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Is it worth it, to be here? To be human?
Romeo lay in the shower, having removed his eye mask to allow the leaky shower head to rhythmically ‘splat’ against the bridge of his nose. Left with his thoughts- alone, other than the diet water torture to keep him company- Romeo struggled to find the peace that might finally allow some beauty rest.
I was born to be beautiful, wasn’t I? Born to be beautiful, to be loved. Do I believe I deserve it, anymore?
Romeo wiped his forehead with the hem of his pink pajama’d sleeve with a sigh. Sleeping had never been so difficult- and why should it have been? For all the time he’d spent in the land of Fedor, he’d experienced dreaming, a powerful and comforting luxury he hadn’t experienced in the card realm. Every night he would be greeted at the gates of the beautiful Verona, with beautiful traditional German inspired architecture, tall pointed roofs like something out of a fairy tale, and a shiny flag of pink and red. He ruled as a benevolent king, enjoying all the glory and happiness of his subjects’ unwavering adoration and delightfully smothering affection. Nothing ever went wrong, and he never had to worry about frivolous things such as “worthiness” or “value”, because it was all beautiful, his subjects were beautiful, and he was beautiful, and he was loved. The days of Verona’s comfort seemed to have come to a pass though, leaving him instead with images of a cracked mirror offering a reflection of dull hair, a deepening crease in his brow followed by an awful frown, and dark, scared eyes. He was the very manifestation of love. He was romance, he was sex, and he was everything good in this world. Now living in Fedor’s college apartment, everything he thought he knew crumbled to his feet as he found himself struggling to prove himself.
He was love. Why did everyone shy away from his advances? Why hadn’t he been kissed? Where were the flowers, the candlelit dates, the rose in the teeth? A chivalrous walk home to her door, light banter to wind down followed by a gentle kiss goodnight to close.
He was sex. If anyone knew what sex was, it was him, right? Someone finding him attractive enough to want him, to let him worship them how he dreams of? To line their body with sweet smooches, trace the marks of their body with a light touch, to finally meet and become one?
He was the king of hearts.
He was meant to do all of this and more. Everything, all of the above. So why did he feel so empty? Was waxing poetic all he could do? A clone, a copy of the kind college student who had let him and his friends out. His purpose was as just obvious as any of the other clones, immediately clear as to what he was meant to represent. But Fedor didn’t seem to care at all. Fedor had no romance, none he’d tell Romeo of anyway, and so Romeo was rendered useless once more.
I can’t find love for myself, and I can’t find love for others. What do I bring to the table?
Romeo thought back to the day the gang had followed Spade to the music shop, watched his passion in how he played… and then begged to play alongside him. Romeo put his all into it, he sang, he played, he designed, and none of it was enough. He was too loud, too pushy, too much. His comics were discarded, his ideas ‘gross’, and yet he couldn’t strike a balance. He didn’t want to fall to the background. It might work for Dante, to sleep and slink off, snacking and staying quiet as to any of his true thoughts, but for Romeo it’d be a nightmare. Brolly had the luxury to cry, as it was expected of the teal haired clone, made sense, was deserving of comfort. But Romeo was too dramatic, too obnoxious, his problems sidelined with an eye roll at most before the others walked away. So what if he wanted attention, is that so wrong? To crave eyes on him, to crave intimacy in any way he can get it. Romeo wakes up each morning and tries to imitate his jack and put his best foot forward, to be someone personable and noteworthy, a good friend and confidant. A king in his lane and someone to admire.
It was easier in the card world, nothing more than a concept, he didn’t have to be anything at all, he simply was. How is anyone meant to break free from a predetermined existence, anyhow? Romeo fidgeted with his fingers, absent mindlessly picking at his manicure, clear polish chilled and scratched. He tried to imagine what his friends would say if they took his struggles seriously. What they’d advise.
“Keep smiling and your body will remember to be happy, too!” He tried, an attempt to channel his inner Felix.
”You imprison yourself with the rules and standards you abide by.” Came a hesitant Spade.
“How strange it is, to be anything at all.” Dante said.
How strange it is to be anything at all indeed. And how strange it is that I’m trying to comfort myself with mere efforts of imitation.
Romeo grimaced at his ruined nails, threading his hand in his hair instead, tilting his head to watch the water slide off in his peripheral.
Was it always this difficult?
He wrapped a pink curl around his index and pulled.
It couldn’t have been… It was all new and fresh, once. Exciting… The uncertainty and incompetence didn’t weigh in till later.
It won’t ever be ‘easy’ again, will it.
Sitting up and running his hands over his face, he felt the gaunt hollow beneath his eyes where dark sleepless bags had formed, and knit his brow. He grabbed a towel and dried off his face, locating the cup to catch the drip in a more standard fashion. Romeo snapped back his eye mask and tried once more, to sleep.