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Mercutio doesn’t really date .

He gets around, sure — if you consulted any unreliable tabloid website online, you’d find that out relatively easily. But between movies portraying the concept of dating with unrealistic meet cutes, far-fetched dynamic tropes, and a main character that would be insanely insufferable in the real world, he’s never bumped into a cute guy at a record store, fallen in love with his coworker, or stood outside anyone’s door in the pouring rain with cue cards. 

That kind of grandeur gesture was more of Romeo’s thing anyways. He couldn’t see himself out in the rain like that. It would mess up his hair.

The farthest he’s ever gotten into anything remotely close to a real date with any kind of basis that wasn’t wealth or social status (or too much alcohol at the wrong party) was with some upstanding citizen of a man that his younger brother had set him up with. Not that that lasted all that long either, considering he’d gotten bored and gone to the bathroom at least three times in the span of 15 minutes. That was, of course, before he begged Benvolio to call him so he could pretend like someone died and leave the restaurant.

Not exactly his finest moment, but what was he meant to do ? Sit there and listen to a nice guy talk about his nice job and his nice family and his nice financial stability?

And Tybalt was anything but boring.

Because apparently it takes someone threatening his life with increasingly concerning forms of violence for hearts to form in Mercutio’s eyes. Because apparently some barista who didn’t want him — or at least pretended not to — was what it took for Mercutio to decide there was anyone worth pursuing in this world. That there was anyone he absolutely wanted to piss off beyond regard for the rest of his life, just because Tybalt looks good when he’s mad.

“So go on a date with him.” 

Benvolio and Mercutio sat on the leather couch stationed in the middle of Romeo’s gorgeously large apartment while their lost puppy of a best friend sat in the other room on the phone with his girlfriend. Unsurprisingly, the socialite was irrevocably fucked up after his last meeting with Tybalt at their family’s coffee shop, and Benvolio was unsurprisingly (but disappointingly) the designated shrink for every delusion Mercutio wanted to release.

“That’s dumb. Is going on a date seriously what it takes to confirm that we’re going out and that I like him?” Mercutio groans, leaning back against the cushion. “Can’t we just fuck?”

Benvolio gives a deadpan stare. “Is that your solution to everything?”

“I’m serious. Dating sounds superficial.”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve walked out on every guy who had the misfortune of attempting to go out on a normal date with you.” The Montague states matter-of-factly, looking down at the dimly-lit screen of an online shopping website on his phone. “By every guy, by the way, I mean one guy. Because every other person you’ve been involved with was a hookup, a setup, or so forgettable that even you wouldn’t remember them if I asked you about them.”

The Escalus clicks his tongue wistfully. “Jesus. You make me sound really shallow.”

“Because you are. But you don’t have to be like that. If you’d just take Tybalt out on a normal date without finding an excuse to walk out on him.”

“Since when was being in love so hard?” Mercutio complains once more, letting his hands fly over his head to form probably what is the most overdramatized way Benvolio’s ever seen anyone slump on the couch. “You’re telling me I actually have to ask him on the date, plan the date, go to the date, and finish the date? Tybalt and I already like each other — we don’t need more time to figure out that we like each other.”

His best friend doesn’t even look up from his phone. Just gives a small sigh and continues scrolling.

“What?” 

“You say all of that, and you’re still wondering why I think you’re shallow.” The Montague remarks blankly.

“I am not shallow. I just think it’s a lot of effort put in to confirm a feeling I feel that we both already feel.”

“But that’s not how that works. If you really feel the feeling you say you feel, consider getting up off of your ass and putting some effort into letting him know you feel that way.” Benvolio finally looks up from his phone, letting it rest on his lap and crossing his arms over his chest to make his point. “ Clearly , in your own messed up, distorted way, I can tell you wanna be serious about Tybalt. I don't even think you understand that about yourself, but you do. The thing is — if you really do love him, you’d let him know you do.”

“I think he knows.” Mercutio mumbles begrudgingly.

Because as much as he wanted to deny the fact, Benvolio has somewhat of a point. As fogged up and misty as it is, as clouded by the insults and the general exhaustion he protrudes on a daily basis as it is, it’s a point nonetheless. And he wouldn’t admit it, but it didn’t sound all that bad to take Tybalt out on a cute date like a protagonist in a romcom. Sounded fun, actually.

So Benvolio raises an eyebrow and returns to his phone, because he knows he’s won the argument.

“But does he?”

It’s already off to a great start when Tybalt absolutely refuses to go inside the venue Mercutio’s chosen. 

“No.”

“Come on . What’s so bad about this place? Is it some unspoken rule that you can’t go into other coffee shops and taste coffee that isn’t yours?”

Tybalt glares daggers into Mercutio’s eyes, and it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever seen — but the Escalus decidedly coughs and stifles his laugh. You know, in the interest of being a gentleman taking someone out on a romantic endeavor. “For one, we both know this place is commercial as all hell. Their coffee is awful. Tastes like powder and water. Oh, yeah — this is Montague-owned . And you’re incredibly unfunny for taking me here, and if your goal was to get me to want to be here, you’re already failing.”

The laugh nearly escapes. Mercutio praises the sky above for its gift of extended self-control, even if it was just for this one date. Because this couldn’t go wrong, or else he’s practically proven to Benvolio that he’s shallow and undateable, which he wasn’t .

“Shouldn’t you be open to expanding your horizons?” The Escalus remarks, raising an eyebrow as the corners of his lips threaten to upturn. “You know, as a barista yourself, I’d think you’d be supportive of fellow coffee-makers in the industry. You know, empathizing with their livelihood and all that.”

“Fuck that.” Tybalt grits out, turning to give even just the discount croissant sign pasted on the glass window the most murderous look anyone could ever witness. “I’m not going in there. Wouldn’t be caught dead in there.”

“Would you be open to being caught dead in there if I was with you?”

The barista redirects his murderous gaze right towards Mercutio. “Yeah, of course.”

“Really?”

“No. Take me home.” 

The Capulet turns to walk away, the Escalus watches his life flash before his eyes the moment the first step is taken, and he realizes very well that Tybalt will never realize just how much effort he’s willing to make to prove he’s serious this time around from the comfort of his own home. And maybe it was a bad idea to spring the idea of having a date at his date’s rival coffee shop on him incredibly last minute, but Mercutio refused to fuck this up.

So he takes Tybalt’s hand. Surprisingly, he actually stops.

Mercutio doesn’t know what to say after this part. That was kind of all he usually needed to do.

“Give it a chance.” He decides on. The Capulet doesn’t turn around — just kind of stares out into the open road with his hand pressed firmly in the other’s. So Mercutio clears his throat again. “Let me rephrase that. Give me a chance. I mean, you gave me your number. What kind of idiot would I be if I didn’t make good on that?”

“Right, because you’re anything but an idiot.” Tybalt mumbles sarcastically, but something else in his voice tells the Escalus that there’s at least the slightest, faintest hint of consideration lingering behind the hesitation and the refusal to make eye contact, and that’s the only sliver of hope he really needs.

“I don’t hear a no. Is that a yes?”

A beat of silence. A car passes across the open road in the distance, Mercutio’s fingers interlock with ones that don’t follow suit, but Tybalt is just frozen.

Is he broken? Does this usually happen on dates?

“Come on, don’t be stubborn now. I paid Benvolio for a reservation.” 

Another beat of silence.

“Aren’t you two friends ?”

Mercutio clicks his tongue thoughtfully. “You know, that’s exactly what I told him. Whenever Juliet gets coffee here, she gets it free, so maybe I’m being scammed, or Romeo’s just a lot nicer than Benvolio is, but that’s not surprising —”

And then a groan, and suddenly Tybalt’s in front of him, fingers interlocked incredibly tightly into his, and he’s being dragged through the glass doors of the Montagues’ very own coffee shop.

Mercutio’s mind switches off; he’s so very confused, not in any way complaining, and it’s at that moment that he realizes dating is out of his element and he truly has no idea what he’s doing in the slightest. Is this what’s supposed to happen?

The Capulet stops in his tracks once they’re inside — like some light switch had been flicked on inside his mind, and he quickly tugs his hand out of Mercutio’s in favor of scrutinizing the shit out of his surroundings. The Escalus watches with dead focus on the way Tybalt’s gaze travels critically over every wall, each coffee being served, each small chatter of noise — with the same glaring look.

“Christ.” The Capulet murmurs under his breath.

Mercutio sighs proudly, tearing his focus away and looking around at the place. “Yeah. You know, I helped fund this place. Helped design it a little bit.”

“Yeah? No wonder it’s so pretentious.”

“You could compliment it, you know. That’s an option too.”

Tybalt raises an eyebrow, turning to him. “Lie this early into a first date? We haven’t even sat down yet.”

And of course it’s left to Mercutio to wonder what on Earth that means as one of Romeo’s other cousins comes over with a big shiny smile to show them to their seat. The Escalus was no stranger to the shop he invested a significant portion of his trust fund in — it was halfway elegantly designed, strangely homely if you were a little wealthier than the middle class. And if the Capulets had more of a coffee shop next door aesthetic running, this was the distantly classy cousin that had moved away to a far off country.

He turns to Tybalt, who’s clearly noticed the same thing about it. Scowling at the framework, scowling at the poor server, who’s frankly scowling back a tiny bit. 

Seated by the window, the world whirs past them. Mercutio’s wondering to himself if in any other world — if Tybalt was any bit less interesting and gorgeous and worthwhile as he strangely was — if he’d be halfway across the street in a limousine by now. If maybe Benvolio, his uncle, his brother, and that one shrink he’d forgotten the name of might be right, and he did have a deeply rooted fear of commitment he’d rather die than admit he has. Which he doesn’t, by the way, and if they could see him now, they’d know this was a new record.

“Well, this is a new record.” Benvolio comments as he strides up to their table, a blank look on his face and a notepad in his hand. “You know, he always ends up standing them up.”

Tybalt gives Mercutio a guarded look. “Unfortunately for that streak, I have half a mind to walk out on him first right now.”

“Don’t, please.” The Montague sighs, uncapping a pen. “We don’t even usually allow reservations like this, and now I’ve got Mercutio doing it and Romeo doing it, skipping out on his shifts to plan dates with your cousin. At least your date’s got a lot of money. Top investor. And is, unfortunately, my friend.”

“You’re sweet.” Mercutio cracks with a grin. 

Only to be met by complete silence on both ends.

He clears his throat. “Okay. Iced chai latte. Splash of vanilla. And a croissant.”

“Ordering before your date?” Benvolio murmurs judgmentally, not looking up as he writes the order down.

The Escalus glances upwards like a lost puppy. “Am I supposed to not do that?”

“Okay, so iced chai latte, croissant, and—”

“Benvolio, seriously, am I not supposed to—”

Tybalt snorts. “Iced cold brew. If you can make it better than I do, I won’t walk out on your best friend as fast as I was planning to.”

“At this point, I wouldn’t even blame you.” The Montague remarks, stifling a laugh as he finishes up their orders. The scene is oddly reminiscent of how a teenager on a crappy motivational youtube channel might feel when their parents are talking about their future while they’re right there, and it’s like Mercutio’s in the conversation without actually being in the conversation, and it’s kind of murdering him that he doesn’t know what Benvolio means about letting dates order first or Tybalt about lying on first dates. 

So it was just a tiny bit harder when the first meeting wasn't at a party or a club or a setup at a fancy restaurant, but it wouldn’t deter him.

He’s serious. So serious. But how the fuck do you be serious like this?

“So,” The Escalus exhales dramatically, gaining back any kind of self confidence — which wasn’t hard, considering he had a lot stockpiled up inside of him — and leaning back as soon as Benvolio’s (hopefully) out of earshot. “Kind of funny how you’re here now. Considering you seemed so adamant to have me out of your life when you first met me. Or not, actually. If your heartfelt receipt proves anything.”

Tybalt narrows his eyes. “Yeah, you too. I wonder how hard it is to get a first date when you’re the most insufferable thing on the planet, because you clearly have no idea what you’re doing.”

Mercutio clicks his tongue. 

Okay. He wasn’t expecting to be a dead giveaway.

“And you do?” He challenges, partially to get at his stunningly pissed off date, partially testing the waters. You know, to see if he was really the only idiot with the commitment issues and the half-assed, fabricated dating experience, and Tybalt was perfectly well off and had been thriving long before he came along. Which obviously was no issue — if it was an issue, the Capulet would have picked some other guy to be sitting across from him in his sworn enemy’s coffee establishment right now, and that wasn’t the case.

Right?

Mercutio’s own mental gymnastics is putting him off. He forces it to a stop.

Insecurity is weird. He hopes never to go through it after this about as much as he hopes Tybalt will stay even if he’s already fucked a lot up.

So he’s halfway grateful when the barista across him, plain as day, hesitates.

And clicks his own tongue, like he has to think. Good signs.

“Probably more than you.” 

Safe answer.

Mercutio’s willing to bet he doesn’t, but he’s in no position to talk. Still, he keeps up the charade.

“Yeah?” He asks, half an amused smile playing across the corners of his lips. “I’d bet on that without question if this were any other situation, but I don’t think it’s very good first date banter if I decided to start talking about the numerous others that I’ve seen in my lifetime. Hell, I’m pretty sure I should be asking about your life right now. You know, your favorite movie. Favorite color. Favorite designer brand. Favorite clothing style. Favorite regular at that cafe you work in.”

Tybalt gives a sardonic laugh. “It’s not you. And spare the bullshit. You’re not betting because you’d lose.”

“Come on, answer the questions.”

“What, for your benefit? I’d rather—”

Mercutio leans forward, closing slight gaps of space between them, and the bluff practically spells itself out when the Capulet’s train of thought comes to a halt for the tiniest fraction of a second. But it’s more entertaining when he catches himself, immediately recovering with a cough and a glare like nothing had crossed his mind. 

And nothing more.

He likes that he has an effect on Tybalt, if anything.

“Die? You’d rather die? I don’t think you would anymore.”

The Capulet presses his lips flat. 

He clearly considers all of his life choices, from joining the family business, to taking that first early shift, to even entertaining Montague guests and their undeniably attractive company in his store, given his very compelling personal biases. And Mercutio, while not aptly educated in legitimate dating, was apt enough at guessing how others felt in romantic scenarios with him. He could see it in his gorgeously angry date’s eyes, clear as freshly cleaned glass, that there wasn’t a heart to hate him anymore, because he really didn’t.

Externally, it was something to be smug about, but internally — sue him if he wasn’t sighing with hearts in his eyes.

“Won't tell you. Favorite color’s red. Dior. Anything with a good enough jacket.” Tybalt blurts out all in the same breath, before raising his eyebrow, and Mercutio swears there’s nearly a smile before the last answer. “And I don’t have a favorite regular. I tend to end up hating everyone that walks through that door, not that I’ll ever tell them.”

“So, what, am I lucky to be the one that got your number instead of your everlasting hatred?”

“Maybe you got both.” 

The Escalus hums. Fair. “Why won’t you tell me your favorite movie?”

“I don’t watch that many anyways. Pointless.”

“Yeah, but you’ve watched enough to have a favorite. And think of it as me gathering data. Who knows? Imagine — someone shows up to the coffee shop with a copy of it on DVD, or a paid Netflix account, or something. I mean, that might just about be enough to win a certain someone else over, and that someone is willing to take their chances. If only that someone knew what movie to target, since that someone else’s holding out on them.”

Tybalt snorts. “It wouldn’t win me over.”

“Now, who said I was talking about you? This is purely hypothetical, mind you.” Mercutio reminds, faux-sternness dripping from his tone as he sighs. “Well, someone might throw in a crimson red Dior overcoat in exchange for your precious time. What then?”

“Then you’d practically be buying someone else’s affections, and last I heard that’s no way of building something real.”

Ouch.

Before Mercutio can choose to comment on that, to find any form of witty remark concealing real concern, Benvolio trudges up to their table holding a tray of two drinks and a croissant that he can only hope hasn’t been spat on or hollowed out or was completely cold and unheated. The Montague doesn’t say anything, just kind of stares between them with his usual unreadable bitch expression that he’s never bothered to amend. 

It’s dead silent for a few seconds, like Benvolio wants to drag out the awkwardness for as long as he can.

And then another beat of silence.

Jesus Christ, he really is dragging this out.

And then he speaks, laying out each order in front of them as he names them off. “Iced chai latte with a splash of extra vanilla. Cold brew, better than you make it. And a croissant.”

Tybalt immediately takes a sip. 

Another deadly silence threatening to be deadly long, and then—

“This is ass.”

Benvolio just kind of sighs. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your order.”

“It’s ass. I’m sending it back.”

“Please don’t hesitate to call if you need any assistance.” 

Mercutio interjects. “Benvolio, he wants to send it back—”

His friend’s already halfway across the shop with his back turned by the time the Escalus can even think of finishing the thought, pressing his lips together grimly before turning back to Tybalt. 

“I’m starting to think I should have paid him more for this.”

The Capulet takes another sip. “Or I could’ve just not gone on this date. In this place. With you.”

“You can keep calling it unfortunate, I wasn’t the one begging his lucky stars for me to call him a week ago.” Mercutio murmurs, giving the barista a glance before taking a sip of the ice-cold latte. 

The taste is different as it hits his tongue — he realizes quickly he’s pretty much attuned to the way Tybalt makes it as opposed to whoever made this, and it’s really good. Really not awful. Tastes exactly how it’s supposed to taste. But he both is and isn’t sure why he didn’t want to take another sip, because something about it is too different to hit the same way the same order always did. 

He’s fucking broken. Over coffee. 

It’s terrifying. Exhilaratingly terrifying.

“Well, I wasn’t the one sending his circus clowns to spy on me at my job.” Tybalt grits, taking another short drink from the glass in front of him. “Or the one treating me out to a pointless coffee date right now for god knows whatever reason. And I would think you’d know better than anyone that cliched first dates have a tendency not to get anyone anywhere. I’ll still hate your guts. And I’ll still call you.”

Mercutio exhales, taking a longer than necessary sip of his incredibly different chai latte. “On the topic of building something real, I was told this is how you do it.”

“You were told ?”

“Then again, I should know better than to trust Benvolio’s judgement.”

The Capulet ignores that. He raises a suspicious eyebrow, and Mercutio realizes just how closely he’s watching Tybalt, because he notices the way his eyes tide over, like he’s thinking about something, the way they smile slightly at the corners when the corners of his lips barely tilt upwards for a half second. “Mercutio, how many first dates have you been on? Off your own accord, I mean.”

Oh.

Shit.

He coughs. “Plenty. You know, three weeks before I met you, I—”

Tybalt glares. “Bar conversations and one night stands don’t count.”

Okay. Shit.

The whole plot of his thought process behind this date was threatening to collapse in on itself like the husk of a dying star. His eyes travel off to the counter at the front of the store, where he sees Benvolio clearly leaning against it, not even bothering to hide that he’s watching this play out like it was a riveting medical drama. Hell, he might as well microwave some popcorn and put it in a glass bowl. And it wasn’t helping that his point was proven right. 

Mercutio doesn’t know what to do if not walk out of here under the pretense that his grandmother supposedly died for the 50th time.

No. 

He has to try. This isn’t anyone else — it’s Tybalt.

“Okay.” The Escalus takes a light breath. “Maybe two. Or one. Does it matter?”

The Capulet doesn’t say anything. It’s way scarier than when he does say things, often threats, which aren’t scary at all.

Tybalt opts to take a drawn out sip of the cold brew he was so adamant to send back, acting like he was savoring the taste of every individual processed coffee bean, the warmth of the water, and it’s fucking awful. Absolutely fucking awful. Mercutio can see the tiny, faint trace of a grin at the corners of his lips, and he wishes that Tybalt would either smile whenever he wants to (no complaints there) or not smile at all, instead of whatever he’s doing now.

It’s the longest sip of coffee he’s ever seen in his life. 

And then he speaks.

“Be honest.” The Capulet begins, leaning forward slightly. It’s Mercutio’s turn to catch his breath stopping in his throat, but he doesn’t let it show for a second. “Why are we here right now? How do you usually start your relationships?”

A pause. “Fucking.”

Tybalt clicks his tongue. Not surprised, but not exactly enthused. “Yeah, figures. So why are we here instead of in your apartment, or — in some dingy, rich person club?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Talk, or I’m leaving. And you’re paying.”

Mercutio sighs. “Okay. My longest lasting relationship was two months. So it’s either I’m not as hot as I think I am — which is not the case — or maybe I’m not starting these right.”

Tybalt doesn’t seem so phased. He just raises both eyebrow, leaning back in the chair once more, and it’s like fresh air’s just receded back into polluted air. “So, what? You find a barista you like a tiny bit and you decide to experiment with things? See if you can get a couple more months out of something before you ultimately get rid of it? And that’s supposed to be me?”

The Escalus scoffs.

“What?”

“A tiny bit? You’re funny.”

 He eyes his croissant on the table, breaking his gaze from directly staring at Tybalt, because he has the tendency to do that for long periods of time anyways. He stares at the way the wood glosses over, polished so clean he could see his eyes from beneath a strand of his own dark curls. And he decides that the table can glisten and gleam all it wants, since it still has absolutely nothing on the way Tybalt’s eyes would gloss over, even if they barely do.

“I mean, you’re ever the pessimist. Can’t even consider that I might have planned a date because I want this to last longer. You know, maybe some things are worth taking time on. Maybe that’s lost in the rush hour industry.”

The Capulet scoffs indignantly. Mercutio sees it in the reflection of the glossed tabletop. “Because your time is so precious, isn’t it?”

“Sure. But some things are worth losing time on, simply because they’re that important. That’s how you savor the moment, or whatever people like to call it, and ensure the best possible.” The Escalus coaxes, finding the words, trying to not give a shit and let the words just flow out like coffee from a cup. “For example, my hair in the morning. Investments. Instagram posts. Sponsorship deals. Any voice message that isn’t Romeo talking about Juliet for the millionth time. Gossip.”

“So what?”

He tuts. “Let me finish. Perfume sampling. Wine tasting.”

Tybalt leans back, fed up and frowning. It makes Mercutio grin. “Get to the point.”

“And you.” 

The two three-letter words echo back in his own head, like they weren’t ever meant to be out in the open air. But they are now.

He just said that.

You know what?

Yeah, he fucking said that.

Tybalt doesn’t seem to be processing it any more than he is, clearly, because his frown is frozen onto his face now — not that it usually isn’t, but there would at least be a flicker of a glare in his eyes. Instead, his eyebrows are unfurrowed, icy pupils are blown slightly wider, and it seems more surprised than scrutinizing, more disbelief than disinterested. His lips are barely parted but parted enough to catch breathing — and Mercutio’s gaze, but that doesn’t matter.

And everything’s perfectly still. It’s insanely weird.

So the Escalus sucks in a breath, picks up the knife and fork by the plate, and cuts into his croissant. 

They stay like that for a while. Mercutio makes decently quick work of the flaky pastry, Tybalt watches him finish it in nothing but awkward silence. The tension is so thick, so viscous that it could substitute glycerin in a frappuccino. It’s so quiet that Benvolio coughs and it echoes through the room and bounces off the walls like it was played on loudspeaker. And the scraping of metal against the plate is so god awful that Mercutio wishes someone would speak.

So many beats of silence.

You know, this is definitely a new record.

But as soon as the pastry’s gone — down to the last crumb — Tybalt finally clicks his tongue. The first sound being made in a long group of minutes.

And Mercutio waits for him to get up and walk out of the door. It would be expected.

It looks like he’s thinking about it, too.

And then —

“Everything’s paid already, right?” The Capulet mumbles.

The Escalus blinks.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Another silence. Tybalt rises to his feet. That’s it. It’s over.

He’s going to leave. 

Mercutio’s calling it, jumping to the safest, nearest possible conclusion, getting ready to watch the person he so luckily had for about an hour suddenly crossing into the open road, silhouette gone before goodbye could even formulate as a thought. Hell, he’s going over every worst case scenario like the idiot in love he’d never thought of becoming — fuck, like Romeo. He’s thinking about deleting numbers, switching coffee shops, deflecting this with even more torment —

Wait.

Tybalt doesn’t even leave. No, his eyes are still trained on Mercutio’s. 

“Let’s get out of here. Come on.” The Capulet urges in a reserved voice. 

“Huh?”

A groan.

“No, like — what are you doing?”

The final beat of silence. For thought. And then Tybalt sighs.

“Taking my time on something important.”