Work Text:
Benvolio was no stranger to concealment. His parents had always taught him to say only what was necessary. Be deliberate.
And so he deceived—accompanying his parents, shaking the hands of lords and heirs alike. He withheld his intentions and thoughts, for appearances' sake, but there had been one deception he still believed was entirely for his own greed. And it had been towards his cousin, no less.
He'd practically guided Romeo through the entire grove, across every stone and past every thorny bush, as he promised his cousin the zephyr could be his confidant when he couldn't, the trees' trunks shoulders to lean on. But there had been one corner of the woods, tucked away beneath a low canopy and obscured by the thick trunk of a fallen tree, that he had never revealed to Romeo.
He was met with that same trunk now, breathing in a cool air of nostalgia as he could practically see himself, all those years ago, perched atop the rough bark beside the only man he had ever shared that spot with.
He and Mercutio had sworn to meet each other at the end of the world.
Only one of them had kept their promise. Only one could.
His fingers ran over the bark, aged with time and sustained with naiveté that only boys as young as them back then could have held. What had run through Mercutio's mind that day, he wondered?
Mercutio looked ahead at Benvolio with perplexity. He had scratched his shin on one of the thorny shrubs along the path, and yet, he hadn't even spared it a glance or flinch. Should it bleed out, the royal blue of his garments would be stained, morphing into a nauseating violet.
But perhaps Benvolio was unlike every other noble that suffocated him, superficial and fixated on appearances. Well, the fact that Benvolio had stayed with him this long was proof enough of that. Although Mercutio would admit he sensed an insidious neglect, disdain even, beneath it all.
Did Benvolio disregard the fine fabric of his clothing or the body beneath it?
Still, nestled under the cover of rustling leaves, the two of them laughed and forgot their pains, even for just a moment, because what else could they do? They pranced about the log, in their own kind of ballroom dance, screeching off-key ballads into the darkness.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Mercutio's lips met Benvolio's cheek.
It was only a brush, a mere glimpse of warmth. Yet in that moment, it meant everything.
But Mercutio was a filthy hypocrite, who laughed. As if it was only an accident, a punchline carelessly plopped in the middle of his eternal jests.
And he remained superficial in the way a suffocating noble was not, but superficial nonetheless.
A breeze blew over the canopy, a special chill imprinted on Benvolio's cheek. As if Mercutio's lips had scraped against it mere moments ago. As if they'd merely laughed it off mere moments ago, because what else could they do?
He heaved one leg over the fallen tree trunk, then the other, perched atop the bark just as he had been all those years ago. And his fingers rose to touch his own lips this time, as he recalled the last second of warmth they'd shared between them, confined in the narrow crevice of an alleyway, Mercutio slipping through his fingers.
Their lips had only grazed then, too, as Mercutio's head fell back, limp and lifeless. Another glimpse of affection, a brush of love.
But unlike the first, it had been deliberate.