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Benvolio watched as the pale red liquid swished in his chalice, the sharp edge of its chipped metal stem gnawing at his finger. Keep his head down, and leave when Romeo seemed to have his spirits lifted. That was all he was to do.
This gambit was his idea, after all. He knew Mercutio had only gone for the fun of it, the thrill of the situation itself. But Romeo…
He glanced at his cousin in the distance, moving so hesitantly, so sheepishly, as he ventured the bustling, torch-lit halls. He could not fault him for his stilted movement. He himself stood where the torches' light only swept past him, and fixed his gaze on the red in his palms because he knew those adorned in its same hue—who had been at the other end of his rapier's blade just hours earlier—now circled him, prepared to pounce. He would have to accompany Romeo soon.
Mercutio must have taken note of his tense figure. "What ever could be the matter, dear Benvolio? Afraid you will rise from a dip with a Capulets' rapier thrust in your back?"
Benvolio suppressed a groan at his friend's carelessness and the vulgar motion that accompanied it, actions void of dignity as desperately as his speech begged for subtlety. "No, it is merely the wine's lack of red that troubles me rather than the color's abundance around us."
Mercutio brushed his sarcasm off like a speck of dirt on his shoulder. “True, true…” He released an exaggerated sigh. “‘Tis a shame, for shined silver to be slandered by such lackluster liquor.”
The slur of his tongue and swaying of his shoulders betrayed him, and Benvolio knew Mercutio had neither the clarity nor reason to navigate this budding battlefield.
Mercutio nearly collapsed onto Benvolio as he draped his arm across his shoulders. "Come now, mi carissime, tell me not that your soles are crafted from your cousin's. For he that does not dance invites greater inquiry than he who is adorned in faux crimson."
Benvolio nearly jolted at the address. Of course Mercutio's tongue, free of restraint as his jaw dripped with liquor, would choose the perfect phrase to fluster him. He’d heard the man's nearly unintelligible drunken soliloquies before, but that speech, that tempting poetry, revealed he was toeing the line between coherence and complete inebriation.
He took a sip of his wine in a shoddy attempt to conceal the rosy tint on his face peeking out from beneath his mask, a dry chuckle at his hypocrisy echoing within the hollow confines of the chalice. Scoffing, he set his cup aside, placing it atop scarlet tablecloth to be lost among the rest of the dishes. He’d already drunk just enough to appear as if he was enjoying himself, with the short, small sips he’d learned to take as he entertained nobles at the Montagues’ house. Any more and he’d stutter, garble his words—he could never be as eloquent as Mercutio whilst under the influence—which proved useful in neither past negotiations nor present survival.
Mercutio's chalice, red dribbling along the sides and pooling in his palm, shone in Benvolio's peripherals. He reached for it before Mercutio stumbled off the line into intoxication. "Well, I suppose my lead soles shall keep you upright once that wine makes light of your dancing shoe-"
He must have leaned too far, too suddenly, as Mercutio yanked his chalice up and out of reach. Benvolio was the one to stumble, marble floors approaching before a tug on his arm and cold splash on his chest interrupted his fall. As if he was glass, seconds away from splintering into shards at Mercutio's feet had the latter been a moment too late.
His eyes climbed to Mercutio's smirk, wine in hand still dripping from his sudden motion, though onto the marble rather than further on Benvolio's clothing.
Mercutio snickered. "My, I'd thought so little of your enthusiasm, dear Benvolio. But beginning with a dip?"
His response was a wry smile as he rose, the turned heads of the other guests filling the edges of his vision. “Well, I… I thank your swift action. Now I pray, good Mercutio, keep your senses sharp and-”
Mercutio’s gulps as he downed his chalice in seemingly a single swig silenced him, and he remained grasping for speech as his friend grasped his discarded cup on the table, finishing it off as well for good measure.
Mercutio clicked his tongue. “Terrible, terrible wine indeed. Though I s’ppose that did not stop you from…” And Benvolio swore his friend’s simper faltered, as he laid his eyes on the blot of crimson at his chest. “Well, ‘tis ebony. ‘Tis… t’will be hidden.”
Was this the first line of his drunken soliloquy?
Benvolio's head swiveled as he assessed the room. Losing his footing, tossing around each other's names… they couldn't afford even one lingering, skeptical glare. If any Capulet kinsmen, hell, if Tybalt Capulet himself, were to draw right then and there, what were they to do? What were they armed with to be able to even parry, a chalice bearing a chipped stem? Benvolio would readily parry with his forearm, shield with his chest, but could that be enough for Mercutio and Romeo to leave with their lives? And Romeo- where was he, had he truly lost track of him so easily? God, how could he be so careless-
"-Benvolio?"
He hadn't heard a word of what preceded his name, whipping his head to be met with Mercutio's outstretched hand.
And he wanted to scoff again, but when he threw his gaze to Mercutio’s eyes, flashing glimmers of blue beneath white ceramic, something struck his chest and he knew, somehow, that this would be his one and only chance to do something like this. That for just a moment they should be bound together like this.
He didn’t know how it happened, but he found his hand in Mercutio’s, the latter's icy fingertips stunning him to clarity and quieting his racing thoughts as he tugged him behind a wall and through a curtain.
And for the first time that night, Benvolio breathed. It was not a complete relief, but he took in the cool air of the space, the oasis, the momentary sanctuary. Perhaps now they were out of sight; safe, for the time being, from Capulet blades.
But was that truly why he'd run with Mercutio so eagerly?
The wine must have caught up to him.
He was never one to act on impulse. Mercutio had always done enough of that for the both of them, and yet, he hadn't let go of his friend's hand.
They hit the floor, their own tiny, dark corner, the prying eye of a torch's flames their only witness. Though the musicians' instruments declared a slow waltz with their violins and voices seeping into the room, the two's movements lent themselves to anything but methodical formalities.
Stumbling about in the dark, their grip on the other's hands never loosened through every heavy swing, every frantic step which landed on the tip of another's sole—lead or not—every so often. They were fools and they knew it, laughing under their breaths at each misstep and audacious movement.
Mercutio feigned a disappointing cadence. "Tsk, tsk, Benvolio. One would think that one so dearly acquainted with banquets could manage himself on a ballroom floor."
Benvolio creased an eyebrow. "And who between us treats floats between festivities like market stalls?"
A cackle erupted from his side. "And you believe this… be a true festivity?"
The curtain swished in his peripherals and he stilled, head whipping to face the drapes as his gaze was fixed on them for any further movement. And though he attempted to return to pace, the same instincts flared again, over and over, triggered by so much as a raised voice or clacking footsteps.
He turned to face his dancing partner upon a nudge at his shoulder. "Oh, I- I'm sorry, Mercutio-"
Mercutio slid his mask to his forehead, pearly ceramic weighing down on wispy blond rather than concealing brilliant blue. "Just keep your eyes on me."
Benvolio mirrored the gesture, his foil mask resting atop a bed of brown curls. "Then I pray, do not restrain yourself for my sake."
The edges of Mercutio’s eyes crinkled while he returned a toothy grin, as if accepting a challenge.
They moved two beats ahead of the fading tempo, yet they only cared whether they could swing faster, step more nimbly. The tips of their soles squeaked beneath the other’s, yet they had no time to wince as they moved onto the next action. A dart to the left, then a shaky return to the right. A half-spin that would never complete its circle as Benvolio nearly stumbled forward once more, but a grip on Mercutio’s shoulder grounded him, if almost tipping over alongside him.
Yet despite his stupidity, despite all this absurdity, Benvolio laughed. It was stifled, at first, muffled as he bit his tongue, but the glint in Mercutio’s eyes was its own challenge and he released them from their hushed prison in a burst of joy. And so he laughed and he stepped and they swung and they danced-
Mercutio stilled in his arms, and Benvolio slowly drew him back.
A beat of hesitant silence, then Mercutio chuckled, though it seemed half-meant. "Always despised dips, did I tell you that, Benvolio?"
Benvolio, having stilled himself, though with his hand remaining at Mercutio's back, only mechanically shook his head in response.
"I do, I confess. Complete weightlessness, m' very life in 'nother's hands… no, no that won't do. Though, with you…"
With one more abrupt swing, Mercutio pulled Benvolio close.
They began to spin, as if the incomplete dip hadn't happened, feet hesitantly shuffling side to side as they followed the new rhythm. The other's rhythm. Their hearts beat with what they did not speak, professing their deepest ballads from their chests.
Until finally, Mercutio broke the silence, resting his chin on Benvolio's shoulder and whispering one thing, one word, that Benvolio was convinced he would not have heard had the man been any farther. "Why?"
"Wh… why what?"
"Why, everything. My wine, a'top your clothes. Mine frigid hand, freezing yours. Th' path I… I amble on so aimlessly, yet you follow as if t'was paved. Why… why my life, tresspassing unto yours?"
Benvolio wondered if Mercutio could hear the soft smile in his voice. "You- you trespass not, fātum meum, m… mea vīta. And I'd- I’d accompany you to Dante's erroneous wood e'er you be set on it."
Benvolio couldn't tell how long they carried on that way, stepping to the beats of the other's heart which drowned the distant melodies, their breaths at each other's ears the only ballads they needed.
Their heavy, swaying bodies eventually forced a surrender and he found Mercutio at his side, staggering.
"Come now, Mercutio, or I fear you-"
"-shall faint."
How had it come to this?
He'd seen the glint in Mercutio's eye; his acceptance, no, his insistence on a challenge, swings of blades and dances of death. And that flash of blue was fading now. Why, why did it all happen as it did? Why couldn't Mercutio have simply been unsteady by liquor rather than lightheaded by flowing blood?
Mercutio staggered at his side again now, arm swung across his shoulders. The green of Benvolio's cloth was splotched by another crimson, darker and thicker than wine.
But still, Benvolio was drunk on panic, inebriated by fear, intoxicated by the iron scent that dripped from Mercutio’s waist.
His ears ringed as his mind flooded, regret after regret and sorrow after sorrow. He couldn't save him, he'd failed the second he failed to do much of anything, leaving his blade sheathed and allowing his lead soles to trip him. And now he was slipping through his fingers, blood pooling in both their hands as his breaths grew quicker by the second.
A shift in weight startled him as Mercutio stumbled, toeing the line between consciousness and collapse, Benvolio barely managing to hold him up with shaking arms. Though, he did not draw him back, and Mercutio had not stilled. Instead, he'd leaned farther back, perhaps taking in his final view of the sky. Perhaps grasping at any air, any life, he could cling onto. And he must have joked about performing a dip, with Benvolio of all people, a dying jest drowned by the deafening sobs of Benvolio's heart. But strangely enough, the only words that had seeped through were, "I'm glad… with you," and he could not fathom how he could have ever been.
And then Benvolio saw it. The crimson streaming from the dark blot at his ribs and dripping onto the cobblestone. And he'd seen enough duels, comforted enough men on their deathbeds, to know he only had so many breaths and so many heartbeats left. He knew he was about to be holding a dead man. Benvolio had failed and Mercutio was dying and he would never hear his laugh, never dance another song with him, never get to taste of wine and pleasure and love-
Benvolio was never one to act on impulse. Mercutio had always done enough of that for the both of them.
So he couldn’t be sure how exactly his dagger became wedged between his ribs, binding the two of them to one fate.
He glanced down, watching the deep red dribble down his torso. No more ebony to hide behind. Except Mercutio's, of course, his blood laying atop Benvolio's on his garments; a concoction of death brewed by desperate hands. He’d stabbed behind Mercutio’s back, shattered his trust the moment he’d been given it. And perhaps those shards pained him more than the steel he’d slandered with his blood.
Romeo would lose them both. He would be the only one to waste tears on Benvolio. He’d always been that way, heart too tender for the world, sentiment clouding his mind like a halo.
He hated himself.
Oh, how he hated himself.
And he knew hatred well. He knew the hate between the Montagues and the Capulets. He knew his own contempt for death, for fate, for hatred itself, from stealing everyone he had ever held dear. Funny, then, how its final victim was the only he had never cared for.
So why should his last moments be tinged with love? Was he truly worthy of a glimpse of Heaven before he fell to flame?
And how far could he truly follow Mercutio through that erroneous wood? Perhaps he would accompany him in death and no farther, for he'd fall and Mercutio would fly. Lead soles and dancing shoes.
He gasped for air while he sheathed his blade and finally lifted Mercutio up, the two staggering as if mirrors as he let him down against the brick of an alleyway, hoping he could cling to life for just a little longer. His chuckle at his own hypocrisy, for trying so desperately to prolong Mercutio's life whilst cutting his short, echoed within the confines of the narrow space. Through his own blurring vision, he noted a sprig of lilac at Mercutio's side, peeking out from a crack in the concrete. Their blood alike streamed to its soil.
And it seemed to have just bloomed, too. What a shame.
"So… so much red… courtesy of yours truly, hm?" Mercutio mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Benvolio let the warm crimson pool in his palms. He squeezed his eyes shut as he shattered the shards further. "Y-yes."
"'M sorry."
"N-no, Mercutio, please, don't-"
He pried his eyes open, met with Mercutio's dazed, yet intent stare. His mind spun from his own blood loss, yet Benvolio knew better than to scoff at his friend's sharpness. He reached to the back of his neck, staining blond with their blood on his fingertips. His voice was shallow, his breaths sporadic, but he only begged, "Just- just keep your eyes on me."
And he searched for that spark of blue, even as it dulled like a dying flame. His gaze lingered, and Benvolio failed, once more, to quiet his own fears.
Please, Mercutio, please don't think of me on your deathbed.
So he pulled him close, and their heartbeats did the talking again. Benvolio hated how his hands ran cold against Mercutio, when he'd always warmed his friend's eternally frigid fingertips. Their hands both would remain icy, now; limp and pale but at the very least intertwined. Perhaps his blood would provide Mercutio with a parting warmth. He deserved that, at least.
He wondered if Mercutio could hear the quiver in his voice, as he lied a final time. "Remember, I- I will accompany you, w- whichever path may you wander on-"
"I… 'm not-"
"It matters not. So rest, mea vīta.”
And they hit the floor together, in their own narrow, dark alleyway, the prying eye of the sun’s setting ray their only witness.