I don’t have frequent opportunities to visit with Mercutioodon, but when such things appear I never fail to hasten to attend. It is between his quarters and my own that I re-encounter Trosaline once more. I have been sulking in a most unbecoming fashion in the space Mother has set aside for my use. It was at one point three separate cells, but their walls have been removed and the space reconfigured such that I have a comfortable nest and a useful workbench for my drones. Even so it is not acceptable for me to remain cloistered within indefinitely.

Trosaline leans against a doorway between my refuge and my destination. Out of uniform, she sparkles with artfully applied beads of dew on the longer feathers of her crest. The sparkling makeup mimics the delicate crowning display feathers on my mother’s head. It makes her look older than the white feathers still circling her eyes would confess.

Caught up in the moment, I approach her carefully. I know that I am older, and it would be inappropriate to draw attention to that fact. My own display feathers have not grown in yet, but I must insist that the dorsal darkening has begun on my crown - it’s most definitely visible if I am standing in the correct light conditions.

I have only a few fleeting seconds to compose my thoughts before I must speak. Her round eyes stare into mine and then blink slowly.

“Would you be available to accompany me to dinner?” I ask, my hastily concocted idea the best I can conceive on zero notice.

She turns her face downward so that her carefully beaded feathers flash in line with my eyes. It is very distracting with the cool light glinting in the sparkles like shattered glass in a pool of bright blood.

“No, Tromeo,” she answers in a high pitched voice. “I am not interested in pursuing a relationship-” she pauses “-right now.”

I hear the “with you” that she neglected to voice. My eyes leave hers and I mirror her downward glance, taking in the rest of her apparel in happenstance. She wears a long, loose outfit, belted at her waist, with a cuff on her tail preventing it from sweeping the floor. It is as red as her feathers, and emphasizes their bright coloration most effectively.

“You are still welcome to accompany me for meals at your convenience,” I attempt to recover from my blunder. She is likely already engaged with another for this evening. I should not feel so possessive of her time as this - we have only known each other in passing until this disaster ruined our comfortable living situation and forced us into closer proximity. It is likely that as the distance in time between the disaster and the present moment she has recalled that I am not one that she has any desire for closeness towards.

But it would be most detestable for me to leave her with the impression that I have only selfish motives. “Our home is completely open to you. Only ask and I will assist.”

Her head rotates away from me in an expression that is either sadness or pity. I am rendered mute and choose to only nod with tail fanned lightly and resume walking away from her. She remains leaning against the wall as I leave. Her casual posture is as dismissive as the words she spoke.

I have never been more in need of socialization time with my oldest companion than right this very moment.

Mercutioodon lounges resplendent on the ledge he had constructed below his high window. Sunlight on his feathers spills gold on his crimson quills and renders him as nearly royalty. I cannot help but laugh in spite of myself at the tableau. His featherless tail drapes limply from the perch and he lies with an open mouth to catch grapes tossed by his strange companion.

The comparatively heavyset Human plucks the plump round fruits from a branching vine on a silver platter and tosses every third one into Mercutioodon’s waiting maw. Rather than the typical violet uniform of one of our official collaborators, this human man wears dull muted green clothing. It is absurd that the two might be engaged in such a frivolous activity.

The human turns toward me as if startled by the sound of my laughter. Mercutioodon’s jaws snap shut and one of his bright yellow eyes peels open its lid to glare at me with great anger.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“What pray are you doing?” I ask, trying not to make assumptions regarding the propriety of my dear friend having casual contact with one that might be considered our enemy.

“Having a snack,” Mercutioodon replies lazily. “And what pray darkens my door at this hour?”

“This hour is but the space between the noon meal and the evening one.” The human’s attempt at our speech is formal and accented by a distinct lack of clicks. It is clear, however, that he is proficient enough to understand and to compose some reasonable phrases on his own. As much as I strive to comprehend their mumbled words, it surprises me greatly to hear our language from behind their fleshy lips.

“And what is this?” I ask again, tail fanned lightly in confusion.

Mercutioodon sits erect on his perch and fixes me with a golden-eyed stare. I worry only briefly that his anger is genuine when he focuses through the much dimmer light in the hall to recognize me at last.

“Tromeo?”

I nod and give a sarcastic bow.

“Tromeo you miserable imp! What brings you hence at this hour betwixt the noon meal and the evening one?” Mercutioodon spills off of his perch to greet me on the floor. He lands gracefully on his only foot, using his bald tail for balance in the absence of the match to the set.

“I did so wish to visit with you while I am confined to this location until my reassignment may occur. And I have so much that I did wish to speak to you about.” As my oldest and dearest friend, I had some hope to speak with him in private.

“Ah, Tromeo,” he sweeps around the room, rearranging small objects, pushing furniture into more appropriate arrangements, and picking discarded clothing from the carpeted floor and tossing it onto a hamper. It seems odd that so much of his clothing would be in colors the Humans prefer. “Do make yourself at home. It has been some time since you last returned to this blissful estate.”

“It has,” I admit, “oh it has.”

“I heard about the circumstances of your previous eviction.” Mercutioodon gives me a pitying look while taking a seat close at my side on one of his couches. “Is that the only reason for your misery?”

“My misery? I was not aware I was being so impolite as to be drooping in the presence of an exalted red?” The false flattery of a caste better speaking as such to one below their station is an old joke between the two of us. I am not worried about the opinion of the Human in our midst.

“Ah but most lowly blue, you forget how clearly you mope.” Mercutioodon chuckles into his fanned arm feathers. “If you were not moping you would have been here immediately when you arrived. I know your tantrums well enough. Tell me everything.”

And I do. Without embellishing overmuch, I give him the best description I can muster of the events of how I escaped my doom in the fortress, how I fell besotted by Trosaline, and how just in the last minutes before my arrival at his scene of domestic comfort I have been summarily rejected.

I cannot say my heart is crushed, but my appreciation for romanticism has been significantly reduced at present.

“Oh Tromeo, my fiendish friend, what do you know of love?” The human leans forward from his seat and places his chin in his hands attentively to listen to Mercutioodon’s unhinged ranting.

“I think I know better of love than you who never seek it.” I lean upon him most inappropriately. He does not remove me, but presses back with the same force.

“I seek the things that are not love but which love enhances. I seek the things that are real and tangible and are not destroyed by one sour word. I seek temporary delights and not eternal joys. I give myself and of myself to pursuits that increase the likelihood of pleasure.”

Mercutioodon stands on his one good leg and holds my shoulder for balance. He lifts his tail for emphasis, waving its bald end as though it fanned bright feathers in the afternoon sunlight.

“What is love, oh cruel Tromeo, but something that’s lack embitters all contacts with its target both forward and backward through time’s linear flow? What is that fantasy but something that cannot be quantified or measured in meaningful or useful metrics? It produces heartbreak and sorrow, whether on its premature loss or as the natural course of a lifetime in which two hearts do not cease to beat at the same time. What, oh Tromeo, is love?”

“Baby don’t hurt me,” the human interjects, his fists clenched around his face as though unable to contain himself at all. “Don’t hurt me, no more.”

Mercutioodon laughs heartily. His hand clenches on my shoulder and I can feel the points of his claws through the thin fabric of my tunic.

I hold him steady on his one leg, and guide him cautiously back to the seat on the couch.

“Friend, I think you may have eaten spoiled grapes. You seem fermented.” I get him settled, but Mercutioodon is not one to let go of a good rant.

“What is love, Tromeo,” he asks, his claws lightly touching my chin to keep my eyes focused on his own. “What is love but the most effective way in which we wound each other? It is more deadly than knives.”