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Post by Mercutio on Apr 21, 2009 16:40:46 GMT -5
Mercutio turned his head to follow him, noting what he was doing- oh, alcohol, more alcohol. Mercutio had the sudden urge to grab it from Tybalt's hands and dash it against the wall. What a lovely brawl that would create.
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Post by Tybalt on Apr 22, 2009 11:51:12 GMT -5
Tybalt, in a rage due to sleeplessness, would probably have tried to cut his throat with the jagged pieces before Mercutio could say anything, and lord knows what the sight of his blood on his hands might have done. Doubtless he'd have sunk to his knees beside Mercutio's dying body, barely registering the sound of his gurgling in his own blood, gruesomely, beguiled by the question of the reality - or potential unreality, as it were - of the moment.
But instead, he poured a shot and drank it down at once, throwing his head in profile as he did so, then slamming the shotglass down. He almost felt an impulse to break it himself.
He didn't turn his back away from Mercutio, but instead tried to feel him, where he was, how still he was, as though they were indeed about to battle, and Tybalt were practicing merely to improve, rather than to win.
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Post by Mercutio on Apr 23, 2009 6:36:49 GMT -5
Mercutio was having the most inane thoughts, thoughts that he usually would have said aloud to make Tybalt wince or suppress an irritated sigh or any number of things, nonsense like oh, tybalt takes it like a man! and lowering his inhibitions around ME? foolish prince.
But Mercutio was not in a particularly talkative mood to-night- he only watched intently the slide of Tybalt's throat as he drank, the tension in his back, meeting Tybalt's gaze when it came his way with hooded, amused eyes and the little twist of his mouth. He was taking too long, and Mercutio was restless, and if Tybalt had been doing anything but drinking Mercutio would have already grabbed him by the shirtfront. However. Mercutio approved of evening the odds. (The thought hadn't consciously occurred to him, but had a fight ensued, with all the alcohol in him Mercutio would have lost, and badly.) So he let Tybalt drink, the tightness of the other man's grip on the bottle- white-knuckled- making him smile, but with a certain tenseness to his own figure that betrayed his impatience.
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Post by Tybalt on Apr 26, 2009 19:45:53 GMT -5
Mercutio hadn't moved, hadn't come towards him and snaked his arms around his waist or something like that. No teasing words tonight, apparently. His jester's tongue was apparently glued to the floor of his mouth for the moment, not that Tybalt counted on it staying that way. Tybalt counted on very little in the world; he was prepared for all sorts of things, and it was what made him such an incontestable champion of his martial art. But if his honor, for whatever it was worth, couldn't be trusted at all, then what was he to stand on? It went against all he'd built up, frail though that had been, to throw open his doors to a loathed enemy and be so conquered by such an uncontrollable lust. His body was quicker to betray him than even Mercutio would have ever been, more mercurial than even he.
It was harder to hate Mercutio more than he hated himself. He usually managed to put in the effort, but tonight... His defences were more than down, and he couldn't seem to lift them. And the question did not seem to be if Mercutio would take advantage of this to wound him irreparably, but when.
He turned to face him, seeming slightly unstable, his movements graceful but jerky, proof of the slight fatigue that stole over his limbs without his permission. "Get it over with."
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Post by Mercutio on Apr 26, 2009 20:05:26 GMT -5
Mercutio's lip curled a little. As if he needed or wanted Tybalt's permission to do anything he wanted to the other man's body. Were he to stroke or shove or stab, Mercutio's decision would be entirely his own.
He didn't go toward Tybalt, but rather away a little, just to the wall to lean against it. (Head tilted to reveal the long line of his neck, of course, and hip cocked insolently, invitingly, lips parted and smiling. Mercutio was not a whore, but he knew all a whore's tricks.) "Tybalt. Speak to me like that and I'll think you don't want me." He shifted, turning so that his back was flat against the wall but his head was still turned towards Tybalt, still flushed with drink, still smiling, although it was faint compared to the hard, intent, and not altogether friendly quality of his stare. "You make a horrible lover."
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Post by Tybalt on Apr 26, 2009 20:19:35 GMT -5
Tybalt felt almost as though a chill had come over him, as though they had been close and warm and Mercutio had left, although of course this was not the case, and really, if it had, he would hardly have minded the chill.
"As you should think," said Tybalt in a short tone of voice, eyes following Mercutio warily, or, at least, that was the only word he would have allowed fitted to the manner in which his gaze followed the lines of Mercutio's body.
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Post by Mercutio on Apr 26, 2009 20:35:23 GMT -5
"Oh, dear Prince, but that would not be true." The look Mercutio sent heavenwards would have been innocent if not for the way he tilted his head back and arched his body an infinitesimal amount to accomplish it. "And lying is a sin, and delusion's no better."
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Post by Tybalt on Apr 26, 2009 20:43:24 GMT -5
"Clown that you are, you care?"
Perhaps he could not hate Mercutio above all other things, but it was very easy to at least hate him, with the indecent tilt of his hips, the contrast of the peach of his skin against the white of his shirt, untucked, partially unbuttoned, at his leisure or due to his laziness. How much of him was as chaotic as it seemed, and how much was cunning? Tybalt desired Mercutio more than he could say, but he didn't need to, as Mercutio was only too quick to say it for him. It seemed the depths of pettiness, of cruelty, of control to use that desire so to his advantage, when Mercutio could not possibly feel a sliver of the same. His own range of emotion could hardly go that far; he'd burned off all the nerve-ends. There was none of the same humanity in Mercutio as there was in Tybalt - despair or desire in equal measure, to be certain, but to great depth. He was debauched and degraded purely by choice.
As was Tybalt. By Mercutio's choice. He didn't think he really had an option in it anymore, and hated him for that more than anything.
He was already striding towards Mercutio, fully prepared to get it over with without Mercutio's idling, not having Mercutio's perverse need to linger in the moment, as he spoke. "I said, as you should think. I spoke no statement that could be seen as a lie."
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Post by Mercutio on Apr 26, 2009 21:02:00 GMT -5
"Clowns jest better when there's an edge of truth," Mercutio reminded him, easily, lazily, straightening from the wall to meet Tybalt's advance (for he'd been caught unprepared the very first time, and been taught his lesson since; he'd end up on the bottom if he was so brazonly off-balance and easy to push down or against). Tybalt had no weapon on him, he was weary, he was sharp, he was a subdued stubborn flame, Mercutio's favorite kind, and this would be great fun. It had been too long since Mercutio had clashed with him in any way, and thoughtless as he was Mercutio attributed this pleasure to the return of the familiar, not questioning any further why a smoldering, irritatable, snappy Tybalt bearing down on him delighted and excited him so. He laughed softly, mockingly, head lowered but eyes fixed on Tybalt.
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Post by Tybalt on Apr 27, 2009 16:29:45 GMT -5
By whose standard, it had to be asked, but not by Tybalt. Not that day. Besides, Tybalt was not one for word games; he spoke bluntly, to the point, and only seemed quick of wit when logic led him to a sharp retort; and the sharpest retort was still the thrust of a knife's edge.
No matter how keen Mercutio was likely to be with him. No matter how many different ways of being keen there were.
Tired though he might have been, Tybalt could still exert enough energy to be quick and efficient, as able as he'd ever been. He caught Mercutio roughly by the arms and pushed him back against the wall hard enough for the sound of his back slapping against the paneling to be heard, kissing him as though to obliterate everything else. It was not the sort of kiss that their first fey meeting had had, emotional and hostile. He had only done it to keep Mercutio quiet, to ignore his speech, as it were, by compromising and allowing his tongue full range of expression in a different fashion. He was more than aware that it was a compromise - a rather shaming one, at that - and this did not make it any more bearable.
ETA: Fey comes from some Scottish or Norse word which means "doomed", as in "doomed to die". That's what I meant. Not... that other thing.
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Post by Mercutio on Apr 28, 2009 7:33:29 GMT -5
Mercutio's hands latched onto Tybalt's waist, tightening as Tybalt slammed him against the wall and he let out a small breathless laugh. Tybalt was always so careful to keep him from saying anything- now, for instance, Mercutio could have laughed at him some more, "So impatient!, except Mercutio's mouth was rather busy with other things. (That Mercutio was the one who'd sought him out was nothing.)
Not that he intended to let Tybalt have his way. One of Mercutio's hands moved up to twist in Tybalt's hair, pulling his head back in no gentle manner. Mercutio broke the kiss to follow the line of the other man's throat with his mouth instead and, as he did so, to lever his foot against the wall and slowly press forward. He wobbled only once as his balance was compromised and the hand not in Tybalt's hair tightened around his arm to keep Mercutio from falling. Slightly clumsy was the play of mouth on skin, hot and messy, but Mercutio was intent on replacing the sour taste in his mouth with the salt of Tybalt's skin.
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Post by Tybalt on Apr 30, 2009 10:07:25 GMT -5
Hot desire replaced that same hot nausea which had gotten to be very little as time went on. It had gotten very easy to replace the one with the other. He would have wondered, futilely, at some other time how dissimilar they really were. He did not want to throw Mercutio off, but this helplessness, he could not have it - and so he took a striding step backward, knowing that Mercutio's grip on him would doubtless tighten, that it would hurt. It was a very small sacrifice, comparatively speaking.
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Post by Mercutio on Apr 30, 2009 20:14:18 GMT -5
Mercutio's grip did tighten, out of surprise and an attempt to keep his balance when the Capulet he'd just happened to be leaning into moved away. He stumbled forward but kept his hold on the other man's arm, only Tybalt's step back meant Mercutio's mouth met empty air instead of skin. He straightened, eyes flicking up to Tybalt's face warily as his grip loosened and fell away. Tybalt's aim had been accomplished; both of Mercutio's hands hovered at his sides, and not in Tybalt's hair.
But slowly, Mercutio's lips curved into a smile. "I liked it better when the cat had my tongue."
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Post by Tybalt on Apr 30, 2009 20:46:43 GMT -5
Tybalt took Mercutio rather swiftly and sharply by the shoulders, not caring whether or not he hurt him, because thinking about what he made Mercutio feel was an uncomfortable situation - wanting to hurt him in the past had been easy, but now it slipped into all-too-ambiguous places that Tybalt could not entirely allow - and shoved him back towards the bed, his own arms slipping around Mercutio's waist.
"It doesn't matter what you like," he said, his breathlessness negating the snarlsome tone, as he leaned in to kiss him again.
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Post by Mercutio on Apr 30, 2009 21:05:09 GMT -5
For the third time that night, Mercutio had to grab Tybalt to keep from falling, this time when the back of his calves hit the side of the bed- which was surely Tybalt's plan, the wily snarlsome bugger. He was taking advantage of Mercutio's natural wont to drink too much and sway, wobble, and trip, shoving him around like this, but Mercutio had gotten what he'd wanted so it wasn't necessary for him to break off to complain. The cat had his tongue, and Mercutio would not stay out of Tybalt's hair; it fascinated him, that the fighting Capulet would allow himself such a vanity, and he spread his fingers against Tybalt's jaw as they kissed then slid them back, dragging the hair back from his face.
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