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The City of Lights was supposed to be where their dreams would come true. Bright lights, a city filled with romance and art, and promise of better days ahead. But as time passed, the city was starting to dim in Dmitry’s mind. Everything felt wrong and foreign, and there was no promise of it feeling better any time soon. The way the wind blew through his hair felt wrong, the crooked streets and alleyways felt wrong, even the way they baked bread—though Anya told him he should just enjoy it—felt wrong.
And he felt guilty.
Since he was a young boy, Dmitry had wanted nothing more than to leave St. Petersburg. Once and for all. And now that he had left, he wanted nothing more than to go back.
He resented that there was a part of him that would always miss the streets of Petersburg, always on the run, calling the entire city his home.
Paris was different from St. Petersburg, he had to think twice about everything, from purchasing bread to asking for directions. Everything felt strange.
Except for Anya. She was his lifeline.
He felt the corners of his lips tug into a smile as he watched her. Her eyes were wide, her smile was big, and he was watching her thrive in this city while he fought to stay alive.
And try as he might, He didn’t understand much French. As he watched Anya chat happily with merchants, waiters, people passing on the street, he stood nervously by her side while she chattered away. Anya and Vlad seemed well adjusted, picking up the language with ease. Dmitry struggled, the letters and pronunciations just didn’t make sense to him. It was that Russian stubbornness in him.
With a language barrier and only Anya to translate for him, he felt himself growing dull in a city so vibrant with life.
This morning he had woken early to watch the sun rise. every morning he watched it wistfully, this was the same sun he used to watch rise over Petersburg, his Petersburg.
He leaned over the balcony of their quaint flat, trying to make himself enjoy watching the sun rise. He had dreamed of Paris, and now that he was here, he couldn’t help but feel so far from home.
A small pair of arms snaked around his waist and he started.
“What are you doing out here, lyubímyy?” She asked as she buried her face in his back.
Hearing the rough bite of Russian in her tongue put him at ease. There was a beat between them as he felt her, her skin still warm from being buried under the blankets of the bed. “Do you ever miss it?” he asked. His eyes cast over the city, watching it slowly come to life.
“Miss what?” she replied, pulling herself around to his front so she could catch his gaze.
“Russia,” he said softly.
And then she was quiet. Anya laced her fingers between his and kissed the back of his hand.
“I do,” she replied softly.
“But all you’ve ever wanted–”
“–was to live in Paris,” she finished his sentence. “I know.”
His brow knit as he looked at her and then back at the city. Anya gently touched his arm, as if she sensed he was upset.
“Hearing you speak French and dancing down the pathways, watching Vlad and Lily as lively as ever, I thought I was the only one,” his voice lowered as he gazed off.
Her face softened as she remembered Dmitry didn’t speak much French, and how isolated he must feel.
He turned to look at her, his brow softened as he caught her blue eyes, and he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers gently traced her jawline.
She shook her head as she looked at him, and she gently pulled away.
“Get dressed, Dima,” she said quickly as she headed back inside.
“What?” He asked as he turned around and took a step back inside.
He was met in the mouth with a pair of his trousers.
“I said, get dressed! And I didn’t even say it in French this time.” Anya shook her head and smiled.
He smiled as he watched her pull her nightdress over her head and walk across the room to pull a dress from their wardrobe.
Dmitry slipped his trousers on, and quickly pulled on a shirt and tucked it in. Just as he pulled his suspenders over his shoulders, Anya turned her back to him, fingers pinching the top of her dress. His quick fingers buttoned the back of her dress, and as he finished she turned to him, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek.
Anya pulled on her worn boots, and hurried him along.
“What is your rush, liybimaya?” He laughed.
“I want you to see something,” she replied.
She took his hand and led him out of the flat.
Together they walked along the streets of Paris, and he could feel his heart sinking again. Everything was so modern looking. That was the idea, the focus, of everything. To modernize this. Revolutionize that. There were buildings and gardens they walked by every day that were hardly older than Anya and him. He wondered how anyone could feel at home in a place so modern and new, without roots and a past to speak for itself.
Anya smiled as they rounded the corner, and they suddenly found themselves in an open square. Among the new, modern buildings stood one, with enough age to make up for all the new buildings around it.
He stopped and stared, his jaw gaping as he was caught in his own wonder. Anya held his arm gently as she watched him take in the sight.
“La Notre-Dame de Paris,” Anya said softly.
He stared at the architecture, for once seeing something as old as Russia herself.
Anya smiled as she watched him staring with the same wonder as a young boy.
“It’s– can we go inside?” He asked.
Anya nodded and she held his hand as she led him through the doors.
They stepped inside the cathedral, careful to be quiet and respectful.
Dmitry stood in the cathedral, staring. He was completely in awe at the art and the architecture of the building. As he looked around, the walls seeping with stories, and floors that had seen thousands from all walks of life over the years, he suddenly felt at ease.
Anya rocked on her heel beside him, watching him take it all in.
“I know it’s not Russia–“ Anya began.
He leaned down and kissed her before she could finish. Anya smiled against his lips, feeling his lip tremble against hers.
“It’s beautiful,” he replied as he pulled away.
He quickly brushed a tear off his cheek, overwhelmed that when he was hurting she knew how to help him.
“Are you crying, Dima?” She asked as she turned to look at him.
He stubbornly turned away from her to hide his face. “No.”
Anya rounded him, reaching up to brush a tear off his cheek.
“You’ve missed Russia,” she said softly.
Her fingers gently caressed his cheek, and he leaned into her hand, holding her palm against his cheek with his own.
“I knew the Prince of Petersburg wouldn’t have it so easy,” she teased.
He laughed and wiped away another tear. “It’s beautiful, Kiska,” he said softly as he wrapped his arms around her and held her in the center of the cathedral. “As are you.”
Her cheeks flushed and she stood on her toes to kiss him, savoring every moment. She didn’t want to go until he was ready.
Dmitry paused to look at several of the pieces of art, his hand gripping hers. She smiled as he led her around to look, pausing to spend enough time with everything.
Anya read the tags on pieces of art to him, gently pointing out the words as she was reading them in French. She repeated a few words to him to help him learn, and smiled as she listened to him try to pronounce gentile French words with his harsh Russian accent.
After finishing a walk around the cathedral, Anya looked up at him.
“Ready for some breakfast?” He asked. There was a certain vibrance in his tired eyes she hadn’t seen in months.
She nodded, not even realizing how hungry the both were. Dmitry wrapped his arm around her and walked with her back onto the street.
“Can you say it again?” He asked.
“C’est la Notre-Dame de Paris,” Anya repeated as she pointed to the grand cathedral.
“La Notre-Dame,” he repeated as he looked past her.
She smiled softly as he repeated the name to himself. Dmitry turned back to her and quickly cupped her jaw as he leaned down to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers gently twisting at the hair at the nape of his neck.
He pulled back gently to look at her, “Thank you.”
Anya smiled and took his hand as he led her to a new cafe.