The sofa in Romano's room looks to be about a foot shorter than Wales himself, and is, he discovers when he gives it an experimental poke, apparently made out of concrete thinly wrapped in deceptively plush fabric.

His joints ache just looking at it.

"There you go." Romano plonks the spare duvet and pillow they'd found at the top of the wardrobe down on the sofa, and then steps back to admire his handiwork. His lips curl disdainfully. "Well, at least it's better than the floor."

Wales is unconvinced by that assessment of the relative comforts of both, but as he has every intention of retiring for the night only after he's built up such a thick and cushioning layer of intoxication around him that it won't make any odds either way, he doesn't suppose it really matters.

"Right, I'll just finish unpacking," he says, "then we can get back downstairs."

Before he began his mournful contemplation of the sofa, Wales had hung his suits and shirts in the wardrobe, and squeezed his underwear and T-shirts into the one small corner of a drawer that Romano had graciously allowed him, so all that remains is for him to arrange his toiletries in the bathroom.

Romano follows him there and then leans up against the doorjamb, arms folded tightly across his chest, in order to watch his progress with an intense and distrustful eye, as though he suspects that Wales can't be trusted to restrain himself from doing something nefarious with Romano's toothbrush if he's not kept under close supervision.

"I'm not even touching your things," Wales says as he places his toothpaste at a few respectful centimetres of distance away from Romano's. "See?"

Romano makes a low, disgusted noise at the back of his throat, like he's just swallowed something that doesn't agree with him. Seemingly, it translates to, 'A likely story, and something only an unrepentant toothbrush molester would say!" as his keen vigilance continues unwavering.

After Wales has abashedly placed his supermarket brand shampoo at the furthest point of the shower cubicle from the two expensive-looking bottles that are already situated there, he says, "Okay, I think I'm all done for the time being. Bar?"

Romano nods stiffly.
-


-
In their absence, both Germany and Northern Ireland have joined Italy in the bar.

Though Northern Ireland has only 'joined' using a very loose definition of the term, in that he's existing in the same space as them, albeit even then only by the narrowest of margins as the sofa he has claimed as his own is on the opposite side of the room and mostly hidden from view by their respective angles and a large potted plant, besides.

He waves at Wales when he spots him and, after a short, contemplative pause, flaps his hand in Romano's direction, too. The corners of Romano's lips edge infinitesimally upwards, demonstrating the fine camaraderie he and Northern Ireland had forged over the heat of a saucepan during their cooking lessons of the previous year.

Romano's gaze then swings towards his own brother, who is standing close enough to Germany that, when he makes a particularly exuberant hand gesture, the tips of his fingers graze against Germany's arm.

The sad attempt at a smile shrivels up and dies in an instant, and Romano abruptly stomps away with the likely intention of hanging around Italy for the rest of the evening like a foul, cock-blocking smell.

"I guess I'll see you later, then," Wales says to his retreating back, receiving no indication that he's even been heard in return.

Northern Ireland gives him a vaguely pitying look as he approaches, then, after Wales has sat down beside him, leans over and says in an undertone, "So, I guess you haven't sorted it out yet?"

"Sorted what out?"

The pity intensifies. "You haven't told him that..." Northern Ireland grits his teeth and takes a slow, whistling breath through them. "That you like him?"

The question startles laughter from Wales. "No. No, I haven't, Gogledd, because..."

Northern Ireland's expression is openly, honestly, innocently interested, and Wales can't bring himself to finish his sentence in the face of it.

Whilst he doesn't share England's belief that Northern Ireland should be shielded from all sex-related talk until he's reached his tercentennial at the very earliest, he still thinks his brother is a little too young to hear, 'I don't actually like him a great deal, he's just incredibly attractive, I haven't had sex for over two years, and if he's determined to continue this farce and circumstances are going to keep conspiring to throw us together like this, I want to know if he'd be interested in making the most of it.'

He probably should have picked his confidante in this with slightly more discernment.

"Because I need some Dutch courage first," he says, getting to his feet again. "Possibly as much as they have in stock."
-


-
Scotland eventually puts in an appearance an hour later than he'd dictated to Wales.

He has one arm hooked around Prussia's neck, and both of their faces are flushed in a way that suggests they have already drained at least one mini-bar at France's expense.

They head straight to the bar itself, where they will, as Wales knows from experience, ooze testosterone over each other for the rest of the night and play drinking games until one or both of them falls over.

France eschews the dubious pleasure of their joint company for the time being in favour of the slightly more salubrious environs of Wales and Northern Ireland's table, and greets them with exclamations of joy, a flurry of kisses, and the general impression that there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.

"It's so good to see you both," he says, perching himself on the armchair he'd purloined from a nearby table and set alongside the sofa. "It's about time Angleterre loosened his hold on the reins a little."

"He didn't so much loosen it as let go entirely and then run off in the opposite direction," Wales says. "I don't suppose you've got any idea where he might be?"

"My first thought was that he would be with America," France says. "But America is here alone, and claims that he hasn't seen Angleterre for over three weeks. Perhaps he's visiting Portugal?"

"Perhaps," Wales agrees. "But, knowing Lloegr, it's equally likely that he's hiding out in his cellar, just to teach us a lesson."

"Cackling," Northern Ireland adds.

"Yes, he probably would be."

"And rubbing his hands together in malicious glee."

"That too."

"Nord," France purrs, turning a smile onto Northern Ireland that's so beamingly bright that it raises a sunburn-like blush to his cheeks. "No matter where your wayward brother may have secreted himself, he's created a wonderful opportunity for you."

Northern Ireland furrows his brow, clearly flummoxed. "He has?"

"Of course! You can learn so much from an event such as this."

"Really," Northern Ireland says in the cautious tone of someone who fears they may be walking into a verbal trap. "Like what?"

France breathes deep, a terrible, feverish glint kindling deep in his eyes, and then proceeds to spill a seemingly unending stream of international taxation policies into Northern Ireland's waiting – if not precisely willing – ear.
-


-
It's nearing eleven o'clock when Scotland finally deigns to grace them with his presence.

Wales' extremities have started to go numb, Northern Ireland has collapsed in a stewed stupor against his shoulder, and Scotland has a familiar sort of crooked, fatuous grin plastered on his face that forewarns of an incoming hug.

He throws himself down next to Wales so heavily that the aftershocks of his landing nearly bounce Wales clear off the sofa.

Once Wales has regained his balance, Scotland slings an arm around his back and asks, "How's my favourite brother?"

Wales makes a show of looking Northern Ireland over, because he's not entirely sure yet exactly how drunk Scotland might be. On one side of that fuzzily-defined dividing line, he would simply smile if Wales were to answer, 'Fine'; on the other, he would tease him mercilessly for his presumption.

"Well, I think he's still alive, at least," he says.

Scotland squeezes him tightly, calls him a numpty, and then plants a sloppy kiss on his temple, which places him so far over the line that he's probably no more than a pint away from collapsing in a sotted heap himself. Wales thus deems it safe to risk leaning his weight against his brother's side.

Scotland accepts it without protest, and then cranes his neck to peer appraisingly at Northern Ireland, whose head has slipped down to rest just above Wales' elbow with all the jostling, his long legs splaying out in a crooked sprawl in front of him.

"There," Scotland says with a note of triumph a moment later, "I saw him take a breath. Definitely not dead. But, fucking hell, he's out cold, isn't he? What on earth's he been drinking?"

"Prussia gave him a glass of... I honestly don't know what it was. It was brown? Smelt of peppermint, and coffee, and... oranges, I think? Pretty dreadful. anyway."

"Shot of everything behind the bar," Scotland says, nodding sagely. "We had one each, too. Prussia only managed half."

"And you finished the lot?" Wales guesses.

"Was it ever in any doubt?" Scotland grins. "Anyway, he's crawled off to bed with his tail between his legs now. Couldn't stand the pace anymore."

"Ah, so that's why you decided to come over here. Lack of any better options?"

"Don't be stupid," Scotland says brusquely. "I was trying to keep out of your hair, is all. Thought you might want to spend time with your worse half, but it seems he didn't take the hint."

Scotland glares across the room to where Romano is sitting, sandwiched between his brother and Germany, and glowering at whatever France is saying to make Italy laugh hard enough that it looks as though he's about to burst something that might be vital for his continued health.

"Jesus, does he ever crack a smile?" Scotland asks.

He not only smiles but laughs and kisses hands with abandon whenever they've socialised with Wales' human friends in the past. None of bonhomie has ever been directed Wales' way specifically, though.

"Occasionally," he says.

Scotland groans. "Look, I know I promised to stop harping on about this but, fuck it, it can't be said often enough. He's a miserable arse and I don't know how the hell you put up with him."

Wales is assailed by a sudden and almost overwhelming need to confess. To tell Scotland everything: the desperate decision he made at France's party, the ridiculous charade they've perpetuated ever since, and the doubtless foolish proposition he's teetering on the edge of putting forward now.

Scotland is his best friend, he should have been the first person Wales went to when he grew weary of bearing it all on his own, but, though the words rise easily enough to the tip of his tongue, try as he might, he can't quite summon up the will to give them the last little push they need.

It's nine parts Scotland's tremendous prudishness regarding sex, and, if Wales is brutally honest, one part their early history together, which ensure that it remains the one of the few topics he still lacks the courage to raise with his brother unprompted, even when Scotland is so liberally soaked through with alcohol that it's a wonder he hasn't already dissolved into a puddle.

Much as he'd like to, he simply can't do it.

"I just muddle along as best I can," he says.