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Romeo and Benvolio burst onto the piazza and stopped abruptly. All the words Romeo had been trying to string together in his mind evaporated. He wanted to stop Mercutio and Tybalt from fighting. That was the reason Benvolio and he were running. They had arrived too late for that though.
The autumn morning sun shone its slanting rays through a Renaissance stone composition on the square. It was a backlit Pieta, tragically still.
As Romeo advanced towards it, the Marian figure moved and was revealed to be Tybalt Capulet. He was crouched on the ground, holding Mercutio, and there was blood on his hands. Noticing Romeo, he looked up, his eyes wide. He opened his lips, but no sound escaped them. There were dark red dots splattered across his cheek. Meanwhile, Mercutio’s face was like marble.
“It wasn’t me!” gasped Tybalt.
A shiver shook Romeo. He fell to his knees and jealously took Mercutio’s limp body in his arms. He was only half aware of Tybalt receding and getting up and of Benvolio standing behind him, mourning silently.
“No,” murmured Romeo, “that can’t be true, it’s a nightmare, it’s not true...” He felt for a pulse, but there was none. “No, all of this can’t… finish like this, no…” Somewhere above him, Tybalt moved. “No.”
There was a stiletto dagger in Romeo’s hand – he had vaguely registered there being one on the ground next to his friend – and the next moment it was planted hilt-deep in Tybalt’s chest.
His dying face was hideous. The dagger fell back on the pavement. Mercutio still seemed in peaceful sleep.
***
Tybalt thought he heard a noise in the unusual morning quietness. His hand rested on the handle of his stiletto. He was going to find Romeo Montague, who had had the audacity to infiltrate the Capulet ball and to try to seduce Tybalt’s cousin Juliet.
His fingers tensed on his weapon: there was a figure moving towards him, its features hidden in shadows. It walked slowly, unevenly, holding something to its heart. Tybalt took out his stiletto and walked towards the silhouette. It looked up, and Tybalt recognised Mercutio just before he fell to the ground.
Tybalt ran to him. He had been wounded. Blood covered his chest, hands and sleeves. Tybalt dropped his dagger and crouched close to him.
“Ahah, that’s awkward,” grimaced Mercutio. He seemed to try to smile. “Aren’t you jealous of the men who just stole my gold? I thought you’d have wanted to stab me yourself...”
Tybalt’s tongue had turned to lead. He turned his eyes from Mercutio’s face to his wound. He had been holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to it. Tybalt imitated the gesture, hoping he could stop the bleeding. Blood soaked thought the fabric and slipped through his fingers. He watched two little pools merging into one, seemingly intent on catching every minute detail of the tragedy he could not seem to stop.
“So...” gasped Mercutio. “So, you don’t want to kill me?”
A thousand possible answers collided in Tybalt’s thoughts, but none materialised. He slowly turned his gaze back to Mercutio’s face.
“I’ve been wanting to do something for years...” he continued. “Is it gross if I kiss you before I can’t anymore?”
Nothing made sense, and everything was wrong. Tybalt was confused, and he still could not speak, but even brushing against Mercutio’s lips would feel like a prelude the closure that he knew he craved.
They kissed, and for a split second the world held some meaning.
Then Mercutio died. Tybalt did not move. He knelt over a dead man, the memory of years of repressed feelings weighing him down.
A noise warned him of approaching people. They were Romeo and Benvolio.
Romeo stood above him, utterly expressionless. He seemed hardly able to take in what he was seeing.
“It wasn’t me!” said Tybalt.
Romeo fell to his knees and took the corpse from him. Tybalt got up and tried to get Benvolio’s attention. He wanted to appeal to him, to make him understand what had happened. A wave of panic crashed over him. There was blood on his hands.
Romeo stood up. He had taken Tybalt’s stiletto from the ground. It was clean. The dagger was the proof of Tybalt’s innocence.
He stabbed him with his own weapon. Through the shock, through the pain, Tybalt saw Romeo’s hollow eyes. He was desperate – they all were.