86. Stitches

Date Written: July 17, 2019

Date Posted: December 3, 2020

Characters: Veneziano, Russia

Summary: Veneziano repairs a rip in Russia's scarf.

Notes:


"Almost… done…" Veneziano pursed his lips, his tongue jutting out a little of his mouth as he concentrated. In one hand, he held a needle; the other, a scarf.

The scarf in question, if one were to study it, must have been white a long, long time ago, North Italy thought. Time had made the garment worn and threadbare in some places, and downright ripped in others. Time had also dulled the color to a faint brownish sort of pink, which was the result of… well, Veneziano would rather not think about it. The point of the matter was that he had washed the scarf to the best of his ability and had proceeded to mend the frayed parts.

Not many of those closest to him knew this, but sewing was a necessary skill to have. It was an essential life skill—something that most took for granted. It might have not been the most macho thing in the world, but it was still somewhat rewarding. As North Italy finished the last of the repairs, he heard a slight rustling from the bed beside him.

North Italy did not look up.

Russia's voice was gravelly, yet still soft. "You took my scarf."

"Yes, I did." North Italy gently placed the final stitch into one of the tears and carefully folded the garment into a small square. His fingers slightly trembled as he placed the scarf on top of the bed, mere centimeters away from the owner's hand.

Still, the Italian did not look up.

Suddenly, as if Russia were a viper, the Slavic Nation held the Italian's neck with one hand. The force of the assault had North Italy gasping the last of his breath and struggling for more air.

This time, the Italian opened his eyes and kept them trained on Russia's impassive face. His dark brown eyes dared not wander down to Russia's exposed neck.

"Did you see?" Russia demanded, his voice hoarse, harsh. Still, there was something else there: fear. His grip, already unrelenting and strong, tightened further. "Did you see it?"

Veneziano couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. As a Nation, he knew that death was temporary. Death by strangulation was tedious, but still conquerable. However, it was one thing to think about death in theory and experiencing it firsthand over and over again as centuries passed. As a man, Italy rather liked staying alive. Telling either truth or lie was bound to stoke Russia's ire.

Oh, what was he to do?

With one short jerk of the head, Veneziano succumbed to his human instinct and told the truth.

For a few startling seconds, Russia's grip on Italy's neck seemed to grow even stronger. Was telling the truth not the winning move? Was he supposed to lie? Out of instinct and not because he was desperate, Italy tried to wrench the Russian's hands off his neck. However, there was little that the Italian could do. After all, he was quick and agile, not strong and powerful.

When all seemed so grim and doubtful, Russia finally loosened his grip.

"You're a coward by design, but your true nature…"

Russia's voice was weirdly soft, almost contemplative with a running undercurrent of amusement. In a manner best described as gentle, he brushed a few fingers against Italy's neck. It was if he thought that his soothing touch would rid Veneziano's olive skin of the upcoming bruise. Still, he of all people, should have known that wouldn't have quickened the healing process—Nations healed on their own terms.

"Your nature is to be strong. Forthright, even."

For once, Italy kept silent. There was still some needle and thread on the bedside table. If Italy were quick enough, he could take one and stab Russia in the eye if things really came down to it. There had to be some retribution for the man's transgressions.

Still, Italy was a pacifist.

He did nothing but stare impassively as Russia's calm, but mirthful countenance stilled.

"You are angry, yes?"

Veneziano sighed a little in his head, wondering if he should lie and run out of the room like hell was coming for his heels. However, he didn't think that Russia was feeling that murderous at that instant and it would be counterproductive to do so when Russia had only complimented him for his bravery and fortitude only moments before.

"Very." Veneziano conceded softly. His gaze just barely graded the skin of Russia's neck before he met the Russian's gaze. "However, I also understand that you were attacked earlier." The Italian shrugged. "Your show of force was unnecessary, but understandable."

Russia hummed a few bars of an old lullaby before wrapping his scarf around his scarred neck.

"Thank you, Italy. I'll keep this moment in mind."

And with that, Italy was dismissed.