7. Enclosed Spaces

Date Written: January 17, 2019

Date Posted: April 27, 2019

Characters: Veneziano, Romano, Seborga

Summary: Two brothers get into a fight and the third brother kicks the both of them into the basement. Even more fighting ensues.

Notes: I just wanted to experiment what would it be like to write a fight scene.

There's nothing strange about seeing any of the personifications of Italy being held against their will. After years of being torn apart and being bossed around by powers greater than them, it was only natural that they adapt to abduction and imprisonment.

But that was during stressful periods like wartime.

During times of duress, their personal interests didn't matter—their fears, their boundaries, their human selves didn't matter. All bets were off when their lands were surrounded by all sides and their children (their life blood and soul) were under attack. No matter how much either of the Italian personifications hated the idea of bending to another's will, they would push through for their people.

The same could not be said now.

"This is so stupid!" Romano growled under his breath.

A couple of hours ago, Veneziano, Romano, and their youngest brother, Seborga, had decided to organize a dinner for themselves. It was a standard, home cooked affair that consisted of the usual banter between North and South with some side commentary from the micronation. Unfortunately, one of the major personifications of Italy said something (what was it? no one remembers) and the other half retaliated.

Pasta was thrown.

Sauces were splattered every conceivable surface.

And all three brothers were very pissed.

In the wake of all the commotion, Seborga berated both of his elders for wasting food and rendering the kitchen unusable.

Wasn't Romano the one to always preach about the sheer stupidity of wasting the fruits and labor of their farmers?

And wasn't Veneziano the one to mediate the peace?

After the scolding, all the brothers set to work to cleaning the area, but Seborga wasn't done. When all was relatively tidied, the micronation dragged his elders to the door of the basement and bodily threw them inside.

After a threatening demand of "Forgive each other, or no dinner or breakfast for the both of you!", the elder Italy brothers quieted and stared at each other.

And then, they, without any verbal cues, walked to opposite ends of the basement and sat down with a huff. They stayed that way for almost an hour before one of the brothers began to fidget and grumble under his breath.

One who only knew of the Italian personifications by first impressions would think that Veneziano would have been the first to crack. Even when under attack, he was prone to bouts of rocking back and forth on his heels, twiddling with his thumbs, or humming quietly to himself. Even some of his own men complained that he drew unnecessary attention to himself and that it was nigh impossible to not get irritated at the Northerner.

No, the fidgeting, foot tapping, and incessant muttering came from the elder. Years spent under Spanish rule, of centuries working out in the fields, had rendered the older Italian to balk at the idea of being held in captivity for too long. Walls were threatening to close around him in a tight noose while the ceiling was just aching to collapse and bury him under the rubble. He could feel it.

"You could at least try to relax." The northern brother said in a tone so dry, Egypt could have said it.

"And you can at least try to stop being such an idiot!" With a muffled curse, the Southern Italian placed his forehead against the cool wall. For a moment, the sudden change in temperature soothed him.

Opposite his brother, Veneziano watched in disinterested fascination. There had been times when they had been captured and forced in imprisonment together. It wasn't the first time that Veneziano had seen his brother so petulant.

"Dio mio, fratello, let's kiss and make up, si?" Veneziano scooted closer to his brother, but not close enough to be within range if...things were to go metaphorically go south. He continued, "Segorga probably has a big bowl of pasta waiting for us—"

"Shut up."

"—and I bet if we have time, we can walk around and talk to pretty ladies. You would like—"

"Shut up!"

"—to flirt with a charming girl, no? There was a cantina near—"

"For the love of God, Veneziano, shut up already!" Romano turned away from the wall and faced his stupid little brother. The force of Romano's explosion had the Venetian awkwardly scrambling away—only to be hindered by the sudden thudding of the wall against his back. The older brother saw the retreat—the action lit the fire that stoked the flames of resentment within Roman's heart. "You always do this—always with the pretending that everything is all right! Well guess what, you bastard! You can't just keep doing that because, surprise, life isn't all about charming people to getting what you want!"

Veneziano was silent—an even bigger provocation than if he had prattled on about the ladies waiting for them in the plaza.

"And you get that stupid look on your face…do you like pretending—" lying "—that everything is all sunshine and rainbows? You're a goddamn moron and I HATE YOU!"

Veneziano fully faced his brother at that, a bright smile on his face.

But, there was an edge to his eyes that had Romano's back stiffening in apprehension.

Softly, so softly that even the faint notes of pianissimo could barely compare, Veneziano said, "What a coincidence, I hate you as well."

And then.

At that very moment.

Romano snapped.

There was one thing that the entire world agreed on and it was that the Italian brothers were prone to pacifism instead of violence. Maybe years ago, perhaps dating back to centuries or even a millennia ago, they would have been quick to throw spears and slash with their swords. Nowadays, they fought with their tongues as old as their fallen grandfather and as ancient as the earth itself.

Nowadays, they had no reason to fight.

Except when they were all alone with wounds that had been left to fester and leak pus and blood.

Romano would like to say that he got the first punch in.

But little Veneziano (who was taller, who was better, who was favored, who was stronger) happened to swing with a fist and sweep with his feet.

Down went Romano.

But.

Down went Veneziano because if one half of the Republic of Italy were to fall, then the other would be sure as hell to drag down his brother.

Punches, however uncivil and uncouth as they were, quickly devolved into animalistic howling and scratches.

Such handsome faces and warm inviting smiles were slashed with red dripping down their wounds. Their eyes were narrowed into slits; glaring was better than seeing clearly that they were both hurting, both in the wrong.

They were Nations.

And Nations never thrived on peace alone.

It was pure instinct that had Romano slamming his skull onto his Veneziano's forehead.

It was vengeance for exacting even more pain on him that had Veneziano slamming his knee into Romano's chest so that his older brother would gasp in pain.

For a moment, they stopped and regarded each other with cold eyes, trying to look for any sense of weakness.

They breathed raggedly, their shoulders were sagging under the amount of pain that they had to endure from their blows.

And then—

"I don't think the pretty ladies aren't going to like what they see if we continue on like this."

Romano threw his head back and laughed. "Veneziano, you're an idiot!"

Veneziano screwed up his face in indignation. "And you're not as handsome as you like to believe!"

"Oh, come here you—!"

Romano threw himself atop his brother and embraced him in a rough headlock and began grinding his knuckles onto his brother's head.

"Ahhh! I yield!"

And so, when Seborga finally visited the basement a few hours later ("A few girls found me cute and gave me their numbers, so screw you!"), he found them lying cuddled against each other, a look of contentment on their faces as they napped.

Perhaps not all was forgiven, but for Nations, this was as peaceful as they could get.