#also bug boy writer mercutio....

[hyacinth-sims]

Il mio raggio di sole

Summary: A Mercutio Monty character study. Often seen as the jokester who is second in line to the Monty throne, many don’t know what lurks beneath the surface.

Warning: Vague descriptions of death, SAAAAAD :(

Pairings: None, Even more vaguely implied past Tybalt Capp/Mercutio Monty, Past Consort Capp/Patrizio Monty

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: I really didn’t know if this one would be as sad as Tybalt’s but I think it is, oops! I’m also amazed at the fact that Mercutio’s character study and Tybalt’s are almost the exact same length, maybe give or take 5-10 words. While I feel like I’ve always “gotten” Tybalt, Mercutio was a bit more of a challenge but I feel like I really learned a lot about what I think of him through writing this 😁 Also if you have any one shot ideas (preferably VV/Tycutio) for me, feel free to send them! I’ve had so much fun with my current iterations of Tybalt and Mercutio (does that make me a sadist?) and I’m excited to see how they’ll interact with each other. 

There were a few important facts about Mercutio Monty. He spoke English and Italian fluently but mostly kept the Italian within the family. He wanted to master the electric guitar before the age of 25 and the acoustic guitar before 28. His favorite food was calamari with a spritz of lemon juice. All of the romantic poetry he’d written in his literature classes wasn’t actually about anyone but rather some cool bugs he’d seen outside of his house. He liked tall men and women of any height and liked it if both looked as if they could kick his ass. He’d only let his hair be as short as just beneath the chin and as long as his collarbone. And most importantly, he never wanted to be the Monty heir. 

He was fine with letting that responsibility fall onto his younger brother, Romeo, who seemed rather excited to one day lead the family. Mercutio, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine being tied to Veronaville for the rest of his life. He wanted to see what else was out there for him, past the rolling hills, dividing rivers, and the feud that hung over his hometown like a dark cloud. 

It would be impossible to talk about himself and his life without mentioning ‘the feud,’ as it was aptly yet uncreatively called. It started long before he was born, and much as he wanted to believe otherwise—it would likely continue on past his death. Mercutio never wanted any part in it, but it seems as though his pure existence as a member of the Monty family was enough to be involved. Of course, he would defend his family when insulted, but the entire thing was just stupid. 

It initially started generations ago over a geographical dispute; both families wanted to claim the lands by the river as their own. Clearly, it was never resolved because it only gave way to more violence and more death. The current iteration of the feud began with his Nonno and Consort Capp on the other side of town. What was interesting, though, was the fact Consort was not born a Capp. They were matriarchal on their side of town, and the feud started before Consort even married into the family. Supposedly, it was due to their shared business going under, but plot twist—Nonno was actually dating Contessa Capp, and Consort had stolen her from right under his nose. That’s not all, though, double plot twist! Consort and Nonno had actually been a thing before the entire thing with Contessa happened. Nobody else knew about this except for Mercutio and the eldest generation, of course. He really had no idea who he’d tell or if it was worth talking about at all. 

Even after this, though, there were ebbs and flows of the feud. The most peaceful the town had been in a long while had been during his childhood. There were no fights in the streets, no murmured threats, and even some positive interactions were had between the Montys and Capps. His parents often encouraged the latter, allowing their children to have playdates with the Capp children on occasion and rebuking Nonno and Nonna’s disapproval of it. His father had even been childhood friends with Cordelia Capp, the heiress before her untimely death. 

He recalled times on the playground as children, hitting each other with foam swords and playing pretend—as if they were the Capp and Monty heiress and heir, respectively, in 1600s Veronaville. 

Things had seemed to be on an upward path throughout his early years, with his father on the Monty side and Cordelia on the Capp side. Neither of them was interested in continuing the feud, and there were even talks of peace in the future. It all seemed too good to be true, and it turned out to be just that. There was a fire in their home, and the kids had managed to escape without any scratches somehow—but Cordelia and Caliban had not been so lucky. 

Mercutio was 12 years old when this happened, and he wanted to attend the funeral. He knew Cordelia and Caliban; they had never been anything but nice to him. He wanted to show his support and make sure that the Capp siblings were okay. His parents were both wrecks; leaving the house seemed nearly impossible for them. His Nonno yelled at him for even thinking of such a thing.

He wasn’t able to go to the funeral. 

There were whispers on the other side of town that the fire was deliberately caused by a member of the Monty family. Mercutio never wanted to imagine that someone he was related to was capable of something like that. Whether or not they were true, they had brought back the feud in full force. Friends he thought he’d made had become strangers again, and the town had become more divided than ever. 

It caused a particularly bad falling out, one that had yet to be topped. Childhood crushes should never be affected by adult problems, but the feud seemed to truly want to take over every aspect of his life. 

His parents were never quite the same after the fire. His mother was becoming heavily pregnant, but she was also growing sicker. She was bedridden most days and often in too much pain to even speak to Mercutio. There was a feeling of impending doom that hung over their home; they all knew that something bad was going to come eventually.

Mercutio found her. She was still in bed, but she no longer looked in pain. For the first time in months, she looked at peace, but he still had tried his hardest to wake her up. 

Olivia Monty had passed away during the night. The doctors said it was due to something called eclampsia, something she had never discussed with her children before. Everyone was too distraught to plan a proper funeral for her, especially his father. Mercutio did not know the man his father had become during his last 6 months of life. He was withdrawn, solemn, as if he had lost his will to live the day his wife had died.

Claudio Monty passed away exactly half a year after his wife. They called it broken heart syndrome—it seems even his body didn’t have much of a reason to go on either. Mercutio was lucky to have not been the one to find him, but he’ll never forget the wails of his grandmother as she begged for him to come back. 

The funeral was one for both his mother and father. There was no burial or casket, and his father had wanted to be cremated alongside his mother. He made that very clear before his death. It was a quiet affair inside his grandparent's home, and he’d chosen to block out most of his memories of it except for one. 

His nonno had pulled him aside as his brother and sister cried and cried. He’d told him that while he was taking them in now, he and Nonna would not be there forever. As the oldest, it was now Mercutio’s responsibility to look out for his younger siblings. He needed to guide them, to protect them, to lead them through the dark and uncertainty of what life would bring now.  

So Mercutio stood by them as they cried, his face unwavering as he tried to be the image of strength and resilience. Ever since that day, he had cried only maybe twice more in his life. His grandparents never seemed to be too concerned with his well-being, taking his positive attitude at face value. It was as if they had forgotten that Mercutio was the one to find his mother dead, not Romeo or Viola. 

Nonna would call him il mio raggio di sole, her ray of sunshine. She said their home wouldn’t be as bright without him, as he brought the light into what became a deeply dark period of time for them. It was at that very moment that Mercutio knew what he was born for. Romeo was born to be the heir, to become the leader of their family and take up that responsibility. Viola was born to be doted on, the youngest girl with two older brothers with a coy smile and a face identical to their mother’s.

Mercutio was born to keep everyone happy. He was born to pretend that he was fine, that if he could be nothing but jokes and laughter after such a tragedy—maybe the rest of the family could heal as well. But as with many things in Veronaville, it was all a facade.

More often than not, Mercutio couldn’t get the image of his deceased mother out of his head. He wanted to yell at the urns of his mother and father, asking just why they couldn’t hold on for their children. Why his mother couldn’t take better care of herself during her pregnancy, why his father couldn’t have found a will to live through his struggling kids, just why, why, why. 

He never spoke about his parents, not to anybody. He knew he’d fall apart if their names left his lips. He never wanted to be that vulnerable, he never wanted to cry, and he never wanted to show that side of him to anyone. 

Mercutio wrote love poems about bugs. He wrote a sonnet about an orchid mantis on the blooming flowers in their garden. A haiku about a ladybug that had made its way onto the dashboard of his car. A ballad about a butterfly that had fluttered around his head for what felt like a lifetime. It was easier to lie, to lie and say he was letting his guard down through the writing he submitted to his literature teacher. 

He kept everything that was real locked away inside a leather-bound journal, which was gifted to him by his Nonna after his report card showed an A- in Literature. He wrote about death, despair, hopelessness, depression, about how he really felt. He wrote about love, about what it would mean to let someone fully in, about freedom, about escaping this hell hole that threatened to destroy him before he could graduate. The leather-bound journal held the key to his very soul, and he would never let anyone see the inside of it. 

Not now, anyway.