41. Confessional

Date Written: March 26, 2019

Date Posted: February 8, 2020

Characters: Veneziano, Romano, Vaticano

Summary: Veneziano's anger is like that of a mountain of rocks. Too many rocks and the mountain would come crumbling down. Today, Veneziano's anger overcomes him.

Notes: It has been noted in recent years that the younger generation of Italians, usually those in the north usually are not as religious as their elders. Furthermore, it appears that as time passes by, less people are defining themselves as Catholic or Christian, instead they are conforming more to a secularized world. What is most surprising, considering that Italy is home to the Vatican, is that church attendance has been rapidly declining in the past decade.

Veneziano was pissed.

It wasn't everyday that he felt this emotion. Often, if he were to feel the slightest hint of negativity, he would let such a feeling slide. Emotions were temporary and fleeting, but he could damn well hold onto happiness. The thing was, such a habit of brushing aside negativity did not prove to be a viable solution. Small irritants were cast aside like sweeping dust under the rug, bigger causes of anger made their way into the darker parts of his subconscious.

But, like all materials that were cast aside without a thought, they accumulated. Incrimently yes, but when left unchecked, the small pile of cast off negativity grew to be an unfathomable mountain of epic proportions. And when one continuously kept adding to that pile, one day… one little inconvenience… one casually thrown incident… could disrupt the fragile balance that Veneziano maintained.

And today was that day.

His morning had been going splendidly well. Cup of coffee, a handful of biscotti, and warm sun had done nothing but to lift his mood. Then, his brother came in bearing a conflicted expression and car keys. Like always, there was a customary scowl on his face as he practically shoved his brother into the passenger side.

"Romano, where—"

"Shut your mouth, stronzo. Just remember I'm doing this for your own good."

Any and all further questioning led to his brother accelerating through the streets, an endeavor that led to several pedestrians angry and drivers outraged. Knowing that his brother was probably going to start massacring innocents (not really, but it was better to be safe), the Northern Italian decided to lean back and mindlessly mutter about all the paperwork that he was supposed to do. All the while, he kept a keen eye to where his destination was.

That incident and silence was the first stone thrown upon the precarious mountain.

But, Veneziano kept smiling.

The drive was quaint and fairly uneventful.

As Romano drove, Veneziano thought that his brother was just joking with him. There was no way that Romano could have been mad at him, he had been good all week! He did his share of the household chores, his paperwork was done ahead of time, and he didn't have Germany over the weekend. What could he have possibly done to warrant such treatment from his brother? Furthermore, where were they going?

It wasn't until Veneziano lazily looked out the window to see that they were coming across a small church that was sitting lazily outside the outskirts of a small town. Upon closer inspection, it looked almost abandoned, what with the cracked stained glass windows, the rusted padlock that rested on the ground opposite the open door, and the lonely atmosphere that permeated the air. Inside, the dank air hung low and heavy around his head as Veneziano uneasily made his way inside.

"Umm, Romano?" Veneziano tiptoed past the doorway, mindful of the debris that lay on the ground. "You're not here to kill me, are you? Because I'd rather wake up at home instead of—"

And that's when Veneziano saw him.

His face was withered and wrinkled, as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his face over the past few centuries. His eyes, dark and impassive, stared at Veneziano with a knowing gaze. Veneziano fancied that he could have seen a flash of mischief enter his eyes before it was chased away by the telltale presence of paternal disappointment. Looking away from those knowing, near omnipotent eyes, Veneziano managed to spot that the Nation before him was wearing the traditional cassock meant for priests—black and with the standard thirty three buttons. The pellegrina that sat atop the Nation's shoulder flared slightly as he stood tall from his seat from one of the still standing pews.

"Veneziano…" The Italian Nation murmured softly. He held out both arms in a gesture that welcomed hugs. "It's been a while."

Stiff as a board, Veneziano silently stepped towards his relation. As he stepped, he could hear—feel—the sound of debris getting crushed under the heels of his expensive shoes. Finally, when he was merely a hair's breadth away from embracing the Nation, Veneziano stopped and regarded him coolly.

"Vaticano, I know you're here not to play nice. Just get on with it and I'll be on my way."

Behind him, Veneziano could hear Romano suck in a sharp breath. It was a disappointed sound that did little to belie how uncomfortable he was with the whole situation. Veneziano refused the urge to scream at his brother. Why should he have to feel uncomfortable? He was the one to orchestrate this meeting. He wasn't the one who had to confront this… this… This man!

A stray, ancient hand reached out and gently brushed strands of Veneziano's auburn hair away from his forehead. Much to his dismay, Veneziano realized that with that action, his hair was plastered back; he was sweating so much already.

The Micronation's face was puckered into a grimace at Veneziano's cold reception. He looked, dare Veneziano say it, hurt by his actions.

It wasn't Veneziano's fault.

Not everything was Veneziano's fault.

Yet another stone was cast onto the pile.

Veneziano took a step back and glanced at a point above the Vatican's right shoulder. "If you want to spend more time with Romano, be my guest." Veneziano faced the door. "I'll be waiting in the car."

"Veneziano!" Romano's harsh voice rang out through the open space. The acoustics were phenomenal in this small church, but Veneziano was far too busy trying to ignore the flush of angered heat that spread from the tips of his ears to his neck. "You can't just go around disrespecting—"

The Micronation held up a hand. "Peace, Romano. Why don't you go wait outside? Veneziano and I have matters to discuss."

As the sound of Romano's shoes clicked out of the church and into the afternoon air outside, Veneziano turned to face the Vatican. Although Veneziano blatantly refused to meet the older man's kind eyes, he compromised by looking at the man's greying hair, how strands of silver began to dominate some areas of his scalp.

"Would you like to sit?"

Veneziano shrugged. "This won't be long. I'll stand." A beat. "I've been going to mass once a week."

The Vatican, although a Nation through and through, gingerly navigated his way towards a pew and sat down heavily. His appearance and mannerisms were that of a human rapidly approaching their twilight years.

Veneziano bit back a sneer.

Pathetic.

"Is that all?"

"What also do you want from me?" Veneziano stuck his hands into his pockets and slumped forward, his poor posture a small rebellion within the presence of a Nation who may not have been more powerful than him, but was far more important to the Republic of Italy if anyone had a say in it. "I go to mass, I help tourists from getting lost, I don't get into fights during meetings…" North Italy's voice trailed off. Try as he might, these were merely excuses, small tokens of small things that would have appeased someone of lesser standing.

The Vatican was no such person.

"I can see the truth in your eyes, child." Veneziano flinched. "But you've neglected something important."

Veneziano squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to risk the presence of angry tears to ruin the image of an unaffected young politician. Unfortunately, that didn't stop the Vatican from rising slowly from his pew and tottering slowly towards the younger man.

"And what—"

Before Veneziano could finish, he felt a pair of arms encircle him around the width of his shoulders pulling him slightly forward, slightly downward into a hug.

"You haven't been coming down to visit me, my child. Dear Veneziano," Vaticano looked up at Northern Italy, his face searching for something in the younger man's face. "You don't have to carry burdens by yourself. Romano comes to me every so often… it's been years since I've seen you."

And it was at that moment, Veneziano glanced down at fully faced Vatican for the first time that afternoon.

If Veneziano could glance past the withered face, the silvery strands and greying sheen of hair, Veneziano could look straight into the Vatican's eyes and saw—

He saw—

He saw impossibly, deep dark eyes. Brown as the tilled fields, as impossibly ageless and eternal as his own.

Grandpa Rome's eyes.

And it was at that moment, Veneziano felt himself sink down to the floor weeping.

The mountain had toppled and crumbled into the dusty remains of old, fading memories and the residue of something that could never be remembered.

Romano should have never brought him to this place.