60. Shadow of Self
Date Written: June 4, 2019
Date Posted: November 7, 2020
Characters: Veneziano, Romano
Summary: Veneziano sees a familiar face when Romano plays around with modeling clay.
Notes:
"It's been years, Romano," Veneziano chided gently. "Don't be surprised if it doesn't come out like you want it." The Northern Italian settled onto a stool as he gazed at his brother struggling with modeling clay.
The both of them had agreed to spend a week without any interference from their shared government or from their squabbling neighbors. If Veneziano remembered correctly, the last time they retreated to one of their villas at the same time without any prior engagement with friends or government officials was almost twenty years ago.
Of course, Veneziano and Romano would meet for official Nation work, foreign meetings with their fellow Nations, but for an occasion just to bond? They had Christmas, Easter, and holidays in between, but it was always shared with their citizens or with their family. Rarely did they ever have a time just to themselves to visit one of their acclaimed villas.
Regardless, after making sure that the villa was cleaned and all the utilities were working, the brothers decided to laze around. Normally, they would have spent their days tending to the grounds, experimenting with their regional foods, or taking naps. For the most part, they did engage in those activities, quite happily in fact, but Romano began to feel something itch at his insides.
It was a rare, twitching feeling, but one that Romano had once before a long time ago. After spending what must have been hours of relentless pacing around and doing aimless chores for the sake of them, Romano snapped. After badgering Veneziano for extra money and then badgering him once more to accompany him to town, Romano bought just the thing that he knew would scratch that itch of his.
With the task of buying whatever he needed done, the elder brother trekked his way back into the villa set up shop in one of the many unused rooms. It was there that Veneziano found him working away as he, too, began hauling in his own goods from the nearby town.
While Veneziano had an easel and a set of brushes that were accompanied by a plethora of paints, Romano had something else entirely.
Clay.
In the mounting heat of the afternoon, Romano wiped his sweating brow with the back of his hand. His eyes were narrowed in concentration before his skilled fingers began kneading the material into a shape.
"Did you hear me?" Veneziano turned slightly, his eyes looking a little concerned now. When Romano said nothing, Veneziano placed his brush down upon his palette, his fingers slightly discolored and splattered with small smears of paint. "Don't get your—"
"What makes you think that I want to make something?" The muddled shape within his hands was swiftly crushed between his hands before Romano began shaping it again. Despite his sharp words and short attitude, Romano remained calm, almost peaceful as he began shaping the clay into whatever form he wanted.
Dissatisfied with the results, Romano punched the clay so that it resembled nothing more than a mound of mashed up clay.
Again.
And again.
And again.
"Can't I just play around with it?"
Veneziano opened his mouth to retort, but immediately thought better of it. They had decided on one week free of fighting—joking and irritating each other was still on the table, though. While Veneziano would have been loathe to just allow his elder to get the last word, he noticed something troubling.
Well… maybe not that troubling. Perhaps, that was too strong a word?
Romano's hands were quick and efficient. Unlike North Italy, the southern half of the peninsula had never excelled at the mixing of colors and the quick strokes of a brush. Back when the Renaissance was still in its prime, Romano had taken to the physicality of stone marble. To him, sculpting was almost like gardening. Within the stone, there was a statue with a soul just waiting to be free from the stone prison. Every tap with a chisel was precious; each imperfection shone within the shadow of perfection.
But it had been years.
Veneziano watched as his brother repeatedly shaped and molded that clay with a concentration that usually would have been reserved for cutting onions or pulling weeds. (Obviously, this sort of concentration would have been but suited for government work, but who was there to point fingers?). The faster Romano worked through the clay, the repetition began to paint a picture only an artist like Veneziano could see.
Piercing eyes, stately nose, straight jaw.
Oh.
With a small smile, Veneziano turned back to face his easel.
He wished his brother the best of luck in replicating their predecessor's face.
It had been a while since he had seen Rome.
