20th April, 2010; Paris, France
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Wales' French is not fluent anymore, but it's passable; good enough to hold a conversation so long as nobody speaks too quickly or uses any complicated words.
It's definitely not good enough to navigate a French hospital, however.
The receptionist at the front desk had given him what he thought were exhaustive directions, but half an hour on, he's stuck in a continuous loop, travelling up and down the same two sets of stairs and round and round the same four corridors. Completely and utterly lost, and completely and utterly unable to make sense of any of the signs littered with medical jargon that are dotted around the place, helpfully pointing to departments he doubts he would recognise even if they were named in English.
He'd give it all up as a bad job and go back to the hotel if he thought he had any hope in hell of finding the front doors again, either. His square of corridors may well be the wrong ones, but at least they're familiar. He fears if he deviates too far from his path he might find himself in some scarcely visited part of the building, lost without hope of recovery unless someone stumbled upon him by happenstance; nothing to sustain him but the contents of his conciliatory fruit basket.
Or, of course, he could suck it up and ask for directions again. Actually, he should probably have done so a good twenty minutes or so back, never mind that the idea fills him with consternation every time he considers it. It's a strategy of last resort even back home, where there's no language barrier to overcome, and everyone looks so busy, rushing around with their clipboards and pensive expressions that he's loath to subject them to his trifling concerns and stumbling French.
"Excusez-moi de vous déranger," he mutters under his breath as he walks, practising what he's going to say so that he doesn't hold anyone up for too long, "mais… Mais… Bloody hell."
Where the French for 'can you tell me how to get' should be in his mind, there's nothing but a blank silence. Such a fucking simple phrase, one that would doubtless roll easily off his tongue under any other circumstances, but now it's difficult to even think how to begin.
"Pouvez-vous," he ventures, and it sounds encouragingly plausible. "Pouvez-vous me… dire?" That doesn't seem quite right. Maybe it should be: "M'indiquer? Pouvez-vous m'indiq–"
"You," someone shouts from behind him in English.
Wales smiles with relief, presuming that a nurse or doctor had noticed his aimless wandering and squinting at signs and taken pity on him when they correctly surmised that he was both clueless and British. When he swivels on his heel, however, he discovers that the person who had hailed him isn't a member of the medical staff at all, but a nation. Grumpy Italy, in fact, looking even more cantankerous than usual; face blotchy and lips twisted into a snarl.
Wales had hoped to drop off his gift and card without attracting the notice of anyone, their recipient included, and the slip away again unseen. Admittedly, it had been something of a pipe dream, and Wales had made contingency plans in case Nice Italy happened to be awake, but he foolishly hadn't thought to consider what he might do if he ran into Romano instead.
"Erm, hello?" he says experimentally, because there's no harm in being polite.
Romano's eyebrows descend, his nostrils flare, and he advances on Wales, fists clenched. He's only got an inch of height on Wales, if that, and Wales probably has a weight advantage of at least a couple of stones, so the sight's not exactly intimidating, especially for someone who'd grown up with Scotland. He still finds himself backing away until his shoulder blades nudge up against a wall, nevertheless, because Romano's demeanour is an all too familiar one, and Wales knows full well that all the physical advantages in the world are next to useless in the face of that sort of determination.
Romano stops only when he's brought up short by the large basket cradled in Wales' arms, and he growls, "You're the bastard who knocked my brother out."
Wales winces at the reminder. "It was an accident," he says hurriedly. Romano doesn't look convinced. "I really am very sorry, though. I brought apology fruit," he inclines his head downwards, "and a card. It's in my pocket, if you'll just let me –"
"You broke his nose," Romano says, clearly not placated. He leans forward, and the edge of the basket digs deep into the skin over Wales' sternum.
"I did?" France had mentioned that Italy had a slight concussion and needed some stitches, and that was bad enough. "Shit. Honestly, if someone did that to one of my brothers, I'd want to punch them too, but –"
A door to Wales' right opens suddenly, and Germany's head pokes out. "Could you keep," he begins, voice firm and expression censorious. The certainty fades from his voice and expression both as he turns his head and notices Wales and Romano. "Wales?" he says, a little tentatively.
Wales knows that the warm surge of pleasure he feels in response to the name is completely ridiculous – especially as he fucking hates to hear it normally – but it makes him smile, regardless.
The smile is short-lived, though, as he realises that the reason Germany recognises him is likely that he remembers the complete spectacle Wales made of himself at the previous year's G-20 summit, blubbering on poor Canada's shoulder because it had been, in retrospect, far too soon after Cerys left him for Wales to be attempting to be sociable.
The realisation tempers his pathetic gratitude for not having to explain his existence for once, and enables him to limit his reply to a reasonable, "Hello, Yr Almaen."
The pressure on Wales' chest lessens slightly as Romano shifts his position. "You're England's brother?" He looks at Wales suspiciously. "I thought you were his secretary or something."
As did half of the EU, it had become apparent at yesterday's meeting, although Wales had thought that the fact that he'd managed to concuss Italy and, it seemed, break his nose when they knocked heads would have made it abundantly clear that he wasn't human.
"Lloegr's hurt his hand, so he needed someone to drive him here and take notes for him. It's not something I make a habit of, but…" But Wales has absolutely no idea why he's trying to justify himself, although he's quite happy to lay the blame on Scotland and his non-stop piss taking over the last couple of days. Really, he should be trying his best to leave as soon as possible, not prolonging the conversation. To that end, he says, "Look, I just wanted to apologise and leave this for Yr Eidal."
"Please, bring it in," Germany says, stepping aside and gesturing towards the open doorway.
Wales can't refuse without looking like a complete prick, no matter how much he might like to simply shove the fruit at Germany and make a run for it. It's not as though they see each other regularly enough that such behaviour will come back and bite him on the arse – the next time he meets either Germany or Romano is likely to be a couple of decades hence, by which time they probably won't even recall who he is, never mind any twattish behaviour they'd witnessed – but he supposes he does owe Italy a personal apology, at least, now he's been discovered.
He sidles past Romano, who continues to glare at him as he walks away, if the prickling at the back of Wales' neck is anything to go by, and then hesitantly enters Italy's room.
The top of the narrow bed's almost hidden by the profusion of flowers set upon the small cabinets on either side of it, but Wales can just about make out Italy's head though the mass of foliage overhanging it. He has a bulky bandage taped to his forehead, but looks otherwise unmarred; face peaceful in what looks to be a very deep sleep. Perhaps too deep.
"Fuck," Wales says, his guilt rising full force anew, "he's not unconscious, is he?"
Germany shakes his head. "Just sleeping," he whispers back, making Wales feel even more ashamed for not having kept his own voice lowered.
Germany sits down in one of the hard plastic chairs beside the bed, and before Wales has chance to even consider whether or not he'd be welcome to take the other, Romano plonks himself down heavily into it. He looks smugly up at Wales as though he's won some sort of point or other, despite the fact that, as Italy's brother, he has every right to make himself – relatively – more comfortable at his bedside.
It does, however, leave Wales unsure of what he should be doing with himself instead. Sitting on the edge of the bed is obviously out of the question, but, then again, so is hovering uncertainly in the doorway, where he'd be in everyone's way and uncomfortably aware that he's not exactly welcome besides.
Clearing out a spot amongst the 'Get Well Soon' cards on the windowsill to place his own card and fruit basket seems like a good idea, but it only offers a momentary distraction, even after he takes care to line everything up perfectly afterwards. When he turns back towards the bed, Germany has laid one hand on top of the blanket, his fingers almost but not quite touching Italy's. Judging by Romano's glowering, this is almost as great an offence to his brother's person as head-butting him.
As is edging discreetly away towards the door, Wales discovers, as he attempts to make another break for it, thinking Romano's attention had finally shifted away from him fully. Apparently, he's not wanted here, but not allowed to leave either.
He finds himself tightly clutching his mobile phone inside his coat pocket, and desperately willing England to find himself in need of a secretary some time very, very soon.