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Blue. It’s absolutely gorgeous, and Mercutio’s grown extremely fond of the color. Romeo’s eyes resemble the sea: calm, knowing, and at times tormented. Specks of green and grey blend into their depths. He’s truly a man of wax.
Many a night between the two men has been spent on the beach, whether it be out on the waves, kicking it back at Sycamore Grove, or just catching a game of pool and a beer. It’s strangely soothing to him. The gentle sounds of the waves wind him down no matter what, letting him forget about his nobility.
The sky is a similar color. A dark, greyish-navy that seems to creep into every sliver of light. There’s probably a storm brewing. Mercutio couldn’t hear anything. It’s most likely the low rumble of thunder far away.
There is an eerie calm to the twilight, and Mercutio’s mind can’t help but drift off to memories of the previous day: the annual Capulet feast had been raucous. He received a forged invitation from one of his women. The Montagues are anything but punctual, a well-known fact across Verona. Much to his own surprise, Mercutio is the last one to arrive.
Sycamore Grove is lovely during the autumn, at least, what little of it Verona Beach gets. The sunsets are enough to take his breath away.
That night, a slight breeze was present, the moon shining above head. Fireworks glitter in the sky, the amusement park nearby jam-packed. Most are in Halloween costumes. A few aren’t. Mercutio is clad in a white bejeweled top with a short matching skirt. Any tighter and he wouldn’t have been able to wear it out.
A knight in shining armor. The man is nothing short of gorgeous, with that soft smile and golden hair. For the first time in a long while, Mercutio can almost feel something inside him stir. Almost.
Queen Mab is the faeries’ midwife. She pulls the strings. Mercutio has met her personally. The Queen is as lovely as she is sly, a smirk teasing the corner of her lip as she infests his mind with unspeakable filth. They meet weekly, sometimes even daily. The needle pricks deep, a near orgasmic sigh indicating her presence. The Queen enjoys the absence of speech, finding quiet moments like these delectable.
The Queen craves women, the mere feeling of whores against her enough to bring her to full silence. They’re a plague, leaving a sickening taste in his mouth.
The Queen detests Montagues, blames them for the feud. This thought crosses the back of his mind every now and then.
The Queen does not think Romeo is worth it, and sometimes, she’ll whisper it into his ear. Only Mercutio can hear her.
Ted Montague’s silver convertible (driven by his son) is so crowded it’s sickening. Deciding to grin and bear it, Mercutio slides into the middle seat. The ride is short, and the line to enter is even shorter. They’re fashionably late, making haste to drug themselves senseless. Mercutio shuffles toward a man he’s only met once, Romeo trailing behind his cousin.
Pills adorned with red hearts on them are passed out, a short high. There isn’t enough molly in the goddamned world to numb him, but the sensation gives off a temporary buzz. The shit is good. He hopes it’s laced. Candi Staton is being blasted so loud that he can’t think. After all, who is Mercutio to deny a dance? The festivities rage on.
Romeo has run off by the time the party slows down. Some woman is upstage singing a ballad-esque rendition of ‘Kissing You’ while Mercutio cuts through the room with Benvolio. The rest of the party is a blur. A nun, a queen, a pirate, maybe. The Montague heir has no place to be found. He has seemed to vanish into thin air. Making up with Rosaline, no doubt.
The sport is at its best. It might have been an hour later. Then, again, it might have been fifteen minutes. Their group begins to make their way out, and he sees Romeo, clutching his hand and pulling him away from whatever he was looking at. Too much? It doesn’t matter anyway. The other man can’t be bothered.
He wants to reach up and kiss him. The pair rush towards the key exchange, and Mercutio slides his dagger into its holster and nimbly snatches Romeo’s car-keys from a hook on the wall. It’s peaceful, or at least sort of. Quiet. His vision is so fucked up that he genuinely can’t tell anymore.
Romeo runs- no, jumps out of the car. He climbs something, the wall, maybe? There’s so much greenery covering the high walls of the Capulet estate that Romeo is obscured.
Madman. Passion. Lover. Or at least, it’s what Mercutio teases. He’s out of view. Mercutio hopes Romeo can hear him, though he knows he probably can’t. He gives up quickly, noticing the beady-eyed stares directed towards him. Hop into the car. Drive away. He’s been given the slip once again. He’d love nothing more than to show indifference towards him. Resent.
That night, he goes home with Benvolio. They drank together: a pleasant distraction from Romeo. The Montague mansion is grotesquely huge. Though the Prince family has been known for their political importance, Mercutio’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to exactly how show-offy his friend’s house is. He spends the night there. The guest room is cold, ghostly curtains dancing as the fan spins them around.
The wind hitting on his skin is cold. The humidity makes his skin feel as if it’s going to crawl off, and the grey-blue of the sky quickly becomes silver. The thunder is a little louder. A voice calls out, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. A gust of wind hits him. Sand drifts over his face. It’s soft.
The morning after Romeo’s disappearance, aka earlier that day, Mercutio gets up at around 12:00. The sunlight peeks into the Montague’s guest room, flooding it with a warm glow. He’s not been to his father's house all day, Mercutio thinks. Romeo’s room is cozy, with an old monochrome TV and a bookshelf in the corner. The bed lies untouched.
The dogs bark, the cars park, the women laugh, and every Montague that Mercutio knows seems to be there. Hell, he’s technically one himself. They joke for a while, two rounds of beers down. Romeo shows up for a few minutes before being pulled to the side by some hag. Probably something important. Has to be, since he’s gone within a few minutes, the promise of dinner later still hanging in the air.
The wind is hitting his face harder now. The voice gets louder. The god-awful wailing is insufferable, and there’s nothing Mercutio would like more than for it to stop. His head hurts. His gut feels like hell. Everything’s shaking. Dizzy. Sick.
Memories flood his brain. Faster. Everything’s so fast that he doesn’t even notice he’s fallen. He doesn’t even know if he was already on the ground. Somebody clutches his arm. Mercutio’s vision is too blurred to make out the face, but the feeling of the hand gripping him is all too familiar.
Disappointment. Crying. Letters. Fight.
A letter had arrived at the Montague household but a few hours ago. Mercutio wasn’t sure if Tybalt was trying to be poetic or joking. A duel between himself and Romeo. Why, one might ask? The prince of cats was always down for a fight, but the threat came so suddenly that Mercutio couldn’t help but wonder what provocation Romeo had dished out. There was a sliver of a chance this was his own fault. The letter was promptly tossed.
It hurts. Mercutio wants to scream. Everything’s getting less blurry, but his disorientation grows by the minute. He wonders if he’ll die. Maybe he’ll cut it into heaven, a choir of god damned angels making his ears bleed. Romeo came straight from church. Mercutio had always hated church, as had most of his family. The concept of religion itself was entirely erotic, and overthinking it made his skin tingle. Everything the church had taught him he disobeyed, from drag to adultery. Sinning felt good. Hell, it felt amazing. Women felt almost as good as men if he closed his eyes- something he’s done often. His preferences are kept between him and God.
Getting down on his knees and begging. He hates this. Whatever this is.
He can’t ask for forgiveness. He will rot in Hell. Both God and man have both forsaken him, thrown him to the dogs. He doesn’t believe it, not really, but there’s always this guilt in the back of his mind. Pricking him. He pushes the thought away. After all, God created man, and if God didn’t want man to get spun, He would have thought twice before creating crank.
Too much. The pain hits him, and it hits him hard. Less blurry. Flashes of gold. Wet Blue Eyes. The memories hit him too. New ones. Drink. Fight. Fall. Slice. Blood. Die. Mercutio’s so lightheaded he can’t think. Crimson is flowing out of him almost obscenely, and he’s getting weaker by the second.
A car had pulled up earlier. The whole gang was hanging out. A great time, a really great time. Romeo is once again off somewhere, and his absence fouls Mercutio’s mood, even if only slightly. Montague would have kept him in line. Fuck. Has anyone even tried to stop him?
Unfortunately, Mercutio isn’t in line, not remotely. The godforsaken Capulet goads him on, a perpetual scowl distorting his face. Terms are thrown out. Consort is a new one, a description that doesn’t amuse Mercutio in the slightest. All eyes gaze upon them, a gentler pair watching from a distance. Romeo.
Abra loads Tybalt’s pistol. It’s quick, a promise of his intent. The Virgin Mary adorns the handle, a silver cross gleaming from its base. Mercutio attempts to pull Romeo’s gun out, ignoring the Dagger that is holstered on his own chest. Peace is no option.
The prince of cats is disgusting. He reeks of cigarettes, weed, and desperation, carrying himself with such sleaze and arrogance that Mercutio can’t help but scoff. He imposes himself, throws his word around, and doesn’t seem to care about anything but his own well-being. His faux aristocracy gets tired out quickly. Mercutio’s fist has made repeated contact with Tybalt’s face, restraint thrown to the wind. It’s a moment of satisfaction unlike any other, and before it is masked with a slowly diminishing pride, he spots a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Tybalt falls to the ground, smashing a rough pane of glass. His hand slowly wraps around a jagged shard.
The Queen tells him to finish him off. Tybalt doesn’t deserve his mercy, not now, not ever. Mercutio nearly lunges at him, surprised by his own recklessness. He is caught, scooped up into the familiar grasp he knows so well.
It felt good to be in Romeo’s arms once again, a feeling that Mercutio hadn’t felt in weeks. Hell, it felt more like months. Ages. He stared into those gorgeous blue eyes again, but this time they were different. It was something Mercutio never expected - and probably would have never gotten used to. Romeo’s eyes were tinged with bliss, the tension of the ‘duel’ momentarily soothed by them. A flicker of love danced within them before it died out. It was something he would never have in return.
He didn’t care who the bitch was. Couldn’t bring himself to be concerned. All was done in vain. Drugging, manipulation, a nasty, raw excuse for love. And it would have worked. It nearly worked. It was never going to work, never going to be him. This wasn’t love, no. It couldn’t be. Not a word was spoken between them.
His gaze softens. Self-pity. Something gleams in the corner of his eye. Moves in the shadows.
Blood spurts everywhere, flesh tearing. Tybalt looks internally conflicted, his lips declining any form of apology. Benvolio laughs in disbelief. Romeo says something that he can’t remember. A woman several meters away begins to tremble, avoiding his gaze entirely. She gets into one of the nearby cars, eyes lowered. Everyone drives away. Evacuation. Thunder. Rain. Agony.
He runs. Runs as fast as his feet can take him, not caring that he’s kicking sand into his wounds. His foot gets caught in the thin sand, causing him to stagger away even further. That must have been when he tripped.
Romeo holds him close, crying. Crying as if this isn’t his own doing. Crying as if he had felt what Mercutio had felt. Maybe, just for a second, he had. Maybe he hadn’t. The grit of the dust and sand stings, cutting like a knife through his thoughts.
“Why the devil…” Mercutio says softly, any and all lightening of the situation gone.
“Why the devil…would you come between…us?” His voice is weak, and he’s only now starting to make sense of the situation. Everything is light. Everything is clammy. Romeo is bleeding, but not so’s you'd notice. The source of his pain seeps from his nose, dripping onto Mercutio’s shirt, now entirely stained with blood and whiskey. He lets his tears fall freely.
Romeo’s words cut through his sobs, clutching Mercutio tighter than he ever has, as if to keep him here. To vainly stop him from leaving. Dying. He swears a prayer silently, his muscles tensing reflexively as a response. The Virgin never cared much for either of them, that much was clear.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“I…I thought all for the best-” Romeo whispers, shifting Mercutio’s position onto his own body, clinging onto shreds.
“A plague…”
His voice is choked, eyes burning with tears that refuse to fall.
The pair lock eyes, and for a split second, they are fifteen again. For a quarter of a moment, they laugh together on these very shores, and for less than an instant… Mercutio pauses. The damage has been done. Delusions are of the flesh. Tomorrow will not come, at least not for him.
“...on both…” He hesitates, staring up at Romeo. Tinted lenses fall. The man of wax seems smaller now. More vulnerable.
“...both your houses.”
The words escape him before he can take them back. It’s not Romeo’s fault, not really. It’s his own. It’s Tybalt’s. It’s God’s. There is no blame, and there is no innocence. He refuses to think about it, despite the weight of the situation. Judgement day has finally come. His face holds no warmth, and his eyes flicker with a tear, like a candle on its last breath. Not a whimper is heard as Mercutio stops moving altogether.
Benvolio rushes towards him. Tybalt’s group drives away. Romeo cradles a corpse in his hands, a despaired cry ripping its way out of his throat.
Romeo will get up. The cops will come. The narcs will snitch. Shots will fire. The body will be found, and soon enough, a headline about Mercutio Prince will read out. Light will flood into an empty room. The TV in his quarters will play the news, but nobody will be there to watch them. A black and white video.
Do you know what blood looks like in a black and white video?