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“Tybalt, oh, Tybalt! Let down your hair!”
Tybalt Capulet grumbled from his bed as he rose like a mummy, crossing three strides to his balcony door. Fumbling with the lock, the young man threw open the door, the cold Italian wind slapping him awake.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hissed.
Below the balcony was Romeo Montague, an idiot who knew nothing but his own desires. Still dressed from that evening’s ball, in his finest tunic and mask.
Tybalt scoffed, “What are you doing here, Montague?”
“I wanted to see my fairest, Tybalt, of course!”
The Capulet felt his heart race, his head buzzing from the flirty comment.
“Get out. Before Lord and Lady Capulet come and behead you!”
Romeo smiled fondly at the young man, “So let them behead me. My spirit shall never ascend without you, love!”
Tybalt scoffed at the Montagues’ exaggeration, turning his head.
Was he Romeo’s love? What a foolish thing to say. He wasn’t Romeo’s love when he was drooling over his cousin, or Rosaline. He certainly wasn’t his love when he almost killed him at that ball; if not for Lord Capulet, Romeo would’ve been minced meat.
But why did he wish he were? Why did his heart race at the sight of his eyes? Why was his heart heavy with jealousy when Romeo stared at Juliet for far too long? Why would he have to spend his entire life mourning the love he lost?
Tybalt turned on his heel, “I swear, Montague—“
The young swordsman stopped himself. Romeo was gone.
“Damn him.”
Tybalt turned to his bedroom door, but another sound caught his attention. Vines scratching against stone, the thorns twisting against another like a noose.
Tybalt soon met the face of Romeo.
“By the lords–”
Romeo hissed, pressing his finger against Tybalt’s lips, “Don’t wake up Lord and Lady Capulet.”
Tybalt swatted his hand away, “Montague! Are you realizing what you’re doing? Showing such–”
He paused, the right words sinking through his throat like sand. How could he describe Romeo’s odd… motivations with him? Tybalt was a swordsman at heart; he could stab any opponent with ease. However, his swelling heart remained a mystery through and through.
Suddenly, another warm sensation prickled his skin. Tybalt snapped up, a warm palm grasped his own. Romeo held Tybalt’s palm with surprising grace, his thumb rubbing against his scarred skin.
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Romeo gave the palm a tight squeeze, his certainty resting deep in Tybalt’s heart. The Montague carefully raised Tybalt’s hand against his lips, pressing them against his lover’s hand.
“I have this feeling deep inside of me… I tried prayers, but nothing’s worked. I…I think I want you, Tybalt.”
The Capulet felt a strange, fuzzy sensation through his veins, his breath suffocating under the bitter night air. The Montague was… showing affection? To him, a Capulet, a sworn enemy of the Montagues.
Tybalt should’ve screamed for his uncle, Romeo should’ve been thrown into a dungeon, should’ve been admitted to the church for insanity, or simply executed by the town’s square. Anything!
Romeo smiled through the palm, “I’ll swear it to the moon, no matter what… I’ll always love you.”
“Do you think I’m a fool like Juliet?” Tybalt's hand clenched, “Your heart will change! Like the moon itself!”
He knew it! Montagues, especially that one, couldn’t be trusted. He wasn’t a head-empty dame like his cousin; how dare that man try to trick him?
Silence followed the Capulets’ insult, their hands so clenched that veins could pop. Romeo slowly whisked his palm from Tybalt’s and looked deep into his soul. Tybalt expected hurt in his eyes, perhaps even anger from his conflicted feelings.
Instead, the Montague looked fiercely into his eyes, making Tybalt’s knees weak.
“To the sun, so be it.”
Tybalt’s breath caught again; a Montague was giving him a genuine promise. The moon waxed and waned above Verona for centuries, its form changing through its life. Never-ending in its presumption, even when it's cut in half.
However, the sun remained—a bright luster across the blue, like a jewel in the sky. Never dying, never ending, and never dimming source of heat across Verona.
Tybalt whispered, “So be it, Montague.”