Archive of Our Own

Of all that could upset him, Benvolio just had to choose the most inconsequential: Three full plates, piled high with fresh apple slices atop roast pheasant and an accompanying escarole salad. 

And he should not have taken offense to how the olives in the salad lay crumpled and bleeding, crushed by the careless force in which the greens were tossed. He should not have taken offense to how the cut apple oxidized into a rotten brown and revealed poisonous seeds within, nor to how the dessert plate stood uselessly at the side. He should not have taken offense to what the plate held: meringue-encased chopped hazelnuts; individual fragments left “intact” but forever missing the other pieces of their whole.

But he did.

He supposed Mercutio had been right, then, and he craned his neck to the flickering flames of the ceiling's chandelier, begging his friend's soul to return to his side. He could saunter beside him, boast of how he knew, he just knew the smallest things would set Benvolio off. He could sway as he stepped in winding paths, slamming into the walls around them while screeching a slurred ballad into the manor, just as he always did on evenings like these. Because although the Montagues could never withhold a dinner nor supper invitation from the prince’s nephew, Mercutio would sooner replace one of the meals with a bottle of wine. 

Perhaps if Benvolio, for once, prevented him from doing so and insisted they return home to drink rather than aimlessly wander the streets for a tavern to wait Romeo out in, perhaps they would have had that evening.

And Benvolio would not scold him, would not insist he remain silent for the rest of the house.

He would only implore him to stay.

As if that had done so much the first time.

He pulled out the seat farthest to the right and turned to his side, as if the two would miraculously appear to fill the space, like they always had, and give him someone besides the Heavens or God Himself to negotiate with. A specter, at least, would grant his pleas even a sideways glance. 

So he stood there, still, scrutinizing the plate below him and waiting for something—someone—who would never come; a negotiation he would never be able to make. 

The seat remained protruding from the table as he swiped two chalices of wine off the white linen tablecloth. Perhaps giving his hands anything real to hold would occupy his mind with something other than the “could”s and “would”s, which themselves only served to distract himself from the “had”s. Distraction after distraction, because otherwise he would have to contend with the fact that Mercutio was dead, and Romeo was exiled. Mercutio was dead and Romeo was exiled and their seats would remain empty and their plates full.

He was no stranger to death, always considering himself closer with loss than either of his parents when they were alive. Eventually, their bond had somehow managed to rival his with Mercutio. After all, he was a Montague. But even then, intimacy hadn’t meant love, and he would have indulged in the smallest pleasures with Mercutio if it meant outrunning the looming shadow cast by grief. Now, he supposed it was the dearest companion he had left. 

His footsteps pierced the oppressive silence, their echoes nourishing his delusion—his only, aching desire—that perhaps another was next to him. Perhaps Mercutio and Romeo had decided to join him after all. 

But he ascended the spiral staircase as a lone traveler armed with nothing more than two goblets of pure, deep red infused with passion, and the flat, rippling surfaces reminding him once again of the two that would never be able to drink it. Were the cups in their hands, the beverages would have been flowing to their lips until none remained, regardless of the fact that it was not their preferred variety, because this was Verona and unlike their elders they would take any liquor over bloodshed if they could help it. 

Still, Romeo was partial to a freshly-poured Recioto della Valpolicella, its rich ruby hue and striking cocoa aroma overwhelming most at first sip but leaving a lingering sugary taste. He would scoff at those who deemed it too intense, for he claimed to know its true depth despite how young and inexperienced he was. Mercutio, on the other hand, favored bitter Brachetto d'Acqui, nearly superficial in its low alcohol content but with fleeting sweet notes struggling to emerge. Though, he usually drank enough to black out on the first surface he laid eyes upon. 

He supposed, then, that Mercutio would have attempted to collapse on the stairs, were he with him. He would have been completely intoxicated, stumbling over the railing but smiling, laughing-

Alive.

He stepped up once, then twice.

One step at a time was what he had always lived by—slow, cautious progress in matters of peace, in matters of the heart—but how could he now, when, for every stride, two drops of blood splashed onto the gravel?

With each step, Mercutio weighed heavier and heavier at Benvolio’s right, arm draped behind his neck and nails digging into his left shoulder. Benvolio's right hand had joined Mercutio's at his waist in a futile attempt to quell the bleeding as crimson wove between their fingers like a trailing red thread.

"Mercutio, I beg you, stay with me." He hated how his voice faltered, his throat caught on nothing but the unrelenting cries of his heart. "You will be all right, I swear on-“

“Swear my life on anything but your own. And swear your life on nothing, least of all mine.” Mercutio's voice had been the clearest he’d heard it, though a strain hid in his speech, creeping below his words like the first tremors of an earthquake; a beast veiled in foliage preparing to pounce.

“Mercutio, you cannot speak that way. We will-“ He had choked on his heart’s yelps now, realizing he would spend what could be his last moments with his dearest friend scolding him. Mercutio deserved much more than that, more than bleeding out in the arms of the only Montague too cowardly to have tainted his hands red before. Mercutio was royalty, he deserved a life long and prosperous, dying with gray hair framing a wrinkled face while surrounded by a crowd of-

Mercutio's weight shifted drastically as he paled, nearly collapsing to the ground had their grip on each other been any weaker. Instead, he swung to Benvolio's left dramatically, as if a dancer performing a dip at the height of a ballroom dance.

Mercutio released a desperate laugh, grasping for humor. "Ah, I never thought someone would sweep me off my feet. But I suppose there is no one I would trust more to give me such once-in-a-lifetime experiences."

Benvolio practically bit his tongue. He was in no position to demand Mercutio to take his own death seriously, he had no right to scold him about taking his weakening state in jest. 

He nearly stumbled on the next step, almost hearing Mercutio's snicker from his side, inquiring who between them had actually been drinking.

“This appears to be an adequate resting place.”

The word “final” was present but unspoken.

Benvolio's vision leapt about the area, hastily noting the frail, flaked bark and muted green leaves of sycamore in the distance. The striking silence of the clearing that freed his ears of the screeching metal and frenzied shouts. The gravel of the dirt below them gathering beneath his shoes. “This is no house-“

“And yet it’s where I’d always found you.” 

Benvolio carefully set Mercutio down, taking his shoulders in one arm whilst pushing down on his wound with the other. He felt straining lungs at his fingertips and made a final plea, more to convince himself than Mercutio, "Mercutio, stay with me. The surgeon will arrive soon. You will not— You cannot—"

The wine nearly swished over the rim.

But Mercutio's gaze was set on the blot of crimson consuming his violet silk. “Oh, Benvolio. Sweet, foolish Benvolio. I beg you, grant me the privilege of being the only one to stain your skin. Be selfish for once and live with your impossible, stupid folly of a vision, because God knows this city has made its best attempts to steal it. And here I am, making my own. But you cannot lose yourself to hate, as all those before you have. Not to hatred for the Capulets, the city, God, or yourself. You are better than that.”

How did he know? How did he know that with every slowing heartbeat, Benvolio's dreams of peace crumbled just a little faster? That Benvolio still had his rapier sheathed, but for the first time in his life he'd wanted to draw it and run it through a man's flesh, whether or not that man was himself?

And Benvolio had pleaded, "Stay with me," and how did he know? How did he know that he would have completed the thought with, ‘Or I shall accompany you”?

The blood really was rushing from Mercutio's head, why was he doing this? Spouting concern for Benvolio of all people on his deathbed, attempting to secure something he wouldn't even be able to see? 

"Has that ratcatcher slashed your hearing as he has my life?" 

When Benvolio snapped his head up, the face he met was both foreign and familiar. There was Mercutio's bright, toothy grin spread across his face, though the corners of his mouth trembled as he fought to maintain it. There were his upturned eyebrows raised in expectation, anticipating a responding quip or laugh, but with a pained crease between them as he strained.

And his eyes. 

Oh God, his eyes.

They carried an eternal emerald glimmer every time Benvolio turned to him, shining specks of sunlight and stars alike. Whether a glint of mischief or spark of wit, Benvolio would be blessed with a pure brilliance every time he set eyes on him. And now, they shone, too, with a crystal sheen Benvolio had never seen in his gaze before. Benvolio could make himself out in the reflection, and he wondered what it meant. Were those tears? Come to think of it, he had never seen Mercutio cry before. Whatever it was, it was much too raw, too vulnerable for Mercutio. 

That is, the Mercutio he knew.

"No," Benvolio finally spat. "No, no of course I can hear you, Mercutio, I—"

"Good. I would hate to waste my breath. Seems awfully scarce these days."

And Benvolio humored him one last time, with the loudest chuckle he could cough up—he deserved that much, at least—but he couldn't bear to tell him he was wasting his breath. His mind raced with a single sentiment: Please, Mercutio, have your last thought be of yourself.

His voice was hoarse now, a sacred whisper carried by shallow breath, as if his words were meant for Benvolio and Benvolio alone. "The Heavens must detest me. Why have I been cursed with affection, gifted regrets for a life I was never meant to treasure?” His trembling, frigid hands allowed him a loose grip on Benvolio’s shoulders. “May I… quell a final one?”

And Benvolio understood. He understood it with such startling clarity it was as if a rapier had pierced his flesh. He understood Mercutio’s words as he did his own heart, at last deciphering why it had wept their entire trek; perhaps what it had been crying out from the moment they met. “Of c—“

A dash of red splashed onto the marble beneath him.

Mercutio had surged up to meet Benvolio's lips with his own, and how odd was it that the most warmth Benvolio had felt in his life was from the paling face of a dying man? He returned Mercutio’s quivering grasp with firm support at his back, his other hand abandoning the flowing wound as he bore Mercutio's tense figure, pounding chest against his own and worn breaths convulsing against his palms.

And he wanted so desperately to close his eyes and savor the moment, to surrender himself to love and pretend the rest of the world—in all its violence and vitriol and carnage—didn't exist, but he fixed his gaze on Mercutio. 

For this was perhaps his final sight of him, his last chance to see his eyes shine. And he wanted to burn that image into his mind, though Mercutio's pupils wavered, searching Benvolio's face for something he could not determine. 

He wasn't sure how long they remained that way, though it couldn't have been long—it could never be long enough—before Mercutio grew limp, his head falling back just as his eyelids did the same, blessing Benvolio with gleaming slivers of green for one last time.

Mercutio's pained grin returned, accompanied by an incredulous chuckle. “And of course I had to steal one final thing from you. A wretch to the end. 'M sorry I couldn't… give you someone better to grieve. Forgive me, Benvolio.”

And Benvolio stammered and stuttered to respond that no, he stole nothing, and yes, he loved him too… 

But Mercutio's eyes had shut.

The doorway to his room felt so wide now. So wide, yet suffocating in its emptiness. He was only pushed past the threshold by the aching silence left in the absence of an echoing footstep and the heaviness of the wine in his palms; calm, unmoving, still—much too still. Never mind how his soles felt as though they were crafted from lead, nor how soreness rested in his arms from having remained bent the whole way up. 

Because each heavy step was its own prayer, its own plea that perhaps he would hear the movement repeated behind him, and he could believe again that he was not alone. 

Anytime now, he would realize the residue on his palms was merely from the spill as he stumbled up the stairs. That his mood was merely drunken sentimentality.

Mercutio would mount the final step behind him, sprawled over the railing as he laughed that unrestrained, explosive laugh of his, and tease him on what inane, monotonous topic he intended to study. And he would hold out the bottle of liquor he’d swiped off the table and assure Benvolio he would need it to get through his next tome or essay.

Anytime now.

But the wine at his palms was far too calm; too much, too valuable to be cupped in his stained hands. Too much had gone still and heavy in his grasp that day, and he rushed to his desk to free his hands of the sensation. 

As soon as the chalices clunked onto the wood, his trembling, crimson-encrusted palms glared up at him, the ravenous stain gnawing at his ivory sleeves. Were it his decision, its appetite would have been satiated, jaws sinking into the rest of his garment and clamping shut around the dirt where Mercutio laid.

He should have been lying next to Mercutio, now that he thought about it. If not in a scarlet pool of his own, staining his clothes the color of his family's enemy, his and Mercutio's blood flowing as one, then perhaps in a final act of friendship—or love? Could he deem it love now?—one last thing they could do together. He should have laid with him, pressing his body to his chest in a taut embrace and allowing the scarlet to trickle down his own waist, or gripping his hand—which had always been cold, but never like that, never frigid with the chill of death—and gazing at the sky, hoping to spot his friend's soul aspiring the clouds. 

His stupidity was so astounding he wanted to laugh. 

Why didn't he stay with him? Why didn't he hold him until someone physically tore them apart? Why didn't he allow himself even a moment to let his tears fall? It would have been selfish, he knew, to abandon Romeo on the street with his uncertainty, but wasn't that what Mercutio wanted? No sooner than he drew his last breath had Benvolio already disobeyed his final request.

And that was all he had left of him now, wasn't it? His hoarse voice echoing in his ears, the taste of him lingering on his lips, and his blood clinging to his hands and clothes. 

He exchanged his white tunic and blue pants—though with the few drops of red that had dribbled onto them, he supposed they now carried a semblance of purple—for the darkest linen he could find. Cobalt and violet had always been on the cusp of one another, straining in their reach but never quite meeting. Ebony, though, seemed to match with the nauseating hue of coagulated blood. 

For the time being, he laid out his clothes—red and blue and purple, pants smudged with dirt and jagged shards of gravel—flat atop his mattress. He knew he would need to hide them away soon, lest a servant mistakenly washed them. He would pack the garments into a box beneath his bed, store them into the deepest shadows of his wardrobe, anything to preserve his only remaining piece of Mercutio. But for now he could keep the spread-out garments in his peripherals and hope that perhaps his vision would falter enough that it would seem as if Mercutio laid there, on the mattress, sleeping—merely sleeping—off the alcohol, as he had done so often before. Benvolio would continue studying his latest inane, monotonous topic until he dozed off in ink, quill in hand. And Mercutio would wake before him, movements remaining heavy and groggily unstable as he draped a cloak or blanket over Benvolio’s shoulders. 

But now his sight was frustratingly clear, though his mind was far from lucid. To mend the former, he trudged back to his desk, standing—firmly standing, because taking a seat would only aggravate the gaping silence at his side—over the goblets housing tranquil wine.

He had already seen his face, desperate and helpless and pathetic, reflected in a puddle of red that day. When he swiped the chalice off the table to rid himself of the pitiful sight, its metallic chill had been subdued by the layer of residue at his palm, and he lifted the rim to his face, the silver jolting his chin with sparks of cold. It had taken him too long to realize his hand hadn't stopped shaking.

It was when the frigid metal grazed his bottom lip that he steadied his grip long enough to yank the chalice from his face and slam it onto the table.

He wanted to quiet his emotions, an act he was all too familiar with, but, for the first time in his life, had trouble accomplishing.

He wanted to forget the way Mercutio grew still and heavy in his arms.

He wanted Mercutio back; by any method, in any form.

But he could not bear to erase Mercutio’s taste from his lips.

Wine was still bounding in wild waves within the chalice's gleaming gold, grains of dried blood on his fingers scraping against metal as his grip tightened on the chalice’s stem. Red could stain the floors should he wish it, but he knew too well the ruby pool on these marble tiles, the aroma of liquor filling the room. It would simply be another act Mercutio was meant to perform; a seemingly reckless mistake sprung from drunken clumsiness.

And yet, the mistake had been his, for disregarding Mercutio's cynicism sprung from sincerity.

"Mercutio, you damn hypocrite," he hissed, teeth clenched and throat stinging.

Mercutio, who had been all too eager to believe in fairies over love, who entertained every other pleasure while dismissing Romeo's pining, spent his final breaths on the very sentiments he'd only scoffed at. Mercutio, who spoke of selfishness on his deathbed while dedicating his last words to Benvolio. Mercutio, who asked of him something impossible: to live selfishly by another's words.

Benvolio lived to serve, he had come to terms with that long before meeting Mercutio. Afternoons spent entertaining Romeo morphed to nights, and his cousin's nursemaid often flippantly remarked on how he lightened her workload, as if she merely saw it as a child playing grown-up. But his mind had honed in on that sole purpose before his eyes gazed upon a decade, and then came the question he had spent years terrified of answering: What was he without another to attend to?

He’d caught sporadic, fleeting glimpses of the answer throughout the years, with an air of stilted vulnerability and sentiments seeping through fractures. An offhanded remark about the Montagues’ unrelenting demands. A dry chuckle absent of humor when he had, once again, failed to create peace. Glossy eyes and a strained smile at the clearing of the sycamore grove. And in every event, Mercutio had been the only constant.

But that had been more than he deserved.

So he listened to every word of Romeo's tender, passionate poems, and affirmed any expression of his cousin's melancholy. He flipped his books shut to kneel on marble tiles and mop up Mercutio's drunken spills during their nights together, and kept his friend an arm’s length from danger when his mouth ran faster than his mind. Benvolio assumed he was being responsible when he scolded Mercutio during the latter instances, forgetting the gloss in the latter's eyes every time he dropped to the floor with a cloth, and the falter in Mercutio's smirk after a narrowly-avoided confrontation as he remarked that this was why his family never allowed themselves to be seen with him.

And he rewarded Benvolio’s veiled vulnerability with his own, but still, Benvolio failed to look deep enough, as the truth shoved below superficial chaos had never been revealed to him.

For Mercutio’s jests were his sonnets, his snark his sorrow.

And he’d bore his heart to Benvolio in ways Romeo hadn’t, with the audacity to believe he’d stolen from him.

How could he lie there, call himself a wretch, and waste his last breath on an apology when he’d given Benvolio everything? He took nothing but left behind the deepest, most vulnerable love Benvolio ever had the honor of experiencing. He’d gifted him the briefest glimpse of warmth only to leave him in the depths of frigid emptiness in its absence. 

Mercutio had given him another person to grieve.

One sincere but silenced, hidden away until the very last moment. One he would never get to know. One he was robbed of understanding. 

A man he was refused the chance of loving back.

And he wanted to throw the chalice to the floor but couldn’t. Because he had seen enough pools of red for the day. Because he wouldn’t have anyone next to him as he cleaned it. Because perhaps it would coat his hands and he would rather have Mercutio’s blood—Mercutio himself—remaining on his skin rather than the mere memory of him.

Stay with me, Mercutio, he seemed to plead as his knees buckled beneath him. His hands flew up to his face as streaks of warmth trickled down his cheeks, but instead he brought his lips to the layer of crimson coating his skin before curling his hands into fists, nestling his only remaining piece of his love in his palms.

And there he remained, on the floor, not knowing where the wine was meant to go.

He smoothed out the final crease in his black cloak, catching a fleeting glimpse of his unkempt hair and dark-circled eyes in the curved reflection of the chalices still housing unmoving, undrunk wine. He used the small mirrors to adjust his collar, paying no mind to the head above it.

God, Mercutio would be so disappointed.

So he supposed it was only right to be chagrined on his behalf, as he stepped out of his room into an exchange between the Lord of the house and a servant, both adorned in the same ebony as him, the former bearing a furrowed brow and the latter spouting dismayed murmurs of Capulets at the procession.

"The Capulets?" he'd spat, mind emptied and fist clenched around the stems of the bouquet he held, looking up to his uncle as if a pouting child. "The very people he detested? The men who saw him die before their eyes and chose to turn their backs and flee?"

The Lord sighed, eyes darting to the staircase as if he was finished with the conversation before it had even begun. "Their allies. You forget, nephew. They have their own burial to perform, and Mercutio was not a Montague."

"But you know we considered him such," was the reply that died in his throat.

So instead, he kept his head down as usual, distracting himself with the flowers' vivid hues as he prayed there were no thorns concealed by the stem's leaves. Not that he was undeserving of such pain, but because he would rather preserve what little of Mercutio remained on his skin.

The bouquet's vibrancy mocked him. Chrysanthemums in pastels of white, yellow, and pink. Rich violet from the pasqueflowers that sprouted from the base of sycamores. A bunch of stubby dandelions he had to pinch to secure, for the other stems towered over them; he was never quite sure why Mercutio had such an affinity for the weed.

And twelve roses for “I wish I could stay with you forever."

If only.

Under the darkness of their cloaks and the twilight sky, he trudged through the streets alongside the Lord of the house—the Lady had taken ill, he'd heard the servants trailing behind them whispering—and grasped at what brightness he could, held tightly in his bloodied palms; a blip of life amidst a sea of death. Perhaps if he held his gaze down on the lively hues, he could pretend he was back in the grove, July sunlight blessing the fresh blooms with radiance and the darkness nothing more than Mercutio's shadow cast over him-

"Signore?"

A hesitant voice cut through the stiff footsteps of the procession, echoing in his ears with a tone unsettling in its familiarity. On instinct, he bowed, hastily swiping a rose that had fallen as he did so off the pavement. 

It was only when he straightened up from the gesture that he discovered it was much warranted, as he was met with black velvet robes only befitting for one house in the city, though appearing much too loose on this figure specifically. If he did not remember the fluffy blond hair flowing from the man's forehead in swoops and the bright blue eyes that now shone in faint torch light from the brief time he'd spent with him, then surely he could recall Mercutio's offhand remarks on his appearance. The way his friend's eyes seemed to track the pavement at their feet as he remarked, "I suppose next to my brother, I bear no resemblance to any of our predecessors hung about the walls," because his hair was auburn and curled, his eyes a glimmering green. 

He pulled himself into the present as he spun on his heel, managing a hasty bow as he prepared to depart to his proper place. How had he distracted himself for so long to wander into the front of the procession, past multiple clusters of houses and into the royal family's section? "Terribly sorry, Your Grace, I will return to-"

"No," and he swore he could hear a strain, a hint of desperation, lying beneath the word that the man compensated for by clearing his throat. "No, you… you are welcome to stay. If there is anyone deserving of being next to him, it would be you, Signor Montague."

In truth, he deserved that honor no more than he did the privilege of accompanying him in his final moments. 

But reluctantly, Benvolio joined the young royal, marching at his side while keeping himself behind the man's pace. "I thank you, Your Grace, sincerely I-"

"Just 'Valentine' is all right."

"Then likewise, 'Benvolio' is more than enough."

He'd said that before. An eternity ago.

"Please, 'Benvolio' is more than enough."

"Only if you abandon the vain formality in return. 'Mercutio' sounds much better than a title held by assemblies of jeweled robes, wouldn't you say?"

God how he wished he had that eternity back.

"I am… so sorry for your loss."

"And I for yours, Benvolio."

His gaze flicked to the man at his side, robe perfectly straightened and not a blond lock out of place. 

He never really knew Valentine; he’d met him a couple times and Mercutio had so lovingly referred to him as, “The one and only member of my family I do not utterly detest,” but that had been all. He recalled the few instances Mercutio invited him to one of their many outings, requesting he and Romeo be lenient, for "my uncle and cousin were particularly stern with him earlier. I believe he is in need of a short reprieve."

Valentine had always been quiet but polite during those outings, responding when addressed and smiling when it was warranted. Composed, amiable, perfectly put-together in a way that made Benvolio question if the Prince and Count Paris' scrutiny was truly justified. 

The only crack he'd witnessed in Valentine's dignified disposition had been his moments with Mercutio and Mercutio alone. He playfully shoved Mercutio's shoulder when the latter ruffled his hair, mumbled jests Benvolio could only imagine he'd learned from his brother, and allowed himself to laugh a little louder.

It was shameful, the way Benvolio never realized all Mercutio had been carrying until now. 

In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a wooden sign he'd seen many times, merriment woven into the cracks of its worn plank, the sound of clinking glasses cringing distantly from behind its windows. What he wouldn't give to be sitting at those windows again, laughing over overflowing chalices. This was the first he'd looked upon the establishment with sorrow. With one man’s death, the city became a catacomb, each corner and alleyway its own tomb holding memories he would never live again.

But he knew that with every shifting glance, he was only delaying holding his gaze on the man he wanted to see more than anything but could not bear to look at like this. 

Stems squeaked against each other in his tightening grasp as he forced his eyes up, scouring the uplifted platform for any glimpse of his love.

It was as if the same rapier that had taken Mercutio from him now impaled his chest.

Mercutio was adorned in extravagant gold, illuminating the night by the reflection of torch flames, his long curls chopped off to just below his ears. The flowing cloak and excessive metal was something he knew his friend would “never be caught dead in”—in fact, he could distinctly recall Mercutio saying those exact words himself whilst looking up at a former royal’s portrait—and Benvolio may have laughed if he could hear the remark spoken in his voice one more time. Instead, he was left with the ache of the speaker’s absence.

And he could barely recognize him.

He pried his sight from Mercutio—if he hadn't, he feared his knees would buckle beneath him once more, flowers scattered about the ground and tears streaming from his face—and whipped his head about at the procession: the Prince held his head down solemnly, as if he was simply mourning any other noble, with Count Paris beside him in startling detachment. 

Were he and Valentine the only ones there to mourn Mercutio?

The Escalus tombs towered over the crowd, the sheen of the iron grilles matching the sickening metal weighing Mercutio down onto the platform he laid atop.

This was where Mercutio would lie for eternity, his only companions the ancestors he'd scoffed at in life and swore he would never become. Mercutio, who'd ripped every jewel off his clothing and threw sideways glances at framed paintings hung around the castle. Mercutio, who'd died in the dirt without even having been granted the shelter of a tree or alleyway. Neither resting place suited him, but then, what did? And who was Benvolio to determine that on his behalf?

The crowd came to a halt at last as the open catalyst displaying a man Benvolio did and did not know was placed on a catafalque. 

Friar Lawrence's sermon wafted above his head like the smoke of the flickering torches, and when Prince Escalus placed a bunch of black tulips at Mercutio's side, his mind screamed and he choked back a sob.

No. No, Mercutio hated tulips.

The surrounding nobles tossed roses atop the veil they'd draped over him while Benvolio fought to keep the stems in his trembling grasp. 

"Benvolio?"

There was that voice again, so painfully familiar.

Valentine motioned him to approach and lifted the veil. Benvolio understood, gently setting down his bouquet on the side opposite to Prince Escalus' and leaning into Mercutio's ear as that familiar scent from jackets draped over him as he slept lay beneath one unfamiliar. 

And he choked out words of apology, for being undeserving of his love, for allowing his every wish in life to be disobeyed in his death, for failing to grieve him better.

And finally,

"I love you. To my grave I will love you."

He wanted to delude himself for the final time. That Mercutio could hear him, would be given the words he’d never received in life. 

But Mercutio’s eyes were shut.

He would never be blessed with that glimmering green again.

He knew that now.

He never felt quite present after that, as if his soul had abandoned his body and chose to lay next to Mercutio, the tomb their chapel and the catafalque their wedding bed. 

Benvolio knew what came next; he'd attended far too many burials to forget. Strange how that worked. Loss was his life, grief the air he breathed, and yet, his heart still beat with a novel sorrow over his beloved, far more than his own blood. But regardless of who laid beneath that veil, the rest of the night never failed to transpire the same way: The stilted, silent congregation would gradually shift into hushed half-hearted condolences for the grieving family. 

Then, it came time for him to play his part.

Before the deceased could even be set in a sepulcher, he'd have shaken at least two nobles' hands as the Lord and Lady of the house sent glances of approval his way, the gathering having devolved into every superficial banquet he'd had the displeasure of attending. From a burial ground to a political stage, in the span of an hour or less.

Not this time.

He planted his feet at the tomb's entrance, conscious only of the dried crimson at his fingertips now that he had no bouquet stems to grip. The crowd quickly divided into multiple smaller clusters, the largest forming around the Escaluses. 

He could hear fragments of the condolences, an endless stream of "so sorry"s and "God rest his soul"s. And in turn, the replies were just as disheartening, shallow sentiments of "a shame to see another youth leave us so soon."

Another youth.

A shame.

Was that all Mercutio's life amounted to? Was that all they could say of him? All they would mourn, all they would miss?

Mercutio often lamented that exact sentiment, the thought accompanied by a dry chuckle and averted gaze. Benvolio had wanted to object, ramble of every boisterous laugh, every twinkle in his eye and quick-witted remark that he would so long for.

But that would have been selfish of him, and in keeping silent he'd doomed Mercutio to die believing that lie, now punished with seeing it realized before his eyes.

He could only imagine how suffocated Valentine was, by the weight of velvet draped over his skin and the sea of ebony silk encroaching on him. When he had the chance, he would weave through the crowd and pull Valentine above the tide, just as Mercutio and him had always done for each other at events they were forced to attend. But for the time being, he stood off to the side, his sights locked on his uncle in the distance, speaking to who could only be another eager, power-hungry aristocrat. The Lord only returned Benvolio’s attention for just long enough to motion to another figure in the distance, as if a master commanding his dog.

He only stared back, a single thought occupying his mind:

Mercutio's resting place will not be your diplomatic summit.

He wasn't sure how long he remained that way—stiff and silent, swallowing through the warmth gathering in his eyes and throat—when the slightest touch heaved him back to the present.

“Benvolio, may I-“ 

And just from the tone, his instincts overcame him as he turned to his side, arms expectantly outstretched. To his surprise, the speaker fell into the embrace, and why was he so stunned by the blur of flaxen across his vision? Perhaps he expected auburn or deep brown, though he wasn't sure why he would, when one's curls were hacked off with what remained imprisoned beneath a gilded sepulcher, and the other's near-bedhead was in another city entirely.

How heavy those velvet robes were.

Murmurs surrounded them, and he bit his tongue before he could scoff at the gawking onlookers. Though he had no choice but to press his eyes shut when he caught a glimpse of the smallest smile tugging at his uncle's lips in his peripheral vision. 

When the velvet's weight lifted, Benvolio wasted no time in inquiring, "Are you all right, Y-" he cleared his throat- "Valentine?"

Louder murmurs.

Valentine ran his fingers through his hair. Now where had Benvolio seen that before? "Yes, I… I apologize for my rash actions, I was only hoping…" his voice seemed to catch in his throat, carried by a shallow breath as it gave out.

Benvolio had heard too much carried by shallow breath lately. But his reply was instant. "I… know you must miss him dearly."

Valentine's pupils darted about the crowd, his nod slight and shaky as he straightened himself up. "Yes, and you as well."

They carried on that way, painfully formal and awkwardly stiff, but Benvolio would drag it on for as long as Valentine needed. For as long as it took for the assembly to return to their shallow intrigues.

"Quite unfortunate, hm?"

From the voice's ostentatious cadence and low, flat tone only rising at the end of the question, Benvolio could make a reasonable inference as to the speaker's identity, so much so he did not feel the need to turn.

Still, he did, for he knew what would follow if he did not, bending down in a deep bow to bejeweled boots gleaming with the distant torch lights. A familiar motion for a familiar figure. Only, when he'd bowed so low to him in the past, the Count merely acknowledged his presence with a scoff and wiped the hand he'd shaken on the plush cloth of his sleeve. Benvolio was never completely certain why Mercutio held such contempt for his older cousin, but he always noted the way his friend's expression was tinted with scorn every time the Count turned his nose up to dismiss Benvolio entirely. To Benvolio, the Count had simply given him the attention he deserved.

When he rose, he was met with the straight, slicked-back blond locks and chilling blue eyes of none other than Count Paris.

"Thank you for the concern, cousin, we were just-" Valentine began.

"Speaking, I am aware. There are few in attendance, unaware, really. However… If there was one thing my cousin wished, would it not be for us to smile and be merry? Forget the memories that pain you so and live as he would have, spritely and eager." He spun on his heel, departing as swiftly as he'd arrived, though he craned his neck over his shoulder to deliver a final remark to them. "Though, perhaps surpass our dearly departed's life, hm? Apply that liveliness to the duties he never cared for."

Benvolio had to restrain himself from drawing blood as his fingertips gnawed at his palms, trembling in fists at his side.

How dare he?

How dare he speak on Mercutio's behalf, manipulating his memory as a mere mouthpiece for his own selfish desires? How dare he pretend it was so easy when all could see the ivory he donned beneath his mourning garments? 

Benvolio would have spoken out, defied royalty in defense of their own kinsman, and sharpened his words into weapons…

Had he not sensed Valentine drawing deep, quivering breaths at his side. 

He turned back, extending a hand, "Valentine, do you-"

"Thank you, Benvolio." Valentine's reply was quick and snappy, spoken with a wavering voice as he straightened his robes out and disappeared into the crowd. 

Back to the royal duties, he supposed.

Benvolio managed to follow Valentine's movements for a while, but eventually the young royal had become consumed in superficial sympathies and ambitious opportunists, disappearing into the vicious, shameless rabble. Then Benvolio was left with none other to focus on than the affluent but duplicitous attendants, suffocating him with sloppily-concealed ploys and restrained chuckles, lest they appear disrespectful. Well, it was much too late to fret over that.

His breaking point came when Count Paris lifted the lid from the laughter boiling in his throat, hastily disguising it as a cough, and Benvolio had no idea what could have come up in conversation at an event like this to spark such a reaction. It cut through the indistinct chatter like a blaze, scorching Benvolio into scorn and shoving him into the depth of the nearby woods. They were no sycamores, but they would do.

Mercutio would no longer be there to chaff him on his quick tempter, tease him about the latest thing to set him off. Mercutio would no longer be at his side to glare at the source of it and spite his older cousin one last time. Mercutio would no longer-

A quick draw of breath emerged from somewhere distantly at his side, which he had initially mistaken as laughter but, as he heard more, realized was a sob. That would be a first for the day, the only tears shed not intended to water the seeds of sympathy sprouting with the light of a crowd's cloying condolences, but to weep in darkness for all Mercutio was and all he could never be—who he was refused the chance of becoming.

There was only one person he knew who would mourn so sincerely, which meant the swoops of flaxen he could spot in the distance came as no surprise to him. 

He was cautious in his approach, calling out a gentle, "Valentine?" so as not to startle the man.

It had failed, as he saw shoulders beneath weighted velvet jolt, and an instinctual straightening of the man’s back, as if a soldier standing to attention. He whipped his head around to face Benvolio, revealing puffed eyes he swiped at, hastily wiping tears as he drew in a shaky breath with a sniffle.

So it seemed jokes hadn’t been the only thing he’d inherited from his brother. 

"B… Benvolio, I… I am sorry, I shouldn't… you shouldn't…" he stuttered.

He opened his mouth to interject and assure him it was all right, but Valentine had beaten him to it, choking out excuses before his voice broke in a gasping sob and reasons transformed into frantic apologies as he clawed at his robes. Benvolio reached to assist him in removing them, but Valentine had torn them off his shaking figure, leaving him in the black tunic he wore underneath with the hefty fabric held in his trembling palms as his pupils darted about, seemingly wanting nothing more than to throw it to the ground but unable to get even a speck of dirt on the luxury fabric. Benvolio extended his arms further and Valentine practically threw the garments to him.

Benvolio nearly stumbled forward. Was all this really what Valentine had been wearing the entire evening? 

For some foolish, stupid reason, he’d expected a certain scent to accompany the clothing. Perhaps the same he’d woken up to all those nights he’d fallen asleep at his study, greeted by the lark’s song and the distinct scent of home from the cloth draped over his shoulders. 

But this was a different fragrance.

He supposed he would have to learn it now.

In Valentine's avoidance of sullying the clothing, Benvolio was suddenly aware of the dark crimson still staining his palms. Though he doubted it would imprint onto the velvet, he could not help but hear Mercutio's voice, somewhere from the back of his mind, pleading,

"Valentine's dignity does not deserve to be further stained with my mess."

Valentine's knees buckled beneath him and he stumbled backward onto a rock, hands flying up to his face to swipe away the warmth trickling down his cheeks. Benvolio settled himself on the rock's edge, weighted fabric sitting on his lap, his back to Valentine's as the latter gathered himself. His deep, gasping breaths filled Benvolio's ears, and his elbow jabbed Benvolio's back as he frantically ran his fingers through his hair. 

"I- I am s-"

"It's all right. Please, simply pretend I am not here."

Benvolio breathed in an air of strange nostalgia, something familiar about sitting beneath a canopy to escape the world, his ears primed to hear of another's troubles. He would always tease his cousin for his unkempt hair afterward, fishing out a chuckle through tears from somewhere deep in Romeo's soul. 

He wasn't sure how long they remained that way—truthfully, he didn't believe it was long enough for Valentine—before Valentine spoke up, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Will you… grant me a short eulogy? My brother always seemed so lively when he spoke of you. I know you carry his story, that none here had cared to learn. Myself-" his voice broke on the word- "myself included."

Benvolio pondered the question—he wasn't qualified, didn't deserve the honor of imparting the sheer beauty that was Mercutio's life. Still, he began, slowly and hesitantly. "Mercutio was… how shall I put this? Spectacular-" and he allowed himself a brief smile. He hadn't smiled in a while, long before this entire ordeal- "in every sense of the word. When I first met him…"

As he continued, his lifted mood proved just as fleeting as the merry times he spoke of, guilt gnawing at him that it was wrong, all wrong. Curse him, for being able to spout resolute ramblings of peace but failing miserably when it came to raw emotion, stuttering and pausing his way through perhaps the most important speech he would give. Curse him, for being so arrogant to believe he could do Mercutio's wonderful life any justice. Curse him, for pretending to know him so well when his only real moment with Mercutio was as the latter bled out in his arms.

Curse him, for being no better than the masquerading crowd back at the procession.

He concluded with his last good memory with Mercutio—the night before that dreadful day, stumbling home from the masquerade together, masks off but remaining perched over their eyes in another way as Mercutio made an exaggerated bow toward him (oh God, he was asking him to dance, wasn't he?)—and trailed off into silence, awaiting Valentine's response.

It came just as hesitantly as the beginning of Benvolio's eulogy. "There's just one thing you hadn't explained to me, signore, and that's-" Valentine had drawn the breath so briefly but Benvolio had sensed it, heard it- "What… did my brother die for?"

Benvolio nearly choked on a dry throat. What did he even say to that? What should he say, what would be the most comforting? Honor? Hate? Love?

…Nothing?

In his silence, Valentine's eyes had gained a steeled gaze, rife with anticipation and turmoil and-

Oh, God.

Suddenly it was as if he'd woken after another one of Mercutio's intoxicated wine spills, and his friend was tracking his every movement expecting him to acknowledge the incident, expecting to—he realized now, just now, not when it had counted, not when he could have reached out to help him—be dismissed or scolded or deemed a burden. 

When Valentine had glanced at him in a silent plea for support like Romeo did, he could bear it. When Valentine had run his fingers through his hair, the same way Romeo did when he was distressed, he could bear it.

This he could not bear.

He could not bear the way his eyes imprisoned worlds' worth of anguish, nor how his hair had frizzed into a terrifying imitation of curls he'd only ever seen colored auburn.

He could not bear to see Mercutio rise from the dead. Not when he’d just laid him to rest for good.

He could not remember what answer he'd conjured to put Valentine's mind at ease, but he recalled all too well his own selfishness. How he had consoled Valentine the way he had failed to for Mercutio. How he felt a pang of guilty validation at accomplishing what he could not and never would be able to with Mercutio.

As he finished his gentle spiel, he craned his neck up.

Are you proud of me, Mercutio?

No, you must be disgusted.

He was back to glaring down at crushed olives, this time in a golden platter beneath a grand chandelier, set next to a vase of tulips.

People were never careful when preparing olives.

He'd learned that over the last five years.

Mercutio's birthday was not even a month after the day he died, Benvolio always the older of the two by just shy of a year. Mercutio would always tease Benvolio when that day came, that he'd "caught up" to him for an entire two moons. Now Benvolio had left him behind, the distance between Mercutio's eternal youth and Benvolio's undeserved years morphing from two moons to five years.

Five years of wandering around the large catacomb called Verona, miniature graves of his loved ones haunting him at every corner. Some tombs were inscribed with Mercutio's laughter, others with Romeo's smile. That did not make them any less heavier, any less glaring at every corner he turned. Five years of stilted formalities with Valentine dissolving into quiet, contemplative evenings. 

He had invited Valentine to drink with him throughout those years, though he always knew it could never be the same as the nights he had done the same with Mercutio and Romeo. Valentine never chose Brachetto d'Acqui or Recioto della Valpolicella. He always carried an air of restraint, and Benvolio could hardly say any different of himself.

There were no sycamores, and any offhanded remarks perished on his tongue.

He glanced over his shoulder, the crowd circling Valentine no less rowdy than they were at the funeral. Some things never did change.

As he wove his way through the nobles, he caught glimpses of the man. Contrary to the unrelenting opportunists, Benvolio could hardly believe who Valentine had grown into. That young boy sitting politely beside Mercutio during the outings he had been invited to, that lost boy desperately grieving what pieces of his brother he could, had become a royal prepared to rule when his time came. In a frantic attempt at stability after the uprooted feud's debris shook the city, the Escaluses had arranged a marriage for Valentine as soon as they could. Valentine had not refused as Benvolio did when the Montagues attempted the same with him. Every time Benvolio did, he found himself glancing up.

Would Mercutio be proud that he thought of what he wanted for once? That he was living on his own terms?

At last, he was in front of the couple, Valentine's blond locks perfectly slicked back as he managed a steady, half-lidded smile. His wife stood next to him, mirroring his expression as she tucked a waist-length strand of blond behind her ear. There had never been a marriage so formal, so distant, and Benvolio had seen plenty of hasty arrangements in his life. Still, he bowed deeply and congratulated them on the birth and baptism of their new heir, sharing in the delicate façade of the gathering. 

Truthfully, he wanted nothing more than to extend his arms to Valentine once more and assure him as the latter spouted his apologies (he never did quell that habit in the past five years): an apology for not having seen Benvolio since the child's birth, for having, essentially, strangers acting as the heir's godparents during the rite rather than Benvolio. Benvolio would tell him he understood, particularly the latter, as it differed little from Valentine's marriage. The formation of integral alliances took precedence over sentiment, and he had no doubt Valentine had tried, had reached to control even one aspect of his own life in choosing the young heir's godparent. 

They were not so different in that regard. Benvolio only hoped there was something he could do for Valentine to share in his freedom.

Valentine reached into the crib and drew out a bundle from within, extending his arms in offering to Benvolio.

"No, I… I really shouldn't…" Benvolio stuttered, waving his arms in refusal.

He hadn't held someone so fragile, so important, since…

Since…

"Please, I believe she should meet her uncle," Valentine insisted.

Uncle. He knew that was not meant to be his role. Perhaps Valentine saw it in him, too. That frizzed, curly hair. That steeled gaze. The man that would never be.

They were not so different in that regard.

He slowly extended his arms, turning down to the child as he mustered a smile, only for his blood to run cold as she returned his gaze.

He never thought he would see those eyes open again, that he would be granted another glimpse of that glimmering green.

He was foolish to think Mercutio would ever leave him.

And he was not sure if that was a blessing or a curse.