#franpol

“…yes, of course I did.”

France takes her hand and spins her out by her fingertips, her white tulle skirts circling out.  They hold a moment gazing at each other, eyes twinkling behind their masks.

“Darling girl,” France murmurs, “will you dance?”

France is the perfect partner, extraordinarily easy to dance with.  Poland inclines her head and steps back into her hold.

“So,” Poland glances up and down France’s lavish doublet and hose affair, “is it Marianne or François today?”

“Tonight—” As they take the next step, she pulls Poland in close, body-to-body, with a hand on the small of her back and leans in to whisper in her ear again, “Don Giovanni.”

Well, it is not as such an accurate costume: a legendary Spanish libertine by way of a Mozart opera as viewed on the Paris stage. But France is powerfully attractive whether in man’s or woman’s attire, and never more so than now.  She stands tall and handsome in acres of velvet, blood-red like the mask, with her chestnut hair piled and pinned up under an impressively plumed hat, with a cloak that swishes and boots that are frankly epic.

She is exceedingly pleased she wore this costume tonight, for Poland.

“Oh, obviously.” Poland’s smiling and probably rolling her eyes.

“And who might you be?” France asks, releasing her back into a looser hold, “In this delightful filmy nothing…”

(Fingers play down Poland’s rib cage, leather on silk, into the curve of her waist to rest on her hip.  So near, her body is warm and thrumming with life.)

“…obviously, I’m a clockwork ballerina.”

She has an outsize metal key sticking out of her back, like a knife between her shoulder-blades.  It is some ingenious costumiers’ paste effect, only affixed to the construction of her bodice, and yet in horrified fascination France can’t resist…

“—It doesn’t turn,” Poland says.

Of course.  “The effect is superb,”

The effect is unsettling.

They step on through the dance.

“And the last time I saw you, you were dressed as a lancer.”

Ballerina doll?  Toy soldier?

“Yeah, but that wasn’t a costume,” Poland says a little reproachfully. Let’s not talk about this now.

“You were splendid,” France says, and leaves it at that.

(Who are you, really? France muses.  When you’re in Paris you seem a dizzy girl who lives on air and macarons and floating phrases of music.  Dancing.  It’s braving of Providence.  But then: mounted on a charger, proud and pitiless. In either case, she’s fighting for her life.  Facing oblivion with wonderful panache.)

“…well, you’re not so shabby yourself,” Poland admits.  “I always like the François suits.”

“My town, my rules,” France declares.  “Jealous? I could put you in touch with my tailor.  You do make an insupportably beautiful boy…”

Liminal.  Is the word.  A threshold, a doorway-person.  Between male and female, youth and maturity, this world and the hereafter.  Everlasting and endlessly frail, like the flowers of the fields.

(You can’t look objectively at the situation and think it likely that Poland will come out of this alive. However, you still wouldn’t want to bet against it.  A girl at tipping-point.  A nation in extremity.  Don’t push her.  Life thrums—)

She dressed as a clockwork dancing girl.  But try to twist the key in her back and the mechanism won’t go.

“How are you doing, in general?”

Held fast and stepping through a dance, face half-covered, breathing quick and measured, Poland is more reasonable than usual.  Any other time she’d snap at the insipidity of the question.

“I…” she starts, and her mouth turns down at the corners. “Oh. You know. The same, only more so?  We tried again.  We’ll try again soon.”

(She dressed as a clockwork dancing girl!  You can twist—they had her by the hair and twisted her arm behind her back until she was blind with the pain and sobbing—but she still will not dance to your tune.)

Oh gallant and unhappy nation!

Oh ill-starred Félicité.

It’s difficult to know what to say.

France kisses her just as the music comes to its final cadence.

“Oh, hey,” Poland mumbles, and afterwards: “You missed me, huh?”

“I missed you. Very much.”

In the crowded room, loud the sound of their breathing. Poland adjusts her mask.

The musicians strike up again in ¾.

(Poland claims all polonaises everywhere that ever were or ever more shall be.)

“Listen,“ she exclaims, and grabs France’s hand.  "Listen, they’re playing my tune.”

Takes place in the same timeline as these fic (1 2 3 4 5) – which you don’t have to have read – this one is a little more history-y, and a lot more fraught and depressing between the two of them.  France is somewhat less an an ideal romantic hero.

Basically: here we are catching up with France and Poland, last seen being desperately wistfully tragically romantic in maybe 1796.  In the time between, a whole lot has happened.  Like, you know, Napoleon.  And the Polish legions who fought for him all over, and the short-lived Duchy of Warsaw he established.  And the restoration of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth which did not remotely happen.

This story/vignette/pot of angst is about what happens when these two characters meet again after a lot has gone down.  And they still have whatever latent feelings they might have had for each other, but things are difficult, and different now. Basically- I’m just ruining the nice shippy start I had for them ;;;

To get us bang up to date, then, France has just kicked out his monarchy (again) and got a new one (again, and it’s going to happen again)  And Poland is just about to kick off against Russia in the November Uprising. Which is why he’s a bit on edge, and pumping France for information on barricades and such…

—

Paris, early Autumn 1830

The difference in Poland’s appearance isn’t just the clothes, although they’re a part of it.  The perfect polish on his shoes.  The fine dark-grey silk at his throat.  Everything about him is polished, fined, focused.  He even looks taller, and slender not like a reed but like a blade.  Grace still in his every move, but gravity too; he doesn’t flit, he strides, pacing out his territory.  No longer a stray cat, but a wild one.  (France is staring and doesn’t care; his eyes drink in the sight of that body in motion quite unashamedly.)

Right now, Poland is prowling around France’s reception room as if inspecting it.

"It’s the same," he says, sounding surprised.

"This place?  Yes.  I don’t feel the need to change everything every year or two.”

"Don’t you, though?"

"Now, now," France chides, "don’t you start.  Why, what did you think it would look like?"

"You might have moved to a palace.  I thought you’d have thrown all the furniture out of the window."

France laughs. “The nearest barricade was a few streets away — and I did throw furniture, just not my furniture.  I could take you on a walking tour, tomorrow.  Are you staying the night?”

"If it’s alright with you," Poland says with a shrug, as if he doesn’t care one way or the other.  Maybe he doesn’t.  This exquisite young man is no longer France’s beloved stray, no longer his anything, if he ever was.

"Certainly!" France says.  "To what do I owe the pleasure, incidentally?  There is nothing... official I should be aware of?"

“I’m nothing official, remember?”

"You know what I mean."

"Nothing special.  Just wanted to see a friendly face.  And on that subject — there are certain topics we are not talking about.  Unless I say we can, then it’s fine.  But I didn’t come here to be miserable and stressed out.”

"How charmingly Absolutist you are today!"

"Those are my terms," Poland says.  "If you don’t like them then I’ll tramp.  But I think you’ll agree — I think you’re really happy to see me."

"Of course I agree!" France exclaims. "It is marvellous to see you — what heartless use you make of my affection.”

"Yep," Poland says cheerily.  “Heartless, stateless, helpless, reckless and friendless, that’s me.”

“Not that last.  And as for “helpless"…"

"Aha!" Poland interrupts and taps him abruptly and imperiously on the chest. "Yeah, now you’re straying into the proscribed conversational territory.  It’s nice to get these things clear at the outset, isn’t it?"

“Well then… what shall we talk about?”  France is happy to humour him; the pleasure, the almost intoxicating pleasure, of his company is all he needs.

"Oh please,” Poland says, “Haven’t you ever heard of small talk?  How are you, how is the old place — how’s your piano — how’s your king? — or should that be who? — joking, calm down.  —And as for mine (I’d reply), why he’s apparently the Tsar of all Russia, and isn’t that a puzzler, still, mustn’t complain.  The weather’s clear; do you think we’ll have a very bad winter?”

"Stop, stop!" France protests. "Have mercy.  We can’t discuss such weighty matters as the weather without coffee.”

As he prepares the coffee and they sit down to drink it, he lets Poland do most of the talking.

There’s another difference.  Before, Poland had been like a spoilt princeling disinherited and horrifically ill-used.  His cutting remarks and harsh words all-too-obviously came from a place of his own pain.   Now, he’s been thirty years a soldier, and is accustomed.  The sparkling, jagged edges of his conversation are still there, but perhaps the callousness he only affected before protects him.

There's very little actual news, and a lamentable lack of court scandal these days.  France is reasonably certain by now that Poland hasn’t come to challenge him to a duel or set fire to his house, which is charitable.  So, small talk, unless Poland dictates otherwise.

“I was thinking I should try being a republic,” Poland muses. “Since they were all punishing me for anti-monarchist sentiment anyway.” He adds slyly, “But, I guess you’re not the person to ask about that anymore.”

“Go easy,” France says, holding up his hands in mock surrender.  “Anyway— Louis-Philippe, King by the grace of Barricades… it’s a promising start.”

“Do you think it’ll last?”

“I think…” France rubs his chin, “that we must have faith in the Future.”

“Did you always avoid answering questions?” Poland asks abruptly.  “I don’t remember.”

“Well then, neither do I…” France replies. “I’m starting to think you know me entirely too well.”

“Probably.”  Poland fixes him with a look and raises an eyebrow.  “It was better when we were these enchanting strangers to each other, do you think?”

“My dear, you remain to me as enchanting as ever.”

It feels like a bit like a fencing match.

And Poland apparently decides to forfeit.  He looks down.  “I still like you,” he says in a small voice.  “I think you’ve been a bit of a bitch,” - he handles the words too carefully for them to score a hit - “but I get that you didn’t necessarily mean it.”

“…Let’s go to dinner,” France says gently, magnanimous or craven in what doesn’t feel like victory.

—

Sitting opposite each other gives a good excuse to keep staring at Poland.  Poland doesn’t even notice most of the time, looking down at his food or around at the other diners.  It seems he’s only trained himself to hold eye contact, rather than the habit coming easy to him.

“I like this…”  France indicates the long thin line down Poland’s right cheek.

“You like it?”

“Aesthetically,” he clarifies.  “It looks like a duelling scar.”

“Sure, only that would imply I got a weapon too.”

"You didn’t?"

“Not by then, no.”  He looks at France like he’s being terribly slow and sighs.  “1815?” He raises his glass in ironic toast.  “I guess you were busy.  It makes four times they cut me up.  You were all way more civilised this time, but after a point it just gets so samey."  Poland touches his face fretfully, or perhaps theatrically.  “I don’t know why this is still here.”

France thinks he knows.  Poland is holding onto the evidence, displaying it for all to see.  I exist, his scars say, not as some intangible idea but as a physical reality.  It’s the same with his manner, his clothes, his gait - definite, determined, in touch with the earth. I exist, I am — and the hurt you do to me isn’t a fleeting nothing.  He isn’t letting anyone forget this time. 

He isn’t letting me forget, France thinks, that I failed him.  Poland’s marked face accuses him like nothing that’s actually been said all evening.

—

Wine and candlelight conspire to relax the rules of conservation.

"Russia’s getting just super-annoying at the moment," Poland admits, as he clears his plate.  "Guess I’ll have to do something about that pretty soon."

France feels a pleasurable tingle of apprehension, like the calm before a street battle. “What exactly are you planning?”

"That would be telling."

"Don’t you trust me?" France teases.

Poland looks right at him then.  “I do.  Repeatedly.  That’s kind of been the problem.  I want dessert, please.  And talk to me about barricades.”

—

The topic of barricades: their construction, upkeep and defence, sees them cheerfully through the rest of the meal and the journey home.

A nightcap, and all of a sudden, it’s much later than they’d realised, and France says he’ll decamp to the study for the night then, like last time Poland visited.

"Uh," says Poland.  "You don’t have to."

France holds his breath.

“If you’re offering me the bed, I’m definitely accepting, it’s a nice bed.  But, you don’t have to inconvenience yourself or anything.”  He clarifies, he does clarify, with another flash of his old flustered, unguarded appearance, blunt to the point of rudeness to avoid sounding needy: “I don’t want to sleep with you.  I mean, I just to want to sleep.”

France thinks, It’s not that I’ve gotten under his guard even once this evening - a couple times he’s just let it down.

A whisper of colour appears on Poland’s cheeks, but he meets France’s eyes as he says, “I thought, I might try not being alone at night.  Being with a friend of my own choosing.”  Then he adds, with a glance aside and such calculated coyness that it thrills France’s old rogue’s heart, “…’course… you might not be interested anymore…”

“Interested?” France purrs, “don’t you know by now how you fascinate me?”

Poland smiles and takes his hand, and all the heady mix of what he’s long felt for him comes over France with refreshed potency.

—

From the start he’d loved him, and pitied him; wanted him still.  Wanted to set him free, but also to hold him here, to keep him close.  To save him but also to enjoy him.  To see Poland vindicated, and to see him grateful.

And hadn’t he come so close to achieving all these things?  He’d made Poland so many promises (or almost made them, which is perhaps worse) through the years when he’d strode out across Europe with his Emperor, taking, subduing, remaking. Promises he’d come so close to keeping.

—

Poland takes France by the hand and leads him up to his own bedroom. They wash and dress for bed, and France re-enters the room to see Poland standing by the casement with his back to the door. Poland in the low light, wearing some of France’s night clothes, which are too big for him — and incidentally, what an enduring fantasy this fulfils — looking out on the city, and waiting for him.

Yes, France desires more, something beyond what Poland is willing to give — they both know this.  But it doesn’t matter.  As he takes him in his arms, it doesn’t matter. As they stand, entwined, in the lamplight and moonlight by the window in France’s room, there is no question of ‘enough’, it is more than he had any right to expect, and what a privilege.  He simply glories in the warmth of him, his scent, that very physical reality and weight of his body, the texture of his lips when they kiss, which they do.  France keeps himself in check, but allows himself to feel his wanting, to luxuriate — just a little —, like a hero of a mythic courtly love affair, in the consideration of the sweet forbidden.  Holding Poland almost as close as he ever wanted, France hears him whisper: "I missed you.”

—

He knows objectively that the comparison he’s been making all along to Poland’s visit in 1796 is a false one, overleaping the intervening years of hopes and dashed hopes and honour and political expediency.  Because Poland isn’t only the beguiling urchin drowning in a stolen coat, not only the brave boy who’d finally opened his heart and half broken France’s that day in the Paris sunshine.  Thirty years a soldier.  He’s the cavalryman that trounced England at Albuhera.  He’s the friend that France first betrayed to Austria at Mantua.

France kisses Poland again, deeper and more demanding.  For a moment, Poland kisses back, eager, inexpert, but only for a moment.

—They come so very close.

After all, it seems today’s breezy nonchalance is only another suit of clothes for Poland to try, and suddenly the disguise slips.  He goes frozen in France’s arms, neither responding nor resisting.  France withdraws at once but Poland makes an inarticulate noise of distress and clings tightly to him.

"A friendly face," France repeats, waiting a little before he returns the embrace to give Poland time to leave if he wants to, "that’s all.  That’s fine.  Whatever you want."

Poland nods sharply, but doesn’t let go.

"What is it?" France asks. "Were you remembering.."

"Shh, shh—" Poland presses his hand to France’s lips. "Don’t."

A shudder runs right through him, and when after a moment, he peeks up again, and twists a lock of France’s hair in his fingers, the atmosphere in the room has changed utterly.

"I know what you want," he whispers, green eyes burning low fire.  "I wonder… would you hold back if you didn’t still think of me as a sweet martyred wretch who isn’t able to defend himself…?"

"You are no such thing,” France breathes.  The quiet is oppressive.  He draws his thumb down the scar on Poland’s cheek and elicits another shiver. “You are an angel rather, flame and sword and vengeance… I am fortunate your brightness doesn’t blast me to the marrow…”

"You didn’t answer the question."

France smiles bitterly.  Poland is apparently proof against poetry, but he has other weapons, and he does begin now to feel himself under attack.  He feels tired too, and frustrated, and not just quite sober.  All of which partially explains but does not excuse what he says next, what he murmurs soft and sensuous by Poland’s ear as the fingers of one hand close in the boy’s hair. 

"Would you tease like this if you didn’t trust me?"

Poland extracts himself from France’s hold and backs away.  He sits down heavily on the bed.

"Evidence suggests I probably would, yeah," he says.

France feels cold and ashamed.

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

"Well.”  Poland shrugs.  Composed again.  Determinedly pitiless.   "I started it.  I didn’t mean it to be— I’m not really myself right now.  I did miss you.  As in, you, like this, in person and not — not at the other end of an order to go and die pointlessly in a tropical pandemonium—"

“Don’t,” France pleads before he can stop himself; he tries to call the word back, too late.  “…Alright,” he says miserably.  “Let me have it.”

"I don’t want to!”  Poland thumps his fists on the mattress.  “I told you!  Not now!  For one thing, it would take quite a long time, what I could say to you!  I mean, I could have told you it was cold in Russia!  But I want… I want it to be like back then— no, that’s such shit, I am never—  I wish.  That we could be friends… with no cloud between us.”

The wrenching sincerity draws an answer at once.  “Are we not friends?” France asks.  He can’t bear it.   He wishes he hadn’t said what he said, wishes he hadn’t made promises he couldn’t keep, wishes he could have kept those promises.  And he wishes it wasn’t so late, that they had drunk less and that he could think more clearly, could order the imploring words that flow forth.  “Let’s pretend, just for one day, just for this night, let’s pretend it’s all right — like you said — maybe it isn’t all true but we hurt no-one by so doing, let’s start again—”

Poland brings him up short.

"I am hurt," he says, very quietly.  "I… have been hurt.”

France starts forward towards him, all concern and chivalry.

"I mean by you," Poland says.  "No, listen.  I’m saying you gave me hope, and it hurt.   And I can’t thank you enough.  I think I could rage and cry and throw things at you for about two hundred years before I was through but what would be the point?  I wanted to kiss you and, I even thought, maybe, you know, find out what all the fuss is about — but apparently I can’t.  I — have been… I’m not—”

France sits down beside him, eyes closed in pain.

"There it is," Poland says after a moment.

"There it is," France echoes.  What more can be said?

He puts an arm around Poland’s shoulders, the grip familial, comradely, seeking as much comfort as he’s giving.  He feels his own mouth quiver as if he will weep out of sheer exhaustion.

“Will you…” he says hoarsely, “play me something, on the piano?  I have missed that.”

Poland laughs, breathy and incredulous.  “Piano?  I could, I suppose…  Alright.  Sure.  Only… your neighbours…”

“Should think themselves honoured.”

He cracks a small tired smile.  “You don’t know what I’m going to play yet.”

“…I would suggest something dolce e tranquillo rather than con fuoco, but it’s your choice…”

“Yeah, alright.  Alright, I have a couple things.  Hey.”  He leans against France.  “Hey, I’m pretty tired - you’re probably gonna have to carry me back upstairs.”

“I think I can agree to those terms,” France whispers.

—

(And tomorrow, they will take the little walking tour of where the barricades were, and France will suddenly wonder just how practical Poland’s interest is.  And then, at parting: Look after yourself, Poland.  Be careful with Russia.  But Poland will only scoff, Don’t you give me advice, France, specially not on dealing with him.  No grand gestures or promises this time? Maybe better not.  But, you’ll be around if I really need you, won’t you?  One last searching, unsearchable look into France’s face.  Hey — wish me luck.  I’ll see you soon.  And France will be left uncertain, with that gnawing cold inside like premonition, like remorse.)

—

But tonight.  Tonight, Poland gifts France a prelude, two nocturnes and a melancholy, meandering improvisation during which he does nearly fall asleep and off the piano stool.

And France is able to keep his promise, and catches him up in his arms when the music ends.  He carries him up to bed, holding on round France’s neck, mumbling nonsense.

They lie together the whole night through.   Sleep covers them as snow covers unquiet graves.

—

Notes – or, my very pared down paraphrase of my very basic understanding of a little of the history as relates to this fic!  And then some headcanon stuff.  (Hm, I have conveniently linked things, but I’m not entirely sure why since most of them are wikipedia and the first search result you’d get XD   But hey!)

What happened with writing this was pretty much: having been really very light on the history for the previous France/Poland-y things I’d written, I had an idea for a follow-up, and by this time things had happened in history which were impossible to ignore.  So my little tiny sweet drabble (confident!Romantic!rebel!Poland drops in on France and they spend the night together and it’s kinda sweet THE END) went a bit differently than originally planned.  (I hope I haven’t made too much of a misstep historically, eeesh. & I’m not even attempting to talk about what any other nations are up to in any detail whatsoever.)

After Poland officially stopped existing after the Third Partition in 1795, various things relating to France and Napoleon happened for Poland, mainly including Polish Legions fighting in all sorts of arenas for France (later, the Vistula Legion), and the Duchy of Warsaw, created mostly out of territory re-taken from Prussia.  It wasn’t an independent kingdom, but it felt like it could be heading that way, and basically people saw and still do see it as much better than “Congress Poland" which was the Russian thing that happened after (The Congress of Vienna in) 1815 which became increasingly rubbish as time went by.  …mostly, it’s going to get a whole lot worse for Poland after the failure of this uprising he’s just about to have in 1830-31 :(

Napoleon spoke very highly of the Polish troops - generally, everyone was impressed by them (see both the French and the English - who they’d just defeated! - being inspired to copy the fighting style and the shiny uniforms of Polish lancers after the Battle of Albuhera).  But he was probably promising, or sort of implying that he was promising, more than he was really going to deliver in terms of restoring Poland as a kingdom, getting Lithuania back etc etc.  But still a lot was achieved, and Napoleon/France was/is seen as liberator.  So, yeah, you’ve got two sides to it.  (Represented, by the way, by two war heroes at the time, Dąbrowski (the Legions’ most famous commander, he in the anthem) and Kościuszko, c.f. America, and also the namesake of the very awesome 303 Squadron in WW2, who thought all along France was just using them and never meant to be any real help.  Polish Legions really got sent all over the place (most disastrously to Haiti.  That was really bad).  The Duchy of Warsaw was lost after the whole Napoleon-invades-Russia issue. 

So, yeah, here I have Poland with a somewhat conflicted attitude to France because of all this.  That plus their Hetalia personalities and the fact that in this fic-universe France himself was very kind to him immediately in the late 1790s.

France’s new king was sometimes styled as king ‘by the grace of barricades’, and at first the people who’d got him into power had high hopes. But, well, he was a disappointment - the events of Les Mis are only two years later, when a less popular movement tries to get rid of him. (And the “July Monarchy” only actually lasts till 1848.)

Also, one of the objectionable things about Russian rule was they wanted to send Polish troops in against the French July Revolution! which apart from anything else was v. unconstitutional.  They still had a constitution of sorts at this point.  not for much longer.  

Ooh also!  Chopin is just about to arrive in Paris at this point.  He leaves Warsaw also just before the November Uprising – and writes the Revolutionary Etude to express his feelings about the Russian attack on Warsaw at the end of it.  (The piece is marked con fuoco - with fury.)

Also – what up Yeats and Stevenson, thank you for letting me plunder your pretty phrases…

Couple headcanon-y bits:

Scars – Poland having a scar on his face now in particular I just made up, partly because it suits Poland’s dashing legionnaire look… General theory about scars: obviously nations don’t keep all the serious wounds they receive our EVERYONE would just be one big mass of scar tissue, right? But we see some notable scars, Liet being the obvious exemplar, also Russia had those scars on his neck. So, there have got to be some circumstances where things leave a mark- maybe not permanently but for a long time.  This could be particularly traumatic events or national crises… it could depend on the nation/person,  or what is done about it.  Or as I sort of theorize here, there might be times when someone (semi) consciously doesn’t let the marks fade…

Also…. so if you read Triptych/Truth… There’s a sense in which there are rules or like a sense of what’s acceptable in how nations treat each other? Like rules of war. They get broken sometimes - I’m thinking in the Thirty Years War and then in the 20th C they get broken totally to pieces.  But at this time…. in the story Prussia/Russia/Austria kind of thought that it didn’t matter what they did to Poland because he wasn’t a real nation anymore.  Like… this is an unusual, new situation, and none of the old conventions apply.  I mean that would be their terrible excuse for what they did.  And it would be one of the reasons Poland wants to keep himself as visible and official as possible on the world stage. He does not want to “disappear” again.