Circa 1350; Edinburgh, ScotlandThe cotehardie is the most luxurious Cymru has ever worn. It is also the most uncomfortable.
The light blue Italian silk is softer than rabbit fur against his skin, but it is far too constrictive around his chest, cut to be tight on France's far more willowy frame. The full sleeves would probably look elegant on someone with longer arms, but Cymru has already sat on them twice and is now so afeared he'll rip them that he dare not move.
"You're holding yourself too stiffly," France says, laying one hand high on Cymru's back and pushing down until Cymru is forced to round his shoulders and bend his spine a little. "Imagine you're simply wearing your own clothes."
That is, unfortunately, beyond the scope of even Cymru's fertile imagination. He can breathe in his own clothes. "I'm not sure I can, Ffrainc."
France clucks his tongue chidingly. "You will have to try, Cymru, or people will suspect you're not used to such finery."
"I'm not, though," Cymru protests, but France ignores him, turning away to rummage through the travelling chest set at the foot of the low bed. A chest that has, no doubt, remained untouched since he arrived at the castle three days ago and Scotland spirited him away to his own bedchamber where, Cymru supposes, he has little use for fresh clothing.
France emerges a moment later clutching an intricately carved ivory comb, which Cymru eyes suspiciously. "What are you planning on doing with that?" he asks.
"I would have though that was obvious," France says, smirking slightly. "But considering the usual state of your hair, perhaps I'm being presumptuous."
Cymru almost tells him to fuck off on reflex, but the words wither in his throat long before they even approach his lips. He never curses in front of France, because it doesn't feel seemly, somehow, although he's never been able to understand why that might be. France has no doubt heard far worse many times, not least from Scotland, who doesn't have a propriety bone in his body.
"I doubt you'll be able to do much with it," Cymru says instead, almost apologetically.
His hair, he had decided long ago, was good for nothing more than keeping the top of his head warm. It certainly will never be subdued sufficiently that it lies sleek and orderly like France's own.
"Mon cher Cymru," France says, dismissively waving Cymru's words away with a quick flick of his wrist, "you underestimate me."
France hits a knot almost as soon as he sets the comb to Cymru's hair. Gentle teasing does not untangle it, nor does a good, sharp yank, and France eventually has to resort to setting one knee onto the bed beside Cymru and using the added leverage to tug as hard as he can.
By the time the comb finally pulls free, France is red-faced and scowling from the effort. "Mon dieu," he says breathlessly, shaking his head, "calling this mess a nest would be an insult to birds. What have you done to it?"
"Nothing, Ffrainc." Cymru gingerly touches the top of his head to reassure himself that he hasn't lost a chunk of skin alongside the hank of hair caught up in the teeth of France's comb. Thankfully, his scalp appears intact, but it's still sore enough that the contact makes him wince. "It's just the way it is."
France mumbles something beneath his breath – the exact words are incomprehensible, but their tone is harsh enough that his opinion on that explanation is clear, nevertheless – before setting to work again, his expression grimly determined.
This time, as France pulls, tugs and yanks his way through remaining snarls, the only way Cymru can hold back his curses is to bite down on the side of his thumb, clamping his lips so tightly around it that only a thin hiss of air can escape them. He's tempted to tell France to stop, or to just get up and walk away, but he'd promised Scotland he'd keep France amused whilst his brother meets with his king, and if this is what amuses France? Well, then Cymru will simply have to endure. The punishment Scotland would doubtless mete out if he discovered he'd been disobeyed would make Cymru's current suffering pale into insignificance.
"Still, it's not the worst I have ever seen," France says when he finally sets the comb aside. "Do you remember when Angleterre grew his hair?"
Cymru does, and the memory makes him grin despite his watering eyes and aching head. A couple of centuries back, England had, like so many of his people at the time, tried to wear his hair long. The change had been short lived, however, as he had ended up very closely resembling an overly large rodent attempting to hide in a very small bush, which Scotland had delighted in pointing out every time they saw one another.
"See, you can still smile. And you look…" France's voice trails away as he steps back to take in the full effect of his hard work. "Perhaps I have not yet done all that I can," he finishes, sounding a little disheartened.
To Cymru's relief, he does not pick up the comb again, but instead uses his fingers to rake through Cymru's hair. His touch is light, soothing away the sting his earlier ministrations had inflicted, and raising a pleasant tingling to replace it which spreads warm and languid across Cymru's scalp and then down the back of his neck.
Scotland has always been heavy-handed, far freer with his fists than anything even approaching tenderness, and England has slowly but surely become the same way over the centuries, for all his complaints about Scotland's treatment of him when they were younger. And Cymru has, it appears, grown too old for his people to want to coddle him as they once did, offering him the same, easy affection that they would their own children. Recently, he's found himself caught in some strange, liminal place; clearly no longer a child and yet, to his frustration, seemingly still too youthful looking for his few tentative romantic advances to be met with anything other than amused tolerance and gentle rebuffs. As such, he has grown unused to kindly touches, and can't help but lean in to France's now, pressing his head up against the other nation's palms like a dog wanting to be stroked.
France chuckles quietly, skimming the tips of his fingers up to Cymru's hairline, and then all the way back down to the base of his skull, dragging the prickly heat along in their wake until it spreads across Cymru's cheeks and gathers deep at the base of his throat.
"It's good that we get to spend this time together," France says, his voice as soft as his hands. "It has been far too long since I last saw you."
Cymru's head feels far too full and heavy to nod, his tongue too thick to speak, but he agrees, nevertheless. It is Scotland's doing, however, not Cymu's.
Scotland no longer needs nor even wants Cymru around whenever his visits and France's happen to coincide, and usually urges him to stay in the room set aside for his use as much as possible to lessen the chance they might so much as stumble across each other accidentally when catching a bite to eat in the kitchens or some such. Cymru would happily avoid his brother's house entirely whilst he's entertaining France, but as Scotland is as reticent with his plans in that regard as he is every other aspect of his life, Cymru has to take his chances when they come, regardless. If he didn't, he would never see his brother at all, which is an option he can't even bear to consider as he is the only sibling Cymru still feels he can be close to.
Ireland's been made remote enough by both years and distance that Cymru is always uncomfortably aware that she might think he is imposing on her, no matter that she never welcomes him with anything less than what appears to be sincere cordiality, and he postpones visits with England until they become unavoidable, because he's afraid that one of these days, his brother will refuse to let him leave again. He's expected that ever since Llywelyn's death, and although the ambitions of England's kings have turned elsewhere since Cymru's conquest, he cannot presume it will remain that way forever.
France smooths wayward wisps of Cymru's hair back behind his ear with one last, invigorating sweep of his fingers, and then nods, seemingly satisfied. "Much better," he says, sliding off the bed to ransack his chest again.
Cymru hadn't noticed how the press of France's knee against his hip had warmed him until it was gone, and he shivers a little at its loss.
"Now, a chaperon would complete the picture perfectly, I think."
The chaperon France eventually produces is a rich burgundy, and has a far longer liripipe than Cymru has ever seen before. He places it atop Cymu's head, fussing with the dags, pushing them this way and that, backwards and forwards, until he finds an arrangement that that seems to suit him, then he smiles, wide and pleased.
"It suits you very well," he says, bending down to brush a fleeting kiss across Cymru's brow.
The low simmering of Cymru's skin erupts abruptly into flame, a flush radiating out from that small point of contact to cover his face entire. His hands twitch upwards involuntarily, their progress stopped only by the trailing ends of the cotehardie's sleeves catching beneath his knees as he leans forwards to… To do what exactly? He can't very well put his hands on France uninvited: France would doubtless not appreciate it, and Scotland –
"Well, don't you look fucking ridiculous."
Scotland would jeer at him, apparently, which comes as no surprise whatsoever.
Cymru glances towards the open doorway to see his brother leaning against the jamb, arms folded loosely across his broad chest and lips twisted into a sneer. Under his scornful eye, Cymru suddenly feels very small and very, very foolish. He shuffles further along the bed, away from France, drawing his knees up under his chin.
"Don't be cruel, Écosse," France says.
Not 'no, he doesn't' or even 'I think he looks handsome', which leads Cymru to think he was only being kind before. It makes him want to tear off the chaperon, rip the cotehardie to pieces, but he won't because they're France's, and far too fine for such rough handling besides.
Scotland snorts dismissively, but seems willing to comply, nevertheless. "Fine," he says, throwing up his hands in submission. "Have you finished playing dress up now, then?"
"For the moment." France reaches out and pats Cymru's ankle once before turning away from the bed, saying, "You may keep the clothes if you wish, Cymru."
Beyond a barked, "Jesus Christ," the rest of Scotland's derisive response is lost as France catches hold of his elbow and steers him into the corridor beyond the bedchamber.
In the silence that follows their departure, Cymru runs his fingers across the glossy silk of the cotehardie, fixing its texture in his mind because he's sure he never will wear it again. He no doubt does look fucking ridiculous, because Scotland is never deliberately cruel to him, just blunt enough that the difference makes no odds. He will, however, accept France's offer, and when he returns home, cotehardie and chaperon both will be carefully stored away alongside a stone he was also gifted a long time ago.
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Notes:
- Llywelyn was the last prince of an independent Wales.