Romeo and Romeo ( Part 2)
Read Part 1 here https://www.tumblr.com/tgreatd/813347273844178944/romeo-and-romeo?source=share
He didn't know about the photograph until the next morning.
It was innocent though. Arnold's hand on Dean's elbow as he guided him through the theater's back door, both of them lit by the security light, Dean's face pale and Arnold's expression concerned. Someone had captured it from across the street, posted it to a fan account with a caption full of exclamation points and ship names.
Arnold and Dean??? After hours??? ššš
By noon, the theater group chat was buzzing and he ignored it. Of course people will buzz about something new and eventually it will die down. For better, in Deanās eyes, this was a better promotion to the play.Ā
By 2PM, someone had written a three-thousand-word analysis of their "chemistry" in the one scene they shared. By 3PM, Dean had three missed calls from numbers he didn't recognize and a text from Jack that simply said: We need to talk.
He doesnāt see Tua's message until evening, buried in the flood of notifications: Heard you're busy. Don't worry about coffee tomorrow.
Dean stared at the screen, reading it three times. Don't worry about coffee. They'd been getting coffee every Tuesday for over 1 year. It was the one constant in Dean's increasingly unstable world, the one hour where he didn't have to perform.
He typed back: What do you mean? I'm free tomorrow
The reply came an hour later, cold and final: Doesn't seem like it. You just had to make sure that you own everyone, didnāt you? Even after knowing⦠You know what, have fun with your new friend.
Your new friend. Like Arnold was a replacement. Like Dean was collecting people, trading up, leaving Tua behind.
He called. Tua didn't answer.
He texted again: It's not what you think. I was sick. Arnold gave me a ride home. That's it. Tua I would never even think of anything else, you know this. Itās just delusional people making up things.
Dean sat on his unmade bed, phone heavy in his hand, and felt something crack open in his chest. The silence from Tua was worse than shouting, worse than accusations. It was the sound of someone giving up on him, and Dean couldn't even explain why he deserved another chance because he couldn't explain anything, he couldn't say the words, he couldn't make anyone understand what it was like to be running out of time while everyone around you kept living.
He opened his messages to Jack, typed Yeah, what do you want to talk about? then deleted it. What was there to say? I'm dying and Arnold caught me offguard? It sounded pathetic even in his head. It sounded like begging.
He opened his messages to Arnold, typed thanks again for yesterday, then deleted that too. The rumors were already bad enough. Dean couldn't afford to feed them, couldn't afford to look like he was attaching himself to the remaining Romeo out of desperation.
He opened his messages to Tua and stared at the empty text box until his screen went dark.
So he said nothing, and the silence grew, and Dean lay back on his pillow and listened to his own breathing, ragged disturbed with occasional coughs and drifting off to a restless sleep.
The theater was empty when he arrived the next day, two hours early because he couldn't stand the house being empty without Tua, because he knew he was being abandoned, because he knew it was better that he didnāt know but still couldnāt bear the silence.
He found his mark on stage, Paris's mark, not Romeo's, and stood there in the dark, looking out at rows of empty seats that would soon be full of people who didn't know they were watching a dead actorās performance.
Dean was startled. Jack stood in the aisle, coffee in hand, wearing that same exhausted expression he'd worn for weeks.
"Couldn't sleep," Dean said.
Jack climbed the stage, stopping just outside Dean's personal space. They used to fit together. Dean remembered that now with the clarity of physical ache, how Jack's hand felt in his, how they could block scenes without speaking, how Jack had looked at him once like he was the only person in any room.
"Dean," Jack said, and his voice was so tired, so sad. "About the casting changeā"
"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended, defensive. "I don't want to hear it. You made your choice."
"I didn't have a choice. Mrs. Vichaiyutā"
"āowns the funding. I know." Dean turned away, facing the empty seats. "You don't have to explain. I understand how the world works, Jack. I understand that some things are more important than... than whatever we were."
He felt Jack inch closer, close enough to touch. "What we were," Jack repeated quietly. "Past tense."
"Everything's past tense eventually."
Silence. Then, softer: "You're scaring me, Dean. The way you've been actingā"
"Don't." Dean's voice cracked, and he hated it, hated the vulnerability, hated that Jack could still draw it out of him. "Don't pretend you care. You gave away my role. You don't have to care about what happens to me after that."
Dean laughed, and it sounded wrong, broken. "Nothing's fair. That's the whole point."
He walked off stage before Jack could respond, before he could break down, before he could say something he couldn't take back. In the backstage, he pressed his forehead against the cool concrete wall and counted his breaths, counting down to Thursday, counting down to the moment when everything would change, counting down to a future he would hate.
Romeo and Romeo, he thought bitterly.Ā
His phone buzzed. A text from Arnold: You okay? Heard you and Jack were fighting.
Was someone eavesdropping? He looked around to find no other presence.Ā
Another buzz. The group chat: Someone sharing a new photo, Arnold's arm around Dean's waist at some party Dean didn't remember attending, the caption full of speculation.
Obviously made up with AI.
Another buzz. Tua, finally: Hope you're happy. You and Arnold look good together.
Dean turned off his phone and sat in the dark, alone with the weight of secrets he couldn't share, listening to the theater breathe around him like something waiting, like something ending, like the only home he had left.
ā----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The coffee shop was nearly empty at 10 AM on a Tuesday, their Tuesday, or it used to be. Dean spotted Tua in their usual corner, nursing an Americano. He was staring out the window at nothing, shoulders hunched in that way that meant he was trying to look smaller than he was.
Dean almost walked away. Almost turned around and accepted this as another loss in a growing list of losses. But then he thought of Thursday, thought of the silence that might follow.
The future that he may never be able to speak with him ever again.
"You said you wonāt show up," Dean said. "For coffee. You said not to worry about it."
Tua didn't look at him. "I changed my mind."
"About coffee, or about me?"
Finally, those dark eyes turned his way, and Dean saw something that made his chest tighten, hurt, yes, but worse than that. Disappointment. The look of someone who had expected better and been let down.
"Why are you here, Dean?"
"To explain. About Arnoldā"
"I don't want to hear it." Tua's voice was flat, final. "I know what I saw. I know what everyone saw."
"What you saw was someone giving me a ride home because I was sick. And that other image is obviously AI." Dean leaned forward, hands flat on the table, trying to make himself transparent, trying to break through that wall of coldness when his plan was to have a clean break from everyone and disappear without a hint. "That's it. Nothing happened. Nothing's happening."
Tua laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sick. Right. You looked perfectly fine at rehearsal the next day."
"Because you're a good actor." Tua finally set down his cup, turning fully to face him. "The best I've ever seen, actually. You can make anyone believe anything. You made me believe we were actually friends. You made Jack believe you actually loved him. You made the entire cast believe you were fine with playing Paris." He paused, something bitter flickering across his face. "So forgive me if I don't buy the sudden illness story."
Dean felt the words like physical blows. "We are friends. That wasn't acting."
"Then why Arnold?" Tua's voice cracked on the name, just slightly, enough to reveal what he'd been hiding. "Of all people? You know, Dean. I told you everything. How I felt about him, how I was too scared to say anything, how I was waiting for the right moment. And youā" He stopped, jaw tight. "You always said you'd help. You always said you'd set us up. Was that just something you said to make me feel better while you made your own move?"
"No." The denial came out desperate, raw. "Tua, no. I swear to you, I have no romantic interest in Arnold. None."
"Then what?" Tua demanded. "Because you don't do anything without a reason. You don't attach yourself to people unless there's something in it for you. So what is it? Publicity? Followers? Getting your face back in the papers after Jack took away your role?"
Dean stared at him, stunned by the calculation in Tua's words. Every denial would sound like another performance. Every truth was trapped behind a wall of silence he couldn't breach.
"I needed help," he said finally, quietly. "I wasn't feeling well. Arnold was there. That's all."
"And you couldn't call me?"
"I didn't call him," Dean admitted. "He was just there.ā
Tua's expression flickered, something like disgust, quickly suppressed. "Dean. Maybe you're always going to be the person who takes what he needs no matter what it costs for the others."
"That's notā" Dean reached out, hand hovering over Tua's on the table. "Please. You know me better than that. Or you did. Before this week."
"I thought I knew you." Tua pulled his hand away, stood up, and threw a few bills on the table.Ā
"Get better, Dean. Or stay sick. I honestly can't tell the difference anymore."
The door chimed. He was gone.
Dean sat alone at their table, surrounded by empty chairs and the ghost of conversations they'd never have again.