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They'd all lost.
He was always told the victor of this, this madness, would take it all, that it would not stop until the city bled with red or oozed with blue. So what did that mean when neither won?
Gold could not replace their children's souls, mere statues could never imitate the bright beacons of life that had just been snuffed out.
Was there any way a world of red and blue wouldn’t have ended in pitch black? Why could they only ever unite in ebony fabrics of mourning, coats of arms exchanged for cloaks and tears?
Benvolio took a swig of his wine, the metal of the chalice scraping against the concrete of the balcony railing he was perched atop. It was a starless night with a sliver of moonlight as he breathed in hot, stuffy summer air. He couldn't imagine the gathering on the floor below was any better. At best, a few murmurs would cut through the tears, stiff dances as hollow as their souls. It was a feast to commemorate their peace, but all it would ever be was stilted harmony; hands forced to shake because otherwise, the city would be in flames.
Perhaps that would have been better. He didn't know anymore.
Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a beam of light. As if a doorway had cracked open and bathed a fraction of his body in warmth. He laughed bitterly, knowing it was merely the wine or his hysteria, but he craned his neck over his shoulder anyway. He had nothing left to lose, after all.
There, in the doorway, stood his parents, their faces near unrecognizable for how long they'd spent apart, in life and death. But he would never sigh over a cold meal again, wouldn't lament their absence from his life because at the very least they were in it again.
Next to them, his cousin came running, nearly leaping to him for a hug as he had so many times before. The embrace was strikingly familiar, and Benvolio clearly remembered those days, when Romeo had been wandering through the winding path of life, traversing the forest of his own turmoil, and turned to Benvolio to help him navigate it.
They embraced, they laughed, and Benvolio could almost feel pity for those on the floor beneath. For he had his own soirée, tinged with joy rather than plagued with devastation. Warmth embraced him in the form of his parents' cobalt silk, and he poured his cousin a cup of wine, for his lips were surely parched from the poison.
Benvolio swore the scene shone even brighter as the last person waltzed in. A man he'd known much better than himself, who others had so often deemed a lost cause, wandering on the wrong path, but who had always led to the only things that were right in Benvolio's world.
Mercutio did not reach for the wine as he always had.
Rather, he bowed, in a slow, careful manner that Benvolio had never seen him perform—every one of his bows at banquets had always been shallow, exaggerated—and extended his hand.
Benvolio did not hesitate to take it.
So they danced on the balcony's railing, living on the edge just as Mercutio had always liked to. Benvolio spun on the thin bar, feet weaving between Mercutio's in an entrancing rhythm, a special kind of madness they shared. Though there was no orchestra, they knew the melody by heart, fingers and souls intertwined as the night twinkled with their brilliance. They shone and glimmered in each other’s view, so much so that a star blazing past seemed nothing more than the flicker of a flame.
For the first time, all was right in Benvolio's life.
And he’d slipped.
No one knew if it was by chance or will, but then again, no one had seen the black cloak of Benvolio Montague plummeting from the balcony at all. So in the briefest burst of light…
Benvolio was lost to the night.