Inspired by the Hungarian version, where Tybalt&Mercutio have as much chemistry as Romeo&Juliet.

(It's a yuletide fic for me by LMT, posted with permission.)

Tybalt didn't really like playing cards, but ordinarily he was competent at least. Not today. He blamed the wine.

He looked sourly around at all the laughing young men who were pointing at him and whistling. He looked once more at his cards and swore under his breath.

"You're mine, Tybalt," Mercutio drawled at him from across the table. "Answer a question or pay a forfeit."

Tybalt grit his teeth. The last loser had been made to recount the strangest thing ever said to him in bed by a woman (it had been: "Spit on me, everywhere!"). That would've been humiliating enough, but he expected Mercutio to be even a bit more imaginative …

"What question?" he asked at last.

He had already decided that he was never, never coming to play cards here again. Never mind that Mercutio was a cousin of the prince. Never mind that it was some kind of status thing, to be invited to one of his parties. Never mind – it just wasn't worth the aggravation.

Mercutio was looking him up and down, and it was all Tybalt could do not to squirm. "Name me the last three women who've succumbed to your charms – or whatever you call that ugly face of yours."

Tybalt wanted to kill him. The girl he'd been with just last weekend was the sister of one of the men here at table – and Mercutio knew it. If he said her name he was going to get a challenge for a duel, or, at the very least, a punch in the face (which, given his temper, would lead to a duel anyway).

Best to laugh it off. "Why – so you can steal them from me?" He shook his head. "I decline to answer that one." As you knew I would, you manipulative little worm! "Name your forfeit."

So far there was one young man wearing his underwear on his head and another whose eyes still watered from being forced to inhale a big pinch of pepper. Tybalt tried not to look afraid.

"Let's see." Mercutio looked around the room. "There: that closet. Thirty seconds, in that closet, with me. No fighting back." He cracked his knuckles, crossed his arms, and waited.

Instantly, challenging ooh's rose from every side. Tybalt shrugged and stood up. What choice did he have? Whatever it is, I can endure it for thirty measly seconds, he told himself.

Mercutio rose too, finished off his (latest) glass of wine, and crossed the room. "Mine, mine, Tybalt's mine," he chanted under his breath.

"-For thirty seconds," Tybalt said firmly.

"During which you won't resist."

"I won't resist. For thirty seconds. But afterwards I'll kill you, if I think it warranted."

Mercutio shoved him into the closet and closed the door firmly behind them. Inside it was dark for a moment, but then once his eyes adjusted Tybalt could make out the clown's face by the light coming through the cracks in the door.

His estimation of the size of the place had been correct: there was not enough room to cock back and throw a real punch. It was conceivable that Mercutio was a better fighter than he seemed and might think to make use of knees and elbows, but on the whole Tybalt didn't really think he was in for a beating.

He thought Mercutio meant to humiliate him. Plait his hair, maybe, or take away his clothes. Or maybe he was in for something even less wholesome? The odd gleam in Mercutio's eyes seemed to confirm his worst suspicions.

He felt a hand descend onto the back of his neck – friendly, almost bracing. Ordinarily he would shudder at being touched by somebody he hated so much, but right now he actually found it reassuring. At least it was better than being groped up without any warning, which is what he'd almost begun to expect. "We're ready," Mercutio called through the door.

Laughter from outside. Nasty, filthy speculations. Then, "Three… two… one… Go!"

Tybalt took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back so as to eliminate the temptation to struggle. When Mercutio began leaning towards him, he thought I knew it! and raised his chin, pressing his lips firmly together, resolved to endure the kiss as stoically as possible…

But the kiss didn't come. Mercutio stopped half an inch away, and just waited.

Hot air was exhaled directly against his face. Tybalt felt a sharp rush of fear – or something – and swallowed hard. Here it comes…

It seemed an hour, an eternity he waited there paralyzed, while Mercutio did nothing but angle his head infinitesimally to the side. Any second now…

Any second, here it comes... His heart was pounding in his ears. He could actually taste the wine on Mercutio's breath, which made him realize he had at some point opened his mouth.

He could hear his own breathing, fast and shallow. Afraid – or something. He could both hear, and feel, the soft puff of Mercutio's laughter.

And still the clown neither kissed him nor pulled away.

The tension was unbearable. It prompted a nervous gesture of his: he licked his lips. When he did, his mouth changed so that just for one instant, his lip brushed – barely – the lip of his partner.

After so much charged waiting the tiny contact was magic, unfathomably powerful, as if he'd touched his tongue to a hot stove.

He jerked away reflexively, then forced himself to be still. No resisting. Instead he just swallowed and tried to breathe, while Mercutio breathed a little louder: an audible "ah" and then another low laugh.

Tybalt was sure, now, that the kiss was coming, any moment Mercutio would jump on him and devour him and-

"Five!" The countdown. From outside. "Four!" It had to be now; this was the last chance. "Three!" Tybalt didn't realize that he was arching his neck and tilting his face in offering. "Two!" Or that Mercutio's hand was pressing hard against his chest, holding him back. "One! Time!"

As the door opened Mercutio ducked off to the side, embracing him briefly and laughing into his collar.

Tybalt's head was spinning, and it wasn't the wine.