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There is something about the warmth under your feet in the sand that is calming, and when you lie down and feel the sun sink deep into your bones, it’s a small slice of comfort that you don’t always get in your home. You being Mercutio Escalus. Mercutio Escalus being friend of Romeo and Benvolio Montague, being cousin of Police Chief Prince, being enemy of Tybalt Capulet. Or something else to Tybalt Capulet. All you know is that Tybalt Capulet is not here and the sun is bearing upon you and your gun is lying next to your wrist in a gap between little twin dunes. And that Tybalt generally won’t come here. The beach has always been your safe haven.
It’s a place to lie in the sun and bask like a lizard, a place to parade around with Romeo and Benvolio, at night when the lights reflect in the water like floating fires, at night when darkness billows down like silk over Verona, at night while you flick Romeo in the head for thinking too hard about girls and Benvolio laughs fairies into the air.
That dreamers often lie.
There are nights when you lie across your convertible’s leather backseat like a fallen angel and watch what little stars you can see, and the moon, the mother moon-- and you blink and you’re awake in the morning and you have five missed calls from Valentine and a text from Tybalt Capulet.
This makes you retrace your steps mentally-- no way you were drunk last night, no way you had contacted him or anything. There is no reason for Tybalt to have texted you. You gave him your number during a Halloween trip (yes, you remember that, when the pillars of the Capulet manor swirled with patterns of chiffon and taffeta) and he hasn’t used it since. It’s been quite a bit since Romeo and Juliet met and hitched and caused a ruckus and following ceasefire, since Tybalt shot at you and you both lived through Romeo’s rage, since Verona licked its wounds and began to clean up.
This being said, there is no reason for Tybalt to have texted you.
So you stretch out your limbs (turns out sleeping in a car is not the most efficient and comfortable way to get your z’s) and grab the soda that has been wallowing since the evening before to get the morning taste out of your mouth. As you’re drinking, you unlock your phone, shoot a text to Valentine that you’re alive and well, and read Tybalt’s message.
It’s something about meeting up with him at the boardwalk, no-funny-business. You immediately wonder what you’ve done to warrant this. Maybe it was thinking about him as you fell asleep. Maybe it was thinking about him in general.
You may have a past-- if a past means a few times you made out in his bathroom during a Capulet party (of course you’ve told nobody about this-- it’s not like it was important or anything. It’s not like you like him or anything. It’s not like you gave him your number -- oh no.)
And wait a minute (you think as you take sips of the Diet Coke) does he think he’s allowed on the beach now? Now that he’s an in-law of the Montagues? You don’t have an issue with it, but the last time he was here, he stabbed you, which wasn’t pretty at all.
This is until you see him striding by the parking lot and down onto the sand. You shrink quickly out of sight, spilling the soda on your bare chest. He’s on a mission. He’s going to the boardwalk. You need to be going to the boardwalk.
So, because you’re not a nervous person, you reach for your gun and pause when the handle is unfamiliar. Where’s your usual gun.
Oh no. You absolutely left that at a Capulet party over the weekend. Before now, you’ve thought that it was in your bedroom somewhere and grabbed a spare one-- because you can never be safe enough in Verona, even though the feud is over-- and gotten in your car and driven onto the beach to stargaze and think about destiny. And Tybalt, apparently. It’s all accidental.
So you think for a moment, peer over the door to see if he has noticed you. You wedge the soda back into the cupholder, find your flip flops in the floorboard, toss them out of the car, and clamber over yourself to open the door and step out onto the sand, bare-footed. You step into your shoes.
And head after Tybalt.
Each lazy step through the sand brings you closer to him, which isn’t something you’re afraid of. It’s exhilarating, actually. It’s fun. And when you catch up to him, he is leaning back against a spoke of the pier, arms crossed.
“Capulet,” you say with a smile, “you texted?”
He turns his head to watch you approach, kicks off the pillar. Without saying anything as a greeting, he reaches into his jacket, pulls your gun from the holster his is usually in. Is he unarmed?
“Your weapon. You left it at my place,” Tybalt says, holding it in front of him with a taut arm. You take it from his grip, and your fingers brush just long enough for there to be a sense of lingering. A spark, one might say. Maybe you’re reading into it. Maybe you’re insane. All you know is that you actually maybe really might like Tybalt Capulet. Maybe.
He’s wearing a cross necklace that settles between his collarbones. The bottom tip almost recedes beneath his dark tank top. He’s looking at you weird, and you slide your usual gun into your waistband alongside the other, looking quite silly.
“Guts to be on the beach,” you say. Is this small talk?
“Yeah, well, nothing’s happening anymore. Oughta be fine here,” and then his face sours, “I’m not going to confer with the Montagues, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Oh, no implications,” you shrug, “but it’s very nice that you’re here.”
“Oh?” his eyebrows raise.
He doesn’t look all that different since the marriage, the end of the battles, but he does have something in his eyes that is new. Friendly? They are deeper than they had been before, not the cold twist of anger or hatred. Something warm. Something honeyed.
“Okay, Escalus. You’re freaking me out,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. You break back into the present as if through a canvas. You take a step back.
“Just tired. Queen Mab visited me last night,” you grin, sweeping your hands out, “and the ocean is whispering into my ear with hot breath and suds.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing,” and then a blurt, “do you want to go out?”
He flushes then, “well--”
“Was thinking since. Y’know. The other night at your house and--” you’re speaking with your hands.
“Yeah. Yeah, that would be cool,” he nods once, and then suddenly takes your wrists, pulls you to him. When he kisses you, it’s sober. His mouth doesn’t taste like whiskey, you suppose yours doesn’t either, and he pulls back quickly. The whole ordeal lasts for less than three seconds. But it feels like a bit longer than that.
“Okay. Text me,” you make a phone with your hand, hold it in the air for a moment before turning and leaving, this time skirting the waves. They splash up around your ankles. You look back once to see him grinning like a cat.