Rough With Love

It was an act of sheer desperation, calling Rose's bluff, but it had to be done. He no longer trusted himself with her, breathing the same air. It developed as one would expect.

"So do you want the good news or the bad news?"

He took one look at Mercutio, bursting in the middle of dinner, uncharacteristically harried in a dark blue waistcoat with purple cravat, and said promptly, "Bad news first."

"Bad news is, the Capel Buttercup has zip on the Cat—at least nothing that she is willing to volunteer. So I try my hand at talking about her engagement with cousin Paris, trying to figure that mess out—you know, like a normal person with manners. She thought I was mocking her. Can you believe that?"

"Can't imagine how anyone would get that idea," said Benvolio with a straight face, and the rest of their crew sniggered.

But his heart had rose to his throat. Mercutio could test boundaries like no one else, but he was universally liked for his charm and wit, with obvious exceptions. Why would Juliette give him a hard time? "So she rejected you?"

"Oh, no, that's actually the good news," said Mercutio, this time obviously sardonic. "We were exquisitely polite, conversing with every grace of courtesy respective of our class, our years, our dignity as scions of noble and ancient houses, etc…about you. And the weather. No offense, 'Meo, brother, but I'd rather fight a thousand Capulets in single-hand combat than talk about you for an hour."

Later, though, in sotto voce amid chatter: "So why didn't you tell me this girl was all but begging for a tumble?"

A tinny ringing in his ears. "Because that's not true. Where on earth did you get that idea?"

"Oh, I don't know, just maybe the fact that she looked tenser than a bamboo stick whenever I brought you up. My advice? Put her out of her misery."

"She's the heir of fucking Capulet, Mercutio. And a maid."

"One night will make no difference, you know that. You don't even have to lie with her, just eat her or something. She won't know the difference and she gets to keep her vestal livery pure and unstained for cousin Paris. Unless blonde buttercups are not your thing…?"

An obvious bluff; he and everyone knew he was indiscriminate in his taste for women. But the thought of seducing Juliette that way always rose a stomach-curdling vision: Of Juliette turning away, stiff in rejection, in disgust.

"She hates me, 'Cutio."

"Why? Because she is rough on you? I'd be bitchy too if I were misty-eyed over a Capel. You sure about that?"

No, he wasn't sure, about Juliette or anything about her or them, and have never been since day one. At times he found a wall of cold chastity, impenetrable. At others he saw in her the exact mirror of his own ardor, their conversation forming an intricate dance, or like interlocking puzzle pieces.

"Then if she is rough with you, be rough with her back. Prick her for pricking, and de-thorn this rose. She'll be as sweet as honey after, enough to slip something important to the cause."

It was practical, straightforward advice, crudely logical but expedient if all else failed. He hated it instantly.

"What you will," said Mercutio with a shrug. "And here I was thinking you actually liked the chit." And before he could say anything, he gave a laugh. "Nah. Not even you could fuck up that badly."

Three Loves

The most touching was Lord Capulet's, who embraced his daughter close to him, fiercely, tenderly. Finally he withdrew, pausing as he took in Juliette's blue silks, visibly freezing.

"You're well, darling?" he asked at last.

"Yes, Papa."

Love and hate, he thought as Capulet's eyes flickered up to him in a lightning flash, entwined and closely following, as if in a dance. Would it ever be so?

"Juliette!"

The second, he thought, as Tybalt came storming in, as always. But the fiery, belligerent blonde surprised him. He approached her, unblinking, staring. He dropped down to his knees, face blazing, intent. He cupped Juliette's face, waiting.

"I'm well," said Juliette hastily at the silent query, grabbing his hand. "Truly."

What the hell was this?

"My sweet love!"

And then there was the third.

Young, handsome, and rich, he thought, heart sinking as Juliette's suitor-fiancé rushed in, taking her hands and kissing them. A squeaky-clean golden fop. By the look on Tybalt's face, he wasn't alone in this sentiment. Did he truly love Juliette, as his embrace seemed to indicate? It'd be perfectly natural; Juliette inspired love all around. No man was safe from that beauty. At least they had kinship in that.

"My own, how the weeks have plagued and racked me since you've been gone! Did the Montague dog rough-handle you? How unfortunate that you had to suffer such uncouth company. I could sue him for damages, you know."

Never mind, fuck him, fuck him to hell.

"My lord Montague has been very merciful," said Juliette, again without looking at him. "I'm as well as can be. The Mute is even here with me, and she is well too, we talk often."

It was this reminder that did it. Tybalt's lion's mane of a head jerked up, and his stare made the blood within him freeze. But what he spoke next surprised him and by the looks of Capulet, so did he.

"Please you," he said, through gritted teeth. "I'd like a moment with Juliette alone. With guards if necessary," he added roughly when he hesitated.

So there was nothing left to do but to allow them to go with guards go into the other room. Capulet seemed calmer now that his nephew was gone, although he still had that strained air about him, as if talking to him was beneath him.

"I thank you for your good dealing, youth," he said shortly.

"I'm no fiend," he said, a little rankled by that title, and was grimly gratified to see Capulet and Paris give eerily similar scowls. "But I can't let the lady long in your company. You have seen the proof that she is well already."

Fortunately Juliette and Tybalt were not long, for shortly afterward they returned. Juliette looked nervous, even confused, but her cousin looked impassive, an expression he hadn't thought Tybalt was capable of pulling. This expression softened as he did one last silent brush of Juliette's cheek with his fingertips. And then he turned to him.

"Did you touch her?"

"Tybalt!" and "My lord!" came Capulet's and Paris' twin cries, one a reprimand and the other shock.

"If so, then your life is mine for the taking," said Tybalt, ignoring his uncle. "Make no mistake. There will be true war."

This love, he thought as he looked into Tybalt's eyes, swift, intense. Disturbingly familiar.

"My lord."

Almost in one mind, they turned to Paris, of all people, who had spoken then. But he wasn't looking at either Capulet or Tybalt. He was looking directly at him.

"If I may have a word," he said, with a tight little smile.

In private Paris was as courtly as ever, though thankfully less effusive. A businesslike air settled on him.

"As you can tell, this affair has grieved my Lords Capulet so," he said, in a confidential sort of tone. "And of course, I have myself been desperate without my sweet love." And yet he looked calm, composed, all clean and shiny as gold. "If I may suggest a quick agreement suitable to both parties? I am a man of means, as you know, and I can make it good. So good it would not be worth the pain of this affair." The unspoken And I can make it bad, so bad it would not be worth it hung tangibly in the air.

The only way the likes of Paris could make any of this matter good was for him to disappear, but since that response was hardly the flower of diplomacy... "Thanks, Count, but I must decline your—generous offer."

What loves these were! It made him wonder—was there even room for a fourth one?

Jealousy

It was inevitable, in hindsight. His fault, as always.

"My lord, the Capulet heir—she's been hurt."

Running, heart at his throat, toward the scene—his men, disobey him? How? They must pay dear—and a shock to the core at the sight: Rose struggling like a fury against the guards Abram and Balthasar while Juliette backed up, trembling against the furthest wall.

"What the fuck, Rose?" Throwing the parlor door closed, he rounded on her. "What did you do?"

Rose said nothing at first, breathing heavily, a shallow cut on the corner of her lip. It seemed she was slowly returning to reality.

"What did I do?" Presently a calm descended, much like the calm in the eye of the storm. She gazed steadily at him, as if seeing clearly for the first time, pointing at the door. "Why don't you ask your whore what she's done?"

A ringing silence. He stared at Rose's face, trying to find her angle, but every line was crafted with certainty.

"You think I have lain with her?" Was this what this nonsense was about?

"No," she breathed, taking him aback. "But I wish it, and desperately. Tell me you have. Tell me it's lust or merely fascination, and I'll believe it. Or else I'll swear you are in love with her."

Spoken aloud, it fell much harder, with the force of an anvil, than anything else. It was enough to make him freeze and even Rose paused, for a moment suddenly unsure. She wrapped her arms around her torso.

"Do you know," she said low, glancing up, "that every time Abram or Balthasar arrive you stop what you're doing and immediately turn to look? Even when you're with Benvolio or Mercutio, you do this, you disappear. At first I thought you were alert to news of the Capulets, but no. You're alert to her."

A nightmare was realizing before his eyes. "Rose—"

"All last night you were bitching about Tybalt and his unreasonable demand of letting his cousin go. Did you even realize what you sounded like? Even Mercutio had to point it out to you, and he hates Tybalt above of us all. Do you know people talk about why you haven't let her go yet? The gossip is insidious. Val and Abram even made a betting pool—yeah, about how long you'd take before you screw her! Well, why not, since you obviously think of her all the time—when you're silent—when we're alone together. Not that that ever happens anymore, you have so banished me from our bed. It's her you dream about now, her you come to. If you were half the man I thought you were, you would admit what you really want!" She wiped away her a streak of tears. "What you want is…is…"

Shameful. Impossible. Inconvenient. Or, as Rose's face portrayed, disgusting. But it was real and true, and like a sun over a star, eclipsed everything else.

"What do you want me to do, Rose?" he asked finally. "Truly, I mean, not this confession bullshit."

"What I want," she said hoarsely, tawny eyes meeting his, "is for you to go to the Capulet right now and tell her you will give her over to her family tomorrow. Do this, and there is still be hope for us. Or else...or else don't bother with me. Ever."

Honesty

He had thought to have saved her some grief by distancing himself from her, but Rose was right. He should have been honest from the beginning, and not just to himself, his sole consolation in an otherwise clusterfuck of a situation. If he had stayed silent, it was because of Juliette, her fear, her suspicion, her jumpiness towards him. Her aversion, her hatred. If it even was hatred anymore; suddenly, faced with Rose's jealousy, he wasn't all sure anymore. But the time had past for such considerations.

"What did she say to you?" he asked her as the Mute tended to her cuts.

"At first she pretended she wanted to be friends," she said, steadily enough through winces, "come to warn me against your advances. Then she started to tell me about you and her...together."

Could that have been bitterness in her tone? "And what did you reply?"

"I told her it was none of my business and that's when she went off."

This was enough. He gave a signal of dismissal to the Mute, who, surprised, nevertheless bowed and left the room. He could feel Juliette's gaze boring on his back as he paced.

"What did she say to you?" he asked finally. "Specifically?"

Her head gave a little jerk. "She asked me if I served you in bed in exchange for protection. Then she asked me...if I'd refuse you if you asked me to...to..."

She trailed off and for the first time a small, but real flame of anger flared. Stupid jealousies. Paris hadn't incurred such within him, and he had disliked the fellow at first sight. But Rose had no right to fight her, the only innocent in this. If there was anyone she or anyone should fight, it should be him.

"Did she strike you for your answer?"

Juliette did not answer for a long moment and, unable to wait, found her looking stiffly away, a high flush up her neck.

"Juliette."

"I did not answer," she said jerkily. "Such questions, they're beneath me to answer."

This was beyond belief. "Juliette, look at me."

"Why aren't you with your lover?" she challenged his shoulder. "I'm sure she needs you. She's in pain." It was clear she did not mean physically.

"Rose isn't my lover, not anymore, and certainly not after this. And you need me more."

"Need me—?"

What possessed him to say this, however true, was elusive, but this small truth did what weeks of commands, teasing, coaxing, couldn't do. When she raised her eyes to him, clear and green, widening, it happened again.

Lightning Strike

An apt metaphor for the phenomenon—sudden, striking, common enough to be known, but rare enough to be remarkable, every time. Sometimes when you know, you know. Sometimes there is such perfect and immediate chemistry that it overclouds the judgment, leaving behind only the certainty and anxiety of longing. Physically, emotionally, he was hers from the moment he looked upon her. All he had been doing was rationalizing what could not be reasoned with, bargaining with it, pleading with it like a penitent to an unimpressed god for patience. He saw the moment she saw it too. She gave a sharp, if shaky inhale.

"My lord—"

"Don't leave," he found himself saying, irrationally, grasping her forearms. He was breathing too hard. "Stay with me."

"No," she breathed, but this seemed to be a reply to a different question altogether.

It happened quickly then.

She tried to pull away, but the force exerted did not overcome his grip; it merely pulled him forward, and they stumbled. He instinctively caught her and she instinctively clung to him—and then instinctively came together.

Dream

Except much better, a feast of silk and passion in his arms, the urgency and richness of his desire pouring in a seamless stream. Was it weakness, surprise, desire he tasted? He nestled deeper, more persuasively, swallowing her moans with his mouth.

So it took him a bit, admittedly, to break from his love haze, respond to the sudden steely pressure on his neck. Finally the cold point froze him, and he lifted his head. Through swollen lips, Juliette breathed heavily, dilated eyes a dark, murky brown. She held the dagger, at an awkward angle, at his neck.

"Lie down, slowly," she said hoarsely.

Knife

His, he assumed, wielded at the right angle, underhanded (did Tybalt or some other teach her? Did it even matter?). He hadn't even been aware that he had brought his holt. Now his siren had become a goddess, straddled over him, a goddess of death, dangerous, breathtaking, and magnificent. Capulet and Montague—were they doomed ever to finish thus?

"Juliette—"

"Is Rose your true lover?"

Of all the questions he expected, this was not it. "What?"

But as soon as she said it, a high flush overwhelmed her face. "Never mind. I don't care. That's not it." She grabbed a handful of her hair in distress and released it, a nervous tick he recognized instantly. "You...you have undone me. Utterly."

Why was it that even when she was threatening him, she was still so beautiful? "I'm sorry."

"Don't speak." The inches shrank and the tip brushed his throat. "I can't think when you speak...even to look at you...Oh, God. My lord, my enemy."

She was so close he could touch her just by arching his face toward her, his lips, just as his whole body arched toward her, even now, like a compulsion. For once, despite his situation, he could not fear, not when Juliette glowed in the tawny candlelight in her well-kissed blowsiness, fresh and dewy, the purity of her beauty impressed upon him once more. Would it be so bad to die with this sight, end by her beauty?

(Not that he truly feared he would—right angle or no, Juliette was too close, too easily disarmed. On top of that his strength was greater than hers. What stayed him, pinned him like a paperweight, was the rejection, bitter and heavy. Of all the girls he could have given his heart to, why did it have to be the one who hated him?)

"Don't look at me like that."

"I can't help it."

"I mean it." Her dilated eyes made a sweep over him. Her voice trembling. "I swear I'll kill you."

But as if to belie this, the flag steel of the blade suddenly disappeared, followed by that beautiful feel of her pulsing hand, cupping the side of his neck. Jasmine, her scent. He leaned toward it, almost unconsciously.

"S-stop."

"Kill me, then," he said hoarsely, and even raised his chin to her in an offering. "My life were better ended by your hate than by theirs. It'd be a mercy by this point, if I cannot have your love. Go on, my Juliette."

Seconds lengthened that seemed like minutes, hours, days and at last, as he finally accepted her bluff, her empty words, through his own pain, he finally saw Juliette clearly. The fierce look in her eyes, half parts agony and anger, had vanished—or rather, it changed character, gained unexpected depth. Her thumb made a slow, but steady from his neck to his cheek. The tip of it began tracing his jaw and then his lips. Her eyelashes were cast down, but the emotion was clear. A flame in him kindled, flared to a blaze.

"Juliette—"

Like the tug or resistance giving way, slackening. She did not answer except to position herself more firmly over him, and then fire and light burst, within and without him, a volcano of passion tugging, stripping him, exploratory, affectionate, demanding.

"Oh, my love," she was murmuring, moaning against him, over his pulse. "My hate."

Hate 2

Hate, he thought as he turned her over in one smooth gesture, hooking her legs over his hips and pressing her down. Of course. He had been such a fool. Even her moniker for him had been telling. Lucifer. The brightest and most beautiful angel before he fell from heaven.

How long had this passion fermented, kept tucked under that gorgeous skin? He whispered love words on her skin, in forgiveness, in worship. They had wasted so much time already. Now as Juliette caressed him, breasts straining against her bodice, he could no longer contain himself. A gasp and he had her by the wrists, pinned on the bed.

"What—?"

"You did hold me at knife point," he said, more matter-of-factly than the fact warranted, but even this mild reminder was too much. Her face crumbled into misery.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know what to do. I failed everyone. I've failed myself."

Her guilt was nonsensical until he happened to look at the discarded blade. The Capulet ruby insignia at the base. Tybalt's dark glare, nigh spitting out his request to meet with Juliette.

"You drive me into such madness at times, I can hardly bear it," she said hoarsely. "But I never would have hurt you. I'm not strong enough."

The poison of the feud, hovering in the very air, beneath their skin. It did not matter if neither of them bore hatred for each other. It could not help but inform their conditions. It was this love that was the miracle. "Neither am I, love."

And to her visible surprise, he reversed their positions, her in his lap; when she tried to withdraw he stayed her by the hips.

"Romeo—"

"If you wish for my death," he breathed over her neck, "then now's your chance, Juliette. Take vengeance. Let me die by you."

She tightened her grip on his shoulders. "Do you love me?" But before he could assure her, she shook her head. "No, don't answer. I don't want oaths. Just hold me and I'll believe you."

These delights, delicious in their honey, in the flowing depth of her, her pillowy softness. They fell helpless into the rhythm, and soon the promised death came, and Juliette was beyond all caring, he was beyond all caring, in a better place, in a state of grace.

Like two drowning swimmers in a sea of desire, they rose, gasping to the surface, and for a moment it was enough, holding her like this, in the tender glow of acknowledged love, in the warm and rich-flowing haven of light.

"Stay with me," she whispered against his shoulder. "Until the night's end."

Forever.

Options

There were always some, of course. Just not any that they could in good conscience accept.

"If my father or Tybalt ever find out about us, it's war."

"We'll make sure they don't, then." Now that he had Juliette's love, dewy beside him, such considerations were beyond him, lost in the ether of irrelevance. Not that she looked worried in the first place. Dreamy, actually. "Do you fear it, my love?"

"No," she said simply. "I have you now. Right?"

As if she even had to ask. "You have had all of me."

"And Rose?"

He couldn't help it, he looked to her, grinning. "So you are jealous."

"Of course I am," she said evenly, as if it would be unnatural if she weren't, a high flush creeping. "I don't resent her for it. You have such a sovereign beauty, it's only natural. But I refuse to have you by halves. I want you all for my own, if I can."

"If you can?"

To her credit, she looked sheepish. She gave a minute shrug of her pearly shoulder. "You may yet change your mind."

And as she played with his dark palm, tracing the lines, and as those hazel eyes gazed earnestly up at him from an angel face, he was once again presented with a reality he could no longer ignore, a sense of rightness as normal as living and easier than breathing. The brightness of her neck and clavicle shone like beacons to a brighter future.

"I love you." Sometimes the simplest words were the best. "I am yours, if you will have me."

"If I'll have you?"

In love, in the sheer delight of it all, they came together, playful, laughing. And then all laughter stopping, turning into earnestness.

"I adore you," she finally murmured. "To the breadth and depth of me, you possess me…I cannot fight it, I was a fool to…what are you thinking? Tell me."

"I'm thinking," he murmured at last, resting in her splitting legs, "the time for words has passed."

Paris 2

Of all the obstacles in their way—an ancient, dangerous feud, Tybalt, Rose, the very nature of time and the death that attended it—it was the fiancé that troubled him the most. What? He was only human after all. Was this engagement one of love or duty? Did she yet bear some affection for him? Fortunately, Juliette never failed in saying the right words.

"Paris," he finally murmured. "Will you marry him?"

Juliette was breathing hard, butterfly-winged. She gazed unseeingly at him through long eyelashes. "Who?"

Good.

(He may have had particularly good timing on that one.)

Too Late

For love or hate of any kind, it would always be too late.

"My lord, Juliette Capulet is not in her chambers. She's—she's gone."

Not in her chambers, not in the hall, the kitchen, the atrium, or with the Mute, who looked genuinely bewildered and concerned at these turns of the events. The only thing left was the Capulet dagger, which alone told him all he needed to know.

"Well, it was just counting down the days by this point." Benvolio, with unhidden relief. "At least now we know why Tybalt went so quietly into peace. He obviously had a card up his sleeve. Now with that white elephant out of our hands we can relax and—we're going to the Capulet estate, aren't we."

No time to ponder, no time to regret, no time even to consider where she was or how they managed to get her out, and definitely no time to attend his fellows' whispers, Rose's angry tears, Mercutio darkly mouthing Tunnel vision behind his back as a warning to Benvolio. All of that was irrelevant to his one focus, his one objective and goal: Getting his girl back.

"'Cutio, 'Volio, get Val and the others to the plaza," he said as he stepped into the antechamber, cape already on. "We're going to the Capulets."

And even as Benvolio visibly stifled a groan, Mercutio exhaled a puff of cigarette smoke, grin blazing. "Finally."

They found the estate predictably fortified and swarming with Capulet grunts, which confirmed the dark suspicion growing in him, like a thudding pressure at the temple. Tybalt appeared at the forecourt, already in armor and armed. He was staring at Romeo with the focused look of a birthday boy armed with a stick at a piñata—and not bothering with blindfolds.

"Romeo," he said with a quiet snarl, but he looked almost satisfied. "Come at last to face your reckoning?"

There was only one thing left to do. To the collective shock of all parties involved, he raised his hands, palms up.

"Romeo, what are you doing?" hissed Benvolio, but he slid off his restraining hand.

"If it is written in your honor to attack an unarmed man," he said firmly, "then attack me if you dare. I will not fight you, Tybalt."

And as he thought, even as Tybalt visibly colored in mute fury, no move was made. Honor codes, very necessary but very predictable. Whereas if he were in his place, and it regarded Juliette...well, let's just say God, the world, and its laws would cease to have any meaning for him.

"What do you want, then?" He asked this quietly, but regardless, his words carried, echoing, in the space. "You coward."

"I forgive you the insult." Tybalt was the least of his worries, a mere gnat in his periphery. He had a greater concern. "Where is Juliette?"

Dead silence fell. Tybalt, paradoxically, seemed to calm down at this—the calm in the eye of the storm, that is.

"So you admit it, then?" He stepped forward. "Did you lie with her, you Satan's spawn?"

If he had been paying attention, he would have seen the Capulets take out their knives, gathering like burgundy storm clouds, and his men, his family, behind him take out theirs. As it was, only Mercutio's hand, clasped on his shoulder, informed him of the matter.

"Enough. We can take over from here. Romeo, please, snap out of it."

But all of that was beside the point. In his periphery, in a plain rose robe, was a flash like the first spike of dawn rising. Unseen, unregarded, a mere woman among others at the scene, she weaved between her kinsmen and then, at a break in the crowd, break into a run.

He didn't hear their collective gasp, Tybalt's swear, his friends' swears, the sucked-in breath. He could only see Juliette's face upturned to him, sunflower-like in hope, and gather her to him.

Want

Apropos that this could also mean the lack of something, for what was desire if not motivated by a need? And he had lacked for so much, naturally, a network of connected desires and velleities and needs.

He wanted to be with her in the daytime. He wanted to hear Juliette confess her love for him and defend it against her loved ones. He wanted her to meet Mercutio and Benvolio, wanted them to tease him for being so disgustingly whipped. He wanted to hold hands with her in a public place and for others to ignore or roll their eyes at them, yet another nauseatingly happy couple in love. He wanted to bring her to his bed and pin her and lap her until she came in a screaming climax. He wanted the lovely sight of her over him. He wanted to love her until she forgot her own name and he his, until their names entwined into one.

But for this moment, with Juliette's lithe form against him, fitting as neat as a puzzle piece, he had one sole wish, which she articulated.

"Tybalt and the others came for me," she whispered. "I couldn't dissuade them."

"It doesn't matter, love." He would have found her even with a thousand Tybalts.

She tightened her grip on him and spoke it. "Take me with you."

Surrounded by her armed kinsmen and his own at all sides, a suicide mission if he ever heard one. "Don't tempt me."

And she smiled, nay, beamed at him, he knew his course. As their families bristled in shock, indignation, and a growing, explosive fury, he tightened his grip on her waist and met their eyes.

End by beauty. There were lesser ways to go.