open: the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow boy's butt shaft

[bymyheelies]

For those that care to spend time with Mercutio; they may note that today he is conspicuously hard to find. He is still reeling from the recent news of Romeo's fate at the end of their story, and not entirely sure how to proceed with it. Ideally, at home, he would find some way to take his mind off of pressing matters: spend time with his friends (friend, now, singular) or find someone entertaining to harass about the town and make merry. If he was in a particularly snappish mood he would invariably end up picking a fight with Capulets, one in particular.

That is not the case today. Someone attuned to the general sounds of the mansion might hear a steady sort of thunking noise coming from an out-of-the-way bar. It is there that Mercutio can be found, various bottles of alcohol open at his side. He has clearly been there some time by the looks of it, and is currently engrossed in throwing a small selection of daggers at the wall. Despite his intoxication, he is doing a reasonably good job at it; but judging from the stormy look on his face, he does not entirely wish to be bothered.

Comments

[sagramore]

Sagramore squeezes him gently again. "Why don't I make thee something to eat, and thou canst tell me more of thy life. Tell me about Verona."

[bymyheelies]

"Something to eat, yes," he agrees, figuring he should probably have something other than alcohol for a meal. Perhaps it might make him feel less empty.

[sagramore]

"Good lad. Come with me." He lets his arm settle around Mercutio's waist, to keep him steady.

[bymyheelies]

He nods and follows along, very diligent about keeping his feet mostly steady.

[sagramore]

Sagramore gets them down to one of the kitchens and eases Mercutio into a chair, then brings him a glass of water. "Here, drink. Hast thou ever had pancakes?"

[bymyheelies]

"Ay, my lord Bacchus hath made them for me." He sips at the water, settling back in the chair comfortably.

[sagramore]

"Oh, excellent! Does he put anything in them thou likest best?"

[bymyheelies]

He shrugs. "The ones with fruit are fine enough, I s'pose."

[sagramore]

"Hast thou a favorite fruit?"

[bymyheelies]

He considers this for a moment. “…Cherries?”

[sagramore]

"Perfect, cherries it is." He begins bustling around the kitchen, getting the pancake ingredients out. "Tell me about Verona. Didst thou always live there? What didst thou do?"

[bymyheelies]

"Ay," he says, settling back in his chair. "Verona is up in the north of Italy, perhaps three or four days' ride from Venice. My family is kin to the prince. I've an older brother called Valentine, he is...mmn. Everything one would expect a proper heir to be."

[sagramore]

"And thee?"

[bymyheelies]

He tips back in his chair a little, lifting an eyebrow at Sagramore. "Thou hast met me. Do I seem an ideal heir?"

[sagramore]

Sagramore isn't entirely sure how he keeps ending up in a position to admit this, but he gives Mercutio a wink and says, "Neither was I."

[bymyheelies]

He shrugs again, righting himself in his chair as he nearly tips backwards with that. "Ay, but I am second-born, so -- my disappointment is tolerated."

[sagramore]

"So thou spendst thy days drinking and scrapping and pretending it means naught to thee."

[bymyheelies]

"Running about the town with Romeo and Benvolio, ay, though I'd no say in their damned feud."

[sagramore]

"Wherefore the feud?"

[bymyheelies]

"Oh--" He waves a hand. "'Tis lost to time. The Capulets hate the Montagues, and the Montagues hate the Capulets. Romeo was a Montague, his lady that he killed himself over is a Capulet. The man that slew me, Tybalt, was her cousin."

[sagramore]

"Oh, a stupid blood feud," Sagramore says, thinking of Gaheris, of queen Morgause beheaded, of Lamorak brought down in error.

[bymyheelies]

“Ay,” he agrees, morose. “I cursed them for it.”

[sagramore]

"Well thou shouldst have. It wasn't fair for thee to be caught up in that."

[bymyheelies]

He shrugs again. “I was friends with Montagues. I had chosen my side.”

[sagramore]

"What sort of choice is that?" The pancake batter sizzles on the skillet.