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Scotland wakes up early.
It wasn’t so long in a nation’s perception of time that the daily life of his people and himself was firmly ruled by the sun, and when waking up with the dawn was seen as a natural necessity to make most of the day, and not some strange eccentricity as everybody calls it now. Including other nations and even his own siblings, who got all too eagerly used to the comfort of lightbulbs and occasional sleeping in.
But Scotland can’t. The steady mechanism inbuilt in his skull that has woken him up for centuries with the first lark’s calling simply works as it always did, and he opens his eyes to a bedroom swimming in the pale light of not-yet-sunrise, feeling refreshed and with limbs full of pent-up energy ready to carry him into the day.
There is, however, an obstacle to his leap towards the fresh morning world. It’s formed like France and is curled up so that Scotland’s wrist rests somewhere under his ribs, the remains of the cradle of Scotland’s arms France fell asleep in.
Luckily, France is a deep sleeper.
Scotland gently lifts France’s soft shoulder resting on the pillow, enough to pull his own hand free. He then pulls the covers over his sleeping form, mindful to tuck him in properly - it’s April in Paris and a very hot one for that, but France always complains about being cold in beds. France barely stirs, just rearranges his position by wriggling deeper into the blanket wrap, clutching at the corner of the duvet as he would doubtlessly cling to Scotland’s arm, were he still there.
Knowing from experience the scorn France’s bleary eyes would offer him were he to wake him up and ask if he doesn’t want to join his early walk, Scotland kisses the crown of his head - more is barely visible from the blanket - and, grabbing his jeans from the chair beside the bed, quietly closes the bedroom door behind him.
Two hours later, he can see Paris waking up as the traffic gets denser and the bedroom he returns to after a quick shower is bathed in warm sunlight. He stops at the bed’s foot, towelling his hair while observing how France progressed with his transformation to the butterfly he will soon emerge as by making a snug cocoon around himself.
France moves now, for the first time that morning, and blinks lazily from just above the duvet’s edge.
“Back from your walk?” he asks, voice syrupy deep.
Scotland nods and hangs the wet towel over the armrest to dry. He knows what will follow and he doesn’t need to look up to see how France stretches out one of his goosebump-covered arms towards him and pleads, “Come back?”
Scotland learned that in some cases, resistance is futile. Just as sometimes, there is no reason for resistance.
He climbs to his side of the bed while France - quite heroically, given how the cold looks to physically pain him - holds the corner of the duvet open and welcoming for him. The moment he settles, France’s arms sneak around him like an octopus and he feels France’s nose sniff at his neck tendons.
“You used my shower gel again.” he says as he nuzzles lower, reaching Scotland’s collarbone.
Before Scotland can explain that he wanted to bring his own but for the bloody customs and their liquids control on airports - France whispers into his chest:
“Wonderful.”
Scotland just tightens his grip on him - he is so warm and pliant in his arms, completely off-guard and melting like butter under Scotland’s touch - and closes his eyes.
Sleeping in isn’t that bad after all.
***
France is a late sleeper.
Whether his body prefers nighttime and he merely adjusted his daily regime to it throughout the centuries of his long life, or if his system accepted that he himself thrives on everything that happens once the sun and its brightness depart is not known; fact stays that France adores the moments when the world is dipped into darkness and things that can’t be spoken about by daylight start to creep out for their hunt.
Tonight, however, his excellent ability to keep his concentration sharp after midnight is gravely misused on matters far from earthly pleasures. No matter how much he’d love to just stop being a nation at least for the long weekends spent with Scotland, his obligations catch up with him anyway, and the incessant buzzing of his emails can only be ignored for so long. Loathe to lose a moment of their hard-won time together, yet knowing the German wrath awaiting him should he ignore the high-priority messages completely, France has to bring sacrifices from his otherwise favourite time of the day.
And so he now sits in the eerily quiet library in Scotland’s house, reading glasses sliding on his cold nose, and peers with a mixture of determination and resignation into yet another decree limiting the export of fresh goat milk per capita. Scotland himself is long since asleep, sent to bed after he dozed off on the couch under France while watching a lighthearted comedy suited for Saturday night. He stumbled to his bedroom obediently and clumsily like a giant bumblebee, and now the thought of him waiting for France in their bed and warming the covers works like a stream of water for the mill of France’s motivation.
At last, the daily tasks are finished, and France stretches, shivers, claps his laptop shut with delectable pleasure and finally tiptoes into the bedroom too.
Scotland sleeps as he always does - sprawled through one-and-a-half side of the mattress, feet uncovered as if he’d been trying to escape the unbearable heat. France’s arms shiver just by watching the display as he strips his glossy dressing gown and slips under the meagre bit of blanket left to him by Scotland’s massive arms and legs; it barely covers his knees.
Luckily, Scotland is a light sleeper.
Immediately as France tries to wriggle closer and leech a bit more of the giant source of body heat at his back, Scotland moves and hums lowly, the sound reverberating through the mattress itself straight into France’s skin. Soon, he is gripped from behind and pulled into a strong embrace, and it’s not unlike falling into the sun-kissed mediterranean sea; the feeling of warmth and safety and utter comfort, making the day’s worth of worries slip from his mind like washed away by the tide.
France feels Scotland’s beard scratching the base of his neck as Scotland leans in to ask, “Finished?”
His answer is France’s pleased hum, and the gentle pats he is delivering to the back of Scotland’s hands resting on his chest.
In an ultimate gesture of thoughtfulness, Scotland’s arm reaches out to cover France with a blanket that he digs from beneath their tangled bodies. His last movement, before he slips back into sleep like a log thrown into water, goes to France’s jaw, where a clumsy, sleepy and warm kiss lands.
France feels the warm fabric and even warmer muscles hugging his back and breathes in a lungful of night air, and remembers just why this is his favourite time of the day.