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Suddenly, he’s awake.
There’s a burn in his lungs, the type you get from being deprived of oxygen just a little too long. Romeo gasps for air, one hand clutching at his chest and the other balled into a tight fist by his side. He can still taste gunpowder. Blunt fingernails dig into his bloodied palm. It’s almost grounding. Not enough to offset the pain, however.
His eyes take a few moments to refocus. Above him, a few clouds crawl lazily across a cornflower blue sky. It’s too bright. Romeo squints. Everything seemed a little hazy round the edges, not quite real. That makes his head hurt.
A tacky red liquid coats his hands, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that is. The tip of his tongue swipes over his swollen bottom lip. Drying blood cakes the sensitive flesh, broken and sore. There’s a metallic taste that fills his mouth. Floods his senses for just a moment. His nose throbs.
At least he’s alive, Romeo thinks to himself. That’s definitely a positive.
“Romeo,” a feeble voice calls. It should’ve been a question, but the inflection to suggest that much is completely absent. It’s a voice brimming with the pain Romeo feels lancing through his own body.
“Tha’s me,” he manages, turning his head in the direction of the voice. Fuck, he sounds rough. He’s barely said a sentence, and already he can feel the way vocalising makes his throat burn. His cheek scratches against the concrete, but the pain barely registers. He’s got bigger issues right now. “You good, Tony?”
The boy in question, Tony, simply groans again. No, he’s not good. Romeo saw him go down. The horrible sound of a bullet pinging off the wall, and Tony dodges narrowly, and then there’s someone kicking him in the stomach. A wave of nausea hits Romeo. He’s powerless. Tony’s arm is yanked sharply backwards, and Romeo hears the sickening crack. That’s a sound he won’t forget.
Now he lays a few feet away from Romeo, curled in on himself. Just slightly out of reach. There’s an almost ghostly pallor to his skin. The sole source of his bleeding seems to be a deep gash high up on his cheekbone. The blood caking his hair and clothing isn’t his own. A dark bruise forming above his left eyebrow. Shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle.
It takes Romeo a several minutes to sit up properly. Well, maybe it’s minutes. His sense of time is a little warped right now. However long it takes to let the nausea die down enough to allow movement. Aching muscles scream in protest as he pushes himself up, elbows shoved beneath him to support his bodyweight. Spits out a mixture of blood and saliva, unable to get rid of that smoky taste that makes his teeth hurt, makes his gums burn. The ache in his chest returns promptly, earning a hiss of pain from Romeo.
“We fucked up, didn’t we?”
It’s not a question, but he asks it like one anyway. Maybe Tony will entertain him. Months of begging and pleading and bargaining can’t end like this. Romeo doesn’t make mistakes, not anymore. Neither does Tony. Neither does Jack.
“Shut your stupid mouth,” Tony snaps, although the usual venomous sting in his tone is missing. It’s actually a little weak. Probably too much effort right now.
They’re not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. Partners, in a business sense exclusively. He likes to think they’re getting somewhere. Volatility is Tony’s middle name, however, and that makes it rather difficult to gauge where he stands. Romeo isn’t sure how Tony defines the word ‘friendship’, anyway.
Romeo rolls his eyes anyway, face screwing up when he’s reminded of the pain in his chest. Broken ribs, easily. When he pulls his shirt up to inspect the damage, there’s black and blue blooming across his flesh already. Ouch.
Vaguely, there’s the memory of taking a crowbar to the chest. Feels distant, almost like he watched it happen to somebody else. It’s a little jarring to consider this happened to him. Suddenly the bruises don’t feel all that strange. A few broken ribs is a small price to pay.
“You want some help?” he asked, letting the thin fabric drop back down.
Tony shakes his head defiantly, of course he does. He’ll die before he accepts Romeo’s assistance.
So Romeo doesn’t make it optional. He takes a few deep breaths and forces himself up, teeth gritting. The taste of blood is stronger now, and it’s almost dizzying. He stumbles, grasps for something to keep him upright, leans against the wall heavily. The pain is nauseating. Just that small movement has a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead, mixing with the blood and sticking to his skin uncomfortably.
“ Idiota,” he hisses, glaring sharply at Tony. The blond is motionless, hair matted with blood and sweat and dirt. “You shoulda kept your mouth shut.”
“Oh, this is my problem now?” Tony shoots back, eyes narrowing. There’s an edge of ice in his voice, a familiar one. Romeo knows that tone all too well.
Any other time, he wouldn’t push it. Arguing with Tony is pointless and stupid and gets neither of them anywhere, but there’s an anger flaring up in Romeo’s chest that’s more than a little difficult to force back down.
“If you let me do my job, we’d be outta here, and not bleeding to death in the fucking dirt.” Romeo seethes. “I was doing the talking, Tony. This shit is basic.”
“Badly,” the blond retorts. “You needed me to cover because you couldn’t get your fuckin’ words out properly.”
“I was doing just fine.”
Tony doesn’t bother responding, grunting unintelligibly instead.
Does he really blame Tony? No. The guilt is overwhelming, actually, because Romeo knows it’s on him. He shouldn’t push it further.
“This is why Jack doesn’t fucking trust you.”
Tony’s expression darkens immediately, eyes flashing dangerously. Romeo regrets it already.
“Jack trusts me a whole lot more than you. Because he knows you might just run off the second he lets you out.”
Romeo opens his mouth, ready to shoot off some spiteful retort, but he catches himself. He doesn’t hate Tony anymore. They’re not rivals, they’re not friends, but they’re somewhere between those two points.
He relents, kneeling down beside Tony. It’s such a simple movement, and yet every contraction of his muscles is fucking agony. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. The taste of blood is there again, but for a completely different reason now. Sharp pieces of gravel dig into his knees.
“Just let me help you,” he requests. Tony grunts, but he doesn’t bother trying to fight it this time.
“I don’t need your help,” he spits. At this point, that suggestion is almost laughable. If Romeo liked him any less, he’d maybe laugh.
“I think you’ll find you do,” Romeo defends easily, placing one hand on Tony’s shoulder. It’s a feather-light touch, barely there, but it’s a reminder. Tony can work out what that means for himself.
He scowls at Romeo, eyes dark. Juxtaposes their brightness. They’d be so pretty if he smiled more often, although Romeo never voices those thoughts. Tony would murder him the moment he opened his mouth. Such angelic features, constantly contorted with rage and irritation. Jarring.
Tony doesn’t verbally respond again, although he hisses in pain when he slowly tries to stretch out his aching limbs. Honestly, the silence is nice. Unusual.
There’s the silent acknowledgment between them that, had this happened months prior, Tony would be left for dead. Romeo would leave without a second glance. Tony holds this flawed ideology of needing help equalling weakness, and Romeo could never quite fathom why.
But now he feels responsibility. Guilt tugs at him, sour. It weighs heavy on his shoulders. The anger dies away, still smouldering somewhere deep within him, but now it’s easy to ignore. He watches the way blood trickle down the side of Tony’s face with an almost sick fascination. It’s mesmerising, the way it soaks into the fine creases and stains his skin crimson.
Romeo is slow to accept his own faults. Doesn’t like to be the one at fault. It’s a vice he's always known about, but his ego has a tendency to get in the way of any real self-improvement there. He has many virtues, anyway, and he’ll say it with that trademark bright smile. But no, it’s not really Tony’s fault. If he’s completely truthful, their failure is more indicative of their joint weaknesses. Romeo is too quick to react, pushes too hard for little gain. Tony is abrasive and snappy, immediately rubbing people up the wrong way. It’s really no wonder why Jack didn’t want them out in the field just yet.
“Jack’s gonna kill us,” Tony murmurs. Speak of the devil. He sounds agitated, maybe. Difficult to tell when he’s speaking through gritted teeth, biting down hard in an attempt to suppress his groans of pain. “He’s gonna fuckin’ murder me.”
Romeo shakes his head, and maybe there’s just a little hint of introspectiveness there. “It’s not just your fault, Tony, I’m sorry. I fucked up, y’know?”
Of course, Tony argues back. His voice reminds Romeo of glass crunching beneath his feet. Scratchy. “You’re the one who said it. I fucked up. Jack wanted me to prove myself. All this did was prove I couldn’t do it.”
“Yeah, well, can’t do much about that now,” Romeo concludes. He’s too tired to fight.
Acknowledging failure makes Romeo’s skin crawl, the sudden urge to scratch becoming almost overwhelming. Mistakes like this are for other people. Rookies. It’s been a long time since he was last considered a rookie.
He sets about his work in silence. The rush of blood in his ears serves as a nice way to tune out his thoughts. White noise. His stomach roils as he moves, nausea threatening to render him useless for a little while longer. Tony lays limp beneath his fingertips, letting Romeo do what he must. There’s still a scowl twisting his face up. The fight died from his eyes moments before.
Fortunately, nothing looks too bad. The shoulder is nasty. It’s not career-ending. Now Romeo’s good, but he’s not that good. Wouldn’t dare to try resetting that on his own. It’s a job for someone else, someone a lot more qualified. That gash on Tony’s cheek is slowly scabbing over. Romeo winces, secondhand pain. Someone is gonna rip that back open to clean it later. Everything else seems like superficial damage.
“Can you sit up?” he asks, taking one of Tony’s hands in his own. It’s calloused and sticky with blood. The warmth is oddly familiar. Again, Tony doesn’t dignify that with anything more than a grunt. Shoves his good arm back, wincing at the jolt in his bad one. Uses his elbows to gain a little leverage. It’s not quite sitting up, but it’s a start.
Romeo chews at his lip. By now the taste of copper in his mouth is practically second nature. He’s guilty. It gnaws at his stomach and he hates the way it burns. “Better than nothing,” he muses quietly, rocking back to rest his weight on his haunches. Tony pulls his hand away. The muscles in Romeo’s legs throb.
“You got any smart ideas to get us outta here?” Tony snarks, and Romeo doesn’t miss the bite in his voice. Clearly, he’s feeling a little better already. It’s not got that malicious ring to it, though. Not like usual. He could put money on Tony being more pissed at himself than Romeo.
“Pick-up point isn’t far away,” he muses, using his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun overhead. “If you can walk that far, we—“
“I can.”
Tony doesn’t wait for Romeo to argue, and he doesn’t ask for help. Instead, he uses his good arm to push him up, just enough to sit. Even then, he’s panting, slightly breathless. Romeo doesn’t miss the way he winces.
“Let me carry you,” Romeo suggests.
The blond’s face twists into an ugly scowl. “No.”
He sighs, lips pressing into a tight line. “So you gonna walk? ‘Cause it’s not gonna be the shortest walk.”
Tony’s answer isn’t so immediate this time. He’s thinking about it, considering his options. Romeo can tell by the way his eyes cloud with an uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. Tony always tends to shoot first, ask questions later.
Finally, he answers. “Fine. But I swear to God, if you tell anyone about this,” Tony snarls, weakly jabbing a finger at Romeo’s chest. “I swear I’ll kill you myself.”
Romeo just shrugs. They both know the only person he talks to is Tony. He has nobody to tell, even if he wanted to. Telling people would only bring about questions, and Romeo feels far too guilty to answer those. Or think about them. Even something as simple as reporting to Jack would be a struggle.
Silently, he shifts, one arm scooping underneath Tony’s legs and the other supporting his back. Avoids his bad shoulder. They both know Romeo isn’t strong enough to manage this, but at least he can walk. He stumbles to his feet, sways a little, fingernails digging into Tony’s flesh. Not enough to hurt, but more than enough to feel.
“Careful,” Tony mutters. It’s the most concern Romeo’s ever heard in his voice. Almost unsettling.
He manages to straighten up, though, remaining still for just long enough to catch his balance. Tony is long and lanky, but he’s also light. The height difference makes it a little awkward, but Romeo’s too determined and too proud to forfeit now. Can’t. He’s made enough mistakes to get them both to this point.
“I’m good,” he assures, adjusting his grip on Tony’s lithe body. For just a second, their eyes meet, and Romeo swears he’ll never see a prettier shade of blue than the colour of Tony’s eyes. Blond curls frame his face, tangled and stained with blood. That trademark scowl has melted away, and it’s one of the rare occasions where Romeo sees his face completely relaxed. He looks up at Romeo with something akin to childlike innocence.
If he were somebody else, and they were in a different time, Romeo might call him beautiful.
He pushes that thought down. Locks it away for another time, preferably when he’s alone, not staring into Tony’s crystalline eyes. Starts walking, instead, because pain is a surefire way to distract him from his own internal monologue.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. If Tony wasn’t listening closely, he’d miss it. Romeo’s eyes are fixed firmly on the horizon. Barely audible above the incessant background noise of cars and people and city life. Even on the outskirts, it’s noisy.
“Shut up,” Tony mutters. “This ain’t your fault.”
For Tony to admit fault so easily is wrong. Leaves a strange taste in Romeo’s mouth, and it’s not the taste of blood.
“Maybe if I did my job properly, we wouldn’t be like this, y’know?” Romeo persists, although there’s a lightness to his tone. Jovial, maybe. Doesn’t want to get too serious, not when he’s holding Tony’s broken body in his arms and trying to ignore the way his knees threaten to buckle with every step.
“I said shut up,” Tony warns. There’s a brief flash of irritation in his eyes, but it’s gone before Romeo truly registers it. “I jumped down your fuckin’ throat. Didn’t give you enough chance.”
“And I could’ve reacted better,” is Romeo’s immediate response. “Seriously, Tony, this isn’t your damn fault. An’ when we report to Jack, I swear if you don’t keep your mouth shut—“
Tony scoffs. “Why? So Jack can refuse you fieldwork for the next three years? Because he will.”
“I don’t really care,” Romeo lies.
Being refused fieldwork is getting off lightly. Jack doesn’t make mistakes.
“Yeah, you do.” Tony informs. “‘Cause you’re the one who spent fuckin’ months trying to get us this job, an’ then I went and fucked it up.”
Romeo lets out a small sigh through his nose. “It’s not even that bad.”
“You gonna tell Jack that? ‘It’s not even that bad, Tony just fucked up everything you asked’?” he snarls. “That’ll go down well. I’m sure he’ll love that.”
“Why the fuck do you want me to blame you so bad?” Romeo asks. The irritation melts away, replaced with nothing but a genuine curiosity. “You’re his favourite. You could say anything, an’ he’d probably believe it.”
Tony huffs, turns his face away. He’s staring at nothing.
“Because it’s weird when you get hurt. When Jack screams at you, I don’t…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”
“To—“
“I said forget it.”
And like that, Romeo drops it. Has to, because Tony has made it pretty damn clear he’s not talking about this anymore.
“Just let me take the fall for this one, okay?” Tony asks, and now his voice is softer. There’s a finely veiled edge of authority, and Romeo has to laugh. Tony barely outranks him, and he’s only ever seen them as equal in that regard.
“No,” Romeo murmurs. Soft, but not without the urgency of a demand. “This ain’t your battle, Tony...”
“I was here, wasn’t I?” he scowls. “I’ll do what I fuckin’ please.”
“What if we don’t blame anyone, and let Jack decide who’s guilty?”
Because they both know it’ll be Romeo. Jack thinks highly of Tony, always has. He’s the favourite. Romeo doesn’t have to take the fall to be blamed, and he came to terms with that a while ago.
“What if he kicks you out?” Tony asks, voice real quiet. Finally betrays the terror running through his head. It’s a much more realistic expectation.
“Then I pack my shit and go,” Romeo answers. There’s a rueful smile on his face. The only way he’ll be leaving is with a bullet through his brain. Ditched in an unmarked grave somewhere. No need to do any packing. “Wasn’t cut out for a place like this, clearly.”
“You can’t—“ he begins, but those words seem to catch in his throat. Can’t say what he wants to. Tony never loses his words like that.
“That’s up to Jack. His call.”
“You can’t just back down like that, asshole! What happened to not goin’ down without a fuckin’ fight?” Tony demands. He’s not covering the upset in his voice well.
“Jack would just have me killed, Tony.”
Those words are heavy. They hang in the air unpleasantly. Romeo isn’t wrong, and he’s pretty sure that’s what makes that sentence so disquieting.
“I wouldn’t let him,” Tony mutters defiantly. It’s a pathetic suggestion, because Tony doesn’t control Jack, nobody does, and even his status as favourite wouldn’t hold much weight there.
Romeo sighs, holds Tony a little tighter.
“No point getting worked up ‘bout what he might say,” Romeo points out. They’re close now, he can see the getaway vehicle across the street. The outskirts of town are quiet. The gun on Romeo’s hip has most people looking the opposite way anyway, golden metal glinting in the light.
Tony meets his eyes again, and there’s an undeniable anxiety there. There’s tension in his jaw. “Let me take the fall,” he demands.
“I can’t do that, Tony,” he sighs.
“Please.”
“No. Let’s not argue, Tony, yeah?”
Tony is quiet. There’s another voice now, and suddenly the weight of another person is lifted from Romeo’s arms. He blinks. A dark-haired woman is talking, commenting on their injuries, asking questions. He can’t focus for long enough to answer. An overwhelming exhaustion hits him, and he slides into the backseat without a fight. Tony is beside him a few moments later. There’s that familiar hum of an engine beneath him, and Romeo swears he could pass out here and now.
Tony doesn’t speak again until they’re in the back of the car, fingertips brushing against each others’. He’s still tense, particularly in the face, although he can’t hold much tension in his bad shoulder. Romeo is less so, because he’s already come to terms with what could happen. He’ll do what it takes to keep Tony out of harm’s way. That kid’s been through enough.
“Don’t go,” Tony whispers. Only Romeo could possibly have picked that up. Their driver doesn’t even flinch.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Romeo assures. He’s lying, and they both know it, but it’s a bittersweet reassurance.
His eyes flicker to the outside, and suddenly Romeo isn’t Romeo anymore. He has a freedom he never had, snatched away from him as a child, crushed by the crippling need for money. It’s another time, another world , and it’s one his fingertips brush over occasionally. The way his brush against the rough skin of Tony’s hands. Just out of reach. Something he can never have.
Something he will never have.