Chapter Text
What now? What is he supposed to do? It can't be true, he — Tybalt Capulet — cannot be attracted to a man. That's wrong, the entire notion of sodomy applied to himself sounds false, the notion of sodomy alone rings false in his mind. But he's reminded of all the times Mercutio had smiled at him in a way that had made his stomach flip just like it would when he would be about to sleep with a woman. All those times he had simply thought it excitement and he still wants to think that, it was always just excitement, for their upcoming fight and nothing more. It can't be anything more than that.
Those soft looking locks (he wants to run his fingers through them), those twinkling green eyes (he could get lost in them forever) and the ever permanent smirk present on his lips (he wants to kiss that infuriating)- no. These are the temptations of satan, he can't listen to them. What demon has taken possession of him that he thinks of such things now? He wants to tear his hair out, but instead he just twists his fingers in his mane.
Certainly, Mercutio is an enigma. Just a few days ago, he had stabbed him, an action that he deeply regrets. And doesn't the fact that he doesn't want him to die imply that he cares about him? Or is that just his old sentiments resurfacing? The not knowing brings him to tears, because now he also has to deal with an unwanted lust towards him on top of it.
Those infuriating pictures, fantasies that keep creeping into his mind are wrong. His father had told him so and once had been enough, he had seen the reason behind his words and he still sees it now. All his teachers had told him too, so they must be right and this temptation is a thing from hell.
That makes him remember a passage from the bible where Jesus says that one should rather cut off a body part and go to heaven than remain whole and go to hell. When he looks down on himself he sees come all over his shirt and bare skin, he's disgusted at the sight — as well as disgusted by how much he had liked it in the moment — and tries to get rid of it by taking off his shirt and wiping his stomach with it. The crumpled shirt lands on the straw mattress and he grabs his carving knife.
The gloves are in the way too, so he takes them off and drops them next to the shirt. As soon as he's sitting on the ground again, he presses the knife into one of his fingers, which is more difficult for him since he is right handed and using his left hand doesn't feel right either, but it has to do. The cut stings, but he pushes through, moving on to the next finger that had been involved earlier and it goes on and on.
Each cut reminds him. Liking men is wrong. Lusting after them even more and this is a fair punishment. He pushes on, no matter how much he wants to stop because it fucking hurts. Cazzo, it hurts. Sweat is dripping all over his body and his hand is a bloody mess, red, just like Mercutio's blood had been when he had stabbed him and no. Thinking of it is of no use, so he shakes his head to dispel the thoughts; he has to keep going.
To relieve some of the pain he squeezes his hand into a fist, but that only makes everything worse, because the pain zaps through his body and his view goes black for a moment. His hand must go. It must. Better even if he hacks off his whole arm since it was what had rammed the dagger into Mercutio's abdomen, so he stabs himself right where the shoulder ends and the upper arm begins, hissing when his flesh is mutilated.
If he had a larger knife, detaching his arm from his body would be easier, because his carving knife doesn't have a long blade; at least not long enough to really do anything. Once again he clenches his fist and pain radiates through his whole body like he's been struck by lightning. His arm is rotten, it has to go, he thinks as he jams the knife in again.
His breath is unsteady and his skin is dripping with sweat, but maybe it helps. His soul at least will be free from his unclean thoughts and actions, if he just keeps cutting into his flesh. It's the only thing that can save him, the only thing that brings relief, brings distraction from his thoughts which want to turn back to Mercutio. That pretty pretty man- no.
Another stab. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a figure in white approach him and in that moment he's reminded that suicide is also a grave sin. Who is this figure coming towards him? His movements falter and the hand that still holds the knife lodged in his arm grows weak. This figure in white stands in front of where he sits. How did she even get in? Does she have a key? Or some other way to access his prison cell?
An almost white finger traces over his cheek and he can do nothing but let out heavy breaths, sitting as still as he can as this figure takes in his wounded arm and hand. Its gaze is calculating and he dares not move out of fear. But the his body seems to be of a different opinion since his muscles flex, as if wanting him to do something. (Flee? Is he supposed to flee from this creature?) When he does it, pain shoots once again through his body and he can't help letting out a yelp. The figure in white only shakes its head and walks away again. Where is it going? (It should stay, it should touch him again.)
Once it's gone entirely, exhaustion washes over him again and he shuffles back to his mattress. Thoughts become harder and harder to think and when he tries to stand up, he almost has to vomit. At his mattress, he moves away his clothes and lays down on it. His last somewhat formed thought before he passes out is that he hopes he doesn't dream this time.
Pain is the first thing that registers with him. It's radiating all over his body, from head to toe, but a lot of it is concentrated in his right arm and when he tries to move it, his vision blacks out for a moment and he yells from the pain. If he only concentrates on the pain, everything will be alright, no need to be plagued with nightmares about Mercutio, no need to think about what he's done the last time he has been awake, no need to worry about anything at all. Except for the pain. And his wounds, which he should take care of; he doesn't want to die, he just wants to be distracted.
First of all, he has to remove his knife. Blood flows out — red, like Mercutio's had been, red like Capulet colours — and down his arm to his hand, from where it drips onto the ground. A few drops of blood won't make much difference on the already grimy, dirty floor. His shirt will have to serve as temporary bandages. It's the same one he had worn the day he had stabbed-
No use to think of that now. The point is, his shirt is not in the most pristine condition anyways and it's not one of his favourites, so he doesn't regret its destruction. Does he have any water? In the usual corner, his eating bowl has once again been filled with slop and next to it stands a jug filled with water, so at least one meal time must have come and gone, perhaps even more.
He takes the jug of water back to where his shirt is, puts it down and kneels onto the ground. The sleeves are the cleanest parts of his shirt, so he cuts them off — which is not easy with only one fully functional arm — and cuts them into long bandages. Before he wraps his hand and arm in his make shift bandages, he pours water over his right hand and shoulder. Not too much, so that he still has some left. The water is cool and soothing on his wounds, which feel like they're burning.
First his hand, then his shoulder, just as he had to learn over the years and he's thankful that he knows, otherwise he would have been at such a loss as to what to do and it would have not been of much use to try and bandage his wounds. As loath as he is to admit it, the process has exhausted him and he is in need of energy, so he gulps down what he can of the slop they call his food and washes it down with some of the water. The very last of that water he uses to clean what remains of his shirt.
While doing that he tries to remember how long it's been since he's been thrown into prison. (No, he's not going to think of it as the duel.) Is it day three? Or four? For all he knows it could have been five days already. The act in itself hadn't been some grand motion, but it had been enough. When will he start to think before acting rashly?
On top of it all, he doesn't know whether or not Mercutio is still alive. Does he even want to know? It's all so much that he feels like crying, but he doesn't have the strength to do it. His shirt is as clean as it will get in these conditions, so he wrings it out as much as he can. A rudimentary beating against the prison bars will have to do and he folds it apart, still wet, but not dripping with it.
When he puts it on, it's cool against his warm skin. He does his best not to raise his arm too much, but it still hurts more than he likes. Ouch. And when had his skin gotten so warm? Not having sleeves feels weird too, but that's the least of his concerns as the thing he wants to do the most is just lay down and sleep the wound away. (And he knows that's not how it works, but sleep will help.) The mattress is still not of much use, but he takes care to stay on his left side as he lies down carefully and drifts off to sleep.
Romeo and Benvolio leave after updating him on things. Mercutio now knows that it's been four days since he's been stabbed and that Tybalt is in prison, not dead. That at least is a relief and he's glad things haven't turned out worse. But still, he's weak, he feels frail — no wonder with how he had to fight a fever off — and with no one to talk to he's bored out of his mind quickly. The sun is shining into his private chamber; the latter a courtesy of his uncle, he is sure.
With nothing better to do, he starts to take stock of everything that happened in his head. Tybalt had stabbed him and in return had almost been killed too, by none other than Romeo. And isn't that insane? His best friend killing someone? He's the last person he thinks would ever do something like that, but then again, he knows how impulsive he can be.
Another highly interesting thing is that Tybalt had been the first to suggest a surgeon after they all noticed he had not been as dead as they had assumed. But then he hadn't gotten up to get one himself. Had it been guilt? If he had not been on the scene when the prince had arrived, he would have been punished harsher for sure, so maybe that's a factor too. There's no way of knowing for sure, so he puts it away to think about more later.
The other thing is what his uncle had decided in regards to Tybalt's fate; he would be executed should Mercutio die from the wound. Well, he is still alive, so he's wondering what will happen now. There's also the other decision his uncle had made to be considered, just two day before he had been stabbed. Anyone who disturbed the peace would be executed.
If it is something his uncle is considering, he would have to get a word in, since he had as much part in disturbing the peace as Tybalt had and surely his uncle doesn't hate him that much. And it's not like it's written law or anything like that. They should (hopefully) be fine.
His thoughts start to drift off and he's having a hard time piecing them back together. Talking to Romeo and Benvolio has taken more energy out of him than he thought and he finds his eyes growing heavier as he wriggles down onto the bed from where they had propped him. The wound pains him, but not so much as to keep him awake, so he falls asleep quickly.
Multiple voices greet him, as he slowly wakes up again. Judging from the warmth of the sun still around, his rest hasn't been long. The voices overlap and rise in volume, making it sound like a cacophony. The noise hurts his head. His agonized noises silence the cacophony and it is a blessing for his head.
When he finally opens his eyes, he sees that his uncle, Lady Montague and Benvolio are all standing in his room, looking at him as if he has done something grand. Is it so grand that he's woken up? Before he can even do or say anything, he's being crowded.
"Oh I am so happy you survived this, Mercutio. Know that the whole Montague household was praying for your swift recovery", Lady Montague says and it's a bit strange that she does. The sentiment is appreciated, he guesses, but it's weird. Something about how she says it makes it sound insincere, like she's putting on a show and well — considering his uncle is present — he can guess for who. Nonetheless he murmurs a quick thank you in her direction before he tries to sit up a bit. His wound immediately complains. No wonder.
Benvolio — bless him — hurries to help him sit up properly. And then he fusses over him like a worried mother. He lets it happen with the patience of a thousand saints, but if this becomes a habit, he will have to stop him. At least he's doing something to help him, unlike the others.
"Thank you Ben. Now. What are you all doing here, staring at me like you're afraid I will break apart at any second?" For a moment they all just blink at him. "What? I'm injured, not made of glass. Jesus Christ, there is no need to be so worried, I survived. I'm alive." His uncle sighs, drags the stool under himself, sits down next to his bed and takes his hand. It's something he has only done once before and he'd rather not think about the time his parents had left him with his uncle, never to return and take him with them ever again. Which is why he doesn't meet his eyes, as he tries to look straight into his.
"And I thank God for that. I am worried, because you are my nephew and I care about you." That is probably the closest he will ever get to hearing an 'I love you from his uncle. "But don't think you will get out of this unscathed. You also broke the peace and once you've recovered..." His voice is soft for once, not harsh as it would be if he were truly mad. The threat remains unspoken, but he knows very well what will happen. There are multiple ways this can play out, but the only option he has is waiting. His uncle squeezes his hand, but that still doesn't make him look at him.
"I got here as soon as I could when I heard you had woken up, but I missed you being awake and had to wait. And then I got the news that Tybalt was lying in his cell with a knife in his arm, running a high fever. It looks like he has punished himself before I could." His eyes widen in shock when he hears what his uncle is telling him. What the fuck? Why would he do that? It doesn't sound like something he would do, but then again, he only likes to pretend he knows him well.
With wide eyes he looks at Benvolio for help, who only shrugs. When he looks over to Lady Montague, she is smiling gleefully. What a bitch. To take pleasure in hearing someone else injured and possibly dying. Oh, right. She is a Montague and he is a Capulet. Would bring her much joy if the spare heir of her rival family died. Stupid feud. At least being stabbed has made him realise that.
And his uncle is still holding his hand (again, weird), occasionally stroking his fingers over his knuckles. He needs to think. All these eyes on him distract him immensely. They look like they're digging into him, dissecting his every reaction, preying on him like hawks and it makes him want to crawl out of his skin. For his own comfort, he withdraws the hand that is being held.
"Get out. All of you", he says and it comes out harsher than he intended. His uncle sighs, but gets up to leave after squeezing his hand for one last time. Lady Montague is gone even before that, which leaves Benvolio looking at him with a sad face. Mercutio can't really stand him looking at him like that in the moment, so he turns his head away. None the less, he accepts the hug and lets him hold him for a while.
"I'm just glad you survived." Benvolio's voice cracks on the last words, so he presses him closer in an effort to soothe him, to show him that there is no need to worry and that his heart is beating as it always has. With one last squeeze, he disentangles himself and they say their goodbyes.
With nothing else to do, he lets his thoughts wander. This new information about Tybalt is baffling to him. Since when does Mr. tough guy hurt himself? (And since when does he care?) What even led to this and is it related to him? (Is he going to be okay?) So many questions, so few answers and he doesn't even know where to start looking for answers, let alone if he should even search answers.
But of course, because he is Mercutio, he can't not go looking for answers. What would then be the point in asking the questions? But that can be done later. For some reason, he's thirsty; then again that might be because he hasn't talked in a while. There is a glass of water on the desk next to his bed and he knows it'll hurt to get up in order to get it, but needs must, so he heaves himself up, doing his best not to agitate his wound with only partial success.
At long last he is sitting on his bed. Can he reach the glass from where he is sitting or should he try to get up? Not reopening his wounds is preferable, so he stands up with considerable effort and at long last drinks the whole glass of water. In a haze of tiredness he transports himself back into bed, wincing whenever something pulls at his wound. He's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.
Before he even opens his eyes, he can sense that someone is in his room. When he does blink his eyes open, the sun is flooding the room and it takes a bit to adjust to the brightness. That's when he sees him and when he recognises who it is, his heart slows down and he smiles. Although he's a bit annoyed that there is always someone in his room when he wakes up, he doesn't particularly mind this intruder.
"Hey there, Valentine Escalus." His brother jumps a bit but then turns around and smiles.
"There you are." His smile falls from his face. "If you ever nearly die on me again, I'll kill you myself after you've recovered, is that clear?" To emphasise, he lifts his eyebrows and looks at him. The effect is a bit undermined by the fact that he is sixteen and very much looks his age. It makes him smile. Or rather grin.
"Aw, you're worried about me? How sweet. I can die in peace now." As he closes his eyes, he can hear his brother yelling, running over to him and shaking him by the shoulders. At first he laughs but when he sees how upset Valentine is, he stops in his tracks and frowns. Why must everyone worry over him so much?
"Is something wrong? You're not in pain, are you?", his brother asks.
"It's just. I haven't been awake for long and all of a sudden, everyone is bothering me, expressing their worry and I'm tired of it. I know I could have died, but I didn't, I'm alive and I'm as well as I can be. Can't they let me rest? I need to recover." As he says it, it does sound a bit childish to him, but it's true! Valentine nods.
"Got it, won't worry over you anymore." That earns his brother a whack over the back of his head. "Okay, okay. What else do you want me to do then? I'm not going to leave after such a short time." Good question, because he does want to spend some time with his brother, if only because he doesn't see him all too often.
"Well, if you know a game we could play?" Not having any of his personal possessions here does suck a bit, but he can't really expect it, can he? His brother mumbles a 'wait a minute' as he walks out of the room to get something and he returns with something in his hand, which he sets down onto the table next to the bed. Then he helps him sit up in his bed and face the table, all while trying to still have some bed sheets cover him.
For the next hour or so, they play together, throwing out all proper behaviour for men their age for once, acting as if they were children once again. It's thrilling and refreshing to be able to shed all propriety. Not that he always acts as he should, but that's not the point.
They're interrupted when the door opens and a man carrying food enters the room. Confused expressions paint their faces, as they both do not know this man. But the man is carrying food, so he can't be that bad. Despite this, his brother moves in front of him, so that he is shielded from the man.
"Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting you, I'm just bringing you dinner, Mercutio." Now that's surprising. The man knows his name, so who the fuck is he? But since he is bringing him food and water, he doesn't want to be rude.
"Thank you very much for the food kind stranger, but I don't think we've met. You seem to know me and uh. Well, this is my brother Valentine. May I know who you are?" The man smiles at him.
"I'm Andrea and it's very nice to meet you both. And especially you, Mercutio, now that you're awake. Your friends have told me about you, because we all took care of you when you were asleep." Ah, that explains some things. Some, not all. Andrea bows, seemingly aware of their status as part of the royal family. It is a bit ridiculous, because he is only wearing a shirt and not feeling very royal right now. But whatever.
"Well thank you Andrea, for taking care of my brother. It's nice to meet you too", Valentine says with a gentle smile.
"I'll leave you two alone now." With that he is gone and they're on their own again. They look at each other wearing the same bewildered smile, which makes him laugh a bit. Valentine joins in. Just why they laugh is a mystery to him, but it's nice to do so. Everyone else has been so serious since he's woken up this morning and he's getting tired of it. After a while they settle down and his brother gets up, packs away their game and comes to stand in front of his bed, tying his fingers into knots.
"Do you wan- do you need help with eating?", his brother asks with a timid voice, as if afraid he would snap at him. If he hadn't asked and just decided to help him anyways, he's afraid he might have and it makes him feel a bit guilty. But his brother wants an answer, not guilt.
"No, but thanks." Before Valentine can say anything, he hoists himself up from the bed, his arms shaking, but holding steady. The plate is full with food and he doesn't think he's able to eat it all alone. Oh, yes of course, he thinks and then turns around, steadying himself on the table. "Do you want some of my food? It looks like so much and you won't get anything at home anymore at this time." His brother looks him in the eyes as if looking for something in there.
"Only if you also have enough. I don't wanna steal your food." Pft, as if.
"No, come on. Look at this plate. It's way too much for me alone, I only woke up this morning", Mercutio says and tries to pull the stool closer to himself. His brother shakes his head and puts it next to the table for him. With a short thanks he sits down. They eat, one after the other and before he knows it, they're saying their goodbyes; Valentine helps him back into bed and then he's alone again.
In moments like this he appreciates his brother so much. Instead of assuming everything and fussing over him, he tries to cheer him up and asks things. At least today. Maybe that also has to do with how they don't see each other as often now that he's in university and they're more inclined to be kind to each other, unlike when they were growing up and loved to get on each other's nerves. Not that they never apologised. But things have changed, their circumstances, their lives, and thus their relationship.
Speaking of relationships. His and Tybalt's is getting more and more interesting with each passing day. Before this whole thing he would have described themselves as enemies, to never get along and die holding a grudge against each other. But that has to have changed, because one does not hurt themselves over nothing and one does not worry whether their enemy lives or not.
Granted Tybalt could have harmed himself out of any reason and he won't know unless he asks. Is he also in the same hospital as he himself is? Right now he doesn't want to get up to check though and there is still the fact that he stabbed him. Which at the moment is tying him to bed and he doesn't appreciate that. But from what Romeo and Benvolio have told him, there is guilt at play. So he does have to take that into consideration.
Then there are also his dreams, which he doesn't remember fully and he doesn't know what to make of them. There's the image of himself cradling Tybalt's severed head, white light blinding him and fear filling his mind. They're pieces of a puzzle, but the most intriguing piece of it is that cut off head, in all its gory detail. Why is that snippet accompanied by a feeling of sadness?
To himself he can maybe admit that he doesn't hate Tybalt with every fiber of his being and wants to see him dead. So the sadness would make sense. Still, they fight each other and their words bite, but most of the time when he picks a fight with him, he just wants to see a reaction and it's oh so easy to do with him. But is that really all?
If he's honest with himself, he was hurt by Tybalt's words as a child — deeply — and the thing he wants most is for him to take those words back. Not for himself, but for his young self, to give him the peace he never got. But that is all. Nothing more, nothing less.
But that won't be possible for the foreseeable future, will it? Not when his uncle keeps Tybalt under lock and key until he decides what to do with him. And by then it might be too late to try and talk to him. His uncle could very well execute him, if he doesn't die first of that fucking fever he has inflicted on himself.
The situation makes him want to tear his hair out in frustration. That bastard can't go dying on him and leave him alone on this earth and oh. That sounds like Tybalt is important to him. Oh shit. He does care about him, turns out. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? Not that he can do anything about it right now. Why is he only realizing this now? Literally any other time would have been so much better, not now, with all this chaos and unrest. Mercutio bangs his fist upon his mattress in frustration. Great.
If only he could take Tybalt and himself out of this situation, to a place where no one can do anything to them, where no one can hurt them. What an absurd wish. Especially for someone who is his enemy in the eyes of everyone. And since when is there a them? They are not friends, no matter how much he wants it to be true. Tears are prickling in his eyes and he's not sure if it's because of anger or sadness.
Anger that things aren't the way he wants them to be? Or sadness because his feelings are hurt? Either way he cries, which makes his chest hurt and a lump form in his throat. If only he could explain how much he wants... What exactly? He just wants one chance. With Tybalt? Oh.
Yes, he wants him and to tell him. To tell him that he. Fuck okay. How is he supposed to tell him when he can't even admit it to himself? Mercutio is truly fucked if he can't admit to himself that he's in love with Tybalt. Other people are a different story, but he should be able to say it in his own head. So he has to come to terms with it first. Plenty of time for that if he's bound to bed for a while then.