Chapter Text
You never noticed before how utterly dreary Krat is without the bustle of the people to fill in the blank, soulless spaces left behind by the endless smog and grey buildings. The humans still brave enough to walk the streets move in the same manner as the lifeless puppets that shuffle through the city.
Ever since word spread that the petrification disease has ended the reign of the Rose Estate, everyone has been frightened. People didn’t talk to each other anymore, not the way they once did. Words were short, whispered as if the plague itself would claim you through your breath. People boarded their doors and chose that it was better to close themselves off from the outside world than to face the dangers of it. Whatever hope was left before withered with the death of the Rose Estate.
Even now, as you sit on the edge of your bunk under the golden glow of the opera house lights, your room feels more like a prison than any sort of sanctuary.
You can tell the others feel the same. Everyone in the playhouse is pretending to be excited, preparing for Adelina's final performance of The Witch's Tower and the Princess. She believed she could bring some life back to the city, in one last glorious curtain call. You didn't have such visions of grandeur. Not anymore. Neither did the other members of the playhouse. There’s been growing whispers, spoken quietly through the halls about abandoning the show, catching the train to far, far away from the wraths of the disease, to anywhere but here, and starting a new company.
It’s a bit of relief. Ever since the day Carlo died, you’ve wanted to leave this city behind. What better chance than to follow the promise of something new, where you wouldn't have to live in some prima donna's shadow, where you could heal freely from your loss?
But you couldn’t.
You couldn’t leave, not until he came back like he promised.
The recorder sits on the small table beside you. You reach for it, thumb brushing against the worn casing before clicking play. The gear stutters but eventually turns. It’s a miracle it still works, but it does somehow, and that's a blessing. It’s the only way you can hear his voice now. It’s the only way you can hear either of them now.
You remember the last time Romeo visited, the recorder in his hand, dented and beaten but not broken. He handed it to you more careful than ever. “You remember that time?” he asked. “Feels like forever.”
You hadn’t answered. You didn’t want to remember. His voice and yours. Everything had seemed lighter in those days. It made you realize how young all of you really were and how much older you are now.
“I’m heading for the zoo in the morning," Romeo said. "Picked up some tips. There’s something strange happening out there."
“By yourself?”
"Master Lea...she's been sick. Eventually..." Romeo trailed off, and you know what he’s too afraid to say even though his eyes shine with steeled resolve. "I want to be able to do things on my own, even if it's just something small to lessen her burden."
You didn’t look at him. The pressure behind your eyes and the twist in your stomach wouldn’t allow it. There wasn't a space in your mind that can comprehend a world where either of those two are alone. They’ve always been attached at the hip, with something special between only them. It was an atmosphere you could sense but never penetrate. It lingered even now in that golden necklace hanging from Romeo’s neck, inscribed with the writings of a friend long gone. It felt wrong; and yet, that incomprehensible world was staring at you.
Frowning, you squeezed your hand a little tighter around the recorder. Otherwise, the last you have of Carlo will slip away through your shaking fingers.
You recalled the way you used to ask, well, demand, that he play the piano for you. He was the best at it even though he always complained his fingers weren’t made for the piano. They were too stiff, too clumsy, always hitting the softer notes too heavily. You didn’t care about his excuses. Even if they were true, you’d still ask. He would still play, insisting it would be the last time. Then, it’d start all over again. Every time.
Sometimes, he’d smile when he played. Never when the teachers forced him, only with you. You’re not even sure he realized he did. It was one of the few times that you could see something only belonging to you two, in the same way he and Romeo had, even if you had to demand it.
You silently questioned if Romeo was right back then, when he said that Carlo liked you bossing him around.
The memory made you smile bitterly. Romeo noticed, because of course he did.
Romeo was as clever and perceptive as ever, that much hadn’t changed since you were kids. He could take any small detail and use it to weasel out of trouble. The times he couldn’t were lessons learned the hard way but improved him even now.
He placed a strong hand on your shoulder, making, no forcing, you to focus on him and only him. "I'll run,” he said, too sincerely. "If it gets too dangerous. I'll run back here. Let you show them what's for.”
Your eyes stung with the weight of it all, and you frustratedly wiped away what threatened to come out. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not being funny. Your tongue’s as deadly as any sword, and you’re still utterly terrifying when you want to be.” He teased; and despite everything, your lips pull into a reluctant smile. "When I get back, let’s go somewhere. You and Me. Somewhere he’d like too.”
“Romeo…there is hardly anywhere safe left."
"I'll protect you. I'm strong enough now...to protect the both of us," he said, but there was something heavy behind that bravado. Something you're too cowardly to ask about, because you felt, regardless of his strength to move forward, that voicing it, reassuring him that he didn't need to feel guilt for not being able to help Carlo would hurt him more than it would help.
Instead, your vision fell on the scythe rested on his back and the casual way his hand glided over its handle, like it was born there. Then, it moved. He slowly reached for your hand, the very same one desperately grasping onto memories of a time where you felt more whole. He squeezed your fingers around the little machine and held them there. “Hold on to this for me until I get back.”
“I will,” you whispered, but there’s a nagging feeling blooming painfully in your chest as you watched him leave. You called after him, voice strained. “You promise to come back soon?"
He paused and turned to you. The shine in his eyes was still there, even after everything. "Wait for me here.”
Romeo smiled as he always did. That same charming smile that had gotten him out of more than one investigation and more than a few cleaning duties, but there’s something different…older, wiser perhaps. And maybe, if your heart hadn’t already belonged to someone else, that smile might’ve taken you, too. But it does what it always does. It reels you in. Despite his playfulness, he had always been a reliable person even when it didn't matter, so you wanted to believe in him.
“Alright,” you agreed, smothering the last of your doubts. So, you make a promise more dear to you than any other thing the world could still offer. You'll stay then go with the most important person you have left. “I’ll wait for you.”
It isn’t until weeks pass—long after the production abandons the city, long after the frenzy starts, and long after you’ve given up hope of Romeo keeping his promise—that you realize something.
Romeo really hasn’t changed.
He’s still a good liar.
Always has been.
Always will be.