Chapter Text
It had been a month of never ending torture for Lord Montague. A month straight of watching his nephew suffer with the newest onslaught of painful grief.
This Monday morning was, unfortunately, no different.
Benvolio had found his way into the dining room about half an hour after his uncle (a tad earlier than usual) and upon seeing him, his uncle could see he attempted the bare minimum. His brown curls, although clean, were tangled and the haphazardly dressed clothes looked suspiciously like the ones he wore the previous day, still crinkled. There was also a touch of blotchiness to the boy's face, a new day breaking was never fun and more often than not it led to silent tears.
“Morning,” Montague offered, to nothing in response which began to annoy him. “I see you're not going to university again.” This at least evoked a few words.
“My professor said I don't need to yet.” It was a short response, almost toneless.
There was a sigh which escaped Montague accidentally. “Just because you don't need to, it doesn't mean you shouldn't go at all. You really need to do anything to occupy your mind before you go insane and kill yourself or something.” The regret was instantaneous.
“Don't say things like that.” Whispered Benvolio, suddenly very aware of his Uncle's sharp gaze.
“Oh, Benvolio, you know I didn't—” his nephew turned to go back upstairs, back into the comforting solitude of his bedroom. “Don't do this, you always do this. Stay.”
Spinning back around, Benvolio looked his Uncle up and down, trying to grasp any modicum of emotion before deciding whether or not to stay. Lord Montague wasn’t entirely a stone slate, he was the tiniest bit translucent letting out waves of irritation but also guilt. It seemed as though their grieving refused to align, creating wedges in what was already a strained relationship.
As a child, Benvolio had longed for his Aunt and Uncle to dote on him the same way they did to Romeo. To be there and step in fully for the gap in which his own parents once stood. Realistically, he came to learn that unfortunately he was an afterthought. All of that wishing for complete care and unconditional love was merely a child's fantasy that as he grew older, seemed to shed away into the realm of impossibility. It wasn't that there was any solicitude, it just seemed to be buried under everything else in the universe.
“Stop avoiding your problems.” Maybe Montague’s voice was harsher than it needed to be. To be angry at the world was often blinding. “You’re acting like a child, again. It's almost like you're milking this.”
Benvolio gave him an incredulous look. “What?”
“I mean, we both lost people, and I'm already well-adjusted back into society.” Yes, well-adjusted. “You look like a tramp and spend most of your time cooped up in your cave-like room.”
All he could think of to respond was an apology. “Sorry.” For what he did not know. Existing? Missing his friends and family? Missing the relationships that he'd never get back?
The reason Benvolio wouldn't go outside much is likely because he felt like the embodiment of hell, which really was not helped by his Uncle’s words. He'd noticed the subtle insults before, across this month, and placed it down to rage fueled grief, but never was it so blatant. Keeping out of the way was purely self preservation, his only remaining strand of control yet, even so, he still ended up hurt.
“Try harder.”
Those two words managed to break the flood gates that Benvolio didn't realise he was holding back. He'd lost so much. He didn't know how to be complete anymore. If this was not it, if this was not ok, then perhaps he'd never be fully human again. “I'm sorry.”
The rivers of sadness seemed to wake up his uncle, to see how awful he'd been. The mess before him was his creation. Gently, he stepped over and placed a hand on his nephew's shoulder. “I know.”
~𖤓~
Out of everywhere Horatio had visited, Verona was one of the quieter places. Although, with that calmness, came the sense that something was off as if an unrelenting sadness whipped the city into gloom and silence. It was the minor oddities that caused the streets to reek of grief. Communal areas closed; grey and black clothes on each resident; roses on each corner - red; blue; purple.
Whatever world he had stumbled on, it was irrefutably beautiful, yet ever so tragic.
It was similar to how Helsingør was when he had abandoned it for his travelling. Leaving behind the ghosts he knew all too well. Sometimes he wondered if Hamlet’s spectre wandered each grand hallway, searching and hoping to find Horatio. He wouldn’t. Horatio would never go back to the palace, or even Denmark, for all the gold in the world. Too many bad memories haunted those borders.
In a selfish way, this was nice. It showed others suffered from a similar pain to him, the agony of so much joy and brilliance being ripped away for eternity. Whilst it was an awful experience, he wasn’t alone with it here. Seemingly, everyone was mourning someone, so it was easy for Horatio to blend in. A wonderful change.
News that the entire Danish royal family were dead had spread like wildfire, and in the centre of it all was Horatio. The unfortunate sole witness to the most vile murderous evening that Denmark ever experienced.
If everyone was distracted then he didn’t need to be perceived.
Existing was made easy. Or, at the very least bearable.
Admittedly, some hypocritical curiosity did nibble at him. Of course, he, who had his own share of hell, wished not to be perceived but the question of what possibly happened here was far too intriguing. Was it rude or insensitive to ask a random stranger in broken Italian precisely what was on his mind? Probably. Was the urge to know almost overpowering? Absolutely.
This mystery would remain on his mind for a little longer.
~𖤓~
The sun was beaming down, like a mildly infuriating laser. However, it was better than staying home with his Uncle. Of course, Benvolio knew that he was also grieving and that he shouldn’t take too much of what Lord Montague says to heart, but it was just so hard. The constant criticism was cruel, even if it was intended to be care.
That’s why Benvolio decided to tidy himself up and go for a quiet walk through Verona. Quiet, while the correct word did not account for the eternal stares that felt almost as oppressive as the continuous onslaught of complaints. A calming moment was just a myth whether he went. Verona was merely an eternal punishment for the unfortunate fate of being born a Montague. Still trapped in this petty war an entire month after the armistice. The effects would be forever. The unchangeable facts he despised.
No one blamed him. No one could. He was one of the few consistently against ruthless murder and superfluous violence. Though,the guilt still stabbed him deeply, perhaps if he was more persistent then this wouldn’t have unfolded so horribly. Maybe there was a universe in which Mercutio hadn’t died in his arms, and this walk could be done hand in hand, full of past smiles. He felt lonely. He felt like he had failed.
Had he?
God it was eating away, like maggots on a corpse. It shouldn’t have been on him, but it was. Seemingly his peacefulness against the world.
Oddly, above all else, he felt lonely. More people than ever would acknowledge Benvolio’s presence, some would offer tentative smiles, others gifted waves. However, no-one knew how he felt. How could they? He lost everything so quickly, a flash, all that remained was an angry shell of his uncle.
The street’s heat was oppressive: binding the good; the bad, all into a horrific mush. Every memory. Blended into the fiery pit of hell.
Honestly, Benvolio almost found it hard to focus on the streets in front of him. He only had one goal. To find some sweet gelato as he deserved some retribution for the awful hand god dealt to him. So cold, it may be enough to take him straight to heaven.
Unfortunately, the divine hadn’t finished tormenting him. The line for the stall was spanning at least half an hour. He weighed his options: melting or heading home to his uncle. The choice was obvious, as he joined the end. Realistically, Benvolio could’ve cut to the front with minimal complaint - people already pitied him enough after everything - but preying on their kindness, albeit tempting, was wrong.
How could a city so depressed be so addicted to gelato?
Ahead was a studious looking man. Probably not much older than himself. Quiet. An aura of pain radiated into the surroundings. One far too familiar. That in itself wasn’t odd. Smiling and Verona weren’t particularly two things associated with one another. However, something here felt different. Perhaps it was the way the mysterious man didn’t even try to hide the despair present on his face, or the fact he seemed to stand in a manner that made him as small as possible.
The analysis was too obvious, as the man could feel the staring coming from Benvolio. As he turned they finally met each other's eyes. The solidarity of silent grief and pain accumulating in a mutual, tentative understanding.
Two sorrowful men, both alike in grief,
In cold Verona, where we lay our scene,
After blood broke to tragedies so brief
When herds of violence made souls unclean.
From forth the broken hearts and heavy tears
Emerges a pair of unlikely close friends;
Whose torment, that has lasted less than years
Doth lead them to find peace, at their worlds' ends.
The awful hell, a city of lost love
And with the ending of insolent rage
Leads to coping, morphing into a dove
And flying out of the old grief-filled cage;
May they learn of the love that can contend
With death that always threatens to suspend.