Chapter Text
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Mercutio whispers.
Juliet rolls her eyes in a very Benvolio-like fashion. “You’re going to the bathroom. I think I’ll be okay for five minutes.”
Mercutio can tell, though, that she’s not as okay as she sounds. Her breathing is labored and she keeps glancing over at Capulet on the armchair like she expects he’ll leap up at any second.
He really has to pee though. So, he gets up. But he makes eye contact with Rosaline first, and she looks up from her game of throwing odds and ends into the fire to nod, a silent agreement to protect Juliet.
He hasn’t spoken a word to her, but he instantly likes her.
Somehow, the halls feel even more isolated and terrifying as he wanders them alone, two qualities he thought had already reached the peak of all existence in this house. He keeps on thinking someone is going to jump out from one of the doors and murder him, and he can’t convince himself that this is farfetched.
His steps echo, but everything else is silent. It’s too cold and Mercutio is pretty sure he’s totally and completely lost.
He had thought the bathroom was down two lefts and one right, but maybe it was two rights and one left? All Mercutio knows is that he is hopelessly lost.
He creeps down a hallway he’s pretty sure he just saw a minute ago, trying to keep his steps silent so no murderers can hear him.
And then, Mercutio hears footsteps. They start out soft and grow louder and louder. Mercutio’s heart thumps as his mind runs wild with the ways in which the murderer will kill him. He doesn’t even have his sword on him.
He has two choices: face his killer or duck into one of the rooms and hope the murderer doesn’t find him.
Mercutio’s always hated hide-and-seek, and so, he squares his shoulders, raises his fists, and turns towards the footsteps.
“Who’s there?” Mercutio calls out. He blames the shaky quality on the echo. “I’m a good fighter and totally have a sword, so, you know, go kill someone else. I suggest Tybalt.”
Someone walks out of the shadows. Mercutio does not shriek like a little girl or flail his arms and shut his eyes.
“Don’t kill me! I’m too pretty!” Mercutio does not scream.
When Mercutio is not dead within a minute, he opens his eyes. Paris is standing in front of him with an almost amused look on his face.
Mercutio’s first thought is that he didn’t know Paris could look even vaguely amused. His second is wondering if he peed his pants. His third is a hope that he looks manly, and so, he straightens his posture, lowers his arms, and nods his head in a distinctly manly fashion.
“Hey, Rome. What up?”
“Did you just scream?” Paris asks, and he bites on his lip, although the corners are still raising.
“No,” Mercutio scoffs. “Of course not.”
“I heard you.”
“Well, he who heard it, dealt it,” Mercutio retorts maturely.
“That’s not how the phrase works,” Paris says.
“I think it does. Because you totally screamed like a little girl.”
Instead of dissolving into a totally mature “Did not, did too” argument, Paris just sighs like he cannot believe how incredibly mature Mercutio is, and says, “Whatever. I’m just trying to find the bathroom.”
Paris begins to walk away from Mercutio. In any other circumstance, Mercutio would clap and dance for joy. Their relationship has always been composed of competition for Esculas’ attention, envy of each other, and playful stabbing in the back.
And the last time he saw Paris was at his wedding and Paris threatened to kill him and said he saw him with some whore (AKA, Benvolio in a dress), and Mercutio told him he was all bullshit and threw him out of the party.
So yeah. Their relationship probably isn’t that great right now, and Mercutio doesn’t want to talk it over with him. Mercutio should be thrilled to see him leave.
But Mercutio really doesn’t want to be left alone in these creepy murderer-infested halls. Plus, he really needs a less handsome and charming shield to throw in front when the murderer comes charging at him.
“Yo, London!” Mercutio calls. “Wait up!”
Paris groans quietly as he stops in his path and turns around. “What is it?”
Mercutio jogs to catch up with him. “Can’t a guy just want to hang out with his cousin?”
“When it’s you? No,” Paris says, walking quickly as if that will lose Mercutio. As if. Mercutio is willing to break a sweat (*gasp*) if it means he doesn’t have to be alone in murder-ville.
“Rude,” Mercutio says cheerfully.
They walk in silence down the hallway, glancing in doors to see if they finally found a bathroom.
Mercutio had never really thought about how marrying Juliet without telling his cousin, who was engaged to her, was an asshole move. It seemed kind of insignificant compared to what a good deed it was, helping Juliet to her freedom.
But now, standing next to him, Mercutio feels guilt fill up his stomach. He doesn’t like the feeling. He doesn’t like to think less than the best of himself, and thinking of himself as an asshole is really making his stomach hurt.
Before Mercutio can think too deeply about how much of an asshole he is, Paris says, “I’m not angry at you, you know.”
Mercutio looks at him in surprise. “Wait, you’re not angry?” In a small voice, he adds, “But you threatened to kill me.”
“I was. Really angry, I mean. I seriously wanted to kill you,” Paris says with a self-deprecating laugh that doesn’t fit with his words. “But I don’t anymore. I mean, Juliet choose you. It’s not your fault you got the girl.”
Paris sounds so depressed that Mercutio thinks about telling him about his deal with Juliet and his relationship with Benvolio. Thinks being the operative word.
“Well, looks like the best man won,” Mercutio says cheerfully.
Now he doesn’t have to deal with the unpleasant feeling in his stomach. Paris isn’t angry, so Mercutio doesn’t have to feel guilty.
Simple.
Paris stares at the floor, unblinking. “Yeah,” Paris says, his voice barely a breath.
Maybe not so simple.
Mercutio still feels that annoying feeling in the pit of his stomach. Paris looks like a hurt puppy.
Maybe he said the wrong thing. But Mercutio doesn’t know how to fix it. Words aren’t his thing, and how is he supposed to apologize profusely and sincerely for the best thing that ever happened to him?
Paris will get another shot. Girls are lining up around the block for him, and he actually likes them in a romantic way. He’s got everything. He doesn’t need Juliet or Mercutio’s lame apology.
Mercutio repeats this to himself like an anthem. He has no reason to feel guilty. Paris isn’t angry. Paris is lucky.
After a few more minutes of silence, they find the bathroom. Turns out, it was right next to the living room they’d been in the whole time and they’d been walking in circles. Paris goes first, and Mercutio paces outside the door, trying hard to convince himself he has nothing to feel guilty for.
****
Juliet does not remember how she survived in this house. Every day was a battle, sure, but she lived and breathed and didn’t feel like she was going to die every single second.
Now, breathing is hard. She feels like her mother, unable to utter a single word, confined to the shadows of conformity.
Juliet has barely spoken a word since entering the dining room, protected by Mercutio’s wit and Paris’ presence, which hindered Capulet’s cruelness.
But Mercutio and Paris both left for the bathroom about five minutes ago, leaving only the Capulet clan. Tybalt stayed at the chess table in the back of the room despite having finished the chess game long ago. He is sitting there, silent, brooding. Rosaline sits on the armchair, and while her posture is lazy as always, Juliet can tell she’s tense, her watching eye on Capulet gives her away.
Air isn’t coming to Juliet. She doesn’t know what Capulet is going to say to her. And she can’t stop running through every single one of the thousands upon thousands of possibilities.
He could ask her if she’s behaving in that way that means, I know you’re not, but let’s humiliate you. He could degrade her in only that way he knows how. He could mention that he knows she isn’t really married, at least under the eyes of God, to Mercutio. He could do anything.
“Tybalt,” Capulet says, and Juliet can almost see his voice bouncing off the walls, causing them to shrink back further from him. “I need to talk with you. Come with me to the kitchen.”
She's not the one who's in his line of fire. And somehow, that's so much worse.
Juliet wants to scream. He’s said that so many times to her. She knows what it means.
“I’d rather stay here,” Tybalt says, his tone sharp.
“It’ll only take a moment.”
Juliet should say something. Anything. Anything at all. She has a voice. She needs to stop this.
She doesn’t say anything.
Rosaline, of course, says something. Because she is braver. Because she is kinder. Because she is better. “Uncle, is that really necessary?”
Capulet spreads his hands out. “It’s only a talk.”
“Fine,” Tybalt spits out, his eyes flashing. “Let’s go.”
Juliet watches as they go. In her head, she is screaming. She is brave. She is stopping them.
In real life, she is silently having a prolonged panic attack.
****
“Everyone out. I need to talk to my nephew,” Capulet orders as he strides into the kitchen.
The servants all share nervous glances and quickly scatter out the door with their heads down. Pam was hanging out with them, and on her way out, she quickly squeezes Tybalt’s arm.
Capulet turns to Tybalt. Tybalt tries to look bored, crossing his arms over his chest and examining the fire behind Capulet in fake fascination.
Tybalt knows what to expect from this “talk”. In the few he’s gotten, Capulet gives him a stern talking to, causing Tybalt to piss his pants, then let him go. It’s terrifying but simple.
Tybalt knows what to expect.
So when the fist comes, he is shocked.
It hits him right in the eye. Tybalt is vaguely aware of the smacking sound, the utter and absolute pain, and his stumbling backward, holding his eye and staring up at Capulet with his good eye in disbelief. Mostly though, he feels like this didn’t even happen.
It’s like he’s watching Capulet hit him from the corner of the room as a spectator. It couldn’t have happened. It’s not something that has ever happened before.
He’s suspected that this has happened with Juliet and maybe even Rosaline before, but it’s never happened to him. Probably because he’s a male, and Capulet couldn’t hurt him if he wanted a supportive heir and future head of the Capulet clan. Tybalt has always tried to protect Juliet and Rosaline, but he never thought he himself would need protection.
“That,” Capulet says, his voice slow and deep and menacing, like molasses that’s dripping with evilness instead of sweetness, “is for what you’ve done to this family.”
“I did nothing,” Tybalt says, trying to sound fearsome while huddled over with his eye clutched in his hand. He sounds like a shot baby deer.
“Nothing? For years, we’ve had to put up with these… rumors. Rumors that most people would be killed for. But I’ve protected you. Sheltered you. I told everyone, there’s no way any of it’s true. He’s a Capulet. And to thank me,” he says, the molasses dripping thicker, “you go and fuck my most valuable asset.”
“There’s nothing going on there,” Tybalt retorts, trying to growl like he doesn’t wish something was going on there.
“I don’t care. There are rumors. Rumors that are tarnishing our reputation. Rumors that shouldn’t exist because you are married.” Capulet leans closer with every sentence, and Tybalt forces himself not to back away. Not to cower. “Rumors that you are aiding with your blatant flirtation with the royal boy.”
Capulet’s breath of wine and cheese and power is warm against Tybalt’s cheek.
“I am not flirting with him, nor am I in any way aiding these preposterous rumors,” Tybalt says, forcing himself to straighten.
“You are not to see him, speak to him, or interact with him in any way, shape, or form outside of polite and obligatory ‘hellos’ at social events like his inevitable wedding to Rosaline. You, for once in your goddamn life, are going prove to me that I was right to defend you and keep you alive. Do I make myself clear?”
Tybalt can’t take it anymore; he steps back, bumping into the wall and hitting his head. Tybalt doesn’t like how afraid he is. He has a knife in his boot and a sword hidden beneath his pants. He’s killed men before. He shouldn’t be afraid of his old as dirt uncle.
But he’s looking at him like that. Like he’s never seen such shit in his life. Like he could simply blink and have him killed if he wanted to.
And Tybalt has never been more terrified in his life.
“Crystal,” Tybalt says. He pretends he isn’t terrified and his voice didn’t quiver and his eye isn’t turning black and there isn’t a bump forming in the back of his head from hitting the wall.
“Good,” Capulet says, and the muscles in his arm relax ever so slightly and he turns back into the terrifying uncle Tybalt knows and despises, not fears. “Now, you better go home and put some ice on that before it starts to bruise. I’ll tell everyone you were tired and needed to go home.”
Capulet stares at him. Tybalt knows what he wants. Because of his newfound terror, Tybalt decides to oblige. “Thank you,” Tybalt chokes out.
“Leave the back way,” Capulet says, and if Tybalt wasn’t there for the whole thing, he would say he almost sounds fatherly and loving.
Tybalt doesn’t even bother responding, brushing past Capulet and walking as fast as possible out the back door.
The cold air of the night hits him almost as hard as Capulet did. Tybalt doesn’t stop walking until he’s almost a mile away from the Capulet mansion. His eye hurts more now, less numbed by the shock.
But Tybalt barely cares about the physical pain; he’s a Capulet, he’s been hundreds of fights, he’s been through worse.
It still feels almost like a dream. All Tybalt can think at first is that it didn’t happen.
But, as he stands there staring up at the stars, reality takes over. It did happen. Capulet hit him.
At first, Tybalt doesn’t know what to feel. He doesn’t feel sad. Sad is for babies, people who have nothing better to do with their lives than cry over their own weaknesses.
And so, Tybalt decides he is furious. Furious that his uncle hit him. Furious that he didn’t hit him back. Furious that he’s getting blamed for those goddamn rumors Mercutio created. Furious that they’re mostly true. Furious that Capulet must have hit Juliet before. Furious Juliet had to go through hell. Furious he didn’t help her more. Furious he didn’t stop him better. Furious Capulet is such an abusive asshole. Furious he’s in love with someone who will never love him back. Furious he’s a freak of nature.
Furious at the whole goddamn world.
“FUCK,” Tybalt screams at the stars, amplifying his voice by cupping his hands around his mouth. “FUCK YOU.”
Tybalt doesn’t really know who he’s talking to, but pretending it’s Capulet makes him feel a hell of a lot better.
****
“Where’s Tybalt?” Paris asks the second he gets back from the bathroom.
Mercutio’s still there, but he felt no compulsion to wait for the guy who so clearly feels he is better than Paris.
He looks to Juliet, whose breathing appears even more labored than at dinner and who is twisting her hair, looking almost guilty.
Before he can examine this weird reaction, Capulet smoothly says, “He went home. He had a headache.”
Rosaline dryly adds, “Headaches are pretty common here.”
“Really?” Paris asks, confused. “He didn’t say anything about that to me.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to tell you everything, does he?” Capulet asks, and Paris doesn’t think he imagined his cold tone or the way he wants to run in fear.
“No, but…” Why would Tybalt leave because of a headache? Paris is pretty sure that if his entire arm was chopped off and blood was gushing everywhere, Tybalt would say it’s just a tiny cut. Hell, that’s probably happened before in one of his thousands upon thousands of duels.
And Juliet looks so guilty. And Capulet sounded so smooth. Alarm bells go off in Paris’ head. Something doesn’t add up.
“I’ve got to go,” Paris says suddenly. He backs up quickly, bumping straight into the wall.
“So soon?” Capulet asks. It should be a concerned tone, but all Paris feels is manipulated.
“Yeah. You know how it is being royalty-related and all. Esculas always needs me,” Paris laughs.
“In the middle of the night?” Capulet asks.
“Yep. He’s working all hours. Crime never stops and all that,” Paris says, laughing lamely. He backs up even more, and he’s almost to the door. “So yeah. See ya. Thanks for a great time. You have a lovely home, Ms. Capulet. Mrs. Capulet. Um, Lady Capulet. Yeah. So, thanks.”
Paris turns and all but runs out of there. “Good luck with Esculas and solving crime, Paris!” Rosaline calls after him, and Paris swears he can hear a smirk in her voice.
Paris is out the door before Capulet can stop him. Something is wrong with Tybalt, he can just tell.
Something was wrong with that whole night, actually. It seemed so friendly on the surface, but Lady Capulet and Juliet never spoke. It looked like they were petrified. Even Tybalt was more subdued in his anger. And Capulet? That dude was just weird. His words were so carefully chosen, and even when they seemed kind, he wanted something. And sometimes, it felt like icy murder was behind his eyes.
Paris is shocked he got out of that house alive.
Tybalt once mentioned where he lived. Paris heads there and tries to convince himself it’s not creepy he memorized his address. He only memorized it because, well, it’s the only friend he ever had and he kind of really wanted the option of one day visiting him. You know, like friends do.
Tybalt’s house is grand. Not like the Capulet-mansion grand or Esculas’ palace grand, but it has perfectly maintained gardens and an aura of importance. The house is dark, making it look abandoned, and Paris briefly wonders if he got the address right, despite having repeated to himself as a lullaby when he could not sleep.
Paris knows he is right, so he walks up the drive, trying to act like he belongs so no peeping neighbors get suspicious of the strange man walking up at night, and knocks on the door.
Nobody comes. Paris prays to God that he won’t disturb Tybalt’s mother or Tybalt gave him a fake address before softly calling, “Tybalt? It’s Paris. Are you home?”
The door opens. Tybalt’s face is hidden by the darkness and the door so all Paris can tell is that Tybalt’s lips are clenched tight and he looks weirdly stressed. “Hey,” Paris says softly, trying to gauge Tybalt’s mood.
“How do you have my address?” Tybalt asks.
“Normal ways,” Paris says quickly. “You said it. I remembered. Because I have a good memory and all. It’s not weird.”
They stand there staring at each other for a second, Tybalt probably wondering what the heck just came out of Paris’ mouth and Paris definitely wondering what the heck just came out of his mouth.
“So, um,” Paris says, “can I come in?”
Tybalt stares for a moment longer. “Sure,” he finally says, devoid of emotion.
At least Paris got a yes. Tybalt opens the door wider and steps to the side. “Thanks,” Paris says as he awkwardly shuffles inside.
It is so dark that Paris literally cannot see anything. “Can I light a candle?” Paris asks.
Tybalt walks over to the couch (or what Paris assumes is a couch - for all he knows, it could be Rosaline posing as a couch as some sort of joke only she finds funny. It’s too dark to tell) and sits down. Somehow, even that seems to be mechanical. Paris’ worry for him increases. Headache his ass.
“Sure,” Tybalt says in that same tone of voice that makes Paris want to wrap him in a hug.
Paris lights the candle as fast as he can, finding a light fire in the kitchen and a candle to do so. The house is eerily quiet, and it looks almost creepy in the light of one candle.
Paris comes back into the living room to see Tybalt staring at the wall, almost absent from reality. Paris thinks his eyes are deceiving him at first and rushes to sit next to Tybalt on the couch. He quickly places the candle on the end table before turning his full attention to Tybalt.
His left eye is a splotchy red. Paris’ heart breaks a little, and he gently puts his hand on Tybalt’s arm. Tybalt does not face him, but for some reason, he does not flinch. “Holy shit, Tybalt,” Paris breathes. “How?”
“Capulet. He took me into the kitchen and hit me,” Tybalt says. Paris can tell he’s been trying to keep his emotions in check, but when he says “hit”, his voice just breaks and the dam cracks. He turns towards Paris, his gaze focused on his chest. Paris tightens his grip on Tybalt’s shoulder. “He just hit me, Paris. Like I was nothing.”
His tone shifts from desperate to furious, skirting the line between the two until they mix like wet paint.
Paris’ breath catches. His whole memory of the night shifts before him, and suddenly, everything makes sense. Before he was shoving puzzle pieces together, trying to force them to fit with some type of idealistic hope, but now, it all clicks together perfectly.
The way Lady Capulet and Juliet never spoke. All of Rosaline’s sarcastic comments. The way Capulet’s voice was so cold and threatening. The way it felt like they were in a coffin for the dead the whole night.
Paris wants to tell himself that the hit was probably just a one-time thing, a fit of anger that meant nothing. That it has never happened to Rosaline or Juliet. But Paris knows better. He can’t ignore the signs any longer.
Capulet is an abuser. It makes so much sense. It makes too much sense.
Paris selfishly wishes he didn’t know for half a second before remembering Tybalt. He’s glad he knows because now, he can be there for him.
Unfortunately, being there for someone is not something Paris is great at.
“I’m so sorry,” Paris says.
He knows it is a stupid thing to say. It’s not his fault (well, he did make the sweetie comment that probably was the trigger, but he didn’t make Capulet an abuser and he can’t feel guilty right now. He will later.), and it doesn’t make Capulet a better person.
But it doesn’t matter because Tybalt doesn’t seem to hear him. He rants, his voice full of fury, “I should have hit him back, you know? I should have. I could have pummeled that old bastard to the ground and made him beg. I should have done that years ago, you know? I knew he was doing that shit to Juliet. I should have done more than give her a sword. What’s the point of giving her the weapon when she doesn’t know who to use it on?”
His anger shifts to desperation once again. “But I didn’t know just how bad it was until tonight, you know? Like, I didn’t get how it feels to be nothing in his gaze. I didn’t get how scared you are when he’s right there in your face. I should have done more.”
“It’s not your fault,” Paris says, and he tries to sound reassuring, but it is hard when he feels like vomiting.
“It’s my fault for not killing him in his sleep,” Tybalt says, his voice cold like steel.
Capulet deserves to die, but Paris really doesn’t want Tybalt to be executed for killing his uncle. Paris says, trying to sound confident, “Juliet is away from him now. She’s fine. You’re fine. Rosaline’s fine. It’s all okay.”
He wishes his words were true.
“It’s not all okay, though, Paris. He-” his voice breaks. He sounds so vulnerable, so un-Tybalt-like, that it makes Paris hate Capulet even more. He made his person feel this way, and Capulet deserves something worse than death.
Tybalt’s voice comes back in that harsh steel tone. His back is hunched, but somehow, even that seems rigid with anger. He keeps his eyes on Paris’ chest as he spits out, “He thinks we’re fucking.”
Paris tastes bile in the back of his throat. Something about the way Tybalt said it, his repetition of Capulet’s words. It sounded so hateful. Like their being together would be the worst thing in the world.
“But we’re not,” Paris says, unable to form another response.
“It’s not even my fault people think that. It’s Mercutio’s.”
“Mercutio’s?” Paris repeats, confused.
“He started the rumor. It’s all his fault,” Tybalt growls. His voice turns desperate then like he’s trying to convince both Paris and himself. “It’s not my fault. It’s not mine.”
“I know. I know,” Paris repeats, trying to convey through his gaze on the top of Tybalt’s head and his light grip on his arm just how much he believes him.
It’s hard, though, when all he’s thinking about is strangling Mercutio. He still doesn’t actually want to kill Mercutio like Tybalt, but it is a nice fantasy.
How could Mercutio even create that rumor? What was going through his goddamn mind? Especially since, before he married Juliet, the same things were being said about him. How could he do that to someone else?
Answer: he’s a horrible human being with no thought to other people.
“And now,” Tybalt says, clenching fists, “Capulet doesn’t even want me to see you. I’m pretty sure if he knew you were here right now, he’d literally kill me. Or get Esculas to execute me with his power. You know, because he can’t have anyone know he’s less than perfect.”
“You don’t have to see me if it’ll make things worse,” Paris says. The words feel like metal weights and are almost impossible to say. Paris can’t even imagine his life without Tybalt anymore. It would be so boring. So lonely.
Tybalt shakes his head rapidly, and Paris can almost feel the hot hatred radiating out of Tybalt’s gaze. “Fuck him. I’m not listening to him if he is suddenly possessed by God himself.” Paris is a bit ashamed of how relieved he feels. He should not be relieved his friend is putting his life at risk to see him. “We can’t use him in our plan anymore.”
“What?” Paris asks, confused. He cannot place what plan he is talking about.
“He won’t be convinced,” Tybalt continues. It’s like he didn’t hear Paris’ question, and his speech is almost manic, uncontrolled. “He will not listen to me or you. He has been out to ruin her life since the day she was born. We cannot trust him to help Juliet now.”
Paris now remembers the murder scheme. It seems so insignificant now. Like a little story schoolchildren might create about a teacher they despise. It has seemed insignificant for a while now, ever since he’s realized he doesn’t love Juliet anymore and it is her own life with her own choices.
It seems even more insignificant now that Tybalt was just punched by his uncle less than an hour ago. But it must not to Tybalt.
Paris thinks it must not because he’s channeling all of his anger at the world into this plan. Paris can almost see Tybalt’s thoughts: as soon this is done, Tybalt won’t be angry. As soon as Mercutio is dead, all will be right with the world.
Paris knows this is not true, but Tybalt needs an outlet. And this plan is the perfect one.
“Okay,” Paris says slowly, trying not to sound demeaning of the plan. “So how are we going to do this now?”
“We’ll convince Esculas. He’s your cousin and you’re close, right?” Paris shrugs - close is relative. “If we can convince him Mercutio is cheating on Juliet, he’ll give me permission to kill him. Maybe not legally or anything, but like in a gentlemen’s agreement.”
“When should I tell him?” Paris asks. He does not give a damn about this plan. He’s also pretty sure Esculas will never agree. But it’s important to Tybalt. And he’ll do anything to even momentarily help Tybalt.
“Later,” Tybalt says, the anger in his voice finally quieting. “Not now.”
“Okay,” Paris says quietly.
The candle flickers in the corner of the room, and Paris stares unashamedly at Tybalt’s red eye that will soon be black and blue. Tybalt is still staring at Paris’ chest, and it feels as intimate and trusting as eye contact. His fists clenched tightly on his lap. If Paris starts softly petting Tybalt’s arm, well, Tybalt doesn’t say anything.
“Mercutio looked so stupid tonight,” Tybalt says suddenly, after minutes of silence.
Paris giggles like a child. Something about talking about something so ridiculous after such a serious conversation makes him feel giddy. “So stupid. Did you see his pants?”
“And his hair? So stupid,” Tybalt agrees.
“I was on my way to the bathroom when he heard me coming, and he thought I was going to murder him. He screamed like a little girl.”
Tybalt does that little half-smile that is equivalent to a full-body laugh. His fists loosen a little. “Do you think he pissed his pants?”
Paris laughs. It’s not that funny, but it seems so funny under the flickering candlelight. “I hope so.”
With his half-smile, he looks peaceful, almost happy, despite what happened an hour ago. Paris smiles to himself. God, I love him, Paris thinks.
Paris’ body freezes, his hand on Tybalt’s arm now a stick of lead.
What the actual fuck did I just think?