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The opera house looks almost like how Carlo remembers it.
A few of the blood-red curtains have been slashed; they cascade in tatters over the marble staircases and send plumes of dust flying when Carlo runs over them. The puppets are different, too – models he’s never seen before dash down the stairs, their porcelain appearances disguising the strength of their blows. Carlo cuts a piece of fabric from one of the wall hangings and stuffs it in his ears to avoid the awful trills from a spider-shaped puppet. With a few quick slashes of his sword, the puppet falls to the ground, silken marionette strings coiling next to it.
He makes his way through the opera house methodically: ducking away from the puppets’ blows, slicing through the invisible strings that seem to hold them up, and rolling behind one of the many columns if the puppets keep swinging at him. The path to the stage is blocked from every direction he can see, but Carlo refuses to give up until he finds what he came for. He’s tracked the King of Puppets this far, piecing together garbled speech from the puppets he’s defeated. And if anyone has an answer to Carlo’s question, it must be the King.
“Where is he?” Carlo demands as he slashes through a jester puppet. It cackles and spins toward him without a word. The entertainment puppets seem to take as much pleasure in attacking him as they used to in their jobs, which is more than a little unsettling. They’re also terribly unhelpful. When Carlo hits the puppet’s torso again, it collapses with a cut-off giggle and no explanation.
Finally, he pushes through one of the heavy wooden doors, and it actually opens. A chandelier swings across the room beyond. Each time it crosses the room, embers fly towards Carlo, flickering out just before they hit his face.
He grits his teeth and runs. Whoever designed this room was kind enough to put a single metal plank across the gaping hole in the floor, and Carlo balances on it with more trust than he’d like. The chandelier nearly knocks him over, but he rolls past it and steadies himself on the other side of the plank.
A set of gold-trimmed doors rises in front of him. Stage doors, he hopes.
“Come and get me, puppet king,” Carlo calls. His words echo through the hall as the doors creak open. The opera stage lies beyond them, but the King of Puppets is nowhere to be found. “I know you’re in there somewhere.” He doesn’t, but if the King of Puppets isn’t here, Carlo can’t think of another place to find him.
The ceiling creaks in response, shaking the velvet curtains that hang over the stage. Gears whir somewhere above Carlo, and he braces himself for an attack. He’s fought enough puppets by this point to know the warning signs – the sound of gears and a crunch like breaking bones when they reach him. Sure enough, a puppet leaps towards him from above the stage, landing with a thud.
Calling this one a puppet feels wrong. Carlo is almost certain that the King of Puppets looms over him. With his giant crown and worn metal regalia, the puppet cuts an intimidating figure, but Carlo didn’t come here to turn back at the first sign of danger. He aims his sword at the King of Puppets’ neck and fixes him with a glare as sharp as his blade.
“You’re going to answer my questions,” Carlo says. “That, or I’ll make you.”
The King of Puppets leans forward. Carlo could swear that his face falls, but he doesn’t swing either set of his mechanical arms. Maybe he’ll be willing to hear Carlo out – or he’s trying to catch him off guard.
“Tell me where he is.”
Carlo can’t understand the creaking language of puppets easily, but the King of Puppets makes a noise that sounds like Who?
“You can’t be serious. Where the hell is he? You’re the puppet master here, aren’t you?” The King of Puppets slowly shakes his head, but Carlo continues. “Tell me where Romeo is.”
With a resounding crash, the King of Puppets falls to his knees. Carlo moves his sword closer, trying to steady his hand on the hilt. “I swear, if you killed him, I’ll- I’ll rip your fucking limbs off. Just tell me-”
Wait, Carlo.
“Stop doing that,” Carlo snaps. “How the hell do you know my name?”
The King of Puppets’ chestplate breaks off, and whatever else Carlo wanted to say dies in his throat. His sword clatters to the floor. Trapped in between wiring and metal plates, a lock of blonde hair sticks out, vivid as a bloodstain on fresh snow. The rest of the King of Puppets falls away, piece by piece, leaving a discarded puppet suit and a single figure in the middle. Carlo would know his face anywhere; it’s the same one he’s fought through puppets and trudged across streets barricaded with corpses to find. Romeo, not breathing but alive, animated by Ergo and wiping oil off one metal-plated arm, and still the best thing Carlo’s ever seen.
Carlo doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he grumbles, “I can’t believe you got taller.”
Romeo’s eyes widen, and he laughs. It’s not the sound Carlo remembers – his voice is rusty from disuse, and his laughter comes out in short spurts.
“Carlo,” he says, letting the name hang in the air like he never expected to say it again. He pauses for a second, and then he’s running towards Carlo, his steps lurching but sure. Once they’re face-to-face, he pauses. Carlo’s not a mind reader, but he can almost hear the thoughts rushing through Romeo’s mind, the hesitation keeping him in place.
It’s Carlo who bridges the gap between them, wrapping his arms around Romeo’s chest. “I probably smell like shit,” he admits.
“So do I,” Romeo says. He leans down to nestle into Carlo’s shoulder. He’s always been stronger than he looks, and Carlo finds himself letting out an uncomfortable oof as Romeo hugs him back.
“What… what happened?” Carlo asks, more to the empty air than to Romeo. If he hears, he doesn’t respond. His head sinks into Carlo’s hair, and Carlo can feel mechanical heat flowing across his skin. Warm light from the chandelier reflects off the plating that covers Romeo’s torso. Carlo can fit the pieces together, but he doesn’t want to see the picture they form. A puppet this well-constructed, one that carries a human essence in its chest – who else could have made Romeo into this?
Before Carlo can say anything, Romeo looks at him again. Puppets can’t cry, as far as Carlo knows, but the light hits his eyes like the sheen of unshed tears.
“And this is real? You’re real?” Romeo asks, a tinge of desperation coloring his voice.
“Course I am,” Carlo says. “You think I’d come back as someone else? I was looking for you, idiot.” For good measure, he threads his fingers into the back of Romeo’s hair and pulls him down until their eyes meet. His hair is rougher now, not soft and well-maintained like he kept it back in the Monad Charity House. Romeo’s shoulders shake, like he’s trying to sob but can’t quite remember how. Carlo just rubs his back in circles, letting him slump onto his shoulder with a creaking sigh.
Once they’ve settled into place, Carlo clears his throat. He doesn’t want to disturb Romeo, but he can’t stay here without answers, either.
“What happened to me?” he asks.
Romeo doesn’t respond at first. He tenses enough that Carlo can tell he heard, but keeps his head buried in Carlo’s shoulder. Something bad, then. It’s what he was expecting, but his stomach twists at the thought of having left Romeo behind. Carlo casts a concerned glance at the curtain of blonde hair draped over his shoulder and neck. He can get his answers later, once talking about whatever happened doesn’t rip the scab off a freshly-healing wound.
“Remember that time we stole wine from the kitchen, back at the house?” he tries instead. Romeo lets out a muffled laugh, so he continues, “I can’t believe they didn’t kick us out for that.”
“We can’t have been the first to do it,” Romeo says. “But none of them ended up as drunk as you, I bet.”
Carlo huffs in mock indignation. “I wasn’t the one stumbling into the bathroom and throwing up into his own hair.”
“God, really?”
“See,” Carlo replies, “You were too drunk to even remember.”
“Or you’re lying,” Romeo shoots back. Carlo really does remember it: Romeo, swaying on his feet in their dorm room, chunks of the previous night’s dinner dripping from his hair. The reality of their actions hadn’t hit Romeo until then. When it did, he looked up at Carlo, pale-faced with fear, and begged him to cover for him. Course I will, but you owe me, Carlo had told him. At the time, he thought his excuses were excellent, but there’s always the chance the teachers just took pity on him.
He can’t tell if Romeo’s thinking of the same moment, but a wistful smile falls on his face as he untangles himself from Carlo. He falls back onto the ground, propping himself up on a piece of the King of Puppets’ discarded suit like it’s a chair. Carlo does the same. Falling onto a piece of metal is harder when your body isn’t made of armor, though, so Carlo winces as he sits.
“This place looks about the same,” he says, his gaze falling on the chandelier. This one, at least, isn’t spraying fire or swinging around the room.
Romeo nods. “That was the first thing I did. When I came here, I mean,” he adds softly. “The roof was about ready to collapse, but there were enough puppets to fix the place up.”
“You actually got them to help? Isn’t there some sort of rule against that?” Carlo frowns. “Aren’t there rules to stop all of– well, all of this?”
For some reason, Romeo’s face falls. “The Grand Covenant,” he supplies.
“That’s it. Don’t tell me the old man got rid of it.”
“He didn’t,” Romeo says. “He never had to.”
“Never had to… what, they’re allowed to attack anyone they see?” Carlo scoffs.
“There was another part to it. Rule Zero, it's called.” Romeo’s voice is distant as he continues, “No one knew until the Frenzy had already destroyed most of Krat. All the puppets obey Gepetto’s orders.”
The name falls into their conversation like a stone in water, sending ripples through Carlo’s composure. He clenches his fists and looks at his sword, discarded on the ground. Of course, everything comes back to Gepetto – the ruined city Carlo had crawled through, the state Romeo’s in, even the puppets lurking around every street and staircase corner.
“I’ll kill him,” Carlo says, quiet but resolute. “I’ll-”
“Carlo.” He knows Romeo’s voice better than any other language in the world, and the way he says Carlo’s name sounds like a request. Stay with me a little longer. They have nothing but time now; if Romeo wants more of it, Carlo certainly won’t refuse.
“Later, then,” Carlo promises. He’s never been the best at changing the subject, but he still tries: “I wasn’t done talking about the wine, anyway.”
Romeo laughs and says something about how it was Carlo’s idea for them to drink a bottle each, and the moment settles back into place.
They trade memories for a while, falling into a familiar rhythm. As he talks, Romeo seems to adjust – his quips and offhand remarks are faster, as if he’s shaken off the rust from however long he’s spent without Carlo. His memory is still intact, Carlo’s relieved to find; he even has some stories that Carlo doesn’t recall. It all feels a little like sharing a dorm years ago, huddling around candlelight to share secrets after all the lights were shut off. Carlo leans closer, and Romeo follows him, until they both sprawl on the opera house floor like children bored with a performance.
Maybe it’s the intimate setting or the golden glow blanketing the room that makes Carlo confident. Too confident, probably, and willing to ask questions he wouldn’t in daylight.
“Do we ever-” he starts, before he realizes what he’s saying. “I mean, are we- did I ever tell you I love you?”
Romeo lets the words rest in between them for a second, his expression shifting between a thousand different emotions in an instant.
“You do,” he says, and he isn’t looking straight at Carlo anymore. “You get injured in training, and when I come to see you, you say it.” The memories he has and Carlo’s never lived through are sweet in Romeo’s voice.
“And if I wanted to tell you now?”
“I kept your necklace,” Romeo half-answers. “When I thought you weren’t coming back, I would just… stare at it sometimes, until it didn’t look real.” Then, softer: “I love you, too.”
Romeo moves closer to Carlo until their faces nearly meet, and Carlo can feel his heartbeat in his ears and his stomach at the same time. With an almost practiced grace, Romeo presses his lips to Carlo’s cheek. Carlo leans into the touch, the strange sensation of Romeo’s lips on his skin outweighed by the fact that it’s Romeo kissing him. They pull apart, and Carlo places his hand underneath Romeo’s chin, tipping it up slightly until they melt into another kiss.
“I missed you,” Romeo whispers against Carlo’s lips. Carlo knows he hasn’t been apart from Romeo for as long as Romeo was from him, but he nods anyway, because he feels the same.
If anyone could see them now, they’d be an odd pair – a human and an awakened puppet, fitting perfectly together in the intact remains of an opera house. But Carlo stopped caring about appearances a while ago, and judging from the way he wraps his arms around Carlo, Romeo has too.
They could spend minutes or hours sitting there; Carlo can’t tell without a view of the outside. He can’t bring himself to care, either. The rest of Krat may hold more rampaging puppets, and Gepetto, and every other sort of danger out there, but since they were kids, he’s never felt too scared with Romeo by his side.
No matter what their future has in store, at least Carlo knows they’ll face it together.