Chapter Text
The straw rustled next to him, and Romeo opened one eye. Tybalt was wiping his hand clean in the bedding, his lips pursed in distaste. He did not complain, however, and when he had cleaned up to his satisfaction, he stretched out long legs and slumped sideways against Romeo.
Mercutio reached down and fumbled around until he managed to pet Tybalt's hair, not actually bothering to lift his face from where he'd hidden it against Romeo. "Does the kitten need a hand?"
Tybalt's snort was annoyed, but he batted Mercutio's hand away without much aggression. "I don't need any help from you."
"Ohh..." Mercutio turned his face, stage-whispering into Romeo's ear. "I do believe he enjoyed the sight. Truly, we probably do make a sweeter example than most of the two-backed beasts he is used to seeing; what we lack in curves and paint, we compensate with the absence of sores."
Romeo heaved a sigh. "Mercutio, please."
"I prattle; I do that, or so I have heard told. And who am I to argue with the wisdom of a man of world, married and peacekeeping as he is?"
"Hah, as if you are one to obey me! You'd argue with God the Father himself if it would amuse you."
"You won't have to argue with Prince Escalus," Tybalt interrupted them, his voice growing harsher again.
Romeo bent forward, careful to keep hold of Mercutio, and gave him a curious glance. "How do you mean? I am fairly certain that our prince would be happy to turn us all into pillars of salt, and I'd almost believe his wrath to have the power to do so."
Tybalt did not look up at him, his profile sharp and tragic; some of his bruises had deepened in color from blotchy red and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, though Romeo was heartened to see the lines of anger wiped away.
"You love this fool, do you?"
"I do," Romeo admitted proudly. "He is my best friend. And Julia I love as my wife and the sunlight of my future."
"Mhm." There was a moment's silence before Tybalt let loose a small laugh. "I shall explain things to the prince. Provided – and I will question her on this, before I say anything at all! – that Julia agrees. Yes. As long as Julia entered this marriage of her own free will. As long as you," he waved his hand, and Romeo almost thought he wished to wipe off these words in the straw as well, "are what brings her joy, you will have my support. Whatever it is worth. And you may keep your fool around as well. Perhaps he will amuse her. The prince will not blame you."
Romeo was about to answer when Mercutio pinched him in warning. This time, his words were soft as a bird's flight through the air, but the warning in them rang loud and clear.
"Beware, Romeo. If you wish to be rid of him – and who'd blame you? – then agree," Mercutio breathed against his ear. "But if you wish to keep the lout around – take care."
He closed his mouth, frowned, and tried to think. It was not easy, for he was sated in body, and exhausted in mind – but with Mercutio's warning, he thought he saw the shape of Tybalt's solution. It no more appealed to Romeo now than it had when they entered the cell.
"We all share a measure of blame," Romeo began, knowing he sounded too hesitant but unable to imitate certainty when he had none. "While I did not take part in this latest battle, I too have broken the peace of the streets without a thought for the consequences." A gentle pressure, and Mercutio climbed off, settling himself on the straw.
"This doesn't half scratch," he remarked.
Ignoring his friend, Romeo continued. "I would not ask you to speak any more than the truth, Tybalt. There was a fight, yes, but I think we can promise it will not happen again. If Prince Escalus punishes you and Mercutio... He will not go too far, and hand out more than you can bear."
"You put much trust in the prince's mercy, and his patience," was all Tybalt would reply.
"Even if it has been too strained lately, he is a fair man and a good ruler," Romeo argued. "And beyond my love for Julia, this marriage may at last mean peace! He will see that and not wish to upset it by bloody retribution."
"Better to sweep away the shadows of the past first. Then you will have peace," Tybalt said. "Peace and joy, and Julia's presence."
And neither would be left for him, so why ought he even strive any longer? As he had not voiced that thought directly, so Romeo dared not oppose him openly. Instead he only mumbled something vague about hoping for joy and the fulfilling peace of love for them all.
Tybalt chose silence, and after a while, he rose and walked gingerly over to the bars of the cell.
Too tired to think of the right words, Romeo lay down on his uncomfortable bedding, Mercutio on one side and the cold stone on the other.
"The third bucket for washing?" Tybalt asked.
"Yes." Romeo fell silent again, his thoughts crawling like snails through his mind.
"You should bring us some water," Mercutio demanded. "It is not our fault that you are too stubborn to accept a helping hand."
The wet rag that smacked down on Romeo's stomach was cold and unpleasant; he sat up with a sputter and lifted it off.
When he glared over at Tybalt, he saw him kneeling by the water, using another piece of fabric to – oh, that was why he had not wished for their assistance.
Wiping himself off, then handing the rag to Mercutio, Romeo considered his next actions. He wished, most of all, to sleep. No; in truth, he wished most of all to sleep in his own bed, with Julia in his arms and the knowledge that peace ruled in Verona. He would not have that much even in his dreams if he slipped away now, with so many worries still churling inside.
Finished with his ablutions, Tybalt quickly laced up his trousers again. Then he settled against the bars and slipped his wounded hand into their washing bucket. He seemed prepared to drift off in that position. Perhaps it would be good for his burn, but the memory of how they had entered the cell rankled at Romeo. While Mercutio might be next to him, instead of on the other bunk, it was still too similar to that first hour of silent anger.
"You never told us how you damaged your hand so," Mercutio drawled. Romeo wondered if he had followed the same pattern of thought.
Tybalt snorted and refused to reply.
"Did you have an accident while baking, perchance? Wait – your pardon, I did not mean to imply that you would lift a hand without violence as the goal. Did you burn yourself on the fires of lust, perhaps? Or were stung by empty money pouches – the ladies of the night can very unwelcoming if your gold runs out, or so I've heard told," he said in an aside to Romeo. "What else might there be..."
"Would you just shut up," Tybalt said, voice tired. "What I burn for is none of your business."
"Ah, but it has just recently become mine!" Mercutio rolled over on his stomach, supporting himself on his hands, and threw a bright smile at Tybalt's glower. "You see, my dear friend, my accomplice, my beloved comrade in so many jests and pranks – he has married into your house! Why, though Julia will take his name, from his actions tonight, I might just as well consider him a little kitten too! And thus, for Romeo, I cannot have you break his kin. Not when he so clearly wishes to keep in sight your ungentle face."
Tybalt frowned at them. "What?"
"It would upset Julia to hear of your pain," Romeo added, also turning around and slinging an arm around Mercutio. He was certain that his eyes gleamed as earnestly as whenever his mother scolded him. "I could not have that! I have sworn to offer her only joy throughout my days."
"It would upset Romeo to see Julia's pain." Mercutio took up the thread easily and cocked his head against Romeo's. In this way, they had once pleaded with the prince himself, and won that argument as well. "I cannot have that, on my honour as the jester of my beloved's court!"
"Merc –"
"Nay, hear me! I shall bring him laughter throughout his days, I shall see them flourish in joy and when their love has ripened and borne fruit, I shall most decidedly teach the saplings all the youthful joys their parents are sure to have forgotten. And you, sourpuss that you are, seem necessary for this vision of delight. Perhaps as bitter herbs aid in the distillation of joyful spirits, so your snarls shall give a fuller note to our city of gardens and nightly whispers? As substanceless as this mirage of a finer future may appear, think, my tomcat prince, of the bouquet of costly spirits and the promise of delights they offer. Invisible for certain, and a promise of a headache more than all else – yet tangible, and the sweetest path to death one might taste. Shall we not let ourselves become drunk on this promise of hope as well?"
Giving up on following Mercutio's words, Romeo dared to offer Tybalt a shrug of shared confusion. "Why not join us here? Won't be too comfortable, but I don't think we'll find much comfort in this cell anyway. Some warmth at least we could share."
Shaking his head, Tybalt sounded wrung out when he spoke. "But why bother?"
"Because otherwise, I suspect Mercutio will needle and demand until we are both dizzy from his talk." Romeo did not have to feign his yawn.
Finally, Tybalt rose, nearly staggered for a moment, then walked over to them. He looked down at Romeo, who pushed Mercutio aside and pressed himself against the wall: it would truly be narrow to share this bed, but that price seemed easy enough to pay for one night.
The darkening shadows beneath Tybalt’s eyes and the slump to his bearing stole the haughtiness from his features. He had removed the bandage, although he still protected the burn with his other hand. It seemed, suddenly, not a sacrifice at all to invite him to join them in what little comfort they had.
"I have a request," he said.
"I am not moving." Mercutio took hold of a lace from Tybalt's trousers and tugged at it with two fingers. "Spare yourself the shame, and do not even make that demand."
For once, Tybalt heeded Romeo's advice and ignored him. "If you –" He swallowed, eyes twitching shut as if the words pained him, but carried on, although his voice deepened into his usual snarl as he spoke. "I have one request only, and it is that if you have children. If Julia...if you have children with Julia, then please. Do not." Tybalt lifted his burned hand and pressed it to his lips. "Do not raise them as Capulets would. Please."
"Neither as Capulets, nor as Montagues," Romeo promised immediately. "The blood of our families may run in both me and my bride, but the hatred that was their legacy will not continue past us. So I swear, or may God strike me down."
Then Tybalt gave him his burned hand, squeezing too hard as was his wont. Although Romeo's fingers must have hurt him, he squeezed back to seal their oath.
When they had all settled into a pile of too many limbs in too little space, where Romeo's back and buttocks kept coming into contact with the rough stone, he nevertheless hooked a leg around his friend and threw a sheltering arm over them both. Then Romeo closed his eyes and made himself limp; pretended not to hear nor see the choked whimpers Tybalt could not hide in the straw. He forced his breathing as even as he could, and did not listen to Mercutio hum a soft tune of comfort, only occasionally broken by trembling breaths; never would he let on that he saw too well the reason for his friend's empathy with a broken heart.