Fic: Wish I May Wish I Might
Pairing: Mercutio/Romeo
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, boy love, and serious issues with grammatical tense. Please forgive.
Summary: Tempers and passions run high on hot summer nights... the boys get drunk, but wishes on stars do not survive in the daylight.
Tempers and passions run high on hot summer nights when light lingers in the sky even as the first stars appear, and the heat of the sun is slow to fade from the ground. The muted smells of dust and dry scrub and coarse grass linger still as darkness sank all around like ink through water, but the cool air brings a wash of resinous scents, too delicate to survive the days’ heat, which flourish in the evening breeze.
Two young men staggered up the scrubby hillside above Verona, laughing and winded. The moon was rising, bright and gibbous, lighting their way, and the first stars freckled the evening sky. Romeo was weaving unsteadily, a bottle of strong German brandy clutched in his fist. “And then he said… and then he said… you forgot the dog!” he finished triumphantly.
Mercutio leaned over to steady himself and catch his breath, bracing his hands on his knees. “Th’s an awful joke, Romeo,” he managed. The steep slope and rough ground was making him more than a little unsteady. “I don’t even remember how it started.”
He could practically hear Romeo pouting. “S’not my fault you’re drunk.”
“You’re drunker than I am.”
“Mm not!” Romeo stumbled on a clump of dry grass and lurched sideways into his friend. Mercutio was forced to grab him around the waist to keep him from falling. Romeo slung a heavy arm around his shoulder and took a swig from the bottle. His lips gleamed wetly with liquor in the moonlight, and his eyes were unfocused. “Wanna…wanna hear anutha?”
“No, idiot, I…”
But a frown was creasing Romeo’s brow and he interrupted urgently. “Whereza bottle? You gotda bottle?”
“What? No, it...”
“Wherza bottle?” Romeo looked practically panicked.
“It’s in your hand!”
“Whad?” His friend’s expression was comically surprised, wide eyed and open mouthed. “Idaz? Oh!” He grinned, half turned to take another swig, twisting away from Mercutio still with his arm around his neck, lost his balance, and fell. He was a dead weight, dragging Mercutio down with him, and they slid a little on the slope, sprawling over each other, limbs tangled.
The world was spinning, stars wheeling dizzily overhead, and Mercutio closed his eyes. When he opened them Mercutio found himself lying in the prickly grass, propped up on his elbows, with Romeo practically in his lap.
He froze.
Romeo took another deep gulp from the bottle. His throat rippled as he swallowed, and his tongue flicked over his lips. His eyes gleamed in deep shadows on his face, and the moonlight from above lit his tawny hair in a tousled halo. Then before Mercutio could move, Romeo grinned lopsidedly at him and leaned down and kissed him, the barest brush of lips that sends warm spirit-scented air ghosting across Mercutio’s mouth.
Mercutio jerked back and slammed his head into the packed earth, staring wide eyed at his friend, whose were are black in the darkness, the moonlight glazing their surface revealing none of their depth.
Romeo was heavy on his chest, against the pounding of his heart and the warmth and weight closeness of him was as heady as his smell, a citrus tang under the alcohol and sweat.
Romeo just grinned, and his tongue flicked out against his bottom lip making Mercutio’s breath hitch in a shudder he felt deep in his stomach. And then they were kissing again sweet and sloppy, mouths sliding and opening together, hot in the cool of the night, slick and wet and delicious with the tang of sweat and brandy and Romeo.
And Mercutio is suddenly hard and wanting and thrusting up against his best friend... and Romeo is grinding down against him and its so much hotter than anything he’s ever done, never mind the stable boy with the wide gap-toothed grin who was so pretty writhing in the hay or the tall dark man in the alley behind the Black Bull whose touch had been rough but oh so firm, and the many faceless girls and women were as nothing, this, this was so perfect he could barely breath and when he gasps he's breathing in the smell of romeo and summer grass and he’d never tasted anything so heady.
Romeo is moaning into his mouth, the syllables guttural and wanting and they send sparks straight down his spine, making his hips jerk up. Its Romeo’s voice, more familiar than his own, but the sounds are new and strange. Its Romeo’s body, lean and strong, but pressed against him, the way he never even dared to dream. And he wants to think about it, judge it, condemn it, but there is no room for thought in his burning brain. This cannot be anything but what it is, this cannot be wrong when it is so utterly right.
They were rutting against each other through their clothes but Mercutio needed more. There wasn’t enough closeness, not enough touch. He fumbled to shove a hand between their bodies, and they both groaned at the increased pressure. His fingers trembled as he yanked at the laces to their hose and Romeo arched his hips with a grunt of approval, and then Mercutio felt the searing heat of bare flesh against his throbbing erection, and they both moaned in unison, and he wanted to hear Romeo make that noise again and again because it’s the stuff of sordid dreams, so he fisted a hand around Romeo’s cock feeling his friend’s heartbeat pulse against his palm and yes! Romeo let out a groan that shuddered in his stomach, followed by ragged gasps and pathetic whimpers every time Mercutio moved his hand.
Mercutio pumped his fist up and down his friends’ cock with practiced ease, twisting at the base and thumbing at the tip, because how many times has he done this to himself in the middle of the night, thinking about some boy’s lean body pressed against his? If that boy was ever Romeo, he never admitted it to himself, but Mercutio knows that from now on, no one else haunt his sleep, no one else will draw his eye in a crowded tavern when his head is buzzing with drink and his body with arousal, he will think of no one else in the mornings when he’s hard and desperate and touching himself before he’s fully awake.
Maybe he’s not fully awake now, because this is crazy, this is insane, they’re lying on a venetian hillside in the prickly grass under the vast and starry sky, with his best friend on top of him, clutching at his shoulders and thrusting against his stomach, gasping incoherent words and syllables against his neck.
Then Romeo tensed and cried out, and Mercutio felt his friend buck and shudder against him, letting out a deep groan, his length throbbing in his grip and the sudden hot wetness on his hand and his bare stomach, dripping down to his own twitching cock.
After a long second Romeo drew a ragged breath and rolled off Mercutio, landing with a grunt and a thud on the ground.
Mercutio just lay there staring at the sky as, beside him, Romeo’s breathing returns to normal. He lay still, tension and arousal and fear singing along his nerves high and taught as a fiddle note. He’s achingly hard but terrified that if he so much as moves Romeo will rouse himself and see them both half naked and realize what they did, because Mercutio wasn’t sure Romeo even knew what had happened. And he was so frightened he could hardly breath that he would see his best friends eyes widen in horror or disgust.
He heard a rustle and a sigh beside him, and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that light exploded behind them, preparing for the worst. There was nothing for a moment but the hum of the cicadas. Somewhere far off a dog barked. And then, with no warning at all, he felt searing wet heat engulf the head of his cock. He bucked up with a yell of shock and pleasure, eyes snapping open to see to Romeo’s head, glazed honey-silver in the moonlight, bent over his lap.
His stomach rolled with disbelief and then tightened as he gasped in pleasure. Romeo was clumsy and sloppy and somewhat the worse for alcohol and inexperience, but nothing if not enthusiastic. His suction was intense, like nothing Mercutio had ever felt; he could have ignored a wolf’s teeth scraping his length for the sensation. Romeo was fumbling with his balls, rolling them in slippery fingers and he wasn’t going to last two minutes but that didn’t matter because please god don’t stop so good!
Spit and sweat and semen coated his stomach and matted his dark curls in a slick glistening mess and Romeo’s mouth made a slurping noise on every upstroke but it only served to reduce the friction and make it a sweet, slippery slide into oblivion.
He couldn’t think, he could barely breath; his world was narrowing down to the slow wave of pleasure that was building in him, hot and tingling, his body tense with desperation. His hands clenched and spasmed at his sides, fingers scrabbling at the dusty earth, urging Romeo on with wordless, strangled cries, hips thrusting up uncontrollably. He was writhing and bucking and moaning and please and yes and nownownow.
And then he opened his eyes a slit and saw Romeo looking up at him, eyes wide and earnest and gilded with quicksilver starlight, and he would have screamed his best friends name, but the sound choked and died as his throat contracted with the rest of his body and the world was sucked a bright point of ecstasy, and then vanished altogether.
Mercutio came to seconds later and lay there in the grass gasping, body still wracked with spasms so intense as to be exquisitely painful. His heart was pounding so heavily he would have sworn that his chest was trembling like the skin of a drum. As the convulsions subsided to shudders and he began to breath again, he opened his eyes slowly.
The first thing he saw was the sky, like the gem-encrusted gown of some gaudy goddess. The earth is dark and sleeping but the heavens are alive, and it is easy to believe that in those points of brilliance, a man could touch the face of god. Mercutio wondered hazily if he just had.
Romeo’s eyes were still full of starlight, and bright in the darkness with a smile that his lips, pressed tight closed and glistening, couldn't mirror. The drumbeat Mercutio’s his chest stuttered with another spike of pleasure as Romeo swallowed hard, and then grinned. There was no shame on his face and only a faint flush of exertion staining his cheeks, but Mercutio could barley breath, engulfed in a thunderous rush of emotion, utterly overpowered with an intense tenderness, a deep affection that warmed him from the pit of his stomach, and as Romeo smiled at him, so achingly beautiful, all tousled and bright, eyes full of… of something... he was filled with the sudden heartbreaking hope that maybe Romeo felt the same way...
And then Romeo laughed. Giggled. And slid down to collapse beside his friend. Mercutio let out a heavy sigh, the heady emotion draining away as he smelled the spirits on Romeo once again. He fumbled with his trousers, the cool night air already chilling the slick mess on his belly, buttoning his hose and pulling his tunic down. Still feeling unsteady and a little weak, he tried to roll away from Romeo, to avert his eyes, to escape, to do anything to forget what had just happened, but moreover the terrifying things it had made him feel.
But Romeo was clutching at his arm, fingers surprisingly strong for the utterly drunk, pointing and gabbling, “look, look, shootin star ‘Cutio.”
And sure enough, plummeting through the other stars, as real as the thickness of a reflection, as close as the sun, as distant as a heartbeat, swift and bright as the childish joy in Romeo’s face, was a falling star.
And then it was gone, winking out as if it had never been.
“Make a wish,” Romeo whispered, thick and slurred.
And unbidden, the wish rose in Mercutio’s mind, before he could stop it, before he could silence it, I wish… I wish…
“I wish,” Romeo echoed, almost inaudibly. Mercutio waited breathing shallowly for him to finish. But he never did. Instead he began to snore.
Mercutio let out the breath heavily, and stared up at the stars, thinking that dreams had never felt so close and wishes had never hurt so much.
The sun and the sound of retching woke Mercutio. Pain pounded into his skull. The light jabbed at sore eyes. His mouth felt fuzzy and foul, and his stomach rumbled unhappily. He rolled over, groaning, dry grass and thorns prickling at his back, which somehow hadn't bothered him last night... last night.
He groaned, suddenly feeling twice as sick.
The memories seemed dimmed by the light of day to an almost dream-like haziness, but one thing he would never forget, never in a thousand lifetimes, was the surge of feeling, of raw, sweet, honey-golden emotion that had surged through him as Romeo looked up and smiled, red lips swollen and bitten, hair tousled, milky liquid dripping down his chin.
Mercutio looked around, squinting against the painful sun, and spotted Romeo on his knees a ways down the slope, looking utterly miserable.
“Are you ok?” he croaked.
Romeo straightened slowly. His face was pale and sheened with sweat, and he tottered unsteadily toward his friend, before staggering and sitting down hard on the slope and almost falling backward. A pathetic groan escaped him.
“I’ll never drink again.”
Mercutio made a noise that was more a rasp then a laugh. “You remember anything about last night?”
Romeo’s brow twisted. “I don’t… maybe… I remember… a shooting star?”
Mercutio swallowed. “What did you wish for?”
His heart pounded heavily in his throat, as Romeo’s frown deepened.
And then he shrugged. "I don't remember."
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, boy love, and serious issues with grammatical tense. Please forgive.
Summary: Tempers and passions run high on hot summer nights... the boys get drunk, but wishes on stars do not survive in the daylight.
Tempers and passions run high on hot summer nights when light lingers in the sky even as the first stars appear, and the heat of the sun is slow to fade from the ground. The muted smells of dust and dry scrub and coarse grass linger still as darkness sank all around like ink through water, but the cool air brings a wash of resinous scents, too delicate to survive the days’ heat, which flourish in the evening breeze.
Two young men staggered up the scrubby hillside above Verona, laughing and winded. The moon was rising, bright and gibbous, lighting their way, and the first stars freckled the evening sky. Romeo was weaving unsteadily, a bottle of strong German brandy clutched in his fist. “And then he said… and then he said… you forgot the dog!” he finished triumphantly.
Mercutio leaned over to steady himself and catch his breath, bracing his hands on his knees. “Th’s an awful joke, Romeo,” he managed. The steep slope and rough ground was making him more than a little unsteady. “I don’t even remember how it started.”
He could practically hear Romeo pouting. “S’not my fault you’re drunk.”
“You’re drunker than I am.”
“Mm not!” Romeo stumbled on a clump of dry grass and lurched sideways into his friend. Mercutio was forced to grab him around the waist to keep him from falling. Romeo slung a heavy arm around his shoulder and took a swig from the bottle. His lips gleamed wetly with liquor in the moonlight, and his eyes were unfocused. “Wanna…wanna hear anutha?”
“No, idiot, I…”
But a frown was creasing Romeo’s brow and he interrupted urgently. “Whereza bottle? You gotda bottle?”
“What? No, it...”
“Wherza bottle?” Romeo looked practically panicked.
“It’s in your hand!”
“Whad?” His friend’s expression was comically surprised, wide eyed and open mouthed. “Idaz? Oh!” He grinned, half turned to take another swig, twisting away from Mercutio still with his arm around his neck, lost his balance, and fell. He was a dead weight, dragging Mercutio down with him, and they slid a little on the slope, sprawling over each other, limbs tangled.
The world was spinning, stars wheeling dizzily overhead, and Mercutio closed his eyes. When he opened them Mercutio found himself lying in the prickly grass, propped up on his elbows, with Romeo practically in his lap.
He froze.
Romeo took another deep gulp from the bottle. His throat rippled as he swallowed, and his tongue flicked over his lips. His eyes gleamed in deep shadows on his face, and the moonlight from above lit his tawny hair in a tousled halo. Then before Mercutio could move, Romeo grinned lopsidedly at him and leaned down and kissed him, the barest brush of lips that sends warm spirit-scented air ghosting across Mercutio’s mouth.
Mercutio jerked back and slammed his head into the packed earth, staring wide eyed at his friend, whose were are black in the darkness, the moonlight glazing their surface revealing none of their depth.
Romeo was heavy on his chest, against the pounding of his heart and the warmth and weight closeness of him was as heady as his smell, a citrus tang under the alcohol and sweat.
Romeo just grinned, and his tongue flicked out against his bottom lip making Mercutio’s breath hitch in a shudder he felt deep in his stomach. And then they were kissing again sweet and sloppy, mouths sliding and opening together, hot in the cool of the night, slick and wet and delicious with the tang of sweat and brandy and Romeo.
And Mercutio is suddenly hard and wanting and thrusting up against his best friend... and Romeo is grinding down against him and its so much hotter than anything he’s ever done, never mind the stable boy with the wide gap-toothed grin who was so pretty writhing in the hay or the tall dark man in the alley behind the Black Bull whose touch had been rough but oh so firm, and the many faceless girls and women were as nothing, this, this was so perfect he could barely breath and when he gasps he's breathing in the smell of romeo and summer grass and he’d never tasted anything so heady.
Romeo is moaning into his mouth, the syllables guttural and wanting and they send sparks straight down his spine, making his hips jerk up. Its Romeo’s voice, more familiar than his own, but the sounds are new and strange. Its Romeo’s body, lean and strong, but pressed against him, the way he never even dared to dream. And he wants to think about it, judge it, condemn it, but there is no room for thought in his burning brain. This cannot be anything but what it is, this cannot be wrong when it is so utterly right.
They were rutting against each other through their clothes but Mercutio needed more. There wasn’t enough closeness, not enough touch. He fumbled to shove a hand between their bodies, and they both groaned at the increased pressure. His fingers trembled as he yanked at the laces to their hose and Romeo arched his hips with a grunt of approval, and then Mercutio felt the searing heat of bare flesh against his throbbing erection, and they both moaned in unison, and he wanted to hear Romeo make that noise again and again because it’s the stuff of sordid dreams, so he fisted a hand around Romeo’s cock feeling his friend’s heartbeat pulse against his palm and yes! Romeo let out a groan that shuddered in his stomach, followed by ragged gasps and pathetic whimpers every time Mercutio moved his hand.
Mercutio pumped his fist up and down his friends’ cock with practiced ease, twisting at the base and thumbing at the tip, because how many times has he done this to himself in the middle of the night, thinking about some boy’s lean body pressed against his? If that boy was ever Romeo, he never admitted it to himself, but Mercutio knows that from now on, no one else haunt his sleep, no one else will draw his eye in a crowded tavern when his head is buzzing with drink and his body with arousal, he will think of no one else in the mornings when he’s hard and desperate and touching himself before he’s fully awake.
Maybe he’s not fully awake now, because this is crazy, this is insane, they’re lying on a venetian hillside in the prickly grass under the vast and starry sky, with his best friend on top of him, clutching at his shoulders and thrusting against his stomach, gasping incoherent words and syllables against his neck.
Then Romeo tensed and cried out, and Mercutio felt his friend buck and shudder against him, letting out a deep groan, his length throbbing in his grip and the sudden hot wetness on his hand and his bare stomach, dripping down to his own twitching cock.
After a long second Romeo drew a ragged breath and rolled off Mercutio, landing with a grunt and a thud on the ground.
Mercutio just lay there staring at the sky as, beside him, Romeo’s breathing returns to normal. He lay still, tension and arousal and fear singing along his nerves high and taught as a fiddle note. He’s achingly hard but terrified that if he so much as moves Romeo will rouse himself and see them both half naked and realize what they did, because Mercutio wasn’t sure Romeo even knew what had happened. And he was so frightened he could hardly breath that he would see his best friends eyes widen in horror or disgust.
He heard a rustle and a sigh beside him, and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that light exploded behind them, preparing for the worst. There was nothing for a moment but the hum of the cicadas. Somewhere far off a dog barked. And then, with no warning at all, he felt searing wet heat engulf the head of his cock. He bucked up with a yell of shock and pleasure, eyes snapping open to see to Romeo’s head, glazed honey-silver in the moonlight, bent over his lap.
His stomach rolled with disbelief and then tightened as he gasped in pleasure. Romeo was clumsy and sloppy and somewhat the worse for alcohol and inexperience, but nothing if not enthusiastic. His suction was intense, like nothing Mercutio had ever felt; he could have ignored a wolf’s teeth scraping his length for the sensation. Romeo was fumbling with his balls, rolling them in slippery fingers and he wasn’t going to last two minutes but that didn’t matter because please god don’t stop so good!
Spit and sweat and semen coated his stomach and matted his dark curls in a slick glistening mess and Romeo’s mouth made a slurping noise on every upstroke but it only served to reduce the friction and make it a sweet, slippery slide into oblivion.
He couldn’t think, he could barely breath; his world was narrowing down to the slow wave of pleasure that was building in him, hot and tingling, his body tense with desperation. His hands clenched and spasmed at his sides, fingers scrabbling at the dusty earth, urging Romeo on with wordless, strangled cries, hips thrusting up uncontrollably. He was writhing and bucking and moaning and please and yes and nownownow.
And then he opened his eyes a slit and saw Romeo looking up at him, eyes wide and earnest and gilded with quicksilver starlight, and he would have screamed his best friends name, but the sound choked and died as his throat contracted with the rest of his body and the world was sucked a bright point of ecstasy, and then vanished altogether.
Mercutio came to seconds later and lay there in the grass gasping, body still wracked with spasms so intense as to be exquisitely painful. His heart was pounding so heavily he would have sworn that his chest was trembling like the skin of a drum. As the convulsions subsided to shudders and he began to breath again, he opened his eyes slowly.
The first thing he saw was the sky, like the gem-encrusted gown of some gaudy goddess. The earth is dark and sleeping but the heavens are alive, and it is easy to believe that in those points of brilliance, a man could touch the face of god. Mercutio wondered hazily if he just had.
Romeo’s eyes were still full of starlight, and bright in the darkness with a smile that his lips, pressed tight closed and glistening, couldn't mirror. The drumbeat Mercutio’s his chest stuttered with another spike of pleasure as Romeo swallowed hard, and then grinned. There was no shame on his face and only a faint flush of exertion staining his cheeks, but Mercutio could barley breath, engulfed in a thunderous rush of emotion, utterly overpowered with an intense tenderness, a deep affection that warmed him from the pit of his stomach, and as Romeo smiled at him, so achingly beautiful, all tousled and bright, eyes full of… of something... he was filled with the sudden heartbreaking hope that maybe Romeo felt the same way...
And then Romeo laughed. Giggled. And slid down to collapse beside his friend. Mercutio let out a heavy sigh, the heady emotion draining away as he smelled the spirits on Romeo once again. He fumbled with his trousers, the cool night air already chilling the slick mess on his belly, buttoning his hose and pulling his tunic down. Still feeling unsteady and a little weak, he tried to roll away from Romeo, to avert his eyes, to escape, to do anything to forget what had just happened, but moreover the terrifying things it had made him feel.
But Romeo was clutching at his arm, fingers surprisingly strong for the utterly drunk, pointing and gabbling, “look, look, shootin star ‘Cutio.”
And sure enough, plummeting through the other stars, as real as the thickness of a reflection, as close as the sun, as distant as a heartbeat, swift and bright as the childish joy in Romeo’s face, was a falling star.
And then it was gone, winking out as if it had never been.
“Make a wish,” Romeo whispered, thick and slurred.
And unbidden, the wish rose in Mercutio’s mind, before he could stop it, before he could silence it, I wish… I wish…
“I wish,” Romeo echoed, almost inaudibly. Mercutio waited breathing shallowly for him to finish. But he never did. Instead he began to snore.
Mercutio let out the breath heavily, and stared up at the stars, thinking that dreams had never felt so close and wishes had never hurt so much.
The sun and the sound of retching woke Mercutio. Pain pounded into his skull. The light jabbed at sore eyes. His mouth felt fuzzy and foul, and his stomach rumbled unhappily. He rolled over, groaning, dry grass and thorns prickling at his back, which somehow hadn't bothered him last night... last night.
He groaned, suddenly feeling twice as sick.
The memories seemed dimmed by the light of day to an almost dream-like haziness, but one thing he would never forget, never in a thousand lifetimes, was the surge of feeling, of raw, sweet, honey-golden emotion that had surged through him as Romeo looked up and smiled, red lips swollen and bitten, hair tousled, milky liquid dripping down his chin.
Mercutio looked around, squinting against the painful sun, and spotted Romeo on his knees a ways down the slope, looking utterly miserable.
“Are you ok?” he croaked.
Romeo straightened slowly. His face was pale and sheened with sweat, and he tottered unsteadily toward his friend, before staggering and sitting down hard on the slope and almost falling backward. A pathetic groan escaped him.
“I’ll never drink again.”
Mercutio made a noise that was more a rasp then a laugh. “You remember anything about last night?”
Romeo’s brow twisted. “I don’t… maybe… I remember… a shooting star?”
Mercutio swallowed. “What did you wish for?”
His heart pounded heavily in his throat, as Romeo’s frown deepened.
And then he shrugged. "I don't remember."