Morning had come all too soon. The moment the birds had chirped had been the moment Mercutio had thrown his phone halfway through the room and against the window. He hated his alarm-clock whenever it would ring - and unfortunately his alarm-clock was part of his phone - and he’d been lucky that nothing had been broken. After groaning and pushing himself up on his elbows - since when had he developed the habit of sleeping on his tummy with his face buried in the pillow? - he managed to push himself out of the bed with a lot of grumbling.
Such had been his morning and it is therefore no surprise that when he entered the streets of Verona that day he was in quite a groggy mood. When he spotted Tybalt he couldn’t contain himself. Blame the lack of sleep or the early hour at which he had risen but he could not help the words as they spilled freely without his control. “Good King of Cats, up already at this hour? My, no wonder you deserve the title of a King! I should clap my hands, alas, they are filled with more important matter.” He looked down at them. “What? You see nothing in them? I did mean the air, of course. And now as the air itself I shall be passing.”
