Circa 1590; Kingdom of France
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The first time Scotland tells France he loves him, the phrase has become an ugly and monstrous one.
He's chewed it over for so long that it's been worn down to little more than spittle and bile, and he doesn't carry it in his heart or his head as he used to, but in that roiling place deep in his gut where a loathsome mixture of grief and terror has been fermenting for years.
For what feels like hours now, he's begged and pleaded for France to reconsider – on his knees at first, and then later on his feet with tears in his eyes; he'd be ashamed of himself had not his pride died some time back, drowned in wine and hopelessness – but all of his arguments and fond reminiscences have run dry.
The words might be tainted and rotten, but they're all that he has left.
So, when France tells him, "There is nothing you might offer me that I could possibly want anymore, Ecosse," and then slowly and very deliberately starts to walk away, he throws those words after him with all the force that he can muster.
They don't feel cathartic as Scotland had thought they would, or as final as he had hoped. They feel desperate and sound pathetically inadequate when they return to him in faint echoes from the furthest reaches of the vast, empty hall.
France certainly does not flinch to hear them. He does not even cock his head, and his steps do not falter. His tread is steady and sure and he doesn't look back once.
There's a finality in that, if nothing else.
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Circa 1810; London, England
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The second time Scotland tells France that he loves him, it is the work of a month not a moment.
Within days of his return from his last visit to Jersey's home, and its attendant realisation of a truth he had long known but equally long avoided, he begins his first letter.
It runs to five pages, all crossed, in which he details the minutiae of his life since he and France last parted company. He writes about the small farm England had started, and how ridiculous he looks, strolling amongst his fat pigs and cattle in his tailcoats, cravat and pristine white stockings. He writes about Wales' shortening temper and quickening wit, and about how Ireland's addition to their household is both a joy and a tragedy.
He writes about his short relationship with Jersey, and though he details the 'how' of its end with ease, he finds himself circling endlessly around the 'why', never quite able to reach it.
Hours later, he tears up the letter in frustration and starts again.
Over the weeks that follow, he rewrites it many times – some iterations as long and discursive as the first, some so concise that they're almost insulting in their brevity – and discovers as he does so that there are a hundred different ways and more to avoid saying, "I still love you, and now I'm afraid that I'll never be able to stop".
That is a feeling, it seems, that he can only make plain in Gàidhlig; not because his words flow any freer in that tongue, or that it speaks to his heart any truer, but because there's comfort in knowing that France likely retains so little knowledge of the language that he will be unable to read it.
It's a selfish impulse, perhaps, wanting to unburden himself whilst denying France any recourse to respond, but one that Scotland succumbs to in the end, nevertheless.
This is the version he ultimately decides to send, and his heart feels a little lighter the instant it leaves his hand.
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8th May, 1945; Paris, France
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The third time Scotland tells France that he loves him, neither of them remember it afterwards.
They have both been awake for three days straight, and Scotland hasn't spent more than a few minutes together without a bottle of wine in his hand since the early hours of the morning. France hasn't touched a drop, but is almost delirious with his people's excitement instead.
Their joy reflected on his face is a fierce thing. His grin may be slightly too wide and slightly too sharp, and the spark in his eyes may be a little feverish in its intensity rather than exultant, but it's still bright enough that it burns away most of the harshness that Scotland had begun to fear might have settled there permanently.
They make their way up the Champs-Élysées with no real destination in mind: France seemingly content to just move freely amongst his people once more, and hang any of the official celebrations that they're likely supposed to be attending, and Scotland, once again, is content to follow wherever France might care to lead him.
Their progress is slow and meandering, because France's strength is still low, his joints still stiff and swollen, and the crowd is so thick and exuberant that they can barely take more than two steps forward before being pushed back one or knocked to the side. France stumbles inelegantly against Scotland more than once, his feet almost going out from under him, and though Scotland catches him each time before he falls, he worries that he might not always been quick enough, with his reflexes steadily dulling through drink and exhaustion.
So, cautiously – so very cautiously; the old wounds on France's back have reopened and obviously long been left to fester – he slips his arm around France's waist.
France leans into him, tips his head back until it's resting against Scotland's shoulder, and says, "They're beautiful, aren't they? My people, my city. After everything, they're still so beautiful."
"They are," Scotland agrees, and France laughs a little, clearly pleased by his answer.
Truthfully, it's an unpleasant sound, as harsh and brittle as his cracked voice, but Scotland thinks it's just as beautiful as Paris or any of its citizens, because despite all of his bosses' rhetoric and his brothers' reassurances, there had still been far too great a part of him that had been scared he would never hear it again, in any form.
"I love you," he says, because he'd also been scared that he'd never have chance to say it again, either, and today is no day for fear, even the ancient ones that had hardened so much over the centuries that they had become almost impregnable.
France's eyes slide shut, and he takes a long, deep breath in. "I know," he says quietly on the exhale. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
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9th July, 2009; London, England
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The fourth time Scotland tells France that he loves him, it's with a flippancy he had never thought possible before.
He tells him over the phone, in the midst of conversation, and afterwards, the world keeps on spinning, his heart keeps on beating, and he and France are just as broken up as they were beforehand.
It's amazing, he reflects later – whilst he drinks the tea England had made him and endures the veiled looks of concern his brother keeps shooting him whenever he thinks him too distracted to notice – how much power he's allowed them to have over him for practically half his life.
There are thousands of words that work magic, but, clearly, they're not amongst them.
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2011; Edinburgh, Scotland
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The first time France tells Scotland he loves him, the only thing remarkable about it is that it's so unremarkable.
There's nothing significant about the date, and nothing special about the day. They'd been for a hike in the afternoon, to France's vocal displeasure, and eaten at a very pricy restaurant come evening, to Scotland's.
They arrive home too late, too tired and too full to do anything other than collapse onto Scotland's living room sofa with the glasses of brandy that France always insists will help settle their stomachs before bed. (Scotland has yet to experience any convincing evidence that it possesses this supposed medicinal property, but as it provides a ready excuse to drink more alcohol, he's never disputed it too strongly, either.)
France manages to time and direct his sprawl with an artful precision that not only secures him the majority of the sofa's territory, but also lands his head neatly on one of its arms and his feet in Scotland's lap.
He wriggles his toes meaningfully.
Scotland – who, after twelve hundred years, very decidedly knows his place – sighs and begins running his thumbs in firm, expanding circles across France's soles. "This is the only reason you keep me around, isn't it?" he says.
"Well, you are very good at it, mon coeur," France says, regarding him warmly with half-lidded eyes. "You have such lovely strong hands."
France subsides then into silence, punctuated by the occasional contented groan, so Scotland feels free to let his mind wander and his fingers work on autopilot. Whilst he's aware that some people think of them of an erogenous zone, the erotic possibilities of feet continue to elude him. He massages France's because he wears ludicrous shoes in the name of fashion and so they often ache, but takes no pleasure from the exercise other than knowing that he's helping to ease France's pain.
Consequently, his head is so full of thoughts of brandy – namely, how to reach the glass he'd foolishly left on the coffee table without pausing in his rubbing for long enough for France to start complaining about his neglect – that he almost misses France's whispered, "I love you."
Once, Scotland would have expected those words from France's lips to be a revelation, a cataclysm; something that would break him apart and then remake him.
But they aren't and they don't. They're warming, to be sure, and Scotland's breath quickens slightly from the sheer novelty of finally having heard them, but there's nothing surprising about them.
France is just voicing something that he has chosen to remain unsaid before, never mind that the sentiment has been obvious even to Scotland for quite some time now.
Scotland looks up towards France's face, and is equally unsurprised to see that his colour is a little high and that the palm of his hand has left a damp imprint on the side of the glass that is resting on his belly. He has also suspected for a while that the words are ones that France has his own difficulties with – for some reason he has never seen fit to disclose - if only when it comes to saying them to Scotland.
"I love you, too," Scotland says.
He doesn't recall how many times he's said it before. He stopped wanting to keep count months ago.