The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.
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Early 1930s; Buckinghamshire, England
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Ostensibly, the party had been arranged to celebrate Northern Ireland's addition to their family circle, even though it's both a little bit late in the day for that, and the supposed guest of honour isn't even in attendance.
Scotland thinks it more likely that England had been looking for an excuse to open up his Buckinghamshire estate and play lord of the manor for a spell, and their little brother was simply the most convenient one he had to hand.
The old house had been shuttered for over a decade, the staff dismissed, and the gardens abandoned to return to nature, because the cost of maintaining it had grown too steep for their bosses to justify, what with the country's coffers still depleted from the Great War and England with a perfectly good house in London, besides. They've been none too subtly urging England to get rid of it for years now, but he's let those hints go sailing right on over his head unheeded, wanting – Scotland suspects – to keep hold of this little patch of former glory for as long as he possibly can. They'll sell it out from under him eventually, no doubt, but for the moment at least, he's still clinging on.
To be honest, Scotland doesn't know why England bothers, because the place is going to rack and ruin: plaster crumbling, wallpaper peeling, and parquet floor cracking. For the past fortnight, Scotland, England and Wales spent sunup to sundown scrubbing, sweeping, and strategically rearranging the dusty furniture to hide the worst of the damage, and still only managed to bring about half of the ground floor into some semblance of order.
They've locked up the rest of the house, and all that remains is to hope that none of their guests demands a full tour of the place and no more than one of them at a time needs to use a bathroom.
To his mouldering pile, England invited a few local dignitaries, a couple of government bigwigs he's trying to impress, and those nations of their acquaintance who are close enough, geographically and personally, that they can usually be relied upon to attend England's particular brand of social nonsense – Portugal; Jersey, Guernsey and Mannin; and – a somewhat baffling addition in recent years – France.
Even more bafflingly, France had accepted the invitation, though he does look as though he's come to regret that decision over the course of the evening. At dinner, he'd been uncharacteristically quiet, forgoing his normal bickering with England, flirtations with the humans assembled at the table and, most worrying of all, complaints about the food.
After the meal, when the rest of the party adjourned to the drawing room for port and cigars, France disappeared. Scotland fretted over his whereabouts for as long as he could bear – not quite half an hour, according to England, who berated him for his bad manners when he caught him trying to sidle out of the room unseen – before making his excuses and setting out to look for him.
The electricity's been a little temperamental, so most of the ground floor is illuminated solely by candles, passed off by England as providing 'atmosphere' and adding to the 'ambience' of the place – which is 'near-derelict shithole', in Scotland's opinion – but beyond the dining and drawing rooms, there is one other room which is properly lit. The music room, which Scotland had thought to have been deemed out of bounds by England, who'd ruefully had to discard the notion of entertaining his guests with song when he discovered that the strings in the grand piano had corroded beyond hope of tuning.
Past the listing piano, dilapidated sofas, and Wales' woodworm-ridden fourth-best harp, the French doors are flung open wide, spilling pale, sputtering light onto the stone terrace beyond. France is leaning against the balustrade there, his back to the house.
He's stripped down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, dinner jacket draped over the top of the balustrade next to him, which the night is surely too cold for. He looks too thin still, without the jacket adding artificial bulk to his shoulders and narrow waist – not an ounce of excess padding to help keep him warm.
Scotland moves towards him on instinct, and France glances back at him as he draws near, the keen angles of his profile limning razor-sharp. His hair is longer than he's worn it for centuries, loosely curled at the ends despite his best efforts, and it sweeps across his shoulder blades as he turns his head.
"What are you doing out here?" Scotland asks.
"Just enjoying the night air," France says, inhaling deeply.
Scotland mirrors him, but all he gets is a lungful of petrichor and decay, neither of them scents that he can imagine France finding particularly enjoyable.
France looks at him expectantly, presumably waiting for Scotland to continue weaving this thin thread of interaction into something resembling a conversation, but Scotland has no idea what to say next.
What do you think of the party? Doesn't need to be asked, as his absence from it seems to make the answer self-evident.
Did you like dinner? Even more so.
Why did you even come here tonight? Scotland isn't sure he wants to know.
Instead, he leans up against the balustrade next to France, close enough to heat the air between them but not quite close enough to touch. France looks out across the darkened garden again and lights a cigarette.
Scotland watches him out of the corner of his eye: the gentle purse of his lips as he inhales, the hollowing of his pale cheeks, and the graceful flick of his elegant fingers as he taps away the ash. He wants him so much that his eyes sting and his stomach clenches so hard that it sickens him. He wants to pull him close, taste the smoke on his lips, but that isn't them. They don't kiss just for the joy of it, only as a prelude to something more, and there's too great a risk of someone walking in on them tonight, what with all the bedrooms and other private spaces off limits.
When he's smoked half, France passes the cigarette to Scotland to finish. Their hands brush together, and the end of the cigarette is slightly damp from France's lips. It's not much, but better than nothing.
Music wafts out of the French doors – crackling notes from the gramophone. France's bruised, paper-thin eyelids drift shut, and he taps his feet, left then right, heel then toe.
"I love this piece," he says, as if to himself, and then louder: "Would you care to dance?"
Scotland inhales so sharply that the resultant flood of smoke burns his throat and triggers a coughing fit. He drops the still smouldering butt of the cigarette to the ground, grinds it beneath his shoe, and gasps out, "What? You and me?"
"Of course," France says sharply. "Who else would I be asking?"
The last time they danced together, they'd been wearing doublet and hose, and Scotland had got so many of the steps wrong, bumped into France so many times, that France had sworn afterwards that he'd never stand up with him again.
There's no chance in hell Scotland's going to remind him of that long-ago promise, though. He holds out his hand, for a wonder France accepts it, and he leads him back into the music room, where Jersey and Guernsey are seated on one of the sofas, their heads bent close together.
When they pass her by, Jersey raises her eyebrows at him in what Scotland knows to be a rebuke. He can only shrug helplessly in response. He has listened to all her advice, and he does know what's good for him and what, most decidedly, isn't, but that doesn't mean he has the common sense to act on any of it. It all flies out the window the second France looks at him or, to be frank, so much as breathes in his vicinity.
They come to a halt in the centre of the room, and France adjusts his hold on Scotland's hand, weaving their fingers together. The other hand he rests light at Scotland's waist, just above his hip. And then he steps even closer, drops his head to Scotland's shoulder. His breath tickles the side of Scotland's neck and he must be swallowing up all the air, because Scotland can't seem to catch his own. His chest feels as though it's banded about with iron, tight and growing tighter.
"You're shaking," France murmurs. "Are you that nervous about dancing? Don't be; there's only Jersey and Guernsey here, and I'm sure they won't make fun of you."
Scotland is just as certain that they will, though they'll at least be kind enough to refrain from teasing him until he's on his own and France isn't around to hear any of it. No, what he's nervous about are his hands, because his palms are already sweating which he's sure can't be pleasant. He's nervous about stepping on France's toes, which is nigh on inevitable, and inadvertently hurting him.
He's nervous about fucking it up, which is a constant fear where France is concerned.
But France, unexpectedly, makes it easy for him. He doesn't have to worry about who should lead, whether he can remember the right movements never mind replicate them with his two left feet, because – maybe because he's too tired or too drunk for anything more complex – all France seems to want to do is sway in time with the music.
Gradually, Scotland allows himself to relax, to rest his cheek against the crown of France's head and simply enjoy holding him, which is a pleasure he only gets to indulge once every second century or so.
But when the record ends and the music dissolves into static, France can't get away from him fast enough. He jumps back practically halfway across the room, the line of his mouth pulling tense and unhappy. His eyes are fever-bright, but the rest of his face is pale and bloodless.
"I think I need another drink," he announces to Scotland's shoes.
"Right, I can fix one for—"
"Alone, Scotland," France says, shaking his head vigorously. "I need… I'd just like to be alone for a while, if you don't mind."
He doesn't stick around long enough to find out whether Scotland does or he doesn't, because with that, he's gone, near sprinting out of the room and into the shadowy corridor beyond.
A beat of silence follows, and then Jersey asks, "What was all that about?"
And Scotland has no answer to give her beyond another shrug. He just knows that, despite his best efforts at caution, at pleasing France, somehow he's gone and fucked something up yet again.