Title: Love Lies Bleeding
Rating: PG for slash and death and...stuff.
Pairing: Mercutio/Benvolio
Spoilers: Everyone knows how Romeo and Juliet goes, don't they?
Disclaimer: I wish I was Shakespeare, but I'm not, so these characters are not mine. *sigh* They're his, and as for whether or not he'd approve of what I'm doing to them, no one will ever know.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction in at least a year, and my first Shakespeare fanfiction to boot. I was in a production of Romeo and Juliet recently (I played the random Veronan person who walked by in the background a lot), and my pondering backstage during some of the scenes led to this. Anyway, this is dedicated to (whoa, I've never done a dedication before) Jacob and Jeremy, even though they'll never read this...you guys rocked as Benvolio and Mercutio, and I'll never be able to think of those two characters the same way again (especially Jacob...Benvolio in this story is based on him, and I do hope I got his eye color right). Also for Stephanie, the Mercutio to my Benvolio...if it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have written this in the first place.
But enough of me babbling, here we go.
Love Lies Bleeding
Benvolio knew why he was the first one Mercutio had reached for, after he received the wound.
He knew, and yet somehow this surprised him most of all, more than anything that boiling hot day in Verona. That it was he, and not Romeo, that Mercutio had reached out to, had wanted to have beside him during his final moments. In hindsight, Benvolio supposed he had never truly realized how much Mercutio had loved him...and how much he had returned this love. Hadn't realized, that is, until it was too late.
And now Mercutio was wounded, perhaps mortally so. In his last hope, he had called for a surgeon, and all were praying that one would come and he be spared, but Mercutio knew, deep down, that there was no chance for him. He had always been a realist.
Mercutio had pushed Romeo away. "A plague on both your houses!" he spat out, both at him and at the already fled Tybalt, and renouncing both sides, he instead leant on Benvolio for support. Benvolio, who had always seen how utterly pointless the feud was, though he himself a Montague.
"What, art thou hurt?" It seemed like a stupid question to ask, but Benvolio wanted some reassurance, any, that Mercutio might live. He had never been such a realist.
Always the joker, always the clown, the fool, Mercutio-despite his frighteningly painful wound-laughed. "Ay, ay, a scratch, but 'tis enough." He raised his fist above his head in a dramatic proclamation. "Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man!" Benvolio merely shook his head, pressing out the reality...no, no...
Mercutio had barely gotten this declaration out before stumbling and falling again, and this time Romeo rushed to his aid and the two of them helped the wounded man to a bench. "Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much." Romeo, like Benvolio, had always been somewhat of an idealist too.
Mercutio bit back the cries of pain that any lesser man would be making were he in such a condition. "I am peppered, I warrant, for this world...a plague o' both your houses!" he cursed again, pointing a lone accusing finger at Romeo before doubling over with pain and then falling backwards into Benvolio's arms, the arms that had caught him so many times in life and love and at that moment must catch him in death.
It is said that when one is dying, the whole of one's life replays before one's eyes. He knew not how it was for Mercutio, but in these final moments on the streets of Verona, it happened for Benvolio, for a part of him was dying too. It was his heart that had received the wound, not his physical self, but the pain was no less.
In that instant, he recalled scenes from his life with Mercutio, brief as it had been...their first meeting, in a schoolhouse in Verona, whereupon brave, 8-year-old Mercutio had come to the 7-year-old Benvolio's rescue, when he was being bandied about by bigger, older boys. Eleven years later and still this kindness was not forgotten.
The next scene that stood out in his mind was one from over a year earlier, that night when first they gave themselves up onto each other. Mercutio had, after tossing out a few of his usual bawdy jokes, placed his hand upon Benvolio's shoulder and moved as if to kiss the younger man. At first, Benvolio had shied away, even though this was truly the touch he had always wanted, but Mercutio convinced him otherwise, in that...that _way_ he had of doing such things.
"Gentle Benvolio," he had said, guiding a loose strand of Benvolio's raven black hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear, "grant me but one kiss. Just one, and then look me in mine eyes and tell me--for this is the truth--that to kiss a man is no different than the same kiss would be with a maid. Wilt thou suffer me to do such a thing?"
Unable to do anything else, Benvolio had nodded mutely, and thereupon closed his eyes and allowed Mercutio to kiss him. It was quite a chaste kiss--if Mercutio had had ulterior motives at the time, he didn't make these known-but nevertheless, once he had more or less come down from the initial dizzying heights of the mind the kiss had brought him to, Benvolio couldn't help but to respond, reaching up uncertainly to lay one hand on the crook of Mercutio's neck as still they kissed.
Finally, the kiss broke. The two sets of eyes met--both blue, although Mercutio's were the deep blue of a darkening twilight sky, while Benvolio's much paler--and Mercutio arched both eyebrows in an expectant gesture. "And?"
"No different, you said?" was Benvolio's breathless reply. "Nay, better...oh, Mercutio, much better by far."
Benvolio had been the one to initiate the second kiss...and trust to it, this kiss had none of the chastity of the original one.
His last memory before he could be jerked back to rude reality was one of but a few days ago. It was after the party at rich Capulet's house, and himself and Mercutio had, he admitted, partaken of a little too much of the wine. Arms slung around each other, they stumbled up and down Verona's streets, calling for Romeo. For old Tiberio Montague had entrusted his nephew to look after Romeo, and Benvolio knew his uncle would be none too pleased if Romeo did not come back to bed that night. The old man worried...yes, he worried far too much.
Falling upon the field outside Capulet's orchard walls, they had laughed and joked for a while before finally conceding onto each other that no, they would probably not find Romeo this night. "For blind is his love, and best befits the dark," Benvolio had said, figuring Romeo had met some maid at the party and taken a liking to her. He would not be back at his father's house until very late the next morning, to be sure, if that was the case.
Mercutio had stood, and helped his companion to his feet before crying out to the open air, the sky: "Romeo, good night! This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep." Then, turning to Benvolio, that old Mercutian smirk returned to his face, and he waggled his eyebrows at the younger man. "Come, shall we go?" No objections from Benvolio, of course, and they staggered off again to find a more comfortable bed than the field to spend the night.
Benvolio's memories were brought back to earth the sound of Mercutio railing against Tybalt. "A braggart, a rogue, a villain that fights by the book of arithmetic!" he roared, in the general direction that Tybalt had fled.
Suddenly, all of Benvolio's desperate thoughts could focus on nothing but Tybalt. He wanted to draw out his sword and hunt down the villain who had taken his very life away from him. To shed the Capulet kinsman's blood, to make him hurt as Mercutio had. Gentle Benvolio, peaceful Benvolio, now wanted nothing more than to take Tybalt's life. How dare the Prince of Cats walk free when Mercutio, who thought only to defend his friends against Tybalt's fiery assault, lay dying? Benvolio almost stood, but then he remembered that Mercutio was still there, in his arms, bleeding so much that it stained Benvolio's shirt, but he didn't care. To leave now would be futile and a waste of his energy, just as Mercutio's ranting was wasting his last breath. The hate would waste both of them until both were spent. Besides, he couldn't leave Mercutio. No, Benvolio decided, there was not a force in the world that could make him leave Mercutio's side right then.
Mercutio's eyes, before squeezed shut with pain, now opened and turned fiercely on Romeo. "Why the devil came you between us?" he demanded. "I was hurt under your arm."
"I thought all for the best," Romeo answered helplessly, and indeed he did; Romeo always thought for the best. As much as he hurt, and as much as he realized that Romeo was partially to blame, Benvolio couldn't help but to forgive Romeo. It was something in his nature that made him disagree with Mercutio's harsh last words.
Again Mercutio reached for his love. "Benvolio--help me into this house, Benvolio," he begged, clinging to his old friend's shoulder to help him stand. Benvolio led the dying man into the nearest building, but halfway there Mercutio stopped, turned around, and faced Romeo with one last curse: "Your houses!" And then the two disappeared into the building.
The closest building happened to be a tavern, and given that all the patrons were out witnessing the fight, it was completely empty. Now Benvolio understood-Mercutio's purpose for having Benvolio carry him into this private place was so that they could share his very last moments without interruption. This had been another of Mercutio's ways: he had definitely had a way of getting rid of a crowd so that he and Benvolio could be alone together. Benvolio only wished the price of this moment didn't have to be so great. That the price didn't have to be the life of his friend, his companion, his...dare he say it? Dare he admit to himself, even though he and Mercutio had never used the word with each other? He dared: his lover. Mercutio had been his lover, and now he was dying.
Checking so that he knew for certain they were the only ones there, Benvolio helped Mercutio to an empty table and set him upon the bench, propped up, and sat before him so that if nothing else, they could read over each other's faces once more before Mercutio passed.
Mercutio looked up at him and smiled. "Benvolio..." Then he swayed dangerously, and threatened to fall backwards onto the bench, but Benvolio caught him just in time and pulled him into his embrace, almost accidentally.
"Mercutio," he whispered into the other man's neck. "Mercutio...please..." he said, although he didn't know quite what he was pleading for; there was nothing more Mercutio could do.
Mercutio drew back a bit to look into Benvolio's eyes once more. "Benvolio, you must believe me," he said, speaking quickly and urgently, as though he somehow knew he only had a certain amount of time left. "When I cursed the house of Montague, I didn't mean..." He reached up his hand, looking as if it took him much effort just to do that, and brushed that one stray lock of black-as-blackest-night hair out of Benvolio's face, just the same way he had that evening a year ago. "Oh, my love, I didn't mean you. I could never wish such a wish on you."
Benvolio dared not speak, lest the tears come pouring forth; instead he just nodded. The look of understanding in his eyes showed Mercutio he believed him.
"Thou knowst I am to die," Mercutio went on, speaking bluntly now and leaving off the humor he had used to sugarcoat his words around the young Romeo.
Benvolio couldn't keep it in anymore, and he began with wavering voice, "Mercutio, you--"
Mercutio silenced him with a gentle touch of the tips of his fingers over Benvolio's lips. "Then let you know that I loved you better than all the world, and love you still, better than any other man or woman in this...this purgatory of a town," he spat out with contempt in the direction of the door, where outside he could hear the shouts of the townspeople.
"Peace, Mercutio," Benvolio murmured, supporting the other man in his arms.
"No, no," Mercutio protested, taking Benvolio by his shoulders and holding him out in front of him. "Embrace me not, for this last I wish to say to your face, and not to the air over your shoulder.
"You, Benvolio...you always knew when something wrong was afoot, you always knew best. Would I had listened to you from the beginning...then perhaps this afternoon's quarrel would never have taken place, and we would not be here now.
"But here we remain, and this..."--Mercutio removed his hand from his side, so that for one instant his deep, wide, and still flowing wound could be seen before he covered it up again--"this remains.
"I only ask that thou forget me not, my good Benvolio...and that thou remember'st my love for thee. Weep but little for me, and until that day when perchance you and I shall meet in heaven, keep with you this kiss, and may no man or maid kiss you thus again until that day." And with that, Mercutio gave Benvolio his final, bittersweet kiss, breathing his last breath into the other's mouth before slumping into his arms.
Benvolio lifted his fingers to his mouth and brought them away...and saw blood. Now his hands had Mercutio's blood on them, in a literal sense, almost as surely as Mercutio's blood was on Tybalt's hands. He certainly hoped that Mercutio's decree would come true and that no man or maid would kiss him again like that, leaving their life behind on his lips.
He clutched Mercutio's body tighter to his chest. "Mercutio...thou fool," he said bitterly, rocking back and forth. "To die and leave me, ere I could tell thee that I did love thee too."
At last, he lay Mercutio back down upon the bench, the tears flowing freely now, and he took one more look at his lover's face before burying his own face in Mercutio's chest and sobbing.
For he loved Mercutio as Mercutio loved him, better than anything in the world, a love that was never spoken during Mercutio's lifetime. Benvolio had been the first one Mercutio had reached out for as he fell, and he was the last as well.
And now Mercutio had left him. Now was he alone.
Rating: PG for slash and death and...stuff.
Pairing: Mercutio/Benvolio
Spoilers: Everyone knows how Romeo and Juliet goes, don't they?
Disclaimer: I wish I was Shakespeare, but I'm not, so these characters are not mine. *sigh* They're his, and as for whether or not he'd approve of what I'm doing to them, no one will ever know.
Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction in at least a year, and my first Shakespeare fanfiction to boot. I was in a production of Romeo and Juliet recently (I played the random Veronan person who walked by in the background a lot), and my pondering backstage during some of the scenes led to this. Anyway, this is dedicated to (whoa, I've never done a dedication before) Jacob and Jeremy, even though they'll never read this...you guys rocked as Benvolio and Mercutio, and I'll never be able to think of those two characters the same way again (especially Jacob...Benvolio in this story is based on him, and I do hope I got his eye color right). Also for Stephanie, the Mercutio to my Benvolio...if it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have written this in the first place.
But enough of me babbling, here we go.
Love Lies Bleeding
Benvolio knew why he was the first one Mercutio had reached for, after he received the wound.
He knew, and yet somehow this surprised him most of all, more than anything that boiling hot day in Verona. That it was he, and not Romeo, that Mercutio had reached out to, had wanted to have beside him during his final moments. In hindsight, Benvolio supposed he had never truly realized how much Mercutio had loved him...and how much he had returned this love. Hadn't realized, that is, until it was too late.
And now Mercutio was wounded, perhaps mortally so. In his last hope, he had called for a surgeon, and all were praying that one would come and he be spared, but Mercutio knew, deep down, that there was no chance for him. He had always been a realist.
Mercutio had pushed Romeo away. "A plague on both your houses!" he spat out, both at him and at the already fled Tybalt, and renouncing both sides, he instead leant on Benvolio for support. Benvolio, who had always seen how utterly pointless the feud was, though he himself a Montague.
"What, art thou hurt?" It seemed like a stupid question to ask, but Benvolio wanted some reassurance, any, that Mercutio might live. He had never been such a realist.
Always the joker, always the clown, the fool, Mercutio-despite his frighteningly painful wound-laughed. "Ay, ay, a scratch, but 'tis enough." He raised his fist above his head in a dramatic proclamation. "Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man!" Benvolio merely shook his head, pressing out the reality...no, no...
Mercutio had barely gotten this declaration out before stumbling and falling again, and this time Romeo rushed to his aid and the two of them helped the wounded man to a bench. "Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much." Romeo, like Benvolio, had always been somewhat of an idealist too.
Mercutio bit back the cries of pain that any lesser man would be making were he in such a condition. "I am peppered, I warrant, for this world...a plague o' both your houses!" he cursed again, pointing a lone accusing finger at Romeo before doubling over with pain and then falling backwards into Benvolio's arms, the arms that had caught him so many times in life and love and at that moment must catch him in death.
It is said that when one is dying, the whole of one's life replays before one's eyes. He knew not how it was for Mercutio, but in these final moments on the streets of Verona, it happened for Benvolio, for a part of him was dying too. It was his heart that had received the wound, not his physical self, but the pain was no less.
In that instant, he recalled scenes from his life with Mercutio, brief as it had been...their first meeting, in a schoolhouse in Verona, whereupon brave, 8-year-old Mercutio had come to the 7-year-old Benvolio's rescue, when he was being bandied about by bigger, older boys. Eleven years later and still this kindness was not forgotten.
The next scene that stood out in his mind was one from over a year earlier, that night when first they gave themselves up onto each other. Mercutio had, after tossing out a few of his usual bawdy jokes, placed his hand upon Benvolio's shoulder and moved as if to kiss the younger man. At first, Benvolio had shied away, even though this was truly the touch he had always wanted, but Mercutio convinced him otherwise, in that...that _way_ he had of doing such things.
"Gentle Benvolio," he had said, guiding a loose strand of Benvolio's raven black hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear, "grant me but one kiss. Just one, and then look me in mine eyes and tell me--for this is the truth--that to kiss a man is no different than the same kiss would be with a maid. Wilt thou suffer me to do such a thing?"
Unable to do anything else, Benvolio had nodded mutely, and thereupon closed his eyes and allowed Mercutio to kiss him. It was quite a chaste kiss--if Mercutio had had ulterior motives at the time, he didn't make these known-but nevertheless, once he had more or less come down from the initial dizzying heights of the mind the kiss had brought him to, Benvolio couldn't help but to respond, reaching up uncertainly to lay one hand on the crook of Mercutio's neck as still they kissed.
Finally, the kiss broke. The two sets of eyes met--both blue, although Mercutio's were the deep blue of a darkening twilight sky, while Benvolio's much paler--and Mercutio arched both eyebrows in an expectant gesture. "And?"
"No different, you said?" was Benvolio's breathless reply. "Nay, better...oh, Mercutio, much better by far."
Benvolio had been the one to initiate the second kiss...and trust to it, this kiss had none of the chastity of the original one.
His last memory before he could be jerked back to rude reality was one of but a few days ago. It was after the party at rich Capulet's house, and himself and Mercutio had, he admitted, partaken of a little too much of the wine. Arms slung around each other, they stumbled up and down Verona's streets, calling for Romeo. For old Tiberio Montague had entrusted his nephew to look after Romeo, and Benvolio knew his uncle would be none too pleased if Romeo did not come back to bed that night. The old man worried...yes, he worried far too much.
Falling upon the field outside Capulet's orchard walls, they had laughed and joked for a while before finally conceding onto each other that no, they would probably not find Romeo this night. "For blind is his love, and best befits the dark," Benvolio had said, figuring Romeo had met some maid at the party and taken a liking to her. He would not be back at his father's house until very late the next morning, to be sure, if that was the case.
Mercutio had stood, and helped his companion to his feet before crying out to the open air, the sky: "Romeo, good night! This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep." Then, turning to Benvolio, that old Mercutian smirk returned to his face, and he waggled his eyebrows at the younger man. "Come, shall we go?" No objections from Benvolio, of course, and they staggered off again to find a more comfortable bed than the field to spend the night.
Benvolio's memories were brought back to earth the sound of Mercutio railing against Tybalt. "A braggart, a rogue, a villain that fights by the book of arithmetic!" he roared, in the general direction that Tybalt had fled.
Suddenly, all of Benvolio's desperate thoughts could focus on nothing but Tybalt. He wanted to draw out his sword and hunt down the villain who had taken his very life away from him. To shed the Capulet kinsman's blood, to make him hurt as Mercutio had. Gentle Benvolio, peaceful Benvolio, now wanted nothing more than to take Tybalt's life. How dare the Prince of Cats walk free when Mercutio, who thought only to defend his friends against Tybalt's fiery assault, lay dying? Benvolio almost stood, but then he remembered that Mercutio was still there, in his arms, bleeding so much that it stained Benvolio's shirt, but he didn't care. To leave now would be futile and a waste of his energy, just as Mercutio's ranting was wasting his last breath. The hate would waste both of them until both were spent. Besides, he couldn't leave Mercutio. No, Benvolio decided, there was not a force in the world that could make him leave Mercutio's side right then.
Mercutio's eyes, before squeezed shut with pain, now opened and turned fiercely on Romeo. "Why the devil came you between us?" he demanded. "I was hurt under your arm."
"I thought all for the best," Romeo answered helplessly, and indeed he did; Romeo always thought for the best. As much as he hurt, and as much as he realized that Romeo was partially to blame, Benvolio couldn't help but to forgive Romeo. It was something in his nature that made him disagree with Mercutio's harsh last words.
Again Mercutio reached for his love. "Benvolio--help me into this house, Benvolio," he begged, clinging to his old friend's shoulder to help him stand. Benvolio led the dying man into the nearest building, but halfway there Mercutio stopped, turned around, and faced Romeo with one last curse: "Your houses!" And then the two disappeared into the building.
The closest building happened to be a tavern, and given that all the patrons were out witnessing the fight, it was completely empty. Now Benvolio understood-Mercutio's purpose for having Benvolio carry him into this private place was so that they could share his very last moments without interruption. This had been another of Mercutio's ways: he had definitely had a way of getting rid of a crowd so that he and Benvolio could be alone together. Benvolio only wished the price of this moment didn't have to be so great. That the price didn't have to be the life of his friend, his companion, his...dare he say it? Dare he admit to himself, even though he and Mercutio had never used the word with each other? He dared: his lover. Mercutio had been his lover, and now he was dying.
Checking so that he knew for certain they were the only ones there, Benvolio helped Mercutio to an empty table and set him upon the bench, propped up, and sat before him so that if nothing else, they could read over each other's faces once more before Mercutio passed.
Mercutio looked up at him and smiled. "Benvolio..." Then he swayed dangerously, and threatened to fall backwards onto the bench, but Benvolio caught him just in time and pulled him into his embrace, almost accidentally.
"Mercutio," he whispered into the other man's neck. "Mercutio...please..." he said, although he didn't know quite what he was pleading for; there was nothing more Mercutio could do.
Mercutio drew back a bit to look into Benvolio's eyes once more. "Benvolio, you must believe me," he said, speaking quickly and urgently, as though he somehow knew he only had a certain amount of time left. "When I cursed the house of Montague, I didn't mean..." He reached up his hand, looking as if it took him much effort just to do that, and brushed that one stray lock of black-as-blackest-night hair out of Benvolio's face, just the same way he had that evening a year ago. "Oh, my love, I didn't mean you. I could never wish such a wish on you."
Benvolio dared not speak, lest the tears come pouring forth; instead he just nodded. The look of understanding in his eyes showed Mercutio he believed him.
"Thou knowst I am to die," Mercutio went on, speaking bluntly now and leaving off the humor he had used to sugarcoat his words around the young Romeo.
Benvolio couldn't keep it in anymore, and he began with wavering voice, "Mercutio, you--"
Mercutio silenced him with a gentle touch of the tips of his fingers over Benvolio's lips. "Then let you know that I loved you better than all the world, and love you still, better than any other man or woman in this...this purgatory of a town," he spat out with contempt in the direction of the door, where outside he could hear the shouts of the townspeople.
"Peace, Mercutio," Benvolio murmured, supporting the other man in his arms.
"No, no," Mercutio protested, taking Benvolio by his shoulders and holding him out in front of him. "Embrace me not, for this last I wish to say to your face, and not to the air over your shoulder.
"You, Benvolio...you always knew when something wrong was afoot, you always knew best. Would I had listened to you from the beginning...then perhaps this afternoon's quarrel would never have taken place, and we would not be here now.
"But here we remain, and this..."--Mercutio removed his hand from his side, so that for one instant his deep, wide, and still flowing wound could be seen before he covered it up again--"this remains.
"I only ask that thou forget me not, my good Benvolio...and that thou remember'st my love for thee. Weep but little for me, and until that day when perchance you and I shall meet in heaven, keep with you this kiss, and may no man or maid kiss you thus again until that day." And with that, Mercutio gave Benvolio his final, bittersweet kiss, breathing his last breath into the other's mouth before slumping into his arms.
Benvolio lifted his fingers to his mouth and brought them away...and saw blood. Now his hands had Mercutio's blood on them, in a literal sense, almost as surely as Mercutio's blood was on Tybalt's hands. He certainly hoped that Mercutio's decree would come true and that no man or maid would kiss him again like that, leaving their life behind on his lips.
He clutched Mercutio's body tighter to his chest. "Mercutio...thou fool," he said bitterly, rocking back and forth. "To die and leave me, ere I could tell thee that I did love thee too."
At last, he lay Mercutio back down upon the bench, the tears flowing freely now, and he took one more look at his lover's face before burying his own face in Mercutio's chest and sobbing.
For he loved Mercutio as Mercutio loved him, better than anything in the world, a love that was never spoken during Mercutio's lifetime. Benvolio had been the first one Mercutio had reached out for as he fell, and he was the last as well.
And now Mercutio had left him. Now was he alone.