Most of the assembled nations had decamped as soon as the afternoon's meetings were finished, fleeing into town in the hopes of finding a more salubrious establishment in which to dine for their evening meal, as the lunch they were provided had reinforced what they had all suspected on the evidence of their woeful and disappointing breakfasts: the hotel specialises in the sort of bland, uninspired food that the English are so infamous for.
France had received several invitations to join the exodus in search of culinary pastures new, but, with a heavy heart, he'd had to decline them. He's bound to be very poor company – the day's vexations had compounded the headache and snappish temper that his early rising had engendered – and he can barely scrape together enough energy to stagger downstairs to the hotel's dining room, besides.
During his two-decade-long romantic misadventure with England, he had perfected the art of chewing and swallowing unpalatable food in such a way that it made only the briefest possible contact with his taste buds, so the thought of the inevitable plate of charred meat and overcooked vegetables does not fill him with the same sort of dread as it once did. It's just one meal, after all; he can endure.
The dining room is just as dreary as the rest of the hotel, with its dark, wood-panelled walls, balding grey carpet, and insipid paintings of bleak, windswept moorland vistas, which perfectly mirror the view out of the mullioned windows they surround. It's also smaller than it ought to be, given the number of guest rooms, and seems even smaller still due to the large number of tables that have been squeezed into the space, chairs practically touching each other back to back on all sides.
If they were filled, it would be almost impossible to navigate between them, but as it is, only one is in use. Scotland is seated at the table furthest from the door, far enough away that France might have been able to slink away unseen had Scotland not happened to glance up at exactly the wrong moment and catch sight of him whilst he was still contemplating making his getaway.
Scotland waves at him energetically, and then beckons him forward. France sighs out his irritation, plasters on a fake smile, and trudges over to join him.
"If you've come looking for those notes," Scotland says, "I haven't quite finished them yet, sorry."
"No, I've come to eat," France says. He hopes that his terse reply, the pointed step he takes away from Scotland and towards the neighbouring table, would make his desire to eat alone clear enough that he does have to say it aloud. His vile mood is no excuse for rudeness.
Scotland does not take the hint. "Really?" His eyes widen in surprise. "I would have thought you'd be going into town like everyone else. They were all acting as though they'd come down with botulism if they ate here."
"I'm too tired tonight." France's yawn is not feigned, though it is, perhaps, a trifle exaggerated. "I'll sample the delights of Ambleside tomorrow."
"Do you want to sit with me?" Scotland asks. "I've only just ordered my food."
Thankfully, there is a book propped up against the condiment bottles on Scotland's table, held open by his water glass, which offers a graceful alternative to saying 'no'.
"I wouldn't want to disturb your reading," France says.
"No problem; I've just" – Scotland's eyes quickly skim down the page in front of him – "finished."
"Oh," France says, disappointed, but still some deeply engrained and self-defeating spark of politeness compels him to ask, "Was it good?"
"Well, I thought so," Scotland says. "And your people did, too, apparently. Back when it was first published, it won the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière." His accent has deteriorated since the days they used to converse in France's language regularly, his burr rounding out the edge of every constant that should be sharp, and weighing down every vowel that should be long and lilting. "It probably wouldn't be your cup of tea, though."
He closes the book, and tilts it so France can see the front cover, upon which a picture of a solitary gnarled tree is printed, its twisted silhouette stark against a midnight blue-tinted sky. It's not a especially illuminating choice, but does suggest that the book's contents will be suitably dour and morbid.
"Why would it not be 'my cup of tea'?" France asks. "What do you think I like to read?"
"Oh, I don't know," Scotland says, breezy and off-hand, though the description that follows indicates that he has given the matter a great deal more thought than France would have expected. "Books where the main character introspects about their existential angst for several hundred pages of deathless prose, and then the whole thing just ends and nothing's resolved."
At first, France isn't sure whether he should be insulted or amused, but the smile that settles on Scotland's lips is light and teasing. France laughs. "Well, I can't deny that I like such things, but I have been known to enjoy detective fiction on occasion."
"You can borrow this, then, if you like." Scotland holds the book out towards France. "It's the tenth in the series, but Rankin always recaps everything important that's happened in the earlier books, and the protagonist – Inspector Rebus – is pretty much as you'd expect from the genre."
"A divorced, bad-tempered alcoholic?" France guesses.
"Separated, but otherwise spot on."
France has brought just one novel along with him to the conference, and he's finding reading it somewhat of a trial because the protagonist's narrative voice is grating, and it's difficult to summon up any sympathy for his existential angst as a consequence. A little light murder would be a welcome substitute.
"Thank you," he says, accepting the offered book, and then it only feels natural to sit down beside Scotland.
Scotland smiles again, and hands him a menu, whose contents are also pretty much as France would expect, given the setting. The 'traditional meat and two veg', as England would call it – whilst assuring him it was 'good solid fare' that he shouldn't 'wrinkle his nose' at – with a variety of pies scattered in and amongst.
"I know it isn't very exciting," Scotland says in response to France's frown, "but it should be edible. The food here has improved since the fifties, you know."
It's hardly a ringing endorsement, and France's expectations sink yet lower when the morose, ageing waiter shuffles out of the kitchen, bearing Scotland's food. As soon as he sees it, France hurriedly changes his mind about the choice he was going to make, and instead orders the salmon.
Transfixed in horror, he watches Scotland pick up his cutlery, giving every indication that he is actually going to sample some of the horrid, grey, shrivelled lump of meat. When he spears a morsel of it on his fork, France cannot in good conscience stay silent any longer.
"Écosse, no!" he cries out. "You can't possibly eat that!"
Scotland looks at him askance. "Why not?"
"Because it's not even well-done, it's… it's shoe leather!"
"Which is exactly how I asked for it to be cooked," Scotland says, and, much to France's dismay, he pops the piece of so-called meat into his mouth, then chews it with evident relish. "It is lacking something, though."
"Yes, a bin. It shouldn't—"
"Naw, I was thinking it needs a wee bit of sauce."
The darting glance of Scotland's eyes gives his dreadful intentions away, but he moves just a fraction too quickly for France to counter, and grabs the ketchup before France is able to whisk it away from him, his fingers wrapping so tightly around the bottle that they will not easily be dislodged.
France changes tack and grasps hold of Scotland's wrist. "Écosse, no," he reiterates firmly. "That poor steak has suffered enough already."
"I can eat my food however I damn well like, An Fhraing," Scotland says. "I thought we'd hashed that one out in the sixteenth century."
France pulls back on Scotland's arm, hard, and putting all of his weight behind it, but Scotland has always been the stronger of the two of them – almost preternaturally so – and slowly but inexorably he begins to lift the bottle from the table.
"Well, I was lying back then," France says.
"Oh? And why would you do that?"
Because we'd already started drifting apart, and I didn't want to risk pushing you further away, even slightly.
"Because I was young and foolish," France says with breezy nonchalance. "There is a right way and a wrong way to eat food, and that" – he glowers at the ketchup – "is most definitely the wrong way."
Scotland nods with what appears to be placid acceptance, but it's merely a diversion, an attempt to distract France whilst Scotland snakes his other arm around his periphery, heading towards the bottle's lid. France manages to catch him this time, folding his hand around Scotland's, and pressing down on his fingers until Scotland's forced to curl them protectively in towards his palm.
"You're not going to win," Scotland says. "When have you ever been able to best me in unarmed combat?"
His tone of voice is just as bland as his expression, but there's something like a challenge in the slight upward quirk of his bushy eyebrows, and suppressed laughter sparkling bright in the depths of his eyes.
France's own laughter is swelling warm in his chest, rising to the back of his throat, but he doesn't want to give Scotland the satisfaction of letting it escape. Cuisine is, after all, a serious business. "Ah, but I've learnt a lot since we last—"
"Am I interrupting something?" a cold, familiar voice cuts in.
It's England, glaring at them across the expanse of the table, his eyes narrowed in a suspicious squint.
Scotland's hands both slacken in an instant, and he offers no further resistance when France takes the ketchup bottle from him and stows it safely beyond arm's reach.
"Naw," Scotland says, "France just took exception to how I wanted to season my dinner."
"Typical," England mutters under his breath. He leans closer to Scotland and peers down at his plate. "Well, that looks good to me. I think I'll order it, too."
Which he does, when the waiter returns with France's salmon – though, irritatingly, he displays marginally better taste than his brother, and asks for it to be cooked medium rare – and then he hurls himself down into the chair opposite France's. His glare intensifies, and France toys, once again, with the idea of relocating to a different table. Ultimately, he decides to stay put, stubbornly refusing to let England chase him away, even though all three of them would likely be happier if he did so.
The salmon proves to be surprisingly flavourful, and France is sufficiently absorbed by his own enjoyment of the dish that he can tune England out for the most part as he blathers on and on about some small mistake on the part of the hotel staff that has forced him to make yet another change to the next day's meeting schedule. Scotland adds nothing to this one-sided conversation other than the odd, monosyllabic grunt, but then he did always tend to turn sullen and taciturn the moment England joined their company. France had detested that particular habit of his in their youth, and finds he doesn't much care for it now, either.
He doesn't linger over his food for as long as he usually might, and when the waiter offers to fetch him the dessert menu, he declines in his eagerness to leave behind the inimically frosty atmosphere England had brought along with him to the table, even though the success of the main course had left him curious to sample more.
England doesn't even do him the courtesy of looking at him as he makes his goodbyes, but Scotland catches light hold of his sleeve when he stands up from his chair, stilling him before he can walk away from the table.
"Are you still up for that drink tonight?" he asks. "We're planning to meet up in the bar around eight."
France's first instinct is to say no, but the way England's expression sours at the question, curdling like spoilt milk, gives him pause. He clearly wants France to decline the invitation, and though the prospect of an early night is tempting, the opportunity to thwart England's desires is even more so.
"Of course," France says, with a soft, languid smile he directs solely at Scotland. "I'm looking forward to it."