The Cult of Romeo

VII. Whistleblower

Act 1, Scene 7

Francis Zhao was an interesting sort of handsome. His face was cut sharp and eyes winged with disinterest. Nothing about him seemed casual, from his cold pale complexion to the way his lips set firmly to a look of indifference and as his dark hair fell straight and unruly, even that looked planned.

He stood tall, towering over me and exuviating authority. When he walked, he strutted. When he talked, it boomed. When he breathed, it was deep.

Like Beatrix was the beautiful damsel in distress, Freya the undeniable seductress and Elijah the handsome lead; Francis always played the cut-throat villain within our productions. Claudius in Hamlet and Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet.

I'd gawked too many times at his dominating figure to think that Francis Zhao was anything but a boy crafted perfectly and belonging with the statues of the gods in Greece. He was too perfect, even for Burton Abbey. They didn't make boys like him where I grew up and so I didn't stare for my own desire, but instead with fascination.

He was elegant, yet sharp. Unpredictable, yet calculated. And, ruthlessly beautiful.

"My dad always said that he hated the press and I never understood it until I met Nora Takahashi," he commented quietly and rubbed his temple. When he wasn't on stage, Francis was quiet, agile but quick. It was difficult to explain how even the wave of his wrist seemed calculated and forcefully elegant. And a beauty simmered under the danger that fascinated me.

"Her articles are so...awful. She's exploiting the whole situation," he frowned.

I nodded, agreeing instantly. Even Beatrix thought that what she had been writing lately had gone too far and she was all for creative expression.

"But then again, my dad's an arsehole and hates everyone," Francis commented bitterly.

"Even you?" I questioned lowly. I'd heard of Francis' father before. He was a cold and devious man. My father hated him. When first arriving at the school, Julien's father and mine had warned us very clearly about other students and Francis Zhao was one of them. He wasn't anything like how they described his father though.

"Especially me," he chuckled bitterly. "He's a dick. Cheated on my mum before I was even born."

I bit my lip, not good with emotions.

"Then, he married his mistress and chose her and her kid over us. It's alright, though. Whenever I get worked up about it, I remember that my mum took all his stuff from her house and set it aflame in the garden. Then, she kept his dog and told him to fuck off."

"Your mum sounds very cool," I nodded.

"She died last year."

"Oh, I'm sorry." I pinched the skin of my thigh, punishing myself for asking a question that brought that frown to his lips. I could hear as people began to leave the theatre when the morning bell rang in the distance. "Are you going to the party tonight?"

"Yes," he clipped.

"I'll see you, then."

Francis nodded hesitantly, grabbed his bag and left. Only then did I release a prolonged sigh.

I wondered if Khaleel was still here and whether he was waiting for me at the stage to conduct my 'magic'. The thought made me shudder but I knew I had to if he was there waiting.

I left a few more seconds pass to make sure the silence met my senses. My body slunk back comfortably as the buzzing quiet crawled down my ears and I shook off any thoughts until I absolutely had to get moving. Just as I had wondered, Khaleel was waiting on the stage for me.