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Tybalt and Juliet have the earliest shift today.
It all began when they’d convinced their boss, also known as their mother, Mrs. Capulet, to give their cousin Rosaline the earliest shift instead of them the other day so that Tybalt could sleep in for once and Juliet could — well, do whatever Juliet kind of things she does far too early in the morning for comfort. And they’d succeeded — for the most part, if it hadn’t been for Rosaline finding out and immediately wanting her revenge.
“I told you it was a stupid idea. But you had to do it.” Tybalt mutters, head barely staying up as he leans on the counter. He wanted to go back to bed.
Juliet scoffs, her voice a faint morning rasp. “It was every bit your idea as much as it was mine. I don’t deserve to be framed like this. Plus, how would I have known that Rosa was going to get back at us for it?”
“Because no sane person likes the earliest shift, Juliet.” Tybalt groans out as if it was part of some coffee shop code of conduct. It might as well have been, to be completely honest. “If you’d convinced my aunt to give me the earliest shift for no reason other than you wanted to sleep longer, I would have thrown you into the trash compactor by now.”
“Don’t tell me you’re empathizing with her. I thought we were meant to be pissed at Rosaline?”
“Oh, trust me, I am.” The older Capulet cousin grits out. “I’m thinking of ways to get her gravely injured.”
“We could pour boiling water on her face in her sleep.” Juliet suggests kindly. Tybalt nods as if that was morally correct in this situation.
“Good idea.” He gives a tired sigh. “Okay. Let’s do it. I’m calling it. You’re out front today. I’ll be in the back trying not to fall asleep.”
“Oh, come on!” She cries out, but it comes out as more of a half-rasped noise. “Why do I have to work the counter?”
“It’s obvious. You’re better with people.” He shrugs, eyes just about closing before he startles them back awake with a jolt of his head. “We might lose customers, and your mom is going to make us do way more early morning shifts if that happens. I don’t think I can handle this again. My eyelids are like heavyweights. I might stab someone with a coffee press by accident.”
“You’re more annoying when you’re half-asleep.” Juliet mutters.
“And you’re just annoying.” Tybalt retorts.
Juliet shrugs at that. Yeah, she figures, that’s pretty fair. She did take a lot of unnecessarily present pride in being the annoying little cousin that Tybalt couldn’t shake off of his shoes. Like a ball of gum that he steps on on the street. But she did have better overall people skills, since in her humble opinion, Tybalt was edgy and antisocial and self-aware of it. But he really, really didn’t have to be an asshole about it.
Especially not when she was barely conscious of her surroundings out of sleep deprivation.
The front door bell gives a small jingle, jolting an electric current in both cousins’ heads awake, and they immediately scramble to position — Juliet leaning as casually and as approachable as possible, and Tybalt running off to the back to make coffee.
Juliet smiles at the customer — except not a smile she’d genuinely give, more of a customer service grin. “Hi there. What would you like to order?”
The man looks her up and down and lets the dumbest grin onto his face. “Hi, yourself.”
She blinks. “Hi.”
“I’ll get a Venti half-and-half. Ten pumps of vanilla. Extra whip.”
Juliet represses a grimace at the mention of ten pumps of vanilla. She fights to hide it with an even bigger customer service smile. “ Great . And who can I get it to?”
The customer gives her a smug smile. “Paris.”
“Your name is Paris ?”
“Uh-huh.” Paris replies, seeming rather proud.
“Like the city?”
“Uh-huh.”
Juliet flashes him a strained smile in response and takes a small pace backwards. And further. And further. Until she gets to the slim divider that separates the back and the front counter, and Tybalt comes up to listen on the other side, and Juliet immediately regrets letting Tybalt take kitchen duty without putting up so much of a fight. She would get him back for that one someday.
“Venti half-and-half. Ten pumps vanilla. Extra whip.” She whispers. An audible groan is heard from the other side.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. At least you don’t have to deal with the guy.” Juliet whisper-shouts, staring back at Paris the customer. He doesn’t seem to know what’s happening around him at all.
Tybalt swears under his breath. “God. Fine.”
And when the drink is served to Paris after what seems like an absolute eternity, he takes it in the strangest grip ever — like he wanted to make contact with Juliet’s hand but also simultaneously didn’t want to make contact with Juliet’s hand. He gives her a smile and a weird look; she assumes she was supposed to take some kind of hint, but between Paris wiggling his eyebrows and Paris’s eyes widening like a balloon, she really just wanted to laugh her ass off and take a picture.
Finally she gets to give him the receipt and he leaves with his hellish first order. He leaves a wad of money as payment and tip, probably way too much, but who were Tybalt and Juliet to complain about instances like that?
“Jesus.” Tybalt comments. Juliet nods in agreement.
“He was weird. His order was stupid. But I kind of want him to come back if he pays that much.” The younger Capulet cousin admits honestly. Who can blame her? Their first order of their shift and they’d already gotten incredibly lucky with their tip. Beat that, Rosaline. Soon they’d be taking later shifts and getting breaks in no time.
Tybalt reaches out a hand and takes the money to put in the register, but pauses. “Hey, Juliet. There’s a paper in the money.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Throw it out.”
He unfolds it to read whatever was written on it. A sour expression graced Tybalt’s face, he mutters something incomprehensible but definitely derogatory under his breath, and slides her the paper. He then stomps off into the back without saying another word to Juliet, and it would be an understatement to say she was incredibly confused right now.
Picking up the paper, she stares blankly at what’s written on it.
Paris had left his number.
Of fucking course.
She crumples it up and tosses it into the nearest trash bin with a sigh.
This was going to be one hell of a shift.
—
“Hey. Order, Juliet.” Tybalt calls.
It was the early stages of the afternoon, the shop was packed, and the next shift over — another one of their cousins — was nowhere to be found, so it was decided through a series of text messages with Mrs. Capulet that Juliet and Tybalt would be taking over for them too. Two shifts for the price of one. Tybalt wanted to strangle something alive right now; by something he meant absolutely anything would do.
Juliet says nothing. He can hear laughing on the other side, along with the busy chatter serving as background noise, but other than that, no orders being given to him at all.
“Juliet. Order, please ,” He grits out with more force this time around.
A beat passes. Still silence from Juliet, no matter how much he heard was going on out there.
She was seriously going to make him go out of the kitchen where he was already very comfortable to either get the order out of her or, worst case scenario in his opinion, have to ask the customers the orders themselves. Tybalt thought he might spontaneously combust in that moment and took a deliberate deep breath to calm himself. Thoughts of burning Rosaline alive. Thoughts of an easy iced coffee.
He walks briskly, like he’s on a life or death mission, and bursts through the door that served as a separation between the hell that was the front counter and the peaceful environment that was the kitchen. Tybalt gets hit with the noise as soon as he walks out into the open air. There’s mildly loud chatter filling his ears to the brim; he can slightly make out conversations about family dinners, conversations about work, someone flirting with his cousin—
Someone is flirting with his little cousin.
His head turns to see Romeo Montague making his advances on his little cousin. Juliet was leaning over the counter, an empty cup in her hands with the name ‘Romeo’ written on it, she was giggling like there was no tomorrow, and Romeo was obviously saying something very, very charming. As if he could be charming. He was not, in Tybalt’s opinion.
Because he was Romeo Montague. Heir to the Montague family company. AKA his greatest hatred.
“Juliet.” He clears his throat. “Order.” He realizes he’s cut her off mid-sentence by the glare that was on her face as she turns around to face him.
“Jeez, Tybalt.” She sighs. “Iced caramel macchiato.”
He eyes Romeo. “You’re getting friendly.”
“Romeo’s a good guy.” Juliet squints at her cousin. Tybalt squints back at her, then squints at Romeo.
“Uh, hi. I’m Romeo. I ordered the iced caramel macchiato.” The Montague waves at him. He has a nervous grin on his face. Good.
“I thought so.” Tybalt muses coldly.
Juliet’s eyes are flickering between staring at Romeo, who seemed to be sweating bullets despite the air conditioned room, and staring at Tybalt, whose gaze could probably cut through an inch thick wooden block without even trying. She doesn’t really know what to say. She knew of Tybalt’s (stupid) hatred of the Montague company, but to be staring down Romeo who was a customer — bad for reviews.
“Are you, um, going to go make my order?” He tries.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Tybalt snaps, still staring very intensely. Romeo nods, eyes wide and lips pressed into a line.
“Gotcha.”
He turns to Juliet tentatively. “What was he saying to you?”
“He’s right there. ” She whisper-shouts. This could not be more embarrassing for her.
Romeo clears his throat. “I wasn’t — we weren’t like —”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
“Tybalt, seriously, get out of here and go make orders.” Juliet says, exasperated. “We have a business to uphold, in case you’re forgetting that. Also if we play this right, my mom’s not going to make us take double shifts ever again. Imagine that.”
He gives her a look dripping with sarcasm. “ Yes, Juliet, we do have a business to uphold. Tell me, what were the orders you’ve given me again?”
She has not given him any orders since Romeo came in and caught her attention. Sue her.
Juliet gives a slight nod. “Touché.”
“And you ,” He turns on his heel to once more face Romeo, who lets out the tiniest squeak and clears his throat. His nervous smile is wide. Tybalt wants to punch it off. “You would do best to stay away from my cousin, Montague. What is this, you want to laugh at the less fortunate customer service workers who aren’t supplied literal gold by their family’s inheritance?”
Romeo sputters. “What? No! No — I —”
“Tybalt, stop it.” Juliet snaps. “Give him a break, this isn’t about your dumb Montague stuff. He wants a coffee.”
“I — I do want a coffee.” Romeo confirms.
Juliet nods. “See? He wants a coffee.”
“I want to strangle him.” Tybalt finishes.
“Alright, alright,” A voice cuts in. The Capulet almost recognizes the tone; sultry and overconfident as if they ruled the world. Incredibly dislikable. Also kind of attractive, but Tybalt would never think such things about a customer. “Mind if I steal this guy from you for a sec, Romeo? Before he, you know, kills you with a coffee press? You’re not the only one who needs a hot drink right now.”
Tybalt presumes the last few words are said with a wink. He turns his head. The face that meets him is anything but unrecognizable. Tybalt shuts his eyes and grits his teeth.
“Mercutio Escalus.”
The relative of the Prince, what the man who ran the city called himself, who famously allied himself with the company of the Montagues. Made huge value investments into them. Fought all of their past financial problems for them. And based on what’s been told about him, he was all but pleasant and all but humble. Such was expected of a Montague ally in Tybalt’s humble opinion.
“Ding, ding, and ding.” The Escalus gives him a smirk.
“ What are you doing here?” Tybalt grits out.
The Prince’s relative shrugs coyly, eyes staring him up and down as if scrutinizing him, or possibly checking him out. The Capulet pushes that notion out of his mind. “I’m a free citizen, aren’t I? I’m allowed to get a coffee at whatever establishment I please. And meeting rather edgy bartenders.”
“Order and go.”
“Why so angry? Is it about the edgy thing? Because if so, I’ll let you know I’m totally into it.” Mercutio says, placing an elbow onto the counter so that he could lean against his hand.
Tybalt’s face heats, and he’s unsure why, but he pins it as anger. “Order and go. Our establishment would prefer not to mingle with people like you and your Montagues.”
“Hm.” The man across him hums. “I didn’t see any sign out front that indicated so.”
“It was implied .”
“By what?”
“By me, right now, telling you to fuck off.” Tybalt says with as menacing of a tone as he could muster.
“Well, I’m not going to fuck off after you threatened my friend with death and injury and refused me service all because I donated a bunch of money to my best friends’ company that you, for some reason, don’t like. Really, who’s being the asshole here? I could sue if I wanted.” Mercutio looks up directly at him, and Tybalt feels like he’s being pan seared with all of this eye contact. Then the man snorts and stares back down.
“Of course someone like you thinks this would be solved with glamorous lawsuits.” Tybalt retorts.
“Everything is glamorous if I have a say in it.” Mercutio replies plainly. “Why don’t you like the Montagues?”
“Get out of my store.” The Capulet restates, but part of him is starting to cling onto that excuse less and less.
“I don’t think I will, but thank you for the severely kind offer.” The man says cheerily. “And for your reference, I’ll have an iced chai latte. With a splash of vanilla. Thanks a lot.”
Tybalt shakes his head. “I am not making you a coffee. Neither am I making one for your Montague friends, for that matter.”
Mercutio blinks for a second, and Tybalt almost rejoices at the idea that he’s finally been thrown off, but then he’s chuckling breathlessly and the Capulet wants to stomp him into the pavement and also simultaneously pull him close and he’s not sure why, but he’d rather act on the first one. “You’re a lot more stubborn than the usual barista. Usually they’d either have made my coffee by now or asked me about my magazine appearances.”
“And here we see a rich person who realizes that not everyone will fall at their feet immediately.”
“Aw.” The Escalus sighs exaggeratedly. “You don’t want to? Not even a little bit?”
Tybalt refuses to admit he’s amused by the whole ordeal. “Of course not. The pavement will have been dirtied considering you’ve walked on it.”
“ Ouch .” Mercutio clutches at his chest. “Words hurt.”
“Good. Let them.”
“Edgy.” The man across him remarks. Tybalt shoots him his best glare.
“I am not.”
Mercutio puts his hands up in a motion of surrender, and the Capulet can see each ring adorning each finger glistening like diamonds (perhaps they were diamonds, who knows) in the pale fluorescent lighting. “Calm yourself, I’ve already told you I was into it.”
Tybalt simultaneously pales and reddens, if that was even possible. “You say words but they mean nothing.”
“Wrong. I mean every single word I say.” Mercutio bites down on his lip to suppress the smile that’s on his face. “Soon enough I’ll get you to leap at me passionately and beg if we can run away from this dreadful city and get ice cream and frozen yoghurt and whatever there is. I’d say yes and we’d go off and do it and leave you daydreaming up until the next day. Give it time. I never fail at such endeavors.”
The Capulet can’t help the snort that comes out of him, ever so close to a laugh but not quite. “I’ll be doing a favor then, to let you know what failure is like.”
“Let me guess, you’re going to say I’m a failure?”
“You make a good point in saying so.” Tybalt muses. “But if you expect passionate leaping and begging, you’d be in over your giant head.”
“Let a man dream, Tybalt.” Mercutio says with an amused smile.
“You dream of going out with baristas you’ve only just known?” Tybalt scoffs. “Only people of your caliber would be so confident that everyone loves them so much when in reality it would have been the deathly opposite.”
Mercutio raises an eyebrow, a slim and adorned finger tracing the rim of the cup that Tybalt was now tightly clutching. The barista’s breath hitches in his throat. “Now you’re just being rude.”
“ Someone needs to bring you back down to Earth.”
“No thank you,” The Escalus states, peering back at him through his eyelashes. “I like it up here where I am.”
Burning hot fire surges through Tybalt’s entire body, prickling from the soles of his feet to the very tip of his fingers, running up into his head. He feels intoxicated. “Iced chai latte? Stereotypical.”
“ Classic .” Mercutio corrects, tongue running over his lips as he shrugs. “It’s good for a reason.”
Tybalt figures that’s a decent enough reasoning.
The noise of chatters and murmurs in the store were louder than ever, but all of it had faded to white noise in favor of choosing to listen to Mercutio. He didn’t really understand. He could have run into the kitchen as soon as the order had been given — he could have made it as fast and as horribly as he could to get the man out of his shop as fast as possible. There were more customers to be served after him. The world didn’t revolve around him.
“So if I make this coffee, you’ll leave my shop and never return?” He asks. He doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. It mortifies him.
“I don’t know about ‘never return’.” Mercutio muses. “Depends how good the coffee you give me is, Tybalt. Maybe your coffee is absolutely delectable.”
Something was lurking in his words. The Capulet wanted to stab through the words had they manifested in a solid form.
“Our coffee is up to standard. Even higher.” He squints.
Mercutio hums and looks Tybalt up and down, as if that was the answer he wanted to hear. “Then I’ll keep trying.”
He couldn’t take it anymore.
Tybalt feels like he’s a mess of roaring flames as he escapes into the kitchen to catch his breath. He hears chuckling outside before dissolving back into chatter, and something in him is kindled and burning and he wants to run Mercutio over with a bus but also kiss him and everything is so incredibly muddled in his head. He hears Juliet laughing and Romeo’s voice join in from outside, and he’s pissed off and his heart is racing and Tybalt needs to make the coffee .
Juliet bursts through the door, halting everything to silence. “Hey, cuz.”
“Don’t ‘cuz’ me.”
“You’re pissed off.” The younger Capulet notes. “Could you maybe — um, put a hold on Romeo’s order for a second?”
“ Why ?”
She goes slightly pink. “Um, I just — It’s kind of like — yeah.”
Tybalt raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Oh god.” Juliet groans, stuffing her face into her hands and shaking her head vigorously as if simultaneously denying and accepting something. “Whatever. You’ll hate me for it. You’ll hate it. I know you’ll hate it and I don’t even know why I brought it up in front of you. Just make his fucking order and go on and get him out of here if you really want him gone. It’s stupid.”
“You’ll find a lot of things I’m thinking right now are stupid.” The older Capulet murmurs, adjusting the apron strap that had just fallen off of his shoulder.
“I don’t know.” She says, muffled by her hands. “I don’t know. Romeo is a Montague. You hate him. Mom hates them. I feel like I should hate them.”
“Juliet, as much as I adore discussing human emotions, customers are going to pile in.”
And Juliet is clearly ignoring him. She shrugs and keeps going. “But I — I don’t know. It’s a stupid feud, I don’t even know what drove it. They’re running a multimillion dollar company. We’ve got a comfortably well-off family business. I don’t know how those two are even comparable and I don’t want to know what started the dumb feud in the first place.”
“It’s not dumb.” Tybalt defends.
“And Romeo, he’s — he’s one of them.” She remarks, and the older Capulet squints — she says his godforsaken name a little too dreamily.
“I’m aware?”
“But he’s so cute .” Juliet groans, gripping her hands onto the back of her head and staring upwards in utter stress. “And I really want to talk to him. I know you’re not going to play wingman for me because I’m talking about a Montague, but the least you could do is buy us some time. Let him stay a bit. I know you’re going to disapprove, but Tybalt, it’s you , so I really couldn't give less of a shit.”
“I do disapprove. And I would love to smash his brains in with the espresso machine right now.” Tybalt clarifies. “What do you even see in him? In one of them?”
“Speaking as if you weren’t getting awfully comfortable with his friend.” Juliet mutters under her breath, soft enough that she thought he might not hear it but loud enough for him to actually have heard it.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
He gives her a glare. “I do not want to keep a Montague in this store for any longer than they have to be.”
“Come on, please ,” She asks. “I’ll owe you one. I’ll take your early shifts for you. I’ll get mom to give you a raise. Just this once, please.”
He considers this. Tybalt has been wanting a raise for his efforts recently. And to have someone else take his early shifts with their willing consent was a dream in itself — no more waking up in the morning to take showers colder than the inside of a freezer, no more drowsy customer greetings that immediately get you bad reviews and scoldings from your aunt. And all he had to do was avoid serving a lousy Montague his coffee for a bit.
But that did mean permitting Romeo to flirt with his cousin. He was not on board with that.
But the raise . The morning hours .
He breaks under it.
Tybalt sighs. “ Fine . Just this once. But I will let you know I’m not happy about this. If he puts a toe out of line, I’m pulverizing him.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She replies in a squealing tone. “You’ve always been my favorite cousin, you know that, right?”
“I know you’re a liar.” He hums.
Juliet rolls her eyes. “Caught me.”
She’s bouncing on her toes with relief and joy and runs over to give him a brief yet tight hug, one that he never asked for but decided to accept anyway because she didn’t seem like she was willing to bargain over it at the moment. Then Juliet is sprinting out of the kitchen, the door making a slamming noise as they crash back down after being opened so quickly.
Well, if Juliet could feel certain ways about Romeo, then perhaps his partial-kiss, partial-kill emotion for the dumb Montague's best friend would be somewhat justified.
Tybalt groans and takes a leaf out of Juliet’s book, slamming his head into his hands with as much force as he could without hurting himself by accident. No. Absolutely not. Juliet could be irresponsible and he could scold her for it later, but whatever it was with Mercutio — his mind was simply drifting astray. The Capulet strains to push the thoughts clouding his mind out of there, picks up a cup, and gets to work on the iced chai latte.
With a splash of vanilla. And a bucketload of confusion.
—
“Iced chai latte for — Mercutio Escalus?” Tybalt calls out once the order is finished.
He watches intently as Mercutio tears away from a conversation he was having with someone else — Tybalt recognized him as Benvolio Montague, who was Romeo’s cousin — checks to see who had called out, and of course the tiniest and most shit-eating grin is on his face when he sees who it is. Mercutio saunters over to the spot across him and rests his elbow on the counter exaggeratedly.
“That would be mine.”
The cold metal of Mercutio’s ring grazes his hand as he hands him the iced drink. Tybalt seethes. That couldn’t have been an unintentional motion. No normal customer takes a drink from his hands sensually.
“Splash of vanilla?”
The Capulet’s teeth are clenched as he replies. “ Yes .”
Mercutio makes a point to shake the cup. “Are you sure this is iced? I hate un-iced lattes.”
“Of course you do.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” The Escalus slams the cup back onto the counter. “I’ll tell you right now. Everyone knows the best drinks are iced. Okay. Here. You cannot tell me you prefer room temperature water over iced water. Because you would either be lying to me or adamantly lying to yourself. Room temperature water is shit.”
“Jesus.” Tybalt sighs. “Don’t start. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“One day, I will find the opportunity to start, and I will force you to listen to me.”
“You can’t tell me to do anything.”
Mercutio scoffs and takes the cup back into his grasp. “We’ll see about that.”
The Capulet isn’t sure what he’s supposed to mean by that. But it sounded phenomenally stupid, phenomenally incorrect, and phenomenally — intriguing. No. No, it was not. Heat is rushing through his body, and Tybalt steps back and faces away from the counter, as if about to go back into the kitchen without a final word. But he couldn't move. No, scratch that, he wouldn’t move.
“You didn’t answer my question, by the way.” Mercutio calls out. “And you haven’t asked me to pay.”
“What question?” Tybalt inquires without turning back around.
He hears the shake of a drink. “Is it iced?”
This implores him to turn back around and give Mercutio a look that would hopefully tell him that that was the singular dumbest question to ask.
“Why wouldn’t it be iced?” He snaps.
The Escalus pulls out a wallet — leather, the rich flaunting — and rifles through it as it’s opened. At first he pulls out an appropriate amount; it was quite literally exactly the price of the coffee to begin with. Then his eyes darted to the tip jar. And then over to meet Tybalt’s eyes, who shuffles backwards. And his eyes gleam with what could only be some stupid idea that only seems like a good one in his own stupid head, and Tybalt knows he’s an idiot because of what follows.
Several high-value bills are picked carefully out of the wallet. Then they’re wrapped around the money he was already going to give. Then they’re being slid over to Tybalt by the man, wearing the worst smirk he had ever seen.
“Don’t mock me.” The Capulet spits coldly.
“What, I’m not allowed to give my new favorite barista an appropriate tip?”
“This is hardly appropriate.”
The Escalus raises an eyebrow. “So you don’t want me to pay?”
“I didn’t say that.” Tybalt replies abruptly. “I won’t be mocked by someone who — who gallivants with Montagues.”
“You think everything I do has an ulterior motive.” Mercutio groans. “I'm literally paying for a coffee and leaving a tip.”
“Yes. I think so for good reason.” The barista deadpans.
“Fine, then. I’ll take it back.” The Escalus lifts a hand to grab the money back, but Tybalt is quicker. His finger clamps down on the edge, and it’s incredibly embarrassing, but in all honesty, he did want to keep the money. For one, there was bragging to Juliet. And Rosaline. But if this was mockery, he wouldn’t accept it. He thinks. He might accept it anyways, actually.
“No.” Tybalt mutters.
Mercutio smiles, amused, and takes his hand off of the bills, giving Tybalt room to take them. Hastily, the Capulet grabs them, opens the register, and slides each bill in its designated position. In all seriousness, he wasn’t sure if he was putting them in the right places. But he couldn’t be blamed. His mind was otherwise — occupied. The Capulet decided he could fix it later.
Then he’s getting an idea.
“Stay here for a bit.” Tybalt blurts out.
Mercutio tries to hide it, but the way his eyes light up couldn’t have been more obvious. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“No, dipshit,” The Capulet spits. “I need to get you a receipt.”
“Uh-huh. That’s totally why.”
Tybalt says nothing in reply, typing away at the keypad in complete silence and inputting what needed to be there into the receipt without a final word. His face is blank — practically a plain white canvas — and not simply because he didn’t want Mercutio to get any ideas. He himself didn’t know what he was thinking. At this point, his body acted on complete impulse, and it was either he was out of control or he was completely in control without realizing.
Finally the receipt sputters out and he spares no time tearing it out and turning away to face the surface farthest from the counter.
Tybalt heaves a breath. Should he do this? Should he be doing this?
His mind flies to Romeo and Juliet, deep in conversation just a few steps away from him. His heart is racing, going so many miles per hour that it might stop entirely if he doesn’t catch it anytime soon. Tybalt figures he’s out of his mind. He peers over his shoulder — Mercutio is waiting. He looks expectant; there’s an idiotic grin on his face and Tybalt can’t help but wish he could wipe it off. In — well, more ways than one.
Fuck it, he thinks.
The Capulet scrambles to pull out a pen from his pocket successfully and scribbles something onto the back of the receipt.
Then he turns back and hands it to Mercutio, almost reluctantly. He prays the Escalus can’t articulate the hesitance.
Well, if he does notice, he doesn’t say anything.
“Took you long enough.” Mercutio comments.
“Whatever.” Tybalt mutters, but a smile is threatening to tug at the corner of his lips. “Get out of here. Take your friends with you.”
“Not gonna thank me and tell me to come again?” The Escalus sighed dramatically, feigning hurt. “I must say, I’m hurt. I thought we had something going for us for a second there. It’s me, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is you.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Mercutio scoffs, clutching the receipt in one hand and his cup of coffee in the other. He taps Benvolio on the shoulder, who was previously sitting and staring at his phone in complete silence. The two have what appears to be a silent conversation — Tybalt figured idiots understood idiots — where they mainly gestured towards Romeo as if debating whether or not to leave him alone to speak to Juliet.
Finally, they get up and start towards the door. Tybalt feels the overwhelming urge to say something.
“Mercutio,” He calls out.
The Escalus’ head turns. “Yes?”
Tybalt lets the smile win by the tiniest bit.
“Thank you and come again.”
—
“Why are you still holding that receipt? You do know what pockets are, right?”
Mercutio stares at the receipt, still clutched in his hands. “Huh. I actually have no clue.”
Benvolio nods. “Keepsake. Cute.”
“It is not a keepsake.”
“Dude. I’m not an idiot.” The Montague deadpans. Mercutio hates to admit he’s not completely in the wrong. Tybalt had very obviously written something on the back of the receipt, judging by how long it had taken to come to life. But Mercutio couldn’t bring himself to open it — every time he tried, his brain yelled at him and his hands jolted back into place, leaving it closed.
“You are an idiot.”
“Occasionally, sure. You’re an idiot part time. The other part is being an asshole.” Benvolio replies nonchalantly. “So. Barista, huh?”
“He was cute.” Mercutio defends. “And he totally hated me.”
“You shouldn’t find that endearing.”
“It’s funny .”
“You have a weird sense of humor.”
“Fuck off.” Mercutio stares down at the receipt in his hand almost longingly. “I think he might have written something on it.”
Benvolio stares at him. “Dude.”
“What?”
The Montague lets out a laugh and a wheeze. “ Dude . If he’s written something on it, you should read it . I don’t know if you’re past logic at this point but it would be the logical thing to do.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t – I can’t. I don’t know.” Mercutio groans. “Benvolio, I’m begging you, please convince me to do it. I need to be convinced.”
Benvolio snorts without looking at him. “Well, I think you’d be fucking stupid if you didn’t do it. Seriously, what if it’s important? Or what if he’s trying to send you some, like, emergency signal that he’s counting on you to read? And what if he dies or something just because you’re being a total pussy who thinks everything given to him is some sort of attempt to get at him?”
“I do not think everyone tries to get at me.”
“Right.”
“It’s not like I can help it if they did–”
“Oh my god.” Benvolio shakes his head. “Just read the goddamn receipt. If you’re wrong, all you’ll see are numbers anyways.”
After those words, Benvolio goes silent and turns back to stare out of the window. Mercutio’s partially jealous of the ability. If only he had the divine power to be able to ignore the world around him and all the fucked up things and loud best friends that circled the atmosphere with one turn of the head. It would be incredibly useful in certain situations.
“Okay. It’s happening.” He tells Benvolio, who hums in response.
“Let me know how it goes.” The Montague replies.
Mercutio turns back to the receipt and takes a deep breath. This really shouldn’t be as intimidating as it is. In any other world, it would be any other receipt. He’d probably throw it out. Or do taxes, or something. Actually, maybe he shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe he should just throw it out, give it to someone to collect.
No. No, he’s doing this.
But maybe –
He grits his teeth and cuts the thought off before it could ruin his moment.
Finally, he flips it over.
The writing is there, right in front of his eyes, in faint ink and so tiny he could barely make it out. But his eyes were not deceiving him and Mercutio absolutely wasn’t hallucinating this, because if he was he would soon jump in front of the next moving truck. A smile plays at the corner of his lips. His face bursts into flames. He can’t form a singular coherent thought. Everything that came to mind sounded clinically insane in one way or another.
Written on the receipt was Tybalt’s phone number.
Hastily scribbled as if he himself was unsure of it.
Mercutio’s grinning like an absolute idiot right now, and he knows it.
That bastard.