AUing my AU, because Scotland didn't suffer and pine over France quite enough in FtF, clearly...
The Brit bros are my FtF versions with a few minor variations, chief amongst them are the decision Scotland makes differently at the start of the fic, and the fact that Scotland didn't lie to England about the fae when they were children.
England/France will play a big part in it, but it definitely won't be the endgame pairing. Rating may be subject to change, depending on how things develop later.
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1295; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland
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They are tied now with ink and parchment and the oaths of their kings, but those are weak things, human things, and they do not command their hearts.
Scotland's heart is in his mouth, lying heavy on his tongue.
He wants to tell France that he is willing to give more of himself to this new alliance of theirs than his king had ever promised. That his breath, his life, his very soul is France's for the taking if France should ever have the need or even the desire for it.
But his terror steals his speech just as surely as France's presence at his side steals his thoughts.
He stays silent, offering France no more than the passive warmth of his body when he leans in close, teeth chattering. In silence, they sit together, share wine and watch the darkness shifting above their heads as clouds scud across the sky, blotting out first the stars and then the moon.
France surges to his feet when the first drops of rain start to fall, and holds out his hand to help Scotland to his own. His palm is cold, clammy with dampness borrowed from the sodden air, and Scotland wants to chafe it between his own; hold it against his chest buried deep amongst the folds of his brat where the thick wool and the heat of his own pounding blood will be sure to warm it.
France snatches it away too soon for Scotland to form anything more than those brief impressions and entertain those even briefer wishes, then he turns and races the short distance back to the castle so quickly that Scotland cannot hope to keep pace with him.
They meet again at the top of the stairs, and exchange the only words that have passed between them for an hour or more. A simple 'Good night' before Scotland's steps take him right to his own chambers, France's to the left, and they part for the what remains of the night.
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1325; Kingdom of France
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Scotland has often cursed himself as both a coward and a fool for his inability to speak plain to France thirty years ago.
But for every moment of self-recrimination, there are ten more like this one, wherein he is thankful he held his tongue.
He stands at the Earl of Moray's shoulder, listening with half an ear to the honeyed words he pours on France's king and keeping half an eye on France himself, who sits at his king's right hand.
Just as he knew it would, regret had visited him when first he saw on the other kingdom. To Scotland's mind, each passing year brings fresh beauty to France's countenance, revealing a delicate strength of feature as the last remnants of youthful plumpness fade away, but yet more so to his figure.
His clothes are doubtless made from the finest silk, and trimmed with the most expensive of furs, but Scotland has never had an eye for such things. He is much more admiring of their cut.
France's cotehardie is nipped tight at his slim waist and hemmed shorter than any Scotland has seen before. It accentuates the length of his leg, just as the close cling of his hose accentuates the smooth and powerful lines of his calves.
Scotland's eyes burn just to look at him, his fingers ache with the longing to touch, but relief comes with the coldness of France's own eye.
He had met Scotland with the dry courtesy of a stranger, with naught but a single glance rapidly turned elsewhere, and he seems bored already by the talk of renewing their alliance. His gaze is distant and expression drawn blank; present in body only.
He does not spare a look to Scotland in return. Not one, and Scotland is gladdened by it, because it proves again that he was right not to let his heart spill. It seems more evident than ever before that it would have fallen on barren ground; the slight attentions France had once paid him nothing more than they had appeared on the surface. They had been exactly what England had warned him they would be: flatteries and idle flirtations fleetingly given and swiftly forgotten.
He is glad he spared himself the pain of hearing those truths from France's lips, and it makes the shame of his cowardice far easier to bear.
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22nd March, 1421; Baugé, Kingdom of France
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France's cheeks are flushed crimson, his hair turned dank and dark as ditchwater with the sweat dripping from his brow, but his eyes are burning bright in exultation, his smile brighter yet.
Triumphant, he is more beautiful than ever; so much so that Scotland can't bear to look at him.
He tries to turn aside, but France lays a hand against his cheek, holding him still. The sharp edges of his gauntlet dig deep into Scotland's skin.
"You... You and your men were magnificent," France says, pulling Scotland a little closer, pushing his head back until their eyes meet. "We might have turned the tide this war at last."
This close, France stinks of other men's blood and his own exertions, his breath turned sour with hunger, but Scotland has never felt the urge to kiss him more strongly. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, and again finds himself robbed of speech, even as France tilts his head, purses his lips, hinting that his thoughts might have taken a similar turn.
If they had, however, that turn was a shallow one, corrected in short order. When next he speaks, it is only to give an admonishment.
"Though you should not have allowed what remained of Angleterre's army to retreat," he says. "That may cost us dearly."
France's face darkens at the prospect, and he wheels away from Scotland with a snarl. All his words thereafter are venomous, filled with anger directed towards England and their tainted victory, with not one more to spare for gratitude or any pride he might have taken in Scotland's prowess on the field.
Seemingly, they are soon forgotten.
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9th September, 1513; Northumberland, Kingdom of England
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It's England who lands the blow that fells him and finishes the fighting between them, even though the battle rages on.
He kneels down in the mud by Scotland's head and smooths the hair back from his brow in a cruel parody of a caress, his fingernails digging deep into the wounds that have split Scotland's scalp.
"He probably won't even think to thank you for this, you know," England says, his voice made thick and over-sweet by pretended concern.
Scotland's chest has been crushed, as bent and buckled as the breastplate which was supposed to protect it. His throat is filled with blood and thin, acidic spittle, no room left for breath, and he can only bare his teeth in answer to England. He isn't sure himself whether it is a smile or a grimace.
England sighs, skimming his fingers down along the curve of Scotland's jaw to rest lightly against the point of his chin. "Was it worth it?" he asks. "Has it ever been worth what he asks of you?"
Scotland's king is dying, he felt it as keen as an arrowhead between his ribs, and England's men will likely take the field, but there's a small hidden part of Scotland that is proud that he can still hold himself to the promise he was made solely to himself. The one France will doubtless never hear.
"Scotland?" England snaps. "Are you even listening to me?"
Scotland closes his eyes and his ears to his brother, leaving England to wax his wroth uselessly to the empty air.
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8th July, 1560; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland
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Their alliance ends in the same way it had started, with the flourish of a quill.
The terms of the treaty both Scotland has put his name to, brokering peace with his brother, demands the withdrawal of French troops from his country, and their kingdom himself will go with them.
Scotland stands at the door to the chambers which have been France's these past few months, watching as the other kingdom slowly and methodically packs up his belongings. He is careful to fix every last detail of his frame in his memory, every last graceful movement of his hands and flicker of his otherwise placid expression, as he does not when he will next have the honour of seeing them in the flesh once more.
France's visits to his home have always been sporadic and brief, performed out of duty rather than pleasure, Scotland has always thought.
And without duty, there is no reason remaining for them to continue.
As Scotland has kept a close guard on his tongue over the centuries in an effort to ensure that all that he wishes to remain unsaid has not the chance to slip free of his control, they have never been able to talk freely.
They have never been what Scotland would call friends, and in latterly had become little better than acquaintances, held together but loosely by the will of their monarchs, the church, and a shared desire to thwart the ambition of England and his kings.
As those ties slacken, dissolve, and allegiances shift, Scotland cannot imagine there will anything left to bind them one to another again.
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Notes:
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1295: The treaty signed in 1295 by John Balliol (King of Scots) and Philip IV of France against Edward I of England is normally taken to mark the start of the Auld Alliance.
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1325: The Earl of Moray was sent to France to persuade King Louis X to renew the alliance.
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1421: The Battle of Baugé was a major defeat for the English at the hands of a Franco-Scots army during the Hundred Years' War.
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1513: Battle of Flodden, fought between the kingdoms of England and Scotland in Northumberland. War was declared on England by James IV of Scotland to honour the terms of the Auld Alliance and divert English troops from their campaign against Louis XII of France.
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1560: Treaty of Edinburgh proclaimed in the names of Elizabeth, Queen of England, and François and Mary, King and Queen of France and Scotland. (Later known as the Treaty of Edinburgh.) This peace was brokered to break the Siege of Leith, and its terms demanded that all bar 120 French troops leave Scotland. It is generally considered to mark the end of the Auld Alliance.
The Siege of Leith was a a twelve year encampment of French troops at Leith, a port near Edinburgh. It began during the Rough Wooing when Scotland invited French troops to help repel English incursion, and a group of anti-French Protestant lords (the Lords of the Congregation) eventually appealed to Queen Elizabeth I for English aid to end it.