24. Times Gone By
Date Written: February 13, 2019
Date Posted: August 17, 2019
Characters: Hungary, Veneziano
Summary: Hungary comforts a young Veneziano when he comes to her in a terrible state.
Notes: This is after the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire.
She had been busy polishing a set of silverware at the behest of her Austrian master, when she heard a rush of footsteps. They were a light pitter-patter across the floor, as if the person was in a hurry, but still considerate enough to keep his steps light should the master of the house complain about the sudden racket. At the sound of such familiarity, Hungary placed the rag and the cutlery onto the surface of the table.
A young boy in the throes of budding teenagerhood stood in front of her, a distraught look in his eyes. Hungary gestured for the boy to come forward or to speak, but he kept silent. Without much prompting, he burst into tears. His voice, his lovely voice that could sing arias and operas into an enchanting stories interwoven within the tight structures of music, trembled and shook. He was so agitated; he could not speak of what occured to make him this way.
"Veneziano." She slowly stood up from her chair, the stuttering squeal of wood on wood temporarily assaulting their ears. "What's wrong?"
The boy, under the human façade of a budding teenager, immediately walked up to her and slumped forward, crashing into her form. Although Hungary had been a towering figure when they had first met, the young Venetian had swiftly grown and matured. At present, he was almost as tall as her. Even now, when she had enveloped him in her arms, he still ducked his head down low, as if trying to complete the illusion that he was younger than what he actually was.
For a moment, both stood in silence.
Hungary threaded her fingers, which were calloused and hardened from years of strife, through his hair. As always, whenever she had the chance, she marveled at the hues of amber, brown, and auburn. And that curl of his… Her eyes took in that errant strand of hair that refused to stay down and be maintained alongside the rest of his fine locks. Even when he was feeling down, that unruly curl stood tall.
Sometimes, she wondered if Venice was truly one of the main offshoots of Rome. Did he inherit the auburn locks, the curl? Or did he inherit the physique, lithe but still growing? Hungary often wondered, but she never dared ask. All she knew was that young Veneziano had been one of the few present to have watched Rome slowly collapse upon himself.
A small hiccup from the crying teen brought her out of her thoughts.
Immediately, she squeezed her arms just so and cooed a random lullaby that she had heard long ago. Her voice, unlike the Venetian's, was nothing to be proud of, but the affection and warmth that she exuded was more than enough. At her touch and lulling tone, the boy instantly quieted into a series of hitched cries and shuddering breaths.
They stayed interlocked in that warm embrace until the Hungary felt Veneziano strain against her figure. Reluctantly, the Hungarian allowed the boy to withdraw his arms. As she did so, he brought both of his palms against his eyes so that he could wipe the excess moisture away. His shoulders shook, but he no longer hiccupped or slumped forward into her easy embrace.
"Feeling better?" She held perfectly still, ready to embrace or move away.
With a watery smile, the boy stepped back and thanked her profusely. No, he was quite all right. No, he was doing better, thanks for the concern.
And no, he would rather not talk about it.
Maybe later.
And so, Hungary went back to polishing the silverware.
(If perhaps, then, she thought of a little boy in black, she definitely did not let her hands shake).