Summary: A young, apprenticing artist, Lovino craves rationality, perfection, and self-possession, and has curated his life to one day attain that. He never expected a chaotic and brash painter to barrel into his life and test everything Lovino thought he wanted and knew of himself, his art, and his heart.
-Spamano, historical au, nine chapters-
If you want some historical context, reading the following will be helpful. If you want to learn on the way, that should be okay as well. I go slowly with the information.
Antonio Carriedo will be "substituting" the famous and/or infamous Baroque artist Michelangelo Caravaggio who reached his highest popularity between 1600-1607. Antonio will still be Spanish, but working in Italy instead. (The Spanish Empire held some control over Italy in the 1500s-1600s, including Caravaggio's birthplace Milan, so it works out okay.)
During this time, art was almost exclusively funded by the Pope, cardinals, other wealthy church members, and of course, aristocracy and royalty. Caravaggio/Antonio in particular was loyal to an Italian cardinal, and a wealthy, French nobleman.
In place of this, Roderich Edelstein will be the Italian cardinal (based off of the premise he was born on the Austrian/Italian border and moved further south), and Francis Bonnefoy will play the wealthy French nobleman (of course).
(For the sake of historical accuracy, Antonio will also take on a kind of pirate-y character that Caravaggio famously had…)
Feliciano Vargas is an apprentice of pupils of Titian (or Tiziano Vecellio), abiding by the northern Italian school of colore/colorito, or painting directly on canvas without drawing preparation.
Lovino Vargas is an apprentice of his grandfather, who is substituting Annibale Carracci: a rival artist of Caravaggio/Antonio's and upholder of the older, Renaissance values: i.e. idealizing figures, painting what could be instead of what is, and placing greater value on drawing rather than color. (TO NOTE: Carracci/ Grandfather Rome was very successful in his own right, but at this point, his era was coming "to an end" as Caravaggio/or Antonio's was just beginning. Hence, Lovino finishing his apprenticeship during the storyline.)
Lovino is also kind of being combined with one of Carvaggio/Antonio's few friends, young artist Mario Minniti, who modeled for him on many occasions and with whom Caravaggio/Antonio likely held a romantic relationship.
(Timelines are roughly kept true to history, but I skewed a few bits here and there to accommodate different characters and slightly different storylines-i.e. Spamano.)
This story covers what many agree is the end of the Renaissance and the beginning of the Baroque period.
Disegno e Colore
Chapter One: Disegno
Disegno: Italian word for "drawing", disegno combines both the ability to draw, which facilitates invention, and the capacity for designing the whole. But it is the latter - the imaginative and intellectual core of this process - which gives disegno its characteristic gravitas and which underpins academic painting theories as well as the academic hierarchy of the genres. Philosophically, disegno is thought to represent the masculine half of making art, meaning the rational, thoughtful, and constant.
Rome, Italy
April, 1595
Dosing off in an art studio was hard to do, and took a lot of practice. The room was filled with the bustling of students and assistants in and out, the strong smells of paint and linseed oil wafting in the air, along with the constant bickering of the artist to himself and everyone around him. But Lovino was raised in art studios, so all of the chaos was like a lullaby to him. And god dammit he was tired. So tired. So stinking tired…
"Lovino! Do you have the indigo paint?" the booming voice of his grandfather, the artist he apprenticed for, bellowed across the room. "Lovino!" he yelled again, this time louder.
Lovino groaned and slowly raised his forehead from the wood of the desk. "Which color?" he mumbled slowly, letting his eyes focus on the powders in front of him.
"Blue! Didn't you hear me?" his grandfather pivoted in his stool, away from the large canvas, to glare at him. "Were you sleeping? It's only nine in the morning, why are you sleeping?" Lovino heard some of the other assistants snicker.
"Hold on, just a second," Lovino grumbled and swiftly stood to his feet and reached for the blue powder, mixing it with oil. He rubbed some sleep out of his eyes as he mixed, probably smearing paint on his face, but who cares. Odd minutes later, he was stumbling away from the desk and bringing his grandfather a fresh container of indigo paint.
"Thank you," his grandfather said gruffly, taking the paint (inspecting it carefully), and setting it on his own small table.
Lovino shifted his weight awkwardly, keeping his hands balled in his pockets. His grandfather didn't seem to notice, so he worked up the courage to blurt, "do you want me to help paint?... anything?"
His grandfather laughed amicably, like Lovino told a good joke. "Oh, Lovi. That's not how things work around here, you know that. In another two years, perhaps. You still need to learn the art of the trade. Making paints, working on your draftsmanship," he said soundly. "Ah, actually. After you finish making more paints and clean the used brushes, how about you work on some more drawings? I'll think of some work for you to sketch."
Lovino rolled his eyes to the ceiling, because he knew this was going to be the response. (It was the same reply everyday after all.) "Okay," he muttered, and shuffled back to his own desk. The other apprentices, one older and the others just better gave him a mix of sympathetic and pitying smiles. He hated that.
Lovino's grandfather was one of the most successful working painters in Rome. He had a large studio, a dozen apprentices, and a list of loyal patrons. Right now he was working on a large canvas, about six by seven feet, featuring Venus, Adonis, and Cupid. It wasn't even half-finished, and Lovino knew he could be of help. But there was tradition in becoming an artist, and it wasn't something you were allowed to jump into whenever you pleased. In Lovino's case, he'd been trying to crawl there for years, and it was still so damn hard.
He was sixteen, and it was his second year apprenticing. He started so late. Other artists started apprenticing between ten and thirteen. Lovino envied them all. He wished he had the drive so young. Drive? No, the courage. Leaving home, starting anew, being ridiculed and tested every single day. The only reason he was finally able to pursue his dream was out of jealousy and slight admiration his brother did it on a whim before him.
"Feliciano," Lovino sighed, rubbing his forehead roughly. He hadn't heard from him in a while, it was about time for another letter. He wondered what he was up to in Venice. Probably more than Lovino was doing, that was for sure.
Lovino glanced over his shoulder, inspecting his grandfather's table of paint jars with sharp amber eyes. They all seemed pretty full…perhaps there was a little time for him to draw now. At least then he would be doing something artistic, god dammit.
"Lovino!" an apprentice heckled. "Go ahead and bring over some more white, we're going to need it soon."
"Good thinking," his grandfather chimed in. "Might as well make a little more black as well."
Lovino slumped over the desk, brown hair falling over his eyes, and groaned. He was so sick of this shit.
Lovino had always drawn. He and Feliciano both. Their childhood was full of charcoal, contè, paper, canvas, and so much paint. It came natural to them, and it was encouraged by their family: a family of artists. Create and create. More and more. Find the beautiful.
It was a release for Lovino. If he didn't draw he didn't know what would happen. Maybe he'd combust from everything inside of him. He was so emotional, so emotional, and he didn't want to be. Drawing gave him a sense of control and well-being. If he could focus his attention to something unreal, and attempt to make it real or even greater, his emotions subsided and he didn't feel so powerless.
"You're so funny, Lovi," Feliciano would giggle and flash an amused smile. "It's the very opposite for me. I need to paint so that I can understand what I'm feeling." His deft hands would hold a tall paintbrush and send swipes across a cream-colored canvas. "When I see it in color, it makes more sense. I can see what I'm feeling come to life, and then it becomes what my art is feeling."
Lovino always rolled his eyes, because he never understood.
He still did not understand; not even now, when he was trying to become a painter.
The two fundamental aspects of painting - disegno and colore - and Lovino and Feliciano had to divide them between themselves, as they do with everything else.
Feliciano was always an excellent draftsman. He knew how to draw as well as Lovino, if not better. But it didn't bring him any sense of calm: in fact, drawing was maybe the only time Lovino would see flickers of anger spark off of Feliciano's eyes. And Lovino would have made fun of him for that, if it weren't true that something similar happened when Lovino painted. He felt daunted and so helpless in front of a drawing he thought was beautiful enough already.
Why did the world need color anyway? In black and white, things were so simple and clear. It made sense to Lovino and it made sense of him.
These were thoughts and fears Lovino felt years ago, all throughout his childhood, but even now, apprenticing in a professional studio, he can't say that they're gone. He wanted to be a painter. Forever and always, that was the only profession for him. It was the only way he could live in this world.
Disegno e colore. Disegno versus colore.
Florentines like Raphael and Michelangelo believed in the power of disegno over colore.
Venetians like Tiziano (Titian) and Giorgione believed in the power of colore over disegno.
Lovino would believe in the former. He had to. Because if the greats could find a way to paint, so could he.
But drawing… drawing would always be his true love.
Noon could not have reached soon enough. As soon as Lovino sensed that not only his hunger tantrums were beginning, but the rest of the studio's as well, he jumped from his chair, announcing, "okay, why don't you guys keep working while I go get some bread and cheese and… fruit? That sound good?"
People murmured their additions, and Lovino made sloppy mental notes of them, but was more concerned with rushing out of the room in energetic, tense strides. He was not meant to sit around all day, for god's sake. He was Italian. An artist! He had so much blood and emotion, he never knows what to do with it sitting there at the desk all day fidgeting with remedial tasks.
But fuck it. He was going to get lunch, and at least then he could burn off some frustration.
Of course, if it's not one obstacle it's another, more literal one. Lovino swung open the door with violent energy, and low and behold, there was a messenger standing shocked and (to Lovino's pleasure, slightly scared) before him. But the messenger was quick to compose himself, and say:
"I have a letter for Roma and Lovina Vargas."
Not again…
"It's Lovino. That's my grandfather. We're not married. Don't you know how to fucking read?" he quipped hastily, worrying that his grandfather would overhear and keep him in the studio to read the letter aloud (again). Lovino spotted the letter and snatched it from the messenger's hand, pushing him out the door as he exited too. "Thanks for the letter, sorry I'm in a hurry," he apologized loosely.
His breath eased when no calls from his grandfather came, and Lovino confidently fled down the street, opposite the forgotten messenger, with Feliciano's letter in hand. He twirled around on his boots, suddenly unsure of his direction. He wanted to read the letter alone, but he was also damn hungry.
Lovino bit his lip, now fully aware of the passing crowd and the eyes and the stares and-
He frantically joined the wave of people heading towards the market, blending in easily (he hoped his brown-striped jacket and dark pants were nonchalant enough) with the other Romans. Perhaps he could read the letter after he picked up the food.
Fortunately, Rome's fickle April weather was smiling down on Lovino mercifully. No rain, no problems. He was able to fight his way through the market stands, carrying bread, cheese, fruit, and salami in a makeshift cloth bag and race to an abandoned strip of steps off of the main road. He perched himself a few steps above the sidewalk, suddenly much more comfortable out of public view. He liked observing of course - he was an artist after all - but as soon as someone made eye contact, Lovino had a gut instinct to run for the hills.
Lovino grabbed an apple, gripping it in his mouth, while he opened Feliciano's letter. As he rested the paper on his lap, he bit off a piece of the apple and gave one final sweep of the crowd before he'd allow himself to dream away.
But it seemed like the Romans were happy to be in good weather and good times today. Everyone was dressed far more colorfully than Lovino: the women in large flowing gowns, and the men in bright vests and jackets with sparkling boots. Lovino would blend in very nicely in this alleyway, he figured.
So he continued eating his apple, and read Feliciano's letter:
Cara famiglia,
I hope this letter finds you all so well! I hope Rome is full of much more sun than Venice is! When it rains here, it really rains! The whole world is floating on top of water and the buildings seem to sink lower and lower until it's just canals and-
Lovino rolled his eyes with a smile. What was with all of the damn exclamation points, he wondered.
I'm sorry I haven't kept in touch in a while. I even missed our birthday Lovino! I hope you had a good day. I received your paints though, grandpa! Thank you for that! I've already started to make use of them in fact. Your paints and the paints master Natalino has given me as well.
Lovino tossed his apple core to the floor and narrowed his eyes. He automatically reached for another apple and began eating again. More nervously this time.
You see, Natalino has recommended I return to Rome soon. I've been helping complete his paintings for a year and a half now, and he says I should move onto a new studio. And in fact, I've already found another artist to work for-he's a favorite of the pope apparently so nonno you might know him already! His name is...oh, his name is? I know it, I promise, but things always slip my mind when I begin writing.
Anyway, by the time you both get this letter, I'll be packing up here in Venice. I won't arrive in Rome straight away. Natalino says I should go to Florence and see the sights for a bit. Make some studies of the artwork there. Is there anything you'd like me to pick up for you, Lovino? Send me a letter! I'll be with our cousins.
I'm excited to live with you both again. Venice was lovely and I learned so, so much, but without my family, I'm afraid I got very lonely…
Grandpa, be sure to keep me updated on your new painting! If you need any supplies in Florence, I'm happy to pick them up. Say hi to all of your assistants for me!
Lovino, I hope you're doing well in Rome. Part of me wished you would join me in Venice, but I also understand that Rome is the right place for you. I can't wait to see your art when I see you! And I can't wait to see you!
Keep drawing and painting, both of you! I will hug you both very soon!
Un forte abbraccio,
Feli
Lovino's eyes flew over the page a few more times, taking in every word, letting each one sink deeper and deeper into his heart. Not only did Feliciano leave home first and become an apprentice first, but he was now graduating his apprenticeship and working as a real artist for another (apparently) famous artist in ROME.
Lovino adored his brother and loved him with all of his heart, but dammit his pride as an artist and a sibling in the same art-driven family was ablaze. As soon as he was able to take one step forward, why was it that Feliciano was able to race yards ahead of him?
He could see Feliciano's return now. He'd probably be dressed in bright colors, like everyone today. Maybe blue or purple, because he likes those cool shades, and he'd run up to him smiling broadly with a face fairer and brighter, and holding none of the same envy or jealousy that weighed on Lovino. Feli was pure and great and talented.
Lovino chewed furiously on a piece of apple until he swallowed, and with the newly invigorated sun shining on him, he felt his skin burn inside and out. Lovino stamped his boot on the step.
"For god's sake! Why—" Lovino stopped in the middle of his curse when a swift black shadow loomed over him, darkening his eyes, and gripped Lovino's shoulder with one strong, tan hand.
Lovino was stunned into silence by the physical contact and overwhelming darkness. He stared at the face far too close to him for any personal comfort, and saw a pair of wild, emerald green eyes gazing back at him.
"Wha-" Lovino started sentences, but didn't know how to complete them. Was this a beggar? A thief? Should he feel like he was in danger? He felt cornered and under attack, but something about the sheer symmetry and frankly, beauty of the face in front of him made him doubt that thought.
An unfamiliar feeling bubbled in Lovino's veins as he stared at the stranger's eyes, across his tan skin and curls of dark hair. But Lovino didn't understand it. He didn't know it. So in moments, he pushed the emotion down deep and faraway so he wouldn't be distracted by it anymore.
"Um…" His eyes darted away from the stranger's face, spotting a dagger at his waist. It wasn't unusual for men to carry daggers and knives, but it did finally send a chill up Lovino's spine as though he finally grasped the possible severity of the situation.
Just as Lovino made up his mind to wrestle his way out of the strong grasp, the stranger relinquished his hand and stood back: he was still staring, and still casted a long black shadow over Lovino's body. The stranger tilted his head and raised his fingers trapped in worn grey gloves to his lips. Lovino felt as though he was being...evaluated.
"Fuck this," Lovino grumbled, trying best to swallow his hot face away. He crumpled the letter into his pocket and brashly pulled the cloth bag over his shoulder, still holding his half-eaten apple in one hand as he trotted down the steps. He half-expected to be yanked back by the same grip, but it didn't happen. Not pushing his luck, Lovino paced faster and faster into the crowd, displeased that his face seemed to be growing hotter with each passing step. It was a good distance away now, so Lovino allowed himself to breathe a little easier.
"Boy," a smooth, masculine voice said.
So used to be heckled around the art studio, Lovino's face unthinkingly tilted to his right and he saw the man from before - suddenly very tall and walking right beside him - addressing him.
Lovino wasn't sure what to say, so he didn't. Instead, he kept a firm frown and raised a brow.
Unfortunately, that seemed to spark humor in the stranger's eyes, and his lips pulled upwards in a smile. "Not speaking to me? Well, I guess I have more to say than you would."
Was that… was he insulting Lovino now?
The man once again flung his hand onto Lovino's shoulder, bringing their bodies closer together so that now Lovino was on the same path the stranger was. And that was not in the direction of the studio.
"Hey! I have to be somew—"
"I'm an artist you see," the man interrupted uncaringly. "And I'm just now starting out on my own," he glanced to Lovino, "had a bit of a tiff with the last artist I worked with. Don't ask why."
Wasn't gonna, Lovino rolled his eyes.
Unluckily, Lovino caught another smirk by the stranger. Why the hell was he so amusing to this guy?
Now the stranger wrapped his arm completely around Lovino's shoulders - like they were drunken friends on a night out - and kept talking to him casually.
"You see, I wanna do things differently than most of the artists around here and that seems to rub most people the wrong way. You may not know this, being so young, but the art world is a damn thing to work in. It's all political: who you know, who you work with, how much money you have," the stranger turned up his palm in a dismissive gesture. "Anyway, I've made a few paintings already, I don't know if you've heard of them through the grapevine. Cardsharps and The Fortune Teller?" He looked at Lovino curiously, but without an ounce of worry or expectation.
Lovino could tell… this guy genuinely didn't care what Lovino thought of him. He really didn't. But-
The fact is, Lovino did know those paintings. Or rather, he knew of them. He hadn't seen them yet. They weren't popular among general public, but in the art circles of Rome they were and ARE a topic of discussion. Lovino almost smiled when he realized that this-this vagrant is the guy his grandfather has been complaining about for months. But he kept his face smooth and looked away.
"Ah, so you have," the stranger grinned. "Well, that's surprising honestly. But makes me happy nonetheless." He swung his free hand in front of Lovino's body waiting for a handshake. "My name is Antonio Carriedo. Nice to meet you."
So that was his name. Yes, he'd heard it often in the studio and at home. It was certainly a Spanish name, but Antonio's Italian held no trace of an accent.
Lovino eyed him shortly before resigning to a fast handshake. "Yeah, sure."
"If you don't tell me your name, I'm going to keep calling you 'Boy', you know," Antonio warned playfully.
"What do you want already?" Lovino snapped. Literally nothing was going his way today. The studio, the letter, and now he was being hassled by a beggar disguised as an artist probably.
Antonio stopped their walk, but kept both hands on his shoulders. "Model for me," he said.
Well, that was not what Lovino was expecting.
"Ha, ha, very funny," Lovino replied tiredly, pushing Antonio's hands off his shoulders. "Look I have to be somewhere, so I'm just going to go…" But as soon as he said those wishfully parting words, Antonio had snatched his wrist and held it forcefully. Lovino matched Antonio's gaze, but it felt unequal. Lovino loved observing and memorizing the planes of people's faces, but Antonio stared at Lovino as though he was picking him apart . Lovino's eyes were wide and uncomprehending at the way Antonio addressed him.
"I'm serious," Antonio said, this time deeper. "I was watching you earlier, and I want you as a model for my paintings."
Lovino scrunched his brows, absolutely baffled. "You cannot be serious." If this guy was an artist, surely he'd know? Surely he'd know what the ideal is. What he should paint. Lovino was, as this man kept reminding him, a boy. Just a boy. "You're an artist. Use your fucking imagination. Go look at some Raphael. Some Michelangelo." Lovino tried yanking his wrist free, but Antonio's grip was firm.
"You haven't been listening then," Antonio smiled slightly, "to everything they say about me, or what I've been saying. I don't want to do what they do. I want to paint what I want to paint." He nodded to Lovino and repeated, "will you model for me?"
A dark and traitorous corner of Lovino's mind was secretly… flattered. Because even an insane artist had standards, right? Or something? Certainly he would not ask just any person to model for him. In fact, Lovino felt as though he would follow Raphael's lead and simply combine the best parts of many people to make one perfect human being. Because what else would people want to look at, after all?
But the more rational, realistic remainder of his brain was furious, embarrassed, and insulted even imagining this taking place. To be pinned down by a pair of eyes that can see everything, and to be made into something he can't control. No thanks, he'd rather do that himself.
"No," Lovino replied again. This time evenly and gravely. Antonio still hadn't let go, but it shifted the mood so that he at least peered at Lovino's face with more curiosity than desire.
"Of course, I intend to pay you. If you're in desperate need of money I can consider giving you more than my other models."
My other models…
Lovino's eyes glittered angrily when he finally snapped, "I'm an artist, you fucking bastard, not a goddamn model begging for money. So go find someone else!" The shock of that was enough for Antonio to forget his grip, and Lovino to yank himself free. He turned on his heel down the cobble-stone path, grumbling and blushing, but he made it only about ten feet before he realized he was walking the wrong way. So with a groan he swiveled around and retraced his steps, trying his best to ignore Antonio as he passed him by, but once again Antonio had his ratty gloved finger raised to his lips and was observing Lovino with keen eyes.
Lovino shook his head and passed him, refinding the path to the studio and stomping it deliberately. But he heard a close clapping of boots on his side, he didn't have to look to his right to know that Antonio was still following him.
"You were wearing such dark colors, I assumed you must be a simple boy. That was why I chose you," Antonio was saying, but it seemed more like he was thinking aloud. "Of course I should have assumed you could have been a struggling artist like me, especially if you've heard of my paintings."
Great. So there was really no reason to be flattered at all for being harrassed to model. Lovino was just a simple boy. He hadn't seen Antonio's paintings, but if that was what he was into, they must be absolute shit.
"Except," Antonio hummed as he removed his glove and ran a hand down Lovino's sleeve. Lovino jumped out of the way, but Antonio appeared to have realized something anyway. "Your clothing is much finer than mine. So you're not struggling at all. You just happen to like dark colors."
"Congratulations, you know the value of good fabric," Lovino muttered. He spotted the door of the studio and silently thanked God for the light at the end of the tunnel.
"You're far too young to be be a successful artist though," Antonio continued, "what is your name?"
"I am not that young," Lovino countered forcefully. "I'm sixteen."
"So an apprentice then. You're not a real artist yet."
Lovino shook his head and launched for the doorknob of the studio. Antonio was as fast as he was a bastard though, and his hand reached the frame of the door the same time, keeping it firmly shut.
"This is Roma Vargas's studio. You work for him?" Antonio confirmed.
Lovino glared at him, saying nothing. He knew his grandfather disliked Antonio and his work, and as they were walking he wondered if it was a mutual feeling. But the way Antonio glanced over the door was almost… dismissive. Kind of condescending actually. Which was odd for someone dressed in layers of worn black and grey clothes to be turning his nose up a successful and commended artist by all those in Rome.
Antonio leaned closer, his dark curly hair framing his green eyes. "Some parting words of advice—if you want be a great artist, don't be afraid to disagree with your master."
"Are you saying you're great?" Lovino mocked brashly. He kept his tone lighter than he wanted, because there was something about Antonio's presence that contained an underlying, secret threat. He didn't know what it was, but he felt… on edge.
Antonio grinned confidently. "I'm going to be," he said, letting his hand slide from the door. Slowly, he moved away from the door to lean against the side of the building. "Mark my words, I will be the greatest painter in Rome soon." He ended his promise with a wink.
Lovino rolled his eyes and pulled open the door. "Keep talking like that and God's going to strike you down where you stand," he warned sarcastically.
Before he had fully retreated inside the space of the studio he heard Antonio laugh: it was more charming than he expected. Humorous and full of radical emotion. "But I'm still standing," he called back. "And if you ever change your mind about modelling, let me know," was the last thing Lovino heard him say.
The door shut. Lovino should have felt peace in the dimly lit corridor. But all he could feel now was being still trapped under that crazed artist's black shadow.
Who the hell did he just meet?
Lovino was silent the rest of the day. If his grandfather noticed, he didn't bother him. He didn't even reprimand him for being late with lunches for everyone. It seemed like everyone had something on their mind.
Lovino was thankful that at least once in a while his prayers were answered.
But try as he may, his encounter with Antonio was not something he could easily push out of his mind. He didn't quite understand it. Lovino was raised with artists, and was constantly surrounded by artists, but none so far had acted in the way Antonio did. Of course, many artists were arrogant, and many boastful of their abilities. But to be a successful artist in Italy, and in Rome, one needed an air of propriety and respect. And as far as Lovino could tell, Antonio held very little regard for any artist other than himself.
Confidence. Feliciano had it too, but his was different. It was calm, subtle, and almost tranquil. He was raised with so much praise, tutelage, and resources, perhaps that was the reason.
Lovino could only assume that Antonio had none of that: he seemed like a wild, beast of an artist. That was the only way to put it.
"What are you drawing, Lovino?"
It was nighttime, and the rest of the apprentices had left for dinner and bed. It was just Lovino and his grandfather now. The studio was quieter and lit by candles. Lovino preferred it this way: his heart was calmer, and he thought more clearly.
Lovino didn't glance up from his paper, but he heard his grandfather take a heavy seat beside him.
"Just studying some sketches of Raphael," he replied blandly. By now, Lovino had drawn Raphael's figures so many times they were trapped in his head: he loved and needed to draw them over and over.
His grandfather was more tender when they were alone together. Roma leaned on his paint-stained hand to watch Lovino's pencil move across the page. "You're such an excellent draftsman," he commented fondly. "Just like Raphael."
Lovino rolled his eyes, but a blush betrayed him nonetheless. "I am not," he muttered. Then more quietly, "...yet."
"After you've mastered drawing, your paintings will be so incredible I just know it," his grandfather said. Lovino peered at him, and his tired dark eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
"What about Feliciano?" Lovino asked tentatively. He was never sure where his grandfather stood with Feliciano nowadays. It was a mix of sadness, pride, happiness, and sometimes anger.
"I've been thinking about him," Roma said, his tone becoming more thoughtful. "I think he's going to be all right. We may believe in a certain way, and I still believe it's the right way, but the Venetians do very well in their style. It's different, and that's good. I wouldn't want every artist in Rome to do things the way I do it, after all." Roma laughed softly.
The comment released some tension in Lovino's temples. At least things had finally come to pass between grandfather and Feliciano. Perhaps now Lovino could tell him about Feliciano's letter.
"Actually, grandpa," Lovino began. "I received a letter from Feliciano today."
His grandfather hummed. "Yes, I figured that was why you were quiet all afternoon. What did he say this time?"
Lovino pressed his charcoal too deep for a moment, remembering the real reason he was quiet, and continued. "He said he's finished his apprenticeship with Natalino and he's moving back to Rome."
"What?" his grandfather grinned. "Why that's great! Why didn't you tell me sooner? I was worried Feliciano had lost all his money or gotten a girl pregnant!"
Lovino almost laughed trying to imagine the second scenario in his head.
"Well, he also said he's coming to work for an artist of the pope. He didn't mention the name though, but he said it was the pope's favorite…" Lovino added a bit more quietly. Now the jealousy had mostly transferred to melancholy. He tried to bite it down and focus on the lines of the face.
Roma's posture shifted, but he didn't seem displeased. Finally, a warm smile settled across his features. "Ah, he means Cesari. Yes, I'm familiar with him. Another artist of the Venetian style, so that makes sense for Feliciano. He'll be happy there, I should think. And it'll be nice to have him home again."
Lovino hummed in reply, not steering his gaze away from the paper.
"When did he say he was coming home?"
"Um," Lovino blanked for a second, trying to recall Feliciano's ramblings. Quickly, he fished the crumpled letter from his pocket and slid it to his grandfather. "He said he was stopping in Florence first, and will come here after." Lovino crouched over his paper again and muttered, "he's as vague as always."
"Sounds like him," Roma chuckled, his face easing out of his day's stress. He eyes Lovino, taking in the whiteness of his knuckles, and sighed. "Lovino," he started. "Do you ever regret not joining your brother in Venice?"
Lovino's head shot up from his drawing, and he stared at his grandfather incredulously. "What?" he barked. "No! Why would you even say that? I always wanted to work here."
Roma smiled at Lovino knowingly. "But that makes me wonder if perhaps that was the mistake. I sometimes worry that working for me won't push you to make your own way, and your own style."
"Maybe if you let me paint, I can prove to you that that's not the case!" Lovino raised his voice. "I know what I want to do. I want to draw-I want to create beauty and—and—I want to make things perfect. And I know I can!" Lovino was shouting now, convincing his grandfather at the same time he was trying to convince himself.
His grandfather was still smiling, now amused by another of Lovino's tantrums. "Well, with an attitude like that, maybe you'll go far after all," he replied. Then a bit wistfully he looked away at the half-finished canvas. "I just wonder how much longer the Florentine style will continue. It seems odd, but maybe one day perfection won't be interesting to people anymore. Maybe the Venetians, in their loose, colorful ways, are onto something better. Or… at least onto the next thing anyway." Roma amended, keeping his pride while he could.
Lovino didn't like hearing this. He made a choice to work in Rome and study old masters, and he didn't want to hear his grandfather act so forlorn.
So he raised his chin and gave his grandfather a confident stare, "if they get bored of perfection, I'll just have to make something better." Lovino didn't even know what that meant, but he liked the sound of it, and god dammit if he wasn't already dead set on his ways. He wasn't about to give in now.
His grandfather's booming laughter made the charcoal slip from Lovino's fingers, and the subsequent claps on his back refrained him from picking it up.
"Ah, that's my boy. You'll be great, don't you worry," his grandfather complimented more spiritedly. He was so moody these days… must have been old age. Slowly, he stood to his feet to begin blowing out the candles. "We should head home soon. It's too dark for you to draw."
Lovino rolled his eyes. He could still see plenty well. But he was hungry so he relinquished his drawing to help clean up.
Things quieted between them as they shared their duties. For a while, Lovino let it be, but after a dozen minutes passed his heart began to pick up with the opportunity to pose a question. He paused while drying some brushes.
"So grandpa," he blurted.
"Hmm?"
"I was talking to some of the assistants today and they mentioned two paintings called The Cardsharps and The Fortune Teller—do you know them?" Lovino kept his voice light and his back turned away, but somehow, he still felt his grandfather's tension in the air.
"Who was talking about them? Was it Marco?" Roma asked accusingly.
Lovino gave a shaky sigh, trying to feign annoyance. "I can't remember. This was weeks ago. I was just wondering what you thought of them? And where they were? I don't believe I've heard of the artist before, so I was curious why they're so damn famous."
"Famous or infamous, more like it," his grandfather muttered, and Lovino felt a bit guilty feeling the good mood fade away. "The artist has a bit of a rocky reputation. Came down to Rome after one too many brawls in Milan, so I hear. Met him once: very excitable fellow. And very messy, like his paintings."
"Oh," Lovino squeaked, "so they're no good?"
His grandfather was silent for a moment in thought. "They're… different. Not at all what you would like. He doesn't work in our way, but not quite in the Venetian way either. In fact, I can't think of anyone quite like him, whatever that means."
Lovino frowned. He didn't find the description very helpful.
"I guess the best way to put it is that you know how we paint the ideal? Something greater than what we can see? The most beautiful thing?" his grandfather let that linger, and added, "well, Carriedo wants to destroy that completely. He doesn't like it. He's known for pulling random people off the streets and having them pose as saints-as saints, Lovino!" Roma shook his head. "He's not failing though, or at least not yet. If he can get a patron, who knows what'll happen."
I'm going to be the greatest painter in all of Rome soon.
"For fuck's sake," Lovino grumbled furiously, recalling the smooth (too smooth) proclamation.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Lovino snapped too loudly. He took a deep breath and smoothed his hair. "I just said that I bet I'll be greater than him."
"Oh?" his grandfather turned around to give Lovino a more curious, open stare. "Well, it'd certainly be good for that guy's ego to have some competition."
"Yes," Lovino agreed, heart pounding. He slammed down the brushes and grabbed a rag. "It would."
A/N: I'm back! Thank you for reading! Reviews are most appreciated! : )