Ah, sorry this one took so long. I was busy with exams and other writing projects. Anyway, it's here now. Not much happens, though, so sorry for that too ._.'
There had been police officers in the house that morning. They’d come to question Seborga about what had happened to him and record a testimony, for the court case. The way that they’d spoken about it had given the micronation some comfort that this wouldn’t go unpunished, that…those people would be brought to justice. He hoped it wouldn’t just be for what they did to him but for his friends and the threats against them.
Romano was still tetchy and on edge, pacing around the kitchen. He’d made Seborga something for lunch before going out in front of the house and lighting up a cigarette. Seborga watched him through the open window, watched him puff clouds of smoke up towards the sky. Sealand and Wy had been taken back to the hotel England and Australia were staying in; they’d promised to come and see him again, this time with the others in tow.
Romano poked his head back into the kitchen. He had his trademark scowl on, though it softened slightly when he saw Seborga.
“Feeling any better?” he asked, putting his cigarette out on the ashtray that Veneziano kept by the door.
Seborga nodded, swallowing another mouthful of pasta. The warm, bright house and familiar food brought a sense of comfort and security. Romano had been a constant presence since he’d been called the night Seborga had been brought to Veneziano’s house. Veneziano and Germany had had to go to the meeting; Veneziano had kissed Seborga’s cheek and told him he’d come straight home from the meeting.
“I thought you might,” Romano said, taking a seat opposite Seborga at the table, “A full stomach can make things feel better, even if it’s just for a little while.”
“…Not thinking about it helps too,” Seborga said, twisting spaghetti around his fork, “I just need to get past it.”
“Feli can find someone who can help with that,” Romano said, “Like a therapist or something. You don’t have to do this on your own. You’ve got us and you’ve got your friends; remember that.”
Romano’s phone rang and he stood up as he answered it, gently ruffling Seborga’s hair. He left the kitchen, shutting the door behind him, and went up the stairs. Seborga stayed where he was and stared down at the table; he traced the grain of the wood with a finger.
“A therapist?” he murmured, frowning a little. The thought had briefly crossed his mind when Veneziano had been talking to him that morning; his brother had brought up the idea while he was washing up after breakfast before Seborga had quickly changed the topic to something else.
He stood up and put his plate in the sink, rinsing it off and wiping it down. In all honesty, the thought of going to a therapist scared him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling completely and utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally. His skin still crawled despite the very thorough shower he’d had that morning; no matter what he did, the feeling still lingered.
The Backward Step 5a/?
There had been police officers in the house that morning. They’d come to question Seborga about what had happened to him and record a testimony, for the court case. The way that they’d spoken about it had given the micronation some comfort that this wouldn’t go unpunished, that…those people would be brought to justice. He hoped it wouldn’t just be for what they did to him but for his friends and the threats against them.
Romano was still tetchy and on edge, pacing around the kitchen. He’d made Seborga something for lunch before going out in front of the house and lighting up a cigarette. Seborga watched him through the open window, watched him puff clouds of smoke up towards the sky. Sealand and Wy had been taken back to the hotel England and Australia were staying in; they’d promised to come and see him again, this time with the others in tow.
Romano poked his head back into the kitchen. He had his trademark scowl on, though it softened slightly when he saw Seborga.
“Feeling any better?” he asked, putting his cigarette out on the ashtray that Veneziano kept by the door.
Seborga nodded, swallowing another mouthful of pasta. The warm, bright house and familiar food brought a sense of comfort and security. Romano had been a constant presence since he’d been called the night Seborga had been brought to Veneziano’s house. Veneziano and Germany had had to go to the meeting; Veneziano had kissed Seborga’s cheek and told him he’d come straight home from the meeting.
“I thought you might,” Romano said, taking a seat opposite Seborga at the table, “A full stomach can make things feel better, even if it’s just for a little while.”
“…Not thinking about it helps too,” Seborga said, twisting spaghetti around his fork, “I just need to get past it.”
“Feli can find someone who can help with that,” Romano said, “Like a therapist or something. You don’t have to do this on your own. You’ve got us and you’ve got your friends; remember that.”
Romano’s phone rang and he stood up as he answered it, gently ruffling Seborga’s hair. He left the kitchen, shutting the door behind him, and went up the stairs. Seborga stayed where he was and stared down at the table; he traced the grain of the wood with a finger.
“A therapist?” he murmured, frowning a little. The thought had briefly crossed his mind when Veneziano had been talking to him that morning; his brother had brought up the idea while he was washing up after breakfast before Seborga had quickly changed the topic to something else.
He stood up and put his plate in the sink, rinsing it off and wiping it down. In all honesty, the thought of going to a therapist scared him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling completely and utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally. His skin still crawled despite the very thorough shower he’d had that morning; no matter what he did, the feeling still lingered.