4th January, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland

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The Princes Street Gardens looked beautiful, the myriad lights from the stalls and fairground rides mellowing the early darkness and glinting off the fine layer of snow that had settled across Edinburgh earlier that day. The air smelt like Christmas still, rich with the mingled scents of mince pies heating and hot toddy spices. Scotland's mood was buoyed along with his people's as they milled around him, enjoying the experience of the festival and the freedom of the four day weekend.

All in all, Scotland would call the evening perfect, if not for one small thing.

"Please, mon coeur," France said, his fingers tightening slightly around the top of Scotland's arm.

The gesture was clearly designed to encourage Scotland to look at him, but as Scotland could clearly hear the pout in France's voice, he ignored the hint.

"No," he said, because he could do that nowadays, providing he couldn't actually see France's pleading expression. It was only a baby step, admittedly, but one taken in the right direction, at least. "I really don't want to."

France's next sigh sounded genuinely disappointed, but thankfully had still not yet reached the characteristic timbre that Scotland knew suggested frustration. "You used to enjoy skating."

"No, I didn't." Scotland could skate, but it was a skill born of necessity and not any desire to spend any more time navigating ice than he absolutely had to. Ice was, to his mind, simply a hazard he had been forced to learn how to negotiate because of his country's climate; something treacherous to be avoided where possible, not subject himself to deliberately. Curling was another matter entirely, of course, but, then again, that didn't necessitate skates. "Besides, you were complaining not five minutes ago that you're too cold."

Although France could be persuaded to wear any number of 'hideous' jumpers whenever he made the same complaint in Scotland's house, he stubbornly refused to do the same outside it, even beneath his expensive but insubstantial coat. He had acquiesced to borrowing a pair of gloves after Scotland made the horrified discovery that France's own were roughly the same thickness as paper, but that was as far as he was willing to bend.

They did look faintly ridiculous, Scotland had to admit - swamping France's far finer hands, the fingertips hanging limply - but in the same strangely charming way that all of Scotland's clothes looked on him.

France dismissed that objection with a snort, presumably because he had no other answer to it.

"I don't skate very well myself, anyway, you know." France's voice took on a strange, thoughtful quality. "No doubt you'd have to be helping me to my feet constantly, dusting me down..."

It was a transparent attempt to hit Scotland in one of his weakest spots, and a lacklustre one at that, compared to France's usual efforts. However, almost six months of enforced celibacy had rendered Scotland's libido hair-trigger, and his current (misguided?, it certainly felt so at times) abstinence made him vulnerable to any excuse to touch France, and never mind that he knew he could have France in his bed with a word - with a look - now.

He had made himself a promise, and he wouldn't let himself compromise it, but he was not made out of stone. "You'd better fall down a lot," he grumbled, turning towards the ice rink.
-

-
France didn't fall.

He skated almost as elegantly as he danced, as Scotland suspected he would, although he did wish that France could have pretended at least a little instability that might require the aid of a steadying hand.

Scotland, on the other hand, skated exactly as elegantly as he danced. According to England, he moved with all the grace of 'an elephant trying to walk on its tiptoes' whenever he reluctantly took to a dancefloor sober, and although Scotland would never give his brother the satisfaction of agreeing to his face, privately he thought the comparison an apt one.

It didn't help that his toes were curling in towards the soles of his feet, cramped inside skates that were two sizes too small. All he'd got when he'd asked for his actual size was an incredulous look from the attendant, and a whispered comment from someone further back in the queue, speculating on the size of his cock. Thankfully, France had been out of earshot at the time, because he probably would have been quite happy to enlighten them.

So Scotland stuck to the edge of the rink – not so much because he was worried about losing his balance, but to keep from holding everyone else up – whilst France glided across the centre, doing all sorts of fancy spins and swerves that Scotland was sure had equally fancy names, even though he had no idea what they were.
-

-
By the time Scotland finished his tenth trudging circuit, France had drawn a small crowd of admirers.

He'd come to a rest at the castle end of the rink, leant up against the siding, and they'd clustered around him, making him the centre of their attention. Predictably, he was lapping it up, face animated and hand gestures needlessly extravagant as he told them some tale or other that made them all laugh like drains.

They were, Scotland noted as he slowly approached them, the usual sort of people France attracted. Young, fashionable, and far, far too flirty for Scotland's comfort. The blond lad with the sprayed-on trousers in particular couldn't seem to say a single bloody word without first touching France's arm. Scotland would quite cheerfully hate him if he wasn't one of his own people, but as he was, Scotland had to settle for imagining punching him in the face.

This fantasy was evidently clear in his expression, because the entire group fell back when Scotland reached them, the blond lad leaping away from France so swiftly, it looked as though he'd just received an electric shock. He landed awkwardly afterwards, arms pinwheeling as he struggled to stay upright, but although he wobbled for a while he failed to land on his arse, much to Scotland's disappointment.

France frowned slightly, obviously puzzled by their behaviour, until he turned his head and saw Scotland standing close to his side. The frown melted away, but it wasn't quite a smile that replaced it; the modest tilt of his mouth ambiguous enough that Scotland couldn't be sure whether France was pleased to see him or not.

"Ah, there you are, Alasdair," France said, and the tone of his voice failed to enlighten Scotland in any way as to his feelings; completely opaque. "We've been invited to a bar."

Judging by the concerned looks France's new friends were shooting each other, they were rethinking the wisdom of that invitation.

For that alone, Scotland was determined to accept, but still: "I thought you wanted to skate?"

"I did, and now I have, I would like to go for a drink." The cant of his lips increased, tipping them closer to grinning. "I'm sure you'd prefer that, too."

France's capriciousness did not trouble Scotland, he was long used to it, and he had no objections whatsoever to getting out of his uncomfortable skates and onto a bar stool.

He did, however, have objections to the company, also being long used to France blithely allowing his time and attention to be monopolised by anyone and everyone who wasn't Scotland in social situations. And later, taking them to his bed in Scotland's place, as well.

It was an unfair conjecture – France had made no indication he was struggling to maintain their new arrangement – but a little more than a month weighed almost nothing in comparison to centuries piled upon agonising bloody centuries. Although it made his stomach churn, he couldn't help but wonder, and his gaze slipped reluctantly away from France's upturned face.

The blond lad wasn't bad looking, but nothing special. The lass standing beside him, however, was stunning: slim and petite, dark haired and dark eyed, just like France preferred, and perhaps –

"Scotland," France's voice was quiet, and as soft as his expression, "it will be nothing more than a drink."

Scotland flushed, unlike earlier, ashamed that the direction his thoughts had taken was so easily determined. "France –"

France shook his head, and then leant up to press a kiss to Scotland's cheek. His mouth lingered close to Scotland's ear, and he whispered, "I will be going home with you, and you alone."

Which would have had Scotland moving across the ice faster than he ever had before if 'home' didn't mean the spare room for France, because, apparently, Scotland didn't have the good sense god gave a squirrel.

He sighed, and took France's hand when it was offered. "I suppose I could do with a pint or two."

Or ten. Shooting himself in the foot would probably be a lot less painful if he were pissed.