Sequel to Transitions ( s/10745576/1/Transitions); Scotland/France; Scotland POV.
-
-
3rd April, 2009; London, England
-
As soon as they arrive at England's house, France marches upstairs with an uncharacteristically heavy and robotic tread – a martial tread: one, two, three, four; hup, two, three, four – ignoring both Scotland's request to take his jacket, and England's grudging offer to make him a cup of coffee.
"What's wrong with him?" England asks, narrow-eyed and suspicious. "Apart from the obvious, I mean."
Scotland shrugs, professes not to know, but privately suspects that France might be regretting the decision he made tonight. The choice to spurn the novelty of whatever eager new lover had been awaiting his return back at the hotel and come here, with him, and the same old routine that they've carved out of the last hundred years.
England accepts him at his word and doesn't press further, and between the two of them they haul the now near-comatose Wales to his bed. He rouses into obstreperous life as soon as his back hits the mattress, though, and fights them every step of the way when they attempt to divest him of his damp coat and shoes.
They have to practically wrestle them off him in the end, and by the time Scotland returns to his own room, he's sweaty, winded, and so bone-deep weary that he actually hopes that France will have grown tired of waiting for him and settled down to sleep already.
Unfortunately, France is not only awake, but still fully clothed; standing by the foot of the bed and staring with a strangely avid intensity at the painting on the opposite wall. He's never spared it so much as a glance before, and Scotland can't imagine what he's finding so fascinating about it now.
It's a washed-out watercolour of a Highland cow that England had hung there after Scotland moved out, taking his own, far superior artwork along with him, but it's not even intriguingly ugly like the rest of England's agricultural collection. The cow is correctly proportioned, the backdrop a bland suggestion of gorse and grass, lacking even a single detail that might attract attention or catch the eye.
But France is so transfixed that he doesn't look away from it until Scotland reaches out and tentatively touches his arm. He turns towards Scotland, then, but the keen light his eyes had held vanishes in an instant, snuffed out like a candle.
"Sorry." Scotland hurriedly drops his hand, cursing himself for the imposition. He probably should have just left France well alone. "I didn't realise you were so interested in cattle."
He smiles in what he hopes is an encouraging fashion. France begins to unbutton his shirt with measured, mechanical twists of his fingers.
One of those nights, then, and they aren't even going to make a token effort at conversation beforehand. It's nowhere close to how Scotland would prefer to spend their limited time together, but at least he knows now what will be allowed. What role is expected of him.
And on nights like this, his role is that of an observer. He can admire at a distance, but if he were to touch France again, attempt to help him undress, he'd receive only spitting irritation for his troubles.
So, he steps back, and he does admire as France's body is revealed by slow degree as he dispenses with shirt and then trousers, but only in a hazy, indistinct way that barely registers in his conscious mind. Because France's skin is sickly pale, the scars that criss-cross his back standing out as clearly as if they were fresh again, and Scotland wants to follow them with his fingertips; travel them with his mouth and tongue, up and over the nape of his neck to discover whether there's still a trace there of a much older, more grievous wound.
All these years later, and he still doesn't know. France discourages such explorations; complains whenever Scotland lingers. Whenever they make— Whenever they fuck, France urges him to go harder, faster, until it's almost brutal, what he asks of him. Scotland has never much enjoyed it that way, but he'll still wank over the memory for however many weeks or months elapse until he has chance to form a new one.
He'll take what he can – what he's given – and be glad of it, because what they've had since the Great War is a tenuous thing, precariously balanced, and Scotland's uneasily aware that the slightest misstep on his part will cause everything to come crashing down on their heads again. France won't come back for a third time, Scotland's sure of that. If he hadn't been so desperate in the trenches, he likely never would have returned at all.
France neatly folds his clothes, lays them atop the chest of drawers, then runs his thumbs back and forth beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, considering his next move. Ultimately, he decides against removing them before he clambers into bed and pulls the duvet tight around himself.
He just wants to sleep, then, which is somewhat of a relief. The beer Scotland had drunk earlier that evening is already curdling in his stomach, and his body feels heavier by the moment. He doesn't think he has much hard or fast left in him. He'd only disappoint.
Scotland turns off the lights and undresses quickly, kicking his clothes into a messy pile that he'll sort through in the morning, then joins France in the bed. Although he tries his best not to, he accidentally nudges France in the back of the thigh with his knee as he tries to refind the most comfortable spot on the ancient, lumpy mattress.
France shuffles away from Scotland and turns on his side; possibly giving him some more space in which to settle himself, but more likely just getting out of firing range.
It still won't be far enough, and at some point during the night he'll doubtless be forced to relocate to the guest bedroom. Scotland can't blame him for that, and, really, it's a kindness, compared to how things used to be when they were younger, and France used to order him out of their bed before Scotland had even had chance to catch his breath.
England will notice their change in arrangements, of course, and make a caustic remark about it the next day over breakfast – a gloating, "Trouble in paradise," being the time-honoured favourite – to which France will make a sly insinuation about England's apparent obsession with his sleeping habits. And then they'll argue the toss and try to shout each other down, typically straight through till lunch. It's always the same. Everything's always the sa—
Scotland pummels his one thin, ageing pillow into some poor semblance of firmness, then lies back down, closes his eyes, and waits. And waits. And waits, his muscles growing ever more tense and his jaw clenching hard, for so many beats of his heart that he loses count.
France isn't going to say a word to him, seemingly; not even to bid him goodnight. He always says goodnight nowadays, though the accompanying peck on the cheek is a sporadic addition.
He must be even unhappier than he'd appeared on the surface, and his surface had been unremittingly dour since the moment he'd chosen to take that cab home with Scotland.
Scotland digs deep, draws on every ounce of determination and self-abnegation he possesses, and says. "You can still go back to the hotel if you like. I won't mind."
The bedframe creaks and the mattress springs protest as France shifts his weight, and for a moment Scotland thinks he's getting up, that he really is going to leave, but then he sighs out a long breath, and says, "Goodnight, Scotland."
The words are curtly spoken, and he doesn't follow them with a kiss, but they're still the best answer Scotland could feasibly hope to receive. He'll get to fall asleep to the sound of France's breathing, awake to the faint traces of his heat still warming the other side of the bed, and that will be enough for him.
It has to be enough.