Chapter Text
Although it nearly costs France one of his carefully manicured nails to tie a knot in the terrycloth, the white towel now rests securely around his hips. The act itself is useless since Scotland is anything but a stranger to his body, and the disappointingly small white towel covers only the most substantial parts of France's anatomy anyway. But it's the idea of mystery, the little bit of magic that can be brought into what was bound to become routine and boring after seven hundred years of intimacy, that makes him do this time and time again.
France winks at his own reflection, satisfied with how the little pretence of chastity makes him feel a bit like a birthday present waiting for Scotland to unwrap it, despite the contents being so familiar. Stepping off the flimsy little rug in front of the mirror, he winces as his feet make contact with the cold bathroom tiles and he quickly tiptoes out of the bathroom.
The hotel room is small and cramped as only very few governments are willing to offer luxury to their nations human personifications and the French one is definitely not one of them. The scant excuse for a double bed is taking up almost all of the space in the room, and Scotland is taking up a considerable amount of space on the bed, his frame looking even larger than usual in the narrow space.
Scotland's clothes are thrown in a very haphazard fashion over the back of the single chair that is awkwardly squeezed between the wall and a nightstand, and France nearly succumbs to the urge to go and put them away properly on a hanger in the closet where they belong. But Scotland is idly flicking through the TV channels while lying naked on the top of the still neatly made comforter, and so France decides that there are more pressing matters than the wellbeing of a suit.
He carefully leans with his towel-clad hips on the door jamb, another useless but well-trained movement that he knows shows off the length of his legs in the most spectacular way.
“Starting without me?” France is forced to speak louder than planned as he has to contend with the sound of the weather forecast currently filling the room.
Scotland startles and nearly crushes the remote as he scrambles to switch off the telly, then the bed dips as he turns on one elbow with an eager grin. “Took you so long, I thought I'd have to do this on my own.”
-
'This' is a very practical and, as France likes to compliment himself, also a smart agreement where he and Scotland meet in order to enjoy sex and the little bit of talk in-between, in a completely open and boundaries-free arrangement that first and foremost isn't a relationship. 'Allies with benefits', as Wales dubbed it once, was maybe a bit too flowery, but otherwise extremely fitting; bound together by centuries of intertwined history to the point when they couldn't imagine not meeting on at least semi-regular basis, but free from the heavy bonds of commitment. It’s the perfect solution for the twenty-first century, and France is properly proud of introducing this plan to the both of them.
'This' means fullness and heat and Scotland's thick beard scratching faint red marks where France's skin is particularly thin as they both are doing their best effort to make the bed sheets as unrecognisably tousled as possible. It's the sinking into the surprisingly yielding hotel mattress under Scotland’s weight. The whole world - together with the neon lights stinging in his eyes - overshadowed by his broad shoulders.
'This' is everything that France needs, or so he managed to persuade himself.
-
France feels like betraying his reputation just by thinking about the fact, but there are moments - usually compressed into the first few seconds after waking up, ugly piercing sun hurting his whole body through his bleary eyes - when he regrets having sex instead of sleeping the previous night. Especially the fact that he managed to persuade Scotland to try out if they both fit into the shower stall for their third round sometime around four in the morning (they didn’t, but leaning against the sink with a full-length mirror right in front of him made up for the fact quite nicely).
Deliberately pushing all sort of heretic thoughts out of his mind by visualising a nice, warm cup of double espresso, drop of half-skimmed milk and maybe an oversweet, fluffy pastry at the side, France bravely opens his eyes once again to greet the day.
He is met by a solid wall of dim grey fabric that he on second blinking identifies as Scotland’s back, and France notes with a bit of satisfaction that it isn’t nearly as crumpled as ‘might have been predicted by yesterday’s careless treatment’. He groans - the sound is closest to what a cat makes when held against its will in somebody’s arms for too long - and that’s enough to make Scotland turn to him and smile.
Now, under normal circumstances, France loves when Scotland smiles, especially if he’s the root cause; but this specific sort of morning grin is just plain annoying. It’s absurdly broad and holds within it a cheerfulness that should by rights not be allowed to exist before ten AM.
“You’ll miss your flight.” Scotland says instead of a greeting, the statement accompanied by a poignant tap on his wristwatch that he just finished fastening.
For a millisecond, France genuinely contemplates quitting his role of an old and highly respected nation, pulling the sheets over his head and going back to sleep, the consequences of a missed meeting or two be damned. Instead, he makes another displeased mewling sound and hauls himself into a sitting position, blinking in disorientation in the obscenely sunlit room. He focuses on Scotland, if only because the dark of his jacket doesn’t hurt in his eyes as much as the shiny white walls all around, and asks the first logical question that comes to his mind.
“Where is your tie?”
“Meeting is over, I don’t need one.” Scotland’s grin doesn’t leave his face for a second as he leans forward for a kiss.
France’s reaction is immediate and automatic - he squeezes his lips in a tight line, face wrinkled in distaste.
No matter how many times Scotland assures him he doesn’t mind petty things like morning breath, France won’t allow kissing before his mouth had a long and thorough confrontation with toothpaste and possibly mouthwash too (Scotland’s arguments of “I’ve smelt far worse things.” doesn’t exactly help either).
Scotland pulls away after a short and thoroughly unsatisfying peck, his grin of a considerably diminished level of shininess.
“When do will I see you next?” he asks as he bends down to retrieve his briefcase and starts fighting with the lock. It’s likely a bit rusty after everything it‘s suffered at Scotland’s hands over the years, if not decades of overuse. France sighs and finally starts to untangle the sheets that magically managed to wrap themselves around both of his ankles at least three times during the night, and see fit to carry on doing so even now.
“Presidential elections this month, I’ll be probably too busy to sleep for at least three weeks.”
“Have fun with that!” Scotland’s tone is full of childish glee that’s designed to provoke a touch of annoyance as he bends over the contents of his briefcase
France would slap him were he not out of the current reach of his arms or still too lazy to get out of bed. “Remind me to make fun of you once you have your own elections to manage.”
“Can’t wait.” The ancient lock on Scotland’s briefcase closes and he straightens up from where he was crouching over its contents, and he leans once again over France and presses a kiss to the crown of his tousled hair. “Good luck with all the fuss.”
France’s lips curl upwards for the first time that day. “I’ll call you once it’s over.”