When Wales answers the front door to Scotland's knock, he invites him inside with an expansive welcoming gesture, his widely swept arm meant as a subtle encouragement for his brother to stop, look around himself, and perhaps even appreciate the positive changes that a week's hard graft has wrought to the hallway.
Scotland completely ignores the hint and doesn't even reply to Wales' greeting beyond a soft grunt of acknowledgement. Instead, he kicks off his boots by the door – hard enough that it dislodges clumps of dried mud from their soles, which scatter across a broad swathe of the hitherto pristine carpet – dumps all of the many bags and boxes he's carrying on the floor, and then informs Wales that: "I'm fucking parched; I'm going to put the kettle on. Do you fancy a cup?"
Wales hadn't expected any other outcome, but he's a little saddened by it all the same. Ridiculously so, given that he's spent the past two decades plus change exhorting his brothers to treat his home as their own, and Scotland likely wouldn't notice if someone broke into his own house in the middle of the night and redecorated it top to bottom whilst he slept. Noticing Wales' decluttering efforts and some touched-up paintwork was always going to be beyond him.
Wales sighs, lets go of his disappointment, and plasters on a polite smile. "I'd love one, thanks."
He trails Scotland into the kitchen, and then almost collides with his brother's broad back when he stops short just beyond the doorway and stares at Romano, who is sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and frowning over a newspaper.
Scotland turns his own frown on Wales. "You didn't tell us you were going to have company." He inclines his head towards the table. "Romano."
Romano matches his nod. "Scozia."
"Scotland," Scotland corrects without hesitation, and so casually that he sounds almost nonchalant, despite it having been less than two months since he'd last called Romano a 'pestilent blight' that should be purged from Wales' life at the earliest opportunity.
Romano mouths the name silently to himself rather than risk repeating it aloud, clearly distrustful of this fresh overture of apparent friendship on Scotland's part.
Wales, however, is astonished by it, as he cannot conceive of it being anything other than genuine. Scotland just doesn't have it in him to be duplicitous in that way: if he's pissed off at someone, he threatens to punch them; if he likes them, he offers them drinks, he asks them to call him by his true name if they're nations, and, if he's sufficiently pie-eyed, hugs them hard enough to crack a rib.
Since he's stone-cold sober, a hug is out of the question, but he does scoop up Romano's empty mug from the table as he passes by en route to the kettle. "I suppose you'll be wanting coffee," he says, bustling off without waiting for a reply.
Not that Romano seems inclined or even capable of giving one. He looks dumbfounded, and gapes wordlessly at Scotland for a stunned moment before raising a questioning eyebrow in Wales' direction, but he can only shrug in response to it.
Whilst Scotland had obviously begun warming up to Romano during the conference in Lough Erne, this complete thaw is still shockingly unexpected, given how deeply and loudly he'd despised him – and his position in Wales' life – for the three years prior to it. Wales can only suppose that France must have had Words with Scotland at some point recently, as France's interference is at the root of any odd or uncharacteristic behaviour on Scotland's part more often than not.
On the tails of that thought comes the realisation that France is overdue to join them, and Wales asks Scotland, "Where's Ffrainc? You didn't forget to bring him, did you?"
His brother laughs. "Naw, but he'll be a while yet, I imagine. Janice accosted him as soon as he got out of the car."
Despite being somewhat enamoured with Romano of late, France will always be Janice's great love, her firm favourite amongst Wales' friends and family. She never passes up an opportunity to spend time with him, showing off her latest knitting projects and sharing the fruits of her baking, and will probably keep him captive, and captivated, for hours.
So, Scotland makes only one cup of coffee and brings it along with two cups of tea to join Romano at the table, whereupon he launches, unprompted, into a blow by blow recount of the route he had driven down from Edinburgh, one replete with complaints about delays, traffic jams, and bad drivers, who number – by Scotland's reckoning, at least – every single person on the road beside himself.
Such monologues of woe typically fill the first half-hour of any visit from him, and over the years, Wales has learnt that the best way to get through them is to bolt a blandly attentive expression onto his face and stay silent, as even the very mildest display of sympathy will encourage his brother to expound on his misery in excruciating detail.
Romano, however, has never been subjected to this particular trial of patience before, and when Scotland finally, blissfully begins winding up his dreary tale, he – out of naivety, or perhaps the desire to stay on the good side he's unexpectedly found himself on – asks a question about the diversion Scotland had mentioned having to take, and then leans forward in his seat, sharp-eyed and focussed, as though he is honestly interested in Scotland's answer.
Wales, now despairing of hearing a word of sense out of either of them for the at least the next half too, makes an exaggerated display of checking his watch, gets up from his seat, and then announces, "I should probably get started on dinner. I'm going to make lasagne."
Romano looks predictably dolorous about that piece of news, and Scotland just as predictably gratified, albeit only for a moment before his face falls again. "France's planning on cooking for us tonight," he says. "It's his host gift to you, apparently."
"Oh," Wales says, and it's strange, unprecedented, to not relish the prospect of a meal cooked by France, but as this one has robbed him of his one, decent excuse to absent himself from what passes for his brother's conversation, he finds himself resenting it. "Well, that's very kind of him."
He has no choice, then, to sit down, shut up, and listen to Scotland tell a suspiciously – and, to Wales' eye, unconvincingly - fascinated-looking Romano about the complex tangled route of A roads he had ultimately decided upon in order to avoid roadworks.
-
-
France eventually reappears almost two hours later, bearing a large cake box, an even larger smile, and the faint scent of Janice's homemade damson gin. He looks very pleased with himself and the world in general, and when Wales gets up to greet him, he presses warm, lingering kisses to his cheeks and then embraces him closely.
As is his habit on such occasions, his hands slowly wander their way down from Wales' shoulders to settle on his arse, whereupon he gives his customary squeeze and a murmured compliment that Wales doesn't believe a word of, but which raises a blush to his cheeks all the same.
It's testament, Wales believes, to how secure Scotland feels in their relationship nowadays that his only reaction to witnessing this performance, is a muttered, "Jesus Christ". Just a few, short years ago, he would have been threatening to garotte Wales with his own entrails before France's hands had even reached the small of Wales' back, brother or no.
Romano, on the other hand, glowers at them balefully when they break apart, though it's unclear whether his ire is directed towards France or Wales. He hasn't the right to it either way, to Wales' mind, as he'd had ample opportunity to share a kiss with Wales earlier – and, indeed, squeeze his arse too if the fancy took him – if he wasn't so squeamish as to be put off by a touch of sweat.
His greeting to France is decidedly chilly, in sharp contrast to France's own to him, which is cheerful, shading towards delighted, before his expression takes a sudden turn towards pensive. "We're not intruding on anything, are we?" he asks Wales.
"No," Wales reassures him. "He was just passing by."
France looks just as baffled by that weak justification as Wales had been, but a single glance at Romano's sullen expression seems to dissuade him from pressing for a more rational explanation.
He leaves it aside in favour of the more pressing matter of dinner, which he assures them will not be long delayed despite his unanticipated sojourn at Janice's house, just so long as Romano agrees to lend a helping hand with the preparations; a stipulation which Romano agrees to readily enough despite the sour turn of his mood.
Scotland and Wales' hands are, apparently, superfluous to requirements and they're both unceremoniously turfed out of the kitchen in short order to keep Scotland from 'getting underfoot', according to France.
Wales is still ruminating on that decision an hour and two cans of cider later. "I can understand him not wanting you to help out," he says to Scotland. "You can't even heat baked beans in the microwave without finding a way to fuck it up, but I like cooking! I'm sure I could stir and chop things just as well as Romano does."
"I don't know; France is really particular about his cooking," Scotland says. "Woe fucking betide you if your carrots julienne are even a millimetre wider than they should be. Renders them inedible, apparently." He smiles fondly. "He's a hard taskmaster in the kitchen and you're best off out of it, believe me."
"But—"
"Look, the food's going to be delicious, you don't have to cook yourself, and you know France always tidies up as he goes, so your kitchen's probably going to be even cleaner than it was when he started out. It's a win-win situation, Wales. Just relax and enjoy."
Dinner is indeed delicious, as is the wine has selected to accompany it, which Wales drinks far too much of as a consequence. By the time he's cleared the table and piled all their dirty plates beside the sink to be forgotten about until morning, he's a little unsteady on his feet, and fuzzy-headed and lethargic enough that he's tempted to turn in for the night even though it's only just gone eight o'clock.
If he were on his own, he would do so anyway – with a nice soothing cup of Horlicks to boot – but he has guests to think of, and Scotland and France seem keen that he join them in watching a film that they both recommend, so Wales tells them it sounds like a wonderful idea, he couldn't think of any better, and resigns himself to an uncomfortable, wasted evening of nodding off intermittently and thus failing to follow whatever passes for the film's plot.
Scotland and France commandeer the largest of the two sofas in Wales' living room, and France sprawls out along the length of it – his head propped up on one armrest, his feet pillowed in Scotland's lap – leaving Wales with no option but to share the smaller one with Romano.
Throughout the film's first two scenes, Romano sits stiff-backed, his body angled awkwardly away from Wales', but in the middle of the third, his hand descends upon Wales' knee, just as it had when they were visiting Janice. And, just as they had been then, his fingers are rigidly clawed, digging painfully deep into his flesh. It's off-putting and uncomfortable, and Wales is on the verge of batting his arm aside when he notices France is watching them. His eyes are soft, his faint smile pleased, and Wales cannot bring himself to disappoint him in any way.
He endures, and by slow degrees, Romano's death-like grip loosens. By the time the film moves into its final act, his thumb starts stroking abstract little distracted patterns against Wales' inner thigh. Wales looks at him sharply, but he seems thoroughly absorbed in the film and likely unaware of what he's doing.
It's uncomfortable in an entirely different way, and when the film ends and France and Scotland announce that they're ready for bed, Wales springs instantly to his feet, relieved to be finally freed from his enforced proximity to Romano and his disconcerting touch.
His happiness is fleeting though, lasting only for the heady moment until he remembers that his brother and France's presence means that there will be no consigning Romano to the spare bedroom for the night.
No matter that Wales is still woefully unprepared for it, both mentally and emotionally, they will have to share a room and, more than likely, a bed for the night.