Archive of Our Own

25th April, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland


"What the hell?"

"It seems to be the most elegant solution to our…" France waves one hand around, index and middle fingers pressing down tight against his thumb, as though the words he is searching for are hovering somewhere around his head and he's trying to catch hold of them. "Particular situation," he finishes, refolding his hands together and then resting them against his knee.

"Elegant, France? Bloody ridiculous is what it is."

Scotland laughs, because, God, he hopes it's meant to be a joke. France doesn't join in, and his lips thin in a way Scotland knows is the opposite of amused. France is completely serious; a realisation that makes Scotland's breath catch at the back of his throat, choking off his laughter into a series of harsh, gasping coughs. He has known for a long time that France's views on their 'particular situation' are wildly divergent from his own, but sometimes it does still manage to surprise him just how far apart the two are.

France's nostrils flare slightly, eyes sharpening as his fine brows swoop down, inscribing thin lines between them. He's never liked to be laughed at, not like this, and Scotland feels slightly ashamed. Not aggrieved or angry, as he thinks he should be – because, really, did France actually think he'd be happy about the idea? – and probably would be, if it was anyone other than France. The feeling is there, but it's diffuse and distant, and, like a reflection on water, it just slips through his fingers as he tries to grab hold of it and drag it to the surface.

Silence follows, thick and heavy, and eventually Scotland throws out the first words to pass through his head, just to lift it. "Okay," he says, "I think I need a drink. Do you want anything?"

France's mouth turns up at the corners fractionally. "What have you got?"

Scotland makes a quick mental inventory of his kitchen. There are four bottles of wine in his fridge – five quid for two at the offy round the corner; France would probably rather try and eat the bottles themselves before he drank anything that came out of them – a pint of milk, a six pack of Stella, and some flat Irn Bru which he hasn't got around to throwing out yet. He thinks he might have some coffee somewhere, but as he doesn't usually drink it himself, and most of his visitors don't either, it's probably clumped together and stuck to the bottom of the jar by now. Not that France likes instant coffee, anyway.

"Tea?" he suggests. He's fairly sure there are still a few bags of the fancy stuff France prefers left over from the last time he visited, lurking behind the PG Tips. Scotland never touches it himself, because although it smells fragrant and a little spicy, it tastes like pencil shavings steeped in ditchwater.

France nods once, his smile widening. "Please."

Scotland removes himself to the kitchen, and starts making tea on autopilot, hands moving through the ritual of years without needing any input from his brain. Which is a blessing, as it gives him time to think away from France's distracting presence. He sits on the worktop as he waits for the kettle to boil, drumming his heels against the cupboard below, and quickly runs through the options available to him.

If he refuses France's suggestion, there's a very real possibility that he won't see him again for quite some time. Usually, France's flings last no more than a few weeks, but, every so often they will continue for months, or even years, and during that time, he gets so wrapped up in them, so focused and single-minded, that he has no time for Scotland at all.

If he accepts, then he will doubtless be able to continue seeing France – not as often as he'd like, but it's been a long, long time since that was anything other than the case – but… But, he doesn't really know Netherlands very well any more. He used to, back in the days when he actually took more of a part in world affairs, back before he and Wales made the decision to step back and let England handle everything in their stead until such time as they had regained their independence, but he doesn't think they've spoken on more than a handful of occasions since the Second World War. It's certainly not enough to make him jump at the chance of sleeping with the guy.

He and France used to do this a lot, when they were together the first time around. Scotland's memories of those times are hazy, dimmed by time and deliberate distance, but he doesn't recall being particularly happy with the arrangement then, either. It's frustrating to realise just how little has changed in all those centuries, and Scotland's still desperately trying to walk the tightrope between holding on too hard and just giving up and letting go. He has the feeling that he's started to sway too far in one direction lately, but he can't decide whether he should attempt to right himself or just let himself fall.

The click of the kettle switching itself off interrupts his train of thought, and he scrabbles down from the counter to fill the two mugs he's set out with boiling water. Shit or get off the pot, floats across the front of his mind as he pokes at the teabags with the handle of a spoon. It's what he's always wanted to say to England regarding his relationship with America but never has, because he and England don't talk about such things, and, even if they did, England probably wouldn't listen to anything Scotland has to say on the matter anyway. It's good advice, he thinks, despite the fact that he's never been able to follow it himself. Over seven hundred years, and he's still never been able to bring himself to make a decision one way or the other when his hand hasn't been forced by circumstances outside his control.

He pours a splash of milk into his own tea, and then goes hunting for some lemon for France's. He finds a sad, wrinkled little thing at the back of his vegetable drawer that might once have been a lemon, but it's got such a thick coating of white, fibrous mould that it's hard to tell. He doubts France would be very impressed by the addition of a squirt of Jif, so he leaves it plain.

France seems satisfied, regardless, and his eyelids flutter shut momentarily as he inhales the steam rising from his mug after Scotland has handed it to him. "So, what do you think about my proposal, now that you've had some time to think about it," he asks.

He glances up at Scotland through his lashes, head cocked to one side, lips slightly parted, and… And shit, doesn't he know that Scotland finds it damn near impossible to refuse him anything when he looks at him like that? Possibly not, as Scotland has certainly never told him so. It always makes Scotland want to kiss him, but he won't. He never does.

Instead, he curls his hand around his own mug, and then takes a long swallow from it in an attempt to refresh his suddenly dry mouth. "I want..." The words still feel brittle, and they crack apart as they leave his lips. He pauses, reorders his thoughts, and continues with: "Aye, sure, let's do it. If that's what you want."

Those words, on the other hand, come out perfectly. Probably because he's had so much practice in saying them.

9th May, 2009; Paris, France

Now that he's getting to know him a little better again, Scotland has decided he doesn't like Netherlands very much nowadays, after all.

He glares at him across the table as he stirs sugar into his coffee – if there's one thing that frustrates him about Paris, it's the lack of cafés which serve a decent cup of tea – finding more and more reasons to dislike him the longer he looks.

If he's honest, most of those reasons are simply the ways he's different to Scotland himself. Scotland doesn't know much about clothes, but even if Netherlands' aren't particularly fashionable, they fit him well, accentuating his long legs and slim form. Barring a brief spell of adolescent lankiness in the eleventh century, Scotland has been solidly built since he was a child, and he's always felt bulky and a little clumsy next to France. He doesn't know if his clothes accentuate anything, as his only considerations on picking them out are whether they're suitable for the weather and have been washed at some point in recent history. Netherlands' hair has also obviously been carefully styled, whereas Scotland's own hair is thick and stubborn, and defaults to 'just been dragged through a hedge' within an hour, whatever he tries to do with it.

Most of all, though, Scotland hates the way that he's captivated France's interest, stealing away all of his attention without apparently trying. The two of them are discussing some new up-and-coming artist Scotland's never heard of, leaving him with nothing better to do than stew, and glare, and distractedly splash droplets of coffee all over the café's pristine white tablecloth.

Scotland is no philistine, but he knows what he likes, and what he likes certainly isn't pickled cows, unmade beds, and the like. France has always captivated by the novel, though, by those who try to break the mould, be they artists, composers, musicians, or designers, and his eyes are shining with excitement, hands drawing random patterns in the air, seemingly incapable of staying still.

Finally, their conversation winds down, and France stretches languorously in his seat, his fingers lacing together as he extends his arms above his head. Netherlands follows the movement with hooded eyes which then rake along the full arc of France's body, and Scotland wants to lean across the table and punch him. Instead, he adds another sugar to his coffee, and tightens his fingers around the cup's handle to stop them from curling in towards his palm.

When he's settled himself again, France pushes up his shirt cuff and makes a show of checking his watch. "I think it's about time we headed back to my apartment." His voice has gone low and rich, and his eyes fix on Scotland for the first time in at least an hour, as he asks: "Are you ready, mon cher?"

Scotland grinds his teeth together so firmly that he's almost convinced they'll start to crack. The response is a knee-jerk one – he hates whenever France calls him something like that – but when he notices that Netherlands is also watching him with evident curiosity, it occurs to him that it might be in his best interests to foster the belief that they often use such terms of endearment with each other; casually, as if they're an old habit worn soft with years.

"Just got to finish my coffee." Scotland repeats the words he wants to use a couple of times in his mind before he says them out loud, hoping that they will emerge sounding loose and natural. "Mo chridhe."

They don't. They sound stilted and as rusty with disuse as they actually are, but France seems charmed by them nonetheless, faint colour spreading across his cheeks as he smiles.

Scotland lowers his head in an attempt to hide the flush he can feel rushing to his own face, and hurriedly gulps down his coffee. It's cold, thick, and far too sweet, but he barely tastes it anyway.

11th May, 2009; Paris, France

Scotland stares down at his feet where they're propped up on France's coffee table, nudging aside some ugly objet d'art made from dark wood and twisted metal that's probably meant to be a profound statement on the human condition or something equally pretentious. He spots a hole in his left sock, at the tip of his big toe, and idly wonders whether he should concede defeat and chuck them out, or give them to England to darn. He'd whinge and moan about the imposition, no doubt, but Scotland's not got the knack for the task, and England's rarely happier than when he's got a needle in his hand.

When he bores of contemplating the intricacies of sock maintenance, he risks another glance through the living room doorway towards the hall beyond. He immediately wishes he had made himself hold out a little longer, because Netherlands still hasn't finished the protracted process of taking his leave from France. One of his hands is low on France's back, curved fingers drawing deep furrows in the thin silk of France's shirt, and suddenly, in a white hot flash, Scotland's mind wipes clean of everything but the urge to yank that hand away; maybe break a couple of fingers for good measure, as well.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he breathes slowly and deeply, pushing down the feeling until it's little more than a dull buzz of irritation at the base of his skull, and then averts his eyes downwards again. He could probably do with replacing his jeans, too, he notes with a sort of desperate determination. They're frayed around the bottom, trailing bare threads, and thinning at the knees. He brushes his thumb back and forth across his thigh, and watches the fabric lighten fractionally and then darken again as he disturbs the nap. Lighten and darken, lighten and dar—

The apartment's front door slams shut, and the sound reverberates through Scotland's body, loosening the tension that he'd barely even noticed was pulling his muscles taut. He relaxes back in his seat, spine curving and hands falling open at his sides, and even manages to smile at France when he walks back into the living room.

The smile that France returns to him is wide and looks completely unaffected, something which even Scotland isn't used to seeing given that France usually chooses the expressions he wears with as much care as he does his clothes, and typically with the same end in mind. It makes Scotland's heart jump a little, despite knowing its likely cause.

France's posture when he slumps down into an armchair, however, is a carefully-constructed study of louche exhaustion: head tipped back, a hand covering his eyes, and one leg hooked over the arm of the chair whilst the other is loose and splayed, as though he lacks the energy to hold it steady. He sighs, long, slow and self-satisfied, and then lifts his hand a little so he can look at Scotland.

"I was right, wasn't I, mon cher?" he says in a tired-sounding drawl. "A most elegant solution."

For a moment, the only answer Scotland can think to give is that it wasn't as bad as he'd feared it was going to be. There was a brief period – just a short span of years; not even a full loop in the tangled skein that is their relationship to date – when he and France came as a package deal, two for the price of one, and any conquest of France's was one they shared. And yet, more often than not, they had remained solely France's conquests, regardless of the lip service they paid to appease him. Scotland had often found himself thinking that he might as well have taken himself off on his own at the start and had a wank for all the attention they paid him. Netherlands had made the effort to include him, at least, although it was clear that the majority of his interest, his passion, was focused on France.

If nothing else, the experience has served to remind Scotland that he wasn't just unhappy with this sort arrangement before, he had hated it; hated seeing someone else's hands on France's body, someone else's mouth against his skin. He hates it even more now that the bond between the two of them is weaker – thinned by the passage of years and familiarity – and he has no guarantee of France's continued attention anymore.

He feels the unsteadiness again, like a wave of vertigo washing over him, but he still can't fight the old instinct to centre himself; return his feet to the same well-worn path. He's never thought of himself as a coward, yet in this, he is anything but brave.

"Aye," he says. "Aye, you were."

7th July, 2009; Paris, France

Scotland had risen from bed to close the window as the slight breeze blowing through it was raising goosebumps where it flowed over his sweat-damp skin, and when he turns away from it again, he notices that one of Netherlands' hands has crept up to curl around France's shoulder.

It's an innocuous enough thing, given everything else Netherlands' hands have done tonight, but the sight reminds Scotland painfully of the disparity that exists between them. They'd been at a bar earlier that evening, the first time they'd been all been out in public together since all this first began, and it had felt like a punch to the gut for Scotland to see that the behaviour that France had always discouraged in him was allowed for Netherlands, even encouraged. The brief kisses, the light touches, the countless tiny intimacies that spelt out for anyone watching that the two of them were together; an impression that France had apparently never wanted to give about Scotland and himself.

It doesn't feel like a punch this time, nor even like falling as Scotland had always thought that it would. It feels like something within him that was already frayed and well-worn finally snapping, but not with a sharp crack or explosion, just a slow, gentle parting. He feels weak and light-headed as it breaks and flows away from him, and he has to lean against the window frame for a moment when his legs threaten to give way beneath him.

It's the sudden realisation which is really just an acknowledgment of something he's known for a long time but never dared admit before: I'm tired of this. Tired of this endless balancing act and giving in time after time to keep hold of this thing which is only a tiny fraction of what he really wants. He's not even sure if it's what France wants, either.

When his legs eventually stop trembling, Scotland starts to gather up his clothes without really thinking about why. France stirs as he fishes under the bed for his right shoe, and his eyes open a crack, glinting in the moonlight creeping in through the slight gap between curtains that Scotland hadn't quite pulled to.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

"I just need some air," Scotland says, and it isn't exactly a lie, because he doesn't have any idea where he's going to go other than somewhere far away from tangled limbs, naked skin, and the cloying smell of sex.

France lazily reaches out a hand and presses his thumb against Scotland's lips. "Hurry back," he whispers.

"I will," Scotland says, which is definitely a lie.

Scotland just puts his head down and walks, thinking no further than the next step he's going to take. He walks until – despite the fact that he knows Paris almost as well as he knows London or any of his own cities – he doesn't recognise the streets anymore, and the sky gilds overhead as the sun begins to rise.

He rests for a moment, leaning up against a scrubby, half-dead looking tree, and for some reason, with stillness, the emptiness in his head is filled by the almost overwhelming urge to get drunk and talk to someone who isn't France, though not necessarily in that order. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and dials Ireland's number, but she doesn't answer either of her home phones or her mobile, even after his third attempt at each.

As he scrolls through his contacts list, he's disturbed to realise that, after Ireland and France, his closest friends are probably England and Wales, which is possibly one of the most depressing thoughts to ever cross his mind. In the end, he plumps for England's number simply because it's the first one he lands on, and, at the end of the day, both choices are equally dire, if for completely different reasons.

England answers his phone on the fourth ring, and slurs something completely incomprehensible which Scotland presumes must be a question due to the slight rise in pitch at the end.

"Hey, England," Scotland says, already feeling like this might not be one of his better ideas. "It's Scotland."

"Scotlan'?" There's a rustle of fabric and the subdued creaking of springs, and then England says, "Scotland, what the fuck? It's half past bloody five; what the hell do you want?"

Yes, definitely not his best. "Just thought you might fancy going to the pub with me, is all."

"You rang me up at arse o'clock in the fucking morning to ask if I want to go to the pub?" England pauses, heaves an exasperated-sounding sigh, and then says, "Well, if you're that bloody desperate for a drink, I guess something drastic must have happened. Problems with your parliament, is it?"

He sounds positively eager at the thought, which almost makes Scotland give it up as a bad job and try Wales instead. Although Wales probably wouldn't make such a big production about being woken up, he's also much more likely to prod Scotland with personal questions he doesn't even want to contemplate until he's too drunk to see straight.

"My parliament's fine, thanks for asking," Scotland says. "I just want a drink. It's not that fucking unusual, is it?"

"No, but you don't usually…" England's mouth is obviously too close to the receiver, because when he clears his throat, it nearly deafens Scotland. "You can come down here, then. I'm not dragging myself all the way up there because you 'just want a drink'."

"Well, I think the Eurostar should have started running by now," Scotland says, checking his watch. "So, presuming that I haven't got myself too lost, and I can get a taxi, I shouldn't be more than a few hours."

"Eurostar? Where the hell are you, Scotland?"

"Paris."

There's another pause on England's end, filled only with the sound of his deep, slow breaths, echoing strangely. "Give me a call when you know what time your train's getting in. I'll pick you up from St Pancras."

8th July, 2009; London, England

England's local is the sort of place that gets cited in guidebooks as an example of the 'quintessential British pub'. It's poky and badly lit, and the dark wood chairs don't match the tables or each other. The carpet is that peculiar shade that Scotland has always thought of as 'Pub Red' because it never seems to be used anywhere else, and the only nods to modernity are the widescreen television attached to the wall near the bar – surrounded by horse brasses and hazy watercolours of sheep being rained on, as though in an attempt to draw the eye away from the intrusive starkness of its lines – and a jukebox, albeit one whose selection of songs contains nothing recorded later than the mid-Seventies.

The clientele is a strange mix: mostly gnarled old men who've probably drunk there every night since the pub opened, but there's also a handful of students and young professionals – no doubt lured in by a good review on ViewLondon – and a smattering of earnest, bearded real ale drinkers because there are beers with names like ''Pheasant Plucker' and 'Old Stoatwobbler' on sale. England technically fits into two of the groups, given that he is older than all of the other regulars combined, and a member of CAMRA.

Accordingly, the first beer England buys comes in a chunky, old-fashioned brown bottle with a sour-faced bulldog and gold-edged scrolls on the label, but, for once, he doesn't try and force it on Scotland as well, and hands him a pint of Carling instead.

They sit in silence for a moment afterwards; England apparently engrossed in attempting to position his bottle so that it fits neatly over the logo on the beermat beneath it, whilst Scotland draws wavy lines through the condensation on the side of his glass, and wracks his brain for a suitable conversation starter. Now that he's actually here, this seems like an even worse idea than it had in the wee hours of the morning. He can't remember the last time he and England spent a substantial amount of time together without at least the buffer of Wales between them, attempting – albeit unsuccessfully most of the time – to keep the discourse civil and calm ruffled tempers. It could, he thinks, get incredibly messy.

"So," England says eventually, clasping his hands together and leaning across the table towards Scotland as if he's about to share some grand and secret knowledge that he doesn't want to risk anyone else in the pub overhearing. "Bloody strange weather we've been having recently, isn't it?"

After that, it's remarkably easy. They talk about the weather until they exhaust the topic – which sees them through two beers each – then move on to cars, something which England can wax lyrical on beyond the limits of even the most ardent automobile enthusiasts' endurance. They skirt around the more contentious subject of sport, keeping the discussion abstract, until someone switches the telly on to the cricket. Scotland can't help but cheer on Australia's team, given who they're playing; something which England should have expected, but makes his face flush an interesting shade of crimson, nevertheless. With a degree of restraint Scotland would never have expected of him, however, he doesn't start an argument about it like he usually does – "I always support your fucking teams when they're playing anyone other than mine. Why can you never extend me the same courtesy?" – he just steers the conversation in the more mutually satisfying direction of mocking the current state of Wales' various teams, instead.

This carries them through a late dinner of surprisingly good steak and kidney pie, and another two pints after that, but then they take a turn towards Big Brother and X-Factors past and Scotland isn't nearly drunk enough for that. In fact, he isn't anywhere near as drunk as he wants to be, and closing time is looming very close on the horizon.

But he is drunk enough to say, "We should go clubbing, England."

And England is drunk enough to agree.

"I think I need a little rest," England announces as they stagger across Tower Bridge. "My feet are fucking killing me."

He slumps against the low wall that borders the pavement, throwing both arms over the top of to keep himself almost upright as his knees start to buckle. Scotland leans against the wall next to him, thankful both for the support and the convenient excuse for taking a breather that waiting for England - like a good brother - provides. His head is spinning, alcohol just exacerbating the peculiar dissonance of being in a place that is simultaneously both his and yet not quite that he always feels in London, in any part of England, which throws him slightly out of kilter at the best of times.

"'S all that dancing," Scotland says when he manages to coordinate the unnecessarily complicated combination of tongue and lip movements which form the words. "Well, that thing you were doing that I think was meant to be dancing, anyway."

England slowly rolls his chin along the top of the wall until he's looking at Scotland, brows bristling as he scowls. His mouth works silently for a moment, presumably running through a variety of suitably cutting retorts, but he finally just goes with, "Piss off."

"Jus' looked like you were desperate for the loo," Scotland says, sniggering.

England in a club has to be one of the most bizarre sights Scotland has witnessed in recent years. Barring a brief, best-forgotten, flirtation with leather trousers and strategically-placed safety pins during the heyday of punk, England's love affair with the lounge suit has continued unabated since its invention. He'd soon lost the tank top and tie – both of which had vanished without trace as soon as he took them off – but he still looked completely out of place in his neatly-pressed trousers and sensible shoes, like an accountant who'd somehow taken a wrong turning on their way to their company's AGM. He'd shuffled around on the dance floor for a bit, at Scotland's insistence, but he held his arms stiffly against his sides the entire time, his eyes dull and distant as if he were trying to divorce himself from the entire affair and pretend it wasn't happening.

"Can't dance to that sort of music, can you." England snorts. "'S not music, anyway, just noise."

Scotland rolls his eyes, which makes him feel dizzy and more than a little nauseated. "Come on, I know that you're not really this much of a stick in the mud. You still go to Glastonbury every year, don't you? And you used to love dancing; always forcing me and Wales to go to those ridiculous balls and so on."

"That was different," England snaps. "It meant something then, now it's just…" He voice trails off, and he lifts his shoulders, indicating his complete bafflement at the concept.

When it becomes clear that England isn't going to say anything else anytime soon, Scotland turns his attention to the Thames, flowing sluggishly beneath them. Reflected light from the buildings on its banks burnishes streaks of gold across its gently rippled surface, and the sight makes Scotland feel very old suddenly, remembering the days when it would reflect little more than star- and moonlight at night, almost as dark as the sky above it. He also remembers pushing England into it a time or ten back then, as well, which prevents his mood slipping from reminiscent into anything approaching melancholy.

Eventually, England starts shifting beside him and coughs hoarsely a couple of times. Scotland's presumes it's a prelude to him throwing up until he says, "So, Paris, then," in a whisper-thin voice which is barely even audible.

The name startles Scotland. He hadn't forgotten exactly – he doesn't think it would ever be possible for him to get drunk enough for that – no matter how anaesthetised by alcohol he became, but he had managed to not actively think about it. It's as though his brain is in a holding pattern, still trying to process how to feel about his decision, and the strange emptiness from earlier remains. Part of him wants it to remain that way indefinitely, but, knowing that's likely impossible, he'd hoped for a day's grace, at least. Almost expected it, as he'd counted on England's natural reticence when it came to even mentioning Scotland and France in the same sentence to stop any questions, no matter how curious he might be.

"What about Paris?" Scotland asks, stalling for time.

"Did something happen between you and the… Between you and France?" England mumbles, directing the question to some random point above Scotland's head, eyes shying away from making any contact with Scotland's.

"Dumped him," Scotland says, spitting the words out quickly so they don't have the chance to linger in his mind for too long, "but he doesn't know that yet."

"Oh." England's eyes widen slightly. "Oh, that's… That's very…" His words fracture into meaningless noises, and then, eventually, silence.

Most other people – most other brothers – would try and offer some sort of comfort at this juncture, Scotland thinks; if not a hug, then at least a commiserating pat on the back or even a brief clasp of hands. England, however, remains completely still, not a single twitch of a finger to suggest that the idea has even crossed his mind.

"Not going to be like last time, though," Scotland says, shaking his head. "That's it. Full stop."

England's expression gets caught somewhere between relieved and apologetic, leaving him looking as though the two halves of his face are at odds with each other, and also a little bilious. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding almost sincere, but then continues with: "You could do a hell of a lot better, anyway. He's a slimy, treacherous git. And a pervert to boot."

Scotland can't help but laugh despite himself, as England's oft-repeated opinion has always been that the two of them were only fit for each other. "He says exactly the same thing about you, you know."

England looks scandalised. "I am as pure as the driven fucking snow, compared to him."

Scotland can't stop himself from saying, "Don't give me that, England. I've seen your porn collection."

Although it's gratifying to see England blanch in response, he always feels on shaky ground when their conversation takes this sort of turn, especially without Wales there, so it seems safer, if no more comfortable, to return them to their previous subject.

"I've been waiting all these years for something to change between us, and it's never happened. Like I've been running just to stay in the same place," he says. "I'm just sick of it all."

England nods, lips twitching upwards into a rueful smile, and Scotland presumes he's more than likely thinking about America, although he'd probably never admit to it. It's galling to realise, with just the benefit of a few hours hindsight, how similar they are in this. Both of them have trained themselves to be accept, if not necessarily be content with, less than they want just to hold on for that little bit longer, encouraged by the tiniest scraps of attention or affection tossed their way. Except that Scotland's finally broken free, and he can only hope that England will either do the same or gather his courage to push for more.

He opens his mouth to tell England that – it really is good advice – but is shocked into swallowing down his words when England suddenly lunges at him. Scotland's hands clench involuntarily into fists, an instinctual response to any sudden movement on England's part honed by their many years of conflict, but before he can raise them, his arms are trapped by his side as England's tightly wrap around his body. They're soon released, though, and England hurriedly steps back, blinking rapidly, his mouth slightly agape, as though surprised by his own actions.

"What the fuck, England?" is all Scotland can think to say.

"I might think you're best off shot of him, but you do seem… fond of him, so. I really am sorry." All this is said a rush, almost a single breath, but the steam soon seems to leave England, and he finishes with a halfhearted, "And if you ever need to, you know."

'You know' is apparently something described by the vague waving motion of England's hand, which Scotland chooses to interpret as 'talk'. He's honestly touched by the offer, even though he knows he'll more than likely never take England up on it, and England probably only made it because it seemed like the sort of thing he should say in these circumstances, rather than from any genuine desire to help.

"Aye, I'll bear that in mind." Scotland suddenly feels exhausted, almost ready to drop where he stands, but also distressingly close to sobering up. "You still got some of that whisky I gave you for Christmas?" he asks.

England's nose wrinkles slightly as he nods. He's never been fond of the brand Scotland always buys for him – Scotland's favourite, and one of the best – but, after countless years of having had to put up with England's politely disappointed face on Christmas morning, Scotland has given up on trying to find him something he does like. This way, at least one of them receives something pleasurable from the exchange as Scotland invariably gets to drink the entire bottle himself over the course of the year during his visits to England.

"Thought something was calling my name," Scotland says, grabbing hold of England's sleeve. "Come on, you've rested for long enough. I'll even treat you to a kebab on the way."

9th July, 2009; London, England

Normally, Scotland wakes easily a little after dawn with a clear head and steady hands, no matter how much he might have drunk the night before. It's something of a novelty, therefore, to be greeted by a headache, churning stomach, and limbs that feel leaden and unresponsive as he lurches back towards consciousness in fits and starts.

The hangover he can deal with; they don't happen very often, and when they do it feels like every other hangover he's managed to avoid hitting him all at once, but it's nothing that a few cups of tea and a couple of paracetamol won't cure. What's more worrying is the gap in his memory which might explain the warmth of another person close against his back.

Scotland's body protests as he tries to shuffle away from the unwelcome contact, as does his bedmate, who flings an arm around Scotland's middle and mumbles something wordless yet still recognisably disapproving. The voice is instantly recognisable too, and Scotland's already choleric mood is soured yet further by the slight tang of something akin to terror, even though, logically, he knows that there's not enough alcohol in the world – in the universe – to render him insensible enough to ever shag England, no matter what France might have to say about how unlikely it is that they actually share blood.

Logic doesn't stop the tremor of apprehension that races through him, making his heart pound hard against his ribs, as he pushes away the bedcovers and then cautiously slits open his eyes to look back at his brother. Thankfully, the only items of clothing that England seems to have lost are his socks, and although it's a relief to be able to discount any ridiculous, irrational notions of shagging, the blank spot in his head remains, regardless.

He pokes at it stubbornly because he's always prided himself on the acuity of his memory, but no matter how hard he concentrates – a painful undertaking, as the throbbing in his head is exacerbated by every attempt – he can recall nothing more than vague impressions of movement and snatches of sound from the moment they stumbled through England's front door until his return to awareness a few minutes beforehand.

Tea and paracetamol, he reminds himself, irritably pushing all other thoughts aside, and maybe a bacon sandwich. If that doesn't do the trick, then you can start to worry.

As he tries to roll away from England and begin the slow, laborious process of getting out of bed, however, his brother's arm tenses, and he grabs a handful of Scotland's T-shirt, holding him still.

"What the fuck?" Scotland pulls at England's fingers, but the more he tries to break England's grip, the stronger it gets. "Get off me, England."

A swift elbow to the stomach only elicits a soft groan from England, and, counterintuitively, appears to encourage him to move even closer until his chest is pressed so tightly against Scotland's back that Scotland can feel every single button on England's shirt, digging into his skin.

Another brief struggle to escape only results in Scotland's headache worsening to the point where it feels as though it's about to split his skull in two, and England hooking one leg around Scotland's so his… the parts of his body that Scotland likes to pretend to don't exist are uncomfortably close to nudging against the top of Scotland's thigh if he shifts his position even an inch or so awry from centre.

"Jesus Christ, I guess I'm staying here, then," Scotland says with a sigh of resignation. "But if you start humping my leg, I'll knee you so fucking hard you'll have to go through puberty again afterwards."

He flicks England hard between the eyes to reinforce his warning, and England mutters something that sounds like, "Furkul," before pressing his face against Scotland's shoulder and proceeding to dribble down his arm.

"I hope you remember this the next time you try and tell me I'm not a fantastic big brother, England," Scotland tells him, even though, judging by the snoring, his momentary dalliance with almost-consciousness is already at an end. "Bloody hell, all the shite I have to put up with, you're lucky you lived to see puberty the first time around."

Scotland lets his head fall back down against his pillow, and tries to ignore England and relax, no matter how futile an endeavour it might be. Scant moments after he closes his eyes, however, they're shocked open again as his hair is yanked so hard that he's surprised that a clump of it isn't ripped out at its roots.

"You bastard," he snarls, reaching up reflexively with the intention of grabbing his brother's arm before he has the chance to retract it. "I try to be nice to you, and all you can do is –"

His hand closes on nothing but air because his assailant isn't England, it's a tiny gnome-like creature with a face like a smacked arse which scampers away to perch at the edge of the mattress and glare at Scotland accusingly with glowing green eyes.

"What the hell was that for?" Scotland asks, rubbing at the sore spot on his scalp.

The gnome-thing's eyes spark brighter as it points towards England. Scotland notices that there are a few strands of dark hair wrapped around its stubby little fingers, which he should really try and snatch back before it disappears lest he wants to start sprouting donkey ears or a pig nose at some point in the future.

England's fae usually avoid both Scotland and Wales like the plague, only making their presence known when they think England is in danger from one of them, an occurrence which has become increasingly rare in recent years. Nevertheless, they're obviously still primed and ready to rush to his aid if they sense a threat.

"Don't worry," Scotland says, attempting to sound reassuring. "I promise you that I won't lay another finger on him unless he starts dreaming that I'm America or something."

The reassuring tone is obviously effective, as the frown slowly fades from the gnome-thing's face, and it trots across the bed to carefully set Scotland's hairs back on the top of his head, as though it thinks that returning them to their proper place will cause them to reattach themselves. It then sits back on its heels just in front of Scotland's nose, baring a mouthful of yellowing needle-sharp teeth as it grins broadly at him.

It just sits and grins until Scotland is unnerved enough to consider picking it up and chucking it across the room just to get it to stop, even though he knows there's a high likelihood that he'd lose several fingers in the process.

"If you've got nothing better to do than sit there, you could always go and make me a cup of tea," he suggests instead, smiling encouragingly.

The gnome-thing does not budge even slightly.

"Cup. Of. Tea," Scotland says again, enunciating each word carefully.

Still no reaction.

"Tea."

Scotland forms a capital T with his index fingers, and jerks his head towards the bedroom door, but his only response is a high-pitched squealing noise which he presumes is the gnome-thing equivalent of laughter.

"For fuck's sake," Scotland says under his breath, "doesn't England teach you guys to do anything useful."

Scotland's own fae do a sterling job of keeping his things as neat and clean as they can in the face of Scotland's natural laissez-faire attitude towards house-keeping. In exchange for a capful of whisky or a bowl of milk, they'll happily wash his dishes, tidy away the day's discarded clothes whilst he sleeps, scare away mice from his kitchen, and a myriad other little tasks he tends to overlook himself. England has always had a strange relationship with magical creatures, though, as far as Scotland's concerned. When he was a kid, he'd always seemed to prefer their company to that of his people or even other nations, something which Scotland had hoped he'd grow out of, but which he never really did. He'd just learnt to hide it better.

"I bet it's just the same as back then, isn't it? Of course he's not going to get you to do chores." Scotland modulates his voice to match England's clear tenor, and continues with: "'You are my only friends. Please let me soak your sparkling wings with my tears as I complain about how cruel my brothers are without every once stopping to think that maybe they're just…'" Scotland breaks off with a chuckle. "And you don't even understand a word I'm saying, do you?"

The gnome-things luminescent eyes have dimmed a little, but its expression is otherwise completely unchanged, the exact same inane grin splitting its face. There are very few fae who can understand human speech beyond simple phrases, and it clearly isn't amongst their number.

Now that the brief promise of tea has been dangled temptingly in front of him, however, there's no way Scotland can wait the indeterminate length of time it will take England to wake up to get it. "I guess I'll have to make my own, then."

He gingerly pushes at the gnome-thing with the tip of his finger until it jumps off the side of the bed, chittering angrily, and then takes a deep, fortifying breath before wrenching his body to one side with a violence that not only breaks him free from England's Convolvulus-like grip, but also makes his vision blur and bile rise in his throat as he struggles to regain his balance afterwards. England grumbles and thrashes around a little until Scotland presses a pillow into his outstretched arms, which he curls around happily.

The gnome-thing glowers at Scotland from beneath the chest of drawers as he passes them on his way to the bedroom door. "I didn't hurt him, so you can forget about pissing in the milk or whatever else it is you're thinking about doing in revenge," he tells it sternly.

 
Scotland finds one of England's socks, rather puzzlingly, in the fridge when he goes to collect the milk for his tea.

The other one is in the living room alongside Scotland's jacket, both of which are buried beneath the large pile of empties Scotland has to kick aside in order to reach in England's favourite armchair. The bottles and cans spill the last few dribbles of alcohol they contain over them as they roll away across the carpet, and the smell sets Scotland's stomach to roiling again.

"No wonder I've got fucking hangover," he grumbles, picking up his jacket and then shaking it out in a futile attempt to dry it. His mobile slithers out of the pocket on the third flick, and lands in his lap.

The sight of it triggers a fuzzy memory of the night before: England scowling and telling him to stop, 'staring at his bloody phone', because he'd 'turned it off for a damn good reason', before plucking it out of his hand and replacing it with a glass. The scene fizzles out with the slight sting of whisky echoing on his lips, and Scotland rubs distractedly at his mouth with one hand as he turns his mobile back on with the other.

The screen informs him that he's missed nine calls, two of which were from Ireland, no doubt wanting to know why he'd been calling her in the early hours of Wednesday morning, but the other seven… The other seven were all from France.

Scotland stares down at the name for a moment, his thumb hovering over the call button, unable to decide whether he should press it or not. He should really let France know where he is, and why he is where he is, but he'd rather wait until he's feeling a little more equal to the conversation. Maybe after he's finished his tea and had some breakfast; when his head's cleared and he doesn't feel like shit; when he's drunk again on another night when he doesn't have an interfering brother there to confiscate his phone. But, then again, perhaps it's best done quickly so that the pain is over faster, even though it might initially be more acute. Some things it's best to not let fester.

France answers partway through the second ring.

"Where are you, mon cher," he says without preamble. His words are clipped slightly short by some emotion that Scotland would like to think is anxiety, but is more likely annoyance.

"London. England's house," Scotland replies brusquely.

"You disappeared in the middle of the night to go and visit your brother? Without leaving me any sort of message, any idea of where you might have gone? And then you don't answer your phone for a day? I was –"

"Worried?" Scotland cuts in, perhaps a little too abruptly. It's unfair of him: France might never have cared as much as Scotland wished him to, but there's also no reason for him to assume that the concern is anything other than genuine. "Sorry, I probably should have left a note," he says, forcing himself to soften his tone, "but I wasn't really thinking. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing, you ken. I just had to get away."

Scotland fancies he can almost hear France's eyebrows drawing together, the lines forming on his brow, and the puzzlement bleeds into his tone as he asks, "Get away? From what?"

Scotland nearly answers, 'From you,' but that's unfair too, and a lie besides.

"I was lying before," he says instead. "I don't think this is an elegant solution to anything, and I don't want to do it anymore."

He can hear his own heartbeat thumping fast and heavy in his ears as he waits for France's reply, and sweat starts to prickle along his hairline and slicken his palms. This is it, at last; his first step deliberately taken off-balance.

"That is a shame," France sounds a little disappointed, but not overly so, "but if you're uncomfortable with our arrangement, then I suppose our previous one has always served us well. I suppose I shall see you when I –"

"No," Scotland barks out. "I don't want to go back to our previous anything. I know you probably don't want to hear this any more than you did the last time I said it, France, but I love you." It's been over four hundred years and the words haven't become any easier to say; they still feel clumsy and inadequate, falling heavily into the void left by the silence at the other end of the phone. Scotland can't even hear France breathing. "I love you, and it's not enough, what we have. Had. Whatever. It's never been enough."

France chuckles, just a short, jagged burst of sound. "Had?" he says, sounding slightly incredulous. "Am I to understand that you're ending things between us?"

He doesn't mention anything about love, but then that doesn't surprise Scotland. He'd acted as though he hadn't heard Scotland's first declaration, either, which was one of the many reasons Scotland has never repeated it before now.

"Ending what, exactly? I mean, we fuck occasionally, sure, but it's only when you want to. When there isn't anyone else you'd rather be fucking. Hell, you don't even seem to like me being close to you when we're not in bed. What have we got outside a habit you haven't quite been able to break yet?"

"I," France begins, but then seems to change his mind about what he wants to say, continuing after a brief pause with: "You're obviously upset. Maybe we should speak about this later."

His voice is almost completely expressionless, and Scotland can't read anything of what he might be feeling into it.

"Sure," Scotland says, breathing out a shuddering sigh. "Sure, we can, but it's not going to change anything. And give me a little time before we do, okay."

And with that, it's done; nothing more to be said than a brief a brief exchange of farewells that are completely unchanged from those they usually give each other.

It was so much easier than Scotland had ever imagined, and yet his hands are still shaking when he finishes the call, fingers trembling so much that it's a struggle to coordinate them sufficiently to put the phone back into his pocket afterwards. He closes his eyes, and just breathes for a moment until his scattered concentration is drawn to the doorway by a quiet cough; a small, unobtrusive noise which politely announces England's presence there without insisting he acknowledge it.

England looks like crap; he hasn't changed out of the rumpled clothes he'd slept in, his hair is plastered against the side of his head, and his eyes so darkly bloodshot that it's obvious even from halfway across the room where Scotland's sitting. He still manages a tremulous smile when Scotland does acknowledge him with a slight upwards twitch of his eyebrows, however.

Scotland wonders how long he's been standing there but, then again, it doesn't really seem to matter, either way. No matter how much England might have overheard, not a word concerning it will ever pass his lips, unless, of course, they get so drunk at some point decades down the line that he unwinds enough to perhaps allude to it in the very vaguest of terms.

England takes a small step towards Scotland, but then stops, his hands clasping together in front of him. "Would you like… Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks, voice cracking slightly in the centre of each word.

It's as close to an offer of a hug that England's likely to give whilst he's sober, and, of the two, it's the one that Scotland's more grateful to accept.

"Aye," he says, letting his heavy eyelids drag themselves closed again. "And could you grab me some paracetamol whilst you're at it, as well."

16th July, 2009; London, England

Scotland stifles a yawn with the back of his hand, and then slumps down even lower in his seat. Beside him, England sits with his back straight, eyes bright and focused, watching the proceedings below with what appears to be rapt attention. His left calf is resting against his right knee, forming a sort of makeshift table for his thick notepad, and every so often he will nod and jot something down in his neat, even hand.

Scotland also has a notepad, pushed on him by England before they left his house that morning, but it's covered with nonsensical doodles and several games of noughts and crosses that he'd played against himself when his boredom was at its most acute, before he'd reached this current plateau of tedium and part of his brain had seemingly shut itself down in an act of self-preservation.

He adds a few more lines to thicken the eyebrows on the scruffy sketch of England he'd started earlier, and then scribbles the whole thing out, pressing down so hard that the tip of his pen rips through the paper. It's petty, and the sense of satisfaction he feels when the real England's eyebrows twitch upwards in response to the noise is a little hollow, but given the political kerfuffle that would no doubt ensue if he were to twat England over the head with the notepad as he'd prefer, it's the only safe way to vent his frustration.

"Can you keep it down," England says out of the corner of his mouth without even bothering to look at Scotland. "I'm trying to concentrate."

With a certain amount of difficulty, Scotland squelches the equally petty urge to rip out the page and force-feed it to England, and simply re-caps his pen. He misses the days when his expected level of involvement in the political process was to turn up for battles, inspire his own men, and kill as many of the enemy's as possible. He was good at that, very good; he's not very good at this. The endless debates he takes no part in, the considered advice that his bosses are under no obligation to listen to, and the piles upon piles of paperwork he has to force himself to read, albeit usually at the last possible minute.

England, on the other hand, seems to thrive on the bureaucracy and tedious minutiae, and Scotland has a sneaking suspicion that he's actually enjoying himself.

Nevertheless, it is at least part of England's job – Scotland's too, technically, but his visits to Westminster have become even more infrequent since his own parliament was established – to be here; it defies Scotland's comprehension why anyone else currently in the Strangers' Gallery would chose to be; even lining up for the chance, sometimes. Granted, it can be entertaining viewing when the debates get particularly heated, but most of the time, it's just like this; dry and boring, combatants facing each other with their claws sheathed by ceremonial politeness.

Scotland props his elbows on his knees, his chin on top of his linked hands, and tries to concentrate on the question the Honourable So-and-So has addressed to his Honourable Friend Such-and-Such. The Honourable So-and-So's voice is smooth and carefully modulated, but his expression is intense, and Scotland imagines that he might occasionally long for the days when arguments were settled at the point of a sword, as well. A few of the MPs on the back benches behind the equally formidable-looking Honourable Friend Such-and-Such appear to be nodding off, and Scotland's own eyelids start droop in sympathy.

He's awoken from a light doze some time later by England rapping him smartly on the shoulder with a rolled up sheaf of paper.

"Come on, it's time to go. You'll need this," he says, thrusting the papers into Scotland's hands after Scotland's finished stretching his arms up above his head in an attempt to straighten out the kink in his back.

"What is it?" Scotland asks, quickly leafing through the pages, disheartened by both the denseness of the print and the familiar crowned portcullis adorning the header of each one.

"Background reading for our meeting tomorrow. I'll make you a copy of my notes, too, as yours seem to be a little lacking." He nods towards Scotland's notepad, which must have slipped from his lap whilst he was napping and has fallen open to reveal the particularly intricate, swirling pattern that had kept Scotland occupied during the first hour the House was in session.

"Meeting?" Scotland had only agreed to accompany England today in a bid to stop his brother's incessant nagging about how he needed something to distract himself, and 'it might as well be something useful'. There had been no discussion of follow-up meetings of any sort.

"With our boss. I have mentioned it before, Scotland. Several times, in fact. Your parliament might well be in recess already, but that doesn't mean that there's no work for you to do." He pauses, and then snaps open his briefcase again, digging out another stack of papers that's easily twice the size of the first. "You'd better take these, as well, to ensure you're completely up to speed."

Scotland takes the new papers reluctantly. "You expect me to read all of these tonight?"

"Of course," England says. "You don't want to go in under-prepared, do you?"

England has been dropping hints for the past few days that it is perhaps time for Scotland to go back to Edinburgh, but this is probably his most blatant. Apparently, he'd pulled the same trick to get rid of Wales back in April. They always met with the PM separately, because it inevitably descended into a slanging match which embarrassed everyone involved if they didn't. Wales had only gone along with the suggestion in the mistaken belief that it'd get England off his back for a while and give him some breathing space, but the resulting fallout and England's vile mood afterwards had harried him back to Cardiff rather sooner than he'd been intending.

"I don't think this is a very good idea, England."

"Nonsense, I believe he's quite looking forward to the chance of talking to us both together for a change," England says, bestowing a beatific smile upon Scotland.

Conniving bastard.

Scotland had planned on returning home as soon as his hangover abated on the ninth, but as time wore on and he still couldn't face the idea of making the long train journey, he'd gratefully accepted England's offer of a bed for the night. One night somehow turned into two and then three, and Scotland had found himself more and more unwilling to leave as the days passed, because, no matter how objectionable the company, England's house still feels like home to him, perhaps even more so than his own house in Edinburgh. A safe place to rest, lick his wounds, and avoid the world for as long as possible. Ten years, it seems, isn't long enough to negate the custom of nigh on three hundred, no matter how often he'd dreamt of the day when they were no longer forced to live with each other during that time.

If England's upping the ante and willing to risk shaming them both to hasten Scotland's departure, however, then Scotland will just have to jump before he's pushed.

"I've already got a meeting scheduled with him back in Edinburgh at the beginning of next week. Perhaps it would be better," Scotland says, slowly and carefully, "if I took the time to familiarise myself thoroughly with the material for then, instead of leaping in half-cocked now."

Usually, Scotland spends more time discussing Raith Rovers with the PM during their meetings than he does national policy, but England doesn't need to know that.

A spasm of something that looks a little like fear contorts England's face, but he quickly fights it into submission. "Now, that's all well and good, but –"

"Got some other stuff back home that I need to sort out before then, too, so I guess it's about time I made a move."

England doesn't even try to hide the small, self-satisfied-looking smile that curves the corners of his mouth upon hearing that, however. Scotland's urge to inflict pain on him returns with some strength in response, but it's not so overwhelming that he can't defer gratification until they're safely out of the House of Commons and less likely to send some passing politician into a conniption fit, imagining that the Union is on the verge of collapsing.

"Although I'm sure he'll be disappointed, that does seem like a sensible course of action," England says.

Seeing as though their current boss has had to suffer through not only the recent disastrous meeting with England and Wales, but also a previous meeting with England and Scotland that they'd arranged in a misguided attempt at cohesion a couple of years ago, Scotland assumes he will be more relieved than disappointed.

Despite Scotland's contrarian streak demanding that he stay at England's a while longer just to wipe the smug look from his face, it really was past time that he returned to his normal routine, and shooting himself in the foot, besides. Calling Sweden to suggest that England had been missing their littlest brother, and would love to have him over to visit for a week or so, would be a much more satisfying, and less personally taxing, way of dealing with England, anyway.

17th July, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland

Given that going to the pub on a Friday night is an essential part of Scotland's normal routine, he chooses to consider it not so much an admission of defeat when he finally despairs of ever making sense of the documents England had given him and repairs to his local, but more of an essential step towards getting himself back on an even keel.

He's barely finished ordering his first pint when he's slapped on the back and greeted with, "Where the hell have you been hiding, Aly?" by James, one of the lads he usually plays football with on a Sunday.

"Been staying down in London with Arthur," Scotland says, motioning for James to take the stool next to him at the bar, an offer which the man quickly accepts. "One of my brothers," he adds in response to James' blank expression. When that also doesn't appear to ignite a spark of recognition, he elaborates with: "The English one. Short-arse, blond, always got a face on him like he's chewing a wasp."

"Oh, aye." James chuckles, and shakes his head. "I remember him."

"It was about as much fun as you'd expect," Scotland says, grinning.

A few months back, Scotland, who'd been in the midst of one of his infrequent waves of something approaching brotherly affection, had invited England to join in on one of their Sunday games in an attempt to jolt his brother out of yet another of his, rather more frequent, dark moods. England had summarily appointed himself captain of their team, complained at length about their tactics, barked out orders like a drill sergeant, and generally endeared himself to absolutely no one. A couple of Scotland's mates had drawn him aside afterwards and begged him to never repeat the invitation, and Scotland – whose feelings of brotherly affection tended to be inversely correlated with distance, and generally evaporated immediately upon contact with England at the best of times, anyway – had readily agreed.

"We just presumed you'd stayed on in Paris a bit longer. You know, with your bloke."

England hasn't mentioned France once since that first night, so it feels slightly strange to start talking about him again, even obliquely. "Not my bloke anymore, Jamsie." Scotland's proud of how steady his voice sounds; almost casual. "We've split up."

"Oh." James' face flushes slightly, reddening across his cheekbones and to the tips of his ears. "Shit, sorry to hear that, mate. You'd been together ages, hadn't you?"

Scotland can't really tell him, 'Only about a hundred years this time around, if it ever actually counted as being together in the first place,' so he tosses out the first stock phrase which passes through his mind that seems appropriate to this sort of conversation, instead. "Aye, but we… drifted apart." He shrugs. "These things happen."

"I know how it is. Same thing happened with me and Alison." Despite his own retreat into the safety of stock phrases, James, unlike England, at least has the decency to squeeze Scotland's shoulder in a show of sympathy. "Still, it's a shame we never got to meet him, in the end. The way you've always talked about him, he sounds like a real character."

Scotland had been promising to introduce France – Francis – to the lads for a few years now, mostly to put an end to their persistent belief that Scotland had actually made him up. (A convenient cover for secret, undercover government work has been a favourite theory amongst them for quite some time, given that the only thing they know about Scotland's day job is that he regularly meets with the First Minister.) It seems like a ludicrous idea in retrospect, however. Scotland can't imagine France here, in his local, which is even more dingy than England's, drinking cheap lager and chatting about things like the footie, James' shitty job with Edinburgh council, or Duncan's equally shitty love life. In fact, it's difficult to imagine France anywhere in his life beyond what little he had of him before, but he's unsure whether that's a consequence of his learning a long time ago that it was pointless, and somewhat painful, to speculate otherwise and consequently losing the ability to do so, or that France has been right all along, and they just don't fit together well enough for anything more than that.

James takes a deep gulp of his beer, and then eyes Scotland contemplatively. "Might be early days yet, but, just so you know, Steve's sister Ruth's single again, and she's always had a bit of a thing for you. You do like lasses, too, don't you?"

Scotland almost chokes on his own sip of lager. "I do, but, Jesus Christ, James, Ruth's got to be about twelve years old."

"She's almost twenty, Aly," James says, looking vaguely baffled. "And you're, what? Twenty-six, twenty-seven, or something? It's not that big of a deal, surely?"

Twenty or not, she looks little more than a child to Scotland, but then, so does James at times, and he's in his early thirties. Besides, he's never liked getting involved with humans in that way in general, and with his own people in particular. Quite aside from the uneasy knowledge of how fragile they all are that he can never quite escape, he's never been able to fully disassociate how he feels for an individual from the sense of closeness, of belonging, that naturally arises from them being, in a way, part of himself. Wales certainly appears to have discovered the knack, but then he's applied himself to a solution with a great deal more determination over the years than Scotland has ever attempted.

"I'll keep it in mind," Scotland says, discounting the notion immediately. "But, like you said, it's still early days, and I don't think I'm going to be looking any time soon."

Or any time in the foreseeable future, really. During the years he and France were apart the first time around, Scotland's romantic liaisons amounted to a handful of one-night stands and one attempt at a long-term relationship which had come to a crashing halt with the realisation that he was simply using Jersey as the closest substitute for the one person he wanted but couldn't have. Finding out a little later that he was playing much the same role for her hadn't made it any easier to bear.

"Anyway, enough about my love life, or lack of it." It's far too depressing a subject for a Friday night – or any night, really – and Scotland casts around for a more innocuous topic of conversation, eventually going with: "I don't suppose you've got any ideas about where might be a good place to spend a long weekend, do you? My brothers are expecting me to arrange something for the August bank holiday – English, not Scottish – but I think I've left it a little too late to book anywhere decent."

 
Scotland's phone starts ringing whilst he's still caught in a struggle of wills with his front door.

"Just a minute," he says, making another lunge forward with the key. The keyhole swiftly dodges to one side to avoid it.

The phone continues to trill.

Scotland changes his angle of attack slightly, but the keyhole is seemingly one step ahead of him, and he misses again. Or maybe the key has grown somehow, and is now too big for the lock. Either way, it's far too difficult a task, so he leaves it for the fae to deal with, as their delicate fingers are much more suited for such fiddly work.

"Fucking hell," Scotland shouts at the increasingly desperate sounding phone. "I'm coming, okay?"

He picks up the receiver just as his answer phone kicks in, and it spits out harsh squeal of interference over the distorted sound of his own voice as the message starts up.

"Hello," he says once the discordant jumble of noise has died down. The word echoes back to him faintly.

"Scotland?" France sounds genuinely uncertain, although Scotland has no idea who the hell else he expected could possibly have answered the call.

"Aye, what do you –?"

He's interrupted by a tinny clatter from the direction of his kitchen, which is soon followed by the almost inaudible patter of tiny little feet rushing across the hardwood floor of his hallway.

"Scotland?"

Several ùruisg swarm towards Scotland, and begin scampering around him; the bravest few even going so far as to start tugging at the hems of his trousers.

"Did you miss me, guys?" Scotland asks them. "Hope you've kept the house tidy whilst I was gone."

They chatter shrilly at him in answer, each of them pointing in a different direction, presumably trying to draw his attention to the work they've done in his absence. The house would be too dark to see anything even if his eyes weren't too tired to focus, but he nods and says, "Good job, lads," regardless.

"Scotland," France snaps his name this time, voice harsh and frustrated-sounding. "Are you drunk?"

"It's…" Scotland tries to add the time it took him to eat his curry, plus the time it took him to stagger home from the restaurant, on to closing time, but the maths proves too complicated. "It's very late on a Friday night, or early on a Saturday morning. Whichever it is, of course I'm drunk."

France doesn't reply for so long that Scotland starts to believe either one or both of them has nodded off without realising it, although a quick pinch to the webbing between his thumb and forefinger assures that it isn't him, at least.

When France eventually does speak, it's just a fragment of a sentence, cut short by a sharp clack of his teeth as though he's catching the tail end of it between them before it can escape fully. "I had hoped that –"

"What?" Scotland asks irritably. He's far too tired for guessing games. "Why the hell are you calling me now, France? What could you possibly need to talk to me about so desperately that it couldn't wait until the morning?"

He receives no answer again, which leads Scotland to consider the possibility that France doesn't actually know why he phoned himself. He tries to ignore the warm thrill of hope that that thought stirs up because it's probably more likely that Netherlands is catching a nap and left France at a loose end with nothing better to do than ring his ex and not talk to him, than it is a sign that France is thinking about him, or missing him, or any of the multitude of other things that Scotland had often wished occupied France's mind whilst they were still together, but never actually had.

Scotland sighs. "Look, I really should be getting to bed. I'll ring you back tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," France says, quietly, then, with more force: "Thank you."

"No problem," says Scotland, even though he has no intention of keeping the promise he's just made. He doesn't need thrills of hope, he had enough of them before and they'd never amounted to anything, he needs to get over this and move on.

26th July, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland

"You never called me back," France says as soon as Scotland answers his phone.

Scotland really should start checking his caller ID instead of accepting calls willy-nilly. "Hello, France. Nice to hear from you. And, no, I didn't. Been busy. With work. You know how it is."

France somehow manages to pack whole worlds of scepticism into his answering low hum. Scotland scowls into the receiver, but can't in good conscience offer a rebuttal. His boss had given him a sizeable chunk of paperwork outlining proposals to cut the country's deficit to read through after their last meeting, but Scotland's never had a head for numbers and his concentration is shot besides, so he never managed to get past the first page, the fact that the economy's in the shitter notwithstanding. It's since become buried beneath a pile of old newspapers, magazines, and empty pizza boxes so precarious that the ùruisg daren't even go near it for fear it will collapse on top of them.

"What do you want?" he asks instead. "I'm guessing it's something pretty important if it warrants two phone calls in less than a fortnight."

France doesn't answer for a moment, and all Scotland can hear is a faint tapping noise as though he's perhaps drumming his fingers against the side of the phone, and an even fainter conversation somewhere in the background, too quiet to decipher any words although the cadence is definitely French.

"I thought you might be interested to know," he says eventually, his words slightly stilted and halting, "that I am no longer involved with Pays-Bas."

1st August, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland


"I think he thought that'd solve everything; that I'd just drop everything and hightail it over to Paris."

"But you told him you weren't interested and he should sod off, right?" Jersey asks. "Please tell me you told him to sod off."

"I didn't use those exact words," Scotland says, chuckling. "But that was the general gist of it."

"Good for you." Jersey smiles back at him, although it falters a little when she tucks her bare feet up on the sofa and they encounter one of the empty cans he'd shoved between the cushions the night before because he'd been too lazy to get up and put them in the bin. She plucks it out and places it on the cluttered coffee table before continuing: "Though I do remember you saying, oh, a couple of hundred years ago now, that you'd never go back to him again, and look how that turned out."

"We were in the middle of a fucking war, and he was… You never saw what a state he was in then, and... And I couldn't turn him away, Jers."

Jersey raises an eyebrow, and Scotland grimaces in response. Although they've never really talked about what happened back then, she more than anyone will be aware of just how little fight he was likely to have – and did – put up, whatever the circumstances.

She's kind enough not to press the point, however. "And after the war?" she asks, her tone gently inquiring.

"Stupidity," Scotland suggests, only partly joking. "Or maybe madness. That's the definition of madness, isn't it? Doing the same things over and over again and expecting different results? I thought that maybe if I was careful enough, played by his rules, then things might change."

Jersey's mouth twists a little at the corners, inching towards a frown. "I'm not sure," she says slowly, "that he's even capable of being exclusive."

"That's not what I was expecting," Scotland says, shaking his head. "I've certainly never asked for it. It's just… There's a difference between being committed and being monogamous, you know, and I've only ever really wanted one of the two. The problem is that I've always been both, and –"

"He's never been either?" She shifts, moving closer to the edge of the sofa. "And you've told all him this?"

"Yes." Jersey's eyebrow twitches upwards again; she knows him too well. "I have," he insists. "Possibly not exactly what I've just told you, but clear enough that he should have got the fucking message by now."

"And you haven't spoken to him since?"

"No, but it turns out he can be bloody persistent. He's started on the emails now since I've stopped answering the phone to him. Probably just pissed off that I'm ignoring him, though. I don't think he's ever tried this hard to talk to me about anything before."

"Wounded pride," Jersey says, pushing herself all the way to her feet. "I don't think he's used to not being the one doing the leaving. He'll get over that soon enough, no doubt."

"I hope so," Scotland says with a sigh, "because he's clogging up my sodding inbox at the moment."

Jersey laughs, and then leans over to press a brief, dry kiss to Scotland's forehead. "Do you want some more tea, love?"

"Please," Scotland says, handing her his mug. It's still half-full, but long since gone cold, the milk already separating to form a scuzzy film across its surface. "I forgot about this one."

He can't help but grin when she mutters something about it being a 'dreadful waste' under her breath as she takes the cup from him, and it remains in place even after she's disappeared from sight into the kitchen.

She's barely been gone more than a minute or so, however, when she calls out, "You're nearly out of milk."

"Aye, I know," Scotland calls back. "I can pop out to the shop and get some more, if you like."

"No, it should be –" The rest of Jersey's words are obscured by the muffled thud of the fridge door swinging shut. There's a slight pause, and then a sharper series of bangs follows the first as she opens and closes his cupboards. The sound makes Scotland's grin fade even before Jersey reappears in the lounge doorway and he sees her concerned expression.

He groans. "I know what –"

"There's no food in there at all," she says, sounding accusatory despite the worry softening her features.

"I hardly ever have food in the house," Scotland rushes to reassure her. "I just get take-aways, mostly. You know I can't cook for shite."

She doesn't look convinced. "I know you don't need to eat, but you should. It's not healthy to –"

"I'm am eating," he says, nodding towards the foil containers sitting in the midst of the empty cans, dirty mugs, and other detritus amassed on his coffee table. "Look, I had a curry just last night. I'm not like Wales, Jers. I'm not fucking pining away over this."

Jersey does look where he's indicated, and then her gaze drifts around the room, taking in the other assorted heaps of rubbish dotted around – Scotland hasn't seen hide nor hair of the ùruisg for days, and he's beginning to suspect they've actually gone on strike to protest their unsafe working conditions – before her eyes finally settle on Scotland himself.

"I'm so used to you living like a slob that I didn't really notice how much worse a state than usual everything's in before now," she says, moving to perch on the arm of Scotland's chair. "Including you."

"Hey," Scotland says, automatically defensive, before realising that he probably does look a little rougher around the edges than usual. He hasn't slept more than a couple of hours a night for the past few weeks because his mates seem to think the best way to mend a broken heart is to drink it away. Not that he's put up much of a fight every time they badger him into meeting them down at the pub, however, because it aligns so well with his own views on lager as a panacea.

"Are you sure you're doing okay?" Jersey asks, wrapping a hand around one of his. "It isn't good to keep these things bottled up, you know. You need to get it all out; have a good cry if you have to."

She looks so earnest that Scotland bites back the laughter that is his immediate response, restricting himself to a slightly strangled, "Jesus Christ, I've never cried over him, and I'm not about to start." Her expression turns sceptical, however, and he quickly adds, "Well, maybe once or twice, but the last time was during the Second World War, and I think you'll agree was pretty extenuating fucking circumstances. Even England welled up a bit over that."

"Stop being so obtuse. I just thought that it'd probably do you good to talk to someone." When he opens his mouth to protest that he is, he's talking to her, she frowns and squeezes his hand. "Properly, Scotland. I know you're not as okay with this as you're trying to make out."

He's not, and despite the fact that he invited Jersey over precisely because, given their history, she knows more about his relationship with France than anyone else and it should be easier to tell her how much he misses him, even though he's really no further away than he ever was before, he can't. He can't precisely because, as he told her, he's not like Wales; he's always held words like that so tightly within himself that he can't even loosen them enough to spill them on to paper like his brother does.

So he just sits in silence, until eventually Jersey sighs, and brushes her other hand lightly through his hair.

 "Come on, mister," she says, firmly. "You need to get out of this house. You're going to go upstairs, have a shower and a shave, put on some nice clothes, and we'll go for a meal. Then you can take me dancing afterwards." She pauses, her eyes narrowing as they quickly graze over him again; over the baggy tracksuit bottoms and faded blue T-shirt that were the only clean clothes he'd been able to find that morning. "You do have nice clothes, don't you?"

She looks so much like France in that moment – fair lashes lowered as she examines him, lips pursed, wisps of blonde hair falling forward to frame her face – that Scotland has to turn his head aside in order to catch his breath. "Course I do," he says gruffly. "You don't think I meet my bosses dressed like this, do you?"

Jersey runs the tips of her fingers up the sleeve of his T-shirt, thumb smoothing over the worn fabric. "I'm surprised," she says, "that he never tried to make any changes to your wardrobe."

"He made a few comments here and there over the years, but after a while I think he just sucked it up and got over it." Scotland shrugs. "It's not like we went anywhere together very often, anyway."

Jersey's fingers close around Scotland's shoulder once they reach the top of his arm. "I don't think I ever really understood the two of you." Her words are tentative, cautious, as though she expects him to react badly to them.

It echoes Scotland's own thoughts so precisely, however, that it just elicits an answering dull twinge of recognition. With distance, he's less surprised that he had found the courage to end what they had, and more that it continued for as long as it did, in whatever form.

"Nothing to understand, Jers," he says. "Besides, it's over now."

 　


1st September, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland


It definitely hadn't been the worst bank holiday weekend he'd spent with his brothers. In fact, Scotland was beginning to think it had actually been rather successful. They were all still on speaking terms – as loosely defined as that state might well be between the three of them – none of them had ended up in traction, and Scotland had got drunk enough to finally tell England exactly what he thought he should do regarding America.

Granted, he'd also been drunk enough to forget that he and France weren't exactly on the best of terms for a moment and suggest that England invite him around on Boxing Day, and Wales had been drunk enough to almost say something completely fucking disastrous to England, but, then again, England was never likely to actually take his advice on the first, and he seemed to have forgotten all about the second.

Still, it was good to be home. Such protracted contact with England always served to remind him how grateful he was for devolution, no matter how much he might grouse about the concomitant increase in paperwork.

He picks up the few envelopes scattered across his doormat before he kicks the front door shut behind him, absent-mindedly opening them as he wanders through to the lounge. The first couple are from his bank, trying to get him to transfer to a new account and flog him yet another credit card respectively, and he deposits them next to the TV as he passes it without bothering to read them any further. The next is an invitation to some sort of function at Buckingham Palace – no doubt just another meet and greet with diplomats and tiny glasses of champagne that aren't worth the time it takes to drink them; England will be more than happy to attend on his own – which he slips into his pocket so he doesn't forget to reply to it, something which is expected of him even though he always declines.

The first thing he notices about the last letter is that it's written on paper that's even thicker and creamier than that sent from the Palace. There's a vaguely familiar scent wafting up from it that he can't put a name to it until he unfolds the pages and recognises the elegant, flowing script covering them. He quickly checks the envelope: the stamp and postmark are both French, and the same hand had written his address, albeit without his name heading it, which, at least, makes sense, as Scotland's fairly certain that France has no idea which human name he usually uses nowadays.

He quickly skims the first page, and is unsurprised to discover that the letter seems to be simply a reiteration of all the messages France has left on his answer phone – expressing his puzzlement regarding what he seems to see as Scotland's sudden change of heart regarding their relationship, and reminding him that they're both at a loose end yet again – although his reminiscences about their past encounters takes such a pornographic turn towards the end of the third paragraph that Scotland has to hurriedly refold the paper and shove it back inside its envelope before he's tempted to read on further.

He holds it tightly between his hands, but can't quite bring himself to rip it in two as he thinks he should, because the few letters France had sent him before over the years had crumbled into dust long ago. It's a ridiculously sentimental notion, and one that he shouldn't indulge himself in, but he finds himself tucking the letter behind the clock on his mantelpiece, regardless.

4th October, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland


"Get out of bed, you lazy sod," Scotland growls, poking at the duvet-covered lump with his foot.

The lump shifts, inching away from the contact, but stops short at the edge of the bed. A low moan emanates from somewhere within it, followed by a plaintive, "Brawd…"

"Bràthair," Scotland replies, mimicking the tone. "You promised you'd do this." Deciding that a change of tactics is in order, he grabs hold of the end of the duvet. "It's the least you can do to repay me for taking full bloody advantage of my hospitality yesterday."

His attempt to yank the duvet away is foiled by Wales pulling it hard in the other direction, tucking it more tightly around his head. A brief tug of war ensues, from which Scotland emerges victorious, and Wales is left to suffer the ignominy of defeat in a crumpled heap on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Wales glares up at Scotland with sleep-blurred eyes as he starts to struggle to his feet. "You are such a wanker."

"Stop whinging." Scotland grabs hold of Wales' elbow to hurry him the rest of the way. "You used to get up earlier than this on a Sunday to go to church."

"Yeah, well, that was church," Wales says, tugging his arm free of Scotland's grip once he's found his balance. "This is football. Pub football."

The dismissive note in Wales' voice rankles, but Scotland manages to keep most of the resulting irritation out of his own as he says, "We're down a man, and we'll have to forfeit the match if you don't come. I know you can't play for shite, but we're desperate."

"The only reason I'm even considering it is because you're my brother, Yr Alban; your persuasive skills are severely lacking." Wales breathes out sharply through his nose, eyebrows arching as they lift towards his tangled fringe. "Jesus, if it's really that important to you, then okay. But only on the condition that you make me a cuppa first."

"I've made you a bacon sandwich, too, because –"

Scotland's words still along with his feet as two observations strike him almost simultaneously upon crossing the lounge's threshold: firstly, that Wales is wearing shorts so brief that they barely even qualify for the name anymore, and secondly, he's idly flicking through the stack of letters that Scotland had meant to move to a more suitable location the day before but had clearly forgotten to do so.

"You're a fantastic big brother?" Wales finishes for him, half-turning from the mantelpiece to favour Scotland with a slightly crooked smile. "That is what you were going to say, isn't it?"

"Aye," Scotland says, vaguely, his attention caught by the movement of Wales' fingers; the way they linger over paper that Scotland knows is almost as smooth as silk.

The sight makes heat creep across Scotland's skin, radiating out from the pit of his stomach, and his breath curdles at the back of his throat, because the knowledge of his own weakness is shameful enough, but for Wales to know about it too is –

"You never told me he was writing to you." Wales' voice is soft, and his hands are gentle as he takes the plate and mug Scotland's carrying from him.

Scotland imagines that his expression will be gentle with concern, too, but he can't bring himself to raise his eyes to look. "Didn't seem important," he says. "It's not important."

"You haven't even opened most of them."

"No point, it'll just be more of the same old shit."

"But you've kept them all anyway?"

Scotland has no answer to that; he's meant to throw each one out as it arrived but somehow they always ended up behind the clock on the mantelpiece, regardless. Five of them now, all written on what he presumes is the same expensive stationery, given the quality of the envelopes, and all bearing the same faint scent. He can't even begin to follow the reasoning behind the decision, as he isn't even consciously aware of ever making it.

There's a faint clink of crockery as Wales sets his breakfast down on the coffee table, and then he lightly touches Scotland's shoulder. "Scotland, you can –"

Scotland ducks out from beneath Wales' hand as he sees his brother's other arm circling around out of the corner of his eye. "If you try to hug me, I will punch you," he growls, warningly.

"Bloody hell, you really are a wanker," Wales says, voice wavering with barely-suppressed laughter. "See if I ever try and be nice to you again."

"You don't need to be nice to me, Wales," Scotland assures him. "It's bloody weird enough that I've got England pretending that he urgently needs to talk to me about work every other week without you getting all sentimental on me as well. I'm fine, I'm coping, and if I ever feel the need to hug anyone, I'll go and see Jers because she doesn't smell like wet sheep."

"Twat." Wales chuckles as he moves away to pick up his bacon sandwich. "Fuck, Yr Alban," he says after a moment, "what the hell have you done to this poor bacon? It's not supposed to shatter when you bite it, you know."

Scotland turns around to remonstrate that if the service isn't up to Wales' exacting standards, then he's more than welcome to make his own damn food in the future, and has to clamp his eyes shut almost immediately. "If you have to wear those shorts, Wales, then for fuck's sake, don't bend down."

　


Wales hops from foot to foot beside the pitch, alternating between rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. "Fucking hell, it's cold," he says, the end of each word punctuated by the sharp clack of his chattering teeth.

"You're as bad as England," Scotland says, surreptitiously pulling his own hoodie a little closer around himself whilst Wales is distracted. "Soft southerners, the both of you. Maybe if you weren't just wearing knickers then –"

"They're not knickers," Wales snaps. "They're athletic shorts, cut for… ease of movement. You did give me the impression we'd be playing inside."

"Sorry?" Scotland had to concede that he'd maybe bent the truth just a little, but he'd been desperate – half of the city seemed to have been laid low by the flu or some sort of stomach bug that's been going around – and Wales had been his very last option, seeing as though the rest of the team had vetoed his asking England again, no matter that he's easily ten times the player Wales is. "You'll warm up soon enough once we start playing."

Wales grunts, not sounding particularly mollified. "And why is no one else here? Are you sure you've got the right day?"

"Bloody hell, yes, I'm sure I've got the right day," Scotland says, nudging Wales hard enough with his shoulder that his brother loses his footing and staggers forward a step. "We're just a bit early, is all."

Wales glowers at him as he fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, lighting one without offering them to Scotland. He inhales deeply, and then blows out the smoke in a ring, watching it rise until it dissipates into the grey of the overcast sky.

"So, about Ffrainc," he starts, head still tipped back, before Scotland rushes to interrupt him with, "I thought we agreed not to talk about that anymore."

"No, we agreed not to hug. I made no promises that I wouldn't continue to bug you about him."

"Fuck, remember the days when we all kept our noses out of each others' business?" Scotland says, groaning emphatically. "I miss those days."

"Sorry, brawd." Wales snickers. "I just thought you might be interested that I saw him last week."

Scotland shouldn't be interested, but he asks, "So how was he?" nevertheless.

"Pissed off, but then so was Lloegr. Business as usual, I guess, right?"

"Oh." Although Scotland hadn't even considered before now that France might be affected beyond the frustration that has been evident in all their interactions since July, he tries to tell himself that he isn't disappointed, ignoring the way stomach drops a little as though he is. "Okay."

"He did ask after you, though," Wales says, smirking a little. "Apparently, he hasn't been able to get hold of you lately. Seemed a bit put out by that in particular."

"Jers says that's just wounded pride," Scotland says, dismissively. "I'm surprised he's kept it up this long, but I don't think it'll last beyond whoever he hooks up with next.

"Jesus, Yr Alban, you can't honestly think that's all it is." His eyes widen slightly as though shocked. "I mean, you guys were together for centuries, and –"

"We had sex every so often for centuries," Scotland corrects. "It's not even close to being the same thing."

He's tired of explaining this over and over again. He really has no idea where his friends and family ever got the idea that it was anything more than that, especially recently.

Wales opens his mouth, but whatever word he'd been forming in response collapses into a soft sigh, puffing out his cheeks momentarily. "I guess you know best," he says after a moment's silence. "But I really did get the impression it was more than just that."

 
30th November, 2009; Edinburgh, Scotland


Scotland tries one last time to flatten his hair, but when he lifts his hand again, it springs up into its usual disarray almost instantly. He rubs at his jaw afterwards, several day's worth of stubble rasping against his palm, and briefly contemplates shaving before deciding that he's running late enough already.

He never usually goes out St Andrew's Day – alcohol and patriotism are a particularly heady mixture and the last time he did, he woke up face down in a gutter two days after the fact – but Steve's band are playing at the pub, and James has promised to bundle him into a taxi if it starts to look like he won’t be able get home under his own steam.

"Fuck it," he says to his reflection, "that'll have to do."

The ùruisg seem over-excited, squeaking and jabbering at him as they follow him downstairs, and nipping at his fingers as he picks up his keys and wallet from the shelf by the front door.

"Calm down, guys," he says, shaking them away gently. "I won't be long. Well, hopefully I won't be long."

The reason for their agitation becomes clear when he steps outside, and sees the figure sitting on his garden wall, blond hair a bright spot of colour in the darkening evening, illuminated by the street lamp standing on the pavement beyond.

One of Scotland's hands is reaching for the doorknob, the other fumbling in his pocket for his keys, before he stops himself short.

France actually coming to see him in person is something he hadn't thought to prepare for, because it's so far outside his realms of experience that the possibility of it occurring had never even crossed his mind. He sincerely doubts that his current inclination towards retreating into his house like a tortoise hiding in its shell – and then spending however long it takes for France to get fed up and go away peeking at him through the curtains and frantically hoping he doesn't ring the doorbell – is the best way to deal with the situation, however.

"This is fucking stupid," he mutters to himself. All too often before, he had let his life be shaped by the direction of France's whims, which was pathetic enough then, he's since realised, and is doubly so now, when he's not beholden to him in any way, shape or form. He wants to go to the pub so he's damn well going to go to the pub, and screw whatever plans France might have otherwise.

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and marches down his path with his eyes fixed firmly in front of him. He still notes a flash of gold out of the corner of one of them, however; still hears the subdued impact of France's shoes hitting the tarmac as he gets to his feet and the rustle of his clothes as he moves. Still, Scotland manages to reach his gate, although his fingers do seem to seize up as he wraps them around its latch, tightening to the point where the metal digs painfully into the palm of his hand but nevertheless apparently unable to tip it. It's too soon – far too soon – because this had been difficult enough at a remove of pretended indifference and with hundreds of miles between them, but he's not ready for this. Not ready for France be so close suddenly that he can hear him breathing – a little too shallow and a little too fast – and smell that he's wearing the same scent that had clung to the letters he sent, which almost feels like a deliberate cruelty because –

"Écosse."

And the name – the inherent dismissiveness and implication of distance in the use of it – is a blessing, because rising irritation floods in to drown the warmer feelings which were beginning to bubble up in Scotland's chest unbidden.

"An Fhraing," he replies in kind, nodding his head curtly in greeting. It's easy enough now, he discovers, to open the gate and stride through it, even though the movement brings him so close to France that the other nation's shoulder briefly brushes against his chest. It's just a glancing touch which Scotland barely even registers before it's gone again, but it awakens every nerve in his body to jangling awareness anyway.

It is a mistake, however, to think that any of measure of irritation might provide enough of a buffer that he can turn to face France without consequence afterwards. Christ, but he's beautiful in the pale lamplight, eyes shining wild and shadows accentuating the sharpness that obvious frustration has already lent to his expression. Scotland has to thrust his hands into his coat pockets in an attempt to combat the resulting urge to reach out for him. It's a familiar enough impulse, and not entirely surprising, but he's had enough practice over the years in subduing it that he knows it will pass soon enough, regardless.

"So you're not dead, then," France says, quietly. "Although Pays de Galles had assured me that was indeed the case, I had started to wonder."

"No, I'm not. I just don't want to speak to you right now, is all. I would have thought that was crystal fucking clear by now," Scotland snaps back. "Oh, and he prefers to be called Cymru again nowadays, by the way. And I'm Scotland, in case you'd forgotten."

France's face darkens further, and the flush inches down his neck to pool at the hollow of his throat as his hands clench into fists. "It's perfectly clear," he says, the sneer that twists his top lip distorting his words slightly. "Although, after all these years, I thought you'd have the decency to –"

Scotland laughs, he can't help himself, though it's not born out of humour. "Well, I'd thought that you might have the decency to actually listen to me for once," he says after he's managed to catch his breath again, "though fuck knows what'd given me that impression. When I asked you for some time, that wasn't code for 'a couple of weeks, and then feel free to commence badgering me at every opportunity thereafter', you know. Because it was years, France, centuries, and I would have hoped you'd understand that I'd need an opportunity to get my head straight first. You really haven't been helping with that."

France rakes his hair back roughly from his face with clawed fingers; a forceful, impatient gesture that Scotland hasn't seen him make for a long time, and which speaks silent volumes about the depths of his disquiet. A small part of Scotland, the same one he's desperately been trying to ignore over the past few months, thrills at the sight, because he can't remember the last time something he did affected France to this extent, enough to disturb his tightly-held composure and force him to react. That it's anger causing it barely seems to matter.

"So, am I right in understanding that I get no say in this," France almost growls. "You decide it's over, and so it is?"

"Pretty much," Scotland says, voice roughening to match France's tone, "because I'm the only one who had anything invested in it, as far as I can see."

He shakes his head, and that's meant to be an end to the matter, but apparently there are words beyond 'So please piss off back to Paris and leave me alone' piling up at the back of his throat, because when he opens his mouth again, he finds himself saying, "This is the first time you've ever just dropped by to see me, did you know that? Even when you were in the country, you never even bothered to give me a call unless you needed a lift from the bloody airport. And yet, whenever you wanted me to, I was supposed to just drop everything and hurry over to wherever you needed me to be, and damn the expense and the fucking inconvenience of it. And I always did, because I'm a fucking numpty, apparently.

"You don't get to decide because I'm sure you'd have been happy if we carried on the way we were forever, but I'd just got so bloody tired of it all. I was tired of being picked up and then dropped again when it suited you, and tired of doing everything your way so there was no room for me anymore. I'm sure you'll find someone else who's more than willing to step into my shoes, if that's what you want, but I'm done with it, I really am."

France opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything, and although he still looks angry, there's another emotion vying for prominence in his expression – smoothing out the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, and slackening the harsh line of his mouth a little – that Scotland can't quite put a name to.

He can't help but wonder what France had been thinking would happen after he turned up out of the blue like this. More than likely, sadly, that Scotland would be so overcome by the mere sight of him that he'd drag him into his house, push him down onto a bed, and then proceed to fuck him into the mattress, because that was what had been expected of him before, and Scotland had always tried his best to meet all of France's expectations in the past, so really, he has nobody to blame but himself if that is the case.

A few more minutes tick by in which France fails to say anything at all, and Scotland begins to become aware that he's unwittingly fulfilling yet another of those old expectations just by standing there and waiting until France finds his voice again: the expectation that he has no other obligations in his life besides France; nothing that can't be put on hold whenever the other nation deems him worthy of gracing with his presence.

"Look, if you really do want to talk, then I guess… I guess we can do that some time, but not now. I've really got to go," he says, turning on his heel. "My mate's band's got a gig down at the pub tonight, and I'm going to miss his set if I don't get my arse in gear."

He's already started walking away before he's struck by the realisation that he hadn't even had to consider whether or not he could actually do so; something which makes him think that he might just be able to do this after all. He might be able to move the fuck on this time.

He soon hears France hurrying to catch him up, however, and then a rather breathless: "Do you mind if I join you?"

Christ, all the years Scotland hasn't had the courage to ask France to go anywhere with him, never mind the pub, and now, under these circumstances, he just invites himself? It's on the tip of his tongue to say, 'Yes,' to perhaps voice the, 'Piss off,' that he hadn't been able to earlier, but eventually he just shrugs. At the end of the day, he doubts that he can really stop France from doing anything he's made his mind up to do, and it's bound to be too noisy for any attempts to continue their conversation, anyway.

　


Any lingering doubts that Scotland might have had that he'd made a fucking stupid decision were washed away the instant they approach the pub and he is hit by a wave of euphoria so intense that he has to stop for a moment until he's managed to separate himself from it sufficiently that he feels like a distinct entity again.

France looks up at him questioningly. "Are you all right?"

"Aye, I'm grand," Scotland says, grinning as energy crackles through him like electricity. "Come on, you can't tell me that you don't feel absolutely fucking amazing on Bastille Day?"

France only hums in response, which isn't really an answer at all.

But Scotland can feel how proud everyone is, proud to be a part of him, all concentrated in one place and at one time, and it's dizzying. Like being drunk already, maybe, or that old, much-missed feeling of being on a battlefield with all of his troops lined up behind him, their belief in him so powerful that it seemed as though he could take on the entire world at once and win.

"Shit, this is why I never usually go out on St Andrew's Day," he says, because the feeling might be exhilarating, but it can also be dangerous. "I always end up making a complete tit of myself."

France lifts one eyebrow. "Really," he says, and there's no inflection to his voice, but Scotland gets the impression he's holding in laughter, nevertheless.

Once he's centred himself again, he feels able to push open the pub's door and step inside to get hit by a wave of noise, instead.

Thankfully, it seems that he isn't too late, because there's a bagpiper on the small stage at the back of the pub, rather than a band. He's not very good – slightly out of tempo and missing almost as many notes as he hits – but Scotland finds himself mouthing the words to 'Scotland the Brave' along with everyone else as they sing it at the top of their lungs, anyway. His vision is filled with the blue and white of his flag, the red and gold of the Lion Rampant, and the scores of his people crowding the usually sparsely populated pub almost wall to wall, and his grin grows so wide that it's almost painful.

"That's a good look on you," France says, his mouth close to Scotland's ear so he can be heard over the din, his warm breath stirring Scotland's hair and counterintuitively sending a chill shivering down the length of Scotland's spine.

Scotland steps away from him, rubbing at the back of his neck in an effort to chase the unwelcome feeling away as France settles back down on to the flats of his feet.

"Wha–" he manages to spit out before he's grabbed from behind, and the arms which wrap tightly around his chest knock the air from his lungs.

"Aly," James near-screams at him. "We were beginning to think you weren't going to turn up, mate. Duncan's had to work late, and Paul and Ewan's girlfriends dragged them off to some fucking dinner party, so I thought it was just going to be me and Ruth all night."

Scotland struggles free of his friend's over-exuberant embrace, and then quickly turns around before he can grab hold of him again. James' face is flushed deep red, either from the heat of so many bodies packed together or alcohol, and he has a Saltire tied around his shoulders and a stripe of blue dyed in his hair. Scotland hopes for James' sake that Edinburgh Council are forgiving of the latter in the morning.

"Sorry, something cropped up, and, well, I got a little delayed," Scotland shouts, gesturing towards France. "This is Francis, by the way."

James steps forwards with his hand outstretched, and then pauses and looks back over his shoulder at Scotland, his mouth dropping open a little.

"Shit, the Francis?" he asks, although Scotland has to deduce the question mostly from the movement of his lips as the sound of it is almost completely swallowed up by the music.

"One and the same," he confirms.

"Shit," James says again, and instead of shaking France's hand, he pulls him into a hug that looks just as constrictive as the one Scotland's just escaped from. France looks a little shocked – nostrils flaring as his eyes grow wide and round – but he pats James' back a couple of times before he's let go. "Good to meet you at last, mate. We all thought he'd made you up, you know." He looks between Scotland and France, his smile broadening. "So are you guys back together again, then?"

"No," Scotland says, quickly. "We're just here as…"

He doesn't know how to finish the sentence, because he and France aren't really friends, not like he and James, or even he and Wales, are, no matter that Scotland might have classed them as such before, because now they're not together there's… nothing, really. Nothing to replace that. Hell, when it comes down to it, he doesn't know whether they can connect anymore if it's not through sex since it's been so long since that was anything other than the case.

"It's great that you can still be friends, I guess." James fills up the gap with the response that would make the most sense if they were anybody else. "Anyway, I'm sure you'll be glad to know," he says, flinging an arm around Scotland's shoulders, "that I managed to nab us a table earlier before the hordes descended."

　　

"He isn't how I imagined he'd be, at all," James says to Scotland as they stand at the bar later, waiting to get served.

"He isn't? What did you imagine he'd be like, then?" Scotland asks, honestly curious; it's been a long time since he's had the chance to see the two of them through the eyes of an outsider who hasn't known them both for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

"I don’t know," James says, shrugging slightly. "Can't say that I've given it that much thought, but he doesn't really seem like your type."

"My type?" Scotland raises his eyebrows questioningly. "I don't think I have one, and if I do, I'm sad to say that he's pretty much it. Why do you think he's not my type?"

"Jesus, Aly, what's with the twenty questions?" James chuckles. "Again, I don't really know but he seems like a pretty classy sort of guy, and he looks kinda high maintenance, I guess, and you're…" James trails off, frowning.

"A bit rough?" Scotland suggests snippily, a little annoyed by the insinuation.

James snorts. "Naw, that's not it. More like tight as a duck's arse. Just doesn't seem like a good fit, that's all. You know, on first impressions."

Scotland turns away from the bar momentarily to look back at their table. He had been right before: France definitely looks out of place here, with his smart clothes, his perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, surrounded by people who don't even manage to make Scotland look under-dressed in comparison. His posture is cramped and rigid, one leg crossed over the other and arms folded across his chest, as though trying to ensure as little of his body as possible is in contact with his seat, and he's sipping so slowly on first lager James had bought him that Scotland's convinced that it's going to last him all night.

He also hasn't said a word to Scotland since they first sat down, preferring instead to talk almost exclusively to Ruth, and their heads are bent together, foreheads almost touching. They're too far away for Scotland to read their expressions properly, but he guesses they're both still smiling, and both still holding eye contact for longer than is strictly necessary during normal conversation.

James props his elbow on Scotland's shoulder as he too turns to watch Ruth and France. "Does he like –?"

"Aye, Jamsie," Scotland says flatly, "he does."

Now that Scotland has done his duty as a mate and listened to Steve's band – who were better than the bagpiper, but only just – he thinks he'd best get home whilst the going's good and he hasn't done anything to embarrass himself too badly. It's bad enough that he hadn't put up more of a fight when Sarah, Duncan's girlfriend, asked him to dance with her, and had therefore gone on to give everyone in the pub first-hand evidence of his two left feet, but the warm, thick fog that's currently occupying the space where his brain should be is trying to persuade him that it would be a good idea to grab himself some bagpipes and show everyone how they should be played, or else get up on stage and sing one of the ancient Gàidhlig songs that'd have everyone sobbing into their pints by the end of it.

He's surprised, however, that France gets up from his seat and grabs his jacket when Scotland starts to take his leave from James and Sarah, politely but firmly declining their repeated entreaties that he 'just stay for one more'.

"You don't have to leave just because I am," Scotland tells him.

"I know." France meets his eyes steadily. "But I want to."

Before they go, however, France hands his mobile to Ruth, and she taps something into it, presumably her phone number, and after managing to keep a tight hold on them throughout the rest of the night, that gesture is the one that finally loosens the stirrings of jealousy that had been building deep at the back of Scotland's mind.

His feelings must be clear in his face, as France leans in towards him as they walk out of the pub and says, "As I'm sure you're already aware, she's studying history at university. Apparently, she thinks I have some unique ideas concerning the causes of the Franco-Prussian War, and she'd like to pick my brains on the subject again at a later date."

It's the sort of reassurance that Scotland would have liked to hear at just about any other point in their past, but never received, and he can't understand why France is offering it now, when it shouldn't – doesn't – matter anymore.

Scotland had been too distracted earlier to notice that France's car was parked outside his house. Usually, he flew whenever he visited Edinburgh, and Scotland would sometimes be expected to pick him up from the airport, even though France always looked mildly offended at the sight of Scotland's ancient Ford Escort and then complained incessantly about Scotland's driving all the while afterwards. Scotland's sure that the fact that he's driven for once means something, but he has no ideas as to what that might be.

There's an overnight bag in the car's boot, Scotland notes – he hopes France has booked himself a hotel room, because he sure as hell isn't going to be spending the night at Scotland's – but although France's hands settle on it first, they don’t linger, and he grabs hold of a bottle instead.

"This is for you," he says, turning around and handing it to Scotland.

Scotland squints down at the label. It's his favourite whisky, which suggests that France had probably been talking to Wales about rather more than just Scotland's whereabouts when he saw him back in September. "What's this for?"

"It's a birthday present."

"Thanks, I guess, but it's not my birthday," Scotland says, slightly bemused. "At least, I don't think it is. It'd be a fucking amazing coincidence if it was, right?"

France chuckles. "Just as it would be if the fourteenth of July was actually mine, but it's as close to one as I'm likely to get, as today is for you."

It's a nice gesture, Scotland supposes, albeit a slightly odd one, and he's not sure how to react to it. He and his brothers have never really done much to mark their national days – save for avoiding pubs wherever possible – and they've certainly never exchanged presents on them. Neither have him and France. In fact, he can’t even remember the last time France bought him anything.

"Would you like a glass?" he asks, simply to be polite, when a more suitable response fails to occur to him. It's nothing more than a pointless pleasantry, really, as France doesn’t have much of a taste for spirits and is bound to decline.

The smug curl of France's lips upon hearing the offer, however, gives Scotland the uneasy feeling of having unwittingly walking into some sort of trap, something which only intensifies when France nods and says, "Please."

"I suppose we should get inside, then," Scotland says warily, and tries to reassure himself with the knowledge that he's more than capable of slinging France over his shoulder and depositing him right back outside again in the unlikely event that he does have some sort of ulterior motive behind his apparent desire to be invited into Scotland's home.

　
 
Apparently, the ùruisg must have been so disturbed by France's appearance earlier that they've failed to make any headway with the housework, despite the large bowl of milk Scotland had set out to encourage them. Dirty crockery is still piled high in the sink, framed by a spray of cutlery scattered across the draining board, and the worktops are cluttered with empty containers and sticky with spilt tea and lager.

France had started pacing up and down the centre of the room almost as soon as he entered the kitchen, and his expression is, for the most part, carefully neutral, but a slight wrinkle to his brow and purse of his lips betrays distaste, which gives Scotland the impression that his constant movement is due to an unwillingness to stay in one place for too long in case the mess is communicable on contact.

France's own apartment is always spotless, but, then again, Scotland suspects he hires someone to come in and clean for him, whereas Scotland only has a small group of capricious fae, his own two hands, and a housework regimen atrophied by almost three hundred years of living with a brother who cannot abide seeing something out of its designated spot for more than a minute at a time and so could always be counted on to clean up after Scotland, no matter how often, and how vociferously, he might complain about the task otherwise.

Unfortunately, the ùruisg's idleness has left Scotland with only two options for the whisky: a chipped glass with a hair-line crack running through it, and a blue and white mug that had been a Christmas present from Steve the year before and which informed the world that 'Scotsmen Do It With Amazing Grace'. He pours a generous measure into each, and then contemplates them both for a time, pondering which one France is least likely to turn his nose up at. Eventually, he decides that it's likely to be both and just grabs the first one that comes to hand.

France merely murmurs his thanks as he takes the glass from Scotland, and then drains almost half in a single swallow without even looking at it, wincing afterwards. It makes Scotland think of all the times they have drunk wine together in recent years, and how France always huffs and scowls when Scotland fails to savour whatever vintage he's picked out to his satisfaction. All of France's disapprobation hasn't changed the fact that Scotland's lost his taste for wine over the years although he never refuses it if it's offered, because, at the end of the day, alcohol is alcohol, and Scotland is willing to drink just about anything, especially if it's free.

Whisky, however, is whisky, and so Scotland swirls his mug gently, and then tips it towards his face to inhale the fumes – overwhelmingly smoky with an undertone of vanilla – before he takes a sip. He rolls it around his mouth for a moment, coating his tongue, and it scorches the back of his throat when he eventually swallows it. It also makes his head swim, which is unusual, but something Scotland attributes to the weariness he's felt since they left the pub that already felt like the beginnings of one of his infrequent hangovers, and he suspects has a similar cause.

He closes his eyes momentarily to ride out the feeling, and when he opens them again, he notices that France has stopped his pacing and come to a halt in front of the fridge with his back to Scotland. He appears engrossed by the collection of gaudy magnets stuck there, each one a present from Ireland, who always buys them as souvenirs whenever she visits somewhere outside her country.

Scotland can't help but wonder once again why he wanted to be invited inside, why he's here at all, especially if he's not going to say anything. Reticence has never been something that Scotland's associated with France, and it's unsettling enough, the silence awkward enough, that he's torn between giving the whole encounter up as a bad job and going to bed, and just asking him to get it over with, if France insists on not being forthcoming.

"Why did you come here?" he asks before he's even consciously aware of having made a decision, his mouth obviously one step ahead of his brain.

France straightens one of the magnets, tapping it lightly with his forefinger, and then his shoulders lift slightly as though taking a deep breath. "I would have thought that was obvious," he says.

Frankly, it's not obvious, because Scotland had been expecting a reiteration of everything that France had already told him, asked of him, in various mediums over the past few months, but since that hasn't occurred, he's struggling to find any sense in it. He starts to tell France that, but France interrupts him before he's even finished forming the first syllable.

"You were jealous," he says, turning towards Scotland again, "of that girl earlier."

If any of Scotland's jealousy had survived France's unprompted explanation for his taking her number earlier, it would have been swept away by the fact that he doesn't even seem to remember her name. "Ruth? Aye, I was. I still love you, France, that much hasn't changed, and I've never liked seeing you flirt with other people."

Scotland is startled by how easily the words come to his lips now – the ones that he's held on to so tightly through the centuries that he always feared it would rip him two if he ever tried to free them again – so much so that he hadn't even realised he was going to give them voice to it until he did, as though they're something with no more weight than a greeting or a comment on the weather, and that he can drop into conversation just as casually.

"You still love me," France says, and Scotland honestly can't tell whether it's supposed to be a question or a simple statement of fact.

It is, however, the first time that France has spoken that word throughout all of this, the first time he's acknowledged Scotland's feelings even if he doesn't return them. Something within Scotland is still urging him to read meaning into everything France has done this evening that he wouldn't normally – the drive, the pub, this – but he ignores it because the reality will doubtless run contrary to any fanciful, hopeful conclusions he could draw as they were most likely no more and no less than the typical spur of the moment decisions that seem to drive so many of France's interactions with him.

"It's only been four months, what did you expect?" Not that four hundred years made much of a difference on that score either, but that, at least, Scotland has the presence of mind to keep to himself. "Anyway, I didn't end things because I don't love you, I ended them because I do. Like I told you before, what we had wasn't enough, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself it was, and, well, it wasn't anywhere near what I wanted from you."

"What did you want?" France asks, his eyes downcast, fixed on the glass of whisky in his hand.

"And I would have thought that was obvious," Scotland says, snorting derisively. "Come on, surely you've been in love enough times to be able to work that one out?"

One corner of France's mouth curls upwards slightly. "Indulge me."

Scotland's half-tempted to tell him to fuck off, but the words seem determined to spill themselves, regardless; a century's bitterness lancing itself as he opens his mouth.

"Christ, what do people normally want out of a relationship?" The question's only partly rhetorical, because he's come to realise that probably the only halfway normal relationship he's ever had was with Jersey, despite their fucked up reasons for starting it. "To be with someone who doesn't skip out on them the second they get a better offer, and then expect them to take them back when they get bored of that too? Spending time with each other, going out places, doing things together that don't involve sex? Not having to watch every fucking word you say, every fucking action, because you're too scared of –"

"All right," France says, and even though his voice is quiet, it still derails Scotland's train of thought, and he has to backtrack through what he'd said to try and make sense of the interjection.

"All right, what?" Scotland asks, confused, when he can't.

"All right," France repeats, firmer this time, and he raises his head to meet Scotland's eyes. "We can try that, if that's what you want."

And that, Scotland thinks, could only possibly make the sense it seems to if it were anyone other than France saying it. "Are you asking me out?" he asks incredulously.

France's half-smile becomes a full one, and he laughs a little. "I suppose I am, yes."

Scotland thinks he should be happy, ecstatic even, but he isn't, because, really, he's not sure that this actually sounds any better than what they had before, despite how it appears on the surface.

"Is it what you want, France?" he asks, because France giving him this begrudgingly, perhaps in an effort to keep Scotland where he's always expected him to be, isn't something Scotland can accept, either.

"Yes." The answer is swift, determined, and Scotland can almost believe it's true; wants to believe it's true, but after this last hundred years of near apathy on France's part, it seems impossible. "I suppose I should thank you for giving me the time I needed to realise that."

That can't be all there is to it, Scotland thinks, it can't, because France has had longer to mull it over before, much longer, and he's never even come close to this conclusion as far as Scotland can tell. He sounds genuine enough, though, and…

And Scotland's head is spinning now, the weariness seeping down to his bones, making his hands tremble so that the whisky sloshes around in its mug. He puts it down carefully on the countertop, and then rubs at his eyes, which seem unable to stay focused. The entire situation feels strange, almost surreal, and far more than Scotland can hope to handle with his mind still slightly fogged by alcohol and his earlier euphoria.

"I think," he says, slowly, "I should go to bed." He shakes his head when France takes a step towards him. "On my own. You can take the sofa, or the spare bed, whichever takes your fancy. You know where the clean sheets are, right?"

France catches hold of Scotland's hand as he turns away, links their fingers together and squeezes gently. His palm is a little damp, which Scotland would have attributed to nerves if he thought France could ever have believed he had anything to be nervous about. "You didn't give me an answer," he says.

Scotland almost wants to say, 'I'll think about it', or 'let me sleep on it' but that wouldn't be anything more than pointless delaying tactics, because what France is offering is something Scotland's wanted for the best part of a millennium, and he knows he'd regret it forever if he didn't at least give France the chance to prove that he's serious, that he's willing to change. If it turns out that France is stringing him along, that he can't live up to what he's just promised, then Scotland knows now that he can walk away and survive it afterwards, and, hell, he thinks it would be an even easier decision to make next time if that were the case.

He wants to take things slowly this time, test France's limits before he commits himself to this fully again, but there's slow and then there's glacial.

"Yes," he says.
 

　
1st December, 2009; Edinburgh

"France, you're going to have to get a move on if you do want to get back home before midnight," Scotland shouts as he walks out of his kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. It's instant, but France will just have to like it or lump it because Scotland ran out of his poncey tea some time ago and hadn't thought he'd have a reason to restock it any time soon. "You'll be hitting rush hour in London at this rate, and –"

Scotland is assailed by a strong sense of déjà vu as he steps into the lounge, and he swallows down the rest of his words so hard that it triggers a coughing fit, because in place of Wales wearing disgustingly skimpy shorts, there's France, wearing nothing but an equally skimpy towel, tucked around his waist.

"Jesus Christ," he splutters, slamming the coffee down on the nearest available flat surface before he manages to spill it all over himself. He scrambles madly for something coherent to say, but all he can manage is a choked, "Shit."

"Are you all right, mon cher?" France asks, and even though he doesn't look away from the mantelpiece, Scotland can still tell that he's smirking. There's definitely a certain smug quality to his voice that suggests he's taking a great deal of pleasure from Scotland's discomposure.

"I'm good," Scotland says, watching a droplet of water sliding slowly between France's shoulderblades and then down the valley of his spine to be caught by the tiny, tiny towel. "Grand. Look, I understand that I probably wasn't at my most eloquent last night, but I still think I was pretty clear about wanting to take things slowly, and standing around in just –" Scotland realises he's still staring at the towel, and hurriedly moves his gaze upwards again – "that doesn't really fit my definition of slowly."

"I've just got out of the shower," France says, as though that's a perfectly reasonable explanation for him standing around practically naked in Scotland's lounge, despite the fact that Scotland's shower's in the bathroom right next to the spare bedroom where France's overnight bag, and, more importantly, his clothes are.

Scotland's about to point that out, and chivvy him back upstairs again, when he notices that France is shivering almost imperceptibly. "Fucking hell, even I think it's a bit nippy today, you must be bloody freezing."

He's closed the gap between them and reached out with the intention of rubbing some warmth back into France's goosebump-covered arms before he realises his mistake. France sinks back against his chest as soon as Scotland touches him, head tucked neatly under Scotland's chin.

"You are impossible," Scotland tells him, and then tells himself that he's merely sharing body heat as he slips his arms around France's waist.

He's not particularly convincing.

France sighs quietly – a soft, contented sort of noise that Scotland hasn't heard him make for a long time, and that makes his heart squeeze a little painfully – before saying, "You didn't read the letters I sent."

"Should I have done?"

"I wrote you poetry," France says, a little stiffly.

"You did?" Scotland tries to hold back, but the urge to laugh is too strong. Again, it's a nice gesture – better than nice, in fact, and Scotland will make sure to set aside some time to actually read the letters at the earliest possible opportunity, provided France doesn't destroy them first in a fit of pique – but nowadays his mind always leaps to Wales at the mention of poetry, and the shitty verses he inflicts on Scotland every year at Christmas in lieu of a decent present and tries to pass off as meaningful. "Why?"

"I thought you might appreciate it, but it seems…" France trails into silence as he spins around to glare at Scotland. He blinks slowly a few times, and then asks, "What are you wearing?"

"A jumper?" Scotland ventures.

"That is not a jumper, that is," France's eyelids flutter shut, as though he can't bear to look at it for a moment longer, "an eyesore."

"Hey, it was a present," Scotland says, feeling defensive on New Zealand's behalf. He supposes that it's a rather vivid shade of yellow, and the red Lion on the front looks a little less Rampant and more like roadkill – and possibly also a squirrel – but it's thick, warm, and a lot less misshapen than New Zealand's usual efforts.

"That does not change the fact that it's hideous, and that you should take it off. Right now."

Scotland finds himself letting go of France and reaching automatically for the bottom of the jumper before he stops himself. Not even twelve hours, and France is trying to make the changes to his wardrobe that Scotland had assured Jersey that he didn't care about these days. "I'm beginning to think that I dreamt our entire conversation last night, because I'm sure we talked about things like compromise and how I'm not going to jump every time you fucking clap anymore."

One of France's eyes opens a crack. "Fine," he says, sharply. "What do I have to do so that you'll take off the jumper?"

Scotland can think of many things he could suggest in response to that, but most of them aren't appropriate to their situation as it stands at the moment. Slow, he reminds himself. Slow. And it's no doubt best to start small, anyway. "You could always come over and visit me again next week; you know, when you don't have to rush back. Spend the weekend, maybe?"

France says, "Okay," before Scotland has even finished speaking, and then makes a hurrying gesture with one hand. Scotland grins, and pulls the jumper off over his head, static crackling through his hair, then balls it up and throws it into the corner of the room.

France has closed his eyes again.

"What's the matter now?" Scotland asks him.

"The T-shirt too, Scotland," France says, sounding pained.

"I don't see what's wrong with it," Scotland mutters, staring down at the cracked, peeling transfer of the cartoon Loch Ness monster on the front of the T-shirt. But, then again, he's not particularly attached to any of the clothes, and the opportunity to see how far France is willing to go, how committed he is to this, is too great a one to pass up. "So, next weekend, when you're over, we're going to go to the pub again so you can meet the rest of my mates."

Frances grimaces slightly, but he nods, nevertheless. By the time Scotland has stripped off his T-shirt, however, and turned back to face him, France is smirking again, and although they're hooded, his eyes are definitely both open.

"And what," he almost purrs, "about the trousers?" He rests his fingers lightly against the waistband of Scotland's jeans, carefully not touching his skin, although it heats as though he is, regardless, sending a flush racing up the centre of Scotland's chest.

Scotland's skating on thin ice now, because, Jesus, all of his presentable underwear is in the wash basket so he's wearing Y-fronts, and he should step back now before France has a chance of seeing them, but his curiosity eggs him on. He can always ask for something that France would likely rather die than agree to usually, anyway. "Well," he says, voice shaking a little. "England's having this party on Boxing Day…"