Wherefore Art Thou Romeo? ✓

eighteen

NOTE: please read (even skim) the note at the end! thank you, I hope you enjoy <3

late spring 2018
(mostly edited)

ROMEO'S CARMINE, CLOTHBOUND copy of The Iliad with the rising, pinkish flames had a note written on the blank space after the title page.

violence born from love and love born from violence. I hope you think of me every time.
Love, Rodney

Right beside it, there was a small smear of red blood that dried into copper. Rodney, when he had written the note, had gotten into what he called a 'scuffle' with one of his friends and cut his knuckles, bleeding onto the page. Part of him, along with the pressed flowers he'd stolen for Romeo's Valentines, would be within that book until it turned to dust. Then, those parts of him would turn to dust with it.

Similarly, his copy of Giovanni's Room had been vandalised— with his permission— by Rodney's barbed scribbles of jagged broken hearts, the curves replaced by points like mountain peaks and the break down the middle like two rows of shark teeth, and odd, Picassoesque faces. He sometimes scrawled notes in his cramped, tall, rushed handwriting about scenes in the book that reminded him of movies he'd seen or what he thought of the characters, underlining with brisk strikes the sections that he liked. He was vulgar, messy and sharp, his hand defying Romeo's delicate, loopy flows of cursive, and Romeo loved him for it.

Those books would remind him of Rodney forever. The print of crushed flowers, the dried copper blood, the scribbles and scrawls. Before, he had loved his books but their additions had made them irreplaceable. Rodney had turned them into his own masterpieces.

Romeo was beginning to feel the same way about his body. He wished he could keep the feeling of Rodney's tongue and teeth and mouth and hands as memories in his body forever, pressed into his skin like the flowers on the pages. He wished all of the bruises and bright red marks and bitemarks that Rodney had left on him would turn into scars, permanent disfigurations and blemishes of love.

Some memories, thankfully, would never leave him. Blood and smoke and dark, shining eyes and natural fangs in wolfish, pearly teeth and private smirks and raspy laughs and marred knuckles would keep Rodney with him no matter what happened and no matter where they went and no matter what separated them. He did not have to look for Rodney, because anywhere he was, Rodney found him.

It was an obsessive thought of his— one that he clung to— when he saw Rodney again for the first time in weeks; his face as sharply beautiful as always, but completely ivory. No cuts, no bruises, no busted lip or a gushing nose, no black eyes or bloodied teeth or love bites on his throat.

Since their argument, two weeks before, they had scarcely caught a glimpse of each other. Rodney had moved out of the house he had effectively moved into, though it was still littered with traces of him (snacks he liked in the cupboard, his clothes in the laundry, his toothbrush in the bathroom, antidepressants and cigarettes hidden in Romeo's drawer, a tattered copy of Camus' The Plague on the dresser, hoodies that still smelled like him over the desk chair, Freddie— the stuffed fox— on the bed) and Romeo's mother missed him terribly.

She was clueless about their relationship because Romeo had sworn Adrienne to secrecy before he had even told her what was going on. I'll only tell you, he warned, if you swear to God you won't tell mom. And, before she had known what was getting into, she'd sworn.

Adrienne was the most recent member of Rodney's hate club. Once, she had been very fond of him, his boyish teasing and scathing humour, but hearing about the gritty details had left a bad taste in her mouth. She no longer trusted him, no longer wished to have him around or and never asked Romeo when he was coming back. Whenever their mom pressed Romeo for details about their 'lover's spat' and if he was sure that everything was okay, Adrienne remained silent, her eyes fixed on the TV or her head bowed into her schoolwork, biting her lips or pressing them firmly together.