Mummy's Boy
TITLE: Mummy's Boy
FANDOM: Doctor Who; Vampires of Venice
PAIRINGS: Francesco/Rosanna, Francesco/OMC
NOTES: Francesco has issues. Also, I spent so, so long writing this and I'm not even happy with it. At least it's finished now.
*Now with bonus 'Spot the Rory Cameo' game!*
Francesco Calvierri, in the great scheme of things, was born at a very inopportune time. Perhaps happily, Francesco was never really troubled by this. He entered the world just as his father was taking his leave of it. This was no cause of concern to him; he didn’t believe himself capable of missing someone he had never known. In more candid moments he would even admit, only to himself, that he was glad never to have known the man. He had beaten all his thousands of brothers and sisters to be chief in his mother’s affections. The memory of his father was the only serious threat to this desperately held place. How much worse it would have been if he had lived.
Francesco was naturally possessive, certainly, but the trait had also been worked into him from an early age. It was, chiefly, his mother’s doing. You see, it is impossible, when you spawn hundreds of children at a time, to care for and nurture them all, to love them equally. But Rosanna Calvierri did love her children and she wanted to be close to them. After each spawning, she would choose one to be brought up in her household. Francesco had been the last. She had waited a few weeks to see how they grew and then she had reached in and picked him; the smallest, the skinniest, the most helpless looking of her children. Every time she had chosen before, she had picked the strongest looking ones - three sons and two daughters. But her heart, this time, had ached at the sight of a scrawny little child. She called him Fasellus; the others called him the runt.
Fasellus? Come, you did not think that Saturnynians would give each other human names. Rosanna had, at the time of Francesco’s birth, never heard of Earth, let alone Italy, that minute portion of it. Within a few years, however, Rosanna found herself taking flight from the Silence, and the little planet became of great importance to her. It was there that she took her surviving children to protect them from the cracks in time. She found her calling in being a refugee in a foreign land. She found that she was remarkably good at getting to the top of the social ladder in an unlikely situation. She was happy as an Italian, not least because she knew herself an outsider. She took the situation seriously; she played the game for the sake of her children. Still, the social climbing, it was a silly game, when you stopped to think. And it was a joy to beat the locals at it.
Her little Francesco was less at ease. He grew up in a confusing way. In public, he was human - he spoke Italian, he had a human appearance, and he was a part of the human culture. He was Saturnynian when alone, with his mother, or swimming with his brothers (all his sisters, gone, taken into the cracks from their watery cots; he could recollect his mother’s anguish when the news reached her as if it were an echo…). He spoke and looked Saturnynian. Or, at least, almost. It was difficult, confusing work trying to separate his two selves. After a while, he very rarely tried to. He was either both or something new and different entirely - that was the truth. It would have seemed simple to him if Mummy didn’t make such an issue of the distinctions. He could be a moody and sometimes spiteful child. When he reached adolescence, these traits became more pronounced. Quite often, when seized by the frequent melancholy, he liked to imagine himself as nothing at all. He very rarely saw his own face - the perception filter made it impossible to catch his own reflection in a mirror. He liked the justice in that.
Rosanna’s runt became quite healthy and handsome in outward appearance, but he clung to her still. He was weak, inside, Rosanna believed, but good, talented, special in his own way. His little manias and depressions kept him enough of a child to fuel Rosanna’s motherly instincts - although she was sometimes frustrated with him because of them. While his brothers looked after themselves in the waters of Venice, Francesco was Rosanna’s focus. They had each other. That was important for two refugees, a frightened mother and a neurotic son.
Rosanna was likewise the focus of all Francesco’s love. Sometimes he resented her power over him, but most of the time he believed that she was truly the most deserving of his steadfast, unyielding affection. Francesco was proud of his love. He believed his mother needed protecting in some way, even though she was the most capable woman he knew. It was part of his desperation to be needed by her.
They were tied together in a Gordian Knot, waiting for someone to cut them apart.
People tried. Many men came to the palazzo with the intention of wooing Rosanna. Of course, she didn’t want any of them, and Francesco wanted them even less. He wouldn’t suffer any unworthy attentions to be given to his mother. A few parents of eligible daughters spoke casually to Rosanna about marrying off Francesco. She took these offers seriously, but as no outstanding suggestion was made, she always decided to delay for a few years.
The only real threat came when Francesco had just turned eighteen. He had been taught, throughout his life in Italy, by a tutor at the palazzo. Apart from seeing his brothers, and a few formal occasions, he didn’t often mix with people his own age. Rosanna had never considered this a problem. The humans weren’t his people. He shouldn’t really desire any company aside from that of herself and his brothers. When the time came to put her long thought out plan to action, she would make him plenty of wives. However, he had become a young man and her plan still needed time to become a reality. His moods were becoming more frequent and they disturbed her greatly. Crucially, he lacked a great many of the social graces that he would need to survive in the circles she wanted him to move in. Rosanna briefly thought of sending him to a university. She doubted, though, what university would do for his bad manners and whether she could spare him so long. Finally, she decided to send him for a few weeks’ visit at the palazzo of the Vincenzi family, just outside of Venice.
Francesco would have preferred not to go but, with the slightest sulk, he obeyed his mother.
The Vincenzi family were rich, dull and generally without merit as far as Francesco was concerned. There was only one saving grace among them, and that was Angelo. Francesco needed someone to follow in the absence of his mother and Angelo, bemused by it as he was, accepted the role. The attraction, Francesco knew, was in the differences between them. Angelo was happy, for one thing. He was also confident and kind, if a little lacking in sense of humour. He never felt inclined to say a harsh word to cover his own defects.
Angelo was kind to Francesco. Francesco was never kind to Angelo, but he spent every moment he had in Angelo’s company. Angelo, to Francesco’s continual frustration and delight, took the imposition calmly. He even seemed to enjoy it once in a while, and took the time to look particularly for things to keep Francesco amused. During the second week of Francesco’s stay, Angelo showed him the family’s art collection.
“This is our newest acquisition,” Angelo explained, as the tour began, “It’s a very ancient artefact. Father has people looking into its date and country of origin.”
Francesco looked up at the huge stone box that threatened to match the room’s high ceiling. Perhaps from a historic perspective it was interesting, but it wasn’t very beautiful. He said as much to Angelo.
Angelo nodded his agreement, “Father likes it though. He says that its of immense interest. Also, there’s supposed to be a ghost of some sort that follows it - a Roman centurion. Or so the dealer told us.”
“Mother would like it too, I think,” said Francesco, “It doesn’t look human, does it? She has a fondness for anything that isn’t human.”
“What are you talking about?” smiled Angelo, “What else would it be?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t, I said it didn’t look it. Mummy…”
“You’re always talking about your mother!”
“I don’t know anyone else. No one I’ve ever cared for anyway,” said Francesco, who was beginning to lose his temper.
Angelo didn’t reply. He stepped forward, held the back of Francesco’s neck and leaned in to kiss him. Francesco stood still, throughout, with eyes wide open.
When he had pressed his kiss, Angelo withdrew and waited for Francesco to say something. When no words came, he walked on to the next sculpture in his tour.
Francesco became more devoted to Angelo than ever. No further kiss came, but every day he told himself that he’d repay Angelo as soon as the right moment presented itself. When nerves or temper got the better of him, he’d postpone the moment to the next day. Francesco proceeded like this until he was called home again by Rosanna. He felt frustrated that his exit had to arrive so soon but he felt sure that he would see Angelo again. There would be more moments. After all, they had been such great friends.
Of course, Francesco was mistaken. Angelo never repaid the visit and no further invitation was made to Rosanna or her son by the Vincenzis.
Rosanna could have hoped for a greater improvement in Francesco, but he got along remarkably well in Venetian society. People seemed to admire his good looks and brooding manners. He flirted quite admirably with the women, so long as they were pretty. Rosanna was more than a little proud of him.
After one of Rosanna’s balls, they lay together in the great hall of the palazzo. Francesco rested his head against Rosanna’s breast and she stroked his hair.
“Did you see any young women you liked?” she asked him, teasingly, “I’ll make you a bride of whoever you choose, if you’ll only wait a little while longer.”
“I didn’t see anyone,” said Francesco bitterly, “There’s no one worth caring for.”
“Don’t say that,” chided Rosanna, “I know, I wanted a better life for you, and your brothers, your sisters. But you’ll fall in love someday, my darling. Everything will come good again.”
Francesco shifted awkwardly, turning to press his body against hers.
“I’ve been thinking… Your plan to find wives for my brothers and I. It’s unnecessary. It will take too long. You… You’ll think this is a foolish idea when you first hear it, but think on it a while and you’ll see I’m right. We can mate. We’re a male and a female. And we care for each other, mummy; it would be strange, but it would be for the best, don’t you see?”
Rosanna did not know what to say. She took Francesco’s hand and turned her head, searching for the right words.
“Don’t be silly, my darling,” she said at last.
Beyond that, they were silent.