The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.
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14th December, 2013; London, England

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Whilst Wales might not have much in the way of fashion sense, he has put a great deal of thought into his personal style which has, much like his favoured haircut, been honed by the results of trial and error over the course of many years.

His clothes may not be eye-catching or à la mode, but they are sturdy, comfortable and eminently practical; the sort of thing that can be picked up from any middle-of-the-road shop at a middle-of-the-road price.

The shops that Scotland has dragged him into over the course of the morning are so far out of his comfort zone as to be mildly terrifying: the type of establishment that he probably shouldn't be thinking of as 'shops' at all, as they likely scorn the term for being too downmarket and plebeian to describe the shopping experience they wish to provide, preferring the much more exclusive-sounding 'boutique'.

They have very little in the way of actual merchandise on display, as if to distance themselves from the entire vulgar business of buying and selling, promoting instead the air of a high-class private club into which patrons should be flattered to enter, and are staffed by intimidatingly well-turned-out and attractive sales assistants.

But Wales is, at least, ignored by them. Their eyes glide over him without recognition, as though in the belief that a dumpy little man in a twenty-year-old duffle coat couldn't possibly want – or even afford – anything they might be peddling and editing him out of their reality as a consequence.

Scotland isn't so lucky. He might be wearing tatty trainers, torn and creosote-stained jeans, and a jacket that was past its best a decade or more ago, but his rugged good looks must lead them to think he's secretly some TV presenter, film star, or other VIP who's trying to go incognito by dressing like a down-at-heel farmer who's just come off worst in an encounter with some agricultural threshing equipment.

To him, they're officiously solicitous, wanting to show him this pair of overpriced trousers or that hair-raisingly expensive knick-knack, and every time he stands still for more than a moment, they spring up at his shoulder to beg him to smell some new brand of cologne.

"Here," Scotland says, sticking the sleeve where the latest sample has been sprayed under Wales' nose. "What do you think of that?"

Wales' can't pick the scent of this latest batch out from all the previous ones that his brother's already been spritzed with. They've blended together into a nauseating melange of different floral, woody, and spicy notes that's caustic enough in combination to make his eyes water.

Unable, therefore, to give Scotland an informed opinion, he says, "I don't think it's quite him," just to be on the safe side.

"Fuck!" Scotland snaps, and then again and twice as loud after checking the time on his phone. "We've been at this three hours now. We're in the tenth circle of hell. We must be. I always suspected it'd involve shopping somehow."

Wales is inclined to agree, but much as he'd like to suggest they sack it off and repair to a pub, he knows how important Scotland considers today's mission and thus feels duty bound to offer support to bolster his brother's flagging spirits. "It's still early days yet," he says. "I'm sure we'll find something eventually. Is there anything else you'd like to look at in here?"

Scotland glances around, and then sighs heavily. "Naw. Come on; let's go try somewhere else."

"You know," he says, as he and Wales walk out of the shop/boutique and join the crowd thronging the street outside, "there are plenty of articles about 'What to buy the man who has everything' but no-one's ever thought to write one about 'What to buy the man who has such rarefied tastes that anything you do get is bound to be a fucking disappointment'. I could do with one of those."

"Has Ffrainc ever actually told you he doesn't like your presents?" Wales asks.

"Not in so many words." Scotland thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his ancient jacket, and glares down at the pavement beneath his feet. "But he always gets that same blank when he opens them that England does when he realises I've bought him another bottle of whisky for Christmas, and I can tell he's struggling to think of something nice to say."

"If really is that difficult, why don't you forget about trying to buy him something, and just spend some good, quality time together?" Although it dovetails neatly with his own desire to give in and give up, Wales is sincere in his advice, and quickly finds himself warming up to the idea for France's sake as well as his own. "That is supposed to be the true meaning of Christmas, after all."

Scotland looks at him sidelong, his eyebrows raised incredulously high. "You're suggesting I should turn up at his door with a bow tied around my… around me and say, 'Surprise! I couldn't be arsed finding you a present you'd like, so you just get me instead. Merry Christmas!'?

"We see each other damn near every week anyway, so it wouldn't be anything special. I want him to have something he can hold in his hands, and look at and think, 'What a thoughtful guy I'm seeing. He knows me so well!'."

Wales understands that view well, though he's always approached fulfilling it in a different way. "Why don't you make something yourself, then?" he says. "That's thoughtful."

"Like your poems?" Scotland wrinkles his nose in insultingly obvious distaste. "I presume you've written one for Romano?"

Wales has not. Usually, he finds the approach of the festive season very inspiring, as the prospect of gathering together with his nearest and dearest – one much sweeter in his imagination than it ever is in actuality – makes him feel ridiculously nostalgic and fond of them, and the words in their praise flow through him like water. But as his current feelings for Romano are hovering somewhere around, 'I think I might actually be starting to like you, but I'm not sure if that's just the semi-regular sex talking,' they're not exactly a fitting sentiment to share as a Christmas gift.

"I've got him some socks," he says. "You can't go wrong with socks, and they're always appreciated."

"You don't really believe that." Scotland snorts. "They're just your fallback option when you can't think of something better to get."

Maddeningly, he's right, but Wales chooses to neither confirm nor deny his supposition. They're not here to discuss his failures in imagination when it comes to present-buying, after all. "So, it doesn't have to be poems," he says, steering them back on course and away from the matter of socks, in the hopes that they will be soon forgotten and not inspire Scotland to dig any deeper into the murky depths of his relationship with Romano that their purchasing represents. "But there must be something you could make."

"Can't think of anything," Scotland says, shrugging. "You know I'm not very artistic."

"That's not true," Wales says staunchly. "I seem to remember you composed some good music in the nineteenth century."

Scotland looks at him askance. "Are you talking about that duet I wrote for the harpsichord and bagpipes? That was not good by any stretch of the imagination, Wales."

"Well, I thoroughly enjoyed playing it," Wales says. At the time, he and Scotland were far from friends, and he'd been touched and flattered that his brother had chosen to share something so personal with him.

"Aye, so did I, but we were both really, really drunk when we did. England said it sounded like a cat being put through a mangle, if you recall, and he threatened to break our fingers if we didn't stop."

Wales does have a vague, fuzzy recollection of that, and an even vaguer – and much guiltier – memory that England was actually being very generous with his assessment of the piece. It was awful.

"Okay, maybe not music," he says, "but how about whittling him something. You used to be quite skilled at that, back in the day."

"And back in the day, I gave France one of my carvings and he buggered off home and left it behind. I doubt he'd be grateful for another one."

Although Scotland's tone of voice is bland, clearly aiming for blasé, there's something wounded in the hunch of his shoulders and pouting downturn of his lips which suggests that France's actions had broken his heart at the time, and he still feels their sting even now.

Desperately, Wales wracks his brain for another recommendation, but for far too long cannot think of anything even remotely suitable. Scotland's paintings are a worse eyesore than Wales' own, he can't embroider like England does, and his past attempts at knitting were even more inept than New Zealand's.

Finally, Wales happens upon an idea which, though it might be only tenuously related to crafting is at least plausible, and he blurts it out in relief. "You could give him something that's meaningful to you. Then he'd definitely think of you every time he saw it."

"What? Like a plant? Or a rock?" Scotland scoffs. "'Here's a lump of benitoite, mo chridhe. It's… It's rare and beautiful, just like you'?"

"I think that sounds lovely," Wales says, and it did, even though Scotland had practically gagged on the words as he said them.

"You would, but, no, it doesn't. Besides, I tried that once and it didn't go down any better than the carving did."

Wales would like to think that France has developed a modicum more tact in the face of unwanted gifts during the millennium since he so cavalierly discarded the beautiful stone Scotland gave him in their youth – and even, perhaps, cultivated a greater appreciation for the natural world – it's obviously still a raw spot for Scotland too, and Wales does not press the point further.

In his silence, Scotland peers into the windows of a few more posh shops as they pass them by, but makes no move towards entering any of them, and finally shakes his head in defeat. "At this rate, I think I'm going to have to admit defeat and go with socks like you." His shoulders slump again. "We're pretty crappy boyfriends, aren't we?"

"I wouldn't say that. I think we must be doing something right," Wales says, in an effort to be encouraging. "We haven't been dumped yet."

"Speak for yourself, I'm on third time lucky here myself. Who knows what'll push him over the edge again?"

Scotland smiles weakly, obviously trying to pass off his words as nothing more than a joke, but his mood's been so unrelentingly gloomy all day that Wales can't help but think there's a kernel of truth there. Whilst it's ludicrous for Wales to even consider that France might be swayed by an ill-chosen gift after centuries of Scotland being distant and obtuse failed to put him off, his brother has clearly been ruminating on his deficiencies on that score for far too long and ascribed them a great deal of significance they likely do not deserve.

"Do you honestly think he'd break up with you just because you gave him a bad Christmas present?" he asks.

"Of course not," Scotland says without hesitation. "I just… I want to make him happy, though, you ken?"

And that, to Wales' mind, would be exceedingly easy to accomplish. "Look," he says, "if it's worrying you this much, why don't you ask him what he'd like?"

"I did." Scotland reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and produces a small, crumpled piece of paper that looks as though it has been refolded many times, which he then hands to Wales.

Even at a glance, Wales can see that it's a well-curated list, containing plenty of things that are sold at a price not even Scotland would baulk at. And there isn't a single item amongst them that could be purchased at a 'boutique'.

"What the…? You've had this the whole time?" At Scotland's nod, Wales rolls his eyes heavenwards. "Then why the fuck the fuck have we been tromping around all these awful shops?"

"I can't just buy him something off that," Scotland says, aghast. "It wouldn't be a surprise, then. It wouldn't be thoughtful."

"Yes, it would," Wales insists. "It would show you've listened to him, and taken what he told you on board. I can't think of much more thoughtful than that."

Scotland looks unconvinced. "I don't know, Wales," he says. "It seems a bit too easy."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Wales reaches out and takes firm hold of Scotland's arm, just above the wrist. He gives it an experimental tug, but Scotland's feet are planted firm and he proves impossible to budge. "Christmas shopping isn't supposed to be a punishment, and I very much doubt Ffrainc intended it as a trap. A lot of people do find it to be fun, you know."

"But—"

"But, nothing, Yr Alban." Wales tugs on Scotland's arm again, putting all of his weight behind the attempt, and Scotland eventually staggers forward a step. Taking advantage of this momentary distraction and loss of balance, Wales presses his advantage and begins dragging his brother towards the nearest tube station, with the intention of getting on the first train headed towards Tottenham Court Road. "Half of the things on this list are books."

Scotland slips out of Wales' grip easily enough, but keeps pace with him all the same, just as Wales had suspected he would. His brother always responds best to firm decisions and swift action.

Nevertheless, he still questions: "And…?"

"That means we could have been in Foyles this whole time," Wales says. "Well, better late than never, and I don't want to hear a word of complaint now unless we end up staying there for anything even approaching three hours. I think you owe me that much after this morning, don't you?"