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hyacinth-sims · 7 months ago

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Be Okay

Summary: Tybalt practices for his first piano recital in seven years, and comes to realize what makes it much more emotionally challenging than it needs to be. At least there’s someone to help him pick up the pieces this time.

Warnings: None

Pairings: (Established) Tybalt Capp/Mercutio Monty

Word Count: 3.2k

Author’s Note: okay after hurting them so much they get to be cute together are you happy???!!!! although i’d say it’s more hurt/comfort for tybalt, but worry not mercutio will also get his hurt/comfort moment soon! also tybby is a bit ✨softer✨ here since they’re already dating, granted idk how long they’ve been dating but! i tried to keep a lot of his attitude just y’know…less outright mean since they’re bfs and not enemies here 😭 also i will probs publish the mercutio hurt/comfort piece later this week but after that i’m gonna take a short break cause y’all i have less than a month of this semester left and the struggle is REAL!!!! i’ve got so much shit due every week oml! also yes vendetta has not been forgotten about, but it’s a bigger piece so it’s gonna take some time to plan out. i don’t know if these one shots are “in” the vendetta universe so to say, but we’ll see!

In exactly one month and one week, Tybalt Capp would have his first piano recital since his mother died. The last time he’d performed on a stage, in front of an audience, had been seven years ago. He was on the cusp of 19 years old now, and the last time had been about three months before the fire. For seven years, he wasn’t quite ready to face another audience—to look out into the crowd and not see his mother’s smile staring back at him. But he wanted to perform on that stage one last time before he was set to graduate for her.

He was performing two pieces, Nocturne No. 8 by Chopin and Liebestraum No. 3 by Liszt. Chopin was his mother’s favorite composer, and Nocturne No. 8 was her favorite work of his. There was no question about whether he wanted to perform it in her memory; it was only right for him to do so. His second piece was a personal choice, as Liszt, on the other hand, was his favorite composer. He thought about performing La Campanella as it had been burned in his brain from having to perform it in front of his grandfather and his associates, but he wanted to give himself a challenge and learn a brand new piece.

Liebestraum was also a considerably romantic piece, the title directly translating to Love Dream. He initially told himself that it would fit with the theme of Nocturne No. 8, as that was the song that led his parents together. However, it would be a lie to say that he hadn’t been feeling particularly…mushy lately.

He wasn’t sure if he would call Mercutio Monty his boyfriend; it seemed like an oversimplification. They also hadn’t exactly talked about things such as labels or terms, but Tybalt didn’t mind much either way. It wouldn’t change anything about what or how they were anyway.

Mercutio didn’t come to the Capp manor often, but it had nothing to do with whether or not Tybalt wanted him there. Patrizio and Isabella catching Tybalt at the Monty ranch would likely be quite bad, but Grandfather catching Mercutio at the Capp manor? All hell would break loose.

Grandfather was out of town for a business conference, though, and his sisters were having a sleepover at Miranda’s home. He knew he needed to practice for his recital, but being in a secret relationship due to the fact that your families hate each other has taught Tybalt that every potential moment should be taken advantage of. Besides, Mercutio seemed quite enthusiastic about watching Tybalt play the piano. He did ask to be serenaded, though, which Tybalt refused.

He let the final notes ring out, cursing himself for the minor mistake he had made prior. “Sounds just as good the sixth time,” Mercutio teased—sitting in a backward dining chair he had pulled up to the piano. He rested his chin on his folded arms, placed on top of the back of the chair.

“Measure 51 was sloppy,” Tybalt commented with a slight huff, flipping over the sheet music to review as he furrowed his brow. He could practically hear his grandfather commenting on all the tiny mistakes he’d made in his head despite his absence. “I’ve done better before. I need to iron out the mistakes,” He grumbled as he grabbed his pen from the piano desk—circling measure 51 for future reference.

“You’re overthinking it,” Mercutio answered, shrugging his shoulders. “If you keep looking for mistakes, you’re just going to make more,” He added, “Brute forcing it will just burn you out.”

There was nothing he hated more than Mercutio being right, so much so that verbally admitting he was right was a difficult challenge. Tybalt was trying, though, choosing to silently put aside the sheet music for Chopin and replacing it with Liszt. It earned a small smirk from Mercutio that was answered with a scowl from Tybalt.

He took his time to look over the sheet music before even pressing on a single key. It wasn’t the most challenging piece he’d ever played, but it wouldn’t be a walk in the park either. Tybalt took a deep breath in before exhaling and playing the initial few notes. It was a ritual for him, an attempt to release all of the expectations and pressure—choosing to let the music take over instead. Did it work? Not very often, but it was nice to try.

He hadn’t practiced his recital performance in front of his grandfather, not after an argument between Juliette and their grandfather a few weeks prior. It wasn’t often that his sisters witnessed his piano practice, but Juliette just so happened to be doing her homework in the living room. She must’ve been watching his hands as he ceased for his grandfather to point out every little mistake he’d made—and much to both of their surprise, Juliette yelled at Grandfather. It was rare for any of them to stand up to him. For being quite the hothead typically, Tybalt had never once raised his voice at his grandfather.

Juliette said that Tybalt needed a break, as they’d been going for 3 hours at that point—repeating the same section of the same piece over and over. She pointed out his shaking hands, his tired eyes, and the fact he looked as if he was on the verge of breaking to pieces. When they were alone, Juliette suggested Tybalt practice independently for a while—to be free of their grandfather’s criticism.

But he wondered if he would ever be able to get better without him watching over his shoulder like a hawk, pinpointing every tiny mistake he made throughout. Much of Tybalt’s determination and improvement came from wanting to make his grandfather proud, wanting to prove to him that he could be the best and that he was worth something to their family. After a performance, ranging from child to teenager, from stage to party, Tybalt always sought out his grandfather’s face first. He wanted to see just a hint of a smile, a quirk of his lips, anything that would show that he was satisfied.

His eyes stared down at his fingers intently, watching as they danced around the keys. It was similar to how he would watch his mother as a child. Her playing was always so elegant, so gentle—something that never quite came naturally to Tybalt. Tybalt played the piano as if it were anger management, freeing all of the negative emotions that weighed heavy on his mind. It was brilliant for pieces such as the 3rd movement of Moonlight Sonata or Allegro Barbaro, but awkward when attempting to play things romantic and soft—another two adjectives that did not exactly align with Tybalt.

He was trying, though; he was really trying. He was trying not to be so hardened, so closed off, so defensive. Every single day, he remembered his grandfather’s speech about the dangers and destruction of love, and every single day, he started to feel as if it was the truth. The question remained if he would prefer to protect himself from the pain or risk it all for the happiness his mother spoke of.

Although perhaps the true question was if he deserved to love and be loved at all. He’d ruthlessly pushed away anyone who ever got close, no matter who they were. If they ever tried to pry, he would hurl insults until they no longer held any interest. He was the antithesis of everything his mother hoped for him to be, in favor of trying to fit his grandfather’s expectations.

Good people were the ones who deserved love, like his mother and father, who were willing to stand against his grandparents to fight for their love. Like his sisters, who stand proud for their family but would never allow it to overtake their own morals and beliefs. Like Mercutio, who seemed to believe that his purpose in life was to make everybody around him happy—he deserved to be happy himself.

It felt like no matter what he did, he was always going to be disappointing someone. His grandfather, his sisters, the memory of his parents—he would never be as great as he wanted to be for them.

There wasn’t a missed note, a stuttered section, a wrong key, not a single thing out of place. But none of it felt right. The way he was playing, the sound, everything was off. He stopped in his tracks, a half note playing out before complete silence began to smother the room. His eyes wandered down to his lap as his hands left the keys, his fists tightly clenching—the stinging feeling bringing a strange relief.

He could imagine the disappointing stare from his grandfather already, not a word or piece of criticism leaving his lips. If it wasn’t the minor mistakes to be pointed out, it was always the feeling. It was always the fact that he didn’t believe Tybalt understood the song. There was always something, something that always proved he’d never meet expectations.

He didn’t notice any movement or the presence of another person until he felt two hands loosely wrap around his wrists, turning them face up. “How have you not stabbed your palms yet?” Mercutio said quietly as he gently pried open his clenched fists, Tybalt staring down at the indents of his fingernails left dead center in the palm of his hand.

Another one of his horrible habits threatened to be released, insisting to Mercutio that he was very much fine and continued to play. He didn’t want to lie, though, but he wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t leave him crumbling.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet the other man’s eyes, pursing his lips and staring down at his resting hands. “I feel like I’m failing her,” Tybalt murmured, glancing over to notice the raised eyebrow from Mercutio. “My mother,” He clarified, “She never wanted me to fall into…this, like needing my grandfather’s approval every damn second, inheriting that rage and vengefulness from the feud, refusing to be weak.” He couldn’t help the sarcastic laugh he let out, “I’m doing this for her, but I’m honestly not quite sure if she would be proud of me today anyway.”

A pair of hands cupped his cheeks and gently turned his head, and there was no avoiding his gaze anymore. His tired, stormy eyes met warm brown that were filled with concern and a sense of worry. Rarely did anyone look worried for Tybalt; they often just looked at him with anger, neutrality, or worse—pity. “Don’t start,” Mercutio said with a frown, “You don’t wanna go down that rabbit hole, trust me…it fucking sucks.”

He supposed no one could better understand him than Mercutio, having also lost both of his parents quite soon after Tybalt. Being the heir or heiress is probably difficult. Tybalt would never deny that—but he had a feeling that being the oldest was harder. They were both expected to be the protectors, to dutifully watch over their younger siblings without a single crack. They had to live up to the expectations of their grandparents while also being the ones to remember most the horrid loss that led them there in the first place.

They both had to exist solely for a family that would discard them once the heir took over.

“Look, I didn’t really know your mom that well,” Mercutio admitted quietly. Tybalt could remember the few occasions that they had met, but they were quite a long time ago. The first time Mercutio met his mother, he’d presented her with a daisy he had just plucked from the ground—telling her the scientific name Bellis perennis, although mispronounced horribly. Still, it was certainly impressive that an eight-year-old remembered the name at all. “But I do know that she loved you a lot,” He continued, “And she definitely would’ve been proud of you, and I mean…I can say for certain that I’m proud of you, does that count for anything?”

His cheeks began to heat up in surprise, unsure of how to respond. Truthfully, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone had directly said they were proud of him. Maybe his grandfather would occasionally give him a hum and a nod of approval, but that wasn’t the same as hearing it directly. “I suppose it does…yes,” He confessed. Tybalt was excellent at stringing together creative yet eloquent insults, but romance and niceties didn’t come easy—even simple words such as ‘thank you’ were a struggle for him.

Mercutio hummed as he slung an arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer to him. “And you don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to,” He added, “I don’t think your mom would want you to do something only for her sake.” He had a good point; his mother never liked forcing him into things he wasn’t interested in doing. But there was just…a part of him that—

“I want to do this,” Tybalt assured with a slight nod, “I like playing, I like performing…I just really do not enjoy the pressure from my grandfather, and I do not enjoy looking for his face in the crowd after a performance only to see it unchanged.” He could feel a kiss placed on the top of his head, along with a slow nod. Tybalt still wasn’t used to physical affection, but he’d gotten better at not suddenly jolting or tensing up with even just the slightest brush of fingertips against his skin.

His family was never known for their affection. Tybalt couldn’t even remember the last time he’d hugged his grandfather or his sisters. Truthfully, before Mercutio—he probably hadn’t hugged anyone since his parents died. Meanwhile, physical affection seemed to be a staple of the Monty family. Mercutio and Romeo never shied away from putting an arm around a friend’s shoulder, and Viola could usually be seen sitting on her friend’s lap or even kissing their cheeks. It was a far cry from the Capp family, truthfully.

“I’ll be there then,” Mercutio offered with a smirk, “I’ll even force everyone to give you a standing ovation and clap so loud you’ll know exactly where I am in the crowd without even having to look.” Most people would think that to be hyperbole, but Tybalt had a feeling he was being dead serious.

“Your grandparents might actually have you hung, drawn, and quartered if they found out you were sneaking out to go see your secret boyfriend from the rival family perform at a piano recital,” Tybalt commented, “I think they’d find that worse than simply sneaking out to make out somewhere in a field.”

Mercutio laughed, and Tybalt could maybe feel a bit of a weight lifted from his shoulders—metaphorically, of course. “So two things,” He began, “First, if you wanna do that again after your piano recital, I’d totally be down, second—we’re boyfriends now?” He sounded so smug once he reached that second point, and Tybalt put two fingers to the other man’s cheek, shoving away his face.

“Don’t get cocky about it,” Tybalt warned, although he imagined that advice would fall on deaf ears.

“I’m gonna be so cocky about it,” Mercutio teased in return.

He rolled his eyes with a groan, “I’d expect nothing less from you, to be quite honest.” Their journey to where they stood now had been nothing less than chaotic, although he supposed that was typical for Veronaville. They were friends and crushes as children, enemies as teenagers, and this on the brink of young adulthood. Admittedly, he was still afraid to call it love. It was all his mother ever wanted for him, but it was still a very terrifying thought. He’d get there, though, one day.

“You wanna try again?” Mercutio asked as he looked towards the sheet music still placed on the piano desk. “Or take a break?” He continued, his eyes glancing back at Tybalt. Tybalt really couldn’t help how he practically slumped down on the bench, his head resting on Mercutio’s shoulder. He felt utterly drained at that point, both emotionally and physically. While he would typically keep playing until he played perfectly, every part of his body screamed for a break.

“Break,” He murmured decisively. He could always pick it up again tomorrow, and his grandfather wouldn’t be back for another few days, so there was ample time to practice without him. Mercutio would probably still be there the next morning, anyway. He didn’t necessarily need him to be there to play, but it sure did feel nice to have someone there who actually enjoyed his playing.

Mercutio nodded in response before giving Tybalt a mischievous grin, “How about I make dinner and then kick your ass in Smash?” His delusion was clearly admirable; Tybalt had to give him that.

“You’re god awful at Smash,” Tybalt pointed out as he straightened back out, “You’ve been playing Luigi for a decade, and I still beat you every single time.” He didn’t grow up playing video games. He only really began about a few months ago at the suggestion of Mercutio. Unfortunately for him, Tybalt was obviously much better at all of the games the other man grew up playing.

“Hey, I let you win because I was trying to get you to like me,” Mercutio defended, but Tybalt simply brushed him off with a roll of his eyes.

“Why would I swoon at you being terrible at video games?” Tybalt retorted, “You really need to work on your methods of seduction.” Admittedly, Tybalt initially thought that Mercutio was actually letting him win the first few times they played together. But Tybalt very quickly realized that Mercutio was actually just that bad at Smash. Great at Mario Kart, though.

Mercutio moved his hand down to his waist, tugging him closer. “Did it or did it not work though?” He teased—and of course, this ended up causing a debate about whether or not his ‘plan’ had worked. Mercutio insisted that what he was saying was totally true, while Tybalt said that any amount of seduction was in spite of his horrid Smash gameplay. They definitely ‘argued’ about it for far too long, as they’d both forgotten about the plan about dinner and video games until about 10 PM.

Both of them ended up staying up well past 2 in the morning, the time having gone by in a flash. Although admittedly, they didn’t fall asleep til at least 3:30. Apparently, they hadn’t really thought about the fact that Tybalt had a twin bed, and trying to find a comfortable way to sleep might as well have been like playing the world’s most brutal game of Tetris.

They slept on his bedroom floor instead, and for the first time in a long while—Tybalt thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be okay.

SECRET ENDING AUTHOR’S NOTE: would y’all like a post-recital one shot? 😁 lemme knaur

#mercutio just wants to be serenaded tbh #also i have no idea what time period this is set in do NOT ask #ts2 #the sims 2 #ts2 premades #veronaville #tybalt capp #mercutio monty #sims 2 #tycutio #sims tycutio #sims 2 fanfic #the sims fanfiction #the sims 2 fanfiction

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hyacinth-sims · 7 months ago

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Red

Summary: After picking up his boyfriend to go to their ‘spot,’ a discussion about a poetry assignment for his literature class brings Mercutio to a few realizations.

Warnings: None, there’s like ONE incomplete somewhat sexual themed joke

Pairings: (Established) Tybalt Capp/Mercutio Monty

Words: 4.7k

Author’s note: you didn’t think i’d forget about this did you??? absolutely not! this one just took me a bit more time since it’s longer. again, softer tybby since he luuuuvs his boyfriend although their bickering dynamic is still there obviously. anyways i bet y’all thought mercutio was the only one capable of being the emotionally supportive boyfriend huh???? NO!

Mercutio had to park all the way in the very back corner of the furthest parking lot from the rugby pitch. Supposedly, it was to avoid anyone seeing him picking up Tybalt from rugby practice. However, Mercutio thought that Tybalt randomly walking half a mile away from his other teammates at the end of practice was more suspicious than parking in a regular spot. But it kept Tybalt from being on edge, and it’s not like Mercutio was the one having to walk anyway.

He took the time before the end of rugby practice to pull out his journal, covered in black leather and various vinyl stickers. Mercutio was known for his prowess in his literature class, and it seemed to more than make up for his lack of STEM abilities. Such a shame, he’d totally be an entomologist but the required math skills to get there were just not within his reach.

So instead, he’d admire bugs on his own time and find a subject to write his newest class assignment about. Mercutio had his entire class fooled, believing he was genuinely bearing his soul for all to see with his poems of love, loss, and hatred. Instead, he was actually writing about his random encounters with different bugs. The only person who knew about this was Tybalt—although he only found out because he caught Mercutio in the act of staring at a butterfly while writing their love poem assignment.

Unfortunately, he’d been dealing with a bit of writer’s block lately. The assignment for this week had been ‘color poems,’ or a poem about a specific color and what it meant to them. Not even the sight of a beautifully pink elephant hawk moth could drum up any inspiration. It was due in two days, and Mercutio could ask Tybalt for help—but Tybalt’s eloquent use of language only translated to off-the-cuff insults and not necessarily any form of written word.

All he could really think to do was open his personal journal, glancing through what he had written previously. There was a day when all he could do was sit in front of the urns of his parents and reminisce—both on the good times and the very worst days of his life. The poem was about the funeral, about the day he realized what purpose he served to his family. There was another about what it meant to be the oldest, as well as the spare. Many were about what he could never tell the world, what he refused to show, and what he held close to himself.

They weren’t all sad, though; some were actual human takes on the love poems he’d written about bugs. Admittedly, all of them were about Tybalt, but why wouldn’t they be? Mercutio had previously never been very much interested in love or relationships. He’d kissed people at parties, maybe even hooked up with one or two—that wasn’t love, though.

Mercutio always thought that Romeo fell in love far too easily; it seemed like every pretty girl who gave him a smile was ‘the one.’ Love didn’t come as quickly to Mercutio, and he truthfully never thought it would come at all. It hit him like a truck when it did, and it was the most frightening yet awakening experience of his entire life. He finally got the hype around it, too.

Speaking of which—Mercutio glanced up at his rearview mirror, seeing Tybalt approaching from across the parking lot. Picking up Tybalt from rugby practice to hang out wasn’t meant to be as routine as it had become, but opportunities to spend time together were few and far between.

Before, Tybalt would sneak out to the Monty ranch at night; that was their only chance to see one another outside school. However, Tybalt had finally been caught sneaking back in by his grandfather. Thankfully, Tybalt made up an on-the-spot lie about a party just outside of town. Sneaking out to get drunk with a bunch of random teenagers was clearly the better alternative to sneaking out and kissing a Monty when it came to Consort Capp.

The backdoor of his car opened just as quickly as it shut, Tybalt assumingly tossing his gym bag into the backseat. The passenger door was next to swing open, and Tybalt slid into the seat as he usually did. It was already adjusted to his liking, slightly scooted back to accommodate his long legs. Romeo would always complain about it when Mercutio would drive them to school, asking who Mercutio was giving rides to that constantly needed the seat this far back.

He was definitely keeping that secret from him.

Mercutio took a moment to stare at Tybalt, noting every tiny detail about his appearance in that minute. His hair was still slightly damp from the post-practice shower, the crinkle in his brow suggested that some element of practice had been frustrating, and the flushed face…

He hooked a finger under Tybalt’s chin, lifting it and turning his face towards him. “Tough practice or kissing other boys in the locker room?” Mercutio teased with a smirk.

Tybalt scoffed as he swatted away Mercutio’s hand, “Frankly, I’m insulted that you think I’d find any of my teammates attractive enough to kiss.”

“Eric’s kinda cute, no?” He continued to banter, resulting in Tybalt leaning over and lightly flicking his forehead.

“I’ll be sure to let him know you think so,” Tybalt replied as he rolled his eyes.

Truthfully, Mercutio knew very little about Tybalt’s teammates—outside of a few names he’d heard during rants after practice. They were both uncertain if Mercutio would be able to attend one of Tybalt’s rugby games without someone causing a fuss. Although granted, most of the involved adults of Veronaville weren’t exactly the type to be hanging around the stands during a rugby game. Supposedly, Consort didn’t go to Tybalt’s games, and there was no reason for any of his aunts and uncles to do so, either.

“You’re still my favorite, though,” Mercutio playfully assured as he leaned in—attempting to catch Tybalt’s lips for a quick kiss. Unfortunately, he was met with three fingers pressed against his mouth instead. Not quick enough.

“We’re on school grounds,” Tybalt reminded him, narrowing his eyes as Mercutio gently took hold of the hand on his lips—placing a kiss on the pads of his fingertips. Not even his scowl could hide the pink flush making its way onto his pale, freckled cheeks.

Mercutio twisted the key in the ignition, put the car in reverse, and began to head out of the parking lot. He shifted the gear to drive before glancing back over at Tybalt, “So, I’m assuming the flushed face means rough practice?” Tybalt was the team captain and very much strived for perfection. Supposedly, he could be a bit harsh at times, but if he was still on good terms with his teammates—he couldn’t be that harsh.

“Mm, no,” Tybalt answered as he shook his head, “Practice went rather well, seems like the other guys are just as determined to win our next game…” He could see Tybalt bite his lip out of the corner of his eye, sparing a quick glance as he kept his focus on the road. “They seem to have deduced that I am…seeing someone,” He continued, gritting his teeth, “They did, in fact, point out the very long walks I take after practice.”

Mercutio couldn’t help the loud laugh that he let out; he knew it would happen eventually. “Did they make any guesses as to who?” He asked with a smirk.

“They started with Puck,” Tybalt said as he started counting on his fingers, “Then Paris, even Benvolio, and then someone who lives in a different town…” The idea of Tybalt dating any of them was baffling to him—okay, maybe he could potentially see him dating Puck. But they were both gingers, so that would be weird.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Mercutio began as he raised an eyebrow, “I wasn’t even on the list?”

Tybalt shook his head, “No.”

Now, that was completely ridiculous. There was clearly no better candidate for being Tybalt’s boyfriend than, y’know…Tybalt’s boyfriend himself! Alright, granted, they didn’t know that Mercutio was Tybalt’s boyfriend—but he at least should’ve made the list of guesses!

“I’m gonna have to start wearing your rugby jacket around and going to every single one of your games dressed as a cheerleader,” Mercutio commented, “I’ll even write your own personal cheer and everything—I think I’d be pretty good at that.” While Mercutio didn’t mind how things were with Tybalt now, it would be nice to be publicly dating without worrying about their families finding out.

He wanted to go to every single rugby game, every single debate team event, and maybe another piano recital if Tybalt was up for it. Mercutio loved to watch Tybalt be in his element. Nothing was truly more captivating than the concentration he emitted as he furrowed his brow with a fierce look of determination in his silver eyes.

“I’m admittedly terrified at what you would come up with in terms of a cheer,” Tybalt replied with what could’ve perhaps been a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “And my rugby jacket is quite expensive. What makes you think I can trust you to care for it properly?”

“I’ll just get it dry cleaned every single day if it’ll make you happy,” Mercutio replied with a shrug, “But if you’re hellbent on not letting your lovely boyfriend wear your rugby jacket…I can always make you a jacket to match mine! I mostly order my patches online or make my own—I can make you some, too.”

He could hear Tybalt give a small exhale through his nose and a slight smirk on his lips. “We’ll see,” He answered, and that was likely as good of a response as he would get on that matter. Personally, Mercutio was already planning on what patches he’d put on Tybalt’s theoretical jacket. He definitely needed something to let people know that he was firmly taken.

Tybalt didn’t ever seem to notice the fact he was physically attractive, which also meant he rarely ever noticed when people were hitting on him. How Tybalt seemed to be clueless, Mercutio had no idea. He had pretty, dark, and long eyelashes that framed his shimmering silver eyes. His thick yet immaculately groomed eyebrows were of the same shade—it was a miracle that they didn’t match the ginger with flecks of gold on his head. Of course, he couldn’t speak of Tybalt’s attractiveness and not discuss those cheekbones, as well as how angular the rest of his face was too—

“All that thinking is dangerous for you,” Tybalt teased, pulling him out of his thoughts. That attitude was definitely what stopped many people from practically slobbering over him. Clearly, it had little effect on how Mercutio felt about him. If anything, he liked his scathing insults and sharp comebacks. He liked to hear what he would come up with at the drop of a hat, not even having to think of his words.

Mercutio simply took a hand off the wheel to lightly punch Tybalt’s shoulder, not denying that delving further into his thoughts would probably be pretty dangerous. Luckily for him, they finally pulled into the gravel parking lot of what used to be a park. Now, it was only grass, trees, and overgrown greenery.

He put the car in park before switching off the ignition, hearing Tybalt already clicking off his seatbelt and opening the passenger side door. “Eager?” Mercutio teasingly asked with a smirk, resulting in a disgusted noise from Tybalt as he unclicked his own seat belt and took a step out of the car.

“No, just need some fresh air,” Tybalt began, “I was holding my breath the entire ride here because your car smells like weed and shitty cologne.”

Mercutio frowned as he stood outside his car, slamming the door shut behind him and patting the hood of his car. “Hey, be nice to Loretta,” Mercutio defended, “Sure, she might hold onto the smell of weed like no other, but she’s treated me very well throughout her lifetime!”

“I really hate that you named your car Loretta,” Tybalt answered, his expression clearly unchanging and unamused.

“Jealous?” Mercutio teased, “I assure you that there’s plenty of room in my heart for both you and dear Loretta.”

“I am not jealous of your car that might as well be as old as your grandma. You even named it appropriately,” He quipped back, and look— that was an unfair assessment. Loretta was only 15 years old but ran like she was brand new! Well, except for the time she broke down on the side of the road at 2 AM. But besides that and the weird noises she makes, she was a great car!

Mercutio walked in front of the car, moving to stand next to Tybalt against the passenger side door. “You sound pretty jealous to me,” Mercutio said with a small smirk, knocking his finger against Tybalt’s chin. The other man narrowed his eyes at him, and it was so hard to keep his teasing expression on his face. Many people thought Tybalt was terrifying, and Mercutio admittedly used to be one of them. However, Tybalt was more like an angry kitten than anything else.

It was hard not to laugh at his scrunched nose and furrowed brows. “Can I cash in that kiss, by the way?” Mercutio added with a happy grin, “We’re off school grounds, and according to your rules—I am allowed to show affection on neutral grounds, and these are technically neutral grounds since it’s just outside of town.” Mercutio honestly didn’t care much about getting caught, but Tybalt seemed to be terrified that they were being watched at all times.

“You’re ridiculous,” Tybalt murmured as he shook his head. He took his face in his hands regardless and placed his lips against Mercutio’s. Tybalt had confessed to never having kissed anyone before Mercutio, which was both surprising yet expected all at the same time. He was a quick learner, though; Mercutio never would’ve known had he not told him.

His kisses were light to the touch yet very much addicting all at the same time. It always made Mercutio want more, but it would never be his right to take that. Tybalt was not accustomed to any kind of physical affection, whether it be platonic or romantic. The first time his fingers brushed against his cheek, he could remember the jolt that suddenly emitted from Tybalt. He’d looked confused, afraid, and close to tears from a simple touch.

He’d gotten a bit better, and small touches and light kisses were allowed without question. Everything else was left up to Tybalt, and Mercutio was perfectly alright with that.

They split apart, Mercutio finding his cheeks warming up as Tybalt’s eyes fluttered open. He was too pretty for his own good. “Satisfied?” Tybalt asked as he raised an eyebrow rather smugly.

“I mean…are you asking if the kiss was good or are you—“ Mercutio began, promptly cut off by a sharp poke to his forehead.

“You’re a dog,” Tybalt replied with a huff, although it was clear he was trying to stop himself from laughing. While the kissing and cuddling were all very nice, Mercutio liked seeing Tybalt lose his serious facade more. Whether or not people wanted to believe it, Tybalt was very much capable of laughing at crude humor and sex jokes if he was feeling comfortable enough.

He could hear Tybalt let out a hum as he stood before him, brushing back some of his dark hair from his face. “You need to get a trim,” He commented as he let a small strand of hair fall between his fingertips, “Your layers are completely grown out at this point.” While many would see Tybalt’s words as being judgmental, the physical affection meant he was in a particularly good mood that day. So Mercutio would take what he could get.

“Yes, mom,” Mercutio replied as he sarcastically rolled his eyes. Tybalt’s hands fell to his side, lightly grazing the hem of Mercutio’s denim vest. “How’s your poetry assignment going, by the way?” Mercutio asked, the first semblance of a casual conversation they’d had all evening. While, of course, he wanted nothing more than for Tybalt to succeed in literally anything he did, part of him was hoping he’d also be a bit behind so they could bounce ideas off of one another.

“Better than I expected, admittedly,” Tybalt answered with a small nod. “I was going to pick the family color and write about that initially,” He began to explain, “But I felt that was too expected, and I wasn’t coming up with any results that felt genuine. So I went with green instead; I think it reminds me of better times. I know I spent part of the poem talking about being in the gardens behind the Capp manor with my mother as a kid.” It was nice to hear that Tybalt had broken a barrier when it came to writing; he was one to always want to do well, even if it was a subject he wasn’t particularly interested in.

Mercutio nodded with a small smile, wondering if he should even bother Tybalt with something as minuscule as writer’s block. Although judging by the raised eyebrow and inquisitive look, Tybalt was expecting an update on his own writing. He took a deep breath before letting out a sigh, “I’ve hit a wall.”

“How so?” Tybalt asked curiously.

“I mean, I tried to write about my favorite colors like green, black, blue…” He began, listing them off with his fingers, “Couldn’t come up with anything. So then I went with pink because I saw this beautiful elephant hawk moth, but not even that was enough to drum up some inspiration…so, kinda back at square one over here.” To say it was frustrating would be an understatement because it was nothing Mercutio had ever experienced before. Usually, just seeing a cool bug was enough to write a novel about if he pleased.

It was just something else entirely; he wasn’t sure what.

Tybalt slowly nodded, “I mean—your bug poems are quite nice, but have you considered writing about something else entirely?”

To say he hadn’t considered it would be wrong. He definitely had. However, Mercutio never thought that it would be worth trying. “I don’t really know how interested people would be in poems about my life,” Mercutio said with a shrug. His tone was nonchalant, but Tybalt seemed taken aback.

“Why?” was all Tybalt replied with, and it was an even more difficult question than the last.

“People don’t really associate me with stories about dead parents and borderline emotional neglect,” Mercutio answered, “I don’t think anyone really wants to know who I am past what I already show openly, which is whatever, I guess.”

“That’s…” Tybalt began, but the words couldn’t escape his lips. He could see that furrow in his brow begin to form and the rumbling storm in the silver of his eyes. He was frustrated with him, and he truthfully couldn’t blame him. “Why would you think that?” He asked.

Mercutio pondered on his question for a moment, but all he could think of was another one in response; “Why do you hide who you are from people?” Maybe some would find that passive-aggressive, but they both knew the question was genuine.

“It’s easier,” Tybalt answered without hesitation, “Being on the attack all the time is much easier than letting someone in. My grandfather also placed great importance on me being tough, and I wanted to make him proud.” Tybalt was a strange case of nature vs. nurture, as it was hard to say whether his anger issues had always lurked underneath the surface or if it was something forced onto him by Consort Capp.

Mercutio blocked out a lot from his childhood, but he very much remembered what Tybalt was like before his parents died. He was timid, always clinging onto his mother if she was around. If she wasn’t, he often chose to stand away from the other children in complete silence. But he also remembered Tybalt had the brightest smile when finally comfortable with someone. It was as if the sun shone right onto him, and it was something hard to erase from his memory.

When his parents died, something fundamentally changed within him. He was full of anger, refusing to let anyone see any semblance of ‘weakness.’ Mercutio knew there were still some parts of that child within him, though, because he would still have to catch his breath sometimes when Tybalt offered him something that resembled a smile.

“When my parents died…” Mercutio began, biting the inside of his cheek as he soon realized he’d never told Tybalt this story before. “Nonno pulled me aside at the funeral and pointed at Viola and Romeo, crying their eyes out. He told me I needed to be strong for them since I was now the ��man’ of the family—I was 13.” He was never given a chance to grieve properly, to miss his parents, to even shed a single tear. “Nonno said that they needed to know that if I was okay, they could be too,” He continued, “So I guess that’s why I think that, because nobody was interested in how I felt outside of making other people feel better.”

It was the first time he’d spoken about any of this to anyone. Many people assumed that the Monty’s were the more ‘emotional’ and loving family out of the two feuding families, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. They just knew how to hide their issues better than the Capps, when in reality—they were just as emotionally stunted as them.

“You worry so much about what other people need,” Tybalt stated as he kicked a small piece of gravel beneath his feet, “Have you ever thought about what it is that you need?”

The question caught him completely off guard, partially because it was from Tybalt—who would rather choke on his own spit than have an emotional conversation. But it was mostly because he’d never thought about what it was he needed. He’d spent the past few years convincing himself that his sole purpose in his family was to be the glue that held things together, especially as his grandparents’ arguments grew more frequent, as Romeo snuck out of the house more, and as Viola seemed to stray further and further from what was expected of a Monty.

And yet, he’d never cared to notice his own cracks—his own broken pieces. “I…” Mercutio began, the words stuck in his throat as his mind went completely blank. “When you spend so much time worrying about everyone else, you rarely ever think about yourself,” He admitted, a better answer than a simple ‘I don’t know.’

“It’s a sad way to live,” Tybalt commented with a deep frown that quickly flared into anger, “Why the fuck is it our responsibility to fix what they’ve broken?” It was clear that the they in question was their grandparents, “Our parents probably wouldn’t be six feet under if not for their stupid bullshit, so why do we have to be the strong ones?”

Mercutio could feel his eyes begin to light up with tears as he wiped them away, “Technically, mine are in an urn…” It was probably an inappropriate time for gallows humor, but it was all he really knew.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Tybalt replied with a slight shrug, “My mom’s in an urn too—while my dad is in the graveyard. I think when grandfather dies, I want to ask Juliette if mother can be moved to the graveyard next to father, that’s where she would want to be anyways.”

They stood in silence for another moment, watching the sky change to hues of purple and orange as the sun began to set. Tybalt very loosely threaded their fingers together, continuing to stare up at the pink clouds above. “You and I will never be the cure,” He confessed quietly before turning his attention back to Mercutio, “I’ll be here, though.”

The idea that love was able to fix all was solely something that Romeo believed in. He believed that if you had love, there was nothing else that you could ever need. Mercutio wished he’d had the opportunity to be so naive. Many people thought him immature or boyish, but Mercutio had to grow up much faster than his siblings. Fuck, he was 19 years old and already stressing about helping his grandparents sort out their wills. It was easier to be carefree, to pretend that he was far more childish than he really was. He hoped that maybe if he pretended enough, he would begin to believe it.

Mercutio carefully lifted their locked hands towards his face, pressing a light kiss to the back of Tybalt’s hand. “That’s all I need from you,” He whispered quietly, feeling a small crack in his voice. Mercutio didn’t like to cry, but he especially hated crying in front of other people. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done so, but it had to have been before the death of his parents. There was no stopping it now, though, as he could feel a tear begin to make its way down his cheek.

Tybalt reached over and carefully wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. There didn’t seem to be any words left to say, but Mercutio mouthed a silent ‘thank you.’ Maybe it was for the affection, the conversation, or for simply being around when he needed him most. Tybalt offered him a quiet nod in response, letting their fingers remain locked between one another. “I don’t think I can write about this…” Mercutio said as he gestured to himself, with his tired expression and damp eyes, “But I think I have some ideas.”

“That’s alright,” Tybalt assured quietly. It was clearly a familiar feeling for both of them, the uncertainty of whether they would be able to ever talk about their trauma to the world. He gave Mercutio's hand a small squeeze, “Do you want me to stay over tonight? I’m certain I can get Hermia to cover for me. Otherwise, I’ll just tell Grandfather I went to another party.”

Mercutio didn’t want to get Tybalt into hot water with his grandfather anymore than he already had, but he also knew he really couldn’t be alone that night. Sometimes, it felt as though the bad memories swirled through his head even more than usual later in the day, threatening to consume him as he sat alone on his bed. Having Tybalt there with him to likely talk in depth about Les Misérables or Cats the entire night was more than enough to distract him from his own thoughts.

“Nonno and Nonna are out of town,” He answered quietly with a small nod, “I can make you dinner; I just might have to wait ‘til Romeo and Viola go to bed.” He knew he should probably teach Tybalt to cook for himself, but then that would mean he’d stop sneaking to Mercutio’s house at 1 AM asking for leftovers—and he really couldn’t have that.

The tears in Mercutio’s eyes eventually dried up as they discussed their plans for their impromptu sleepover, which included watching ‘Moulin Rouge’ and playing ‘Pikmin 2.’ However, he wanted to start working on his poem as soon as Tybalt fell asleep.

The color he chose was red, a color he was born to hate but yet was drawn to like an inescapable force of gravity. Red felt warm, red felt safe, and red felt like home. He’d always loved the color red, hadn’t he?

SUPER SECRET AUTHOR'S NOTE: yes tybalt did write about them going to the overgrown park in his green poem

#i love them both they're so soft #also UGHHH mercutio being good at respecting tybalt's boundaries we have to stan #ts2 #the sims 2 #veronaville #ts2 premades #tybalt capp #mercutio monty #sims 2 #tycutio #sims tycutio #sims 2 fanfiction #my writing

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