With a bit of fancy footwork and some truly contortionate twists of his body as he sidesteps around other diners, England contrives to keep himself positioned between America in front of him and France and Scotland behind whilst they all weave their way through the restaurant.
When they draw into sight of their table, he makes a sudden dash forwards so that he arrives of it just ahead of America, and pulls out one of the chairs there with a courteous little bow of his head.
Scotland smirks at his brother's stuffily old-fashioned politesse, and then glances back towards France, expecting to share the joke with him. France appears to be more charmed than amused, however, and upon seeing that expression softening his face, Scotland's hands twitch towards one of the other chairs purely on reflex.
France chuckles, shaking his head. "Don't worry," he says. "I think I can manage to seat myself without your assistance."
That said, he squeezes past Scotland to reach the chair set opposite America, instead of the one closest to him. It seems to be an eminently sensible decision for all their sakes', seeing as though it puts him at the furthest distance possible from England, but England looks to take exception to the arrangement. He paces agitatedly back and forth behind America; scowling, and huffing, and shooting France poisonous glares whenever he happens into his line of sight.
As Scotland can think of no arrangement that could possibly suit England better - save, perhaps, that he and France leave right now and take themselves straight back to France's apartment again - he very quickly loses patience with his brother's temper tantrum.
"Sit the fuck down, Wart," he hisses, grabbing hold of England's sleeve. "I don't much fancy having to look at your ugly mug all evening either, but I'm sure we can both grin and bear it for a couple of hours, right?"
He tries tugging England towards the chair next to America's, but England sets his feet stubbornly firm and refuses to be moved. Normally, Scotland would have no compunctions about picking England up, slinging him over his shoulder, and physically relocating him, but such behaviour - though perfectly acceptable in the less salubrious type of establishment he and his brother tend to frequent together - hardly befits the quiet and refined ambience of the restaurant. People are already staring.
Thankfully, the waiter's arrival breaks their impasse, and his politely subdued expression of mild horror shames England into shifting his arse and then plonking it down exactly where Scotland had wanted it to end up in the first place.
"That was very restrained of you," France whispers when Scotland sits beside him. "I'm impressed."
"Aye?" Scotland whispers back. "I can't imagine that lasting. Way he's carrying on right now, I'd be surprised if we don't wind up breaking each other's nose at some point tonight."
"Well, do try and make it through the dessert course if you can, mon coeur. You know how much I enjoy the crème brûlée here."
Scotland has no intention on missing out on the cognac that is their usual digestif, either, but he's interrupted before he can tell France that by the waiter handing them menus and wine lists.
England and America open theirs and begin poring over them immediately, but France sets his wine list aside unread and rattles a name off to the waiter from memory.
No-one makes any objections to his choice whilst the waiter is in earshot, but as soon as he bustles off to fetch them their bottle of Chateau-de-whatever, England leans across the table, his face flushing so deep a crimson that it almost looks purple.
"That was fucking presumptuous of you, Frog," he hisses.
France eyes widen; clearly puzzled. "But I always order wine for the table."
"You might well do when you're just dining out with him." England jerks his head towards Scotland. "He probably couldn't tell the difference between merlot and methylated spirits, but the rest of us are perfectly capable of choosing what we'd like to drink ourselves, thank you very much."
He emphasises each of these last four words by jabbing his finger against the table top, emphatically enough that the vibrations from the impact threaten to upset France's wine glass.
France steadies it before it can overturn with one hand, with the other, he grabs the knife set out on his bread plate. His eyes narrow speculatively.
More than likely, he is considering whether to brandish it at England or not, and Scotland can scarcely fault him for that. He's wielded countless pieces of cutlery himself during countless mealtimes spent with his brother over the years, and if France decides that's the best course of action to take, then Scotland will be poised and ready to jump in a hold a fork to England's jugular, if needs be. Between the two of them, they'd doubtless be able to make England back down easily enough, just so long as America didn't decide to stick his oar in, too.
America seems oblivious to the outburst of sabre-rattling, however; still completely absorbed in his menu, or at least pretending to be. Scotland can't fault him, either. England's completely ruthless in fights, and the risk of friendly fire is always high.
But though France glares, and scowls, and his nostrils flare like an angry bull's, he does eventually drop the knife, plastering a strained smile on his face as he subsides back into his chair.
Scotland immediately resolves to order the crème brûlée. He's never been tempted by it before, but it must be magnificent if the mere promise of it is capable of staying France's hand. He, much like Scotland, is usually powerless against the urge to escalate disagreements with England when he gets red-faced and self-righteous.
"As you wish, Arthur," France says, and though his tone is light, and he sounds amenable enough to the untrained ear, he does pronounce the name closer to the French Ar-TUYR; something that never fails to raise England's hackles and a sure sign he is still annoyed. "Order whatever you like."
"How gracious of you," England says, sneering. "I hope we'll be extended the same courtesy with our food, as well."
"Of course." France's smile grows even more brittle. "Though" – he glances towards America, who is still doggedly frowning over his menu – "if you need any help with making a selection, I'd be happy to—"
"We'll manage," England snaps. "I can still read your language perfectly well on my own."
With that, he twists in his seat, deliberately turning his back on France.
France stares at him, unblinking, for a moment, and then heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Poor Angleterre," he says in an undertone to Scotland, shaking his head with mock sadness. "Those trousers must be excruciating. Someone should get him out of them, post haste."
Scotland laughs. "Are you volunteering?"
"Not this time, mon cœur. You know I wouldn't normally be averse to the idea, but I think my own vital regions may be at risk if I suggest anything of the sort now."
"And I'd rather eat my own foot than go anywhere near England's trousers whilst he's still wearing them, so that leaves America."
"Who would probably jump at the chance." France grins. "If Angleterre's mood hasn't improved by the time he's finished his entrée, I might just advise him to do so."