A/N: So, fun fact about this story: it started out as a homework assignment while we were doing R&J in tenth-grade English, a short "write a brief paragraph about each character's thoughts in this scene." Mine… became this. Vague Mercutio/Benvolio, if you want to read it as that; I do, of course, but I'm me.
I
Blood. That was what he remembered.
The stench of blood, and victory.
He was ever worse a villain than Romeo, that damned smirking upstart who laughed in his face not because of any feud but simply because he could, and it had seemed simple, so simple, to reach beneath the idiot's arm. It was a window of opportunity, and it suddenly didn't matter that he was the Prince's kinsman—the path was clear.
Then the blood, and the thrill, and the dark realization.
Tybalt ran.
II
Blood. Why was there blood?
His blood. It was his. That was bad, he was pretty sure. Hard to tell with so much of it, oh god—and then pain hit him like a wave, like a swirling, sickening crash, and every other thought in his brain collapsed away.
"Are you hurt?" said Romeo, and Mercutio was bitter despite his concern.
"A scratch," he laughed—oh god ow—and looked up at Romeo.
He felt guilty, briefly afterwards, for blaming Romeo—he knew, deep down, that it wasn't his fault, but it hurt so much and there was so much blood and he felt he had to do something.
Not like it made a difference, of course—death was coming.
Mercutio waited.
III
Blood. Oh God, there was blood everywhere.
Mercutio's breathing was heavy, shallow, dying. Benvolio helped him gently to the floor and then stood, biting his lip.
Mercutio looked up at him. "Th-that was pretty stupid, I guess," he whispered.
"Not surprising," said Benvolio quietly, and sat next to him—he didn't look at the blood.
The breath grew harsher. "I'm going to die," Mercutio said weakly, theatricality gone.
"No," said Benvolio, louder than he'd meant to. "No, it's—the doctor's coming, you'll—you can't." This was a joke, he told himself. Mercutio was going to stand up right now and turn this entire situation into a horrible innuendo and things would be exactly as they should be.
Mercutio gave a small, familiar smile. "Benvolio?" he said.
"Yes?"
"Don't get into any fights," he whispered
and the breathing stopped
and he was gone.
Benvolio wept.
IV
Blood. It painted the street, the ground, the bystanders.
It painted Tybalt's vision, he saw at the point of his sword; his vicious smirk, his pride.
He remembered earlier—the slip, Mercutio had blithely declared, and he wished suddenly to trade his time with Juliet for the return of his friend.
Love was worth it, worth everything, he knew, that was what he told himself, but some small doubting voice in the back of his mind asked him if it was fair or right to put an end to four years of true friendship for the sake of two days of pure love.
And if it wasn't, was it his own fault?
No, he willed himself to believe, no—it was Tybalt's, it had to be. Tybalt, who stood confident while Mercutio lay dead, while Benvolio stood hopeless, while Romeo prayed miserable.
Tybalt's.
Romeo struck.