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P’s sleeve is smoking.
Darting to the side to avoid another arching swing from the King’s scythe, P glances at the small flame trying to lick its way up his right arm. He takes a beat longer than he should to clap his metal hand over the thin wire bone of his wrist, smothering the fire before it can spread. The King takes advantage of the brief moment when P’s weapon is indisposed to slam his own down hard enough that the air itself seems to split in two behind it.
P barely manages to raise his rapier in time, the harsh grinding of metal rattling his teeth as the scythe redirects towards the floor instead. He knows he badly needs time to repair his damaged sword, and for once luck seems to be on his side with the King now in his own poor position.
P turns and bolts back towards the grand entrance doors, glancing over his shoulder again as he does. He watches the King struggle to free his weapon from where it’s been firmly embedded in the thick slabs of marble, sparks skittering up his arms from the force in which he pulls.
If P knew how, he might have winced. As it is, he’s just glad to have evaded that particular blow.
As he takes a few precious seconds to sharpen his blade, eyes locked on the King’s towering form across the room, he hears something amidst the crackling of fire and grinding of his whetstone. Something that gives him pause.
He hears music.
While he may not be sure of many things beyond what his father tells him, he knows that he likes music. He likes how it makes his inner mechanisms tighten when it plays, how it makes his fingers want to tap against his thigh in some nameless rhythm. He hasn’t heard this song before, but that’s hardly a surprise. So much is new to him, and yet the melody tugs sharply at something within him all the same.
Where is it coming from? They’re much too far away for it to be playing from the red actresses’ room. Backstage, perhaps? Has the King ordered one of his puppets to put on a record, the idea as absurd as the strange play seemingly performed just for him?
P finds himself momentarily distracted enough trying to pinpoint the source of the sound that he very nearly misses avoiding the King’s next attack. The larger puppet rushes towards him again, blade freed, the force in which he sprints carving shallow divots in the once gleaming marble floor. P raises his rapier a little quicker than before, sparks flying as metal meets metal. His mouth twitches as harsh static fills his ears once more, the sound oddly muffled as the King has no visible voice box.
It’s almost as if the words are coming from the King’s own throat, the same way P knows his do. P very rarely speaks himself, content to nod yes or no or, as is the case more often than not, let Gemini override the conversation entirely instead. He supposes he could try talking more, but he’s found it’s not worth the hassle.
The most he likes to do is hum along to his meager collection of records.
As P blocks another swipe from the King’s wickedly curved blade, shoes skidding a few feet backwards from the force of the blow, he finds himself focusing on his opponent's expressionless face.
It’s a unique mold from others he’s seen, cracked porcelain and a smear of faded red paint for a mouth that doesn’t move. Is that why this garbled language P already doesn’t understand sounds so dampened? So much about this puppet is strange to him, from the single pale blue eye to the frayed, light hair that moves like his does. He’s never met another puppet like the King before, though he supposes that makes sense. From what little he’s read in the slim volumes of fairy tales in the hotel, a king should be regal. Handsome. Caring.
There’s nothing caring about the blaze in the King’s mechanical eye as he slams his scythe blade into the floor on purpose this time. He pulls himself up on the weapon’s long wooden handle for better leverage, the fluidity of his movement oddly captivating for a puppet of his height, before delivering a devastating heeled strike that leaves an impact crater in the smooth marble where P had been standing not even two seconds before. P uses the momentum from his sidestep to get in a few quick jabs, focusing on the gaps of the King’s visible joints to bring him down as quickly as possible.
The King twists just barely out of the rapier’s reach. He twirls his own weapon between large hands as he readies another attack, giving P a brief moment of respite to charge Fulminis. Electricity crackles up his forearm as he curls his fingers into a loose fist.
There’s a sudden flash of bright light from the King’s red eye as he tries hooking his blade behind P’s back, but P manages to duck out of the way just in time.
And just like that, they’re back to trading more or less equivalent blows.
The way in which they step around each other feels almost rehearsed as they sweep across the grand hall, splintered wood and half broken candles scattered on the oil-slick floor from destroyed chairs and tables. P finds it odd that the King had left them there to begin with.
There’s something else odd about this fight that P has no name for, something familiar that he’s never experienced with any other enemy. He sprints forward to slam a fistful of electric current into the King’s side, mind flashing to an image he’d seen only hours before.
He’d passed by a poster on his way to the opera house, carefully avoiding pools of blood and oil collecting between the cobblestones of Rosa Isabelle Street. A strand of half-broken glass bulbs had cast its spotlight on a torn page still plastered to the alleyway wall, advertising yet another show that would never be seen. P had felt himself slow as he walked by.
The illustration printed on the yellowed paper was beautiful. A man and a woman mid-dance, smiles radiant as their visage twirled. P had stopped entirely for a few precious seconds, curiously tracking the billowing folds of the woman’s skirts, the curve of the man’s arm, drinking in the depiction of elegant movement for the sake of movement itself. He briefly wished he could have seen them perform before squaring his shoulders and moving on.
While this fight is hardly comparable to the poise of the drawing, metal screeching and sparks flying from them both, there’s something about the King’s movements that intrigues P the same way the poster had.
The King is graceful in a way a human might be, though it’s not like Sophia’s gentle radiance or Antonia’s quiet dignity. He’s ruthlessly precise, but in a way that speaks of confidence and adaptability rather than the blind automation of a set move list like the puppets P has battled before. He almost seems to know where P will step next before P does himself, and it’s unnerving enough that P feels himself overcompensate a few times in response.
The music that P has decided is coming from backstage is still playing, and something in his very being now recognizes the score as a waltz.
The King suddenly manages to hook the cruel blade of his scythe around P’s middle, almost crushing their bodies together as he tugs the weapon back towards his broad chest. P finds himself momentarily dazed looking up (and up and up) into the King’s half broken face. His instincts are screaming at him to create some distance, that the fiery inferno the King has surrounded himself in once already can easily make another appearance. P stupidly ignores that instinct, his mind screeching to a sudden halt.
And to P’s shock, the King isn’t attacking either. He’s staring down (and down and down, the eerie red glow of his exposed mechanical eye locked onto P’s frozen gaze), and he isn’t attacking.
Time seems to slow. The angle P is looking up at suddenly feels all wrong, like the King should be closer. As if hearing his thoughts, the King bends slightly, something like desperation in the hesitant movement as his long fraying hair falls like a curtain to shield them both from view. He brings one large hand up, scratched metal fingers splayed between them in some gesture P can’t decipher, and P wonders what a gentle touch from the King of Puppets might feel like.
The record suddenly skips, a brief malfunction on an otherwise beautiful piece of machinery, and whatever moment of stillness between them shatters. In an instant P shakes off his stupor, aiming a burst of electricity from his Legion arm directly at the King’s chest.
The King staggers back, a muffled howl of — rage? Frustration? For surely it cannot be pain, this nebulous concept P is only just recently feeling he understands — issuing from somewhere within his battered body. His iron grip on the scythe loosens enough that P is able to twist his way free, ducking out from between the King’s arms as he darts across the scorched floor.
P readies another charge, electricity crackling as he slams his fist into the King’s torso again, blade poised in his other hand. He surges forward with as much strength as he can muster, aiming for the spot where he knows his own clockwork heart beats.
The King falls to his knees a second time, the glint of P’s rapier pierced straight through his chest. Thick rivulets of black oil stream down his twitching body. Another few centimeters to the left and it might have struck his ergo supply.
Something clatters to the floor between them, but P doesn’t bother glancing down to see what it is. He’s faced enough foes that have pulled some nasty trick at what he thought was the end, and he’s not willing to give the King that same opportunity.
There’s more terrible static, the scrambled words stuttering as the King’s body shuts down. He stares up at P, flickering red light dimming as the flat paint of his human-like iris seems to search for a returned gaze.
His eye is a nice color.
The record backstage slows to a quiet finish as the King dies, and the opera house goes silent.
———
The lobby is empty, puppets and humans alike retired for the evening. Even Polendina is away from his trusty desk tonight, sequestered in one of the hotel’s many service rooms for his monthly recalibration.
P had promised him he would take care of any guests should they stumble in from the raging blizzard outside. His gaze had been angled just slightly downwards as he spoke, somewhere around Polendina’s carefully sculpted nose, still finding it difficult to look into his friend’s flat eyes knowing there wouldn’t be a single spark of recognition to meet his own.
Instead of wasting the night stuck behind the desk playing concierge for an empty room however, P finds himself using the free time to reorganize the bookshelves on the first floor.
It’s been months since the ambush on the hotel. While the restoration efforts here are mostly complete, the matter of a more thorough scrubbing has fallen to the wayside; the greater focus shifted towards rebuilding the city of Krat at large instead. There’s a thick layer of dust and grime still clinging to certain pockets of the hotel’s grand interior, and P has taken to the task with little more than rolled sleeves, a healthy dose of determination, and one of the storage closet’s stolen feather dusters.
Well. And his treasured record collection, currently tucked safely in his arms.
“Hello, Antonia,” P says softly, as he does every time he steps into the side library by the entryway that he still thinks of as hers.
Antonia’s portrait has been meticulously restored, streaks of black paint carefully stripped away until her coy smile shines bright over her beloved hotel once again. Even now, some part P him still expects to see her beyond the confines of a golden frame.
P destroyed the elevator behind her painting weeks ago. He didn’t think anyone would mind.
He carefully places his box of records in front of the gramophone he’s moved from its normal spot for the night. He wants something to listen to as he cleans, and while he doubts the volume would be enough to wake any guests, he wants to be courteous all the same. He idly flips through his ever growing collection as he considers what to play. The records need to be organized as well, but he thinks the books are a slightly more pressing concern considering he’s already left piles of them in haphazard stacks by the piano.
P lets out a vague huff of frustration as his long hair slides forward again, silvery strands blocking his vision. He pulls it all back to the nape of his neck, tying it together with a spare scrap of blue ribbon Eugenie had given him weeks ago. Satisfied, he turns his attention back to the box.
Chewing his bottom lip in thought, he finally settles on a certain record that he’s been saving — one of his rarities that he hasn’t listened to yet. The cover looks older than some of his others, gifted to him by a grateful gentleman he had saved from a crumbling building a few weeks back, and he’s gentle as he pulls the disc out and sets the needle.
Finally content with his setup, P turns and chooses another shelf at random to start pulling books from. He attacks streaks of dust and sparse cobwebs with the same level of ferocity he does rouge carcasses. The last remaining book he reaches for is well-worn, the words within clearly loved, and his mechanical heart clenches as he takes it out and recognizes the faded title. He carefully sets it aside on the piano bench next to him for later.
There’s a quiet knock from somewhere behind him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” a now familiar voice asks softly.
P doesn’t startle. He glances over his shoulder, pleasantly surprised by his intruder’s presence.
Romeo stands by the record player, the soft light from the sconces behind him turning his blonde hair golden. He looks as handsome as ever, the plunging neckline of his ruffled shirt showing off his fresh paint job. There’s enough of a teasing lilt to his still unanswered question that P feels his lips quirk up, ever so slightly.
Neither of them need to sleep. Not in the traditional sense, at any rate. They, like Polendina, need their own time to recharge, and Romeo in particular has needed the extra hours these past few months to test and readjust to a whole slew of calibrations related to his new body.
It hasn’t been easy, and P’s trepidation as he pressed the King’s white-hot ergo into the puppet of a boy whose mended face finally matched that from a blood-soaked rose garden had almost been enough to stop him entirely. Who was he to deny Romeo his hard sought freedom after years of entrapment and coerced violence? To force him to live the same way that had been done to him?
In the end, he had wanted to give Romeo a choice. Something he knows has been denied to the other boy for far too long.
He doesn’t think he knows the words for how grateful he is that Romeo had accepted it.
“No,” P says, fiddling with a loose lock of hair that’s already slipped free from its ribbon. He curls it tightly around his finger. “I’m in charge of the hotel tonight.”
“Well.” Romeo clicks his tongue, eyeing the veritable mess P has made of the room. “You’re doing a great job, then.”
P lets out a breathy huff of laughter, delighted as always whenever Romeo seeks him out. He wishes he would do it more.
“Would you,” he starts, before his mouth snaps shut and his brow furrows. He’s still getting used to asking, some part of him still so accustomed to others telling him what to do first. Gemini isn’t here to ask what P can’t either, off with Eugenie for the night (something about her wanting to try and fit the cricket puppet with an array of small weapons, if only to appease her own curiosity) and he feels the words catch in his throat.
Romeo waits patiently, leaning easily against one of the gray settees in the corner. The warm light of the lamps reflect off the sheen of his new arms — his fourth set in so many years, P thinks unhappily, his insides twisting — the metal freshly waxed and glinting. P shifts his own Legion arm carefully behind his back, suddenly very aware of the spilled oil and dried carcass gore splattered across the forearm that he hasn’t gotten around to cleaning yet. He washed his hands to handle the books, at least.
“This is a nice song,” Romeo says as P remains resolutely silent. His attention drifts to the record player next to him, eyes tracing the delicate, curling petals of the golden roses that never seem to wilt. “I haven’t heard it in a long time.”
P focuses on the new melody. It’s a waltz, the tempo of which makes him want to sweep across the room.
If there’s one thing P has discovered he likes even more than music, it’s dancing.
Rosaura had danced with him, back then. She’d twirled in her pretty red dress and tapped her little feet, clapping in delight when P swept into a dramatic bow like he’d seen in pictures. Her laugh was like birdsong, and they had spun dizzying circles around each other in the gently falling snow.
Later, Venigni had taught him a simple routine when he noticed P practicing alone — something called a box step, if he remembers correctly.
“Dancing is so much better with a partner, don’t you think?” Venigni had said, flashing a charming smile as he led, and P nodded so quickly in agreement he felt lightheaded afterwards.
It’s been a few months since then, everyone far too busy with the restoration efforts of the city to spend their time on something as silly as dancing. Still, P has been quietly hoping for another opportunity ever since.
Romeo’s fingers are tapping against his thigh in time with the song, and P suddenly recalls the oil painting of a memory he doesn’t share tenderly locked away in the garden upstairs.
Lea, blazing red hair nearly combed and confident hands cradling her violin with ease. The boy whose face he shares, the one whose name he often can’t bear to think, pale fingers settled on the ivory keys the way P has seen his own do a hundred times before. And Romeo, young and beautiful, ever playing support with his cello.
Another waltz from another time, melody floating across a burning room.
He loves music, too.
“Do you know how to dance?” P asks in a rush. It’s not what he means to ask Romeo at all, but right now he can’t seem to remember his original request.
Romeo’s hand freezes. He slowly turns his gaze to P’s, and P can’t decipher what emotion he sees within.
“I do,” Romeo says slowly. “Or did, I guess. It’s been a while.”
“I’m new at it, too,” P confesses. A beat of silence, then another. Unable to stop himself, he adds, “We could dance together, if you want.”
Romeo is nodding before P has even finished speaking. Neither of them seem to know what to do for a moment, staring at one another in awkward silence, before Romeo gives him a sheepish smile and steps forward. P meets him halfway.
“Do you want to lead?” P asks, suddenly feeling shy as he looks up at Romeo from beneath his lashes. Venigni had taught him how, but he wants to offer the role to Romeo first. Mainly because — “You’re taller.”
Romeo’s bitten-off laugh sounds a touch hysterical, but he nods again and offers P his hand nonetheless.
There’s a brief moment where P freezes, the light of the lamps catching on the metal of Romeo’s arm in a way that turns them dull bronze instead of shining gray. The trick of the light passes as quickly as it came, however, and P lays his smaller hand carefully in the other boy’s, fascinated by the contrast of flesh against dark metal.
The sensation of Romeo’s cool fingers against his more human hand is odd, the thin skin between each digit settling against polished grooves and ball joints. P moves his Legion arm to tentatively settle over Romeo’s shoulder like Venigni had shown him, and he’s glad he swapped the machinery yesterday after another clean-up trip to the swamp. He doesn’t think he could bear to touch Romeo with Fulminis ever again.
There’s another awkward moment as they settle further against each other, Romeo’s back ramrod straight and P trying to remember where his feet should go.
“Like this, right?” P asks, glancing down at their scuffed boots. Something about his expression must put Romeo at ease, because P feels him relax ever so slightly.
“Yeah,” Romeo says softly. He places a hesitant hand at P’s waist, his wide palm wrapping around him in a way that feels both achingly familiar and startlingly new. “Like that.”
Now in position, they wait for the next measure of music to start. When it does, Romeo squeezes their interlocked hands slightly as he pulls P into his first proper waltz.
Dancing with Romeo is not like dancing with Rosaura or Venigni. He’s of a greater height than both of them, for starters, and P doesn’t recall his heart stuttering a beat off tempo the way it’s doing now. Romeo’s steps aren’t quite as refined as Venigni’s were either, though P thinks he can chalk that up to him being out of practice more than anything else.
As if to prove his point, Romeo’s movements become more and more confident the longer they glide across the room. It’s all P can do to hold on, letting instinct drive his feet and hoping he won’t send them both crashing to the floor.
Romeo suddenly spins him out with a flourish and wink of all things, a rakish grin carved onto his handsome face, and P can’t help the huff of laughter that bubbles out of him as he’s pulled back into Romeo’s broad chest. He doesn’t think the move is part of any official waltz, but he finds he likes it very much all the same.
“Not bad, huh?” Romeo asks with another dazzling smile, broad palm curving back around P’s waist like that’s where it’s meant to be.
“No,” P says breathlessly. “Not bad at all.”
As they continue to sweep around the room, two puppets enjoying something so utterly human as a dance, P feels his mind wander.
There are times when he’s with Romeo that he wants to ask about the past, both his own and the one that doesn’t belong to him. He’s been more and more curious since he returned from the Krat of yesteryear, finally feeling like there’s some narrow bridge spanning the chasm between himself and the dead boy he now knows he was built for. He’s just not sure if that bridge is sturdy enough for him to walk across yet.
He swallows, finally letting himself think of the name.
Did Carlo like to dance? Did he and Romeo spend hours in each other’s arms, the way he so desperately wishes to tonight? Was music something that helped tie him to his chosen family, the same way music helps tie P to his chosen life?
Something stills his tongue from asking, however, as it so often does. Maybe it’s the isolation of the hotel at this twilight hour, the world around them silent except for the soft melody playing from the gramophone. Maybe it’s his own still jumbled feelings, guilt and grief and a bone-deep ache for understanding that he still can’t bring up candidly just yet. Maybe it’s having Romeo’s warm gaze on his, the pretty blue of his painted eyes turning more and more hazel every day.
So for now, he buries his curiosity and lets himself be a little selfish.
He’s still learning how to do that, too.
“Your arm is dirty,” Romeo says quietly, startling P out of his thoughts.
To P’s utter mortification, he follows the teasing tilt of Romeo’s head to notice an oily smear of black and blue against the soft white of his dance partner’s sleeve. He tries untangling their fingers on instinct, only for Romeo’s grip to tighten on both his waist and their interlocked hands.
“I’m sorry,” P mumbles instead, gaze now firmly fixed on their feet. He suddenly wishes his hair was loose so it could shield him from Romeo’s kind eyes. His face feels hot.
“You didn’t let me finish,” Romeo says with a laugh, tugging P closer and no doubt staining his shirt even more. He suddenly pivots and leads them back towards the piano, P almost stumbling to catch up. “I was going to ask if you wanted help cleaning it. Not to brag, but I’ve got a pretty great system down.”
P bites his bottom lip, feeling it threaten to curve into a gentle smile.
“Thank you, but I can clean it myself.” He finally glances back up at Romeo. Even with the recent modifications to his body he still towers over P, though not nearly as much as he did before. “I was going to do that after I finish with the books.”
“Well then,” Romeo says, glancing at the stacks of heavy books P has already pulled from the shelves. P’s a little surprised none of them posed a tripping hazard — he certainly wouldn’t have noticed them in time. “I suppose I shouldn’t distract you from that any longer than I already have.”
“I don’t mind being distracted,” P says hurriedly.
As if listening in on their conversation, the record slows to a vexingly timed stop, violin and brass fading into an easy silence. P feels like scowling at the machine for its betrayal.
Could he put on another song? Ask for another dance? He likes how he feels in Romeo’s arms, likes how it makes something in him feel warm. His fingers tap against Romeo’s shoulder, even without music to follow.
Romeo smiles gently, squeezing P’s waist in a way that makes his head spin.
“Maybe we could do this again another time, then?” Romeo asks, something in his voice just barely trembling. “I wouldn’t want to fall out of practice.”
P nods quickly. He thinks he would agree to anything Romeo asks right now, but especially this.
Another stray curl has come loose from its ribbon, softly brushing against his cheek, and P instinctively moves his Legion arm to tuck it behind his ear. He already mourns the loss of contact as he watches Romeo’s bright eyes track the movement.
Romeo’s gaze snaps back to his between one heartbeat and the next, something dark and curious in its depths. Something like the crash of the sea against a crumbling lighthouse in a past long since gone, spotlight still shining brilliantly enough to guide ships home.
“Until next time, then,” Romeo says softly as he pulls back.
As he heads for the open doorway, shoulders strong and gait purposeful, he pauses at the now silent gramophone. He bends down to rifle through the stack of records P left out to organize, his fingers careful as he flips through the offerings. If the pleased hum he lets out is anything to go by, he’s found what he’s looking for.
“Something to keep you company,” Romeo says as he clamors to his feet, swapping out the records.
A new song crackles into existence, the first one P ever remembers hearing. He feels his clockwork heart stutter again as his mind supplies the words.
When Romeo turns to leave for good this time, P can’t help but give him a small wave of farewell. He feels hot under the collar when Romeo’s grin widens and he waves back. He watches as Romeo’s tall form melts into the shadows of the darkened hotel lobby, steps fading as he climbs the stairs to his room.
P realizes his hand is still up and he hastily drops it. He shakes his head, still feeling a little dazed as he turns his attention back to the bookshelf and half finished project. He squares his shoulders and picks up the feather duster with renewed vigor.
The record plays on.