Chapter Text
Tybalt notices something warm pooling around his stomach before the pain hits him, billions of tiny needles exploding like fireworks. He brings one hand to his stomach to find it soaked undeniably crimson. It isn’t anything unusual– as the sacrificial bastard sheep of the Capulets, he’s used to seeing his blood– but something about the pain makes it clear he doesn’t have much longer.
Looking at his shaking hands, Tybalt thinks about how it's the same shade as the Capulet's family color. Though he’s always adorned himself in the shade, he finally finds himself admitting he’d always felt more comfortable in black or white, monochrome tones with nothing to themselves. He could even see himself more comfortable in blue, he thinks, or purple– such sad, calm colors– if he’d ever had the chance to reinvent himself.
As if to snap Tybalt out of his thoughts, he hears Benvolio yell out “Romeo!” somewhere– so close and so distant, away from him and his bloodstained hands.
With that, Tybalt becomes aware of his labored breathing. His lungs rise and fall with less intensity with each agonizing breath. As he heaves he imagines he’s dancing, moving along to a steady waltz.
One… two three, one… two three.
His dance partner looks oddly like Mercutio, and when he closes his eyes and leans into himself, he imagines the phantom warmth of the boy’s body, despite the real Mercutio lying sprawled before him.
Mercutio.
His eyes fly open, searching for the boy he killed.
No one is at Mercutio’s side after Romeo fled from his transgression, Benvolio taking after him. He is alone, just like Tybalt.
They had always been alone together.
Moments before his senses shut down, plunging him into dark nothingness, Tybalt notices how small Mercutio looks, exposed like an arrowed rabbit in the open streets of Verona– and reaches out to him.