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Chapter Text

The cobblestones were sleek with blood under Romeo’s hands as he knelt in the middle of a dusty Verona street and his eyes burned from unshed tears. Mercutio’s words echoed in his mind, going around and around in vicious circles. A curse on both your families! The anger and hurt in his voice and, even more painfully, the fear, made Romeo want to tear the world apart in guilt and pain and anger. He could not remember the last time Mercutio was not only genuinely scared of something, but unable to hide that fear.

He’s dying. The thought surged through Romeo like a lightning shock, and he stumbled to his feet, wiping angrily at his eyes. He looked around, and not seeing Benvolio and Mercutio anymore, sprinted in the direction they had gone, nearly tripping over his own feet. He refused to let Mercutio die like this – angry and him, thinking that Romeo had somehow abandoned him. He heard shouting at his back but ignored it.

They had not gone far, not even a couple of blocks. Mercutio lay on the ground, unmoving and as pale as a sheet, as Benvolio tore open the lacing on his own doublet sleeves to get to his shirt. Romeo froze, suddenly unable to move. He watched Benvolio tear off a part of his shirt sleeve, fold the fabric over a couple of times, and press it to Mercutio’s wound. The blues and greens of Mercutio’s doublet around the wound had turned a sickening brown as they became saturated with blood.

Slowly, Romeo forced himself to approach them. “Where’s Romeo?” he heard Mercutio ask in a strangled voice. He was breathless and clearly in pain. “Ben, where—”

Benvolio did not bother looking up, only shook his head. “Don’t talk.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Mercutio said, with something between a laugh and a sob. “Tell him I didn’t mean it.”

Romeo could feel his legs giving out and he lunged forward, falling to his knees beside Mercutio, fumbling for his hand. “I’m here. Mercutio, I’m here.”

“Oh…” Mercutio clutched at his hand. “You’re already cursed with love, Romeo, what use is another curse.” It was the closest Mercutio would get to an apology to his face.

“Would you shut up,” Benvolio said, but there was no malice or even irritation in it. He looked much how Romeo felt.

“Death is a scam,” Mercutio mumbled. “Just watch if I don’t haunt the lot of you.”

“You’re not going to die,” Romeo said. He scooted forward and positioned himself so that he could lay Mercutio’s head in his lap. He ran trembling fingers through Mercutio’s hair and tried to think of something comforting to say, but all that came to his mind was a lullaby his mother would sing when he was small and needed soothing after a nightmare. Instead, he settled for murmuring silly, meaningless nonsense. “Next summer, we’ll go to Venice. Just the three of us. We’ll get ourselves a gondola for an entire night and cause all kinds of havoc. Nothing but sun, water, ale, and freedom from this wretched place.” Romeo realized he wished it was true. As much as his entire life was bound to Verona, all the city ever seemed to do was find ways to get people killed, almost as though it was some ancient, sentient monster.

“There are monsters in the Venetian canals,” Mercutio said, his voice weak and wispy, strangled with pain and exertion. “They will devour us, and we will live in their bellies forever…”

“I thought you’d want to see a water-dwelling monster,” Romeo said, playing along. “Perhaps their bellies are made of wine and wenches and good food…” He could feel Mercutio shaking under hands and the ragged, labored breaths he took. It scared Romeo more than anything ever had.

Benvolio was focused on unbuttoning Mercutio’s doublet with one hand as he kept pressure on his wound with the other, hoping it would help Mercutio breath. He left the talking to Romeo, as he and Mercutio were always more on the same wavelength about such things. Where is that surgeon? Romeo thought.

Mercutio let out a small laugh which immediately turned into a coughing fit. He cursed colorfully, the effect muddled by the small whimper of pain that cut his tirade short. Romeo leaned down and nuzzled against his forehead, pressing a lingering, closed-lipped kiss to his temple. “Shhhh. It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.

“No all the monsters are here in Verona. Pestilent fuckers. Poisoning love with hatred and hatred with love…”

Benvolio looked up, meeting Romeo’s eyes, and mouthed, “He’s delirious.”

“We need to get him inside,” Romeo said quietly. To Mercutio he said, “We’re here. We won’t let them get you.”

“They already have,” Mercutio said, his words slurring as if he was drunk. His head lolled to the side and he went still under Romeo’s hands.

*~*
 
Mercutio felt like he was floating in a haze of heavy fog. There was a part of him that registered that he must be in a lot of pain, but he didn’t really feel it, almost like it was something happening to someone else. His head was filled with cotton, heavy and wet, unpleasant and disorienting. Someone was calling his name. At first, he could not hear the voice clearly enough, then he could not recognize it. The sound was distorted, like it was coming through water.

The further he floated the softer the voices got, until they were only rustling leaves in the wind. Sun began to break through the fog – watery and oddly cold. The rustling of wind turned to laughter – laughter he recognized. Suddenly, it was like he was half-watching, half-reliving his life.

Three boys by the river, splashing in the water, trying to pull each other under. Benvolio with his tongue half sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he attempted to attach large, brightly-colored feathers to Mercutio’s carnival mask. Romeo, eyes wide and happy at the sight of Mercutio’s first real sword. Romeo, again, with his arms around Mercutio’s shoulders, soothing words against his neck as he fought down a strange wave of panic and self-loathing that seemed to come out of nowhere.

They climbed the trees in the Montague orchards and rode together in Lord Montague’s hunting parties. Mercutio got his first glimpse of a girl’s breasts from a Montague maid. Romeo’s old nurse always brought him biscuits and knitted oddly soft gloves for all three of them for the winter. He could tell Romeo absolutely anything and sharpened his wit against Romeo’s so that they spared until they could no longer handle it and simply toppled each other into the grass, devolving into play-wrestling like puppies in the sun. The first time he fought a Capulet in the street was in Benvolio’s defense, and they ended up sprinting out of the market square with their noses bloody and their pockets full of pilfered fruit, which, Mercutio told Romeo later proudly, they had captured in battle.

They laughed and called his name, again and again, but no matter how much Mercutio tried he could not reach them, only watched them and, sometimes, some phantom of his younger self indulge in scenes made of part-memory, part-imagination.

His head was still full of cotton and the sun still threw unnatural shadows on the cobblestone streets. It was darker now and the taverns were full of bawdy women and lusty men. Flashes of bright crimson and a familiar face in the crowd made Mercutio’s stomach tie up in knots. Absurdly, he felt like he was too young for the taverns, even if exceedingly interested in them. But he constantly felt like turning around to make sure no one was following him, that no one knew where he had gone.

He had not known Tybalt from early childhood the way he had known Romeo and Benvolio. Their meetings had been prompted more by his uncle suddenly deciding that his estranged sister and her wayward son should be given somewhat more attention, seeing as the Prince currently lacked direct heirs. Mercutio and Tybalt met at fancy banquets and balls where all sad rich Lords seemed to drag their potential male heirs who were not their sons, or even their brothers, but were nonetheless in a position to continue their family’s legacy.

Tybalt had the face of a classical statue and the temperament of a feral, starved tomcat.

Mercutio was immediately both entranced and entertained.

They spent those evenings stealing alcohol and sparring in the courtyard. Mercutio made a fool of himself and covered it up by sharp jokes and spiteful teasing that Tybalt responded to with bitter cynicism that was somehow refreshing.

Benvolio and Romeo were happy and sheltered children and that was part of what drew Mercutio to the Montague estate – they were the happy childhood he could never quite get at home with a mother whose regrets were speedily eating away at her health, a stepfather who barely noticed him, and a stepbrother who was kind enough to him, but older and too incompatible to be called a friend. Tybalt seemed to know and understand this world and Mercutio never felt afraid that he could accidently harm him by breathing too much reality into his life.

If anything, Tybalt was even more miserable.

They were thirteen and fourteen.

Then they were fourteen and fifteen and Mercutio knew what Tybalt looked like without his shirt. He knew what jokes made Tybalt laugh and which ones made him angry. He knew what Tybalt looked like and sounded like when he was drunk and how heavy his arm was around Mercutio’s shoulders. Sometimes, Mercutio felt a little guilty for spending less time with his best friends, but Romeo and Benvolio never questioned him, never seemed to expect that Mercutio wouldn’t have other friends. Sometimes, this acceptance only made Mercutio feel worse.

On the day before Tybalt’s sixteenth birthday, Mercutio kissed him the way he knew men kissed women and waited with bated breath for Tybalt to put a sword through his throat. Instead, they ended up kissing – awkward and brittle – under a full moon. They never spoke of it after, and it took so long to happen again, that Mercutio had almost decided he had dreamed it.

It became something they did sometimes, between drinking stolen wine, fencing and pretending to be respectable at parties. They did it without naming it, without expecting anything and expecting everything at the same time.

But then they were fifteen and sixteen and no more doubt remained that Tybalt was the Capulet’s male heir apparent. If he had preferred red before, he began to wear it almost exclusively. He told Mercutio everything he thought of his friends – mostly unpleasant, nasty things that Mercutio rebutted with cutting remarks and mockery. Sweet Tybalt, afraid of a child, and his cousin, who would rather pick up a book than a sword. Tybalt glared at him and refused to kiss him.

Then they fought more than they laughed. Their sparring took on a deadly, cutting edge.

Then Romeo tied a blue ribbon to Mercutio’s new sword, as a girl would a favor at a tourney, as a joke and Mercutio forgot to take it off before going to see Tybalt.

And all Mercutio had left, after, was frustration and heartache.

Tybalt’s face loomed at him from the fog and said his name, drawn out and poisonous. What a useless scoundrel you are, Mercutio.

“What an unfathomable, insufferable ass you are, Tybalt,” Mercutio bit back, his words slurring and drowning in the fog that enveloped him, even as the fifteen-year-old in him screamed and shouted, why? But why? I don’t understand! I don’t—

*~*

The first hours after the duel were a blur that neither Romeo nor Benvolio could fully remember in detail afterward. They somehow managed to get Mercutio to the house of Signor Carideo, a merchant and a Montague retainer, who lived alone, with a staff of a maid and a serving man, in his progressing age. The room used for overnight guests was rapidly made up and Mercutio laid up there in the presence of a surgeon, who fussed and hummed and, eventually, told Romeo and Benvolio that he did not think Mercutio’s chances of survival were very high. He gave instructions on what to do with the fever and how to change the bandage dressing. Under no circumstances was Mercutio to be moved and he himself would come by about five times each day for the critical period and they were to send for him if Mercutio’s condition took any drastic changes for the worst.

Benvolio and Romeo had exchanged baffled looks at that.How could it possibly get any worse?

Romeo paid the surgeon well, with everything he had on his person and promised him a fine retainer. He also spoke with their host and made promises secured by the Montague name in order to reassure the aging man that the intrusion into his home would be properly appreciated. Benvolio was thankful that Romeo, as the heir, had to be the one to answer to all these duties and arrangements. He himself felt like he would burst into tears uselessly at any moment.

Then the Prince’s men came and demanded that at least one of them go to the palace immediately to testify. Benvolio tightened his grip on Mercutio’s hand and looked at the men with an expression of a deer surrounded by hunting dogs. Romeo stood slowly and said, “I will go.” He gave Mercutio a longing look and nodded at Benvolio’s small smile of gratitude, before squaring his shoulders as though preparing for a fight and following the guardsmen.

Romeo was gone for hours.

Benvolio was so focused on Mercutio, on his every expression, on every word or nonsensical sentence he mumbled through the haze of fever, that he did not hear Romeo return and stop by the door. When he spoke, Benvolio, startled, almost fell out of his chair.

“How is he?”

“Romeo!” Benvolio gasped, catching himself before he could topple to the floor. He reached, instinctively for his friend, and lowered his voice. “I didn’t hear you come in. Good God, you were gone so long. How did it go?”

Romeo wasn’t paying attention to his question, his eyes fixed on Mercutio, expression pained. “Has the surgeon given any further opinion while I was gone?” Romeo continued.

“What? Oh…” Benvolio looked over at Mercutio and winced. He was terribly pale, except for the unhealthy flush on his cheeks that had gotten worse throughout the evening. His hair was disheveled and stuck to his forehead in damp strands that Benvolio would brush aside, only for Mercutio’s weak tossing and turning to moot all his efforts. He was still mumbling something, but indistinguishable now. “He’s…worse than when you left. The fever’s started, as the surgeon said it would.” Benvolio could feel his hands starting to shake and forced down the wave of panic that began to rise within him again. Romeo must have noticed, because he stepped forward and took his hand. “He’s been…delirious. Talking nonsense. Nonsense about Tybalt mostly.”

Romeo frowned. “What kind of nonsense?”

Benvolio shrugged listlessly. “Sometimes just saying his name. Sometimes something about not understanding, bits of…banter? Insults? Oh, I don’t know.” His chest hurt and he wanted to cry. Romeo squeezed his hand. “How did it go with the Prince?” Benvolio asked to switch the topic to something easier to handle.

Romeo seemed to consider this. “Chaotic. My parents were there; the Capulets, too. They’ve sent to Naples for Valentine after I told the Prince how bad everything looked…”

“Do you think he’ll come?” It was almost rhetorical. Mercutio did not seem particularly close with anyone in his living family.

“I would suppose so.”

“Well, what happened?”

Romeo sighed and rubbed his forehead with one hand. “As I said – chaos. Tybalt was arrested, naturally. They brought up the fact we had shown up at their ball uninvited. Said we must have goaded Tybalt; that we were plotting something… God, I don’t know, Ben. I was thinking about Mercutio the entire time…”

Benvolio fought down the flicker of irritation. Of course Romeo had been stunned and worried and incapable of fully paying attention.

“The Prince wants Mercutio to testify before he comes to a decision. You should as well. It also turns out very few people who weren’t in Tybalt’s entourage actually saw anything of what happened. Tybalt’s friends naturally accused Mercutio of starting the fight.” His voice dropped to an almost-whisper. “You know they’re not wrong.”

“He was defending you!” Benvolio hissed, tearing his eyes away from Mercutio’s face to glare at Romeo.

“I know,” Romeo snapped in a similar half-whisper.

“What did you tell the Prince?” Benvolio asked, a note of suspicion dropping into his tone, without him fully meaning for it to be there. “Did you also say that Mercutio started it?”

“No!” Romeo tried to yank his hand back. “Jesus Christ, Benvolio—”

“Shhh. Keep it down. Alright, alright.” He gripped Romeo’s hand tighter, not wanting to lose the contact. “I didn’t mean to say… I’m just worried.”

Romeo stilled and dropped his voice again. “I did tell the truth,” he said, looking guilty and not meeting Benvolio’s eyes. “That Tybalt was picking a fight with me and that I refused. That Tybalt persisted to insult me, and Mercutio told him, well, to leave me alone and fight him instead if Tybalt was so set on a fight. After which they fought. I tried to stop them but couldn’t before Mercutio got hurt. I said…I said it might have been my fault it ended as it did. I got in the way…”

He sounded miserable and Benvolio simply couldn’t bring himself to be irritated with him. Romeo had told the truth – a version of the truth that was softer to Mercutio than it could have been – and that was all Benvolio could reasonably ask of him. “It would have ended some awful way regardless,” he mumbled dejectedly. “Has the Prince said what he intends to do with Tybalt?”

“No. Not yet. He says he needs Mercutio’s testimony to do so. Assuming that…well…when Mercutio is better.” Romeo swallowed audibly and Benvolio felt a shiver run down his own back: assuming Mercutio lives.

For a few moments they were silent. Then Romeo said, “I brought you some dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.” Benvolio could tell he sounded petulant but he couldn’t help it. He really wasn’t hungry. He was exhausted and terrified. Food was the last thing he wanted to think about.

“I know, but you need to eat anyway. Come on, Benvolio. It’s going to be hard enough to wrangle Mercutio. Don’t make me babysit you too.”

He almost laughed at that. Romeo as the responsible one taking charge – who would have thought? It was usually Romeo who had a mess for a sleep schedule and missed meals. But perhaps he was right. Romeo let go of his hand and began to rub gentle circles into his shoulders. “Take a break. Go down and eat. I’ll stay with Mercutio.”

“I am exhausted,” Benvolio admitted. “You also, I imagine.”

“Yes.”

Benvolio tried for a watery smile and a joke. “Want to bet how many times we will need to kick each other awake tonight?”

“Tonight?” Romeo’s hands on his shoulders stilled and there was an alarmed tension in his voice Benvolio hadn’t expected.

He looked up into Romeo’s face, mildly confused. “Well, no, I suppose we could take turns napping…”

Some sort of battle was playing out inside of Romeo. Benvolio could see it in the flickers of various emotions playing across his face. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. “Oh. Right, no, I simply…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Benvolio squinted up at him. “Well, we’ll have to stay with him. We can’t just leave him!”

“No, of course not,” Romeo said, a little too quickly. “Go, go have some dinner.” He looked away and refused to meet Benvolio’s eyes.

Benvolio stood, slowly, still watching Romeo carefully. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Romeo shook his head. “No, there’s not. I only…I’m only very tired. I’m sorry. My thoughts get all…messed up.”

Benvolio smiled and pulled him into a quick embrace. “I will be right back,” he said, as much to Romeo as to Mercutio and left, not quite able to shake the odd feeling that Romeo had wished to be somewhere else that night before thinking better of it.

*~*

They found out how bad things could get that night. Mercutio’s fever spiked dangerously, and they had to send for the surgeon despite the late hour. The wait seemed endless. Mercutio tossed feverishly, delirious and not quite conscious. Romeo soaked clean linens in cool water and put them over Mercutio’s forehead and his collarbone. Benvolio used another soaked linen to wipe the sweat and heat from Mercutio’s shoulders, neck, and arms. His wound began to bleed through the bandages, but they were afraid to touch it.

Romeo, in some ways to comfort himself as much as Mercutio, murmured encouragements and endearments, even though he was not certain Mercutio could even hear him. Sometimes, Mercutio would startle awake and call out their names, his voice hoarse and full of pain. “We’re here. Mercutio, it’s alright, we’re here,” Benvolio promised, squeezing his hand. But Mercutio did not seem to hear him, his eyes staring unseeingly at his friends. He continued to whimper their names and Romeo’s heart seized up painfully at the feeling of utter helplessness.

The surgeon finally came and fussed for a while. “Will you bleed him?” Romeo asked.

“No, not with that wound,” the surgeon replied. He carried out a couple of procedures that looked uncomfortable, changed the bandages, then handed a small glass bottle to Romeo. “He needs to take this, a spoonful every thirty minutes for at least four hours. It might make him sick.”

The surgeon’s ministrations and the cool compresses seemed to have helped a little. Mercutio’s fever lessened enough for the delirium to subside. He slept and Romeo and Benvolio felt loath to wake him, but they dared not disobey the surgeon’s instructions.

Mercutio protested weakly when Benvolio gently shook him awake and he made another low sound of protest when they raised his pillows slightly. Romeo poured a spoonful of the medicine they had been given and sat down beside Mercutio on the bed. Benvolio held his hand and rubbed soft circles into the back of Mercutio’s wrists.

“Come on, Cue,” Romeo whispered, defaulting to their childhood nickname for him. “You need to take this.” He fed Mercutio the potion and watched his face contort in displeasure. “It’s going to help,” Romeo said reassuringly.

Whether or not it helped, they could not be sure. But either the medicine itself or the pain did make Mercutio sick, in violent, agitated fits, which only seemed to make the pain worse. His fever began to climb again. They tried to give him water and ginger tea by the spoonful in between making him take the medicine in hopes that it would ease the nausea, but it did little.

After each fit, they gently eased him back down onto the pillows and Romeo washed his face with a damp cloth and murmured soft words of encouragement, even as Mercutio whimpered miserably and tried to nuzzle against his hands in search of a comfort and a relief that neither of them could truly provide.

“I feel so lost and useless,” Benvolio whispered to Romeo at one point. “I can’t stand to see him like this.”

“Me either,” Romeo whispered back. “But we have to.”

Benvolio nodded and busied himself with readjusting the blankets and making sure the fire was restoked.

After three hours of this, Mercutio shook his head when Romeo tried to give him the medicine again. “I don’t think I’ll manage,” Mercutio said, looking between them with wide, lost eyes, like a child. His voice was hoarse and a little too high pitched.

Benvolio shook his head. “Don’t say that,” he said, trying to sound reassuring and keep the panic out of his own voice. “You’re so strong and so brave. You’ll pull through this, I promise. Just hold on for us, alright?” He tried to imitate Romeo’s inflections, as Romeo somehow always managed to speak in just the way that would soothe Mercutio no matter what.

Mercutio bit into his lower lip until it bled. Romeo could tell by the way his face scrunched up and he squeezed his eyes shut that he was fighting the pain, forcing himself to not make a sound. The most he allowed himself was to squeeze Benvolio’s hand so hard that Benvolio nearly yelped.

“Mercutio,” Benvolio said softly, as Romeo tenderly brushed damp strands of hair out of his face. “It’s alright… You don’t have to…”

Mercutio blinked rapidly against the tears that filled his eyes and when he inevitably lost that fight, Benvolio wiped them gently away, cool fingertips against hot, clammy skin. Romeo leaned down and pressed soft, tiny kisses to his temple and forehead.

“This is so embarrassing,” Mercutio complained weakly.

“Hush, that’s nonsense. Cry if you need to. Do whatever you need to get through this.” Romeo said in a rambling whisper. “I know—I know it hurts. I know taking this bloody thing is awful. But you only need to do it two more times and then you can sleep. You’re doing so well.”

They managed to coax him into finishing the surgeon’s medicine and changed his nightshirt and sheets, which were drenched with sweat by the end of the night.

By dawn, Mercutio slipped into a fitful but deep sleep. Romeo re-tucked the blankets around him and put a new cool compress over his forehead to keep the fever in check. Benvolio hid his face in his hands and allowed himself to cry quietly for a few minutes.

“They say,” Romeo whispered, “that if someone survives the first night, they are twice as likely to live.”

Benvolio let out a small choked laugh and when it was Romeo’s turn to break down in quiet tears, Benvolio put an arm around his shoulders and held him until he calmed.

*~*

Romeo just barely managed to go see Juliet on the second night after their wedding. As soon as he saw her, he broke down in a wave of apologies. “I’m sorry I’m so late! I’m sorry I didn’t come last night. I’m sorry I—I’m…” Romeo realized his hands were shaking even as he caressed her bare shoulders.

Juliet buried her face in his chest and let out a small, satisfied sound, her arms tightening around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, kissing the top of her head, amazed that she was not more annoyed at him for missing their wedding night, for giving testimony against her cousin.

She looked up and her eyes were wide and glistening. She looked torn, half-overjoyed at seeing him, half-distraught. “No, no, I know—I heard. I had wanted to go to the Prince’s court, but Father wouldn’t let me. Is it all true then? What Tybalt did?”

Romeo swallowed stroked her cheek. He hated how upset she was, how much this pained her. He had not wanted to fight Tybalt; he had not wanted to cause her exactly this sort of pain. But thinking about Tybalt made his blood boil. No, not Tybalt – Mercutio. Mercutio, delirious and fighting for his life. You should be with him, a voice at the back of his head said, not without a note of judgement. Benvolio is with him, Romeo reminded himself. “Yes. It wasn’t Mercutio he was trying to kill but it was Mercutio who took up his challenge and fell to Tybalt’s sword.” It came out colder, harsher than he had intended.

Juliet yelped and clapped a hand over her mouth.

Romeo pulled her closer and she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know he is your cousin. But I had to tell the truth to the Prince.”

“I know,” she said, flatly.

“I don’t know why he wanted to kill me. Why that specific moment. I doubt he knows about us. It did not sound like it.”

Juliet shook her head. “No. My entire family would know if Tybalt knew. He would not hide such a thing from my father.” She trembled as she whispered, almost too softly for Romeo to hear. “Oh, what an awful thing.”

Romeo took her hand and led her to sit on the bed. “But do you understand, my love?”

“Yes. You only told the truth.”

“And I could not come last night because I did not dare leave Mercutio’s side. We weren’t certain if he would…” Romeo trailed off, swallowed past the lump in his throat. How unfair all this was. He pushed a lock of Juliet’s hair behind her ear and tried to smile at her.

“And how is he now?”

“Not much better,” Romeo admitted, finding it difficult to meet her eyes. “But he’s holding on. Benvolio’s with him. I just had to see you. I couldn’t not—I—”

She kissed him, long and sweet. His free hand cupped the side of her face and he traced the shell of her ear with his fingertips, making her shiver. “You need not justify it. I’m capable of being patient,” she said when they pulled back. “Both our thoughts are elsewhere tonight. But might we be husband and wife to each other nonetheless?” A soft, pink blush colored her cheeks and she seemed to glow with love and anticipation.

And for some time, Romeo allowed himself to forget that there was a world outside Juliet’s bedchamber, that pain and hatred existed, that he had no right to be so happy for even a moment.

*

“Romeo?” Juliet traced soft fingertips over his collarbone and chest, her expression serious and thoughtful.

He watched her from under his eyelashes, now tired and sleepy, despite the deep, nagging concern settled deep into the pit of his stomach. “Yes?”

“Tell me what happened at the duel.”

“Juliet—”

“Please. My father told me, but I do not rather trust his account completely. He sees you and anyone who would defend you as a villain. While I know you have no love for my cousin, I would like to hear your side of things.”

The warm sleepiness Romeo had been feeling quickly seeped away. He regarded her carefully, a little hurt by the assessment that he had little love for Tybalt. Although that may be true now, it had not been before. It was for love of anyone Juliet considered dear to her that he had refused to fight. And see where that has led. Nonetheless he told her, with as much objectivity as he could muster, the events of the prior afternoon.

After he was finished, Juliet was silent for several moments, her hands still warm against his chest. “I do see Tybalt was very unfair and unkind to you. For that I would chide him. Yet…” A small smile crept over her face, a flicker of hope where there had been none before.

“What?’ Romeo could almost see Juliet thinking intensely, and he had a feeling he would not be sympathetic to her conclusions. “With your refusal to fight, the confrontation may have been through. Yet Mercutio proceeded to issue a new challenge.”

“This wasn’t his fault!” Romeo squawked, sitting up. He stared at her in shock.

“Perhaps they were both in the wrong, but I don’t feel Tybalt’s fault was so much as for him to deserve death.” She sat up as well and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked terribly small and young with only a thin white sheet to cover her, goosebumps rising on her skin from the chilly breeze coming from the half-open balcony doors.

Romeo immediately felt guilty and reached out for her, without daring to actually touch her. “I didn’t say I think he deserves death.” There was a part of him that insisted, however, that if Mercutio died it would only be fair if the same fate came to Tybalt. It was a nasty, unkind feeling, but the fear and guilt that twisted Romeo’s stomach into knots at the thought of Mercutio made it hard to purge. “I certainly don’t want you to lose someone you love.” Romeo bit his lip and watched her face. “Surely, though, the Prince will give Tybalt a fair trial.”

He had hoped that the words would be encouraging, but Juliet’s mouth twisted into an ironic smile that looked foreign on her beautiful face. “Will he though? Romeo, Mercutio is his nephew.”

“They are not very close. His Grace has not even come to see him.”

“They are still blood. The Prince has not determined Tybalt’s guilt and yet he keeps him in the dungeons, where it is cold and damp and unsavory, as though he were a common murderer. As though this was not an honorable duel, though one that has been forbidden, I agree. As though Mercutio did not put Tybalt’s honor on the line as well with his challenge.”

Her eyes filled with tears and Romeo pulled her into his arms, unable to simply sit there and watch her cry. He might have little sympathy for Tybalt at the moment, but he had plenty for his wife. “Oh my sweet Juliet, don’t cry. I’m sure the Prince will strive to be fair.”

She sniffed miserably against his shoulder. “Romeo, for the love you bear me, help me. I’ve had so few friends in this house, in my life. Tybalt was the only one who took me seriously before you. I love him as I would a brother. You said you did not wish to fight him because he is my kin. So help me now.”

“But what can I do?”

“My parents are going tomorrow to petition for Tybalt to be released on bond as he awaits trial. Even if he is to be confined to his rooms here it is better than the dungeon.”

Romeo thought this would not be wise of the Prince to do. Tybalt could well flee the city if he were released, though it would pain a man like him to live as an outlaw.

Juliet continued, “If you, Mercutio’s friend, were to go and support their petition, say that Tybalt had acted honorably even if in defiance of the law… Perhaps the Prince might listen.”

A cold shiver ran down Romeo’s back. He had said before that he would do anything for Juliet but he did not know how he could say yes to her now. To do this: stand in front of the Prince and say that Tybalt ought to have a chance to escape justice, give testimony in favor of Tybalt, hold no regard for what Tybalt might do, in his desperation, if he were released, publicly defend someone who put Mercutio into his current state… What kind of friend would that make him?

Romeo pulled away far enough to look into Juliet’s tear-streaked face. It broke his heart and he nearly cried himself. “I cannot do that. Do not ask it of me.”

She stared at him, mouth slightly open, surprise and rage building behind her eyes. Or perhaps merely desperation. “But why? Why, Romeo? What harm do you imagine Tybalt will do? What good does it do Mercutio, or anyone, for him to await trial for weeks in the dungeons when he is guilty of much but not enough for that?”

“Not enough for that? What damage?” Mercutio’s face swam in front of his eyes – pale and wracked with small spasms of pain. Romeo had never seen him so vulnerable and undone before. He had seen Mercutio drunk, in mourning, unwell – but never like this. “My dearest friend is gravely ill and could die because of Tybalt’s bloodlust—” Juliet gasped, but Romeo could no longer stop himself. “—And you ask me to petition in his favor? How can you ask that of me? Mercutio was defending me and now you want me to betray him?”

“No—it’s not—Romeo—”

He grabbed her face and looked into her eyes. “I love you. But I cannot do this.” She jerked away from him and hid her face in his hands. “Besides,” Romeo added hollowly, “it would be for naught. The Prince would never allow it, you know that. I am no man to sway him.”

“Perhaps you should go,” she said, her words muffled against her hands. “Your friend probably needs you.”

Her words were like ice and Romeo shivered. “Juliet—” He reached out and carefully pried her hands from her face. She let him hold her hands and met his eyes, but hers burned with a determination that frightened him. “Juliet,” he repeated, pleading silently for her to understand him.

“Perhaps we were too naïve to think our love could fix anything. They will tear us apart before we even have the chance to start mending anything.”

“No! No, don’t say that.” He squeezed her hands so tightly she made a soft noise of protest. “We’ll make it work. Mercutio will recover; Tybalt will have a fair trial and whatever his punishment he will not be taken from you, not forever. And we will have our chance.”

She gave him a watery smile. “Do you actually believe all that?”

“If you believe it with me.”

She gave a small laugh interrupted by a hiccup. “Go, Romeo. You’re needed elsewhere and your thoughts have been there all night. I’ve seen. And I…I have to think some as well.”

He brought her hands to his lips and covered her knuckles with fluttery kisses. “I love you. I do.”

“I love you too,” she said softly, almost as though it was something inevitable, something beyond her will. “Now go.”

Chapter Text

Romeo spent the next day looking after Mercutio, despite his mostly sleepless night. He and Benvolio decided between themselves that they would need to take turns staying with him, at least enough to allow each other to get some sleep, and Romeo angled to take the shifts that would allow him to see Juliet at night.

In the mid-afternoon, Romeo was told by Signor Carideo’s fumbling and embarrassed serving man that he did not dare open the door in his master’s absence to what looked like an angry, determined Capulet. Concerned, but also somewhat curious, Romeo went down to confront their visitor himself. He almost wished he hadn’t when he opened the door and saw who it was.

“You.” Romeo reached for his belt, almost on instinct, despite the fact he wasn’t wearing a sword. Realizing, he changed direction and reached out to grasp the edge of the doorframe so that he was completely blocking the entrance.

“Yes, Montague, very observant,” Tybalt drawled. His looked a little haggard, not quite as dapper and poised as he had been in the square a few days ago.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in custody?”

“The Prince is merciful.” It sounded disingenuous, like a phrase studied and learned, nothing but an ointment against annoying questions.

Romeo’s eyes narrowed. He had not thought Lord Capulet to have this sort of influence. Much of an uncle our Prince is, Romeo thought bitterly. For all he knew the Prince and Mercutio had a cordial but estranged relationship – something to do with a family scandal involving Mercutio’s mother – but now that he was orphaned and with no immediate relatives to speak of, Romeo would have expected the Prince to take at least some interest in his own nephew. Alas. Yet it was broad daylight and Tybalt was unlikely such a fool to wonder the streets in the middle of the day if he had made an escape. “What is it you want, Tybalt?” Romeo asked, resolved to keep his composure, defaulting to his most cordial tone and expression.

“I heard Mercutio is laid up here. I’ve come to—to see him.” Tybalt seemed to straighten as he said it, chin up and shoulders set. He was expecting either a confrontation or ridicule. Perhaps both.

Romeo was only too willing to oblige. “You are surely mad if you think for a moment that I would let you anywhere near him.”

“This isn’t your house, Montague,” Tybalt snarled, his hands balling into fists.

“No? Well it certainly isn’t yours.”

“Either way, tell Mercutio I’m here.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Romeo could see the strain behind Tybalt’s carefully controlled expression. The muscles around his mouth worked frantically and his eyes were aflame with the same hatred as when Tybalt had confronted him in the square. “You snotty puppy,” Tybalt hissed. “You think you own him, do you?” He took a step forward, straight into Romeo. Romeo doubled down on his stance and when Tybalt reached out to grab his collar, knocked his hand aside forcefully.

“Mercutio is indisposed and isn’t seeing much of anyone, not to mention the man who stabbed him to begin with.”

Something about that got through Tybalt’s rage as he froze and merely stared at him for a few long moments before biting out, “It wouldn’t have happened like that if it weren’t for you interfering.”

“Really? How else do duels usually end if not with someone being stabbed?” Romeo hadn’t thought he had it in him to be quite so bitter and sarcastic. But he couldn’t believe the nerve of Tybalt showing up to harass Mercutio further after he had already done so much damage. Was one near-fatal confrontation not been enough for him? “Why don’t you just skulk away, Tybalt. And if you ever try to get near Mercutio again, I will call the city guard. I don’t think the Prince will take a liking to how you’ve chosen to use your time on bail.”

“You’re a bloody fool, Montague,” Tybalt sneered even as he backed away, spitting derisively on the ground. Romeo merely stared him down. He could feel his heart racing, half expecting Tybalt to draw his sword and make trouble anyway. Why else could he possibly have come? Tybalt turned to leave, but then stopped. When he turned back around, Romeo was surprised by the sudden change in his expression. The rage and hatred were gone. What was left was the same carefully controlled exterior that Tybalt had started with, but under it, Romeo sensed a strange desperation. “Have it your way. But tell me how he is. Will he live?”

Well that made more sense. Tybalt had come to see in how much trouble he truly was. Romeo couldn’t quite keep the derisive disgust out of his voice when he replied. “Your death warrant hasn’t been signed yet, no.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“Isn’t it?”

Tybalt’s face worked and Romeo could see him fighting the rage again. “Would it kill you to just give me a straight answer?”

Something in Romeo hitched painfully. When had he stopped believing in people’s good intentions? Could it be that Tybalt felt guilty or remorseful, beyond worrying for his own skin? After all, Juliet loved him. Romeo looked down, not meeting Tybalt’s eyes. “He’s not out of the woods yet by a long shot, but he’s holding on. The surgeon says as long as we can manage the fever, and the wound stays clean and clear, he should live. It’s hope, at least.”

“Thank you,” Tybalt said tightly, gave Romeo a small nod, and walked away, disappearing around the nearest street corner.

*~*

As it turned out, they were not finished with unexpected guests for the day.

As Romeo and Benvolio were finishing dinner before switching shifts, Count Paris arrived. He was dressed as primly as ever, his hair styled and sweet smelling. Romeo noted the purple and gold lacing on his doublet as well as the engraving of the Prince’s crest on his buttons. Not very subtle are we, Romeo thought, somewhat more amused than annoyed. It was known that the Prince had various distant kin and that if he were to die without heirs, a succession crisis and following skirmish for power would be inevitable. However, Paris was one of the stronger contenders to the throne, being an offspring of the main male line. Paris was Mercutio’s second cousin.

“You look very well today, Count,” Romeo said with an agreeable smile. Benvolio had tensed up as soon as Paris walked in, but Romeo did not quite understand his apprehension.

“Thank you. I come from my lady and I do say she found me dashing.” Paris flashed one of his confident, courtly smiles. He was pretentious and gaudy, Romeo had to admit, but he wished Benvolio would stop staring as though they were guarding sheep and Paris was a wolf who had just wondered into their yard. Paris took off his gloves – which he was wearing despite the summer weather – and set aside his hat, decorated with a green and yellow plume. “I have come to inquire about my cousin’s health. On my own behalf as well as my noble uncle’s, who makes his apologies for not being able to come sooner himself. I hear the two of you have been taking good care of Mercutio.”

“Took you long enough,” Benvolio muttered. Romeo elbowed him. What was his issue anyway?

“I only found out yesterday and had not the time until now. I hope you do not take much offense, my Lord.”

Romeo’s eyes narrowed at the slightly mocking tone of Paris voice. He seemed to linger just on this side of politeness and Romeo, while hating himself for the thought, wondered if Paris’ mockery was aimed at Benvolio specifically. Mercutio did always say Paris bought into society rumors and gossip a little too easily, and Benvolio’s situation as a ward to Lord Montague after the untimely death of both his parents outside of Verona had initially excited unpleasant and salacious talk. “It is kind of you to inquire, thank you,” Romeo put in, hoping to deescalate the situation. “Mercutio is as well as could be expected, I suppose. Which isn’t saying much. He runs a fever constantly and is unconscious more often than not. But it was a clean cut and the wound is clear, so there’s hope.”

“Well that is something, at least,” Paris said, putting on a grave and thoughtful expression. “This is all very distressing, but Mercutio seems to draw these incidents onto himself. Unfortunately. From what you’ve told me, I imagine he is rather too indisposed right now for visitors. But do let me know if anything is needed.”

Romeo opened his mouth to say some nicety or platitude. He was starting to believe that Paris’ visit was mostly a formality so he resolved to treat it as such. But Benvolio cut him off sharply, pushing forward to stand beside Romeo. “So concerned you are, Count Paris. Yet I saw you with the Capulets when I was giving testimony to the Prince this morning and they were petitioning for Tybalt’s release awaiting trial. I did not understand then – frankly my mind was elsewhere – but now it makes sense. Tybalt is free. What could possibly have made the Prince release his nephew’s almost-murderer, we wondered. Someone who broke the peace so intentionally. But of course, if his other nephew – and frankly the one he likes best, if we are to address the subject directly – was to speak on behalf of Tybalt, that – that – would make plenty of difference.”

Romeo stared, first at Paris, who looked caught off-guard, then at Benvolio, whose face had turned bright pink with indignation. Romeo put a hand on Benvolio’s shoulder to calm him. “I did not know you petitioned the Prince on Tybalt’s behalf, Count,” Romeo said, less hotly than his cousin, since he was still processing this information. Benvolio had not even mentioned seeing Paris at the palace when he told Romeo, briefly, of how his testimony had gone.

Paris fidgeted uncomfortably. “Well, yes,” he said, looking everywhere but at Romeo and Benvolio. “I did make a plea to the Prince. Lord and Lady Capulet gave their word of honor in vouching for Tybalt and Tybalt himself vowed as a gentleman to not leave Verona until his trial.” Benvolio scoffed and Paris sniffed derisively in response. “I know you think little of the Capulets, being of the Montague breed. But the Prince has no such biases nor do I. Mercutio is my relative and I hold concern and regard for him, but I also know his temper, One day he was bound to get what was coming to him.”

Benvolio jerked forward, but Romeo squeezed his shoulder tightly, holding him back. They would not start a brawl in this house, even if he too felt a deep desire to punch Count Paris in the face.

“Besides,” Paris continued, spreading his arms. “While I would not have done this for any odd man who Mercutio provoked into a fight, this was different. Tybalt is the dearest cousin of my lady. Oh, no, not only a lady love, but my fiancé. My wife to be. Tybalt is, as it were, nearly my relative by marriage.”

Benvolio seemed to deflate marginally at the explanation, but Romeo suddenly felt every muscle in his body stiffen. It can’t be.

“So, your fiancé asked you to intervene?” Benvolio asked from beside Romeo. His voice was still tight and cold, but he no longer seemed to be three seconds away from drawing his sword on Paris. Romeo’s mind was racing frantically.

“Well, naturally. How do you believe I could resist her tearful eyes and gentle pleas? My noble Lord, she entreated me, wish you to be my husband, then honor me as your wife and my kin as your kin with your protection and grace. Ah, good sir, no man could resist words so sweet from the lips of the woman he loves.”

“Who—who is this Capulet you are affianced to?” Romeo blurted out.

Both Benvolio and Paris turned to look at him with surprise. “Why, Lady Juliet, of course,” Paris said, a note of pride in his voice. “Could there be any other?”

“Juliet would never marry you!”

Benvolio mouthed his name, alarmed and confused. Romeo ignored him and glared at Paris. This could not be happening. Juliet could not possibly have—Could she?

Paris laughed, although he did not sound particularly amused. Romeo, in all fairness, was being very rude, but Romeo also did not particularly care at that point. “I assure you, she would and she will. Her father and I are in full agreement, and while the lady did not take to me immediately, I seem to have now won her heart.”

Romeo took a step forward, only for Benvolio to grab his arm and pull him back. “Congratulations, Count Paris,” Benvolio said hurriedly. “I do not mean to be rude, but it is late and, as you have said, Mercutio is rather indisposed at this moment. You must excuse us.”

“Of course, of course,” Paris picked up his hat, eyeing Romeo warily, bowed and practically flounced out the door.

“What’s gotten into you?” Benvolio muttered, still clutching his arm.

“Nothing,” Romeo said, flatly, pulling away from Benvolio’s grasp. “I’m only tired, and the County is a horrid, pretentious prat, who cares far more about social niceties than Mercutio. And probably far more for Juliet’s dowry than her feelings!”

“Oh, a horrid prat he is,” Benvolio agreed. “Although I really care nothing for his marital arrangements with the Capulets—Are you alright?”

Romeo realized he was shaking. “Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair. All he could think of was Juliet flirting with Paris as she convinced him to help free Tybalt. How long had he been courting her? She must have known of his intentions, or at least his feelings, in order to risk employing her charms on him so blatantly. Yet she still did it. Married to me but promising herself to another all at once, he thought, bitterly.

Benvolio rubbed his shoulders. “Go home and get some sleep. It’s my shift anyway. I’ll send for you if anything happens.”

Romeo thanked him distractedly and left. But he was not about to go home. He needed to see Juliet.

*~*

The doors to Juliet’s balcony were half-open, allowing the soft light from her bedchamber to leak out into the night. She had dismissed her nurse and was brushing her own hair in front of a vanity mirror, humming softly to herself. On another night, Romeo might have indulged himself with the fantasy that her happiness was due to her anticipating their meeting. But on this night, he supposed, it was far more likely that her joy came from Tybalt’s return home. He stood for several minutes, leaning against the balcony doors, imagining and trying to not imagine what she must have looked like, dressed up just a little too well for a morning at home, smiling sweetly at Count Paris, as she promised him her hand in return for Tybalt’s freedom.

Finally, he stepped forward, further into the light, just as Juliet set down her brush and looked once more into the mirror.

She saw him and clapped a hand over mouth to stifle her cry of surprise. She whipped around and gave him a fiery stare, though her lips smiled as sweetly as always. “Romeo, for God’s sake! You frightened me half to death.” She crossed the room and embraced him, slender arms winding around his neck.

He embraced her as well, unable to do otherwise, despite his fear and annoyance.

“Darling,” he mumbled against his neck. “How are you?” She leaned back to look into his face, her own expression going soft as she must have noted how tired he looked. “How’s Mercutio?”

“About the same. Which, I suppose…it could be worse.”

She stroked his cheek and he could not imagine that she was not being earnest.

“You must be pleased tonight,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. It was not her attachment to Tybalt that he faulted her for, after all. “Tybalt has been released pending his trial.”

Her expression grew concerned and she dropped her hand from his face. “I am. But how do you know?”

“He came by.” Juliet’s eyes widened almost comically so that Romeo could not help but smile. “Said he was there to see Mercutio. I kicked him out, of course.”

Juliet shook her head. “I’m certain he meant well, but we did not know he would go.”

“I supposed I should grant him the benefit of the doubt to not do violence to someone who cannot fight back. What is the fun in that?”

Juliet slapped his arm, hard enough for it to not be joking. She tried to step back, but Romeo held her fast. “Don’t. He has been very somber since he came home. I honestly think he regrets the entire thing. You don’t know him like I do. He does not truly want Mercutio to die, and not just for selfish reasons. Please. I do not wish to fight with you.”

Romeo sighed. There was a darker thought weighing on his mind at that moment. “No, I do not wish to fight over your cousin either. I had sworn to give him the benefit of the doubt as your kinsman and, well… I will make the effort as best as his own behavior allows.”

“How very serious you are,” Juliet said lightly, meaning to sooth the mood between them.

She tiptoed to kiss him, and Romeo kissed her back, wondering briefly if perhaps the entire Pairs situation could simply be ignored out of existence. No, no, we must have this out. “Juliet,” he said slowly. “Tell me truthfully, is Count Paris vying for your hand?” He had tried to think of the best way to approach the conversation, thinking up and rejecting each one in turn. Earlier he had merely wished to shake her lightly by the shoulders and shout, How could you flirt with that pretentious fop? Promise him things? Tell me what you did to convince him to help you! But he was quickly disgusted by his own weakness in even thinking of being so crude with her.

He watched Juliet’s face change, go blank, even as color rose to her cheeks. “Yes,” she said quietly.

Hearing her confirm it so flatly stung. On some level, Romeo had hoped to be wrong. He had hoped – foolishly – that Paris was only posturing or fooling himself. “For how long?”

“Since before we met. Well, the first time I spoke with Count Paris was at the masque ball, but I’ve seen him before and he had been speaking to my father on the affair for a short while prior to that, as far as I know.”

“So, when we met you were already engaged?” Engaged to Paris, now married to him, and still promising herself to Paris. Women are minxes, Benvolio had once told him. He had meant it jokingly and they had been drinking wine stolen from the Montague cellars, but somehow the phrase clung to him, perhaps reinforced by the smirking, knowing look it had elicited from Mercutio. But Juliet was different. He knew she was, she had to be. He had seen it in her eyes when they first met.

“No!” Her hands went up to grasp his arms as though she was afraid he would run away without listening to her. “Or rather… I do not know exactly what my father had told Count Paris. I was only told that he sought my hand and my parents thought him a good match.”

“And is he still courting you now?” She hesitated and Romeo grabbed her hands, squeezing them tight. “Oh, sweet Juliet, do not lie to me on this.”

“Romeo—Romeo, no one knows about us! I cannot control what Paris does, nor whether my father invites him into our house.”

“No, no you cannot,” Romeo agreed, but the hurt in his chest began to morph into anger. He was exhausted and still terrified for Mercutio – his feelings, already frayed and disorganized now swelled up to overtake him. “But you can control whether you encourage him or not!”

“W-what?” Juliet’s eyes went wide, and she wrenched her hands out of his grasp, pushing him away. “I never wanted to marry Paris! Otherwise I would have paid little mind to you at the ball!” She pouted, girlish and childish, but the anger and anxiety in her gaze was genuine and quite aware.

“Are you telling me Count Paris wasn’t here this morning? This afternoon as well? That you were not the sweetest thing to him?”

“He—I—how do you even know all this?”

“Count Paris was considerate enough to drop by to ask after Mercutio, his cousin. He was quite explicit that he had come from his lady who found him charming—no, I’m sorry, dashing.”

“And you were fool enough to believe him?” Juliet crossed her arms across her chest. She likely meant to look indignant as her nurse often did when she took such a pose, but instead she looked more like a frightened, bony bird.

“Why should I not?” Romeo demanded. “I was baffled to find out that Tybalt was released. His Grace might not love Mercutio very well, but they are close kin and Tybalt broke a solemn law and has the resources to flee the city on whim. But of course, a few words whispered in the Prince’s ear by a beloved nephew might have swayed him. Benvolio said he had seen Paris with your parents when they went to petition for Tybalt. Paris confirmed it and said he did it on your behalf.”

For a moment, Juliet stood silent. Then she wrung her hands and burst out, “But what has that to do with me? If Paris wished to please my father, or even me—”

“Don’t lie to me!” He could forgive her. He wanted to forgive her. But he could not bear her lying to him. “He said you entreated him. That you practically called him your husband and yourself his wife!”

“I’m your wife!”

“No one knows!”

“Does it matter? Is it not enough that the stars and the moon know? That we have loved each other before God? Is that not truer than anything I could ever offer Count Paris?” There were tears in her eyes now.

Romeo took a step toward her then stopped. “But why? I just want to know why you would put on this charade! It’s so dishonest, so hurtful, so…”

“You know why! You just said it yourself. I needed to help Tybalt. I didn’t have time; I didn’t know what else to do! You wouldn’t help me—”

“You know very well why I couldn’t!”

“Fine! You couldn’t! But someone I love needed me and I wasn’t about to let him rot in a dungeon for who knows how long only to save myself the discomfort of making eyes at a silly man for the length of a morning!” She flapped her arms like a bird whose wings have been cut, a gesture of pure frustration. “What has this to do with how much I love you?”

“It is not only your honor at stake here!” Romeo blurted out, even though it was not what he had meant to say. It was not his honor he cared about. He was afraid to lose her, afraid that the secrecy of their marriage and all the forces that worked to separate them could one day become too much. If they waited too long, would she stop loving him? He had not believed that the first night they had argued about Tybalt, but now he wondered, and it made him queasy with fear and jealousy.

Romeo did not fear for his honor. He feared for his heart.

“Honor?” Juliet said blankly. “Is that what you’re worried about in all this? Your honor?”

“No! No—it—it was badly said. I don’t know how to…I thought all we had to worry about was how your family and my family would react to our marriage. That would be hard enough. But I did not know about Paris then.”

“I don’t understand why he changes anything.” Juliet shook her head looking like she might cry from frustration. She hid her face in her hands and her shoulders shook. “You’ve shown no understanding of my feelings in any of this.”

“That’s not true,” Romeo said, trying to keep his tone soft.

“No?”

He cautiously walked over to her and pulled her hands away from her face. “I accept that your affection for Tybalt binds you to him. I understand that you felt desperate to help him, but… Were you ever going to tell me about Paris? How far would you take this charade?”

Her eyes widened and she stared at him in horror. “Do you not trust me at all? Do you believe I would be unfaithful?”

Romeo shook his head quickly and reached out to stroke a strand of her hair behind her ear. “No, no, you are too good and pure. I wouldn’t believe it if I saw it with my own eyes. But, Juliet—oh, my love it makes me ill to think of you with him…”

She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “It meant nothing.”

“There is a way we could resolve all this,” Romeo said. It’s the only way to not drive ourselves insane; to not let them tear us apart.

“What?”

“What we had already planned to do. We must make our marriage known.”

“Now?” Juliet laughed humorlessly. “How do you imagine this? With everything else going on? Tybalt’s trial…”

“Mercutio is very ill. I pray for him constantly but, in truth, it will be some time before he recovers enough to deal with the Prince and with a trial. There will be time enough. Besides, perhaps with your parents distracted by Tybalt’s predicament they will have less energy to oppose us.”

“You don’t know my father,” Juliet said bitterly. She bit her lip, as though considering his proposition, then slowly shook her head. “No, Romeo, I cannot. Not now. It will be such a blow… To my mother, to Tybalt, and they are already dealing with so much. And you—I imagine your days are already full of worry, then to also deal with your father—”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage.”

She was still shaking her head. “Well I may not. This is not the time.”

“Why not?”

“I just told you.”

Romeo took a step away from her. There was something she was considering and he did not like the calculating look in her eyes. You’re imagining things, he told himself. She is only afraid. “I’m afraid if we wait—”

“Nothing will happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“As soon as Tybalt’s trial is over…”

“What if his punishment is harsher than we hope—”

“We?” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable, but Romeo chose to ignore it.

“Will telling your family then be better? How much will you have compromised yourself with Count Paris by then – simply by him coming here as your fiancé? What if something else happens? Terrible things are always happening in this city—”

“Romeo, none of this must happen.”

He had not wanted to think of it, did not wish to force her into a promise, but a thought had begun nagging at him, growing larger and larger until he could no longer wrestle it down. “Promise me that you will at least not see Count Paris anymore. That you will reject his suit.”

Juliet rolled her eyes in a very un-ladylike manner. “Well, of course I will reject him. When—"

“No—no. Not later – now. Tomorrow.”

She stared at him. “How do you imagine I do that? What reason will I give for my sudden change of heart?”

“Does it matter in the end?”

“Well it will seem very flighty of me and my father will not have it.”

“He cannot force you.”

Her look became more of a glare. “You are well aware that he can if he wishes.”

“If things truly get so desperate—”

“Romeo, why can’t we simply let things be?”

“Why are you determined to keep your engagement?”

“I’m not!”

“Do you—do you intend to continue to…” His voice broke and he could not bring himself to finish the question. Juliet looked at him expectantly, anxiously. “Continue flirting with him?’

“No! I’m not—I wasn’t—” Juliet shook her head vigorously. “I have no intention to flirt with him!”

But Romeo saw the truth in her eyes. She could not hide it completely. I do not intend to flirt with Paris, but if I see a need for it, I will. He read it in her face as surely as if she had spoken the words aloud.

His realization must have showed in his face because Juliet reached for him desperately. “Romeo, I despise him…”

“I have to go,” Romeo choked out. He began to back away from her, toward the balcony.

“Listen to me!” She grabbed for him again, anger and desperation mixing and melting together in her expression.

“You must do what you have to, to protect your family. I will live with it. But I can’t—I have to go.”

“Do you think this gives me any pleasure? Do you think I want any of this? This isn’t my fault! Romeo!”

He was out of Juliet’s room and down from the balcony – almost falling in his haste – within minutes. Romeo stumbled through the Capulet garden and out into the street. He began walking without knowing where he was going. His heart was racing and he wanted to cry. He felt betrayed – both by the fact that Juliet was willing to go so far to protect Tybalt, even though Tybalt had wanted to kill him and almost did kill someone he loved, and by the fact that she carried on with Paris – even if insincerely – and refused to understand why it hurt him so much. But even more so he was afraid – of losing himself, of losing her. Mostly of losing her.

Fighting with her certainly did not help, a voice in the back of his mind reasoned. Jarringly, it sounded a lot like Benvolio. Benvolio who did not even know. Perhaps she was right. You both have so much to deal with now.

But the deception, Paris’ smug leers – how could she stand it?

Would it always be like this: the two of them torn between the people they loved who hated each other, even if they stopped actively fighting one another on the streets?

I shouldn’t have left like that, he thought miserably, kicking at the dust on the street. It picked up and wafted around in small clouds, shimmering dimly in the moonlight. Deep down, under the fear and the jealousy, Romeo felt guilty. He did not think his jealousy and fear illegitimate concerns but they were selfish ones. Unless you truly think she does not love you enough.

He shivered and shook his head. The cool night air was starting to seep into his bones, cool his racing mind and raging emotions. He almost turned around to go back, but felt ashamed to do so. This is all so unfair. Could we not simply be happy?

But they loved each other. They were married. They would find some way to figure things out. They had to. Romeo did not think he could live otherwise.

*~*

Romeo went to Signor Carideo’s early, thinking Benvolio would appreciate a couple extra hours of sleep, He brought breakfast and renewed supplies from the apothecary. The house was still and sleepy, even as the streets began to slowly fill with people in the soft light of an overcast morning. He set his basket on the table in the kitchen, giving the maid stacking up the fireplace a friendly wave, and was about to head upstairs when the sound of footsteps made him stop. Benvolio emerged into the front hall and stopped when he saw Romeo. He looked as tired and worried as ever. Romeo waved him into the sitting room.

“Good morning. I brought breakfast and everything we might need from the apothecary, I think. How’s Mercutio?”

There was something cold in Benvolio’s even gaze. His lack of response made Romeo flinch, the cold fear he had managed to mute re-emerging and settling heavily in the pit of his stomach.

“Ben? What’s wrong? Oh God, what happened?” He took a step toward Benvolio but Benvolio just stared at him, neither closing the space between them nor stepping back. Romeo wrung his hands. “For God’s sake tell me!”

“Keep your voice down; you’ll wake the house. Where were you?”

“What?”

“Mercutio had a hard night. He…I couldn’t do anything about the fever for some time and the delirium came back. At first just the same nonsense about Tybalt. Then…he was asking for you. And I was so scared…”

Romeo sank onto the sofa, his breath hitching as everything inside him constricted painfully. He tried to speak, to ask for reassurance that the worst had passed, but nothing came out.

“I sent for you,” Benvolio continued. “I don’t know if it would have mattered. He wasn’t really recognizing anyone… But I was scared he could—almost like the first night. I sent for you and you weren’t home. In the middle of the night. I thought, maybe there was a mistake. So, I sent for Balthazar. He said you never even came home, and he had no idea where you were.” Benvolio folded his arms and gave Romeo a look that was both angry and hurt all at once. “So, where were you?”

Terror and guilt battled to a standstill within Romeo. For a moment, he couldn’t find it within himself to speak. “I had to be somewhere,” he choked out. “Is Mercutio any better?” He jumped up, wanting to go upstairs right now and see for himself that everything wasn’t nearly as bad as his imagination was paining in bright, vivid strokes. “I need to see—”

“No, you don’t.” Benvolio held out an arm to stop him. There was a commanding note in his voice that Romeo had learned to obey since boyhood. He froze. Something of his terror must have seeped into his face because Benvolio’s expression softened marginally. “Friar Lawrence came and gave him something. Then the surgeon… The fever’s eased a little. He’s sleeping now.”

Romeo sank back down onto the sofa as his knees gave way in relief. “Thank God.” He crossed himself reflexively and rubbed both hands over his face. He was exhausted and the emotional rollercoaster of that night seemed like it was not going to come to an end any time soon.

Somewhere in the distance, church bells tolled, and Romeo realized that Benvolio was still watching him. “Friar Lawrence came?” he asked, a little absent mindedly.

“Yes. So don’t bother trying to tell me you were with him.”

“I had to be somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Maybe it’s none of your business.”

“Bullshit,” Benvolio hissed and closed the space between them until he was towering over Romeo. Romeo recoiled instinctively and immediately felt guilty. Benvolio had never hit him. It was uncharitable to think he would start now. “What is going on, Romeo? You disappear in the middle of the night, you’re either distant or cagey half the time, you looked like you wanted to murder Count Paris when he mentioned his engagement to the Capulet girl -- not that Paris isn’t an ass – and for fucks sake I was worried about you! As though there isn’t enough to already worry about.”

Romeo looked down at his hands and fidgeted. He wanted to cry but knew that would only be even more selfish. He was attracting too much attention to himself – his jealousy of Paris, his need to see Juliet. Look what you’ve done, a voice that sounded much like his first tutor said snidely in his head. All you do is make things harder for the people you claim to love. He had refused to help Juliet, making her turn to Paris out of desperation and then accused her of faithlessness. He had not been there when Mercutio needed him, and he had made Benvolio worry needlessly. And now he would either have to lie or to divulge a secret that wasn’t his alone. All you do is fail.

His shoulders shook as he tried to control the wave of emotion pouring over him. “I can’t tell you,” he whispered miserably, not looking up from the floor. “This isn’t just about me.” He hadn’t thought of an excuse and what excuse could he even give now? That he had gone wondering in the night? If he couldn’t sleep, he should have been here, helping Benvolio.

Benvolio sat down beside him on the sofa and stared at the floor as well. “I’m too tired, Romeo. I’m too tired for idiot secrets probably about nothing. If this is about some silly girl—now, with everything that’s happening—”

“It’s not!” Romeo protested, more at the note of poison in Benvolio’s voice than the actual words. “Not like that.”

“So, there is a girl?” Romeo recognized the tightness in Benvolio’s voice, the hidden notes of disgust.

“Yes, but—”

“But what? What, Romeo!”

“You don’t understand!”

“Of course I don’t because you won’t fucking tell me!—”

“She’s my wife!“ It came out in a sob, ashamed and defiant at the same time. “I’m married. I’ve been going to see my wife.”

The silence stretched on for so long, Romeo chanced a look up. Benvolio was staring at him in complete disbelief. “What?” he mouthed, then, with a gesture of frustration, “This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever made up—”

“I didn’t make it up,” Romeo snapped in a deadpan. “Do you honestly think I would be anywhere but here unless someone else needed me too?”

The length of time it took Benvolio to accept this stung.

“This is ridiculous,” Benvolio managed finally. “When did this marriage even happen?”

Romeo bit his lip. There was no going back now. “The same day Mercutio and Tybalt fought. That’s why I wasn’t with you. I was—I was getting married.” And if he had been there, would that have changed anything?

“What, like…in secret?”

“Yes.”

Benvolio shook his head, but his shoulders relaxed just a little. Perhaps he had expected something awful and insensitive of me, Romeo thought.

“Why?” Benvolio asked.

“Because now one could know. My parents, her parents – would never agree. Not in a million years and over our dead bodies.”

“You couldn’t even tell me?” It was Benvolio’s turn to look hurt. “How did this even happen? Were you not just in love with Rosaline? Or was that some coverup for this…affair?”

Romeo shook his head sadly. “We couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry. We…we met at the Capulet ball.”

Romeo could feel Benvolio starting to close up again. “So, she’s a Capulet? That’s why it had to be a secret?”

“Yes. Juliet. Juliet Capulet.”

Benvolio stood up and paced to the window, his back turned to Romeo.

“Benvolio—”

“You knew her, what? A day?”

“Ben, please—”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

He sounded tired and disappointed more than angry. Romeo thought he would have preferred anger. “It did happen fast,” he admitted, dropping his eyes to the floor again. “But I know she’s the one. I’m not asking you to approve. But you wanted to know and I… I’m so sorry I worried you and wasn’t here when I was needed—”

“Yes, you did, and you weren’t.”

Romeo fought against the tears that clogged up his chest and threatened to choke him at any moment. “But now you know the truth and…maybe it will be easier…”

Benvolio scoffed derisively.

“I don’t need your approval on this,” Romeo said, finding a bit of defensiveness among the guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to regret loving Juliet. It would be like regretting that he needed water to live.

“No, of course you don’t.” Benvolio sounded so much like Mercutio that Romeo shivered. Benvolio had never been that level of cryptic or sarcastic.

“I promise I won’t disappear again. Or keep anything important like this from you,” Romeo said as both a peace offering and an apology.

But Benvolio appeared to be thinking about something else entirely in that moment. “Is that why you didn’t want to fight Tybalt?”

“What?”

“When Tybalt challenged you. You didn’t want to fight him because of your lady love.”

“Her name’s Juliet.” Romeo sighed and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yes.” Benvolio turned sharply to face him and Romeo stood, his hands fisting in his doublet in desperation. “And because I’ve always thought that the fighting is stupid. Just like you do. I thought I could get Tybalt to back off. I didn’t think…I didn’t expect Mercutio to—”

“Well he did.”

Romeo stared at him. “Don’t do this Ben. If I was at fault in Mercutio getting hurt, it was because I got between him and Tybalt. That wasn’t clever, all things considered. But you can’t blame me for not wanting to perpetuate violence – the violence that did cause all of this – or think that I could have ever – ever – wanted Mercutio to be hurt on my behalf. You fucking know me better than that!”

“Do I? Do I, Romeo? After what you just told me? I feel like I don’t know anything right now!”

“Why are you acting like it’s the end of the world? I’m in love!—”

“With a Capulet!”

“So what?”

“So this!”

“That’s not true or fair and you know it.”

Benvolio stalked toward him, betrayal and hurt and confusion all twisted up in his expression. “If you’re so fucking in love, why weren’t you there with Count Paris and Lord Capulet, trying to get your dear new relative out of prison, huh?”

Romeo flinched. The words stung badly. Benvolio could blame him for anything he wanted, but not for this. “How can you?” He couldn’t summon any more anger so all that came out was hurt. “Mercutio means the world to me. I didn’t want to fight Tybalt for Juliet’s sake, but I could never be fine with him hurting Mercutio. And-and— I can’t believe you would suggest that I would be.”

Benvolio looked away, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I still can’t believe you did this,” he mumbled, his voice hollow and drained. “Romeo, I don’t… I need time to process this.”

Part of Romeo wanted to reach out to him, to be held and to hold him. “Please, you can’t tell anyone. It’s not just my life at stake. Juliet isn’t at fault. And if her family finds out—”

“I’m not fucking going to tell anyone.“

“Maybe I should just—”

“You’re going to go upstairs and look after Mercutio. That’s what you’re going to do. It’s your shift and I’m exhausted.”

Romeo was left alone in the middle of the sitting room. The silence was too loud and his heart ached unbearably. Juliet’s words from the other night came back to haunt him. They will tear us apart before we even have the chance to start mending anything. Was it not coming true already? But after wandering half the night through the empty streets of Verona, Romeo decided that he still refused to believe that. Life was simply not worth living if there wasn’t any hope.

He took the basket of supplies from the apothecary, a refilled water pitcher and water bowl, and a stack of clean linen cloths upstairs. Mercutio was asleep, as Benvolio said, far too still for a boy who was typically always on the move, unable to sit or lie still for more than a few minutes. He was pale, his expression pinched and drawn. You can feel pain even in your sleep; even when you’re unconscious. Romeo couldn’t remember who had told him that, but the memory floated to him from the depths of his childhood memories.

For a few minutes, he busied himself with re-arranging and cleaning up the bedside table, then sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out cautiously to touch Mercutio’s forehead. They had been warned that the fever would not leave him for days, at best, and could linger intermittently for weeks. It would be better in the morning, the surgeon had said, and worse in the late afternoons and during the night. True to this, Mercutio’s skin was warm and clammy, but did not radiate the dangerous sort of heat that Romeo had felt before. It did not require immediate attention, and Romeo was loath to wake him.

Romeo tucked in the edges of the blanket, smoothing it out gently, then gingerly lay down beside Mercutio and put an arm around him. His breathing was shallow but even and he remained fast asleep, undisturbed by Romeo’s presence. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Romeo whispered against his neck, so quietly that the words dissipated into nothingness almost as soon as they left his lips. “I’m sorry about everything. I ruin everything but I don’t mean to. You mean the world to me and I’d gladly switch places with you. I can’t help that I love her. I’ll tell you all about it later. But I’m sorry. Next time you need me, I’ll be here. I promise. Please believe me.” Please, someone, believe me.

Chapter Text

Slowly, things fell into a routine. Over the next two weeks, Mercutio slowly improved. The fever and pain from his wound became somewhat less intense, allowing him to sleep better and eat a little. By the fortnight’s end he was rarely delirious and could sleep through a full night without disturbance or needing much looking after, though Romeo and Benvolio still refused to leave him alone for longer than it took them to take a meal together or briefly attend to a visitor. They took shifts, as in the first days, and a tense but silently agreed-upon truce settled between them. Their overwhelming priority in those days was Mercutio, and what disagreements they had over Romeo's wedding were put aside for the time being.

By the second Sunday after the duel, the surgeon finally gave a cautious prognosis that Mercutio would survive. “As long as all instructions are followed and no new complications are introduced,” he said in his gravelly voice, and took the fat purse of coin Romeo offered.

“What a relief,” Romeo said once the surgeon departed.

“You would think the old toad could look a little more pleased,” Benvolio said, but his posture was more relaxed than Romeo had seen it since Mercutio was hurt.

Forgetting the tension between them, Romeo embraced him. Benvolio seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then wrapped Romeo up into a firm embrace. “Are you still angry with me?” Romeo asked, mumbling the question into Benvolio’s shoulder.

Benvolio withdrew and held him at arm’s length. After a long, pregnant moment, he let out a long breath and shook his head. “Angry isn’t really the right word… I simply wish… I wish you had said something?”

“There wasn’t any time. I couldn’t well bring it up when we didn’t know what would happen, if Mercutio would live. It wasn’t the time.”

“I mean before you even did it.”

Romeo wriggled out of Benvolio’s grasp. “There’s nothing to be done now. We’re married and I—I’m glad of it. I love her.”

Benvolio looked down. “If you say so.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps when this is all settled and Mercutio is better, we will find some way to figure it all out. I’d like to meet her at least. But you have to understand why I am—upset. Don’t you?”

Romeo swallowed. He had not seen Juliet since their fight. He tried writing to her but no words came out onto paper. When they did, they felt vacant and insincere. Sometimes the things he wanted were monstrous – to tell her to simply leave her family, to tell her that her duty was to him as her husband. He burned the pages as soon as such words defaced them, disgusted and angry with himself. He did not want Juliet to do anything because he had some lawful claim to her. He wanted her to do it because she loved him. Yet, he was equally aware that these sacrifices he asked of her were too great, and he had no way of offering to repay them in kind. They would simply need to weather the storm when it came.

Other times, he tried to apologize for being too jealous and harsh with her, to tell her of his love and how much he missed her. But all those attempts were strained and somehow stained by hurt. It would be easier to tell her face-to-face, but every time he got close to the Capulet manor, his stomach turned and he could not bring himself to face her, afraid he would only do more damage. Afraid he might see Count Paris on the way in. Sometimes, he had nightmares about Paris in Juliet’s room, unlacing her dress, whispering, you promised to be my wife. Love you not your cousin still? Sometimes, the man was not Paris but the Prince himself, or a stranger with no face. And Juliet never smiled at them, but she still went. My husband did not help me, so I will find one who will, she said sometimes as her skirts fell to the floor, and sometimes she only cried.

“You may get your wish anyway,” Romeo mumbled, shivering despite the room being warm. “Everything and everyone are against us. The people we love are at each other’s throats and aren’t likely to understand or believe us. Even you. All we seem to do now is fight. I haven’t seen her in days. Nearly weeks.” Romeo looked down at the floor and blinked away tears. He was awfully tired and even more confused as to what to do about the tangle of feelings his life had become in some half a month.

Benvolio moved to stand beside him, carefully put a hand on his shoulder. “Romeo… The last thing I want is for you to be miserable. You’re right. What’s done is done, and I would never stand against your happiness. I can stay here tonight so you can go see her?”

It was the most generous peace offering he could give and Romeo thought he might cry after all in gratitude. “No, it’s my turn. I will go some other day. I meant it when I said I would make being here a priority.” Why shouldn’t I? he thought with some residual bitterness. If Juliet is to make Tybalt and her family hers – which perhaps she very well should – I should do the same.

Mercutio was sleeping and they were finished with dinner, so Benvolio left for the evening, giving Romeo’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Romeo was afraid to be left alone with his thoughts just then, but Friar Lawrence came shortly after, on his way back from Vespers, and served as at least a temporary distraction.

*~*

Mercutio woke in semi-darkness. The candle by the window was almost burned out and it was clearly evening. He immediately felt that someone else was present in the room, but since Benvolio and Romeo almost never left him alone, he did not immediately think anything of it. He shifted gingerly, trying to not disturb his wound too much as it hurt terribly at every movement. His head still felt fuzzy with fever and there was still the same lump of low-grade nausea at the back of his throat. Whoever was in the room with him did not seem to notice Mercutio stir and he did not want to bother whichever exhausted friend had likely fallen asleep while watching over him. Although, he could have sworn that he felt someone watching him – intensely, carefully.

Making an effort, Mercutio pulled himself up a little and reached for the glass of water Romeo always kept on the bedside table. After fumbling around for a moment and knocking something over, Mercutio quickly realized he would need to make an even greater effort. With a reluctant wince, he opened his eyes, squinting against the dim light, and turned his head to look—

And immediately froze.

A dark, tall shadow, cloaked in a deep red that looked almost black in the candlelight, hovered in the corner by the window. The shadow’s hood was partially down, enough to reveal his long, black hair and the sharp outlines of his jaw and nose. He was watching Mercutio with some interest. That Mercutio could tell even without completely seeing his face.

Mercutio pulled back his outstretched hand, feeling his abdomen tighten in a knot. His wound whined and ached in protest to the sudden strain of the muscles around it. He fumbled automatically for the weapon he could not possibly be wearing, but his eyes remained fixed on Tybalt’s face. Mercutio forced a smile and exhaled, long and shaky.

“Well? Have you come to finish the job, then?”

Tybalt merely looked at him, silent and unmoving, almost like he really was but a shadow, a figment of Mercutio’s feverish imagination. Then he spoke, and the words cut heavy and deep through the air, but the familiar, mocking undertone was still there. “I don’t make a habit of killing defenseless invalids.”

Mercutio made a face. There was nothing he could do about the state of his current appearance and, after all, Tybalt had broken into his rooms uninvited. That was his problem. “Charming as always.” He considered trying to sit up but doubted he could manage without making any undignified noises. Why are you here then? How are you here?”

“Perhaps someone let me in.”

Mercutio scoffed. “Very doubtful. Benvolio and Romeo are bound to kill you if they find you here.”

“Such devotion.” Tybalt said it as though it was an insult.

“You should try it sometime. It pays off.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed looking at you now.”

Mercutio closed his eyes. He knew he would not be able to keep up this pace for long. He was only going on spite at that moment. What an unfortunate time for his friends to decide they didn’t need to hover over him every second. But at least it seemed that Tybalt was not, in fact, here to murder him. “So are you going to tell me why you’re here or just loiter in the shadows like some forsaken ghoul?”

Without saying anything, Tybalt stepped forward. He picked up the water pitcher and filled the glass Mercutio had been looking for. Slowly, he approached the bed, and held the glass out to Mercutio, who stared at him in mild confusion. “I wanted to see for myself how you were.”

“Ah, I see. Wanted to admire your handywork. I have to say it’s not much to be proud of. Seeing as I’m still alive.”

“You know very well it’s not you I wanted to kill.”

Mercutio scoffed. “No, only my dearest friend. As though that makes it better. You would think it makes it better.”

Tybalt was still offering him the glass of water. Mercutio shook his head, immediately regretting it as sharp needles erupted around the parameter of his skull and made him shiver. “No, thank you,” he managed, past the rising nausea.

His discomfort must have shown in his face because Tybalt smirked knowingly as he set down the glass. “Your pride will be your death one day.”

“Your arrogance will be yours. Has my noble uncle come to a verdict yet?”

He watched Tybalt’s face go carefully blank. “No,” he said, deadpan.

It was Mercutio’s turn to smirk. “You’re scared. That’s why you’re here; that’s what you wanted to see. If I live, there may be mercy. If I die…”

An unreadable emotion flickered over Tybalt’s face. He was troubled, but Mercutio suddenly felt that the trouble was not quite what he had guessed at. Or, at least, not the only thing. “You’re a right fool,” Tybalt bit out, but there was more bitterness in it than anger.

“Rather.” Mercutio gave him a lopsided smile, which grew when Tybalt started at the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Oh yes, run along, kitten, before you’re caught peeping at the cream.”

Tybalt scowled, but swirled around without another word, his cloak swooping out around him dramatically – as must have been his intention when he donned it – and climbed out the open window.

Mercutio let out a breath and relaxed, releasing the careful hold he had been keeping on his consciousness. Immediately, his head began to swim, and the familiar, feverish feeling of floating began to consume him. He wasn’t sure how much time went by before he heard the door open – perhaps a few seconds, perhaps many minutes – the world had become a strange blur in the past couple of weeks. Mercutio looked up, for some reason half-expecting to see Tybalt again, although that was silly. Unsurprisingly, it was Romeo who backed into the room with a tray-full of supplies. He caught Mercutio’s eyes and smiled softly.

“Oh, you’re awake. How are you?”

“Same…”

Romeo’s expression wavered but didn’t quite fade. He wasn’t as easy to discourage as Benvolio. “I was just talking with Friar Lawrence. He gave me some herbal balms and remedies we could try. Nothing that would conflict with what the surgeon’s been doing, don’t worry.”

Mercutio made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “You believe too much in that old priest.”

“He’s spent years studying herbology and medicinal herbs.”

“Fancy words for folk remedies.”

“Folk remedies are known to work well.”

“Bloody hell.”

Romeo pouted but continued to arrange things on the bedside table. “Your choice, but I thought it would be worth a try.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand over Mercutio’s, adopting a serious expression. “Aren’t you tired of being in pain all the time?”

Mercutio let out a deep breath, trying to not be too obvious. Of course he was tired of it. The pain made it hard to sleep and the fever made him exhausted. So many times, when he had wanted nothing more than to slip into a deep and heavy sleep, the jarring, cutting pain in his side made it impossible. He peeked up at Romeo and bit his lip. “I fucking hate this, you know that?”

The corners of Romeo’s mouth quirked up. “Yes. Here—” He picked up some vial from the bedside table and shook out a few drops into a spoon. “A couple of spoons should help you sleep better.”

“Laudanum?” Mercutio sounded almost hopeful.

Romeo rolled his eyes. “Not exactly.”

Mercutio made an exaggeratedly disappointed face but let Romeo spoon feed him the bitter tincture he had gotten from Friar Lawrence. Mercutio closed his eyes. “For all you know that old priest wants to poison me. I’m a terrible nuisance. Not pious at all.”

He could hear the smile in Romeo’s voice when he replied. “You shouldn’t say such things. He cares very much about what happens to all of us.” Gently, Romeo supported his head and held the water glass to his lips so he could drink.

Mercutio took several sips and lay back, already feeling the bone-deep exhaustion starting to take over again. But the glass reminded him… “Tybalt was here,” he blurted out, watching Romeo’s reaction from under his lashes.

Romeo’s shoulders visibly stiffened. He sat still for a second, probably internally arguing with himself, then shook his head. “No, no one came while I was with Friar Lawrence. I would have noticed.”

“No. He was here. We talked. Sort of. I think he came through the window.”

Romeo looked over at him, eyes wide and concerned, though Mercutio could not be certain what was causing that concern. He noticed Romeo glance quickly toward the half-opened window. The room would be far too stuffy if they closed it. “You had a bad dream,” Romeo said, with as much assurance and authority as he could probably muster.

“No, he…just before you came back.”

Romeo sighed and reached out to touch his forehead. Mercutio wanted to bat his hand away, to snarl and say, I’m ill, not crazy! I know what I saw! But whatever Romeo had given him had in fact relaxed him enough that he was starting to drift again. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to sleep and for Romeo to stroke his hair or hold his hand as he drifted off. Tybalt’s appearance had unsettled him and Mercutio, unable to explain it to himself and not having the energy to engage in mental gymnastics, would have liked to simply believe Romeo and not have to think about it at all. “You’re still very warm,” Romeo proclaimed after a minute. “It’s just the fever talking.”

“Even if I was delirious, I wouldn’t hallucinate Tybalt,” Mercutio protested.

Something about the flicker in Romeo’s expression made Mercutio anxious. The lack of a small smile or a nod of agreement to follow was even more discomforting. However, instead of focusing on this, Romeo continued on his previous track of thought. “There’s no convenient way to climb up here. Besides, this side is visible from the street. He wouldn’t risk it. And I would have noticed otherwise.”

Mercutio watched his face and wanted to believe him. Romeo – in a rare moment for him – made perfect, reasonable sense. Perhaps he was right, and Mercutio’s feverish brain had decided to treat him to an odd dream. An ironic nightmare of a sort. Mercutio closed his eyes and didn’t respond.

“There’s no one here,” Romeo continued softly, now reaching out to run a hand through Mercutio’s hair. Instinctively, Mercutio leaned into the comforting familiarity of that touch. “I promise you. You’re safe. Tybalt is far away awaiting judgement from your uncle. Go to sleep. I’m here and you’re safe.”

*~*

Mercutio could never tell if he was dreaming, hallucinating, or caught in a strange, perpetual vortex of memory. The line between reality and fantasy sometimes blurred for him on regular days, even when sober. Under the constant hold of fever, that line blurred even more to where he never knew if his dreams were replaying his childhood or altering it to fit whatever strange fancy his brain deemed proper to entertain.

He often found himself in a winding maze of hallways. Some were vast and echoing, like those in his uncle’s palace, the cold marble walls draped with heavy embroidered carpets and the ceilings painted in gold and purple. Sometimes they were narrow and claustrophobic, completely nondescript, their walls almost transparent but never quite enough for Mercutio to see through them or think to attempt to cross them like a ghost. After some wandering about, he would inevitably come to a fork with one hallway leading to the left and the other to the right. A boy stood at the end of one hallway – Romeo’s curls and eyes, Benvolio’s cheekbones and posture. Sometimes, he looked pensive, with Benvolio’s pinch to the mouth and crinkles around the eyes – that expression always made Mercutio smile and a ray of sunlight would break through and flood the entire space with golden light. Sometimes, the boy would laugh, the sound hauntingly familiar, filling up Mercutio to the brim, vibrating inside him. Romeo, only Romeo laughs like that. And the way his heart answered that laugh was unmistakable too.

At the other end of the hall stood another boy: long dark hair and fiery eyes. Tybalt, but younger than Mercutio ever remembered knowing him. A young man’s face in a child’s awkward, lanky body. He mostly glared and kicked his heals. But when Mercutio made to turn away from him, he whimpered and his eyes filled with tears. You’re so blinded that you barely bother to look, the boy reprimanded him. Sometimes he unlaced his sleeves – sometimes tore them open – and Mercutio saw the dark web of scars across his arms. They began to move like snakes and cover his entire body, his face, and the boy began to laugh.

“What are you doing?” Mercutio asked, horrified. The golden light disappeared. He looked frantically around for the other boy – Romeo and Benvolio in one – and could not find him. Mercutio had the urge to sprint down the empty hallway in search for that boy, but his eyes always came back to Tybalt. “What does this mean?”

You used to know, the boy with Tybalt’s face said without really speaking. But then they blinded you and you stopped seeing.

“They love me,” Mercutio spat.

“I loved you.” This voice was Tybalt’s – the grown Tybalt – and it did not seem to come from the boy, but floated around him, dreamlike and disembodied.

“Would have been nice if you ever bothered to tell me!” Mercutio shouted into the condensing darkness. “But all you have is hatred and anger to offer!”

There was pain in the boy-Tybalt’s young face. Somewhere in the distance glass shattered, and the boy recoiled. I must go before they find me here.

Mercutio kneeled down on the ground and looked earnestly at the boy. “Come with me. You’re still a child. You don’t have to become like him.”

But the boy-Tybalt shook his head, strands of dark hair flying, covering his scarred face. To Mercutio’s horror, his scars began to peal, opening up, staining the ground beneath his feet red. Mercutio looked down and realized that the floor under him was slowly turning red as well.

From far away, he could hear someone calling his name. Sometimes Romeo, sometimes Benvolio. Their words swirled around him, blocking out what the boy-Tybalt was trying to say. Mercutio could lip read, A man can live with one arm, one leg. But can he live with half a heart? Can he live with a whole heart that is torn to shreds? Can he? Can you? They don’t know what that’s like.

Mercutio looked down again and saw the same scars that were on boy-Tybalt’s arms slowly appear on his own. They leaked sunlight and pulsed and sang. Sang the children’s song he, Romeo and Benvolio would sometimes sing, thoughtlessly, while skipping rocks or counting out for a game of tag or hide-and-sleek.

Three men went down to the riverbank
A knight, a merchant, and a Capulet
They each caught three fish, and shot three hares
And brought them home for a big banquet
The knight said that his would be a prize
For the bravest man and the prettiest bride
The merchant said he’d feed all men
Who’d buy his cloths and wear them well
The Capulet said his food was free
But he mixed some nightshade with the rosemary
And laughed all night to watch them fall
So, are you a merchant, a knight, or a Capulet thrall?

Mercutio shook his head. They had sung other songs too. Romeo liked the ones about the maids and the fairies, Benvolio – the ones about the valiant crusading knights. But the one about Capulet’s murderous banquet got brought out now and again, the way ghost stories were told around a campfire or under three blankets in a blanket fort on Romeo’s bed. The difference was that they always sang this one in the sunlight, happy and carefree. The Capulets were not really people to them at that age, although they had certainly met some occasionally. They were ghosts and ghouls and baby snatchers – all the scary things a group of children could possibly fancy.

They had abandoned such songs by the time Mercutio met Tybalt, but something of it must have stayed lodged deep within him.

He looked up, searching the condensing darkness for boy-Tybalt, a lump stuck in his throat. He wasn’t sure what he would say. His body felt like it was being torn apart, and he lay down on the cold floor and let it swallow him up, carry him off back into the fog.

*~*

“Ben?”

Benvolio stopped reading and looked up toward Mercutio. “Hm?”

“Can you come here, please? Leave the book. I can’t focus enough right now anyway.”

Benvolio laid down his book and slipped off the wide windowsill where he had been sitting to get the most of the late afternoon light. He walked over to the bed and sat down in the chair beside it. Mercutio was now in the phase of his illness where he was still far too weak for any real activity, but he was also awake and aware enough that he would get bored and restless if not sufficiently entertained. Romeo’s approach was to tell stories or relay the news and gossip of the day. Benvolio, who had neither Romeo’s imagination nor his connections to chatty young women, took to reading to Mercutio aloud. “Do you feel worse? One more hour and I can give you another dose of Friar Lawrence’s tincture. He did tell us to spread it out.” Benvolio gave him a sheepish little smile.

Mercutio scooted closer to the wall and motioned to the space next to him with a meaningful look.

Benvolio hesitated for a moment, then gingerly lay down beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Better?”

“Mmhhmm. I’m just a little…shivery.”

“Do you want another blanket?”

“No—it’s—it’s not even cold. This is just more comfortable.”

“Alright.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, then Mercutio said, “These last few weeks…have I ever talked in my sleep? Or been delirious? I…don’t really remember much until about a week ago…”

Benvolio watched him, suddenly concerned. “The first couple of weeks quite a bit, yes.” He tried to smile and lighten the mood some again. “I promise you didn’t say anything terribly embarrassing. Maybe just a little.”

Mercutio snorted. “I bet I know what even.”

“Oh? What do you think you said?”

Mercutio turned his head to look at him and Benvolio bit his lip, realizing Mercutio wasn’t really joking. “Did I mention Tybalt much?”

Benvolio watched him carefully. “You did some, yes. It seemed to upset you.” Mercutio mulled over this quietly, still watching Benvolio’s face. Benvolio shifted a little, ran his hand, palm flat, over Mercutio chest in soothing strokes. “It’s expected. He was the one who stabbed you.”

“Was that the context?”

Benvolio shook his head. “No. Or, actually, I’m not sure. Not always. You had nightmares, sometimes, and you’d wake up shouting for me or Romeo – usually Romeo, talking feverishly about Tybalt having killed someone. Sometimes, the things you said were just nonsense, delirium. Or…” Benvolio’s face went a slightly warmer shade of pink. “Memory, perhaps.”

Benvolio and Romeo had known about his connection to Tybalt, though what exactly they knew and how much they made out, Mercutio never asked, and never elaborated on what bound him to Tybalt. Romeo was a little more emotionally attuned to the entire thing, picking up on the charged looks between Tybalt and Mercutio when they passed each other on the street or disappeared together into the crowd at carnival. He was young then; neither Mercutio nor Benvolio could say if he knew – consciously – that Mercutio and Tybalt were not merely friends. But he did seem more sensitive to Mercutio’s moods on the matter and seemed to always know when his irritation or despondency were caused by Tybalt. Benvolio had known or guessed at more of the details, but, unlike Romeo, he had always felt mildly embarrassed about the entire thing and dwelled on it as little as possible.

How it ended, neither of them knew. It was simply that one day Tybalt Capulet was a part of Mercutio’s life, and then suddenly he wasn’t. Mercutio spoke little to them about it – too hurt, angry, and embarrassed to even try. He knew they would say he did the right thing, that Tybalt Capulet was no good for him, that it was Tybalt’s fault for being so manipulative and controlling. They would say it because they were Montagues and they would say it because they were his friends and would want to support him. In many ways they would even be right. But Mercutio had not wanted to hear it, because they could not fully understand, and their perspectives were inherently biased.

But he told himself the same words he imagined they would say, and stewed in those feelings of hurt and betrayal, until he managed to almost forget.

“Some are memories,” Mercutio admitted. “In the recent dreams, that I can remember, at least. I think he was the first person when I thought…when I understood about desire and… I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” It made sense now why Romeo had looked troubled when Mercutio had joked about hallucinating Tybalt. Apparently, Tybalt was the demon shape his delirium took, and not just a ghost haunting the occasional nightmare.

Benvolio smiled softly at him, concern still lingering at the corners of his eyes, in the slightly tense set of his jaw. “What is it with you and Romeo and Capulets?”

“Romeo?” Mercutio blinked at him, then gave a small laugh. “Oh, that Rosaline girl? At least Tybalt and I had conversations.”

Benvolio looked uncomfortable, almost as though he wanted to say something but was debating hotly with himself as to whether he should. With a small shake of his head, as though deciding against something, he said, “It was so long ago. We were all just boys.”

“We were. And the games we played felt so harmless. So much less potent than fighting in the streets with real swords and threatening real death on each other. But they felt…they felt just as real back then.”

“Admittedly, Tybalt was probably carrying a sword since he could walk,” Benvolio said, only half-jokingly.

“You would be surprised,” Mercutio said, not quite able to keep the note of wistfulness out of his voice.

Benvolio was silent for a few minutes before asking, cautiously, “Do you miss him?”

“Tybalt? Hell no!”

Benvolio raised his eyebrows at him in a silent oh really that made Mercutio grimace.

He groaned and flung an arm over his eyes dramatically. “I don’t miss him. Not…actively. But I seem to keep dreaming about him lately and, apparently, having delusions about him. Including an incredibly vivid one where I thought he had literally snuck into this room through the window to talk to me…” He closed his eyes and mumbled, “Sometimes I still think that actually happened.”

“When was this?” Benvolio sounded somewhere between amused and alarmed.

“A few days ago. In the late evening. I must have been sleeping or delirious again. He left—I woke up right before Romeo came in. I even told him about it, it had felt so real.”

Benvolio propped himself up on an elbow so he could better look into Mercutio face. The amusement had completely faded out of his expression. “Romeo didn’t mention it. Or at least not beyond saying you were on about Tybalt again…”

“He was probably right.” Mercutio felt strangely despondent, almost as though a part of him almost wished Tybalt really had snuck in to see him. It was a perverted, nonsensical desire, but the infantile child Benvolio, and even Romeo, sometimes accused him of being wanted it to have been true. “Why would Tybalt come here? Risk being caught and potentially endangering what good standing he might have with the Prince – for what? To gloat? He did very little of that. That he could be genuinely concerned about me seems absurd.”

Benvolio’s eyebrows furrowed. “I suppose if I had stabbed someone, I would be concerned about their wellbeing… But then, I’m not Tybalt.”

“No,” Mercutio agreed, a little bitterly. He did not know what precisely he felt bitter about. Something in Benvolio’s tone had irked him. Perhaps how certain he was of his own moral superiority over Tybalt. Mercutio knew Benvolio had no reason to be charitable. He tried to remind himself he had no reason to be charitable either – not when Tybalt had tried to kill Romeo, had insisted on it. If he closed his eyes, he could see all the versions of that nightmare behind his eyelids – Romeo bleeding out in his arms, the light fading from his eyes, Tybalt’s sword stained with blood and a triumphant smirk on his face. It was as vivid as all the relived memories of Tybalt from when they were younger and, ostensibly, happy.

Mercutio shivered. What a piece of shit you’re being, he told himself, guilt temporarily squashing out the bitterness and frustration. Romeo hasn’t left your side these last few weeks, has been your most loyal friend since you can remember yourself, and you moan and groan over a few lost kisses with the man who would have killed him over a party. A party that you brought him to. The man who fought you in earnest knowing full well that one of you could be seriously hurt.

They were no longer children. Their quarrels had consequences. If Tybalt hadn’t leaned that yet, perhaps Mercutio ought to. What use was there in remembering? It had been Tybalt who had put the ultimatum to him back then. What had changed since then? Nothing. Blood loss has made me a sentimental fool. The question still plagued him as to why he was having these feeling now, after years of simply writing Tybalt off as a pretentious nuisance prone to self-aggrandizement and petty violence.

It was also true, however, that they had practically not spoken to each other for the past three or so years. The most they ever did was glare at each other from across a market square or a ballroom.

How little it took, Mercutio thought, disgusted with himself. He suddenly became aware of Benvolio saying his name. “Hm? What?”

“Mercutio? Where did you go just now?” Benvolio sat up but did not get off the bed, his confusion and concern palpable. He always worried too much.

“Nowhere. I was just thinking.”

“About Tybalt?” A note of frustration slipped into Benvolio’s voice. “You don’t really think he was here, do you?”

Mercutio looked away. “I don’t know, Ben. It sounds crazy. But it felt a lot more real than all the other dreams.”

Benvolio groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “Definitely not a problem we need right now.”

Mercutio tugged insistently on his sleeve until Benvolio looked back at him. “Come on, let’s not talk about it. He hasn’t showed up since, so I’m sure it was just my mind playing tricks on me or a dream…” He gave Benvolio’s arm another insistent tug. Benvolio lay back down beside him, his forehead pressed against Mercutio’s temple.

“I was thinking,” Mercutio said sleepily, the groggy warmth of the afternoon and the weight of Benvolio beside him wiping away his agitation and restlessness, making him sleepy again. “I’m probably well enough now that you and Romeo don’t have to stay through the night.”

“Are we in your way?” Mercutio searched for notes of hurt or offense in Benvolio’s voice but didn’t find any.

“No, I just feel bad to keep you doing shifts and staying up when It’s not needed.”

“You know we don’t mind. Even if it’s no necessary, if it helps you at all—Also, telling me about Tybalt Capulet potentially having snuck in to stalk you wasn’t a great prelude to this suggestion.”

Mercutio snorted. “True. Either way, I’m only saying, you don’t need to worry about me so much anymore. I know you do. Especially you.”

“I just don’t have Romeo’s overwhelming optimism and belief in the inherent goodness of the world.”

Or his faith, Mercutio thought, but did not say. Romeo was the only one of them who not only believed in God but put actual trust in Him and His inherent goodness and love for humanity. As far as Mercutio was convinced, God might well exist, but He was a judgmental and bitter son of a bitch. This is why I’m probably going to hell, Mercutio thought, with a bitter sort of humor. He found Benvolio’s hand and held on. What did he care for heaven and hell when he had friends like his? It was the thing Tybalt could never understand, fixated as he was on his family. His fucking family that never even seemed to care overmuch about him other than how he could help them uphold their pretentious, sanctimonious honor. Mercutio knew what poison that was – to resign yourself to cold duty where there was no affection. That he had found a family – a real family – with Romeo and Benvolio was a grace he did not know how to begin being grateful for. They were the antidote to that poison.

As he drifted off to sleep, Mercutio thought he heard Tybalt’s voice whisper in the still afternoon air, and you were mine.

Chapter Text

Everyone told Mercutio the same thing: his recovery would be long, often uncomfortable, and almost certainly frustrating for someone of his impatient and active nature. He certainly found the entire thing terribly tedious. The more presence of mind he gained and the less debilitating the pain from his wound became, the more he found himself bored and restless, despite his friends’ best efforts to keep him entertained and his steadily increasing ability to focus on conversation and Benvolio’s reading. While the more acute symptoms of his illness faded, weeks of fever, pain, and inability to eat much, as well as the blood loss, had left him weak and drained so much that getting out of bed even for life’s small necessities was an unwelcome chore.

However, he was no longer so ill as for there to be need for his friends to keep vigil overnight, and it was arranged that whichever one of them spent the night would sleep in the adjacent servant’s quarters, which were made as comfortable and presentable for gentlemen of their station as Signor Carideo could muster. Mercutio made a show of telling them they worried too much and they would all get sick of each other soon if they kept it up, but while their fussing and fretting mildly embarrassed him, deep down he was pleased to be loved so well by them.

As the fever receded, so did Mercutio’s nightmarish dreams and delusions. Once his dreams were Tybalt-free for nearly a week, a strange weight seemed to lift off his shoulders and he decided to forget about the entire thing.

So it was something of a shock to awaken one night to find Tybalt sitting on the wide windowsill where Benvolio usually sat to read in the afternoon.

“Did you miss me?” Tybalt asked, his voice low, but it cut through the silence in the room with riveting ease. There was no light in the room, but the window was open, and the moon was full and bright.

Mercutio groaned. “Bloody fuck. I thought I was rid of you and here you come again to invade my dreams.”

Tybalt’s smirk was in his voice. “You think you’re dreaming this?”

“Even you’re not insane enough to sneak into my room in the middle of the fucking night. Again. For no reason.”

“Maybe I have a reason.”

Mercutio snorted. “Which is what, exactly? A special sort of adrenaline high?”

“I’m not scared of your friends catching me here.”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t come in the middle of the fucking night if you didn’t care if someone saw you.”

Tybalt grimaced. In the moonlight he looked especially pale and his eyes oddly sunken. Mercutio wondered if something other than the lighting was the cause.

“See? You’re just a delusion I have every other week. A ghastly, ghostly visitor to my dreams.” Mercutio pulled himself gingerly up to a half-sitting position, trying to not wince visibly. It wasn’t very comfortable with only one pillow, but he would have to twist to arrange a second one, and the thought of inflicting that much pain on himself with Tybalt in the room made him queasy enough to not attempt it.

“If I am just a dream why not ignore me? Why bother to…” He gestured to indicate Mercutio’s new position.

“So you would ask,” Mercutio said with a pout. He did not feel like he was dreaming or having a hallucination. He hadn’t had a fever bad enough for delirium in over a week. But he still failed to understand how Tybalt’s presence could make any sense. If Tybalt had come to gloat or sneer at him, it would at least be conceivable.

But Tybalt merely watched him and asked, seriously, “How are you?” There was an odd note of true concern in his voice, which put Mercutio on edge.

“Bored.” Mercutio sighed and looked away from Tybalt, staring straight ahead. Silence hung between them, heavy and charged, but strangely familiar. “I’ve been better, but I suppose I’m lucky.” He looked back over at Tybalt and bit out, purposefully putting more venom into his tone than he actually felt. “Glad it was me and not Romeo you managed to skewer.”

Tybalt flinched. “You’re talking about it like I tried to murder him in a back alley instead of challenging him to an honorable duel like a gentleman.”

“Do you think it would have mattered to me how exactly my friend ended up dead or badly hurt?”

“Let’s not fight.” Tybalt looked away and played idly with the lace on his sleeves. “I didn’t come to argue with you.”

“Why did you come? To stare at me while I sleep?”

Tybalt looked back up at him and there was a sulking, morose look in his eyes, something akin to that of a hurt child whose good intentions are questioned. “Is it truly so inconceivable to you that I might have some actual regard for your wellbeing? I was not lying when I told you last time that it was not you I wanted to fight. But you challenged me, in public. To refuse would have been dishonorable.”

He was not wrong. While Tybalt irritated him to no end, Mercutio supposed he might have withheld from a public brawl in broad daylight if Romeo’s honor had not been at stake. If Tybalt had not been so insulting, if Mercutio had not tied his own honor to Romeo’s by vouching for his bravery—if-if-if— “Granted that. But as for your regard—Don’t hold me for a fool. Romeo—”

“Fuck your Montague puppy,” Tybalt sneered. “What regard I have for you has no reason to extend to him.”

“Well that is no regard at all then.”

Tybalt rolled his eyes and swung his legs off the windowsill. He leaned forward, his hands grasping the edge of the windowsill tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. He glared at Mercutio and Mercutio stared back. He realized, distractedly, that he was so used to this game with Tybalt, he barely felt the strain of it. “I didn’t want you to die, Mercutio. But I see no reason to factor your sensibilities into my dealings, especially those regarding my family’s honor. We are not even friends.”

“Then my question stands: why are you here?”

Tybalt glared at the floor. His entire body was taunt and tight, like he was doing silent battle with himself.

Some part of Mercutio – the exhausted one that was still unwell, surely – took pity on him. “Guilt? No need. As you said, it was a fair fight and if Romeo had not gotten in my way I might have been the one to stab you. Fear? Also no need. The surgeon has declared I shall live over some week and a half ago. As annoyed as I am at staying in bed all day, things are looking up.”

“Mercutio? Shut up.”

Mercutio leaned his head back against the headboard of the bed looked up at the ceiling. The room was flooded with moonlight – soft and earie, like a memory. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Tybalt repeated blankly. “Since when are you so easy to muzzle?”

“Since you’re being boring. You know what I think? I think you don’t know why you’re here.”

Tybalt snorted. “Think you’re so irresistible, do you?”

“I think you’ve never been in touch with your feelings. But whatever you say, darling.” A small, sly smile spread over Mercutio’s face.

For a moment, there was silence from Tybalt. Then, he began to sputter and make strangled sounds like he was choking. Mildly alarmed, Mercutio looked over at him and, after a few seconds, realized that Tybalt was laughing. A bitter, humorless sort of laugh, but it was bubbling out of him, uncontrollable and insuppressible. Mercutio stared at him like he had gone mad. Tybalt was still clutching at the windowsill and when he finally looked up there was an insane, tortured sort of look in his eyes that made Mercutio wish he had a weapon on hand. “Fucking look at us. We haven’t been alone for – what? – three years?—”

“Actually, we were alone just over a week ago.”

“And we don’t have anything of substance to say to each other.”

Mercutio squinted at him suspiciously. Something about Tybalt’s expression was making his chest ache dully in a strange way that he knew had nothing to do with his wound. “I would say three years of leading completely different lives would do that to people,” Mercutio said seriously.

“Have they been so different?”

Mercutio shrugged without thinking and immediately winced. The gesture hurt. He cursed under his breath, hating how his body absolutely insisted on reminding him he was unwell.

He just barely caught he flash of concern on Tybalt’s face.

“Maybe not different but certainly separate. For good reason.” He watched warily as Tybalt slid off the windowsill and crossed the room. The wariness turned to bafflement and embarrassment just on the brink of humiliation as Tybalt reached for one of the extra pillows and looked at Mercutio in askance. Mercutio stared at him defiantly.

Tybalt rolled his eyes. “I know it’s more comfortable with two. On a good day, not to mention with your wound.”

Once again, he was not wrong, and Tybalt consistently being right was beginning to grate on him. There was also the possibility to consider that Tybalt was looking to embarrass or humiliate him in some way. It was bad enough that Tybalt was seeing him in this weakened state, but some things were inescapable. To show additional weakness was a bad idea.

“It’s not a trick,” Tybalt said, with a hint of exasperation, as though reading Mercutio’s mind. “I got a bad graze in a sparring match once. The swords were dull, but we got overenthusiastic and reckless. The cut was mostly harmless, just against my side, but it hurt like a bitch for days and for the first couple the physician ordered I stay in bed just in case. Two pillows is infinitely more comfortable.”

Mercutio considered this: a willful, deliberate showing of something resembling vulnerability. A sort of truce, then.

He gave a very slight nod.

Tybalt put an arm around his shoulders, helping him lean forward just enough for Tybalt to slide in the second pillow behind him, then gently helped him recline back again. Mercutio could smell the faded tones of his bathwater and the smell was nauseatingly familiar. For a moment, Mercutio was surrounded by it and he felt lightheaded and short of breath, a million memories suddenly crowding his head, jostling for attention. But then it was over, and Tybalt was watching him intently from an arm’s length away.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Mercutio admitted, grudgingly. “Should I ring for tea since you’ve clearly decided to stay?” he said, employing sarcasm to cover his moment of instability.

“Why wake the servants?”

“Or my friends.”

Tybalt scoffed. “They still hover over you?” He glanced surreptitiously toward the door.

“Just a little.”

Tybalt sat down in the armchair next to the bed and this time, when he studied Mercutio, he did not try to hide what he was doing. His posture had relaxed a little, almost as though that moment of closeness had loosened something between them. “You should shave,” he said, almost out of nowhere. “You look like a disheveled baby hedgehog.”

“It hasn’t exactly been a priority.”

“Do you still think this is a dream?” Tybalt asked in a tone of idle curiosity that Mercutio didn’t entirely buy.

“I’m usually not in quite so much pain in the dreams.” But I’m also not ill enough to be delirious.

He watched Tybalt’s face in the moonlight. Something about the way the light fell reminded him of the night he had dared and cajoled Tybalt into climbing onto the Verona city walls with him and standing atop the ramparts. Tybalt had looked uncomfortable and barely hid a traitorous sliver of fear behind a façade of bravado and disdain for Mercutio’s silly and childish idea. The moon had been just as bright that night and Mercutio stood on the ramparts and shouted his heart into the darkness and Tybalt looked on in bemusement and horror. “Come on, it feels great,” Mercutio told him with a grin. “Freeing and…free. Almost like flying.” Tybalt grit his teeth and told him he was being an idiot and they would get caught and given a stern talking to at best. But Mercutio only grinned. “My uncle knows what sort I am. He will only roll him eyes. Besides, what’s some words against an entire world to swallow up all the misery you have to offer.”

“Why do you think I am miserable?”

Mercutio had no answer for him. He only knew that he himself was—not miserable, exactly, but just off enough that screaming into the darkness did him good, and he was certain Tybalt would enjoy it too. “Come om, spread your arms.” He came to stand behind Tybalt and took his hands, spreading his arms out, his chest pressed against Tybalt’s back. “Now scream.”

“Scream what?”

“Just scream.”

“…Ahhhhh.”

“That’s not a scream, you pussy.”

“Ahhhhhh!”

“Better. Now tell this entire fucking city to go fuck itself.”

“I was wrong, you’re not a nuisance, you’re a menace.”

“Yes, yes, I am. Now do it.”

It took Tybalt several tries, but with Mercutio’s goading and his own blood starting to rise, Tybalt was soon screaming the most profane blasphemy from the Verona walls that Mercutio had ever heard. Mercutio began to laugh then, happy and elated. Tybalt glared at him like he was going to murder him, only to burst out laughing too, a moment later, so much that he had to lean against the stone of the ramparts to not fall over. And Mercutio thought, for just a moment, oh God, oh fuck, what if I love him—I think I love him—oh fuck me. When the mirth and bemusement in Tybalt’s eyes turned to yearning and he shoved Mercutio against the wall and kissed him so hard and so long Mercutio was certain he would have unexplainable bruises the next day, there could be no doubt.

It was somehow both Mercutio’s favorite memory of their time together and the most painful one.

“It’s only that I don’t understand,” Mercutio continued. “You come here with at least some risk to yourself to—what? Check on me? Engage in useless small talk? Someone might almost think you care. Yet you have no regrets for your actions; even so you profess to be aggrieved that I was hurt. You surprise me.”

“Do I? Has three years of playing at being a Montague dog deluded you into seeing horns atop my head?” Tybalt smiled, but it was sharp and bitter, entirely devoid of joviality.

“Has three years of stewing in your own bile deluded you into believing I have no mind of my own?” Mercutio shot back. It was always so much easier to spar with Tybalt than to actually have a normal conversation. “But, no, you are right,” Mercutio said quickly, before Tybalt could reply. “I should not be surprised. You were always like this: selfish little Tybalt never wanting to share his favorite toys.”

Tybalt stiffened, his shoulders going up again defensively. “Where do you get off spouting this hypocritical nonsense.”

“Oh, I’m a lot of things, but hypocritical not so much.”

Tybalt snorted. “Preaching to me about selfishness when you were always the one who wanted everything your way. God forbid you had to make a sacrifice or a commitment—”

“Because you were so willing to do the same?”

“Hiding behind your friends and your supposed grand loyalty like a child behind their mother’s skirts.”

Mercutio folded his arms across his chest defensively. They had had this fight before, and it was liable to end the same as last time – with them going around and around in circles. This is useless. But Tybalt’s intimations stung too much to ignore. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might actually be capable of loving people?”

Tybalt opened his mouth, then shut it again, staring at Mercutio with a comically confused expression.

“No then?”

Tybalt growled and stood up so quickly he nearly knocked over the armchair he had been sitting in. He began to pace the length of the room like an agitated, caged tomcat. “What would you have me say, Mercutio? The Montagues are my family’s sworn enemies. They are my sworn enemies.”

Mercutio let out a long breath and tilted his head back, looking up at the celling. “Well, then, I suppose there is nothing either of us could have done or could ever do. You did not wish to stab me to death anymore than I wish for you to hang for this, but there is nothing that could reconcile us.”

He closed his eyes and waited for Tybalt to explode. Mercutio could almost feel him vibrating with frustration and fury.

“I have a family honor to protect! While you—”

“Have a family too.”

Tybalt gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Please. You scorn your family.”

“You know that’s now what I meant,” Mercutio said flatly.

Tybalt took a split second to consider his meaning before spitting out, “It’s not the same.”

“Tell me something, Tybalt,” Mercutio said, feeling a strange sort of calm come over him. He was so tired of the constant push and pull between him and Tybalt. When they had shared a bond and a bed, the spark and the danger had been exciting. After three years of that spark mutating into something bitter and dark, it became poisonous. Mercutio had almost died because of it. “If you were to be seriously injured or fall gravely ill, who would stay with you? Who would take care of you, even when it was hard or unpleasant? Who would hold your hand and tell you it was alright to cry when the pain got too bad to manage? Is there anyone in that God forsaken family of yours who would stay up all night with you and put their own life on hold to make sure you were alright and that you felt safe? Who would see you at your worst, at your most vulnerable, and never hold it against you?” Mercutio stopped and looked over at Tybalt, who had frozen in the middle of the room, his face flushed and his hands clutching the bottom of his doublet. The moonlight spilled over and around him, hiding half of his face in shadow and bringing the rest into stark clarity. “Because for me, that’s not anyone who I am related to by blood or canon law. My noble uncle has not been to see me, mumbling and stuttering something about neutrality. Paris has stopped by a couple of times to his credit, but so have a number of my acquaintances. Valentine has quite the trip to make from Naples, I grant him that, but Naples is not so far as to require a month’s journey if one was in haste. That I am nothing to my stepfather, I have always known.”

Tybalt remained silent, but he could no longer quite meet Mercutio’s eyes. Mercutio looked away as well, preferring to study the striped patterns on the top quilt. “But Romeo and Benvolio have done everything for me, have been there for me every minute and in every way. You joke at their fussing and fretting and, yes, I tease them of the same. But they are the only true family I have ever known. The fact that they are in no way bound to me by blood, owe me no duty of that sort, makes their love and loyalty only more precious. So, if you are truly set on hating all Montagues, then you should not have come, for I am a Montague in every way that actually matters in this godawful world.”

Mercutio did not look up when he heard Tybalt approach, his steps heavy and echoing. Deliberate. He grabbed Mercutio’s chin and turned his face up so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. “I wish I could hate you,” Tybalt forced out, strained and chocked. He pulled away just as suddenly, as though Mercutio’s skin had burned his hand, and turned on his heal.

Mercutio closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Tybalt leave.

*~*

“Are you…sure you don’t want me to help?” Benvolio had the look of pure skepticism.

Mercutio made a face. “For God’s sake, I can at least shave myself.” With Benvolio’s help, he had relocated to a chair by the writing desk, which was now covered with towels and the contents of a shaving kit.

“Have you ever shaved yourself?” Benvolio asked, bringing over the water basin, mirror, and a warm towel, which he wrapped gently around Mercutio’s face.

Mercutio glared at him. “No. But I might as well learn, since I have nothing better to do.”

His words got muffled by the towel, which made Benvolio smile fondly in amusement. Benvolio put another towel over his chest and shoulders and waited a couple of minutes before taking the cloth off Mercutio’s face. “Last chance.” Mercutio set his jaw defiantly. Benvolio shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Tybalt’s comment had somehow managed to bother him more than Mercutio wanted to admit. He tried to tell himself over the last couple of days that Tybalt’s opinion didn’t matter, especially since there was a greater-than-zero chance that he would not come back after their last conversation. Not that I want him to, Mercutio insisted stubbornly to himself. And not that I care what he thinks even if he did. Yet, Tybalt was right that he needed a shave and there was little for him to do these days anyway. Shaving would serve both as a distraction and a way to start feeling and looking like a person again.

“You don’t need to stare at me,” Mercutio grumbled, trying to focus on lathering up and not on the fact he could feel Benvolio’s eyes on him.

“I still haven’t forgotten the mess you made the other day trying to change your own bandages.”

Mercutio stuck his tongue out at Benvolio’s reflection in the mirror and picked up the razor.

At that moment, the door opened, and Romeo came in, holding a large, covered basket. “Good morning. How—oh, what’s this all about?” He gave Benvolio and Mercutio a bemused look.

“Mercutio decided he needs a shave,” Benvolio said from where he’d perched on the sofa’s armrest.

“Well,” Romeo said after a pause, “It’s not a bad idea. You’ve started looking like a hamster that’s trying to be a goat, lately.”

Benvolio burst out laughing. Mercutio rolled his eyes and muttered, “Fucking hell, not you too.”
He had to lean forward a little to get a good look in the mirror and the position was starting to hurt.

“But I’m glad to see you’re feeling well enough to be out of bed,” Romeo went on, taking a seat on the sofa with his basket.

“What do you mean not you too?” Benvolio asked.

Cursing inwardly at his slip, Mercutio snapped, “Nothing, just shut up. I want to get this over with.” He did not want them to know about Tybalt’s visits, even though Mercutio was starting to think he had not been dreaming after all. The entire uncertainty over whether his mind was playing tricks on him was absurdly annoying as it was; he certainly did not want to bring his friends into this particular madness. And if Tybalt’s nighttime visitations were real, he did not want to worry them.

“I did offer to help,” Benvolio said, primarily to Romeo. Suddenly, his eyes went wide and fixed upon Romeo’s basket. “Romeo… Is something moving in there?” A slow smile began to spread on Romeo’s face. Mercutio was mostly trying to tune them out so he could focus.

Romeo’s basket let out a loud, squeaky bark.

“Fuck.” Mercutio dropped the razor and it fell with a clatter against the edge of the desk and tumbled to the floor.

“Is there a dog in there?” Benvolio asked, even as he got up to help Mercutio, who was now dabbing at the bright line of red over his chin and wincing at the sharp pain in his side.

“Remember Aphrodite had a litter some three months ago?” Romeo said, his grin widening. “The puppies have grown enough now that I thought to bring some over.”

“Some? You brought multiple puppies?—” He swiped at Mercutio’s hand when he reached for the razor. “Enough. You’re going to either hurt yourself or end up looking ridiculous,” He said to Mercutio. “Sit back and tilt your head up. I’m finishing this.”

“Bossy, bossy. Romeo, perhaps you should give the puppies to Ben. He’s in a giving orders mood,” Mercutio said, but did as he was told.

Romeo opened the basket and took out two puppies who instantly began to wiggle around, trying to escape his hold. A third peeked out over the brim, smelling the air a little suspiciously. “Three is all I could fit in there, they’re getting big,” Romeo said, nuzzling the puppies. “Two boys and a girl.”

Romeo told them about the puppies and some news he had heard that morning while Benvolio finished up Mercutio’s shave. When he was done, Mercutio regarded himself in the mirror with some satisfaction. “Well, Benvolio, I think we can say that if your uncle ever disowns you, you will always be able to make a living as a barber.”

Romeo scoffed a laugh and Benvolio flushed. “Come on, back to bed with you. The surgeon says you shouldn’t be walking around much yet.”

“I’m sitting, not walking,” Mercutio complained, but let Benvolio help him back into bed. Romeo brought over the puppies. They sniffed curiously at Benvolio and climbed into Mercutio’s lap. Two of the pups had a smooth coloring, but one had prominent and distinctive spots along its back and over its ears. This one seemed to like Mercutio the most, climbing over him and starting to whine and wiggle when Romeo attempted to take him back. “Have they been named yet?” Mercutio asked.

“I don’t think so,” Romeo said. “I don’t think our breeder names them when they’re very young.”

Mercutio grinned and picked up the spotted puppy, holding him so that their noses were almost touching. “I’m going to name you Pox,” he said, gleefully.

“Honestly?” Benvolio asked, rolling his eyes but failing to hide his amusement. “You couldn’t just name him Spot or something?”

“How boring,” Mercutio said, still grinning. “No, he is Pox and proud of it.”

“That’s terribly morbid and I hope you’re satisfied,” Romeo said, exchanging a knowing look with Benvolio.

“Very.” Mercutio hugged the puppy close to his chest, making it yelp quietly in surprise. “Can I keep it?”

Romeo blinked at him. “You want to keep him? Seriously?”

“Why is that so surprising?” Pox wagged his tale and liked Mercutio’s face happily.

“I suppose, I don’t see why not…”

“I’m not sure if this is a great idea,” Benvolio said. “Puppy’s can be a lot, and someone will need to take him out for walks…”

“We can walk him,” Romeo said quickly. “I’ll speak with Signor Carideo, They sleep through the night now, and I’m sure Maria and Luca can take care of him if need be during the day.” Maria and Luca were Signor Carideo’s maid and manservant. Benvolio likely felt uncomfortable with burdening the Montague retainers’ household anymore than they already were, but Romeo did not seem particularly perturbed.

Mercutio, oddly glad of the awkward, affectionate puppy with his distinctive and somewhat unusual spots, ruffled Pox’s ears and said, “It’s decided, then. You’re staying with me.”

*~*

Tybalt did not wait as long as the first time to make his next visit. Not a full week passed before he suddenly appeared at Mercutio’s window again, as silent as a panther on the hunt and as ethereal as a shadow. Mercutio had not yet put out the last candle, and was startled out of his evening reading by Pox’s sudden agitation and growling. When he realized what was happening, he smirked, and petted the puppy’s head to calm him. “Hush, back to sleep with you. It’s a large cat but not a particularly dangerous one.”

“Got yourself a guard dog, did you?” Tybalt asked, perching on the windowsill.

Pox settled back into Mercutio’s lap, still glaring at Tybalt suspiciously. “You honor yourself too much, kitten. I didn’t expect you to come back at all.”

“I think you did.”

“Oh? How do you figure?”

“You finally shaved.”

Mercutio rolled his eyes. “It might surprise you, Tybalt, but my morning routine has very little to do with you.”

Tybalt slid off the windowsill and went to sit in the armchair by the bed. He reached out to Pox, only to have the pup snarl at him and climb over Mercutio to where Tybalt couldn’t reach him.

“He senses the cat in you.”

“I should have known you would be a dog person,” Tybalt said with a note of exasperation. “Though I would have never thought you to be one to curl up with a puppy. Getting sentimental in your old age?”

“They say near-death experiences change people,” Mercutio said, a little aloof.

Tybalt scoffed. “Death itself won’t change you.”

“A rather pleasant observation.”

“A poignant one.”

“You always did think much of yourself. Now stop scaring my puppy.”

“It’s not my fault he’s a wimp. Takes after his master.”

“Now, now, Tybalt. I know you think poorly of me, but never have you thought me a coward. That I know for certain.”

“Do you?” Tybalt’s grinned, razor sharp.

“Just as I know you are far more fond of small animals than you let on. I remember your kitten.”

Tybalt’s expressions changed, the amusement draining out of it, and his face flattened out into a careful mask of indifference. “I was just a lad. It’s a low blow for you to bring up.”

“Oh, but it’s how I know you have feelings behind that mask of cold confidence and superiority you like to wear,” Mercutio said, his own tone suddenly a little too serious. “Nothing like watching a lad of fourteen weep over a drowned kitten.”

Tybalt’s face twitched. “I did not weep.” His face was slowly turning red, either with ire or embarrassment – perhaps both. Under Mercutio’s steady gaze, something inside Tybalt seemed to break. He looked away and said flatly, “It was a cruel thing of my uncle to do.”

They had barely known each other then. Mercutio found Tybalt in the gardens after the dinner they were both dragged to at the Prince’s palace. He was beating up a hedge with his ceremonial sword, his face torn with distress and fury that made Mercutio recoil and second-guess approaching him. But Tybalt perceived his presence before he could retreat, and Mercutio pressed him rather bravely as to the cause of his frustration. Perhaps because Tybalt had not at that point yet figured out that Mercutio had little to no true sway over his uncle, he had indulged him out of a desire to not land in trouble for the battered hedge.

The story was simple: a cat that had lived around the Capulet residence and was beloved by the servants, as well as Tybalt and his young cousin, Juliet, gave birth to a litter of kittens some weeks prior. Most of the kittens were given away, with the servants finding them homes, sometimes with those members of staff who did not live at the residence itself. But Tybalt had wanted to keep a kitten for himself. It seemed to please Juliet as well. Lord Capulet did not wish to have cats indoors, but especially he found offensive the spawns of dirty strays and forbade this venture. However, Tybalt and Juliet engaged their nurse to help them hide and nurse the kitten, which they did successfully for almost a month. But their secret was discovered and both children received a harsh reprimand for disobeying. To spare his daughter’s feelings, Lord Capulet told Juliet that the kitten had been given away to another family, just like the rest of its siblings. Tybalt, however, was taken out to the yard and forced to watch as the kitten was drowned. From that day, the resident cat disappeared as well, though Tybalt never found out what exactly happened to it. The drowning had happened just that afternoon.

Mercutio, outraged at the needless cruelty but lost for words of comfort that would not sound hollow or forced, found a couple of practice swords instead, and gave Tybalt the opportunity to pour his hurt and anger into sparring. At the end of night, they lay beside each other in the grass and looked up at the starry sky. “What was his name?” Mercutio asked.

“Whose?”

“Your kitten.”

“…Tenegnis. From tenebris ignis.”

“Dark fire?” Mercutio felt more than saw Tybalt nod. They were lying so close to each other that their shoulders touched lightly. “Sounds like a name for a star.” He pointed up to the sky and chose a star. “That one.”

“What are you doing?”

“Naming a star after your kitten.”

“Why?”

Mercutio bit his lip. “My mother has been ill. She’s dying. She told me once that…after she goes to heaven, I should name a star after her. Then, whenever I look to the sky, she will be there with me.”

Tybalt did not say anything in response, but Mercutio already knew him well enough by then to realize that a lack of argument was as good as agreement.

“It was a cruel thing to do,” Mercutio said, watching Tybalt’s face. “I never said you were wrong for being upset by it.”

“Where did the puppy come from?” Tybalt asked, obviously hoping to change the subject.

“Romeo brought a few puppies from a recent litter to visit.”

Tybalt’s face darkened, but he didn’t say anything for a long moment. “So…have you finally decided that I’m not a dream or delusion after all?”

Mercutio sighed. “I suppose I have. And since I have, I should tell you that I will likely not be here for much longer. The surgeon has said that it should be safe enough to move me soon. Probably not for another week, as he wants to make sure the wound has closed well enough to not be disturbed too much by the wagon’s jolting. Besides, they will need to prepare at my uncle’s. I would need to take the stairs to go to and from my current rooms and that is not exercise I am entirely fit for yet.” Mercutio wasn’t certain why he was telling Tybalt all of this. He felt like Tybalt had a good enough watch on the house to know its daily routine, as he never made the mistake of showing up when Mercutio was not alone, even on his first visit. He would probably know if Mercutio was moved. And yet, Mercutio somehow felt compelled to tell him and watch his reaction.

Tybalt was clearly interested by this information, though he kept his face carefully neutral in all other regards. “You are staying with your uncle now then?”

“Only the last few months since I came of age. You know my stepfather cares nothing for me and he has recently re-married. I would be nothing but a nuisance.”

“Why not ask for rooms at the Montagues’ until you had the chance to put your affairs in order enough for your own rooms?”

Mercutio shrugged. “Romeo and Benvolio love me as a brother. Their father has no such specific attachments to me. I did not wish to intrude.” In truth, he had no doubt that Romeo and Benvolio would have petitioned for him and Lord Montague would not have seen fit to deny him, at least for a short stay, given Mercutio’s relation to the Prince, if not for the sake of his own son and nephew. But it would have felt too much like charity. At least his uncle owed him some natural duty, and if not him, then his poor mother’s memory. All of this was exacerbated by the fact that Mercutio had little inheritance to come into. What his father had left him was enough to pay a small pension, but hardly enough to rent good rooms of his own and still have enough for the sort of lifestyle he was accustomed to. Most of his mother’s property had become that of her new husband. The small landholdings she had which passed to Mercutio were not profitable without proper presence and upkeep, but Mercutio refused to move from Verona. There was much he hated about the city, but the few people he loved were there and leaving them seemed unbearable. But Tybalt did not need to know any of this. “it will be harder for you to sneak in to see me there, is what I mean, as I believe my rooms will be inner-facing.”

A shadow passed over Tybalt’s face, but Mercutio could not quite decipher its meaning. “Well, perhaps without your Montague friends always around, I will not need to.”

“I do not envy you when you do eventually run into them,” Mercutio said with a smirk.

“Can’t you call them off?—” Tybalt broke off, as though considering something for the first time. “Unless you wish not to see me. I would…respect that. As long as I knew that the wish was yours, not that of your Montagues.”

Mercutio ran a hand through his hair. He had not considered whether he wanted to continue seeing Tybalt, because Tybalt’s visits had seemed so absurd that he still barely believed they were real. But the more Tybalt had haunted his dreams in the past weeks, the more Mercutio found himself remembering, and he had to admit to the slight thrill of excitement that went through him whenever Tybalt climbed through his window. But what future did they have? Was it worth reopening old wounds only to crash against the same rocks they had never been able to surmount? “I won’t tell you not to come,” he said, finally. “But I will tell you that if you ever try to hurt my friends again—I will not abandon them for you sake nor will I abide you to make any move against them. If that was not clear last time.”

A heavy silence followed and Mercutio thought, now he will leave, and we shall see the end of this farce, finally.

“Juliet,” Tybalt said.

Mercutio started in confusion. “What?”

“You asked me last time who would always be there for me and who loved me unconditionally. The answer is my cousin, Juliet. Perhaps our old nurse. My aunt does not know how to be loving and nurturing, but I do think she cares something for me, if only for the sake of my father’s memory.”

Mercutio flushed and looked away.

“My uncle is often unkind and—Not everything about my family pleases me. Many—many things don’t,” Tybalt continued. “But there are people there who care about me and whom I love. You say your friends are your family. Fine. But it’s not the same for me. Or rather…my family are in fact the people I am related to by blood. And I must stand for their honor as you see fit to stand for the honor of your friends.”

Mercutio bit his lip and looked down into his lap. Tybalt had so often raged about his family, about his uncle. All the hints that he felt trapped and underappreciated – Mercutio had not imagined them. But Tybalt did not have a Romeo and Benvolio, and if all he had was Juliet, was that not enough? Pox, sensing his distress, wined and licked his hands. “I never asked you to love all Montagues,” Mercutio said, feeling his throat close up as the ache in his chest intensified. He knew there was some logic behind Tybalt’s madness; he had always known. But understanding it was overwhelming. “I only ever asked that you not put me before a choice and that you do not do violence to the two people dearest to me. Would that truly dishonor the Capulet name so much?”

When Mercutio chanced a glance at Tybalt, he was looking down as well, contemplating the embroidered insignias on his cloak. “If you’re going back home soon, I suppose it won’t be long before my trial now,” Tybalt said, in a clear change of topic.

Mercutio let out a long breath. “Not terribly, I suppose. Depends on when my uncle deems me presentable.”

For a moment, Tybalt looked uncertain. “What will you say?”

“The truth.” Mercutio looked up and met Tybalt’s eyes, held his gaze for a long, electric moment. “I meant it when I said I have no desire to see you hang for this. I’ve come to think…we might share the guilt of our common misery.” And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t only talking about the duel.

Chapter Text

Finally, the distress of not seeing Juliet and not being able to talk to her became too much for Romeo and he resolved to see her again. He realized that the more time went by, the harder steeling himself for the reconciliation became, the more awkward it felt to simply climb her balcony once again. He feared that she would look at him with rejection in her eyes, and tell him he was too late. But he also knew that if he waited too long, he may well lose her love in earnest, and that prospect was the most unbearable. Once he was no longer constantly terrified for Mercutio and could get enough sleep each night, his also found himself with sufficient presence of mind and resolve to carry out this intention.

So, Romeo bought a large bouquet of the most beautiful and fragrant pink roses he could find and climbed the Capulet garden wall.

He climbed the balcony, although it was harder with the bouquet, and froze as soon as his feet hit the ground, realizing that he could hear voices from Juliet’s room. The doors to her balcony stood ajar, with light just barely seeping out. Romeo pressed himself against the wall and listened.

The person speaking was clearly male, and it made Romeo’s stomach do a sickening flip as all his nightmares seemed to flash before his eyes all at once. For a moment, he could barely hear over the thumping of his heart, but then he realized he recognized the voice. It was Tybalt’s.

Romeo knew that the sensible thing would be to climb back down as quietly as he could and go home. He could try again tomorrow. What was one extra day when they had not seen each other in a month? Benvolio’s voice in his head was berating him for being a fool and not bringing his sword, even though climbing with it was difficult. But something kept him glued in place. Juliet was speaking, her voice both sweet and painful to hear after the long separation, but her words were soft, and Romeo could not quite make out what she was saying. He only caught half-phrases of “I didn’t know” and “very reckless.”

“I couldn’t help myself!” Tybalt suddenly burst out, cutting her off. “At first, I was only worried, but then…seeing him again…not snarling or smirking in the street, but hurt and vulnerable… Oh, certainly he still growled and glared and played the rabid cur, but that’s a much harder façade to keep up when you’re ill and hurting.”

Romeo frowned, wondering who Tybalt could be referring to. Certainly, it couldn’t be Mercutio. Juliet said something else, very quietly, and Romeo could just picture her sitting on her bed with her cousin, her hand softly stroking the back of his to calm him.

“I told you not for you to mock me,” Tybalt said, sulking.

“I would never mock your better nature,” Juliet said, and Romeo smiled, thinking that that was exactly the sort of thing she would say. How he longed to hold her again.

“I only wanted…” Tybalt let out a loud, long-suffering sigh. “I wish I didn’t care so much. I wish I could get him out of my head. Do you know how humiliating it is? One moment he is driving me mad with his inane prattling about nonsense, and the next he looks marginally sad or in pain, and all I want to do is hold his hand and stroke his hair. He drives me mad, and I hate him and I—I…”

“Say it. You’ll feel better.”

“Fucking shit. …Forgive me.” Romeo could hear the bed squeak as Tybalt stood. His heavy footsteps measured the length of Juliet’s room.

“Tybalt, darling, I don’t understand,” Juliet said, pleading notes in her voice. “You clearly love him. You’ve driven yourself crazy every day since it all happened. Of course Father and Mama think it’s because you’re anxious for the trial but I know you better. True that I only thought it guilt at first, as I did not know of your previous…friendship until you told me, but it is so clear now. Yet, you not only refuse to admit it, even to me, even, I feel, to yourself, but you wish to push these feelings away.”

It was slowly starting to dawn on Romeo that Tybalt must indeed be talking about Mercutio. His heart beat faster and he could hardly breath. He knew that Tybalt and Mercutio had once been friends. Perhaps, he suspected, even more had passed between them, though how much he could not say. But in the last few years all they did was fight and insult each other at every turn. That would be Mercutio’s idea of flirting, Romeo thought with horrified amusement.

“If I had any real indication of how he feels about me, that would be helpful. But it’s been three years, and I have very little evidence that his Montague friends did not brainwash him into hating me simply for being a Capulet.”

“I very much doubt they did that,” Juliet said, a note of conviction slipping into her tone. Romeo’s heart swelled. She must love me still.

“Sweet cousin, you are young and know little of the Montagues.”

Juliet laughed. “Be that as it was, nothing of what you’ve told me indicates that he hates you. If anything, his requests seem reasonable. Would it…would it truly pain you so much to be even mildly civil to a couple of Montague boys who have done you no harm?” Romeo could hear a note of trepidation in Juliet’s voice and realized she must be feeling out how Tybalt would react to the news of their marriage. His stomach did a flip as Tybalt seemed to consider this.

“If they haven’t yet, they will eventually.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Why are you defending them!”

The bed squeaked again, and Romeo could just barely make out Juliet’s soft steps crossing the length of the room. “I’m not defending anyone, cousin. But I think, if Mercutio means a lot to you – and I think he does – then is it not worthwhile to at least make an attempt at…a ceasefire, if not peace? It in no way besmirches our family honor for you to display a modicum of civility to Mercutio’s friends. Imagine how he must feel, knowing that the pain he is going through now you intended for someone he loves. That you intended worse. Even I was taken aback when I heard.”

“Juliet, you don’t…” Part of what Tybalt said then was muffled, probably against Juliet’s hair as she embraced him. “He asks me to give up my family while he gets to play both sides.”

“You are not giving anything up. Stop saying that. Who would turn from you? Not I. Just as I hope that if I were to love – even marry – someone…not ideal. A Montague say—”

“Don’t joke like that, I beg you.”

“I would hope you would not turn from me.”

“I never could.”

They were silent for a moment, and Romeo could imagine them standing in the middle of Juliet’s room, embracing each other desperately. If he was honest with himself, he felt awful. It was palpable how much they loved each other, and he had not taken that seriously enough when arguing with her. His grudging acceptance of her loyalty to Tybalt as a family member was now so clearly hypocritical that Romeo wished he could take back everything he had said to her. Of course she had turned to Count Paris for help. She probably would have turned to anyone. Would he not do the same if he had been in her place and Mercutio or Benvolio in Tybalt’s?

“I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have tried to see him. I’ve only fucked myself most royally up the—Well, you get the idea,” Tybalt said, his voice still muffled. He sounded despondent, almost desperate. Romeo recognized those notes – the pain of loving someone you fear you can never have, and his heart clenched painfully.

Juliet giggled. “I do, I do. But perhaps it is not all lost. If you truly love him and can honor his wishes concerning his friends, then go to him again. Show him that as much as you act like you don’t care, like he irritates you, you actually care very much. Perhaps he struggles with the same uncertainty as you.”

“Is it truly pathetic that I think about him all the time? He’s such an awful nuisance, but I want to see him smile. I want to be the reason he smiles. I’m a useless fool, aren’t I? Stuck in a fantasy three years stale. You have no idea how insufferable he is when he’s not unwell! Hell, even when he is! The outrageous things he says! I could just—agh.”

“And yet you cannot stop talking about him!” Juliet said, laughter in her voice.

“This will kill me.”

“Always so dramatic, cousin.” Then, more softly, she asked, “Why do you deny yourself love, Tybalt?”

“I would rather not give him the opportunity to humiliate me.”

“I’ve told you. Love cannot be humiliating. If Mercutio uses your feelings against you, then he is the cad and the fool.”

They exchanged a few more soft words that Romeo could not distinguish, then wished each other goodnight, and the heavy door to Juliet’s bedchamber thumped quietly as it closed. Romeo’s mind was reeling from what he had just overheard, but in that moment, he had a more important objective.

Clutching the bouquet of roses to his chest as though they were a lifeline, Romeo knocked on the balcony doors. When he did not get an immediate answer, he called in a loud whisper, “Juliet, it’s me.” Concerned to not get any answer – not even an angry go away – he opened the balcony doors further and slipped into Juliet’s room.

She stood by her bed, clutching at a bedpost with one hand and at her cross with the other. When she saw him, she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Juliet…” Romeo began, flushing immediately at the sight of her. She looked frightened and he did not know how to begin. “Oh, Juliet, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a right bastard, I know, and I shouldn’t have left you for so long and then just shown up here, but I was somewhat afraid a note might get intercepted. Well, also, I tried to write to you and couldn’t find the words. I’m so—I’m sorry. I love you so much and—please—forgive me.”

Tears sprang to her eyes and she ran forward and threw her arms around him, completely ignoring the roses. Romeo held her and breathed in the smell of her hair, feeling as if he was suddenly bathed in sunlight after a long and overcast winter. “My God, when I heard your voice, I thought I was hearing things. I’d thought…I’d started to think you might not love me anymore. And I was afraid to send my nurse and hear the answer. It would have killed me,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. She trembled and he stroked her hair and her bare arms.

“I’m so sorry. Could you ever forgive me?”

She pulled back from him and hit his chest with her fist, but the punch was not heartfelt. “Romeo Montague, how very could you.” Juliet wiped feverishly at her eyes. “Nay, tears, we shall not give him this satisfaction.”

“I take no satisfaction from them!” Romeo insisted. “I would like to kiss them away, if you’d let me. In penance.”

“A punishment too sweet for the likes of you,” she said with a pout, but when he cupped her face and kissed her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, she did not protest, and leaned into his touch. “Why did you stay away for so long?”

“I was ashamed. And frightened that you would—of what you would say. I was angry and jealous at first. It drove me mad thinking of you with Count Paris, or any other man. I felt hurt that you were not taking my feelings on the matter seriously. But I realized, later, that I had myself driven you to it, in a way. I did not…you tried to tell me of your love for your cousin and I did not wish to understand. I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s so foolish of you to be jealous,” she ran her fingertips over his chest, almost as though trying to convince herself he was truly real. “There is no one else I love. I cried every night for a week straight after we quarreled, thinking that perhaps you were right, and I had been faithless—”

“Oh, Juliet—”

“Let us not argue again, I cannot stand it. I will forgive you if you promise that you have given up these thoughts of jealousy. I promise you, they are naught. I’ve sought to escape Count Paris’ attentions at every turn, although it is not easy.”

“I would like nothing more. I could not bear to be apart from you again.” Romeo offered her the bouquet of roses. “I thought you’d like them.” He colored again, suddenly feeling a little childish.

Juliet’s eyes lit up. “My favorites!” She buried her face in the soft petals and took a deep breath, giggling girlishly when the rich scent made her sneeze.

Romeo kissed her then, and they were reconciled.

*~*

Romeo walked to Signor Carideo’s in the second half of the morning, stopping by the bakery to pick up some sweets for Mercutio to celebrate the surgeon finally clearing him to return to a normal diet. His mood vacillated wildly between joy and relief at being reconciled with Juliet, and confusion and concern over what he had started to process from the conversation he had overheard between her and Tybalt.

It was obvious to him, as it had been to Juliet, that Tybalt regretted hurting Mercutio and was worried for him. Perhaps even carried a strong affection for him, dating back from their ill-fated friendship as adolescents. What was more concerning was that it had sounded like Tybalt had seen Mercutio recently, which could only mean that he had found a way to see him in secret. Consequently, Romeo was coming to the conclusion that it was unlikely that Mercutio did not know of these visits but for some reason had kept them from them.

He was in the middle of these thoughts when he arrived at Signor Carideo’s. He ran into Benvolio downstairs, who looked him up and down and smiled with some bemusement. “I suppose your night went well then? You look better than you have in some time.”

Romeo could not help but smile. He put a hand on Benvolio’s shoulder and squeezed it tightly. “All is well with her and I. Oh, Ben, I’m so relieved, if you only knew.”

Benvolio shook his head and smiled at him fondly. “I’m glad. I am. Even if I’m still somewhat wary of how this will all play out.” He looked down at the parcel in Romeo’s hands. “What’s that?”

“Mostaccioli and butter cookies for Mercutio.”

“Oh, you’re going to spoil him rotten, aren’t you?”

“I’m certainly going to try.”

“Don’t. He’s already becoming insufferable.”

“Was he ever not?” Romeo laughed, then remembered his train of thought concerning Tybalt, and suddenly sobered. “Before we go up, there’s something I need to discuss with you.” Romeo led Benvolio to sit down on the couch and looked around for a moment, to make sure they were alone. Benvolio waited patiently for him to begin, though Romeo could tell by his fidgeting that he was nervous. “As you know, I went to see Juliet last night and I sort of…overheard a conversation…” He told Benvolio as much as he could remembered, watching the myriad of emotions cross his friend’s face, unguarded. When he finished, Benvolio let out a long breath.

“Well fuck me. So, Tybalt has…been here?”

“Apparently with good intentions. What concerns me more is that Mercutio never told us.”

Benvolio rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sure they both realize how we feel about Tybalt.”

“Right,” Romeo said thoughtfully. “But if they want to see each other, it’s not really our place to interfere.”

“Do you really believe that though? That Tybalt has some sort of feelings for Mercutio? Or, even – I don’t know – actual regard? And that Mercutio wanted to see him, instead of not being able to do anything about it?”

Romeo shook his head. “You didn’t hear him last night. He was…distraught.”

Benvolio made a disbelieving face but did not argue.

“As for Mercutio, don’t you think he would have told us if he was concerned or did not want Tybalt there?”

“I don’t know.” Benvolio sighed. “I can’t always tell why Mercutio does things.”

“I think we should talk to him about it,” Romeo said. “I’m tired of all these secrets. They only make everything worse.”

Benvolio considered this for a moment, then slowly nodded. “We should.”

“And…” Romeo said, a little hesitantly. “We should tell him about my marriage.”

“Oh God, must we?”

“Mercutio deserves to know. No more secrets, remember? I only didn’t tell him earlier because he’s been so ill. But now…”

“No, you’re right. It’s better if we have it all in the open. Especially if we’re going to be dealing with bloody Tybalt Capulet.” Benvolio threw a glance at the package Romeo had brought from the bakery. “We’re going to all need those sweets.”

*~*

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Mercutio said around a mouthful of pastry when Benvolio and Romeo had finally run out of smalltalk topics to procrastinate with.

Benvolio threw Romeo a questioning look. Romeo turned bright red and looked away. He hadn’t actually thought of how he was going to approach this conversation. “So, um, we wanted to ask you…”

“Romeo overheard a conversation the other night…” Benvolio added, in an attempt to help, but immediately regretted it and stared at the floor.

Mercutio looked between them and rolled his eyes. “Oh, go on already. You can’t deprive me of potentially interesting gossip. I’m bored to death as it is.”

“Has Tybalt Capulet been sneaking in to see you?” Romeo blurted out. Benvolio groaned and hid his face in his hands.

Mercutio stared at him, indisputably surprised. “Has—Tybalt—sneaking? No!” Romeo gave him a look. Mercutio deflated. “Alright. Yes. But it’s only happened – I don’t know – three times?”

Benvolio dropped his hands from his face. “Seriously? And you never said anything? Why? We would have come up with something to keep him out!”

Mercutio shook his head. “At first I thought whatever that shit I was taking that Friar Lawrence brough was making me hallucinate—”

“You did not think that,” Romeo said, folding his arms over his chest.

“I considered it. Either that or just straight up delirium. Since Ben said I did hallucinate him sometimes. And I definitely dreamed about the little shit more than any reasonable human should.”

“Not saying much, given your levels of reasonable human, or lack thereof.” Benvolio said, but it sounded flat, like he’d said it simply on instinct – a conditioned response.

“But then last time,” Mercutio continued, ignoring him. “It was clearly neither a dream nor a hallucination. And I just…” He shook his head and looked away. “I didn’t want you lot to worry – he wasn’t here to hurt me. And I—We used to be…friends.”

“So you want him to come,” Romeo said. It wasn’t a question.

“Of for fuck’s sake. I don’t—I don’t know if want is the word exactly. I don’t want him not to come.” Mercutio looked at Romeo and bit his lip. “I know he tried to hurt you. And I told him right out that I wouldn’t stand for it. I understand if you don’t want—”

Romeo shook his head quickly and cut him off. “No. I’d never try to make you choose. Besides, you know how I feel about this constant fighting and feuding. Look what it’s gotten us.” He made a broad gesture encompassing the room. “Especially since I think he’s rather…taken with you.”

“Taken with me?”

“He was talking about how he couldn’t get you out of his mind and how he hated to see you hurt or upset. If I’d known sooner how he felt—how you felt…”

“Wait.” Mercutio scrunched up his face in an expression of exaggerated concentration. “You actually heard Tybalt saying all this himself? Where?”

Romeo fidgeted and looked away. “At the Capulets.”

“The Capulets? What the bloody hell were you doing there?” Mercutio’s agitation was apparent. Pox, who had been dozing peacefully beside him, whined and slinked to the floor to hide under the bed.

“I was there to see Juliet. Their daughter. But, well, in secret.”

Mercutio made a sound between a laugh and groan. “Oh no, don’t tell me.” He looked at Benvolio and winked.

Benvolio, however, only folded his arms over his chest and pressed further into his corner of the room, incidentally almost completely opposite to where Romeo was sitting. “It’s completely serious,” he said.

“We’re married.” Romeo admitted.

“What?”

Romeo explained, sometimes stumbling over his words in embarrassment, sometimes in an elated rush. He was afraid of Mercutio’s reaction, but he was so desperate to have his closest friend share in his joy that sometimes the excitement of finally having everything out in the open overwhelmed him. Mercutio, surprisingly, let him talk without interrupting. When Romeo finally finished, a long silence ensued.

Finally, with a low whistle, Mercutio asked, “One question. Is she good in bed?”

“Mercutio!” Romeo and Benvolio shouted in unison. Romeo picked up a small cushion from the sofa and tossed it at him.

Mercutio cackled and threw it back at him. “You’ve really done it now, Romeo. Is that why you didn’t want to fight Tybalt?”

“Yes. I’d prefer to not brawl in the street to begin with, but yes.” A realization came over him suddenly. ”Mercutio, please, I never would have thought that you—”

Mercutio shook his head to cut him off. Then smirked. “So, does dear Tybalt know? Is that why he wanted to murder you? Perhaps I should have let him.”

Benvolio snorted.

Romeo pouted. “No one knows, except for you and Benvolio. Tybalt was only being Tybalt, I suppose.”

“You’re still fucking insane to tie yourself down like that. And with a Capulet. If Tybalt or Juliet’s lord father don’t murder you, your own father will.”

“I’m aware,” Romeo said tartly. “Though I was hoping that we could all perhaps take the opportunity to stop trying to kill each other at every turn. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He couldn’t quite help the sarcasm in his voice, even if he did mean the sentiment genuinely.

“Speak for yourself,” Mercutio scoffed. “What am I supposed to do all day if I can’t fight Capulets in the street?” To both Romeo and Benvolio’s chagrin, he was only half-joking.

“Something tells me you enjoy provoking them even more than the actual fighting,” Benvolio muttered.

“Would you rather I provoke you, love?” Mercutio gave him a lascivious, self-satisfied smirk.

“Piss off.” Benvolio looked around for a cushion to toss at him and not finding one nearby, threw his hands up in surrender.

“Also,” Romeo went on, his voice going quiet. “I really love her.” He glanced up at Mercutio, a little accusingly, even though he had not said anything yet. “Don’t you laugh. I know I’ve said that before, but doesn’t that happen? Don’t people love others, sometimes, and are not loved back or are unable to make anything out of it, before they find the one they are meant to spend their life with?”

“Romeo—” Mercutio began, his tone oddly serious, then shook his head as though changing his mind. “Forget it.” After another long pause, Mercutio said, “Well, it would be rather hypocritical of me to be judgmental about this. So, I suppose…” He shrugged and turned his attention to trying to lure Pox from under the bed with a bit of pastry.

Romeo laughed, a little triumphant, relief lighting up his face, as Benvolio squawked indignantly, “Hypocritical? Since when have you grown a sense of decency? Besides, if you’re referring to what I think you are, that is completely different!”

“Is it?”

“Yes! First of all, you are not actually a Montague – not by name or blood – so you may do as you please. Second, you weren’t trying to marry Tybalt.”

“Well, no, of course not,” Mercutio said, waving him off like a pesky fly. “It would have been impossible. And anyway, I would be so awful at marriage, why even try?”

Benvolio groaned. “Would it kill you to be serious now and again for two minutes?”

“I haven’t tried, but it might.”

“Wait, wait,” Romeo butted in. “You and Tybalt -- when did this happen?”

Mercutio sighed. “A long time ago. A few years…”

A slow, sly smile began to emerge on Romeo’s face. “Oh, I knew it! I knew this all was not so sudden and there was something between you two back then that wasn’t simply friendship.”

“Do you think Tybalt knows what friendship is?” Benvolio asked in an aloof tone, but his eyes sparkled.

“Only very vaguely.” Mercutio laughed.

Romeo shook his head at them. “Now you’re just being mean. He can’t be the only person in all of Verona with a deep and genuine understanding of the value of violence. He must have at least one friend.”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. The tension in the room dissipated and, instinctively, they all drew closer together, Mercutio scooting over on the bed so Benvolio and Romeo could come from their opposing corners of the room to sit beside him atop the covers. They piled up together almost like they used to do when they were children.

“As much as Tybalt deserves all the jokes about him,” Mercutio said thoughtfully, “What I do know about him suggests that he’s very loyal to his own. Would stand up and fight for anyone he truly cares about. That’s not a lot of people, but, frankly, I’m like that too. The two of you are my family – I would die for you, no questions, no regrets. But I don’t give half a shit about most people. As awful as it sounds.”

“It does sound awful,” Benvolio muttered, but there wasn’t any reproach in his voice.

“The people you love will always be the most important to you,” Romeo said, a little philosophically, staring up at the ceiling. “But what do you do when they keep fighting each other?”

“I suppose they’ll have to stop,” Benvolio said after a pause. “For the love they bear you.”

Romeo looked over at him and smiled softly in appreciation of the implied sentiment. Then, he laid his head on Mercutio’s shoulder and asked, very seriously, “Do you think Tybalt would do that for you?”

Pox emerged from under the bed where he had been hiding from their charged conversation and jumped back up into Mercutio’s lap to join in their cuddling. Mercutio stroked the pup’s ears and said, very quietly, “I guess we’ll see.”

*~*

With Mercutio’s convalescence picking up speed, it was widely rumored that Tybalt’s trial would take place before the close of August. Romeo and Juliet agreed between themselves that they would wait until after the trial to reveal their marriage. This left Romeo with under a month to arrange for wedding rings, as he wanted them to be able to wear them as soon as they were ready to reveal their secret. He went to several jewelers the day after his reconciliation with Juliet, and finally, by late afternoon, settled on one and placed and order for two simple, but elegant gold bands, engraved with a dove and their names on the inner side.

Happy with his purchase and full of hopeful thoughts, Romeo walked home through the market square, waving happily at the older women and stout merchants. The entire world was bathed in love and warmth to him. He was in love, he and Juliet would soon be able to express their love openly and see each other whenever they wanted, Mercutio was well on the way to recovery – as hopeless as everything had felt only a few weeks ago, now he was full of hope and love for the entire world once again.

Romeo turned out of the market square into a quiet side-street, bumping into someone as he went. “I’m sorry—” he began, looking around at the person he had collided with. He caught a flash dark red and blonde curls before the boy disappeared into a side alley. Romeo suddenly realized that a note had been slipped into his hand and he had closed his fingers over it instinctively. He carefully unfolded the note and read, in Juliet’s recognizable, though rushed, writing: Tybalt knows.

Romeo sucked in a breath. If Juliet had risked sending a servant boy to warn him, Tybalt must have taken the news quite badly—

Cold metal pressed against the back of Romeo’s neck, the sharp point of a sword or a dagger. The street was practically deserted and Romeo froze, looked down at the cobblestones underfoot to find his own shadow overtaken by a larger one directly behind him. “Tybalt,” Romeo said evenly.

A rough hand on his shoulder pulled Romeo into a cramped alleyway before he was unceremoniously pushed against a brick wall and forcefully turned around. The sword point stayed at his neck the entire time, pricking his throat as he faced his attacker.

“Montague,” Tybalt said coldly, his eyes full of cold fire.

“Good day, coz,” Romeo said, unable to restrain himself despite the precariousness of the situation. He clearly had been spending too much time with Mercutio lately. Benvolio would be aghast.

Tybalt nearly growled, the sword tip digging into the soft skin of Romeo’s throat. “I should end you here and now.”

“Aren’t you already in enough trouble with the law, Tybalt?”

“That’s none of your bloody business.”

Romeo put up his hands to show he wasn’t even thinking of reaching for his own sword. “Come, Tybalt, you claim to be a man of honor. Let us talk civilly, especially now you know we are kin.”

“You think you can seduce my little cousin and there will be no retribution? I may be a man of honor but you—”

“I married her, as I’m certain you know,” Romeo said, as steadily as he could. “I have done her no dishonor.”

“How can it be not a dishonor if it is secret?”

“Yet, it is no less a marriage before God. You are free to ask the priest who married us, if you do not believe even your own cousin.”

“Even if so,” Tybalt spat. “Marriage to a useless Montague like you is not something I would wish on any woman, much less my own baby cousin.”

“Yet you know well it cannot be undone,” Romeo said, finding suddenly that he was not particularly scared of Tybalt. He wasn’t sure why – he certainly seemed volatile enough. But something about Tybalt’s intention to confront him in broad daylight when he had no opportunity to challenge him to a duel without bringing the Prince’s wrath down on himself twofold made Romeo think that killing him was not Tybalt’s intention.

“No,” Tybalt said flatly. “But there is one thing I can still keep you from ruining.”

Ah, there is it, Romeo thought. “Which is what?”

“Mercutio.”

“Mercutio?”

“When he is back at his uncle’s in a few days, you will not attempt to prevent me from seeing him. You will not set him against me. You will not linger when I am there and hover like some obscene crow. Otherwise…”

“You’ll what?” Romeo raised his chin defiantly. While the matter of Tybalt seeing Mercutio was already decided between them, he was almost curious to know what, likely insulting, proposition Tybalt had in mind.

“I will reveal your marriage. No more secrets for you to hide behind.”

Romeo blinked at him for a moment, then laughed. Tybalt’s sword pressed painfully against his throat, but Romeo did not acknowledge it.

Tybalt flushed and his eyes sparked with dangerous fury. “What’s so funny, Montague?”

“Did she not tell you?” Romeo asked, genuinely confused, his laughter dying as he was suddenly filled with concern that Juliet had not been able to tell Tybalt anything. That Tybalt had been in such a rage that he did not listen to her, if nothing worse. “It’s not like we were going to keep it secret forever. I had wanted to tell the world as soon as we were wed, and so had Juliet before your fight with Mercutio. But after, she was too focused on you and your predicament. I also believe she wished to not discourage Count Paris too much from his courtship of her in hopes that his favor might help you, seeing as he is the Prince’s favorite relative.”

Genuine surprised flashed over Tybalt’s face for a moment before his expression become mostly unreadable. “Are you saying that she has only been indulging that peacock for his connection with the Prince? In hopes he would intercede on my behalf?’

“So I was given to understand, yes.” The press of Tybalt’s sword against his throat lessened as he seemed to contemplate this. “So you see, Tybalt, I am the last person you would be hurting with this. And I do not believe you wish to hurt Juliet. Also, before you swear to indulge further violence, I will tell you that I have no intention of standing between you and Mercutio. We have spoken of it and he wishes to see you again. Albeit under the condition that you do no violence to his friends.”

Romeo watched the myriad of emotions cross Tybalt’s eyes with some satisfaction.

“Mercutio has spoken of my visits to you?” Tybalt asked, flatly, his brows creasing with suspicion.

“Yes.” Romeo reached up slowly and pushed the sword blade away from his neck. Tybalt allowed his arm to drop, but did not sheath the sword. It glistened dangerously in the late afternoon sun. “Whether you like it or not, Tybalt, we are family now. Whether you like it or not, I am Mercutio’s best friend and that will not change. You don’t have to like me, but we are both better off having a marginally civil relationship. For the sake of the people we love.”

“You think you’re so clever?” Tybalt snapped.

“Not clever, but right.”

Tybalt glared at him, but some of the edge was gone from his posture. He looked irritated and frustrated more than angry now, like a child deprived of a favorite activity. Mercutio sometimes had that same look. “Just stay out of my way,” Tybalt said, without much menace and walked away, leaving Romeo to lean against the wall of the alleyway and stare thoughtfully up into the sky for several minutes.

Romeo knew that Tybalt did not need to threaten him with what would happen if he ever hurt Juliet. That was plain as day to any fool. It did not need to be said anymore than Romeo needed to explain what he would be willing to do if Tybalt ever dared to abuse Mercutio’s rekindled affection for him.

On these points, they understood each other implicitly.

Chapter Text

Tybalt waited to make any visits until after Mercutio had moved back to the palace. This allowed him to be fitted neatly into Romeo and Benvolio’s new routine. Tybalt spoke as little to them as he could, and always only out of necessity, and ensured that when he came to see Mercutio, his friends were not present. “They don’t bite,” Mercutio told him with clear amusement, but Tybalt merely looked away and said nothing. He was not used to being civil with Montagues and the forced necessity stung. He tried to console himself with the thought that at least the situation was likely no less uncomfortable and awkward for them. Benvolio, at least, always watched him with badly disguised suspicion and dislike. Romeo, however, went through an alarming shift from strained politeness that covered up feelings similar to Benvolio’s, to awkwardness coupled with tentative goodwill, to an attitude that seemed to suggest that he found Tybalt more amusing and odd than anything else, the way one might look at an eccentric older relative.

Tybalt came to see Mercutio about three time a week in the afternoons and stayed for a couple of hours, usually accompanying Mercutio on the outdoor garden walks he had begun to take.

They spoke little at first, finding that what had united them before had either evaporated, was currently unavailable due to Mercutio’s illness, or was too awkward to speak of. Mercutio disliked that Tybalt witnessed so closely his state of physical vulnerability, but he had seen worse during his secret visits, and there was no escaping the fact that Mercutio needed a companion for these walks, and when Benvolio or Romeo were not around, Tybalt made for better company than the Prince’s staff or Paris, who took it upon himself to see Mercutio more often, now that he was at hand and presentable.

“My fiancé has been distant,” Paris complained. “I fear she might change her mind.”

“I think she already has,” Mercutio told him, disguising a smug grin with a wince.

“I should speak to her father of it.”

“Do you think they are in the mood for this?” Mercutio asked, raising his eyebrows. “Now that Tybalt’s trial is nearly at hand?”

“Something tells me, cousin, that your concern is affected and false,” Paris said, a little bitterly.

Mercutio clung tighter to Paris’ arm to irritate him. “I could never!” he said in the most affected manner he could manage and laughed at Paris’ scandalized expression.

Mercutio told both Romeo and Tybalt of these conversations. Romeo smiled, but found that he harbored little true ill will toward Paris, now feeling his jealousy to have been entirely misplaced. Tybalt’s reaction was a scoff and a bitter, “She’s being courted by a useless fop and married a useless Montague. Why must Juliet be cursed with such obscene lack of good suitors?” Mercutio had allowed the comment to slide as they were nearing the end of their walk and Mercutio was somewhat reliant on Tybalt’s arm to not stumble and fall on his face.

*~*

The season turned to fall, the sun becoming less punishing. Mercutio’s physicians prescribed more time outdoors to take in the fresh air and after over a month of being cooped up inside, Mercutio obliged them without protest. The Prince’s own health and some urgent diplomatic matters pushed off Tybalt’s trial, especially since it no longer seemed as pressing of a matter nearly two months after the events it was meant to address.

Tybalt continued his visits. Pox grew accustomed to him and ran to greet him the same as he ran to greet Romeo and Benvolio. Sometimes, Mercutio would have the servants set up a picnic for them in the gardens for luncheon and Mercutio would watch Tybalt play catch with the pup, occasionally catching him in a rare unguarded smile.

Their walks grew longer and their silences more comfortable. Mercutio continued to hold on to Tybalt’s arm, even when he no longer needed the support. Tybalt likely suspected but never commented. It was like that with other small things as well – a hand on Mercutio’s shoulder here, an arm around his waist for support there, a curt but sincere, “I will do it,” whenever Mercutio needed something buttoned or unlaced that would require him to bend into an uncomfortable position. At some point, Mercutio stopped recoiling from every offer of assistance, and Tybalt stopped looking like he expected to be punched in the face every time he made one.

Once, when Tybalt came earlier than expected, he found Mercutio in a state of some undress and in the middle of a bandage change procedure. His wound had almost fully healed, no longer leaking fluid or coming apart in places, but the skin was still tender and the area uneven and scabbed over, the edges still a little raised and puffy. It would be an unattractive and obvious scar. The bandages were no longer strictly necessary, but the Prince’s physician, who attended Mercutio since his return to the palace, felt that it would be wise to keep the bandaging for a while longer out of a precaution as well as the fact that it helped keep the balms and ointment applied to the healing wound moist and in place for longer. A tighter binding also seemed to help relieve residual pain during movement.

As soon as he was able, Mercutio insisted on doing his own bandage changes, though he sometimes struggled with them. It was bad enough to be attended by servants in such matters, but on seeing Tybalt walk in on such an awkward moment, made Mercutio curse and throw the nearest item at hand. In Tybalt’s direction. “Tybalt, get out. You’re early.”

“You don’t have anyone attend you?” Tybalt asked, a little bemused, knowing things would go faster and Mercutio would be more comfortable if someone helped him.

“I don’t need anyone to bloody attend me,” Mercutio glared at the last ointment he had slathered on, which had decided to slowly run down his side.

Tybalt sighed and shut the door behind himself. “Here, let me do it.”

“Oh fuck off, I can do it myself.”

“Don’t be a stubborn asshole and sit down.” Tybalt picked up a washcloth and gently mopped up the excess fluid on Mercutio’s side.

Mercutio made a face at him, but did not protest further. “I’ve done this myself plenty of times,” Mercutio insisted, now pouting, even as he sat down and Tybalt knelt in front of him.

“I’m sure you have, you vain little shit,” Tybalt said, hiding an amused smile as he unrolled a set of clean bandages. “Can’t stand anyone seeing you’re a human. Always must pretend you’re some fucking demidemon.”

“I prefer demigod, but as you wish.”

Tybalt rolled his eyes. “Stay still.”

Mercutio watched him as Tybalt first placed the inner dressing over the wound area, then carefully wound the bandages around Mercutio’s abdomen to secure it, tightened them with a slow tug. Mercutio bit his lip to not wince. Tybalt looked up and met his eyes. “Sorry.” His gaze lingered for a moment and Mercutio nodded numbly, caught off guard by the clenching feeling in his stomach at the sight of Tybalt kneeling before him, looking up at him through strands of dark hair that fell over his forehead and thick dark eyelashes. His expression was soft, focused, eyes dark. Mercutio had too many memories of Tybalt in a similar position, though in a very different context. “Is that too tight?”

“No.”

Tybalt went back to work, adjusting and fastening the bandaging. His fingers worked quickly, as though he was familiar with the process. Far more familiar than anyone having no medical training should be. But such is Verona, Mercutio thought, flushing as he realized that goosebumps erupted over his back every time Tybalt’s warm fingertips grazed against his skin. “There,” Tybalt said, standing up. “Good as new.”

Mercutio looked away, embarrassed. “…Thank you.”

Tybalt turned away from him and went to look out the window to give Mercutio some privacy as he finished dressing. “Do you want to walk?”

“Yes.”

*~*

“So,” Mercutio said one day, lying down on the grass in a patch of sunlight and twirling a small branch of grapes between his fingers. “Does this mean we’re friends again?” He gestured between himself and Tybalt.

“Must we talk about it?” Tybalt asked rolling his eyes.

“I’d like to know where we stand.” Mercutio tossed a grape at him.

Tybalt snatched it out of the air and ate it with an exaggerated expression of satisfaction. “Such a princess, Mercutio.”

“Did you expect anything different?” Mercutio tossed a another grape into the air and let it fall into his open mouth.

“You’re going to choke doing that one day.”

“A happy day for you, I suppose.”

“A happy day for everyone.”

Mercutio snorted. “A month ago I would have thought you might mean that in earnest.”

“For all you know I still do.”

“Mmm,” Mercutio hummed contentedly, staring up at the sky, “I don’t think so.”

*~*

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Tybalt said, eyeing Mercutio, who held two practice swords, uncertainly.

“Why not? I feel well, my wound has closed, and it gives me only occasional trouble of significance lately. I need to get back into shape eventually.”

“You are aware that wounds like yours may reopen if they are strained too much too early, aren’t you?”

Mercutio rolled his eyes. “Your concern is touching, but come, Tybalt, you’ve done so well in presenting yourself as my friend. You haven’t even threatened death of my Montague friends for – what? – two-three weeks? That must be a lifetime record for you. Indulge me in this.”

“Speaking of your Montague friends, do they do this with you?”

Mercutio gave him a long-suffering look. “Benvolio would probably have an aneurism if he found out, but since when does their opinion matter to you?”

Tybalt smirked and Mercutio knew he had won. Of course he would help Mercutio in something secretive that his Montague friends did not know about and would disapprove of, even if he still looked a little dubious as he took one of the practice swords from Mercutio.

They both knew this would not be a true, well-matched sparring match. Mercutio was still too heavy and slow on his feet, his strength not completely returned, his range of motion somewhat limited. But Mercutio longed for real movement, for the rush of sparring, of holding a sword again. He and Tybalt circled each other, the soft September sun glinting off their dulled practice swords. For a moment, Mercutio had a flash of their duel, and then another flash, somehow full of pain and fear. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but it was gone in a moment.

Mercutio made the first attack, and then another. Tybalt parried and responded with a flourish. He clearly held back, not wanting to hurt Mercutio and, perhaps, embarrass him too much. As they exchanged blows, Mercutio felt his blood began to rise. He had missed this. Awfully. The mild discomfort he felt in his side at some of the twists and turns he performed for sneak attacks and parries was negligible in light of the adrenaline suddenly pumping through his body.

Fencing had always felt a little like flying to him. Fencing with Tybalt especially so.

He tried harder, forced himself to go faster, even when his body protested, in hopes of getting Tybalt to respond in kind. Mercutio grinned in triumph when he managed to push Tybalt back a couple of steps and disengage in order to regroup. Another set of steps, and Mercutio thought he saw an opening under Tybalt’s arm. He lunged for it—

A sharp pain sliced through his side, echoing through his arm and reverberating in his chest. Mercutio let out a strangled cry and dropped his practice sword. He stumbled backwards, clutching at his side. He heard, as though from a distance, Tybalt cursing vehemently.

“I told you this was a bad idea, you idiot. Are you alright?”

Mercutio did not respond. His head spun. He took his hand away from his side and blanched – the palm was bright red.The swords were supposed to be dull… Bile rose up at the back of his throat and he felt his knees give out from under him. He looked up at Tybalt with betrayal in his eyes and could not parse whether Tybalt looked satisfied or horrified.

As his vision blurred, Mercutio saw Tybalt start and sprint toward him. Strong arms wrapped around his waist and lowered him slowly to the ground. “Mercutio? Mercutio,” Tybalt’s low voice said against his ear. “It’s alright. What’s wrong? Tell me what you feel.”

“The blood…” Mercutio said, dumbly. He looked down at his hand again and started when he didn’t see blood. “There was blood… Where…?”

“Hush. What blood? Where? Here, lay down, let me see.”

Instead of laying down on the ground, Mercutio slumped against Tybalt’s chest, which was a lot more comfortable. His breathing was ragged and he realized he was shaking. His side ached dully, but just beneath that ache he could almost feel an older, sharper pain which wasn’t really there but floated up to him through the haze of memory.

“Let me see,” Tybalt repeated, unbuttoning Mercutio’s doublet and unlacing his linen shift, carefully exposing the soft skin of his chest and abdomen. Tybalt inspected him for a few moments, lips pursed in consternation, then said, with a heavy sight. “There’s no blood. There’s nothing. You’re fine.” The corner of his lip curled and his tone began to slip into mockery, but as soon as he looked into Mercutio’s panicked face, his expression softened. “Oh…” Tybalt breathed out softly. “I see.”

Mercutio wasn’t certain what it was Tybalt saw in his eyes, but he did not protest when Tybalt gathered him up into his lap and stroked a hand through his hair.

“it’s alright. You’re absolutely aright. Don’t go back there, Mercutio. Look at me.”

Mercutio did as he was told. He looked up into Tybalt’s face and focused on the feeling of Tybalt’s fingers lacing through his hair. Slowly, his breathing settled. As his panic receded, embarrassment and shame came to take their place. Mercutio tried to push himself up and out of Tybalt’s lap, but Tybalt held him tighter.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Give yourself a minute. I won’t tell anyone this happened.”

“You better not, or I will murder you in your sleep. Fuck. Even I don’t know what happened.”

“You went through a lot of pain. It’s going to sit in your mind for some time and come up to bite you in the ass occasionally,” Tybalt said, without any judgement or mockery. There was a warm, lingering concern in his eyes.

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve heard that’s what happens sometimes when people go through such pain or other disturbing and distressing events. I have an uncle who was in a battle when he was younger – a real battle – and he has these…moments, sometimes.”

“Wonderful,” Mercutio muttered.

“It might not last forever,” Tybalt said, trying to sound confidently reassuring.

Mercutio looked up into his face and felt the strange yet familiar sweet ache in his chest that he used to associate with Tybalt when he was younger. He wanted to press closer against Tybalt’s chest, to hear Tybalt’s soothing, deep voice against his ear. Even more so, he wanted to rediscovery what Tybalt’s lips tasted like, especially now that they were slightly parted and bright red from the strawberries they had eaten earlier.

Tybalt held his gaze for a long moment, then slowly brough his face closer to Mercutio’s—

Loud, happy voices cut through the stillness of the inner garden. Pox’s excited barking followed, announcing Romeo and Benvolio’s arrival.

Tybalt sat back and let go of Mercutio so quickly that Mercutio nearly tumbled out of his lap.

“Fuck,” Mercutio muttered, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt in an attempt to make himself look presentable again. “Help me up, I don’t want them to ask questions. Or to worry.”

Tybalt helped Mercutio stand, then kicked their practice swords out of sight under a bench. Mercutio managed to button up his shirt and at least straighten his doublet before his friends rounded the corner and came into sight.

“Oh, hello,” Romeo said cheerfully. “We didn’t know Tybalt was here.”

“We got a bit carried away,” Mercutio explained, somewhat sheepishly. “Forget you two were coming.”

“Carried away?” Benvolio repeated, one eyebrow raised as he eyed Mercutio’s unbuttoned doublet.

Mercutio flushed, Tybalt glared, and Romeo snorted a laugh.

“We saw your uncle on the way in,” Benvolio said, sounding serious. “It seems he has returned from his diplomatic trip.”

“I didn’t know he was back; I had not seen him yet today,” Mercutio said, a sinking feeling in his stomach making his queasy all over again. If his uncle was back that meant…

“He mentioned,” Romeo said, carefully, “that he is setting the trial for the end of the week.”

“Oh,” Mercutio said. “He’s in a hurry all of a sudden.” He wanted to joke about it, but he had felt Tybalt stiffen beside him and his own mind raced as he tried to imagine what his uncle would do.

“I should go,” Tybalt said.

“Stay,” Mercutio said, making a small move toward him, but forcing himself to stop.

Tybalt shook his head and headed for the entrance of the gardens. “Montague,” he said stiffly to Romeo as he passed him. He did not look back at Mercutio as he left.

Mercutio looked up at his friends, eyes full of pleading, letting them see the myriad of emotions he had not expected to ever again have for Tybalt but which, now, filled him to the brim and made his eyes sting with tears. He had never wanted Tybalt to die for the duel, and now he no longer wanted anything to happen to him at all.

Romeo and Benvolio exchanged glances, then closed the space between themselves and Mercutio and put their arms around him. “Don’t worry,” Romeo said quietly against his temple. “We will all stand behind him. The Prince will not have it in him to do anything drastic if we all support Tybalt together. There will be no reason or justification for it.”

Mercutio nodded tearfully, and embraced his friends, his mind still racing with the same thought that he did not quite dare voice yet, even to them: I think I am fool enough to love him again.

*~*

The night before the trial, Tybalt came to Mercutio’s rooms mildly tipsy and completely unexpected.

Mercutio let him in and took out a bottle of wine for himself. He was not in the mood to be sober anyway. “I would like to think my uncle will be reasonable,” he said, taking a long drink straight from the bottle.

“Wouldn’t we all,” Tybalt said, a little glumly. “Part of me wanted to get shit faced drunk.”

“Why didn’t you?” Mercutio asked, sincerely. “No one could blame you. In the circumstances.”

Tybalt shrugged. After a moment, he looked back up at Mercutio and beckoned him over. “Come here.”

Mercutio obliged, sauntering across the room in a swagger that was far more confident than he felt. He was already finished with a third of the wine bottle. When he got within reach, Tybalt snatched the bottle away from him and tossed it out the open window. It shattered loudly against the cobblestones below. “Tybalt!” Mercutio complained. “What the hell? That was perfectly good wine!”

“Fuck the wine.”

“I see you’re more drunk than I first thought,” Mercutio said, giving him a petulant look.

Tybalt glared at him. “Oh, shut up.”

Almost on instinct, Mercutio returned, “Make me.”

They both froze, a jolt of electricity passing between them.

With a growl, Tybalt grabbed the front of Mercutio’s shirt and pulled him forward, smashing their mouths together in a hard and desperate kiss. For a moment, Mercutio floundered, his hands flapping aimlessly at his sides. Then, he grabbed at Tybalt’s shoulders, his nails digging into the thick fabric of his doublet, and pressed them flush against each other. Mercutio’s could hear his own heartbeat in his ears and feel Tybalt’s even through the layers of clothing.

When they pulled away, they were both panting.

“Took us fucking long enough,” Mercutio said, his grin both cheeky and elated.

“I just wanted—” Tybalt started haltingly, his hands wondering over Mercutio’s shoulders and back, as though he was trying to get a hold on all of him all at once. “Just in case, I needed to tell you… I needed you to know…” He could not quite finish, and slumped forward to rest his forehead against Mercutio’s.

“Well, at least if you die tomorrow, you will know you’ve had the pleasure of kissing me once again.” Mercutio said lightly.

Tybalt made a low sound deep in his throat and made a pained grimace. “Sometimes I think I never should have stopped hating you.”

Mercutio laughed and cupped his face with both hands. “Sweet Tybalt,” he said with an expression of pure earnestness, “you should have thought of that sooner.” And kissed him once again.

*~*

In the morning, Mercutio, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet and Benvolio stood huddled together in Mercutio’s sitting room, dithering on heading down to the Prince’s audience chamber where a large number of people was already gathering.

Tybalt’s expression was drawn and pinched, even as Mercutio slid an arm around his waist for comfort. Juliet held Tybalt’s hand on the other side, happy for the reassuring comfort of Romeo’s arm around her waist. Romeo and Benvolio stood close enough to touch and Benvolio had a hand on Mercutio’s shoulder. Someone who did not know them might have thought that they had all been friends and family to each other for years.

“it’s almost time,” Benvolio said finally.

Mercutio swallowed visibly and Tybalt squeezed Juliet’s hand, who squeezed it back.

“Just remember,” Romeo said, meeting Tybalt’s eyes. “We will all stand beside you. Your family and mine do not get along but I want to put that behind us. So that something like this never happens again. Juliet loves you; Mercutio loves you. That is reason enough for me to stand with you.”

“Aye,” Benvolio agreed somberly.

Tybalt nodded, a little stiffly. He looked down into Juliet’s open, loving face and sucked in a breath. He glanced at Mercutio and bit his lip. “Juliet,” Tybalt said slowly. “Monta—Romeo. It is true that I did not approve of all this – your marriage – to begin with. I still have my doubts, I confess. But…” He met Romeo’s eyes. “I am a man of honor and I recognize the honor you show in standing with me for the sake of the people who care about me and whom you profess to love. I know we have not discussed this – with either of you – but I promise that if I am in any position to do so after today, I will stand with you when you make your marriage known and I will do everything I can to support your union in the face of our families’ certain disapproval.”

“Oh, Tybalt!” Juliet exclaimed, almost jumping into his arms.

“Thank you,” Romeo said, solemnly.

“I still don’t like you, though,” Tybalt added, but it did not sound very menacing.

“No, of course not, no one could accuse or suspect you of that,” Mercutio said with good natured sarcasm. “Tybalt must hate at least one Montague, otherwise he will surely expire on the spot.”

They laughed and some of the tension seeped out of the room. Then, they walked down to the Prince’s audience chamber to face the rest of their lives, together.