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"What must it be like, Benvolio?"
"What must what be like?"
His cousin hummed, fidgeting with his fingers as his gaze darted about before answering in an airy tone, yet his volume was barely above a whisper. "Dying."
Benvolio froze, the fingertips he'd rested atop his book stiffening as blood drained from them. Where had this come from? Their day together thus far had been quiet conversation on the street, without mention of even the feud.
Of course, he had pondered the same question around Romeo's age, now considering it a miracle he had lived this long, what with his refusal to grip a rapier's hilt and draw blood. He'd practically rehearsed his death many times over, as if he was merely priming himself for the curtain call to his short, insignificant life. He knew on his deathbed—likely a road of cobblestone, bleeding out as an ever-familiar coat of arms glared down at his pathetic final moments—he would apologize to Romeo, first and foremost; ask for forgiveness for leaving him so soon. Then he would ask pardon from his uncle, for dishonoring the house by loosely holding an unchipped blade as he perished. And if he was granted enough time, he would ask one last thing from the Heavens, requesting that by some miracle he could join the Lord in the skies.
He'd run through the scene so often in his mind he was convinced he had lived it, but…
Romeo?
Did he carry the same dark thoughts at such a young age? Benvolio had tried all he could to give Romeo the youth he never had, but surely he failed if Romeo was envisioning death.
So, he cleared his throat, hoping he misunderstood and had simply jumped to conclusions. And if not, perhaps he could resolve this before it grew like a weed poisoning his cousin's mind. "Do go on, cousin. What is it about… that, that intrigues you so?"
Romeo took another second, fidgeting with his fingers some more. "How people speak of it- of dying- it all sounds wonderful, doesn't it? 'They are with God now,' 'They've gone to a better place.' So I wonder… is it as bright, as… joyous… as they make it sound?"
Benvolio knew the script from which he had taken those lines, spoken so solemnly over his parents' graves. He recalled posing the same question after those words had been said, wishing he would be reunited with his parents if he could be of no use down here.
But in seeing his father's sickeningly pale body, and his mother's crimson-encrusted hair, he knew—with a striking, cold certainty—that their deaths were nothing close to joyous or liberating. Still, his wish lingered.
And so he hesitated to respond, attempting to form the words he himself had trouble completely believing, to dissuade his cousin from such grim ideals. "Well, Romeo, you see-"
The sound of distant footsteps disrupted him, drawing both of their attention to an approaching servant, out of breath and frantic. "My lords, a quarrel, a quarrel! At least one is dead… and I believe it is one of our own."
A beat, then Romeo dashed off, and in instances like these, Benvolio usually called after him, physically holding him back if necessary. He'd always told himself it was for Romeo's own good, that he was shielding him from the decay that surrounded him his whole life.
But he remembered his wish, and then his parents' corpses.
And so he hesitated.
And so Romeo ran.
He spotted Romeo in the distance, head down, movements stilted and slow. Rushing to close the distance, he stopped before his cousin, hesitantly reaching an arm out. "Romeo, are you…?"
A blur of azure crossed his vision, wind rushing to him as Romeo clung to him in a tight embrace, trembling while tears soaked Benvolio's shoulder. His cousin's voice was shallow, nearly a whisper. "I- I'm s- sorry, I… I didn't-"
Benvolio kept his gaze on the cobblestone below, unable to—undeserving of—looking Romeo in the eye. "I know, Romeo. I know."
Benvolio was a murderer. It did not matter that he was not the one to slash the man on the ground. Romeo’s childhood had died, and his hands were stained red.