Chapter Text
Paul honestly hadn’t expected much of a reaction from the lads when he expressed his intentions of traveling to Paris with Robert Fraser. In his mind it’s simply registered as a nice invitation from one good acquaintance to another, helped in part by John Dunbar’s connections at Duke Street. It would be a totally innocuous trip to look over some paintings that Robert thought he’d like, and to possibly buy some for Cavendish Avenue where he and Jane would be moving to. The whole thing, therefore, is quite a non-issue.
But when his bandmates and others in their circle heard about the plans they’ve made, it’s as if Paul has decided to do something entirely out of line. He’s gay, what will people think? Are you really sure it’s a good idea? What about Jane, maybe she should go with you…? With the exception of Ringo, who’s only real concern is whether Robert will be pleasant company during the trip, the others are firmly in the camp of disapproval. Paul can’t help but be extremely put-out and churlish toward the naysayers as a result. Don’t they see how ridiculous they’re being? He’s very much capable of managing his friendships as well as taking care of himself, thank you. This is not as earth-shaking as people are making it out to be.
It’s becoming Barcelona all over again, an exasperated voice in his head wants to lament. And John told me himself, nothing actually did happen! People got uptight over absolutely nothing. So he should know better than anyone, but he doesn’t approve of me and Robert, either, apparently. Fab. Well, he and the others are being daft. All we’re going to do is look at some Magritte paintings… and also squeeze in a bit of sightseeing, because why not? That’s all there is to it.
So Paul shakes off the questioning, damn the lot of them, and gets himself and his duffel bag on the scheduled plane - and hours later he and Robert have arrived to the springtime of Paris all around them, the cherry blossoms fit to bursting along the Left Bank and the Jardins du Trocadéro by the Eiffel Tower. Their stay will last a few days, during which Robert intends for him to meet an art dealer friend of his, a Greek-American man by the name of Alexander Iolas. He deals for the Belgian surrealist René Magritte and a number of other artists, Andy Warhol among them; Robert is practically glowing with enthusiasm as he reiterates Iolas’ professionalism and kindness, as well as his growing network of galleries in Paris, Geneva, and even Milan.
“We’re to have dinner with him this evening at his apartment, on Boulevard St-Germain,” Robert had informed him before they left London, “and afterwards he’ll let us down into his gallery so that you may peruse his collection to your heart’s content. I know that you’ll be very pleased with the Magrittes he has for sale.”
For the duration of the trip they’re staying at the Plaza Athénée on the Avenue Montaigne, and it’s exactly the sort of place that makes Paul feel delightfully chic. The building, as Robert explained, is classically French for the most part, while the seventh and eighth floors are done in Art Deco. Every window has a box that is full of geraniums, perhaps the most healthy and the most colorful ones Paul has ever seen, the green leaves especially contrasting from a distance with the warm white facade and the little red awnings that deflect some of the sun away.
“It’s fantastic!” Paul laughs, stretching his arms up to encompass the whole of the Plaza Athénée. “For a few days we’ll be living like royalty. Let’s see our rooms now, yeah?”
They’re directly across from each other on the fourth floor. The rooms are as opulent as the rest of the hotel - massive king beds, comfortable writing desks and chairs, beautiful light fixtures with intricate floral designs, voluptuous blue curtains in Paul’s room and red ones in Robert’s, to match the awnings. Paul freshens up with a shower but leaves his hair alone, not dirty enough to warrant a scrub. He does put a new shirt on - blue with white dots and a white collar - and slips back into his cream-colored jacket and pants.
Robert is waiting for him out in the hallway, in that tight pink suit he wore to the Indica’s opening back at the end of January. Fashionable, with just the right touch of arrogance, thinks Paul, huffing a laugh through his nose. He completely owns it. Robert is always one for making a bold statement of some kind, ignoring or laughing off any negative attention that he receives. Any publicity’s a good thing and all. Paul likes that tremendously about the man, his unshakeable, self-assured attitude toward the world. It inspires him to be bolder, too, less concerned with what others think.
Robert’s own hair has that feathery-soft look on top and darker sheen near his scalp, meaning he must have finished washing up, too. He smells clean, but also earthy, with a hint of leather and patchouli. He must have put on some of that Aramis cologne that he showed Paul once, when he’d visited Robert’s flat after a show. It suits him well.
Sometimes Robert reminds him of Brian, in their bearing and their tastes, but also in their maturity. Personality wise, too, they’re more alike than different. Assertive without being dominating, able to turn up their charm to make people feel at ease, motivated to pursue something worthwhile - and to top it off, they both look great doing it.
“Where shall we go first?” asks Robert. “I know a wonderful café that’s not a long walk from here, if you’re in the mood for it.”
“Yes,” Paul says with a smile, but then he falters. “Er… suppose I should keep me sunglasses on when we’re out, you know. Rather not be recognized on a nice morning like this while trying to have breakfast.”
Robert quirks an amused eyebrow at his concern. “Yes, I’m sure a pair of sunglasses will suffice. No one could possibly recognize that dark mop-top of yours from miles away, of course. And it’s not as if your face has been broadcast all over the world or displayed proudly on hundreds of thousands of records for the past three years. A brilliant plan, truly, I commend you for it.”
Paul makes a dismissive noise and waves Robert away, his mouth scrunching up in a pout.
“Ah, come off it. I get it, all right, I should’ve brought a hat along! Or disguised meself as an old man. I’ve just been so eager to see your friend and his gallery, it’s exciting stuff, y’know. Can you blame me?"
“Not in the least.” Robert shakes his head, smirking at Paul now. “I’ve made it my duty to oversee the development of your art collection in the right way. Luckily I got to you first before Kasmin did, or else you might be shopping for Hockneys instead of Magrittes.”
The café that Robert spoke of is less than half a block away from them. They find a table to sit at on the terrace, allowing them to watch the people passing by on the street. The morning is still winding up to speed, and there’s a restless but subdued thrum in the air, locals and tourists alike going forth into a new day. The weather is cool and perfectly sunny, and the sky a soft pastel blue. Paul orders a pain au chocolat and black coffee with a bit of sugar, while Robert goes for a tartine - a slice of bread with, in this case, butter and strawberry jam - and a café crème.
“Your French is very good, by the way… could’ve fooled me for a local,” Paul comments. “You said you studied languages at Eton, right?”
“Yes, French and a number of others which were considered important for a well-rounded education. Latin always fascinated me, as did the Romance languages. It helped as well that my father was knowledgable on the language front, and I’ve always been a keen reader on my own, so I wasn’t nearly as hopeless or unwilling to learn as some of my peers. If I ever did need a spot of help, I often went to my father’s study to find suitable books or to ask him personally.”
“You make it sound so aristocratic, a study,” Paul chuckles. “My dad’s the type to sit down in his armchair and read the paper front to back, while me and Mike scurried off to do our chores. Best to be good lads and not disturb ‘im for a while, you know!”
Robert chuckles knowingly. “Ah, yes, it could be the same way for my siblings and I. Father was diligent about reading the papers, too - one has to be in the banking profession, I suppose. Usually it was myself or Nick who were arguing about something or another and Father would intervene only when it became too much. I rarely remember Janet being quarrelsome.”
They go back and forth for a while on the subject of families, although they both carefully sidestep direct talk over the losses that hang over them. Those difficult conservations have already been had elsewhere, in the privacy of Robert’s flat or his office at the gallery, or on occasion during a quiet dinner when they’ve been struck by a pensive mood. When Robert first spoke about his father Lionel’s death from cancer and pneumonia, Paul had felt a similar visceral kinship that he does with John - that aching, bottomless sort of ache, that empty spot where the person should be but isn’t, that you keep going to over and over, as if you one day expect the piece of you that’s been cut and parted to finally close up, close over - the healing complete. But it never does, and it never is, although love remains. Always, the love is there.
Paul remembers the earnest look on Robert’s face when he finally talked about his mum Mary, how loving she was, how hard she worked as a midwife, always looking for better opportunities so that they had a nice home and a safe neighborhood to live in. But Robert had turned grim when Paul described the after, of suddenly going from laughter and warmth and kisses on skinned knees, to helping Mike get to school and making sure a decent meal of some kind landed on the table, on the days when Jim was tied up at the track gambling away what little money they had. Grimmer still Robert became when Paul went on to tell how he used to go ‘round selling door to door for a bit of extra money, too, to cover for what had been lost.
He was equally affected, hearing Robert’s stutter become more pronounced as he spoke of his sister Janet and brother-in-law Richard’s car accident, and the way his mother Cynthia had turned to him to be her emotional bedrock after Lionel died, as well. The grief of losing three people like that less than a decade apart had been especially potent. Robert explained that he often shuts up the gallery in the afternoons to check in on his mother or have tea, or to take her out somewhere nice to dinner, and in turn Cynthia gives him a safe place to express himself, offers her advice, and even supports him and the gallery with small loans (although Robert’s admitted his running debt with her has become a problem of late, which he hopes to fix). Both them and their families have had to soldier through hardship, get out the other side of it - changed, of course, but still here. Still carrying on.
Now the sun is illuminating the top of Robert’s hair, softening it like the hazy reflections in one of Monet’s Water Lilies. Up close his glasses - the lenses small and rectangular on this particular pair - seem to contain the whole of Paris in them. The café, the streets, the people, everything is distilled to their most basic shapes. Paul isn’t embarrassed to admit that he enjoys watching Robert like this, observing how the world sticks to him, how it shifts and molds itself to suit his presence.
On occasions, he even finds himself wondering - with equal parts quivering excitement and heart-pounding uncertainty - what it would be like. To be someone that Robert might, well, desire. To be one of the Northern boys that goes around with this posh, charming bloke from London. There are moments when Robert gives him this look, or his touch on Paul’s back lingers for a moment too long at the gallery, and he just wants to know, God, he wants—
“Have you been listening to a single thing I’ve said, Paul?”
The question startles him thoroughly, so much so that his face floods with heat, and he manages to get out, “Er, yes, yes I have. You were, um, saying something about your brother’s, er… children?”
Robert lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh.
“That was at least five minutes ago. So we’ve confirmed that you indeed weren’t listening to me just now.”
Paul colors even further, picking at the cuticle of his ring finger. “Ha, sorry. I didn’t- I just- you…”
“All right, that’s quite enough. I'm not as offended as I must seem,” Robert placates, smiling with amusement. “There’s a lot for you to think about, I’m sure. It’s understandable, of course, how one’s mind can be pulled in many other directions. Ah, speaking of,” and his eyebrows shoot up, attention flicking suddenly toward the café, “I see that our petit-déjeuner is about to arrive.”
Robert is right, and for a time they converse only a little between emptying the plates and cups in front of them. At last Robert cleans his mouth on his red cloth napkin and stands up.
“Since the café was my suggestion, why don’t you pick something for us this time?” he offers.
Paul has already been fantasizing about many possible itineraries for this morning and the afternoon, the destinations wonderfully varied, and he’s also pleased by Robert welcoming his input on the matter, too. Paris is a stomping ground for both of us, isn’t it? He flashes a smile up at the other man, one leg bouncing under the table with restless excitement.
“All right,” he says. “How’s the Musée d’Orsay sound, then?”
Robert’s eyes glint back at him approvingly. “Splendid.”
As if reading Paul’s thoughts from earlier, Robert guides him over to the section of the museum that displays the works of Impressionist painters. Paul spends a while studying Monet up close - Water Lilies being at another museum, he tries to appreciate what is here, such as Monet’s still lifes of meat and game birds. Not very exciting, but still technically well done. A piece that Paul likes right away is Farmyard in Normandy. As soon as he spots it he’s drawn to the rustic yellow and green tones, and the way the light is reflected on the pond and the houses to the left of it, while the foreground is dotted with small figures, a cow, and several ducks of various colors.
Renoir’s dancing couples are also pleasing to look at, particularly Danse à la campagne. A bearded man in a blue suit holds a woman by the waist, one of her yellow-gloved hands clutching a fan, the other hand placed on the back of the man’s shoulder. The woman is wearing a flowing white dress with a pattern of pale pink flowers, and her head is covered with a bright red bonnet.
“It’s refreshing, you know,” says Robert, making Paul start a little, and he chuckles in apology. “I just mean your focus on these paintings… I can tell that you’re genuine about it, not just putting on a show of interest for my benefit, like some might. Of course I already knew this about you, but regardless - you’re looking the way I do, as if you’re consciously getting in tune with the work and the artist, so that you can understand the heart of them. If you ever want a change from the singer-songwriter business, Paul, I could always make a successful art dealer out of you,” and this last declaration is delivered with a wink and a teasing little smile.
Paul shakes his head, biting on a nail in a doubtlessly failed effort to conceal his smile.
“Thanks, but I dunno’ about that,” he insists. “I appreciate art, sure, and the Indica’s been a great place to branch out. Peter and Miles are fab, and Dunbar, too, of course, though I’m not as close to him as the others. I think it was Jane and the rest of her family who turned me on to the arts scene again… to other sorts of painters, authors, poets, and what have you. Before that I used to hang ‘round some art school parties back in Liverpool, you know, with John. I’d sort of sit with me collar turned up and a guitar in hand, and pretend to mumble French so I’d seem like an alluring and ‘mysterious’ character. All to try and pick up a bird, can you believe it?” He laughs, a touch of self-deprecation in it. “I know it’s a little daft, especially since I never actually managed to get a bird interested in me at these parties, but it was a lot of fun anyroad.”
Robert is looking at him now in a peculiar way - and yes, it’s that look. Amused and a little baffled, certainly, and something Paul might even call affectionate, but with an odd, quiet intensity beneath it all. He meets Robert’s gaze head on, curious and thrilled by whatever mood he’s managed to instill in the older man.
Like the paintings, Paul also wants to better understand the heart of Robert Fraser. What else doesn’t he know about him, his life now, and before, in America? What multitudes does he contain, as Whitman would put it, for Paul to discover? What thoughts and feelings is Robert, ultimately, refraining from telling him outright? He thinks that he’d like to find out, to patiently bide his time until Robert opens entirely to him, like a peony revealing the lush circle of its petals. He hopes Paris might soften the last of Robert’s defenses, and his own, too, so that they’re as honest as two people can humanly be.
“Besides,” Paul goes on, softly bumping Robert’s shoulder with his, “you already have John Kasmin as serious competition. Would you really want to take a young upstart like me under your wing and watch as I tried to catch up with you?”
“I do like to see an unlikely character find his footing and eventually climb his way to the top. Like a Dickens plot, in a way. So I could also derive a certain amount of entertainment in watching you struggle at first, too, hmm?” Robert deadpans, and Paul huffs in mock-offense, bumping his shoulder harder.
As he moves back he glances at Robert from the corner of his eye, and he sees the mischievous smirk trying to make its presence known.
“Cheeky,” he scolds, but he’s not the slightest bit put out by Robert - not at all.