The chemical taste passes between their mouths like an electric shock -- and the music is a kaleidoscope strobe of goodwill. Mercutio is mouthing along to the words in a red track down Tybalt's throat, to where he's sweating in another designer bulletproof vest.

The devil's horns come dislodged, in the heat of their three-minute truce turned chemical romance -- it isn't entirely kind, but isn't cruel. Tybalt's groping hands threaten to unseat hidden zippers in an almighty tug when they part, a car crash in reverse. Too much grabbing, no finesse. Mercutio gives him the slip in a disco-shimmer of sequins.