angel;

it is a pleasant afternoon, like many others as europe comes closer and closer to summer. francesco has decided on not gracing the atelier of sasso corbaro ( nor ludwig's, for that matter ) with his presence today, instead choosing to spend a day on the town. a day to himself, to absorb the routine of the folk that live in bellinzona. perhaps that would give him some inspiration for pieces that reflected his current surroundings more than his aching for home. 

he recognizes beautiful features on a woman from a distance. he has never spoken to her personally, but he knows of who she is. the landgravine of leuchtenberg is the woman matthias should be impregnating instead of his sister, that is his first assessment. but more than that, she is the woman he has heard nothing but good things of. 

the bustle in the kitchen can be heard from hallway as francesco walks past it, smells of roasted meats filling the air all the way to the young noble, whose stomach turns slightly with the prospect of enjoying a delightful and prosperous meal after a day of rather physical labor.

piero's chamberlain leaves the staff to their own as they set up plates and other cutlery in the dining hall. francesco stops him on his way out, and after brief conversation, sends him to tend to various others businesses as he takes the responsibility of summoning the court of firenze for supper. 

arrogant smiles are a dime a dozen in this place, so richard has been quick to find out. but francesco de medici’s smile is pleasant enough to pass off as boyish, largely in thanks to his pristine features and the youthfulness that still clings to it. it makes him appear less of a threat and more of a player, one who plucks strings in… various ways, come to think of it.

offhanded amusement wanders across his lips. “i do forget,” the male comments, sarcasm dripping with every pronounced word, “that not all the world has the privilege of being ruled only by … families, is it not? dare i say, the differences between italy and the rest of the world might not be as striking as you think it to be?”

a smirk curls at the edge of his mouth as he takes in every nuisance of francesco’s face. he’s not blind to beautiful men, as unexpectedly difficult to find as they might be. the remark is teasing enough to, indeed, hold richard’s attention —for the moment, that is. “i am suddenly beginning to see your country’s obsession over their art scene. if everyone at home is like you, then italy must be a ravishing place indeed.”

an impish grin twitches at the corner of his mouth as his gaze falls on the painter again. “it would be remiss of me not to ask an artist when he’s standing right before me, so —what’s the worst piece you ever created, and how did you discard it?”

francesco finds himself to be as seemingly confident as the next noble, sure, but what others lack in true confidence, he makes up for. he trusts himself to be a great man ( and astonishingly beautiful while at that ) in ways that many can only pretend to be. 

"trust me, darling, i am well aware of the similarities between my home and... our neighbors," he almost scoffs at the mention of the other nations. they all could even boil down to being ruled by familial power, birthright and what not, but firenze was better ruled. not because of who ruled it, but because of what is being ruled. "perhaps the difference is not where you think it is." he teases, a mischevious smirk shown. 

franci takes the compliment. he can imagine the man is interested in the italian arts, of course, but he would be more than delighted to present him to the scene of italian artists. "it is way more than ravishing. it is world shattering," he proposes, one eyebrow raised as he pays attention to the others reaction. 

"i have never discarded a piece, however horrendous it may have been, i suppose my status gave it some value to whomever." francesco shrugs. he has no problem giving his poorest pieces or meaningless drafts to people who ask for it. "i suppose i give them away to whomever wants them." years ago, when he still learned his way into the arts, two or three projects would be given randomly. nowadays, as he is much more meticulous and skilled, it is rare for francesco to discard a painting, however unpleasing it may look to him. perhaps historians will see it in another light in the future. perhaps they will be inspiration for artists generations to come. 

the man showed a marked improvement with his second shot. if it was simeon who had found himself getting hustled, the morning would have taken an interesting turn indeed. “i would go so far as to say it is impressive,” simeon commented. he lined up for his own attempt, but his body felt uncooperative from his stance. there was a certainty that accompanied it: his arrow would not fly how he wanted. 

he took his shot, and it was less accurate than even his last one, hitting nearer to the edge of the target than he would have liked. if this was a battlefield, he might find himself dead then. a curse left his tongue, far more annoyed at himself than he would have liked. if this was a battlefield, he would find himself dead again. this was not a battlefield, he reminded himself. 

he turned back toward the man. “what is your question then?” 

francesco shows a pleased smirk on his feature. he is, indeed, pleased with the result of his shot. it was far better than he thought himself capable, specially after years without even the slight training. i suppose there are things the body does not forget, perhaps for its own protection. 

he is honestly surprised, however, to see where the man's arrow lands on the target. he settles for taking as granted that the man is a better swordsman than an archer. 

only one question worth asking graces his mind. the other would be too foul to ask without context. "who was the late prince of bely to you, sir?"

There is a part of Lucia, however small, that envies Francesco. What a glorious life he must lead, to act and do as he pleases, to be the cause of rumour and never have to lift a finger to put an end to them. To never have faced hardship, not in the way that Lucia had. She had blamed Piero for her fate once, though over the years, she had learned to make the best of it. She had learned to love him, but she would never learn to love his family. She did not belong to them, after all. No matter how many children she birthed with the name, they would never see her as Medici. 

It is curious, she thinks, how one family can breed such different attitudes to The lord. Where Giovanna and Giulio were irritatingly pious, Francesco and Piero were far more apathetic. They came nowhere near to Lucia’s hatred of Catholicism, her burning desire to tear the Vatican apart brick by brick, but it was better than dealing with a simpering, holy sycophant. “There is only so long one can stare at a window. Shall we go?” She suggested, half-rising to her feet and awaiting his consent before moving further. “Will I?” She asks. “I am not certain if that is meant to be a reassurance or a threat, anymore. Tell me, do you share your sister’s nonsensical concerns for the future of Florence? Or would you put yourself in Piero’s place?” 

it is true - medici money has always allowed francesco to do what he pleases, yes. it does not mean he did all with little care for the repercussions. money could help keep people quiet or compliant, but it did not erase facts or reputations. because of that, however brave and confident he may be, francesco de medici is also careful in his endeavors. he will not put the name of his family on the line, nor his own. it may not seem like he thinks that way, but there is too much to loose. he will protect his family's image, and despite some thinking otherwise, that includes lucia. after all, a mother of a medici is a medici nonetheless, much like his mother agatuccia was. 

francesco nods, scooting towards the end of the bench and standing before he nods again and sets foot out of the chapel. he could have spent more time analyzing the details of the building, not that singular window alone, but the many other details present. however, the conversation had taken a turn that begged for a different setting. a threat? to lucia? francesco would never be that imprudent nor did he have any ambition that would conflict with the woman's own. he may be aware of her and his sister's disagreements, but in spite of that, he remains a man uninterested by the world of politics. "i worry about firenze as much as the next citizen, lucia. i do not have any concern about my brother's aptitude. he will see that firenze thrives, of that i am sure," he assures the woman, firmly. he has never and will never get in the way of piero's duties as grand duke. it is his birthright and his fate, and from where francesco stands, piero is a capable leader, standing besides a capable wife.

“Swiss art is… lacking in some areas I dare say, with no ill intent towards our most gracious host of course,” Ippolita laughed a little. Nothing quite compared to Italy, and nothing likely ever would. She is biased, of course, but with a country as fair as the one she is of, how could she not be?

“Ah,” she acknowledges lightly, “You may have to offer me more detail, I fear there are many dark and brooding men around these parts.” It is a comment thrown lightly, in jest, but Ippolita does hope that Franci will give her more answers. (At the very least if she knows who has captured his interest so she can avoid him incurring anyone’s ire in the process.)

“Little that would interest you I fear.” The words are drawled slowly, “I cannot sully the good name of the House of Sforza, so I have taken to the womanly arts of reading French literature in the library, composing endless pieces of music, and speaking to people my father would have frowned upon.” 

in all honesty, the swiss renaissance doesn't differ much from the italian when looked at from afar. intelligent, forward thinking men and women led the way, much like in the city states below, but to francesco, his neighbors lacked what firenze had to spare - the charm. that is something he will not take lightly. "you are the most right, they lack our charisma, do you not think so?"

"what can i say, dear?" he trails off, trying to think of the man he spoke of. he had many defining traits, sure, but not many were so distinct. "he seemed as if he'd seen death, i suppose, but he wasn't aggressive. not towards me." francesco explains and is ready to leave it at that before he remembers another detail. "oh - he spoke of the late prince of bely with some... intent." he isn't sure if ippolita has met or heard of this man, but perhaps she would be of assistance.

“imagine how many people we may upset,” giovanna laughed, taking his face into her hands as she laughed - a noise reserved for her twin. though she had not been one for outright scandal, giovanna was once known for adorning the halls of firenze’s famous buildings; her face masked by muses of ages long gone, of sirens and princesses with pets on their lap. giovanna had enjoyed it once, but the early signs of pregnancy had plagued the lady of tuscany with sickness - her bouts vicious and almost paralyzing as she found the utmost comfort lying horizontal with water and lavender crushed upon her temples. with the knowledge of keeping her twin on her side, giovanna fell into the chair behind, fingers playing with a few strands of her hair as she looked up to francesco with adoration and slight brooding. he would have to remain politically aware if he was to stand by piero’ side, especially now she had shaken their brother and his wife’s confidence in her. “i know you won’t embarrass our people!” giovanna laughed once more, crossing her uncles beneath waves of silk as she crossed her arms against her chest. “i did not mean it like that, il mio gemello più dolce! i suppose i can’t tell you to not get into trouble anymore, can i?” 

upsetting the right people is one of francesco's favorite pastimes. upsetting the wrong people, however, is something he will refrain from doing. his image is far too important, far too well groomed for him to take any chances with it. the sound of giovanna's laugh mix with his own and that is all the encouragement he needs to make a mental note to start preparations on that project. giovanna relaxed like this brings ease to francesco's heart, and for a second he is able to forget the troubles they just spoke of. there's no war, no king maximillian to worry about, nothing but the gleeful sound of the twins' laugh. "i know you did not mean it like that, cara sorella, don't worry. i suppose i will remain poised. there is enough going on to last a lifetime, is that not true?" he isn't accusatory in his tone, of course, he would never. he's almost playful, making light of a otherwise worrisome subject. "i must admit, gio, i had thought it would always be you standing by my side when i got into trouble." francesco laughs, himself relaxing against the back of the chair, one leg crossing over the other. 

it was unusual to be subjected to such intense scrutinizing. not even at court, when he stood in front of hundreds of nobles, did he find the same attention that this young artist bestowed so easily. it was difficult for richard to be bereft of speech but this time around, the older man found himself slightly startled: a feat which was not easily managed.

“you can support in silence. is that not what our good kings and queens do?” his voice dripped with thinly-veiled irony as he continued to keep his gaze fixated on the arches. richard’s brows furrowed before returning his attention to the younger male as he spoke, the ghost of something unreadable flickering across his features, “ — witty, aren’t you? i’ll give you that. but it’s easy to attract attention.” he grinned again before gesturing towards the arches once more, as if to prove a point. “… but more difficult to keep it, no?”

the question was a good one even if richard couldn’t say for sure if it was entirely warranted. he’d spoken with no care and now found himself pondering how to keep the lightheartedness of the conversation going without complicating matters. “your words imply there is a good side of mine. how disappointed would you be if i were to say there’s none?”

uncrossing his arms, he allowed the grin to fade into something more serious though it was soon replaced by his usual, charming demeanour. “so what exactly does an artist do?”

"i must admit i'm not as well versed as you might be in the matter of kings and queen, for there are none where i am from." italy is different than most places. there isn't a sole ruler of the land, there is no man to dictate right and wrong in all cities of the peninsula. francesco thinks that to be a great deal. piero is grand duke of firenze, ludovico was of milan ( god knows who'll take his place ), and so forth. the sense of independence is what keeps the peninsula thriving, at least from his point of view. there is no need to want to govern as largely as possible if you cannot manage a small city in the first place. that was the case with many kings and emperors. 

francesco smirks. he is the attention, there is nothing to be kept. "dear, i have no trouble keeping people interested, i will tell you that."

the man doesn't give off a mysterious aura, by any means, and still, his words come across as if he has something to hide. franci's instinct isn't to distance himself, au contraire, he earns to know more, even if only what the man wants him to know. "i would not be, sir. i would be delighted." his voice is teasing, luring, even. 

She knew Francesco would’ve been soft with the news, that he’d stand by her side throughout it all. At least they may be beside one another if there was to be nothing else - or so she hoped, as she stroked her brother’s hair and kissed his head. She could only imagine the terror that would follow with her new and surprising pregnancy. How Max, the King of Germany and the heathen of the Catholic world would rain down his anger and wroth to the couple who had only ever loved. She twisted her fingers around Francesco’s hair, listening as she chose instead to talk of his painting and his various talents. She knew that soon he’d be up to trouble, as she had done, but at least he was saved from her complications. “I would adore that, you could paint me as Feronia? Roman goddess of fertility and health - imagine the scandal! Also, perhaps it’d be some good luck for the actual act… Since I won’t have the chance to actually celebrate,” Giovanna mused, “What do you plan to do with your time here though, Franci? Without me. Your place at court is important, and we must make sure Firenze’s wellbeing as at the forefront of everything.” 

Lucia breathes out in a sigh, her back straight, her chin help up as she gazed at him. Perhaps in a different life, a different Lucia could have befriended the Medici family. The younger, softer Lucia, who still had a family of her own could have been the type of woman they wanted to be wed to their brother, but that girl had long since died. Instead, they were forced to live in this tense sort of coexistence. It was no easy way to be. 

“Humility,” she repeated. She almost wants to scoff at the word, but instead, she tore her eyes from his face, and settled back to look at the window. “Yes. Our church has long ago forgotten what it is to be humble.” Though from what she knew of Lutherans, it was certainly not a trait they possessed, either. But that was the thing with religion, wasn’t it? They prayed to a God who, more than likely, did not exist, while men with inflated egos claimed their will was the same as said God. And what was worse was they all went along with it. “Perhaps they simply believe there is a time and a place for it,” she reasoned. “As there is a time and a place for everything. Is that a lesson you think you have learned, Francesco?” Her question was gentle, but the intent behind it was plentiful. Will you embarrass us here in Switzerland, Francesco? Do I need to keep you on a leash, Francesco? 

francesco has a hard time separating the woman he sees in front of him now and the woman he first met. back then, lucia was even more withdrawn than she is now, colder, less approachable, even to piero. franci disliked her marriage to his brother, for he thought piero deserved better than being wed to a woman who did not want to be married to him. but time flies, and francesco can see the glimmer in his brother's eyes when he talks of lucia and their children. it's what makes francesco like her. at the end of the day, despite anyone's opinion, franci knows what he is - a medici, through and through. 

so long as they were saying irina trubetskaya — so long as people, even those as far removed as the nobleman, thought she might have some connection, however bare, however uncertain. ( there only needed to be the smallest doubt, but it could grow. away from pavel, away from himself, and toward the witch. ) his father might finally be good for something, at least. simeon let out a hum. “that is answer enough.” his words, this time, were less harsh. 

he gestured to the distant targets. “again?”

his reaction is interesting. his words come softer than previously, and francesco gets the feeling that he is somewhat pleased with his answer. he truly can not care less about the fate of this man he so rarely hears of, but if it makes his new acquaintance ( can he even call this man that? ) satisfied, then it is enough for him as well. "right, again."

“yes,” he answered. “ask what you want if you succeed.”

the man was far more accurate than simeon had expected. it made the agreement all the more interesting — he did not want to stand beside someone who would only ever miss. simeon picked up his own bow, feeling the weight of it in his hands. in truth, he was not much better of a shot. archery, with all its emphasis on delicate accuracy, had always been an uninteresting thing for him to grasp. 

all the same, he let his arrow fly, and it hit only a breath closer to the center than the other. simeon turned back to the man, the smallest hint of a smile on his features at his ( minor, brief ) victory. 

“prince pyotr of bely — who are they saying killed him?” 

The man is good, yes. Francesco thought he would be better, in all honesty, but perhaps he excels in other athletic activities. Perhaps he's more trained in sword combat. Who knows. It is only their first round, after all. 

admiration gleaming in another’s eyes was easy for richard to spot and this man seemingly had rapture in abundance which was quite a breath of fresh air in this place. and surely, there was beauty to be found within these castle walls: that he could not deny. but the simpleness of one man observing his surroundings had his grin widen considerably. it seemed only few cared to do so thus the younger immediately had the jester’s full attention.

pushing himself off the wall, richard moved to stand next to francesco before raising his head to see what he’d previously admired so intently, arms loosely crossed in front of his chest. “so am i right to assume you’re just an avid supporter of architecture, or…?”

he whistled, amusement crinkling his eyes at the other’s words. only an overconfindent italian could ever speak in such a way! it was solely for that reason richard decided he liked the younger’s feisty attitude. “who said anything about accomplishments? maybe i simply wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” he sniggered before withdrawing his gaze from the arches to focus on the artist next to him again. “i am the stuff of a noble’s nightmares. unless you get on my good side, that is.” the words were accompanied by a teasing wink before he focused on the arches once more with curiosity splattered across his features.

Francesco is an admirer of many things. Amongst his favorite are architecture and men. He is delighted to find one lead to another in such unexpected ways. As the stranger joins by his side, he intently scans his features as he examines the arches. Delicate and strong features alike - there aren't many men out there who possess the perfect balance of them. 

"I would not say a supporter, perhaps more of a...," Francesco trails off, looking for the perfect word. That's the thing about him, he would rather remain silent than say the wrong thing. "A lover is to put it too simply, but a supporter... would that not imply I put money into the craft? I do not," he leaves the question somewhat unanswered. He supposes the man isn't the most interested in the details of Francesco's relation with architecture. If he is, they could find a more comfortable place to discuss it. 

"Is the fact that I have gotten you interested in the first place already an accomplishment, however small?" He debates, playfully snarky as usual, perhaps flirtatious in small amount (for now). He laughs at the other's words. It is rare for one speak in such a way of themselves, but Francesco enjoys the man's honesty. At least he appears to be honest, if only partially. He's tempted to say he's the stuff of his most ungodly dream, but that might too forward for a first meet. He's not sure who that is, and he would not want to express himself as, well, a slut. "How does one get on your good side then, sir?" He settles for a gentler approach. 

“i  can—”  mary  batted  his  hand  away  from  her  arm,  hoping  to  regain  some  degree  of  dignity.  “i  can  walk  by  myself.”  she  continued  on  stiffly,  resenting  the  cool  langour  of  francesco’s  step,  of  his  whole  manner,  when  she  felt  so  discombobulated,  when  she  had  watched  him,  only  hours  earlier,  hold  andrei’s  hand  in  front  of  his  face  and  ask  if  he  had  ever  seen  it  before  and,  if  he  had,  why  he  had  chosen  to  draw  five  sausages  on  the  canvas  instead.  was  he  not  embarrassed?

oh,  god.  he  was  going  to  make  her  paint  again.

mary  shot  her  companion  a  glance.  ”i  was  not  that  bad.”  she  winced.  “was  i?”

"Sure, yes, of course." Francesco lets go of the woman's arm, aware that he probably should never have been holding it in the first place. But he is excited, he truly is. He's been mentored before, of course, by many different talented men in Firenze, but the chance of being someone's tutor has surprisingly made him cheerful, in the midst of international chaos. 

with francesco de medici @fmedici , somewhere in castelgrande .

“Say, Franci,” the childhood moniker is soft and carefree on her tongue, ringing of the days when everything was less difficult and Ippolita had been fiercely convinced she had a hope for peace and happiness, “What have you been doing out and about these days in Bellinzona?”

There were a lot of activities the de Medici could have been up to, and she sincerely hoped that they were of the more innocuous sort and not something that would end up with someone desiring his head on a pike. “Have you found a muse to glean inspiration from?”

The resting room is a pleasant change from the dining hall or the gardens. Despite loving the outdoors and well, loving to indulge himself with food, Francesco can be easily pleased surrounded by beautiful decoration and delightful company. "You see, I have been visiting the local atelier. It is quite remarkable, but nothing compared to home, you would agree." He is intent on remarking home as Italy in general. 

Toscana might be his home, personally, and Lombardia Ippolita's, and still, Italy is their home alike. 

open to all. 

location : the common grounds. 

   🌙 yuri was liking bellinzona more than he thought he would. without the presence of his wife & not needing to be with his family ( mostly dmitry and yekaterina, as he cherish the company of his dear sisters ) all the time, he felt free. if yuri were younger, he would love that freedom. he always felt like a caged bird within kremlim castle walls — especially when tsar ivan was still alive, and his iron gaze would follow yuri whenever he went. sometimes, he could still feel that gaze. it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. if he could, he would erase all the memories of his father from his mind. 

but the beauties of bellinzona didn’t escaped his eyes. he took a day off to be alone and venture in the city — a day where he wasn’t the tsarevich, the brother of the tsar. he was just yuri, a man that enjoyed the renaissance art. yuri felt like the young boy he was observing the painters doing their work — they remind him of the few artists in the russian court on his father reign. stepping out of an atelier, yuri spoke to the unfamiliar face who was near. ❝ it’s amazing how they can create life with a few brushes and ink. ❞

Paint stains of various different tones and shades colored what was once yet another of Francesco's white shirts as he steps out into the warm Swiss sun after hours spent overnight in the town's atelier. 

Bellinzona is pleasant, and the town's most renowned artist has been kind enough to offer his atelier for Franci to paint and sculpt in - of course, a trade has been made, and the Signore della Toscana is more than happy to fulfill the agreement. He escapes the venue for a brief break - breakfast is to be served in Castelgrande, and before he tends to the pleasantries of being a guest in the castle, he must clean himself and make himself presentable. 

However, upon walking past the archway, he is met with a strange face. "I suppose it is, indeed." He is flattered, really. Despite having heard the compliment countless times, it still brought pride to his chest, puffed. Head held high, though tired and sleepy. "If you wish, sir, you can participate. Perhaps you can learn, if God has already graced you with starting talent. If not, you might join as subject." Francesco finds that many admirers of the arts usually enjoy being included in the activity, one way of the other. And, even though a harsh critic he is, he does not mind being nice to a rich man who is terrible at painting, if he's treated properly with presents and pleasantry.