Work Text:
"She hates me."
Romeo silently tallied this as the third time Carlo had said those exact words over the course of this morning alone.
"She doesn't," Romeo said gently, though he could tell his exasperation was starting to bleed into his tone by the way Carlo's face twitched. Romeo bumped their shoulders together in a silent assurance that he wasn't actually angry, which smoothed out some but not all of Carlo's pinched expression.
"I was awful to her," Carlo muttered. He dunked a handful of bandages into the hot, soapy water of the laundry tub like they had personally offended him. "She's only putting up with me because we're stuck in this cave together."
Romeo sighed as he scrubbed a careworn pillowcase up and down the washboard of his own tub. "You know that's not true," he said as he wrung out the fabric and dropped it into the rinsing bucket. Both in deference to the sweaty physical labor and in hopes of cheering Carlo up, he yanked at his shirt's laces to expose more of his chest. "She's just giving you space."
"Because she hates me," Carlo replied, though he sounded a little distracted now. Romeo bit back a triumphant smile at the way Carlo's eyes strayed downward.
"You just need to talk to her," he continued, plucking a set of sheets from the basket of unwashed linens. "She understands why you're upset."
"Does she?" Carlo asked with a glower that Romeo could practically feel. "Because it's not just P, and I don't know if she gets that part."
Romeo dipped the sheets into the washing tub with a long, low exhale. He'd been keeping his own feelings on the matter more or less private, not wanting to upset the uneasy balance Lea and Carlo had found over the past two days, but…
"…no," he said finally, studying the soapy ripple of the water around his wrists. "I don't think she does."
"I get that she thinks she needs to look after us." Carlo sounded more resigned than angry. "But does she think we won't care if she gets herself killed doing it?"
Romeo was silent, watching the water settle into stillness as his thoughts churned.
Lea's behavior over the past few weeks had been… strange. Her tearful embrace in the park, like she'd woken up from living a years-long nightmare. The grief in her eyes when she thought neither of them could see her. It was entirely possible that she'd just had a strong reaction to what P had told her; it had certainly been keeping Romeo up the past few nights. But…
…well, it wasn't worth dwelling on, especially since Carlo was already hurting so badly from the secrets they knew Lea kept from them. There was no need for Romeo to deepen that rift even more with his speculations.
"Well, whatever." Carlo shrugged it off, though Romeo knew it was only a matter of time before his anxieties circled back around to gnaw on him again. "At least P's fun. He's so weird."
Romeo hummed, scrubbing at the sheets. He both did and didn't agree with Carlo's assessment. P was strange, but in ways that Romeo found intimately familiar. It was like looking at Carlo through a warped mirror—which wasn't entirely inaccurate, he supposed. If Carlo had never been sent to the Rose Estate, would he act more like P? Quiet, meek, never sure of his own welcome?
"He collects rocks," Carlo continued, wringing out the soapy bandages and making a face at the dark water dripping from them. He hadn't spoken a word of complaint about the gloves Lea made them both wear since he started in on the medical linens. "He had a bunch of them in his pocket. And a couple feathers, and an old coin that I think had Venigni's face on it?" He laughed. "I gave him a rock I found that looks kind of like a bird. He looked at me like no one had ever given him something just for fun before."
The laughter died into something a little less humorous, and Carlo's smile had dropped by the time Romeo glanced up at him again.
"I… don't want to think about it," Carlo admitted quietly as he set the bandages aside. "Where he came from, I mean. But it must have been…"
He trailed off, and Romeo found that he couldn't find the words to finish that sentence, either. Bad didn't seem to encompass it. Maybe P being a puppet had something to do with it, but if Geppetto was trying to bring Carlo back, then surely he'd have treated P like a person instead of an object? Surely P had received at least one gift, even something as small as a rock? Surely P had been hugged at least once?
(P hadn't known what to do with his arms when he'd tried to hold Romeo. Had barely worked up the courage to touch Romeo at all. Every affectionate touch seemed to surprise him, from Lea gripping his shoulder to Carlo tugging on his hair to Romeo leaning up against him—and then he'd melt into it, soaking it in like a flower desperate for sunlight.
Someone must have held him at least once, right? They must have. Anything with Carlo's soul would have needed it.
But, Romeo thought ruefully, anything with Carlo's soul also wouldn't have asked.)
"…he didn't even name him," Carlo whispered to the floor. "All that work to replace me, and he didn't even…"
There were possible explanations for Geppetto's behavior. Possible excuses. P didn't have Carlo's memories; maybe it was like losing Carlo twice, and P had fallen victim to the same grief that had isolated Carlo at the Rose Estate. P had been given a name, but Geppetto had died before he could say it. P had misunderstood something, even if Romeo couldn't fathom what. Surely Geppetto still loved his son, despite everything. Surely that love had extended to P.
But this was an argument he and Carlo had had too many times to repeat, so Romeo just made a soft noise of acknowledgment. Whatever had happened in the time P came from, it didn't change the result.
"I just," Carlo said haltingly. "I don't want to think about a world where you're gone, but. He—he came back for you."
Romeo tilted his head as he twisted as much moisture out of the sheets as he could. "He said he came back to save everyone."
"Yeah, but…" Carlo scooped up his wash tub and hobbled over to the makeshift drain at the edge of the cavern. "He's not me, but we were made from the same—" He made some kind of gesture with his hand as he poured the soiled water out. "So it was everyone, but it was you. You know?"
Carlo talked like this sometimes, like whatever he was saying made perfect sense even if it had Romeo completely lost. "I'm… not sure I do," Romeo said.
"The necklace," Carlo said, as plainly as if he were talking about the weather. "And just—him. The way he looks at you. I guess I just…" He blew a loud breath out between his pursed lips. "There isn't a world where it's just you or just me. It's both of us. He's proof of that."
Romeo couldn't help but chuckle at that, though it was a bittersweet sound. P clearly cared about Romeo, but to assume Romeo's death was the catalyst alone, not everything else? "You're saying that he forced all of time and space to move because he was upset that I died?"
"Yes," Carlo said, entirely serious. "I mean, it's what I would do. If I could. If I had to." He paused. "And I… I guess I did. In some way or another."
Romeo faltered as he moved to drop the wrung-out sheets into the rinsing bucket. He swallowed around the sudden lump of emotion in his throat. You didn't leave him, P had reassured him quietly. Did that mean Romeo was with Carlo until the end, or did it mean Romeo had been with P as well? How else would P have gotten the necklace?
And did that mean Romeo hadn't kept his promise after all? If he left P behind… It was almost enough to force another bittersweet laugh out of him.
"I don't know," Carlo said, dismissing his own thoughts as he refilled his tub with warm, soapy water from the large kettle above the low-burning fire. "It's just… nice. To know I'd love you even if I didn't remember you." He shrugged, thumping the fresh tub down next to Romeo's and snatching the bandages back up for another wash.
Romeo hesitated a moment longer. Love—is that what P felt for Romeo? What Romeo felt for P? Could you love someone if you didn't really know them?
(The thrill of warmth in Romeo's gut when P grabbed him by the collar and threw him. The flutter in his chest whenever he saw one of P's rare smiles. The comfort and rightness of holding P close, heart to beating heart. It would be a lie to say Romeo didn't know P, and just as much of a lie to say that he did.)
"You're not… jealous?" Romeo ventured carefully as he reached for the blanket at the bottom of the laundry basket. Carlo could hardly even stand watching Romeo dance with anyone at the scant few social functions they attended, despite knowing it was only for the sake of politeness and appearances.
It wasn't as though Romeo begrudged Carlo's complicated feelings on the matter. He himself often wondered if Geppetto was right, if he had ruined Carlo's life by coming between him and some acceptable, marriageable young woman—or even a man of more appropriate breeding, like Bastien. A boy with a family name like Carlo's shouldn't be kneeling in the dirt scrubbing laundry like… well, like someone of Romeo's social standing. Whatever Romeo felt watching Carlo smile at his high-society peers wasn't quite jealousy, but it wasn't anything pretty, either.
But when Carlo suggested that P loved Romeo, there wasn't a hint of bitterness to it. No jealousy, no insecurity. The last time someone confessed their love to Romeo, Carlo had almost bitten the poor girl's head off, but P's lingering stares and obvious affection seemed to elicit nothing but fond amusement. Likewise, Romeo couldn't imagine thinking of anyone else like this without feeling as though he was betraying Carlo, but with P, it just felt—normal. Natural. Easy as breathing.
"Jealous?" Carlo echoed. He blinked at Romeo, visibly baffled, hands stilled mid-scrub. "Of… P?"
"Yes?" Romeo asked more than replied. "It's a complicated situation," he tried to elaborate, though he wasn't any more certain of what he was trying to say than Carlo seemed to be. "If anything is making you uncomfortable…"
"A lot of things are making me uncomfortable," Carlo said with a snort, halfheartedly resuming his task of washing the bandages. "But you and P aren't." He shot Romeo one of those sunny smiles that never failed to make Romeo's breath catch. "I know it's not… conventional." His smile turned a little shy, the apples of his cheeks flushing a sweet red. "But I want him here, too."
Romeo's shoulders dropped in relief, all the tension he hadn't realized he was holding drained from him in an instant. "Alright," he whispered. "Good."
"Maybe not the same way you want him here," Carlo continued, mischief creeping into his tone. "Bet you'd swoon if he picked you up again."
"Carlo," Romeo groaned. He couldn't shove Carlo over the way he wanted to, so he settled for flicking a few suds in Carlo's direction.
Despite Romeo deliberately missing him with the improvised ammunition, Carlo shrieked as if Romeo had just soaked him in the wash water. "I will not be silenced!" he cried, wiggling his legs out from under himself to shove a foot into Romeo's ribs.
"Carlo!" Romeo laughed, squirming away from the playful kick and trying not to splash any more water out of the tub. "Stop it, we're going to make a mess!"
"You started it!" was Carlo's blatantly false retort.
Unwilling to cause too much chaos with the laundry in the balance, Romeo settled for sticking out his tongue in reply. Carlo accepted this cease-fire, retreating to resume his task with one final poke to Romeo's hip.
Footsteps at the entrance to the makeshift wash-house had both Carlo and Romeo lifting their heads to look. A familiar form stood uncertainly in the tunnel, mask on, shoulders stiff, clearly uncertain if he was interrupting.
Carlo sat up straight, expression turning a little sheepish. "P!" he greeted. "We're almost done, I swear!"
Romeo huffed out a laugh, glancing down at the blanket he hadn't quite finished scrubbing yet. Lea had told them she'd be sending P to help them bring the laundry back as soon as they were done. Either they'd wasted more time bickering than he thought, or P was early.
"…It's alright," P said haltingly. The mask hid his expression, but Romeo could read the flustered tension in his shoulders and the nervous flex of his hands. He wore his anxiety the same way Carlo did, though much more quietly.
He also kept glancing towards Romeo, and quickly away. Frowning, Romeo shot a look at Carlo, who did nothing but snicker unhelpfully.
"It's just such difficult work," Carlo continued to P, though his gaze slid mischievously to Romeo as he spoke. "We've been getting sweaty."
P made a wheezy noise of acknowledgement, which only seemed to amuse Carlo further. It was impossible to tell where P was looking, but Carlo's eyes fell unmistakably on Romeo's chest.
Romeo glanced down at the dangling laces of his shirt in realization. The fabric still hung scandalously loose and open from his earlier attempts at distracting Carlo. Amusement and fondness bloomed in equal measure; what worked on Carlo would obviously work on P in turn.
"You can help rinse, if you'd like," Romeo offered, taking pity before Carlo could tease P even further. P was always more comfortable when he had something to do with his hands, like he wasn't sure if he had the right to be anywhere unless he was being useful. The thought was somewhat sobering.
It took another moment of staring, but P eventually relaxed with a nod, slipping the mask off his heartbreakingly beautiful face. His cheeks looked a little red, and wasn't that something? Romeo hadn't thought puppets could blush.
Carlo elbowed the back of P's knee as P passed by him on the way to the rinsing bucket. It was an affectionate, teasing gesture, but Romeo spent a single nervous moment wondering if P would take it as intended before P—very slowly, very gently—nudged the toe of his boot against Carlo's knee in response.
Watching the two of them together was deeply, terribly endearing. P wasn't quite Carlo, but the echoes of the soul they shared were obvious in the way he moved, the way he smiled, the things he thought were funny. Romeo's chest felt overfull, like his heart was trying to climb up his chest and out of his throat to make room for the swelling affection.
With P's help, the rest of the chore passed by quickly, the linens all boiled and washed and rinsed within another thirty minutes. Cleanup was efficient with three sets of hands. The makeshift lines for drying the laundry were back at the camp, and Romeo was about to begin the arduous task of delegating who would haul what when P stooped down to pick up the largest basket.
"Oh, that's the heaviest—" Carlo started. He fell silent when P tucked it effortlessly under one arm, the grip of a single hand supporting the entire weight of it.
P blinked at him. "It's fine," he said. His eyes flickered down to the second basket sitting at Carlo's feet. "Hand me that one."
He gestured with his free hand. Romeo's mouth was suddenly quite dry. All that wool and linen, heavy with water, folded up in a metal basket—Romeo had hauled laundry before, and it was no light work.
P didn't even twitch beneath the additional burden as Carlo helped settle the second basket beneath his other arm.
"Huh," Carlo said as P readjusted the second basket. Already, P's eyes were wandering to the third. "I keep forgetting he can do that."
"Mmhm." Romeo's voice came out more strangled than he would have liked. He hadn't had time to process it when P had thrown him up the train ladder, but witnessing P's effortless strength in a less fraught context was certainly something.
Beside him, Carlo laughed. "The joke's on you now."
Face flushing, Romeo delivered a gentle kick to Carlo's ankle.
"Hm?" P glanced at them inquisitively, though his eyes kept drifting back to the third basket as if contemplating how to lift it with no free hands.
"Nothing!" Carlo chirped. "Here, I'll grab the last one."
As Carlo and P tried to finagle three sizable baskets of wet laundry into P's less-sizable wingspan, Romeo watched with a heart positively aching with love. The old, comfortable affection he had for Carlo, warm and easy and nurtured over years—and now, the new, blooming flower of what he felt for P, like a plant whose roots had been ingrained for ages but was only now beginning to sprout.
A cheer from Carlo interrupted his thoughts. Romeo turned his attention back to the pair of them and laughed aloud at the picture they made. P's placid face somehow exuded triumph as three precariously-balanced baskets of sopping linens soaked his front; Carlo wiggled his hands as if to emphasize that P was holding everything without any extra support.
"Romeo!" Carlo called, obviously delighted with both himself and P. "Look!"
"I'm looking," Romeo assured him, voice still trembling with laughter. "I'm looking."
Unconventional, Carlo had called it. Well, unconventional had always worked out for them before. What was one more thing?