#veneweek2k22

[igasom]

Day 1: Friendship for @veneweek2k22 !!

[dandelion-coffee-bear]

 @veneweek2k22​ Day 4: Stars 

I wanted to do a panel redraw and realized it fell just in time for veneweek

[devintrinidad]

Veneweek2k22 DAY 1: FRIENDSHIP/HISTORY

Warnings: All of the prompts will be displayed in a mostly linear narrative where there will be various ocs; discussion of existentialism, the nature of Nations, mentioned/implied infidelity, unrequited love, etc.; and the character of Veneziano will be portrayed in a very human light. (This means that he won’t always be in the right or be considered “good”, but rather a multifaceted character that I want to explore with this week’s prompts).

Summary: An old man ready to depart for Death’s door greets an even older friend.

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“Isn’t it a little too late for visitors?” The elderly man glanced outside his window, the curtains not yet drawn shut. Outside, the sky was dark, but the streets were gently lit with streetlights and the occasional passing car. “Or has my eyesight worsened since the last time I opened my eyes?”

The old man felt his weathered, age spotted hand clasped within the grip of someone stronger, healthier, and much younger than him. Although the view outside his window captivated him, the old man turned back to his visitor. 

Perhaps it was because of his advanced state or he intimately knew what he was going to find, but his body protested his every movement. When he had gotten older, he knew that his life would never be the same and that he may have to struggle with the most basic tasks, but it was ridiculous trying to tear his eyes away from the window. But, like all things, the moment he had been trying to prepare for came to pass.

With eyes that used to discern and comprehend without any visual aid, the old man blankly stared at the visitor. Even if time had not been kind to his eyesight, the old man was blessed to know his visitor well enough to know that if he could still see, he would have seen the worried brow, the bitten lip, and tears of pain that welled. After all these years, it seemed that this visitor of his had never seemed to let go of his sentimental nature. 

The old man narrowed his eyes just to focus his gaze more.

“If I didn’t know any better, Veneziano, I would say that you were dressed for a funeral.” His dry, cracked lips curved into a warm smile. “I have to wonder, though, whose? Do I know them?”

The hand that grasped the old man’s weathered skin tightened a fraction. 

“Niccolo, don’t be like that. I just got out from work: I practically ran from the airport to see you!” If Niccolo had only suspected Veneziano on the cusp of tears, the sensation of wetness accompanied by shaky breaths confirmed it. “And besides, this outfit would not pass muster at a funeral. It’s not a good color!”

The dim lighting from the small lamp on a nearby nightstand did not show what color suit Veneziano had donned, other than the fact that it was dark. Almost black.

Not that Niccolo cared.

Niccolo carefully extricated his other hand from the nest of blankets that he had ensconced himself in. He trembled from the effort, but eventually, he patted Veneziano's hand in comfort.

"I remember when we... well, when I was younger, you always did look good in suits. It didn't matter the color." Niccolo felt his hand being lifted into the air before a pair of lips gently caressed his skin. Ever the romantic, that one. "For that matter, I won't care if your shoes don't match your belt or if your suit isn't tailored. I'll be dead. You can even wear pink for all I care."

The puff of scandalized laughter brushed his hand.

"You're not going to die." The voice that came from Veneziano's mouth was quiet, measured. If it weren't for the tears that decorated Niccolo's skin, he would have been fooled into thinking that Veneziano had not shed a single tear. No, he had sounded too steely and too sure of himself. "Not tonight, I know."

Niccolo laughed again, the harshness of such a vocalization straining his vocal cords, but he needed to add levity. For all of Veneziano's faults, he could be serious when he wanted to be.

Niccolo couldn't help but marvel at such an expression on his face and tone in his voice. There were very few times when he had gotten to witness Veneziano be so calm, yet so embroiled in turmoil at the same time. For a man who had been described as emotional and prone to wearing his heart on his sleeve, he weaponized his emotions. Often, what he wore on his face was nothing more than a mask.

To know that this was the closest he would ever get to seeing Veneziano's true self left Niccolo feeling overwhelmed with emotion.

"My friend... my oldest friend, I will die. Someday, yes, but soon."

The man who was far younger than what his body portrayed, bowed his head low and cried.

@veneweek2k22

[devintrinidad]

Veneweek2k22 DAY 7: FREE DAY

Warnings: All of the prompts will be displayed in a mostly linear narrative where there will be various ocs; discussion of existentialism, the nature of Nations, mentioned/implied infidelity, unrequited love, etc.; and the character of Veneziano will be portrayed in a very human light. (This means that he won’t always be in the right or be considered “good”, but rather a multifaceted character that I want to explore with this week’s prompts).

Summary: Romano and Veneziano don’t really talk. The past speaks for the both of them.

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At about three in the morning, Veneziano heard a knock at his door.

Although courtesy dictated that he answer the door, Veneziano found that his body refused to comply with the unspoken command. Instead, he tiredly lifted his gaze from the hands that gripped the hem of his shirt towards the rest of his room. 

Cramped and cluttered with memorabilia dating back by at least forty years, his bedroom echoed the sentiment of love and warmth that he tried to exude in his everyday life. The rest of his house, however, was not as crowded. Every couple of years, Veneziano made a point to rifle through his house for items to either put into storage or donate to some of his cherished museums. It was his bedroom, however, that he had mostly given a more merciful treatment compared to the rest of his residence.

Tonight, his bed was askew with several changes of clothes decorating the covers, his suitcase sprawled open on the floor. Most Nations at this point would have already mastered the art of packing for international flights, but Veneziano liked to have a new and fresh eye for the luggage that he prepared. Unlike some of his long lived peers, he would just about die if he wore the same ensemble multiple times over the course of a decade, practicality be damned.

Veneziano debated answering the door once more before he shrugged off the veneer of politeness. If anything, he had been too polite these past few days.

A second passed—a second more than what Veneziano deserved—before Romano neatly twisted the doorknob open. Unlike Veneziano, Romano stride in with a full suit, a blank expression adorning his classical Roman features, and his posture ramrod straight as a drill sergeant. It may have been early in the morning, but his clean shaven appearance and purposeful movement made it seem as if it was already half past ten. Without so much as a nod of permission from his younger brother, Romano stole a seat from Veneziano's desk and appraised the room.

They were both silent except for the wind that rustled outside.

Finally, Veneziano sank down onto the bed, not caring if his expensive suits were wrinkled by the sudden weight. He seemed to shrink into himself; his head bowed forward onto his hands as the rest of his body folded over his knees.

Sobs, low and heavy, but muffled by the hand that he smothered over his mouth, filled the air. Outside, the wind picked up and the clothes that were without anchor billowed and rustled in response. Nearby, Romano's eyes caught sight of a newspaper clipping on the desk that began to drift towards him.

Romano tried his best not to pay too much attention to the fragile clipping. To evade curiosity, he set a docket of important documents over it. It was safe, but did not tug at his heart to see the fate of Veneziano's beloved.

The bed creaked and if it weren't for Romano's instincts that had been honed and tested in the past, he would have jerked forward in shock when he saw Veneziano pitch forward to the floor. The fall was not serious: any Nation worth their salt would not be slain by such a trivial accident. What concerned Romano, though, was Veneziano's tears falling freely down his cheeks, but his sobs remained muffld.

Nothing was scarier than seeing his brother trying to suppress the emotions that he felt most.

A crying Veneziano who would weep at the slightest provocation or when he would whine at any inconvenience was a normal Veneziano. He exaggerated and played with the feelings that he wore on his sleeve like a painter would mix different pigments and paints together. It was both Veneziano’s first line of defense and offense. 

Showing emotion was what made Veneziano who he was.

He must have hurt too deeply, felt too much.

Romano remained steady in his seat, his fingers clenching at the fabric of his expensive suit. Every part of Romano ached to comfort his brother, but the both of them were unfathomably old, ancient in the eyes of the infants that roamed the earth today. They had held hands that caressed their bodies, had touched lips with those who called their names. Heartbreak was inevitable and hurt was always the same. 

But the hurt was painful. 

And it was through this pain that maybe, just maybe, Veneziano could warn himself from falling for another pretty face with a brilliant mind, a shooting star that blazed across the sky for a few scant moments before disappearing from view. 

As Veneziano continued to tremble, his fist trying to stifle his sobs, Romano kept his gaze trained out the window.

@veneweek2k22

[devintrinidad]

Veneweek2k22 DAY 4: BROTHERHOOD/STARS

Warnings: All of the prompts will be displayed in a mostly linear narrative where there will be various ocs; discussion of existentialism, the nature of Nations, mentioned/implied infidelity, unrequited love, etc.; and the character of Veneziano will be portrayed in a very human light. (This means that he won’t always be in the right or be considered “good”, but rather a multifaceted character that I want to explore with this week’s prompts). 

Summary: Niccolo contemplates the differences between northern and southern cuisine.

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"It might be a little too early for this, but my brother insisted!" Veneziano opened up a package that he had been adamant that he unveil after the pleasant lunch that they had shared. Inside, once Veneziano had pulled the cover off, was a series of pastries faintly dusted with powdered sugar and smelling like a dream: cannoli. "Quick, before Francesca comes!'

Niccolo grinned toothily, the prospect of pulling the wool over his daughter-in-law's eyes gave him a feeling of childlike wonder and mischief.

"I may be a little too close to the end for sweets, but I will consent to one." Veneziano deflated at his cannoli not being fed to his favorite human before Niccolo held up a hand. "Don't pout. What kind of nonno would I be if I didn't spare a delicacy such as this for my grandchildren?"

The pout faded into a small, but indulgent grin. "Fair point."

Before Niccolo placed the confection in his mouth, he contemplated the perfection of his cannoli. The pastry itself was perfectly crispy and when Niccolo had let the aroma waft up his nose, he could tell that it would definitely be worth taking a bite of. 

After all these years, Veneziano never failed to impress. 

In his youth, he had been often wined and dined by Veneziano—occasions that had Niccolo’s heart all aflutter. Those were the old days when life was simpler and no one expected much from him. Veneziano opened his eyes to adventure and excitement—something that Niccolo had sought out during his wilder, younger years. As he grew older, he had to let go and settle down. 

Occasionally, whenever Niccolo was invited into Veneziano’s home in Rome, it was Romano who would provide most of the cooking. (The brothers would often bicker about the quality of the food and would nag Niccolo for his thoughts regarding the dishes). Despite the relationship he had with Veneziano, Niccolo was conflicted on whose cooking he favored over the other. Both of them had distinct cooking styles that simultaneously conflicted, yet complemented each other. Considering their geographic and political positions in regards to each other, it made sense.

North was North.

South was South.

Both regions had varying cultural differences that was further exacerbated by the fact that none of the regions in their respective territories were alike—and it was made obvious by the cuisine. How the brothers managed to maintain a semblance of their own identity was a mystery to Niccolo.

No matter how many years he pondered it, he never could reach a possible answer.

Niccolo and his family were native to Genoa and Veneziano was from Venice. He was an Italian, yes, but Genoa would always have a warm place in his heart. For the life of him, Niccolo didn't know how anyone could switch who they truly were—from where their roots had first sprung. Veneziano was Venetian, but he also represented Milano, Turino, Genoa, and other Northern territories.

Niccolo imagined it was the same for Romano.

Those two were one and the same, two sides of the same coin, and yet so undeniably different at the same time.

Niccolo shook his head to rid himself of such contemplation, a little disgruntled that he was thinking about the duality of Nations for what seemed like the millionth time. 

"Romano didn't poison this, did he?" Niccolo had said it in jest, but with the way Veneziano reacted, you would think that he had exposed an attempt at assassination.

"I—Romano would never do such a thing!" Niccolo leveled an unimpressed stare at his dear friend. Years of knowing who the National avatars are and what their sordid histories entailed... It would take a lot more than an overexaggerated parody of concern to sway Niccolo. "All right, if you were younger and you were a threat to Repubblica Italiana, maybe. As it is, you're far too old and the only threat you pose is to my paperwork!"

Another unimpressed stare.

"Fine. It was my choice to dump all of my paperwork on my brother, but it was all for you!"

Niccolo sighed. "If you were any closer, I would beat you."

"You could... but you love me too much."

Years ago, Niccolo would have allowed the heat on his cheeks and the tips of his ears to consume him. Today, after a generous lunch, he bit angrily into his cannoli and ignored the urge to smile at Veneziano.

"How is your brother, if I may ask?" The sweetness of the cannoli calmed Niccolo. He wished he could partake in another, but old age had robbed him of what the youth had always taken for granted—the ability to eat more despite knowing that his hunger was already sated.

As Niccolo watched, Veneziano paused in the middle of sipping his coffee. A moment of contemplation is all Niccolo can discern before Veneziano eventually launched into a tirade on how Romano had kicked his ass for not minding the garden for three days when he had gone to an international meeting on Veneziano's behalf.

It's in the storytelling that had Niccolo relaxing on his pillows and his eyes closed so that he may relish in the melody of Veneziano's rich timbre. For a moment, he can fool himself into believing that the man who sat beside him was a former engineering student entertaining his old mentor. Right here, when Veneziano's ire began to build into a crescendo, there was no Nation. 

There is no Veneziano.

Just a young man who loves his brother very much—even if that meant that he had to put up with Romano’s complaints.

Sometimes, Niccolo wonders when the lines between Veneziano the Nation and Veneziano the human could blur and interact.

It's clear that there is no distinction: Veneziano is Veneziano who loves very much.

@veneweek2k22

[devintrinidad]

Veneweek2k22 DAY 3: FLOWERS/THE SEA

Warnings: All of the prompts will be displayed in a mostly linear narrative where there will be various ocs; discussion of existentialism, the nature of Nations, mentioned/implied infidelity, unrequited love, etc.; and the character of Veneziano will be portrayed in a very human light. (This means that he won’t always be in the right or be considered “good”, but rather a multifaceted character that I want to explore with this week’s prompts).

Summary: Helena visits her father because of his bedridden state. While washing the dishes, she meets a strange young man.

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Niccolo dearly loved his family. His wife, Lucrezia, had died almost twenty years ago and not a day passed by that he felt her absence keenly. Between the two of them, they had welcomed into the world three gorgeous children; Paolo, Vittoria, and Helena. Whereas Paolo and Vittoria had carved out fulfilling lives near their childhood home, little Helena had dared dream bigger. When she had grown and married, she moved to Norway. Niccolo had been heartbroken to see her go, but was proud all the same when she sent updates about her booming business and how her children were acclimating to the colder climate.

Years later, when news had reached her about Niccolo's bedridden state, Helena had packed up her bags and moved down to her native hometown.When she was boarding her plane, her husband had wished her the best and their two children promised to continue their correspondence over video calls after they were done with their university classes. Eyes teary, she had hugged and kissed them goodbye, the promises of gifts and farewells healthy and alive on her lips.

Saying goodbye to the fjords and the lush wildlife was both easier and harder than what she could have imagined. It was simple: Helena had grown to love Norway with all of her heart. At first, when she had moved to the country decades ago, she had thought it was merely a move to strengthen her business and prosper overseas. However, even she could not help but feel overjoyed when Norway had fully allowed for dual citizenship. It was her dream to be both a citizen of the nation that she had long since admired and of her native homeland.

She didn't know how long she could stay in dear Italy, but she wanted her stay to be meaningful. Aside from making sure that her father was comfortable and wanting for nothing, she also took it upon herself to reconnect with her nieces and nephews. It had taken a few days, but eventually, all of the family members present in her childhood home warmed up to her. 

One morning, after a brief discussion that had them discussing a small, but surely rejuvenating outing to lift their spirits up, Helena had busied herself with washing and drying the dishes.

As much as anyone would love to protect the monotony of washing up after everyone had eaten, Helena relished in the solitude. She loved her family, but she had to admit that their propensity for physical affection and overly loud speech was taxing. The same could be said for the rest of Italy...

So engrossed in her thoughts, she hadn't realized that the sound of a whimsical, but urgent beat was actually someone knocking on her door. After a round of mental thrashing, she quickly rinsed the suds off her hands and bustled towards the door.

She may have been a little overzealous in welcoming the visitor because when she opened the door, she was met with a young man with his fist half raised, ready to descend.

"I'm sorry, signora," the young man bashfully apologized, "I should have announced myself earlier."

Helena shook her head, a small smile lightening her features. Her father had been a respected professor at the nearby university and many of his former students and colleagues had come over to pay their respects. She had heard that there was a handsome young man who had visited over the last few days, but had left downtrodden after a dispute. Normally, Helena would have kicked the young man out just for disrupting the peace and causing distress to her father, but she couldn't find it within herself to be too angry.

His presence calmed her—the way his eyes were such a warm, molten brown and framed with long lashes. The endearing grin that straddled the line between bashful and sureness of himself. He was a charmer, she was sure of it.

However, there was more to him than just charm. Underneath his boyishness, Helena felt... well, not cowed, but he certainly held the air of someone whose voice and choice of words held power. His eyes were warm, that much was true, but there were far too many years engraved into his irises; the deep brown felt as immeasurable as a deep abyss. Even the way he spoke, soft and melodic and enchanting, held a power that Helena couldn't help but succumb to.

It was enthralling, and if Helena had full control of her mental faculties, which she was sure she could, she may have found reason to be afraid.

Yet, the otherworldliness of such a man did little to dissuade her from trusting him. He felt familiar, like seeing the old house that she had grown up in. He was as intimate as the cadence and natal dialect flowing from her tongue. And underneath all that familiarity, she knew—instinctively, down to her bones—him.

It was a fact that was as plain as gravity.

"Don't worry," she laughed, "we've been expecting you."

She hadn't meant to say that, but after hearing her voice leave her mouth, she realized that it was true. The house had not been in high spirits since the dispute from yesterday morning. It was as if everyone was heading holding their breath, waiting for the young man to return.

He grinned. "That's good to know."

As Helena ushered him inside, she finally took notice of the flowers that the young man had held in his hands. Strange, had she been so caught up in the moment that she had not seen how beautiful and numerous the blossoms were?

The young man must have noticed what had received the scope of her attention because he lifted the bouquet just a little bit higher.

This time, when he spoke, he sounded genuinely bashful. Perhaps, almost nervous.

"An apology," he offered, "for bringing up past concerns. They also might add some life and color to the room."

Already, Helena was cataloguing the size of the vase to house the flowers. The young man had a point: her father would definitely appreciate the touch of color.

Before Helena could lead him up the stairs, the young man plucked a blossom straight from the near center without harming the artistic balance of the bouquet and handed her the flower. Admittedly, Helena was no florist, but she could identify the majority of the blooms as purple hyacinths. The one that the young man chose was eye-catching and it wasn’t because of the bright color: it was because the bloom was a yellow rose and it was sparsely placed in the bouquet among the stalks of violet. 

"For you." His warm gaze twinkled, like a father doting on a small child. "Welcome home, Helena. I’m truly glad that Norway has been good to you."

It didn't occur to Helena until much later that she had not told the young man her name... much less that she had been living in Norway for several decades.

@veneweek2k22

[devintrinidad]

Veneweek2k22 DAY 2: DISPUTE/CUISINE

Warnings: All of the prompts will be displayed in a mostly linear narrative where there will be various ocs; discussion of existentialism, the nature of Nations, mentioned/implied infidelity, unrequited love, etc.; and the character of Veneziano will be portrayed in a very human light. (This means that he won’t always be in the right or be considered “good”, but rather a multifaceted character that I want to explore with this week’s prompts).

Summary: Niccolo confronts the past while Veneziano acts more or less nonchalant about it.

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It was midmorning now, the perfect time for a late breakfast with friends. Niccolo wished that he could spend breakfast in the dining room with his family just like when he was still a spry, young man, but unfortunately, old age was not so easily overcome. Instead, his granddaughter had taken it upon herself to accompany him for his first meal of the day.

Over the last few years, when his health began to decline exponentially, his family would take turns to dine with Niccolo because his room wasn't big enough to house all the members. Furthermore, it simply wasn't practical to haul all the dishes up and down the stairs. Too many mishaps could happen and no one wanted to be the reason they accidentally burned Nonno Niccolo.

Sometimes, his son and his wife would share their breakfast with him, the stories of their children's exploits and the news of the world outside. Often, they were warm and engaging, but Niccolo's daughter-in-law often scolded him for being picky about his food.

Other times, Niccolo's younger sister would bring her homemade bread and her special wine that she had cultivated from her vineyards. They would share a laugh, reminisce about the old days, and talk about their respective families.

Today, Niccolo's granddaughter from his eldest daughter had decided to take breakfast with him. She was young and beautiful, a bright young scholar who was two years into university. She was interested in the arts... which had surprised and pleased the visitor who had also come for breakfast.

"And why do you look so surprised, signor?" Vera teased as she sipped her coffee.

Veneziano, who had long since made himself at home in Niccolo's bedroom and had endeared himself to Vera with a wink and a smile, gave Niccolo a smirk that Niccolo vowed he would get back at him for. Eyes twinkling and with enough charm that could land him any desired person he wanted, Veneziano said:

"When your grandfather was younger, he had aspirations to be an architect, but had become an engineer instead." He shook his head, eyes awash in the clouds of a memory. As he hummed a tune known only to him, the young man tapped a finger against the full flesh of his lips and smiled sweetly at the both of them. "I asked about his designs and well..."

Niccolo had half a mind to jab his spoon at his seemingly young guest. "You speak as if my career ended then and there."

Veneziano laughed. "The way you acted back then... it might as well have been."

Between the two of them, Vera could clearly see that there was a history that spanned longer than what she had at first inferred from meeting Veneziano. The young man had informed her that he had been a former student of her grandfather and had attended many seminars before Niccolo's health began to decline just over three and a half years ago. His backstory seemed to check out, but something tickled at the back of her brain.

There was no ill will or malice from the young man, but she was curious. 

It didn’t take an artist’s keen eye to see the easy chemistry, the years that lined and punctuated their every movement and back and forth banter between them. 

"And how long have you known each other? You speak as if you have known him since he was very young, Nonno."

Vera didn't know what to expect, but the sight of her beloved grandfather and the visitor sharing an indistinguishable look before laughing uproariously was somewhat ingratiating, yet expected in a way. By the Blessed Virgin, they were just as noisy as the drunkards at the local bar!

"Dear Vera," Niccolo managed to rasp between bursts of laughter, "do you mind getting more of the biscotti? I fear our guest hasn't eaten enough..."

And just like a child who had been told to rehearse lines for a play, the visitor continued their charade. "I hate to be a bother, but..."

How could such a man barely older than herself look so childish and innocent? Despite knowing that she wasn't privy to their conversation, she acquiesced without a grudge.

The men, one so old and the other so young, watched as the young woman made her way out of the cramped room. As her footsteps gradually descended down the steps and into the kitchen, both of them sobered. Their stances, while seated, had become rather tense. 

"You better watch yourself, Veneziano," Niccolo lowly murmured, "my family could barely handle one heartbreak from you; I dare say we would all shatter if Vera were to get involved with you."

"You turned out just fine." Veneziano pouted. He leaned back in his chair and pointed at Niccolo, his gaze unwavering with a past that both of them took care to remember, but never quite say out loud. "And it's not like I do that on purpose."

Niccolo wished he could sit up straight and ream into Veneziano like he deserved. Unfortunately, the support from the pillows and the blankets that nestled him proved far too much of a benefit to discard. Instead, he spared himself the physical effort and went for the killing blow instead.

"Don't think I dind't see you smile and compliment her eyes and tell her that one stupid joke about the Germans and the Austrians—those were the same things that you used on me back when I was scarcely older than her."

Veneziano blinked.

Niccolo rarely, if ever, talked about the past like that. Even when they were communicating mostly through letter and email, he always took care to address Veneziano in a friendly manner, as opposed to the exploits they initiated during Niccolo’s youth. 

"Harmless flirting is only that. I'll stop if she tells me to or if she looks uncomfortable." Veneziano made a dismissive gesture that would have surely placated Niccolo at any other time, but only served to anger the old man. When the silence began to grow too much for Veneziano to bear, he averted his gaze and clasped both hands down onto his lap. 

"I know that what we had could have been—"

"And that's the problem isn't it? With what you are, it shouldn't have happened at all." 

Once upon a time, Niccolo was able to speak with a low baritone. It would carry across large classrooms, had ended debates, and guided others to seeking and obtaining knowledge. Nowadays, however, his voice was weak, hoarse. What used to be a lilting melody had become scratchy and breathy as the years went by. 

But still. 

There was passion. And where there was passion, came power. 

Weary now and fatigued from raising his voice, Niccolo slumped back against his bed and turned his head away. The sun shined merrily outside with an intensity that would have instantly warmed him down to his bone. He would have to ask Francesca, his daughter-in-law, to move him closer to the sunlight.

When Niccolo opened his eyes again, he refused to deign Veneziano with the intensity of his dark green eyes.

"I'm truly glad that you found me again, Veneziano. After years of letters and emails, it is nice to hear your voice, to feel your skin against mine. It brings back..." His eyes began to burn; the back of his throat, scratchy. His fingers, once so sure of themselves and stolid, rubbed the thin cloth of the blanket that had been draped over him. It did little to calm him, but he did gather the strength to speak once more. "I want you here, I do. I don't have long left and I don't want to fight and cry when I'm about to die. I'm not asking you to apologize, but I need you to leave. Now."

The past had long since been dealt with, yes, but something in Niccolo had snapped. A part of him wanted to right past wrongs. 

He wanted to make sure that the problems of the past would never be grown into fruition in the present—especially if it would affect the health and sanity of his granddaughter.

Niccolo sighed, content to nap now that breakfast had finished, but found his breath catching when he felt Veneziano caress his cheek with a gentle, but searing kiss.

"Just so you know," Veneziano whispered, his words dancing on Niccolo's skin, "you are still the most captivating person in this room."

Niccolo couldn't help it.

He smiled.

"Go away, you stupid man." He whacked Veneziano on the arm—a parody of a hit, really. "We all know that's a lie."

Another kiss, this time on Niccolo's forehead—less of a goodbye and more of a promise of good things to come.

@veneweek2k22

[devintrinidad]

Veneweek2k22 DAY 5: HOME/LOVE LANGUAGE

Warnings: All of the prompts will be displayed in a mostly linear narrative where there will be various ocs; discussion of existentialism, the nature of Nations, mentioned/implied infidelity, unrequited love, etc.; and the character of Veneziano will be portrayed in a very human light. (This means that he won’t always be in the right or be considered “good”, but rather a multifaceted character that I want to explore with this week’s prompts).

Summary: Paolo can’t shake the feeling that the strange man visiting his father’s house was an apparition he had seen long ago.

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There are many secrets that Paolo plans to take to his grave. Of those that he holds closest to his chest, it is a memory of when he was only sixteen years old and dreaming of things he dared hope he could one day achieve.

Once upon a time, in this rickety old house that had seen too many renovations to know when the old and new began to clash and blend together, Paolo had snuck in from carousing at a friend's house. The night had been gauzy with cigarette smoke and distorted by the excess of drink. His head felt a little too loose on his body, his limbs a hair disjointed. However, when he had tiptoed through the door and saw the faint ribbon of light underneath his father’s office door, he swore he never felt more awake.

At this house, so early in the morning? 

Only the devil himself would be awake!

Concerned now, Paolo nudged the door a crack, careful to not make a sound. His eyes had grown so used to seeing through the darkness and distinguishing between shadows that he was blinded by his father's lamp. No sooner did his eyes adjust that he saw his father in a close embrace with a man that he had never seen before.

Through Paolo's drunken gaze, he saw a young man decades younger than his father lean up to kiss his father on the cheek. It could have been a gesture of familial affection, but Paolo's ears burned with startling, but familiar intensity.

A few weeks ago, he had watched like a dirty voyeur when his best friend since childhood kissed a girl he had laid eyes on since the start of school. In that moment, Paolo had seen what he could only describe as one of life's most elusive treasures: the soft touch of a lover. An act of passion that grabbed you in the moment and lingered indefinitely afterward.

However, in that stolen moment of teenage fantasy and allure, the treasure that Paolo had most coveted seemed pure. Almost divine. A reward for a journey of the self that famed heroes of old had embarked on.

This, under the sheer veil of teenage wisdom and drunkenness, was not like starlight against the backdrop of a pitch black sky. Or the wonder of feeling snow on his skin for the first time.

This felt illicit. Depraved

Stolen.

A terrible thought came upon him at first like the approaching inevitability of night and then as sudden as a fire growing out of control. 

Did his mother know that his father was embracing a stranger so much younger than him?

He stepped away from the door in shock. 

He’d rather not think about this any further. 

While Paolo was fairly bright for his age and righteous like the holy men from scripture, he didn't know what to do. However, he did know this: it would break his mother's heart if she knew.

Before he could shut the door and forget how such a divine thing like love could be tainted like this, Paolo saw the young man caress his father's jawline. If there had been a seed of doubt, it had been deprived of all the nutrients and sunlight needed to grow.

He had seen enough.

Decades later, Paolo feared that his worldview had become so much more cynical and cold. Love always came with a price. Fidelity required hard work on both sides. Home was never quite the same after Paolo's drunken night.

For the most part, Paolo had never seen the young man again and his father was just as loving and as kind to his wife. For all Paolo knew, it could have been a dream that the liquor had induced.

And then—

The young man appeared again.

It was a little past midnight and Paolo had been reading an adventure novel that he had enjoyed reading when he was younger. No sooner had he reached the end of the chapter that built up to the climax that his sweet Francesca had knocked at his study door to inform him that there was a visitor for his father. Before he could tell her to send the visitor away, Francesca had admitted that she had already invited him inside.

Francesca was not as straight-laced or as stern as Paolo, but she could be commanding when she wanted to be. To know that she had been convinced to let a complete stranger into his childhood home was both terrifying and intriguing at the same time. He left the study and ventured to his father's room.

He had come across a young man who looked too familiar crying into the bedsheets.

That had been a few days ago and Paolo found himself inside a mostly empty house. Dear Helena had taken it upon herself to take the majority of the family out into the town for a relaxing day. Only Paolo, his father, and the stranger were inside.

Although Paolo had kept his interactions with the visitor to a minimum, he already knew that with each exposure, he began to draw more conclusions and questions from what he saw. For better or worse, the stranger looked exactly like the specter from that one fateful night. His hair was a little more unruly now and his style of clothing had changed to fit the times, but he was still the same. Despite Paolo's insistence on logic, he could not quite come up with a suitable explanation for this young man.

That drunken night was nothing more than a hazy memory—more hallucination than actual tangible substance. Yet, Paolo couldn't shake it off. He had long since discarded the childish resentment towards his father, but the negativity still persisted for years afterward. His only saving grace—for both him and his father—was that there was not any hint of infidelity afterward. His mother, Lucrezia, was an austere woman, but loving and she never showed any signs of discontent.

With the stranger in the house, Paolo did not know what to do.

He had entertained both the visitor and his father during lunch, but had left them to their devices while he washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. A part of him thought that the visitor would have come down to leave when it became clear that his father would drift into his daily siesta.

However, with all the dishes washed, dried, and put away, Paolo found himself at a loss. Had the stranger left already? He had been under the impression that the visitor was polite and would have said something.

Unless...

Not knowing whether to laugh or be irritated was usually something that he would have associated with his children when they were younger. There, with his head resting on the bed and the rest of his body stubbornly inhabiting his customary seat, the visitor slept. In fact, both his father and the visitor were sleeping soundly. It would have made for a heartwarming scene, but Paolo frowned at the sight of the visitor's back slumped over like that.

Paolo's own back ached at the sight.

"Signor," Paolo whispered. When the young man startled from his sleep—a slight jolt of his head and a line of drool at the corner of his lips—Paolo pointed to the door.

Eyes widening, the young man jumped to his feet. He stumbled a little, but managed to catch himself before falling onto Paolo—or his father.

"Forgive me, I must have dozed off! I'll be leaving—"

"No need," Paolo cut him off. Not unkindly, he led him the young man down the hallway and into a guest room. The look of surprise and gratefulness charmed him, but he kept his smile down to the barest hint of a twitch on his lips. "I'd rather you feel comfortable in my home than giving yourself back problems in the future."

As the young man surveyed his surroundings (all with an approving eye that made Paolo proud), he gently sat on the bed. For the first time, Paolo noticed that his eyes were the warmest, deepest shade of brown that he had ever seen. They were set in his face like a porcelain doll—almost too perfect—until Paolo saw that the wear and tear that accompanied stress... and a lifetime or more of a life well lived.

His mind flickered back to a kiss on the cheek. The caress of a jaw.

A home that never felt like home after that.

"I'm sorry." His voice wasn't strange and it certainly wasn't commanding, but at that moment, Paolo knew that if the young man asked for it, he would do anything for him. "Intruding into your home, your family, was never my intent."

He didn't sound like he was talking about his impromptu visits to his father.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," but Paolo appreciated the gesture, "we're all human in the end."

The young man smiled at that, a joke that Paolo could never understand was laughing in his eyes. "Then I thank you for letting me rest in your house."

@veneweek2k22