Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4370429.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      France_(Hetalia)/Scotland_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      France_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Scotland_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers)
  Additional Tags:
      Historical, Historical_Hetalia, Hundred_Years_War_-_Freeform, Post-
      Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Loss_of
      Virginity, Auld_Alliance
  Series:
      Part 3 of aphfrweek2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-18 Words: 5891
****** La Découverte ******
by Al_D_Baran
Summary
     3/7. Francis is in love with Ailein (Scotland). The story of a first
     love.
Notes
     Here’s a warning: this fic contains PTSD, non-con flashbacks (yeah…
     can’t keep on innocent sadness… gotta do the gritty because I’m a
     bitch), consensual sexy times between a 14 year-old boy and a bunch
     of period appropriate homophobia. Not saying too much or it’s going
     to be spoiled. Again, nothing is awfully sexualized, so don’t worry,
     it’s not like its shota or anything terrible I guess. I touched over
     Francis being queer but honestly, I’ll keep him as gender non-
     conforming cis bi/pan male. Not out of transphobia, but I’m
     uncomfortable to write about that. I’d rather leave non-binary kids
     to write their own queer Francis! After all, you are the ones that
     should be heard so please, write your own fanfics with queer/nb
     Francis because we all want to see them!
     Anyway, if you wonder how Ailein is pronounced, it’s the Scottish way
     to write Alan. Sounds a bit like Helen tbh? But have this ref. The
     fic should be around 1421, just a little before Jeanne d’Arc.
See the end of the work for more notes
           It’s war again. It seems like it always is. This time, again, they
are fighting against his neighbour, England. Arthur, as they call him between
themselves, used to be an adorable little boy; now, he’s grown into an
arrogant, intensely annoying brat. Francis can barely believe it’s the same
nation he’s met a few hundred years ago. They were almost family then… and now,
things have changed.
Arthur’s names fits him terribly well. If he then was fluffy like a little bear
cub, now, Arthur is fearless. If the looks don’t match his ferocity, Francis
certainly saw more blood during the last few years than he has in a while.
Battles aren’t his forte. If some nations are invigorated by the smell of ashes
and blood, Francis, for his parts, would much prefer to lounge around a castle,
doused in refined perfumes and surrounded by wonderful tapestries, eating
delicious little cakes.
War, however, sometimes brings good things. Before, it was confidence and
strength. Power, reputation. Everyone in Europe knows his name by heart. After
all, he is somewhat the reason why they all exist. This time, war brought him
an unlikely, genuine friend. Scotland has declared itself their ally during
this war. Francis barely ever had allies before, hence, he was a little nervous
before they met. Who was this nation? How are they? Were they a boy? A girl?
Something else? (Francis doesn’t quite feel like a boy nor a girl, usually.
He’s a little in-between, preferring nonetheless to be in the body he has.
After all, he knows all too well what happens to girls barely older than he
looks, and even feminine nations.) Are they mean? All he knows, is that
Scotland is England’s older brother.
When they met, Francis knows he’s worried wholly for nothing. Scotland goes by
the name Ailein and looks just about whoever would think a Scotsman looks like.
With vibrant auburn hair, almost redder than carnations in the sun, a deep
burgundy in the dark, the young man looks a little older than he is. At
sixteen, he is taller than most men—just as tall as Charles, he thought—, with
pale skin covered by a constellation of freckles, eyes the same bottle green as
Arthur.
Though he did not know of him before, they quickly become close. Both are Celts
at heart; Ailein still wears an intertwined cross on a small necklace. A symbol
of eternity, Francis thinks it is oddly fitting, seeing just how much older
Ailein is. They speak of their gods, of the difference between their cultures.
It feels like it has been years since the last time Francis could speak of that
time. They still remember the words. Arverns and Picts probably never met, but
Celts share vast similarities.
They value the liberty of love, see no wrong in being naked. In the puritanism
of modern Europeans, both feel ill at ease. The brutal honesty of Ailein is
almost scary now that he is so well-assimilated, but most of all, he is
welcoming. The courageous young boy welcomes him into his arms, understanding
of his disdain of war, even though, like Arthur, Ailein is a lion on the
battlefield, ferocious and brutal, prouder than the beast.
Like Charles, Francis remembers.
A little. Ailein, though similar, is very different. Charles was more reserved,
the Scot is brutally honest, yells, gets inebriated easily and has a strong
dislike for most of his kin—especially Arthur. Though, if he too, has to be
frank, Francis knows Arthur has been more than discourteous with his whole
family.
When things are calm, they leave without telling anyone, laying in a small
clearing. When the battles are over, they have all the time in the world to
enjoy the nature they remember. Forests, as Francis loves—Gaul was called
a pays chevelu for more than its long-haired inhabitants, after all—with the
peaceful, soothing singing of the birds, coupled with the gentle breeze between
the branches of trees.
They have no qualms getting naked in front of one another, either. It feels
better to be like this, in fact. Both remember their parents and tribes
fighting stark-naked, wild warriors and there is still no taboo for them about
being so. They embrace, lazy around, speak of their lives. Francis knows his is
not really one to envy, but Ailein seems to hold Charlemagne in high esteem. It
pleases him, to know he is holding the very Empire that held Europe over a
couple of years.
Ailein is brash and rude, sometimes a little too rough for him, but he makes it
up each time with tiny gifts. With his dagger, he’s carved him a small Celtic
cross, covered in tiny, minuscule knots and swirls. He tells him all of their
significance, cheeks colouring a deep, wine-red as he said what they meant;
Francis knew, but couldn’t help but blush too as the young man pointed a
Lover’s Knot.
It’s the first time they kiss. Ailein’s face is filled with stubble, his lips
rough and sun-dried. There’s small sun-burns on his cheeks; Francis moves his
fingers around the coarse hair of his chin, eyes closing, mind wandering to the
childish kisses he shared with Antoine. His eyes close just like then,
remaining so until he feels the man’s tongue inside his mouth. It’s slimy; it
doesn’t feel good. Confused, he had pulled away, looking up to the older boy.
“Sorry… got carried away,” he had apologized, rubbing his neck, pushing the
tiny wooden cross into his hand.
“Oh no… it’s… it’s fine, it’s just… I’ve never kissed with the tongue.” Not
really. All the kisses he had ever shared till then were with Antoine, from
either the tip of the lips, or childish pecks. That seemed quite adult. Maybe
even a little too much…
“Oh.” Ailein seemed to suddenly remember Francis was a child, just barely older
than his little brother. “Do you… mind if we kiss?” he asked, tentatively,
carefully taking his hand in his own.
Oh, he didn’t. Francis sighed in a relief he wasn’t quite sure why he felt or
was holding, then shook his head. “No… it’s nice. I like kisses.”
And so they had kissed again. It became a little routine. It has been a few
weeks now; each time they kiss, in the secret of a tent of the cover of trees,
Francis feels shiver run up his spine. Their relation takes a sharp turn,
tumbling down a passionate road. Ailein, like in everything he does, is rough,
almost too much for him each time. But Francis is desperate to please, even
under the still somehow careful kisses and touches of the other man.
He’s not quite sure if they are lovers. Francis thinks so, thinks of Ailein as
his boyfriend. A taller, handsome young man… Everything he could have wanted.
He feels like a young maid, squirming and giggling under the strong, callused
hands. He holds his sides as he pushes his fingers through his fiery hair.
Francis couldn’t be happier, unsure of what he thinks of marks in his neck.
But he is free; he cannot be owned, he is still himself.
Yet, sometimes, he wakes in panic in their tents, sweating and unsure
of where danger might be coming from, what it could be, how it could hurt, but
convinced it is somewhereand out to get him. Ailein reassures him each night,
plays along, looking outside, under the bunks, under the blankets… There is
nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, even as he fall asleep, Francis feels hands
gripping his wrists, his thighs. He can’t remember, he doesn’t think he wants
to.
But during the next days, they are back inside a summery glade. The birds sings
around them, the fresh smell of wild lavender surrounds their sleepy breaths.
They lay together in a heap of cloaks and limbs, Francis’ head tucked under
Ailein’s chin. If war is now stuck into the mud, a painful experience on both
the body and mind, they are together at least. It sooths them both—Francis
especially.
The routine carries on for weeks. Between planning and pacing around their
leaders, time together and nightly terrors, they almost cannot see the time
pass. Francis feels at ease, ticklish and wonderful into his lover’s eyes, who
seem to think of him as the most adorable of things. Francis is overjoyed with
how things turns out, to feel so loved by someone of his kind again. He’s
barely seen a glimpse of Antoine in years—he still remembers Iulius dearly
still, still holds their tiny moments dear.
Things carries on, the solace of their woodland escapades kept a secret from
all. Their alliance is stronger than ever. The relationship between their
countries, the positive feeling of their people towards one another make them
even closer. Francis feels like he could tell Ailein anything, lets him kiss
tiny red marks across his collarbone, loving the raspy feeling of the stubble
over his cheeks and chin. Francis changes his perfume to please the other boy,
aware that the man enjoys lavender better than roses.
It all leads to one day, with the both of them under the cover of the trees,
snuggled under an oak like sun-seeking kittens. They have discarded their heavy
plates, weapons laid next to them. The brisk wind of the late summer makes him
keep his cloak and clothes, but Ailein seems wholly unaffected by the breeze
and remains shirtless, holding him close. Francis wonders if it’s to show off
his muscles—not that he would mind. He loves running his hand against his
biceps, muscular abdomen, burry his hand in the hair of his chest.
They kiss once; then twice, then thrice… Their hands roam slowly, Francis’ hand
slipping to his defined, rock-hard stomach, fingers tracing the solid muscles
of it. Ailein slips his hand under his tunic, pulling the belt off with one
look up, wanting to make sure Francis’ anticipation is a positive one. Once
reassured, the older nation pulls the boy’s shirt up, revealing the pristine,
peachy skin of the Frenchman’s stomach.
There is no muscles there, but, even as he enters teenage years, Francis still
has an adorable pudginess around his middle section. Ailein smiles, unable to
resist himself and press loud kisses to the boy’s stomach. Ticklish, Francis
wriggles, laughing heartily before Ailein’s mouth goes higher, just under his
chest. He flicks a pink nipple, Francis touches his. They are a nice, dark
brown. The boy feels quite small as soon as Ailein looms over him for another
kiss.
Francis feels the warmth of his body against his. His shoulders are broad and
strong, keeping his view of the world to be the cloak that slips from Ailein’s
shoulders, the way his muscles contract to keep him solidly up. Francis pull
his arms up to behind his neck, arching softly under the other man’s hands,
almost instinctively parting his legs to allow him between them.
Before he can protest, Ailein pulls away, looking at him with a frown, mouth
open in reflection, “Ye sure ye’re fine?” He asks, one hand still caressing his
inner thigh. “Ye’re… all tense. Want me to stop?”
“Oh, no!” Francis suddenly realizes that he is, in fact, rather tense. He feels
like the string of a bow, ready to snap at any moment. Letting out a breath,
Francis slumps back down, playing with his hands and biting his lower lips.
“I’m fine, just… I guess I am a little nervous.”
Ailein smirks, carnivorous, as if he’s going to eat him whole, in a single
bite. Francis feels a whole other kind of anxiety. “Why? Ye think I… want to
fuck you?”
When he says it, Francis feels his face heat up. Hiding it behind his hands, he
giggles, looking to the ferocious warrior over him from between his fingers.
Does he want to? It’s not like he hasn’t imagined it. Ailein, as rough as he
can be, has always been gentle with him. Of course, sometimes, he will rush him
through things, scaring him, but he always apologizes. After all, they are
trapped in the bodies of teenagers. They are young. Francis sees the sincerity
in his eyes each time. He knows things will be fine.
“Maybe…” he murmurs, moving his hands to Ailein’s forearms, as if to ground
himself in the reality of it all. “Would you… like it?”
The other has a breathless gasp, looking around as if to convince himself no
one is around, or that it is him Francis asks if he would want to lie with. The
Frenchman thinks it is awfully cute, giggling as he pats his hands. Of course,
he would love it, he knows. Francis has always been told he was quite
irresistible, after all.
“Sure. Sure, I’d love to…” Ailein stammers out, quicker than usual, as if
febrile at the very idea. “I mean… if you want to, I’d really love to um… sleep
with you.”
“Not fuck?” Francis teases, though just as breathless as his boyfriend.
Ailein laughs, apparently relaxing once he hears Francis’ joke. “Fucking can
come later. For now… I think ye’d be better with something nice an’ gentle.”
Nice and gentle. Francis feels as if his lungs doesn’t have the capacity to
breathe properly anymore, looking at Ailein with wide blue eyes. Nice and
gentle… it will be fine, he thinks, seeing how Ailein has been just as nice and
gentle as he said he will be if they do. Ailein has hold him during the tears-
filled nights, reassured him after his nightmares, looked for any monsters that
could be hidden anywhere.
It will be fine.
That’s what he tells himself, though he tenses again.
“You’d like to?”
“Well… yes.” Ailein seems a little shy, rubbing his neck with a little smile.
“Would ye… want to? Now? Or… later?”
They probably won’t have any time later. They will be in the camps, their tent
isn’t anything remotely close to private—anyone can hear what happens outside
or inside without any troubles—and even though they are countries, if they find
them like this… Francis knows they will face terrible consequences. It could
put their alliance in danger, turn the issue of the war around just because of
a little kiss.
Francis knows what they do to homosexuals. He knows with how much disgust and
spite men call their name, calls them sodomites. He’s seen men burn on pyres,
seen some of them have their genitals cut. One King has held him tightly, his
head turned to the public execution as the axe had fell on his cock. The sight
of blood and the man’s screams had made him dizzy enough to faint for a split
second, waking up later in a chair, still nauseous, mouth filled with bile.
“No!” he says, almost too quickly and distressed. “No… we… we need to be
careful. The… the tent won’t do. They could hear us.”
Ailein too has seen the horrors Church inflicts on sodomites. Losing his smile
for an instant, he nods, laying over Francis, caressing his hip with his thumb.
“Aye. We’re… we can come back here too. D’ ye want to do it now?”
It’s Francis’ turn to nod, wrapping his arms around the Scot’s thick shoulders,
joining his hands in his shoulder-length, braided hair. Ailein kisses him,
softer than before, his lips moving across his to meet his cheek, then under
his ear… Francis tenses and relaxes in turn, unsure of what he should be
awaiting for. But everything will be fine, he thinks, laughing again at the
tickles of the man’s stubble against his cheek, the feather-like touches of his
lips…
Soon, their clothes come undone. Francis is flushed red all over, feeling
warmer than ever. If they have seen each other naked before, it seems that now,
it is entirely different. Francis can barley take his eyes off Ailein’s body,
how ripped and strong it looks. All of the freckles all over his pale skin,
covering his shoulders and back. The way his muscles roll under it with each
movements. Francis swallows hard. He knows he likes what he sees, though it
comes with a little of guilt. He shakes his head. Love, whatever it is, is
love. He cannot let Church get to his head.
He’s undressed too, though Francis feels quite more vulnerable once naked. He
is tiny; he looks like a frog, if he can say it this way. Looking more like a
teenager with a juvenile, girlish face, Francis feels too tall, too long and
too thin. He’s grown, yet his body hasn’t filled in the rest too gracefully.
Ailein still seems to enjoy what he sees, tracing the barely there ghost of his
ribs. They kiss again, tenderly.
Francis’ eyes trail down as they part, meeting the rather unnerving sight of
Ailein’s, well… much too well-endowed crotch. Francis has seen dicks before,
but he isn’t sure this is a cock or a malformed third leg. Looking back up to
Ailein, Francis wants to flee, unsure if that would ever fit inside him—or
anyone, for that matter.
Seeing his reaction, the Scot laughs nervously, hides his erection awkwardly
with one hand, covering them with his cloak. “Sorry, um… I know it’s… kind of
big.” Kind of? Ailein can see he’s not quite convinced. “Alright. It is. Would
ye… would ye like better to stop?”
But he’s feeling so good… shaking his head, even though he still feels
completely nervous, Francis shakes his head. “No… I want to carry on. But…
how?”
“Don’ worry, princess.” Francis smiles. He likes that nickname, even if it can
get a little annoying, but if it is said with fondness, just like now, there is
barely anything better. Ailein carries on, “I’ slept with a few boys already…
I’ll take care o’ ye. Ye’re gonna be jus’ fine. I know how it all works.”
That is a relief. Snuggling back against Ailein, Francis pulls the cloak off of
them, looking between them to just observe naively, his hand touching the young
man’s cock. He can barely reach around it… Ailein is both long and thick.
Francis thinks he’s heard before that those feels quite good, but for now, he
doesn’t know anything about sex. He has heard, sometimes walked on people, but
for himself? He barely masturbates.
Ailein touches him too, the rough callused hand against his crotch feeling
somehow much, much better than his own. He bucks against the pleasurable
digits, eyes closing as he feels tiny white sparks explode beneath his eyelids.
He can hear Ailein’s chuckle, so he holds onto him, hands fisting in the
other’s thick red hair.
He pulls away just seconds before he can have a satisfying orgasm. Opening his
eyes to glare at him, Francis sees Ailein rummage through the basket they’ve
brought with them, containing a couple pieces of bread and butter.
Laughing nervously, Francis looks up, confused, “You want to eat me? Like a
piece of bread?”
Ailein only winks. “I can eat ye, alright, princess.”
“I should have known.”
Opening the little pot of butter, Ailein kneels between his legs, spreading
them. Francis feels himself tense again, having to look at Ailein for a moment,
looking read to jump on his feet and flees without a look behind. The man has a
tender smile again.
“It’s okay. We can stop. Want to?” Francis shakes his head. “Ye’re gonna have
to relax then.”
“Relax?” He feels as if the word is foreign, suddenly
Ailein sees his distress and leaves the pot of butter, looking a little too
disappointed for Francis. Laying over him, the young man seems to think every
words he’s going to say, taking his hands in his to lace their fingers
together. “Y’ know,” he starts, slowly, frowning as he thinks, “Sex… it’s made
to relax. And feel good. But… between men, it’s… a little difficult.”
Difficult. Francis doesn’t like that word.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Ailein continues, “It’s just that… mmh, arses
aren’ really made fo’ that but there’s a way. And it’s gonna feel good.” Seeing
Francis is still just as unconvinced, the young man ruffles his hair. “I
promise. I know… I know how to. I’ve been in the same place as you are once,
princess.”
It’s hard to believe Ailein could ever have been where he is, laying under an
older boy, nervous and a little scared. But his smile is sincere and warm.
Francis feels some relief, body visibly relaxing. Ailein takes it as a cue,
placing his cloak behind the boy’s back to give him something comfortable to
lie against.
Once he returns to the butter pot, Ailein toys with it, as if as nervous as
Francis is. His green eyes are just as soft as before, if warmed up with lust.
“Want to try?” he asks, pointing to the pot.
Francis knows what he is going to do. After all, there is not ten million ways
to have intercourse between men, he thinks. There mustn’t be… sex requires
penetration after all. Slowly, he nods, still somewhat unconvinced. “You’re…
really going to use butter?”
“Uh, yeah.” Ailein laughs, rubbing his thighs gently, as if trying to take more
time than he should to actually start. “Unless ye wan’ to see me run back to
the camp. Limpin’ because of an erection.”
Francis laughs. Ailein takes the occasion to coat his fingers in butter,
pressing one against his ass. Francis tenses, uncomfortable as he feels the
intrusion. His breathing picks up, the boy looking down, as if to make sure it
is still Ailein down there. The Scot looks at him, apparently still confused at
the other nation’s behaviour. With the same patient smile, Ailein tries to make
him laugh, “Ye know, actually, I’m just putting butter there because I wanna
cook ye later.”
With another giggle, the boy snuggles in Ailein’s green cloak. “Really? I’m
sure you’re just going to burn me.” The sensation is still intensely weird, but
somehow, the conversation takes his mind off of it.
Ailein glares, but there’s no ill feelings. “Ye’re going to be a crisp
lil’ haggis in barely a minute.”
“So… it’s true you—oh—,” he tenses a little again as he feels another finger
come inside; it still feels just as weird, but… Ailein truly is trying to help.
“That you… like sheeps.”
The Scot lets out a scandalized gasp. He seems to be able to lash out or insult
him, but stops with a grin. “Only when I’m lonely.”
Francis laughs louder this time, hiding his face in the musky cloak. Ailein’s
fingers suddenly just barely graze something that makes him feel terribly good;
he lets out a tiny moan, seeing starlight behind his eyelids. “Do… do that
again,” he asks, earning another grin. His body is shaken by little jolts,
thighs trembling as he tries as hard as he can not to clamp them down on
Ailein’s head.
Minutes passes without his notice, his eyes closed as he focus on that lovely
sensation. If it still feels odd, but with pleasure, he can push through.
Suddenly, Ailein’s fingers are pulled away and he feels oddly empty. Opening
his eyes to half-glare to him, only to be met with the arousing sight of Ailein
fisting his cock, covering it in a layer of butter.
“It… probably won’ do much,” Ailein says, apparently a little self-conscious to
be watched so closely. Francis can only smile, placing his hands on the man’s
forearms, looking up as he pulls his hips up. Francis breathes in and out,
unsure if he wants to run away, his stomach knotting. “I mean… butter isn’t
too… it’s no good, you know? It’ll be better next time. Promise.”
Ailein’s hands part his legs and cheeks, one hand guiding his cock inside him.
There’s a sharp pain; it’s barely anything, Francis hardly feel anything more
but a quick flash of it. Somehow, in his nervous state, it’s more than enough
to push all the air out of his lungs. Suddenly, he remembers a dark room in a
coloured villa, the fresh breeze of spring making him shiver softly. The cloak
he’s hiding his face in out of shyness becomes a purple toga, pushed into his
face. Ailein’s gentle touch become the burn of something else. It hurts, he
wants to scream, but his throat his blocked. He trashes, sobbing, crying as if
he’s being murdered.
When he comes back to his senses, he barely recognizes Ailein over him, holding
his wrists to the ground. He vociferates insults in Latin and Normand, a
terrible fear eating his stomach. He remembers Iulius, the jealousy he had for
his insouciance, the fear he’s had since forever. Something tells him he’s
sitting only at the tip of the iceberg.
Realizing it’s Ailein over him and not—he thinks—a Roman Senator, Francis looks
up, breathless. He snorts, feeling his cheeks wet, his nose blocked by snot.
Ailein picks his own cloak to wipe his face, looking rather livid. They look at
each other for a long moment, Francis fears he’s going to get up and leave.
“I’m,” he tries, vainly attempting swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m
okay.” His smile looks fake and he knows it. “We can… I just…”
Ailein looks at him with the same pain he does to desolate villages, burned
houses, lost, tiny dollies of children in rubbles. It’s the last straw. He
doesn’t want to be lost and broken. Bringing his hand up to his mouth, Francis
looks away to sob silently, voice cracking as he doesn’t know what to do. “I’m
sorry. I don’t know, I—”
“No. Don’t say that.” Ailein cuts him as he speaks. “Don’t fuckin’ do this to
me. Ye’re… Francis. I don’ care about sex.” He looks so pained. Francis doesn’t
know what to do, pulling a cloak to hide himself, feeling hideous. Being
refused, even though he couldn’t carry on, feels like a slap in the face.
“Francis, please… it’s alright. I was too eager, I… I didn’t see y’ were…”
More nervous than he should have been. Actually scared. Ailein runs a hand
through his hair, not daring to move the cloak. He can hear the poor boy’s
sobs. Slowly, he tries to gently put Francis’ pants back on his legs, picking
his own breeches. Francis feels him lie behind him, gently bringing him closer.
“Please, Francis… don’t feel bad. It’s not… it’s not yer fault. I’ve acted like
an idiot. We can try again. Later. Would that… be okay? This time… slower. A
lot slower.”
Francis turns around, still holding onto the cloak as if it’s a lifeline. When
he dares to look back up to Ailein’s face, his green eyes are filled with
nothing but tender love. Francis feels terribly inadequate, like a shattered
mirror, but leans in the embrace. “Yes. Later. Are you… are you mad?”
“Mad?” Ailein is speechless. “Francis, I can only be mad at meself. I’ve… I
should’ve seen ye weren’t… weren’t so into it.”
“But I wanted to,” he whines. “I wanted to…”
“Francis. I know.” Ailein sighs. “Did ye want to… because I asked? Or did ye…
really want to? I know ye. Ye wanna please everybody. Be perfect. Ye don’t need
to be.”
Francis feels himself go limp. Of course… he had wanted to, partly, mostly
because Ailein would have been happy. Hiding himself out of shame in the cloak
again, Francis lets out a tiny hiccup. “I’m sorry.”
“Ye don’ have to be. It’s fine.” Ailein kisses the top of his head, slowly runs
his fingers against his ribs. “I’m no’ angry.”
Francis isn’t sure how much time they spend like this, hugging loosely, in
completely silence. Ailein fingers drums against his stomach. When Ailein
decides they should go back, the sun is past setting point, painting everything
in a vivid orange and gold light. As soon as they are back in their tent,
Ailein lays him down, pulling a blanket up to his chin, a gentle smile on his
face.
He decides he should rest, sitting on the young nation’s bunk to keep him a
little company. Francis doesn’t think he can sleep or close his eyes, but he
obeys. When the sun rises again on the horizon, Francis can’t tell if he has
slept or not; he is tired, stuck between hot and cold. Ailein is sleeping on
the ground, a pillow under him, covered with only his cloak.
Ailein has been so gentle with him. Francis pulls his own furs to the ground,
stepping over the man, pillow in hand to place it next to his. The Scot looks
upset in his sleep, mouth in a tight line, a frown on his face. Francis presses
himself against him, wrapped in the cosy bear fur, pressed against a lion.
Love, if anything, is something he wants to keep close.
Despite everything, the world seems to be alright, if only until his eyes slip
closed again.
.
.
.
Epilogue
.
.
.
Months have passed, bringing with them autumn and winter. Francis feels as if
time goes faster for him than anyone else. War takes a heavy toll on him.
Sometimes he can barely picks himself out of bed, exhausted from years of war
and dreams that plague his sleep. Between assassination attempts on Kings, the
horror of war and something gripping his blankets in the dead of night, Francis
feels even more exhausted.
He is allowed naps whenever he wants, still. He leans his head against Ailein’s
shoulder whenever he needs it, eyes slipping closed. It’s unprofessional but by
now, everyone has understood how hard invasions are on a nation’s human body.
Some get feverish, others will get weak. It is a little like a human’s body
fighting an infection, except, this time, far more deadly. Francis can resist,
resists more than he has the energy to. He’s done this for year. His life has
been a series of battles bloodier than the last. It’s not a new, arrogant
little nation who’s going to change anything.
He’s survived worst.
More than once.
He’s survived invasion, being made into a colony, his identity changing more
than once. He’s survived the partition of his Empire, lived far longer than
Arthur may ever do being so damn arrogant.
He still remembers. To be free, he has to live.
And so he does. Whatever the stake, he will carry on. Even if it means he’ll
need to become something else, Francis wants to survive. He’s seen enough death
around him already.
Yet, beside the still raging war, Francis finds a few nice things along the
way. His relationship with Ailein is slowly deepening… They court each other
still, laughing sometimes at the other’s awkward attempt to be romantic.
Francis finds himself becoming rather good at it; he tries to clamour poetry
for his love, nothing spectacular, but still. He finds a particular interesting
in minstrels and troubadours, reading their poems and books with great
attention.
Love is a comforting thing. Francis knows he wants to survive and be free to
love… Ailein scoops him up with ease, looks at him with eyes that allow him to
melt. If the first time they laid together was a disaster, now, they are
careful—sometimes a little too much, he guesses, but Francis can’t mind. Ailein
is, he thinks, a little traumatized to have seen him so upset. Each time he
touches him now, the boy is annoyingly seeking his consent.
It’s been more than a year now. The war still rages and each time they can
spend together, Francis spends it into his beloved’s arms. Surely, some days,
the question of intercourse comes back as they kiss, entangled in the other’s
breath and cloak. Usually, they won’t even try, carrying on with their
breathless kissing without Francis really answering the question. Of course,
he wants to sleep with Ailein, and now, he is convinced it’s not only because
he wants to please him.
Ailein’s shown more than once he cares about him, far more than to simply put
something inside him. Francis is happier than ever to discover, each day, that
even the rough and brash lion Ailein is, towards anyone else and enemies on the
battlefield, can be such a soft kitten in intimacy. They try it out sometimes;
to touch each other, discover how they are. If passionate, they take everything
as gently as possible.
Some time later still, they lay in a similar field, under the lush foliage of
another oak. It’s been days since the last battle; Francis feels better, if
only barely. Things are still hopeless, but the Scots offer them respite.
Francis feels even closer to Ailein knowing his people are the reason he isn’t
yet all conquered. He’s saved him… but they have spoken of it all many times.
He shouldn’t sleep with him as a way to thank him, but out of real love and
affection.
So they are there, when nothing much has happened for the last few days,
snuggled on their cloaks, armours already taken off. They’ve explored each
other’s bodies thoroughly during the last year. Francis discovered every scars
scattered across Ailein’s body, the older teen has kissed all of his. They’ve
learned to know the other under every angles, as small as they might be.
And it leads them here. Francis isn’t going to hide how nervous he is, but he
knows this time, he gives himself without any fear. Ailein asks tender
questions inside his ear as his fingers touch him. He clings to him, nodding,
answering with feverish impatience. Soon, he feels his fingers there again.
It’s still uncomfortable, but the pleasure he’s learn to know—even by
himself—is more than worth the minute of unease he has.
Ailein parts their lips for a second to look at him, slicking himself with the
massage oil he’s hidden in their purses. It’s the best they have, far better
than butter. Francis looks at him with apprehension, without any fear. Ailein
loves him with tenderness and is as sweet as honey each time he even grazes
him. Francis awaits, body opening for him.
When he sinks inside, Francis lets out a small gasp. He needs a second to
ground himself in reality, but it’s a whole other feeling—it’s happening.
Francis looks up to him, lips opened in a reddish pout. Ailein suckles on them,
murmuring something about strawberries. They meet with kisses and slow trusts.
Francis bites the flesh of the back of his hand to keep moans inside each time
Ailein carefully hits his prostate with each trusts.
When he finally spills, it’s without feeling of dirtiness or guilt. They
embrace again, smiles blissful and serene. It went better than they could ever
have hoped for. Francis clings to his lover, head snuggling against his
shoulder, blinking as if he expects the perfect scene to dissipate. Love feels
so good… the patience and tenderness have been all worth it, even if,
sometimes, he too was angry as his own inability to move forward. He’s
convinced he’ll dream of it all again, but for now, he feels wonderful.
There’s only one last thing to make it all perfect.
It’s cheesy, a little stupid, but he murmurs, “Je t’aime…”
End Notes
     Why is my awful porny shit always so long. I gotta stop turning
     around the pot. Honesty most of this fic is me mentally pacing around
     in panic.
     Picts: The Picts were a Celtic tribe living in the North and East of
     Scotland. See all the swirly stones? That’s them. Though the swirly
     shit is a Celtic thing entirely. You may think they are an obscure
     people but nope! We actually know a lot about the Picts! The Romans
     called their place Caledonia because they were pissed they couldn’t
     conquer it. Suck it guys. Anyway, they are the one who fought naked.
     Not sure for Arverns though.
     Celtic Crosses and all that jazz: Celtic crosses came after
     Christianisation of the Celts and mainly in Irish cemeteries. The
     swirls and circles seem to mean, as Francis says it, eternity. There
     is three circles: Chaos/Uncreated/Source or Keugant; the Terrestrial
     World or human experience or Abred; Light or the last circle Gwenwed.
     Sometimes, another one is added, Hell or Annoum/Anwn. Anyway, the
     meaning of Celtic spirals and knots isn’t very official, sadly. Some
     say it’s just marketing. We may never know. For now, the symbolism of
     eternity is quite lovely. uvu
     Gaul, Pays Chevelu: This means “hairy country”. As with anything, it
     sounds better in French. (Et mon cul, c’est du poulet.) The Celts of
     Gaul are widely considered to have worn the long hair. Not the
     moustache though, we know nobles shaved. Stop listening to Cesar.
     Arthur: Yes, the name does mean bear in Celt. Sometimes things are
     just the funniest they could be. Ailein, for its part, means “brave”
     or “calm”.
     Auld Alliance: Literally the most historically ship if you want one.
     Maybe beside Portugal and England. And France and England. Who didn’t
     want to fuck France in the ass though? Anyway, the alliance was
     concluded between France, Scotland and… Norway? Well, the more you
     know. XIVth century historian Jean de Fordun considers, in fact, that
     the mythical Scottish King Achaius was the first to trade with the
     Francs. With Charlemagne! They are so canon. My weak shipper heart.
     It is as old as 1165, as Uilleam Garbh, said the Lion, send an
     ambassador to Louis VIIth, though the first written trace is only as
     they sign the treaty, in October 1296. You can read more about it
     anywhere, but honestly, there is still signs of it today. Your OTP
     could never. Excuse my lack of professionalism but HONESTLY, how
     could I ever be?? Again, it’s still considered active today. They
     never actually broke it. The epilogue tells of the celebration that
     happened in 1995 because 700 hundred years, now that’s what I call a
     reason to party.
     Also, yes, obviously, Francis’ type is tall, strong and hairy men who
     are actually really nice (well, to him, at least *squints at England
     literally anything around Turkey*). And he’s going to end up with the
     smallest, scrawniest asshole there is. Anyway, who ever gets their
     type?
     Also don’t have sex with butter. Please.
     As you can see I really fucking love ScotFran and I need help. Also
     Ailein is definitely more like hurrhurrr’S OC but bara as balls.
     ireallylikemanlymenokay
     The title is super duper dumb and subtle but basically Francis
     discovered love… yeah I know it’s shit. IDK IF PRINCESS WAS TOO DADDY
     KINK BUT OK I’M SORRY ABOUT EVERYTHING I EVER DID. Anyway I hope I
     didn’t shit all over PTSD and litteraly everything ever. If I did, I
     am more than willing to correct.
     If I get doxxed I deserved it especially because of that awful
     epilogue and awful endings.
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