28. Sketch Onto Canvas

Date Written: February 26, 2019

Date Posted: September 14, 2019

Characters: Veneziano, Romano

Summary: Veneziano finds himself a little free time after hours of working.

Notes:

Sometimes, Veneziano would find himself with nothing to do.

Those times were rare; Nations were expected to fill out their share of the paperwork, attend meetings (national or otherwise), and any other number of tasks that their bosses saw fit to entrust them. It really came as a surprise when he found an empty inbox, his pile of paperwork only a few centimeters high, and his energy still at its peak.

That was strange, he thought to himself. Even on his most productive days, he still only managed to fulfill a quarter of his duties. Mystified, the auburn haired Italian happened to glance at an analog clock that rested on the top of his desk before silently cursing.

Of course! No wonder he finished so surprisingly early—he had managed to not only miss his customary siesta and lunch, but also his dinner! Now that he thought about it, his stomach had been growling at him for some time now… Was that the reason why he felt so lightheaded at times for the past few hours?

Well, those thoughts and his paperwork could wait until tomorrow, which meant…

Time to celebrate!

With just a bit of a hop in his footsteps, he practically skipped to his kitchen. It was still in the early throes of evening, but his poor stomach wouldn't let him entertain thoughts of concocting food that would take ages to make. It only took a second of deliberation before he decided on making one of his acclaimed meals.

Polenta!

Yes, he would make polenta, drink some of his wine, and get some well needed rest…

After centuries of practicing his cooking and perfecting his techniques, a bowl of his favorite food was prepared and he immediately dug in. There was no need for propriety; the Italian dove into the bowl like a man starved. He may or may not have managed to burn his tongue and scald the back of his throat, but who cared? His belly was full, strength renewed, and best of all, he didn't have to worry about his duties!

Well, at least for a day or two.

Mind in a frenzy, Italy began to head over to one of the rooms that no one ever bothered to enter. It was a fairly standard room with old paintings hanging on the walls, old sketches scattered all over the surface of his table. On the drawers and within the cabinets, there was an array of paints and paintbrushes. Centuries had given him time to play and experiment with the tools of his trade.

However, he wouldn't get straight to painting.

Oh no.

There were only so many hours left before he would stop, but he wasn't going to tarnish his celebratory mood by just mindlessly diving into a new piece.

He trotted the expanse of the room, footsteps as light as a ballerina. After a moment's deliberation, he came to a halt and took a sheaf of old documents and treaties not worth mentioning. He carelessly flipped through them before he unceremoniously dropped them onto one of his work tables.

Pencil in hand, he began to sketch something that he had been imagining for the past few weeks. Whenever he had the urge to paint, it was best if he got all of his ideas scratched out onto paper. He may not have been a perfectionist like Germany or Austria, but he knew that there was something indescribably satisfying to put brush to canvas and just instantly breath life into an idea he had.

At first, his sketch was merely a ghost of the true picture. Scratching and almost hesitant, the sketch quickly darkened and became emboldened as Italy began to shade and breathe life into his picture. It was hard work, but it was the only hard work that he loved.

After almost half an hour of sketching to his heart's content, he leaned back in his chair and held his sketch to the light.

Ah, he breathed. He could practically see the colors complementing each other, the masterful brushstrokes that only centuries' worth of practice could achieve. He had a feeling that this little sketch of his would be brilliant. Now, all he had to do was transfer the sketch onto canvas and—

His cell phone, which he left in the pocket of his pants vibrated.

He happily picked up. "Romano? It's so great—"

"Go to sleep, stupid."

"But it's so—"

"Don't pull the 'oh, so early' thing again, you dumbass! Your neighbor is getting worried that you've been working yourself to the bone again!" There was a rustling on Romano's side of the phone, as if he was busy huddling into the covers. "She's been calling me the past couple of days and it's been getting really annoying."

Veneziano smiled despite the bite in his brother's words. "Ah, did you ask Signora Maria to keep an eye on me? I thought her giving me the eyes was just flirtation."

Veneziano could practically hear his brother roll his eyes at him. "Don't flatter yourself. Now," his voice deepened to a commanding intonation, "do yourself, but mostly me, a favor and get some rest."

Just when the younger Italian was about to tell him a decisive "no", a traitorous yawn slipped out of his lips. Even with his trying to stifle it, his brother still happened to have exceptional hearing.

"Veneziano…"

"Fine, I'll try to get some rest."

"You're lying. I can practically smell your sin from all the way down here."

"I will! I just want to finish a lovely painting—I just finished a few preliminary sketches—and I just need a couple more hours—"

"Venezia," It was a small word, unassuming and small, but now it held an indeterminate amount of meaning cultivated over the years. Instantly, Veneziano sighed and began to walk out of his special art room.

"Fine."

"Great." A pause. "Now good night."

A sigh. "I'll see you tomorrow."