#mercutio

no duel, treyre just vibing

/idk if its ok to post cosplay here

all three has beautiful songs

Juliette as Alice, Mercutio as the Cheshire Cat

Summary: In a youthful near death experience, Mercutio mistook the divinity Death for Madness, and has lived in her reign ever since.

By eighteen years old, Mercutio is the name wind carries. A light breeze that courses the alleys, a chasing draft under the arched doors of the plaza, a phenomenon with a memorable laugh. Madness has become the philosophy of his life.

A character study on Mercutio and his relationship with Madness (La Folie).

mentioned pairing: Benvolio/Mercutio/Romeo Montague

tags: Character Study, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex

The title is a variant of Shelley's line "Death, and his brother Sleep!" from his poem Queen Mab.

The first time Mercutio saw Madness, he was thirteen years of age and falling from a roof. From a cool touch on his forehead in the unending summer of Verona, Mercutio opened his eyes to the face of divinity with a parted mouth, blowing vitality into him, into his fizzing blood. It wasn’t until his friends crowded his vision from the ground that her name was revealed to him out of the mist and smoke.

“Why did you do that, Mercutio?” Benvolio helped him up with anxiety, hand on his shoulder. “That was madness!”

At sixteen, Mercutio has grown into his mischief. He is passional, proud, living on his feet when he does not take joy on his back. He goes horse riding with Romeo in the day and comes back with straws from the barn house garnishing his hair and his companion’s coat, the horses amiss; walks along the market with Benvolio to juggle fruits between one another, as quick to make a mess of their shirts as they are to laugh at it, and to lap away the juice on each other’s chin in the cover of a nook. He is seen more often enjoying the shade of the alley with nymphs of all nature than passing through it for transport, himself one of them, now with his long hair in the vibrant youth, living their underwater days. He follows no guidance but his own.

One night at the Adige River as the moonlight gleamed way over head, Mercutio saw that pale and gaping face again, like the Greek masks of theatre. “Oh, I know who you are!” He rejoiced, and bubbles slipped from his lips like pearls of mercury. “Have you come to choose me for your wagoner? I know you do not show yourself to everyone. When I describe you to them, they think me crazy. According to my friends, I am most expert on that. No, your presence must be earned. Only the brave and the dreaming see you. To embrace you, one must dance with death.”

Madness takes hold of him. Her palm seems the entire ground as the surface of water descends. Mercutio coughs up liquid, coughs himself into a laughing fit. Romeo and Benvolio run towards him with expressions of horror; there is dark red spreading on his waterlogged shirt. Romeo puts his face to Mercutio’s chest, then lifts it immensely relieved.

“Too much wine,” he tells Benvolio with a small smile.

Benvolio lies down beside him on the grass, chin nudging on Mercutio’s shoulder. “I thought we agreed. More than half a bottle, don’t go near the water.”

“Oh, Benvolio, Romeo!” Mercutio puts his hand on Romeo’s cheek. “You would not believe who I have seen tonight…”

By eighteen years old, Mercutio is the name wind carries. A light breeze that courses the alleys, a chasing draft under the arched doors of the plaza, a phenomenon with a memorable laugh. He has effectively become the bane of his guardians. Does not agree with school, takes no interest in court, still banding with his childhood friends, fighting fantastical wars against an outer world. He is well liked among his peers. Better yet, his peers are well liked by him. He sings winding tunes under the arch of his window with the cool night lapping at his feet, bemusing Benvolio with their senseless verses. Like all artists, he has become tormented. They are now at that threshold of age when children grow into the pains they are born with. Romeo with his lovelornness, his sadness of mist. Tybalt’s guided aggression. Mercutio’s madness.

The youthful encounters had impressed him, inspired his logic to weave and grow around this ideal that he holds to his heart. It is a burning cynicism. He craves an expression that defies the world, to defy orthodoxy and order, to defy growth, to remain forever as they are. What is the point in procuring a future that cannot get better than today? What is the sense in attempting a social ladder when you are born on the top rung? His wishes, Madness alone understands and will grant him. In the fevers of his soul, he recalls the cool puff of her breath. The coolness that lifts his feet off heights, that drives him near bodies his senior, that give music to his blood at the sight of a rapier’s point. The rush and draw and blind faith of it, he knew he was having his loyalty pledged. Madness has become the philosophy of his life. To be called by her title is a privilege. He wonders if his friends could understand.

At nineteen, Romeo fell in love. His goddess could be seen and touched. Juliet might be a goddess, but Mercutio has no doubts they are not in love. Love is not for spoiled kids. True love is a diamond that is only gained and deserved by those who are tough enough to sand it, and sanding it is painful. Besides, wait till she finds out about the sodomy.

At nineteen, as Tybalt’s dagger drove in under Romeo’s arm, Mercutio saw his friend with her bloodless face for the first time for what she really is. He is surprised first by her emergence, then by her kiss on his lips, her open mouth that drew out the last of his quivering breath, without mercy nor hesitance. She has granted his wish, after all; by Death the clock is stopped. Nothing would grow or change again.

At the end of it, he is glad to be in loving arms. That is the real truth of life. He must tell his friends.

“Romeo,” Mercutio says, “Love Juliet. Love her.”

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