@heavenslapse — P has a nightmare 🌩️
Things were never going to feel normal again, he knew that much. There was just too much between them now, shared trauma, unspeakable horrors, death, decay, destruction. Carlo didn't know where his ended and Romeo's began, but there was at least some solace in that. They had always been bonded, since the day they met it seemed. Inseparable, even in death. They were somehow lucky enough to have gained another chance together, but it was clear to him that there was no returning to the past they had once loved so dearly.
They had both changed — mentally, physically, spiritually. Carlo was still reeling from everything, his memories filtering back to him steadily, but it felt as though there was still a haze there in the distance. He had, at least, managed to come to terms with the two sides of himself. P had merged back into Carlo, the two lives he lived becoming one, singular identity. But there was so much pain, so much trauma there, stemming back to his childhood, his very first memories. He could scarcely begin to unravel it all.
One day a time. One step before the next. During the day it seemed to help to have something to do, to try and attend to Romeo's needs over his own, to focus on the hotel, the people that had both come to rely on him, and allow themselves to be relied upon. But night was different. He was not a puppet anymore; even his metallic heart beat solidly, warm and constant. He was alive, he was human, for the most part — or perhaps something more. Even he wasn't sure. He just knew he still needed rest, and sleep rarely afforded him peace.
Blood ran over his hands, crimson, fresh. It soaked into the pure white of his shirtsleeves, seemed to seep through to his very soul. The theater around him burned, intense and desperate, as if the flames themselves were trying to cleanse Carlo of his very sins, but he didn't care — couldn't care. Divine judgement was deserved. It was even desired. After his transgression, he could see no point in being allowed to live.
He hadn't known what he was about to do, but nightmares had no want of logic. They preyed on his pain, replayed it, amplified it. It felt real, like he was standing there again, staring down at Romeo's broken body, but no longer was he a puppet; Carlo could see him, see the Romeo he had grown up with, the one he had failed to save. The Romeo that had been left behind, left to suffer. And Carlo had taken his sword and stabbed him through the heart, had torn him apart himself. It didn't matter if he screamed, or if he cried, or even begged. It didn't matter when he called his name, reached out to him with bloodied fingers, desperate for one last grim embrace. Carlo had struck him down without a thought.
Flames inched closer, licking at the back of his heels, but he felt nothing. He stood there, staring wordlessly, as the fire began to reclaim Romeo's body, pulling him into the blinding light now engulfing the opera house. Somewhere, Carlo was aware that someone was screaming, and for a moment he wondered if it was Romeo, if he had been wrong and the other was somehow still alive. But as the flame rose around him, encircling him, burning him, he realized.
He was the one screaming.
The world around him came into focus suddenly, the bedroom ceiling barely illuminated by the soft glow of the lights outside the window. Rain drummed against the window pane, but it did nothing to drown out the pounding of his own heart. A cold sweat broke out across his brow, and for a few terrifying moments it felt as if he could hardly breathe. Icy tendrils of panic snaked around his heart as he quickly sat up, fumbling for the lamp beside him with shaking hands. He needed light, he needed to see, needed to know —
"Romeo —"
Carlo felt his voice catch, forming into a lump in his throat as he turned to the empty bed beside him. Romeo didn't need to sleep, but he had quickly gotten into the habit of resting beside Carlo at night. However, seeing him gone now seemed to open the flood gates of doubt and panic, and Carlo felt himself start to break. A small voice in the back of his mind unhelpfully added fuel to the fire, and he began to wonder somehow if he hadn't imagined it all to begin with.
What if Romeo was gone? What if he was never here?
Breathing shallowly, Carlo stumbled out of bed, his shaking legs nearly giving out the moment his feet touched the cold ground. He didn't bother grabbing shoes, didn't bother throwing anything else on — already he was moving, opening the bedroom door and hurrying out into the hallway.
"Romeo!"
His voice broke, the fear and pain flooding out of him in icy, thrashing waves, his heart beating so quickly and erratically it felt as though it would explode. He knew on some level he needed to calm down and think rationally, but he couldn't do it. The panic wouldn't let him. He couldn't stop until he knew, one way or another.
Please don't be real...please...
Something soft brushed against his leg as he moved, and Carlo was vaguely aware of Lunette's soft cry, her little bell jingling as she tried to follow him down the corridor. He would have to apologize to her later; despite how worried she was, he didn't slow down, not until reaching the second floor landing overlooking the hotel lobby. A shock of familiar blond hair beneath him. His heart continued to race and his body trembled almost violently, but a warmth started to slowly come back to him. It felt like he could finally breathe.
Just a nightmare. It really was only a dream. Romeo was alive.
Trembling fingers gripped the banister as Carlo tried to ground himself, but it was all he could do not to just rush straight down to Romeo and throw his arms around him and make sure he was really there. Despite the state he was in, he could sense the tension hanging in the air, his eyes drifting from Romeo's face to the puppet he had so clearly been talking to. Carlo didn't know what they were discussing, but the the knot of dread in stomach tightened all the same.
Something was definitely wrong.