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25th October, 2008; Paris, France
Even though he's already half an hour late, Scotland takes a moment to pause outside France's apartment and try to get his ragged breathing back under control. To try and make himself presentable, though he thinks that's probably a lost cause.
He stinks of the frantic dash he made across Paris from Charles de Gaulle, of the busy TGV and the taxi that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and even staler passengers, of almost two hours spent concertinaed into a cramped aeroplane seat next to a colicky baby spewing forth sour milk spit like a punctured garden hose.
His shirt, which was brilliant white when he left his house, looks dingy now, and no matter how hard he tugs, and how often he smoothes his hands across it, the material remains crenellated with deep creases; crumpled like a discarded tissue and just as unsightly. He also notices a stain near the placket – probably a splash of the weak tea he'd gulped down far too quickly at Edinburgh airport whilst it was still hot enough to scald the roof of his mouth – that's just a little too large to be hidden by his tie, even if he sets it a little askew.
His shoes are filthy, as well, covered with a thin layer of dust and a thicker splattering of what appears to be mud, despite the fact that he hasn't taken a single step off either tarmac or concrete since he put them on. He rubs the left one against the back of his right calf, hoping to bring a shine back to the leather, but on inspection afterwards, it appears that all he's managed to do is smear the dirt more evenly and probably leave a corresponding streak of it down his trouser leg.
Perhaps he should have gone with the black suit instead of the grey, after all, although it wasn't as if he'd had much time to weigh the pros and cons of the decision what with rushing around like a blue-arsed fly all day in order to make the flight that had been the only one he'd been able to get at such short notice.
It's too late to fix now, any of it, and the change of clothes he'd hastily flung in his rucksack is no doubt even less appropriate for whatever excursion France has planned.
He'll have to do, though he's certain France will disagree.
France doesn't say anything when he answers the door to Scotland's knock, however; neither a complaint about the delay or his appearance, nor even a greeting.
His lips simply purse in a familiar, disapproving way as he quickly rakes his eyes up and down Scotland's body; one that renders words completely unnecessary.
30th October, 2010; Paris, France
Scotland is running late again.
Late enough that France had suggested that it would be more sensible if they met at their destination rather than his apartment, leaving Scotland with no choice but to struggle to change out of his civvies inside the tiny plywood coffin of an airport toilet cubicle.
He no doubt looks like a complete dog's breakfast as a consequence, despite the greater care than usual he'd taken in selecting his outfit for the evening, and the recent haircut that had temporarily allowed him to look like someone whose hair wasn't engaged in active rebellion from his head, but had nevertheless proved itself not tenacious enough to withstand all the tugs of frustration he'd given it whilst waiting for his ever more delayed flight.
The narrowed eyed look France gives him later after he clambers out of the taxi confirms his suspicions. As does his slightly incredulous sounding, "You're wearing a kilt."
"Aye," Scotland says, feeling self-conscious and far more exposed than his bare knees and the single unfastened button at the collar of his black silk shirt can justify. He should, it appears, have taken even more care. "You said tonight was going to be a posh do, and it's the smartest thing I own."
France's lips twitch a little as he silently holds up one index finger and twirls it around in the air.
Scotland spins dutifully on his heel.
France laughs, soft and mellifluous; a tone that suggests more pleasure than amusement. "Plus lentement, s'il te plaît."
Oh.
Oh.
Equally dutifully, Scotland paces a slower circle, skin burning white hot with his embarrassment over the ridiculous spectacle he's likely putting on for curious passers-by, and the knowledge that France is carefully following his every movement.
By the time his measured revolution brings him face to face with France again, France is beaming, clearly delighted. When their eyes meet, France raises one eyebrow in a question that is so obvious by now that it doesn't need to be voiced.
"Of course I'm not," Scotland says. "I never am. I don't know why you keep asking."
"Because, even after all these years, you never get less flustered when I do," France replies, stepping forward to cup Scotland's heated face between his chilled palms.
25th October, 2008; Paris, France
France has put as much distance between the two of them as the length of the taxi's back seat will allow. Even his primly crossed legs are angled away from Scotland, and his head is tipped towards the window, eyes fixed on his fingers as he taps them in a slow, deliberate rhythm against the glass.
"I'm sorry I was so late," Scotland says.
The words ring out strangely, sounding strident and abrupt to his own ears, but he cannot be sure if that's simply because they stand in such stark contrast to France's silence.
Indeed, France does not ask him to modulate his tone – something which he never hesitates to do normally when he thinks Scotland is being overloud – but, then again, he gives no indication that he even registered Scotland speaking at all. His expression seems completely blank judging by the brief flash Scotland sees teased out from the shadows as they pass alongside a streetlight.
Although he can admit to some curiosity now, Scotland doesn't ask where they're going. He doubts France will answer, and besides, it's so very rare that France invites him anywhere that the details ultimately seem like an irrelevancy.
(September 1956 was the last time they'd been on anything that could even charitably be considered a date. After what he learnt last year, Scotland can only be glad that France apparently thought better of posing the question that prompted that particular invitation, because he wouldn't have been able to say no to it.)
The rest of their journey passes as silently as it had begun.
30th October, 2010; Paris, France
M. Babineaux is, Scotland thinks, a man entirely too in love with the sound of his own voice.
He'd pounced on France almost as soon as they entered the gallery, and proceeded to expound his opinions of the art on exhibit at tedious length, as though he didn't trust them to form any of their own without his guidance.
Or he doesn't trust France, at least. He hasn't acknowledged Scotland's existence once beyond the brief and entirely too moist handshake he'd grudgingly initiated when France first introduced them. Clearly, he must think Scotland looks like the sort of man who knows nothing about art, nor cares to learn.
He's half right.
Scotland certainly has no interest in the sort of paintings that have titles a sentence long and which require a paragraph of explanation in the little booklet he was handed at the door to make sense of. He could, however, talk about Impressionism at Babineaux until his brain felt as though it were about to ready cede consciousness simply to escape the tedium.
France's grip around Scotland's hand tightens a little, his neatly trimmed nails digging into the thin skin between Scotland's knuckles. His smile, too, is tight when Scotland glances down at him questioningly, lips drawn thin and bloodless across his teeth, and his eyes look a little glassy.
He's just as bored as Scotland, it appears, who can only surmise that M. Babineaux must be a very important man, despite his unassuming appearance, because France would not normally be so shy about letting such feelings be known.
Scotland's bosses, on the other hand, hadn't briefed him about any pretentious French artists he might need to treat with kid gloves. He glances around the gallery with exaggerated care, then asks, "So, which of these pictures are yours, Jean?"
France coughs rather unconvincingly beside him, and Babineaux's podgy cheeks turns florid as he splutters some nonsense about the themes of his work not matching that of the exhibition, and doubtless deeply regretting telling France earlier that his new lover was 'tres beau'.
25th October, 2008; Paris, France
Almost as soon they enter the gallery, France spots some lanky twat with a scrubby little beard and glasses he probably doesn't need, who apparently needs to be greeted with an extravagant hug and even more extravagant kisses.
By the time Scotland returns from fetching two of the ridiculously small flutes of champagne from the table set just a few feet away, they've both disappeared.
He downs the two glasses in quick succession and then returns for a third, which he drinks as he makes a slow circuit of the paintings on display, failing to understand any of them.
When he's finished, and there's still no sign of France anywhere, he briefly contemplates going back to France's apartment, grabbing the bag France had so carelessly thrown into the hallway behind him before they left, and going home. He's been through this enough times before to know how the night will probably end now.
That it probably won't be him sharing France's bed.
But, in the end, he stays, because France had invited him, and there must be a reason for that, even if it's not entirely obvious.
The only thing he can do is wait, and hope it will eventually become clear.
30th October, 2010; Paris, France
"I can always tell when you're faking it, mon amour," France purrs in Scotland's ear when he rejoins him, leaning in close against his side.
Scotland snorts. "I doubt it. Believe me, I've never –"
"Being interested in that painting," France clarifies, chuckling. "You wore exactly the same expression when went to the opera."
He draws his eyebrows down low in demonstration, mouth pinching tight.
"Only because we were watching Carmen," Scotland says, grinning at the impression, which is eerily accurate to the best of his knowledge. "If it had been La bohème, then I wouldn't have had to pretend I was appreciating it."
France's eyes widen slightly, betraying surprise he wouldn't admit to feeling if Scotland were to ask him now. He then hums in a thoughtful way, no doubt planning on buying them tickets accordingly, perhaps as an apology for dragging Scotland here in the first place.
"Nevertheless, you were apparently convincing enough that the artist is very interested in hearing your thoughts on her piece," France says, gesturing towards a sharply dressed woman standing nearby, whom Scotland now notices is watching him avidly.
"Fucking hell," he groans, because the only thing he's managed to glean from the painting after his few minutes of close scrutiny whilst France fetched them fresh drinks is that it's a very nice shade of blue.
25th October, 2008; Paris, France
Twelve glasses of champagne later, the crowds have thinned, the clock ticks ever closer to midnight, and still Scotland waits.
Over the course of his long life, he has walked away from kings, from friends, even from his own fucking family when he needed to, but somehow he can't walk away from this.
From a sodding art gallery.
From France.
(From this weakness; this poisonous fucking thing that sits heavily on his breast, curling sharp claws into his heart that are embedded far too deep to dislodge. The one he nurtures and calls love.)
The half-realised thought is nothing but a faint whisper at the back of Scotland's mind. One he refuses to acknowledge.
Eventually, it fades.
30th October, 2010; Paris, France
France insists on walking back to his apartment.
It isn't a great distance by any means, at least by Scotland's reckoning, but far further than France would usually consider comfortable, especially this close to midnight after so long on his feet.
He seems happy enough, however, tucked beneath both the coat and circling arm Scotland has wrapped around his shoulders, his eyes shining brightly as he shares gossip about the various socialites and artists he'd introduced Scotland to over the course of the evening.
It mostly seems to concern their sex lives, which are, by France's account, mostly vigorous, scandalous and conducted with one another. It sounds to be a very incestuous little circle.
"And what about the tall, skinny lad?" Scotland asks, trying very hard to sound casual, once France has detailed the affairs of every other person they'd talked to (even the pompous wanker, Babineaux, is apparently engaged in one; something which Scotland finds hard to credit). "The ginger one with the crappy little beard."
The blankness of the look France gives him doesn't appear to be feigned, and Scotland has to wonder if he's even given the bloke a second thought since that night two years ago.
Likely not, and Scotland has absolutely no idea how to feel about that; whether the possibility is comforting or appalling.
He holds France a little closer, and resolves not to think about it, because it doesn't matter anymore, after all.
25th October, 2008; Paris, France
After almost an hour of sitting a futile vigil on the steps of France's apartment building, Scotland rings Wales.
Cerys answers, voice blurred and heavy with sleep, and Scotland only realises he hasn't had the presence of mind to perpetuate the feeble pretence of their human names when she hands the phone over to his brother, and he faintly hears her saying, "It sounds like your brother, but he said it was Scotland and he asked for Wales."
It's been centuries since he last made that mistake, but he can't seem to bring himself to care about the slip, either.
"What is it?" Wales spits instead of a greeting, and Scotland imagines he is scowling at his bedside lamp and imagining it's Scotland's face. "You'd better have a bloody good reason for getting us both up in the middle of the night."
Scotland doesn't reply for a moment, because he can't. He doesn't have a good reason; he barely has a reason at all beyond the sudden, vaguely felt desire to hear something – someone – familiar. Something that offers a little more comfort than the cold, wet stone beneath him, the chilled press of his rain damp clothes around him, and the muffled sounds of laughter drifting from further down the street, where someone is clearly having a far more enjoyable night than himself.
"I'm locked out," he says eventually, because he can't bring himself to tell Wales any of that.
"Jesus," Wales groans. "I hope you don't expect me to come running up to Edinburgh with the spare key. Just sleep in your car or something, and call a locksmith in the morning."
"Don't have my car. Took the plane because he gave me absolutely sod all notice and I didn't have time to drive."
It seems like a foolish decision now, but at the time he made it, he hadn't given a single thought to practicalities. France had wanted him at his side for once, and the only thing of any significance was how quickly he could get himself there,
"He? Alasdair, are you at Ffrai–" Wales catches his mistake just in time, quickly changing the name to, "Francis's?"
"Outside France's." Scotland laughs. He has no idea why. "He insisted I had to go to this fucking art gallery thing with him, and then practically the second we got there, he buggered off with some other bloke and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him all night. He's probably off shagging him right now, and I'm stuck outside his bloody apartment without a key or my wallet."
Neither does he know why he told Wales any of that. He hadn't intended to.
"Do you fancy going for a pint tomorrow?"
Scotland knows what Wales really wants to ask is 'Are you all right?' or 'How are you feeling?', but they can't speak to each other like that. Scotland brutalised it out of all of them, including himself.
"Sounds great," Scotland says, allowing Wales the deception, and distracting himself from the unwelcome avenue his mind seems intent to wander down.
It's another of the ones he usually keeps sturdy blockades across, but they're all precarious tonight, it seems; ready to fall if he were to push just a little too hard. He thinks it must be because he's tired, and he almost tells Wales that, but it's only after he draws breath to do so that he realises he isn't sure if he means that he needs to sleep.
He ends the call quickly without saying goodbye. It clearly isn't doing him any good.