Although the quiet and solitude of the smallest of Wales' two spare bedrooms is soothing to his frayed nerves, its relative peacefulness does not help him to think any more clearly, as he had hoped it would.

For what feels like hours, he lies on his back in the narrow, single bed, staring up at the ceiling whilst his mind fills the silence with the mental equivalent of white noise. His thoughts are nebulous, half-formed and ill-defined, just snatches of unease and anxiety that are impossible to pin down and pick apart.

By the time France and Scotland return from their concert, the only firm conclusion he has arrived at is that the popcorn textured wallpaper covering the ceiling is exceedingly ugly, and he really should have got around to replacing it whilst he was making his other home improvements.

He turns off the bedside lamp as soon as he hears Scotland's tread on the stairs, but he was either a fraction too slow about it, or else his illuminated window had already been noted from the street, because both France and Scotland's footsteps pause outside the closed bedroom door and a whispered conversation ensues.

Wales cannot discern a word of it, but deduces that it must have centred around concern for his well-being as it culminates in Scotland knocking on the door, light and hesitant, and even more hesitantly calling out, "Is everything okay?"

For an absurd, reckless moment, Wales considers answering with: 'No', or even, 'Actually, no, it's not, and I'd really like to talk about it'.

Because, contrary to the rest of his family, Wales is of the opinion that talking about such things does help sometimes. At the very least, it would force him to marshal his thoughts into coherent enough order to speak them aloud.

Talking to Scotland in particular likely wouldn't do him any good, though. He might be the best friend Wales has ever had, but he is also quite possibly the last person on earth anyone should ever ask for relationship advice, seeing as though his solution to his own romantic woes seemed to have been saying not a single word about them and just pining for France as hard as he could, presumably in the hope that France would somehow pick up on his feelings via telepathy if only they were strong enough. Had Wales not stepped in when he did the last time they split up, they might well have not got back together for four hundred years or more all over again.

The moment soon passes, and the strange urge passes with it. "I'm fine," Wales calls back. "I just got kicked out of bed for snoring."

Scotland's loud sigh is clearly one of relief. "I don't blame him," he says, "you sound like—"

"An aeroplane taking off," Wales finishes for him. "Yes, I know."

"Right." Scotland laughs. "'Night, then."

"Good night, Yr Alban."

Scotland retreats to bed, leaving Wales alone with his thoughts again. They're just as frustrating companions as they were before, and he quickly tires of them, resolving to forget about the whole sorry mess until morning. Everything is bound to make a great deal more sense after a decent night's sleep.

He rolls over onto his side, curling his legs up to his chest and sliding his hands up beneath the pillow under his head. It's a comforting position normally, and one that usually helps lull him into sleep, but the clock on the bedside table ticks relentlessly on, measuring out at least another quarter of an hour, and still his muscles refuse to relax, and his brain continues to whirr.

"Fuck it," he grumbles, getting out of bed and heading downstairs to the kitchen.

Sleep might be elusive, but oblivion is much easier to achieve. Wales fills a glass with the remainder of Janice's gin, and retrieves the poem he'd been working on that evening from drawer he had carelessly shoved it in before going to bed.

Any hopes he might have entertained that his feelings towards Romano were any easier to parse before their awkward interlude in his bedroom earlier are soon dashed upon rereading the tortuous verses he'd written then. They're a jumbled mess, with no clear through line or focus, and he picks up a pen, scribbles marginal notes, crosses out lines and even full stanzas, trying to bring some sort of order out of the chaos.

He polishes off the gin and then makes a start on the fine bottle of whisky that had been a present from Scotland, bought in an uncharacteristic – and most likely drunken – fit of largesse following a recent distillery tour he had attended. He drinks a brimming glass of it, then another, whilst he ruthlessly slashes away at his own words until only a few scattered snatches of the original poem remain.

They're completely and utterly meaningless, and Wales is even more confused by the end of the exercise than he'd been at its start.

By the time he reaches the bottom of his third glass of whisky, the idea of talking to Scotland has resurfaced again, and it's still an oddly compelling one. Certainly, it's more compelling than talking to Northern Ireland, which Wales had also briefly contemplated, given that he knows more about the situation with Romano than anyone else. But he's so young, and it's unfair of Wales to expect him to deal with trying to untangle Wales' romantic difficulties alongside his own, whereas Scotland is…

Well, he's…

He's a fucking adult, at the end of the day, and it won't kill him to shoulder the dreadful burden of other people's emotions and needs every once in a while.

The particular mix of resentment and bravado that Wales only ever experiences when he has a bellyful of strong alcohol inside him fuels his storming rush upstairs and his loud shout of Scotland's name, but evaporates in the same instant as Scotland wrenches open the door to his temporary bedroom and glares out at him sullenly.

He looks, quite rightfully, like someone who has been abruptly and unceremoniously hauled out of a deep sleep: his eyes bleary, one cheek runnelled with pillow creases, and his habitual expression of murderous intent even more pronounced than usual.

"What the hell's the matter," he asks, his voice low and hoarse.

"I, um." Wales takes an instinctual step back and to the side, moving out of the range of Scotland's left arm, and more importantly, his left fist. "I'm sorry. Did I wake Ffrainc."

Scotland looks back over his shoulder; shakes his head. "Naw; it'd take a fucking bomb blast most nights." He shuffles out into the hallway, easing the door closed behind him. "No chance of it now," he says, and his eyes, when he lifts them to meet Wales' again, are much more sharply focused than before. "Right; come on. Out with it. What's wrong?"

"I…" Wales' inspiration seems to have deserted him for the time being, and all he can think to say is: "Would you like a drink?"

There must be some subtle undertone to Wales' voice that he's unaware of, some small, tell-tale quirk of his expression that gives his true intentions away, because Scotland immediately looks suspicious, hunted, and he ponders the question for far longer than it would appear to deserve on its surface.

He drums his fingers in a familiar, nervous rhythm against the top of his thigh, just below his hip, but he still says, "Aye," eventually. And: "Go on, then."
-

-
Scotland's eyes keep flicking towards Wales warily as he sips on his whisky, the way they always do when he's worried that Wales will do something horrifying, like start to cry.

But Wales isn't upset, and he's certainly nowhere close to tears. He still not sure how he feels. Mostly, he's just baffled.

Scotland glances down at the remnants of Wales' poem that are still scattered across the kitchen table, scans a few lines, and then winces. "I take it there's trouble in paradise, then?" he says.

"What makes you think that?" Wales asks, surprised. Scotland is not usually so perspicacious about such things, needing them explained to him slowly and bluntly using words of no more than one syllable.

Or, at least, he has always affected that air. Wales has long suspected that there is a great deal more wilful ignorance in play on his brother's part than he would ever admit to.

"You're sleeping in a different room," Scotland says, ticking the points off on his fingers as he enumerates them, "writing miserable poetry, and drinking at three in the morning. What else could it be?" He frowns uneasily. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather talk to France?"

Normally, Wales would jump at the chance, but, for once, France would be an even worse choice of confidant than Scotland. He shakes his head.

"Okay." Scotland downs his whisky in a single swallow. "Okay, then. Out with it; I'm listening. Not sure how much use I'll be, though."

Wales isn't sure, either, but he hardly has a wealth of alternatives at his disposal and it can't help to try. Physically, anyhow. He and Scotland are long past that sort of thing, for the most part.

"So…" Wales clasps his hands together on top of the table and stares down at them to avoid having to look Scotland in the eye. "This thing with me and Romano… I might have… misled you about nature of our relationship. I mean, we are together. Sort of. But it's only… It's not really romantic. At all. Just—"

"All right," Scotland interrupts him, sharply and hurriedly. "I think I get where you're going with this, but… Jesus," he hisses. "Why the hell did you let us think it was more serious than that for so long. It's been over two years!"

Wales can't bring himself to admit to the truth of his and Romano's real arrangement, so he confesses only a portion of it. The part he thinks will be easiest for Scotland to digest.

"France seemed so happy about us getting together, that I ended up over-egging the pudding a bit," Wales says. "I didn't want to burst his bubble."

"Or set him off matchmaking again, no doubt," Scotland guesses, quite correctly. "Look, I understand wanting to spare France's feelings, and, aye, he probably would have been disappointed, but he'd have got over it. There was no need to keep… pretending for all this time. It's been two years. Two fucking years I've had to try and put up with Romano for your sake, and now you're telling me it was for no good reason at all?"

"I thought you liked him now?" Wales says.

"He's all right," Scotland says, readily enough. "Not as bad as I thought. I guess he's a bit of an acquired taste, just like France said. But still… Two years, Wales! Fucking hell." He groans, long and pained, and then takes a deep, steadying breath. When he speaks again, his voice is calm and level once more. "So what's got you all het up now, then? What's changed?"

"It…" Wales stares even harder at his hands. His nails are short and ragged; he must have backslid into the bad habit of biting them without noticing. His fingertips tingle with the urge to start doing so consciously now, but he resists that urge, too. "It turns out that we're not exactly on the same page when it comes to our… relationship."

"He's all for making it romantic, and you're not convinced?" Scotland says, and it doesn't sound like another guess. He sounds very certain about it, as though that observation, that reality, is self-evident.

"Well, yes," Wales admits, "but how on earth did you work that one out?"

Especially when Wales himself, in possession of all the pertinent facts of the matter from the start, hadn't had the slightest inkling until Romano spelt it out.

"I should have guessed earlier, really," Scotland says. "You weren't acting like you usually do when you're going out with someone."

"Which is how, exactly?" Wales asks, cautiously and preparing himself to be insulted.

Scotland takes a long time to reply, and Wales gets the impression he's picking his words carefully. "You tend to get a bit… soppy, you ken? Writing tonnes of poetry about them; getting all teary over sunsets; that sort of thing. But you've just been you, whilst Romano's obviously… He obviously likes you a lot."

How did Wales not see it, if it was so blatant that even Scotland had been aware of it? He shakes his head wonderingly.

"I honestly never noticed."

"Well, it was obvious to some people," Scotland says. "Not me, to be fair, but France wouldn't stop banging on about it." His voice climbs up the register, mimicking France's tone. "'You should be nicer to Romano! He's so obviously in love, but he can't express it properly because you act like a complete arse whenever he's with Wales!'"

The words are clearly not France's, but Scotland's impression of his accent is spot on. The accompanying hand gestures are exaggerated enough to be somewhat insulting, though.

"Okay," Wales says, a little mollified now that he knows Scotland's unusual display of perceptiveness wasn't entirely of his own making. France knows Romano far better than either Scotland or Wales and was bound to have noticed certain signs that would have escaped them both. It didn't mean Wales was unique in his obliviousness. "So, you're pretty much spot on with what's been happening."

"And your problem is…?" Scotland asks.

"I'm not sure what to do now," Wales says. "It's not something I've ever had to deal with before; someone… wanting more from me than I want from them."

"Well, you're in luck there. If there's one thing I do have experience with, it's not being on the same page as each other. Or, at least, thinking you aren't." He leans across the table until his elbow nudges against Wales' and Wales feels obliged to look up at him. His expression is sincere, resolute, and very similar to the one England habitually wears when he's about to dispense some wisdom that he considers is of earth-shattering importance. "You should shit or get off the pot."

Wales laughs. "That's exactly the same advice you gave to England about America, Yr Alban!"

"Aye, and it's damn good advice. It worked for England, didn't it?" Scotland grins, but only briefly, and he soon grows serious once more. "It's not right to lead him on, Wales, now you know how he feels. If you reckon might be able to make a go of it, give it your best try. If you don't think you can get on same page, then give up and walk away. It's only fair."
-

-
Wales is roused from his fitful few hours of sleep by the irresistible smell of frying bacon and follows the scent downstairs to the kitchen and the surprising discovery that not only is Scotland the one cooking, not France, but he is engaged in preparing a full Scottish breakfast and not just his typical, weapons-grade bacon sandwiches.

The charcoal taint to the air which, equally typically, accompanies Scotland's efforts in the kitchen is notably absent, but easily explained by France's close presence and even closer supervision. He's so absorbed in his fastidious observation of the pans arrayed on Wales' hob that he spares Wales himself little more than a nod when he joins them.

Scotland, however, meets his gaze squarely and the inquisitive tilt of his head, the twitch of his eyebrows, ask a clear and obvious question.

Wales has no answer to it. He still isn't sure; sleep hadn't helped at all.

Watching Scotland and France work together – the light touches to the small of the back, the shoulder as they manoeuvre around each other; the ready smiles; even Scotland's mock indignation when France reminds him to check on the eggs – makes him sway towards wanting to give things a chance with Romano.

He misses that; misses being so close and comfortable with another person. Romano might not be the right person for him to experience that with again – probably isn't – but he'll never know if he doesn't try.

That small certainty erodes as soon as Romano stomps downstairs to sit in sullen, scowling silence at the kitchen table, and thereafter glower at the – completely unsinged, for a wonder – food that Scotland eventually sets down in front of him.

He doesn't attempt a bite of any of it, even after Scotland assures him that: 'Everything came from a farm shop; they've won awards for their sausages!'.

He pushes the baked beans around his plate with the back of his fork, completely ignores any efforts to engage him in conversation, and doesn't so much as glance at Wales for the entire duration of the meal.

En route to the sink after clearing his own plate, Wales pauses behind Romano's chair and experimentally, and perhaps a little cruelly, runs the tip of a finger along the back of Romano's bowed neck.

Romano shivers minutely, but then his shoulders hunch and he turns to scowl at Wales. His mouth is set firm, his brows bristling, but there's something incongruously gentle about his eyes, something hopeful and completely at odds with the rest of his expression, and it makes Wales waver again.

After finishing his own breakfast, Scotland loudly announces that he's in need of a walk to aid his digestion. It takes a couple of repetitions, a significant look or two, and a bout of pointed arm tugging for France to get the message that Scotland is so unsubtlety attempting to convey – likely because, with a stomach laden down with tattie scones and black pudding, exercise is the furthest thing from his mind – but he does eventually acquiesce to being dragged out of the house to work up a spot of indigestion and heartburn.

As soon as the front door has slammed closed behind Scotland and France, Romano straightens up from his slouch at the table and makes his own announcement. "I should go and pack," he says. "I've got a meeting at ten, and I'll have to go straight to the airport after it's finished."

"Oh." Romano had given Wales no more hint about his intended departure from this impromptu visit than he had about his arrival on it; no indication that he'd be leaving so soon. Wales had hoped he'd have a little more time to make a decision but supposes it's probably the exact kick up the arse he needs to stop prevaricating and make the plunge, one way or the other. "Okay, but I think we should—"

Romano's aversion to the word 'talk' is clearly even stronger than Scotland's, and he's off and away upstairs before it has reached Wales' lips.

Wales lets him go without protest – he might well need a little more time himself – and stations himself by the front door, where he's impossible to avoid unless Romano's desperate enough to make his escape via one of the bedroom windows instead.

When Romano returns downstairs, suitcase in hand, he grimaces to see Wales there in the hallway, his shoulders round protectively again, and he does spare a glance back up the stairs again, perhaps giving the windows a second thought, but he does eventually advance: slowly, diffidently, each step halting.

He comes to a halt slightly too close to Wales, just as he always does, and stares down at his impeccably shined shoes. He isn't frowning, as he usually does when they're in such close proximity; his face is soft, open in the same way it had been last night, with the same vulnerability evident in the loose curl of his hands at his sides and the tired arc of his back.

It makes him seem far more touchable than he normally is, and Wales reaches out, lays a light hand against the crook of his elbow. Romano shivers again, and his eyes flutter closed.

The sight makes Wales decision for him. It might not be the right one, or the most sensible one, but it's done.

"I'll see you in Rome, then," he says.

Romano's gaze sweeps up Wales' body, catches his for a beat before he drops his head again. "You still want to come?"

"That was the plan," Wales says. "But things are going to have to be different. I don't want us to pretend we're dating anymore." Romano stiffens, starts to pull away, but Wales tightens his grip on his arm, holds him still. "I thought we could try going out on a real date; perhaps even see if we can manage an actual conversation for once. Does that sound okay to you?"

Romano nods, and he smiles. It's not much of one, only the barest uptilt at the corners of his mouth, but still more than Wales can usually coax out of him. It makes him feel a little better about his decision, a little more optimistic.

"Good; I'm glad we're on the same page," Wales says. "I do have one condition, though, before we do anything."

Romano's nascent smile fades and his brow furrows, heralding the return of one of his more customary frowns. "What?" he asks suspiciously.

"You'll have to talk to Sbaen," Wales says. "Let him know how you feel again; see where that leads you. I don't think we'd ever be able to make a proper go at this with that still hanging over our heads."