Chapter Text
Carlo .
Hotel Krat is never quite quiet. If he listens closely, he hears the clinks and thuds of Eugénie as she tinkers with whatever weapon he’s brought her. Venigni likes to talk to himself while he drafts blueprints for legion arms or, sometimes, far-off plans for extravagant balls and parties.
Alidoro talks to himself as well, low mumblings under his breath muffled by the mask. He always stops when P approaches.
Sophia doesn’t speak and seldom walks. When she does, it’s more like gliding. But there’s a sound to her nonetheless; a quiver of Ergo in the air, as if it fights for her attention.
Lady Antonia hums. P noticed it when he would sit for long minutes in the library staring at the piano, or the bookshelf, or whatever else caught his eye. Her room was the only one in the lobby he could properly sit in. He would do so for hours. It was likely why he startled her so much.
Today, he sits against the wall in an armchair and curls as tightly as his metal joints allow. Gemini’s lamp sits dormant on a nearby table. P stares at the necklace cupped in his palm, turning it around to catch the light and reading the words again and again.
To Romeo, your friend C.
It’s large and brassy with a dark blue M engraved in the center. It matches the M on the old uniform Lady Antonia gave him that he used to wear before Fuoco burnt it beyond repair.
He traces the shape of this letter. Each time he does, he swears he can hear it again: that warm breath of words on the back of his neck, as if calling him to something. He would never know what.
He knew that voice, oh, of course he did. Even corrupted and corroded, he would know Romeo’s voice.
“Talk to me,” he whispers at the necklace. It doesn’t, of course. It’s only a necklace, like he’s only a puppet and Romeo is only scrap metal. Necklaces don’t talk.
He tugs on his newly-grown hair. He wonders if he should cut it. He wonders if that would make Geppetto happy.
He wonders how many puppets grow hair.
I know how many bleed, he thinks bitterly. Or I did.
What an awful curse, emotions. It feels as if his heart is breaking in two. He’d rather it actually do so, and he could go to Geppetto and sit in his chair and listen to his father tell him he was precious, he was his son, he meant something, and then fix it all with a wrench and a crushed Ergo chunk.
He also wants to throw open the doors to Geppetto’s office hard enough to send them off their hinges. He wants to march to that desk and punch a hole through it.
Did you make him? He wants to demand. You said you made the puppets. Did you make him ?
Did you know?
Why didn’t you tell me?
He’s not very good at imagining things. He always gives up, unable to craft a response or anything after that.
He supposes that was another side effect of being a puppet. What use was a tool who dreamed?
He tilts the necklace around again, running his fingers over the shape of the name Romeo .
Julian had been grateful when P brought him his wife’s wedding ring. His wife was dead, but the mere thought that she loved him had been enough to steady him through his grief. The memory of her love was all he needed; he had given the wedding ring, a symbol of everything he had, to P. Was that what one did when grieving? Should he give the necklace away? The very idea nearly sends him into a panic.
Then again, Adelina had killed herself from the guilt of betraying her sister. Humans were too complicated.
A meow interrupts his thoughts. He peers over his knees to see Spring sitting on the carpet. Her fluffy tail swishes back and forth. Her dark eyes watch P.
Of course. She likes to sit here sometimes. “Sorry,” he says.
Spring blinks one eye at a time at him.
He reaches out a half-hearted hand.
Surely, no being would be so cruel as to bat away a peace offering.
Spring stands. He waits for her to hit him. Instead, she presses her little head into his palm. He feels a rumbling purr.
P blinks. Slowly, he moves his hand around the way Eugénie did, scratching a bit behind the ears and on the forehead. Spring closes her eyes contentedly. Awed, he moves to the fur beneath her chin. It looks so soft; he can hardly resist.
Spring twists under his hand and bites at his finger. “Ow,” he says, feeling a sting, and pulls away.
Spring meows innocently.
“You could have just done so to begin with,” P mutters sulkily, pulling his hand back to his chest and holding the necklace again.
Spring licks at her paw. P ignores her. His eyes are burning again.
It’s only Spring , he chides himself. Whatever did you expect ?
He turns the necklace over to read the note again. He pauses and lifts his hand to the light.
Spring’s fang left a tiny cut along the inside of his ring finger on his right hand. He cocks his head at it.
The cut turns red.
Blood .
P brings his hand down before anyone can see, hastily checking his surroundings. It’s only him and Spring. He looks again.
He pinches the skin around it. The cut is too shallow to properly bleed. He doesn’t even know if it could.
He cradles it in his legion arm like a precious thing. It’s proof of something. He doesn’t know what yet.