For the 2018 Fall event: Day 2 - Colours
Note: Not itacest. Just my personal headcanon that the brothers are much closer than the show portrays (plus I like to imagine them as much older as well) and are thus more affectionate.
Colours. Endless possibilities, endless combinations, endless meaning.
The Italy brothers do not simply live in colours, they breathe them. Romano sews colour into everything he touches, little accents and patterns, furiously dislikes anything monotonous. Veneziano can never limit his palette, picking colours as he goes along, paints bright and messy, never mixes the same shade twice.
When they dress, even for the most dreadful meetings, there is always something colourful, whether it be a gaudy ring or a patterned tie. Romano has a collection of suits with flower patterns, hues of pink and yellow and blue and purple stitched into the fabric, on the lapels, the sleeves. Even the ties match. Veneziano's suits are accentuated more subtly, through his dress shirts, colourful pocket squares, jewelled tie clips, mismatching buttons, an overall atmosphere that gives Germany a headache.
They collect shiny things like magpies do, spend too much money on anything that catches their jewelled eyes, never seem to have enough. Their houses are terribly mismatched, even as furniture is updated throughout the centuries. Their shared apartment in Rome is probably the safest from clutter, simply for the facade they have built for themselves. But Veneziano's home in Venice is filled with rugs that clash violently and has paintings hung wall to wall to the point he doesn't quite remember what colour the actual wall is supposed to be. Romano's home near Messina is so overgrown with flowers and vines and trees that it looks almost archaic, but the door is an inviting red and the inside, while abhorrently cluttered, is as loudly colourful as its owner.
It goes so far that even in their cooking, they deliberately pick contrasting vegetables, use their knowledge of taste and recipes to create the best food, add little things to the presentation of the dishes to make them pop.
It's borderline obsessive.
Spain remembers when Romano used to go out into the fields and meadows and would return with mud stains on his clothes and a myriad of flowers in his hair. Belgium recalls how he would often be found staring at the elaborate stained glass windows of the churches instead of paying attention to the ceremonies. The Netherlands elaborates on how Romano used to embroider any loose fabric he could get his hands on, bright colours on other bright colours. Prussia claims that Romano has socks in every colour in existence, and his underwear is as gaudy as his collection of gem-adorned rings.
Austria still complains about how Veneziano used to purposefully spill paints onto his clothes, leaving no dress or tunic unscathed. Hungary reminisces how obsessed he used to be with the beauty of marbles (and if you ask nicely, he will showcase his grand collection that dates back to Roman days any time). France relegates about all those times Veneziano had come to him instead of Lombardy for more bright colours to add to his closet, never staying exactly in fashion, but colourful enough to pretend. Germany still can't drag Veneziano away from impressionist art in museums, the colours swirling behind his wide eyes.
Yet in fall, they become more subdued, their tones settling into something more demure. Romano's suit is burgundy, with a white dress shirt and a black tie. A single red rose is hand-stitched onto the pocket square, peeking out shyly. Veneziano wears a black suit, his dress shirt matching the burgundy of Romano, and a garnet ring. He, too, has roses embroidered onto the lapels of his jacket.
They walk silently through the streets of Rome, past the canals and history embedded in the ancient stones. Veneziano holds a picnic basket filled with dishes they've long forgotten the names of and Romano a bouquet specifically composed for the day's occasion, roses and rosemary and lilies and other flowers that really shouldn't be together in the same arrangement yet breathe colour into their ensemble.
The countryside is as peaceful as ever, or maybe that's them so used to human activity they no longer notice it. They climb the rolling hills, two men in suits so very out of place, spread the blanket and sit down, and turned toward Rome in the distance.
Veneziano wraps his arms around his legs, placing his chin on his knees. Romano's long legs reach past him as Romano languidly leans on the palms of his hands, face tilted to the sky. The breeze ruffles their curls, brushes the hair from their eyes, takes a petal or two from the roses, swirls them away.
They no longer need words to convey their intentions to each other—they're almost the same person nowadays anyway—so when Veneziano finally untangles himself and turns to the picnic basket, Romano has already taken out half of the dishes and is reading the label of the wine Veneziano has picked this time. A well-aged white Falernian that he had to specifically request from a vineyard, and Romano hums appreciatively.
They eat, slowly, treasuring every taste, thinking very differently, yet very alike. Veneziano thinks of that time Rome had taken him outside the city walls for the first time while Romano think of the very first time he had set foot behind them.
It's not until the sun starts to set that the food is gone and Romano drinks the last dregs of wine directly from the bottle before he allows Veneziano to drag him to his feet. They watch the sun until Romano bends down to pick up the bouquet, holds it up to Veneziano, waits as he prunes through the flowers until he finds the rose he wants and takes it out.
The ritual they do once a year doesn't follow any rules. It's simply one they have created over the years to deal with a loss they weren't there to witness. It's a combination of how Veneziano used to recreate any dish he could remember tasting and how Romano would steal flowers from Spain's elaborate gardens to scatter them in the ocean.
Veneziano fingers the petals gingerly, eyes cast down, as Romano takes a moment to admire the remaining flowers, to be laid at the Roman Forum later. Then Romano takes Veneziano's hand and they both speak, the words ancient and sticking in their throats.
A petal for the man they had loved. Two petals for their innocence lost. Three petals for never growing up. Four petals for the centuries subjected. Five petals for the eons gone.
The stem is broken in half and they bury the pieces, not caring that their suits are getting dirty as they kneel in the grass.
They don't cry, for once they do not. Maybe because these motions have become so ingrained, or maybe because they no longer have any tears left to waste, but either way, they pack up their belongings, pass by the Forum to scatter the remaining colours of the bouquet, and return to their apartment.
Romano loosens his tie as Veneziano trips out of his shoes, falling onto the couch tiredly. Romano collapses in an armchair, stretching his legs onto the coffee table.
"We're getting old," Veneziano says, voice muffled by a bright yellow pillow.
Romano hums, stares at the old chandelier, eyes still a little faraway. "Shut up," he snaps, though not really. It's more a reflexive answer than a real one, so Veneziano waits until Romano blinks his way back into the present and adds, "We really are."
"Older than him." Veneziano yawns and he probably should lie in bed because the couch is never comfortable to sleep on, especially with his feet dangling off, but he wants to spend just a little more time with his brother.
"Don't remind me." And Romano makes a show of covering his eyes with his arm, sagging a few more inches down the chair. He sighs softly, "It's tiresome."
Veneziano makes a noise of assent, rolls of the couch unto the fuzzy green rug and murmurs, "I'm going to wear that neon orange sweater to Poland's tomorrow."
"I'm sure the Netherlands would appreciate."
There's a loud bang and a soft pitiful whine as Veneziano sinks back to the floor, rubbing the back of his head. It's honestly a miracle the glass tabletop hasn't cracked yet with the amount of times it had suffered Veneziano's thick-headed skull.
"What will you wear?"
Romano shrugs, finally reaching over to undo his laces and throw his shoes somewhere in a corner. He'll deal with them another day. "Something easy. No flowers."
Veneziano chuckles, then catches his brother's arm and pulls him to his feet. Wrapping his arm around Romano's waist, he says, "What about that green shirt, with the silly little stripes? It's bound to give someone a headache."
Smiling, just a little, Romano ruffles Veneziano's hair fondly. "Sounds great."
They fall into bed together, not even bothering to try and sleep separately tonight, not when they know it's the one day they need each other most. It doesn't happen without hitches, though, and Romano kicks at Veneziano's legs to give himself some space while Veneziano takes at least half the pillows and blankets (and during the night accumulates them all).
"Romano?" Veneziano whispers once they've settled. He's staring at the ceiling, but turns his head to look at the back of his brother's head, Romano having curled on his side. Romano makes a small noise to indicate he's listening, so Veneziano continues, "I love you, you know?"
There is the softest of sighs as Romano rolls over, reaching over to flick Veneziano on the noise. "I love you too. Now, go to sleep, piccolo." His voice is soft with sleep and his eyes flutter close not much after.
Veneziano smiles, shuffling into the comfort of his blankets, and closes his eyes.
The Italy brothers live in colour, dislike the mundane and monotonous, find ways to brighten a world that has long since lost colour, but in fall, they blend in like anyone else.
Originally posted on the 8th of October on AO3. Part of my catching up spree.