Work Text:
Rome, 30 November 1922
Lovino was pacing a groove into the floor, breath coming sharp and uneven, hands clenched hard enough to shake. Outside, the city felt wrong. Too loud. Too expectant. Rome didn’t usually hold its breath like this.
Feliciano stayed close. Not crowding him, not touching him, but there. Watching Lovino’s hands, his breathing, the way his eyes kept darting to the door.
“This is bad,” Lovino said. “This is really bad.” He dragged a hand through his hair, laugh thin and panicked. “I can’t… I need to get out of here.”
The words hung there, half-formed, like he didn’t expect them to mean anything.
“Just go then,” Feliciano said.
Lovino blinked at him.
Feliciano shifted closer, just enough to be unmistakable. He waited until Lovino looked at him, until his breathing hitched and slowed by a fraction. “I’ll handle things here.”
The panic didn’t vanish, but it shifted, sharp and startled. His eyes flicked to the window on reflex.
“I’m not jumping out of a window again.”
~
Mussolini arrived without ceremony. The room shifted around him, chairs scraping, voices lowering. He hadn’t fully stepped inside before Feliciano moved.
“My name is Feliciano Varo,” he said, calm and precise, with a smile on his face. “and I am the personification of Italy.”
Mussolini stopped.
Italy met his eyes and did not look away.