A Different Sort of Waltz [1/?]Characters/Pairings:
France/Scotland(OC), mentions of Austria and the Vienna "ball season"Rating:
Sexual references, sap (h-haha orz) 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
----------Note: This is, once again, based off a conversation with moonlighten over the end of Love is A Verb, which is really just a fantastic Scotland/France fic and you all should read it.
Anyway, the idea is that this story follows directly on from that (I hope you don't mind moonlighten orz), in the first month of their "real relationship", the trials, the tribulations and best of all, NO SEX. lol I hope I can pull this off orz.
4th January 2010; Edinburgh
Scotland was not a fan of extravagant state functions and never had been, even back in the day when they had been the norm and he and Wales could not make it out of the house without England informing, or rather ordering
them that their presence was of the utmost importance and there were no two ways about it.
Of course, over three hundred years of living together and having to suffer the complaints, the tiny glasses of champagne and Scotland’s utter refusal to wear anything close to trousers (if and when he could get away with it) had quickly put a dampener on that aspect, and these days England seemed more than content to attend the get-togethers himself.
Hogmanay had been no less hectic than Christmas and for all the good the drinking and spirit of the season had done him, Scotland was quick to find he was relieved at the prospect that it was over sooner rather than later. A lot had happened, half of which he was still trying to wrap his mind around, and France wasn’t helping any.
Though this was much rather due to the fact that he was lying on top of Scotland, who in turn was resting on his belly on the bed, a position which was rather more distracting than the fancy little rectangle of cardstock he was waving in his face.
“Oh a ball
,” France sighs, and sounds utterly delighted at the thought of it, in much the same way any other person would say ‘thank goodness’. Scotland suspects that was how he usually spent his Christmases, instead of at the circus that was his last bout with Scotland, England and the rest of their family. Granted Scotland thinks it could have been worse, but then, it is rather hard to think at all with France’s chin resting on the crown of his head, his blonde hair curling in waves on either side of his face to brush against Scotland’s ears (which were very quickly taking on a very rosy quality of their own) every time he shifted. He pushed his reading glasses back up the bridge of his nose and turned the invite over.
“Vienna,” he reads aloud and makes a quiet, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat that is not quite like laughter, “Just in time for the season. How very typical of Autriche
. Wouldn’t you say, mon cher
If he were honest Scotland would say that he probably hasn’t spoken more than a few words and exchanged general niceties with Austria since the Second World War or then some, so he’s fucked if he knows. He does
however have more to say about France’s sock-clad feet, which were probably as airy as they were silky, and the toes that are currently rubbing up and down Scotland’s calf.
He doesn’t though, as the gesture was due to the heating not being on rather than any attempt to be seductive; because France never dresses for the chill no matter how many times Scotland has berated him over it, and so he makes up for it by curling up against the other nation to leech heat off his layers of clothing.
Currently his groin is pressed up against the small of Scotland’s back. Scotland hasn’t had sex with France for over five months now. Which, really, is nothing in comparison to the two hundred years or so after their spectacular falling out had the first time around, but it was the principle of the thing. As it stands he can’t think of a crueller, more unusual punishment.
But he had promised himself, had promised France
, that they were going to take things slow now that they were in a proper relationship; that he had something to prove and he wasn’t going to fall into bed every time France so much as lowered his lashes and looked at him, sidelong and coy. He had shown a surprising amount of grace and restraint thus far in the face of Scotland’s stubbornness though, and a part of him wondered just how long it would last.
“Can’t say for sure,” he says instead, and picks at the creases in the duvet with his fingertips, “I was never exactly over the moon about the whole idea myself.”
“A pity,” France murmurs, and traces his long fingers over the gold-leaf script in such a purposeful way that Scotland lifts his head off his arms to watch. His thumb in particular, circles a certain few words nearest to the bottom of the card, deliberately obscuring them until Scotland gives in and brushes the motion aside with his own hand.
It proves to be a mistake, as France goes on, “but no matter, because I think we shall have a fabulous time, cher
,” and the words plus one
glare back at him in looping cursive. He pushes himself up on his elbows so fast that he very nearly clips France in the jaw with the back of his head. But he, probably out of centuries honing his dodging skills after coming to expect such moves deliberately
from England, moves neatly out the way, although his glasses slip down his face a little, and his eyebrows have climbed up on his creased forehead.
?” he sounds a little uncertain, but shifts back himself to allow the movement and sits up some, so that his thighs are straddling either side of Scotland’s waist and Christ, if he didn’t know better he would think he was doing it on purpose.
However, he has to draw the line somewhere and while he was not very good at refusing France anything
(coupled with the fact that he was far more bull-headed than Scotland gave him credit for), he thought it prudent to put his proverbial foot down on this while he still had the chance.
“I don’t bloody dance,” he tells him with the utmost seriousness of one who had spent a good portion of the near thousand years they had known each other being dragged to such functions on his two left feet and being made a fool out of whilst France flitted around, scouting everything from potential dance partners (who weren’t Scotland) to potential bed mates (who definitely weren’t
Scotland either, or he’d have kicked them in the teeth when France wasn’t looking). He cleared his throat. “You know this.”
Clearly this didn’t seem to be much of a problem from his point of view, as France’s thin brows swooped down almost immediately, though his expression was one of confusion rather than annoyance. “Oh, well I suppose you don’t have
to dance if you don’t want to, mon cœur
.” He hesitated, and then offered, “I thought we could make a date out of it.”
A majority of the time Scotland didn’t
want to, but France came alive in the face of such splendour; he had quickly grown bored in the past when Scotland didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm for the event and often ended up on the arm of another guest soon after, another reason that coupled with England’s incessant nagging had done more than its share of damage to put Scotland off the hype of balls for centuries to come.
He runs his hand through his hair. “Look if that’s all it is, I’ll take you out to dinner – ” but pauses halfway through his sentence when the corners of France’s mouth turn down sharply.
“I thought,” he reiterated again, in that slow deliberate way he tended to incline towards whenever Scotland did something to offend his delicate sensibilities, “that we agreed to compromise. I am not asking you,” and here he waved the card in Scotland’s face, “out of any obligation Écosse
, make no mistake about that.”
Scotland opened his mouth with the intention of making a cutting remark of his own, but when he closed it again he realized no words, nor a sound argument had yet to spring forth. He rolled out from under France instead, narrowed his eyes at him from the other end of the bed and did not say that in fact the word “compromise
” was supposed to work in Scotland’s favour, seeing how he had already done his fair share of being at the other nation’s every beck and call and it was high time they evened out the playing field.
“Well don’t feel like you have to on my account,” he said sarcastically, “by all means An Fhraing
, I’m sure you could find much more sophisticated company whom you can dance in circles with, make diplomatic small talk and nibble at those fucking tiny little hors d'oeuvres
.” Which honestly were a waste of effort and otherwise good food as far as Scotland was concerned.
High spots of colour bloomed on France’s cheeks. His eyes flashed momentarily before settling back once again into cool indifference. That at least, Scotland could deal with. He’d only been putting up with it for a few hundred years. But then France sighed and tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear, exposing the thin, straight line of his jaw.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he asked, “that I should like to be graced by your company that night?”
If it were a joke, Scotland wouldn’t have laughed very much at all regardless.
“Christ,” he muttered, and rubbed his hand over his eyes. Maybe it was in his best interests to play along after all. “Alright, fine. I’ll bite. So let’s say we compromise. What’s in it for me?”
France blinked, slowly. He looked back at the invitation, turning it over in his hands. He pushed his glasses back up his nose again. And then he hid what Scotland thought was probably a wickedly curved smile behind the thick, expensive paper, until all he could see was the faint crinkle of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.
“You mean besides an all-expenses paid trip to Austria,” he drawled. “What about a lascivious room in a charming Viennese hotel…?”
Scotland snorted. “I think you mean lavish
, because bloody hell France who uses that kind of word to describe a –” He stopped, took in the smile that was now more of a lewd grin, and any previous irritation that had remained was quickly smothered by the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Oh
,” he said, and hoped to god his voice didn’t just shake, “Oh, well. Fuck.”
France hummed in his throat, tapping the invitation against his lips and looking rather pleased with himself, “I do hope so. I would like to enjoy your company in more ways than one if it’s all the same to you, cher
.” Scotland didn’t have any words to say to that
“Compromise my arse,” he said when he did find his voice, and shot France an exasperated, somewhat awed look. “This is bribery.”
France hummed again and propped his chin in his hand. “Is it working?”
“I’m not travelling all the way to Vienna just to fuck you into some five star sheets France, let’s be honest,” the other nation retorted, and found with relief that he could say so with general ease.
Despite the appeal, he was just about willing to have sex anywhere
at this point, although their slight misadventure that involved uncomfortable car parts digging into places where they shouldn’t, coupled with the awkward position and the expression
on France’s face when Scotland had bundled him into the back seat of his Ford Escort had done more than its fair share to prove that he was alone in thinking this.
Granted it had perhaps been overzealous to use the car as an impromptu venue for a quick shag but then France had standards
, of which he was always reminding Scotland of and probably lent to the other half of the reason why his sex life had been dry for five (close to six) months now.
France sighed and scooted closer. Scotland expected he was starting to feel the chill again and lifted his arm to drop it around France’s waist to rub small circles over his back. “Alright,” he said, “but the RSVP doesn’t need to be sent for a week or so. Promise me you’ll at least think about it?”
“I will,” Scotland promised, and made a mental note to bother England for details of this ball France seemed to be so keen on. And if the thought of Scotland attending one such function looked as though it might give his brother a migraine if he even thought about it too long, he might even consider going. For the memories, of course.
“It would be terribly romantic,” France went on, and it was clear that he was already getting ideas
no matter whether Scotland had agreed or not. His knuckles rubbed against Scotland’s cheek, hair fanning out like gold on the sheets beneath his head. He traced the bridge of Scotland’s nose with his fingertip and really, he could get used to this.
“Hmm,” Scotland grunted noncommittally and carefully raked France’s hair away from his forehead. He pressed his lips to his brow.
The touching especially, seeing as how France always claimed that skin-on-skin contact had taught him many things about his fellow nations, strengths and weaknesses aside. He tried not to think about it too deeply, because as it was he thought he’d be lucky to find someone who hadn’t
fallen to those whimsical charms, and that in itself could be rather depressing.
“And you look so handsome in formalwear,” he added, eyes fluttering shut briefly at the gesture. He continued to pet Scotland with the back of his hand, fingers tracing over his jaw and down the pulse in neck. It set every nerve on fire, warm tingles that pooled in his belly and intent on rushing all to his face, his chest and his loins. France hooked his ankle around the back of his, drawing their legs together.
“Did you know,” he said softly, conspiratorially, as Scotland started to caress him in turn, mouth moving slowly down his nose, pressing kisses to his cheeks and jaw and ear. His leg curved around his lower back now, arm tightening across broad shoulders. “I’ve always had a thing for kilts.”
Scotland huffed against his ear, somewhere halfway between laughter as he took the skin between his teeth and sucked at the soft patch of skin behind it that made France’s fingers flex and tremble a little, and his back arch just so
. “Flattery won’t get you an answer any faster,” he told him. “But ta’ for that.”
“It is nothing but the truth,” France replied, his voice taking on a somewhat breathless quality; his heel was digging rather pointedly into Scotland’s back now. “I have nothing but the finest appreciation for clothing with remarkably easy access.”
Scotland nosed the juncture between his neck and shoulder, at the faint scent of cologne that lingered on France’s collar and the way it pushed all the right buttons. He palmed his hip. “You know,” he began, as the fires continued to race, building up the warmth until he was sure it was radiating off him in waves because France kept trying to drag him closer with his foot, “this bed isn’t qualified for any such rating, stars or not, but I seem to recall that it holds its own pretty well in spite of that.”
“Well I suppose that’s true…” France cocked his head a little, shifted around as though testing the statement and then smiled beatifically up at Scotland, in much the same way he always did when he knew exactly
what it was he wanted. “What would you have me do?”
He had an entire mental list, and most of those things fell just short of breaking the bed in its frame while they were at it, but he wasn’t quite sure how to tell France this without losing half his clothes then and there. Slow
, Scotland reminded himself, even as he swallowed somewhat thickly when he framed France’s face in his hands. You’re supposed to be taking it slow, Jesus fucking Christ.
But the sensible part of him, the one that protested their skirting around this like they were teenagers all over again and was all for Scotland fucking France until the windows rattled on their hinges, told him to suck it up and deal with it or else go and join a monastery for all he was faffing about.
Scotland really couldn’t argue with that kind of logic, which is why when France pulled him down by his shirtfront he couldn’t really do anything but reciprocate, tangling his fingers in blonde hair and kissing him deeply. France sighed against his mouth, glasses frames bending and lenses smudging, heat and warmth making them look frosted over until Scotland had the sense of mind to push them back up over his forehead. He kissed over his eyelids, irises so, so
blue and dark as they gazed up at him that he felt like he had swallowed his tongue when France kissed him again.
Except he couldn’t
have done, because France was sucking on it in such a way that it made his head spin, and cinching his legs like a vice around Scotland’s waist. He was fumbling with his shirt, fingers clumsy on the tiny buttons almost as much as France’s were sure on the hem of his jumper, already halfway up his torso with the intention of pulling it over his head.
He succeeded, and suddenly there were fingers everywhere, dancing cool patterns all over his flushed skin and Scotland pressed France deep into the mattress, kissing up all the whispered endearments in incomprehensible French, which by any account, was probably as nonsensical as it sounded. The invitation letter lay forgotten on the other side of the bed; Scotland fumbled with the last of the buttons, cursing them as France left hot, wet kisses down his neck because fuck
he couldn’t get him naked fast enough –
– and then there was the music.
Which was odd because Scotland had never believed the whole “choir of angels singing” rot that was usually associated with a stroke of good fortune, and least of all when he was about to get laid, but there it was, clear as day, albeit slightly muffled and vibrating incessantly in the pocket of his trousers where France’s thigh was squeezing around his waist.
He had managed to open the last button with a deft flick of his thumb, and had to suck in a dry breath when France’s shirt thin shirt fell open, chest flushed and heaving, and he shuddered when Scotland brushed his finger over a nipple, ducked his head to mouth at his chest.
The music grew loud and shrill. Scotland dropped his forehead against France’s belly.
“Fuck,” he muttered sourly, “Fuck
I can never catch a break,” and was all the more irritated when it just didn’t stop
. “Go the hell away,” he groaned, half fumbling in his pocket for his mobile as the nation beneath him made a particular noise that bordered on obscene, and Scotland’s ears flushed red because it just wasn’t fair
?” he said sharply, when he had manoeuvred around enough to press the “call” button, falling back to lie on his side and pinch the bridge of his nose with his other hand. “I’m kind of busy at the moment so unless this is really
fucking important, I –”
It was one of his bosses. Not England nor Wales, in which case Scotland would have had given either of them a talking to the next time they met up, but in fact, a purely business call as to the whereabouts of the paperwork Scotland was supposed to have completed over the holidays and dropped off at parliament earlier that day.
It was also of course, the paperwork that Scotland had forgotten about entirely since the start of the Christmas season, and was probably lost under a pile of debris somewhere in his living room. His stomach dropped to his toes a little.
A mood killer if there ever was one, notwithstanding the fact that France would be heading back into Paris tomorrow
“Fuck,” Scotland said again, and ran his hand through his hair, “Fuck, no of course I’ve got it. Of course, I do. Just give me a minute, I –” He made a face. France was kissing down his neck, making a sympathetic noise and pressing his cheek to Scotland’s collarbone. Christ.
He put his hand over the receiver. “Hold that thought,” he said, and rested his chin against the top of France’s blonde head. “I’ll be right back.” He kissed his hair, and cheeks and lips and that ‘why am I not surprised?’ frown that graced his features when Scotland pulled back far enough to look at him. “Don’t…just, stay there. Okay? Just, fuck …give me five minutes?”
France sighed, blowing hair out of his eyes. He looked just as annoyed as Scotland felt. “Cher…
“Five minutes,” he said, and kissed him firmly before vaulting off the side of the bed and ducking, shirtless, out of the room and down the hall. France could hear his heavy footsteps and curses all the way down the stairs.
He collapsed back against the pillows with a sigh.
It took an hour of searching, another half to get in the car, drive the unread documents to parliament and pretend
like he had found the facts and figures of the economy remotely profound, and then god knows how long through the late afternoon traffic just to get back again.
He found France in the kitchen, fully dressed and not a hair out of place, as though nothing had transpired between them in the time he had left and returned. He had, bless him, taken the opportunity to pour them some whisky for his troubles. Scotland took the whole bottle.
“Did we ever have this much trouble before?” he asked, later when they were sitting on the couch, sprawled so far down that his head could rest on France’s shoulder with the bottle nursed in his lap.
France’s mouth had been set in a flat line since his return, although he answered coolly in turn, “We never actively stopped
having sex before, mon cœur
“Aye, but you would think it would actually be easier not
to do it –”
“My dear, if you are not going to shut up and drink then at least stop hogging the bottle.”
omg I actually wrote a fic in a MODERN setting aaaah. D: And a multi-chaptered one that's already more or less set out in my head. What is thissssssss.
Anyway, as you might have guessed, this fic details that short period after which Scotland and France got together, took things slow and didn't really get up to much sex at all. It was a frustrating time for everyone believe me. But you learn a lot about a person outside of the bedroom, which is what I'll be trying to demonstrate in this fic here. If all goes well orz.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