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7th August, 1914; Boulogne, France
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England waves at the crowds thronging the quays as the transport is slowly towed into harbour. They wave back – at him, at the other soldiers swarming along the transport's sides and clambering up its rigging – and cheer and sing, snatches of their voices chiming out above the roar of the tugs' engines.
"Bet you never thought you'd see the day, right?" Scotland says. "Warmest reception you're ever likely to get on this side of the Channel."
England grunts in agreement. Although he and France have been forced by their bosses to play nice in public recently, in private, their entente is still far from cordiale, and England suspects it always will be.
Scotland smirks, and then looks out across the crowds again, eyes flicking back and forth as though searching for a face which would be rendered unrecognisable by distance even if it was there.
England shakes his head, and then turns towards Wales on his right. Wales' attention is fixed seaward, and his stance is rigid; feet braced, shoulders held high and stiff. The back of his neck, revealed by his newly close-cropped hair, looks pale and vulnerable, and England almost reaches out to lay a comforting hand on his arm.
"Homesick already, Wales?" he asks instead, because he knows the gesture would be unwelcome.
Wales cocks his head slightly as he considers the question. "No more so than usual," is his eventual answer.
"The top brass seem to think we'll be finished here before Christmas. We'll be back before you know it," England says, trying to sound encouraging.
Wales' posture does not relax even a fraction.
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2nd November, 1915; Western Front, France
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In the dugout, the daily ritual of the morning hate is muted to a dull rattle, punctuated sporadically by heart-clenching bursts of almost-silence.
Scotland imagines England is also performing his usual morning ritual far above them: pacing back and forth as best he can through mud which oozes up around his ankles, sucking at his boots, and chain smoking, lighting each new cigarette from the butt of the last because his hands shake so much now that he can barely strike a match, and –
The small, tinny squeal of metal scraping against metal as France shifts on the bed and its wire mesh base reshapes itself beneath him slices through both Scotland's thoughts and the subdued sound of gunfire.
"Surely you're not feeling shy, Écosse," he says.
"Not shy, no." Scotland can't look at him. Not yet. His gaze drifts instead to the thick woollen blanket tacked haphazardly over the room's entrance, serving as a makeshift door. "It's just –"
"You're worried that we will be interrupted? Don't be. The men are occupied, and, in the unlikely event that anyone does come looking for us, I'm sure Pays de Galles will make a fine guard dog."
Scotland doesn't know whether to curse Wales or thank him. At least if he hadn't proposed standing guard for them, Scotland wouldn't have had to discard yet another of his rapidly dwindling supply of excuses that he was using to persuade himself that he can't do this.
Not that he thinks they really need a guard, because France had asked for them to be left alone for a time, and there are few kindnesses that their boys will deny them. It's difficult to maintain the façade of humanity on the battlefield; the rumours started to spread as soon as the first few soldiers looked up at their CO as their life ebbed away and saw instead the face of the fatherland they were dying for.
They still allow them the thin disguise of their human names – and Scotland's is fucking ridiculous; he really should have given himself time to sober up before he presented himself at barracks that first day of mobilisation – but the respect and allowances they give them are above and beyond that offered to any of the other officers. The awareness will fade in peacetime, however, it always does; the certainty slowly eroding until it's finally dismissed as nothing more than a poetic fancy ascribed to the swell of patriotism often felt during a war.
Still, Wales will be sitting on the stairway leading down to the dugout, one ear tuned to the trench, scratching at the side of his canteen with a penknife, inscribing a pattern that has grown more and more elaborate as the days and weeks have progressed; a proud Welsh dragon beginning to form from the seemingly random swirls and –
France's hand wraps around his wrist, fingertips digging hard between the tendons on the underside. "Stop thinking so hard," he says.
The tug he gives isn't strong, but Scotland moves with it, anyway.
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7th August, 1914; Boulogne, France
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The cheering continues as the troops disembark, and then when they begin to move out, the crowd surges forward, holding out small gifts for the soldiers.
An old woman clutches at England's sleeve as he passes her, and when he halts, she presses a small posy of wildflowers into his hand, offering him welcome then bidding him to cut German soldiers' throats, all in the same soft, tremulous tone. His spoken French is rusty, but he manages to stutter out a few words of thanks, and she smiles, squeezing his arm as tightly as she can with fingers twisted by arthritis-swollen joints.
Ahead of England, Scotland has also been stopped, and he shakes hands and chatters away to the people surrounding him, but his accent is so thick, his French so archaic, England doubts they understand him.
One of the regimental bands at the front of the line starts playing 'La Marseillaise'.
The cheering grows into a roar.
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2nd November, 1915; Western Front, France
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Scotland had thought himself almost inured to the stink of the trenches, but somehow it's still a shock to find it's as ingrained into France's skin as his own. Perhaps it's because the France of his memory always smells of rare and expensive perfumes, even though Scotland knows that the other nation was caked in blood, dirt and old sweat on just as many occasions as Scotland himself during those times.
He breathes in the mingled scents of death and stagnant mud, of smoke and cordite and creosol and lime, and listens to the steady beat of France's heart beneath his ear, striking a little out of synch with the repetitive thud of the pump which keeps the dugout dry.
"Écosse." France sounds exasperated and he pushes none too gently at Scotland's shoulder. "Écosse." A small pause and then a tentative, "Alba?"
Scotland huffs out a curt snort of laughter, muffled against the coarse fabric of France's jacket. "Scotland's fine, you know."
A hum of disapproval reverberates through France's chest. "Are you just going to lie there all morning?" he asks.
Scotland thinks that maybe he should. He thinks that he shouldn't have agreed to France's suggestion – no, it was more of a demand – in the first place, and he definitely shouldn't have allowed himself to climb into bed with him. Years ago, he'd promised Jersey he'd try to move past this, he'd promised himself, and he thought he had. It seems, however, that his resolve, which he had thought iron-clad, wasn't even strong enough to withstand that note of need, of fear, that had coloured France's voice earlier, which had been a fucking humiliating realisation.
The next push is even rougher. "I believe I'm well on my way to being insulted."
After the shove, France's hand settles lightly at the nape of Scotland's neck, fingers drawing faint circles against Scotland's skin, and the tattered remnants of Scotland's resolve drain away. He's never been strong enough to withstand France's rare moments of tenderness.
He shifts his weight and props himself up on his elbows above France, wire digging into his palms through the thin blanket beneath them.
"Sorry," he says, the word slipping from his lips before he's even aware of it taking shape in this mouth, moving too quickly for him to manage to cut it short.
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7th August, 1914; Boulogne, France
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England is accosted as soon as they reach camp in the hills above the town.
He's too surprised to react to the first kiss, which lands at the corner of his mouth rather than his cheek, the placement a little too firm to be accidental, but he pushes France away as he leans in to plant the second. France staggers back, his laughter full and rich and far too loud, and the sound attracts the attention of a couple of straggling soldiers. They stop for a moment, expressions curious, before the force of England's scowl sends them on their way again.
England scrubs at his lips with his sleeve until he judges it safe to risk his tongue touching them as he speaks. "What the hell are you doing here, Frog?"
"I simply wanted to greet the arrival of my stalwart allies," France says, airily, "before I leave for Alsace." He turns away from England to smile at Wales. "I hope you'll be more gracious in accepting my welcome than your brother, Pays de Galles."
"Who isn't more gracious than England?" Wales says, because he, like all of England's siblings, seems to function solely with the intent to frustrate and embarrass England in equal measures.
France winks at England before he busses Wales' cheeks, and England very much wants to punch him. He resists the temptation, however, as his bosses had asked him to try and keep a cool head for the good of their alliance.
After he's released Wales from an unnecessarily close embrace, France glances at Scotland. Scotland's face is an almost perfect blank, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, but one corner of his mouth is curled inwards slightly, as if he's perhaps biting down on the inside of his cheek. England wonders whether he's bracing himself for the possibility that France will kiss him too, or the possibility that he won't, but dismisses the thought from his mind almost immediately after it has taken form. The last time Scotland spoke to him about France in personal terms was just over a hundred years ago, and he's remained in blissful ignorance of the condition of their relationship ever since; a status quo that he's eager to maintain.
After a brief hesitation, France moves towards Scotland, but instead of kissing him, he lightly tugs at the side of Scotland's kilt; an indignity which, for some inexplicable reason, Scotland allows without protest. If it were anyone else, England's fairly certain that Scotland would have broken their wrist for disrespecting his regiment's tartan or some such.
"I am surprised to see you wearing this, Écosse," he says. "Angleterre was adamant that your army had had a 'sartorial revolution'."
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2nd November, 1915; Western Front
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Scotland slips his hands under the worn fabric of France's undershirt and rests one against the concavity of his stomach, pulse fluttering beneath his palm, whilst the fingertips of the other smooth along the hollows between France's ribs. Neither of them has eaten for weeks now, but the flesh hasn't started melting from Scotland's bones yet, even though the habit of hunger still gnaws at his stomach, a constant ache that he tries to ignore, because despite the short rations his boys may sometimes face at the front, his people back home are not starving, not in the same way so many of France's are.
New scars criss-cross France's chest, some barely healed, some snaking around his side to presumably continue their course across his back. Scotland traces them carefully with the pad of his thumb until France bits down on his bottom lip, sharp enough to sting, and then growls, "I'm not made of china, Écosse," against his mouth.
Scotland inhales sharply, drawing in just enough air to voice another quivering, "Sorry."
And yet, he still can't force himself to touch France how he clearly wants to be touched. Not just because he seems more fragile than he ever has before, but part of him still wants to end this, to get up and walk away. It's been far too long and still not long enough since they were last together, and it's more evident to Scotland than ever that the feelings that he'd thought he'd safely smothered if not destroyed entirely, buried beneath years, and hurt, and dogged perseverance, were merely banked; still smouldering and in danger of being reignited by the smallest spark.
France makes another low noise of annoyance at the back of his throat. "It won't surprise you to know that Angleterre's wrong," he says, hand sliding up Scotland's leg to rest against the top of his thigh. "I don't think there's ever been a uniform more practical than the kilt."
His fingers flex; just once, one final question, and Scotland knows that if he doesn't answer in the affirmative, then that will be it, France will leave first and he won't ask again. He's been more patient than Scotland expected he could be, anyhow.
Scotland sucks in another breath, and then another and another, but no matter how much he wishes it, he can't say no. He can't, and honestly he was lost since the very moment France proposed this because he's never been able to. Centuries ago, when England still saw fit to pass comment on Scotland's relationship with France, he had called what Scotland had always seen as his devotion pathetic – "When he says jump, you don't even ask, do you? You just jump as high as you fucking can and hope it's enough this time" - an accusation that Scotland had vociferously denied at the time, but knew even then was more true than he has ever been able to admit to anyone other than himself. He's only been able to maintain the illusion of 'moving on' and 'getting over it' because he's kept his distance from France, and the knowledge that all it would take would be the right touch, the right look, the right fucking question to undermine what little he's been able to achieve has always been there, seething below everything else.
Tendrils of France's hair have worked free from their tie, and Scotland winds them around his fingers as he leans in to kiss him in answer. He can give this to France now, and work out how to deal with the consequences later, as he always has.
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7th August, 1914; Boulogne
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"I'm sure the words 'sartorial revolution' have never once passed my lips. I think the term you're looking for is 'modernisation'." England raises one hand and then flicks his wrist dismissively, the gesture encompassing France's heavy blue greatcoat and madder-red trousers. "Which is something which you could stand to do, as well. Is that the same uniform you were wearing forty years ago?"
"It most certainly is not," France says sharply. He then makes a show of looking England over; raking his eyes from England's feet to the top of his head in a slow, languid way that makes England's toes and fingers both curl. "At least I don't look like I'm headed off for an afternoon on the links."
England's fingernails prickle against his palms. "Things have moved on, France. Granted, our uniforms may not be the most attractive –" France snorts and England narrows his eyes – "but they're practical. Whereas you might as well have painted a fucking target on your arse."
"Are you concerned for my safety, Angleterre?" He clutches one hand to his heart and flutters his eyelashes in a way that is no doubt meant to be coquettish, but has always looked to England more like he's trying to dislodge something that's got something stuck in his eye. "I'm touched."
"I don't care if you get filled full of holes, git. I do care if my boys are fight–"
England hadn't realised he'd taken a step towards France before Wales' hand on his shoulder stops him in the middle of taking a second.
"The alliance, England," Wales hisses in a tone remarkably akin to the one he uses to entreat England to think of the Union whenever England wants to reduce Scotland to a bloody smear on the ground.
"Fucking alliance," England grumbles, forcing himself to relax and unclench his fists. At this point, he doesn't know whether he'll be able to restrain himself for the rest of the day, never mind for the rest of the year.
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2nd November, 1915; Western Front
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Scotland stares up at the faint, flickering lights hanging from the low ceiling above him as France dresses, and tries very hard to think of nothing at all.
No doubt, now that whatever strange, sudden whim had prompted France to approach him in the first place has been satisfied, he'll move on again, something which has never seemed to trouble him, at least. There's a handsome young Gunner he's apparently had his eye on for a while, and whose resistance seems to be weakening daily, although it's been a far lengthier process than Scotland suspects France is used to, and he briefly wonders whether it had been frustration that had driven him. He shrugs the thought aside, though, in his struggle towards blankness.
The bed creaks as France stands up, and then the heavy thud of his boots against the duckboard floor retreats towards the doorway. Scotland's heart speeds up, jumping and stuttering, when the footsteps pause, and France says, "Écosse?"
"Yes?" Scotland's voice rasps, harsh against his dry throat.
"Same time tomorrow?"
Scotland screws his eyes closed. Jesus Christ. He can't do this again. Not without guarantees that it won't be like the last time, giving and giving and never once getting what he wanted; tearing himself apart over something which has never even seemed to ruffle France's surface. Not without some sort of promise.
But because he's never learnt how to say no, not to this, and definitely not now, he says, "Aye, of course."
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7th August, 1914; Boulogne
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France looks positively delighted, damn him; his smile wide and eyes shining brightly.
"Ah well, I doubt I shall be troubling your boys at all. I'm for Alsace and you are going," he shrugs one shoulder, "wherever it is that you're going. If we're lucky, we won't see each other again until the war has ended.