[fic][hetalia] The Drawing Board
Apr. 29th, 2009 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenI BLAME THE DRUGS.
When someone knocked on the doors of his dark, cluttered apartments that morning in May, Michelangelo lunged forward with a great garbled gag. He had fallen asleep with his brush in his mouth. He bit down as he shot from the floor. The taste of dust and rotten eggs was thick in his mouth as he trundled warily to the door.
“Who is there,” he rasped hoarsely, hands firmly on the bolts. He didn’t wait for a reply. “I told that man I would take no visitors!” Some, perhaps, would foolishly leave the windows open and welcome all the merry potential patrons and admirers. Not Michelangelo. Michelangelo was not a man to give quarter to Bramante’s spies.
“Too late,” drawled a voice from behind. “You took too long getting to the door. And you smell awful. You might have at least combed your beard.”
Michelangelo whirled back with a shout. His workshop was as he left it, scattered with canvases and benches and stones. But with one difference: where it had been empty and bolted against interference not a moment ago, he now had a visitor, and that visitor’s shadow stretched long in the dim light that trailed through the cracks in the boarded windows.
The artist clutched his chest. His fear, perhaps, had not been entirely so warranted. The speaker proved little more than a child of seven or eight, wearing the white of an altar boy. He had tucked his arms behind his back like a man of great importance, his strong eyebrows knit in irritation on his plump putti’s face, framed by a mess of dark curls.
“And you should speak better of Il Papa,” snapped the boy, raising his chin with an impudence that Michelangelo took only from his own self. “He is ‘His Holiness’ to you. You should be glad he has given you this second chance. I told him it would be a mistake. I said he should get Leonardo.”
The name ‘Leonardo’ snapped the artist from his momentary stupor. He was being lectured on gratitude by a mere child. A child who had crept into his apartments unannounced, a clear ploy, but by whom for a moment he wondered. Still, in the end there was no doubt who was at the heart of this. That name was a clear attempt to divert his attention from the true mastermind out for his disgrace.
“And Rafaello has sunk to a new low if he thinks that this-”
A pair of tiny hands tugged upon the stained hem of his shirt. The oration he had mustered was cut short. “But brother! You have said that Signore Buonarotti is the finest artist of the age!”
This voice tinkled like a bell. A second child flounced ahead of him, smaller still—about five—head covered in the light bonnet of a young servant girl. At the sight of her the cranky putti in front of them scowled deeper, as though the very sight of her further offended his touchy sensibilities.
“Oh be quiet, Veneziano! What did I tell you!”
“You said that Signore Buonarotti had come back to do your ceiling, and that you would show me his cartoons.”
“And you will not see a thing if you do not behave!”
“Ah, Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa!” cried the girl, clasping her hands in front of her chest in the most devout of apology. Her eyes wandered quickly off to one of the skins set along the wall. “Oooh…”
The boy stuck his chin out further. “Eh, you!” he said to the artist. “You had best show us!”
“What is THIS!” roared the sculptor, as the little girl shot off across the workshop. “Who are you to order me? Who are you in the first place? Whoever you may be, I shall have you know that I am the finest artist that this country has ever known. I have returned to this wretched city at great risk to my person and my dignity. I care for no one’s bastards--”
“Who are you calling a bastard?”
“Yes, yes we do know you! You are right!” bubbled the girl, coming to a stop. She leaned in, her mass of petticoats rendering her with the plumage of a white little hen. She picked one of the slashed sheets off of the floor. It was as large as she was. “I like this one.”
“-and I did not return to do anyone’s ceiling. And certainly not yours!” continued Michelangelo. He swiped up one of his chisels as the boy made to inspect it. “I came to finish the tomb and that is what I will do! This ceiling is a mere diversion. Bramante, seeking to make mockery of me-”
“This one is nice too—but have you thought of the colors?”
“Veneziano stop that! Always about the colors!” he snapped this last part up at the artist, as though seeking commiserations for all the troubles in his life but then, remembering his place in this argument, he stood on his toes and pointed. “For a genius, you are very dense.”
Michelangelo crossed his arms. “And for a child, you have nerve!”
“You need to put something up there!” The boy lept onto one of the benches, to stand as tall as he could. This brought him to about midway up the artist’s chest. He spread his arms, mapping out a great square with his modest span. “Something that will show God’s glory to all the world—and here you are, fumbling over designs and making Il Papa angry. He is not a patient man. What was so bad about putting the apostles up there anyway? The tomb can come later. What is taking you now?”
It was enough to hear such nagging from Julius. “I am no painter.”
“No?” cried the girl. “But Signore—”
“Do not touch that!”
“VENEZIANO,” barked her brother, leaping from the table. “What did I say?”
The artist made chase. “Where do you think you are going!”
“Oh!” It was too late. The girl tripped on the handle of one of the knives, making three careening hops backwards before steadying herself against a stool. The stool, and all the scrolls piled upon it, came down on her as she landed on her plush rump.
“You are so stupid!” The boy stood over her. She reached out a feeble hand for assistance, braced up shakily on the other.
“I am sorry. I only wanted to see…”
“Fine, fine.” Her brother stuck out a hand, staring firmly at a wall, as though that might detach him from this whole business.
Michelangelo stopped dead. His arms dropped to his side. He stared for a moment, at the two children, lit by the sliver of light that flowed from under the door. “My God…” His voice was barely a whisper. “Angels, Angels sent from God.”
The boy looked up from knocking the girl on her bonnet. “Eh?”
“Signore Buonarotti?”
Michelangelo crossed himself. “That is it.”
Historical Notes (for a fic this short?!)
-'That man' is Pope Julius II, the notorious 'warrior pope' who happened to thrive on little controversial things like leading armies into battle, tearing down 1000 year old relics, and excommunicating the whole of Bologna for not doing what he wanted them to do. He was all about doing big grand things in the name of Rome, having taken his name not from Pope Julius I, but Julius Ceasar. He was sort of hardcore. To this end, he had a taste for the BIG and the INTIMIDATING and commissioned many art pieces to that end...
-such as the building of the new Saint Peter's Basilica! Fronted by the famed Bramante Which had in earlier years been a huge sore point for Michelangelo, when this project wound up putting his commission for Julius' tomb on the back burner and placed Bramante at the head of all Papal art endeavors. Michelangelo didn't exactly take that well.
-...seeing as how here, in the spring of 1508, he's just been called back to Rome after fleeing on the belief that Bramante was out to get him. Upon his return, he was disappointed to discover he was NOT expected to complete the tomb. But rather was put on another project, one he was convinced was a ploy from his rising contemporaries to humiliate him.
Note: Michelangelo was so paranoid about Bramante that he TORE DOWN A WHOLE SCAFFOLDING and built whole a new one from scratch. Because he thought Bramante might have him killed.
-That project, was of course, the Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. One of the most iconic panels of it being The Creation of Man"
When someone knocked on the doors of his dark, cluttered apartments that morning in May, Michelangelo lunged forward with a great garbled gag. He had fallen asleep with his brush in his mouth. He bit down as he shot from the floor. The taste of dust and rotten eggs was thick in his mouth as he trundled warily to the door.
“Who is there,” he rasped hoarsely, hands firmly on the bolts. He didn’t wait for a reply. “I told that man I would take no visitors!” Some, perhaps, would foolishly leave the windows open and welcome all the merry potential patrons and admirers. Not Michelangelo. Michelangelo was not a man to give quarter to Bramante’s spies.
“Too late,” drawled a voice from behind. “You took too long getting to the door. And you smell awful. You might have at least combed your beard.”
Michelangelo whirled back with a shout. His workshop was as he left it, scattered with canvases and benches and stones. But with one difference: where it had been empty and bolted against interference not a moment ago, he now had a visitor, and that visitor’s shadow stretched long in the dim light that trailed through the cracks in the boarded windows.
The artist clutched his chest. His fear, perhaps, had not been entirely so warranted. The speaker proved little more than a child of seven or eight, wearing the white of an altar boy. He had tucked his arms behind his back like a man of great importance, his strong eyebrows knit in irritation on his plump putti’s face, framed by a mess of dark curls.
“And you should speak better of Il Papa,” snapped the boy, raising his chin with an impudence that Michelangelo took only from his own self. “He is ‘His Holiness’ to you. You should be glad he has given you this second chance. I told him it would be a mistake. I said he should get Leonardo.”
The name ‘Leonardo’ snapped the artist from his momentary stupor. He was being lectured on gratitude by a mere child. A child who had crept into his apartments unannounced, a clear ploy, but by whom for a moment he wondered. Still, in the end there was no doubt who was at the heart of this. That name was a clear attempt to divert his attention from the true mastermind out for his disgrace.
“And Rafaello has sunk to a new low if he thinks that this-”
A pair of tiny hands tugged upon the stained hem of his shirt. The oration he had mustered was cut short. “But brother! You have said that Signore Buonarotti is the finest artist of the age!”
This voice tinkled like a bell. A second child flounced ahead of him, smaller still—about five—head covered in the light bonnet of a young servant girl. At the sight of her the cranky putti in front of them scowled deeper, as though the very sight of her further offended his touchy sensibilities.
“Oh be quiet, Veneziano! What did I tell you!”
“You said that Signore Buonarotti had come back to do your ceiling, and that you would show me his cartoons.”
“And you will not see a thing if you do not behave!”
“Ah, Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa!” cried the girl, clasping her hands in front of her chest in the most devout of apology. Her eyes wandered quickly off to one of the skins set along the wall. “Oooh…”
The boy stuck his chin out further. “Eh, you!” he said to the artist. “You had best show us!”
“What is THIS!” roared the sculptor, as the little girl shot off across the workshop. “Who are you to order me? Who are you in the first place? Whoever you may be, I shall have you know that I am the finest artist that this country has ever known. I have returned to this wretched city at great risk to my person and my dignity. I care for no one’s bastards--”
“Who are you calling a bastard?”
“Yes, yes we do know you! You are right!” bubbled the girl, coming to a stop. She leaned in, her mass of petticoats rendering her with the plumage of a white little hen. She picked one of the slashed sheets off of the floor. It was as large as she was. “I like this one.”
“-and I did not return to do anyone’s ceiling. And certainly not yours!” continued Michelangelo. He swiped up one of his chisels as the boy made to inspect it. “I came to finish the tomb and that is what I will do! This ceiling is a mere diversion. Bramante, seeking to make mockery of me-”
“This one is nice too—but have you thought of the colors?”
“Veneziano stop that! Always about the colors!” he snapped this last part up at the artist, as though seeking commiserations for all the troubles in his life but then, remembering his place in this argument, he stood on his toes and pointed. “For a genius, you are very dense.”
Michelangelo crossed his arms. “And for a child, you have nerve!”
“You need to put something up there!” The boy lept onto one of the benches, to stand as tall as he could. This brought him to about midway up the artist’s chest. He spread his arms, mapping out a great square with his modest span. “Something that will show God’s glory to all the world—and here you are, fumbling over designs and making Il Papa angry. He is not a patient man. What was so bad about putting the apostles up there anyway? The tomb can come later. What is taking you now?”
It was enough to hear such nagging from Julius. “I am no painter.”
“No?” cried the girl. “But Signore—”
“Do not touch that!”
“VENEZIANO,” barked her brother, leaping from the table. “What did I say?”
The artist made chase. “Where do you think you are going!”
“Oh!” It was too late. The girl tripped on the handle of one of the knives, making three careening hops backwards before steadying herself against a stool. The stool, and all the scrolls piled upon it, came down on her as she landed on her plush rump.
“You are so stupid!” The boy stood over her. She reached out a feeble hand for assistance, braced up shakily on the other.
“I am sorry. I only wanted to see…”
“Fine, fine.” Her brother stuck out a hand, staring firmly at a wall, as though that might detach him from this whole business.
Michelangelo stopped dead. His arms dropped to his side. He stared for a moment, at the two children, lit by the sliver of light that flowed from under the door. “My God…” His voice was barely a whisper. “Angels, Angels sent from God.”
The boy looked up from knocking the girl on her bonnet. “Eh?”
“Signore Buonarotti?”
Michelangelo crossed himself. “That is it.”
Historical Notes (for a fic this short?!)
-'That man' is Pope Julius II, the notorious 'warrior pope' who happened to thrive on little controversial things like leading armies into battle, tearing down 1000 year old relics, and excommunicating the whole of Bologna for not doing what he wanted them to do. He was all about doing big grand things in the name of Rome, having taken his name not from Pope Julius I, but Julius Ceasar. He was sort of hardcore. To this end, he had a taste for the BIG and the INTIMIDATING and commissioned many art pieces to that end...
-such as the building of the new Saint Peter's Basilica! Fronted by the famed Bramante Which had in earlier years been a huge sore point for Michelangelo, when this project wound up putting his commission for Julius' tomb on the back burner and placed Bramante at the head of all Papal art endeavors. Michelangelo didn't exactly take that well.
-...seeing as how here, in the spring of 1508, he's just been called back to Rome after fleeing on the belief that Bramante was out to get him. Upon his return, he was disappointed to discover he was NOT expected to complete the tomb. But rather was put on another project, one he was convinced was a ploy from his rising contemporaries to humiliate him.
Note: Michelangelo was so paranoid about Bramante that he TORE DOWN A WHOLE SCAFFOLDING and built whole a new one from scratch. Because he thought Bramante might have him killed.
-That project, was of course, the Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. One of the most iconic panels of it being The Creation of Man"
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Date: 2009-05-01 02:16 am (UTC)