(no subject)

[fwibble]

Title: Seven Sins
Rating: R
Musical(s): Romeo & Julia (Hungarian Cast)
Disclaimer: this belongs to Presgurvic and Shakespeare, I believe. I am just rather naughty ;)
Notes: So, anyone who has seen the Budapest cast will know that Bereckzi Zoltan has chemistry with everything, right down to a punchbag and skipping rope. I rewatched every scene he was in and this fic was borne.
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Sloth

Mercutio had never sought favour because of his blood, but they seemed to think they could call on him as and when they wished. So many would have paid for his place, cousin to the Prince, access to court and entrance to any household in Verona.

His cousin certainly thought so.

The noble and wonderful Prince called on him to be the jovial figure at his sombre side, the amiable clown to his sombre Lord.

On any other occasion, it was the role Mercutio had fashioned for himself. He gloried in the attention of others, and delighted in causing mirth and merriment. To do it under duress, simply because he happened to fall from the womb of the Prince’s aunt, was not the same thing. The joy of it was gone.

When a summons came, for the fifth time in a week, he ignored it. Instead, he embarked on a witty seduction of the head guard’s pretty little daughter who, if not a harlot before he laid eyes on her, would certainly never stray from that wicked path afterwards.

It was naughty, he knew, terribly naughty, but some girls - and boys - were made to be seduced to a life that would suit them better. She looked far too well on her back, gasping and writhing, thighs soft and plump on his hips.

His dear cousin was none to pleased when he found out. Whether it was Mercutio’s absence or the fact that Mercutio had been having a pleasing time with a squirming hoyden that angered his magnificent highness more, Mercution was never quite sure. The thrashing for his disobedience was generous enough for both, and the guard had laced every blow with his own malice.

Laid abed, Mercutio groaned at his cousin entered the room. “What? Now you ask more of me?”

“I ask little of you, cousin,” the Prince said, his voice as calm as it ever was in proclamation. “Why do you behave so recklessly? I ask for you only rarely. Must you be so insolent? So lazy?”

Mercutio rolled onto his belly, shifting his hips. “You had me thrashed,” he grumbled against the pillow, his face turned away from his cousin. In the dimpled surface of the mirror, he could see the Prince standing there, looking down at him. Thinking himself unseen, his dear cousin almost looked anguished. “I take no pleasure in being thrashed.”

He saw the hand move before he felt it, the touch on his shoulder gentle.

“Nor I in seeing it done,” his cousin murmured.

Mercutio’s mouth curled up against the pillow, hidden. “Oh, but we both know that is not true, cous,” he murmured, rolling his shoulder against his cousin’s hand. It pained him to move so, but when his cousin’s hand moved with it, he knew just why his little misdeed had brought such wrath.

“Sometimes,” the Prince said lowly, but not without passion, “you deserve all that you get, you vindictive brat.”

Mercutio rolled into his back suddenly. His bruised bones cried out, but he cared none for it, meeting his cousin’s eyes as he caught the Prince’s firm and noble hand. “I do exactly what I like,” he said, guiding that broad hand with its unnaturally smooth, broad, very male fingers downwards. He bit his lip in feigned innocence, closing his cousin’s fingers about him. “Dear, dear cous.”

The Prince flinched as if stung. Dark eyes looked to Mercutio, the guilt, condemnation and shame in them as familiar as that hand about his flesh. Perhaps he was the elder, but Mercutio had taken him in hand as soon as he had discovered the pleasures of the flesh.

“Oh, hush, cous,” he said, smiling his cat’s smile. He moved his hand, and his cousin’s. “If you thrash me, you know you must make amends.”

“And if you disobey...” Still, the Prince did not know how to act or to behave and Mercutio’s smile widened. Some said it was angelic, some were less convinced.

“Then I will make amends to you, cous,” he murmured, letting his eyes drift down his cousin’s body, then back up. He offered that smile, the one that broke hearts, the one he had learned at his mother’s knee. She had taught her beloved bastard well.

When his cousin sank to sit on the edge of the bed and Mercutio could taste his breath, he smiled.

Gluttony

Masquerade balls were frequent in the households of Verona, but they were rare in the Prince’s house. At least, they had become so since the arrival of his young cousin. Mercutio could hardly begin to imagine why his cousin did not trust him in a room full of strangers, his identity concealed by a mask.

Sometimes, his dear cousin had to be persuaded. Frequently, the persuading was particular in nature. Mercutio’s hands were skilled and his tongue silvery in many ways, and too quickly, the Prince would bend to him, and later to his whims.

It took a good deal of persuasion, to say nothing of a rather telling letter of blackmail addressed to the Chancellor and a rather significantly placed love mark on his cousin’s less accessible areas. Mercutio did not like to think of it as blackmail as much as enticement. After all, he knew his cous would enjoy a masque as much as the next man.

The Palace was in uproar as preparations took place. Mercutio made himself as useless as possible, flitting round the halls, tripping maids into rooms and teasing them into mischief, seeking his cousin at council and simply smiling enough to make the famously calm Prince curse at him and cast him out.

It all served to heighten the anticipation of a night when he would be anonymous.

His cous, dear, sweet naive fool that he was, had selected Mercutio’s costume with feathers and gems. It was a luxurious costume, one of a kind and impossible to ignore. Mercutio had taken one look at it, then stole a chambermaid’s dress while she recovered from a tumble, and patiently took it upon himself to make a better and far more innocent masquerade.

When the night came, he pushed a footman of his own height into the feathered ensemble and attired himself in a dark wig. The dress was a difficulty, though with a little linen, he thought he looked quite the convincing maiden.

Much to his pleasure, he saw his cous seek out the costumed page, and while the Prince was thus distracted, he sought out his own entertainment. There was much to be had, and he glutted himself on kisses from strangers, masks hiding their identity. Only for him did it conceal his gender also.

One woman caught his eye. Her clothing spoke of wealth, as did her disdainful manner, and Mercutio was at once entranced. There had been wealthy ones, of course, but this was a wealthy woman in his cousin’s city, probably of the upper elite, most likely married and a mother both.

Even if she had not been all of those things, her breasts were magnificent and he could hardly have refused to pay them homage.

Patience brought him closer to her. Her hair shone golden in the torchlight, true gold rather than his own burnished red, and he moved closer. He was but a breath behind her when she acknowledged him. Her glance was disdainful, cold, behind the glittering mask.

“Begone, girl,” she said. “I have no need of a maid.”

“My Lady is correct,” he murmured over her shoulder. Her surprise was visible, and she turned enough to let him taste her lips. They opened to him like ripe fruit and she sighed. Oh, she was hungry and unfed, this one.

He drew her back between the banners and columns, tangling in the shadows. With a practised hand, her skirt was lifted, although his own took a moment longer. She reached for his mask, but her wrists were snared by his hands, pinned above her head to the column.

Like a desert, she had grown wet at the lightest of rains. She was done too soon, her legs failing her, and he let her sink down. She looked up at him, greedy gratitude in her eyes until he caught her hair. Perhaps she had done, but he had not.

It was a rare lady indeed to respond to such a demand, but her mouth proved as willing as her body.

Those beautiful breasts looked even more so when he withdrew from her and finished upon them.

She gasped aloud and cursed at him.

He only laughed and slipped away, letting the crowd swallow him.

Pride

Formal meetings had become part of his day to day life. From the moment he was of age, he acted the noble cousin. The Prince was outwardly delighted, but Mercutio took every moment back, his cousin’s flesh the forfeit. None ever knew that their private councils left the dear Prince bruised and exhausted at his cousin’s mercy.

A secret pleasure arose from one gathering, paid for in a night of cords and crops. The Prince called him forth to meet the great families of the city formally. It was his place, he was told, and he bowed with all necessary decorum to the Lord Capulet. His eyes strayed to the Lady Capulet and was forced to conceal the knowing smile.

If he had not recognised her lustrous golden hair, then those ripe breasts would have brought back his memory.

Her expression showed no recognition, and he swept into a bow, capturing her hand and placing a chaste kiss upon it. “Gracious Lady,” he murmured, pitching his voice lower, “you light up my cousin’s house with beauty.”

The Lady blushed, which drew a smile to Mercutio’s lips, knowing how little she blushed when pinned to a pillar.

His cousin, some paces behind him, sounded a soft warning, a pointed cough.

Obedient as ever, Mercutio withdrew a step. Far be it from him to shatter his dear cous’s illusions that the Lady had not been ploughed well and hard. His eyes remained on her face for perhaps a heartbeat too long, and a shadow appeared by her side.

It intrigued Mercutio that it was not her husband that noticed. In fact, he hardly seemed aware of her presence at all, which explained a good deal. It did little to explain the sullen, dark boy with the pale, pointed face and savage eyes.

“Your brother, my Lady?” The Prince stepped down beside Mercutio. It was a wordless warning, as obvious as the little dark wretch’s. It would be a hardy youth who could match his cousin’s authority, not this scrawny beanpole of a boy, but warning or not, it made not one jot of a difference. Mercutio was amused by such foolishness. Warnings were for those who cared to heed them. He found them tiresome.

“My nephew, my Lord,” Lady Capulet replied, one hand indicating the boy. “Tybalt.”

The boy bowed, stiff and unsure, his body not yet fully grown. It was too tall and too thin and out of his control. Mercutio snorted at such gracelessness. The boy’s pale face coloured and he straightened, a glare of pure poison lancing at Mercutio, who offered him his most ingratiating smile.

The Prince’s hand was suddenly upon his shoulder, gripping ungently. That usually meant one step away from a thrashing. Mercutio considered this situation and the proud little nobleman far too interesting to be disrupted by a thrashing.

“Perhaps I could show Master Tybalt the grounds, my Prince?” he offered in a suitably apologetic tone. So often he used it, it was a wonder that his dear cous still believed it. There was such faith in the man, that he was blind to Mercutio’s other carefully concealed misdemeanours.

“Very well,” the Prince murmured, “I trust you will treat our guest well.”

His smile would have charmed saints. “I will treat him as well as I would treat her Ladyship,” he promised, all sweetness and true lies.

They walked in silence until they were clear of the hall.

“How dare you look at my aunt that way!”

Mercutio smiled serenely at the trees as the gardens unfolded before them. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked innocently. “I only showed my appreciation for a beautiful lady, dear Tybalt.”

A thin hand gripped his arm, and he looked down at it, then to the face of the boy. “I’m not stupid!” Tybalt exclaimed angrily. “You were looking at her like you wanted to... as if you would...” Twin spots of colour rose on his high cheeks. “You were thinking indecently of my aunt!”

Mercutio slowly smiled at him. “It sounds as if someone else was thinking such a thing,” he murmured in all innocence. “Someone else, who could not think such a thing, for she is his relative, so clearly, he must be angry at the first young man who shows appreciation...”

The blow to his chin was weak, but it was a blow none the less. It gave him cause to grapple the younger man, pinning him without mercy to the nearest wall and holding him fast.

“How dare you strike the cousin of your Prince,” he whispered, low and deadly.

Tybalt’s dark eyes stared wildly at him. “Your mind is full of filth!” he cried, his voice breaking anew. “You stared at her! You looked like...”

“Like I wanted to rut with her,” Mercutio finished heatedly against the boy’s ear. “As you would.” The boy squirmed, struggling. “Oh, do not deny that is why it angers you so. You want so much and you cannot have.”

It took little effort to bring the boy up. He was hungry for his aunt, and whispered suggestions of his own dark desires made him swell. Mercutio’s hand was nimble, and before the boy could fight, he was caught, tamed and spent. Mercutio licked his fingers with great delicacy, savouring the loathing in the boy’s dark eyes.

“I am certain this will never be forgotten,” he murmured, drawing back and letting Tybalt lace his breeches. The boy’s sallow cheeks were flushed and his hands trembled. “I shall certainly remember. And remember the cause.”

“If you tell anyone...” Tybalt began, fear and anger overlapping.

Mercutio sucked thoughtfully on the tip of his index finger. The boy shifted, and that simple movement drew a smug smile to Mercutio’s lips. “I have no need to tell anyone,” he murmured. “As long as you remember and I remember, I am sure we can remain friends.”

Tybalt cursed again, his voice breaking on the edge of tears, and the boy turned and fled.

Mercutio watched him go. He would be an interesting one to find again later, once he was grown.

Greed

It was only a matter of time before Mercutio was taken to the second great household of the city. The Lady who resided therein was recently become a widow, her much older husband no doubt wearied by his younger wife.

Wives delighted Mercutio, but widows had a certain savour that no married woman could match, and on this occasion, her face and figure belied her age.

The Lady Montague, garbed in dignified black, sank into a low bow before the Prince and his young cousin. Had he not known she was mother to a son only a few years younger than himself, Mercutio would have been sure she was nearly of an age with him.

Perhaps she was a widow, but her clothing made it clear that she did not intend to remain so for long. Colour was threaded in the black cloth, and despite her grief, her eyes were clear and her appearance impeccable. The dark loops of braided hair swept against the bare length of her throat as she rose from her curtsey.

He knew better than to stare. His cousin moved forward to offer his sympathies, and while both were diverted by one another, Mercutio considered her. Though her breasts could not rival Lady Capulet’s, closer inspection showed a transparency in her skirts, and he would swear he could make out shapely thighs, to say nothing of her narrow waist.

At his cousin’s gesture, he approached and bowed. Midnight eyes regarded him solemnly, then she turned away and with a gesture brought a young man to her side. Mercutio’s heart sank. Rebuffed so easily?

“My son, Romeo,” she murmured, gazing at Mercutio. “He has few friends in the city.” The young man folded his arms, defensive. Lady Montague gave Mercutio a charmed smile. “I’m sure you would be a good influence on him.”

Mercutio looked thoughtfully at the young man for the first time. He could not help but smile. This one was younger than Tybalt had been, some years earlier, but there was quiet defiance in his stance, fire in his eyes and a threat of delicious innocence in the sullen curve of his lip.

If they were to be friends, that would allow him entrance to the house and perhaps, later, to Lady Montague. The boy was pleasant enough to look at too. He might well prove diverting, and it would not kill him to entertain the little orphan.

For the first time, as time went on, Mercutio found his plans faltering.

Lady Montague became as dear to him as his own mother, despite his best intentions. Young Romeo was charm itself, and all Mercutio achieved from him was one quick and drunken kiss after he bought the young man a pitcher of wine. Romeo draped himself upon Mercutio, murmuring of what a good friend he was, before he fell into sleep, his breath warm and pleasant on Mercutio’s throat.

This was not how he had intended things to be.

Perhaps, that was why his attentions turned to the cousin, little Benvolio.

The boy was a nimble, eager sprite who clung to Mercutio’s every word as if it came from the mouth of God itself. When he was kissed, he would kiss back, and when he was turned on his face in Romeo’s bedchamber and taken hard, he babbled Mercutio’s name like a prayer.

Only Romeo never knew.

Why he felt this tryst could not be revealed, Mercutio could not understand. He had no shame of boasting of conquests to his friends, but this was something different that he could not comprehend. It went on for days, weeks, months, until Benvolio was his devoted slave, loyal and obedient and willing, and yet, all Mercutio wanted was to have Romeo look at him as Benvolio did.

Envy

It was a trial and torment, and yet he could not abandon it.

Romeo had become everything to him but the one thing he desired. It would drive any other mad, but Mercutio had patience. He watched the boy’s attempts at seduction, even advised him that a handful of gold would get him further than a sweet word. What a lie that was. He should have laughed when Rosa rejected gentle Romeo, but all Mercutio could feel was guilt at his friend’s misery.

The masked ball at the house of Capulet seemed like a solution: a diversion for Romeo from the foolish girl, a chance for them to celebrate, a chance for Benvolio to anonymously bite his thumb at their enemies and, of course, the opportunity to visit the lovely Lady Capulet and her grown nephew and perpetual thorn in Mercutio’s side.

Several years had past since their first encounter, but with the growing strife between the two high houses, Mercutio often saw the young men of both households at the centre of every brawl. Tybalt was all but Heir to Lord Capulet, favoured over some strumpet of a daughter his wife had borne.

Yet Romeo had never been caught up in a brawl. Mercutio had made certain of that, from the moment the young man was of age to walk freely in the city. While others could roll around like dogs, growling and snapping, he would not have Romeo troubled by it.

Benvolio seemed to believe it was to maintain her Ladyship’s favour. In part, perhaps it was, but the greater part was because Mercutio knew he could not bear to see Romeo harmed.

Tybalt, however, he loved to goad. It was like tormenting a bound bear, fighting against the restraint of propriety. Sometimes, the blood of Royalty could prove useful, keeping a blade from slicing his throat from ear to ear.

A second encounter much like their first had occurred after one brawl, perhaps a year before Mercutio had been introduced to Romeo. Mercutio had the taste of blood on his tongue, and Tybalt had been caught by the Montagues, spared at Mercutio’s word. Of course, such a noble gesture had demanded payment.

Tybalt had fought him, of course, and had been outraged at his casual demands, but given the choice of a knife in the belly or a blade of another kind between his lips, the Prince of Cats had gone to knee.

Mercutio was smug with delight as he had noticed that he was not the only one to rise, and said as much to his dear Tybalt. Tybalt had remained kneeling, defiant and venomous, but he had not dared to lash out, not at the cousin of the Prince. Mercutio had laughed and stroked his hair, earning a savage hiss. Prince of Cats indeed.

To attend a Capulet ball would not only allow him the private pleasure of looking on Lady Capulet again, but with his mask concealing less than half of his face, and his shock of hair uncovered, he knew he would not go unrecognised. It would drive Tybalt half mad, and as long as Romeo’s identity remained concealed, that would be enough.

It was as magnificent as anticipated, and he felt the hostile looks of Tybalt before he even deigned to approach the hostess. Lady Capulet bestowed her radiant smile on him, and he kissed her hand, holding it for just a moment to long, his body just a breath to close to hers, and he saw her colour, her vanity sufficiently fondled.

Beyond her, her nephew’s eyes blazed, though not as fiercely as they one had.

That fire was directed elsewhere, and Mercutio’s brows rose. So the lovely Lady Capulet had aged too much for Tybalt, had she? For Tybalt’s dark gaze had fallen on a nymph of a girl in scarlet with tumbling hair and a bright laugh.

“My daughter,” Lady Capulet murmured, following his gaze. “Juliet.”

Mercutio made the necessary flatteries to draw another blush from her, then withdrew to be sure that his companions made avoided the daughter of Capulet. If she was touched by any from the Montague line, Mercutio knew war could well ensue, if Tybalt had anything to do with it.

Amind the swirl of colours and masks, he found Benvolio lost to the attentive hands of one of the charming girls Mercutio had broken in himself. It took some moments to learn from him where Romeo had gone, and impatiently, Mercutio set out to find him.

What he found was Tybalt, who pulled him into the shadows. Pinned between the wall and the angry heir of Capulet, Mercutio sighed and squirmed, demanding freedom in his most petulant tone, while his body demanded anything but. As long as Tybalt was distracted, he supposed Romeo would be well.

Tybalt’s expression was a rictus of distaste. “You blatant whore!” he hissed, though his body indicated this was no ill matter.

Mercutio flashed his devil’s smile. “Take what you want from me then, dear Tybalt,” he breathed, arching his back just enough. He was jerked around and thrust against the rough stone of the wall. Tybalt’s hands were fumbling and his breathing ragged and desperate, but his intentions were clear and Mercutio bit down on his sleeve as he was slammed against the wall. Only then, his body sheathing Tybalt’s, did he laugh.

“Me also, my little kitten?” he murmured hoarsely. “Your aunt, your cousin and your...”

His voice was choked by Tybalt’s hand, Tybalt’s body moving punishingly against his. There was naught to hold to, nothing to catch him, and he bit harder and harder on the brocade of his sleeve. Spittle dripped from Tybalt’s lips against Mercutio’s jaw, the younger man’s breathing wet and panting, like a dog humping to slake it’s lust, not knowing why, but only knowing that it wants and will have.

When he was done, he dropped Mercutio, leaving him on his shaking knees on the floor. All the same, Mercutio was the one smiling with knowing satisfaction.

The smile lasted as long as it took them both to turn, to see that they had not been seen. They had not been. But they saw someone. Two people. One of them, Mercutio knew as well as his own body despite the mask, and the other he had only seen moments earlier. In the darkness of an abandoned hallway, they were lost in an embrace.

Tybalt give a wounded roar, and staggered towards them.

On his knees, Mercutio could only cry out in faint warning and shocked grief.

Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet together.

It was all going wrong.

Lust

She came for him the next day. Not the girl herself, but the plump, bustling creature who had been her nurse. The little woman was still fresh enough to be a mother herself, but unlike every other lady in the city, she cared nothing for the fashion of narrow waist and contained bosoms, wearing comfortable and hardy wear.

It suited her, Mercutio noticed. She was stubborn and sturdy, taking their teasing with surprising good humour, and he had recognised the gleam in her eyes when she gave him a quick, suggestive smile.

That was enough to give him an idea, but before he could lure her away, before he could silence any message she might bring from her young harlot of a charge, Romeo approached and swept her away to talk to her.

He had to wait, prowling the streets like a predator, until he saw her bustling away, leaving Romeo to whatever lover’s dream he had foolishly lost himself in. Mercutio followed the plump little woman. She was not hard to catch, and he wondered idly if she had noticed him, as much as he had watched for her.

While he was doing what he had to, in order to divert her from her mission and warn her of Romeo’s ill character, she clearly took delight in having her way with a man so young. She was wanton, almost to the point of embarrassment in one her age, but Mercutio bit his tongue against such words.

Instead, as she perched on his lap, skirts a heavy tangle around him, he warned her of Romeo’s wicked ways, of his loving and leaving of woman after woman, of how devastated her little charge would be once she knew.

“Ah, you boys,” she chided, cuffing his head as if he were one of her own little ones. “I talked to the boy, and if you think I don’t know love when I see it, well, God strike me blind.”

Mercutio felt as if he had been struck in the chest. Of course Romeo had babbled about love. He always did. This was different. This was someone else acknowledging Romeo’s feelings, and believing them to be genuine.

He could barely speak as the woman got back to her feet and dusted down her rumpled skirts. She clicked her tongue in reproof over a stain on the cloth then patted his head as if he were a dog that had performed a trick. “Thank you for that, my boy. It was most pleasant.”

He made a quiet sound, but said nothing else.

She gave him a gentle smile. “Do yourself up, my boy,” she advised, “you don’t want to chill any part of you, especially not that.”

For the first time since his mother had caught him tending himself in the cowshed, Mercutio blushed. Gathering his breeches and his dignity, he fled.

Wrath

The rumours had started, rumours that if they were true would mean blood would be spilled on the streets of Verona.

Mercutio was furious, though he could not be sure why. Was it that Romeo loved the girl? Or that Romeo had not come to him and asked his counsel, as he did with every fleeting lover he had taken? Or that he had not been able to manage what some little hoyden of a Capulet had done with one toss of her hair and one smile from beneath a mask?

Romeo felt the brunt of that anger first, but when word went around that Tybalt of the house of Capulet sought the young Montague, Mercutio felt his insides turn to ice. While he could easily goad and torment Tybalt, Romeo could not. Romeo, who had not even seen a brawl, had no chance against one of the better swordsmen in the city.

When Tybalt dared to tread in the square where the kin and supporters of the Montagues gathered, Mercutio was waiting. Romeo had been diverted, sent from them. He believed himself dismissed and Mercutio prayed he would take the slight as he usually would and spend the next few days sullenly brooding in his room.

Tybalt first tried his mood on Benvolio, but the young Montague cousin had neither wit nor strength to break Tybalt’s will.

Mercutio stepped forth and smiled his honeyed devil’s smile. This time, when they faced each other, they were not alone. There would be no confrontation as there had been in the Prince’s gardens, or in that gloomy alley, or even in the hallways of the Capulet manor.

That did not, however, mean those encounters went forgotten.

Lisping and sighing, Mercutio watched as Tybalt’s eyes blazed and his teeth gnashed in impotent anger. Oh yes, little kitten, claw and see where it will take you. Let the Montagues witness you lash out at the kinsman of the Prince.

Tybalt roared his name, and he turned to laugh in the younger man’s face.

The laughter died in his throat at the sight of Romeo standing only paces away. Romeo, all innocence and goodness, offered his hand, even to Tybalt, the one who wanted nothing more than to strike him down, and Mercutio wanted to scream.

Before Tybalt could strike, Mercutio leapt. Romeo was all but thrown at Benvolio and Mercutio jerked his arm savagely. Away! Romeo could not remain, not while Tybalt was as infuriated as Mercutio had urged him to be. That anger could not be turned on Romeo! It was not his place!

Tybalt’s eyes blazed, black fury, and Mercutio tore off his own coat, spreading his hands in challenge. Tybalt’s armour gleamed. he was armed for battle, while Mercutio wore naught but his shirt and breeches. He was harmless in form and appearance, and yet...

He saw the flash of the blade in Tybalt’s hand, and laughed.

Come, little kitten, scratch if you dare.

Before the first blow could be struck, someone darted between them, and Mercutio cried out as a blow came beneath the intruder’s arm, striking him full in the chest. He turned to the intruder and saw Romeo. Romeo who should not be in a brawl. Romeo whom he had sent hence. Romeo, under whose arm he had been struck.

Both Tybalt and Romeo fell away, and he saw horror in both their faces.

He looked down without fear, calm in the face of what he knew he would see.

A dark rosette bloomed across the pale fabric of his shirt, thick and dark, and he touched a fingertip to it.

“A scratch,” he whispered, and though the blade had been Tybalt’s, he knew the deed had been Romeo’s. He raised his eyes to Romeo’s and smiled, but it felt weak, lost. “A mere scratch.”
Even now, protecting him.

“Mercutio...”

Mercutio looked at the bloody tips of his fingers. “I told you to go,” he said, walking forward a step. He struck Romeo once, sharply, across the face, marking him, his. “I told you to go.”

“I didn’t mean...”

“You never do,” Mercutio whispered. He staggered and felt arms willingly around him for the first time, felt tears hot on his face. “You have killed me, Romeo.” It sounded strange. It should not have been him. “Under your arm.”

“No, Mercutio...”

Mercutio looked up at him, his dark eyes, his dark hair, and the tears. Romeo’s tears for him. He lifted a hand to Romeo’s face, gently. “A plague,” he whispered, “on both your houses. This will end everything.” He shaped Romeo’s cheek tenderly, the press of his hand drawing Romeo closer. “A plague on both your houses.”

“Mercutio,” Romeo’s voice broke with a sob. “Don’t.”

Mercutio managed to smile at last. “If it ends, then you shall join me, Romeo,” he breathed against the boy’s lips, wet with tears. With his last breath, he whispered, “A plague on both your houses.”