[ In the interests of not having his own memories sloshing about in someone else's head, and also because the offer of alcohol sounds pretty enticing right about now: ]
[ Before he heads out, he considers bringing Gabbana, but at the last moment decides to leave him where he is, curled up in a ball and fast asleep. He's been reliably informed that you can't just burst into someone's room in this place, which also means Gabbana can't go wandering.
He gets to Roman's cabin in good time, thumping on the door with the whorl of his fist and trying not to second-guess whatever this is. ]
[ Roman's about to talk about some severely depressing shit: he can still feel the sting on his cheek, not from the slap but it's the way his father( not his father) had spread it just to see if he'd cry that hurts the most. Still, in a weird way it's the most normal he's felt for a while, especially during this fucked up flood.
He's shit at entertaining guests that aren't business deals of some sort, he can barely handle family over, but Angelo's just crazy enough that he hadn't even hesitated. The other's firmly in the same category as a few other people he's come to actually like: he's too weird to worry too much about offending but not weird enough to be genuinely concerning. On the barge's sliding spectrum of weird, with Doug Eiffel on one end and Misty Quigley being on the other, Angelo fits a little closer to Eiffel at the moment.
Roman opens the door and half-waves. ]
Come on in, ya fucking sadsack. [ It makes two of them. ] I'm down to the last of the whiskey so if you spill any I get to crush your balls, okay?
[ It's not like gesticulates wildly while he's talking or anything. Angelo finds himself wishing that he'd brought Gabbana already, mostly just to have something to do with himself while he's in an unusual space. Roman has good taste, though, and the door to his cabin alone makes this feel a lot like he's back home.
He drops down into a chair, hooking his arm over the back and regarding Roman intently for a moment, and then figures there's no point beating around the bush. ] Depressing as shit, huh.
[ He ignores the first comment and instead pours, half because he doesn't have a reply that's witty and half because he didn't expect someone to actually mention it, used to most people on the barge ignoring his bullshit. Angelo slinks into a chair and Roman joins him on the opposite one after handing him a glass, though where Angelo takes up space by spreading Roman opts to perch on the arm of his chair, slouching into himself slightly. ]
Depressing as shit. Your dad's a piece of work, huh? [ He titters, more out of nervousness than anything. It's weird. This is weird. They barely know each other but here Roman is holding an extremely traumatic memory in his that doesn't even belong to him.
What's weirder is that there's no urge to use it for blackmail. ]
[ He'd been reasonably confident about his ability to address this whole thing in a way that isn't fucking stupid, until Roman actually mentions his father, at which point all confidence drips out of him as if squeezed. He frowns at his drink intently, trying to put his thoughts in some sort of order so he doesn't just come out with something stupid. ]
[ There it is. Roman's head cants a fraction of an inch to the side, watching Angelo closely despite his completely unbothered posture. It's not much, but there's a button Roman has definitely pushed, and despite his aforementioned lack of want to blackmail, he still looks for shit like this. Old habits.
Then again: Angelo has a shit dad. Of course bringing it up spooks him. Doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist to figure it out. Roman makes a noise, something noncommittal in the back of his throat. ]
He hit you, which, whatever-- [ no, not whatever Roman ] --but then he decided it was cool to be extra cunty about it. Someone tried to intervene.
[ Pompeii, midday heat, his father's fury right in his face. Angelo remembers it in rough, unpleasant flashes, grits his teeth, and empties his glass in one swallow. As he leans forward a little, he drags his fingers over his cheek, feeling the hard bump of the scar as he does. How the fuck did he forget how this got here? ]
Dads hit their kids all the time. [ He frowns, staring at the dregs in his glass, his fingertips following the curve of the scar up his cheekbone. He doesn't touch it much, hates it when other people do. The skin's mostly numb anyway. ] One time he hit me with a slipper 'cause I ordered lobster.
[ At first it makes sense to say, because he remembers it happening. But the more he interrogates the memory, the less sense it starts to make. The man shoving a finger in his face and shouting at him is not his father, for one. For another, he doesn't have a sister called Siobhan. And if his father hit him, which he did often, he would have tried harder than that not to cry. ]
No, he... [ Romulus. Roman? ] No, that's... that was you.
cw for like so much abuse in this entire thread tbh
[ Roman catches that move, the finger grazing over the cheek and he finds himself inhaling sharply, pressing his lips into a thin line. His dad never left marks--it's always been a smack, sometimes when it's bad a twist of the arm--but he knows the feeling intimately. Angelo's sorting through pieces of a puzzle and Roman's done the exact same thing the exact same way for years, including what Angelo says next.
He nods at the comment--dads do hit their kids all the time, and fuck, finally there's someone who knows it isn't a big deal. It just happens. It toughens you up. Angelo had deserved it. Angelo had cried. He takes a sip of his drink. ]
Hmm? [ He doesn't remember lobster. He doesn't remember a slipper, but he also doesn't think Angelo's full of shit. He's been through this song and dance before, so he keeps his voice calm and collected, unbothered. ] You have one of mine?
He called you Romulus. And there was a girl, Siobhan. And Kendall.
[ Anyone else might poke fun at a name like Romulus, but Angelo of Michelangelo fame is a bigger person in this one respect. He eyes Roman intently for a moment, now the conversation's shifted away from himself, his lips pulling down at one corner. ]
[ Roman's shoulders bunch up, head lowering in a cross between a shrug and an attempt to turtle into himself as casually as possible. It's is own cabin, so it's not like he can leave. Not like he would leave, either. It's a sensitive subject but 'your dad's an asshole' is the least offensive thing he's heard about his father in a while. He does reach his hand up to touch at his face, index finger just above his temple, pushing at his skull. ]
Yeah, well, you know. I'm an asshole, he's an asshole. [ He glances over, brows half raised, and the hand on his face moves to emphatically gesture. ] So are you, I'm just better at it.
[ It's a compliment. Like sees like, and Roman fights the tiniest of smiles starting to cut through the slightly serious moment. ]
[ Angelo has a thoughtful sip of his drink. He can tell when people are actually trying to insult him rather than just throwing shit out and seeing what sticks, and he doesn't think Roman's doing either. Roman's filling time. Asshole means nothing to him. Angelo gets that. ]
He smacked the shit out of you with a slipper. You ordered lobster. [ He says it kind of distantly, like he's still turning it over in his head. It's a weird feeling; he's still trying to wrangle with the idea that it felt like his own memory for a little while. ] Hey, what's your family do? It's a big business, right?
[ Oh, yeah, that sounds like them. He vaguely remembers it. Snow--lots of snow. Pokemon, too, for some reason. He wants to say Germany, maybe. No. ]
Gstaad. Yeah, I--I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. You never order the most expensive thing on the menu. I deserved it. [ His voice is far away, muted as he mulls it over, the scenario rushing over him.
Had he cried? He can't remember. Probably he did. ]
[ He cried. Angelo can still remember it. He's not gonna say that, though, because it's fucking embarrassing and he actually likes Roman. He's needled his own brother enough times about being a crybaby, but that's because Ludo deserved it. ]
So it's a family business?
[ As in, his father will need someone to take over after he kicks the bucket. It's an uncomfortable thought, because Angelo's all too familiar with how that feels. Roman has, at least, two siblings. Kendall had seemed like the oldest from what Angelo remembers of the memory, and Angelo doesn't feel like it'd be entirely wrong to assume that Roman's dad seems like he'd be kind of sexist, so maybe Siobhan doesn't factor in at all. ]
Depends on the day. [ He's hoping his dry tone does most of the heavy lifting so he doesn't actually have to actively vocalize the weight of the mighty title of Successor coming with its own baggage. Half a trunks worth, even. While there is some sort of connection here, something Roman can't quite place, something he'd probably have to a lot conscious awareness to put into words, who gets the keys to the kingdom is a heavy, complicated subject in a sea of heavy, complicated shit they're slowly unraveling together. Roman's limited capacity to be open and vulnerable (and weak) is slowly fizzling out.
But they're forged in fire, or whatever. Angelo gets Roman. Roman gets Angelo. Dads suck, money rules, the world turns. Roman doesn't realize it's been a soft few beats before he says anything else, and inhales sharply as he slides his gaze over at the other. ]
Why the fuck were you in Pompeii? That's the most try-hard shit I've ever heard. 'Oooh, I'm so broody, I'm going to an entire island that's basically a graveyard. So dark.' Go see The Cure in concert like the rest of the other Goths, you edgelord.
[ He's smiling, corners of his lips upturned in levity. Yeah. Angelo gets him. And it's sort of nice, not feeling alone with things like this. Maybe they're pals. Roman wouldn't be mad at that. ]
[ In spite of the way this conversation has turned, Angelo can't help grinning just a little at that. Roman's good at lightening the mood – or his mood, at least. He gets the impression that a lot of people might find Roman annoying. But fuck a lot of people. ]
My family's from Zungoli. It's a little village in the south-west. We went there to, y'know, see where we came from. And it's not far from Pompeii. [ A pause, and then he leans forward, hunching a little, elbows on his knees. ] My grandpa promised he was gonna take me to Zungoli when I was a kid.
Your grandpa should have promised something cooler, like a trip to Brightstar Adventure Park.
[ Despite the remark, there's very little venom in his voice. Roman's way of active listening is to throw a few jabs in here and there. Nothing personal, although this conversation is personal. Enough to make him pause a bit.
Fuck it. This couldn't get any weirder than it already is. ]
[ Angelo doesn't bother to correct the tense. It's not the first time he's specifically decided not to, either; when people ask, and they don't know, why should he have to be the one to say his grandpa's dead? ]
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I went when I was a kid
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ya butt
2/2
i'm thinking maybe i give it back to you over the last of my well portioned alcohol
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Yeah alright
My place or yours
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pitter patter motherfucker
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[ Before he heads out, he considers bringing Gabbana, but at the last moment decides to leave him where he is, curled up in a ball and fast asleep. He's been reliably informed that you can't just burst into someone's room in this place, which also means Gabbana can't go wandering.
He gets to Roman's cabin in good time, thumping on the door with the whorl of his fist and trying not to second-guess whatever this is. ]
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He's shit at entertaining guests that aren't business deals of some sort, he can barely handle family over, but Angelo's just crazy enough that he hadn't even hesitated. The other's firmly in the same category as a few other people he's come to actually like: he's too weird to worry too much about offending but not weird enough to be genuinely concerning. On the barge's sliding spectrum of weird, with Doug Eiffel on one end and Misty Quigley being on the other, Angelo fits a little closer to Eiffel at the moment.
Roman opens the door and half-waves. ]
Come on in, ya fucking sadsack. [ It makes two of them. ] I'm down to the last of the whiskey so if you spill any I get to crush your balls, okay?
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[ It's not like gesticulates wildly while he's talking or anything. Angelo finds himself wishing that he'd brought Gabbana already, mostly just to have something to do with himself while he's in an unusual space. Roman has good taste, though, and the door to his cabin alone makes this feel a lot like he's back home.
He drops down into a chair, hooking his arm over the back and regarding Roman intently for a moment, and then figures there's no point beating around the bush. ] Depressing as shit, huh.
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Depressing as shit. Your dad's a piece of work, huh? [ He titters, more out of nervousness than anything. It's weird. This is weird. They barely know each other but here Roman is holding an extremely traumatic memory in his that doesn't even belong to him.
What's weirder is that there's no urge to use it for blackmail. ]
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What'd he do?
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Then again: Angelo has a shit dad. Of course bringing it up spooks him. Doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist to figure it out. Roman makes a noise, something noncommittal in the back of his throat. ]
He hit you, which, whatever-- [ no, not whatever Roman ] --but then he decided it was cool to be extra cunty about it. Someone tried to intervene.
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Dads hit their kids all the time. [ He frowns, staring at the dregs in his glass, his fingertips following the curve of the scar up his cheekbone. He doesn't touch it much, hates it when other people do. The skin's mostly numb anyway. ] One time he hit me with a slipper 'cause I ordered lobster.
[ At first it makes sense to say, because he remembers it happening. But the more he interrogates the memory, the less sense it starts to make. The man shoving a finger in his face and shouting at him is not his father, for one. For another, he doesn't have a sister called Siobhan. And if his father hit him, which he did often, he would have tried harder than that not to cry. ]
No, he... [ Romulus. Roman? ] No, that's... that was you.
cw for like so much abuse in this entire thread tbh
He nods at the comment--dads do hit their kids all the time, and fuck, finally there's someone who knows it isn't a big deal. It just happens. It toughens you up. Angelo had deserved it. Angelo had cried. He takes a sip of his drink. ]
Hmm? [ He doesn't remember lobster. He doesn't remember a slipper, but he also doesn't think Angelo's full of shit. He's been through this song and dance before, so he keeps his voice calm and collected, unbothered. ] You have one of mine?
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[ Anyone else might poke fun at a name like Romulus, but Angelo of Michelangelo fame is a bigger person in this one respect. He eyes Roman intently for a moment, now the conversation's shifted away from himself, his lips pulling down at one corner. ]
Your dad's kind of an asshole too.
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Yeah, well, you know. I'm an asshole, he's an asshole. [ He glances over, brows half raised, and the hand on his face moves to emphatically gesture. ] So are you, I'm just better at it.
[ It's a compliment. Like sees like, and Roman fights the tiniest of smiles starting to cut through the slightly serious moment. ]
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He smacked the shit out of you with a slipper. You ordered lobster. [ He says it kind of distantly, like he's still turning it over in his head. It's a weird feeling; he's still trying to wrangle with the idea that it felt like his own memory for a little while. ] Hey, what's your family do? It's a big business, right?
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[ Oh, yeah, that sounds like them. He vaguely remembers it. Snow--lots of snow. Pokemon, too, for some reason. He wants to say Germany, maybe. No. ]
Gstaad. Yeah, I--I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. You never order the most expensive thing on the menu. I deserved it. [ His voice is far away, muted as he mulls it over, the scenario rushing over him.
Had he cried? He can't remember. Probably he did. ]
Uh--everything. Media mogul. News networks, print, film, TV. Cruises, amusement parks, whole shebang.
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So it's a family business?
[ As in, his father will need someone to take over after he kicks the bucket. It's an uncomfortable thought, because Angelo's all too familiar with how that feels. Roman has, at least, two siblings. Kendall had seemed like the oldest from what Angelo remembers of the memory, and Angelo doesn't feel like it'd be entirely wrong to assume that Roman's dad seems like he'd be kind of sexist, so maybe Siobhan doesn't factor in at all. ]
Who's first in line for the throne?
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But they're forged in fire, or whatever. Angelo gets Roman. Roman gets Angelo. Dads suck, money rules, the world turns. Roman doesn't realize it's been a soft few beats before he says anything else, and inhales sharply as he slides his gaze over at the other. ]
Why the fuck were you in Pompeii? That's the most try-hard shit I've ever heard. 'Oooh, I'm so broody, I'm going to an entire island that's basically a graveyard. So dark.' Go see The Cure in concert like the rest of the other Goths, you edgelord.
[ He's smiling, corners of his lips upturned in levity. Yeah. Angelo gets him. And it's sort of nice, not feeling alone with things like this. Maybe they're pals. Roman wouldn't be mad at that. ]
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My family's from Zungoli. It's a little village in the south-west. We went there to, y'know, see where we came from. And it's not far from Pompeii. [ A pause, and then he leans forward, hunching a little, elbows on his knees. ] My grandpa promised he was gonna take me to Zungoli when I was a kid.
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[ Despite the remark, there's very little venom in his voice. Roman's way of active listening is to throw a few jabs in here and there. Nothing personal, although this conversation is personal. Enough to make him pause a bit.
Fuck it. This couldn't get any weirder than it already is. ]
Is he like your dad?
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[ Angelo doesn't bother to correct the tense. It's not the first time he's specifically decided not to, either; when people ask, and they don't know, why should he have to be the one to say his grandpa's dead? ]
No. He's not.
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