Chapter Text
Romeo Montague had grown up in Verona and loved his city with heartfelt sincerity. His was the Verona of gardens, of scented greenery and fountains glittering in the sun. His was also the Verona of rowdy taverns and back-alley dives, where the dice rattled in smoky rooms until the sun rose and drew the gamblers home. All of it – the elegance of the balls, the wildness of Carnival, the demure ladies and the reckless girls – Romeo embraced and cherished.
He had told his friends once that even the piss-stinking alleys and flea-infested whorehouses had their place in his heart. Truthfully, he had been drunk enough that only Benvolio's teasing brought those words back later, but he was glad to stand by them. All of his Verona, Romeo would love.
So he was resolved, until Prince Escalus showed him the dungeons of Verona Castle.
With a heavy sigh, Romeo lifted his gaze from the dirty stone floor which he had been contemplating for some time. He was sitting on a pallet filled with straw, the strands prickling him through the fabric of his drawers. He, the golden son of House Montague, had been thrown into this dungeon like a lowly criminal.
Dirty, it was, and not from traces of revelry gone by. Certainly it was built from massive stone and held an aura of great age, yet it remained far from the glories of the ancient Romans and their marble memorials. This was stone which never strove towards heaven; this was dirt that was simply... dirt.
Shifting, Romeo grimaced again at the discomfort of the straw.
Opposite him, on the second pallet, Mercutio lifted his head and offered Romeo a lightning-quick grin. "Hath m'lord decided to stop contemplating his own sad state and acknowledge this wretch, who is caught in an even deeper bog?"
Romeo clenched his jaw, refusing to answer his friend's teasing words. If Mercutio's tongue hadn't been so quick to lash out before, maybe...
In the corner the furthest from the door, the third occupant of the cell slowly unfolded his long legs and buried a hand in the tangle of hair hiding his face. Romeo pointedly did not turn his way.
If Romeo chose silence, his friend had other things in mind, however. Mercutio's pointed smirk and the torchlight flickering in his light eyes revealed his interest, even before he spoke up in a lilting tone. "Sweet Tybalt stirs at last, released from Hypnos' chains! Will you alone join us in our imprisonment, or come also Lyssa and her sisters to visit? Either way, we will surely have a merry dance tonight!"
At that, Romeo felt forced to break his silence. "No, Mercutio. No more of this."
"He speaks! He breathes! Enmity awakens the tongue, where friendship fails! Grudge –"
"Mercutio, please!"
"– thy name is Montague."
Clenching his fists, Romeo fought back the urge to rise and give his friend a good smack across his cheeky mouth. He would not; violence had brought them here, awaiting the prince's judgement. And had he not arrived, who knew how deep they might have landed? If Escalus' entourage had come but moments later, Romeo suspected that they would have stood before a judge far more terrible than whatever court dawn might gather.
It might still end that way for his friend and – Romeo closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to the heavens – new-made kinsman.
"Please," Romeo attempted again, hoping to pour some oil on the restless waters of Mercutio's temper, before he truly did talk himself into the hangman's noose. "I am not angry with you –" He interrupted himself before Mercutio had time to do so. "No, truthfully, I am. Frightfully vexed and annoyed, in fact. But more than anything else, I worry."
When Mercutio laughed this time, there was, perhaps, an echo of regret in the sound.
"You worry? For me?" With a saucy wink, Mercutio leaned back on the pallet, somehow managing to look like a pearly spirit lounging in freedom instead of a skinny youth imprisoned. "Thank you, my dear friend, but you need not worry. My lord and kinsman will not lay a finger on this fine neck; perhaps he shall smack my hand –" He held it out to Romeo, as if he was a lady waiting for his suitor's kiss, "– and surely he will lecture my ears off, but from death's gaping maw I am assuredly safe."
"Bullshit."
Romeo halted in his reply, mouth still open and finger lifted in admonition. That growled word had only one possible source. It was the one he had hoped would remain in listless melancholy until morning came and with it, their freedom or doom.
"Well, well, well..." Mercutio laughed again.
He was used to hearing his friend's laughter, was Romeo; he had known it mocking and cheerful and drunk and triumphant, and many shades in between. But he could not recall ever hearing it so nasty before, and he shifted again on the scratchy straw, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the stone surrounding them. "Keep the peace," he hissed at Mercutio.
"What is this? Did the kitten wake on the wrong side? And have his claws been clipped, his pride wounded? Tybalt, oh Tybalt, they take your blade and they take your freedom, but you remain Tybalt indeed. Bravo!" Mercutio pressed three fingers to his lips and threw a kiss towards the corner and turned it into a an insult with the roll of his eyes and the mouthed curse that followed, before raising his voice again. "You need speak but a word, and the world knows your character at once!"
"You prattle like the clown you are," Tybalt replied. His voice was rusty, the words pronounced too stiffly, as if he could not recall how to shape them. "But you still stink like cowardice."
Hidden in shadow with his hair concealing any expression, Tybalt fumbled against his chest as if searching for something. He found nothing: the prince had stripped them of all belongings, leaving Mercutio and Romeo only their underthings and Tybalt his trousers.
Without the dark shirt and heavy coat he usually wore, Tybalt's limbs appeared disproportionate; not that he was starved lean, for his muscles stood out in wiry bands, but the arms were too long, as were the fingers curled fitfully over his bare chest. He pulled his legs back, the movement jittery, as if to put a wall of leather between himself and the world. Uncharitable as the thought was, the sight reminded Romeo of an insect crumpled in a corner; how odd, to think of someone stepping on Tybalt of the Capulets.
"Looking for your trinket? I think it lies in the square," Mercutio said. Tybalt's head jerked up, a pale sliver of face becoming visible. "No, pardon, I spoke too hastily and unwittingly voiced an untruth." He put his hands together, mocking a prayer, and inclined his head; had Romeo only spotted his expression then, he would have intervened, for he knew well that Capulets stung the worst when they appeared crushed. "By now it is either in a pawnbroker’s gentle care, or perhaps it was kicked away, trampled by the prince’s soldiers as they led away the rest of the Capulet spawn. In that case, it lies forgotten in the gutter, trashed and tarnished, just like your –"
"That is enough, Mercutio!" Romeo sprang up, stepping between the two men again. Although he was clad only in his linens, his tone of command was such that Mercutio fell silent.
Meanwhile Tybalt, who had begun to rise, froze, remaining crouched; now he seemed a wary beast. His fingers slowly curled, as if around the handle of a dagger.
"I love you like a brother, but I will hear no more of these words," Romeo said, "or I swear, upon all that I am and honor, that I will not greet you again. Nor see you, even, for you will be to me a scoundrel too foul to acknowledge." His heart beat a dangerous pulse, and each word tasted bitter as cold metal. But still he spoke: "I do not ask you to love this man." The choked noise from Tybalt drowned out Mercutio's affected gasp, but from the way his eyes widened and a flush rose on his cheeks, Romeo thought his message was taken seriously. Romeo could only hope that it would appeal to Mercutio's sense, instead of inflaming his pride and leading him even deeper into disaster. "However, Tybalt is my kinsman now, and as such –"
"No!" A vengeful shadow, a maddened dog. Tybalt rushed Romeo and grabbed his shoulders, trying to fling him against the wall with such force that he'd have left Romeo with a sizeable collection of bruises had Mercutio not thrown himself between them and the stone. Instead of feeling cold walls hit him, his friend's hand caught him, and it was Mercutio whose wind was knocked away, when the three of them impacted with a heavy thud.
"Shut up," Tybalt said, his a voice straining and cracking from agitation. "Do not speak – do not, you are not! You are no kin of mine!"
Wincing in sympathy at the sensation of Mercutio coughing at his back, Romeo managed to swallow his wrath once more. He dared to bring up his hand and clasp it loosely around Tybalt’s wrist, paying no attention to the way the grip on his shoulders grew painful. "It is the truth," he insisted. "Whatever your uncle might say, we have sworn it before God and each other. Julia is –"
"Shut up!" Tybalt pulled him closer, his spittle striking Romeo's face.
Holding his head high despite the manhandling, Romeo refused to let his anger free. He felt no guilt for old insults, and no longer cared for the tangle of their families' hatred. His love for Julia, his marriage to her, was honestly made and founded in love, and nothing would ever break it apart.
Now, though he felt Tybalt’s breath on his face, and heard behind him Mercutio's own laboured breathing, he took refuge in the memory of Julia. Their anger burned like fever against his bare skin; it was as if they both exhaled hatred that rose dizzyingly around him – but from her presence within his soul, he managed to find unexpected resources of peace.
The lines of rage marring Tybalt's features would once have annoyed him, and the snarled curses would have insulted the youthful Romeo of easy play and shifting temper. But now it was all too clumsy to truly reach him. What mattered mere words, when Julia was his wife? The gleam of madness in Tybalt's eyes – that was still a cause for worry. But to Romeo's surprise, beneath the anger...
"Shut up! Don't say anything more."
...he heard only fathoms of regret.
Their noses were almost touching. Behind him, Mercutio’s hands rested against his shoulderblades; thank the saints above, he held his tongue for the moment, although it might only be that he had no breath left to speak.
"I mean no disrespect," Romeo whispered, staring into Tybalt's eyes and trying to find the man hidden in their darkness. Where was the cousin Julia cared for, about whom she had spoken a few short words upon leaving the church? This man she had regretted to deceive with their secrecy, her lonely childhood's friend... Romeo failed to see him, but for Julia's sake, he would speak as if he did. "It is properly done," he promised, "and I shall cherish her and no other woman for the rest of my life."
Tybalt’s lips drew back, showing far too many teeth far too near for Romeo's comfort. It was as if his fury was stealing away all the remains of the man, leaving only the rabid alleycat of rumours and nasty taunts thrown at his back. As frightening as his strength and anger was, it was the recollection of the stubborn whispers of madness which rose in Romeo's mind. White teeth and eyes black with hatred, and it occurred to him that though they were unarmed, and Mercutio would aid him, it would not matter a whit if he could not break Tybalt's rage. For if the prince’s men returned in the morning, and found him with his throat chewed open and his heart torn out? Then Tybalt would show them this face again, only his lips would be stained with blood; and he was sure to consider death a worthy price to pay for the privilege to taste vengeance.
"Your locket is safe," he heard himself say, not knowing what impulse had given birth to the words. "All our belongings are in the care of the prince, you need not worry." There – a hint of surprise, a widening of his eyes, a man inside the armor of rage. "Pardon my friend for his thoughtless words; I can see that it is important to you. Does it contain your mother’s likeness?"
When Tybalt dropped him – immediate, unhesitant – Romeo fell, as agile as a sack of turnips, stumbling until Mercutio hooked his grip beneath his arm.
"My.... Hah!" He stood before them, almost trembling, and it took Romeo several heartbeats to realize that Tybalt was shaking from silent laughter and nothing else. "My mother..." The laughter cracked loose, falling out of him like crumbling bricks from an ill-built house. "My mother! That would be all I need!" And Tybalt turned from them, seeking support against the stone wall, shaking with his poison laughter.
"‘Tis not his mother, that sorrowful shade, nor his father, may the maggots chew at his restless soul," Mercutio said, his voice a sudden moist gust against Romeo’s ear, causing a trail of chills to work its way down his back. "I’ve spied it, once," he continued in the smallest whisper, "and ‘tis something far, far worse..."
Romeo tried to turn, found himself caught by his friend’s grip; he shivered when Mercutio walked his fingers up his naked belly, then dragged with sharp nails down his side.
"What do you mean?" he whispered, hoping Tybalt would not overhear.
A tickle of laughter against his ear, the sudden press of warmth against his back before Mercutio spoke from too close: "Oh, Romeo, dear Romeo – you see nothing, know nothing, walk with an angel's innocence in Hell. Why do you think Tybalt hates you so? Not as a Montague, not as a wicked, teasing pest, but with deepest hatred that wishes only for your death?"
"I... Why?"
Mercutio's reply was intimate as a lover's kiss; had he spoken any other word, Romeo might not have heard, so softly was it said. But Julia's name was branded upon his heart and into his dreams, and it rang through him like a hammer upon a bell, until his soul shuddered from the weight of the truth.
Behind him, he felt his friend nod slowly, the movement brushing against Romeo's hair. "Yes, my friend. Such is his pitiful self." Mercutio pressed his lips against the side of his neck, and held for a moment while Romeo's world shook, before he drew back with a loud, vulgar smack.
Tybalt laughter had ceased. In the dim cell, he seemed an unfinished statue emerging from the rough stone: all marble pallor and inky shadows, still and tragic as Death itself.
"Such jealousy you’ll find at the bottom of our sins, this tainted love that should not be," Mercutio continued, splaying his hand like a burning brand upon Romeo’s chest. He spoke slowly against the line of his ear, turning each word into a poisoned caress. "And you, Romeo! Taker of dreams and devourer of hope, who'd dance and break a world into dust with a few kisses alone. Take it away, finish the glittering ball with a theft unlike any in Verona! And so she stole you and we hated, and so she keeps you, and we cannot hate enough! That, my friend, is why Tybalt's hate will only grow with each new hour until the Prince puts an end to this vile hatred and hangs him until he is dead, dead, dead!"
His voice had been rising steadily, so that Mercutio screamed the final words into Romeo’s ear. Although Romeo clenched his eyes shut and twisted away, it was not from the tone or the rancor. Rather, he could not stand the disgust in Mercutio's voice, the daggers aimed inwards as well as against Tybalt. And harshest burned the slips, the careless reveals, which he might not even have noticed, had not Julia's name given clarity to his world. Such a small error from this silver-tongued angel so used to dancing on the edge of the pit. Such heavy words, dragging them all down.
Romeo tore himself free, staggered away. He grabbed onto the bars of their prison door and clung to it with cold hands, needing the stability of the prince's iron. He dared not glance at either his friend or enemy – kinsman – until he had taken a few heaving breaths.
When he finally looked back, he saw them both as he never had before.
Tybalt, proud Tybalt, half crumpled against the dirty wall. Dark Tybalt stripped of his sharp blade and insignia of rank. It left very little to fear, only a young man with sorrow in his face, whose stare burned with something other than hatred: jealousy.
Mercutio, his shining friend, the golden spirit who had cast off his crimson clothes rather than let his uncle's men lay hands on him. Now Mercutio too was stained with the pallor of regret, both desire and resignation too visible now that Romeo’s eyes were opened.
"I'm sorry," Romeo whispered and felt tears rising, tried to blink them back. "I'm – I did not know."
A ripple of a shrug along Mercutio's bony shoulders; a titter of a laugh. "Fret not, my dear. I did not meant for you to know; your world was to remain rosy, free and unfettered."
Mercutio had never spoken of it, but had shown his love in gestures beneath his laughter: in his loyalty and in a thousand affections great and small. Romeo had simply never seen, had been the fool in darkness – and was that not the tragedy itself, that only Julia could be the light by which he might at long last see his friend in truth?
When Mercutio sauntered up to him, he knew not whether to cringe away in shame or embrace him like a brother: the only love Romeo could offer, inadequate as it was.
His friend simply patted him on the arm, much like a visiting uncle might. "Truly, my pet, it's not for you to worry your sweet head about. I may be foolish in love, but I am not blind. Maidens have always been your weakness." Wickedness filled Mercutio's smirk and he dragged a finger down the pulse-line of Romeo's throat. "Besides, with old Capulet crying dishonor and disgrace, I think you have other worries than my lovesick folly."
"Have you dishonored her?"