Based on the following prompt by otpprompts on tumblr:
Imagine that Person A isn't normally the emotional type. One night, however, they show up at Person B's place, eyes red from crying. Turns out they had a vivid nightmare about Person B dying, and they wanted to make sure their friend/crush/datefriend/whatever was okay. Person B is touched by this rare display of emotion from A, and they let A stay with them for the night.
Please note that all editing was done by myself and therefore it's entirely possible that I missed a couple of errors. Finding a beta-reader is on my to-do-list but unfortunately I didn't have the chance to start looking yet.
As for the fic itself, I am pleased to note that I regret nothing but my arbitrary punctuation, hahaha.
Furthermore, check out my tumblr if you're interested. The URL's FantasticallyFoolishIdea there as well.
The sword might as well have pierced Benvolio's own chest, for pain hits him all the same. Everywhere he looks, he sees red; spilling on the floor, soaking cloth and soiling shoes.
Distantly, something is pulling him towards the commotion in front of him, still he finds himself unable to move. His knees tremble but the muscles in his legs won't obey him.
A dull thud.
A body, having stood upright for too long yet hitting the ground too fast, shocks him out of his stupor.
Quick yet unsteady feet carry Benvolio across the square.
Mercutio has fallen to his knees but his grip is still steady when Benvolio offers him hand, arm and soul to hold on to.
"Help me into some house, Benvolio."
And maybe it's the sound of his name, harsh and urgent, far removed from its familiar lilt – Benvolio's body reacts long before his mind catches up. Somehow they are moving. Somehow Benvolio drags him away. Somehow they come to a rest.
They must have, because now there are walls around them and a roof above them.
He cannot remember entering. But then again, he cannot remember laying Mercutio down on a table either. At this point, he isn't sure if he had ever picked him up at all.
On the other hand, he sharply remembers the feeling of hot blood seeping into his shirt, running down his hands and clinging to his lashes, until he can't even tell whether it's the blood stinging in his eyes or the tears, that seem to fall ceaselessly. He remembers horrified whispers of bystanders that lurk around every corner. And finally, he remembers Mercutio's fingers, alternating between gripping hard enough to bruise and soothing caresses to brush away the ashen taste of fear tainting the air.
Memories are hard to hold when he's caught up right in the middle. Even if he feels isolated from the events, as if they happened long ago, to someone else in some other life.
When a dying man's heart-rending confession finally comes to light, a second sword bores into Benvolio's chest, shattering what little had been left to break.
Realisation hits Benvolio the moment his eyes snap open. It was a dream. His pillow is wet, his vision blurry and the headache he feels developing has him curse under his breath. The darkness of his chamber does little to alleviate his disorientation.
A dream, he reminds himself, a simple dream. Nothing more. A dream, repeatedly, until his breathing eventually returns to normal.
His face still feels hot to the touch and his eyes are still stinging when his vision finally clears enough to make out the edges of his surroundings. It's far from the first time nightmares forced him awake in middle of the night. Nonetheless, the dream's phantom still haunts Benvolio.
Time passes until a glowering sigh escapes into the night and Benvolio accepts that sleep is evading him for the night. The tight feeling in his chest denies him all peace and quiet.
Even without a candle illuminating the room, getting dressed hardly poses a challenge. Within minutes the shutters flutter open and Benvolio is on his way.
Climbing the balcony proves easy as ever. The ivy always grows thicker on the east side of the palace, Mercutio makes sure of that and with cousins like Romeo, scaling walls, fences and balconies is a skill almost crucial to survival.
Usually Mercutio is the one roaming alleys and make mischief in the small hours of the morning before either chance or fancy eventually direct him to the Montague residence. Contrarily, Benvolio can't see the appeal of sneaking around other people's property quite the way Mercutio does. But years of exposition to Mercutio's questionable antics had done away with most of his qualms. Especially tonight. Some small reassurance that Benvolio had merely overeacted and his worries shall be diminished.
The window creaks as it opens, but he pays it no mind. The hinges had been in need of greasing for years now. Plus, being the light sleeper that he is, Mercutio would wake up anyway.
As soon as Benvolio's feet hit the ground, the covers stir and a messy shock of hair emerges.
"'mvolio? wha'ssat?"
Mercutio's voice comes out gruff and thick with sleep but even so Benvolio immediately feels a weight lift off his chest.
"Nothing, good Mercutio. Sleep is proving hard to find."
Slowly, Mercutio drags himself into an upright position, beckoning Benvolio to come closer. His squint tells Benvolio all he needs to know. Right now, Mercutio is contemplating if the situation at hand required his full wakefulness.
Benvolio quietly slips off his shoes and closes the distance. Larger windows make Mercutio's chamber noticeably brighter than his own. Passing them, Benvolio suddenly becomes self-conscious of the miserable sight he must make.
Mercutio's eyes finally clear but he refrains from commenting on his friend's dishevelled state. He simply scoots closer to the wall and lifts the blanket, letting Benvolio slip inside.
"You're upset," he whispers eventually, shuffling until he is pressed against Benvolio's back and has an arm around him.
"A dream."
"Dreams are nothing-"
"-but children of an idle brain," Benvolio finishes mildly. "I know, i know."
Mercutio smiles against the back of Benvolio's neck, neatly trimmed stubble tickling the soft skin there.
"And yet you are upset."
"The dream-"
"Vain fantasy, you mean."
"It was", he pauses. "It felt real, frightening." The right words evade him. "You died. Right in front of me. And I could do naught but watch."
The silence settling in the room quickly turns oppressive. Mercutio, for all his usual magniloquence, can't find words fit to offer solace. Under his arm, he feels Benvolio's muscles contracting irregularly, failing to reign in the fine tremors wrecking his lean frame. Carefully, he extracts his left hand to soothingly brush his fingers through Benvolio's hair instead.
"Hey", Mercutio mumbles as he pulls him closer. "Peace, Benvolio." Tenderly, he nuzzles his friend's neck again, trailing soft butterfly kisses along Benvolio's pale skin. "'m staying. Always."
This time, the silence feels like comfort.
Quietly, Escalus closed the door to his late nephew's chamber. Earlier, a servant had alerted him to suspicious noises inside the room. With a wave of dismissal he released the guards that had come with him. Uninvited as the visitor might have been, a threat he was certainly not. At this rate, the prince would probably soon get used to windows creaking and feet pattering late at night.
A common scoundrel probably would have been thrown into some dungeon's most remote corner for breaking into the royal palace in such fashion. But Escalus did not have the heart to take action against young Benvolio. Not when the tragedy that had befallen the greatest families of Verona was barely a month past and everyone was still in mourning.
Escalus ran a hand through his greying hair and shook his head in dejection. Mercutio and Benvolio had been friends for many long years. He knew that boy, for better or worse. The prince could tell that he had been neither eating nor sleeping enough over the past few weeks. Most days the boy barely even spoke.
A face so young like Benvolio's shouldn't bear lines that seemed so old.
Nearby, a clock tower struck the full hour, reminding Escalus of the time and moreover the impropriety of the situation at hand. In reality, the queerness of the scene had ceased fazing him weeks ago. In the morning he'd send for old Montague to come and pick up his nephew.
Briefly, he contemplated going back inside and waking Benvolio himself to avoid the inevitable mess come morning. Unlike the window, the door opened without a sound.
In the end, Escalus decided against waking him.
Curled up in his nephew's bed, hidden beneath the heavy covers, Benvolio looked peaceful; probably dreaming dreams of joyful days that didn't last and a future ruined by the shadows of the past.
Rubbing at his eyes in frustration, Escalus exited the room.
Verona's youth had had a lot of potential. Wicked wits, fiery passions, hearts of gold - swallowed by some centuries-old strife.
No, Escalus would not be the one to drag him from blissful oblivion. Soon enough, young Benvolio would wake on his own, and the prince would not be witness to that moment.
His friends were the ones entombed, but any fool could see that Benvolio was the one dead.