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In the end the exile was expected, only a fool could think things would go smoothly after everything that happened. Honestly, the only smooth thing was that now Romeo and Juliet could live together in peace.
Mercutio tried to convince himself that it was a good thing the Capulets were now far from Verona, he tried so hard, he tried every single day for months. And yet, at the end of every day, staring at the ceiling of his room, his mind wondered how Tybalt was, where he was, if he was still mad at everything and everyone, if he ever missed Verona, and Juliet. And him. Mercutio really tried but everything he knew and held dear until then started to crumble since the morning he woke up alive.
He still had Romeo, and Benvolio, and he loved Juliet as a sister, he really did, but everything else was a blur.
He missed him, missed their fights, the clang of their swords and the words they exchanged, he missed the soft spoked words the night hid from the rest of the world, his hair, soft as silk that Mercutio claimed to envy so much, that he said were too beautiful wasted on him. And he always said that in between kisses and smiles. He missed the one and only he ever in his life claimed as his, and he missed him so much it hurt.
But until then he knew nothing of pain and hurt. He was still a child and knew absolutely nothing. Until then.
The letter arrived in secret; it was left in his chamber, Mercutio didn’t know who did it, but he immediately recognized the handwriting. Well, it was a little different, a little more shaky and uncertain, but always so elegant.
Until then he knew nothing of heartbreak. Then he opened the letter.
It was short, words of love he was used to hear at night and that always made him smile, they still did, apologies for what Mercutio called a mistake, an accident, a splatter of ink on the page.
Red.
It took a moment to realize it probably wasn’t ink.
“I just have one wish. – the red splattered ink, that ink wasn’t, was there – I wish to see you again one last time. If you could come here, in secret, if you would allow me one last wish. Please.”
He could almost picture him smiling as he asked him that, as he begged him, he gave no explanation, not that Mercutio needed one, he had always been good at reading him, and Tybalt wrote last twice in a couple of words, it couldn’t be casual.
Until then Mercutio knew nothing of death, not really. Not until, three days later, he reached the house the now disgraced Capulet family was living their exile. He sneaked in easily, asked a servant to take him to Tybalt and paid her for silence. There was something in the way the woman looked at him upon hearing the name, almost sympathy, or pity, sadness even. But she led the way and refused the money.
“Only a few of us come here, there’s no need to ask for secrecy or silence. My Lord never cared and the Lady… she simply stopped.” She said opening the door enough for Mercutio to slip inside before leaving. “I don’t even know what you hope to find.” He thought he heard her whisper, but why?
The room was simple, a closet slightly open, a small desk and a chair, and the bed. And Tybalt. That was all.
There was something off, and Mercutio knew it wasn’t the emptiness of the room. Tybalt looked almost too small for that bed, it looked like the blankets were ready to swallow him and make him disappear into thin air. He moved closer stopping at his side and taking in the whole picture. The light was dim, but enough for him to see everything he needed. See how pale his face was, see the dark circles under his eyes and the discomfort on his face even in his sleep. His hair spread in disarray on the pillow and the dried stains of blood.
He wanted to cry. Mercutio sat on the side of the bed, a hand carefully moving through his hair, caressing his head and cheek, his thumb hovering over his cracked lips. Tybalt moaned painfully, he moved slowly under the blankets and blinked his eyes. It took him way too long to recognize Mercutio by his side, actually it took him too much to even realize someone was there, let alone recognize who it was. But when he did, he cracked a smile so painful Mercutio whimpered before leaning down and kissing his forehead.
“You’re… You’re real. Really here.” His voice was barely a whisper, his lips so dry Mercutio thought they would split open in a moment. But Tybalt kept smiling at him. “I dreamt of it. Of you. Here. And now…” He stopped, coughed painfully, his body shaking under the blankets, blood dripping down his chin and he was left breathless. When he stopped blood was the only colour on his ashen face and Mercutio wanted to cry even more than before.
Slowly, carefully, he cleaned his lips letting a few drops of water drop in his mouth; he wasn’t sure he could really drink, he wasn’t sure he could even sit for a couple of minutes.
“You asked – he forced his voice out trying his best not to break. - and I came. What happened?” He wanted to tell him he was trying to convince his uncle to let him return to Verona, that he needed him there and that it was all an unfortunate accident.
“Sick…” He let out a small laugh shaking his head and smiled down at the man cupping his face with a hand. God, he was so cold.
“I can definitely see that, my love. But how?” Tybalt shook his head slightly.
“Tired. Always tired… - He slurred suppressing another fit of cough. - Stopped eating.” He looked away from Mercutio, shame washed all over his face. “Stopped caring. - He admitted and Mercutio felt his heart drop. Did it happened because of the exile? Or maybe Tybalt would have got sick anyway? - Then… then blood. And you. Now.” Tears fell from his eyes, his hand, thin and white, searched Mercutio’s hand, there was no strength in his hold but he couldn’t dream of letting it go. Tybalt was crying, but still smiling at him. There were so many questions in Mercutio’s mind but instead he gently lifted his body – so small, and thin, and frail. - hugging him tightly.
“I’m not leaving you. Remember, my sweet prince? We’ll be together until the very end.” He said ignoring how his voice broke and how tears rolled down his cheeks too, now. Tybalt nodded weakly, he lifted a hand wiping his tears away.
“Together.” He repeated in a whisper. Then his hand fell limp at his side and he closed his eyes, head slumping against Mercutio’s chest. He was smiling when his chest remained still and Mercutio’s tears turned into sobs as he held his body.
When he left Verona early that morning he knew nothing of pain and hurt and heartbreak and death. But he knew of love. That he did. And now his love laid dead in his arms, smiling only because he managed to see him one last time.
When he returned home he wasn’t the same person who left in secret, he was a shadow of himself, eyes hollow and distant, voice small, not anymore loud, no more laughter and jokes.
He whispered an apology to Juliet but said nothing else. No names, nothing but a small, broken “I’m sorry.” as he held his hands aruond the small cross he carried around his neck almost like that would ground him. There was no need to say anything, she knew, she understood. She smiled, her eyes shining with tears she didn’t want to shed.
“He loved you. - She said, and a tear escaped her hold, and after that all the others and they end up on the floor holding each other in a desperate hug that Romeo, arrived only in that moment, couldn’t understand why they cried, sobbing in each other arms. - I’m glad he wasn’t alone.”
Sometimes there were still fights in Verona, just because the main feud was over it didn’t mean everything was peaceful. Fights were the only thing that made Mercutio feel alive, even if it was only for a moment. He brought the cross to his lips, a quick prayer, not to God but to the one he once wore the necklace, then he unsheathed the dagger he carried at his side and grinned madly.
No one ever noticed the Capulet crest on the hilt until the day they arrived to his room and found the blade in his chest, a hand still weakly gripping it and a quiet, peaceful smile on his face.
“Together.”