Famiglia
Italia Veneziano loved art. He could paint, he could sculpt, and he could sing – and he did all of these exceptionally well, of course – but the happiest he ever was was when he had a pencil between his fingers and a sketchbook out in front of them.
Most of the time, he was good at this, too. Drawing was the best way he knew of to express emotion, and he certainly had a lot of those. He had hundreds of pictures of little things that made him happy – delicate flowers with the leaves curling outwards, laughing children he'd passed in the street last week or last century, sunbeams dancing down in empty rooms – all simple sketches without symbolism or deeper meaning, art that was pretty just because it could be pretty.
He couldn't stop drawing even if he tried – his official paperwork usually had a border of absent minded sketches of sleeping cats – but right now, however hard he tried, he couldn't draw one very specific person.
He knew that he could draw people, so it wasn't that. By turning back through the pages, he could see Liechtenstein and America laughing together, Germany engrossed in a car magazine, Poland tossing his head back in glee as he fenced with Hungary, France offering flowers to a giggling group of pretty human girls, Austria taking an apple strudel out of the oven, his brothers sprawled out asleep in the sun...
It was true that he had a preference for drawing people he knew, particularly ones he cared about, but that shouldn't have made any difference in this particular situation. He looked down at where his constant rubbings out had left the paper translucent and peeling, and got up to seek advice.
)))))()(((((
When Italia Romano heard why his little brother needed his help, he spent the first few minutes of the "lesson" laughing. He was also giving quite good advice, but it was interspersed with mumbled comments of "And I always thought you were so much better than me, Nonnos favourite grandchild!" and the like.
He finally calmed down, and began to work on a self portrait next to Veneziano, his usual dismissive scowl quickly taking shaper under practiced pencil strokes.
"Why are you struggling so much?" Romano asked, not looking up from his work to prevent a mistake but still interested in coaxing an answer. "You've definitely got his hair – look at those curls round the ears I stopped you getting rid of – and the nose is screaming the identity to anyone who met him. You could cut that nose out and have that as the picture; it's good enough."
Veneziano nodded. "It was a very distinctive nose. But the eyes.. and the mouth…"
Romano span the sketchbook round so he could look at it, flipping through the practice pages and raising an eyebrow at how Veneziano had made different repetitions of the same eye vary from cold and calculating to disappointed apathy.
"And I thought I had issues with him," he muttered. Then, louder and to his brother, he said, "This isn't a problem with your art. It's a problem with you."
Veneziano's head shot up, eyes wide open for once in shock.
"What was your problem with him?" Romano asked, trying hard not to stress the word your. After all, he knew what his problem was; he didn't need Veneziano's help with this.
"I'll just never really know how he saw me." Veneziano shrugged. "He always seemed so happy, but… I look back, and I wonder."
Romano scoffed. "You're being an idiot again. Everyone knows he adored you! He'd come down to visit me, and all I'd hear was "Vene this" and "Vene that"; he worshipped the ground you walked on."
Romano didn't think it was possible, but his little brother's eyes actually got wider. He smirked and continued, only encouraged by this. "Senators kept assuming I was you, just from the way he talked about you."
Veneziano bit his lip, clearly feeling a little guilty, and while Romano would admit that a part of him liked that response (the insecure, angry part that had spent his childhood wishing his "perfect" little brother would disappear), he'd made his peace with this centuries ago and he was nowhere near petty enough to want to see his brother suffering after asking for his help.
"What do you remember about him?"
The question worked. The brothers spent the rest of the day reminiscing; sometimes on topic, sometimes not, but either way the faces Veneziano was drawing were getting more and more accurate as the day went on, and Romano wasn't wrong in claiming this victory as his own.
Snatching for the pencil his brother had just stolen in a particularly passionate debate, Veneziano grinned and finished his drawing. It wasn't perfect, but it was the closest he'd come so far and he would treasure it.
After centuries of trying, Veneziano could finally look down at his sketchbook and have the smiling face of his grandfather look up at him.
A/n: Written for Caesar's Palace shipping week (platonic).