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Women are… interesting.
That does not necessarily mean that they pique Mercutio’s interest, however the fair creatures have a curious demeanour about them in their own right. While Mercutio supposes he may not appreciate this in its full beauty, Romeo certainly does.
Romeo speaks of women as if they have personally knighted him with clarity, sparing him and saving him and reviving him all in the same breath. He speaks of the curve of Rosaline’s waist as if he is a man starved and her body is an apple plucked clean off of a tree in the orchard of Eden. He speaks of her eyes as if they are planets, and he is the astronomer suited to study them for the rest of his days, however never allowed to come close enough to absorb them into his very soul as he so wishes to.
It is so forth that naturally, Mercutio wishes that he may be one of these fair creatures. He may not don their hair, or their fair skin, however he may dress himself in their garments and their shoes and their fine cosmetics. He may paint his lips red as roses and stuff himself into a corset, drawing up the lace as tight as it may be taken, and while he hardly resembles these creatures, he looks fair enough.
The first time he attempts this, he is fifteen, his mother’s creams and powders a haven to him. She has no want nor need of them, as his and Valentine’s father has had little interest in their mother for a very long while, preferring to court fair maidens closer to Mercutio’s age than his own. And so, their mother has little reason for the glamour, so she leaves it behind in favour of her embroidery, and her own foreign courtiers. Therefore, her cosmetic box is open to all, and all being more specifically her fifteen year old son, though he cannot say for certain that Valentine has never portrayed any interest towards them.
He first glances at the black stick he recognises duly as kohl, as he is sat at his mother’s dear little vanity. Women use these to exaggerate their eyes, and so Mercutio will follow suit. He picks it up, hand shaking a tad but wrist steady, and begins to draw a line on the underneath of his eye. It is shaky and unpracticed, and perhaps a little too thick, however Mercutio has decided that it must do, and so do it will. Then, he proceeds to outline the other, having gained confidence, and the line is steady and smooth, and when Mercutio blinks at himself in the mirror, he does not see himself at all.
No, Mercutio sees Tybalt, Prince of Cats, staring back at his reflection. Eyes ready to pounce, however with such elegance that one would most likely allow it. He sees striking, organised confidence, enough to extend his claws and then retract them in the blink an eye, confusing even those who have his claw marks branded across their arms. Mercutio sees elegance and grace, everything he envies, everything Romeo admires. Yes. This will do perfectly.
Next, he looks at his mother’s lip paint with a curious apparition in his eye. It is scarlet, the colour of roses and dripping blood. The colour that Romeo has praised time upon time upon time again, when seeing it appear on his dearest Rosaline’s plump lips. Mercutio narrows his now kohl lined brown eyes. This will do nicely. He dips his finger into the pot, tilting his head slightly, curiously as he pulls out his finger with its bright rose stain on the tip. It is stark against his dark skin, and it is bright and it is wonderful. It may not be Rosaline’s exact shade, however it is a likeness, and that is all Mercutio needs.
He dabs it across his lips, making sure to not go over where they end. He mustn’t fumble this. He knows that it will take him weeks to scrub out if it happens to go places other than where it is meant. Well, perhaps not weeks, but it will be imprinted on him longer than he cares to conceal, and that is a very dangerous game in the fair city of Verona. He glances back at himself, peering expectantly.
Now, he sees not Tybalt, Prince of Cats, but fair Rosaline, or, more likely, her not yet refined younger cousin. It will do, Mercutio thinks. He does not wish to be a copy of her, clean cut and fair faced, he just wants the likeness to be close enough that Romeo will see the things he needs to see to allow Mercutio to possess him. It is good enough, and Mercutio will settle for it. Part of him enjoys this. Making himself out to be a woman, a girl, a fine, fair lady of the house. He has never taken an interest in girls, however he has taken an interest in being alike to them, dressing himself in his mother’s fine pearls when he was nought but a boy.
Mercutio, happy with his freshly made up face, knowing not what else ladies apply to their faces, clicks his tongue. The likeness is there, however without the apt figure and garb, he is little but a clown faced boy. He is not fair Rosaline without her straight leg that Romeo speaks so highly of, her quivering thigh or her fine foot. Mercutio possesses none of these, and he does not quite know how to mould himself into the correct shape. Rosaline’s shape.
He huffs out a frustrated breath of air, before he sets his eyes upon the wardrobe of his mother’s dressing room. Ah. It is a fine thing, crafted of the most exquisite oak, tall and wide and ever so inviting to Mercutio. He scrambles across the floor, like a small house mouse darting back to its warm, homely hole in the wall. He opens up the doors, and feasts his eyes upon his mother’s collection of garments, most of which have not fit her since she used to attend the royal court meetings.
First, he sees a smock, and frowns, creasing his rose painted lips. Women wear those under their clothes. Is this what he must do? He pauses. Is it worth the beating he may receive if he is caught fiddling around in his mother’s clothes? Well, he has already muddled about with her cosmetics, he may as well take all of the lashings he is offered, and commit the crimes in excess to make it worthwhile.
He strips off everything, down to his very pantaloons, leaving nothing but them and his vest on. He feels rather stark, strangely bashful. He has no true reason to, as he has been in this exact position many times, and been far less shameful in the past. However, it is different. He has on women’s greasepaint, and not a woman’s body to go with it. He shakes his locs, as if to shake the malevolent, bothering thoughts out of his head, and pulls the shift over his head. It is white linen, and breezy, puffy sleeves and lace bows. He finds he quite likes it. He pushes down that thought. This is for Romeo.
Then, he stares at the stockings, fine lace and gorgeously intricate. He decides he simply must apply them to himself. And so, that he does. He wishes that he was like his mother, and had a maid to dress him, as it would make it ever so much easier, however she has taken her lady maid, Ramona, along on her travels, and even if Ramona remained, Mercutio highly doubts that she would aid him in his mischief. She has always been his mother’s dearest ally, quick to reinforce her word and to tattle the moment that Mercutio put his toe out of line.
He gets them on fully, a tight fit over his breeches and his already muscular calves, but they fit. Oh, wondrous God above, they fit. Next, he glances at his mother’s corset, fine and intricate and lace, like the rest of her clothing. He sighs. He will not get it to fit. Or will he? His mother is far heavier busted than he, of course, and while he is growing, he is still a boy, and has not got the wide figure of a man just yet, despite his wiry muscles. He sighs, and laces it up, hoping and praying that he may pry it over his head, as he is rather sure that that is the only way that this shall work in its entirety.
He holds his breath, contracting his stomach muscles in so that his figure is as slim and small as can be. He slips the corset over his head, and it is tight, and he almost doesn’t get it over his shoulders (he is almost certain that this is not how corsets are meant to be applied, but then again, he has never seen how they’re put on) but he manages it, sliding it over his waist. Instantly, it is a tight fit, snug and compacting him into a tiny little hourglass shape. He looks down at his figure, frowning. My, his waist looks as fine as a royal mistress’! He could seduce any woman, and more specifically, any man, in this attire.
Then, he sees his mother’s farthingale. For the first time, Mercutio frowns. Much too complex for him. And Rosaline does not yet wear these, being but a girl, sticking to her narrow skirts. Mercutio looks at the contraption, contemplating. No, he thinks. If he breaks it, he will pay dearly, and he is rather likely to twist it out of place while attempting to slip into it as gracefully as his mother must, surely. He sighs. Narrow skirts it shall be.
Then, Mercutio’s eye catches on the most beautiful piece in his mother’s collection. A delightfully embroidered petticoat, French and gorgeous, roses sewn all down the sleeveless bodice and at the bottom of the skirt. Beautiful. He immediately wants to tug it on, to use the gown as a secret appliance to make him as beautiful as the petticoat. He debates for mere moments, thinking of every lashing he will receive, and then, a moment passes, and he decides that he does not, in fact, care. He simply must have the petticoat. He reaches inside, grabbing it and looking at it in the light of the window.
It is beautiful. Oh, how beautiful it is. Mercutio will look a true fair maiden in this, and there is nothing Romeo can love more than a true fair maiden. He pulls it over his head, not knowing the correct procedure and not particularly caring, and tugging his arms through. He wanders back over to the mirror, gliding like a snake across tile. He looks, well. He looks a mirror of everything that Romeo adores about Rosaline, about any maiden that crosses his path. He looks perfectly demure. Well, almost. Now for the final, finishing piece.
The whole idea of blouses and ruffles and fuss slips Mercutio’s mind, but Mercutio does not find it in himself to care, as he has seen a deep purple gown, with its beautiful puffed sleeves. Purple is deemed especially for royalty, and luckily Mercutio is a cousin of Prince Escalus, as nothing suits Mercutio more than that warm plum colour. It takes him multiple minutes, but he discovers how to button the contraption, and does so.
Now he is done. Mercutio has now transformed himself from a strapping young lad into a divinely beautiful young woman. He is beautiful, and he is the perfect trap to ensnare Romeo with such finesse and perfection that he doubts Romeo will be upset over impressed and congratulatory. Perhaps he will laugh at Mercutio’s ingenuity. Perhaps he will simply say “Ah, what ho, good Mercutio hath fooled me once more.” However, Mercutio has no way to be sure. What if he is rageful? What if he banishes Mercutio from him, asks that their fellowship be promptly ended. Surely he would not. Would he?
Mercutio snaps himself out of his pointless pondering. “Tommy! Tommy!” He shouts for the servant boy they have had employed since he was old enough to shine shoes. Tommy’s family have been serving their family since it began, and a jolly good service they have given. They are closer than servants, resembling something closer to family, only they are paid to be there. Would they stay if there were no monetary incentive?
Tomás (Tommy) is two years Mercutio’s younger, and they are as close as nobility and peasantry may be. He has tanned brown skin, and fine curls that nobility must envy. He is Mercutio’s… well, not his best friend, for that surely belongs to Romeo, and if not to Romeo then to Benvolio, but he is Mercutio’s confidante. The only soul Mercutio may trust with every clandestine thought about Romeo that he keeps trapped in his head. He is a snarky but not unkind thirteen year old boy, as most, if not all, thirteen year old boys are.
In a mere few moments, Mercutio hears a knock at the door. Oh, the boy was certainly eavesdropping, though Mercutio cannot blame him, he was a similar sort of earwig when he was his age. Without waiting for a response, Tommy just opens the door, taking him a moment due to the heaviness of the polished oak door. Then, when it finally budges open, Tommy is left staring at Mercutio, and for one of the first times in his life, Mercutio feels astoundingly self conscious. “Good Eve, Master, or is it Mistress?” Tommy snickers, with the humour of all boys his age.
Mercutio rolls his eyes. “A mistress is not an equivalent to a master, unless you are using the phrase in an entirely different context indeed.” He says, and resists the urge to ruffle Tommy’s hair. He is adorable, despite his features finally sharpening and losing their baby fat as young men’s faces tend to do when they reach a certain age. Despite his suddenly more chiselled cheekbones, he is much like a tiny, adorable puppy. Tiny indeed, Mercutio notes, for all his face has adapted, his height still has not yet adjusted.
“And how doth thou know in which context I do mean it?” Tomás asks, with a wink and a smirk upon his face. Mercutio rolls his eyes once more.
“You are too little of an age for a man of my splendour to indulge in, and much too scrawny for me to enjoy your appearance.” He laughs, reaching over and ruffling his curls.
“Is that truly the case, or doest thou just discard me for I am not thou’s gentle Romeo-“ He jibes, putting on a certain face that every young boy is acquainted with, and Mercutio scowls.
“I do not wish to quarrel with thou currently, young Tomás, as we both do know that I would remain all the more victorious. Now, on the topic, Tommy, fetch for my Romeo. Bring him here with haste.” Mercutio commands.
“Ah, is that the motive of the fineries?” Tomás asks.
“That is little bother to thou, as thou will just recount it to his fellow adolescents to jibe at me; do not think I do not know you in fullness, Tomás. Just retrieve him, and I shalt give thou whatever he desires, in the range of our splendid kitchens.” Mercutio orders, and makes a tsking sound. “Begone with thee! Begone!”
Tomás bites his thumb at him, mockingly, and Mercutio scowls, making a caricature out of his freshly painted face. However, he does scurry away, like a rat with a very important plan. Tommy has had a sweet tooth since the beginning of time, sweeter than even Mercutio’s, and the family kitchen tempts him enough to bribe him into doing whatever Mercutio wishes. Despite him being Mercutio’s manservant, he’s more like a very annoying younger brother.
Mercutio paces, adorned in his mother’s fine garments. He prays that the young Romeo will like him in these adornments, appreciate his effort, appreciate him. Will the kind Romeo realise what he has been missing, that every scrap of skin on Mercutio’s bones is worth more than Rosaline, that he is every bit as good, as beautiful, if not more so. And more than that. He is Romeo’s friend, and not only his friend but his closest one, his biggest admirer. He is so close to Romeo that when their skin is not touching it feels as if Mercutio has half of him missing, his best half, however when they are near one another they are never near enough. Mercutio wants to pry apart the very bones of Romeo’s rib cage and crawl inside, nesting where his heart lies, and only then will Mercutio be truly satisfied.
He waits impatiently for his sweet Romeo, praying that Tomás makes haste and refrains from dawdling as he usually does when Mercutio begs a task of him. Half of an hour passes, and Mercutio grows restless. He paces, his feet entrapped in tight, ill fitting high heels, every step he takes banging down on the wood of the floor and echoing. They’re unfamiliar, and a higher heel than he would usually wear on his boots, but he is succeeding in the battle of walking in them, hardly ever trembling or stumbling. He is a natural, perhaps.
A quarter of an hour passes after that, and Mercutio has quite given up and is ready to remove his dressings and occupy himself with another matter, when his Romeo comes a’stumbling through the door. He is not strong as Mercutio, however his age gives him wiry muscles and age greater than Tomás, and so he moves the great oak door with a vague sense of ease. He is rain stricken (Mercutio had not even noticed the rain in his fretting) and combs the raindrops from his hair dazedly, not yet setting his sights nor notice on Mercutio’s figure. Mercutio almost laughs; the good Romeo is not known for his observance.
Mercutio decides that this is a fine moment to admire Romeo, and so he begins to do so. Romeo’s hair is wet and shaggy now, but Mercutio knows that despite its dampness it still remains undeniably soft. It looks darker due to the rain that did wet it, but its natural colour is a shining, brilliant gold. He has sweet, puppy like blue eyes, with the most gorgeous eyelashes framing them. His face is rounded, soft and ever so beautiful, and his figure is refined and as gentle as the rest of him.
Then, it seems to click in Romeo’s mind, a potion finally bubbling, and he truly sees Mercutio. Sees his clothes, his figure, his face. “Good Mercutio,” Romeo says breathlessly, pupils wide. “Or should thou say Good Mercutia?” He asks, getting that playful glint back in his eye and regaining his composure.
“Ay, Gentle Romeo, calm. Thou remains far more effeminate than I.” He jokes, finding it easy to regain that jestful groove that he always finds with Romeo, brushing away the slight prick of hurt that he had not been complimented, silly as it may be
“Truly, though, what is the matter with this fine garb?” Romeo asks, reaching over and lightly touching the fabric of Mercutio’s skirt, fingers brushing it tenderly. Mercutio shivers in want. “I cannot say that it does not suit you, Good Mercutio. Thou makes a very fine woman.”
“Finer than thou’s dear Rosaline?” Mercutio queries, leaning into his touch, wrapping his hand around his wrist and moving it up his thigh.
“Finer than she, indeed.” Romeo responds, voice hoarse and lacking of breath.
Something surges over Mercutio, some kind of complicated passion. The heretics would have called it holy fire, the desire of saints for their God. And Romeo is a God, but more so, he is Mercutio’s. His beautiful Apollo, sent by the old Gods of Rome to bless him and punish him and save him all in one. “Oh, Gentle Romeo. My Romeo.” Mercutio sighs, a soft quality to his voice. “My Romeo.” He says again, because of how lovely it feels on his tongue.
“Good Mercutio…” Romeo says, hoarsely, and Mercutio needs no more words.
Mercutio takes his other hand, putting his warm, brown fingers on Romeo’s chin, and tilting it just the slightest bit upwards. Romeo looks at him, with those beautiful blue eyes and their downy brown eyelashes, and something rises in Mercutio’s chest. Something beastly, and untamed. Something that makes him want to taste and chew and hurt. He can’t help the way that his mouth slips downwards, piling its wretched self on top of Romeo’s. It is open mouthed and messy and filled with teeth and lust and an immeasurable sense of want. Mercutio wants him, wants to consume him. He places a hand in Romeo’s wet, shaggy blonde hair, the other on the worship worthy divot in Romeo’s lower back.
Mercutio pulls away, breathless. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.” He says, in earnest.
“Say it again.”
“I want you.”
I want you.
I want you.
I want you.