July, 2011; Cardiff, Wales
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"So, how was your trip to Paris last weekend?" England says, in the forced tones of someone who'd really much rather be getting a root canal than asking the question.
"Grand," Scotland replies, sounding equally pained. "Wish I'd flown rather than driven, though. Traffic was a nightmare."
"The school holidays have just started, haven't they?" England's wince looks almost sympathetic. "I should think the situation's only going to get worse over the next couple of months."
"Aye," Scotland says, "it always does. And yet, every year, I only seem to remember that when I'm stuck in another fucking tailback on the M25."
Scotland and England exchange wan smiles, and then lean forward simultaneously to pick up the mugs Wales had set out for them on the coffee table earlier. Something about the desperate way they gulp their tea puts Northern Ireland in mind of refuelling, and he doesn't doubt that they need it.
They have carried on this stilted back and forth for more than twenty minutes – without a break, and without a single insult or snide remark from either of them – and Northern Ireland has watched the entire exchange in silent fascination.
The only possible explanation for their uncharacteristic tolerance for one another's company, he thinks, is a shared desire to ignore the great enormous elephant perched on Wales' best armchair. The one wearing a ludicrously expensive-looking shirt and the expression of someone experiencing considerable intestinal distress.
England starts getting to his feet whilst he slurps down the last dregs in his mug, "Well," he says, "I suppose I should take this to the kitchen for Wales. Save him a job."
"Good idea," Scotland says with an enthusiasm that he never normally displays when contemplating any task which has even the faintest whiff of housework about it. He then turns towards Northern Ireland and lifts his eyebrows significantly. "North?"
Northern Ireland looks down at his mug, from which he has taken two small sips of tea, and then sidelong at their pachyderm companion. He looks even surlier after tasting the coffee Wales had painstakingly prepared to his exact and extremely stringent specifications.
Deciding discretion is the better part of valour, he follows his brothers when they beat their hasty retreat.
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Wales spares a brief moment to look a little chagrined when they all troop into the kitchen, but he soon resumes his flustered darting back and forth to poke at the contents of the bubbling pans on his hob.
"I know I'm running late," he says. "Slight cock-up with the peas. But, don't worry, I've got everything under control now. Shouldn't be more than ten minutes, I think."
"It's not dinner you should be apologising for," Scotland says, slamming his mug down at the farthest point of the counter from both the sink and dishwasher.
"It isn't?" Wales pauses, wooden spoon held aloft and dripping water all over the lino. "What should I be apologising for, then?"
"Dragging us all here under false pretences," Scotland says, frowning. "You said you were going to introduce us to your new boyfriend."
"Which I have," Wales says, his own brow furrowing. "I don't see –"
"Jesus, you don't actually expect me to believe you're going out with him, do you?" Scotland takes a step closer to Wales, who shifts his spoon into a more defensive position. "Grumpy Italy, Wales? Really?"
Wales' mouth tightens. "Don't call him that."
"Why not?" Scotland asks, sounding exasperated. "We've never called him anything else!"
"To be fair, Wales, you can't blame us for being surprised," England says as he steps around Scotland and Wales to place his own mug contentiously on the draining board. "I don't recall you ever having a good word to say about him before. And then there was that unpleasantness at the EU Christmas do last year…"
Northern Ireland senses that there's a long, dreadful story behind the pregnant silence England trails into, but, as ever, it's one that no-one has seen fit to make him privy to. He's not at annoyed about that oversight as he would normally be, however, because Wales had at least done him the courtesy he'd begged for and let him know ahead of time that he'd become romantically entangled again.
He had been incredibly cagey about the specifics, but, given England and Scotland's reactions, Northern Ireland can hardly blame him.
"That was all a misunderstanding." Wales flaps his free hand dismissively. "We worked through it, got to know each other a little better, and… Please, just try and keep an open mind about this, okay? For me?"
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Before today, the closest Northern Ireland has ever been to Romano is having the back of his head pointed out to him at a Six Nations game by Wales, who, at the time, was desperately trying to avoid being spotted by the other nation. Consequently, it seems more than fair to give him the benefit of the doubt, for his own sake as well as Wales'.
His constant scowl could simply be the result of suffering a similar facial affliction to Scotland who, through no fault of his own, usually looks as though he's on the verge of strangling the nearest warm body, even when he's spending time with France.
And the sneer he directs towards Wales' carefully decorated table when they're called into the dining room is excusable, because whilst Wales might have purportedly once attended flower arranging classes with Cerys, they'd obviously been in vain. His centrepiece looks as though it had been created by throwing flowers randomly at a vase from a great distance and just leaving the ones that managed to land upright by happenstance where they fell.
What's harder to forgive – what makes Northern Ireland's mind shrink down to roughly the size of a grain of rice – is the disgusted face Romano pulls upon his first taste of Wales' lasagne.
Wales makes a clear attempt at a stiff upper lip when he catches sight of Romano's reaction, but although his smile remains fixed in place, the rest of his face droops despondently around it.
Even England appears slightly shocked, but then Wales is the jewel in their familial culinary crown, such as it is, and they'd always considered his lasagne his pièce de résistance.
Northern Ireland's eyes flicker uneasily towards Scotland. His face is predictably puce-tinged, and his fists even more predictably clenched, but after clearing his throat with a rough exhale that sounds worryingly like a growl, he doesn't swear bloody vengeance and then smash Romano's face down onto his plate.
"Excuse me," he says instead to Wales, the words clipped but excruciatingly polite. "I just need to step away from the table for a while."
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Scotland's 'while' stretches through both the main course and a similarly ungratefully received dessert.
Northern Ireland had supposed he'd taken himself off for a cathartic stomp around the neighbourhood, but when he steals out into Wales' garden for an illicit postprandial cigarette, he spots Scotland lurking by the back fence.
He's not quick enough in his about-face, sadly, to avoid Scotland's notice. "Lend us a fag, North?" he bellows out, heedless of England's keen hearing and endless obsession with the sanctity of Northern Ireland's lungs. "I've run out."
Northern Ireland hurries forward, fag packet held placatingly outstretched in front of him in the feeble hope that the sight of it will stem any further loud, damning outbursts from his brother.
Scotland does, thankfully, manage to hold his tongue, and as soon as Northern Ireland steps into arm's reach, he grabs hold of the packet with all the desperation of a person deprived of nicotine for days, never mind the small mountain of butts scattered around his feet.
He fumbles out a cigarette, lights it, and then inhales practically half in one long drag. "Can you believe this, North?" he says, smoke streaming from his nostrils in thick clouds. "Grumpy fucking Italy…"
Northern Ireland remembers Wales telling him that he should be happy that England was happy, no matter his own personal feelings about his brother's relationship with America. And Wales… Well, he doesn't seem happy, precisely, but he's certainly a lot less gloomy than he has been of late.
Still willing to reserve judgement for the time being – and to concede that perhaps Romano might just be having a bad day – Northern Ireland shrugs.
"I know he was having a shit time of it with the whole dating thing," Scotland says, undeterred, "but I can't believe it was so fucking dire that he felt he had to settle for him. He could do so much –"
'Better', Northern Ireland silently finishes for his brother, who sets about demolishing the rest of his cigarette in favour of following the sentence through to its natural conclusion.
And Northern Ireland suspects he likely never will voice it, because, for reasons that continue to escape his understanding, Scotland seems allergic to admitting that Wales has any qualities that could be construed as positive in any way, and has always conducted their best friendship with an evasiveness better suited to being engaged in an affair: complete with private meetings behind everyone elses' backs, strenuous denial, and, apparently, protectiveness disguised as anger.
"Mark my words," Scotland says eventually, dropping the butt of his cigarette and then grinding it firmly beneath his heel, "he's going to be fucking horrible for him."