Work Text:
The sun had no chance to rise before he had awakened that morning, groggy and confused at first, because the ceiling was different. The bed was too plush beneath him. Even his clothes were different. And then it dawned on him.
Carlo was back home for the summer holiday. Father actually came by to pick him up from the charity house, insisting they spend the next week or so together before Geppetto had to return to work. It was a rare occurrence to have Father fetch him to bring home, even rarer to insist they spend some time together, but by this point, Carlo was a bit too jaded to really consider the possibility that Geppetto was sincere. There had to be some other reason he’d dragged him away from school, either to attend a gala where he could parade his son around like an achievement or maybe he needed additional help with the latest batch of puppets he was developing. Though, Geppetto had way more qualified helpers than his son.
Either way, he was awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes and trying to come to. Being in his childhood bedroom was always strange, even stranger since Carlo recently had a growth spurt, now standing almost at his father’s shoulder height, his voice deepening and cracking awkwardly anytime he said anything. Even Geppetto commented on his new voice while on the ride back home, chuckling at Carlo’s attempts to hide the voice cracks and failing, embarrassing him to the point he refused to talk all that much for the rest of the ride.
Maybe if Father had spent more time with him, his voice wouldn’t have been so jarring to hear once they were alone on the train. Father had smiled and laughed at Carlo’s expense, and he’d only further receded into himself, no longer wishing to talk to Father if he was only going to shame him for something he couldn’t control, even giving him the silent treatment once they returned home. His only saving grace was that Geppetto retired to bed quite early, or early for his father. He’d been given a grace period to catch his bearings and settle in without being bothered, but here he was, rising way too early from bed and unsure if that was a good thing or not.
The more time he got to be alone was precious time Carlo didn’t want to squander. Father was probably still asleep, so he took advantage when he stood and stretched, washing his face in the nearby basin, and grabbing some clothes for the day. He could try to read until Father stirred, but his mind was too seeded with nerves to really focus on any schoolwork. As much as Carlo enjoyed reading, doing it while home was nigh impossible.
He’d gotten a look at himself in the nearby mirror and froze while he adjusted his collar, the sight of a large purple bruise at the base of his neck contrasting with his pale skin, and Carlo hurried to button his collar around it, having forgotten about it entirely. The summer heat hadn’t gotten a chance to simmer without the sun up yet, so he could stand wearing an extra layer or two, but it was going to be sweaty work later on in the day.
Geppetto was going to see the bruise eventually. Just as Carlo was going to be tossing these clothes to the floor eventually. But he wanted to hope that if he was careful enough, maybe Geppetto wouldn’t see such glaring evidence. He’d gotten it from school after all. And it was not from a fight.
His cheeks heated at the memory, trying to push it out of his mind for now. If he thought about Romeo while here, it always made coming home so much worse if he dwelled on what his friend was doing. Though by now, they were probably past friendship, especially considering Carlo had kissed him more times than he could remember just that past week alone. Romeo was the one who got handsy that evening while they were supposed to be studying. Romeo was the one who sucked his throat until he bruised. Carlo hadn’t asked him to do it, though he hadn’t protested either.
The moment Father saw that was the moment there would be an argument, and Carlo knew he was only delaying the inevitable, but considering his father had gone straight to bed last night, part of him wanted to pretend and feign hope that Geppetto simply wouldn’t this time. Maybe he wouldn’t.
Carlo’s heart sank at such lies, unable to believe his own foolishness. He’d been so lucky to have worn his school uniform while on the train with Father last night. The high collar had hidden the evidence, though he wasn’t the only one buying time. Until then, he covered the spot on his neck with his collar, settled at his nearby desk, and rummaged through his school bag, trying to find something to do.
The sun rose slowly in the coming hour, Carlo not noticing while he’d had a lamp shining light onto his work. He wasn’t actually doing any schoolwork, but decided to compose a letter to Romeo, since his friend was on his mind anyway. It was only going to be a week (maybe longer) until he saw him again, though Carlo wrote about how boring home life was, as he always did when thinking of fantasies for his friend.
It was the usual. Father brought him home. They ate supper, spent a little time together, Carlo had trouble relating to his father anymore, and then they spent the rest of the evening not talking, which Carlo ended the letter to say would probably be the rest of his trip, and that he hoped Romeo was having a better time. These were mostly lies.
It mattered very little what he ended up telling his friend though, and Carlo was just about to fold his parchment and begin sealing an envelope for it when his bedroom door opened, and he froze, having not expected Geppetto to walk through so soon. Oh… the sun was already up? Shit.
His father smiled as they locked eyes and Carlo tried and failed to slide the letter under his book, but of course, Father’s eyesight became immaculate whenever Carlo was there.
“What are you doing?” he asked, closing the door as he walked into the room, crossing the distance until he was at Carlo’s side.
He shook his head, feeling small and smaller still while Geppetto towered over him where he sat. “Schooling.”
“What sort of schooling?” Before Carlo could reply, Geppetto reached down to steal his letter, and he jolted the slightest before somehow managing to snatch the letter back from his father, ripping the parchment in the process. Father did not in any manner appear pleased.
“It’s nothing,” Carlo tried to explain, knowing he was flustered and feeling so foolish he’d let Geppetto sneak up on him like that. “A letter.”
“To whom?”
“A friend.” If Father found out he’d been writing to Romeo, and saying rather unsavory things about his father to boot, he’d be in for an earful. Push came to shove, he could always rip the letter before Geppetto took it from him, even if that only ended up incriminating him further.
At first, he didn’t think Father would let it go and continue interrogating him until Carlo quaked, but to his relief, Geppetto sighed long and deep before crossing his arms as though already exhausted from this brief meeting alone. “You return home for one day and you’re already writing letters to that boy.”
Carlo froze. He knew. Of course he knew. Could Carlo have been more obvious about it? He didn’t know whether he should have bothered trying to hide it or not, but he remained silent while Geppetto did his usual disapproving sighs and such.
“Son, aren’t you glad to be back home?”
He nodded, even though it was a lie. It was what Father wanted to hear.
“Then why do you not act like it? I’ve missed you and I’d like to believe you’ve missed me too.”
Carlo cringed. It had been since last winter he’d seen his father, other than a letter here and there, which he never replied to Geppetto’s letters, this was the first time he’d seen his father since the city was covered in snow and the only thing he could think about was how he’d rather be literally anywhere else but home. How could his father honestly expect him to miss him when he was never there in the first place?
Part of Carlo’s letter hadn’t been mere lies. He really had nothing to say to his father anymore, and the more Geppetto pushed, the further away Carlo backed up.
Geppetto’s voice pierced through his thoughts, pulling Carlo back to reality. “Stand up.”
At least thankful he seemed to have forgotten about the letter, Carlo obeyed, standing from his desk and straightening, unsure if he was in trouble or not. Sometimes it was difficult to tell with Father.
He wasn’t smiling. The moment Geppetto reached up to cup his cheek was the moment Carlo ceased breathing, his entire body stiffening at what was meant to be a tender touch, and he flinched without meaning to. His father clicked his tongue, rubbing his thumb along his jaw. “Do not pull away from me, son. I said I’ve missed you. You’ve missed me too, haven’t you?”
He nodded. Throat tight. Stomach soured. Palms cold. He fought the disgust as hard as he could.
“Then show me.”
He knew what was expected of him, and Carlo still hesitated. If he refused to play along, then this would create more and more strain, but sometimes he wished he could scream and push Geppetto away from him, demand how could he expect Carlo to do this? How did he honestly expect him to continue and play along? How much longer?
But Geppetto would only push back twice as hard, become twice as insistent, smotheringly so. Even still, even knowing what his father wanted him to do then, as evident by the way he glided his thumb to the corner of Carlo’s mouth, he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it, knowing the consequences but—
“I-I have a lot of reading I need to do.” He took a step backward, almost running into his desk, and Geppetto released his cheek instantly, instead nabbing the collar of his shirt to keep him planted right where he was.
“Son,” he breathed, his voice dangerously low, but not quite enraged. Carlo knew he was digging his own grave, yet a part of him kept wishing that Father would see his reasoning and grant him mercy. Just a small mercy.
Carlo couldn’t do this. He hated this so much. “Father, please,” and he was already begging. Already resorting to the most pathetic measure. “Please don’t make me.” Maybe he wouldn’t do it. Maybe Father would leave.
He knew he wouldn’t. Carlo was only making this worse by not bending over backwards, and he could see the way Geppetto’s eyes narrowed the more he struggled, and the more he applied pressure to the collar of his shirt, giving Carlo no chance to get away. “Son, stop fussing as if you’re a child again. You’ve done this before. What’s so difficult now?”
Carlo had to look away and glance to the floor, unable to conjure the proper words then and explain exactly why this repulsed him. Other than, “B-because you’re my father. It feels wrong.” That was the most honest Carlo had ever been with his father and he was a bit stunned that he’d managed to say that out loud.
Even still, Geppetto was stubborn and only gripped him tighter, sighing. “You’ve let that boy get to your head. Have you told him about any of this?”
Carlo shook his head. No damn way he would ever tell Romeo what he and Geppetto did behind closed doors. Carlo would rather die. “No sir. I’ve not said a word.”
“Good boy. You’re all I have, son. I won’t let what other people say or think stand in our way when I know what’s best for you.” He dipped then, and Carlo knew that eventually if he didn’t give Geppetto what he wanted, he would take it regardless. And he did. In one fast motion, his father leaned into his face and kissed him, letting it linger, making it impossible to move away from, even as Carlo pulled back, Geppetto held him tight in an iron grip, grabbing both sides of his face to keep him still when Carlo flinched, and there was nothing he could do other than ride it out.
The kisses he’d shared with Romeo were always followed by laughter and banter. Heart pounding. Stomach butterflies. Smiles. Romeo’s mischievous eyes. Carlo always loved it when they kissed. He always had fun when he and Romeo fooled around.
Kisses that his father forced on him were suffocating, Carlo unable to breathe, as though his head was being held underwater. He wanted to push at his chest and get him off. Wanted to scream and yell. Throw curses. Rip at his own hair why his father felt the need to do this. Why did he do this? Why did he do this to his own son? Carlo didn’t understand.
The kiss was broken, Carlo’s face still in his father’s palms, and he finally sucked in air, his chest tight, nausea stirring. Geppetto smiling.
“I love you,” he said, pulling some of Carlo’s hair behind his ear. It was getting too long, and he knew Father would say something about it. “I want you to know that.”
Carlo nodded, knowing it was the only thing he could do.
“I just wish you’d listen to me, son. Everything that I do is done out of love.”
Out of love? Did he really believe that? Was his father going to stand there and feed him such shit as if Carlo would suddenly believe it? Maybe he really did believe it, as evident by his small smile that turned Carlo’s stomach to lead. He hated that smile of Father’s. He hated it.
Father suddenly tugged at Carlo’s collar, as if only noticing he was dressed up in something much too inappropriate for the summer heat. “Now what’s this? It’s too warm for you to be wearing so many layers this early.”
Carlo’s blood chilled and he shivered despite the warmth he knew would be arising with the sun as the day progressed. There was no hiding the bruise on his neck from Father, and he could either try to make excuses and deal with it tonight when Father made him undress or he could rip the bandage off now and get it over with.
“I’m a bit chilly.” Carlo’s default response was to lie, even if he knew the lies were blatant. It was instinct at this point, and his father frowned, knowing it too.
“Hiding something?”
Cold. Oddly cold. Father was more perceptive than he let on, and Carlo knew it. He tried to save face, shaking his head, but then, “I-I fell at school. I have a mark on my neck from it.”
Why did he think saying that would be a good idea? Carlo hoped by brushing it off and pretending it was some run in with a wall that Geppetto would yield, but his father yanked at his collar then, almost ripping the fabric, and Carlo cringed when he knew Father caught a perfect view of the bruise right there on his neck.
“You fell and bruised your neck?”
Carlo nodded.
There was a long moment in which Father said nothing, his fingers frozen over the edge of Carlo’s collar, the bruise in full view, and the silence was somehow more crushing than if he’d just yelled at him. Carlo thought his father would snap then, raise his voice and cause a huge fuss over it, but he wasn’t expecting Father to heave a great sigh and then pinch his brow.
“You know that I hate it when you lie to me.”
That chill swam through his blood all over again.
“Who did it? Was it that boy?”
Carlo shivered, a dead giveaway, and still shook his head. “I fell—”
“I asked who did it.” Geppetto leaned into his face and he all but crumbled under his father’s intense gaze, knowing this would be worse if he continued to lie, but sometimes Carlo simply couldn’t help it.
He swallowed, trying to prepare himself for the worst, even though there was never any way to properly prepare for this. “Romeo,” he said, surprised how loud and confident his voice was in the face of Father’s displeasure.
The moment he said the name, Father moved against him, almost causing Carlo to fall backward onto his chair, because he was grabbed so harshly by both arms, and Geppetto was on his throat. All Carlo could do was gasp at first, taken aback, though expecting it at the same time, and he cringed at the feeling of his father’s open mouth on the fresh bruise, sucking the already sore spot. He flinched at the start, but held still while his father went at him, always his strange way of expressing his annoyance when Carlo disobeyed or lied. And he did it often, knowing the consequences, and he could do little else but blame himself for it.
It hurt. In the strangest way, the sensation of Father sucking at the bruise, doing the same exact thing Romeo had done, it ached so much, and he hissed through his teeth when Father became particularly rough. It was only going to make it worse, and he wondered if that was the intention.
Before he could stop himself, Carlo spit, “It hurts,” between his teeth, as if that would make Geppetto stop.
He didn’t. Of course. He only gripped him tighter, his breath hot on his throat, his kissing and sucking so forceful that Carlo wouldn’t have been shocked if new bruises formed. But Geppetto stopped only for a moment to breathe. “What else have you let that boy do to you? Are you being intimate?”
Yes.
“No sir.”
Two nights ago Romeo had his shirt off, touching Carlo through his trousers, smiling so salaciously as Carlo kissed him twice while he was pleasured through his clothes.
“We’ve only kissed.”
Romeo’s hands on his bare stomach, touching his thighs. Caressing his hair. Smiling. Carlo in love with that smile. Hands sneaking through his undergarments until they touched bare skin. Carlo moaning.
Geppetto kissed his throat again, scraping the edges of his teeth on the bruise, and Carlo cringed. “Only kissing?”
No.
“Yes sir.”
“What else?”
Romeo playing with his hair, laughing as he remarked how long it was getting, and that the two of them ought to grow their hair out together. Carlo smiling as he agreed, kissing Romeo on the mouth.
“Nothing.” Tears were in his eyes, heat rising to his face, one of Geppetto’s hands reaching up to pull his shirt down as far as it would go, exposing his collarbones to the air.
Romeo doing the same, kissing Carlo’s throat, his knee between his legs, Carlo lying on the bed, unhooking his trousers as Romeo pulled his own shirt off.
Geppetto resisting the urge to bite his throat, maybe. Carlo didn’t know. Maybe he should. Maybe Father should just tear it out, bones and all, spill his blood, just do it. Carlo almost asked him to do it.
A kiss that made him breathless, laughing afterward when Romeo fumbled, knowing it was awkward, but the two were falling over each other, smiling. Laughing. Pulling at each other’s clothes. Carlo had never felt such joy before. Unbridled joy.
His hands were rough when they gripped hold of him, and his kiss that invaded his mouth was forceful. Nothing like Romeo. Carlo’s father was every bit the opposite of his friend as he could be. He yanked at his garments as though angry that Carlo was clothed in the first place, until Carlo was bare from the waist up, and when he felt the tug of his belt, he panicked.
“Wait—Father, please wait—” but Geppetto was already ripping at his trousers, showing little care when he tore the belt from around his waist, leaving nothing in his way to tug Carlo’s trousers down.
“Your lies have finally caught up to you,” Geppetto said, and Carlo’s whole body felt cold from the inside out, causing him to shiver. He could do nothing as his father stripped him bare, leaving him nothing in the way of decency. Nothing. “I should pull you out of that place and bring you home for good.”
That made him freeze, and Carlo shook his head, not quite sure just why his father was so enraged over the fact he’d kissed someone else. Weren’t young boys meant to explore while in school a little? Even if his and Romeo’s relationship went nowhere, surely Father could understand that friends could fool around once in a while, right?
Father couldn’t control his relationships while at school. Carlo refused. And the only way to make it so that Father did not take him away from Romeo was to grovel, as shameful as it was. As pathetic as it was.
“I-I’m sorry,” Carlo said, voice shaking as Father continued to kiss his throat, his jaw, hungrier than ever. Too much force. Carlo was suffocating. “I made a mistake. I’ll never do it again. I-I was—we were not in our right minds.”
“You’ve told so many lies that it’s become too difficult to take you at your word.”
Carlo knew that. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say, and stayed silent, knowing the silence itself was an admission, but what could he do? Father would become angry anytime he mentioned Romeo, even in the most innocent of settings, Father always became upset. Why? Was Carlo not allowed to have friends?
Carlo cringed when Geppetto’s hands roamed lower and lower. Surely his father was not… jealous? No—that was absurd. Why would Father feel threatened by a boy he met in school? Why would Father even care if Carlo pursued a relationship different from this? Did this even count? Carlo didn’t know. He didn’t want to ruminate on what this was meant to be.
Fathers and sons shouldn’t have been doing this. He would never understand why Geppetto did this, and there was no point in wondering.
All he could do then was remain silent and wait for this to be over, like he always did. Father would take him to the bed, crawl on top of him, undress, and do whatever he pleased, however he pleased. Just like always. Carlo knew what to expect, yet it never seemed to diminish the fear nor the disgust. In some ways, he wished he could have done this as any other routine, like washing his face or putting on a pair of shoes. Like clockwork. Like any other common ritual. He wished more than anything that lying down in bed and being forced to watch as Geppetto straddled him was something he could have turned his mind off from. Like any other thing.
But he couldn’t. Carlo never could.
When he was moved to the bed, facing the ceiling, the inevitable bound to happen, Carlo grit his teeth and stared past Geppetto’s head as his father climbed over top of him, knowing what was to come, and only praying it didn’t hurt this time. It didn’t always. Only when Father was in a poor mood, and he always apologized afterward, sometimes even being gentle if Carlo caused too much of a fuss, but as he gripped the bedsheets and braced himself, Carlo wasn’t expecting Geppetto to freeze when he reached up to remove his clothes. Straddling Carlo now, he didn’t press his weight onto his naked body, and Carlo feared something worse was to come as Father gave pause, his expression indiscernible.
And finally, his voice came out into the tense stillness. “Do you love that boy?” he said, voice lacking all of the vitriol from before, and only vibrating out into a weakened whisper.
Carlo’s heart thumped in his chest, almost painfully so, and he knew what Father wanted to hear. For Geppetto to claim that he hated it when Carlo lied, he loved to hear what he knew would please him most, as though wanting Carlo to believe it too. But he knew better than that.
Carlo shook his head, too afraid to do anything else. “No sir. He’s my friend. That’s all.”
Geppetto deflated some, hands on the buttons of his waistcoat, and he slowly peeled it away. “If I catch wind of you being intimate with that boy, I’m bringing you home.”
Carlo nodded, knowing it would be foolish to protest, especially while Father was on top of him like this.
“If I see any more bruises on you from anyone who isn’t me, you’re coming home.”
Carlo nodded, unable to look away as Geppetto undressed, tossing his garments to the side without a care.
“You go to school to learn, not to cause scandals with classmates. You’re a proper boy. Act like it. You can begin by trimming your long hair tonight.”
Carlo nodded.
“The thought of someone else touching you—” But whatever he meant to say, Geppetto let it lie, and Carlo shivered when Father bent over him, his larger hands all over his body, his mouth pressing to random spots, sucking. Kissing. Suffocating.
There was nothing he could do but lie there and take it, take it and hope that Geppetto wasn’t too upset that he ended up hurting him. So long as Carlo groveled, Father took his comfort into account, though he wasn’t certain if that made this better or not.
When he did things like this with Romeo, Carlo loved it. He never felt ashamed to be naked in front of his friend. Not like this. With Father, there was a deep-rooted shame Carlo could never shake, even though he knew he shouldn’t have been embarrassed about something like that either. Father raised him, after all. He should have been comfortable asking certain things of him that he couldn’t ask others. That’s how it was supposed to be.
But this was wrong. It was simply wrong.
Father’s kisses on his mouth were like toxins permeating his entire body. Carlo wanted it out of him, and resisting the urge to pull away was too great sometimes, and it never pleased Geppetto in the least. Not like Romeo. Carlo’s heart would flutter when they kissed. When they touched. When he could forget that Father did the same things Romeo did, but Carlo could block it out while with Romeo. It was the only saving grace he had, and he chased it as if it was a drug. The further away he could run, the further away he could hide from Father’s touch. His voice. His influence. His invasions.
Because this was invading. Carlo never felt so helpless as he did with Father, while lying flattened underneath him, forced to spread his legs and—hiss and bear it—Father apologizing because he knew it hurt. Carlo breathing heavily, clenching his fingers onto the blanket and squeezing so hard that his nails dug through. It hurt. It hurt.
Son, I’m sorry.
Geppetto’s apologies. As he always did when it hurt. Sometimes Carlo thought he did it on purpose.
His hand on his cheek. Gentler. Gentler. Please, it hurts. Gentler.
Carlo could breathe, eyes shut, teeth grinding. Geppetto moving. It didn’t hurt anymore. It never hurt for long. He always got used to it.
Hands everywhere. Whispers. Praises. Such a good boy he was being. Father’s mouth all over him, sucking. A very good boy.
Carlo wanted to pretend Romeo was doing this. But Romeo would never be like this. Romeo wouldn’t have straddled him like this. They would have talked before and after. About nonsense. This wouldn’t have been a chore that Carlo had to put up with and clench his entire body through as Father moaned and moaned and pleasured him and Carlo moaned with him and the sounds of his own voice was going to make him vomit, god, he hated it, he hated it when Father touched him like that, when it felt good, when he wanted to come, he wanted to come, he was close, close, he was going to—
Moaning louder and louder, it reverberated through his bones, and Carlo hadn’t meant to be so noisy, but it pleased Father, he knew. Father always remarked on how loud he could make him moan, and nothing made Carlo feel smaller than to be praised for something so wrong.
Father smiled above him, cupping his cheeks to press a light kiss to his mouth, Carlo’s face flushed with heat, his body spent, everything too hot. “You’re so beautiful when you’re turned on, son.”
Did he delight in reminding him over and over what this was? Did Geppetto gain gratification out of saying what he knew would disgust Carlo more than anything? Maybe he didn’t. Sometimes Carlo could never tell what Father was thinking. And sometimes he was fine with not knowing.
The room was silent in the aftermath of the intensity. Carlo could gain his bearings while Father finally left him in peace, and these were the moments he hated being alone. That was quite backwards thinking, and Carlo hated it. After something like that, he wanted comfort of some sort, but he had no idea where to get it from. He never felt the need to ask Romeo to comfort him, because being with his friend already gave him everything he wanted. He felt safe with Romeo.
But being alone now, as the sun was consumed by dark clouds outside, until it began to rain that afternoon, Carlo lay in bed for a long, long time after Father left, feeling devoid of much of anything. He did not in any manner wish for Geppetto to hold him and tell him that everything would be alright, but sometimes he did. It made little sense. And he would never, ever ask Father for something like that. Carlo would rather die.
But he finally stood from bed, once the gentle patter of rain against his window began to harden, and thunder rumbled overhead, Carlo gathered his clothes from the floor and was just about to redress before catching sight of himself in the nearby mirror. There, all over his pale neck and some parts of his body, were red marks, some of them already bruising and becoming purple. All of them from Geppetto. All of them in places he would not be able to hide if Romeo saw him naked.
The one Romeo had given him was almost entirely surrounded by red splotches, and Carlo didn’t understand why at the time, but tears filled his vision, and he angrily wiped them away with his arm. This was ridiculous. Geppetto had bruised him before. But there were so many now. Some on his neck. Some on his shoulders. So visible now even in the dim light caused by the storm outside. How was he supposed to explain this? He couldn’t. Romeo would know. Romeo would ask him what happened to him for Carlo to gain so many marks like that. It was obvious someone else had created them, and Romeo might—
Some of the tears fell, and Carlo swallowed the sobs that were becoming overbearing. Geppetto knew. He knew Carlo wouldn’t be able to undress in front of Romeo for a long time, not until the marks faded. He knew it. And Carlo hated that his father had done such a thing to him, knowing there wasn’t much Carlo could do to defy him, even while at school. Even with his friend.
Carlo hated him so much. He just hated him. He hated crying. He hated being so embarrassed by this. He hated what Father did to him anytime he came home. He hated it so much.
Thunder rumbled outside, loud enough to make the house shake some, and Carlo went to bathe as he often did after doing that with Father. He scrubbed the filth away, rubbing his already abused skin raw, but not caring. The water was too hot and he didn’t care. The marks stung and he didn’t care.
Carlo just didn’t care when he finally stepped from the water, dried, and redressed. The heat was gone. The shame. The anger. He finally felt numb, and it was wonderful. In due time, the marks would fade, as would the one from Romeo, but he knew that in the coming week Geppetto had every opportunity to create more, and he could do little else other than deal with it, knowing it was bound to happen.
But why would Father settle for anything less? There was no point in getting upset about it, and he felt so foolish for crying, though Carlo couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t help it. Even with those thoughts in mind, he returned to his bedroom, feeling a very quiet sense of hollow peace while the storm raged overhead, and he could put everything on the back burner for now. He still had a week left, after all. A week with Father. A week of long nights and undressing, a week to recover from it until he could return to school. And how he longed to return to Romeo’s embrace, a comfort that he so lacked while at home, where it was empty, because Father never, ever gave him comfort like Romeo could.
For now, Carlo sighed, settling at his desk to try and read one of the books Romeo had suggested to him, and he could ignore the bruises on his body. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he and Romeo couldn’t fool around a little once he returned to school, and they wouldn’t stain his body forever. He had to remember that. Everything would be okay in the end. Carlo could keep telling himself that, even as he slouched in his seat, lost in the book, finally able to focus somewhat.
One more week. Just one more week. And then he could go back. He could go back to Romeo. And despite what Geppetto had threatened him with, Carlo fully intended to kiss Romeo as much as he could. He’d make sure of it.