[paris] it’s just forever [robin]

paris // 9 august 2003

“Really, it’s very chic.” Fflur had already tied a small silk scarf around her neck—it had baguettes and Eiffel Towers and french bulldogs wearing scarves and berets—and was adjusting Robin’s beret now, tilting it to a jaunty angle. It was a gaudy, obviously touristy one, too—FRANCE was spelled out with the Eiffel Tower as the A—and frankly, Robin had never looked better. “We’ll blend right in,” she added with a laugh, picking up another beret and placing it on her head.

This was way more fun when she wasn’t trying to be so cool and she knew she wouldn’t have been able to do it with anyone but Robin. They were in the city for the Banshee show later that night (which was a whole thing in and of itself because she’d never seen Charlie perform outside of karaoke and honestly how could he too singing You’re the One that I Want?)

She was going to see Michel, too; he was the one person from before she really kept in touch with (besides Charlie) and she wanted him to meet Robin and she was so pleased Robin was up to it; it was going to be weird navigating the waters of talking to these people without a glass of wine; honestly, it was weird being in Paris without a glass of wine in her hand in the first place. Wine or not (definitely not), they weren’t going to see Michel until after the show, so they had the day to themselves.

Fflur had never really done any touristy things when she lived in Paris so she was maxing out their time with whatever they could fit in.  They’d done Montmartre in the morning, cafés and window shopping and sidewalk art, then did the towers tour at Notre Dame—so many fucking stairs—and had just gone up the Arc du Triomphe because the line was way shorter there than the one at the Eiffel Tower.

The gift shop was about half way back down to ground level; they’d spent the last few minutes looking around before donning their new accessories. “We can do the Louvre next?” She spotted a rack of disposable cameras and picked one up. “Can get a blurry photo of us in front of the Mona Lisa.”

@Robin Byrne-Davidson

It hadn’t really been either of their idea, just a joke they’d been tossing back and forth the night before the portkey that somehow transfigured itself into a plan. They were going to do all the tourist nonsense they could. That was what they were, after all—or, what Robin was. Fflur had lived there once. Robin, a steadfast Englishman with questionable aesthetic and romantic sensibilities, was ready to tromp all over the City of Love like the idiot he was.

At first it was lovely, wandering around with Fflur and running a judgmental commentary with their heads together. After a few hours the buzz had started to wear off, though. Robin had underestimated the sheer amount of tourist attractions in Paris, and also how many of them were old buildings he didn’t care about.

Fflur had gone out of her way to find them the tackiest souvenirs possible, and Robin respected her deeply for it. But he couldn’t help sighing as she suggested continuing their marathon Muggle Paris foot tour. He looked down at his old watch, carefully angling the magically shifting dial away from the elderly couple next to them. “The show’s at eight, yeah?” he asked. Was that enough time to go back to the hotel and nap? Frankly a Banshee gig was exhausting enough for a day.

But the Louvre was next, there were Mona Lisas to be photographed with. Robin tried his hardest not to look disappointed or put-upon as he sat right down on the floor of the Arc du Triomphe gift shop, knees bent awkwardly in front of him. “Can we have a rest for a minute first?” he asked. “I already know your old mate’s going to think I’m a bore, but I still don’t want to fall asleep at dinner.”

She saw Robin check his watch and she swallowed. “Yeah.” Doors at seven, real show probably not until nine.

“I--” Robin sunk to the floor and Fflur watched him do it, not giving a flying fig at the suddenly put out couple who now had to walk around the display of stuffed french bulldogs. She chewed on her lip for a second before nodding. “Yeah. ‘Course.” She ran her hand back over her hair, pulling her beret off in the process, and ditched the disposable camera before she bent her knees to squat down beside him. She wrapped one arm around her knees and held onto the edge of the nearest table with her other hand; her balance wasn’t quite what it used to be.

“He’s not gonna think you’re a bore,” she said, dropping the volume of her voice a little. She didn’t say anything about dinner, especially since ‘dinner’ was sort of a poor description for the meal they’d be having after the show. She wrinkled her nose; she knew it was a lot. A lot. Paris, the show, Michel-- Fflur thought she had thanked Robin enough for being there but she probably hadn’t properly explained her thought process behind seeing every attraction imaginable.

Her knees were starting to give out so she sank down the rest of the way and tried to readjust. “If anything,” she started again, fiddling with the beret in her hands, “I’m the bore.” She laughed, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if Robin could tell she was anxious. It felt like two different Fflurs--Paris Fflur and post-Paris Fflur--and while she thought she had moderate success blending the two around Charlie or Luc--the only people who knew both--neither of them had been as constant a presence as Michel. It was weird, to put it mildly.

Fflur crouched down next to him, a serious look on her face, and Robin almost laughed. It was easy to picture her like this at school. Getting down to some troubled kid’s level to talk over their problems like an authority figure. Robin had always liked to imagine her as the sort of teacher who didn’t do these things. But there really wasn’t a way to teach without that, was there?

As the kid in the situation, he shrugged. “I don’t need long,” he assured her. It was an irresistible urge to make it clear that he knew he was being an inconvenience. He’d grown into the habit as an adult—the age of apology. But Fflur didn’t seem to be in a hurry, in fact, she sat on the floor beside him. I’m the bore, she said. Apologies of her own. Listening to her do it made Robin realize how annoying it was. The last thing he wanted for Fflur was some pretentious drunk Frenchman to make her self-conscious.

He should have known this all was about something bigger for her. He’d been here himself, after all: so many of his friendships from his twenties were no longer the same. But  he didn’t have a separate place to push all those memories to, to segregate his past and future, like Fflur could leave her drunkenness and depression in Paris. Of course coming back had fucked her up.

“I like boring you,” he said. “You know I do.” He’d spent so long feeling guilty about that, like he’d pulled her down his road by force. But he hadn’t—he’d just made a space for her to come with him if she liked. “I figure if you wanted to be more exciting you’d have done it by now, so if this bloke doesn’t like it then, I dunno.”

Robin leaned his head back against the shelf of stuffed animals and grinned at her. “It’ll be fine. Either we’ll have a good time, or we’ll get to tell Michelle to go fuck himself.”

Fflur returned his shrug when he said he didn’t ‘ned long. She didn’t mind, really; she wasn’t in a hurry. Among all the other reasons she had planned out the day like she had, she had been trying to make this fun because it was supposed to be fun. It was sort of their first little holiday together, neither of them working, not visiting family, spending time together (and alone) outside of Hogsmeade. She might have overdone it, just a little.

She crossed her legs under herself and got more comfortable, tossing the beret up onto the table beside her.

Robin liked her, anyway. She offered him a lopsided grin, both because she just liked hearing it and because it helped more than he knew. For once, she didn’t say something about his questionable taste because it was kind of a nice moment, sitting on the floor of the gift shop, blocking the way of a couple American teenagers. He figured she could be more exciting if she wanted to and she shrugged again; he wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t think she’d be successful without alcohol which… was the whole problem. Her second attempt at not drinking was nearing as long as her first attempt had gone and she tried to stop thinking about it as soon as it popped into her head, not wanting to jinx it now.

“Yeah, I dunno.” She thought they could be more boring, anyway.

Fflur returned his grin more surely. It would be fine. It would, really. “We’ll have a good time,” she agreed. Michel was one of the very small handful of people she hadn’t (seriously) told to go fuck themselves. She couldn’t really afford to alienate any more people; she only had a few good ones left. “I’ve warned him.” His letter back had seemed sincere enough. “He means well.” She felt like she’d said this already, but he was her first mate in France and if he didn’t give a shit about her past then, he should be able to continue the tradition now.

“You want food?” There were plenty of spots close by, but she realized after another few seconds that she rated a place’s eatability based on their drink specials. “Or go back to the hotel?” Have a nap, or whatever.

Fflur smiled. It made Robin’s smile widen automatically in response, digging into his cheeks. Too much to break it and kiss her, so he elbowed her affectionately instead.

“I’m sure he’ll be the picture of hospitality,” said Robin, with a small chuckle at the irony of saying that about anyone Fflur didn’t hate. He pushed himself up from the floor—his bum was now hurting more than his feet had. He extended a hand. “Thanks for humoring me,” he said. She’d taken off her hat, and he lifted one hand to his when she stood. “Do you not want any of this?” he asked. “Come on, you’ve gotten your hairspray all over it now—I think that’s bad form.”

Robin knew he’d been angling for a nap, but Fflur’s earnest smile had put a bit more life in him. “I’d love some food,” he said. “Seems a waste to come to Paris and not eat all we can, don’t it?” Fflur might have lived there for years but French food was still a novelty to Robin. When it occurred to him to try different cuisines he usually chose as far from Britain as he could. (Italian notwithstanding.) “You can teach me enough French to order," he said. It was a point of shame given his profession, but he had been having a difficult time getting his tongue around this language.

At least Fflur seemed to be having fun listening to him try.

Robin helped her to her feet and she shrugged off his thanks for humoring him. She felt better after being off her feet for a couple minutes, and she hadn’t noticed that burning in her knees until it had gone away, but she didn’t go as far as thanking him for taking a rest. “Er,” she said instead, looking down at herself, able to see only the ends of the scarf she was wearing. No, she didn’t want any of it, but-- her hairspray was all over it, that was for sure. “You think?” She thought it was kind of expected of tourists to be as horrible as possible and wasn’t that what she was pretending to be? (A tourist, not horrible). “Yeah, alright.”

Her scarf-beret combo were a bit overkill  but it was all in good fun (plus, she thought she could do a pretty good American accent after spending last summer in New York, if she needed to play the part of a tourist any harder). She bought Robin’s hat, too, and made sure they were both wearing them before they left the gift shop, taking the many stairs back down to the street.

“Food, then,” she agreed. “Just start with, omelette du fromage.” She had learned it from Steve Martin, and later learned that it was kind of nonsense, but that’s what made it funny, wasn’t it? “Escargot, if you’re feeling bold.” Enough butter and it wasn’t really obvious you were eating snails. Or maybe that was the wine that did that. Either way, she had only had it a couple times. She ate while she lived there, but heavy drinking did wonders for her appetite, especially once she cut out all of that quidditch exercise. That wasn’t a fun explanation for anything, though.

Anyway, she didn’t want snails. Steak-frites was probably the least French French food but she couldn’t think of anything else that sounded better than that. And it was pretty standard fare, so she picked a cafe at random. They’d probably pay (literally) for picking a place off Champs-Élysées but such was life as a tourist. The café was hazy with smoke--she certainly missed that about living in Paris--and she led them to a small round table about halfway in. “No omelettes but--” she pulled a menu from the small metal holder and pointed to the steak and fries on the menu. “This is good.”

They left the gift shop. A passerby gave Robin a disgusted look at his awful hat, and Robin gave him a good-natured wave.

“Dunno how you had the nerve to live here,” he said to Fflur. “Feels like being on stage, but always.” New York had been different—being non-American there had come with a sense of superiority, for whatever reason. Speaking the language had also helped. Here, he was just some idiot who could barely ask where to use the bathroom, and no one had compunctions about treating him as such. He shrugged. Being drunk had probably helped. If Robin missed anything, it was how much easier liquor had helped him to feel at home.

Fflur gave him a couple meal options, but Robin was unsure how bold he was feeling. They had plans afterward, after all. “Maybe I’ll just let you do the talking, on second thought,” he said, and chuckled. “Change of pace, yeah?”

He fidgeted with his menu, barely restraining himself from folding it in half. “I trust your judgment,” he said with another shrug. Maybe Fflur would take that as a challenge, that was always an option. But if she did, he wouldn’t really mind.

[out]

Fflur shrugged. “I liked the attention.” Better to be known as an expat with a drinking problem (like so many other expats were) than as a failed quidditch player with a drinking problem, and she had found the perfect crowd to fall in with to make that happen.

“Not the worst thing,” she agreed with a grin, nodding to assure him she would do all the talking. She kept looking over the menu as she busied her hands, lighting a cigarette and leaving the pack on the small table rather than stow it back in her pocket. Robin said he trusted her judgement, and she grinned again. “Snails it is,” she joked, because now that she had pointed out steak and chips, that was what she was going for.

“Probably still have time for a nap--” or whatever-- “Before tonight.” She was flagging down a waiter and after a few more seconds, she looked at Robin with another smile.

[[ end ]]