I know Paola told you. It sounds clinical, or perhaps it’s only Marcelo imagining it so; bad news strategically read from a doctor rather than from their brother’s impassioned heart. They hate to think Damiano’s wrung the heir’s compassion dry, that this might be damage control and not a plea for their forgiveness. Was there still a difference? They hate these thoughts, intrusive and unsettling; foreign invaders stripping years worth of sowed loyalties from the their shared soil. Most of all, they hate what Roman’s silence has made of them. This fractured, doubtful traitor facing a man whose weaved their loyalty to his very sinews. Marcelo very nearly forgives him on the spot, if only to feel whole again.
Their jaw tics, hazel stare resolute on the nostalgic drip of his every word. It does mean that, Marcelo finds themselves inwardly agreeing, it means that I should mean more to you than her. Because what might they have left were the heir to abandon them? If it was not the enemy that tore them from his clutches in the end, but a girl, with her name etched upon his finicky heart? Before their acid can burn through Roman’s honeyed tongue, he presses onward, clamping bone against bone as teeth grind. You know why I didn’t tell you? He asks, and they know that they don’t. That Marcelo can warp their mind with fantasies of Paola eloping in their malicious brother’s arms, or Roman building a vendetta of hurt he’s allowed the girl to orchestrate in his generous nature, but the truth is trapped in the man’s throat, alone. They raise their chin, not willing to ask, not willing to beg, but forced to listen because he’s right; Roman will always be the boy they can’t remember life without.
I’m not allowed to be who I want to be— why not be someone else? They had never understood his conflict more than when they were Paola’s Marcelo. They were the Rosso survivor. L’inferno Di Verona. Montague Captain. The bloodthirsty Hell hound of the boy king. Before her, they had never wanted to be any less. Let the Capulet’s reap the chaos they’d sowed, let the world see a human reduced to ash, and reborn from it a monster. Let the humanity in them die; it could not survive their guilt, or their grief, not like the bottomless stomach of vengeance that scalded all weakness to soot. But then they met her. Where Roman had run from perfection, Marcelo had glimpsed in Paola all they’d once abandoned. He’d seen what he could be, and they saw what they might still have been. Neither had looked upon her and snuffed out the serpent disguised as hope.
How do you tell someone who is as much a part of you as you are yourself, that you don’t want to be the person they know? The person they have grown around with the desperation of a tree root longing to survive? Without Roman, there was no Marcelo — how was he to tell them? The strain in their jaw flickers, as if deciding whether to unclamp or not, but the true question lingers between them; why didn’t he mention knowing Paola? As if on cue, the direction takes a turn, a painful and hard-edged nose dive; if there’s anybody that deserves to have a good thing— it’s you two.
Dio, hadn’t she told him? Or had she bit her forked tongue, swallowing her confession in hope of gaining Roman’s aid? Marcelo’s lips part, lungs expanding to accept the breath that rushes through them at the thought that they could have had a good thing with her. There was never any chance of that, they want to reassure him, Paola wants me as much as you want to be a Montague. The words never fall from between their teeth, the strained woosh of relief caged between their rib cage is instead eclipsed by Roman’s mounting honesty. They think to stop him, they think to reach out to him, to swear, I believe you, as the anger in them wanes at the sight of his distress — but it never comes.
The thought of you two made me feel resentful. Marcelo should be angry; their shoulders should stiffen and their eyes should flare with disbelief. They should scoff that he might struggle to give them this one good thing in spite of his aching heart. But they don’t. Instead, they soften, brows pinching as hazel hues flicker away from his stare, because they know. They had practiced the same plea, knees bruised from falling to them, agony buried in the valley of their chest as they considered what might be said to make what they’d done right. To reveal to Roman that they’d not only coveted the forbidden fruit, but gorged themselves sick on her. That no, they had never left, never had the strength to turn their back on the man they loved and walk away — but that they should have. That they should have stabbed themselves in the heart, before plunging the knife between Roman’s shoulders. Their lips part — I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Silence grips them, instead.
More than destruction, more than bloodshed, more than the apple caught in their teeth, Marcelo loves Roman. He didn’t leave because of responsibility, because of obligation, but they did not leave because there was no them beyond the gaze of Bellamy and Roman. His voice shakes as he admits it, as it spews into the air between them like an oil spill, covering the resentment and thorns stacked between them. Marcelo’s gaze won’t budge, won’t return to their brother, even as they lick their lips and shift on both feet. Guilt rushes to fill their lungs, and squeeze the air from their chest. The pressure of it rising higher, still, as he chastises himself and his wandering eye. They had thought that. There was a reason the city bowed to Roman, and scurried from Marcelo, and they had feared the day Paola glimpsed it. Feared that if he had asked them to stand aside so he could pluck another rose from his palace garden, they would have; for when Marcelo didn’t have the strength to themselves, for when they should have fought harder to grasp it.
They were always meant to be the strong one, forged from fire to run to Roman’s side, to crawl to Bellamy in life or death. The first to leave had been Bellamy; the martyr, the saint, and yet still able to withstand the siren calls of those he’d abandoned. He had fled and carved a home from a world beyond them, and though he dared not say it, found happiness. What kingdom beyond Verona might welcome Marcelo without the heir’s blessing? What good were they to anyone, if not their own brother? When the good in them died screaming, and their youth was forcefully stripped from its bones, it was the two of them that lifted Marcelo from their grief, and shoved them onward. For the past they had shared, for the future they’d desperately need to look to one another during. They were always meant to be the strong one, but it did not mean the others were weak; what they lacked, Bellamy and Roman breathed into the empty spaces. They would never know what they had given Marcelo — to wake each morning, to a world that had spurned them again and again, because of the little good in it that remained yet?
Marcelo would have cracked long ago under the pressure of their loss — more than wanting to stand beside Roman, they needed to. There was not a fragment of them untouched by the man, as if because he lived, so did they. His every breath gave them purpose, his every smile gave them reason. If what Roman says is true, they are doubly true for Marcelo, who knows nothing but their love. Even when swaddled in rage, it rears to frighten all other beasts from those who dare test its limits. There are none, they will love Roman always.
By the time he finishes the anger has been carved from their carcass. They believe him, as one would believe the sky is blue or the grass is green. They believe him because they, intrinsically, know him with the same sureness as the scar on their brow, or the birthmark on their hip. More than they know themselves, anymore, as they struggle to swallow the knot still lodged in their throat. You ruin things, Marcelo, they think, clearing their throat weakly, are you so proud of it now?
“Roman—” they begin, their voice raspy as it drags itself free. What was there to say; I forgive you, I love you, I’m sorry, I don’t deserve this mercy? Perhaps, all along, they had been content with their anger because it meant loosening their binds of shame, but no more. All that remains is regret, climbing up their spine, whispering in their ear. I never left you, Marcelo longs to yell, please don’t leave me to rot alone. Instead, they swallow thickly, casting a glance in Roman’s direction. “It was never about Paola,” they sigh, “it was about knowing that you were still my brother.” A beat passes, the pretty words Roman leashes so effortlessly eluding them now.
“That if she held her gun to my head, it wouldn’t be you pulling the trigger. I couldn’t bear that, not after—” Marcelo pauses, raking a hand through dark strands as they near him, “you are my family, Ro. But you’re an idiot, you think with your dick, and you can be so fucking sentimental that…” It scares me sometimes, that you’ll choose them over me. “I don’t always know what’s going on in your head, because you and I? We’re two very different people.” You’re a better person, they want to say, you have a heart mine would silence. “And if Paola felt anything for either of us, it wasn’t me,” they rub a palm over their jawline, gaze falling to the television beyond Roman, “there was never anything between us. She just wanted answers, and I didn’t have them.”
Marcelo laughs, fingers descending to the back of their neck, “I don’t trust her, but you never said anything about Paola moving to Verona, I didn’t know she had ever…meant anything to you. When she told me I thought it might be bullshit, to cause a rift between us. But it wasn’t, and if it was just that you once fucked her then you’d have told me, or Bellamy, but you didn’t. So then I had to wonder, why hadn’t you?” Their gaze returns to Roman, to the half of their soul they dared to doubt, “I thought maybe you knew what she was up to, and you were too scared to admit you did.” All Marcelo’s cards are on the table, and they’ve given him free range of each —if anyone were to fell the last of the Rosso’s, let it be their heart, their favored rib, the last loving thing in them; let it be Roman.
It was about knowing that you were still my brother. Roman wants to recoil as if he’s been struck. Had Marcelo not recognized how deeply intertwined they’d been? How inextricable they were; the separation of Marcelo from Roman had been as imaginable as the severing of a limb. How willing he’d been to give on Marcelo’s behalf— if only they would just ask and how rarely, if at all, had they ever did. He knew that was unlike them. He knew they’d much rather damn themself, whether it be to anguish or anger, in place of asking for help; even for something that came as simply to Roman as expressing how they felt. At that very moment, they could not have been more different. But when would something as inconsequential as difference truly be capable of separating the two? He was unafraid to admit that he needed Marcelo. Not yet, at least, even with the increasing awareness that need was a liability in Verona, particularly the need of another person. The way they fueled him, the way they breathed life into him by simply existence. The way they gave him purpose outside of the mob. They were fated to be together, but even the stars could not have foreseen how deeply Roman’s love would run for Marcelo— how much it would become apart of him as his very blood would be. Maybe that was Roman’s hamartia. His blinding, all-encompassing ability to love— that love that trumped all logic and reason. Maybe he had failed to show it. Maybe that was the answer to Marcelo’s doubt because he was having difficulty making sense of the alternative.
What had it been about Paola? What about the woman had driven Marcelo to believe the unfathomable, what about her had been so capable of wreaking havoc on their siblingship? What power had they unwittingly relinquished to her? “I will always be your brother, Marcelo, and I would rather die than not be. I don’t care if that isn’t the way things are supposed to be.” Don’t protest, he wants to say. Please don’t fight it. I was molded— not born, for a cause greater than myself. Allow me this sacrifice. Allow me this love. Allow me to be this for you. He did not seek out this sacrifice out of selfishness. He simply loved Marcelo too much. More than the leader of a mob should have ever been capable of. This was the way he’d grown to understand the concept of love. Inexhaustible loyalty. Serve. Serve. Serve. How could he not be willing to give for someone who had always given to him without a second thought? How could anyone?
That if she held her gun to my head, it wouldn’t be you pulling the trigger. I couldn’t bear that, not after—
After what? He wants to ask more than anything, but he doesn’t, because Marcelo is opening up to him, and that meant everything. They’d been a person of few words, but of immense action. He tried not to get ahead of himself, ideas of how he could mend the fissure formulated between them already swarming his brain. Despite the pain they feel, the insult formulated by Marcelo’s suggestion, he can’t help but laugh despite himself. Everything Marcelo had suggested about Roman had been true— the idiocracy, his being driven by carnal lust. But it was as if in that moment, he realized how trivial their quarreling had been. It had been completely in character for Roman to subject the pair of them to such dramatics— but this had been absolutely unlike Marcelo. It was absolutely clear to Roman at that moment. A younger him might have teased Marcelo for it and might have gone as far as to play matchmaker for them— an older Roman knew he was skidding on thin ice. They liked her, maybe even more than liked her. Why else would they draw such outlandish conclusions? How else could they come to believe that Roman could even fathom forsaking them over Paola?
“If Paola were to do that, it would be of her own volition, Marcelo,” Roman says calmly, in a single breath, his brown eyes glued to their hazel ones. “Please remember that. You’re overestimating the power she has over me— if any power exists at all.” It seems bizarre for Roman to say, especially considering the weight of his confession, but he means it. “How I feel about the two of you? That’s solely on me. It was bound to happen eventually. I just hadn’t expected it to be Paola of all people, alright? She was once the reason I thought I could exist outside of myself. I never wanted… her to ever exist inside of Verona. Because that would mean everything we had was built on a lie, and that I could no longer avoid that it was. And that love built on a lie can’t be true. Marcelo, you know that she didn’t even know my last name?” He was not sure what he was trying to prove in that moment, but he’d somehow been convinced that persuading Marcelo of Paola’s meaninglessness meant the eradication of any possibility of Roman’s betrayal. “We aren’t competing, Marcelo. We never were. Paola and I are connected by our pasts. But there’s no yielding to me, dammit. If you— somehow end up deciding to give this up, it won’t be because of me.” I’d be so mad at you if you did, Marcelo. Don’t give up on a love that actually has potential, because the love I held for her? It was damned from the start.
“I think reading my mind would be easier said than done. You’ve always had me all figured out, Marcy, you know that right? I’ve driven myself nearly to madness trying to pick you apart, to decipher how you felt. Do you want to know how I really feel Marcelo? What I really know? What I know is that the love I have for you was the first love I was ever able to make sense of. Rafaella, Paola, even Be— Yours was the one that always made sense. I didn’t tell you or Bellamy because I didn’t want you to think lesser of me. I didn’t want you two to think differently of me for lying, for wanting to be someone other than myself. I wanted to somehow keep the best parts of me and defy my fate at the same time.” What answers did they speak of? What did they know that he had not known? Perplexion darkens his features. “Answers for what? What are you talking about? If all she wanted was answers from you, then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. If all she wanted was to use you, then there would be no use for her intentionally hurting you by revealing this information. It has to be deeper than that. Because wouldn’t you be of more use to her if you continued to think of her as blameless? Why would she risk her supposed scheme just to make you feel bad?” And I’m supposed to be the stupid one, he thinks, allowing himself a momentarily moment of smugness. He had known that neither Marcelo nor Paola had known, and he recognized exactly where the communication breakdown had occurred. Where their own assumptions had gotten the better of them.
“I didn’t tell you she moved, because that information was presently insignificant to me, and that was my own shame to bury in the deepest parts of myself.” He shakes his head wearily. What the hell had Paola been up to? “I don’t know who’s dumber, right now honestly. Me or you. Me because I really thought this was all about some grand romance you thought that happened between Paola and I. You because you thought it was all apart of some grand scheme that she created and weaved me into. Well, you can sleep easier tonight, Rosso, because I haven’t the slightest idea about what the hell you’re talking about. And since we’re on the subject of what I think— well, I think you should talk to her. Paola’s great at putting her foot in her mouth, but I have a feeling that you’re oversimplifying her motives. Because you dumbasses obviously have feelings of some kind for each other. But I’ll give you especially time to admit it. But when you finally do, I can’t promise I won’t say I told you so.”
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