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i.
It was Romeo’s idea, as most things were.
The Workshop would have provided more than adequate housing for the both of them, the way they did all of the Stalkers under their employ– but what would be the point, Romeo had argued, when they would no doubt be occupying each other’s homes on the daily anyhow, so attached at the hip as they are?
Having no real argument nor any desire to find one, Carlo had conceded rather quickly to the idea.
And thus, this is where he finds himself currently: leaning against the balcony railing of their shared apartment, watching the sun peek over the city horizon and ignoring the morning chill slowly creeping its way along his fingers. It’s quiet at this hour, something he’s come to relish in a city that speaks in ticks and tocks , the grinding of gears and the clicking of wooden joints permeating any silence one would otherwise find between the street-side conversations and the hollering of paperboys – everything makes a sound, but far less so in the light of a dawn and it’s an opportunity he’s loathe to let pass him by.
Not that he finds peace here, per se– Carlo’s gaze flicks up and to the left, a frown cast at the familiar rooftop of the Workshop just some few blocks away and he thinks with some measure of bitterness that his father is no doubt experiencing this same sunrise from his office, busy tinkering and improving and thinking of anything and everything that isn’t the son he so often forgets he has.
We don’t have to stay in this one. We can request another .
That had been Romeo’s comment upon the realization of just what kind of view they were being given from this side of the street and it had been Carlo who had insisted it was no issue, that they would be spending more than their fair share of time within that building anyhow and it would be foolish to turn down such a nice place over something so trivial. There hadn’t been further discussion on the matter, but it wasn’t lost on him, the worried crease of Romeo’s brows when he’d let the conversation drop.
Sweet of him , Carlo thinks with a strange mixture of endearment and irritation, a heavy sigh falling from his lips, even if he could do with minding his business sometimes.
As if their business doesn’t coexist by now, as though it hasn’t for years– but that’s hardly the point.
“It’s freezing out here.” Well, speak of the devil and all that– Carlo turns to meet Romeo’s gaze, the older man leaning lazily against the doorframe with one hand covering his mouth in vain attempt at masking a cartoonish yawn. “We have nowhere to be for the next few hours, you know– why not come back to bed? I can already see your hands turning blue from here.”
“You’re exaggerating. It isn’t that cold.” Carlo huffs in faux-annoyance, flexing his stiff fingers in some form of lame protest. “Besides, I like it out here. It’s … quiet.”
“It’s quiet inside, too.” Romeo’s eyes flicker quickly– so quickly, so incredibly quickly and yet just not quick enough –to the Workshop roof.
Carlo’s frown deepens.
“I’m not some child –”
“Please.”
There’s a brief silence between the two of them, and then:
“Please, Carlo. Don’t make me beg.” Romeo laughs, a tired, breathy noise and Carlo thinks a part of him hates how easily the sound disarms him, soothing his bristling in record time. “ I’m cold, even if you aren’t. The bed is warmer with you in it.”
A hand is extended towards the younger man, accompanied by the softest of smiles–
“Indulge me, won’t you?”
–and Carlo crumples, a house of cards before this man. His own hand reaches out, fingers sliding between Romeo’s own with practiced ease and he permits himself to be led back inside, back to their shared bed and back beneath the thick layers of covers that most assuredly keep this bed anything but cold.
Liar , he thinks.
But he doesn’t call his bluff.
ii.
They have a gramophone now, something Carlo discovers when he opens the door to the sound of Adelina Corday’s latest release and for a moment he thinks he’s somehow walked into the wrong apartment. The rather large, bizarre painting of two elderly frogs sword fighting– an art piece selected by his friend for reasons Carlo cannot begin to understand –that hangs at the end of the entry hall puts that particular fear to rest rather quickly however, even if the feeling of bewilderment doesn’t wholly leave as he makes his way further into the apartment.
“Romeo?” The younger man calls as his jacket is tugged off, thrown haphazardly over its usual spot: the back of a dining room chair. His gloves quickly follow suit and he’s in the middle of kicking his boots off when his roommate finally emerges from the bedroom, a lively little spring in his step.
Carlo smiles, despite his fatigue.
“You’ve got a new toy, I see. Or, I guess I hear .” He says, and there’s something almost cute in the way Romeo’s face seems to light up– he had no idea his friend was interested in music, but it’s a pleasant discovery.
“One of the music shops on Elysium was having a sale.” The older man explains, stepping over to the gramophone to flip the record over as the song comes to an end, “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.” Carlo responds with a lazy wave of the hand, “Surprised, maybe– I don’t think you’ve ever talked about music with me before. You’re a fan of Adelina?” His sword is propped up against the nearby wall, utility belt hung on the peg just above it. A mental note is made to stop by the Hotel sometime this week and ask Antonia for her assistance in sewing shut a growing hole in his waist pouch.
“I don’t dislike her.” Romeo replies with a thoughtful sort of hum, “I’ve heard better from some of our peers back at the Charity House, but I do still enjoy Adelina’s music. Pretty, emotional …” A pause, and then as a careful sort of afterthought: “good for dancing along to.”
That catches his attention, head turning away from the tattering fabric of his pouch to instead catch the gaze of his friend.
Dancing?
“Since when do you dance?” He asks, wracking his brain for any instance where this would’ve come up in all the time they’ve known each other and coming up wholly blank. Sophia had mentioned teaching them, once, but that had been cast aside rather quickly in favor of goofing off– beyond that however, the topic was never touched upon.
“It’s a recent hobby.” Is the response, an obvious half-truth that prompts a small frown from the brunette; before he can comment, however, Romeo continues: “You know how to dance, don’t you?”
“...Loosely.” His father had him take lessons a few times, before throwing him into the Charity House to keep Carlo out of his hair. But that was forever ago– a different lifetime, almost –and he can’t say he’s kept in practice. “If you’re hoping for a lesson, I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a particularly good teacher.”
“No, that isn’t it.” Romeo replies with a little laugh– but doesn’t elaborate further. It isn’t lost on him, the way his friend’s fingers pick at the hem of his sleeve nor how his weight continuously shifts from one leg to the other in an anxious sort of manner. If it were anyone else, he’d think the man was nervous over something– but it’s Romeo . The number of times Carlo has seen him as anything but self-assured, confident, could be counted on his fingers.
And yet. And yet?
“... You know I don’t like this sort of back and forth,” the younger states, tone less accusatory than it is careful, near gentle. A step is taken forward– carefully, as though approaching a skittish street cat, “if you have something you want to ask, just ask it.”
“It isn’t anything important. Besides, you only just got home– you haven’t even had a chance to change.”
“I’m not in a rush.” Another step. The frown on his face is more worried than upset. “Ask me anyway.”
Silence. Not a sound passes between them sans for the quiet chorus of what Carlo now recognizes as a love song drifting from the gramophone. A sad one, unrequited or lost and altogether quite mournful– but a love song nonetheless.
Something about that sits uncomfortably in his chest in a way he cannot quite name and he chooses to set the feeling aside for now. Forever, maybe, depending on how much self-reflection he’s actually willing to allow himself.
The chorus fades into another verse; something clicks inside of his head and he offers his hand to the man standing across from him.
“Dance with me?”
Romeo startles, then. The look on his face is enough to confirm Carlo’s suspicions.
“That’s what you wanted to ask me, isn’t it? What you’re being so weird about?”
“I’m not being weird , Carlo, I’m–”
“You’re being weird.” Carlo interrupts flatly, hand still outstretched, “The song will be over before too long; are you going to waste time just standing there?”
There’s a brief moment where Carlo thinks he may actually be rejected, watching as Romeo simply stares down at his offered hand with an unreadable expression– and then the weight lifts from his chest completely as the other man accepts, stepping closer.
“You’ve gotten pushy with age, you know. You’re like an old man already.” Romeo says, and Carlo fails to so much as bat an eye.
“I’ve always been pushy. You don’t mind it.” A hand slides up onto Romeo’s shoulder, left arm balancing atop his right. He doesn’t think often of the difference in their height, so accustomed to it by this point in their lives, but he has to admit it’s harder to ignore when they’re like this: the way the top of his head just aligns with the bottom of Romeo’s chin or the way he has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.
He clears his throat. “You lead. Show me how this ‘new hobby’ of yours is coming along.”
Romeo’s free hand settles against the small of Carlo’s back and it’s with great effort that he ignores the odd little flip of his stomach in response. They take a step forward, a step back– they aren’t perfectly in-sync with the music he notices, but that’s exceptionally low on the list of things he cares about at present time.
“And if I step on your feet?” Asked half in jest, and the shorter of the two scoffs, shifting his attention downward.
“Then you should practice more.”
“With you?”
“And give you even more opportunities to step on me?”
“Only if I don’t improve. I haven’t stepped on you yet, have I?”
“It’s only been thirty seconds.”
“Closer to forty.”
“Oh, my mistake. If it’s been forty seconds without bruising my toes then we have nothing to worry about at all, do we?”
Romeo laughs and squeezes his hand for the briefest of moments, and Carlo can’t help but crack a small smile in return.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Would you let me practice with you?”
“If you don’t think you’d get tired of me.” Carlo jokes, and the hand against his back presses firmer against him, fingertips curling in the fabric of his shirt. Carlo jokes, and finds himself lifting his gaze up to catch that of his friend’s only to be instantly caught by the gentle affection reflected in his eyes; a fish on a hook, staring back dumbly as Romeo answers:
“I could never tire of you, Carlo.”
There’s a near-reverence there that catches him off guard, something like a vow in its adoration that he isn’t prepared for and it’s with a small stumble over his own feet that he manages to fish out some kind of response– lame though it may be.
“I– Oh.” Carlo breathes out, blinking slowly. “Not even if I prove to be a terrible practice partner? I could stomp on all your toes, you know. Or endlessly trip over both our feet.”
“Not even then. Not if it’s you.” And what is he supposed to do with that kind of sincerity, really? What is he supposed to do aside from duck his head away, heart shuddering violently against his ribs and color rushing to fill his cheeks?
Not answer , certainly– no, instead he opts to lean forward to lay his head against Romeo’s shoulder, distinctly aware of how warm the other man is beneath the cloth of his shirt. Romeo says nothing, but there’s only a short moment before Carlo finds himself tugged silently closer, a cheek coming to rest against the top of his head.
When they finally part from one another, it’s long after gramophone has gone silent, the record spinning uselessly beneath an unmoving needle and if either of them notice, they say nothing of it.
iii.
“Carlo. What are we, exactly?”
In hindsight, this will be a funnier sort of memory: Carlo, back flat against the mess of sheets belonging to their shared bed and staring up at Romeo while the older man leans over top of him, propped up on an arm currently pushing into the mattress on the side of Carlo’s waist in way of loosely pinning him down. They’re both in their bed clothes, or rather they’re both in Romeo’s bedclothes, Carlo having snatched one of his friend’s shirts not for the first time and certainly not for the last– here, he’s asked what are we? as though the setting did not provide an ample answer to that question.
But that, of course, is because it doesn’t– not yet, not in the moment.
In the moment, there’s a jolt of panic that shoots down the smaller man’s spine, mouth suddenly far drier than it was a moment ago.
“ – Good morning to you, too.” He says after a moment, doing his best to ignore the little twist of his insides when Romeo frowns.
If he thinks about it, this conversation is long overdue, isn’t it? That they’ve tiptoed around it as long as they have, that Romeo has allowed them to do so, more so, has been an act of generosity that was never going to continue indefinitely no matter how selfishly Carlo may have wished for that. It’s easier, really, not to have to examine their friendship, to not look for new labels and better words for what they’ve become or could be– but it’s unfair, too. A cruelty to this man who has been nothing but patient with him for far longer than he ever should’ve had to be.
Carlo sucks in a breath and exhales it slowly, turning his head to the side.
Knowing all of that doesn’t really make it any easier.
“... Does it matter?”
“I want it to.” Romeo says and the gentleness of his tone makes Carlo flinch, eyebrows furrowing to glare at the nearby wall. He’d rather be yelled at, he thinks; he’s always handled anger better than understanding.
“What if I don’t?” He counters, ignoring the feeling of eyes on him.
“Carlo.”
“What? What if you’re my best friend and that’s it? Why do we need to think about it any more than that?”
“Because I’m asking you to. Or at least tell me what you’re so afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
Silence settles in between them, thick and heavy and pressing down against Carlo’s chest with a weight that grows by the second. For a moment he thinks he may be let off the hook, that he’ll be given yet another out that he doesn’t deserve and will spend the rest of the day quietly nursing the ghost fractures in his ribs –––
“Is it your father?”
––– and of course that isn’t what happens, because he’s been given far too much leniency already, because he can’t avoid it forever. That doesn’t stop his head from snapping to look up at the older man, a rapid surge of annoyance completely eroding the pain in his chest.
“No. He has nothing to do with this conversation.”
“So it is him.”
“I just told you, he isn’t–”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Romeo cuts him off, tone the closest he’s come to what might be considered something rough, almost snappish, and it’s enough to silence Carlo long enough to let his friend continue, “I know Geppetto dislikes me– I’m sure he’d hoped you’d make friends with your better mannered peers, people from well-to-do families with pretty, well-mannered sisters for you to wed someday. An awful lot of thought goes into your future from a man who has no interest in taking part in your present.”
There’s a pause taken there to sigh, heavy and hard; Carlo watches him silently, taking note of the way Romeo’s lips purse and his fingers curl into a fist in the bedsheets beside him.
“... For all your hatred for your father, you do still want to be someone he can be proud of, don’t you? And I’m not someone who can do that for you. Is that it? Is that why you won’t have me?”
There’s a moment where Carlo continues to say nothing, staring blankly up at the man still hovering partially over top of him as he processes the accusations made against him and thinks that he may, perhaps, be the most vile person in the world. Somewhere in the top five, surely.
“... I do want that.” He says after a moment in a voice so uncharacteristically soft that he almost thinks someone else is speaking for him. “If I really think about it, there’s still some small part of me that wants his attention. I want him to think I’m finally worth loving.”
He lifts his hand to run his fingers up through Romeo’s hair, holding it back a second to get a better look at his friend’s face before letting it fall back into place with the pull-back off his hand.
“But that has nothing to do with you. I’d go my entire life never speaking to him again if that was the price of having you by my side.”
A visible confusion passes over the other man’s face as he frowns down at him. “Then what is it? What’s stopping you?”
Well, that really is the question isn’t it?
“... I don’t think that I …” Pause. He swallows, and turns his head away again. “I don’t know how to be loved without having to earn it. And I know I haven’t done enough to have earned it from you– I don’t deserve you at all. And I think: what if you leave me? What if you realize I don’t get any better than this? It’s easier to stomach you growing tired of me if it’s like this, if I can pretend not to know what we were when it all fell apart.”
A laugh– short, sharp. Tired and loathing.
“I’m a coward, Ro. That’s all it is.”
There’s no response and that’s fine, really– he doesn’t need one. He already knows what a stupid excuse this is for stringing them both along for as long as he has, and how disappointing he is and continues to be to those he cares about. Not having it verbalized is a gift, if anything; he doesn’t really need the confirmation that yes, he does suck and he’s effectively wasted everybody’s time.
He debates saying he can move out if that’s what Romeo wants, some half-rehearsed speech about how he’s sure his friend would prefer to be given the chance to pursue someone more put-together, someone less wishy-washy and lacking the impressive tendency to consistently put their own foot in their mouth. It would be the kinder thing to do, as opposed to ignoring this conversation completely and leaving any major decisions to Romeo in a continued display of his own cowardice– even if he does really want to do the latter.
Before he’s come to a decision however, he feels the bed beneath him sag and shift and then there’s Romeo: laying across Carlo’s body with his head hitting the pillow beside Carlo’s own, putting them both quite suddenly face-to-face with but centimeters between them.
If he wasn’t pinned before, he certainly is now.
“... Oh. Hi.” Carlo says lamely.
“You’re stupid.” Romeo says and Carlo can’t argue that, really.
“Yes.” He agrees. “Aren’t you angry?”
“A little, maybe. Frustrated might be a better word.” Carlo feels the caress of fingers against his cheek and despite his own confusion, he can’t help but lean into the touch.
“Do you want me to leave?” He asks and he wonders if it’s awful of him to feel this level of relief when Romeo shakes his head.
“No. You’re staying put.” Romeo tells him, “I want you to listen to me, alright?”
Carlo nods.
“I love you. I’ve loved you since we were children, and I will love you until we’re grumpy old men throwing candy wrappers at one another from our rocking chairs. You couldn’t earn my love if you tried– not when you already have all of it. But if you really don’t think you can do this right now … I’ll wait. I’ll keep waiting, just like I have been. If you asked me to wait forever I would, Carlo– but I also hope you won’t ask me to do that.”
His eyes are wet. He isn’t really sure when they became wet, but there’s no denying that they are and his attempts at blinking the wetness away are largely in vain.
He gives up, ultimately, and tells himself he can be embarrassed about it later.
“I think you’re an idiot.” Carlo mumbles, “You could pick anyone in the world and you choose me?”
“Yes. I love you.” Romeo repeats patiently and Carlo makes some pathetic, high pitched noise that he’ll deny ever making until the day he dies.
“Idiot.” Carlo says again, and Romeo just laughs.
“Maybe. Will you give the idiot a chance? Please?”
Carlo swallows. A deep breath in, a slow breath out.
“...Yeah. I can do that.”
iv.
He isn’t entirely sure how his father finds out– though if he had to guess it was likely one of their neighbors, fellow Stalkers with numerous noise complaints to be made and a fondness for causing problems in their down time; assholes, almost all of them –but he can’t say he’s wholly surprised to find his father on his doorstep, late on some autumn afternoon.
Or, specifically: all of his surprise belongs to the fact that his father is bothering to stop by in person; the reason for it is hardly unexpected.
“Carlo. I hope I am not interrupting your evening, stopping by to see you.” Geppetto says in that slow, dull tone of his and Carlo is fighting the urge to simply slam the door in his face.
“You are.” He answers, terse. And lying, of course; Romeo isn’t even home yet and the book he’d been reading to pass the time will surely wait for his return, but that’s hardly relevant. His father is here, existing in his doorway. That’s interruption enough. “Is this important?” As in: have you considered leaving?
Geppetto’s lips purse, expression shifting to one not entirely unlike that of a wet, lonely animal left by itself in some shoddy cardboard box and Carlo hates the way it tugs at something in his chest. His heart exists as it always has: a string instrument for his father to pluck at until it plays a more pleasant tune.
“I won’t be long.” Is his father’s pitiful, purposeful response– which does not, Carlo mentally notes, answer his question. “Please, Carlo– I think we would both prefer to speak inside. Will you deny your father a few moments with his precious son?”
Carlo’s eye twitches.
What he wants to say is: I’d prefer not to speak at all / I want you out of my sight / you can’t manipulate me the way you could when I was small and naive and didn’t know any better that you love to coat your knives in honey, first.
What he actually says is: “Fine. But you aren’t staying long.” And he hates the way his father’s face lights up, and how it almost makes him feel warm.
“Thank you, son. I do appreciate you making the time for me.” Shut up Carlo wants to snap, stepping aside to allow Geppetto entry. Wants to, but doesn’t. A common occurrence when it comes to his father.
“I’m sure it’s worth the time made.” Carlo replies instead, dry and already tired as he shuts the door behind the other man and makes to follow him further into the apartment. “Especially when whatever this is about is apparently important enough for you to finally visit.” Geppetto’s face doesn’t so much as twitch, not the slightest bit of guilt present and Carlo already regrets letting him across the threshold.
“I could just be stopping by to see you.” Geppetto says, almost thoughtfully.
“But you aren’t.”
“It’s not the sole reason why I’m here, no. But it can still be part of it.”
Carlo frowns, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “Then let’s hurry to the more pressing reason, since I still don’t know why you’re in my home.”
His father smiles, a sad, almost pitying sort of look and Carlo already feels a new kind of discomfort beginning to settle in. Something familiar, like a rotting nostalgia; something like being eight again, being stared down at over the top of his father’s desk as he’s told yet again that his behavior is unwarranted, an interruption to the puppet master’s work.
He’s only ever caught his attention when it was for the purpose of punishment, after all. A boy existing to be ignored, unless he’s to be scolded instead.
“Carlo, you know I have always hoped to give you a good life, don’t you? I’ve only ever wanted to give you the means to build yourself a future where you can be happy.”
Ah. So there it is. It’s harder to say if it’s better or worse, knowing his guess was correct.
“This is about Romeo.” An accusation, not a question. There’s no point in pretending he’s asking what they both already know; better to skip right to it, tear the gauze clean off what is undoubtedly a wound in the making. “Who told you?”
“It’s been a topic of conversation among some of the Workshop Stalkers. It was overheard, rather than something I had brought to my attention.” So, gossip. Also expected, if he’s being honest; no one knows how to keep their mouths shut, nor do most care to learn. “I take it that it’s true, then?”
“That depends on what you’ve heard, doesn’t it?” Carlo answers, bitterly. His arms cross over his chest as he leans back against the kitchen counter, glaring his father down from across the room. “Go on, then. Share with the class, why don’t you?”
Here, Geppetto hesitates. Whether it’s from the discomfort of being forced to speak the rumors aloud or because he’s thinking of the most manipulative way to say his piece, it’s unclear– both seem likely, if he thinks about it. One can be manipulative and disgusted simultaneously. Particularly when that someone is the man standing some few feet from him.
“I don’t know the full extent of the situation. I’ve only heard that the two of you have become quite… close, since your graduation. Closer, I should say; I do know the two of you were good friends during your school days.” It doesn’t go unnoticed, how even the talk of a childhood friendship is spoken with a mild air of distaste. Because of course it is, of course it would be; Romeo took this man’s small, uncertain child and taught him of mischief and disobedience that he never would have learned otherwise.
Taught him what freedom could feel like, really. An unwelcome trait in a child who was intended to one day be shaped and molded, a clay bird in a silver cage.
“We are close.” Carlo retorts, “He’s my best friend.”
“And only friends?”
His eye twitches. Again. The effect of being in the same space as Giuseppe Geppetto for an extended period of time, it seems. “Does it matter?”
A brief silence settles between them, broken when Geppetto continues: “I worry that you aren’t considering your future more carefully. You won’t be a Stalker forever, Carlo, and you’ll want relationships that can–”
“I thought this was about being happy in my future.” Carlo interrupts, sharp and cold, and there’s something slightly cathartic in seeing the brief surprise that crosses his father’s face. “Not that you get a say in what that looks like, anyway. I don’t want to hear about what I’m doing wrong from a man who threw his son into boarding school just to keep him out of his hair.”
“Carlo.” Pleading and gentle, a doe-eyed sort of faux-hurt that would’ve had far more impact were the subject matter anything but the man Carlo has been in love with since he was fourteen and sneaking out of his bed at night to join Romeo in his, the nights spend giggling and whispering and pretending the holding of hands began and ended with friendship. “It was never to keep you away from me. It was to ensure you received the education–”
“No.” This time the interruption is more of a growl, a threat even if he has no follow through on what that particular threat would be for. Geppetto’s lips purse in discomfort, an action that is wholly ignored. “I’m not a child anymore. I know better than to think you’re above lying to my face– you didn’t want me bothering you, so you threw me to the Charity House and told them to raise me in your stead. You don’t get a say in my future or who’s in it– you weren’t there. You still aren’t, except when it’s to scold me for choices you didn’t care to be a part of until they were already made.”
“I had my own work to do, Carlo, you know this– that has never meant that I wanted you gone. I missed you every day. But it was for your own good that–”
“I love him.”
Silence. They’re staring at each other, the air thick between them.
“I love him,” Carlo repeats, slowly. Purposefully. “And I’m happy. And it has nothing to do with you.”
More silence. Longer, this time, each waiting for the other to break it, for the other to blink .
And then: “Oh. Well, this is something of a surprise; I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
– Carlo feels the tension shed from his body like a snake’s old skin, head snapping in the direction of his lover’s voice to catch his eyes in a silent thank you . An unspoken: I’m so glad you’re home .
“ – No, not at all.” Geppetto replies, gaze remaining fixed on his son for another few seconds before turning to face Romeo, smile all wax, all plaster. “Returning to one’s home could hardly be considered an interruption, I would think.”
“Father was just leaving.” Carlo says, and it’s something of a relief when Geppetto voices his agreement after a brief moment– however stiff that agreement may be –and offers them both short, terse goodbyes. They both wait for the puppet maker to leave, two pairs of eyes watching closely as he disappears from the apartment, door closing soundly behind him and it isn’t until the footsteps have faded completely that either of them speaks again.
“... How long were you home for? I didn’t hear you come in.” Carlo asks, in a tone softer than he expects himself to use. It’s only now that he realizes his fingers are trembling– slightly, but enough to be noticeable. Enough that he hates it.
“Five minutes, maybe?” Romeo admits, crossing the threshold towards Carlo in a manner not entirely unlike the way one would approach a cornered animal, slow and careful and eyes flooded with concern. “I wasn’t sure when a good time was to interrupt so I just stood in the entryway for a bit.”
“Oh.” Carlo replies lamely. “You could’ve interrupted sooner.” It isn’t angry. It’s … distant, if anything, and there’s some gratitude to be found in the way Romeo reaches out to take his hands, grounding him with the callouses of his fingers and the warmth of his palms.
“It felt important to let you say your piece. I don’t think I’ve heard you talk to your father like that before.” And Carlo can’t argue with that, really; he also doubts he’s ever spoken so bluntly to his father up until this point, often willing to argue and protest and fight only for the show of it all, a drama intent on getting attention rather than actually getting his way. This time was different; this time was genuine, anger and discomfort clinging to his skin in equal measure as he processes the conversation he just had.
He stands by it, of course. But that doesn’t make it less uncomfortable.
“... I should get cleaned up. I’m sure I must reek of oil and sweat.” Romeo says, and then there are lips pressed to Carlo’s forehead, a squeeze of his hands. “Will you come bathe with me? I could use the help with my hair.” That isn’t true, of course– it’s intended to be a distraction, something for the younger man to do with himself that isn’t fixating on his argument with Geppetto but it’s something smaller than a white lie, and one that Carlo finds himself more than content to go along with.
“I’d like that.” Carlo murmurs, followed by a long, slow exhale. He isn’t sad, he doesn’t think. But he is exhausted. “Carry me there.”
It’s half a jest, of course– ‘half’ only in that he knows Romeo will do it anyway, no matter how serious Carlo is or isn’t. And he’s right, of course– in a moment the taller of the two has his arms hooked beneath his lover’s body, Carlo’s body pulled close against his chest in far from the first display of just how much stronger he is than the man he’s currently holding.
“... You heard me tell him that I love you?” He asks on the way to the bathroom, head tilting up to glance at his boyfriend.
“I did.”
“Good. Because I do. I love you, my father be damned.”
A laugh, quiet and adoring. A kiss to his temple. “I know.” Says Romeo, and Carlo finally lets himself relax fully.
v.
“The charity house?” Romeo asks with some visible confusion and Carlo nods, fiddling with his buckles off his shoes.
“My father asked me to go.” The brunette explains, with some residual irritation still staining his tone, “As a delivery boy. Because I have nothing better to be doing with my time than running a package to Valentinus Monad.”
“But you are going?”
“Yes.” He sighs, “And don’t give me that look. It’s an opportunity to talk to Sophia while I’m there; it’ll be nice to catch up.”
Romeo purses his lips. “He won’t care that you’ve done this for him, you know.”
Carlo pauses in the act of grabbing his satchel, then offers another sigh. “I know that. But it’s easier than getting the ‘where did my sweet, good boy go’ lecture again. You’re the one who keeps telling me I need to pick my battles, aren’t you?”
“... If you’re sure.” His boyfriend reluctantly relents, tapping his fingers restlessly against the tabletop. “How long will you be out?”
“I’m not sure. A couple of hours, at least.”
“Alright.” A brief pause, then he continues: “The disease is supposed to be worse in that region of the city. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“I’m always careful.” Carlo says, with an uncaring wave of the hand that only serves to earn him an even deeper frown from the blonde. It’s clear that they’re tiptoeing around a genuine argument, one Carlo would prefer to avoid if possible, and in response he makes his way to the table where Romeo is seated, stepping around him to drape his arms over his shoulders from behind. “I’ll be careful. And I won’t be too long. And when I get home we can do whatever you want with our evening.”
“Are you bribing me into being less bothered by this?”
“Is it working?”
Romeo huffs out a laugh. “A little.” And leans back against Carlo, chin tilting up to lock eyes with him. “I want to make dinner together. And to dance with you.” His head turns, then, lips brushing up against the smaller man’s throat. “And to keep you up half the night.”
“It’s a date.” Carlo breathes, letting his eyes close for a short, content moment– then he shifts back, pulling himself away with some reluctance. “I’ll be back by five. Promise.”
Romeo’s eyes follow him as Carlo makes to leave, reluctant still to let him go.
“I’m going to hold you to that. If you’re even a minute late, Carlo, I’m going to come find you and drag you back myself.”
vi.
It doesn’t hurt necessarily, the way this doll-body crashes through the iron railing, cement chipping and scraping against the synthetic material of his ‘skin’ as he comes face-to-floor with a stranger’s balcony– but that doesn’t mean it isn’t unpleasant all the same, an acute awareness of the damage he’s sustained even if he lacks the ability to feel it properly. If anything, he muses from his new-found spot on the balcony floor, that might make it worse: the understanding that he’s in some sort of physical danger yet wholly unable to comprehend it beyond knowing what the grinding of metal or misaligned gears sound like. Which, judging by the way several cogs within his chest are squealing and stuttering, he’d wager he’s sustained enough damage to require maintenance from his [[ c̸̱̚r̵̨̓e̸̤͋a̵̙͋▮t̵͈̓ŏ̸̬r̴̠̃ ɟ̴̮̓▮ɐ̸͔̍ʇ̵̻͑ɥ̴̲̑▮ǝ̷̹͆ɹ̷͍͐ j̶͓͠a̵̦̓i̵̇▮l̷̬̔e̴̜̽▮r̵̹̄ ]] father, later.
He frowns.
Somewhere in the distance, the grotesque beast of rot and metal that threw him over here in the first place begins to howl and he takes that as his cue to actually sit up, noting the sluggish way his body responds to the request. There’s a sound from his left shoulder socket that closely resembles pebbles being vigorously shaken within a tin can and he can only imagine what been jostled loose– nothing that stops him from utilizing that arm, as he learns during a successful attempt at pushing himself to his feet, but something that will earn him a scolding to be certain.
“Hey, are you OK? That was a pretty rough landing there, pal.” Chirps the lantern at his side and there’s a slight jerk of his body in response, head snapping to look down at the flickering light. “I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure your gears shouldn’t sound like that .”
The puppet jostles his shoulder again, repeating the pebbles-in-can sound.
Then he does it again, and once more after that.
“Hey hey hey, quit it! Before you knock something else loose! Or knock whatever that is loos er .”
He stops. Gemini responds with a sigh of relief, which is an odd thing for his model to be programmed with now that he’s thinking about it. A lot about Gemini is odd, really.
“ Thank you. Now, since it looks like you aren’t too damaged to move, let’s get our bearings shall we? And maybe apologize to the owners, if they’re still around somewhere.”
He sincerely doubts the owners are anywhere to be found judging by the state of the city as a whole– something that he’s only further certain of as he pushes the remains of the balcony door out of the way to make his way inside. There’s a thin layer of dust clinging to the furnishings, cobwebs hanging from several of the light fixtures; a stalker’s jacket has been thrown haphazardly over one of the two chairs on either side of a small, wooden dining table and across from it are scattered pieces of what appears to have once been a newspaper, crumpled and torn; untouched for some length of time.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for a while… guess we can forget about that apology, huh, pal?” There’s a sadness to the comment that doesn’t go unnoticed, though he chooses to say nothing of it. He’s grown accustomed to Gemini’s mourning of a world that existed before his eyes ever opened, something that used to confuse him greatly and now is simply respected for what it is– for once, however, he thinks he might actually understand it.
It’s difficult to put his finger on, the strange weight that seems to have formed inside of his chest and he’d attribute it to interior damage sustained upon his recent impact with the floor were it not for the foreign nature of the feeling, and the way it seems to grow the more he takes in his surroundings. There’s a grief that seems to linger in the air, one that could almost be personal were it not for the fact that he has no memory of this place– how could he lay claim to something that existed before he did, after all?
Still, he finds himself unnaturally curious, body moving of its own accord to the other side of the dining table to inspect the damaged news article; even with various pieces torn or ripped apart, the main body remains intact enough to read through the majority of the text:
TRAGEDY AT THE ROSE ESTATE. The Monad Charity House, known also as the Rose Estate, is currently under investigation regarding the sudden deaths of everyone within the facility … Strangely almost all of the bodies that have been recovered seem to be in some form of late stage petrification disease, while the few unafflicted appear to have been killed by more violent means … As of the time this article was written, there have been no confirmed survivors. Among the deceased we have been able to identify … V–entinus Mo-ad … Isa-el-a -onad … C–lo -ep—to …
The list of the deceased is the most damaged portion, the majority of names having been ripped from the article entirely and of the few that remain, the ink looks to have been smudged nearly beyond recognition. Water damage, he realizes; grief has warped the newsprint and something about that hits like a fist to the chest, the urge to offer an apology into the empty air clawing its way up from the back of his throat and is only bitten down at the last moment, a refusal to give voice to an feeling he cannot understand.
Even so, the pain fails to fade. There’s something here that he’s missing– just as there’s much everywhere that he’s missing, the understanding that his father has only fed him half-truths becoming more apparent with each forward step he’s made since he awoke –and it feels as if this is something important . Something he never should have forgotten to begin with.
Guilt joins hands with the discomfort crawling its way through his circuitry and it’s with some force that he tears himself away from the table entirely, turning instead to the kitchen counter and the old cups still sitting in the sink.
Something colored a deep blue and resembling mucus sits within the bottoms of the glasses, staining the sides of their interiors with streaks of a similar hue. It’s familiar, of course– for a different reason than everything else in this place. This, he can place with ease: residue, bile emptied from the body of someone carrying the petrification disease; proof of a slow death in motion, and undoubtedly belonging to a person who has long since succumbed.
The thought is … unpleasant. Enough so that his hands shake, unsteady in a way they’ve never been before.
Carlo.
A voice like a breath against his neck. The same one he heard at the Opera house, and again through the decoder.
If you asked me to wait forever, I would.
A voice that speaks both to him, and not to him. To Carlo– whoever that may be. A stranger, surely, but one who he has begun to suspect may be buried somewhere far beneath this metal body, under gears and cogs and this beating chunk of ergo within his chest.
But I hope you won’t ask me to do that.
“ —–Pal? Hey, are you doing okay?” Gemini’s voice snaps him back to reality, eyes blinking rapidly as he reprocesses where exactly they are and what they were doing to get here. “There you are– you’re starting to really worry me. We should probably get back to the hotel– I think that fall must have rattled more than just your arm; it’s not like you to be spacing out like this.”
The fall. Right.
Somehow, he doubts that’s what the problem is– never has an injury created such a sense of loss nor nostalgia. No, despite all odds he thinks he’s been here before; he thinks he should’ve been here sooner, much sooner, as though he’s kept someone or something waiting far too long in this tiny, empty apartment.
“...Can we come back here, later?” He asks, the first he’s spoken in what must be hours– since they left the hotel, if nothing else. “I think this is where I’m supposed to be.”
“Here?” The confusion is expected; who wouldn’t be confused, really, to hear their friend suddenly declare a need to exist within a space that up until ten minutes ago, neither of them knew existed?
In response, he nods. He does not elaborate.
“... If that’s what you want I don’t see why not. Buuuut let’s put that on hold until this whole mess is over with, alright? Right now, we need to get you patched up and back to chasing down those Alchemists.”
Another nod, though this one is more reluctant. He’s staring around the room again, eyes trailing over details he feels he could remember, if he were someone else.
The pocket watch is tugged free from his pouch after a brief moment– and some gentle urging from his cricket companion –and he hesitates only a second longer to speak into the silence of the abandoned home:
“I’ll be back by five. Promise.”
His fingers close around the small, golden clock held within his palm; in the ghost of a fading blue light, the apartment finds itself empty and waiting once more.