Wherefore Art Thou Romeo? ✓

nineteen

TW: mentions of domestic violence and portrayals of physical abuse, specifically strangulation. Also brief mentions of bludgeoning/murder. Also brief mentions of suicide and drug overdose. Also, as usual, a very toxic relationship. Sorry in advance!

late spring 2018

NOT FOR THE first time, Romeo looked at Rodney and was reminded of his father.

They were sitting together in Rodney's sleek, black and grey, minimalistic kitchen; tiled floors, an excessive fridge and flat, polished cabinets. Romeo sat in one of the black, silver-poled, cushioned spinning stools at the island, turned away from the counter and towards Rodney who was sitting in one of the dining chairs, his elbows on the table and his bony fingers tangled in his dishevelled black hair.

He thought, slouching in his seat with his eyes locked on Rodney, about a memory he had of his dad from only a couple of months before he had moved out of the house and into a temporary apartment where Adrienne and Romeo, caught in the middle of their parents' divorce, had rarely visited him.

It was immediately after a fight they'd had— his mom and dad— and, unusually, his mom had been the one to leave the house. Often after their screaming matches, his dad was the one to leave, whether in his own voluntary storm or because Romeo's mom had kicked him out, forcing him outside in a fit of angry tears, her fists pounding on his back; her dark hair tousled, and green eyes puffy and bloodshot.

In his memory, his dad had been sitting at their kitchen table, nursing a glass of whiskey but without the sluggish, loose movements and foggy, clouded, unseeing eyes of drunkenness. He was still sharp and defined, his body a series of stark lines, and his gaze was still quick and shrewd. He had noticed Romeo as soon as he scuffled into the kitchen doorway.

For a long moment, neither of them had said anything. They had just stared at each other, trying to figure out what the other was thinking; always trying to understand each other and always failing.

Hello, Rome, his dad greeted finally, friendly but without a trace of warmth. He had lifted his glass in tired welcome as if to make the point that he wasn't hiding anything.

Hi, he murmured, holding onto the doorway and glancing around the kitchen.

Don't go over there, his dad had warned, gesturing vaguely to the other side of the room, the side that Romeo was eyeing. There's still glass all over the floor.

Smashed glasses were not a rarity when he was a kid. Nor vases, plates, fragile ornaments. Anything that would shatter was good enough.

Okay, he'd nodded, carefully stepping over towards the table, even though he was almost completely certain there would be no shards on that side.

Once when he was even younger, years and years before the divorce, he'd stepped on a small piece of a broken wine glass that his mom had thrown at his dad and his dad had swooped in and scooped him up, sitting him down on the counter to check his foot while he screamed and screamed at Romeo's mom about how she could at least clean up her shit; there are fucking kids walking around, Federica!

And while he tended to Romeo's foot— small, apathetic Romeo who stared blankly at his father leaning down in front of him, muttering and cursing— his mom rushed into the kitchen crying because she thought his entire foot had been split open.

It really hadn't been that big of a deal— he had barely even reacted to it— but his Dad had made it into one and he'd felt terrible about it afterwards, hopelessly wishing he could assure his mom but without knowing how to. After that, he was very careful about avoiding injury in the aftermath of his parents' decorative massacres.