#italian-jewish soul has owned my ass since 2015 now it's time to actually do something about it

[suchaspookyginger]

we're not thinking too hard about this, have some italkit!soul word vomit

________

he's watching maka practice japanese with tsubaki, tongue still too heavy on the japanese r, yet still trying so hard to cling to her mother's homeland, when he's suddenly reminded of his grandmother.

____

nonna bianchi, her hair as white as soul's and the fairest blonde before that to match wes's; eyes richer than molasses that glowed almost carmine in twilight. she carried herself with grace and dignity always, her back straight and her head high, making those surrounding her forget that she never quite reached five feet. she was born, like so few in her time, in america to judeo-italian immigrants.

(refugees, soul thinks to this day. they fled their community in venice to brooklyn before the pope had even denounced the rise in antisemitism during the fascist period. immigration, nonna said, because we were smart; we left when other italian jews were supporting mussolini's rise. refugees, wes agreed with soul, because we saw the smoke for what it was, because our blood and our bones remember fleeing sicily, remember fleeing spain, remember fleeing, fleeing, fleeing, if only to survive one more day. immigration, nonna said, because we still have our pride.)

nonna bianchi, whose first language was a pidgin hybrid of italian, ladino and english, yet spoke each individually with perfect clarity. nonna bianchi, who later collected languages like soul collects records, like maka collects books, was always careful with her company when speaking italian to soul ("they didn't care that i was born american, solomon," she said, steely gaze in the middle distance. "they only cared that my family's homeland was an enemy."). she was always careful with her company when teaching him hebrew, too ("these american goyim are our friends now, but their fathers and grandfathers supported hitler before american involvement in the war, and their children and grandchildren may support the next one. always be alert, son.").

nonna bianchi, whose first love was her culture, her second russian opera, instilled the love and drive for music in her children and grandchildren while also drilling in the holiness of shabbat, the importance of community, the yearning for their culture.

nonna bianchi, whose love for her grandchildren overflowed like wine during passover, yet overwhelmed them with her strive for perfection in judaism, perfection in performance, perfection in academics, to the point where soul just snapped. he broke and he broke down and he fled like his ancestors before him the second he had an out, the blades erupting from his arms providing him a lifeline away from the deep waters of his childhood home and expectations. (he never could worship lord death as the god he was, but he could work for him, work under him, work as a tool to keep this world safe. it took maka the better part of a year to understand why he didn't turn any lights on on saturdays and fasted every few months, his devotion to his people sporadic yet second nature. on an early mission to los angeles, he stumbled upon a small judaica shop, feeling a longing he hadn't realized ate away at him until that moment. he left with one mezuzah not dissimilar to the one on nonna's front door and a simple black kippah with red stitching. he only kisses the mezuzah on shabbat and holidays, and he has never worn the skullcap, but it sits in his drawer for a day he may need it. it brings him comfort regardless.)

nonna bianchi, whom soul called for the first time days after kidd made his auguration speech, calling for a new time with witches as allies and soul as the last death scythe.

"are you ready to come home, solomon?" nonna asked in italian as they reached the natural conclusion of their conversation, catching up on lost time, her voice slightly gruffer with age that soul missed over the last half-decade gone, the dulcet tones that brought her fame in her youth still in the under layers.

"i am home," he replied, his hebrew stiff but there - barely touched in his time away save for the high holidays and the occasional shabbat. he looks out from his spot on the couch in their living room, into the kitchen where maka is prepping dinner, "i found my music out here."

"and your judaism?" nonna asked. "surely working for a minor deity has caused issues."

"it's probably not how you'd hoped for me. death city is wanting for any jewish life, and i can't make it to my shul in vegas more than once a month for the most part. but maka, and everyone else, too, they do shabbat with me. we do tzedakah and hold seders and maka listens to me when i need to remember." soul paused, searching for the words - in english, italian, hebrew, it didn't matter, "it's not - sometimes it's lonely. i needed to leave, but it didn't stop me from missing wes, or mom and dad, or you. i didn't realize how much judaism, and being italian, was a part of me until i was no longer immersed in it."

"but you won't return."

"no, nonna. i'll visit, soon, but this is - maka, she's - i'm home here, in a way that i hadn't felt in new york, maybe ever."

"bring this girl with you," nonna said, "when you come visit. she sounds like a hell of a woman."

"she is, nonna."

"good," she chuckled, "maybe we can make a jew out of her yet."

soul spluttered, heat rising in his face. maka looked over at him in confusion when she heard him yell out, "nonna! not in english!"

____

soul's still watching maka and tsubaki talk from his spot on the couch. they've taken over the kitchen table, a few japanese workbooks meant for late elementary-aged children open to help maka practice her kana, sitting just as ignored as their cups half-full of tea as maka's face flushes pink. he can't tell if it's from concentration or their topic of discussion, but he smiles soft at her expression regardless.

soul is no expert in japanese, truly he doesn't understand a lick of it, but he can guess that their conversation has strayed to him by the number of times they say "sōru," the sound of his name a borrowed word all the more evident when tsubaki catches his eye and smirks. maka shoots her a sharp look and says something to her, lips careful yet clumsy as they form words still unfamiliar in her mouth, inflection at the end implying a question. tsubaki laughs, sugary sweet, as she obliges what is now clearly a subject change.

maka looks over at him after a while, smile soft and uncharacteristically shy, and a need washes over soul. he gets up, strides the short walk to where maka sits, and stands behind her, his face lightly buried in her hair.

"soul?" maka's voice is light, inquisitive. tsubaki raises an eyebrow, silent as she picks up her now surely cold tea and delicately sips at it.

he decides on hebrew. just because he needs to say it to her face doesn't mean he's not still terrified out of his mind. italian and ladino are too similar to spanish, and they're in close enough proximity to a few hispanic communities to hear spanish casually, and even maka knows enough to be able to figure out what he's saying without needing to actually know either language. hebrew doesn't have a distinction in the way that volere and amore are distinct, but his voice raw when ohev comes out of his mouth and he worries that she'll know regardless.

the whine that comes out of his mouth when she replies with her own "ohevet" is covered by her giggle, bright and musical as ever.