Rómeó és Júlia fic: Raging Comfort (Tybalt/Paris, rated R)
Title: Raging Comfort
Author: Valancy
Fandom: Roméo et Juliette (Hungarian production)
Rating: R or thereabouts. Let me know if you disagree, I'm bad at ratings.
Words: 7841
Characters: Tybalt, Paris
Pairings: Tybalt/Paris. References to at least Tybalt/Lady Capulet, Tybalt's crush on Juliet and Paris's plans of marrying Juliet.
Warnings: Slash, non-graphic sex, some violence and violent imagery, some rough language.
Summary: Paris wants to talk to Tybalt after the ball. Things ensue.
Author's notes: Many thanks to seek_shangrila for beta-reading and other comments! She did a great job, and if any mistakes are left those are my fault. I really cannot title stories, ever, and this title is probably not very good, but I couldn't think of a better one and got tired of waiting to find a good one. If I think of a better title later, I will change it and make a note of it.
Based on the Hungarian DVD version of Roméo et Juliette and the characters of Tybalt and Paris as interpreted by Szabó P. Szilveszter and Homonnay Zsolt. No, I don't know either why the first fic I actually completed about the Hungarian Roméo et Juliette is Tybalt/Paris. I totally thought I would write Tybalt/Mercutio, Tybalt/Lady Capulet or something. But here it is. Blame my muse for getting inspired by strange ideas, and blame fyrie and ciarana for pointing out to me that on the Hungarian DVD, Paris totally checks out Tybalt during the ball. Blame Homonnay Zsolt for indeed doing that, and Szilveszter for generally being so slashable, hot, angsty, raging, and inspiring as Tybalt.
*****
A mixture of anger, disappointment and painful despair was still raging insideTybalt when he left the Capulets' household at the night of the ball. His mask had been thrown to a corner and forgotten during the heated moments, and he had not bothered to pick it up again. He also could not remember what he had done with his coat and didn't care. He hoped that the cooling summer night would also cool his blazing emotions, but he knew already, as he strode along the street, that nothing could calm down this desperate storm inside him.
Fucking fucking idiots. Fuck them all, no, blast all their heads away with fire and land them into a bloody heap of guts and mangled flesh. Beat them up, stab them, strangle them, hurt them hurt them hurt them like they all hurt him. They deserved it and then they'd all be gone and not hurting him and he could have peace. Peace, he'd never known peace and could never have it. But if he could only hurt and destroy all who had hurt him, it would be so much better, so much...
His thoughts, if they were thoughts and not just vortexes of pain and anger tearing away his insides, were interrupted by the sound of a coach stopping beside him and someone opening the door. Tybalt abandoned his thought process with irritation and wondered briefly if it was some Montague who had heard about it - about him raging at one of their own when the boy had stolen into their party. He hoped for a split second it would be, someone who would come to plunge a sword into him and just stop this...
"Tybalt," he heard a familiar voice speak to him from the coach. "Why walk alone at this time of the night? I can offer you a ride."
He clenched his teeth. Paris. The goddamned self-satisfied, light-hearted, wordy, pompous Count Paris. Though normally Tybalt didn't dislike him as much as he maybe should have. At most other times he might have welcomed the Count, who actually didn't irritate him quite as often as many others did. But not tonight. Tonight Paris, too, had certainly done more than Tybalt could bear.
So he walked on, not making a sound in reply. From behind him, he heard a slightly exasperated but good-natured chuckle that only irritated him further, then a quiet order whispered to the coach driver. Steps behind him, quicker than this own. Finally he felt a firm grip on his arm that forced him to stop. He tried to yank his arm free, but Paris had evidently expected it and took hold of his wrist with his other hand, so that it would have required violent force to be rid of him.
"What?" he asked angrily. He reluctantly turned to look at Paris.
"It's a little impolite to go without even replying to my offer, isn't it?" Paris said, with a smile on his face and in his eyes. It irritated Tybalt, that smile. What right did he have to smile? Least of all at him.
But the words made him laugh out hollowly, mirthlessly. Politeness had been the last thing on his mind for all of tonight. "What the fuck do I care about politeness now?"
"There's no need for you to offend me."
Tybalt tried again to pull his arm free, without success.
"You've offended me, so we're square," he said angrily.
Paris looked almost genuinely surprised. "Offended you? How?" When Tybalt didn't answer, Paris released the hold of one hand to try to reach towards his face. Tybalt turned his head to avoid his touch, but Paris managed to take hold of his chin and turn his head back towards himself. "Tybalt -"
It was not sensible to overstep Tybalt's physical boundaries so, to touch him when he didn't want to be touched. But somehow Paris had never had the sense to fear him even when he should have. Maybe that was why Tybalt oddly liked him and tolerated more from him than he did from many others. But tonight he wouldn't take this, not from Paris.
With his free hand he grabbed Paris's hand, and pulled it away from his face. He did it with such force that it had to hurt. His growl warned Paris that more was to come if he wouldn't be careful.
Paris did not flinch, though he did release Tybalt, and took one step back. Still, he looked steadily into Tybalt's eyes.
"Tybalt," he began again, his voice low and calm. "I have not meant to offend you, but it seems that I have done it unwittingly. But as I swear that I have meant no offence, it would be fair if you would at least explain to me how I've offended you, and give me the opportunity to present my apologies. After that, you certainly have the right to treat me as you wish." He bowed his head slightly. When Tybalt didn't say a word, he continued: "Of course, I don't expect you to speak of it here in the street. But so as not to let the sun go down on this unresolved quarrel, would you do me the favour of coming to my house so that we might have a glass of wine and talk this through? My coachman can drive you to your own house after that."
Tybalt really just wanted to punch Paris in the face here and be done with it. Not waste any more time with this stupid talk. But something made him hesitate. There was something about Paris's manner. The way he took Tybalt's anger so calmly and talked to him like he still respected Tybalt. It was annoying, but it also kind of made him want to take up the offer. Follow Paris to his house and oh yes, talk things through. And maybe then punch him in the face.
He thought about it, even though the rage in him made him not want to think very much. But he realised he wanted to go with Paris. Really, he wanted to tell at least one person what they had done to wrong him and why he found their mere presence despicable. Let it be Paris, since he wanted it.
"Fine," he said. "I'll come with you."
Paris smiled and struck out his hand, but Tybalt ignored it. He would not go as far as shake hands with this man. After waiting in vain for a few seconds, Paris sighed and drew back his hand, then returned to his coach and held the door open for Tybalt.
As Tybalt stepped past him to enter the coach, he looked at Paris' face and saw in his eyes something more than just an apologetic look of a friend. An enticing glow which he had seen in them before and which seemed to invite thoughts that did not belong to this moment. Tybalt turned his head away quickly, feeling his face flush, out of anger or something else, he did not know.
Inside the coach, as it made its way towards Paris' nearby town palace, Tybalt mainly ignored his attempts at conversation. Instead he focused on his confusing array of internal images and memories. Lady Capulet and how ravishing she had looked - no, he would not think of that. Her flirtations with the insufferable Mercutio, who Tybalt also would not think about - her offhand remark about Paris being supposed to marry Juliet. The mere thought of that made him clench his teeth. That had been the first catastrophe of the evening.
And more had followed. Juliet dancing with Paris - but that was not the worst, he now knew, the worst was Juliet dancing with that boy who turned out to be Romeo Montague - not only dancing with him but kissing him, kissing...
He didn't want to think about that. Fuck them, fuck them both. Fuck her and crush his skull. If someone could just please erase them from his memories.
He wouldn't think about what more there was. Not about how he had seen Mercutio steal a kiss from Lady Capulet right before that had happened. That'd been why Tybalt had been the first to flee back to the ballroom where Juliet was with her stupid Montague boy, because he hadn't wanted to see that, but then he'd seen another thing which burned his memory now, he would not think about it, no, no, no. But his fists clenched of their own accord and he wished he could hit someone. Kill and ravage and destroy.
He glared at Paris and considered punching him in the face right now. He'd been so damned casual about marrying Juliet, as though it was obvious and in his full natural rights. And like it was all just a question of who got around to asking first. Even worse was that look in his eyes, that look even when he was talking about marrying Juliet. His eyes wandering all over Tybalt as though seeing him for the first time, and that look inviting him to something, something that most certainly had nothing to do with Juliet and everything to do with him. He didn't understand why that, why then. For that moment, the invitation had been in the air as clearly as if voiced aloud, but Tybalt had ignored it. But somehow he felt that the invitation was still in force. He hated Paris for it.
Well, Paris had better not think he had accepted the invitation by conceding to come now. Tybalt refused to even look at him, instead attending to the rage within himself. His blood was boiling and he was craving for revenge, for fight, something... He knew why he hadn't wanted to go home yet. The storm inside him was taking him to pieces, and he could not get himself back together alone. He needed someone else, settling the score with someone he was angry with, somehow... He had half a mind to grab Paris by the collar right now, just because he was there, shove him back against the wall of the coach and then... he wasn't sure.
In Paris' palace, a few servants waited for them in the hallway, waiting to see if their lord had any wishes after returning from the party.
"Are you hungry?" Paris asked Tybalt.
"No," Tybalt replied. Angrily, because he could not speak in any other way now. Then he realised that he was hungry.
"Well, I would not mind having a bit of something, so please bring a few of those cold meat sandwiches to the evening room, along with a bottle of red wine and two glasses," Paris said to the butler. "You others are excused - I and Master Tybalt wish to have a little conversation and we can do without you for the rest of the night. Please just take our coats -" he handed his own to a maid, then glanced at Tybalt. "Ah, but you don't have your coat, my friend. Well, if you need one when you go home, I can lend you a cloak with no trouble. Either way, after the supper and the wine have been brought, you may leave us alone and go to bed." He glanced at the coach driver. "If there is need to take Master Tybalt to his home, I will come and wake you up."
The servants disappeared, except for the butler, who took Paris and Tybalt to the evening room. After lighting a few candles, he disappeared, presumably to get the wine and the food Paris had ordered.
A few painfully silent minutes followed as they waited for the butler to return. Paris occasionally tried to break the silence with small talk, but after Tybalt kept answering him with only one syllable or an irritated grunt, he stopped and contented himself with inspecting the paintings that hung on his walls. Tybalt continued to contemplate on his anger. He kept feeding it with dark thoughts until he scarcely knew what and who he was angry at, being only aware of that black emotion mangling his insides. He wanted to hit someone, strangle someone, kill someone. Or maybe himself. He didn't know. But he only stood there, oddly passive. It was like the anger was only waiting, thinking about the options but not doing anything. Yet.
Finally the butler returned, laying a tray of sandwiches on the small table Paris gestured at. He laid down another tray with two wine glasses and a bottle of wine, poured wine into the glasses and then offered the tray to Tybalt so that he might pick a glass. Tybalt did so, but did not drink from it before Paris had raised his own glass and sipped from it. This seemed to amuse Paris, but at least he did not say anything. That was one point for him, maybe. At least one time out of a hundred he knew not to say stupid, annoying things.
"Thank you, and good night," Paris said to the butler, signalling that it was his time to leave. "Please sit down, dear Tybalt," he said and gestured at one of the chairs at the table. As the butler closed the door behind him and his footsteps were heard in the corridor, leaving them alone, Tybalt sat down and Paris sat opposite to him. Tybalt wondered for how long Paris would keep up this game of civilized behaviour. He certainly would not tolerate it for long.
Taking a sandwich, Paris remarked offhandedly: "Please help yourself if you've changed your mind about being hungry. I won't eat all of these myself anyway. The buffet at the ball was certainly ample enough, I only like a light supper before going to sleep. Such excitement always makes one more hungry than usual."
Tybalt was glad that there was enough food for him as well, for by now he was ravenous. Certainly such excitement made one hungry... Though he suspected no amount of food alone could satisfy the beast raging within him. Nevertheless, he helped himself to a sandwich before remembering that one should not eat anything in the house of one's enemies.
Though he was not sure if Paris really counted as an enemy. He had not up to now. Now, certainly Tybalt was angry at him, but at the same time, they had a worse common enemy, one who had breached against both of them... Romeo Montague.
But Paris had offended him badly enough. So while he accepted Paris' food, he kept on glaring at him.
Paris did not miss that glare, and though he appeared calm on the surface, Tybalt could see his mind working, his eyes taking in Tybalt's expressions and gestures, trying to figure out how to speak to him. It satisfied Tybalt. He liked to see other men fear him.
When they had eaten a little, Paris laid aside his wine glass and looked straight at Tybalt.
"It won't be of any use to continue with small talk, certainly. We might as well get straight to the point. The servants have gone to sleep and we are quite alone here. Now tell me, Tybalt, how have I offended you so badly? You said on the street that I have, but I don't know how."
"Don't be an idiot, you know well enough," Tybalt muttered into his wine glass. He suspected wine was the last thing he really needed now, but it still seemed oddly soothing.
Paris watched him with narrowed eyes. "Juliet, then. I don't see that anything else happened between us tonight which would cause such resentment."
"Great, you're not as stupid as I thought," Tybalt said with a snort. "Only took you four hours to figure that out after I had told you straight in your face I didn't like that."
"But why is it such a problem? A man has to marry - it's dreadful to keep living in a palace like this without a wife to lighten it up. And out of the marriable girls here who are from a suitable family, she is certainly the loveliest, the one with whom I can see myself enjoying married life. Not only is she beautiful but she has personality and intelligence enough to make a man such as myself truly enjoy her company. I am quite charmed by her and have been for some time. I found it only right to try to get what I wanted."
Tybalt's fists had clenched during Paris' speech. He was enraged that Paris could talk of Juliet's appeal so casually. "So you simply inspected the available selection and picked the finest," he said angrily, staring at Paris with a piercing glare.
Paris raised his eyebrows. "Is that not how marriages are made? But you put it too crudely, dear Tybalt. I do love the girl more than a little - I am personally very fond of her, it is not only a matter of calculations and appraisals. That she meets the needs of those calculations and appraisals as well only speaks more in her favour. I do not think a man should marry a woman unless both his heart and his head speak for it."
Tybalt only felt angrier. How dare that pompous Count have any fondness for Juliet? "But you knew -" he stopped. He didn't know how to say these things. "You knew how I felt about her, and yet you decided to marry her and think that is not an offence to me?" Well, there. It was the closest he'd ever come to saying it to anyone.
Paris sighed. He poured them new glasses of wine. Tybalt wondered why he had to waste so much time. Like he was carefully pondering everything to say.
"I admit that I had become aware of the way you looked at her, and suspected you harbored similar feelings towards her," Paris said at length. "I even admit that this is partly the reason why I chose to hurry, so that I might get there first. But as they say, all is fair in love and war."
"So you admit that you knew I wanted her and still chose to take her yourself?"
"Had you not done the same if you only had got there first?" Paris asked, spreading his arms like he wanted to profess his innocence. All that fakeness only made Tybalt hate him more. "Sometimes," Paris rambled on, "there's no other choice but to try to get what you want even when this may be disadvantageous to those you genuinely like. And in my defence, I must say you have hidden your feelings well - I could not be sure if you truly loved her or not. In fact, I still am not -"
That was too much. How dared he doubt what Tybalt had just confessed to him? Tybalt leapt to his feet, strode to Paris and, before the other man could do anything, grabbed him forcibly by collar and arm, tore him from his chair and pushed his back harshly against the wall behind them. Paris let out a sound of pain as he hit the wall. Hearing it felt good.
"Take that back!" Tybalt growled.
"Please, Tybalt, stop it - I may have expressed myself wrongly." Paris's eyes now seemed genuinely worried and scared. They looked into Tybalt's, as though searching for some mercy. But Tybalt did not relent. He suqueezed Paris' shoulder and his collarbone hard enough to make him wince in pain again. The look in Paris' eyes darkened and hardened. Before Tybalt realised, Paris grabbed his wrist and his side, and forced him away with a painful twist. Now Paris was free again, but stayed where he was and looked at Tybalt warily.
"Damn you," Paris hissed, finally sounding and looking truly angry. "It's my own house and I can at least speak out my mind without being handled like this! If you don't stop this, it's well within my rights to throw you out. And don't forget we're surrounded by my servants, and they'll certainly come if I need to raise alarm. Stop being stupid, I know you can do better."
Tybalt wanted to punch him, but restrained himself. Maybe it was something about the look in Paris' eyes, though he didn't know what was there. "Then explain yourself," he growled.
"All I meant is that - I may have noticed the looks you have been giving Juliet lately, but more certainly I have noticed the looks you have given her mother for a much longer time."
Tybalt tried to grab him again, but Paris stopped him. Paris had clearly expected this reaction and now grabbed his hand, forcing his arm down. Tybalt struggled, because the pain the struggle caused somehow made him feel better. At least it distracted him from what Paris was saying.
"Yes, I have noticed that," Paris continued, "and besides, the servants in her house haven't failed to notice what is going on between you two. Don't worry, I won't tell. It's your own business and doesn't concern me. I understand you - she's a lovely woman." Tybalt struggled, but Paris succeeded in holding him in place. "Now, stop that, won't you, I'm trying to explain myself. It's hardly surprising that a woman like her with a husband thirty years her senior would be attracted by her handsome young nephew. You two have something going on, that's fine with me and I don't care. Anyway, looking at you around Juliet, I can't help thinking... You cannot marry or publicly make love to Lady Capulet for several reasons. And it seems to me - forgive me for saying this both if I'm right and if I'm wrong - she doesn't care too much about fidelity."
Tybalt growled with rage and finally managed to pull his arm free, though it caused him pain. But Paris moved away before Tybalt could hit him. "Yes, I can see that hurts you," Paris said while quickly walking away from Tybalt. "So, please listen and don't attack me. I could not help believing that as Juliet no doubt reminds you of Lady Capulet herself, you may have tried to simply transfer your feelings towards someone who is still available and might prove to respond to your feelings more."
Tybalt should have launched another raging attack at Paris for these words. But somehow he stopped where he was and didn't even try to pursue the other man anymore. He felt the blind rage inside him, but somehow it only numbed him. He could not move or say anything, he simply stared at Paris.
"And this is why I thought that it was quite fair for me to ask for Juliet's hand before you got there," Paris kept on rambling, clearly not caring that every word caused Tybalt pain. "I had great reasons to doubt that it was truly her you loved, and in such a situation a marriage would probably make neither of you happy. So as someone who is fond of each of you, I felt it right to ask for her to be my bride before you would get there."
Finally, this freed his rage again. Perhaps it had only spent a few seconds thinking about the right attack strategy. AsTybalt had been still for some seconds, Paris was caught a little off his guard. Tybalt rushed to him, grabbed his shoulders painfully and tried to place him at a suitable position to punch him. But Paris struggled, which made it hard to hit him.
Paris succeeded in gripping his arms painfully. His fingers dug deep into Tybalt's flesh through the fabric of his shirt so that he would have bruises tomorrow, but somehow Tybalt only enjoyed it. This struggle and mutual pain had been exactly what he needed, even if Paris was not the one he should be doing it with...
Paris hissed curses at him, telling him to stop. But he didn't make so much noise that it would alert his servants. So Tybalt managed to inflict just enough violence to push Paris towards the couch in the back of the room, and finally throw Paris onto it. Paris landed in a sitting position, his back against the back of the couch, groaning a little at the impact.
Tybalt watched him for a split second, feeling satisfaction, then launched himself at Paris. He grabbed the other man's shoulders again, letting his fingers dig deep into them. And then his hands started reaching for his throat.
"Damn you," Paris growled, trying to push his hands away. "Stop it! You have no reason to be so angry at me! Someone else deserves it much more, and you know it." He looked deep into Tybalt's eyes as he said the last words.
"I know," Tybalt hissed. "And I'd kill him if I could. But that doesn't mean I'm not angry at you, too." But his hand settled on only squeezing Paris' shoulders hard, no longer attempting to grab the throat. Paris smiled, his hands tightening around Tybalt's wrists.
"And I am here to be angry at, right?"
When Tybalt did not answer, Paris let his right hand loosen its grip on Tybalt's wrist and start to travel upwards along his arm. Now his touch wasn't forceful but somehow... caressing. Tybalt should have been angry at such an attempt to melt his anger with tenderness, but he could not bring himself to do it. Not when he knew that at least to some extent, Paris understood what was going on in his mind.
Paris' hand reached his left shoulder and stayed there, trying to gently pull him closer.
"We may seem to be rivals when it comes to Juliet, but if you're right about what you saw in the ball, then we both have a reason to be much angrier at someone else," Paris said quietly.
"I did see them kissing, it was clear enough," Tybalt hissed, squeezing Paris' shoulders so that his face screwed up.
"Yes, so... Will you please loosen up? It hurts. It's not really me who you want to hurt." Tybalt softened his tight grip on Paris's shoulders a little. Paris smiled, his hand rubbing Tybalt's shoulder a little. "There. So regardless of which of us gets to marry Juliet - it's not yet entirely settled with her and me, you know, her parents are letting her decide what she wants. But regardless of that, it looks frightfully like the young Montague, out of all people, has managed to steal her love in front of us."
"A Montague! She can't really love a Montague!" Tybalt growled. The memory of the boy's face made him grit his teeth. Without noticing it, he dug his fingers painfully deep into Paris' flesh again. The other man winced, and only that made him realise what he was doing.
"Stop hurting me, Tybalt."
Now Tybalt really stopped, his hands unclenching to only rest lightly on Paris' shoulders. He allowed Paris to pull him gently closer to himself, until Tybalt too was resting against the back of the couch, almost leaning on Paris' side.
"You know, with you I've been gentle," Tybalt murmured, sort of apologetically. "If I had found Romeo Montague, I'd have killed him by now."
"I know," Paris said, and pulled Tybalt against himself. Their chests were still heaving after the intense physical struggle moments before, and as Paris turned his head to look into Tybalt's eyes, Tybalt felt the warm breath on his face. Paris' arm had at some point snaked around his shoulders, he didn't know when. But it was now holding him firmly and close.
"And that's why you should not go to look for him," Paris said. When Tybalt tried to voice a protest, Paris put a finger on his lips. "Now listen to me. I hate him, too, for having perhaps stolen away her heart which I so much want to make my own." Again Tybalt felt a stab of pain and jealousy, but stayed still."And if someone else than myself should have that heart, then certainly a man such as you would be more deserving- Someone who actually knows her and has watched her grow up. Not just an insolent boy who has spied a pretty girl in a party and stolen some kisses from her under the cover of a mask, when the poor girl can't even know who he is. She is young and easily taken by such flattery as boys like Romeo Montague are capable of. Perhaps she will soon realise it was nothing more and return to her senses. But if she does not, we certainly will have to go to this boy and talk him about it. We must make him understand how foolish it is to make love to a Capulet daughter, who anyway is already promised to someone else." He looked at Tybalt thoughtfully. "Or perhaps I will go alone. I don't think you should go near him, as angry as you are now." To enable Tybalt to speak again, Paris' hand slid from his mouth to his chin. But the hand did not leave his face. Somehow this touch calmed down Tybalt's raging heart a little.
But Tybalt still spoke angrily. "Do you claim he doesn't deserve to die?"
"I hesitate to make such statements, not knowing the matter better -"
Tybalt scoffed. "And you pretend to love her."
"Not only pretend," Paris said. "I love her enough to want to ensure that Juliet's husband will not end up executed for having breached the peace of this city. A girl like her should not be made a widow immediately."
Tybalt grew still for a moment. He remembered the Prince's order. Though he had begun to wonder if it mattered. Maybe it'd be good to die and be rid of all this shit. Paris continued. "And so I also don't want you to go there and hurt him or kill him. You would have the revenge of the Montagues upon you, and if they were not swift enough to kill you, then you would be killed on the Prince's orders."
Tybalt looked away. The familiar bitter darkness grew stronger in him again. "So? Who would care?"
He could feel Paris watching him for several seconds before saying: "Many people would. Lady Capulet is clearly very fond of you, whatever the difficulties between you which I don't know very well. Capulet himself likes you - no doubt especially as he doesn't know what you have been doing with his wife, but we hope it will stay that way. Juliet, no matter whether she loves you in other ways, anyway considers you very dear to her as her cousin. All these would certainly be heartbroken if you died, and I'm sure you care about them enough to not cause that to them."
Tybalt still didn't look at him; instead he wondered if Paris was right about what he said. He couldn't be, so why did he he say that?
"And I would not like you to die, either," Paris finished. Now Tybalt looked at him.
"No?"
"Emphatically not."
"And why not? I guess because it would be such a fucking big mess. So damned uncomfortable, and it'd mess up your pretty wedding because the house of the bride would have to be in mourning. And you're not the sort of guy who wishes others dead anyway. Or at least you don't admit it."
Paris raised his eyebrows. "While that's true, there's certainly another reason, too. I like you as well."
"Me?" Tybalt said doubtfully.
"Yes, in spite of everything. In spite of the fact that most of the time you close into yourself so that one can never hope to truly know you. In spite of the fact that most reasonable people fear your temper and that I myself didn't know for sure that you did not intend to kill me moments ago, only hoped - and still don't know that you didn't. In spite of all this I do like you, and would be indescribably sorry and sad if you died."
Tybalt didn't believe it, but he found he wanted to believe. At least for a little while. He looked down, suddenly unable to withstand Paris' gaze. The hand that had rested on his chin now travelled up his cheekbone. The caress made him shiver pleasantly.
Paris moved his hand on to Tybalt's hair, stroking it softy. It created more pleasant shivers, and Tybalt found he didn't have the strength to resist them. The rage seemed to have consumed all his willpower. It seemed to be so long since he had felt anything pleasant, beyond the joy mixed with pain that came from looking at the enchanting beauty of both Juliet and her mother tonight. Maybe it'd be a relief to take this chance. He wondered if Paris knew what he was doing when offering that chance.
The arm that was still around Tybalt's shoulders now pulled him closer, and he allowed it to happen. He let himself be pulled tightly against the other man's chest, allowed himself a quick look into Paris' eyes. They were burning with that invitation again. And he allowed Paris to pull his face down onto his, to press his own mouth on Tybalt's.
The kiss sent a bolt of something - pleasure? terror? happiness? - down Tybalt's spine. When Paris released him, he felt too stunned to say or do anything yet. Encouraged by the lack of violent reactin perhaps, Paris enthusiastically pulled him in for a second kiss. This one was deeper and longer, and Tybalt felt the rage inside him transform into something else. Though it still wasn't that different from the rage. He responded to the kiss with some eagerness. Paris' hands entangled in his long hair, caressing it and stroking the back of his neck. It made him shiver with pleasure again, and he let one of his own hand move softly up the other man's neck, feeling the skin.
But it was not enough for him, the beast was still inside him though what it wanted had now changed. Vaguely thinking that Paris would get what he had bargained for, Tybalt launched into another, much fiercer kiss. It quickly became violently passionate as he brought not only his lips and tongue but also his teeth to claim the man's mouth. He wanted pain and blood, and he would get those, one way or another.
Paris tolerated the more painful attention for some time, only making quiet, muffled moans as Tybalt ravaged his mouth. But as blood broke out, he cried out and tried to push Tybalt off him.
Tybalt wouldn't pull back before capturing some of the blood into his own mouth. He then smiled triumphantly as he released Paris. The other man looked at him with a slightly frightened look in his eyes. Yet those eyes were also filled with lust. There was hardly a more appealing sight for Tybalt. He was already lowering himself for another kiss, when Paris said: "You're crazy."
Tybalt let out a low chuckle. "You wanted this." He brought his mouth down on Paris' once more, another fierce kiss into which mingled the taste of blood.
"I wanted someone's blood tonight," he whispered after distancing himself from the other man's lips again. "And there you are, offering yourself to me. Be happy that I did not take any more than that, and not in a less pleasant way." Now he pressed a lighter kiss on Paris' lips.
"You truly are mad," Paris muttered. But when Tybalt's mouth roamed from his lips to his throat, he let out a sigh of pleasure and started stroking Tybalt's hair again. Tybalt just laughed, and after lavishing gentler attention on his throat, he lifted his head again to look into Paris' face.
"You just said that you like me despite everything, didn't you?"
"Yes. But I would like you ever more if you were a little nicer."
Tybalt stroked the corner of his mouth, then moved his finger to where his teeth had bit into Paris' lip. "Liar," he whispered softly. Paris winced when he touched the sore part, but he still smiled, too. Tybalt grinned and rewarded him with a more tender kiss. Paris received it with eagerness, but led him onto a more passionate one. And he seemed to be learning the game, for he took the opportunity to bite his own teeth into Tybalt's mouth.
Tybalt just laughed when Paris released him. He suddenly knew this was exactly what he had needed tonight. Paris' reaction was only revenge for his own harsh attentions, not something the man would normally do, but it pleased him all the same.
He let his hands wander back to Paris' shoulders, pressing his fingers into the flesh again. From the pained expression on the man's face he could see he had hurt Paris well enough here in their previous struggle. He smiled.
"I know you like it," he whispered. "And I know you liked it before. If you didn't, you'd have done more to stop me."
Paris said nothing, and Tybalt bent back down to his neck. Kissing it tenderly at first, he grew rougher soon. Though now he didn't try to draw blood, just bruise the skin here and there at the base of the neck. Enough to make Paris gasp a little at the pain, but making up for it with sweeter caresses. Paris's breathing was heavy, his pulse hot and quick against Tybalt's lips, and Tybalt knew his own breath must have felt hot and heavy against Paris' neck. Just for a good measure, he bit his teeth against Paris' collarbone hard enough to make him cry out a little.
"You truly are mad," Paris muttered when Tybalt stopped and looked up at his face. His hand was stroking Tybalt's hair again. "See, this is another good reason why I had better marry Juliet, I could never let a tender girl like her at the hands of someone like you..."
Reminding him of Juliet was dangerous. It brought back all the anger of tonight and reminded the beast inside him of what it had wanted to do. Tybalt snarled, gripped Paris' already bruised shoulders hard, and threw him forcefully down on the couch.
He laid himself down on the man, and ravaged him with more violent kisses. In between he saw a satisfied smile flash on Paris' face. He stopped for a moment then. Yes, Paris must have meant to anger him. He wasn't stupid enough to say that now if he hadn't wanted Tybalt to get angry. Tybalt grinned widely. This was exactly what he liked.
Paris made only as much resistance as fitted the situation. Tybalt tore off his clothes less than gently, and the attentions he lavished on Paris changed unpredictably from roughness to tenderness and back. He received profuse attentions in turn to make his passion grow. Though what he got were mostly pleasurable caresses, only occasionally rough enough to warn him that his playmate would not consent to being only prey, either. Or at least wanted to look like he wouldn't.
But eventually the violence melted into violent passion only, and struggles and pain receded as they sunk more deeply into one another's embrace. For some amount of time Tybalt was able to forget himself and everything else and moments melted into pure blissful existence where everything else was gone. How long a time they spent lost in each other, he didn't know and didn't care.
Afterwards they lay quietly down together. Tybalt stared at the light of the candles that had been lit goodness knew how long ago. It seemed ages. For a while all the painful burning memories were gone, somewhere away. The beast inside him seemed to have quieted down for a while. But while parts of him wanted to sink into a peaceful state of bliss and calm, other parts insisted on staring bleakly at the darkness. He thought that the dark beast had been a part of him for too long and chased away most other things. When it was quiet, when the raging fires of passion were burnt out for a while, there was not much else left inside him.
As little as he enjoyed his own self, it was always frightening to have lost himself for a while. It happened in moments like this and he felt terrified. It seemed like he was standing in an empty darkness and could have gone on to any direction, but did not know which one to take, and was praying for his sense of self to return so that he could keep on going to the same direction as before. It felt like that with Lady Capulet, too. Tybalt wondered briefly if this was why it was always so difficult with them. When they were happy, it made him feel disoriented, and disorientation made him angry and uncomfortable. How could she understand that when he didn't either?
He felt a hand stroke his brow, and turned his head. Paris smiled at him.
"See, I knew you could be nice, too," Paris murmured and leaned to kiss him. Tybalt felt too confused to either resist or respond to the kiss. "And you see that I like you," Paris said when pulling back from the kiss.
"You would not like me as much if I was nothing but nice," Tybalt replied. Some of his self was returning to him, and he gladly banished away the thoughts that had taken him over for a while.
"I suppose not," Paris said. He stroked Tybalt's hair. He seemed to have taken a fancy to it. "You can stay here if you like."
Tybalt turned his head to stare at the ceiling. It was an attractive offer. He doubted anyone at his house would worry. They were used to him spending nights away without any warning. But there was some dangerously tempting warmness here that he was not sure he wanted to accept.
"I have ready guestrooms enough if you don't wish to share mine," Paris prompted him. "And my coach driver has already gone to sleep."
"Your fault for sending him to sleep," Tybalt said. "I can walk, anyway, it's not far."
"I don't want you to walk alone at this time of the night after all that's happened. You might get angry Montagues tearing you to pieces, and then the Capulets would have my head."
"Why would you want me to stay? I'm in a terrible mood in the mornings."
Paris laughed a little. "If you don't care for my company for the rest of the night or in the morning, you can go to a separate room and leave in the morning without saying a word. If that's what you want."
Tybalt shrugged, not knowing what to do. He sat up. Paris followed.
"You can come here as often as you feel like, you know," Paris said to him. Tybalt could not help smiling a little.
"I might take you up on that some time," he conceded. Though as soon as he had said that, he was hit with a feeling that there was not much future ahead and what he said wouldn't matter. He didn't know where the feeling came from.
Nevertheless, his vague promise was enough to make Paris press against him and kiss the back of his neck fervently. It felt nice. He realised he kind of wanted to stay. Make everything go away for a little while longer. Not with the right person, but it was better than nothing, wasn't it?
Should he take up on the offer, then? Not with separate rooms, though. If he stayed it'd be in Paris's bed or not at all. He thought. Wouldn't it be more pleasant than another night at his lonely, dark home? He had done these things for a similar reason before, with people he liked less or hated more. So why not now?
He began to search for his clothes, which had been thrown on the floor beside the couch.
"Are you going?" Paris asked with some sound of disappointment in his voice. It madeTybalt feel warmer to hear that disappointment. Standing up so that he could dress more easily, he turned to Paris and grinned a little.
"In the case one of your servants happen to be awake, I don't think it'd be good for them to see me crossing over to your bedroom without wearing anything," he said. "Might cause a bit more comment than men in our station can afford."
Relief was visible on Paris' face as he grinned back. "Why, you think that after all you've done to me, I'll actually take you into my own bedroom? Really, you presume much." He tilted his head, taking a long time to look at Tybalt, who began to pull on his clothes. "Well, after all you've done to me, I might as well."
He stayed there, watching Tybalt until he was almost fully dressed, before he began to look for his own clothes. "We had better not run into servants or they may see you've ripped off half of my shirt buttons," he complained.
"Only half? I'd better not be so gentle the next time," Tybalt replied coolly.
"We still have our wine to finish, you know," Paris said. "And the food. Unless blood was enough nourishment for you."
"That little blood? Hardly enough. I really mustn't be so gentle the next time."
Paris chuckled, though the look in his eyes suggested he wasn't entirely sure if he should be amused or wary. Tybalt smiled.
Paris crossed over to the table, and poured more wine into their glasses. He winced as he drank from his own. The sour liquid probably irritated the wounds in his mouth. Tybalt followed him and picked up his own glass. He drank a little, but without much interest. Wine and food didn't seem to be what he needed now, though he wasn't sure what was.
Abruptly, Paris laid down his wine and food, looked into Tybalt's eyes, and said: "Promise me you won't go looking for the Montague kid."
Tybalt glared at Paris. How could he make such a promise? Not only was the kid his blood enemy, but had transgressed into the Capulets' house and then wounded Tybalt so deeply. Such a promise was not something he could make. But if he said that, Paris would give him no peace about it. He had to divert Paris' attention somehow, so he just said: "I'm not going anywhere now."
Then he kissed Paris. That sort of tactic often worked, and it also worked now. He was glad that it did. All he really wanted now was to forget all that painful, shitty business. Forget it just for one night into a kiss, an embrace and something more.
All the house was asleep, and nobody was spying on their way as they made it quietly upstairs to Paris' bedroom, the dark corridors lit by a single candle Paris was holding.
Author: Valancy
Fandom: Roméo et Juliette (Hungarian production)
Rating: R or thereabouts. Let me know if you disagree, I'm bad at ratings.
Words: 7841
Characters: Tybalt, Paris
Pairings: Tybalt/Paris. References to at least Tybalt/Lady Capulet, Tybalt's crush on Juliet and Paris's plans of marrying Juliet.
Warnings: Slash, non-graphic sex, some violence and violent imagery, some rough language.
Summary: Paris wants to talk to Tybalt after the ball. Things ensue.
Author's notes: Many thanks to seek_shangrila for beta-reading and other comments! She did a great job, and if any mistakes are left those are my fault. I really cannot title stories, ever, and this title is probably not very good, but I couldn't think of a better one and got tired of waiting to find a good one. If I think of a better title later, I will change it and make a note of it.
Based on the Hungarian DVD version of Roméo et Juliette and the characters of Tybalt and Paris as interpreted by Szabó P. Szilveszter and Homonnay Zsolt. No, I don't know either why the first fic I actually completed about the Hungarian Roméo et Juliette is Tybalt/Paris. I totally thought I would write Tybalt/Mercutio, Tybalt/Lady Capulet or something. But here it is. Blame my muse for getting inspired by strange ideas, and blame fyrie and ciarana for pointing out to me that on the Hungarian DVD, Paris totally checks out Tybalt during the ball. Blame Homonnay Zsolt for indeed doing that, and Szilveszter for generally being so slashable, hot, angsty, raging, and inspiring as Tybalt.
*****
A mixture of anger, disappointment and painful despair was still raging insideTybalt when he left the Capulets' household at the night of the ball. His mask had been thrown to a corner and forgotten during the heated moments, and he had not bothered to pick it up again. He also could not remember what he had done with his coat and didn't care. He hoped that the cooling summer night would also cool his blazing emotions, but he knew already, as he strode along the street, that nothing could calm down this desperate storm inside him.
Fucking fucking idiots. Fuck them all, no, blast all their heads away with fire and land them into a bloody heap of guts and mangled flesh. Beat them up, stab them, strangle them, hurt them hurt them hurt them like they all hurt him. They deserved it and then they'd all be gone and not hurting him and he could have peace. Peace, he'd never known peace and could never have it. But if he could only hurt and destroy all who had hurt him, it would be so much better, so much...
His thoughts, if they were thoughts and not just vortexes of pain and anger tearing away his insides, were interrupted by the sound of a coach stopping beside him and someone opening the door. Tybalt abandoned his thought process with irritation and wondered briefly if it was some Montague who had heard about it - about him raging at one of their own when the boy had stolen into their party. He hoped for a split second it would be, someone who would come to plunge a sword into him and just stop this...
"Tybalt," he heard a familiar voice speak to him from the coach. "Why walk alone at this time of the night? I can offer you a ride."
He clenched his teeth. Paris. The goddamned self-satisfied, light-hearted, wordy, pompous Count Paris. Though normally Tybalt didn't dislike him as much as he maybe should have. At most other times he might have welcomed the Count, who actually didn't irritate him quite as often as many others did. But not tonight. Tonight Paris, too, had certainly done more than Tybalt could bear.
So he walked on, not making a sound in reply. From behind him, he heard a slightly exasperated but good-natured chuckle that only irritated him further, then a quiet order whispered to the coach driver. Steps behind him, quicker than this own. Finally he felt a firm grip on his arm that forced him to stop. He tried to yank his arm free, but Paris had evidently expected it and took hold of his wrist with his other hand, so that it would have required violent force to be rid of him.
"What?" he asked angrily. He reluctantly turned to look at Paris.
"It's a little impolite to go without even replying to my offer, isn't it?" Paris said, with a smile on his face and in his eyes. It irritated Tybalt, that smile. What right did he have to smile? Least of all at him.
But the words made him laugh out hollowly, mirthlessly. Politeness had been the last thing on his mind for all of tonight. "What the fuck do I care about politeness now?"
"There's no need for you to offend me."
Tybalt tried again to pull his arm free, without success.
"You've offended me, so we're square," he said angrily.
Paris looked almost genuinely surprised. "Offended you? How?" When Tybalt didn't answer, Paris released the hold of one hand to try to reach towards his face. Tybalt turned his head to avoid his touch, but Paris managed to take hold of his chin and turn his head back towards himself. "Tybalt -"
It was not sensible to overstep Tybalt's physical boundaries so, to touch him when he didn't want to be touched. But somehow Paris had never had the sense to fear him even when he should have. Maybe that was why Tybalt oddly liked him and tolerated more from him than he did from many others. But tonight he wouldn't take this, not from Paris.
With his free hand he grabbed Paris's hand, and pulled it away from his face. He did it with such force that it had to hurt. His growl warned Paris that more was to come if he wouldn't be careful.
Paris did not flinch, though he did release Tybalt, and took one step back. Still, he looked steadily into Tybalt's eyes.
"Tybalt," he began again, his voice low and calm. "I have not meant to offend you, but it seems that I have done it unwittingly. But as I swear that I have meant no offence, it would be fair if you would at least explain to me how I've offended you, and give me the opportunity to present my apologies. After that, you certainly have the right to treat me as you wish." He bowed his head slightly. When Tybalt didn't say a word, he continued: "Of course, I don't expect you to speak of it here in the street. But so as not to let the sun go down on this unresolved quarrel, would you do me the favour of coming to my house so that we might have a glass of wine and talk this through? My coachman can drive you to your own house after that."
Tybalt really just wanted to punch Paris in the face here and be done with it. Not waste any more time with this stupid talk. But something made him hesitate. There was something about Paris's manner. The way he took Tybalt's anger so calmly and talked to him like he still respected Tybalt. It was annoying, but it also kind of made him want to take up the offer. Follow Paris to his house and oh yes, talk things through. And maybe then punch him in the face.
He thought about it, even though the rage in him made him not want to think very much. But he realised he wanted to go with Paris. Really, he wanted to tell at least one person what they had done to wrong him and why he found their mere presence despicable. Let it be Paris, since he wanted it.
"Fine," he said. "I'll come with you."
Paris smiled and struck out his hand, but Tybalt ignored it. He would not go as far as shake hands with this man. After waiting in vain for a few seconds, Paris sighed and drew back his hand, then returned to his coach and held the door open for Tybalt.
As Tybalt stepped past him to enter the coach, he looked at Paris' face and saw in his eyes something more than just an apologetic look of a friend. An enticing glow which he had seen in them before and which seemed to invite thoughts that did not belong to this moment. Tybalt turned his head away quickly, feeling his face flush, out of anger or something else, he did not know.
Inside the coach, as it made its way towards Paris' nearby town palace, Tybalt mainly ignored his attempts at conversation. Instead he focused on his confusing array of internal images and memories. Lady Capulet and how ravishing she had looked - no, he would not think of that. Her flirtations with the insufferable Mercutio, who Tybalt also would not think about - her offhand remark about Paris being supposed to marry Juliet. The mere thought of that made him clench his teeth. That had been the first catastrophe of the evening.
And more had followed. Juliet dancing with Paris - but that was not the worst, he now knew, the worst was Juliet dancing with that boy who turned out to be Romeo Montague - not only dancing with him but kissing him, kissing...
He didn't want to think about that. Fuck them, fuck them both. Fuck her and crush his skull. If someone could just please erase them from his memories.
He wouldn't think about what more there was. Not about how he had seen Mercutio steal a kiss from Lady Capulet right before that had happened. That'd been why Tybalt had been the first to flee back to the ballroom where Juliet was with her stupid Montague boy, because he hadn't wanted to see that, but then he'd seen another thing which burned his memory now, he would not think about it, no, no, no. But his fists clenched of their own accord and he wished he could hit someone. Kill and ravage and destroy.
He glared at Paris and considered punching him in the face right now. He'd been so damned casual about marrying Juliet, as though it was obvious and in his full natural rights. And like it was all just a question of who got around to asking first. Even worse was that look in his eyes, that look even when he was talking about marrying Juliet. His eyes wandering all over Tybalt as though seeing him for the first time, and that look inviting him to something, something that most certainly had nothing to do with Juliet and everything to do with him. He didn't understand why that, why then. For that moment, the invitation had been in the air as clearly as if voiced aloud, but Tybalt had ignored it. But somehow he felt that the invitation was still in force. He hated Paris for it.
Well, Paris had better not think he had accepted the invitation by conceding to come now. Tybalt refused to even look at him, instead attending to the rage within himself. His blood was boiling and he was craving for revenge, for fight, something... He knew why he hadn't wanted to go home yet. The storm inside him was taking him to pieces, and he could not get himself back together alone. He needed someone else, settling the score with someone he was angry with, somehow... He had half a mind to grab Paris by the collar right now, just because he was there, shove him back against the wall of the coach and then... he wasn't sure.
In Paris' palace, a few servants waited for them in the hallway, waiting to see if their lord had any wishes after returning from the party.
"Are you hungry?" Paris asked Tybalt.
"No," Tybalt replied. Angrily, because he could not speak in any other way now. Then he realised that he was hungry.
"Well, I would not mind having a bit of something, so please bring a few of those cold meat sandwiches to the evening room, along with a bottle of red wine and two glasses," Paris said to the butler. "You others are excused - I and Master Tybalt wish to have a little conversation and we can do without you for the rest of the night. Please just take our coats -" he handed his own to a maid, then glanced at Tybalt. "Ah, but you don't have your coat, my friend. Well, if you need one when you go home, I can lend you a cloak with no trouble. Either way, after the supper and the wine have been brought, you may leave us alone and go to bed." He glanced at the coach driver. "If there is need to take Master Tybalt to his home, I will come and wake you up."
The servants disappeared, except for the butler, who took Paris and Tybalt to the evening room. After lighting a few candles, he disappeared, presumably to get the wine and the food Paris had ordered.
A few painfully silent minutes followed as they waited for the butler to return. Paris occasionally tried to break the silence with small talk, but after Tybalt kept answering him with only one syllable or an irritated grunt, he stopped and contented himself with inspecting the paintings that hung on his walls. Tybalt continued to contemplate on his anger. He kept feeding it with dark thoughts until he scarcely knew what and who he was angry at, being only aware of that black emotion mangling his insides. He wanted to hit someone, strangle someone, kill someone. Or maybe himself. He didn't know. But he only stood there, oddly passive. It was like the anger was only waiting, thinking about the options but not doing anything. Yet.
Finally the butler returned, laying a tray of sandwiches on the small table Paris gestured at. He laid down another tray with two wine glasses and a bottle of wine, poured wine into the glasses and then offered the tray to Tybalt so that he might pick a glass. Tybalt did so, but did not drink from it before Paris had raised his own glass and sipped from it. This seemed to amuse Paris, but at least he did not say anything. That was one point for him, maybe. At least one time out of a hundred he knew not to say stupid, annoying things.
"Thank you, and good night," Paris said to the butler, signalling that it was his time to leave. "Please sit down, dear Tybalt," he said and gestured at one of the chairs at the table. As the butler closed the door behind him and his footsteps were heard in the corridor, leaving them alone, Tybalt sat down and Paris sat opposite to him. Tybalt wondered for how long Paris would keep up this game of civilized behaviour. He certainly would not tolerate it for long.
Taking a sandwich, Paris remarked offhandedly: "Please help yourself if you've changed your mind about being hungry. I won't eat all of these myself anyway. The buffet at the ball was certainly ample enough, I only like a light supper before going to sleep. Such excitement always makes one more hungry than usual."
Tybalt was glad that there was enough food for him as well, for by now he was ravenous. Certainly such excitement made one hungry... Though he suspected no amount of food alone could satisfy the beast raging within him. Nevertheless, he helped himself to a sandwich before remembering that one should not eat anything in the house of one's enemies.
Though he was not sure if Paris really counted as an enemy. He had not up to now. Now, certainly Tybalt was angry at him, but at the same time, they had a worse common enemy, one who had breached against both of them... Romeo Montague.
But Paris had offended him badly enough. So while he accepted Paris' food, he kept on glaring at him.
Paris did not miss that glare, and though he appeared calm on the surface, Tybalt could see his mind working, his eyes taking in Tybalt's expressions and gestures, trying to figure out how to speak to him. It satisfied Tybalt. He liked to see other men fear him.
When they had eaten a little, Paris laid aside his wine glass and looked straight at Tybalt.
"It won't be of any use to continue with small talk, certainly. We might as well get straight to the point. The servants have gone to sleep and we are quite alone here. Now tell me, Tybalt, how have I offended you so badly? You said on the street that I have, but I don't know how."
"Don't be an idiot, you know well enough," Tybalt muttered into his wine glass. He suspected wine was the last thing he really needed now, but it still seemed oddly soothing.
Paris watched him with narrowed eyes. "Juliet, then. I don't see that anything else happened between us tonight which would cause such resentment."
"Great, you're not as stupid as I thought," Tybalt said with a snort. "Only took you four hours to figure that out after I had told you straight in your face I didn't like that."
"But why is it such a problem? A man has to marry - it's dreadful to keep living in a palace like this without a wife to lighten it up. And out of the marriable girls here who are from a suitable family, she is certainly the loveliest, the one with whom I can see myself enjoying married life. Not only is she beautiful but she has personality and intelligence enough to make a man such as myself truly enjoy her company. I am quite charmed by her and have been for some time. I found it only right to try to get what I wanted."
Tybalt's fists had clenched during Paris' speech. He was enraged that Paris could talk of Juliet's appeal so casually. "So you simply inspected the available selection and picked the finest," he said angrily, staring at Paris with a piercing glare.
Paris raised his eyebrows. "Is that not how marriages are made? But you put it too crudely, dear Tybalt. I do love the girl more than a little - I am personally very fond of her, it is not only a matter of calculations and appraisals. That she meets the needs of those calculations and appraisals as well only speaks more in her favour. I do not think a man should marry a woman unless both his heart and his head speak for it."
Tybalt only felt angrier. How dare that pompous Count have any fondness for Juliet? "But you knew -" he stopped. He didn't know how to say these things. "You knew how I felt about her, and yet you decided to marry her and think that is not an offence to me?" Well, there. It was the closest he'd ever come to saying it to anyone.
Paris sighed. He poured them new glasses of wine. Tybalt wondered why he had to waste so much time. Like he was carefully pondering everything to say.
"I admit that I had become aware of the way you looked at her, and suspected you harbored similar feelings towards her," Paris said at length. "I even admit that this is partly the reason why I chose to hurry, so that I might get there first. But as they say, all is fair in love and war."
"So you admit that you knew I wanted her and still chose to take her yourself?"
"Had you not done the same if you only had got there first?" Paris asked, spreading his arms like he wanted to profess his innocence. All that fakeness only made Tybalt hate him more. "Sometimes," Paris rambled on, "there's no other choice but to try to get what you want even when this may be disadvantageous to those you genuinely like. And in my defence, I must say you have hidden your feelings well - I could not be sure if you truly loved her or not. In fact, I still am not -"
That was too much. How dared he doubt what Tybalt had just confessed to him? Tybalt leapt to his feet, strode to Paris and, before the other man could do anything, grabbed him forcibly by collar and arm, tore him from his chair and pushed his back harshly against the wall behind them. Paris let out a sound of pain as he hit the wall. Hearing it felt good.
"Take that back!" Tybalt growled.
"Please, Tybalt, stop it - I may have expressed myself wrongly." Paris's eyes now seemed genuinely worried and scared. They looked into Tybalt's, as though searching for some mercy. But Tybalt did not relent. He suqueezed Paris' shoulder and his collarbone hard enough to make him wince in pain again. The look in Paris' eyes darkened and hardened. Before Tybalt realised, Paris grabbed his wrist and his side, and forced him away with a painful twist. Now Paris was free again, but stayed where he was and looked at Tybalt warily.
"Damn you," Paris hissed, finally sounding and looking truly angry. "It's my own house and I can at least speak out my mind without being handled like this! If you don't stop this, it's well within my rights to throw you out. And don't forget we're surrounded by my servants, and they'll certainly come if I need to raise alarm. Stop being stupid, I know you can do better."
Tybalt wanted to punch him, but restrained himself. Maybe it was something about the look in Paris' eyes, though he didn't know what was there. "Then explain yourself," he growled.
"All I meant is that - I may have noticed the looks you have been giving Juliet lately, but more certainly I have noticed the looks you have given her mother for a much longer time."
Tybalt tried to grab him again, but Paris stopped him. Paris had clearly expected this reaction and now grabbed his hand, forcing his arm down. Tybalt struggled, because the pain the struggle caused somehow made him feel better. At least it distracted him from what Paris was saying.
"Yes, I have noticed that," Paris continued, "and besides, the servants in her house haven't failed to notice what is going on between you two. Don't worry, I won't tell. It's your own business and doesn't concern me. I understand you - she's a lovely woman." Tybalt struggled, but Paris succeeded in holding him in place. "Now, stop that, won't you, I'm trying to explain myself. It's hardly surprising that a woman like her with a husband thirty years her senior would be attracted by her handsome young nephew. You two have something going on, that's fine with me and I don't care. Anyway, looking at you around Juliet, I can't help thinking... You cannot marry or publicly make love to Lady Capulet for several reasons. And it seems to me - forgive me for saying this both if I'm right and if I'm wrong - she doesn't care too much about fidelity."
Tybalt growled with rage and finally managed to pull his arm free, though it caused him pain. But Paris moved away before Tybalt could hit him. "Yes, I can see that hurts you," Paris said while quickly walking away from Tybalt. "So, please listen and don't attack me. I could not help believing that as Juliet no doubt reminds you of Lady Capulet herself, you may have tried to simply transfer your feelings towards someone who is still available and might prove to respond to your feelings more."
Tybalt should have launched another raging attack at Paris for these words. But somehow he stopped where he was and didn't even try to pursue the other man anymore. He felt the blind rage inside him, but somehow it only numbed him. He could not move or say anything, he simply stared at Paris.
"And this is why I thought that it was quite fair for me to ask for Juliet's hand before you got there," Paris kept on rambling, clearly not caring that every word caused Tybalt pain. "I had great reasons to doubt that it was truly her you loved, and in such a situation a marriage would probably make neither of you happy. So as someone who is fond of each of you, I felt it right to ask for her to be my bride before you would get there."
Finally, this freed his rage again. Perhaps it had only spent a few seconds thinking about the right attack strategy. AsTybalt had been still for some seconds, Paris was caught a little off his guard. Tybalt rushed to him, grabbed his shoulders painfully and tried to place him at a suitable position to punch him. But Paris struggled, which made it hard to hit him.
Paris succeeded in gripping his arms painfully. His fingers dug deep into Tybalt's flesh through the fabric of his shirt so that he would have bruises tomorrow, but somehow Tybalt only enjoyed it. This struggle and mutual pain had been exactly what he needed, even if Paris was not the one he should be doing it with...
Paris hissed curses at him, telling him to stop. But he didn't make so much noise that it would alert his servants. So Tybalt managed to inflict just enough violence to push Paris towards the couch in the back of the room, and finally throw Paris onto it. Paris landed in a sitting position, his back against the back of the couch, groaning a little at the impact.
Tybalt watched him for a split second, feeling satisfaction, then launched himself at Paris. He grabbed the other man's shoulders again, letting his fingers dig deep into them. And then his hands started reaching for his throat.
"Damn you," Paris growled, trying to push his hands away. "Stop it! You have no reason to be so angry at me! Someone else deserves it much more, and you know it." He looked deep into Tybalt's eyes as he said the last words.
"I know," Tybalt hissed. "And I'd kill him if I could. But that doesn't mean I'm not angry at you, too." But his hand settled on only squeezing Paris' shoulders hard, no longer attempting to grab the throat. Paris smiled, his hands tightening around Tybalt's wrists.
"And I am here to be angry at, right?"
When Tybalt did not answer, Paris let his right hand loosen its grip on Tybalt's wrist and start to travel upwards along his arm. Now his touch wasn't forceful but somehow... caressing. Tybalt should have been angry at such an attempt to melt his anger with tenderness, but he could not bring himself to do it. Not when he knew that at least to some extent, Paris understood what was going on in his mind.
Paris' hand reached his left shoulder and stayed there, trying to gently pull him closer.
"We may seem to be rivals when it comes to Juliet, but if you're right about what you saw in the ball, then we both have a reason to be much angrier at someone else," Paris said quietly.
"I did see them kissing, it was clear enough," Tybalt hissed, squeezing Paris' shoulders so that his face screwed up.
"Yes, so... Will you please loosen up? It hurts. It's not really me who you want to hurt." Tybalt softened his tight grip on Paris's shoulders a little. Paris smiled, his hand rubbing Tybalt's shoulder a little. "There. So regardless of which of us gets to marry Juliet - it's not yet entirely settled with her and me, you know, her parents are letting her decide what she wants. But regardless of that, it looks frightfully like the young Montague, out of all people, has managed to steal her love in front of us."
"A Montague! She can't really love a Montague!" Tybalt growled. The memory of the boy's face made him grit his teeth. Without noticing it, he dug his fingers painfully deep into Paris' flesh again. The other man winced, and only that made him realise what he was doing.
"Stop hurting me, Tybalt."
Now Tybalt really stopped, his hands unclenching to only rest lightly on Paris' shoulders. He allowed Paris to pull him gently closer to himself, until Tybalt too was resting against the back of the couch, almost leaning on Paris' side.
"You know, with you I've been gentle," Tybalt murmured, sort of apologetically. "If I had found Romeo Montague, I'd have killed him by now."
"I know," Paris said, and pulled Tybalt against himself. Their chests were still heaving after the intense physical struggle moments before, and as Paris turned his head to look into Tybalt's eyes, Tybalt felt the warm breath on his face. Paris' arm had at some point snaked around his shoulders, he didn't know when. But it was now holding him firmly and close.
"And that's why you should not go to look for him," Paris said. When Tybalt tried to voice a protest, Paris put a finger on his lips. "Now listen to me. I hate him, too, for having perhaps stolen away her heart which I so much want to make my own." Again Tybalt felt a stab of pain and jealousy, but stayed still."And if someone else than myself should have that heart, then certainly a man such as you would be more deserving- Someone who actually knows her and has watched her grow up. Not just an insolent boy who has spied a pretty girl in a party and stolen some kisses from her under the cover of a mask, when the poor girl can't even know who he is. She is young and easily taken by such flattery as boys like Romeo Montague are capable of. Perhaps she will soon realise it was nothing more and return to her senses. But if she does not, we certainly will have to go to this boy and talk him about it. We must make him understand how foolish it is to make love to a Capulet daughter, who anyway is already promised to someone else." He looked at Tybalt thoughtfully. "Or perhaps I will go alone. I don't think you should go near him, as angry as you are now." To enable Tybalt to speak again, Paris' hand slid from his mouth to his chin. But the hand did not leave his face. Somehow this touch calmed down Tybalt's raging heart a little.
But Tybalt still spoke angrily. "Do you claim he doesn't deserve to die?"
"I hesitate to make such statements, not knowing the matter better -"
Tybalt scoffed. "And you pretend to love her."
"Not only pretend," Paris said. "I love her enough to want to ensure that Juliet's husband will not end up executed for having breached the peace of this city. A girl like her should not be made a widow immediately."
Tybalt grew still for a moment. He remembered the Prince's order. Though he had begun to wonder if it mattered. Maybe it'd be good to die and be rid of all this shit. Paris continued. "And so I also don't want you to go there and hurt him or kill him. You would have the revenge of the Montagues upon you, and if they were not swift enough to kill you, then you would be killed on the Prince's orders."
Tybalt looked away. The familiar bitter darkness grew stronger in him again. "So? Who would care?"
He could feel Paris watching him for several seconds before saying: "Many people would. Lady Capulet is clearly very fond of you, whatever the difficulties between you which I don't know very well. Capulet himself likes you - no doubt especially as he doesn't know what you have been doing with his wife, but we hope it will stay that way. Juliet, no matter whether she loves you in other ways, anyway considers you very dear to her as her cousin. All these would certainly be heartbroken if you died, and I'm sure you care about them enough to not cause that to them."
Tybalt still didn't look at him; instead he wondered if Paris was right about what he said. He couldn't be, so why did he he say that?
"And I would not like you to die, either," Paris finished. Now Tybalt looked at him.
"No?"
"Emphatically not."
"And why not? I guess because it would be such a fucking big mess. So damned uncomfortable, and it'd mess up your pretty wedding because the house of the bride would have to be in mourning. And you're not the sort of guy who wishes others dead anyway. Or at least you don't admit it."
Paris raised his eyebrows. "While that's true, there's certainly another reason, too. I like you as well."
"Me?" Tybalt said doubtfully.
"Yes, in spite of everything. In spite of the fact that most of the time you close into yourself so that one can never hope to truly know you. In spite of the fact that most reasonable people fear your temper and that I myself didn't know for sure that you did not intend to kill me moments ago, only hoped - and still don't know that you didn't. In spite of all this I do like you, and would be indescribably sorry and sad if you died."
Tybalt didn't believe it, but he found he wanted to believe. At least for a little while. He looked down, suddenly unable to withstand Paris' gaze. The hand that had rested on his chin now travelled up his cheekbone. The caress made him shiver pleasantly.
Paris moved his hand on to Tybalt's hair, stroking it softy. It created more pleasant shivers, and Tybalt found he didn't have the strength to resist them. The rage seemed to have consumed all his willpower. It seemed to be so long since he had felt anything pleasant, beyond the joy mixed with pain that came from looking at the enchanting beauty of both Juliet and her mother tonight. Maybe it'd be a relief to take this chance. He wondered if Paris knew what he was doing when offering that chance.
The arm that was still around Tybalt's shoulders now pulled him closer, and he allowed it to happen. He let himself be pulled tightly against the other man's chest, allowed himself a quick look into Paris' eyes. They were burning with that invitation again. And he allowed Paris to pull his face down onto his, to press his own mouth on Tybalt's.
The kiss sent a bolt of something - pleasure? terror? happiness? - down Tybalt's spine. When Paris released him, he felt too stunned to say or do anything yet. Encouraged by the lack of violent reactin perhaps, Paris enthusiastically pulled him in for a second kiss. This one was deeper and longer, and Tybalt felt the rage inside him transform into something else. Though it still wasn't that different from the rage. He responded to the kiss with some eagerness. Paris' hands entangled in his long hair, caressing it and stroking the back of his neck. It made him shiver with pleasure again, and he let one of his own hand move softly up the other man's neck, feeling the skin.
But it was not enough for him, the beast was still inside him though what it wanted had now changed. Vaguely thinking that Paris would get what he had bargained for, Tybalt launched into another, much fiercer kiss. It quickly became violently passionate as he brought not only his lips and tongue but also his teeth to claim the man's mouth. He wanted pain and blood, and he would get those, one way or another.
Paris tolerated the more painful attention for some time, only making quiet, muffled moans as Tybalt ravaged his mouth. But as blood broke out, he cried out and tried to push Tybalt off him.
Tybalt wouldn't pull back before capturing some of the blood into his own mouth. He then smiled triumphantly as he released Paris. The other man looked at him with a slightly frightened look in his eyes. Yet those eyes were also filled with lust. There was hardly a more appealing sight for Tybalt. He was already lowering himself for another kiss, when Paris said: "You're crazy."
Tybalt let out a low chuckle. "You wanted this." He brought his mouth down on Paris' once more, another fierce kiss into which mingled the taste of blood.
"I wanted someone's blood tonight," he whispered after distancing himself from the other man's lips again. "And there you are, offering yourself to me. Be happy that I did not take any more than that, and not in a less pleasant way." Now he pressed a lighter kiss on Paris' lips.
"You truly are mad," Paris muttered. But when Tybalt's mouth roamed from his lips to his throat, he let out a sigh of pleasure and started stroking Tybalt's hair again. Tybalt just laughed, and after lavishing gentler attention on his throat, he lifted his head again to look into Paris' face.
"You just said that you like me despite everything, didn't you?"
"Yes. But I would like you ever more if you were a little nicer."
Tybalt stroked the corner of his mouth, then moved his finger to where his teeth had bit into Paris' lip. "Liar," he whispered softly. Paris winced when he touched the sore part, but he still smiled, too. Tybalt grinned and rewarded him with a more tender kiss. Paris received it with eagerness, but led him onto a more passionate one. And he seemed to be learning the game, for he took the opportunity to bite his own teeth into Tybalt's mouth.
Tybalt just laughed when Paris released him. He suddenly knew this was exactly what he had needed tonight. Paris' reaction was only revenge for his own harsh attentions, not something the man would normally do, but it pleased him all the same.
He let his hands wander back to Paris' shoulders, pressing his fingers into the flesh again. From the pained expression on the man's face he could see he had hurt Paris well enough here in their previous struggle. He smiled.
"I know you like it," he whispered. "And I know you liked it before. If you didn't, you'd have done more to stop me."
Paris said nothing, and Tybalt bent back down to his neck. Kissing it tenderly at first, he grew rougher soon. Though now he didn't try to draw blood, just bruise the skin here and there at the base of the neck. Enough to make Paris gasp a little at the pain, but making up for it with sweeter caresses. Paris's breathing was heavy, his pulse hot and quick against Tybalt's lips, and Tybalt knew his own breath must have felt hot and heavy against Paris' neck. Just for a good measure, he bit his teeth against Paris' collarbone hard enough to make him cry out a little.
"You truly are mad," Paris muttered when Tybalt stopped and looked up at his face. His hand was stroking Tybalt's hair again. "See, this is another good reason why I had better marry Juliet, I could never let a tender girl like her at the hands of someone like you..."
Reminding him of Juliet was dangerous. It brought back all the anger of tonight and reminded the beast inside him of what it had wanted to do. Tybalt snarled, gripped Paris' already bruised shoulders hard, and threw him forcefully down on the couch.
He laid himself down on the man, and ravaged him with more violent kisses. In between he saw a satisfied smile flash on Paris' face. He stopped for a moment then. Yes, Paris must have meant to anger him. He wasn't stupid enough to say that now if he hadn't wanted Tybalt to get angry. Tybalt grinned widely. This was exactly what he liked.
Paris made only as much resistance as fitted the situation. Tybalt tore off his clothes less than gently, and the attentions he lavished on Paris changed unpredictably from roughness to tenderness and back. He received profuse attentions in turn to make his passion grow. Though what he got were mostly pleasurable caresses, only occasionally rough enough to warn him that his playmate would not consent to being only prey, either. Or at least wanted to look like he wouldn't.
But eventually the violence melted into violent passion only, and struggles and pain receded as they sunk more deeply into one another's embrace. For some amount of time Tybalt was able to forget himself and everything else and moments melted into pure blissful existence where everything else was gone. How long a time they spent lost in each other, he didn't know and didn't care.
Afterwards they lay quietly down together. Tybalt stared at the light of the candles that had been lit goodness knew how long ago. It seemed ages. For a while all the painful burning memories were gone, somewhere away. The beast inside him seemed to have quieted down for a while. But while parts of him wanted to sink into a peaceful state of bliss and calm, other parts insisted on staring bleakly at the darkness. He thought that the dark beast had been a part of him for too long and chased away most other things. When it was quiet, when the raging fires of passion were burnt out for a while, there was not much else left inside him.
As little as he enjoyed his own self, it was always frightening to have lost himself for a while. It happened in moments like this and he felt terrified. It seemed like he was standing in an empty darkness and could have gone on to any direction, but did not know which one to take, and was praying for his sense of self to return so that he could keep on going to the same direction as before. It felt like that with Lady Capulet, too. Tybalt wondered briefly if this was why it was always so difficult with them. When they were happy, it made him feel disoriented, and disorientation made him angry and uncomfortable. How could she understand that when he didn't either?
He felt a hand stroke his brow, and turned his head. Paris smiled at him.
"See, I knew you could be nice, too," Paris murmured and leaned to kiss him. Tybalt felt too confused to either resist or respond to the kiss. "And you see that I like you," Paris said when pulling back from the kiss.
"You would not like me as much if I was nothing but nice," Tybalt replied. Some of his self was returning to him, and he gladly banished away the thoughts that had taken him over for a while.
"I suppose not," Paris said. He stroked Tybalt's hair. He seemed to have taken a fancy to it. "You can stay here if you like."
Tybalt turned his head to stare at the ceiling. It was an attractive offer. He doubted anyone at his house would worry. They were used to him spending nights away without any warning. But there was some dangerously tempting warmness here that he was not sure he wanted to accept.
"I have ready guestrooms enough if you don't wish to share mine," Paris prompted him. "And my coach driver has already gone to sleep."
"Your fault for sending him to sleep," Tybalt said. "I can walk, anyway, it's not far."
"I don't want you to walk alone at this time of the night after all that's happened. You might get angry Montagues tearing you to pieces, and then the Capulets would have my head."
"Why would you want me to stay? I'm in a terrible mood in the mornings."
Paris laughed a little. "If you don't care for my company for the rest of the night or in the morning, you can go to a separate room and leave in the morning without saying a word. If that's what you want."
Tybalt shrugged, not knowing what to do. He sat up. Paris followed.
"You can come here as often as you feel like, you know," Paris said to him. Tybalt could not help smiling a little.
"I might take you up on that some time," he conceded. Though as soon as he had said that, he was hit with a feeling that there was not much future ahead and what he said wouldn't matter. He didn't know where the feeling came from.
Nevertheless, his vague promise was enough to make Paris press against him and kiss the back of his neck fervently. It felt nice. He realised he kind of wanted to stay. Make everything go away for a little while longer. Not with the right person, but it was better than nothing, wasn't it?
Should he take up on the offer, then? Not with separate rooms, though. If he stayed it'd be in Paris's bed or not at all. He thought. Wouldn't it be more pleasant than another night at his lonely, dark home? He had done these things for a similar reason before, with people he liked less or hated more. So why not now?
He began to search for his clothes, which had been thrown on the floor beside the couch.
"Are you going?" Paris asked with some sound of disappointment in his voice. It madeTybalt feel warmer to hear that disappointment. Standing up so that he could dress more easily, he turned to Paris and grinned a little.
"In the case one of your servants happen to be awake, I don't think it'd be good for them to see me crossing over to your bedroom without wearing anything," he said. "Might cause a bit more comment than men in our station can afford."
Relief was visible on Paris' face as he grinned back. "Why, you think that after all you've done to me, I'll actually take you into my own bedroom? Really, you presume much." He tilted his head, taking a long time to look at Tybalt, who began to pull on his clothes. "Well, after all you've done to me, I might as well."
He stayed there, watching Tybalt until he was almost fully dressed, before he began to look for his own clothes. "We had better not run into servants or they may see you've ripped off half of my shirt buttons," he complained.
"Only half? I'd better not be so gentle the next time," Tybalt replied coolly.
"We still have our wine to finish, you know," Paris said. "And the food. Unless blood was enough nourishment for you."
"That little blood? Hardly enough. I really mustn't be so gentle the next time."
Paris chuckled, though the look in his eyes suggested he wasn't entirely sure if he should be amused or wary. Tybalt smiled.
Paris crossed over to the table, and poured more wine into their glasses. He winced as he drank from his own. The sour liquid probably irritated the wounds in his mouth. Tybalt followed him and picked up his own glass. He drank a little, but without much interest. Wine and food didn't seem to be what he needed now, though he wasn't sure what was.
Abruptly, Paris laid down his wine and food, looked into Tybalt's eyes, and said: "Promise me you won't go looking for the Montague kid."
Tybalt glared at Paris. How could he make such a promise? Not only was the kid his blood enemy, but had transgressed into the Capulets' house and then wounded Tybalt so deeply. Such a promise was not something he could make. But if he said that, Paris would give him no peace about it. He had to divert Paris' attention somehow, so he just said: "I'm not going anywhere now."
Then he kissed Paris. That sort of tactic often worked, and it also worked now. He was glad that it did. All he really wanted now was to forget all that painful, shitty business. Forget it just for one night into a kiss, an embrace and something more.
All the house was asleep, and nobody was spying on their way as they made it quietly upstairs to Paris' bedroom, the dark corridors lit by a single candle Paris was holding.