#matthiaswarren

[ofcastora]

EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES NOW MY FRIENDS FATHER IS DEAD & GONE

DIVERONA + BROADWAY @matthiaswarren

[lorettadelluci-blog]

when: january 2nd, 2019 where: the ruins of the castelvecchio  who: closed for @matthiaswarren

each breath this city takes seems to lead to one step taken towards its desolation. or --- ruination, desecration, whatever word fits into the allotted spaces for letters. it’s just the same everywhere else, she knows, but verona plays its hand of cards without a shred of shame. it drags curious tourists and thrill seekers in with greedy hands --- and most of them don’t seem to entirely realize why, exactly, things are so bad.

they might poke and prod at the dead flesh of verona. they might take pictures of the bridge and open their mouths wide with awe and horror. they might bemoan the way events have played out. but they’re always quick to scramble backwards when the necrotic facade disappears and all that’s left to look at are the writhing maggots of the montagues and capulets, clutching desperately for territory with greedy hands.

when she moves to stand beside matthias at their allotted meeting place, at exactly the right time, it’s all she can think of. something dead, still doing its best to be alive. verona will die and the capulets and montagues will still be clawing each other’s eyes out if they have their say. she tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat, measures him with an even sort of look. there’s no it’s good to see you, no how are you? instead she’s taken aback by the sight of him, throat mottled with purple-blue-yellows. the hues of strangulation, like a piece of artwork.

she raises gloved hands to the own line of her windpipe in quiet sympathy. she’s not sure if it translates well. not really; her italian is clipped and somewhat clumsy. she’s still learning, after all, no matter how late into the night she practices with duolingo, over and over. “those look like they hurt. are you recovering well?” he doesn’t need to answer --- she already knows. but people are usually more amicable when you put the spotlight on them, make them feel important. 

[sanctabenvolio]

Location: Matthias Warren’s Paris Residence Flashback Date: August 12th, 2013 Closed to: @matthiaswarren​

Setting foot somewhere new always sets off a fluttering feeling of floating in his heart, butterflies of desire in his stomach as though he was falling headfirst into love as soon as his foot hit the ground. There was a lightness, an elation to simply being that he hadn’t known was possible, a vital aria in his blood that made him want to dance through the streets. It would fade, he knew, in a few weeks, a couple of months as his feet led him elsewhere again but for now — oh for now his heart belonged to Paris — and Italians were always the most passionate of lovers.

He takes a moment, seated in a cafe in the airport, to scrawl out today’s postcards to Marcelo and Roman and drops them in a helpful postbox; pointless really, when he immediately follows it with a selfie and ❛ PARIS BABY! ❜ in the group chat ( he types out you guys should come visit, and then erases it unsent for the hundredth time, worries that his half-torn soul might break under a refusal, that the separation might somehow hurt more in the aftermath of a reunion, but oh, he wants ), but still, it’s his daily tradition.

He hails a taxi, hiking his leather bag higher on his shoulder, and rattles off the address from his messages as he sprawls against the window, hungry for any glimpse of his new love that he can get. He has known Matthias all his life, both of them growing up in Montague circles, and had reached out to catch up while he was here, but the older man’s offer of his spare room had taken him by surprise. Age differences had kept Matthias a distant figure; the older cousin sometimes tasked with babysitting, but there was a certain warm solidarity in someone else who had escaped the poison air of Verona.

He double-checks the address as the taxi drops him off outside, examining the building with interest before he punches in the code he had been given to the intercom. 

❝ Ciao, Matti, ❞ he grins, uncertain whether he can be seen over the intercom or not. ❝ It’s me! ❞

[odessasvernon]

👫

Odessa watched Matthias as the funeral went on. She was shocked when she heard that his father had passed away. The Warrens had been family friends for as long as Odessa could remember. She remembered being embraced by Angela when they came to visit during Christmas time. She remembered Marius commenting on how big she had gotten even if she had remained the same size since their last encounter. She knew all too well about the blush that would appear on her face every time Matthias would offer to dance with her at the galas they were dragged to. They were practically a second family to her, and her hearted ached for the loss that Matthias was experiencing.

She had waited until the event was over before she moved from her seat. Her eyes remained trained on the back of Matthias’ head as she wandered over to where he was standing. She passed by weeping relatives and friends embracing one another, but young Odessa was focused on one person. She let out a few sympathetic smiles to guests she wasn’t familiar with, but her smile faded away when she took in the expression on the young Warren’s face.

She reached over and grabbed his hand. Her small hand was dwarfed by his, but she refused to let go of it. She squeezed it a few times before her eyes trailed along with the broken-hearted features he bore. She thought about saying something, but Odessa had never experienced death before. Her father had been by her side during the funeral. Her brother stood on the other side of him. Her mother had watched quietly as the event trailed on. She didn’t know what it was like to lose a parent, so she only held on as if her grip would give him the strength he needed to survive such a blow. 

[cuorepietoso]

Sunday 10 March 2019 Tosca Cafe Verona 1147 h / 11:47AM Closed for @matthiaswarren

          Being this close to the river still filled him with a vague unease, even months later. 

     But they had been meeting for brunch here since their initial accidental run-in, and they could sit outside at their checkered-cloth covered tables and watch the foot traffic along the bend in the Adige, let the cool spring wind carry the sounds of the city to them. It should have been peaceful. It used to be. 

     He was a few minutes late when he arrived, an atypical behavior only exacerbated by how harried he seemed, walking with his shoulders pulled up tight around his ears and his head snapping toward every sudden movement. He still seemed to be restless when he settled into the chair across from Matt, but after a moment of fidgeting with his plate, his napkin, and his yet empty cup, he’d managed to still himself. An agitated wolf to a seething viper in five seconds flat-- it had to be some kind of record. 

     Battista cleared his throat and pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose, and then let himself slump into the chair. “Matthias. Good morning,” he finally greeted, shaking a cigarette out of the pack. He didn’t speak again until he had it lit and dangling from his mouth, the cherry of it the only spot of color on him. “Bene-- you didn’t have to wait for me to order.”