IIIIIIIIIII just really wanted to write some disgustingly domestic and non-dysfunctional FeliFeli so I'll go ahead and just. Leave this here.
They meet after the meeting, in a small and sunny cafè downtown. Poland orders hot chocolate and promptly dumps roughly three or four kilograms of sweetened cream into it. Veneziano, who always gets caffè macchiato and then complains about it not being made properly, leans across the table with a faux-curious air.
"Did you want some cocoa with that cream?"
Poland flicks the wet spoon at him. He has changed into a soft, sea-blue cotton blouse that makes his hair look brilliant gold, and the light from the window sparkles off his narrow eyes. Italy's fingers itch to paint him, but they discovered long ago that Poland is not a good model. He doesn't do "sitting still". Never has.
"I tried coffee once. It was gross." Poland shudders exaggeratedly. "Liet drinks his, like, straight black. And I'm just like ugh how. He takes cold showers too. I keep telling him he's crazy."
"Germany does that too," Veneziano says, sliding his forefinger in a ring around a patch of sunlight on the tabletop. "I mean yes cool water can feel nice in the afternoons sometimes in summer, especially down at my brother's place where it gets so hot in August, but cold showers at five in the morning!"
"Crazy," summarizes Poland in a decisive tone. He takes a sip of his hot chocolate and splutters a little when it burns his tongue.
Veneziano hums a laugh.
Poland wrinkles up his round nose, then pushes his cup aside so he can lean forward without knocking it over. He tastes like maybe there was cinnamon in the drink, and like sweet cream and bitter cocoa and strawberry chapstick. It's not a bad combination.
They wander the streets, side-by-side and not quite hand-in-hand, and take turns ducking into shops to buy useless trinkets. The sky is a deep, clear blue, with long pale streaks of clouds painted carelessly across it. Veneziano leans against a warm brick wall for a moment, basking in the atmosphere.
Poland comes out of a bookstore with several folders full of sheet music and a self-satisfied expression.
"Little shops always have cool stuff," he gloats. "—Got some with vocals too." He brandishes one of the pieces in Italy's face. "Can't wait to get home so I can try 'em out!"
"There's a church a couple blocks over, I think," offers Veneziano. "They let people come play if they want, and it's a weekday so there won't be anyone there probably."
Poland gets a hungry look in his eyes.
"What are you waiting for? Let's go!" Then he stops and turns back with a slightly sheepish expression. "If—if that's okay with you, I mean."
Veneziano claps him on the shoulder. "It's this way, I'm pretty sure."
Poland beams and starts walking again.
Veneziano remembers living in Austria's house, remembers piano music filling every moment of every day. Remembers Hungary singing. Remembers himself singing. Doesn't remember Poland singing, because Poland's voice is strong and passionate but rarely on key. Remembers instead Poland's sullen face during piano lessons, because after all, said Austria casually, with no country to run there's precious little else to do...
(Remembers Poland's hands red and stinging from the ruler: for every wrong note, another swift lashing. Oh, people call him lazy, but he's a hard worker, a fast learner, when he has to be.)
He starts with a nocturne, no prizes for guessing whose, and he closes his eyes and looks tranquil, with light shining through the stained-glass, painting Saint Cecilia's shape onto his own in vibrant beads of color. Italy lets the music slide into his mind while he gazes around, admiring the details on the windows. There's lots of angels, of course. He likes angels, likes detailing feathers around their faces and arms, even though his brother says that's not strictly accurate. Vatican told him once that angels don't really have physical wings; that wings stand for action, for the ability to move.
His fingers are itching again, watching the light.
"Poland—can I sketch you?"
Poland doesn't stop playing, just murmurs dreamily, "Yeah, go ahead."
Veneziano slips out his sketchbook and captures the moment in a few swift strokes: patterns of light, of movement, where Poland is swaying to the rhythm (he doesn't do sitting still). Then he goes over to the piano and tries sight-reading one of the new vocal pieces. It's a love song.
They go slowly at first. Poland's fingers are tripping over each other with the arpeggios, until he gets used to the jumps. Veneziano doesn't do a lot of reading in treble clef these days, and he fumbles a little with the higher notes.
Slow is good. Slow is simple. Italy rests a hand on Poland's shoulder, and feels the muscles relaxed under his fingers.
When Veneziano gets home he paints his sketch and as always there's something wrong about it, some fundamental vibrancy that's just missing despite his best efforts. You'd think knowing someone so well would make it easier but all it does is make you over-aware of their complexity and so trying to pin Poland down on paper is as much an exercise in futility as trying it anywhere else.
He still wraps the painting up to take with him when he goes to Warsaw a few weeks later. Poland opens the package with delighted squeals and not an ounce of modesty.
"I look good," he declares happily. "Thanks!"
Hungary shouts something unintelligible from the kitchen before coming out and swatting Poland with a rag.
"Po-po's got other people doing his chores again," she complains. Poland smiles lazily and moves aside so Veneziano can launch himself into Hungary's arms. It's also incidentally dodging the rag. And the chores.
Some things don't change.
They fight over the movie choice as usual, because Poland wants to watch some historical documentary that they all know will end with him sobbing inconsolably. He gives into the majority vote with ill grace, pouts childishly for a few minutes, and refuses to help pop the popcorn.
Hungary's a sprawler and keeps pushing them off the couch, so they end up on an armchair instead—Italy's on the chair, at least, and Poland stretches out with his head in what looks like rather an uncomfortable position on Veneziano's knees, eyelids fluttering in pleasure as Italy runs his fingers through his long, fine locks. They lean together sometimes, trading ice cream flavors when they're fairly certain Hungary won't see. She catches them sometimes, throws pillows or just very obviously ogles, and the laughter reverberates off the ceiling and back into their ears with a pleasantly tinny quality.
They fall asleep halfway through With Fire and Sword in a huge heap of people and blankets on the floor of the living room. (When morning dawns cold and slick with butter, all three of them deny having been the one to spill the popcorn.)
The Adriatic isn't blue once you're in it, but it does sparkle, and the very top is even sort of warm. Italy holds his breath and dives, dives, as deep as he can, and the pressure squeezes his head and his chest reassuringly, and his hair swirls around his face in curling red-brown tendrils that look just like the seaweed in his peripheral vision.
It's very calm here. Not quiet-calm, not with his own heartbeat steady in his ears, but peaceful all the same. He floats in the green deep until his lungs are stretched and aching, and then kicks smoothly back upwards. He tilts his head once he breaks the surface, letting the water run out of his ears.
"OI!"
His brother stands, arms crossed, on the sand, in an expensive cream blazer and expensive sunglasses and his hair carefully ruffled. Behind him, Poland is wearing a tailored scarlet polo with even more expensive sunglasses.
Canada waves cheerfully. His tee-shirt and shorts look positively threadbare in comparison.
Italy strokes closer to the shore and treads water lazily. "You came! Good job!"
Romano rolls his eyes.
"Are you going to swim in Armani, fratello?"
"Of course not!" Romano says in disgust. "And Canada's got the sunscreen, so get your ass over here and put some on because I know you're not wearing any."
Veneziano pouts.
"Where should I put my crap, Wenecja?" calls Poland. Sunlight glints off the frames of his sunglasses as he whips them off, and he suddenly looks a lot less sophisticated and a lot more like a nineteen-year-old boy about to have fun at the beach with his friends. His hair is gathered back in a careless ponytail, and his arms are laden with silver bracelets.
"You're crazy wearing earrings to the beach, Polonia," Romano grumbles; Canada makes a teasing comment about Poland's magpie-love for small and pretty things.
"They're shiny," is Poland's response to both, and the jewelry is rolled neatly in the soft red shirt and tucked into Canada's bag before the other two have finished undressing.
(At home later Veneziano will try making a miniature—it's hard, he hasn't done a cameo in years, and before he's halfway through he will realize agate is just too rigid and lifeless. He'll end up instead with a translucent watercolour that's almost, almost right, of Poland twisted to say something behind himself, bare-chested and beaded with water, and across his skin pearl-white survivor's scars glimmering proud and defiant.)
Poland jumps into the water with a holler of unbridled joy and sends a spray of droplets spiraling crystal in the air, and once he's tired of splashing Canada in the face he strikes out for deep water. Veneziano swims over to join him. Their lips taste like salt water, just for a moment, before something hooks around Italy's ankles and drags him under the waves and Poland's laughing face and his golden hair coming loose and his eyes closed against the brine are all lit up with dull green phosphorescence.
They meet after the meeting, in a small and sunny cafè downtown. Poland has changed into a shell-pink blouse that makes the colours of his skin and hair look soft and muted, with the light from the window blending gold across the edges and catching in his pale eyelashes. When he leans over the table the chain of his necklace pools on the polished wooden surface and sends spots dancing along the walls.
"You said you've, like, got a present for me?" he says with undisguised greed, and Veneziano snorts into his coffee.
"Yeah, I do," he says.
Poland cranes his neck to see the package under the table.
"Is it another painting?" he asks.
Italy nods.
"I don't get why you're so… I dunno. They always look fine to me."
"And I've listened to you play the same piece five times in a row," Italy counters, "and I couldn't hear any difference."
"Eh. Point taken, I guess. Lemme see it!"
He pulls the paper off and freezes.
"Oh," he breathes.
Italy shifts anxiously.
"I get it now," Poland announces. He runs a finger across the painting's surface, lightly, knowledgeable enough to be wary of smudging any oily residue. "Wow. This is amazing, Wene."
"Thank you," says Veneziano simply, and then, "I'm glad you like it."
Poland tosses him a brilliant smile, leans across the table, and leaves the taste of strawberry chapstick to linger on Italy's mouth. When he pulls back, he's snagged Italy's cup with a finger and dragged it across the table.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Italy protests. Poland brings the cup to his lips, breathes deeply, and takes a tiny, tiny sip.
"Eurgh," he says. "Coffee's still gross."
Veneziano snatches the cup back while Poland wipes his mouth with a comical delicacy.
"No it's not."
"Is too."
"Is not!"
(He's standing straight and loose, not quite in the centre of the painting, with an impatient smirk and a crucifix glinting at his throat and his feet like a cat's, set ready to pounce. Sunlight lances from the background and lights his blond hair into a halo, or a crown. Continues past him to stretch golden wing-shapes across the canvas.)