64. Discomfiting Silence

Date Written: June 30, 2019

Date Posted: November 11, 2020

Characters: Veneziano, Romano

Summary: Some people use healthy coping mechanisms in the aftermath of a stressful event. Some don't.

Notes:


Tiny slivers and flakes fell onto an old newspaper like leaves during autumn. The wooden shavings, as time went on, grew to a small mountain. It was nothing significant—at least compared to the rapidly shapeshifting wooden block—to most, but that mountain of shavings was the result of almost a week of nonstop carving.

The carver was Italia Veneziano and if it was not clear to all, it was apparent that he was not in the best mental state.

It went something like this:

The representative of Northern Italy had been undergoing crisis after crisis for quite some time. His brother's territories were rendered uninhabitable by several earthquakes, the worst of them falling at a nine on the Richter scale. It took the coordinated efforts of North Italy and several Nations to send whatever aid they could to South Italy.

Earthquakes were doable, Veneziano thought at first. Sure, he was stressed. Yes, his brother was near unapproachable, but Veneziano understood. The people in Romano's territories were in pain and in a panic. Although Veneziano could not as keenly feel his brother's children as surely as his own, he could definitely feel the echo of helplessness and cries for help.

Veneziano would handle that.

And if Veneziano could handle the stress of the earthquake disrupting their shared Nation and his brother's aloofness, he could still handle other upsets.

Veneziano could handle stocks plummeting.

Veneziano could handle threats of any number of syndicates trying to take control of a fallen South.

Veneziano could handle the stress of bundles of paperwork that was not only composed of the responsibilities and duties of the North, but also the South. (Someone had to help the Italian Nation, so it might as well have been him). When approached by his brother, he had continued to smile and said that he would be able to handle it.

That was months ago, but Veneziano could still feel the effects of all that pressure he had volunteered to shoulder. Nations were not as human as much as they wished they could. Both Italy brothers had worked tirelessly night and day for weeks on end. In times of crisis, the needs of the people superseded the primal urges of the Nation. For quite some time, Northern Italy had forgone eating or sleeping so that he could properly maintain their territories.

Only paper cups of hastily brewed coffee spurred the Italian to abandon his human self and to fully embrace himself as the Nation.

When the crisis in the South had settled, the North could finally breathe.

Except, he couldn't.

Romano had taken the paperwork, but he was still aloof and unfriendly as ever.

That didn't bode well for Veneziano. After periods of stress where he had to shoulder most, if not all of the burden, North Italy expected… well, he wasn't exactly expecting a heartfelt "thank you"... Acknowledgement would have been nice, but was what he had received in return?

No, it was not.

Romano was nice, had the capacity and the capability for being nice, but it simply wasn't the right time for being nice. Veneziano knew that his older brother was fickle and ornery by nature, but he had suffered during that quake—the effects of which could be seen as inflamed skin and raised scars on the vast plains of his chest and back.

Veneziano thought that he could handle the rejection.

Veneziano was wrong.

Nations were biologically, mentally, spiritually, and physically different than their mortal charges. Try as they might, Nations couldn't just emulate and hope to be nothing more than a citizen in their own country. Nations, as in their entire beings, demanded more than just masquerading in their flesh prisons. Nations were more. Nations were the whole.

Nations were not human.

However, Nations could act human.

Nations had tear ducts; they could cry. Nations had facial muscles; they could smile, snarl, or frown. Nations had vocal chords; they could laugh, cry, wail, or yell.

Nations could feel; they had feelings.

Veneziano loved experiencing positive emotions. Happiness smelled of freshly made polenta. Joy was a mesh of newly spilled acrylic across a blank canvas. Peace felt like the downy fur of a kitten.

Anger… What was anger? What was sadness? What was resentment?

Veneziano refused to feel those emotions. What good were those emotions? They made him do things—irrational things. Worse, negativity made his older brother lash out and say such terrible things…

Veneziano could handle the rejection. He had to.

Which is why he was—

"You're doing that stupid thing again."

Veneziano, for a brief second, paused in the midst of carving his wooden block. When he heard no other comment to break the silence, the sound of a knife against wood continued.

"You know how much time and effort I have to put in for you?" The voice, which Veneziano deduced had come from the doorframe, had become closer and that much louder. "I can't run the entire country by myself, you little shit. It's been nearly two weeks and you haven't submitted your quarterly report on several of your industries. That bastard friend of yours—" Here, the voice managed to become solid and started poking him in the skull. "—practically threatened me because you haven't responded to any of your damn messages! What's gotten into you?"

When the sudden jump in volume did little to get Veneziano to focus on him, Romano slammed a fist onto the work table. The mountains of wood shavings decreased in height by a fraction due to sudden impact.

"Hello, Romano." Veneziano's back became rigid and straight, the muscles around his jaw tightened. The smile he wore on his face did little to disguise the hard looking in his eyes or the angered flush that decorated his face. "What brings—"

Romano punched the table again. The force from the second blow caused the mountain to collapse into himself. Some wood shavings fell to the ground.

"Veneziano, get off your ass and get back to work." Romano's face curled into an expression of rage when Veneziano merely returned to his carving. "Did you even think of telling the boss to get you a vacation? How irresponsible of you!"

And that's when Veneziano had it.

He just couldn't handle it anymore.

With the force of a hurricane, the auburn haired Nation threw the carving at the opposite side of his studio and stabbed his carving knife into the grain of the table. Both of the Italians watched as the blade of the handle trembled at his ferocity.

"Irresponsible?" His hands clenched and unclenched uncontrollably. His eyes were glossy with unshed tears. "After all I've done for you, you have the nerve—"

"Yes! Yes, I do have the nerve!" From his position, Romano was able to loom over his brother with ease. "You've disappeared for two weeks with no warning. Before that, you've been sending lackluster reports—reports that I had to correct and proofread because you're too much of a dumbass to know when to stop and ask for help. Furthermore—"

Veneziano raised a hand. A peculiar expression of contemplation on his face.

"What did you say"" Although his voice was soft, it was low and even. It was almost terrifying. "Could you repeat that again?"

"Which part, dumbass? The part where you're irresponsible? The part where I've been doing your work on the side? The part where you're a dumbass?" With each demanding, damning question, Romano stabbed a finger into Veneziano's chest with renewed force each time. "Or the fact that you don't know when to stop acting like your heart bleeds when something terrible happens?"

"Romano," Veneziano tried to plead. "I can handle myself and my affairs just fine."

"Is that why you work yourself to the bone for weeks on end, crash spectacularly into what I think is your depressed-asocial state, and then you have the nerve to ignore all of my phone calls?" Romano hauled his brother off the chair by the collar on Veneziano's shirt. The younger brother focused on the scattered wood shavings, but the elder tapped at his brother's chin to regain attention. "How long have you been working on your wood statue thing?"

Veneziano sighed.

"Why do you care?" Was what Veneziano should have said, but his tongue betrayed him. Instead, he replied with, "A couple hours."

Romano unceremoniously dropped his brother's shirt.

"You dumbass! Try an entire two weeks!" Romano gestured at the pile of wood shavings… and the stack of heavily mutilated blocks. Some of these blocks looked like Veneziano had taken a rusty blade and beat his anger into them. Others looked graceful and had a myriad of details and inherent craftsmanship. Why would Veneziano see fit to throw them out, Romano could not answer.

"Oh."

"That's all you have to say to your brother? Oh!"

"I just…" Veneziano sunk low into his chair. "I can handle it." A sob. "I can handle it!"

At that, Veneziano knew that he should have thrown out his brother first thing instead of indulging in conversation. This conversation should not have happened. His outburst should not have happened.

However, if there was one thing that Veneziano understood after his years as a Nation who could act, feel, and be human, he knew that like a human, he could not control certain things. Particular situations and people could not be controlled like armies or forceful presses of a button or a wave of a hand. No, instead some things just happened for the sake of happening.

But that didn't stop Veneziano from feeling guilty and irrationally angry.

He had allowed this to happen.

A hand pressed down deep into his hair. Before he could gather up the wherewithal to smack his hand against his brother's, Romano pulled him down for his chair and onto the floor. For a moment, Veneziano struggled and gasped against the brute strength that his brother had uncharacteristically employed before he succumbed to the utter warmth and safety that he felt.

And there was another reason why some Nations saw fit to compare themselves to humans.

Even though none of them were truly connected by blood, they were connected by other things that could just as count if not more so to be considered close friends. Family. Siblings.

Brothers.

For the Italy brothers, they were brought together by a shared culture, a shared destiny and want to unite their people together. Even though they would often fight and their people were as different as night and day, they were one united front against all others. The tragedy was just another thing that bound them together. And it was through this bond that would allow them to work through this.

Together.

"I-I'm—" Veneziano's hands clutched at the back of Romano's shirt. If he could recoil away from Romano, he would have at that point. The material in his hands was clearly designer and Romano was one of those people who would kill to keep his expensive clothing from getting dirty or mussed up. However, as strong as Veneziano was, Romano was deceptively stronger.

"Don't say it, idiot." Romano clutched his younger brother closer to his chest, almost as if he wanted to suffocate him. Perhaps a part of him did. "I know that you're sorry, but we are going to handle this fucking disaster together."

Veneziano remained silent, but Romano didn't care.

Veneziano was listening for once and that was all that he needed.

"We can do this," Romano whispered as he held his brother in his strong, tanned arms. He held him tightly, the warmth from the both of them lulling them into a state of near restfulness and trust. "We can bring this nation to greatness again, Veneziano."

"Are you sure?" Veneziano couldn't help but ask.

Romano's head thudded onto Veneziano's as a smarting rebuke.

"Of course, dumbass. We're going to do this together. Now, put away your knife and clean up. We have work to do."

"Together?"

Romano sighed, but withheld a smart retort.

Confirming, he rose up and grasped his brother's hand within his own.

"Together."