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The music at the Capulet ball feels wrong to Tybalt.
Too loud. Too bright. Too full of laughter that grates against something sharp in his chest.
He shouldn’t be here – not really. Not like this. Not pretending nothing ever happened.
Because once, long before this feud felt like war instead of habit, there had been a boy with soft eyes and a stupid, hopeful smile who used to meet him in the orchard after dusk.
Romeo.
Tybalt spots him before Romeo sees him.
Of course he does.
He always did.
Romeo looks… different. Not older, exactly. Just softer in a way that makes something twist painfully in Tybalt’s ribs. Like he’s already given his heart away.
“Romeo.”
Romeo turns.
For a second—just a second—the world stops. The noise fades, the dancers blur, and it’s just them again. Orchard-dark and breathless and impossible.
“Tybalt?” Romeo says, quiet. Careful.
Not warm.
Not like before.
Tybalt forces a smile. “Didn’t think you’d dare show your face here.”
“Think you’d want me to,” Romeo replies.
There’s something final in his voice. Something closed.
And Tybalt hates it.
“I thought,” Tybalt says, stepping closer, lowering his voice, “we might… talk.”
Romeo hesitates.
That hesitation feels worse than a slap.
“About what?” he asks.
Tybalt laughs under his breath. “About the part where your father and mine decided we were a mistake?”
Romeo flinches.
Good. At least he still feels something.
“That was a long time ago,” Romeo says.
“No,” Tybalt snaps, softer but sharper, “it wasn’t. Not for me.”
Romeo looks at him then – really looks – and for a moment Tybalt thinks, there it is. That old flicker. That almost.
Then someone laughs behind Romeo.
A girl’s voice.
Juliet.
Tybalt sees it instantly – the way Romeo’s attention shifts, the way his whole face changes without even trying.
And just like that, everything inside Tybalt drops.
“Oh,” he says.
Romeo doesn’t deny it.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Romeo says quietly.
Tybalt’s smile is thin and dangerous. “You never mean anything, do you? It just… happens to you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Tybalt says, stepping back, voice colder now, “what’s not fair is that I’m standing here like a fool thinking maybe you’d remember–”
“I do remember,” Romeo interrupts. “But I can’t go back.”
The words land like a door slamming shut.
Tybalt nods slowly.
“Right,” he says. “Of course you can’t.”
He turns before Romeo can see the crack in his expression.
Tybalt watches.
At first, he tells himself it’s coincidence. Romeo talking to his cousin. Romeo laughing. Romeo lingering.
Then he sees the way Juliet looks at him.
And worse – the way Romeo looks back.
Something cold settles in Tybalt’s chest.
He follows Romeo that night.
He tells himself it’s to make sure the Montague leaves Capulet ground. That it’s duty. Honour.
It’s a lie.
He watches from the shadows as Romeo climbs the orchard wall, light-footed like he used to be when he’d sneak into Tybalt’s rooms.
The memory makes his jaw tighten.
Then Juliet appears at the balcony.
And everything breaks.
Tybalt doesn’t move.
He listens.
To promises.
To vows.
To Romeo – his Romeo – speaking of love like it’s something new, something untouched, something that didn’t once belong to them.
“Call me but love,” Romeo says, voice soft, “and I’ll be new baptized.”
Tybalt almost laughs.
New.
As if Tybalt hadn’t known every version of him already.
As if he hadn’t loved him first.
The next time they speak, it’s not gentle.
“You move on quickly,” Tybalt says, cornering him in a quiet hallway.
Romeo flinches – not at the words, but at the tone. “Tybalt–”
“No,” he cuts in. “Don’t. Don’t say my name like that, like you still have the right.”
“I never stopped–”
“Loving me?” Tybalt steps closer, eyes blazing. “Is that what you’re about to say?”
Romeo hesitates.
And that hesitation is answer enough.
Something in Tybalt’s expression shatters.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “Of course you didn’t.”
When Tybalt hears about the marriage from Juliet’s nurse (the prying he had to do for that) it feels like the world tilting.
Juliet. His cousin.
Romeo. His–
No.
Not his anything.
Not anymore.
Jealousy isn’t loud, not at first.
It simmers.
It twists every glance, every laugh Romeo shares with someone else into something unbearable. It turns Mercutio’s easy closeness with Romeo into something Tybalt hates on sight.
Mercutio, who can touch Romeo’s shoulder without consequence.
Mercutio, who makes him laugh.
Mercutio, who doesn’t have to hide
So Tybalt does something reckless.
Something stupid.
Something he knows Romeo won’t be able to ignore.
The street is hot with tension when he finds them.
Mercutio grins like always, careless and bright. “Ah, the Prince of Cats himself. Come to hiss at us, Tybalt?”
Romeo looks uneasy. “Tybalt, I don’t want–”
“Of course you don’t,” Tybalt snaps. “You never want anything that requires you to fight.”
Mercutio steps forward. “If he won’t, I will.”
That wasn’t the plan.
Tybalt hadn’t planned for Mercutio.
He hadn’t planned for the way Romeo would shout, “Stop– both of you–”
He hadn’t planned for how quickly it would spiral.
It happens too fast.
A flash of steel.
A misstep.
A moment that can’t be taken back.
Mercutio falls.
Not dramatically. Not like in the plays.
Just… wrong.
Too still.
Silence crashes down.
Tybalt’s breath comes sharp and uneven. This wasn’t–
This wasn’t what he–
He looks at Romeo.
That’s when it hits him.
Not the horror.
Not the guilt.
But the look on Romeo’s face.
Romeo stares at him like he’s a stranger.
Like he’s something unrecognizable.
Like whatever they had—whatever they were—is completely, irreparably gone.
“Why?” Romeo asks, voice breaking.
Tybalt opens his mouth.
He could say honor.
He could say hate.
He could say he’s a Montague, I’m a Capulet, this is what we do.
But the truth–
The truth is pathetic.
“I wanted you to look at me again,” Tybalt says.
And God.
That hurts Romeo more than anything else could have.
Romeo doesn’t speak.
For a moment, Tybalt almost thinks he’s misheard him—almost hopes he has, because the silence that follows is worse than shouting, worse than grief.
Then Romeo lets out a breath that sounds like something collapsing.
“Look at you?” he repeats, hollow.
There’s blood on the ground. Mercutio’s blood. It seeps into the dust between them, dark and spreading, and Tybalt can’t stop staring at it because if he looks at Romeo again–
“You killed him,” Romeo says.
Not angry. Not yet.
Just… stating it.
“I didn’t–” Tybalt starts, but the words fall apart in his mouth. He did. He knows he did. Intention doesn’t matter when the result is lying at his feet, unmoving.
“I didn’t mean–”
“But you did it anyway,” Romeo cuts in, sharper now. His voice trembles, but there’s something else beneath it. Something rising. “Because you wanted my attention?”
Tybalt swallows.
“Yes.”
There’s no point lying now. Not when everything’s already ruined.
Romeo laughs once– short, broken, disbelieving.
“You could’ve spoken to me,” he says. “You could’ve hated me. You could’ve– God, Tybalt, you could’ve walked away.”
“I tried,” Tybalt snaps, the words tearing out of him before he can stop them. “I tried to let it go. I tried to watch you– watch you with her– and pretend it didn’t feel like–”
He cuts himself off, breathing hard.
“Like what?” Romeo demands.
Tybalt looks at him then.
Really looks.
And there’s no orchard anymore. No dusk-soft shadows or stolen laughter. Just a boy standing in the middle of the street, shaking, with someone else’s blood on the ground between them.
“Like I was being replaced,” Tybalt says quietly.
The words land heavier than any shout.
Romeo’s expression shifts– not softening, not forgiving, but… cracking.
“That’s not what this is,” he says, almost pleading now. “Juliet– she’s not– this isn’t about replacing you.”
“It looks like it,” Tybalt replies.
“It’s not,” Romeo insists. “It’s–”
He stops.
Because how do you explain love without making it sound like betrayal?
How do you say this is different without making the past feel smaller?
Tybalt smiles, but it’s all wrong. “You can’t even say it.”
“I loved you,” Romeo says suddenly.
The words hang there, raw and unsteady.
Tybalt freezes.
“Loved,” he echoes.
Romeo flinches.
“I did,” he says. “I did, Tybalt. That wasn’t a lie. None of it was.”
“Was,” Tybalt repeats again, softer this time. Like he’s testing the shape of it.
Past tense.
Something inside him goes very, very still.
“And now?” he asks.
He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a plea.
It does anyway.
Romeo closes his eyes for a second, like this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to say.
“Now I love her.”
There it is.
Clean. Final. Unavoidable.
Tybalt nods once.
It’s almost imperceptible, but it takes everything in him.
“Right,” he says.
The word feels empty.
Around them, the world is starting to move again. Voices in the distance. Someone shouting for help. The reality of what’s happened creeping back in.
But here, in this moment, it’s just the two of them.
One last time.
“You don’t get to do this,” Romeo says suddenly, stepping forward. His grief has sharpened into something dangerous now. “You don’t get to kill my friend and then stand there like you’re the one who’s been wronged.”
Tybalt lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “I’m not the one who’s been wronged.”
“No?” Romeo’s eyes flash. “Then what is this? Jealousy? Regret? You think that gives you the right–”
“I don’t think I have the right,” Tybalt interrupts. “I know I don’t.”
That stops Romeo.
Just for a second.
“I know exactly what I’ve done,” Tybalt continues, voice steady now in a way it wasn’t before. “And I know there’s no fixing it.”
His gaze flickers, just briefly, to where Mercutio lies.
Then back to Romeo.
“But don’t pretend you didn’t choose this too.”
Romeo recoils like he’s been struck. “What?”
“You chose to move on,” Tybalt says. “You chose to love her knowing what we were–”
“We were over!” Romeo snaps.
“Because they made us over!” Tybalt fires back. “Not because we stopped–”
He breaks off.
Because that’s the lie, isn’t it?
Romeo did stop.
That’s the whole point.
Silence crashes down again.
This time, it’s heavier.
Final.
Romeo’s hand moves slowly to his sword.
Tybalt sees it.
Of course he does.
There’s no fear. Not really.
Just a strange, hollow understanding.
“This is how it ends, then,” Tybalt says.
Romeo’s grip tightens. “You killed Mercutio.”
“I know.”
“And you expect me to just– what? Let you walk away?”
Tybalt tilts his head slightly. “Would you?”
Romeo doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
Because they both know the truth.
“No,” Tybalt says softly.
For a fleeting second, something almost gentle passes between them. Not forgiveness. Not even kindness.
Just… recognition.
Of what they were.
Of what they lost.
Then it’s gone.
Romeo draws his sword.
And this time?
Tybalt doesn’t hesitate.