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04/11/00
Romeo and Juliet (the play by Shakespeare) Romeo/Mercutio Summary: Palazzo hide-and-seek and other games princes play. Disclaimer: The play is Shakespeare's, but he's dead, and copyright wasn't even invented when he wrote it. (Really it wasn't. I took a class on it.) The story's mine. Sex disclaimer: There's not enough sex in this story. But that's the problem with Shakespeare; Marlowe is really much sleazier and more fun to play with. Notes:
I can't believe
it, but I sold my ratty old copy of the play. Which meant that
when I wanted it now, I had to get it out of The Riverside. Moral: never
sell paperback Shakespeares. Even if you have a zillion of them and three
copies of everything.
Servants with Torches
There's a line of olive trees running up to the house. Big plumes of foliage pushing upward, perfectly spaced by some gardener fifty or a hundred years ago. Somewhere underneath them there's a pair of servants pulling at the tether of some animal he can't see. Then stonework, and the courtyard of the house. He first came here . . . what? ten years ago? . . . with his cousin, for reasons he can't remember now. When Montague's son was a rug-rat, still in skirts and chased constantly by his nurse through formal rooms where he should never have been allowed. Swirl of white cloth and long, soft dark hair, and his father swept velvet sleeves down and trapped him, then pulled the boy into his lap and just held him while men talked. Hard edges of wine in the room by the time the little one dropped off, and by then all the torch-sconces were lit and the nurse was long-snoring in some shadowed corner. He didn't get a real sense of the house on his first visit. It was only another palazzo of dark wood and old stone, similar enough to his own that he knew to be cautious of it. But he loved the outside of it. A perfect perspective line in living wood ran up to the house. The prince his cousin liked it too, he thought, though he didn't say. He came back six years later, for reasons best not mentioned to any of his kinsmen. He suspected that no one would approve of the Prince's cousin getting buggered by retainers of a lower house. His confessor had nearly turned inside out at the single mention he's made of the incident. But he hadn't regretted it. Had loved the rough linen against his chest and the human smell in it, and the weight of the man on top of him, fucking him into the mattress. Just one of Montague's poorer cousins, a man who had no idea who he was. Who found him in the square earlier that night. Both of them luminous black in the light of the servants' torches. Afterwards, he left the man sleeping and went creeping through the house. Boots under his arm for silence, but he was well-enough used to that. Silken feet on the parquet. Montague came suddenly down the hallway with only a torch-bearer and a secretary, ranting. He'd slid back into the shadows and groped until he found velvet, then ducked behind it. Pictured what would happen if they caught him. He'd keep his head, and probably his hands, if only because Montague couldn't afford a feud with the Prince, not then. But they could send him back naked and beaten, thrown over the pommel of some filthy guardsman's horse. Blood in trickles running down his back. Rather an interesting thought, really. He didn't tempt fate. He didn't even breathe for long minutes after the light was gone. And then soft fingers in the velvet found him. Closed around his wrist and pulled him out, so gently that he wasn't sure he was being held by something human. Into the moonlight in the next alcove. Wind in his hair. Suddenly aware of his unbuttoned doublet and untucked shirt and stocking feet. "Who are you, and why are you in my house?" He couldn't see anything except a thin body in dark Montague livery. Tall, but not very old. The voice was still a boy-soprano. "I'm the Prince's cousin." "And . . .?" "And I was fucking the servants. Next question." Quick flash of nearly-invisible humour. "You don't have servants of your own? How sad for you." "Oh, fuck you." Quick recoil, and then the boy stepped into the light. Montague's brat, and he really was a child. Much too young to be sworn at by the Prince's degenerate relatives. "Sorry." "You're forgiven." He discovered he was shaking. For the first instants the boy had held him, he'd thought a ghost had found him. Too many things in the dark. Not all of them friendly. But lovely, this little one. Unbelievably self-possessed in this moment. "Can I go?" Moving back down the hall. "Probably not. That's not the way out." Small pause. "The house is locked up for the night. You can't get out like that." Another pause. "I'll help you." "Alright." And that was Romeo. Twelve years old, already almost as tall as his father, and the unquestioned precious child of the household. Romeo who led him to his own rooms, found him Montague livery, and helped him into it. Black and green, edges of silver that denoted a beloved family member. Expensive perfume in it. "Thank you." He turned, looked at the solemn little being perched on a chair. "I'll get this back to you." "You don't have to." Beat. "But you should come tomorrow and introduce yourself to my father. He wants me to have friends." He stared at the boy. And wondered what it must be like to be the only child of old parents in a house this dark. He'd met the retainers earlier, but they were all older, and if they'd lived with the household any length of time, then Old Montague knew their habits well enough to keep them away from his cherished darling. "Your father is not going to believe I just decided to present myself." Sigh. "Why should I want to?" "Because you're my friend." "No I'm not. I'm a lunatic you found sneaking around in the hallway." "You could be my friend." Pause. "Tell me a story." "What?!" "Tell me a story." Patiently. He'd already kicked his boots off and pulled his feet up into the chair in front of him, and in that moment he did look like a child. He decided to scare the shit out of the boy and be on his way. "What do you know about witches?" "People burn them. There was one burned last year." "Mmm. Do you know what they do?" Negative shake of the dark head. "They make trouble. They poison wells by breathing on them. That cold breath that comes up from the water? That's a witch. Every new bucket's a risk. Not even if the water that comes into your catch is so clear that you could see your lover's face in it. "Witches come into the stables at night and steal the horses. Ride them out all over the hills and tie knots in their manes to hang on by. You only wake in the morning and your horse in its stall is shaking and foaming and al of its mane is knotted up. "They come anywhere. Into your house, if you don't watch. Into your mother's bed. Mess with her. Women like that, you know? They breathe on you and then all your thoughts are dirty. "God, filthy." "Is that what happened to you?" "What? I don't know. No. Maybe. God you ask a lot of questions." Shurg. "One more." "Sure. What the hell." "What's your name?" Oh. "Mercutio." "OK." Beat. "The
guard's going to change in a minute or two. Come on. I'll take you to the
gates." Handed him a cloak and slipped out, soft-footed. And so he'd draped
the cloth over himself and run after. Not thinking at all about Romeo's
delight in dressing him up, or the promise he hadn't really avoided making
to come back.
Comes up through the garden and vaults the wall, careful of his sword. Only realizes as he's walking on the precarious edge of the balcony that he'll have to leave the blade behind and collect it later. Someone made him promise he'd go unarmed. In Romeo's bedroom, there are cloaks and masks everywhere, and a pair of jackets crumpled on the bed. Shimmering colours. Montague loves this boy more than Mercutio's ever seen someone love their child. You could buy half a kingdom with the money they spend on his clothes. So he can lie in the rose garden in them and moon and get dirty. There's dirt smudged on one cheek now, just level with his mouth, that can see when Romeo turns. "No one ever taught you about doors, did they?" "I don't believe in doors. They're bad luck." Laughter. Romeo walks over, very carefully, then springs and lets the loose cloak fall around Mercutio's shoulders. "You look great. Mysterious. Sexy. Everyone will fall in love with you and no one will notice me or the others at all." He bows. "I live to serve." "If you say so." Mercutio slicks a thumb and wipes the dirt off that too-pale face. Romeo flinches like child. "Ugh." "You should never be anything less than perfect." Silence. "You might even want to get the garden dirt out from under your nails before we leave." Romeo sticks his tongue out and stalks off to the washbasin. He's fantastically beautiful, and Mercutio's secretly thrilled that he's at least temporarily forgotten that he's supposed to be pining. Because Romeo's very good at that -- the paleness, the not-eating, the fragmented rhymes he can generate on command in praise of the latest love-object. And sometimes he looks like it's really going to be the death of him. Looks across the room in time to see him sighing into the water-bowl. "Stop that." "I'm sorry. I can't help it." Little sad grin. He is not going to do this. Not tonight. Mercutio slides over behind him and wraps both arms around Romeo's waist. "You are so beautiful. No woman should ever touch you." "Don't." "You are." Sigh. "Thank you." Kiss on the pale back of his neck. Soldier-cut short hair, for some reason. He can't imagine who talked Romeo into that one. The next head of the house of Montague can barely pick up a sword; he doesn't need to be shaved for combat. "Do you love me?" "Always." "More than Rosaline?" Kisses him, hard. Still leaning over his shoulder and glad for the advantage of his height. Break, breathe. "Rosaline hates me." "Good." Twists the younger man around so that they're chest to chest and kisses him the way people are supposed to kiss something that beautiful. Hard, but careful not to bruise. He pushes Romeo back onto the bed, watches him fall into the air-filled pile of cloaks. Then kneels on the floor and kisses the clothed abdomen, using his lips to feel the small muscles that shift under cloth layers, catches it in the jaw when the body under his bucks upward suddenly. "Beautiful." He finds the clasp on Romeo's belt and loosens it, then frees up the doublet and the shirt under it. Finds himself with an expanse of bare chest and belly to explore. Warm, spicy body-smell, better than anything he's ever touched or tasted. White, white skin. Tiny line of hair running up his body's centre. He burrows his face down, bites and licks and finds all the tender places on that skin. Tongues Romeo's navel. "Good?" "Yesssss . . ." Somewhere under his chin, he's getting some fairly good evidence that it is good, and it's starting to strain the limits of black stockings. It's flesh he's going to get to in just a minute, and it's going to be amazing, but he needs to tease for some reason first. So he rubs his open mouth over the cloth, soaking it and nuzzling at the shape he can feel pushing out. "Stop it." And he's pushed back suddenly on his heels, achingly hard and nothing touching him. "What?" Incredulous. "You need to stop. We're not doing this." Romeo's shirt is already down, his doublet done up. He's standing with his belt in his hands. Mercutio considers suggesting some things he could do with that belt. Doesn't. He's miserable, suddenly, and cold. "Why not?" Romeo bends, then kneels, to put them face-to-face. "Because I love you." And kisses him, utterly gently. Just the pale brush of a tongue across his. "And we're not going to, so stand up." He stays sitting on the floor, nursing his pride and willing his erection to ease before he has to deal with it. Romeo ignores him for the moment and goes back to sorting the masquerade costumes. Mercutio remembers the first night he offered. He remembers Romeo's shocked hands exploring the bruised places of his body, and then tracing over the dark circles he was sporting under his eyes at the time. It makes him sick sometimes, because he's never seen anyone so innocent, and he can't always resist trying to make him dirty. "I'm sorry." "You're forgiven. Now forget it." "God you're happy suddenly." "Something's coming." Romeo turns, and the look on his face is the one Mercutio usually sees on his own when he looks in a mirror. Dead-certain, and a little manic. "Pestilence and passion, I'm sure." Romeo just grins at him. So he leaves him and crawls out and sits on the terrace balustrade. Somebody down in the garden turns to look up at him. Big dark eyes and a body he can just remember. The retainer's eyes turn a little wild at the edges. Mercutio blows him
a kiss. It's going to be dark in less than an hour. And then he can hit
the streets, and watch Romeo dance, and somewhere in the evening it's going
to be very interesting.
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