America decided to act when the last meeting of the year came to an end and the attending nations filtered out of the meeting room in one of Paris' most alluring hotels.
"What's cooking, good lookin'?"
England stared blankly at America for a moment before scowling in a very unbecoming manner. Regardless, if the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth was anything to go by, Arthur was just playing along. America's own smile widened.
"Come on. I'm bored and I'll buy you a drink. It's the last session of the year; gotta end it right." Alfred leant back on the meeting room's table, all boyish charm and self-assured confidence. "Besides, I wanna spend some time with you. You've been pretty withdrawn lately; keeping secrets, old man?"
England barked out a laugh but his countenance turned coy for a moment as he continued to arrange his notes into neat heaps before placing them inside the portfolio he carried with him as or late.
"Do refrain yourself from uttering one more of those god awful lines and I'll consider that dink for another time." Arthur half glared, half smiled as he finished packing up and pushed his chair back to stand.
Alfred pouted, outwardly disappointed but holding on a silver of hope.
"Come on, is it really the pick up lines? Because I have better ones, just give me a second."
America cleared his throat and England snorted as they made their way to the double doors and out into the hotel lobby. As they reached the entrance, it began.
"There's the exit, will you go out with me?"
"Someone pass the tartar sauce, 'cause you're a real catch."
"Roses are red, violets are blue, how would you like it if I came home with you?"
"I don't have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?"
"Alfred, for God's sake!"
America delighted in England's restrained, half exasperated amusement.
"Just one more," he promised as they came to a stop down the end of the street. "Do you have any raisins? How about a date?"
England groaned.
"How very charismatic of you, America."
"The public loves it."
"Oh, I am sure of it " sarcasm tinged every word but England's eyes turned fonder. "But I'm afraid I must one again decline your invitation. I'm hoping to catch the eight o'clock caravan back to Folkestone."
The disclosure caught Alfred off guard. It was unusual for England to leave right after the end of a meeting, especially if it was held so close to his own homeland.
"Is it work? 'Cause dude, you gotta take a break some time." Alfred frowned, suddenly less concerned about a warm meal (and good company) and more about the slight weariness in the elders stance.
"It is partly work, yes. But I've other maters to attend to as well" he clapped America on the shoulder good-naturedly. "I'll make it up to you some other time."
The younger smiled, disappointment once again in place but deliberately masked with pleasantness. Reservations had been made, true, but a table for two was easily arranged into a single sitter.
"I'll hold you to that promise, old man. Might even drop by some time soon, demand a proper tour of your place; the whole bulk of it. Hey!" Alfred beamed "I know, how about we go to that place we met at back in March after the G8 meeting? Kelly's Basement?"
"Kelly's Cellars" England supplied.
"That's the one. A good beer there and all's forgiven. Whaddaya say?"
"I say, the first round's on me" Arthur smirked as he hailed down a cab (an act close to magic, given that the god forsaken Parisian December seemed to lack public transport in its entirety). "Well, lad, I expect the A16 to be Hell and the fare to be overpriced, so I bid you farewell."
America grinned, indulging on wrapping an arm around the former's shoulders and leading him to his taxi. He let go soon enough, if only to open the door for the Englishman.
"Sure thing. You take care to catch a wink soon."
England was half way seated, guarded smile gracing his features, when America's brain processed what had struck him as odd since earlier that day.
"Hey, Arthur, are you wearing a new cologne?" he asked.
All things taken into account, England was one of the nations who rarely went for scented products, soaps or otherwise. A couple of decades back he had taken to using a Fougère fragrance gifted to him by France, but the lavender based scent was a far fetch from the smooth mix of smoky, peaty, and amber whiff Alfred had caught just then. It was a pleasant spice, he reflected. Not something specifically England, per say, but doubtlessly complimentary to him. Nevertheless, it was foreign enough to pique the young nation's curiosity.
America's interest was magnified when England seemed to hesitate.
"Ah, that, well" a pause to regain his composure, and then a firm inquiry "Is it too noticeable?"
The look in Arthur's eyes as he spoke threw Alfred off for a moment. There wasn't a challenge, far from it, really, but rather it was as though he was reticently asking for something akin to validation.
"Nah, it suits you, I think. It's a bit strange, but it suits you." it took him a moment to answer and somehow, Alfred felt he was providing more with that simple reply than what Arthur had asked of him; something a lot more important than weather or not a cologne fit his character.
England had been in a brilliant mood all day, laughing along to his jokes, joining in even, and exchanging pleasantries with all of those who approached but the smile he gave America just then was dazzling. Alfred's breath caught in his throat.
"Thank you."
Without another word, Arthur shut the cab's door, relieving the aggravated taxi driver and leaving America behind, heart pounding painfully, for the second time in three months.
Later in the evening and back in his hotel room, America paced and pondered only to arrive to the same conclusions time and time again. He'd bestowed his dinner reservation upon Mathew, who had gladly accepted, and retired for the evening with a heavy heart.
Summed up for convenience: whilst on the lift to his room's floor, he'd come upon three simple and direct realizations. He loved England, that much was clear, and a close examination of behaviour with the added benefit of an eavesdropped conversation provided him with the conclusion that England himself was caught in the same love or infatuation. The third realization was that no matter how much he tossed and turned and paced the length of the room, he wanted to be near Arthur more than standing idly by in Paris. Along with that third realization came the urgent need to reach out to his intended as soon as humanly possible.
Luckily for Alfred F. Jones, he wasn't human and neither where his colleagues.
Picking up the phone and dialling a long ago memorized number, he waited for the dial tones to ring as he studied the digital clock on his bedside table. It was now 8:30, meaning that England was well on his way to Folkestone, perhaps only a few minutes away from arriving. From there he'd probably head up to the Folkestone Central Station and take the 9 o' clock train to London which, provided it wasn't delayed, would take him to Charing Cross via Tonbridge, arriving at its destination at 10:52. By the time he reached his home in the outskirts, it would be well past midnight.
"Alò?" after five rings, the voice at the other side of the line startled America out of his calculations.
"France! Hey man!" the young American felt himself smile in excitement. "Listen, I need a favour."
At exactly 9 o' clock, Alfred was boarding the Eurostar train headed straight from Paris to London.
Although he had intended for his two-hours-and-fifteen-minutes to go by smoothly and possibly even catch England at Chagrin Cross by surprise, sweep him off his feet and lead him home for the evening, there was only so much America and France's subordinates could control.
What had at first been a simple routine check up before departure had blown up to a full scan of the tracks for reasons Alfred couldn't be bothered to inquire about. By the time they had actually departed from Paris, the clock had ticked past ten o' clock. As luck would have it, he'd arrived to Chagrin Cross Station past one in the morning and just a few minutes late for the last departing trains, which left him stuck there until the tube services resumed at four.
Unwilling to desist once he'd made it so far, and out of sheer stubbornness and strength of will, he found himself standing on England's home's doorstep at 3:33 and not a minute later.
The cold December air chilled him to the very bones and his dampened clothes stuck to his figure in a way that was both obstructive, and scant against the bite of the English winter. The morning dew on the windows had frosted over the course of the night and not a sound could be heard from inside the house or its surroundings. That much had been expected, as not only was the property isolated but the early hour guaranteed a mantle of hushed tranquillity.
Barely a moment away from his true destination (between England's arms, Alfred had found himself day dreaming on the dreadful journey from the Station to here) America froze, and the one liner was not lost on him.
What the fuck had he been thinking? Looking back on the whole of his ordeal and his motives, the mere concept smacked him across the face as absolutely preposterous. But now, here he was; standing, half frozen in the chilled air of the early morning, fist ready to knock on the door before him, ready to wake up Arthur on a whim only to declare his feelings to a possibly irate and exhausted Englishman and causing more drama than was necessary. All of it after having spent hours travelling on (truthfully) France's kindness or perhaps exasperation after listening to Alfred rambling on and on about how imperative it was for him to reach England that moment and say what he had had a chance to say for two hundred god damned years and could say tomorrow, or in a week, perhaps even in two hundred god damned years more.
But, then again, what is life without a bit of good old Hollywood grandeur? It was much too late to turn back, anyway and if somehow his words could make England smile the way he had on that Taxi seat again, he'd cover the whole journey on his knees, if he had to.
Gathering his wits around him, Alfred nearly pounded on the door.
The silence engulfed him one more, this time more unnerving than anything else. Hoping to relief if only his anxiety, he strongly knocked one again, hinges rattling under his strength. He began to loose hope as the minutes went by and his call remained unanswered but the muffled sound of heavy footsteps headed for the door stopped him halfway from turning around and leaving to find a motel that would take him.
Suddenly the air felt too warm and his feet light enough to sprint to Calais, smile widening enough that he was sure he looked near manic. Hands shaking and blood rushing, he listened as the footsteps came to a stop in front of the door. At that point, ire or mirth, all Alfred wished for where for a pair of green eyes to peer at him from the other side of the unhindered doorframe.
As the latch was undone and the knob turned, America held his breath…
… only to release it as wrong pair of green eyes came into view along with the naked chest of a Scotsman who wore nothing more than a ratty pair of old, grey jogging bottoms and a deeply set scowl.
"Fuck ye dain, bairn? "
After which the door was promptly shut and locked again.
Introducing everyone's favourite Scottish bastard. Quick fyi, he's not wearing anything under those jogging bottoms.
Also, the cologne Arthur was wearing was Sotland's own; it probably just rubbed off on him. When America assures him that the scent fits him, he's pretty much validating the fact that the owner of the cologne fits him too, hence the gratefulness as he's been doubting himself as of late.
Fougère frangrances have lavander undertones and a woody scent, both of which are a classic favoured by men.
The smoky, peaty, aber scent I'm attributing to Scotland's eau here is based on the aroma of a 12 year old, Islay Bowmore. As an interesting fact, their slogan reads Fioghinn agus Soir Bhuanaghadh, which is Islay Gaelic for "Full and excellent quality." Bowmore twelve is recommended as an after-dinner drink with a splash of water and is one of my favoured distilleries.
Sorry for not updating any sooner, fuck finals, and have a lovely read!
Next chapter is Scot's time to shine.
-HyfrydCymru