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“See, see, it’s about the future, and —” Veneziano cuts himself off, laughing full and bright, “Well, of course it is that’s the name but it’s about moving us into the future. Modernism.”
Germany, seated across the little table, nods. He understands that, even if he doesn’t understand art in the way Veneziano does. The push to escape the old things, towards machinery and movement and dynamism — that Germany can understand, has ever since Prussia gave him a rifle to practice with instead of a saber.
Prussia had told him, if he were to start establishing diplomatic relations then Veneziano was a good kid, a bit silly but had his heart in the right place, did I tell you about that time I helped him and his siblings unify and kicked Austria’s ass at the same time — and that had been a year ago, and from what Germany saw of Prussia’s diplomacy this wasn’t diplomacy anymore, this was —
— Veneziano enthusiastically continuing, hands moving as though to draw what he says. “And, see, it’s all about technology and cities and cars — there’s one, it’s a painting of a car but not really a car more the idea of one as it moves and how it sounds, you can see the sound of it in how it moves and how it moves over time all in the one painting — ah, you have to see it — they really like cars, so do I, do you? Y’know, they say —” his eyes turn up and his voice becomes more recitative, more melodic “— noi vogliamo inneggiare all’uomo che tiene il volante.”
“We want to sing of the man at the wheel,” Germany murmurs. His Italian is still nowhere near perfect, but it has been improving, and Veneziano beams at him. One of Veneziano’s hands slides across the table, to rest on his own, and Germany is struck by how warm it is, vital, and he can feel almost Veneziano’s heartbeat in them, alive and moving forward.
“Cars — they’re how I’ll be great,” Veneziano says, fingertips moving across the back of Germany’s hand. “Like Nonno.” He ducks his head a bit before the next words come out. “Like you.”
Germany curses himself for reddening — he’s not a child — and he answers, intelligently, “Uh?”
He’s imagining the blush on Veneziano’s cheeks. “It’s — you’ve got industry, you’re making things, you — your navy scared England!” He sighs a little. “It’s been so long since mine did. Since I really even had one.” Veneziano’s hand is still on Germany’s, and it’s distracting, but…but Germany doesn’t pull away.
“But, see, with cars — the new factory in Turin and everything — then I’ll really have something that’s not just what someone did two hundred years ago, I won’t just be the — the secondhand market of Europe anymore, I’ll really have something!” The corners of Veneziano’s mouth curl up, and Germany should not be looking at them the way he is. “I bet my cars’ll be better than yours, even.”
Germany, despite himself, and completely unplanned, smiles. “Doubt it.”
“You better not!” Laughs Veneziano. “Mine’ll be the best!” Unbidden, Germany notices that Veneziano’s palm is beneath his own, now; and unbidden, he wraps his hand around the other’s.
“But that painting,” Veneziano pipes up again, and Germany snaps his eyes from their joined hands to the man’s face, “it wasn’t just the car, you could sort of see how it was part of its surroundings even though it was the only thing you could see, they’re always saying how everything becomes everything else ‘cause nothing can’t be part of its surroundings ever. Per dipingere una figura non bisogna farla: bisogna farne l’atmosfera. You have to paint the atmosphere, not just the person.” Veneziano glances up at Germany again, fixing him with bright eyes.
Germany nods, “Go on,” and Veneziano does, voice speeding up until it seems he must trip over his own words soon.
“And — and everything’s about motion, ‘cause everything is moving, when you see a horse run they say it’s got twenty legs because moving objects multiply it’s a little weird but it makes sense, it’s like how with movies you run all the little pictures together and they move, it’s like that because profiles just run together — so they can’t paint a fixed moment because there’s no such thing as one really —” Veneziano’s one hand moves in sweeping motions, but the other one remains firmly in Germany’s. “And how there’s no such thing as time or space either, really, because there aren’t fixed moments and everything melts into everything around it. And, and it’s about speed, too, how beautiful it is to go fast, la bellezza della velocità — I mean. You know, right? What it’s like?” He squeezes Germany’s fingers, his own surprisingly strong for such slender, delicate hands.
Beneath the skin, Germany can feel the slow, steady thrum of life, of nation in Veneziano’s arteries and veins — perhaps it moves faster than it had a year ago, in industry and in anticipation of the war everyone knows is going to come sooner or later; and he wonders how it must have felt to hold Veneziano’s hand hundreds of years ago when Veneziano ruled the Mediterranean, and is that what it is now (though he knows Cavour’s death dragged the peninsula behind) with the subtle hints of gold in Veneziano’s eyes and the history filling him to the fingertips.
Germany’s mouth feels very dry.
“I do,” and it’s not a lie, and he sometimes sits in his room, thumb to the pulse point on his wrist, feeling trains and factories and the roar of the Ruhr coal plants because that means he’s strong and Prussia calls him weird for it but Prussia is so much more — more hesitant with these new things and Germany thinks he understands Veneziano’s drive, too, the need for more of that.
“You do,” Veneziano smiles, “you do. Romano doesn’t, he’s angry at me about it because the factories are all in my half — well, technically Lombardia and Toscana but, but that’s really mine now —” some catlike, self-assured joy curls itself around the edge of Veneziano’s words in his mouth and lies golden on his tongue “— and anyway, he doesn’t really understand it, not like you do — if he did, we’d be stronger. You do. You’re strong.”
Germany is completely imagining Veneziano’s eyes wandering down to Germany’s arms, his chest. He’s — he’s definitely. Imagining. It’s — it’s nothing else. The flutter and twitch and pull inside his chest, too, he imagines all of it.
What he doesn’t imagine (can’t, didn’t, he never really entertained this situation it was too far beyond him) is Veneziano, still holding his hand, stepping out of his own chair and around to Germany’s side of the table. He moves lightly, gracefully, even as he perches on the edge of the table and narrowly misses sitting on a plate, somehow even that is fluid and nearly elegant, and Germany is painfully, suddenly aware of his thick, clumsy fingers and graceless walk.
Sitting like this, Veneziano directly meets Germany’s eyes even though his feet swing short of touching the floor. “I meant that,” he says softly. The tips of his fingers brush against Germany’s palm.
“I,” Germany stutters, and “uh,” and “thank you?”
Laughing, Veneziano replies “You’re welcome!” And then he pauses, and blinks, and Germany realizes that his eyelashes are very long and dark and thick, and how does he keep them from tangling together? There is more laughter in his voice when Veneziano says “I — sorry, what were we talking about?”
“You —” Germany coughs, quickly. “About — speed.”
Veneziano moves as if to clap his hands, but instead clasps Germany’s hand between his own. “Right, yes!” And — and you can see it in everything they do, you know. In, in all the paintings everything’s just moving and alive — one of them, Boccioni, he’s — his paintings, in them the atmosphere breaks itself and everything is so, so alive and dynamic — he wrote the painter’s manifesto! — and he’s made these sculptures about dynamism too and they’re all these — these planes and it’s about trying to show movement with a thing that can’t move but you can still see where it’s been, it’s amazing and once he casts them they’ll be the best!”
His feet aren’t really brushing the floor, they’re more brushing Germany’s legs. One of them might be moving closer, or is moving closer, or had moved closer, and it’s not Germany.
— It was probably Germany, and some time he’d have to admit it, he thinks.
“They are the best,” Veneziano murmurs.
Germany nods once, “They sound really — really interesting,” and means it.
“They’re — something different,” Veneziano continues, brightening again, “and that’s really what we need is something different, something that’ll move us forward again so we can really, really — so we can be in the future and have things that’re new and exciting and powerful, they want me — us — all of Italy to be strong again and powerful and rich and —” Gold is in Veneziano’s eyes, flecked among the deep brown, and his delicate hands are strong intertwined with Germany’s, and Germany wonders for a second why his face feels hot and why Veneziano’s trailing off and why —
— also, why Veneziano’s kissing him.
That’s a — a good question.
It’s not — there’s no tongue, no force, just Veneziano and his lips pressed against Germany’s and the smell of him and the not-quite-softness of his hands, and he smells a little of the sea and a little of gunpowder and a lot of food and it’s, it’s warm, it’s comfortable even though Germany’s palms feel kind of damp and he doesn’t really know what to do about this, but that’s — that’s all right.
He’d — imagined this before, sometimes, thought what it might be like to kiss Veneziano, and sweaty palms had never figured into it, and he hadn’t known until now the exact soft, happy noise Veneziano makes when Germany hesitantly responds; he hadn’t thought it would be by a table in a cramped, less-messy-than-the-first-time-Germany-visited kitchen.
He hadn’t imagined he had so much blood in his body, either, and that it could all go to his head that fast.
When he pulls back, Veneziano lets out a little “hm” through his nose, a humming sigh that tugs at his lips. Germany tries to say — he’s not sure what, and stumbles over it so that all that comes out is a sort of sputtery noise.
Laying a hand on Germany’s cheek, Veneziano looks up at him and beams hugely, and Germany manages an “Um. So —”
“So,” Veneziano says. His hands are warm, and Germany notices a tiny bit sweaty. That’s — maybe surprising.
They hold each others’ gazes for maybe a few more seconds before Veneziano pulls back a little and adds “Besides, they’re just visually interesting,” and Germany realizes after a couple of seconds that oh, he has to respond, he has to make his voice work again, and just laughs a little. It’s not a sound he’s very used to making and it sounds a little shaky and nervous but then Veneziano starts laughing too and when he does his forehead knocks softly into Germany’s and Germany doesn’t have to think to smile.
For whatever reason, Veneziano seems to decide he doesn’t like the table. This is just a guess on Germany’s part, but Veneziano is in his lap so probablyhe thought that would be more comfortable than the table although he doesn’t really know why Veneziano would think that, but he seems to. Not that it’s not. Comfortable.
“They write, too,” Veneziano nearly chirps, hands traveling to cup Germany’s face, “more than manifestos, I mean — mostly poetry but they do plays too, really short ones, they’re — did you ever hear about Symbolism? Because they’re kind of like that, if you know Verlaine, he did that play where the first act is just a couple hugging and then the second one another man shows up and shoots them and then he says ‘I shot the wrong couple!’ and that’s the whole play, you know that one?” Veneziano frowns momentarily. “I can’t remember its name. But anyway they’re like that, they’re really short and so is the poetry, they don’t do novels ‘cause you can’t do novels short enough.”
“Some of the plays my people do are like that,” Germany says. Veneziano perks up even more.
“Really? I thought you liked the really long sort.”
“Well, they’re. They’re nice in moderation but they get — wearing. It’s nice to see variety.” Germany realizes Veneziano is staring at him with almost embarrassing attentiveness. “But anyway, the dialogue in them is sort of like the sort you were talking about — it’s all very, um, stilted.”
Veneziano giggles a little. “I didn’t know that, I thought all your stuff was really really long and everyone gives all these speeches and it goes on for days and everything is so dramatic. I didn’t know about that. Are they good, are they interesting?”
“I — yes, actually, they are, there’s a lot of things that are kind of, um, odd, and a lot of patricide and the poetry is really — dark —” — Veneziano makes a face that seems to say well, that’s not different — “— but it’s interesting and it’s a really good change.” Germany waves his hands a little, wishing he knew how to make them speak like Veneziano’s. “A lot of the poetry is about civilization collapsing, it’s not fun but it’s really interesting and there’s no description and barely any adjectives, even, it’s all about trying to get across the feeling. Sort of like the kind you were saying your people do.”
“Mm,” Veneziano says. “I think probably with mine there’s less apocalypses, though.”
“Most likely.”
“Mine are about machines a lot, mostly, but then everything is with them — I told you, right?”
Germany nods.
“If you want to live, go get a mechanical heart, inhale the red-hot blast of furnaces…” Veneziano’s eyes seem a little unfocused, distant, and his hands are still on Germany’s cheeks. Something pulls softly in Germany’s stomach (he understands that, what Veneziano said, and he doesn’t quite understand his understanding but he does) and he leans forward haltingly and presses his lips to the curve of Veneziano’s cheek. He feels, rather than sees, Veneziano break into a smile.
“…and powder your lovely face with chimney soot; then shoot a million volts into your system,” Veneziano finishes, and returns the kiss on the rise of Germany’s cheekbone. “They’re like that.”
Germany, not trusting his voice, nods again.
“I read one of the ones about cars to Romano a couple weeks ago.” Veneziano grins a little ruefully. “He said if I liked cars so much why didn’t I fuck one and then I tried to throw a fork at him but I missed.”
Despite himself, Germany snorts.
“Like I said, he doesn’t really get it. And Lombardia does but I don’t like her.”
Germany hums quietly. “I don’t think Prussia does, either — he likes it but I — I think he’s scared of it, a little.”
“Hmm,” Veneziano murmurs. “So is Romano. But I’m not, and I get scared of everything, and it’s about being strong again and I’m not afraid of that and you’re not afraid of that and you are strong, we’ll both be —” And Veneziano’s face again, close, and then soft warm lips and hands curling into his hair and Germany grips the edges of the chair in surprise and then loosens his hands enough to rest them as lightly as he can on Veneziano’s back and Veneziano sighs quietly into the kiss. His hands scratch gently at Germany’s scalp, and his shirt is soft under Germany’s fingers.
“We’ll really be strong,” Veneziano says in between brushing his lips across Germany’s. “More than anyone else, more than England or France, more even than I was once, you know,” and lips, again, and this time tongue and teeth and Germany’s head feels blurry, warm, and he wonders, briefly, if one of Veneziano’s painters painted just Germany right now would Veneziano still be there, surrounding atmosphere and pressed so close that Germany can’t breathe but also that it’s not important that he do so.
Maybe Veneziano was right that there was no such thing as one fixed moment, because Germany can’t think how long it’s been that he’s been in this chair, kissing — kissing! — Veneziano, and can’t think of any one solid instant when it passed the threshold of how long one should reasonably spend kissing anyone, only that it has and when Veneziano pulls back enough to say “D-do you think we should maybe go upstairs, would that be nice” his cheeks are flushed very pink.
Germany manages a “Yes,” and his voice is hoarse, too quiet, deep. Veneziano slides off of him but takes his hands in the process so it’s not — not a complete loss.
Halfway up the stairs, Veneziano exclaims “Oh!”
Germany startles a little, and Veneziano continues upstairs while chattering, “I forgot to tell you about this one other painting I saw, it was a dog, a little dog, and its legs are just one big blur because it’s walking so fast.” He tugs Germany down a hallway, narrow but still well-decorated (Veneziano narrowly avoids knocking into a small table with his hip) and then into Veneziano’s bedroom.
Germany has been here before, because if he stays for more than a day Veneziano insists that he stay with him, and gets lonely at night and it’s — difficult to say no to him, so he knows that Veneziano’s bed is very soft but it still surprises him when Veneziano sits him down on it and then sits onhim.
“And we could have stayed downstairs,” Veneziano chirps, “but I thought probably you’d like it better in a bed,” and if Germany had thought he was red before then he’d definitely been wrong and Veneziano is still grinning at him.
All he can say is “Ah,” which seems good enough for Veneziano, who goes in for another kiss, and another and another and —
“…Germany, your shirt’s in the way.”
It takes a little while for that sentence to arrange itself in Germany’s head, everything is still warm and soft and blurry, and what comes out of his mouth in response is “Isn’t yours too?” and he really can’t quite believe he said that, who gave his mouth authority to do that.
But then Veneziano laughs so it’s probably okay. “Yeah, it is!”
Again, Germany is not a stranger to Veneziano stripping at — inopportune times, but never quite like this and it’s definitely different and really not bad, and Veneziano’s skin is not as soft as he’d expected but it’s still soft, still warm, not still because Veneziano’s heartbeat thrums against his skin and the pressure of Veneziano in his lap is — is definitely not bad at all.
At all.
And Veneziano keeps on kissing him, keeps telling him about the paintings and how they move almost while you look at them and how the shapes repeat and move, and the poems, songs to cars and factories against Germany’s throat and collarbone and Germany can’t say anything because he understands what Veneziano’s saying in a way where he can’t speak it, he just knows, and besides Veneziano’s hands have a way of making his voice stop dead and strangle in his throat. He tries to touch Veneziano back, clumsily, so unlike the painters’ hands of Veneziano, but the other leans into the movements and smiles.
And — and his pants are undone and Veneziano’s hands are, they’re — Germany actually squeaks and Veneziano smiles again into the side of Germany’s neck, takes them both in hand, Germany’s breath stutters in his chest and he can’t seem to get it back and he reaches down as well, hand shaking slightly.
Veneziano is still speaking, albeit shakily. “The color isn’t even related to the picture half the time — I know yours does that too, it’s really interesting to see — ah — and, and il volto umano è giallo, è rosso, è verde, è azzuro, the colors we see aren’t the real ones because we’re n-not looking right at all,” and he trails off into a soft whine. Germany, meanwhile, has almost bitten right through his lip — it must be twice now; the feeling of someone else’s hands on him, someone else next to him, is buzzing through his head so loudly he can barely concentrate.
Lips against Germany’s Adam’s apple, Veneziano adds “And it is sort of related to the picture anyway it’s weird,” before letting go. Germany has to bite back a groan, but the brief pause gives him enough time to catch his breath. Veneziano is trying to sort through a drawer in his bedside table without getting off of Germany’s lap, and he pulls out a paintbrush — two bottles of tempera — several crumpled loose leaves of paper (Germany has to bite back another groan for an entirely different reason) — and finally manages to find a small jar and a paper packet.
“You’re — is this all right?” Veneziano stares up at him, and his eyes are very — very large, and Germany’s mouth is very dry, and he has to lick his lips before the “yes” can come out.
He adds, “I — yes, but I’ve never —”
Veneziano rests a hand on Germany’s chest. “But do you want to?”
“Y-yes.”
Then Veneziano starts wiggling, which feels — good but it’s weird and it takes a few seconds for Germany to realize he’s trying to get out of his pants without standing up and he sighs shortly and nudges Veneziano back to his feet, helping him pull his pants down enough to kick them off.
Veneziano fairly hops back into Germany’s lap and kisses him again. Germany tries to follow Veneziano’s motions and keep track of what, exactly, he likes; what makes Veneziano sigh into his mouth and thread the fingers of one hand into Germany’s hair again. He finds himself craning up into the kiss all of a sudden — Veneziano has raised himself up, on his knees, and his hand trails from Germany’s hair down along his neck, chest, stomach to give him a quick squeeze before going for the jar.
“But what I was saying about the colors,” Veneziano begins breathily, coating his fingers with the jar’s contents, “they’re not the colors you expect to see when you look at a thing but, they’re sort of the colors that are in the thing? If you know. Like that one painter, one of yours, with the blue horses — you look at a horse and don’t think it’d be blue but then you look at it harder and you can sort of see the blueah!”
Veneziano has reached one arm behind himself, and down, and Germany swallows heavily. He reaches forward, maybe a little less hesitant than before, to wrap his hand around Veneziano, who makes a sort of soft whine in the back of his throat and twitches forward.
Germany wonders, staring at Veneziano even though he can’t quite seem to breathe if he does that, what colors are in him, what would they see — brown, definitely, for his curly hair and round eyes and tan skin, and blue-gray-green like the ocean, the canals, and the sunlit colors of the houses on them, and gold, gold, old gold shining from behind his teeth and eyes and the tips of his fingers, the gold of power and the hope for it, and —
— red where Veneziano gasps and pushes back towards his own fingers, thighs shaking. Not blood-red but softer, fuller, filling Germany from the inside; and Veneziano pulls his hand away and settles back onto Germany’s thighs.
“They say, they say,” Veneziano half-whispers, grabbing the paper packet and opening it deftly, “le nostre sensazioni pittoriche non possono essere mormorate. We can’t keep on hiding feelings in the paintings anymore, we can’t.”
While he spoke, he had made quick work of the packet, and he quickly rolls the condom onto Germany now. Germany holds his breath while Veneziano does, and more again when he raises himself up enough to sink down onto Germany, warm and soft and tight and fluid motion, and Germany has to bite down on his tongue not to come there and then.
Veneziano kisses the corner of his mouth, hands curling on Germany’s shoulders, and Germany can barely think except this is happening and he must be staring very — embarrassingly, but that’s just not — not an issue right now when Veneziano begins to roll his hips slowly.
“And they’ll bring us forward,” Veneziano murmurs, “to — to the future, to industry, to —” Germany rests his hands on Veneziano’s waist, feels the smooth movement, and everything is his surroundings because the feeling of Veneziano in this moment is inextricable from the feeling of the wash-worn sheets beneath them or the close air around them, and there is no one solid point of time as Veneziano keeps moving, speaking breathily and interrupted by moans.
“To, to the vibrant nightly fervor of arsenals — ah, there — and shipyards blazing under violent electric moons, like before but stronger, and — oh God, mm — and le ombre che dipingeranno sarannò più luminose delle luci dei loro predecessori…”
“The shadows they paint’ll be brighter than the lights their forebears did,” Germany repeats, trying to match Veneziano’s quickening pace, and Veneziano nods and then he must do something right because Veneziano’s back curves and his nails dig into Germany’s shoulders and everything is too — too warm, too much, too much and he comes with Veneziano’s name on his lips.
He lets his head fall forward onto Veneziano’s narrow shoulder, only in part to hide his face (how could he have come so soon, is Veneziano let down, is he disappointed — but Veneziano presses his lips to his temple), and kisses the sweat from Veneziano’s neck as Veneziano strokes himself with one hand, the other running up and down Germany’s shoulderblade. When Veneziano comes, he shudders forward against Germany, and the added weight combined with Germany’s back’s sudden unwillingness to cooperate means they fall backwards with a soft thump.
Germany can’t see Veneziano’s smile, since his head is tucked into the hollow of Germany’s neck; he can only see his curly, sweat-damp hair and the tip of his nose, but he can feel it against his skin, and the run of life in Veneziano’s veins moving forward and stronger, and he can imagine the gold and the light behind it, next to those of the museums like blinding daylight to deepest night.