3rd June, 1940; Dunkirk, France
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France had never had chance to regain all of the weight he lost during the Great War, and his body is still wiry and sparse, constructed from bruising angles and gaunt lines which dig deep into Scotland's flesh when rests his cheek against one bony shoulder, pressing his nose to a collar which stinks of stale sweat with the acrid tinge of long nights and desperation.
He inhales as deeply as he can, then gently runs his hands up the lean length of France's back to rest between his shoulder blades, where the rough fabric of his khaki jacket has turned clammy, saturated with sea spray and fresh blood welling from his recently reopened wounds.
He never wants to let go.
France, as ever, does not acquiesce to his desires, and grumbles, then squirms, and finally wrenches himself out of the circle of Scotland's arms, quickly stepping back across the sand and out of easy reach once more.
"You should leave," he says, the words sharp and precise even though his breathing is laboured. "Your brothers are waiting for you."
Impatiently, no doubt. It's only been a handful of minutes since they waded out to the small fishing boat waiting to ferry them to the relative safety of home, but England is likely already cursing his name for the delay – which he'd already denounced several times as potentially costly and wholly unnecessary – and Wales fretting that the tide may turn or the wind may rise and leave Scotland stranded beyond all hope of recovery.
"I don't want to go," Scotland says, and he knows the words sound petulant, but he doesn't particularly care.
France laughs dryly, shaking his head. "And I wish you could stay, mon cher, guard my back as you used to, but we both know you cannot."
If they were human, if Scotland wasn't burdened with the hopes and fears and sorrows of five million other souls, as close to him as his own, he could hang King and country, his own pride, and follow what every stinging beat of his heart is urging him to do. Stay, lay down his life to buy so much as a minute more of France's, and perhaps even be happy that he had the chance to finally keep the promise he'd made so many centuries ago.
But if they were human, he and that promise would have been nothing more than dust and air for just as long, and France's prospects would be far more dire now. As it is, he might face pain and terror, degradation and privations, but he will endure. He has to endure, even if he must do it alone.
Still, Scotland cannot bear to leave him thinking it has been forgotten; that it is ever more than a thought or two removed from the forefront of his mind. "But I promised that—"
"Hush," France says, hurrying forward until he is close enough to touch again. Close enough that, despite how pale the moonlight is this night, Scotland can see the softness in his eyes and the curve of his mouth when he smiles. "I know, I remember, and I forgive you." He leans in further, his lips brushing softly against Scotland's. "Now, go."
It's a clearer invitation for a kiss than most Scotland has been given over the course of their acquaintance, and he is quick to accept it, albeit with more eagerness and desperation than finesse. France allows this imposition of teeth and tongue for a short while, before breaking away with another burst of breathy laughter.
"Scotland, you have to go now," he says with mock sternness. "I don't trust Angleterre to keep that boat ready for you much longer."
Scotland chuckles on reflex rather than from any appreciation for the joke, and then allows himself to be steered back and away with no further protests when France pushes with a gentle hand against his chest.
Even so, he allows himself a stolen moment before turning fully towards the surf to look on France for a little longer: his too-pale skin, too-thin face, and fiercely determined expression.
The old words rise in his throat again, far stronger and more urgent than they have been for many years. So urgent that they almost choke him with the force of them.
But he swallows them down, because they couldn't possibly be any help to France now. They'd just be one more ounce of weight added to the burden he'll have to carry through whatever horrors are yet to come.
"Goodbye, France," is therefore all he has to offer. And: "Keep as safe as you can."
"Goodbye, Scotland," France returns in kind, and with a quiet solemnity that makes it sound far too much like a final farewell.
For the rest of what Scotland had said, it seems he has no equal reassurance to give. They go unanswered, and without another word, he turns swiftly on his heel and stalks away across the beach.
His steps do not falter. His tread is steady and sure and he doesn't look back once.
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Notes:
- Allied soldiers were evacuated from Dunkirk between 26 May and 4 June 1940, with the British rearguard leaving on the night of the 2-3rd of June. 75,000 French soldiers were evacuated on the nights between the 2nd-4th of June. The remainder of the rearguard - 40,000 French troops - surrendered on the 4th June.