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Their trek through the streets was stilted, heavy. Mercutio supposed he wasn’t helping matters as he practically dragged Benvolio along the cobblestones, but if Benvolio had never given up on him throughout their years together, the least he could do was return the favor.
"Please, Mercutio… I-"
Mercutio bit his tongue, swallowing what he’d truly wanted to say. Because damn it, how could he have not shoved Mercutio—in his rambunctious, loud, insufferable way of being—away like a stray the moment they met, how could he believe in a peace that would never come, and yet couldn’t find within him even a semblance of faith in seeing the next sunrise?
But Mercutio settled for spouting a shorter version of his frustration. "How can you see the hope in every impossibility and not your own life? Come, the surgeon must be just over the…"
Over the horizon line.
That had been Benvolio's mantra, his one plea as he urged the city that peace was just over the horizon line, should the lords will it.
It never seemed further now; in fact, it was slipping through their fingers just as Benvolio's blood did through Mercutio's. It was fitting, the man was peace, the smallest sliver of light in this hellhole of a city. The one blessing in Mercutio's blasphemous life. And he’d ruined everything unfortunate enough to be caught up in his mess, so why did he think Benvolio would be any different? He did not deserve this, any of this. How could someone so amazing be failed in life again and again?
The striking realization hit him. That he would be the last person to fail Benvolio.
The man who'd done his all to divert him from danger, serving as a living shield in the process. The man who’d done nothing but that, all his life: Serve and shield. And Mercutio could not even listen to the one thing Benvolio had asked for himself, on his deathbed no less.
Was he just that selfish?
“I’m… ‘m so tired, Merc…” His voice gave out for just a second, and Mercutio thought he’d lost him right there. “…Sorry.”
That was when Mercutio stopped.
And he nearly laughed, insensitive and cruel, but incredulous. “Christ’s sake, Benvolio, what could you possibly have to apologize for?”
He was sure Benvolio had a reply—he always did, justifying himself, explaining his own actions for much longer than necessary—but he couldn’t hear it over the thumps of his heart as he truly saw Benvolio’s injuries for the first time that afternoon: every gory detail, every stream of red. A slash right across his chest, and Mercutio had been so stubborn to believe it wasn’t fatal. He still wanted to now, against all reason.
Benvolio eventually trailed off and followed his gaze, spitting a shallow, broken chuckle. “A… a bleeding heart, right? That was what you’d always called me?”
And Mercutio would always match his wit, too, but for once he was unable to form the words. “Has the cat got your tongue?” he could hear his own voice taunt, just as he had so many times before. But now all his mind could conjure with the wretched animal was its prince, hands stained, begging to be dragged down to hell with Mercutio as the two who’d killed Benvolio.
Well, at least he wouldn’t live to see his visions of peace crumble any further.
“M- Mercutio… could I ask… one last thing of you?” His voice was barely a whistle.
He could, he deserved to ask anything for himself, and had for so long.
But Mercutio had a suspicion that it would not be for himself. And should he waste even his last breath on Mercutio, on anyone else, when he’d done as much his whole life?
Was Mercutio in any position to decide that?
Was he just that selfish?
He cupped Benvolio’s face, for that was what he would miss. Not his favors, nor his sacrifices. Him. And he wanted Benvolio to know as much before he left.
So in a rare moment of silence, Mercutio—loud, boisterous Mercutio—broke it with a sacred whisper, meant for Benvolio and Benvolio alone. “Rest, mi carissime. You’ve done so much. And I thank you.
“For you were more than enough.”