19th December, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland
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Scotland suspects that France had been preparing himself for a protracted battle over their dinner plans for the evening, but in the end, it had barely even qualified as a skirmish.
Initially, none of the restaurants France suggested really appealed all that much, because Scotland may not have eaten in most of them before, but he'd read enough reviews to know that they were the sort of establishments that charged a week's worth of his food budget for portions that wouldn't even satisfy a gnat's appetite.
He had been loath to admit the reason for his objections outright, however, because he might not know the first thing about dating, but he had got the impression over his many years looking at the process from the outside that it was meant to be an extravagant one and largely about spoiling one's partner.
He didn't want to give the impression that he thought France wasn't worth that.
So instead he'd hesitated, deflected and feigned a whole host of negative opinions about chefs whose food he'd never sampled until France looked about ready to pull his own hair out in frustration or else forgo all pretence at a need for consensus, club Scotland over the head and just pull him out of the house by his.
"If you're worrying about the cost, then don't," he'd said eventually, with the sort of exasperation that made it clear that he'd been considering the words for some time but had hoped he wouldn't have to voice them. "I invited you on this date, so I will be paying for both of us."
Scotland had to wonder if he'd unknowingly blundered into some kind of trap – that he'd been tested and found wanting – and even though France seemed nothing but honestly delighted when Scotland told him that of course, then, he should get to choose where they went, he can't help but think there had been a fresh black mark newly added against his name all the same.
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Scotland feels very uneasy about the restaurant France had ultimately picked out, in no small part because he can't quite put his finger on why that might be.
It's definitely more upmarket that he's used to frequenting nowadays, but not ostentatiously so. The décor is as subdued as the lighting, the waitstaff have been uniformly welcoming and helpful, and there isn't a single thing on the menu that he doesn't recognise, never mind anything he can't pronounce.
And besides, although his preferences may have tended towards the more relaxed type of mealtime in recent years, he's dined with heads of state practically his entire life. He might amuse himself from time to time by horrifying England with a charade of poor table manners, but he's never forgotten even the most trivial details of proper etiquette.
If he can still find his way around a full service of proper utensils – up to and including the pointless ones invented solely to separate the haves from have-nots with the greatest of ease – he's sure he can navigate with enough certainty between the soup and dessert spoons in front of him that he'll avoid embarrassing either himself or France.
For once, he can't even blame his outfit, because he looks to be dressed with exactly the same formality as every other patron in the place; neither too smart nor too formal. In fact, France sticks out more, as his suit might not be particularly flashy, the fact that it must have been obscenely expensive is obvious even at the most cursory of glances.
Yet still, even though his mind knows that his anxiety is completely baseless, with no root cause, he cannot seem to logic his body into relaxing. His stomach continues to feel cold and hollow, and he can't stop the reflexive dance of his fingers, drumming without rhythm against the back of his menu.
"You've been glaring at that for nearly ten minutes now," France says, suddenly breaking the silence he's kept for just as long. "Are you having some trouble deciphering it? I could –"
"I'm fine," Scotland reassures him quickly, his face heating. Clearly, leading France to believe that he can't even parse a simple menu had been the far greater risk all along, and he shouldn't have let himself become complacent just because he'd realised and pre-emptively avoided the potential for humiliation inherent in the cutlery. "I can cope with a few 'dauphinoise's and 'carpaccio's, no problem."
"Really?" France doesn't even try to hide his surprise. "I had thought that… Well, this isn't exactly your… preferred cuisine, is it?"
The pauses are very telling. France had more than likely interpreted his nervous twitching and no doubt pensive expression as panic over not finding a dish resembling either fish and chips or chicken tikka masala listed on the menu, and thus a subsequent fear that there was nothing approaching edible on offer.
Even though the assumption is perhaps a little patronising, Scotland can hardly fault France for making it. He supposes he's given the other nation every indication that he wouldn't know a jus was even if it oozed straight off a plate and bit him on the arse.
"Naw, but I watch enough fucking Masterchef that I know all the terminology, anyway," he admits.
France looks puzzled, one eyebrow arching in silent question.
"It's a cookery show," Scotland says.
France's other eyebrow shoots up to match its mate.
"Arthur's absolutely obsessed with it; been banging on about it for years. I wouldn't give a shit about that sort of thing usually, but then he got Dylan roped into watching it, too, and, well…" Scotland shrugs, equally as baffled by his own actions as France appears to be. "I thought I'd give it a go, just so I had an idea what they were both yammering on about all the sodding time. Turns out it's bloody addictive. I'm not really bothered about the actual cooking, you ken, but the competition itself can get pretty compelling, and watching the bald judge embarrass himself over puddings is always good for a laugh."
The brittleness of France's faint smile suggests that whatever interest he might have had in Scotland's answer had been incredibly fleeting, and is doubtless now counting down the seconds until it won't seem impolite if he brings up another topic.
"You should give it a go some time, if you ever get the chance," Scotland finishes quickly to save France the bother of having to interrupt him.
"Maybe I will," France says, his tone of voice and expression both so bland that Scotland honestly can't tell whether he actually agrees with the suggestion or is just humouring him.
"Seems like it's something you'd like," Scotland says, pushing his luck slightly.
He immediately regrets doing so, however, when he realises that he's being almost as presumptuous as France had been moments earlier. He really has no idea if France likes watching other people cook as much as he enjoys doing it himself. Hell, he doesn't even know if France ever watches the telly, full stop. He certainly never has done so with Scotland, but then again they didn't spend enough time together outside of the bedroom to ever have the chance before things changed between them, and the opportunity's has yet to present itself since then.
France makes a quiet, meaningless noise in reply, which makes Scotland wish that he'd decided to keep quiet and maintain an air of mystery about his scant culinary knowledge, instead.
The wine, at least, appears to please France, judging by his soft sigh of contentment when he turns to it for succour in the face of the flustered silence Scotland retreats into following his revelation,
"It's better than I was expecting," he says, his smile growing genuine again.
Scotland had expected it to taste like literal ambrosia, given its price, but is unsurprised to discover that it doesn't when he follows France's prompting wave and tries it himself.
He's spent many, many years training himself to taste nothing but the basest of flavour when he drinks wine, because he discovered even before he and France blew apart the first time around that it was in the best interests of his own peace of mind that he train himself to think of it as nothing more than a way of getting alcohol into his system. A more effective way than some, less effective than others, but with no special meaning apart from that.
Despite his efforts, he can still discern some of the subtler notes even now, after centuries of deadening his palate to them. He can tell that it's full-bodied, and that there's the faint hint of something earthy he's almost certain that France would describe as woody.
Almost certain is not definite by any stretch of the imagination, and Scotland finds that he doesn't have enough confidence in his own taste to offer any more specific opinion than, "It's not bad."
He's entirely certain, however, that France looks disappointed to hear it.
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"So," France says, setting his knife and fork down for the moment, "what do you think?"
'When are they going to bring out the rest of it?' is Scotland's immediate thought, though not one he's foolish enough to actually contemplate voicing. As it was, he'd barely been able to stifle his groan of disappointment when they'd first brought his dish out, and he'd seen exactly what he'd feared he would: a beautifully constructed example of culinary architecture so miniscule that he would have mistaken it for his starter if he hadn't already finished eating that course.
"The steak was okay," he concedes, because it's the nearest thing to a truth he can give. "A little underdone, though."
"It was medium." France laughs somewhat humourlessly. "Steak isn't meant to be grey all the way through, you know."
Scotland knows what conventional wisdom says, but he likes his steaks chewy, and – yes, France – even a little on the dry side, although that might be heresy to admit in certain circles.
As France is most definitely a vocal member of said circles, Scotland merely shrugs then changes the subject. "Didn't think much of the sauce, though."
To his surprise, France nods agreement. "I thought it sounded as though it might be a little overpowering for the dish. With the best cuts of meat, sometimes all that's needed is light seasoning to bring out their natural flavour."
"Aye, exactly," Scotland says, even though he hadn't been thinking any of the sort, only that the sauce had the misfortune to be a particular consistency and shade of brown that it brought very unpleasant associations to mind.
Seemingly satisfied for the moment, France returns to his subdued raptures over his salmon, which prompts Scotland to finish assiduously working his way through the undercooked remains of his greens. Eventually, there's nothing left but the roasted bone marrow, which Scotland pokes suspiciously with his fork, mulling over how best to avoid eating it whilst still making it look like he did. He doesn't want to upset the poor chef without reason, if word happens to get back about the unpolished state of his plate, and he hates wasting food, but even he has his limits on that score.
France obviously hadn't been as distracted by his own meal as Scotland presumed, as he suddenly asks, "Are you not even going to try the marrow?" His tone is faintly censorious, as though accusing Scotland of being too fussy, or else woefully unadventurous.
Scotland considers himself neither a picky eater, nor a conservative one. He'll eat plenty of things quite happily that others will turn their noses up at for apparently being unpalatable, and he's willing to try anything once.
Once is key, though. He's never seen the point in forcing something down that he already knows he doesn't enjoy if he's got any choice in the matter.
"It used to be that you'd only eat this sort of thing if it was the only part of the cow you could get your hands on," he says, scooping up some of the marrow. It jiggles unappetisingly against the tines of his fork. "I've no fucking clue why they're trying to revive the damn stuff, and in decent restaurants, at that."
France's nostrils flare slightly. "A good chef can make even the humblest ingredients sing."
He takes another bite of samphire as though to underline his point, swallowing it with obvious relish despite the fact Scotland knows it's little better than chewy salt.
There had been occasions in the trenches when both supplies and morale ran so low that Scotland, his brothers, and France forwent their own rations entirely, just so their men could each have a few morsels more each day.
Weeks on end, at its worst, with nothing in their mouths but spit turned sour from hunger, and Scotland had dreamt night after night of eating mud and grass and stones, just to fill the pinching hollowness of his stomach.
He and France had been too sluggish and distracted then to make good use of their private moments together in the dugout, and simply lay together side by side under a mildewy blanket, touching only because the bed was so narrow, not by design. Scotland hadn't the energy or desire to say a great deal, but France filled every silence he left, yammering on about food.
He recounted feasts he had attended even centuries back in exhaustive detail, talked about his favourite recipes and spices and herbs, imagined dishes he had not yet had the chance to prepare, right down to the exact placement of each component part on the plate.
It remains one of the few times in his life Scotland has even entertained the thought of throttling France just to shut him up – like England so often threatens to – as all it served was to make him refocus on the one thing he was trying his hardest to ignore.
Looking back, however, with the clarity of vision afforded by the security of a full belly, Scotland could see that it wasn't the exercise in masochism he had concluded it to be at the time. What it had been was an attempt on France's part to self-sooth; a retreat to somewhere better, if only in his mind.
It had given him hope to picture a time when he wouldn't have to subsist on pea soup and horsemeat, if he did get to eat at all. Where Scotland longed only to sate his appetite, it gave France comfort to think that one day in the future – whether near or far – he might be back in his own kitchen, cooking the very meals he so lovingly described to Scotland.
He might not share France's passion, but Scotland thinks he understands it, all the same. He derives the same sort of pleasure from nature – from his plants and his fossils and, most especially, his rocks – and thus knows how much it stings when other people not only don't understand his interest, but actually seem to deride it.
Accordingly, he forces himself to smile and pretend an optimism he doesn't really feel. "I'm definitely looking forward to my pudding," he says.
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Pudding is, however, a disappointment, just as Scotland had feared it might be.
He had held out some hope that there was little chance of ruining a simple sticky toffee pudding – outside letting England cook it, anyway – but he had reckoned without the apparent trend towards 'deconstruction'.
A deconstructed sticky toffee pudding was, in his opinion, not worthy of the name. His consisted of a few cubes of sponge huddled beneath a light drizzle of syrup and an overarching tangle of sugar work, shaped to look, he suspects, something like an apple. It disintegrates the instant he sets his spoon to it, sending razor-sharp shards of toffee either scattering across the table or else embedding themselves in the already disconsolate looking fragments of sponge.
He's not quite quick enough this time to smother his sigh, and France's mouth tightens unhappily.
He does not speak again until the dessert dishes have been tidied away, and even then, it's only to excuse himself from the table in order to go and, 'freshen up,' before they have a digestif.
Scotland has never been sure whether or not 'freshening up' is simply a polite euphemism, but in this instance, he's fairly certain that it means that France wants to go and rage in relative privacy about what an ungrateful arse Scotland is, and how he should have just saved his money and taken them both out for a kebab or something, instead.
The idea makes Scotland feel guilty enough that he takes out his wallet, but his phone rings before he can reach any firm decision on whether he's been enough of a twat to warrant paying for both of their meals, or just his own.
"Yr Alban," greets him when he accepts the call, followed by a completely pointless, "it's Cymru."
"Really?" Scotland says, stretching his legs out to their full extent under the table as he sinks down into his seat, taking full advantage of France's continued absence to make himself as comfortable as possible whilst he can. "Glad you let me know; I never would have guessed otherwise."
Wales makes a low growl of irritation which sounds about as threatening as a Pekinese puppy's, and that Scotland feels just as safe to ignore. "I was just wondering what time I should be expecting you to arrive tonight," he continues afterwards, his voice as soft and calm as if his temper had never been ruffled at all. "Should I stay up, or…?"
The sentence hangs expectantly between them, Wales hoping, no doubt that Scotland will finish it by assuring him that he's more than welcome to take himself off to bed at ten with a hot, milky beverage of some sort as he usually does.
He is, of course, doomed to be disappointed.
"I'm not going to be able to make it," Scotland says. "It completely slipped my mind I was supposed to be coming to yours at all. Sorry, bràthair," he adds, because the sentence seems strangely unfinished without it.
"I see," Wales says tightly, clearly not believing Scotland's apology, which was sincere, even though it was an afterthought. "What happened to not forgetting anything, Yr Alban?"
Scotland's brothers seem to love throwing that fact back in his face every time he displays the slightest hint of absentmindedness, despite the two being entirely unconnected. "I've been a bit preoccupied today. Francis turned up out of the blue to surprise me; took me out to a restaurant. We haven't even finished our meal yet."
"Oh," Wales says knowingly, as though that both explains and forgives everything. "Fair enough." He chuckles a little. "There's no point asking if he took you somewhere nice, but did you like the food?"
There are two possibilities before Scotland, both of which mean turning traitor against someone. As he always does when faced with such a decision, Scotland chooses to betray himself.
Even so, he can't bring himself to say anything other than, "Aye."
Thankfully, Wales doesn't press him to elaborate – he likely doesn't have any more interest in that particular line of conversation than Scotland himself – instead asking, "Do you think you'll be able to come tomorrow."
"Francis has got some work thing going on, and his bosses want him back... Well, judging by the phone call he got from one of their staff earlier, I think they'd have preferred this afternoon. That's the impression I got from what I heard of his end of the conversation, anyway." Scotland sighs, leaning back yet further in his chair. "So I'll be entirely at your disposal. Why are you so bloody desperate to get me down to yours, anyway?"
"You've forgotten that, too?" Wales sounds horrified. "The pub quiz? Hundred quid grand prize? Your adamant belief that my team would make complete fools of themselves if we didn't have your vast brain at our disposal? Any of this ringing any bells?"
Frankly, it doesn't, but then again Scotland hardly takes careful note of every pissed up conversation he has with Wales. There are far too many of them, for one, and more importantly, they're usually nothing but complete shite.
In any case, he can't fault drunken-him's logic. "Sounds about right," he says.
Wales snorts dismissively. "Because we'd be completely at a loss without access to your encyclopaedic knowledge of Scottish football and films where people shoot each other in the face."
"Fuck off, Dyl," Scotland shoots back. "You seem to be forgetting who knew most of the answers in the book category last time."
"That was a fluke," Wales grumbles. "I hardly think you know more about literature than I do."
"Your problem is your tastes are too narrow," Scotland says, grinning at the hint of stung pride he can hear in Wales' voice. For all his sang-froid, Wales is laughably easy to rile up if one knows him well enough. "Miserable all the way, just like your music."
France's forced cough is Scotland's first indication that he's returned from the bathroom, and it cuts through Wales' terse reply, mostly obscuring the start of it. Scotland misses the rest when he glances up towards where France is stood, leaning against the back of the chair he'd been sitting on earlier. He looks wan, and his eyes are narrowed in what looks like annoyance even though the rest of his face is blank of expression.
"Are you okay?" Scotland asks him worriedly, ending his call to Wales with a quick, unthinking flick of his thumb.
France shakes his head curtly. "I have a bit of a headache coming on. I hope you don't mind if we skip the drinks."
"Of course not," Scotland says, immediately scrambling to his feet.
It should be a relief to cut the evening short, but Scotland finds it doesn't seem like one. He only feels slightly ashamed, as he can only think that his behaviour must have been more objectionable than he'd suspected if France would prefer to deny himself the pleasure of decent coffee rather than prolong the experience any further.
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20th December, 2009; Cardiff, Wales
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Scotland's mood lifts a little the instant he sees Wales, albeit only because of the monstrosity of an apron his brother is wearing. It's sunshine yellow, heavily frilled and completely lopsided: the right side reaches down to mid-shin, whilst the left just about skims the top of his knee.
"What the fuck is that?" Scotland asks, once he's stopped laughing.
Wales' cheeks pink slightly, as well they should. "It's an early Christmas present from Mrs Evans next door. I told her I enjoy cooking on occasion, and, well…" He runs his fingers across the densest patch of ruffles, concentrated around his middle, which seemingly serve no purpose except making him look even rounder than he already is. "Her eyesight's really deteriorated lately, and her arthritis is playing up, so I don't think it's too bad considering. Besides, I could hardly just chuck it away, could I? After all the effort she went to."
Scotland can't argue with that, but: "Doesn't mean you actually have to wear it, though. Especially when she's not around to see you. You could just tell her you did."
"I couldn't do that," Wales says primly, his sense of propriety clearly offended. "That seems even more rude, somehow."
Wales' personal rules of politeness may be nonsensical at times, but he holds himself to them rigidly, nevertheless. As such, it seems unproductive to argue the point. "Fair enough," Scotland says, shrugging as he steps into the house. "But just be well aware that you look like a complete twat. Yellow really doesn't suit you."
Save for a slight wrinkling of his nose, the insult seems to wash over Wales entirely. "I was just about to start dinner. I hope you're hungry."
"Fucking starving," Scotland says, trailing after Wales as he bustles off towards the kitchen. "I meant to stop at a service station for lunch on the way down here, but the traffic was so fucking appalling I didn't have time in the end."
Wales nods amicably. "Lasagne okay?"
Scotland's stomach gurgles in anticipation at the mere thought of it. Wales might have an extremely limited repertoire – five dishes, by Scotland's last count – but he at least cooks it all well. His lasagne's Scotland's particular favourite; it's hearty and delicious, even though he only uses an Italian dried herb mix for the tomato sauce and makes the white from a packet.
"I'm not even going to bother asking if you want chips or a salad with it." Wales sounds faintly saddened by this, as though Scotland's aversion to lettuce genuinely concerns him. Scotland has no clue why that might be the case, as it's hardly as if he has to worry about his cholesterol, getting scurvy, or whatever other scare tactics humans must have to use in order to force themselves to eat the stuff.
And, more importantly, Wales always makes his chips just the right thickness to be crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and soak up vinegar like a sponge. It'd be ridiculous to turn them down, whatever the alternative.
"Good choice," Scotland says, grinning,
Wales sighs, but moves towards the fridge without further protest. He does defer opening it in favour of glaring significantly at the little table in the corner of the room, however; an unsubtle hint that Scotland should move his arse out of the way if he wants to eat anything this evening.
He's so protective of his space whilst he's cooking that Scotland can't be sure enough that he won't make good on his silent threat to risk arguing. He meekly settles into one of two chairs set at the table and starts unbuttoning his coat, because Wales' kitchen tends to turn into a furnace the moment even one of the rings on the hob is lit.
Despite that, Scotland still finds it quite a comfortable place to be. It's not cavernous like England's kitchen, cold and barren like Scotland's own, or else a spotless chrome temple to the culinary arts like France's. It's small and snug, and as fussily over-decorated as the rest of Wales' house, with nearly every inch of wall space that's not home to one of Wales' sad attempts at watercolour covered with love spoons and other bits of Welsh tourist tat, and chintzy curtains – lovingly sewn by Mrs Evans in better times – at the windows.
Scotland rolls the tension from his shoulders, stretches out his legs, and then helps himself to a cigarette from the packet Wales' had foolishly left out on the table.
Wales' looks askance at him when he hears the lighter spark, though he doesn't ask him to go and smoke at the back door as he usually would, instead busying himself with chopping onions.
"Is it okay if I stay until Wednesday?" Scotland's not sure why he asks, because Wales likely couldn't bring himself to refuse even if the prospect did fill him with horror. "Doesn't seem much point going all the way home when I'm due in London so soon."
Unsurprisingly, his brother nods without hesitation. "Are you sure you don't want to stay till Christmas Eve? We could drive down to England's together; save some petrol."
That plan would be a welcome one usually, but, unfortunately, Scotland will have to decline. "I'd love to, but England wants me over the day before to help out with setting things up."
Wales' chopping slows fractionally. "He doesn't want me there too, does he?" he asks, sounding nervous. "I can't remember him saying anything."
"Naw, just me," Scotland reassures him. "Probably a punishment because he reckons it's my fault that North's spending Christmas Day with Ireland this year, and not us."
"And is it?"
"He was just whinging about having to go to England's, so I told him that he could always go to Ireland's if he hated it so much. Don't think he ever would have done it if England hadn't been such an arse lately, but he was, so… Here we are. And now I'm in Ireland's bad books, too, because she'll be stuck 'babysitting' for the day."
"That's a shame." Wales bows his head sadly. "Poor Iwerddon and Gogledd. Lloegr, too, I suppose."
"What about poor me?"
"You clearly brought it all on yourself, Yr Alban," Wales says, smirking. "You deserve everything you get."
-
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Wales' local might be significantly less shabby than Scotland's, the beer might be better, and the landlord not as much of a prick, but Scotland still vastly prefers the Lion.
The White Hart is the epitome of what James would term an 'old man's pub'; quiet, musty, and with an oddly parochial air, despite its proximity to the city centre. Fittingly, most of the regulars are over sixty, and despite his unlined, baby face and over-long hair, Wales looks to fit right in with his usual uniform of a shapeless grey cardigan and faded corduroy trousers.
The conversation amongst the other members of their quiz team – average age, sixty-five – is thus far more ailment and grandchildren-oriented than he's used to hearing in a pub. He wouldn't normally mind, but he seems unable to sustain even a modicum of interest in it tonight. He concentrates on his drinking instead, rousing himself only when Janice, Wales' neighbour, questions him directly about North (whom she still seems convinced is his son, no matter how many times he's told her they're brothers before).
Everyone else seems content to ignore him, even Wales.
During round three of the quiz (and halfway through his sixth pint), it suddenly strikes Scotland how meaningless the whole thing is.
He and Wales could win the whole thing on their own, because every single question so far has concerned some event that they've lived through; some war that they fought in or Act of Parliament they put their names to.
They've both read more books than everyone else in the room would have time to read in their entire lives, listened to more music, seen more plays and travelled to more countries, even the ones that don't exist anymore. They're just playing at ignorance, giving the other teams a sporting chance, but they'll likely still win in the end.
He downs his drink and then goes back to the bar to order his seventh, leaving Wales to pretend alone that he needs Gareth's help to remember the events of the American Revolution.
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Scotland has always likened being drunk to a mist invading his brain, slowly pushing out his more rational thoughts. Normally, it's a light, effervescent sort of mist – one that makes him feel ridiculously fond of everyone and everything – and sometimes it's like a haze of static, which makes him jumpy, irritable, and quick to take offence.
Much more rarely, it's this: a thick, black cloud that seems to weigh on him from the head down, making his limbs almost too heavy to move.
It's a struggle to lift his arm to take the bottle Wales holds out to him, but he manages it eventually. "Thanks, Wales," he says.
"My pleasure." Wales smiles broadly before slumping down into the armchair opposite Scotland, his face still flushed from the triumph of winning the quiz. Scotland can't quite share in his brother's joy at their victory, as he not only had been unable to shake the feeling that they'd cheated somehow, but the prize had turned out not to be the £100 he'd been promised, but ten home-made vouchers, each one entitling the bearer to ten pound's worth of free drinks at the Hart (redeemable before the 31st of December).
Scotland takes a couple of swigs of his lager, but he knows it's just postponing the inevitable. Never mind what manner of metaphor might be filling up his skull at the time, there's one true constant whenever he's pissed enough…
"You ever think we're too human?"
… His stupid tongue. The brain-fog does absolutely fuck all to keep it from flapping when it shouldn't; in fact, he thinks it actually bloody lubricates the thing, because it's never a problem when he's sober.
Wales blinks at him slowly. "What do you mean?"
Scotland almost tells him to forget he said anything, but the thought seems so close to nudging something into place that the events of the previous day knocked askew that he feels compelled to follow it through before he loses his grip on it again. On very rare occasions, it does seem to help him to untangle his thoughts if he talks them through, and Wales has a very useful tendency towards hangover-induced amnesia that he's taken advantage of for that very purpose in the past.
On balance, he probably has more to gain by continuing.
"I mean, we spend more time with humans than other nations, we go to the pub, do quizzes, play football." He inclines his head towards Wales. "You fucking date them. How are we any different from them nowadays, really, apart from the fact we keep going for-fucking-ever and they don't?"
Wales looks a little taken aback, his mouth moving silently for a moment before he finally mumbles something near-incomprehensible about the Senedd.
"Yes, there's always the Senedd, isn't there? And my bloody parliament. Lot of good we do there, right? It's just a way of keeping us fucking occupied at the end of the day, though. They just pat us on the head – well done for taking an interest – and do whatever the hell they were going to do beforehand, anyway, whatever we say. Jesus, at least they used to let us lead our own troops back in the day; what have we got now?"
"You miss fighting," Wales says, his expression brightening, presumably pleased that he's worked out what must be upsetting his brother.
Scotland still isn't sure precisely what is bothering him, however he knows it isn't that. He's been aware of that for a long time; it's no revelation to him. "At least I was fucking useful to my people then. Now, me and you, we're just… So small, I guess."
A memory clicks into place with the word, making a connection that seems laughably obvious retrospectively. "He wouldn't tell me what his phone call was about."
"I'm afraid you've lost me completely now, Yr Alban," Wales says, his brow furrowing.
"I told you France got a phone call from some government flunkey before we went out to that restaurant, right? Well, every time I asked what it was about, he brushed me off."
"It was likely something he couldn't tell you about." Wales lifts one shoulder casually. "State secrets and all that."
Scotland shakes his head. "I know it was EU shit. He told me that much, at least. I'm part of the bloody EU, just like him, and he still wouldn't say anything."
Wales still looks unconcerned. "Maybe he thought you wouldn't be interested. You never have been before, to be fair."
"That's not the point." The point is straight ahead of him now, though, laid bare now and so unavoidable that Scotland can't stop himself from falling straight onto it. "I imagine he just thinks I'm too stupid to understand what was going on."
Maddeningly, the landing still stings.
Wales gapes at him. "Ffrainc doesn't think you're stupid."
"He does." Scotland closes his eyes so he doesn't have to watch his brother's expression become even more witless as he continues with: "He told me so himself."
Except in much cruder terms, spat out between 'apostate' and 'philistine', and it hadn't even been the cruellest thing he'd said on that dreadful night over four hundred years ago. As the centuries passed, and they were never repeated, the pain did fade. He'd never retracted or apologised for them either, though, so Scotland still finds himself dwelling on it far more often than he'd like.
When he chances opening his eyes again, Wales is standing far too close in front of him, one hand outstretched portentously. "You know the rules, Wales," he says, batting his brother's arm aside. "You hug, I punch."
Wales sighs heavily, sounding hurt, but he does drop his hand as instructed. Unfortunately, he drops it straight onto Scotland's knee as he crouches down.
His colour heightens again, and he licks his lips nervously a few times before eventually managing to drag forth some words. "You know I met up with Ffrainc. In September. When you two were… When things weren't going so well between you."
"When we split up," Scotland says, already tired of his brother's pathetic and entirely pointless attempts at evasion.
"Around then," Wales agrees, avoiding Scotland's eyes. "Well, Ffrainc and I, we… We talked a little about… things, and… And…" He takes a deep breath, but when he lets it out again, his shoulders slump. When he starts speaking again, he sounds almost annoyed, for no real reason, as far as Scotland can tell. "I think he really missed you."
"Like that means anything." Scotland snorts humourlessly. "He misses that evil shit of a cat of his every time he's away from home."
"I thought you two had sorted everything out." Wales' grip on Scotland's knee tightens, his fingers digging deep into the boniest part. "I thought you were doing okay."
"So did I," Scotland says. He thought it was true until this very instant. "It isn't what I was expecting, though."
The words sound ungrateful, uncharitable, but also completely true.
Scotland feels a little sick at the realisation.
"Fucking hell, Scotland." Wales sounds as though his stomach might be churning, too. "Ffrainc is… He… Please, just talk to him about how you're feeling."
Scotland says, "Aye," only to placate Wales. He has no intention on following through.
It would be far too premature, he thinks. He knows he has near everything he's always wanted from France at his fingertips now, he just needs to give himself time to feel the same.
-
-
The room Scotland finds himself in a patchwork made from fragments of old memories – the thick walls of the château de Rambouillet; the gilded furniture from the estate France used to own in Burgundy – stitched together so crudely that he can tell in an instant that he's dreaming.
Still, it's not lucid enough that he can will himself to wake up or even into some different scene, no matter how much he wishes he could. Because even though the room is all wrong, and the light is all wrong – the murky grey of dawn streaming in through the arched windows of the château de Fontainebleau instead of the inky blue twilight Scotland remembers – the utter blankness of France's expression is horribly familiar.
Drunk and desperate, Scotland has just said that he loves him for the very first time. Now, as then, France says nothing. After centuries of fighting for him and bleeding for him, just as Scotland had promised he would, he doesn't even have a single word he cares to give him in return.
Now, as then, he simply walks away, shoes slipping silently across the polished floor of the Palais du Louvre.
Scotland wants to reach out for him now as he didn't dare to then, but he cannot. His arms remain rigid despite his attempts at forcing them to move; one held tight against his side, the other crooked, hand holding a brimming glass.
It had been full of wine then, but it appears to be full of blood now, albeit of an unnaturally bright red hue. It smells the same, however; rich and tannin-heavy. That scent had turned Scotland's stomach for decades after he'd lived through this moment in reality.
He tries to drop the glass, but his fingers refuse to unbend, and –
"Wake up, Scotland."
The rasped entreaty brings Scotland back to himself, if only very slowly. He's aware first of a dull ache along the length of his spine, which is twisted in such a way that suggests he'd never made it to Wales' spare bedroom after all, but had instead fallen asleep wedged against the arm of Wales' sofa. The prickly dryness of his mouth and throat announce themselves second and third, shortly before the stiffness of his knees. Lastly, there's the incongruous soft warmth of skin against his hand.
He blinks open his eyes and looks across to his right. Wales is slumped in the opposite corner of the sofa, but one of his arms is outstretched, hand wrapped around Scotland's and holding it down against the cushions.
"Sorry," he says, hurriedly letting go. His thumb lingers a little longer, brushing lightly across Scotland's knuckles. "You were trying to punch me. Bad dream?"
The joints of Scotland's shoulders pop as he shrugs. "Not one of the worst."
Nowhere near. Sometimes he falls to Rome's sword, after all. Sometimes he's not the one that survived the birth of Alba. Sometimes he and England can't hold Wales together until the field ambulances come.
He won't feel as though he'd been fighting for his life all night, just a little heartsore.
When they were weans, Wales used to press him to describe his dreams whenever he had one of his unsettled nights, but Scotland smacked him for the question so many times that he soon outgrew his curiosity. Now his only question is whether or not Scotland wants a cup of tea.
Truthfully, Scotland would like something a bit stronger, but he makes himself nod, regardless.
The dream may have rekindled old urges from those times – as it always does – but drinking at dawn is a habit he will never allow himself to fall into again.
-
-
27th December, 2009; Kent, England
-
Scotland can compensate for the slow pace France wants to set: he has dragged France along when his steps faltered, propped him up against trees when it looked as though he was about to keel over, and would quite happily carry him for the rest of the walk if he thought France would consent to such a thing. What he finds harder to endure are the complaints, constant enough that they eventually wear him down sufficiently that he can't stand to walk any longer himself.
As soon as he disentangles his fingers from France's, France collapses, sinking down at the side of the path without even bothering to check the state of the ground where he's going to plant his arse beforehand. He's lucky it hadn't rained overnight for once, because his trousers don't look like the kind that'd withstand even the slightest bit of mud or rough wear. Scotland wonders why he hadn't changed into something a little more suitable for the day's activities for an instant before concluding that he likely still doesn't own anything of the sort.
"Why did I drink so much last night?" France asks, voice muffling as he sinks his head down to rest against his draw up knees.
Scotland pats France's back once in commiseration, but the way France arches away from the contact discourages him from doing so a second time. He slips his hands into his jacket pockets, instead. "Because it's the only way of getting through one of England's parties?" he answers even though he knows the question was rhetorical, just for something to say. "It's a time-honoured tradition by this point."
"And one I wish I'd had the good sense not to join in with. There isn't a single part of my body that doesn't hurt." France lifts his head a little way in order to glare at Scotland. "And yet you look fit and healthy, and you're obviously full of energy."
"I don't get hangovers very often."
France shoots Scotland an odd look, one he finds impossible to decipher. "I know that. I was just –"
He cuts himself off with a small shake of his head; a gesture which seems to reawaken his nausea, given how quickly he pales. The sentence seems fated to remain unfinished, and the way France curls himself back into his tight ball of misery again suggests that any further conversation is unlikely for a while.
Scotland can think of nothing France could possibly want him to do other than wait for this latest bout of wretchedness to pass, and he occupies himself in the meantime by wandering back the way they had come for a little way, keeping an eye out for any unusual rocks he might have overlooked whilst he was busy helping France keep upright.
Sadly, the only discovery he makes on his short walk is not geological, but it is one that he thinks France would be interested to hear even though he's still hunkered down low upon Scotland's return.
"America and England seem to have disappeared now, too," he says, and as he suspected it would, the observation causes France to quickly unfurl himself. "No sign of them anywhere."
France grins. "Perhaps Angleterre finally found himself so overcome that he couldn't help but drag America off into the undergrowth so they can work through his repression together."
It's a sentiment that, nine years ago, Scotland would have vehemently protested. Things have changed a lot since then. "Jesus, I hope so," he says. "Very much doubt it, though."
"As do I," France says, his smile fading.
Scotland had expected France to find what he and Wales did to England hilarious, and indeed he had when he first learnt about it last night. Surprisingly, he seems to be growing more and more sympathetic towards England's plight as time wears on, though.
England doubtless wouldn't return the favour if their positions were reversed.
"I understand why it would make things easier for you if he were to discover certain things on his own," France continues after a momentary pause to wince and clutch at his stomach. "What I can't is why you want America to be involved. I thought you all were disgusted by the thought of being intimate with your 'weans'."
"We are. But with America and England, it's…" Scotland can't explain it, really. Just that, as Wales has said many times in the past few years: "It's different, somehow. If he'd set his sights after Canada…" Scotland doesn't want to vocalise the thought; it's simultaneously too ridiculous and too abhorrent. "Well, he wouldn't."
"I'm afraid I don't really understand the distinction," France says, frowning.
Scotland doesn't either, he just feels that there is one. "I guess it doesn't make sense," he admits, "but, I don't know, he's probably the best bet for England, especially seeing as though he fucked things up so royally where Portugal's concerned." Or, at least, that had been Wales and Scotland's conclusion following the longest conversation they're hopefully ever going to have to have about England's love life. They'd both felt unclean afterwards. "I mean, he's probably just as clueless as England, so –"
France's expression barely changes – nothing more than a slight twitch of one eyebrow as his lips thin – but it speaks volumes all the same. Truly horrific volumes. "Fucking hell, France. You didn't…"
The quick flicker of France's eyes away from his spares Scotland from actually having to finish his sentence, which is the only relief the confirmation gives him.
Although he fights against it, presumes his shock must be clear in his face, because France's own softens in concern.
"It was a long time ago," he says, tone soothing, as though he believes that a recent act of infidelity was the only possible reason Scotland could have for being upset by the news.
Even though Scotland's always been aware that France had many other lovers, both whilst they were together and apart, it's something he's been able to ignore for the most part by ensuring he remains deliberately oblivious of the specifics. Whenever they're brought to his attention, however obliquely, he can't keep check on the jealousy he usually keeps so tightly reined.
It's an ugly trait, and one that he hates in himself, just as he hates how possessive he feels sometimes. Like France is his in a way he never has been and that Scotland wouldn't really want him to be in actuality.
"Are you all right, mon coeur?"
The brush of France's fingers against the back of Scotland's leg startles him so much that he gasps, and upon doing so realises that he'd been breathing so shallowly beforehand that he might well be turning slightly blue from a lack of oxygen.
"I'm fine," he is therefore quick to reassure France. "It's just… It's the first I've heard of it, so it's a bit of a surprise, you ken."
"I never told you before because you always said you didn't want to know about that sort of thing." France's brow furrows. "Though we did promise to be more honest with one another, so perhaps it is something we need to talk about."
There aren't many conversations Scotland would want to have less, not least because he's already well aware how lopsided it would be. Between the few kisses he shared with human lasses before France, and Jersey – whom France is already aware of – after, there were only three people, all of them errors in judgment: one brought on by nostalgia, one by curiosity and one he's still trying to puzzle out centuries later.
He'd just end the whole thing embarrassed, as well as wanting to punch most of the nations he's ever likely to meet for the rest of his life.
If America wasn't family, he'd likely be amongst their number.
"I don't think so," he tells France, accordingly. "It's all in the past, right? No need to dwell on it."
Scotland had thought France would be relieved, but if he is, his expression doesn't reflect it, even though he does eventually incline his head in acquiescence.
-
-
15th January, 2010; London, England
-
When Scotland pushes open the front door of England's house, he's confronted immediately by the sight of its owner, who is standing in the middle of the hallway, feet a shoulder width apart and his fists raised.
"Jesus Christ, England," Scotland says. "I don't even have to say anything now before you want to deck me?"
England does not relax from his fighting stance. "I thought someone was breaking in," he says, tone accusatory.
"By unlocking your front door?" Scotland scoffs. "And what the fuck is all this about?" He makes a loose fist with one hand and jabs it towards England in demonstration. "I don't think burglars are likely to abide by the Marquess of Queensbury rules, you know. You would've done better to pick up your cricket bat first or something."
"You surprised me," England says, hastily dropping his hands. They fall, seemingly by chance, to rest on the belt of his dressing gown, and after a few seconds' hesitation he pulls it tighter, presumably in an effort to make it appear as though that had been his objective all along. "I hardly had chance to strategise."
Given what he knows of his brother's habits, coupled with the fact that England's already dressed in his red paisley pyjamas – and matching slippers – Scotland suspects he had been nodding off in his chair, even though it's only just turned nine o'clock. Never mind strategising, he'd likely not even been thinking when he'd been startled out of his doze, and just acted entirely on impulse.
Still, it's not much of an excuse for his panicky overreaction, and makes even less sense. "Why the hell did I surprise you? I told you I'd be coming back around this time."
"I presumed you'd end up staying with the frog at his hotel, anyway."
"You presumed wrong," Scotland says, keeping his voice carefully neutral in the hope of discouraging any further questions regarding his decision on where he would spend the night.
It had, in fact, not been a decision at all, as that would suggest he had any alternatives to consider. France had never even suggested that maybe they didn't have to part ways after they left the restaurant, however. Logically, Scotland knows that was the most sensible course of action, given their current situation, but it still feels bizarrely like a rejection all the same.
Thankfully, it seems England is just as happy to drop the subject as Scotland himself. "I suppose you'll be wanting a cup of tea," he says, which is his usual way of cutting short a conversation he's grown tired of; bluntness disguised as generosity.
"Aye," Scotland says, because he knows the offer was still genuine even if the intentions behind it were less than charitable.
"Well, go and make yourself comfortable, then." England waves one hand towards his living room before shuffling off towards the kitchen,
Scotland complies as best he can, given that the only seat in the living room that's even approaching comfortable is England's favourite armchair, and woe betide anyone who dare try and plant their arse on that without his express written permission beforehand.
The second armchair is an imitation Chippendale – not quite fancy enough to be allowed residence in the parlour – which seems to have been designed with the improvement of posture rather than relaxation in mind, but it's still better than either of the sofas, which creak and sigh and sag disquietingly unless one sits unmoving in the precise spot where they still have true structural integrity in their frames.
Once he's lowered himself into the faux-Chippendale, Scotland swings his feet up to rest on top of the coffee table in front of it, because it's the only way he can get something approaching a curve into his spine. The soles of his shoes scuff its mirror-fine polish, and he accidentally nudges an open book England had clearly been in the process of reading with his heel, sending it crashing to the floor. He quickly picks it up and puts it back in its proper spot, but manages to lose England's place in the process.
He tries to look nonchalant, but England's quick eyes seem to spot the change instantly when he returns with the tea tray, and the resulting lividity of his cheeks reveals that he probably imagines it to have been a deliberate act of sabotage.
"I can't even leave you alone for five minutes without you wrecking the place," he snarls, roughly pushing Scotland's legs aside before slamming down a plate of biscuits onto the table.
The plate's contents signal that England had been angry at Scotland even before witnessing the results of his careless foot placement. His hospitality is a sliding scale, dependent on his feelings towards his guest; nothing really overt on the surface, but it became blindingly obvious once one becomes familiar with his habits.
At its highest level – for those England is feeling the most kindly disposed towards – there are huge, chunky biscuits from Marks and Spencers, slathered in chocolate and bursting with nuts or raisins. It then moves through chocolate HobNobs at its midpoint all the way on down to no plate at all.
Tonight's offering is plain Digestives and Rich Teas; one rung from the bottom. Scotland has to wonder if England's now regretting giving him even that much benefit of the doubt.
His scowl certainly seems to suggest that, as does the way he flings himself into his armchair with such great and unnecessary violence that he nearly upends his mug over his own lap. After saving his tea at the last moment with a quick, evasive lurch of his hand, he brusquely dunks a Digestive into it, and then devours the biscuit with three savage snaps of his teeth.
England's had a deep core of viciousness in him since he was a child, and although he's wrapped so many layers of etiquette and decorum around himself over the years that it's effectively disguised most of the time, that armour is incredibly brittle. It's clearly already cracking, even though he sounds almost congenial when he asks, "So, how was your meal, then?"
"Good," Scotland says, because, technically, it had been. The food was fantastic, for once; sufficiently complicated to please France, and served in sizeable enough portions for Scotland.
The rest of the evening had suffered from exactly the same drawback that has hampered all the others of a similar type recently: the company.
It's been difficult for Scotland to admit, but by now the truth is inescapable. After everything had gone so well over Hogmanay and into the start of the new year, he'd thought they'd turned a corner, but today has proved that was only an illusion.
The difference, he's certain, lies in the choice of activity. Before, there had been Scotland's family and friends, and skating and drinking and a myriad other distractions. When it's just the two of them, things turn awkward.
He can only liken the feeling to meeting with someone who had once been a close childhood friend as an adult, after an estrangement of many years standing. It's not something he's intimately familiar with, but it definitely fits with what he's heard his human mates describe: a distance intensified by the intrinsic contrast of there once having been such great intimacy; one which makes any lack of connection or silences more glaring.
In Scotland's case, however, the silence isn't a new thing; it simply wasn't as conspicuous before. It didn't used to matter that they didn't have much to say to each another, however, because they simply filled all of the gaps in with sex. Without that, those gaps seem more like chasms to Scotland, and he has absolutely no idea how to bridge them.
None of this, of course, is anything he wants England to so much as guess at the existence of, never mind share with him. He simply ignores his brother's pointed staring, and eventually England seems to grow tired of waiting for him to add more – the restaurant had been his suggestion, and he had likely been hoping to hear that France had found it wanting somehow, so he could get righteously furious about his bad taste – and he sighs irritably.
"Glad to hear it," he says afterwards, though he really doesn't sound anything of the sort. "And how was the frog?"
"Pretty much the same as when you saw him in your meeting this morning, I should imagine."
England hums unhappily, presumably disappointed that France hasn't contracted something unpleasant and preferably visibly scarring during the afternoon's brief absence from his company. He returns to drinking his tea, and for a long enough stretch of time that Scotland begins thinking that maybe he had misinterpreted his mood, doesn't say anything more.
Before Scotland has chance to relax completely, however, England says, "He's over here all the time at the moment, isn't he?" The remark sounds casual, which causes Scotland to be immediately suspicious of his brother's intentions. England's observations regarding France have never been truly casual in his experience. "And yet you never seem to visit Paris anymore."
"That's just the way things have worked out," says Scotland, who had actually quietly engineered it to be that way, because at the moment he can't really stomach the idea of being stuck without his pub and his mates and his city to retreat into, when things with France get a little too uncomfortable to bear. "With our schedules and so on."
"Since when do you have a schedule, Scotland."
England's contemptuous laughter appears to resonate directly with the place in Scotland's brain that works the clenching of his fists. He takes a deep breath and forces his palms to flatten out, because he really doesn't want to start a fight with his brother, which would only serve to cap with shite what has already been a fairly crappy day. "Just because you don't know about it doesn't mean it doesn't exist, England," he says, preparing to get up from his chair. "Speaking of which, I really should be getting –"
"I suppose he's probably quite glad about it, really," England says, still smiling faintly.
A deep chill washes over Scotland at the words. Even though he knows England's probably only baiting him – he's still angry over Boxing Day, after all – and he shouldn't let himself rise to it, some masochistic kind of curiosity compels him to ask, "What do you mean?"
"Just that you make a complete mess of his apartment whenever you stay, according to him," England's smile broadens, revealing all the sharp edges of his teeth. "He's always complaining that it takes him days to set it to rights after you leave."
Scotland's reasonably sure that England's just bullshitting him now. He can't recall any transgressions he's ever made against France's neatly ordered home except for occasionally leaving his clothes on the floor when he undresses for the night, instead of leaving them neatly folded on a chair as is France's preference.
"It was easier to housebreak his cat, I seem to recall him saying once," England continues. "And that shat all over his bed for months after he first got it, apparently."
England might well be swinging wildly, but he manages to hit a precision strike, all the same.
Scotland has always feared that France considers him slightly bestial, even though most of the roughness he's ever shown him began more as a performance than anything else; one aspect of himself he had deliberately exaggerated because his ability to cut a man almost in two with one stroke of his sword had impressed France more than any act of attempted kindness ever had.
"That's not nearly the worst of it," England says with clear relish. "You should hear –"
Scotland really doesn't need to. He springs out of his chair and then heads straight for the stairs, leaving his brother to spill his venom uselessly into an empty room.
-
-
Scotland grabs the bottle of whisky he'd bought England for Christmas and retreats to his old bedroom with it.
The room contains nothing more than a few pieces of furniture now – sterile and impersonal – but it does at least have the benefit of a lockable door. He flips down the latch and then settles himself onto the bed, back propped against the headboard.
It takes two large gulps of whisky before the compulsion to head back downstairs and break England's jaw finally subsides, by which time he's already asking himself why the hell he'd let his brother rile him up so effortlessly yet again.
Since they were children together, they've had the ability to unerringly find each other's weak spots, which wouldn't be too great of a problem, Scotland supposes, if it wasn't also coupled with the compulsion they both seem to share to jab at them without mercy at the slightest provocation.
And those provocations are near constant, because, at the end of the day, Scotland doesn't particularly like England most of the time, and England seemingly feels the same way about him. If they weren't related, Scotland would go out of his way to avoid having to spend any time with him at all.
If they weren't related, and Scotland didn't love him utterly and unconditionally.
Scotland loves many people in the same way. It's almost something separate from himself – something hard and fierce and, it seems, invulnerable – and from them. It lives on, undimmed, even though he occasionally resents Ireland so much that he can hardly bear to look at her, and being around Northern Ireland terrifies him at times.
And even though he struggles to connect to France on anything but the most superficial of levels.
He's beginning to realise that it's not something that's only manifested itself now, in this new, uncertain place they've found themselves, but rather that he's been ignoring practically from the start, when he first saw a beautiful, golden girl shining beyond Rome's wall and wondered how the hell someone like him could ever hope to get close to her.
Lately, though, he's even started wondering about the one, last unapproachable thing he's never allowed himself to examine before, because he knew that any conclusion other than the positive would throw his entire fucking life view into disarray.
Am I actually in love with France?
The small part of him that dares to ask is terrified that, long ago, he mistook lust – a slightly alien urge for him; something else he avoids confronting head on, because he's afraid of what it might mean – for love, and has simply spent the past millennium plus change convincing himself otherwise because admitting that simple error would leave him in an even worse position.
Those worries melt away, nevertheless, the second he sees France, because despite everything, he's still Scotland's brightest spot, still the Polaris he steers by, though that does lend credence, he thinks, to the confused lust side of things, as it certainly has absolutely nothing to do with France's personality.
It occurs to him now, halfway through his bottle of whisky, if those chasms he senses between the two of them persist because France simply isn't the right person to fill them, and all Scotland's attempts over the years to force him into that role regardless may perhaps have damaged him just as much as they've always felt to damage Scotland.
-
-
Even with the entire bottle of whisky inside him, he can't summon up the courage to pose the very question he phoned Wales to ask.
It's a sort of weakness itself, he thinks, not being able to talk freely even to someone who… means what Wales means to him, and one he's consequently created in himself along the course of nurturing some of what he's always seen as among his greatest strengths.
"Are you okay?"
On rather groggy reflection, Wales probably isn't the best person to give him a straight answer, anyway, for all that he'd been Scotland's first choice. He's much more likely to wax poetic, and Scotland will end up none the wiser.
"I know you're still there. I can hear you breathing."
And, besides, it's a pretty embarrassing question to have to ask in the first place. It's possibly for the best if he remains the only one who knows he ever needed to.
"Which is pretty creepy, you know, Ringing your brother at three in the morning and just heavy breathing down the phone at him."
That accusation spurs Scotland to finally start speaking. "How do you know…?" But he can't bring himself to finish, and the next word simply collapses into a sigh.
Th arrested sentence obviously still revealed more about his current train of thoughts than Scotland could ever have imagined, however, as Wales quickly asks, "Is this about France? Did you talk to him like I suggested?"
"No," Scotland admits reluctantly.
"Jesus, Yr Alban," Wales says, sounding frustrated. "Look, just ask him why he came back. It'll make you feel better about everything, believe me."
-
-
16th January, 2010; Various Motorways, A Roads and B Roads in both England and Scotland
-
It used to be that France wouldn't have more than one weekend in twenty free – or, at least, so he had claimed – but now he doesn't seem have many that aren't; precisely when Scotland could most do with a little distance from him.
Still, he could have said no to the suggestion that France accompany him back up to Edinburgh – invented some meeting or emergency or simply just grown a fucking spine for long enough to tell him that he'd prefer to be alone – but capitulation to France's wishes is an ancient habit, and one that he unthinkingly follows more often than not, despite all of his recent efforts to break it,
Even though he knows the situation is entirely his own fault, he finds himself resenting France a little, regardless. For not being a mind reader, apparently, and, even more irrationally, for wanting the exact thing Scotland had always wished he had in the past, but choosing the wrong time to start.
Because he knows he'll be tempted to pick a fight otherwise, if only to work off some of his frustration, Scotland can't bring himself to talk to France. France appears to either not notice or not care, and is seemingly content to idly gaze out of the passenger side window at the passing scenery.
Around Reading, the silence starts to feel so stifling that Scotland turns on the radio so he doesn't have to listen to it anymore. Radio 2 blares out from the speakers – reason number one why Scotland shouldn't have allowed himself be cajoled into letting England borrow his car that morning; he's sure he'll discover more in due course – announcing that they're about to be treated to an entire afternoon's worth of jazz.
Scotland likes jazz only in small, manageable doses, and so he reaches out to change the station. The sight of France's faint smile stays his hand at the last moment, however.
The jazz stays, and he and France don't say more than five words to one another for over three hundred miles.
It makes an already long journey feel interminable.
-
-
16th January, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland
-
Scotland comes home to some truly calamitous information: the electricity's out at the Lion – rumour has it that the landlord, John, may have got a little behind on paying his bills – and thus it's likely to remain closed all weekend.
Yet worse, all of his usual crowd have made alternate plans in his absence; ones that unfortunately don't involve decamping to a lesser pub to preserve their normal Saturday night ritual of getting shitfaced.
Traitors, the whole bloody lot of them.
France, on the other hand, seems quite happy about the news when Scotland relays it to him, merrily chirping that it would be, "nice for them to have an evening in for a change," in response.
Driven then by fear, Scotland dangles the prospect of a meal at the fanciest restaurant in Edinburgh in front of him – eating out may be acutely uncomfortable in its own way, but at least there would be distractions other than each other on offer, if only in the form of people watching and repeatedly reading through the menu – but France brushes it off without so much as a pause to consider the idea. Even pointing out that there's nothing worth eating in the house doesn't sway him; he simply excavates the depths of Scotland's freezer and cupboards, and then, from the meagre collection of cans and packets he discovers, manages to create something that looks like no dish Scotland has ever seen, but tastes absolutely amazing all the same.
Scotland would be impressed by his ingenuity if he wasn't already cursing it. Even after the nameless concoction is eaten, the dishes are washed and put away – a task Scotland would typically leave to the ùruisg, but desperate times call for desperate measures – there are still three long, empty hours stretching out ahead of him until he can reasonably pretend tiredness and flee to the safe solitude of his own bed.
He has steadfastly kept to his temporary vow of celibacy in the face of France's occasional innuendos and seemingly constant need to find excuses to wander round the house half-naked even whilst he's shivering so hard that it's a wonder he doesn't shake the skin straight off his body, and has never once wanted to break it as badly as he does right now. It would make things so much easier, he thinks, because, even though he might be inadequate at it everywhere else, he's never had any problems with pleasing France in bed as far as he can tell.
Though the thought is a tempting one, ultimately and reluctantly, Scotland has to discard it, as, for one, he's pretty sure that sure that attempting to stave off his own malaise for a time is probably among the worst reasons to start sleeping with France again, and besides, he already knows it won't solve anything.
It would be nothing more than a temporary fix – a bandage slapped on to make the surface look better, so he could ignore that everything was rotting underneath – as it always had been before.
He turns his mind instead to less carnal ways of passing the time, though it's difficult to think of anything that appeals. Simple beer and conversation is out for obvious reasons, and he can't imagine that France would like playing anything on the Xbox. He would propose chess – he and France had enjoyed a game or two together many years ago, he dimly recalls – but he had lent his set to Northern Ireland a few months back, and it has since become lost to the black hole of other people's possessions he calls a flat.
He decides on watching a film for lack of any other inspiration, but, on reflection, it seems like the best option anyway, given that it will fill up any quiet spaces between them all on its own.
France has no objections to that plan, so Scotland directs him to browse his DVD collection, whilst he settles himself onto the sofa, glass of whisky in hand.
For a little while, he feels less tense than he has done all day. Whilst France's attention is completely absorbed by something else, Scotland is free to simply look at him, freed from any expectation or anxiety. It's an old enough habit that it feels almost comforting – another thing that is slightly creepy about him, according to Wales – just watching him from a distance, and appreciating slender, fluid lines of his body, and how his every movement seems effortlessly graceful, even when he's doing nothing more elaborate than hurriedly running the tips of his fingers across the spines of DVD cases.
There's something about that movement, however, which gets under Scotland's skin, though he wouldn't exactly call it irritation until the moment he realises what France is actually doing.
Scotland's DVD collection is extensive – albeit largely centred around what Wales terms the 'shooting and explosions oeuvre' and science fiction epics – but France is apparently dismissing the possibility of watching each and every one of them after nothing more than a glance.
"Can't find anything you want to watch," he asks, slightly bitterly.
France shakes his head.
Scotland's not exactly surprised, because, truthfully, he had suspected the whole exercise would end up being another demonstration of their clashing tastes. Ordinarily, he would ignore it, likely suggest they try the telly instead and hope against hope there happened to be something on that took France's fancy instead, but he hasn't really had time to tamp his doubts of the previous night back down to the deep, rarely explored place in the mind they normally reside.
They make him feel rash enough to ask, "Why did you come back to me, France?"
If he'd had even one more night to consider whether or not he should follow Wales' advice, Scotland's sure he would have persuaded himself that he could never have enough courage to do so.
France spins around to face him so quickly that he almost unbalances himself. Although his lips part, no sound emerges, and he just stares at Scotland, eyes wide and unblinking.
Eventually, Scotland grows tired of the delay. He can't think of any good reason for it other than France desperately trying to invent some justification that's both plausible and flattering, and that makes him willing to push harder than he'd usually allow himself to. "Please, I'd love to know, because I sure as hell can't figure it out. I mean, there's got to be plenty of people better suited to you than I am. We have absolutely fuck all in common, and –"
"Yes, we do." France both looks and sounds completely puzzled.
"Like what?" Scotland asks, wondering what tenuous link France might be about to pull out of his arse, just to be contrary, by the looks of it. He can't think of any himself beyond the fact that they both walk, talk, and pretend the need to breathe and eat just like every other fucking nation around does.
"We both like football," France says, with no noticeable hesitation.
Well, it is something, Scotland supposes, but: "There aren't many nations who don't."
"But they don't all play regularly, do they?" France counters. "I try to. As often as my work permits, anyway."
That does surprise Scotland, because France hasn't ever wanted to…
Scotland abruptly realises that he's never actually invited France to join in with one of the games he plays with his human mates on a Sunday. James had suggested he do so once, but Scotland had laughed at the idea – no matter how appealing the thought of France in football shorts might have been – because he couldn't imagine France on a football pitch, getting dirty and sweaty and probably ruining his hair in the bargain.
"I didn't think it'd be your sort of thing. When we go hiking, you're always complaining about getting muddy and so on," Scotland says, and even as he admits it, he starts to feel slightly ashamed for the assumption. (Makes an ass out of you and me, England would smugly say; Scotland hates the thought even more because his brother would doubtless be right in this instance). France might be a little vain, but he's never been prissy; he's uncomplainingly slogged his way through just as much muck and gore in his life as Scotland has.
"Mud washes off." France shrugs one shoulder. "Though I'm afraid I'm not so tolerant of it when you take me hiking as I still can't really see the point to the whole thing."
"Hiking is the point," Scotland says, sounding, embarrassingly, a little petulant to his own ears.
The fact that France looks unmoved only reinforces yet again that he can't seem to grasp the basic attraction of one of Scotland's most beloved pastimes even after all the centuries Scotland has tried to demonstrate it to him. It serves to make him freshly aware that a shared enjoyment of football is hardly the deep intertwining of souls – hearts beating as one, and all that other crap along the same, sentimental lines that Wales always spouted and Scotland took the piss out of him for – that he'd secretly hoped love would be if he ever had his returned.
"Okay," he says, "I'll give you football, but there's nothing else, is there? I mean, we obviously don't like any of the same films, and –"
France chuckles, waving a hand back towards Scotland's DVD shelves. "I've seen all of these before. I was hoping there might be a more recent one amongst them I perhaps hadn't had chance to watch yet, but…" He smiles broadly. "Maybe our tastes are too similar."
"Oh," says Scotland quietly. "I just thought you'd be more into…"
Embarrassed once more, he trails into silence, but France unerringly picks up the thread of conversation he cast off, regardless.
"Art house films full of gritty social realism and ennui?" France shrugs again. "I do enjoy them, but not to the exclusion of everything else."
"I'd ever want to watch any of them more than once, but I like them, too," Scotland is quick to point out, just in case France otherwise gets the impression that his tastes are entirely confined to genres where people's limbs get blown off in a variety of interesting ways. The same, ancient feeling of defensiveness over France's perception of his intelligence compels him to add, "I like a lot of stuff like that. Arty shit, you ken."
France smirks at the description. "No-one who's seen the inside of your study could come to any other conclusion, mon grand. You have a very impressive collection of books." He shakes his head a little. "Honestly, Scotland, I never presumed that your interests wouldn't have changed over the years."
"But they haven't," Scotland snaps, annoyed by the reminder of how narrow France's view had always been of him before. "Not as much as you probably think."
France accepts the correction with nothing more than a placid nod, which Scotland thinks is a fairly uncharacteristic reaction until he realises that it's pretty much in line with how he's behaved throughout the rest of the day.
No, not just today – Jesus Christ, how is he just noticing this now? he really must have been fucking self-absorbed lately – but for the last couple of months; unbelievably patient whilst Scotland scowled, seethed, and moped through almost all of the time they spent together.
Perhaps France has actually had the right idea all along, because Scotland can obviously be bloody thick at times.
"You knew I was worrying about this crap, didn't you?"
"I guessed as much," France says. "I didn't know for certain."
"Why the hell didn't you say something before?" Scotland asks, feeling unsure whether he should feel angry at France, or ashamed of himself for being so transparent.
"We may not know each other as well as we used to, but I was certain that you still wouldn't like me 'prying', as you always called it." France's cheeks redden slightly, with what Scotland suspects is guilt. "I thought it best to wait until you were ready to talk to me, instead, but perhaps it might not have been the best decision."
Scotland really can't fault his logic, sadly. "Naw, you were right," he says. "I probably would have just lied if you asked me outright if there was anything wrong. You're just lucky that it didn't take me nearly a hundred years to work up the nerve to say something this time."
"There was no risk of that," France says, grinning. "I'd already decided that you got only until the end of the month before I forced you to listen, anyway."
Seemingly sensing some shift in mood that Scotland hadn't been aware had occurred, France seats himself next to Scotland and then offers him his hand.
Scotland can think of no reason not to take it. He's a little annoyed at France for letting him blunder around being a miserable arse to all and sundry for the past couple of months, to be sure, but he can understand why he kept his thoughts to himself, nevertheless. And, counterintuitively, knowing that France is aware even in the smallest way of how distressing he's found his company lately, makes him feel more relaxed to be in it than he's felt since they got back together.
France's palm is a little sweaty and his calluses align almost precisely with Scotland's, allowing for the difference in the size of their hands. Scotland is so used to them being there that he hasn't thought to wonder before now what had caused them. In the past, it had been a sword or a quill, but he supposes that France hasn't much call to use either nowadays.
Maybe he'll ask later, but for the time being, he's content enough not to talk at all, because for once it simply feels as though they're taking a pause in conversation, not lacking anything to say to one another.
Eventually, France interrupts the quiet with a deep sigh and then says, "I'm sorry I didn't answer your question from earlier, mon coeur. I will tell you why I returned to you, but I think I'd rather not discuss it tonight."
It had been Wales' question more than Scotland's, anyway. He's curious, but his brother has always been a mite overdramatic when it comes to affairs of the heart, so he doesn't really expect any grand revelations despite the hints to the contrary. "What do you want to talk about, then?" he asks
"Everything else," France says, his fingers tightening around Scotland's.