The meeting's afternoon session seems set to pass just as peaceably as the morning's had done until they reach the home stretch, the last half hour before freedom, and America brushes off a concern Russia had raised somewhat flippantly
France takes mild objection to Russia's slightly belligerent response, prompting a remark about his interference that could be construed as a little disparaging. That, in turn, provokes Scotland, who charges in like a knight errant to defend France's honour.
It rapidly descends into a bunfight from there.
Mindful of the tragic consequences that had arisen the last time he had got caught in the middle of a similar international conflict, Wales scoots his chair back from the table, out of range of the vicious invectives that are now flying across it.
A moment later, Northern Ireland does the same.
"It's not that different from when the four of us try and have a meeting with the PM together, is it?" Northern Ireland observes. Nodding towards the head of the table, he adds, "Germany's even got the same face on him as England does when Scotland starts getting really loud."
Germany is indeed wearing the same beleaguered expression their brother habitually dons in such circumstances, though Wales is inclined to think that he has much more right to it. England may well try to act as though he's above it all, but the moment things start slipping out of his control or anything he perceives as a personal insult is directed his way, he dismounts his high horse in all haste and wades into the fray with the rest of them.
Germany, however, calmly but firmly endeavours to redirect conversation back towards the final agenda item they still have to work through, then calmly but firmly – and not in so many words – tells everyone to shut the fuck up and start acting their (considerable) age, and finally, when none of his efforts bear even the stingiest of fruits, calmly but firmly gives up, sits down, and starts watching the clock hung on the wall nearby like a hawk.
As soon its hour hand hits five, he calls the meeting to a close. A hush immediately falls over the conference room, the argument seemingly forgotten in an instant by the erstwhile combatants, who begin meekly packing away their things in silence. The turnaround is so sudden and complete that Wales could easily believe that the entire altercation had been deliberately orchestrated to ensure a prompt finish to their day.
Acutely conscious that they only have a limited number of hours remaining to them that will be covered by their expense claims, Scotland urges Wales and Northern Ireland to accompany him to the bar straight away afterwards.
Romano is already there when they arrive, sitting alone at a table, cradling a half-full glass of wine that he appears to be attempting to scry the future in, given how intently he's gazing into its depths.
Scotland greets him with, "We missed you at the meeting," and a hearty clap to the back.
Romano, unused to such friendly overtures from him, obviously misinterprets it as an attack, and draws his shoulders up in a protective hunch. He squints at Scotland suspiciously. "You did?"
"Aye, and you missed out on a good fight, too," Scotland says, grinning. "Though you'll be glad to know that Wales managed to refrain from breaking your brother's nose this time."
"That wasn't something I ever intended on making a habit of," Wales says when Romano turns his narrowed eyes upon him instead. "It was an accident in the first place."
The harsh line of Romano's mouth softens minutely. "I know," he says.
"What made you skip out, anyway?" Scotland asks. "Not that I blame you, you ken. One day of tax talk is more than enough for anyone."
"I... I wasn't feeling very well." Romano's gaze drops to his wine again. "Bad night's sleep."
"You need some whisky." says Scotland, who considers it a cure for all ills, albeit only in those cases where a brisk walk might prove impractical. "That'll soon set you right. I'll get you a glass."
From Scotland, the offer translates, for all intents and purposes, to, 'Welcome to the family," suggesting that one convivial evening spent together has succeeded where two years of Wales' begging, pleading, and admonishments have failed, and he's finally been persuaded that Romano is not an irredeemable blot on Wales' life who should be forcibly removed from it at the first possible opportunity.
Romano, unaware of both the hidden meaning behind the offer and the fact that it will likely never be issued again in his lifetime, refuses it with nothing more than a loose shrug. "I think I'll just go to bed," he says.
He sways a little when he gets to his feet, and his steps are unsteady as he weaves his way towards the bar's door.
Scotland watches his halting progress until he disappears from view, then turns to look at Wales questioningly. "Aren't you going to head up so you can fuss over him?" he asks.
The thought hadn't even occurred to Wales. "I'm sure he just needs a bit of peace and quiet more than anything," he says. "I'd hardly be able to help with that, would I?"
"Right." Scotland stares fixedly at Wales, his mind clearly preoccupied elsewhere, but he eventually comes back to himself after a moment or two and a brisk shake of his head. "Well, if you're going to keep hanging around down here, you might as well make yourself useful. You can get the first round in."
-
-
Wales also gets the second round in, but is saved from having to pay out for a third by the arrival of Prussia, who apparently owes Scotland several drinks due to his inglorious defeat at the hands of Scotland's liver on Sunday night.
After that, Wales quickly loses track, but he somehow manages to never have an empty glass in his hand, regardless.
He chats to America for a while, who is as garrulous as ever save where the subject of England's whereabouts is concerned, and then Canada, with whom he marvels over Scotland and Prussia's recklessness in inviting Russia to take part in their alcoholic game of chicken.
Much later, when most of the hotel's guests have retired for the night the crowd in the bar has thinned down to a few scattered knots of dedicated drinkers, France joins Wales to coo over what a great opportunity the last couple of days must have presented to Wales, too, given that he and Romano very seldom seem to find the chance to see each other in the usual course of things, otherwise.
Wales nods in easy agreement, because, of course, France is right. He won't see Romano again until Hogmanay, unless he happens to be summoned to attend some function or other so that Romano can cling grimly onto his hand in yet another futile attempt to ignite even the smallest spark of jealousy in Spain's breast.
That passing thought proves itself unexpectedly tenacious, and returns to Wales with some urgency as he's trudging back upstairs after last orders. Hogmanay is, after all, unlikely to offer any sort of opportunity at all, given that it will be spent crammed into Scotland's house with Wales' entire family breathing down their necks all evening, and then sleeping only a paper-thin wall away all night.
Another year wasted in limbo, waiting for the perfect moment that Wales is beginning to think will never come.
Unless, that is, he asks tonight. Here and now, so the fear doesn't cast a shadow over the next six months of his life, as well.
It seems a logical conclusion, fitting, but Wales' belief in it soon falters when he opens the door to Romano's room and is treated to one of the fiercer glares in Romano's repertoire the second he moves inside.
He's sitting cross-legged in the centre of the bed, still fully dressed, with a book lying open in his lap, and Wales presumes the latter is the source of his ire. He is never best pleased himself when someone disturbs him whilst he's trying to read.
"Sorry," he says. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute, I've just got to..."
He grabs his pyjamas, scurries into the bathroom with them, then locks the door behind him and leans his back against it, his heart pounding bruisingly hard against his ribs.
Closing his eyes, he visualises his calm place – the deep valley with its lush green grass and tidy grey houses – until his pulse slows sufficiently that he feels equal to braving the short walk to the mirror.
His reflection is no more inspiring than it was the other night: his cheeks are florid, his eyes watery, and his hair has taken on the appearance of a lightning-struck dandelion clock. About as sexy, he's always thought, as a well-worn cardigan and pair of slippers.
Still, and despite all his fervent wishes to the contrary in his youth, that's never likely to change, and, as has always been the case, he'll just have to do the best he can with what he's got.
He showers, arranges his hair in the neat and placid order it only ever attains when wet, brushes his teeth and then contemplates his pyjamas for a time before ultimately deciding that it will probably not help his case in the least if he were to spring nakedness on Romano unprepared.
So he dresses – slowly and methodically, as his body doesn't appear to be as convinced by the rationality of his decision as he's persuaded his mind to be, and he can't stop his hands from shaking – draws on every last drop of his courage, Dutch or otherwise, and steps back out into the bedroom.
Romano eyes him with complete disinterest.
"I..." Wales says, but he finds himself absolutely bereft of ideas beyond that. His past amorous relationships have always progressed organically through each stage of increasing intimacy. He's before never had to try and elevate one from a null point to C, missing out A, never mind B, along the way.
"I know you don't like me very much," seems like a good place to start, though. An acknowledgement that he has no real expectations of success in this. That he's well aware that he's probably aiming for the moon. "And we... we don't exactly get along, but..."
But what?
Admitting that he only started considering this because of loneliness, desperation and a single glimpse of naked flesh wouldn't flatter either of them.
As he can't come up with any explanation that would, however, all he can do is plough this part swiftly in an effort to deemphasise it as much as possible."
"It's been a long time since I was... close to someone. Nearly three years, in fact. I don't know how it's been for you; whether you have any other... There hasn't been anyone for me. I don't cheat. I can't cheat, even on people I'm only pretending to date, apparently, and we never discussed..."
Wales' words have become too swift, and even he can barely understand them. He stops for a moment and takes a fortifyingly deep breath.
Romano has raised his eyebrows by about a millimetre or so, which Wales chooses to interpret as a sign. Whether it's an encouraging one or not is far from certain, but it is evidence that he's listening, at the very least.
"If we are going to keep on... pretending, sharing rooms, and so on, I was wondering if we... If you might like to..."
Wales has never had to ask this particular question so bluntly before, and he very soon discovers that he can't now. He backtracks a little, and then ventures to approach it from a different angle.
"I know I'm not much to look at, but I like to think I'm considerate, and I'm very flexible... Well, obviously not in a physical sense, but I'm willing to try just about anything once. Anything that isn't—"
"Galles, are you asking me if I want to have sex with you?" Romano asks with all of the bluntness Wales had been incapable of.
"Oh," Wales says, and then, very tentatively, "Yes?"
Romano doesn't laugh, which is also a sign, and one that Wales feels fairly confident in labelling 'not bad'.
His reply of, "Okay," is slightly more of a conundrum, however.
"Is that 'okay' as in 'thank you for confirming that for me'?" Wales asks. "Or 'okay' as in—"
Romano snorts loudly. "It's okay meaning 'yes I would'," he says, rolling his eyes.
"Oh," Wales says again.
He feels strangely unmoored; even more lost in the situation. He'd been expecting accusations, claims of offence, an argument, anything other than a simple acceptance, offered so quickly that Romano can't possibly have given it more than a single thought.
And yet in spite of that decisiveness, he doesn't say or do anything more. He just sits there, looking through Wales rather than at him once more; completely, silently, mountainously still.
Wales will have to be the straightforward one this time, it seems.
He goes to him.