The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.
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Circa 1590; Kingdom of France

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Three centuries ago, Scotland had drawn France close in the dark and pledged to lay down his life for him, and France had been ready and willing to give the whole of his heart in return.

And Scotland had seemed keen to receive it. Their love-making that night had been hurried and clumsy, but Scotland had been ardent; eager to please and to be pleased.

France has been chasing that moment ever since.

For three centuries, it has eluded him. Scotland has eluded him; always stepping back whenever France reaches out for him. Pulling away.

But France has stepped forward, he's persisted, he's battered himself bloody against the stone wall of Scotland's indifference, because...

He doesn't understand why. It's a question that he's never been able to answer to his own satisfaction, though he's asked it of himself countless times over the years. There are so many others who would be glad to find themselves in Scotland's place, every one of them certain to be better lovers, better conversationalists. Even so, he has been drawn back over and over, like a bee to honey.

Like a dog returning to its own vomit.

But no more. Never again. He had given Scotland one last chance to show that he cared for aught more than the contents of his smallclothes - given himself one last hope - but had been met with nothing but silence, as he ever has.

Scotland has carried France torn and bloodied from the battlefield, sat at his bedside as he gasped his last breaths, gutted him with his own hand and his own sword, and not once have his eyes so much as dampened, yet when France tells him, "No more", and he tells him, "Never again", his eyes well heavy with tears.

They feel like the greatest lie Scotland has ever told him, and he soon compounds the insult by speaking the sorts of tender words that he has so long withheld otherwise: how much he cares for France, how much he wants to remain by his side, how much he desires him. And always has, apparently. Strange, then, that those sentiments had ever been absent from his lips until the very instant France chose to deny him.

France is sickened by the sight of him.

He walks away, leaves Scotland alone in his bed chamber, and for a wonder and a blessing, Scotland does not follow after him.

As the day wears on, though, he is given ever more reason to regret that he had allowed his disappointment and anger to overrule his good sense. He had meant to tell Scotland that he had no desire to meet again on their old, intimate terms at the end of his visit, three days hence, but now there can be no such quick and easy parting.

Scotland cannot leave at once, no matter that they both may now wish for him gone with all haste. He will have to make new arrangements for his travel, pack up his belongings, and inform his servants of their premature departure.

He does not appear to be employed by any of it, however, and France keeps catching glimpses of him as he moves about his estate, doggedly trying to follow the normal course of his day.

He looks more and more dishevelled as the hours drag on, and always he has a glass in hand and parted lips, as though poised to call out to France. Thankfully, he never does.

France is thus able to both ignore him and avoid him until late that evening, when Scotland somehow manages to blindside him en route to his withdrawing room; taking him enough by surprise that he doesn't have the presence of mind to retreat before Scotland sinks to his knees in front of him, whereupon some manner of morbid fascination keeps him rooted to the spot, instead.

France had known Scotland through stories long before he made his acquaintance, and whether they were told by England, Rome, or his own people, they all painted a picture of an untamed lout, unfit for decent company or civilised society. France had thought those tales by turns horrifying and intriguing, and had both longed for and feared their first encounter.

What he found then, however, was a shy, awkward boy who spoke in stumbling Latin and scarcely dared meet his eyes. He was a little rough around the edges, to be sure, but certainly nothing close to the barbarian others named him.

Scotland looks wilder now than he ever did then.

His face is florid, his mouth pinched tight and his jaw set firm. His hair is sticking straight up from his head like a thicket of weeds, and he stinks of wine, sweat and blood, though France can see no sign of the latter anywhere on his body.

"What is it, Écosse?" France asks, even though he knows that he shouldn't. It's always been an exercise in futility, and now more than ever. "What do you want from me?"

"France, I..." Scotland stares up at him beseechingly with wide, bloodshot eyes. "Please... Please..."

But still he cannot speak plain. He just repeats the same word over and again until France grows tired of listening to it.

"I thought as much," he says. "I have better—"

France tries to step around him, but Scotland shuffles to the side and blocks his path. He takes a deep breath in, and when he releases it, a torrent of words spills out alongside.

There is nothing romantic about them this time. This time, all of his compliments are lascivious ones, all of his reminiscences are lewd; reminders of how well they get along between the sheets.

France doesn't need them. He has never been in any doubt of that. Scotland may have disappointed him in most aspects, but not there.

But that's the only thing Scotland cares to mention. After all these years, they're no further ahead than they were at the start.

"Anything you want, France," Scotland finishes, his head bowing down low. "Anything at all, and I'll do it."

The last three centuries have proved that to be painfully untrue, if nothing else.

"There is nothing you might offer me that I could possibly want anymore, Écosse," France says, turning on his heel and presenting his back to Scotland.

As he begins to walk away, he hears Scotland gulp down another deep breath that sounds almost like a sob, and then blurt out, "I love you."

No, that's the greatest lie that Scotland has ever told him.

An act of desperation, surely. Or an act of cruelty, of the sort he never would have thought Scotland could be capable of.

And France wants to strike back against it, strike back at Scotland and make him suffer for it, but although his gorge rises and his chest constricts achingly tight, he resists the urge.

Scotland isn't worth it, seemingly. Likely, he's never been worth it.

So France keeps on walking. He doesn't look back.