😘 (you decide aheehee ;-) )
“You’re an embarrassment,” Marcelo spits, thumbs frantically stabbing at buttons as they lean out of their seat, “you couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.” They’re supposed to be studying. Their fathers’ one condition for Roman spending the night was that they both finish their school work. After loudly, and dramatically, complaining for show, they’d tossed their books aside in favor of video games. “I’ve beat you twice, idiot,” Roman laughs, wild and unconstrained in the face of Marcelo’s bristling agitation. Their own character lets out an oomph as it’s struck again, health bar whittling away to nothing. “’Cause you fucking cheat,” they snap, jostling the joystick in frustration. “It’s not cheating if you suck, ‘Celo,” he retorts, their teeth grinding uncomfortably.
“Oh, I suck?” They finally echo, throwing an elbow into Roman’s side at the same time their character strikes, throwing him off balance. “Fuck off,” he laughs, hearty and unbothered. It sends a certain thrill up their spine; only they’re unsure if it’s because they’re able to loose it from the heir at all, or because it reads like a muted challenge to shut him up. “What was that, Montague?” Marcelo goads, digging the edge of their elbow in forcefully. This time, Roman bites back; a mild shove, just enough to rattle them, and it does. Their character collapses in the game, perfectly in time with their own sideways lurch — but Marcelo isn’t done playing.
Tossing aside the controller, they turn on their friend, palms outstretching to force him out of his seat. “You’re a cheat,” they hiss, though a bubble of laughter threatens as Roman scowls up at them from the floor; the little prince dethroned. Before they can react, his fingers are wound in their shirt, commanding them clumsily to the wooden floorboards beside him, where Marcelo’s knees connect loudly. “Fanculo,” they wince, going to shove the boy roughly, lips still twisted downward. “You’re a sore loser, stronzo,” Roman breathes, shoving at their knee with his heel. They regret trying to teach him how to fight; he won’t wince at their pushing, won’t back down when they knock the air out of his lungs. Their frustration piques, clawing up their abdomen as he lifts himself on both palms.
Before Roman can return to his feet, Marcelo juts forward, shoving both shoulders to the floor hard, and pinning him beneath their weight. Dark eyes bore into them, and his muscles tense but refuse to react beneath their touch, as if demanding what is it you think you’re doing? His laugh still echoes in the distance, as if they’ve captured it and carried it with them to this very moment; to remember what it is to make Roman Montague come apart with delight. They see none of it in him now as hazel hues flicker to his lips, pressed tight with flimsy control. Just as quickly they’ve stripped him of it, the shadow of that laugh now swallowed by vexation. They can command his heart one way, and they can command it the other. Can the others say the same?
Do they have the strength to reach beyond his pristine beauty and pluck the unsightly organ from the valley of his ribs, to carry the weight of a bleeding heart? Do they ever beckon not only Roman’s best, but his worst, from its flowery cage? Do they gaze upon his smile and his scowl both, and feel equal parts admiration and loathing that neither will belong to them alone? Before they can think better of it, their lips are finding the hard line of Roman’s. Then the contour of his cheek. His forehead. The slope of his nose. As if they can devour him; ingesting each fragment into their heart beside his laugh, beside his scowl, depriving all who might dare gorge on what rightfully belongs to Marcelo.
Their lips part, breathlessly, from the curve of his jawline, wild eyes mapping the distance. Fuck. They can’t lose him — not over this. Quickly, their palm snaps forward, giving Roman a pointed slap on one cheek, “I win. You keep letting your opponent distract you and you’ll get your ass kicked every time, Ro.” Unceremoniously, they rise from his lap, grabbing their discarded controller from the ground and reclaiming their seat. “Come on, one more game. I’ll bet you fifty euros,” Marcelo offers, ignoring their friend’s expression in the reflection of the screen. They longed to conquer, and whose knee was more satisfying to bend than that of a King? That’s all it was and all it can mean, they tell themselves.
