The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are listed (and linked) in chronological order on my profile page.
-
-
July, 2013; Cardiff, Wales
-
Normally, Wales does very little to prepare his house for the arrival of overnight guests.
Normally, though, his only overnight guests are his brothers, who wouldn't notice, never mind care, whether or not the towels in his bathroom complement its colour scheme, or the pillows on their bed have been plumped, or, frankly, any effort at all on Wales' part to make their stay a little more comfortable or pleasant. As long as they're fed at regular intervals, provided with a constant supply of tea and/or alcohol throughout the day, and pointed towards somewhere relatively soft to lay their head down at night, then, as far as they're concerned, Wales has discharged his hosting duties with perfect aplomb.
France probably wouldn't notice either, or, at least, he wouldn't be crass enough to mention otherwise - the continued cluttered disorder of Scotland's house certainly suggests a good deal of forbearance on his part when it comes to proper housekeeping - but Wales is certainly acutely aware that his own accommodations fall far short of those offered by France's own immaculately tidy and well-appointed apartment.
Given Scotland's habit of neglecting to inform him that he and France intend on visiting until they're practically in sight of his house, he's never before been offered the opportunity to remedy his deficiencies on that score. But this time is different; they're attending a concert, and as Scotland had already paid a pretty packet for their tickets, he had absolutely no intention of shelling out for a hotel room, too. He'd had to make actual plans for once, and Wales had been given the unprecedented gift of a week's notice as a consequence.
And he'd made full and efficient use of it. As soon as Scotland had finished informing him that he was coming to stay, Wales sat down and wrote a list of every job that needed doing around his house - large and small - and has been working through it methodically ever since.
He'd bought a bag of France's favourite coffee, a new duvet cover to replace the frilled, floral monstrosity that had been a present from Cerys' mother, and a new set of cutlery that to replace the collection of castoffs England had bequeathed him when he first moved to Cardiff.
He'd spent an hour listening to a wine merchant lecture him on climate, soil acidity, and grape varieties so that he could pick out three bottles of wine that might pass muster with France's exacting taste buds, and another hour in B&Q selecting the perfect shade of blue paint to replace the virulent and slightly luminous green that the previous owner of his house had inexplicably decided to decorate the larger of his two spare bedrooms with.
His towels now match his bathroom's tiles as well as each other.
He's wiped walls, scrubbed skirting boards, polished mirrors, and dusted every square inch of every room. Slowly but surely, he's crossed off each item on his list save the last two: a last minute run around with the vac and washing the inside of the windows.
Hardly onerous tasks, and with over an hour left to spare, he has plenty of time to complete them, so long as he doesn't have to deal with any interruptions.
Which is why he ignores the doorbell the first time it rings, reasoning that it can't possibly herald Scotland and France's arrival - Scotland might push his horrible little car to its very limits, speed-wise, but unless he's finally found a way to break the sound barrier in it, not even he could make the drive down from Edinburgh in less than five hours - and is more likely to be some delivery person wanting him to take in a parcel for one of his neighbours.
But his visitor is persistent. Their second ring is longer, sounding a little plaintive somehow, and Wales is drawn back towards the door despite himself. It could be Janice, needing his help with a blocked drain, or leaking tap, or...
Or nothing. The jobs Janice asks for his assistance on are never as little as she claims, and he can't afford the delay. He manages to stop himself from reaching for the front door's handle, but can't seem to force himself to turn away from it entirely. If the bell rings again, then he'll have to answer it, as that would seem to signify that he was needed for something far more urgent than menial labour.
The bell not only rings for a third time, but a fourth and a fifth: three short, sharp jabs of sound that make Wales' heart hammer hard in sympathetic rhythm.
He wrenches open the door, expecting to find calamity outside. Instead, he sees Romano, which really isn't that much of a relief.
Wales turns his head aside, screws his eyes closed for a moment, and then looks back again. To his surprise, the scene remains unchanged. Romano is still standing there, hands clenched into fists at his sides and a suitcase at his feet. He's scowling and red-faced, which, charitably, could be attributed to the fact that he's too heavily dressed for the heat of the day in a suit, tie, and overcoat. More than likely, though, he's just annoyed that he had to wait for all of a minute or so whilst Wales prevaricated in the hallway.
Whilst the anger is business as usual, his presence on Wales' doorstep most definitely isn't, and Wales is so thoroughly thrown for a loop by it that all of his normal polite, welcoming blather deserts him.
"Um," he ventures uncertainly. "Hello?"
"Galles," Romano says; brusque, to the point, and entirely unhelpful. No explanation of his sudden unannounced appearance follows, only the slow, appraising once over that typically accompanies their greetings.
Although Wales is dressed in his shabbiest trousers and shirt, fit only for housework, Romano doesn't even blink until his skimmed gaze reaches Wales' head, whereupon he blinks, stares, and then blinks some more. He takes a deep breath, and his lips part slightly as if to speak, but he remains silent.
Wales can't imagine that he's refraining from passing comment out of any consideration for sparing his feelings; presumably, he's at a loss for words.
"I'm in the middle of cleaning the house," Wales says, hurriedly untying the short, messy ponytail he'd corralled most of his hair into. "My hair was getting in my eyes." He slips out the two clips that were holding back his fringe. They're purple and covered with gauzy pink butterflies; he'd bought them for Cerys not long before they split up and she'd left them behind when she moved out. "I wasn't expecting company yet. Well, I wasn't expecting you, at all. Why are you here?"
"I was just passing by," Romano says, completely straight-faced despite that being a lie so blatant as to be completely risible.
He's never visited except at Wales' behest before, and even then only when Wales has been able to provide an iron-clad reason that he should do so, such as Northern Ireland's cooking lessons or family parties where his absence would be noted and then discussed at great, disparaging length.
Besides which, people don't just 'pass by' with luggage in tow, and there's nowhere he could be passing to that would take him down Wales' street, which is miles away from the centre of Cardiff and leads to nothing but more houses, and then, ultimately, his local supermarket.
Still, he's here now, and there's not much Wales can do about it save slam the door closed in his face, which would doubtless prove unconducive when it came moving their relationship forward in the mutually physically beneficial direction it had been edging towards.
"Fine." He sighs. "You'd best come in, then. You'll have to entertain yourself for a while, though. I really am very busy. I wish you'd called to let me know you might be dropping by."
"I did," Romano insists. "And I texted you, too."
"Right." Wales' phone had been making odd chirruping noises earlier, but he hadn't been able to fathom why. It's brand new, purchased just the day before after his ancient cheap and cheerful flip phone finally lost its tenuous grip on life and gave up the ghost. He'd only managed to work out how to switch it on this morning. "I've had the washing machine running all day. Must have missed hearing it."
Romano gives him a dubious look, but opts out of pursuing the matter further in favour of lugging his suitcase across the threshold and into the hall beyond. There situated, he studies the freshly shampooed carpet underfoot, and then the newly hung paintings on the walls, with rapidly narrowing eyes.
"Who are you expecting, then?" he asks with a distinct air of suspicion.
"Yr Alban and Ffrainc," Wales says. "They're going to a concert in town tomorrow evening, so they're staying a couple of nights."
Wales finds himself ruing the nascent friendship that Romano and Scotland had struck up during last month's G8 summit, because just a few, short weeks ago, that news would doubtless have sent Romano fleeing for the hills in horror. Now, he just nods in placid acceptance, robbing Wales of an easy opportunity to get rid of him without having to resort to actually telling him to go.
And he wants to, quite desperately. He'd been anxious enough, with only two months separating him from their next meeting, but a fortnight hadn't been nearly enough time for him to come to terms with the complete farce he'd made of their one night together, and to shore his defences up in anticipation of there perhaps being another.
He's completely unprepared, and at a total loss as to how he should proceed. Given the way their last meeting ended, he supposes Romano might expect this one to start with a kiss, too. He leans in with the intention of giving Romano a peck on the lips, but Romano ducks his head at the last moment, and the kiss lands just below his ear.
Romano's renewed scowl as he scrubs at his cheek with the heel of his palm leads Wales to believe that he is no better disposed towards kissing him than he'd appeared to be in the hotel's car park in Lock Erne, even though they're lacking an audience this time.
Wales had almost managed to convince himself that that had been the reason for his reluctance then, but clearly he was mistaken. It seems likely that he might want to confine such activities solely to the bedroom, which Wales can live with.
It isn't exactly how he'd prefer things to be, but he can live with it.
"Okay," he says, stepping away from Romano, "like I said, I've got lots of things still to do. You know where the kettle is; make yourself at home. I shouldn't be more than quarter of an hour or so."
Realistically, the remainder of his jobs will take at least twice that, and Wales has every intention of spinning them out for the full hour or more until his reinforcements arrive.
He makes a swift about turn before Romano can make any complaints about being expected to prepare his own coffee, and then beats a hasty retreat upstairs.