February, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland
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"It'll make you feel better, France," Scotland says, gently trying to lift the duvet France had pulled up over his head in an effort to block out both the bitter chill in the air and the meagre winter sunlight that had flooded the room when Scotland maliciously cast back the spare room's curtains. "There's nothing a good dose of fresh air can't fix."
"You gave me the same advice when I had a sword run through my ribcage," France grumbles, burying his head deeper into his pillow. "It failed to fix anything, if you recall."
"I do, but, shit..." Scotland chuckles ruefully. "I didn't think you would. It was over six hundred years ago."
"I bled out, and you had to carry me several miles back to our camp. It was a very bumpy ride, Écosse. I was unconscious for over a week. That sort of thing does tend to stick in the mind."
Scotland's tugging slows, stills, and then his hand drifts to France's shoulder. He rubs a slow circle there that is likely supposed to be soothing, but even with several inches of cotton and feathers between them to cushion it, the contact still seems horribly abrasive against France's sensitised skin.
"Okay, maybe it isn't a great idea when you've got a gaping chest wound," Scotland concedes. "But you're hungover, not dying."
Scotland's friends are relentless drinkers, and no matter how adamant France might be at the start of an evening that he won't even try and keep pace with them, such promises always fall by the wayside as the night progresses and his good sense begins to flounder and then eventually drowns. He can't understand how their mortal bodies can stand the abuse. His own feels like it's being slowly pickled from the inside out.
"I find sleeping a more effective cure for that than hiking. You can join me, if you like."
It's a somewhat spiteful suggestion, but then France struggles to be kind at half past seven in the morning even on those days when Scotland's voice doesn't sound like a swarm of angry bees battering themselves against the inside of his head. His only concern at the moment is to silence it. He can, and will, apologise later.
"Jesus..." Scotland's fingers claw, and he swallows heavily. "You know I'd love to, mo chridhe, but I..."
He stutters into silence, broken only by the harsh, broken sound of his breathing, and France's remorse surfaces ahead of schedule.
He had presumed that the new understanding they'd reached a little over a month ago would herald a resumption of the physical side of their relationship, but Scotland is stubbornly holding on for some further confirmation, or sign, or perhaps portent in the stars which will assure him that the right time has come at last. As he seems no more able to explain exactly what form this might take than France is to intuit it, the wait would be frustrating almost beyond bearing, had it not been obvious that Scotland found it just as much of a trial himself.
And he has been patient for more than a hundred years now, so France can surely endure for another few months in return, if that's what Scotland needs.
"Apologies, mon coeur," he says. "I wasn't thinking."
"Aye, well, you're tired," Scotland says gruffly. "And sick. I should leave you to get more rest."
He presses a feathery kiss to the top of France's head, and then retreats from the bedroom with the sort of careful tread that suggests he is concentrating very intently on being quiet.
France's resultant sense of guilt is immense, but not so overwhelming that it keeps him from sleep for more than a moment or two.
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The smell that wrenches France from his dreams is unholy; a nauseating mix of smoke and charred fat, shot through with sharp, synthetic tang that's so heavy and cloying that it almost chokes him.
When he reluctantly slits open his eyes, he sees what only the most generous of hearts could describe as a bacon sandwich, lurking menacingly atop the chest of drawers by the door.
The cheap white bread it has been, for want of a better word, constructed from is roughly the same thickness and porosity as blotting paper, and is oleaginous with grease and melted margarine. Here and there, stiff promontories of burnt meat have broken through it entirely, coated with a thin layer of generic ketchup that glistens like blood.
France knows from wretched experience that it would crunch sickeningly if he were foolish enough to bite into it, and then immediately disintegrate into its component parts. His stomach growls in pre-emptive protest.
Scotland had, no doubt, intended for his offering to entice France into rising. His reasoning may be faulty, but his methods certainly aren't.
France bolts from his bed, grabs an armful of whichever of his clothes come most readily to hand, and then flees the sandwich as swiftly as his trembling legs will allow.
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"So, you've changed your mind about that walk, after all," Scotland says when he catches sight the coat in France's hands.
France had intended to hang it on one of the pegs in Scotland's hall once he'd realised his mistake in mindlessly grabbing it from the wardrobe along with his shirt, but, caught partway through the act, he supposes it might look rather damningly like he was taking it down rather than putting it up.
"I wasn't..." he begins, but faced with Scotland's beaming smile – it's one of the broad, true ones that pinks his cheeks and teases a fan of fine creases out of the thin skin at the corners of his eyes; one that France still doesn't get to see even half so much as he'd like – his desire to mount the objection rapidly dwindles. "Yes," he finishes sullenly, annoyed at his own spinelessness.
His sole consolation is that it's best to get the ordeal over and done with sooner rather than later Scotland likely would have worn down his defences eventually, anyway, given their unnaturally low ebb.
Scotland's smile is all too quick to fade, and is soon replaced by a pensive-looking frown. "It's a bit nippy out. I don't suppose you thought to bring a hat, did you?"
Such considerations were once pointless, as France seldom strayed far from Scotland's bed whenever he stayed in Edinburgh. Their new arrangement had wrought many changes, not least amongst them the need to pack as though preparing to embark on an Arctic expedition for his stays, though he has not yet grown sufficiently accustomed to it that the act has become an instinctive one.
"No, but I'm sure I'll cope, though."
Scotland regards him steadily for a while, and then pivots abruptly on his heel, heading towards the stairs. "You can borrow one of mine."
All of Scotland's hats are garishly coloured, freakishly misshapen horrors that couldn't possibly have been birthed by anything other than New Zealand's inept hand. The last time France had been forced to wear one, it had given him a rash.
"There's really no need," he says.
"You'll thank me later," Scotland calls back over his shoulder.
France is just as certain that he won't as he is determined to not let it touch so much as a hair on his head.
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The cuff of Scotland's hat is so tight that France fancies he can hear his skull creaking under the strain, his neck itches under the prickly embrace of his borrowed scarf, but most disagreeable of all is the so-called pastry clutched in his scratchily-gloved hand.
Upon discovering that France had not, in fact, partaken of the bacon sandwich that had been set out for him, Scotland had insisted that they stop in at Tesco's on their way to the park to pick him up something else for breakfast because, 'A little something to coat your stomach will see you right in no time.'
It purports to be a croissant, but the only thing familiar about it is its general shape. France has never seen another that's such an anaemic shade of beige before, nor one that sags so forlornly about its middle.
He had nibbled it experimentally earlier to show willing, and discovered that beneath its limp exterior lies partially cooked dough with the consistency of rubber.
Had Scotland's concern for his well-being not been so blatant – if misguided – and his normally keen powers of observation heightened to nigh on preternatural levels by it, too, France would have either thrown it in the nearest bin, or else manufactured an opportunity to 'accidentally' rid himself of the vile thing, accordingly.
Reality being as it is, however, he feels obliged to keep on clutching it, even though the oil oozing from its surface has started to seep through the thick wool covering his fingers.
For once, the walking itself is actually the most pleasant part of this whole excursion. Despite the day's frosty temperature, the sky is clear, the air refreshingly crisp, and Scotland has slowed his habitual quickstep march to a easy, rolling amble in deference to France's sore joints.
Even his voice doesn't seem quite as painfully strident as it had within his house's close confines, and it's simple enough to tune it out to the level of a quiet, comforting drone when he launches off into one of his equally habitual lectures about botany.
Today's lesson is apparently inspired by the small pond they'd just strolled past, as France had listened for just long enough to discover that it concerns duckweed. Usually, he would continue to keep at least half an ear turned Scotland's way when he gets into one of his educational moods, if only so he be ready with a nod of his head or interested hum if a question happened to be directed his way, but he's so distracted by his sodden fingers and the continued grumbling of his stomach that it comes as a complete surprise when Scotland suddenly drops his arm.
"What is it?" France asks, blinking at him in puzzlement.
"Fomes fomentarius," Scotland says in the clipped tones of someone who has had to repeat themselves several times already. "On that tree over there. Or, at least I think it is. Just... Just wait here for a minute while I go back and check, okay?"
"Okay," France is more than happy to agree.
He watches every step of Scotland's retreat avidly, and as soon as he's reassured that he is thoroughly absorbed with whatever on earth a Fomes fomentarius might be, prepares to fling the 'croissant' as far away from his person as it deserves.
At the last moment before he lets it fly, a frenzied splashing sound attracts his attention back towards the pond once more. A small brown duck is sitting on the silty bank, regarding him mournfully, its beak drooped down low to rest against its plump breast.
France looks from beak to 'croissant' and then back to beak again. "Ah, I'm afraid it's too big for you to eat now, mon petit," he says. "But, come, I'll break it up for you."
He tears off a little piece of the pastry and throws it to the ground not far from his feet. The duck lets out a series of joyous-sounding quacks, and then waddles across the grass towards him.
It devours that first morsel in an instant and then gives France a distinctly expectant look. France laughs and tosses it a second. "At least you appreciate it," he tells the duck. "Scotland would be glad someone does, I'm sure, because he hates to see anything go to—"
"France," Scotland hisses from behind him, "what the fuck are you doing? Didn't you read the sign?"
When France glances his way, Scotland points very emphatically towards a cracked and weather-beaten wooden sign, listing at the water's edge. The red letting upon it is badly sun-faded, but France can still just about make out from the faint outlines that remain that it once said, 'DO NOT FEED THE DUCKS'.
He shakes his head. "It's only a little—"
"They put those things up for a reason, you know. Feeding ducks only encourages them to keep on coming up to people and pestering them for more..." The duck opens up its wings and gives them a desultory flap. Even though he's at least a couple of metres away from it already, Scotland leaps back even further, and barks out, "Fucking hell, France, get away from it! It looks dangerous."
The duck would barely reach the halfway point of France's shin, even stretched out at its full height, its beak is perfectly smooth at the end, and it's so fat its practically spherical. France probably wouldn't have to break into a jog to outrun it, even if it did suddenly decide to attack him for the remains of the croissant.
"Hardly," he scoffs.
"Aye, it seems docile enough, but it's still a wild animal," Scotland says. "It could turn on you at any time. And it's probably riddled with parasites, too."
All of which France would dismiss as ridiculous, had Scotland's voice not been hitching and wavering throughout, as though he can scarcely catch enough breath to speak.
France has fought with Scotland in tens if not hundreds of battles over the centuries, both at his side and against him, and has never once seen him faced with something that made his nerve falter. Not swords or guns or shells. Nothing.
And thus he has nothing to compare his response against, but he's nevertheless convinced that Scotland is terrified.
"I didn't know you were scared of ducks," France says cautiously.
"I'm not scared of them," Scotland says, slightly too readily to be believable. "I just... I can't stand birds. They're... They've got those horrible beady eyes, and those scaly legs that... They just make my skin crawl."
"Don't worry," France tells him, "I'll protect you."
He'd meant it to be a joke, a weak attempt to lighten Scotland's mood and offer him some reassurance, but looking back at him now, white-faced and shaking, makes it seem like a cruel one. The warm feeling of protectiveness that surges through France's chest is a familiar one, but he can't recall it ever being directed towards Scotland before.
"I mean it, mon coeur," he says more seriously. "I never made the same promise you did when we were children, but maybe I should have. I want to—"
"Don't, France," Scotland says, his voice cracking in the middle of the name. "Please, just don't." He stares at France in silence for a moment. His eyes are wide and they glint wetly for an instant before he gives them a rough swipe with his sleeve. "Not now. Not here."
They've only passed a handful of dog-walker abroad in the park as they've wandered through it, so it seems unlikely that anyone will intrude upon them, but France understands Scotland's reticence all the same. If that promise is to be repeated, they should be some place where they're can be sure they won't be interrupted. They should be completely alone with, as they were the first time.
"I'm sorry," France says, "I—"
"I don't want you to be sorry, mo gràdh." He extends his arm out towards France and offers him a tremulous smile. "I just want to go home."
When France takes hold of Scotland's hand, Scotland grips his so tightly that France's knuckles begin to ache.
"As soon as we get back," Scotland says in little more than a whisper, "then you're going to carry on with whatever it was you wanted to say, all right?"
"Of course," France says, his own smile wide enough to make his jaw ache. "If that's what you want."