It's a sad indictment of the state of Wales' relationship with Romano that one of the biggest changes it has made to his life is that he spends a far higher proportion of it hiding in bathrooms than ever before.
Hiding in his own represents the absolute nadir of this miserable trend, but as it is the only room in his house with a lockable door, it had been his only viable option.
He wasted as much time as he possibly could in performing his normal bedtime ablutions, stretching them out into absurdity, but nonetheless ran out of things to wash or scrub or brush far too quickly. For the past god-knows-how-long, he has been sitting perched on the edge of his bathtub, staring at his tastefully coloured towels and listening to the sounds of his house settling in for the night around him.
To his left is the guest room, where Scotland and France are mercifully being pretty subdued about whatever it is that they're doing which involves a great deal of soft murmuring and muffled laughter. To the right is his own, from which had emerged a prolonged series of thumps and bangs earlier. They'd stopped a while ago now, though, perhaps signifying that Romano has since gone to sleep.
Wales cannot decide whether he is happy about that or not. For the six months or so preceding the meeting at Lough Erne, he had convinced himself that fucking Romano would solve everything: pacify his long-neglected libido; wring something enjoyable out of the miserable farce that passes for their relationship; maybe even draw them a little closer together so that the time that they are forced to spend together by necessity became even a touch less arduous.
But it hadn't been very enjoyable, Wales had just embarrassed himself, and Romano certainly doesn't seem to like him any the better for it; seems to hold him in the same quiet contempt that he had done beforehand.
He'd been so certain after Lough Erne that all he wanted, all he needed, was a second chance to prove himself, and then the immensely satisfying sex life he'd imagined for the two of them was bound to follow. That certainty had eroded over the past couple of weeks, and now the faint ember of arousal Romano had managed to stoke within him during the film has faded into nothing, even more of it has crumbled away.
The reality of him is just too immediate, and Wales definitely needs more time to prepare otherwise he'll just humiliate himself all over again. He doesn't imagine that it's something he will be forgiven for a second time, no matter how understanding Romano had appeared to be about the first.
It's probably better that Romano's fallen asleep. Wales waits a little longer to make sure that he has, and then, emboldened by the continued silence, carefully sneaks out of the bathroom, along the corridor beyond, and eases open the door to his bedroom.
Romano is perched on the end of his bed, clad in a white undershirt and boxers, looking down at his hands, which are resting in a loose clasp against his lap. When Wales takes an involuntary, shocked step backwards, his head snaps up, and his eyes meet Wales' levelly. His nostrils flare once on a sharp inhalation, but the scowl Wales anticipates is not forthcoming.
"You were a long time," he says, and the exact tone of his voice is impossible for Wales to decipher. There's a note of disapproval there, another of accusation, but there's something else, too, one that isn't nearly as easy to put a name to.
"Yes," Wales says, and then he falters, because he can hardly admit he's been hiding but, put on the spot, he can't think of any sort of plausible excuse for his delay. He clearly should have spent his time cowering in the bathroom to better effect and spared a moment to concoct one rather than assuming that he'd procrastinated long enough that it wouldn't be necessary.
Thankfully, though, Romano doesn't press him for more details. Instead, he just stares at him for a beat longer, and then launches himself up from the bed in a sudden, jolting lurch, grabs hold of Wales' shoulders, and presses their lips together, just as he had in the pub almost three years ago at the start of this whole sorry mess.
Wales wouldn't exactly call this a kiss, either. There's absolutely nothing tender about it, only a clash of teeth, pressure, and the faint taste of blood on Wales' tongue. Romano's hands are just as hard and insistent, grabbing tight hold of his hips, and Wales is so surprised and overwhelmed by it all that he doesn't have chance to worry or second guess himself when Romano pulls him towards the bed where…
… He embarrasses himself all over again. Maybe even worse than at Lough Erne, because then he'd been able to scrape up a tiny morsel of restraint, just enough to hold himself together for long enough to get a few of the buttons on his pyjamas undone, at least.
He hadn't even managed that much this time.
"I'm sorry," he tells Romano. "Again."
"It's fine, Galles," Romano says, and his voice is warm again, too. Unusually so, as, apparently, the only time he can summon up something approaching kindness in Wales' presence is when he's trying to reassure him that he's anything other than an enormous disappointment in bed. "You were fine."
Which is hardly a ringing endorsement. "I don't know why this is happening to me," Wales says.
Except he does, because he used to be the same way as a youth, whenever he was with a new partner and his nerves got the better of him. He thought he'd overcome it centuries ago, but it seems depressingly typical of his romantic luck of late that he'd start experiencing it again here, now, and with probably the worst possible person.
"It's fine," Romano reiterates, reaching across the mattress to give Wales' hand a quick squeeze.
Wales doesn't want to look at him, as he strongly suspects that the expression that accompanies that squeeze will be a pitying one, so he hurriedly pushes the duvet aside and gets out of the bed.
"Okay," Romano says, and the quiet indrawing of his breath suggests that he's about to add more, but Wales dashes out of the room before he gives voice to it, retreating once more to the safe confines of his bathroom.
There, he splashes his face with water, strips off his pyjamas and shoves them in the laundry basket, wipes himself down, and then realises he has made a serious misstep. He has nothing to change into, and there's no way on god's earth that he's going to return to his bedroom naked. A frantic search of his airing cupboard and the chest of drawers in the spare room unearths a threadbare pair of pyjama bottoms he thought he'd chucked out long since, but, unfortunately, no corresponding top. The trousers alone are better than nothing, though, so he slips them on and trudges slowly and unenthusiastically back to his room, damp flannel in hand.
Romano is already asleep when he returns, his face peaceful and untroubled in a way that makes it very tempting to 'accidentally' kick him a little as Wales settles himself back into the bed with him. He squelches the urge firmly, because it's petty, beneath him, and thoroughly unconducive to his interests, besides.
Wales' own sleep is slow to come. Even as his embarrassment cools and begins to dissipate, anxiety bubbles up to take its place.
Because despite all the other shortcomings he might, and does, possess, he'd always been unshakeably convinced that he was good at this. He'd been proud that he'd somehow escaped falling prey to the buttoned-up repression that plagued his brothers, and proud too that he'd always managed to satisfy his partners before. He might not be the best, or the most adventurous, or, as he'd told Romano, the most flexible lover, but it had never been an issue for him in the past.
Now, he can't help but wonder why the deficiencies he'd thought long-conquered are rearing their ugly heads again, and he worries about the implications of that until his eyelids finally grow heavy and begin to sag.
It feels as though he's only closed them for a moment when he's roused by a loud banging on the bedroom door, and Scotland shouting out, "Are you decent?"
Wales glances over to the other side of the bed to check if any part of Romano that might scandalise Scotland is on display, but it is empty. He sighs, sits up against the headboard, pulls the duvet up under his armpits, and then calls back, "Come in!"
Scotland enters the room slowly and hesitantly, regardless, and fixes the thin sliver of Wales' bare shoulders still on display with a look of horrified disgust.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Wales snaps. "You do realise I'm naked under my clothes every single time you see me, don't you?"
Scotland visibly recoils. "Well, I can't say the thought had ever crossed my mind before you mentioned it," he says, scowling. "So, thanks for that, Wales." He inclines his head towards the plate he's carrying. "I'm not sure you deserve this, now."
"What is it?"
"It," he passes the plate to Wales with a ridiculous swooping flourish of his arm, "is a bacon sandwich. Call it my host gift. I did just make it out of the goodness of my heart, but—"
"Then I reminded you I have genitals. So sorry; won't happen again."
"You see that it doesn't," Scotland says with a grin, and then sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. The frame creaks in distress under his weight. "Are you going to try it, then?"
Wales eyes the sandwich carefully. Scotland's bacon sandwiches can often be painful experiences, given his propensity to overcook the bacon until it becomes so brittle that it shatters into razor-sharp shards when bitten. The small end pieces of the meat that are sticking out from the bread are reassuringly pink, though, so Wales risks a cautious mouthful. It's still chewy, which is a minor miracle, but soon proves to be excessively so. By the time Wales has finished the sandwich, his jaws are aching.
Nevertheless, it is still: "One of your better efforts, brawd."
"I thought so," Scotland says, beaming happily. "I'm quite proud of how they turned out. I even offered one to Romano before he left for his meeting at the consulate, but he wasn't having it."
"Oh," Wales says blandly. Romano had never mentioned having to attend any meetings to him, and though his reticence is, as it always is, disheartening, he can at least take some comfort from the fact that he had good reason to rise early without waking him, and likely didn't flee the bed in a fit of justified horror at some point during the night, as had been Wales' first, instinctive assumption. "It's probably for the best, anyway. I think you have to have a certain sort of constitution to survive your sandwiches without incident, Yr Alban."
"Aye, one hardened by years of England's cooking." Scotland chuckles. "Anyway, he said to tell you that he probably wouldn't be back before seven, so you'll get him to yourself for the night. France and I need to be at the theatre by then."
"And what do you plan to do with yourselves for the rest of the day," Wales asks, to distract himself from the frankly quite terrifying prospect of 'getting Romano to himself' for any length of time.
"Whenever His Highness deigns to get up, we're going to go into town: do a bit of shopping, get some lunch. Do you fancy coming with?"
Wales shakes his head. Although France and Scotland obviously try their best not to do so, they do have a tendency towards getting wrapped up in each other to the exclusion of all else – even now, when their honeymoon period is surely long overdue to have ended – and Wales is in no mood to play third wheel today.
He'd have too much time to dwell, obsess, and worry about what seven o'clock might bring, then. For the sake of his nerves, it will be far better for him to busy himself so thoroughly that he doesn't have time to think at all.