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.”