Chapter Text
The hare is still writhing when it’s brought up on a plate for Mercutio to eat.
Mercutio gives it a sideways glance. Whether or not he wants to take his food by force has always been a matter of mood for him. Sometimes, he has the dexterity to rip the animal in two; others, he wants only to snap its little neck.
The servant holds the plate in his hands, trying his best not to flinch. “Your aunt ordered it, sir,” he says when Mercutio keeps quiet.
He knows his aunt ordered it. Who else would have? Besides the king, queen, his brothers and servants, no one else knew of his curse. Of them, Valentine was too deep in his books to care; Paris fended only for himself; his uncle was wrapped up in political affairs; and none of the servants would’ve dared step out of line. Only his aunt, his precious, lovely aunt, would have thought to bring him dinner.
Mercutio nods his head, enough of a sign for the servant to place the plate down on the table before him. His tongue swipes over his lips, once, twice, before he swoops down and bites into the hare’s neck, drawing out blood, hearing it scream. Its throat vibrates against his teeth as he finishes the thing off. By the time it has fallen silent and still, blood is dribbling down Mercutio’s chin.
He sits up from where he had been slouched forward, and finds that the servant has already fled out of fear.
It doesn’t matter the years Mercutio has lived here; he will never be rid of the servants’ nervous glances, how carefully they tread around him, as if one wrong look will launch him upon them. They know they’re insignificant enough not to be missed, and his uncle would hush up the affair besides. If anything, they were prime for the taking.
But, his uncle forbade Mercutio from exercising the worst barbarity. “I will tolerate bloodsuckers,” he had said once, “but not cannibals.” At least, if Mercutio stuck to rodents, he could pretend at the normalcy of a carnivore’s diet.
So, Mercutio sated his desire for the flesh in other ways. He drank. He went out to taverns. He coerced his guards with expensive wine to get them off his back when he was wandering the streets at night and took the prettiest girl home at the first opportunity. At nights when he wasn’t picky, he would even lay with a boy.
All of this was without his uncle knowing, of course, for what would the king of Verona think if he knew? His nephew was not only a cannibal, but a sex maniac and a sodomite as well.
Mercutio’s aunt, Queen Lisabetta, appears at the other end of the table just as Mercutio begins to dab the blood off his chin. He gives her a weak smile. “Aunt.”
“Mercutio…” Her voice is so warm as she says it, either side of her eyes crinkling with her smile. She almost makes up for her husband’s coldness—almost, Mercutio says, because he thinks that no amount of goodness can ever make one forget the decapitated heads on pikes, the taking of the enemy’s daughter for a bride as a trophy when war is won. Men are not men to him; they are pawns, souls easily exchanged, like a hog not cooked right.
And so, Mercutio finds there’s something slightly comforting in eating animals. At least the rest of the world eats them as well.
At least he does not reduce the human form to mere food…
Softly, Lisabetta brushes her fingers over Mercutio’s cheek. “Was it a good meal?”
“Of course it was. You’re the one who ordered it.”
“Did I?” But she’s already laughing by the time she’s gotten the words out.
Mercutio doesn’t chuckle. “Where are the others?”
“Your uncle is speaking with King Capulet. Paris has joined him.”
“Has he now?”
“He is at the age where he must worry about politics.”
Mercutio scoffs. “He’s older than me, Aunt, but not by much.”
“What, would you rather have joined your uncle instead? We both know you’d have fallen asleep the moment you heard King Capulet speak.”
“He could have at least thought of me…” and not hidden me away, as he always does.
Lisabetta sighs, though not for scorn. Her brows have drawn closer. “I do not agree with my husband in matters like this,” she says after a while, “but I understand—”
“Yes, yes, you understand why he’s done it. King Capulet, nor anyone else, must never know that his nephew is a vampire damned by God.” Mercutio and Lisabetta had spoken of this a thousand times before, whenever Paris received favoritism over him. Escalus left the obvious unsaid, something Mercutio found worse than the truth.
Before Lisabetta could try to comfort him again, Mercutio breaks in—“And Valentine? Where is he?”
“Your brother is studying in his bedchamber. I can call him down, if you would like to speak to him.”
Mercutio scoffs. “I’d rather speak to a corpse. Besides, he’s too busy with his Ockman anyway.”
“He isn’t.”
“He is.”
“He really isn’t. He might want you to think he’s so incredibly studious, but deep down, I’m sure he’s just as lonely as you.”
“As if being a regular man is just as tortuous as being a vampire…”
Aunt Lisabetta realizes too little, too late, the offense that she has caused. By the time she tries to make amends, Mercutio has already grabbed his plate off the table, pushed back in his chair, and retreated up to his bedchamber, giving the guards clear instruction not to let the queen in.
☾☼:*˚:✧｡
Tybalt has never seen a bedchamber so bare in his life. He plucks lint from his sheets, swipes his finger along the wall only for dust to come off with it. He can’t help but scoff. “Who does Verona think they are, treating us like this…?”
“We are privileged to be here,” says Juliette, directing her servants as she pleases. “Verona is much more powerful than we are.”
“Yes, well, I expected at least a fine room. My own chamberpot, a servant to wait on me. For it to be clean was the minimum.”
Juliette sighs, her shoulders sagging. The trip here has been hard on them all, mountains and countrysides which seemed to stretch on and on. She turns to face him with tired eyes. “Tybalt, please. Don’t let something as unimportant as a room aggrieve you. That they have bothered to entertain our marriage proposal is a miracle.”
And yet, even Tybalt catches the way her voice wanes when she mentions matrimony. All this talk of marriage with a Veronian prince has been incredibly sudden. Just last week, Juliette had been conducting herself as she chose, running through the fields, sparring with Tybalt through wits and words; now, she’s resigned to her role as a princess, dainty and docile, seen but not heard.
And Tybalt, the man who loves her above all others, has been strung along to witness her sorrow.
He’s been with her since her birth. He cradled her in his arms and sang her songs when she couldn’t sleep. Sometimes, they would play pretend. She would be in perilous danger, and he was the knight sent to rescue her.
Now, it seems, their play wasn’t for nothing, for the Veronians are going to steal her from him—one of those conniving princes, none of them truly of the king’s blood, defiling her, ruining her purity, destroying everything Tybalt fought so hard to keep throughout the tempest of their childhood…
Juliette whimpers softly, and Tybalt is torn away from his thoughts. When he glances at her, though, her face is blank, her chin firm and unwavering. She can swallow down her distress with such ease; Tybalt used to tease her that in a past life, she’d been the greatest actress in the land.
Meanwhile, Queen Capulet is fussing over her robes and King Capulet is reclining as a servant shines his boots. Only Tybalt can cross the room and bring Juliette a smile. “You’re right, I suppose,” he admits at last—Juliette knows, just as well as he does, that she’s the only person before whom he’ll kneel. “This is an… an honor...”
Yet he still can’t help but feel humiliated, demeaned, emasculated as if he’s just been called a bugger. His face, he knows, is just as red as his shirt. This is not how a prince should be treated. These should not be the quarters allotted to a king.
Juliette’s mouth rises into a smile. “I knew you’d see the truth eventually.”
“Only because you’re so incredibly persuasive…”
Juliette giggles at that—at last, her smile is genuine, touching her eyes, making the corners crinkle. She holds herself as if she’s light as air. “We don’t know much about these men, cuz. They could be brutes, yes, but they could also be kind, considerate, the consummate gentleman. Maybe… Maybe they’ll be what makes the match bearable.” She takes in a breath, releases it slowly. Her gaze has moved away from Tybalt now, fixed on the faded carpet beneath her. “Suffice to say, I’m hopeful, Tybalt. You should be, too.”
Tybalt knows that it’s not a request. From Juliette’s lips, such things are always demands.
He kisses Juliette’s cheek, bids her adieu, and goes off to his own chambers without the fear of getting lost—the house they’ve been given is much too small, anyway. When he closes the door, he’s swallowed up the modesty of his room, the sparse decorations and lazy ornaments, even worse than that of Juliette and her parents. A wretched reminder: Tybalt is not of the king’s direct blood, and all the more belittled for it.
He tries to occupy his mind with something more productive, reading biographies of Hannibal and taking notes in the margins, but always, his eyes wander away from the page. He’s as restless as the man in battle.
Verona will pay for this, he thinks. One day, us Capulet’s will rise above them in power. Then, they will regret this slight.
☾☼:*˚:✧｡
“Roméo!” Mercutio calls, his voice carried lamely by the wind. He rushes forward, through sticks and twigs and uneven ground, to where his friend stands, his arms outstretched. At once, Mercutio launches himself at Roméo, engulfs him in his arms. He rests his cheek against Roméo’s breast; he feels the pitter-patter of his heart against his skin.
Mercutio is a lucky vampire: for reasons unknown to him, he is granted the privilege of going out in daylight. He has three hours, maybe four, to mingle with his cherished friend outside the shuttered prison of his uncle’s palace.
And such a friend… Mercutio cannot imagine how he has come to be so lucky so as to have him. He is of the Montague clan, the ruling family of a neighboring kingdom who were wise enough to side with Verona in war. Mercutio and Roméo’s bond was all the more hardened for it.
Roméo gives out a laugh now, letting his chin rest in Mercutio’s long, curly hair. His hand rests on Mercutio’s shoulder blade, lightly tracing patterns in the fabric of his violet coat. “Well, hello to you, too.”Mercutio clutches harder, till his knuckles whiten. “You’d better not leave me again for so long, do you hear me?”
But, Roméo’s words come out more strangled: “Dear God, Merc, you’re going to kill me.”
“At least if you are to die, then it will have been in my arms.”
Roméo’s snort is trophy enough to him. Stepping back from his friend, Mercutio examines him properly: the short brown hair, the black eyes, the dashing smile. Always wearing blue, the color of his country, Roméo seems to sweat now in the heavy indigo shirt he’s been dressed in. It only makes the blouse stick all the more to his skin…
The beat of Roméo’s heart, loud as a drum in Mercutio’s ears. The flood of air in and out of his lungs, bringing him breath and stabbing Mercutio’s temple in turn. Blood rushing through his veins—Mercutio can feel his teeth beginning to sharpen…
At once, Mercutio shakes his head, looks desperately away, only to meet the gaze of Benvolio, Roméo’s cousin. They’re not much alike in looks—Benvolio’s eyes are blue, his hair blond and always messy; for as long as Mercutio can remember, he’s carried a faint oak scent to him. Benvolio scoffs when their gazes meet. “Ignoring me, are we?”
“Ben…” They don’t embrace as Mercutio and Roméo had, but shake hands like kings. It’s a joke they established between themselves in their adolescent years, during the early months of their friendship: Benvolio was the inferior, Mercutio his dominant power. An embrace simply wouldn’t do.
But, for Roméo—dashing, charming, handsome Roméo—Mercutio was prepared to throw aside every custom, however damning.
Mercutio releases Benvolio’s hand and staggers back, trying to collect himself. “I trust the journey was a smooth one.”
“To the contrary,” Roméo mutters. “It was hell on earth.”
“But we made it here alive,” Benvolio reminds him. “That’s something worth celebrating.”
Roméo groans. “Yes, because celebrating a silly ball with silly ladies and even sillier princes is such a privilege.”
Where Benvolio only shakes his head, Mercutio is more flagrant. He pouts for his friend, slings his arm on Roméo’s shoulder, pulls them closer until he can smell the salt of Roméo’s sweat—oh, has perspiration ever been so sweet? Idly, he knocks his knuckles on the side of Roméo’s head. “What’s the matter with you, hm?”
Roméo turns away from him, but doesn’t push Mercutio off. “Nothing.”
“Well, it’s clearly not nothing. I’m the miser here, not you. Something must’ve happened.”
Roméo says nothing, just lowers his head with a scornful look. His fists clench at his sides.
Benvolio sighs. “My cousin here has been slighted by a girl.”
Mercutio flings a hand over his heart. “Pas possible !”
Roméo bares his teeth. “Benvolio…”
“No, dear cuz, if you were going to spend the whole of this trip brooding, then our kind host at least deserves to know the reason why.”
Mercutio looks between the two of them, Benvolio tense, Roméo tenser still. He wishes to make some joke, say something witty enough to dispel the tension. And then, Roméo relents. “All right,” he mutters, dragging a hand along his temple. “If you must know, I proposed marriage to a girl back home, Rosaline. She’s not a princess, but noble enough to please my mother. My father didn’t take it well. Neither did Rosaline. She rejected me before my father had the opportunity to reject her himself. Thus, why we’re here.”
Mercutio scoffs. “I don’t know which I’m pained more by: the fact that you didn’t bother to tell me of this girl, or that you’re so thoroughly underwhelmed by the absolute spectacle that is drinking diluted wine and making smalltalk with girls you’ve never met before.”
At once, Benvolio braces for some sort of comeback—a snide comment, a demand to know how Mercutio could dare be so dismissive of his heartbreak. But, in the place of anger, Roméo softens. With clumsy hands, he musses Mercutio’s hair. “You bastard, you…”
They’re still laughing as Mercutio shows the two of them to their quarters, in a fine apartment not far from the palace. As Mercutio turns to leave them, he can’t help but feel woozy with warmth.
I could make you so happy, he thinks vainly as he stands outside Roméo’s bedchamber door. Happier than Rosaline, happier than any princess, happier than any girl in the whole world.
He swallows, drowns out the sound of Roméo’s heartbeat with the swaying of the trees just outside the window. The birds are chirping; the sun lays its hand across the emerald plain.
When he trudges home that night, wrapped up in shawls and cloaks to hide him from the sky, he’s more exhausted than before.