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i.
They’re together more often than not, at this point. So often that Romeo and Carlo slides off the lips of their classmates like a single object, because why would they be apart? Most of the time, Carlo agrees with that. It’s rare that he’s not following Romeo to class, or sparring with him in the courtyard, or half studying and half trading jokes together.
He doesn’t mind it, either. Being part of a set is nice. Carlo doesn’t have to worry about being left behind or not having a partner in classes; there’s always Romeo by his side. Almost always, that is.
Today, he can’t seem to find Romeo. He’s checked their shared dorm already, and the courtyard is mostly empty. When Carlo asks one of the students sitting there if she’s seen Romeo, she looks at him like he’s turned into a puppet.
“Wouldn’t you know where he is?” she asks. He shakes his head, and she returns to her book with a shrug. None of the people he passes in the halls are any more helpful. In fact, he’s about to give up the search and return to his dorm when a young-looking student stops him.
“Romeo… he’s blonde, right? And…” the boy raises his arm above his head, which isn’t all that helpful – Carlo’s taller than him too – but it’s the best lead he has so far.
“Did you see him?” Carlo asks.
The boy nods. “Least I think so! He was going that way. Near the music room, I think.” Carlo thanks him and heads in the direction he pointed. He’s never known Romeo to frequent that part of the house, unless he’s playing cello. Still, he traces the path to the music room.
Muffled record music spills out as he reaches the door. He gently pushes it open to find the room nearly empty, except for the gramophone and Romeo, who’s leaning on a piano bench. There’s a book next to him, but judging by the way it sits face-down on the floor, he hasn’t been reading it. Instead, he taps his fingers against the bench in time to the song – some old-fashioned piece for orchestra that Carlo doesn’t recognize. Light trickles through an arched window, turning Romeo’s hair into strands of gold. He looks so completely peaceful that Carlo can’t bring himself to fully open the door. In the end, it’s Romeo who notices him first.
“You need something, Carlo?” he asks, turning to face the doorway. He looks a little startled, but his voice is warm.
Carlo’s breath catches uncomfortably in his throat, and it takes him a few seconds to say, “No, not really.” Lamely, he adds, “Just looking for you.”
Romeo doesn’t seem to have a response beyond patting the space next to him on the bench. Reluctantly, Carlo joins him, still feeling like he’s intruding on something. The song changes as he walks over – this time, it’s a waltz. The notes flow out languid and syrupy-sweet with each turn of the record.
Something shifts in Romeo’s expression, small enough that Carlo might not notice if he were any farther away. He keeps tapping out the song’s rhythms, but he hesitates this time around. Romeo doesn’t act like this normally. Most of the time, he’s not the one who has to be dragged out of his own thoughts. But Carlo’s used to the way Romeo does it.
He usually starts with a question.
“Do you know how to dance?” From the look on Romeo’s face, he wasn’t expecting that question any more than Carlo expected to ask it. “I mean, to songs like this,” he clarifies.
Romeo shakes his head. “Never needed to know that. Did you?”
“A long time ago,” Carlo says. Back when his father still thought he might be needed in polite society, he took a few lessons. They had been discarded over the years, along with everything else tying Gepetto to his son – birthday parties, family outings, and finally access to his home. He barely knows the steps to a waltz anymore. “It was a little like sparring, from what I remember.”
“Sparring, really?” Romeo snorts. “I’m sure everyone would love it if we went to a ball and drew swords.”
“It’s the same back-and-forth. And if your partner can’t dance, you have to dodge their feet.”
Romeo still eyes him suspiciously as he says, “Those lessons must’ve paid off, huh?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.” Carlo jumps to his feet with a swell of the music. His better judgment returns to him in time for him to realize that what he’s said is probably strange. Even with a limited memory of dance lessons, he can recall that the waltz had different steps for men and women, and none of the teachers Gepetto hired suggested that a dance could be anything else.
If Romeo knows something’s wrong, he doesn’t say anything about it. He joins Carlo on the floor – the house’s music room is arranged like a mostly-empty storage room with instruments, so there’s more than enough space to dance – and takes his outstretched hand. Carlo tries to position himself in the right stance for waltzing, which almost works, until he remembers that someone’s hand has to go on someone’s waist, and that seems too close for comfort. Never mind that they’ve been closer when they spar; dancing is different , no matter how much Carlo wants to compare it. In the end, Romeo’s hands rest on Carlo’s shoulders, and Carlo places his above Romeo’s chest.
“This can’t be right,” Romeo says.
“You try it, then,” Carlo shoots back. Romeo’s attempt has them standing an arm’s length apart, fingers interlocked and palms facing like they’re trying to shove each other away. That can’t be right, either, but it allows them to get in a few steps to the music before Carlo pauses.
“Something wrong?” Romeo asks once they pull apart. “I thought it was going well.”
Carlo shakes his head. “It’s not a waltz, though.”
“Does it have to be?”
“No, it’s just-” In place of an explanation, Carlo pulls Romeo closer, into the best approximation of a waltz position he can make. His hand slips into place around Romeo’s waist. They’re standing close enough that Carlo can see the way Romeo’s eyes widen before he clasps his hand.
The record switches to another waltz, this time softer and lighter. Without a word, Carlo steps forward. He isn’t used to leading – he isn’t used to anything , when it comes to dancing, and Romeo is usually the one who tells Carlo, come on, you’ll be sad if you miss it , the one who knows his way around alleyways and how to get back to the house on time for curfew. But he follows easily enough, moving back as Carlo advances. They even make it through a set of steps that Carlo mostly remembers together. Then Romeo lifts his arm higher, and before Carlo fully knows what’s happening, he twirls into his friend’s outstretched arms.
“Hey, that’s cheating,” Carlo protests. Romeo just laughs; for that, Carlo elbows him in the chest.
“Ow! I didn’t think you were serious about sparring.”
“Maybe I was.” Carlo narrowly blocks Romeo’s counterattack. He’s still propped up by one of his arms, though, and it doesn’t take long for Romeo to realize that. This time, Carlo nearly hits the floor on the beat – Romeo pulls him up before he can fall, but only by a second.
They whirl around the room again, not quite waltzing and not quite fighting. Each of them steps on the other’s feet a few times, whether on purpose or not. Carlo’s old instructors certainly wouldn’t approve of the way they switch between steps and twirls. The record in the background is almost forgotten as they fall into a different rhythm, because it’s too predictable to attack on beat.
“I thought you were fighting fair,” Romeo says when the song ends, and Carlo twirls him anyway.
“Never said that,” Carlo replies. “Just that you weren’t.”
The record stops spinning, but Romeo still goes for a retaliation – he dips Carlo, then gets caught off guard by Carlo’s foot hooked around his ankle. In the silence, the moment seems to play in slow motion: Carlo makes an undignified yelp and Romeo curses as they both hit the floorboards.
They aren’t piled on each other, not quite. Romeo ducks and rolls away, like he’s still in Stalker training, dodging blows. His moves are made significantly less effective by the fact that Carlo’s leg still lies on top of him, so the pair end up face to face. Half of Romeo’s hair falls over his eyes in a curtain, and Carlo brushes it out of the way. That brings them closer – uncomfortably close, if the way Romeo flushes and Carlo feels his own face heat is anything to judge by. He pulls back his hand like it’s been burned.
“That was,” Romeo starts, and whatever he thinks that was is cut off by a burst of laughter. Carlo can’t help laughing along with him.
“You’re a great dancer,” he says wryly.
Romeo hits him, but there isn’t any strength behind it. “And you’re an ass.”
“I did say it was like sparring.”
“A little too much, if you ask me. I wonder why we’ve never been invited to any balls before.”
“Maybe we should host one,” Carlo says, propping himself up. “I think you knocked the piano bench over. We should probably clean this whole place up before someone comes in.”
“We could,” Romeo replies. “Or… I think that record has another side.”
ii.
The opera house doors creak open, and Romeo wants nothing more than to push through the stage curtains and run to the boy who enters. Carlo, who can’t be alive, but walks towards him with a blade hoisted over his shoulder anyway. Carlo, whose steps now have a puppet’s clanking rhythm.
He waits through the play; if there’s one thing Romeo has now, it’s time. Gepetto neatly rips out his son’s heart and places it in a new vessel. The puppet wearing Carlo’s face watches the entire show with a blank look, shifting on his feet the entire time. Romeo can’t help thinking of Carlo – when they used to spar, he would never stand still. Secretly, he had always thought that out of the two of them, Carlo fit people’s expectations for an orphan raised on the streets better. The way he never stopped moving, determined to grab any opportunity he could find before it slipped away, was something no one expected from the son of the man who made Krat. The puppet doesn’t carry the same weight in his expression. His restlessness seems empty, compared to Carlo’s.
When the play ends, Romeo drops from the ceiling. The suit that makes him king is unwieldy, all coiled springs and royal regalia, and it hardly looks like he used to.
But Carlo should remember him, shouldn’t he? Even as a puppet, Romeo still remembers it all – the first time they met, all their afternoons spent sparring together, their first kiss. The rest of it, too: watching as stony scales consumed Carlo’s face, day by day, until he dragged him back to his father’s workshop. Gepetto had been the one to say what Romeo was too afraid to; he still resents the man for it. They must’ve buried Carlo somewhere, and he wasn’t there to see it. Now that he’s back, Romeo can’t figure out how to feel.
“Come on, Carlo,” he murmurs, too quiet for the suit to project his words. There must be something of his friend left in the puppet – a glimmer of memory, maybe, or a good reason that he killed the messengers Romeo sent. The King of Puppets’ arm extends, one clanking joint at a time.
It only takes the puppet wearing Carlo’s face a moment to slap his hand away.
Romeo curses the way the suit mirrors his face. The King of Puppets must look ridiculous as it mimics his eyes widening into a mask of shock, his expression falling. The puppet just readies his blade and swings. He nearly catches Romeo off balance, but the King of Puppets steadies himself in time to dodge another hit. Fighting this puppet isn’t anything like how Romeo remembers their sparring sessions. Carlo always favored a thinner blade, one he could maneuver nimbly. This version of him wields a hulking slab of metal, whirling it around like a partner in his deadly dance.
The sound of rattling gears echoes through the opera hall as they trade blows. Carefully placed tables splinter apart, spraying months-old layers of dust into the air. The puppet deflects Romeo’s attacks with practiced skill. The ones he can’t counter with his blade, he ducks away from. Romeo knows the King of Puppets can get in a good hit – he gets several on the puppet – but he finds himself wishing the suit could dodge a little faster.
When he feels the springs connecting an arm start to fail, Romeo grits his teeth. Maybe he can convince this puppet, if Carlo’s still in there. “Listen, you’re wrong. It’s–”
Another swing of the puppet’s blade cuts off his explanation. The suit’s other arm starts to creak, which can’t be a good sign. Romeo rushes towards the puppet, arms swinging, but he ducks away and lands a hit on his legs. As the King of Puppets struggles to recover, he launches another barrage of strikes. Oil pools on the opera house floor once he’s finished with his attack. Romeo tries to conjure another spark, something to force his limbs into motion, but they flop listlessly to the ground.
For once, the King of Puppets kneels.
Warm light from the opera house chandelier creeps into Romeo’s vision before he realizes that the suit’s chestplate has fallen to the floor. There’s a buzzing noise in his head. It only grows louder as the King of Puppets falls apart, exposed wires sparking. One of them must catch fire, because the next thing he knows, he’s shoving off metal armor into the inferno that’s overtaken the stage. Puppets aren’t supposed to feel heat, but Romeo burns with every move he makes.
He watches Carlo’s eyes widen. For an instant, he thinks the puppet might remember something, but then his grip on his weapon tightens. Romeo feels his own resolve shatter. All this, and Carlo still doesn’t remember? It can’t be his fault – Gepetto must’ve stolen his memories, reached into his corpse and pulled out his heart. But if his influence can’t be shaken, then Romeo has to–
“I have to kill you,” he says, the words falling like stones against the floor. “There’s no other way.”
The puppet doesn’t react. Romeo matches his stance with his own scythe, then lunges toward him. Sparks skid across metal as their blades meet. Now that they’re face to face, the puppet attacks with a fervor Romeo doesn’t expect. He knew the King of Puppets shielded him from the worst of the impact, but Carlo was never this ruthless.
That isn’t quite right – Carlo was ruthless in a fight, but never against Romeo. The realization hits him with the force of a blow. He’s quick enough to steady himself that the puppet can’t interrupt the swing of his scythe, but he still feels off-balance. Not that he has time to think through any of it; the instant he pauses, the puppet’s blade connects with his chest. If he could still bleed, Romeo thinks he would be lying in a pool of his own blood by now. The oil sheen coating the floor beneath him looks almost the same, in the light of so many fires.
In seconds, their back-and-forth dance takes the pair around the hall, leaving gouges on the floor in their wake. Romeo slices through the puppet’s mechanical arm but only gets a few moments of reprieve before he’s knocked over. Something about the way this puppet fights is beginning to scare him. He moves forward with the force of pure Ergo behind his swings, hardly slowing down even as Romeo feels his arms growing heavier. Pain shoots through his head, and his vision flickers at the corners. The puppet swings his blade like he wants to cleave straight through his chest, hit after hit slamming Romeo to the ground.
He’s moving slower now, and he knows it. The puppet doesn’t seem concerned with a fair fight; he still takes every opening Romeo gives him and dodges all his sluggish attacks. But at last, he pauses.
Romeo wonders, with the last of his mind that isn’t dedicated to running every emergency shutdown in his system, if the puppet knows that he’s won. His face doesn’t shift as he jabs a vial of something purple into his palm, encasing his body in a shower of sparks. With Carlo’s unblinking eyes, he stares down at Romeo.
Suddenly, Romeo can’t feel much of anything. His head doesn’t buzz with pain, and his limbs aren’t dragging at his sides – they aren’t there at all, as far as he can tell. Carlo’s face flashes in and out of his vision. An airy warmth spreads through his chest as he thinks that his last sight will probably be Carlo, even changed as he is. He isn’t as concerned as he should be. After all, he’s died before. At least it’s at Carlo’s hands this time around.
His vision is next to leave him. In the darkness, he still hears Carlo swaying mechanically, ever-restless. Death is lighter than Romeo remembers. It feels a little like flying, or dancing without knowing the steps – that thought makes him laugh out a bubbling stream of oil. He must’ve danced with Carlo once. He remembers the feeling too deeply for it to be a lie, but the details have already slipped away.
Before his voice can fade, Romeo summons the last of his strength.
“Maybe this is what real freedom feels like,” he says, more rusty cough than speech. “Thank you, Carlo.”