Thought it was past time to start turning Wales and Romano's pretend relationship into a real one. This fic isn't going to get them all the way there, but it will get them about halfway
-
-
16th June, 2013; County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland
-
"I didn't think he'd actually do it, you know," Scotland says for the eleventh time since they started their journey.
And the first ten times, Wales had pretended not to hear his brother because it had seemed like the easiest way of avoiding yet another argument on the subject, but with Northern Ireland now in the car alongside them, it feels imperative that he attempt to defend England's behaviour as best he can.
"I don't see why not," he says. "You practically begged him to, I recall."
Scotland's top lip curls in a sneer. "I've noticed that you conveniently don't recall that you encouraged him."
"Perhaps because I did no such thing."
From the very first insult Scotland growled at England, through the mug of tea England subsequently hurled at Scotland's head, and all the shouting, chest-beating, and posturing that followed, he'd simply been unable to get a word in edgewise.
Scotland clearly saw complicity in his silence, however, and has yet to allow an opportunity to berate Wales for it pass him by unremarked.
"Oh, of course not. It was all my fault, wasn't it? It's never yours. Never precious England's. I don't—"
"Where did England disappear to, anyway?" Northern Ireland puts in suddenly from the back seat. "Did you ever find out?"
Scotland and Wales shake their heads. England may as well have dropped off the face of the planet after kicking them out of his house a fortnight ago. His aggressively cheerful parting remark that he'd, "See you both in July!" proved not to be hyperbole, as they'd expected, but his final word, and they've not heard another from him since. He hasn't answered a single call to any of his phones, or replied to a single email.
Whilst Scotland was inclined to dismiss England's uncommunicativeness as nothing more than a prolonged sulk that he was bound to snap out of before it had any actual impact on his professional life, as the date of the G8 summit loomed ever closer and there was still no sign of their brother, Wales began to fear that he hadn't merely been issuing empty threats this time and really did intend to abandon them to it alone.
Two days ago, his anxiety had reached such an unbearable pitch that he'd finally broken down, given in, and arranged a meeting with their boss.
The PM had puckered his brow, nodded, and made a good show of sympathising with Wales' worries, but at the end of their meeting, he'd still swept them all callously aside. Mr England, he'd informed Wales, was long overdue for a holiday. It was only one summit, after all, and he was sure his brothers would prove perfect ambassadors in Mr England's absence.
Wales didn't get a wink of sleep that night. He researched tax evasion into the early hours instead, though he doesn't remember the slightest detail of what he'd read now. He's almost certain that Scotland won't have even glanced at the information the PM had forwarded to them.
They're woefully unprepared, and Germany will doubtless glare at them very disapprovingly indeed in their meeting tomorrow. Possibly even tut.
It is going to be a disaster.
Scotland gives Wales' shoulder an encouraging nudge when he sighs despondently.
"It could all still turn out to be some ridiculous test," he says, his smile brimming with an optimism that Wales cannot begin to understand given the circumstances, never mind share. "England will probably be waiting in the hotel lobby so he can have a good laugh at us for being gullible enough to fall for this shite."
-
-
16th June, 2013; Lough Erne, Northern Ireland
-
No England, mocking or otherwise, appears to greet their arrival at the hotel, and, Scotland informs them when he returns from the front desk, no-one expects him to put in an appearance later, either.
"They've got our names down as the UK representatives," Scotland says, "but it was too late to do anything about the rooms. They're booked solid, so we've only got the one that was supposed to be England's." He passes the keycard to Northern Ireland. "Which is now yours, North. So we're sorted, right?"
Wales blinks at him in confusion, wondering if he'd somehow missed an entire conversation. "Are we all going to share?" he asks.
"No...?" Scotland looks at Wales as though he's just spoken in some strange and incomprehensible language of his own devising. "I'm going to share with France."
"Just me and Gogledd, then?"
Northern Ireland turns to Wales, too, wearing an identical expression of bafflement. "What?"
"You'll be bunking up with your horrible boyfriend, won't you?" Scotland says after exchanging first a puzzled glance with their brother, then a frown that seems to indicate a degree of concern. "We presumed you'd already arranged it."
Between the tension, tax, and harried rescheduling of his week, Wales had hardly had sufficient time to eat, much less spare a thought for his fellow delegates. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Romano might be in attendance, even knowing full well that Veneziano would be.
"Right," he says dully, with a fast-sinking heart. "Yes. I am. Looking forward to it."
"To each their own," Scotland says. He doesn't even try to hide his grimace, but it's such a marked improvement from the angry bile he used to spew that it seems almost supportive. It's not much and, if Wales is ruthlessly honest with himself, his efforts at reconciling himself to Wales and Romano's supposed relationship are likely to be rendered pointless in the very near future, but he appreciates them all the same. "Right, I'm off up to France's room. Meet you in the bar in a couple of hours?"
He shoulders his bag, turns, and strides away before Wales has even finished the downward trajectory of his first nod.
Before Northern Ireland follows suit, he fishes around in his coat pocket and then passes Wales a small square of paper.
It's a white sticker, still on its backing, upon which Northern Ireland has written:
HELLO, MY NAME IS WALES
- England's brother
- Not dating France
- Please ask me about: rugby/poetry/male voice choirs
- Do NOT ask me about: Sheep
Wales honestly doesn't know what to say.
After a moment or two, Northern Ireland begins scuffing his feet against the highly polished lobby floor, noisily clears his throat, and then says, "We talked about it at America's party? How you should have a badge that... Okay, it was probably a stupid idea..."
He reaches out as though to snatch the sticker back, but Wales closes his hand around it, keeping it safe.
"No, it wasn't," he says. "It was very thoughtful."
Wales' eyes well, and he has the almost overwhelming urge to cling to Northern Ireland – preferably for the rest of the day – but he resists it. His little brother doesn't seem to care for hugs, and springing one on him regardless would be nothing but selfishness; for Wales' benefit and comfort and not Northern Ireland's own.
He thus restrains himself to, "Thank you, Gogledd."
His voice cracks a little, regardless, which causes Northern Ireland to shoot him an apprehensive look, clearly fearing the onset of tears, and lends urgency to his steps when he thereafter hurries away towards the lifts.
Wales supposes he should follow him. Search out Romano's room.
He heads towards the bar.
-
-
Wales is gloomily nursing his second pint of cider when a voice calls out, "Galles!
It sounds far too delighted to be Romano's.
Wales grins, slips down from his stool, and is caught up almost immediately in a tight embrace. He gladly returns it, and the cheek kisses that follow.
"You never said you were going to be attending the summit," Italy says.
"I wasn't supposed to be," Wales says. "It was a bit of a last-minute change."
"Well, I'm glad you're here," Italy says, and Wales is almost inclined to believe him.
Although Romano has barely tolerated Wales' few visits to his home, Italy welcomed him there like one of the family. And not like one of Wales' own family – whose sullen reticence was echoed instead in Romano – but in the true, hospitable sense of the phrase.
His apparent fondness for Wales' company could, of course, be feigned for his brother's sake, but Wales' continues to hold out the hope that he's too guileless for that kind of sustained deception.
"I'm so happy to see you!" Italy continues. "And Romano will be, too."
As if on cue, Romano chooses that moment to walk through the door that leads into the bar. In the split second before he notices Wales, he almost does look happy; his expression calm and open, a slight smile sitting comfortably on his lips.
His customary scowl descends the instant he catches Wales' eye, however.
Wales offers Italy a stammered and largely nonsensical apology, and scurries over to intercept Romano before he can begin to approach them, as the conversation they need to have is one neither of them will have any wish for Italy to overhear.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Romano hisses as he draws near.
"England's fucked off on holiday and didn't leave me much choice in the matter," Wales whispers back. "Look, sorry about this and everything, but I'm going to have to share your room again."
"What?!" Romano's eyes widen in shock and, Wales suspects, a certain amount of horror. "Why?"
"Because Yr Alban and Gogledd are here, too, and I'll have nowhere to sleep otherwise."
Romano's nose wrinkles, obviously finding the idea distasteful, but he does eventually spit out, "Fine. But you're taking the sofa."
Their first attempt at sharing a bed following Scotland's Hogmanay celebrations last year had been uncomfortable and awkward, but ultimately bearable. Their second attempt had ended in mortification on Wales' side, spluttering anger on Romano's, as Wales had, as he often does, drifted across the bed in his sleep and made an unconscious grab for the nearest source of heat.
After that, it was decided that one of them would thenceforth sleep on the floor – or sofa, if there happened to be one available – whenever they were forced to room together in the future, no matter how strange it might look if anyone ever did take it into their heads to burst in on them without warning.
"Of course," Wales says with a thin, artificial smile. "Wouldn't have it any other way."