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“You like someone.” Romeo’s eyes are bright with curiosity from across the lunch table. Curiosity and maybe a bit of glee too. He’s likely been waiting for a chance to repay Benvolio or Mercutio with a dose of their own medicine for all the times they’d teased him about his infatuations.
“I don’t,” Benvolio says flatly, stabbing at a piece of chicken in the soup Auntie had packed for him. “I just have a cold.”
Romeo rolls his eyes. “No, I don’t think that’s it. You doodle in your notebooks and get that weird, far-off look on your face sometime. You’re distracted in, like, a third of our classes, and Mercutio said you’ve asked him for advice on how to flirt with guys.”
Benvolio nearly chokes on his soup and Romeo makes a small triumphant sound, somewhere between a shout and a squeal. “Traitor,” Benvolio mutters. “He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”
“Who wasn’t supposed to tell who what?”
“Speak of the devil.”
Mercutio slides in beside Romeo, grinning. “I’m not the devil. Only a demon.”
“Benvolio is in love with someone.”
Mercutio’s grin widens, becomes predatory. “You don’t say.”
“Screw off, assholes. I’m sick, not in love.”
“If you get me sick, I’ll murder you,” Mercutio says.
Benvolio rolls his eyes. “How thoughtful of you.”
Romeo waves his arms to get their attention. “Guys. Focus, please. You can’t get off so easily, Ben. This started long before your cold.”
Benvolio shrugs and stares into his soup. Mercutio, quick to get bored, elbows Romeo in the arm and, to Benvolio’s relief, distracts him with talk about the new Marvel movie that just came out, carelessly dropping spoilers all over the place, so Benvolio is thankful that he doesn’t particularly care.
Not that he is even listening. Instead, he looks up and across the cafeteria, his eyes catching on a flash of crimson, a glimpse of dark curls. Benvolio doesn’t know if Romeo is right, but he’s probably not entirely wrong. Or perhaps that tight, knotted feeling in his stomach is just whatever virus he’s managed to catch.
Ardently, Benvolio hopes it’s the cold.
*~*
They have gym class together. Benvolio sits on the bleachers after warmups and watches Tybalt run extra laps with a couple of friends. They race each other and laugh when one boy decides to tackle another right before the finish line. Tybalt is somewhat more aloof, but he smirks and says something the others find entertaining. He’s charming in his poise, the sort of man who could command a room with once gesture.
Benvolio pulls a notebook out of his backpack and begins to sketch. Not Tybalt exactly, but a pair of dark eyes, suspiciously the same shape and set as Tybalt’s. He glances up in time to see Tybalt stretch up, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of bare abdomen.
Benvolio looks away quickly, focuses once again on his notebook. In the last few weeks he’s filled it up with all sorts of useless doodles – eyes, lips, shoulders, intertwined calligraphic letters. He does them mostly in math, where Tybalt sits a row up and a couple of seats to his left. Benvolio gets a good look at Tybalt’s face when he’s focused on a problem, the way his mouth pinches into a line and his nostrils flare when he’s frustrated.
Tybalt’s hair has a habit of falling into his eyes and when he’s focused, he doesn’t notice.
Romeo isn’t in that class and Mercutio is only distracting half the time, because he actually needs to take notes to do well in math, and occasionally, Mercutio deigns to make an effort to do well. So, in all aspects, math is a good class to doodle in.
Benvolio looks up again, and this time his eyes catch on Tybalt’s. For a moment, they only look at each other. Finally, Benvolio tries a small, tentative smile. Tybalt gives him the barest nod, his expression blank, then turns away. Benvolio realizes there’s a hot knot somewhere low in his abdomen.
This time, he’s pretty certain it isn’t his cold.
*~*
The last debate of the election season is set up in a fancy hotel. Montague and Capulet campaign signs are posted on opposite sides of the room and the division is obvious in the crowd that filters to fill up the rows of foldable chairs. The press set up in the back and side aisles, trying to keep up a neutral façade and mostly failing. The air is electric.
In a side-room, mostly open to campaign staff, persons close to the two candidates and select members of the press, an open bar begins serving drinks an hour before the start of the debate. Everyone pretends to be civil for the cameras. Montague and Capulet shake hands with staged, photo-op smiles, which just barely mask their distaste for each other. Their wives are more stilted, but, somehow, less obvious. Capulet’s wife is a gorgeous blonde, significantly younger than him – so young, in fact, Benvolio wonders at the fact that she has a thirteen-year-old daughter – elegant, poised and with a razor-sharp smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Is your daughter not here today?” she is asked by an over-eager reporter.
Capulet answers for her, “We think Juliet is too young to participate in a business as dirty as politics sometimes is. We want her to maintain her innocence for as long as possible. My wife’s nephew, Tybalt, is here instead.”
Benvolio watches this impromptu interview from a few feet away, tugging unconsciously at his sky-blue tie. “The lighter shade goes better with your coloring, dear,” Auntie had told him when he wondered why he and Romeo didn’t get matching ties. Romeo’s is a rich, almost royal, blue, matching the campaign signs and logos. Romeo himself had disappeared from Benvolio’s side several minutes ago, led away by a Montague campaign aid. Left alone, Benvolio allows himself to look around, edging closer to the Capulet side of the room. It’s difficult to not interact at all with anyone from the other side with the room as small as it is, but Benvolio is looking for a very specific Capulet.
It doesn’t take long. Tybalt is noticeable, as always, Red suits him, though today it is only his tie and pocket square. He leans casually against the bar, though Benvolio is fairly certain the drink in his glass is only cider. It’s strange to think that he is related to the pale and fair-haired Capulets at all, with his dark eyes, olive skin, and mane of dark, wavy hair. Mercutio calls him Prince of Cats as a joke, referring to the time Benvolio had sketched a black cat looking ridiculously pompous and self-important and Romeo jokingly named it Tybalt. Now, Benvolio thinks that Tybalt does have a cat-like vibe to him: both his looks and the fluid grace of his movements, the sharp focus of his gaze.
Everything about him is intimidating and attractive at the same time.
Why Benvolio feels compelled to approach him, he will never be able to verbalize. “Hey,” he says, hoping he sounds casual enough. “Here for the debates?”
Tybalt gives him a sharp look that clearly says, Why are you asking dumb questions? “Obviously.”
Benvolio isn’t completely certain what he is trying to achieve with this conversation. “I heard your aunt say you’re here representing, so to speak, instead of your cousin because she’s too young. Must suck, huh? I mean, I’d hate it if everyone was looking to me instead of Romeo to be—”
“What do you want, Montague?” Tybalt says, in a low and dangerous tone. He looks around surreptitiously at the press.
He can’t make a scene, Benvolio realizes. “Just wanted to talk. We’re in math together. And history and—”
Tybalt rolls his eyes. “Small talk? Really?”
Benvolio bites his lip. He knows he’s not charming like Romeo or clever like Mercutio. Small talk is all he’s really got at the moment. Not that he’s certain Tybalt would appreciate Romeo’s attempts at conversation anymore than his own. “Beats standing here all alone, doesn’t it?”
Another sharp look. “Perhaps I’d prefer that to talking with a Montague.”
“You can’t know that until you try. Talking to a Montague, that is.”
Tybalt smirks, eyes bright and watchful. “What makes you think I haven’t?”
“I’m pretty sure I’d know if you had.” The smile that Benvolio gives him comes unbidden. He’s only a little nervous, in a way he imagines Romeo must feel when he’s about to ask another pretty girl to a dance. But it’s not a completely unpleasant feeling.
Tybalt sips at his drink. “Where are your obnoxious friends?”
Benvolio rolls his eyes. “You’ve never met my friends.”
“I’ve met Mercutio.”
Fair, Benvolio thinks. “Well, Mercutio isn’t here.” Not yet anyway. Or he’s talking Romeo’s ear off about something. “And Romeo is too busy with the press.”
“Hmm. And so you decided to cross the aisle and make nice?”
Benvolio considers if this question is a trap in any way and decides the chances are about fifty-fifty. “I’ve decided to cross the aisle and talk to you.”
Tybalt studies him, intently, as though trying to figure something out, like Benvolio is a puzzle worth solving. Some part of him realizes that most people don’t give him anything near this sort of careful consideration. “And if my little cousin was here? Would you talk to her?”
This one, Benvolio thinks he understands. “I wouldn’t not talk to her. But she’s also not in my math class.”
Tybalt shakes his head and laughs. It’s rich and infectious and Benvolio can’t help but laugh too.
Someone snaps a photo.
Tybalt immediately straightens and glares in the direction where the flash had come from, then turns on Benvolio. His look is dangerous, what bit of relaxation that had seeped into his posture while they were talking is gone. Benvolio opens his mouth to protest that he had not planned that – or anything – about their conversation, but he is interrupted.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin. Candidates, please head backstage. Friends, family, please be so kind as to take your seats.’
Tybalt gives him a stiff nod and begins to walk away.
“Let the best man win!” Benvolio calls after him.
Tybalt doesn’t stop walking, only glances over his shoulder and says, “We already know who that is.”
Benvolio looks after him, feeling wistful and amused at the same time. Really, Mercutio always makes him out to be so much worse…
“What’s this, Benny-boy? Fraternizing with the enemy?” Speak of the devil, Benvolio wants to say as Mercutio’s voice in his ear makes him jump.
Benvolio turns to face his friends, setting his expression to neutral indifference. “Was going to get a lemonade. He just happened to be here.”
“Are they out of lemonade?” Mercutio looked pointedly at Benvolio’s empty hands.
“I got distracted.”
“Come on, guys,” Romeo whines, already looking tired. “We should go sit down before we get yelled at.”
When they take their seats, Benvolio tries to find Tybalt in the crowd but doesn’t manage to. He also doesn’t see him when they leave. It’s odd that he cares so much what Tybalt Capulet thinks of him. It’s less odd that he doesn’t quite dare tell his friends.
*~*
Benvolio starts to appreciate why the Capulets don’t want their daughter involved in the political scene when he witnesses her being accosted by the press after a ballet class.
Benvolio is waiting for Mercutio. They are supposed to pick up some dinner and meet up with Romeo for a movie after the children’s gymnastics class Mercutio is helping teach for some pocket cash. His class is running late, so Benvolio waits outside, leaning against the wall of the building, noncommittally watching as people file out of their dance classes from the studio across the narrow street.
He notices Juliet Capulet immediately among the other girls. She’s a slight thing, standing a little apart from all the other girls in her class, quiet and beady-eyed, her thick honeysuckle-blond hair done up into a tight bun. Puberty has already blossomed her into beauty, but she is still very young, her features doll-like and radiating innocence. Benvolio can certainly appreciate both the family resemblance and obvious contrasts with Tybalt.
Juliet’s ride is late. She stands and waits patiently in her leggings and light jacket, shivering in the chilly air as the sidewalk around her empties. She checks her phone twice, but her expression remains impassive. She practices a couple of steps from her classes, not letting go of the small gym back she has slung over her shoulder. Benvolio hopes she doesn’t have to wait long, since it’s cold.
He’s about to go back to scrolling through Twitter when Juliet is approached by a woman with a microphone and a badge. The woman is followed by a man with a camera. Benvolio can’t hear what they’re saying, but the exchange looks tense. Juliet’s shoulders are up, and she folds her arms across her chest, even as she smiles and tries to be pleasant. Three more people join the group, and suddenly she is surround by reporters.
Benvolio watches for a few moments, uncertain if he should intervene. At this distance he can’t make out the details of Juliet’s expression, but her body language screams that she in uncomfortable. She is barely thirteen. Sheltered – home schooled, the rumor is – and probably unprepared to answer difficult questions about the election, her mother’s scandals, her father’s latest statements and policies. Even Romeo, who is nearly three years older, has been instructed to never engage with the press alone and the experience always leaves him shaken and feeling like he must have said something wrong.
Benvolio crosses the street.
He ignores the reporters who don’t immediately recognize him, and goes straight for Juliet. “Are you alright?” he asks.
She looks at him blankly, then at the reporters, then back again. “My ride is late,” she says.
Another family resemblance she and Tybalt have in common: speaking in code.
“Do you guys mind leaving her alone?” Benvolio asks, turning to the reporters. “Honestly, she’s just a kid.”
After a moment of confusion, they realize who he is, and the questions pivot in his direction. Benvolio knows he theoretically shouldn’t be talking to the press, but he is also very good at giving non-answers. He just hopes Mercutio gets done with his class soon and comes to save him. Juliet, taking the opportunity, begins to back away. There’s some hesitation in her face, as though she feels bad for leaving him alone with the press, but self-preservation wins out and she moves away from the group into the shadows of a large pillar several feet away. Just then, a car pulls up. Benvolio glances briefly in its direction and catches a glimpse of Tybalt at the wheel through the rolled-down passenger-side window. Juliet scrambles to get into the car and gestures wildly, eager to get away.
Benvolio thinks he sees Tybalt look back at him and the group of reporters, but then he hits the gas and is gone.
*~*
The first snowfall in early December catches everyone almost by surprise. The world goes white, blanketed in fresh snow like a fresh start, a rebirth just in time for the holidays.
Mercutio drags them skating, sporting a new pair of bright pink gloves and a hat with a rainbow pompom. Benvolio clutches a cup of hot chocolate from the makeshift hot drinks stand, and watches Romeo and Mercutio clown around, grabbing at each other, dragging each other down onto the ice, laughing and hollering as they chase each other in circles around the pond. He thinks that the world probably lost a decent figure skater in Romeo when his father forbade him from taking part in such a girly sport as a child. He glides effortlessly, gracefully, even without classes, imitating Mercutio’s more practiced moves almost one-to-one.
“Benvolio, come on!” Mercutio waves at him from the other side of the pond, showing off his ability to skate backwards “Don’t make me drag you out here—Romeo!” Romeo giggles even as he crashes into Mercutio and takes them both down. Benvolio puffs out an amused laugh. He could watch them all day.
“Hey, Montague.”
Benvolio freezes, the hot chocolate in his mouth suddenly tasting like sawdust. Tybalt’s voice is unmistakable and, as always, it’s hard to tell from his tone what he wants or what his mood is. Slowly, Benvolio turns and looks up at Tybalt with what he hopes is a neutral expression. “Hey…” Somehow, Tybalt looks even better than usual with snowflakes stuck in his hair.
“You got a second?”
Benvolio shrugs as if to say Does it look like I’m in a hurry? On the ice, Mercutio is shouting, “You’re an ice princes, Romeo! Pretend you’re an ice princess!” Clearly, his friends won’t miss him if he stalls for another five minutes. Benvolio says, “I didn’t expect you to want to talk to me. Especially with how the election went and all…”
A nerve twitches in Tybalt’s face and Benvolio makes a note to himself that he will need to tread carefully if he wants to avoid a fight. After a moment, Tybalt says, “I didn’t get a chance to thank you until now. So, thank you.”
Benvolio blinks in confusion. “For what?”
Tybalt seems to be debating whether or not Benvolio is playing dumb. “For helping Juliet? After her dance class when those journalist vultures—”
“Oh, that.” Benvolio smiles faintly. “It’s no problem, really. She looked very uncomfortable and I know how nasty those things can get. You would have done the same.”
Tybalt opens his mouth, probably to say that no, he wouldn’t. Instead he shrugs. “In any case. It was very decent of you.”
Benvolio smirks. “I try to be decent.”
“Perhaps I owe you a coffee or something,”
“Already got one.” Benvolio gestures with his foam cup and gives him a small, regretful smile.
“Maybe nest time, then.” Tybalt turns to leave, and Benvolio feels a sudden jolt of panic at losing such an opportunity.
“I have a better idea,” he says, making Tybalt stop. “Are you good at skating?”
Tybalt turns around slowly, eyebrows raised. “Fairly. Yes.”
“Could you teach me to do a crossover?”
Tybalt looks shiftily toward the ice. Benvolio knows what he’s thinking: people could see. Benvolio takes a chance and bets on Tybalt’s sense of decency outweighing his foppishness and the image he wants to project. He never really trusted Mercutio’s opinion on this matter anyway. “As a thank you.”
Tybalt exhales and shrugs. “Alright. It’s not that hard. Come on.”
Benvolio smiles in triumph as he follows Tybalt out onto the ice.
*~*
“You like someone,” Romeo says.
The snow has turned into rain just before the New Year, the snowdrifts melting away and the world sinking into sluggishness. The large fireplace in the Montagues living room crackles peacefully, the sound mixing with the pattering of the rain. Benvolio and Romeo sit in a window seat, watching the world drown as though it’s still autumn.
Benvolio leans his forehead against the cold glass of the window and closes his eyes. “What if I do.”
“Is it Tybalt Capulet?”
He opens his eyes and looks despondently at Romeo. “What if it is?”
Romeo leans back against the wall and hugs his knees. “Does he like you back?”
“I don’t know. He taught me to some skating moves…”
Romeo smirks. “We saw.” After a pause, he adds, “Good luck, I guess.”
“You don’t think it’s weird?”
Romeo shrugs. “Papa will be miffed. But you don’t need to care about that. He doesn’t even need to know.”
They’re silent for a moment. Benvolio tries to image it for a moment: going back to school, talking to Tybalt in the hall, meeting him after class, kissing him in the crisp January air with their lips chapped and their cheeks flushed from the cold. It seems like a wild, fanciful fantasy. That Romeo doesn’t seem to mind makes it a little easier, though he’s certain that many others will.
“Mercutio will never let you live this down, you know,” Romeo says.
Benvolio groans. “Let’s not tell him yet.”
“Sorry, I already texted him.”
Benvolio rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus. Why?”
“We had a bet going.”
“You what?”
“I told him you’re into Tybalt. He said no way. We bet fifty bucks on it.”
“I hate both of you.”
“Not as much as you love Tybalt.”
“Romeo!”
Romeo squeals and jumps off the window seat. Benvolio leaps down after him and chases him through the house to the inevitable end of a pillow fight in Romeo’s room.
*~*
Benvolio spends the first day of the new semester in indecision hell. He watches Tybalt through their match class and tries to not look at him at all during history.
When Romeo and Mercutio catch him stealing glances in the direction of Tybalt’s locker after fifth period, Mercutio says, in a tone of fond exasperation, “Would you please stop being Romeo and just go fucking talk to him. I can’t see your lovesick face anymore.”
Following Mercutio’s advice is usually a bad idea, but this time, Benvolio acquiesces. He leans against the wall of lockers beside Tybalt’s and waits to be acknowledged. Tybalt slams his locker shut and regards him with some surprise. “Come for another skating lesson, Montague?”
“Are you asking me out?”
Tybalt rolls his eyes but doesn’t tell him to get lost.
From down the hall, behind Tybalt’s back, Romeo is giving him a thumbs up and Mercutio is making a rude, suggestive gesture. Benvolio ignores them. “How was your Christmas?”
It might take a while, but Benvolio is patient. He’ll get his kiss from Tybalt in the crisp evening air before the school year is out.
Romeo has probably already bet Mercutio fifty bucks on it.