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Mercutio had never known the pain of hunger.
How could he, when his fine ceramic was always piled high with whatever delicacy the palace cooks crafted? When he’d had the luxury of picking out the bits that disgusted him and shoving his half-eaten dinner aside as he declared he’d had his fill?
No, Mercutio would never go hungry.
Though, he wondered if its ache was akin to what he felt every time his uncle reprimanded him while his brother averted his gaze, every muffled scoff from his cousin. Perhaps this was hunger. A longing for affection, for the attention of soft voices and gentle touch. An insatiable craving for someone to reach out and warm his frigid hands.
And as his hands grew colder, he came to understand that this was starvation he deserved. He’d earned the ache, as every ridiculous quarrel and careless movement sentenced him to further scrutiny and contempt, boasting to the world how foolish it would be to gift him any tenderness. What was there to love about him?
He would not be given affection to waste as he did the unwanted greens on his dinner plate.
And so, Mercutio went hungry.
But just as those greens made a nightly reappearance on his plate, so too did one man never fail to give. Give and give and give him ludicrous care and consideration that he knew he could never be worthy of.
He’d let the thought slip, once. He’d likely had one too many chalices of wine, as was common practice for him. And as he hobbled along the road, his arm slung over the man’s shoulder, his lips parted in a whisper of, “Why?”
The man had only grinned, as he always did, and simply replied, “Why not?”
The response was quick, natural. A throwaway statement that instinctively rolled off his tongue. And he knew very well why.
He saw it every second he spent with the man. Every bow as he deliberately lowered himself to every noble he spoke to. His soft voice, as if he prepared to silence himself in any conversation and disappear into the crowds’ chatter. The way he sacrificed so freely, corroding himself if only to fill the plates of everyone sat around him, sparing himself nothing more than the tiniest morsel.
If it were up to the man, he would have relinquished every garment and stripped himself of all but his name:
Benvolio.
Mercutio blinked slowly, groggily, as his heavy head refused to rise from the soft—much too soft—mattress.
This was a familiar scene. Through the fog in his mind he distantly recalled the night before, drowning in a sea of intoxicating red, pointed insults and smug provocation aimed at some bastard donning the same color.
Of course, until a familiar coat of arms and blur of emerald filled his vision.
His gaze crawled to the man now, hunched over his study, eyebrows creased in concentration, or so he thought.
“Good morrow, Mercutio.” There was that soft voice, though now it hid below an air of strictness, a certain gravity to his tone that Mercutio had seldom heard from Benvolio but received all too much from everyone else.
A burst of pain rose in his stomach.
“And to you, my good man. I see you still long for last night’s excitement, in that riveting text-”
“Do you know what could have happened last night, Mercutio?”
He sat up, flicking his wispy locks aside as he laughed. “The Capulet? I’ve quarreled many a time with them, dear Benvolio, and they would sooner fall to me in their sleep, let alone with a few drops of-”
Benvolio shut his book, fighting to keep his voice level. “It was not a few drops, Mercutio, you could have- you always-“ he stood, face grave as he glared at Mercutio across the room. “Mercutio, you are-”
Yes, yes, a burden. Like his cousin had deemed him long ago, his uncle following suit. It was only a matter of time for Benvolio to bow to that title, subscribe to that creed. At last he would realize Mercutio was not worth it, did not deserve even a semblance more of his care-
“A fool. To think you could destroy yourself so easily. To- to impair yourself beyond reason and dodge my hand-”
No. He had been so close to freedom from the sorry excuse of Mercutio’s life, and all Mercutio needed was to shove him over the edge. He spat a dry chuckle. “Your hand. Your oh so virtuous, valiant hand. Tell me, Benvolio, who are you to speak of men destroying themselves, when you are no less a martyr than I am a damned soul? Free me from your shackles of salvation lest I drag you down from your pulpit of prudence.”
He pushed off from the mattress, the plush of the sheets lingering on his palm as he slipped through the doorway, staggering his way through the mansion and into the frigid rain outside.
With a hasty glance over his shoulder, he froze on the spot.
Benvolio had tailed him to the doorway, his coat held out in offering.
And Mercutio wondered if he could allow his tears—frail, pathetic tears of rage and nothing else—to fall and blend with the rain streaming down his face.
Because why on earth would Benvolio starve himself for someone like him?