APH: A Different Sort of Waltz
Title: A Different Sort of Waltz [2/?]
Characters: England, France, Germany, mentions of Austria, UK OCs (Scotland, Wales)
Pairings: France/Scotland(OC), France/Germany, US/UK and England/Portugal(OC)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mild violence, sexual references and UST
Summary: In which 700 years of relations is not enough to prepare for a Viennese ball, a month of dance lessons and piecing together the scraps of a relationship long enough to make it real.
[Chapter 1]
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Note: This is more or less a follow-up of moonlighten's amazing fic Love is A Verb and you should all read it. <3
9th January 2010; London
If England had been surprised to find Scotland rifling through the downstairs storage room upon his return from a meeting he did not show it. He did however, drop his briefcase at the door to cover his nose and mouth with a handkerchief as the sharp scent of old air, damp wood and mothballs was making his eyes water.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.
“The front door,” Scotland replied, the words carelessly drawled out as he discarded a dusty coverlet over his shoulder and started in on a large chest of the kind that England remembered often taking with him on his long sea voyages. “Not going to be a problem is it? What’s mine is yours and all that rot.”
England had been meaning to change the locks for years now, but seeing how that Scotland was unlikely to visit as it was and he’d rather Wales confined between four walls rather than out and about in the neighbourhood causing a drunken racket after being dumped again, he had let that thought drift to the back of his mind. He sighed through his nose.
“Would it have killed you to call first? And furthermore, I hope you’re going to be cleaning up the mess you’ve made because - that’s a priceless Ming dynasty vase!” he exclaimed, voice rising shrilly in pitch as Scotland tipped over said vase to peer inside it, all while spinning its lid on its side like a crude children’s top. He fell to his knees beside his brother and snatched it back, red-faced.
Scotland snorted and held his hands up. “Of course it is,” he said. “Because why else would it be gathering dust in this dank, miserable room when neither you, me nor Wales has set foot in it for a good fifty years?” England bristled.
“That’s just typical of you isn’t it?” he replied scathingly. “No respect whatsoever for other people’s property -”
“Oh aye, and you’d know all about that wouldn’t you, runt?” Scotland growled, his search temporarily forgotten as his hackles went up. “Or does sitting your good-for-nothing arse on the clach-na-cinneamhain for six fucking centuries not count?”
England sneered, “One would think you would have guarded it better then, if it was so bloody important.”
At this point Scotland grabbed the lip of the vase, more than ready to smash it into England’s nose and damn the consequences, even as his brother hung on to it with mulish eyes, but luckily enough Wales chose that moment to re-emerge from behind an old bookshelf. There was dust in his hair and on his shoulders.
He was also carrying a flat wooden box roughly about the width of a small table in his arms, its gold plated edges and latch since tarnished a rusty sort of silver in its age. It was otherwise very plain, and apart from the odd heraldic symbol carved into the corners, was otherwise unmarked.
“Yr Alban, I think I found your - oh, Lloegr you’re home.” He raised his eyebrows in slight surprise, as though England coming back to his own house had been something neither of them were expecting. “Why are you clinging to China’s vase like that?”
England gave the antique another hard yank towards his person and set it aside out of Scotland’s reach. “Wales?” he said incredulously, and looked between his brothers with rising suspicion. “What’s he dragged you into this time?”
“I resent that remark,” Scotland said loftily, “seeing how that job is more yours than mine. Besides, we’ve lived here long enough for this house to be ours as much as it is yours, so we can come and go as we please. Right Wales?”
“Cymru,” their brother sighed long sufferingly, but he let it go with a roll of his eyes. “And I’m just here to help if you must know. Yr Alban can’t seem to recall where he’d last put his Highland suit and he’s already turned over his house and mine, so we thought we’d try -”
England’s eyebrows shot up as he exclaimed, “His what?” around the same time Scotland whirled on Wales to shoot him a filthy look,
“Don’t listen to a fucking word he says. We’re looking for no such thing. You know bloody well I don’t -”
“You hate formal occasions and all manner of dancing, Christ we know,” England deadpanned, scoffing. “You must have told half of Europe no less than a hundred times.”
That gave Scotland pause for thought. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Only because the message has yet to sink in,” he said flatly. “You seem to do well enough to withstand the boredom on your own so why the hell would Wales and I have even bothered attending? And it’s not our fucking duty,” he added, when England half -opened his mouth to protest, “so don’t even say it.”
Of course this just made his brother purse his lips together instead. “And yet here we are, watching you make a mess out of all our homes as you look for a suit I don’t think I’ve seen you wear in decades. I have to wonder,” and here he gave Scotland a pointed look, “what the occasion is exactly.”
“You know I’ve been wondering that myself,” Wales admitted, pressing the box into Scotland’s hands before falling back to cross his arms over his chest, “because neither of us has attended any sort of function with Lloegr at Buckingham Palace for ages now. So that can’t be it.” He chewed at his lower lip thoughtfully and glanced at England, seeing how Scotland was now showing an inordinate amount of interest in the plaster moulding of the ceiling. “Didn’t you say you were going to be in Vienna close to February?”
England sighed. “For another one of Austria’s sodding balls yes,” he admitted. “You would think he would have given up on them by now but there are hundreds of them, every year, like clockwork.” He shook his head, seeming to be vaguely mystified, which was saying a lot considering he liked to reminisce about his days of Empire at least every other week.
“Which would explain why the Bentley’s out in the driveway,” Wales stated, and shrugged when England gave him a look, “Don’t make that face, Lloegr. You do this every year. I know you don’t get to drive it as much as you like anymore but really? Taking it with you to the continent just so you can drive it up to the Hofburg Palace is a bit much, don’t you think. You do realize the hotel provides you with a car -”
“And with the money you spend on that I might as well use it to secure my own transport,” England said, his voice taking on that sniffy sort of tone it usually did when someone pointed out an idiosyncrasy he did not want to admit to. Scotland stopped craning his neck backwards to avoid attention, now with a shit-eating grin of his own on his face.
“Sure England,” he said “Whatever you say. In fact why don’t we all just airlift our cars to Vienna? God knows the economy’s down the shithole as it is so what’s a few more ridiculous expenses on personal enjoyment going to do?” England glared at him.
“I didn’t expect you to understand,” he replied snappishly, “seeing how you have never been invited to any such occasion yourself and have no idea of the kind of class necessary -”
“Bullshit,” Scotland’s laugh was sharp, “Austria hasn’t thought you classy ever since you pissed on the flag of the Holy Roman Empire during the Crusades. Hell you’ve never been that much of a gentleman either, if you ask me.”
England’s cheeks were scarlet. “Well I didn’t!” he said. “And I did not - that wasn’t … did the Frog tell you that? Because someone ought to keep their crooked French nose out of other people’s bloody business…!”
“I’m surprised you know anything at all about this Yr Alban,” Wales added, “You usually don’t pay that much attention to these kinds of events.” Scotland shrugged and blew dust off the box in his possession.
“Aye and I wouldn’t have, but France has been gushing over it since the weekend and I -” He paused, expression darkening as he realized the trap he had more or less just walked straight into. “…for fuck’s sake.”
A small smirk had curled unbidden at the corner of Wales’ mouth. “Well that would explain the suit at any rate.”
“Are you looking for a thrashing?” Scotland growled, as England went from red to pale to red again, eyes wide and his mouth moving wordlessly and making the odd, strangled sound of disbelief as he looked from Scotland to Wales, to the box in his brother’s hands as though it were all some kind of sick joke. “You shut the fuck up too, England. Jesus Christ. Nothing’s been decided yet alright? Does it look like I’m leaping on this chance?”
“Pretty fancy date you’ve been asked on,” Wales went on slyly, much to both of his brothers’ horrors, albeit for very different reasons, “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”
“You don’t have to say it like that -”
“You’re going?” England sounded vaguely green at the very thought, which made Scotland pause in his own tirade to scowl at him.
“Maybe,” he said challengingly, “Maybe not. I suppose we’ll find out how the mood strikes me in the weeks to come, eh? Not that I’m going out of some elaborate plot to spite you, appealing as that sounds. What was the name on your invite, I wonder?” His mouth curved into a positively wicked smile. “The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland…? Because if it was then I don’t see why the rest of us shouldn’t be included. You ought to come too Wales,” he added, glancing around his shoulder, “wanker though you’ve been as your brother I feel it’s only right to tell you that you need to get off this fucking island and get laid.”
Now it was Wales turn to colour, the smirk dropping off his face and being replaced by one of abject embarrassment. “That’s not - I…” he cleared his throat. “I appreciate the offer but I’m really quite content with being single at the moment…”
“Indeed,” England said haughtily, now that he had regained some of his speech patterns and so was more inclined to speak his mind. “I don’t need you turning this event into a fucking circus.” Wales brows drew together; he frowned.
“A circus?” he repeated and threw his hands up as Scotland shot England a triumphant look. “Well pardon us for raining on your parade, Lloegr. I had no idea our presence was that much of a hindrance to your image. Yr Alban’s right you know. We have every fucking right to go, same as you. And you know what? I think I will. In fact I’ll be sure to clear my calendar.”
“It’s only fair we get our money’s worth,” Scotland simpered, now fully condescending and thoroughly enjoying himself, “I mean, if you RSVP as the ‘The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’ surely the expenses that go towards that are enough for four people. You ought to share and share alike England; family comes first after all.”
England’s face was borderline puce by now; the flush in his cheeks bypassing red and coming close to purple. He seemed to be fighting some sort of internal battle with himself because it was a long while yet before he spat, “Fine. Fine! Do as you like. But you’re going to have to pull your weight and find your own ways and means of getting there if you insist on playing this game. And you,” here he pointed a finger imperiously in Scotland’s face, “more than anyone had better brush up on their manners.”
Scotland swatted it away. “My manners are perfectly fucking decent,” he announced. “But your concern is appreciated all the same. I have it covered, don’t worry. I won’t drag your name any further into the mud because you do that just fine on your own.” He paused, giving Wales time to hide his badly disguised snort of laughter as a cough before going on, “besides, it’s not like we’ve never met with nobility before, even in this day and age. Things haven’t changed that much.” He shrugged England off again. “How hard could it be?”
England pressed his lips together. “Hard enough,” he said tightly, “and that’s without the wine bastard trying to cop a feel on the host whilst undressing him with his eyes. Christ, as if he didn’t cause enough trouble with Germany today. Bloody EU and their cliques.”
“About that,” Scotland interrupted, deliberately ignoring the idea of France doing any such thing with other nations as he had for centuries, “you wouldn’t happen to know why he’s so fired up about this event in particular, would you?” England gave him a shrewd look. “What?” his brother demanded. “You know as well as I do that I can’t be half-arsed going and if you’d rather not see my face there you had better give me a damn good reason not to.”
England seemed to ponder over this for a long, silent moment, no doubt weighing out the pros and cons before he scoffed, muttering something about how ‘he didn’t speak Frog so why the hell would he profess to know what was going through the bastard’s tiny, single-minded, sex-addled brain?’
“All bias aside obviously,” Scotland said loudly in turn, prompting him further with raised eyebrows. England grimaced; he rolled his eyes.
“What do you want me to tell you?” he wanted to know, and with the way he was pressing his fingers to his right temple it was obvious that he was quickly getting a headache from all of this, the stench of the mothballs notwithstanding, “that they get along smashingly and you’re no doubt going to be put through a night of opera and the arts? Because they don’t. They get along about as well as chalk and cheese and the Frog is going to be lording himself over that bloody aristocrat the entire night. He’ll be even more insufferable than usual.”
Scotland relaxed. “So that’s all it is? Great,” he said. “Fantastic. That I can handle. He does it to you often enough for it to be sufficiently entertaining.”
England waved his hand dismissively, ignoring him. “If only that’s all it was,” he said. “But I think it’s safe to say that you’re better off finding out about the rest yourself.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“And just think,” Wales added, cutting the impending argument off with a slight grin, “he’ll be distracted enough that he won’t even remember to drag you out onto the dance floor and we’ll all be spared the sight.” Scotland swatted at his legs with his outstretched hand, scowling, but he stepped aside easily.
“Whose side are you on anyway? After all the trouble I went through securing you an invitation too -”
“And I appreciate the thought Yr Alban but you’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t seen you that dressed up in years. Is he going to make you take dance lessons in advance?”
“This from someone who moves about as well as a sheep on crack, and that’s when you’re sober -”
“What about you Lloegr?” Wales asked, not rising to the bait, “Did you manage to get a date?”
“Ha,” Scotland snorted. “If you’re talking about Portugal then that’s not a “date” Wales, that’s as good as a pity fuck.” His brother raised an eyebrow.
“Only with dancing?” he asked, amused.
“Precisely,” Scotland said, as England once again flushed bright red. “Who else would it be? He never asks one of the weans, even though I’m sure America would leap on the chance if only he’d get over himself and just say it,” his voice rose as his brother rose jerkily to his feet and made for the door, “but since he’s too much of a fucking coward -”
“Alfred would be bored to tears,” England called back, just as loudly even though he sounded as though he had retreated somewhere further down the hall. No doubt to go and make himself a hot cup of tea and look for the paracetamol. “Or do you not remember his ridiculous “swing” phase? Not that it’s any of your bloody business!”
“It’s like taking your wife out instead of your young lover Lloegr, that’s all he’s saying!” Wales replied around the edge of the door, to faint curses.
“Considering you’ve had neither Wales, I don’t think you’re in any position to be crowing like such an expert!”
“He’s got a point there,” Scotland conceded, grinning a little as Wales spluttered and flushed. He turned his head to glare back at him.
“And Ffrainc is more of a mistress in comparison,” he said flatly. “So I wonder where that leaves you…?”
Scotland’s grin quickly morphed into a scowl. “Watch it,” he growled.
“Or you’ll what?”
He got to his feet, fingers tightening around the box still in his hands as though he meant to use it as a projectile, the fate of the contents within be damned. He moved towards Wales, who obviously sensing his mistake, disappeared around the corner rather quickly, and could be heard snickering all the way down the corridor.
Scotland left the box next to the staircase before giving chase, and it was only later, when England had shouted himself hoarse as the kitchen had been strewn with dregs from the tea leaves and hot water, and Wales had been backed up under the kitchen table with a bread knife to his vital regions that a truce had been declared.
In the grand scheme of things egos hadn’t been bruised too badly, England hadn’t kicked them out to spend the night on the street and the storage room door was left wide open to the elements like it hadn’t been done in years; yet it only served to remind them why they had always pretended that neither one of them had personal lives outside of their already dysfunctional family unit in the first place.
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Scotland scrutinised the suit with a frown.
It didn’t look much better in the light of the bedside lamp anymore than it did when he had all the lights turned on. In fact the orange glow only served to make its age stand out at an even starker contrast.
The suit itself was threadbare, the shine of the buttons long since dulled. The material had faded from smart black to patches of an ill-looking sort of grey, the starched white dress shirt now more or less yellow and the kilt frayed by the odd hole and stained irreversibly rust red from where the metal lining of the box had come into contact with the damp over the years. France may have complained about his severe lack of fashion sense every now and again, but even Scotland wasn’t so daft as to wear that out in public.
Jesus, but he hadn’t thought it was that old. It must have been longer than he thought since he had dressed up proper for a formal occasion.
He touched the sleeve tentatively with his fingers, as though afraid the whole thing would come apart in his hands from being preserved in storage too long, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Surely once he showed it to France it would put all thoughts of asking Scotland to accompany him to Vienna entirely out of his head. After all there was no point in buying a new suit; for one it would no doubt cost him a mint, and for another he wouldn’t be wearing it again anytime soon so clearly there was no point.
He was sure France would understand. After all it had been over a hundred years since he had seriously asked Scotland to follow him to such an event so to his mind, he had got the message pretty fucking clear a while ago.
In fact he was sure that they hadn’t really gone out on a “date” let alone one that involved dancing ever since VE Day in 1945; and back then France had been so high on good cheer and Scotland so substantially drunk that any awkwardness between them had been abated by the demand and need in their embrace, floating away on the spirits of the crowd pressing them together in the close quarters of a loud, smoky English pub.
Nothing remarkably close had happened since. France had never asked, and Scotland had never offered. He held that he still wasn’t one for fancy gatherings, and had put such thoughts out of his mind whenever England left the house alone and dressed up like the gentleman his brothers knew he wasn’t, back when they had all still lived under one roof.
It wasn’t as though it was a total loss, he thought, giving the suit a final glance over as if to make sure it was suitably ruined enough that even France couldn’t cajole him into getting it fixed, before crossing his ankles one over the other and settling back on the bed to recline against the pillows. He reached for his mobile.
If France wanted to go out then Scotland would take him to dinner. His mate’s cousin’s sister was apparently married to an Indian chef in London and while he could not recall if France was a fan of curry, he held that he most probably wouldn’t complain if it were sufficient to his standards. It may not have been fancy or Parisian, but it was affordable and apparently worth every penny.
With this in mind he scrolled through his list of contacts and pressed the “call” button. France had said he would be busy tonight, but he would still be in London tomorrow, and had promised to meet Scotland at the hotel after the conference. If it wasn’t too far maybe they could go then.
France picked up on the fourth ring. There was a muffled thump from his end, and a few choice words muttered in French before he apparently righted his phone properly with his ear and said, “Scotland?”
He sounded a little surprised. Scotland thought he heard an odd tinkling sound in the background, like glass or crystal, and a snatch of classical music, but he couldn’t be sure, so he ignored it.
“Hey,” he said, shifting to get comfortable and toeing his old suit and its box aside with his foot, “How was the meeting?”
France made a low thoughtful sound and Scotland could almost hear his lips curving upwards as he drawled, “Oh it went as well as could be expected, mon grand. When your brother was not huffing and puffing like one of Espagne’s bulls at any rate, but alas, he is a sore loser and business is business. I think we can safely say it was a success.”
There was another voice in the background, male and distinctly exasperated but Scotland could not make heads or tails of it either. He frowned a little but said, “That’s great. I’m happy for you, but try not to work too hard alright?” It was of course, ridiculous to say how the laugh that followed warmed his insides and tied them up into knots so he cleared his throat and forged on, “Listen, are you busy? Because I was wondering about tomorrow…”
“Have you decided to accompany me to Vienna after all?” France sounded delighted, “Oh my dear, that’s wonderful. I was just thinking about you earlier,” and here Scotland’s cheeks pinked a little even though that had not been what he was going to say at all, “and I think it would be a perfect opportunity for us to spend some time together. Oh how I would love to rub that in Autriche’s face right now,” he trailed off into a pause. But before Scotland could correct him on his misgivings he clucked his tongue and said, “Do not look at me like that mon cher Ludwig, of course I am speaking entirely in jest.”
“Ludwig?” Scotland repeated, and sat up straight, his brows drawing together, “France, where the bloody hell are you?”
“At the Ritz,” the other nation replied cheerily, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world, and now that Scotland listened closely, he could hear the murmur of other voices and the faint “tap-tap-tap” of France tapping cutlery idly against a plate. “We would have gone to the Savoy but Allemagne said it was closed for renovations besides and -”
The bottom had dropped somewhere out of Scotland’s stomach, even though he knew he was probably over thinking things and leaping to conclusions. His mouth felt ostensibly dry regardless. “What are you doing at the Ritz?”
“Business of course,” France replied easily in turn, “it wasn’t easy to get in mind you, and dear Allemagne had to pull rank to get us some seats, you ought to see his face mon cœur, it’s a wonder I still manage to talk him into anything to begin with. He says ‘hello’ by the way.”
It occurred to Scotland that booking things months in advance was, to France, something that happened to other people. Ones who consequently weren’t nations capable of bending the rules to their favour, even if they technically shouldn’t; he swallowed hard.
France sounded so pleased with himself, and if Germany was as much of a stick in the mud as Scotland recalled, then the fact that he was letting France get away with such things, coupled with the openly flirtatious tone of his voice (and his mind was quashing the notion that France used that tone a lot with everyone besides) was making his stomach turn into knots for entirely different reasons.
He was strongly tempted to tell France to relay “Back the fuck off, Kraut,” but he wasn’t drunk enough (if at all) by half, and would no doubt get hung up on for even suggesting it. This, unlike the incident on St. Andrew’s Day with Steve’s sister Ruth, was largely different for the fact that Scotland could not see what they were doing, and his overactive imagination was getting away with him, even though he knew that France would chide him and take offence if Scotland even made the suggestion.
He coughs once, away from his mobile, enough to make sure that his voice hadn’t failed him and prepares to say, ‘I’m taking you out tomorrow, and while it’s not the fucking Ritz you’ll love it, I promise’ …
… but what comes out instead is, “What are you wearing?”
The question makes him want to take it back almost immediately after it leaves his mouth, because France makes a slight noise of surprise himself. His laughter is rich and warm and tender, but Scotland’s already building anxiety refuses to let him see it as anything but humiliating. He can feel his flush bleeding all the way down his neck and making his ears itch.
“Oh mon cœur now?” his voice drops a little, becoming low and seductively playful, “Well let me see, I suppose you’ve already guessed I’m wearing a suit, Dior Homme if you can imagine it. Charcoal grey and blue, I believe you would like it, but I think we would be in agreement when I say,” he lowered his voice further, until it was just breath in Scotland’s ear that made his palms sweaty and his skin tingle, “that I would much rather prefer you to take it off me than watch me put it on.”
Scotland’s heart thudded somewhere up in his throat. He worked his jaw slowly. “I…”
“Not enough? Well if you come over later I can show you in person. You have such lovely, strong hands mon grand, and it’s been so long. I miss that, did you know? The way your fingers dance down my spine when we touch, your kisses trailing all the way down my neck -”
He could see the images in his mind, clear as day, and while he was certain for a fact that France was not touching himself, running his hands down his body in lieu of Scotland’s own, his imagination was very good (excellent in fact) for superimposing the image on top and he had to cross his legs tighter together when he hissed, “France…”
“Schottland.”
Scotland nearly dropped the phone; his whole body jerking like ice water had just been thrown over him. He mouthed wordlessly, “Er…”
For a nation so young Germany sounded remarkably stern. “While I have no doubt that your conversation with Frankreich is…” he hesitated for a moment, before continuing gruffly, “appropriately riveting, I must ask you to wind this up now before he becomes completely unable to focus on his work.”
However before Scotland could reply, and he wasn’t sure what to say even if he had, feeling oddly enough like a teenager, there was a crackle of reception and the muffled voices of France saying what sounded very much like, “You are not being fair mon cher Ludwig, we were just getting to the good part,” in a somewhat amused sort of tone and Germany stiff reply of, “If you could please keep your relationships separate from your job we might actually get something done tonight,” before the phone itself went momentarily quiet.
Scotland pressed his ear to it, straining for some sign that he hadn’t been cut off halfway. “France…?”
There was a subtle shift of movement. He heard a sigh. “My apologies dear heart,” France said at last, his voice slightly muffled as though he were cupping his hand over both his mouth and the receiver, “but I am afraid we shall have to cut this short. My “wife” is looking as though he will have an aneurysm if I do not promise to behave.”
He thought he heard Germany mutter “Don’t call me that,” and “Please act your age”, somewhere along the line, but there was so much background noise as it was that Scotland couldn’t be sure of that either. He wasn’t sure of very much these days at all really; France, their relationship or both.
There was a silence on the other end just long enough to be uncomfortable. Scotland shifted, until at last France spoke up again, “… so was there something that you wanted to talk to me about, mon cœur?”
Scotland shook his head. Then, belatedly realizing that France could not see it said somewhat hoarsely, “No…it’s only that,” he cleared his throat, the words failing him. He tried again. “I was just…”
He sighed. “Just called to tell you ‘I love you’”.
It was a ridiculously corny reason, albeit the first one that came to him off the top of his head. “So, you know,” he went on, feeling somewhat of an idiot, “I love you.”
So remember that whilst you’re sitting there talking “business” with that German bastard, he doesn’t add and rubs disgruntledly at his reddened cheeks.
France makes a small noise, one that he has long learnt to place as a hum of pleasure. “That’s so sweet,” he murmurs, and the words are soft and intimate enough to send a chill down Scotland’s spine, even if he does not say the words in turn (and has yet to do so for awhile now).
There is another pause.
Then, “Do you want to come over tonight?”
Scotland declines. He doesn’t think he can look France in the face as it is, especially after knowing he had been out having dinner with Germany at one of the fanciest restaurants in London, even if he feels moronic and knows that he means nothing by it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says instead and France lets it go.
“Alright,” he replies, and there is another brief moment of muffled static in his ear as he makes a soft kissing noise, something that Scotland has seen France do often enough when he is on the phone to Canada to know that he had an idiosyncratic habit of pressing his lips to the receiver whenever he bid those closest to him farewell. “Good night mon cœur.”
Scotland utters, “Night mo ghradh,” in turn and hangs up, more to stop his ears from turning crimson than anything else. He slumps back against the pillows and turns his mobile over in his palm, presses his lips against the receiver like an afterthought.
He feels ridiculous.
“Fuck it,” he mutters and kicks out with his foot. The old suit and its box slip off the side and goes crashing to the floor. He doesn’t attempt to retrieve it, and pointedly ignores the muted banging against the wall behind his head that is England no doubt telling him to ‘shut the hell up and keep it down’ in ten words or less.
Scotland hits the wall back with his own fist and tosses his phone on the table. It goes skittering across the top before coming to a spinning halt.
He pulls a pillow over his head and tries not to think about very much at all.
-
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[Part 3]
A/N:
I have this horrible habit of going into a chapter worrying that it may not be long enough and it ends up being a LOT longer than I expected orz. But anyway. XD
Notes:
Ball season in Austria - Held from New Years all the way to Easter, this time in Austria is alive with hundreds of balls, from Imperial to modern but no less splendid. I imagine "ball season" is popular amongst the nations too, especially France, who loves that sort of thing; I bet he would never miss a chance to show Austria up at his own aristocratic event ...though whether he succeeds is something else entirely. XD
clach-na-cinneamhain - aka the Stone of Scone/of Destiny/the Coronation Stone. It has been used for centuries as the Coronation Stone for Scottish, English and later British monarchs. Historically it was kept in the Scone Abbey in Scotland, until it was stolen by Edward I (Longshanks) as a spoil of war. It has thus been in England for 600 years, was stolen by Scottish students in 1950 and has since been given back to Scotland to hold to when not in use for coronation ceremonies at Westminster. You can see why Scotland is so cross about it orz.
The Bentley: England's pride and joy. He is scarily anal and protective over it, like any good enthusiast. His brothers on the other hand, just think he's mental.
England pissing on the flag of the Holy Roman Empire: It is the late 1100s, Jerusalem is once again in the hands of the heathens and during the Siege of Acre after quarrelling over the spoils with France and Austria, England threw HRE's standard down from the city and well...you can imagine how well THAT went. There is no excuse orz.
Like taking your wife out instead of your young lover: In terms of relationships with England, Portugal is clearly the "wife" and America the "lover" (imho haha). Portugal has the advantage of years, of being the best friend, the comfort when all else is lost and a shoulder to cry on. America on the other hand, is the one who got away, the whirlwind romance, the passionate love affair. It's all just a matter of decisions really. (What is my mind I don't even)
Germany and France: Pretty much the husband-wife team of the EU, for all that Germany acts and France is well...France haha. Of course this means they run the show and pull all the big strings, so you can imagine why England isn't happy. Then again he's rarely happy unless he's in charge orz. They're pretty much BFF these days... though it took 300 years of animosity to get there. |D
The Ritz - a classy hotel in London whose restaurant has to be booked weeks in advance. In the old days its top chef was French, but really I imagine France in all kinds of places that make Scotland's wallet ache in sympathy.
The Savoy - was world famous before the Ritz, though both are classy and have similar histories. Sadly though it's been under renovation since 2007, which is costing a bomb, and though that's meant to finish this year, I wasn't sure entirely WHEN, so I chose not to have them hang out there, just in case.
mo ghradh - "my love" (Scottish Gaelic)
Characters: England, France, Germany, mentions of Austria, UK OCs (Scotland, Wales)
Pairings: France/Scotland(OC), France/Germany, US/UK and England/Portugal(OC)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Mild violence, sexual references and UST
Summary: In which 700 years of relations is not enough to prepare for a Viennese ball, a month of dance lessons and piecing together the scraps of a relationship long enough to make it real.
[Chapter 1]
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Note: This is more or less a follow-up of moonlighten's amazing fic Love is A Verb and you should all read it. <3
9th January 2010; London
If England had been surprised to find Scotland rifling through the downstairs storage room upon his return from a meeting he did not show it. He did however, drop his briefcase at the door to cover his nose and mouth with a handkerchief as the sharp scent of old air, damp wood and mothballs was making his eyes water.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.
“The front door,” Scotland replied, the words carelessly drawled out as he discarded a dusty coverlet over his shoulder and started in on a large chest of the kind that England remembered often taking with him on his long sea voyages. “Not going to be a problem is it? What’s mine is yours and all that rot.”
England had been meaning to change the locks for years now, but seeing how that Scotland was unlikely to visit as it was and he’d rather Wales confined between four walls rather than out and about in the neighbourhood causing a drunken racket after being dumped again, he had let that thought drift to the back of his mind. He sighed through his nose.
“Would it have killed you to call first? And furthermore, I hope you’re going to be cleaning up the mess you’ve made because - that’s a priceless Ming dynasty vase!” he exclaimed, voice rising shrilly in pitch as Scotland tipped over said vase to peer inside it, all while spinning its lid on its side like a crude children’s top. He fell to his knees beside his brother and snatched it back, red-faced.
Scotland snorted and held his hands up. “Of course it is,” he said. “Because why else would it be gathering dust in this dank, miserable room when neither you, me nor Wales has set foot in it for a good fifty years?” England bristled.
“That’s just typical of you isn’t it?” he replied scathingly. “No respect whatsoever for other people’s property -”
“Oh aye, and you’d know all about that wouldn’t you, runt?” Scotland growled, his search temporarily forgotten as his hackles went up. “Or does sitting your good-for-nothing arse on the clach-na-cinneamhain for six fucking centuries not count?”
England sneered, “One would think you would have guarded it better then, if it was so bloody important.”
At this point Scotland grabbed the lip of the vase, more than ready to smash it into England’s nose and damn the consequences, even as his brother hung on to it with mulish eyes, but luckily enough Wales chose that moment to re-emerge from behind an old bookshelf. There was dust in his hair and on his shoulders.
He was also carrying a flat wooden box roughly about the width of a small table in his arms, its gold plated edges and latch since tarnished a rusty sort of silver in its age. It was otherwise very plain, and apart from the odd heraldic symbol carved into the corners, was otherwise unmarked.
“Yr Alban, I think I found your - oh, Lloegr you’re home.” He raised his eyebrows in slight surprise, as though England coming back to his own house had been something neither of them were expecting. “Why are you clinging to China’s vase like that?”
England gave the antique another hard yank towards his person and set it aside out of Scotland’s reach. “Wales?” he said incredulously, and looked between his brothers with rising suspicion. “What’s he dragged you into this time?”
“I resent that remark,” Scotland said loftily, “seeing how that job is more yours than mine. Besides, we’ve lived here long enough for this house to be ours as much as it is yours, so we can come and go as we please. Right Wales?”
“Cymru,” their brother sighed long sufferingly, but he let it go with a roll of his eyes. “And I’m just here to help if you must know. Yr Alban can’t seem to recall where he’d last put his Highland suit and he’s already turned over his house and mine, so we thought we’d try -”
England’s eyebrows shot up as he exclaimed, “His what?” around the same time Scotland whirled on Wales to shoot him a filthy look,
“Don’t listen to a fucking word he says. We’re looking for no such thing. You know bloody well I don’t -”
“You hate formal occasions and all manner of dancing, Christ we know,” England deadpanned, scoffing. “You must have told half of Europe no less than a hundred times.”
That gave Scotland pause for thought. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Only because the message has yet to sink in,” he said flatly. “You seem to do well enough to withstand the boredom on your own so why the hell would Wales and I have even bothered attending? And it’s not our fucking duty,” he added, when England half -opened his mouth to protest, “so don’t even say it.”
Of course this just made his brother purse his lips together instead. “And yet here we are, watching you make a mess out of all our homes as you look for a suit I don’t think I’ve seen you wear in decades. I have to wonder,” and here he gave Scotland a pointed look, “what the occasion is exactly.”
“You know I’ve been wondering that myself,” Wales admitted, pressing the box into Scotland’s hands before falling back to cross his arms over his chest, “because neither of us has attended any sort of function with Lloegr at Buckingham Palace for ages now. So that can’t be it.” He chewed at his lower lip thoughtfully and glanced at England, seeing how Scotland was now showing an inordinate amount of interest in the plaster moulding of the ceiling. “Didn’t you say you were going to be in Vienna close to February?”
England sighed. “For another one of Austria’s sodding balls yes,” he admitted. “You would think he would have given up on them by now but there are hundreds of them, every year, like clockwork.” He shook his head, seeming to be vaguely mystified, which was saying a lot considering he liked to reminisce about his days of Empire at least every other week.
“Which would explain why the Bentley’s out in the driveway,” Wales stated, and shrugged when England gave him a look, “Don’t make that face, Lloegr. You do this every year. I know you don’t get to drive it as much as you like anymore but really? Taking it with you to the continent just so you can drive it up to the Hofburg Palace is a bit much, don’t you think. You do realize the hotel provides you with a car -”
“And with the money you spend on that I might as well use it to secure my own transport,” England said, his voice taking on that sniffy sort of tone it usually did when someone pointed out an idiosyncrasy he did not want to admit to. Scotland stopped craning his neck backwards to avoid attention, now with a shit-eating grin of his own on his face.
“Sure England,” he said “Whatever you say. In fact why don’t we all just airlift our cars to Vienna? God knows the economy’s down the shithole as it is so what’s a few more ridiculous expenses on personal enjoyment going to do?” England glared at him.
“I didn’t expect you to understand,” he replied snappishly, “seeing how you have never been invited to any such occasion yourself and have no idea of the kind of class necessary -”
“Bullshit,” Scotland’s laugh was sharp, “Austria hasn’t thought you classy ever since you pissed on the flag of the Holy Roman Empire during the Crusades. Hell you’ve never been that much of a gentleman either, if you ask me.”
England’s cheeks were scarlet. “Well I didn’t!” he said. “And I did not - that wasn’t … did the Frog tell you that? Because someone ought to keep their crooked French nose out of other people’s bloody business…!”
“I’m surprised you know anything at all about this Yr Alban,” Wales added, “You usually don’t pay that much attention to these kinds of events.” Scotland shrugged and blew dust off the box in his possession.
“Aye and I wouldn’t have, but France has been gushing over it since the weekend and I -” He paused, expression darkening as he realized the trap he had more or less just walked straight into. “…for fuck’s sake.”
A small smirk had curled unbidden at the corner of Wales’ mouth. “Well that would explain the suit at any rate.”
“Are you looking for a thrashing?” Scotland growled, as England went from red to pale to red again, eyes wide and his mouth moving wordlessly and making the odd, strangled sound of disbelief as he looked from Scotland to Wales, to the box in his brother’s hands as though it were all some kind of sick joke. “You shut the fuck up too, England. Jesus Christ. Nothing’s been decided yet alright? Does it look like I’m leaping on this chance?”
“Pretty fancy date you’ve been asked on,” Wales went on slyly, much to both of his brothers’ horrors, albeit for very different reasons, “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”
“You don’t have to say it like that -”
“You’re going?” England sounded vaguely green at the very thought, which made Scotland pause in his own tirade to scowl at him.
“Maybe,” he said challengingly, “Maybe not. I suppose we’ll find out how the mood strikes me in the weeks to come, eh? Not that I’m going out of some elaborate plot to spite you, appealing as that sounds. What was the name on your invite, I wonder?” His mouth curved into a positively wicked smile. “The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland…? Because if it was then I don’t see why the rest of us shouldn’t be included. You ought to come too Wales,” he added, glancing around his shoulder, “wanker though you’ve been as your brother I feel it’s only right to tell you that you need to get off this fucking island and get laid.”
Now it was Wales turn to colour, the smirk dropping off his face and being replaced by one of abject embarrassment. “That’s not - I…” he cleared his throat. “I appreciate the offer but I’m really quite content with being single at the moment…”
“Indeed,” England said haughtily, now that he had regained some of his speech patterns and so was more inclined to speak his mind. “I don’t need you turning this event into a fucking circus.” Wales brows drew together; he frowned.
“A circus?” he repeated and threw his hands up as Scotland shot England a triumphant look. “Well pardon us for raining on your parade, Lloegr. I had no idea our presence was that much of a hindrance to your image. Yr Alban’s right you know. We have every fucking right to go, same as you. And you know what? I think I will. In fact I’ll be sure to clear my calendar.”
“It’s only fair we get our money’s worth,” Scotland simpered, now fully condescending and thoroughly enjoying himself, “I mean, if you RSVP as the ‘The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland’ surely the expenses that go towards that are enough for four people. You ought to share and share alike England; family comes first after all.”
England’s face was borderline puce by now; the flush in his cheeks bypassing red and coming close to purple. He seemed to be fighting some sort of internal battle with himself because it was a long while yet before he spat, “Fine. Fine! Do as you like. But you’re going to have to pull your weight and find your own ways and means of getting there if you insist on playing this game. And you,” here he pointed a finger imperiously in Scotland’s face, “more than anyone had better brush up on their manners.”
Scotland swatted it away. “My manners are perfectly fucking decent,” he announced. “But your concern is appreciated all the same. I have it covered, don’t worry. I won’t drag your name any further into the mud because you do that just fine on your own.” He paused, giving Wales time to hide his badly disguised snort of laughter as a cough before going on, “besides, it’s not like we’ve never met with nobility before, even in this day and age. Things haven’t changed that much.” He shrugged England off again. “How hard could it be?”
England pressed his lips together. “Hard enough,” he said tightly, “and that’s without the wine bastard trying to cop a feel on the host whilst undressing him with his eyes. Christ, as if he didn’t cause enough trouble with Germany today. Bloody EU and their cliques.”
“About that,” Scotland interrupted, deliberately ignoring the idea of France doing any such thing with other nations as he had for centuries, “you wouldn’t happen to know why he’s so fired up about this event in particular, would you?” England gave him a shrewd look. “What?” his brother demanded. “You know as well as I do that I can’t be half-arsed going and if you’d rather not see my face there you had better give me a damn good reason not to.”
England seemed to ponder over this for a long, silent moment, no doubt weighing out the pros and cons before he scoffed, muttering something about how ‘he didn’t speak Frog so why the hell would he profess to know what was going through the bastard’s tiny, single-minded, sex-addled brain?’
“All bias aside obviously,” Scotland said loudly in turn, prompting him further with raised eyebrows. England grimaced; he rolled his eyes.
“What do you want me to tell you?” he wanted to know, and with the way he was pressing his fingers to his right temple it was obvious that he was quickly getting a headache from all of this, the stench of the mothballs notwithstanding, “that they get along smashingly and you’re no doubt going to be put through a night of opera and the arts? Because they don’t. They get along about as well as chalk and cheese and the Frog is going to be lording himself over that bloody aristocrat the entire night. He’ll be even more insufferable than usual.”
Scotland relaxed. “So that’s all it is? Great,” he said. “Fantastic. That I can handle. He does it to you often enough for it to be sufficiently entertaining.”
England waved his hand dismissively, ignoring him. “If only that’s all it was,” he said. “But I think it’s safe to say that you’re better off finding out about the rest yourself.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“And just think,” Wales added, cutting the impending argument off with a slight grin, “he’ll be distracted enough that he won’t even remember to drag you out onto the dance floor and we’ll all be spared the sight.” Scotland swatted at his legs with his outstretched hand, scowling, but he stepped aside easily.
“Whose side are you on anyway? After all the trouble I went through securing you an invitation too -”
“And I appreciate the thought Yr Alban but you’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t seen you that dressed up in years. Is he going to make you take dance lessons in advance?”
“This from someone who moves about as well as a sheep on crack, and that’s when you’re sober -”
“What about you Lloegr?” Wales asked, not rising to the bait, “Did you manage to get a date?”
“Ha,” Scotland snorted. “If you’re talking about Portugal then that’s not a “date” Wales, that’s as good as a pity fuck.” His brother raised an eyebrow.
“Only with dancing?” he asked, amused.
“Precisely,” Scotland said, as England once again flushed bright red. “Who else would it be? He never asks one of the weans, even though I’m sure America would leap on the chance if only he’d get over himself and just say it,” his voice rose as his brother rose jerkily to his feet and made for the door, “but since he’s too much of a fucking coward -”
“Alfred would be bored to tears,” England called back, just as loudly even though he sounded as though he had retreated somewhere further down the hall. No doubt to go and make himself a hot cup of tea and look for the paracetamol. “Or do you not remember his ridiculous “swing” phase? Not that it’s any of your bloody business!”
“It’s like taking your wife out instead of your young lover Lloegr, that’s all he’s saying!” Wales replied around the edge of the door, to faint curses.
“Considering you’ve had neither Wales, I don’t think you’re in any position to be crowing like such an expert!”
“He’s got a point there,” Scotland conceded, grinning a little as Wales spluttered and flushed. He turned his head to glare back at him.
“And Ffrainc is more of a mistress in comparison,” he said flatly. “So I wonder where that leaves you…?”
Scotland’s grin quickly morphed into a scowl. “Watch it,” he growled.
“Or you’ll what?”
He got to his feet, fingers tightening around the box still in his hands as though he meant to use it as a projectile, the fate of the contents within be damned. He moved towards Wales, who obviously sensing his mistake, disappeared around the corner rather quickly, and could be heard snickering all the way down the corridor.
Scotland left the box next to the staircase before giving chase, and it was only later, when England had shouted himself hoarse as the kitchen had been strewn with dregs from the tea leaves and hot water, and Wales had been backed up under the kitchen table with a bread knife to his vital regions that a truce had been declared.
In the grand scheme of things egos hadn’t been bruised too badly, England hadn’t kicked them out to spend the night on the street and the storage room door was left wide open to the elements like it hadn’t been done in years; yet it only served to remind them why they had always pretended that neither one of them had personal lives outside of their already dysfunctional family unit in the first place.
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Scotland scrutinised the suit with a frown.
It didn’t look much better in the light of the bedside lamp anymore than it did when he had all the lights turned on. In fact the orange glow only served to make its age stand out at an even starker contrast.
The suit itself was threadbare, the shine of the buttons long since dulled. The material had faded from smart black to patches of an ill-looking sort of grey, the starched white dress shirt now more or less yellow and the kilt frayed by the odd hole and stained irreversibly rust red from where the metal lining of the box had come into contact with the damp over the years. France may have complained about his severe lack of fashion sense every now and again, but even Scotland wasn’t so daft as to wear that out in public.
Jesus, but he hadn’t thought it was that old. It must have been longer than he thought since he had dressed up proper for a formal occasion.
He touched the sleeve tentatively with his fingers, as though afraid the whole thing would come apart in his hands from being preserved in storage too long, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Surely once he showed it to France it would put all thoughts of asking Scotland to accompany him to Vienna entirely out of his head. After all there was no point in buying a new suit; for one it would no doubt cost him a mint, and for another he wouldn’t be wearing it again anytime soon so clearly there was no point.
He was sure France would understand. After all it had been over a hundred years since he had seriously asked Scotland to follow him to such an event so to his mind, he had got the message pretty fucking clear a while ago.
In fact he was sure that they hadn’t really gone out on a “date” let alone one that involved dancing ever since VE Day in 1945; and back then France had been so high on good cheer and Scotland so substantially drunk that any awkwardness between them had been abated by the demand and need in their embrace, floating away on the spirits of the crowd pressing them together in the close quarters of a loud, smoky English pub.
Nothing remarkably close had happened since. France had never asked, and Scotland had never offered. He held that he still wasn’t one for fancy gatherings, and had put such thoughts out of his mind whenever England left the house alone and dressed up like the gentleman his brothers knew he wasn’t, back when they had all still lived under one roof.
It wasn’t as though it was a total loss, he thought, giving the suit a final glance over as if to make sure it was suitably ruined enough that even France couldn’t cajole him into getting it fixed, before crossing his ankles one over the other and settling back on the bed to recline against the pillows. He reached for his mobile.
If France wanted to go out then Scotland would take him to dinner. His mate’s cousin’s sister was apparently married to an Indian chef in London and while he could not recall if France was a fan of curry, he held that he most probably wouldn’t complain if it were sufficient to his standards. It may not have been fancy or Parisian, but it was affordable and apparently worth every penny.
With this in mind he scrolled through his list of contacts and pressed the “call” button. France had said he would be busy tonight, but he would still be in London tomorrow, and had promised to meet Scotland at the hotel after the conference. If it wasn’t too far maybe they could go then.
France picked up on the fourth ring. There was a muffled thump from his end, and a few choice words muttered in French before he apparently righted his phone properly with his ear and said, “Scotland?”
He sounded a little surprised. Scotland thought he heard an odd tinkling sound in the background, like glass or crystal, and a snatch of classical music, but he couldn’t be sure, so he ignored it.
“Hey,” he said, shifting to get comfortable and toeing his old suit and its box aside with his foot, “How was the meeting?”
France made a low thoughtful sound and Scotland could almost hear his lips curving upwards as he drawled, “Oh it went as well as could be expected, mon grand. When your brother was not huffing and puffing like one of Espagne’s bulls at any rate, but alas, he is a sore loser and business is business. I think we can safely say it was a success.”
There was another voice in the background, male and distinctly exasperated but Scotland could not make heads or tails of it either. He frowned a little but said, “That’s great. I’m happy for you, but try not to work too hard alright?” It was of course, ridiculous to say how the laugh that followed warmed his insides and tied them up into knots so he cleared his throat and forged on, “Listen, are you busy? Because I was wondering about tomorrow…”
“Have you decided to accompany me to Vienna after all?” France sounded delighted, “Oh my dear, that’s wonderful. I was just thinking about you earlier,” and here Scotland’s cheeks pinked a little even though that had not been what he was going to say at all, “and I think it would be a perfect opportunity for us to spend some time together. Oh how I would love to rub that in Autriche’s face right now,” he trailed off into a pause. But before Scotland could correct him on his misgivings he clucked his tongue and said, “Do not look at me like that mon cher Ludwig, of course I am speaking entirely in jest.”
“Ludwig?” Scotland repeated, and sat up straight, his brows drawing together, “France, where the bloody hell are you?”
“At the Ritz,” the other nation replied cheerily, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world, and now that Scotland listened closely, he could hear the murmur of other voices and the faint “tap-tap-tap” of France tapping cutlery idly against a plate. “We would have gone to the Savoy but Allemagne said it was closed for renovations besides and -”
The bottom had dropped somewhere out of Scotland’s stomach, even though he knew he was probably over thinking things and leaping to conclusions. His mouth felt ostensibly dry regardless. “What are you doing at the Ritz?”
“Business of course,” France replied easily in turn, “it wasn’t easy to get in mind you, and dear Allemagne had to pull rank to get us some seats, you ought to see his face mon cœur, it’s a wonder I still manage to talk him into anything to begin with. He says ‘hello’ by the way.”
It occurred to Scotland that booking things months in advance was, to France, something that happened to other people. Ones who consequently weren’t nations capable of bending the rules to their favour, even if they technically shouldn’t; he swallowed hard.
France sounded so pleased with himself, and if Germany was as much of a stick in the mud as Scotland recalled, then the fact that he was letting France get away with such things, coupled with the openly flirtatious tone of his voice (and his mind was quashing the notion that France used that tone a lot with everyone besides) was making his stomach turn into knots for entirely different reasons.
He was strongly tempted to tell France to relay “Back the fuck off, Kraut,” but he wasn’t drunk enough (if at all) by half, and would no doubt get hung up on for even suggesting it. This, unlike the incident on St. Andrew’s Day with Steve’s sister Ruth, was largely different for the fact that Scotland could not see what they were doing, and his overactive imagination was getting away with him, even though he knew that France would chide him and take offence if Scotland even made the suggestion.
He coughs once, away from his mobile, enough to make sure that his voice hadn’t failed him and prepares to say, ‘I’m taking you out tomorrow, and while it’s not the fucking Ritz you’ll love it, I promise’ …
… but what comes out instead is, “What are you wearing?”
The question makes him want to take it back almost immediately after it leaves his mouth, because France makes a slight noise of surprise himself. His laughter is rich and warm and tender, but Scotland’s already building anxiety refuses to let him see it as anything but humiliating. He can feel his flush bleeding all the way down his neck and making his ears itch.
“Oh mon cœur now?” his voice drops a little, becoming low and seductively playful, “Well let me see, I suppose you’ve already guessed I’m wearing a suit, Dior Homme if you can imagine it. Charcoal grey and blue, I believe you would like it, but I think we would be in agreement when I say,” he lowered his voice further, until it was just breath in Scotland’s ear that made his palms sweaty and his skin tingle, “that I would much rather prefer you to take it off me than watch me put it on.”
Scotland’s heart thudded somewhere up in his throat. He worked his jaw slowly. “I…”
“Not enough? Well if you come over later I can show you in person. You have such lovely, strong hands mon grand, and it’s been so long. I miss that, did you know? The way your fingers dance down my spine when we touch, your kisses trailing all the way down my neck -”
He could see the images in his mind, clear as day, and while he was certain for a fact that France was not touching himself, running his hands down his body in lieu of Scotland’s own, his imagination was very good (excellent in fact) for superimposing the image on top and he had to cross his legs tighter together when he hissed, “France…”
“Schottland.”
Scotland nearly dropped the phone; his whole body jerking like ice water had just been thrown over him. He mouthed wordlessly, “Er…”
For a nation so young Germany sounded remarkably stern. “While I have no doubt that your conversation with Frankreich is…” he hesitated for a moment, before continuing gruffly, “appropriately riveting, I must ask you to wind this up now before he becomes completely unable to focus on his work.”
However before Scotland could reply, and he wasn’t sure what to say even if he had, feeling oddly enough like a teenager, there was a crackle of reception and the muffled voices of France saying what sounded very much like, “You are not being fair mon cher Ludwig, we were just getting to the good part,” in a somewhat amused sort of tone and Germany stiff reply of, “If you could please keep your relationships separate from your job we might actually get something done tonight,” before the phone itself went momentarily quiet.
Scotland pressed his ear to it, straining for some sign that he hadn’t been cut off halfway. “France…?”
There was a subtle shift of movement. He heard a sigh. “My apologies dear heart,” France said at last, his voice slightly muffled as though he were cupping his hand over both his mouth and the receiver, “but I am afraid we shall have to cut this short. My “wife” is looking as though he will have an aneurysm if I do not promise to behave.”
He thought he heard Germany mutter “Don’t call me that,” and “Please act your age”, somewhere along the line, but there was so much background noise as it was that Scotland couldn’t be sure of that either. He wasn’t sure of very much these days at all really; France, their relationship or both.
There was a silence on the other end just long enough to be uncomfortable. Scotland shifted, until at last France spoke up again, “… so was there something that you wanted to talk to me about, mon cœur?”
Scotland shook his head. Then, belatedly realizing that France could not see it said somewhat hoarsely, “No…it’s only that,” he cleared his throat, the words failing him. He tried again. “I was just…”
He sighed. “Just called to tell you ‘I love you’”.
It was a ridiculously corny reason, albeit the first one that came to him off the top of his head. “So, you know,” he went on, feeling somewhat of an idiot, “I love you.”
So remember that whilst you’re sitting there talking “business” with that German bastard, he doesn’t add and rubs disgruntledly at his reddened cheeks.
France makes a small noise, one that he has long learnt to place as a hum of pleasure. “That’s so sweet,” he murmurs, and the words are soft and intimate enough to send a chill down Scotland’s spine, even if he does not say the words in turn (and has yet to do so for awhile now).
There is another pause.
Then, “Do you want to come over tonight?”
Scotland declines. He doesn’t think he can look France in the face as it is, especially after knowing he had been out having dinner with Germany at one of the fanciest restaurants in London, even if he feels moronic and knows that he means nothing by it.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says instead and France lets it go.
“Alright,” he replies, and there is another brief moment of muffled static in his ear as he makes a soft kissing noise, something that Scotland has seen France do often enough when he is on the phone to Canada to know that he had an idiosyncratic habit of pressing his lips to the receiver whenever he bid those closest to him farewell. “Good night mon cœur.”
Scotland utters, “Night mo ghradh,” in turn and hangs up, more to stop his ears from turning crimson than anything else. He slumps back against the pillows and turns his mobile over in his palm, presses his lips against the receiver like an afterthought.
He feels ridiculous.
“Fuck it,” he mutters and kicks out with his foot. The old suit and its box slip off the side and goes crashing to the floor. He doesn’t attempt to retrieve it, and pointedly ignores the muted banging against the wall behind his head that is England no doubt telling him to ‘shut the hell up and keep it down’ in ten words or less.
Scotland hits the wall back with his own fist and tosses his phone on the table. It goes skittering across the top before coming to a spinning halt.
He pulls a pillow over his head and tries not to think about very much at all.
-
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[Part 3]
A/N:
I have this horrible habit of going into a chapter worrying that it may not be long enough and it ends up being a LOT longer than I expected orz. But anyway. XD
Notes:
Ball season in Austria - Held from New Years all the way to Easter, this time in Austria is alive with hundreds of balls, from Imperial to modern but no less splendid. I imagine "ball season" is popular amongst the nations too, especially France, who loves that sort of thing; I bet he would never miss a chance to show Austria up at his own aristocratic event ...though whether he succeeds is something else entirely. XD
clach-na-cinneamhain - aka the Stone of Scone/of Destiny/the Coronation Stone. It has been used for centuries as the Coronation Stone for Scottish, English and later British monarchs. Historically it was kept in the Scone Abbey in Scotland, until it was stolen by Edward I (Longshanks) as a spoil of war. It has thus been in England for 600 years, was stolen by Scottish students in 1950 and has since been given back to Scotland to hold to when not in use for coronation ceremonies at Westminster. You can see why Scotland is so cross about it orz.
The Bentley: England's pride and joy. He is scarily anal and protective over it, like any good enthusiast. His brothers on the other hand, just think he's mental.
England pissing on the flag of the Holy Roman Empire: It is the late 1100s, Jerusalem is once again in the hands of the heathens and during the Siege of Acre after quarrelling over the spoils with France and Austria, England threw HRE's standard down from the city and well...you can imagine how well THAT went. There is no excuse orz.
Like taking your wife out instead of your young lover: In terms of relationships with England, Portugal is clearly the "wife" and America the "lover" (imho haha). Portugal has the advantage of years, of being the best friend, the comfort when all else is lost and a shoulder to cry on. America on the other hand, is the one who got away, the whirlwind romance, the passionate love affair. It's all just a matter of decisions really. (What is my mind I don't even)
Germany and France: Pretty much the husband-wife team of the EU, for all that Germany acts and France is well...France haha. Of course this means they run the show and pull all the big strings, so you can imagine why England isn't happy. Then again he's rarely happy unless he's in charge orz. They're pretty much BFF these days... though it took 300 years of animosity to get there. |D
The Ritz - a classy hotel in London whose restaurant has to be booked weeks in advance. In the old days its top chef was French, but really I imagine France in all kinds of places that make Scotland's wallet ache in sympathy.
The Savoy - was world famous before the Ritz, though both are classy and have similar histories. Sadly though it's been under renovation since 2007, which is costing a bomb, and though that's meant to finish this year, I wasn't sure entirely WHEN, so I chose not to have them hang out there, just in case.
mo ghradh - "my love" (Scottish Gaelic)