Okay, this is a Tybalt x Paris, but hear me out.
Think about how many problems this would solve if it were established early on in the canon chain of events.
Paris would call off his marriage with Juliet, or at least tell her that she could do whatever because the marriage was only in political interest, meaning she could be with Romeo in secret.
Tybalt would have an emotional support pillar (aka someone to rant to) and would most likely think better of fighting with Mercutio and Escalus' warning, because now he's got someone who actually cares if he dies.
Everyone wins!
♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤
Small warning: suggestive talk.
~ Paris' PoV ~
I tried for the thousandth time that night to stop my leg from bouncing. As soon as I did, the other leg started up.
I sighed. Something wasn't right.
I went through my mental checklist of things I had to do that day, confirming everything had been accomplished. Escalus hadn't called for any kind of emergency meeting. I was alone on my couch with a book and a cup of evening tea. So why the hell did something feel amiss?
"Paris!" Called a familiar voice.
Ah. That's why.
I opened the door, expecting perhaps Benvolio, here to see if Mercutio had gone out, or maybe Rosaline to complain about some fling or another.
What I got instead was Tybalt, bleeding heavily from a wound on his side and absolutely seething.
"T-Tybalt, oh my God, w-what happened?" I gasped, carefully leading him inside.
"I got in a fight," he hissed through clenched teeth.
He winced as I sat him down, which pained my heart more than was good for my pride.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I carefully removed his shirt to get a better look at the injury, firmly suppressing the blush that threatened to adorn my cheeks as I did so.
"Don't talk to me like I'm a toddler who had a fucking nightmare," he snapped. I flinched.
"Sorry," I murmured.
He bit his lip and looked away, furious at something. Probably me. He most likely only came to my house because it was closest, anyway.
"This cut is really close to your stomach, Tybalt," I hummed after wiping away some of the blood. "Next to a kidney, too."
"Which means what?"
"It means..." I had to stop to fortify my brain against the following image. "You could very well have died. A little further to the left and you would be a dead man right now."
Horror flashed briefly behind his eyes and his knuckles went white. Slowly, much too slowly, his eyes rose from the floor to meet mine.
"Paris, will I die from this?"
I was tempted to laugh, but seeing the genuine fear on his face made me stop.
"To be honest, Tybalt, you could. I'll do the best I can, but after that it's just chance."
He started taking a deep breath, thought better of it when it hurt the wound, and nodded. I left to retrieve medical supplies.
With the Capulet safely out of earshot, I stared myself down in the mirror.
"He's straight," I whispered. "He's straight, he only sees you as an acquaintance, he doesn't love you, he's straight."
I sighed and dragged a hand through my hair, which I then spent thirty seconds fixing. So much for ignoring my feelings.
Finally, I grabbed what I needed and shook my head to clear all out romantic thoughts. Any progress I'd made in that department was immediately demolished when I remembered he was shirtless.
I quickly set down the supplies before my trembling hands could drop them. Tybalt had cleaned off most of the blood while I was gone, and somehow it was even worse to see the wound without it. At least with the coat of red I could pretend it was a small scrape.
The reality was much worse. Tybalt Capulet, my Tybalt Capulet, could very easily have died tonight. He could very easily die later.
I kept my head down as I wrapped him in bandages so he couldn't see that I was tearing up. As soon as I had finished, however, I had no excuse to keep looking away.
"Are you crying?" He asked, tilting his head and furrowing his eyebrows. I frantically shook my head in vain.
He reached out and placed a hand on my wrist, which was more physical contact than I'd ever seen him give willingly. To anyone. My breath caught in my throat.
"... why?"
My tongue felt like lead, but I managed to choke out a small "full disclosure?"
He nodded.
"I'm scared, okay?" I admitted. "I feel like I'm helpless, because nothing I do can guarantee you'll be okay, and I don't want you to die!"
Stunned silence. I waited for a hard shove, or perhaps a mocking jeer, but he was taking so damn long to do it! Just reject me and get it over with!
To my confusion, he let out a dark chuckle.
"I get it," he said. "If I die, Juliet spends her time mourning me instead of with you. Maybe my funeral would delay your wedding or some shit."
Was he... self-deprecating? Since when?
"Why do you think I'm in love with Juliet?"
He gave me an incredulous look. "Aren't you practically glued to her at parties?"
I thought about the many times she'd pulled me aside at balls and galas to encourage me to talk to Tybalt, that no, he wouldn't hate me, and yes, he's here tonight. And the equal number of times I'd pulled her from the crowd later in the night to gush about how stupidly perfect he looked even though all he did was tie back his hair.
"I suppose, but not like that-"
He cut me off with an angry snarl.
"Not like what, Paris? Like you're head over heels for her? Because I know that Lord Capulet wants to marry one of us off into house Escalus, and Juliet's perfect for you. Unless you've got any sisters who happen to be going through a bad boy phase," (he's straight, I reminded myself,) "I doubt any of your lot are going to fall in love with me."
"That's not true, Tybalt-"
"Really? Mercutio certainly hasn't fallen for me! How could you possibly know that someone else has?"
"Because I did!"
I froze. Tybalt froze. Damn this, damn me, damn it all.
"What?" He whispered.
I stood up to pace. I couldn't sit quietly to explain this.
"Fuck it, it's not like I could just pine over you forever. I've fallen for you, okay? I've fallen really fucking hard, and my constant conversations with Juliet are her trying to get me to grow a pair and confess. She says you feel the same way," he opened his mouth to speak but I didn't let him, "as if. You could have anyone in Verona, why would you choose me? Any girl, actually, because you're straight and I keep telling myself that but nothing seems to fucking work."
I let out a sad sigh and leaned against the wall, covering my face with my hands.
I heard a shift, a small grunt, and then tentative footsteps approaching me.
I refused to un-bury my face even as I felt his hand on my arm.
"Paris, look at me," he breathed.
"No," I whimpered back.
"Paris."
He gently pried my hands away from my face, but I still refused to meet his gaze.
"Oh, Paris..."
I shivered as his hand settled on my jaw and he ran his thumb over my bottom lip.
"My Paris."
The last syllable of my name was muffled as he kissed me. Shocked as I was, my brain switched to autopilot quickly enough that there was no awkward pause. My hands made the executive decision to tangle in his hair, while one of his remained on my face. The other rested on my waist.
He was rough, hardly waiting for permission to slip his tongue into my mouth, but it was exactly how I'd expected him to kiss. Every neuron in my brain was screeching with glee, and I nearly fainted when his lips moved to my neck.
Through the happy static haze my senses were under, I registered the fact that he was moving to take off my shirt.
"Tybalt, wait-" I managed to gasp.
His worried eyes met mine.
"Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry, I-"
I cut off his nervous ramble with a breathy laugh.
"No, no, you didn't do anything wrong. That was pretty amazing, actually. It's just, we're not going any further until the hole in your side has healed."
To emphasize my point, I lightly grazed my fingers over the bandaging that would be stained red by morning.
"You seriously think I have the self-control to wait that long?" He smirked, bending down for another kiss.
I kissed back briefly before pulling away.
"This has nothing to do with your self-control. You are critically injured and we're not having sex until you aren't," I said in a voice one might use to speak to a five-year-old.
He huffed and leaned his forehead on mine.
"Whatever. That means you have to wait too."
I chuckled, sliding out from between him and the wall to retrieve his shirt.
"I think I'll live," I said before I realized what was coming out of my mouth. "Oh shit, I'm sorry, you probably don't want to think about that..."
Tybalt sighed angrily.
"Don't apologize, you're fine. It's my fault. He wasn't even doing anything."
I handed him his shirt.
"Who?"
"The Montague who stabbed me," he stated bluntly, and didn't say another word about it. I accepted the silence as some form of punishment he decided to inflict on himself, despite how much the thought hurt.
"Hey, uh." He looked up at me. "Would you, maybe, want to. Um. Stay h-here tonight?"
I am the human embodiment of confidence. Love me. Fear me.
"What happened to no sex until I'm healed?" He smirked. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.
"I-I meant because you're h-hurt!" Fuck. I hate being flustered. "I didn't m-mean we're- or that we- I just thought..."
"Hey, chill." He pecked my lips. "I was kidding."
"Kidding. Right. Yes."
He confidently made his way down the hall to my bedroom, which was essentially another den space but with a bed and a closet. There was another couch and several chairs facing an ornate fireplace. Being related to Prince Escalus really paid off sometimes.
But how did Tybalt know where my bedroom was? Though, I suppose if I can fantasize on the daily about kissing someone in a very detailed and over-thought scene, they can know where the rooms in my house are.
"I'll take the couch," I said immediately.
"While that is a really nice couch, this is your house. I'm not forcing you onto the couch."
"But you've got a hole in your side! You're not sleeping on a couch if I've anything to say about it!"
He gave me a sort of no-you're-not-getting-the-joke look. My eyes widened in realization.
"Oh, y-you meant we'd... we'd share the bed."
"If that's alright with you," he stated, nothing in his expression conveying being awkward about the concept of sleeping next to me.
"O-okay."
Ugh. Why couldn't I string two words together around this man? I'd be so pissed at him if I wasn't completely in love.
He gave me a wolfish grin and sat on the edge of the bed, gesturing to the spot next to him. I sat down gingerly.
"So," I began, absent-mindedly tracing along the edge of the bandage. "Who stabbed you?"
Tybalt narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not telling you that! I don't want you galavanting off to murder someone tonight, I already have enough on my plate," he said with such finality that my retort died in my throat.
After an excruciating period of silence, he sighed.
"It was Sampson," he admitted.
"He is so dead," I promised, crossing my arms. Tybalt snorted.
"Paris, sorry to burst your bubble, but I'll sooner be best friends with your cousin than believe you could harm someone," he laughed, carefully laying down beside me. I collapsed on my back.
"That was low, you know that?"
"Hey, cut me some slack, I've just been stabbed!"
"Still," I grumbled, rolling over so my back was turned to him.
"Aw, don't be like that," he purred. I felt his arm circle around my waist to pull himself closer to me. "After all, there are better ways to spend your time than murder."
"I never thought I would hear you say those words," I said, but dropped my smug tone when he rolled his hips against mine.
"Tybalt..."
"Yes?"
"You're really trying to get me to revoke the no sex until you're healed rule, aren't you?"
He planted a kiss behind my ear. "Perhaps."
I turned back toward him so he could see the certainty in my eyes. (As you will see in a moment, this backfired.)
"Well, that's not going to happe-mmh..."
He cut me off with a mind-blowing kiss as he hovered over me. I was gasping for air when he pulled away.
"Are you sure?" He asked innocently.
"Yes!" I panted.
Deciding against leaving my mouth exposed, I rolled back to my side. Tybalt settled with his arm still around me and his chest pressed to my back.
"Hey, I just realized," I mumbled after a moment. "I'm the one being cradled, but you're hurt. Why is that?"
His words were muffled against my neck as he spoke.
"Tybalt Capulet is not a little spoon."
I rolled my eyes fondly, even though he couldn't see it.
"Alright, whatever you say."
I could feel his smirk against my skin, and I mentally kicked myself for being so careless with my wording.
"I'll have to take you up on that when I'm healed."
"Fuck you."
"Other way around, darling."
♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤
The running title for this was "Merely a flesh wound."
I just realized the dialogue at one point goes "Oh Paris, my Paris," so essentially, there is an unintentional Dead Poets Society reference in my Shakespeare fic, which I think says a lot about me as a person.
Oops. I ship it. You'll see more of these two.
I bid you a fond farewell, faeries. May your first stabbing not come before your first kiss. (Yes, I believe that was Tybalt's first kiss. The first one he gave willingly, anyhow.)