of battle on France's side. But he won't be here, with France. There will be no more breakfasting together, walking the sights of Paris and finding them renewed in the sharing of them, no more late nights talking, or dozing to the sound of Poland playing scale patterns to settle his nerves. France will get his own his own room back and sleep in his own bed again. Funny, really. It's likely no one in the world would believe the truth, that France had slept alone in his study the entire time.
Poland's friends are waiting in the cafe down the road. France will not be accompanying him there today. Words between them have been slowing, drying up ever since last night, and now, they stand in the hallway in silence.
"Well, I better…" Poland begins.
"Yes." France tells himself to take courage. He smiles and spreads his arms wide, as he had at their first meeting. "Poland, my dear! It has been an honour and a pleasure."
Poland willingly comes to his arms and they embrace warmly, with a kiss to each cheek.
"No, really," Poland says, "thank you. You were a complete life-saver, I mean seriously. Thank you." He hesitates, eyes searching, then he reaches up to touch France's cheek, and kisses him quickly on the mouth.
France means to pull back at once from that sweet and fleeting intimacy. He means to say, "No don't!—you shouldn't; there is nothing that you owe to me." But instead he leans in and captures Poland's lips again, too forceful, with every bit of his heart's yearning. After one desperate second, Poland turns his face aside.
His eyes closed, France rests his forehead on Poland's shoulder and lets out a shuddering breath.
"I gave myself away rather badly there, didn't I?" he rasps. "I'm sorry."
"It's…" He can hear Poland swallow as he tries to compose himself. "I mean, it isn't just that you were kind to me. I really—But, I don't… I mean I can't, I can't—and anyway I'm going now so it's no good, you know?"
"I know." France breathes in the smell of lavender from Poland's skin and hair for maybe the last time. He knows that when he opens his eyes it will all be over.