Chapter Text
Roman knew deep down that having no memories of their past was the best case scenario. They intrinsically understood that a blank slate and new start were the best outcome of the things in their past. They couldn't remember those things, but they felt the effects every day.
Roman did not care about the same things others did. They didn't care how anyone referred to them, outside of what helped Thomas, they didn't care about how moral their actions were. They didn't care about how human they looked.
The others did. So Roman pretended to, as well. They called themself “he” and faked offense at other terms, they studied how princes and knights and arbiters of justice acted and emulated that. They never showed their horns, never let their skin grow more rough than Thomas’s, and they carefully kept the amount of limbs they had to exactly four. They never nuzzled anyone like they felt as if others had done for them, they never let their breath grow too hot, and they never growled at the other Sides.
They made up games with Remus when they got bored, instead of testing limits with people who wouldn't understand. When Thomas became more concerned with being “good” as if a single book could ever declare what being “good” is, and Remus became harder to reach, the two agreed to play characters, and see who would break first. It wasn't hard, but Roman slowly started considering whether they were right to do so, when the only lines that were in character for them began to hurt the others.
And then, they remembered who they were. They remembered what they had done. They remembered how dangerous a goal could be in the hands of one that wouldn't give up on it. They remembered so many gentle and caring souls, and the way that each died. They remembered the awful look on the face of the one person who knew what they were, what they had done. They remembered the pride but also exhaustion that the protector held for the way their story played out when it was good.
They remembered approaching a boy they thought of as a brother, and making a new deal. A deal to let go, together. To let the story finally, finally, reach an ending, even if it was without them. Their brother agreed, just as bored as Roman was. The two made everything as perfect as they could, had one last tale be told, and then they left.
Roman did not want the others to ever know the things they did. But they did want the others to know them. They wanted to break a few layers from the surface, show a slightly more true mask. Only masks were left, but there was little difference between mask and wearer when one has so many. They knew how well having this many masks went for the tired protector they missed, and they refused to leave this story unfinished. They hoped, against all odds, that the protector of their family would be proud of them. They hoped he was happy with his new life, now that they and Remus weren't tugging it back and forth endlessly.
After they began to remember, Roman laid awake at night, thinking about what they had done. The ways they had hurt people who just wanted to help them, others, or both. They dreaded the thought of the others discovering what they had done, and regretted the way they had hurt the smiling protector who needed a break even more than they did.
They knew what the Red of their clothes stood for, and they embraced it and all its facets. Red was the color of will, ceaselessness, and unending loyalty. Red was also the color of the all-consuming nature they held, of undying hatred, morbid curiosity, and the lack of any barriers that could ever stop its path. Red was the color of inevitability, and it suited Roman perfectly.