Disclaimer: Obviously I am not Shakespeare, therefore Romeo and Juliet does not belong to me
A/N: Me and my friend Emily (VoldemortsLeftNipple, or hetaliantimelady on tumblr) wrote this, we alternate people, starting with Mercutio's point of view that was written by her, then Benvolio's point of view that was written by me, and so on.
A scratch; I have told Benvolio it's only a scratch, but I know it's not. I know Benvolio knows too, I just can't bare to say so. I cannot fathom the thought of my own death. Not now. Not here.
The auroral sun who hangs so high above Verona is beating down upon me as my blood begins to boil. My temper flares as my brethren stand around me with smiles stretched across their faces. They cannot see that I am hurt, but Benvolio can. He always can.
My eyelids are getting heavier as I scowl and curse the feud that caused this. The rivalry is like a beast, devouring my life in its dagger-like, scarlet stained teeth as I lay pale in the center of the square.
At first I thought it was a trick of the light, but now I cannot help but notice crimson stains on his shirt.
The eyes of our brothers were cast away, thinking it must be a joke played. How could Tybalt strike brave Mercutio if Romeo was the one standing between them?
Mercutio, a statue that never cracked, is now crumbling in front of me.
O how could it be? The death of Mercutio finally comes at last. He'd taken too many strikes, been given too many chances, it seems.
If I was more of a cruel man, I would say it was Mercutio's fault. He is the one to have provoked the fight, as he does so often.
But, I am not a cruel man. Although, as he lays here, a pool of scarlet surrounding him, I can not help but think every unkind thing I have said to him, and all of the things I have yet to say to him, now going unspoken as life drips out.
Mercutio, brave, good, so full of life, all going away.
I distantly feel Benvolio's arms lift me to my feet, and wrap around my shoulders. Slowly, I lean my head upon his shoulder and smile weakly, "Must it always be like this, Benvolio," I cough, "You taking care of me and the messes I make?"
Benvolio makes a sound I'm unsure of, a sob perhaps, before slowly falling to his knees and lowering me to the ground, "Why must you get into fights like this Mercutio? What will I do without you?" I feel Benvolio lay my head in his lap, and gently brush the hair from my eyes.
"Oh Ben, you'll get on just fine without me," I chuckle.
My eyes feel wet, and heavy. I avert my gaze elsewhere, and a nearby garden catches my eye.
"Benvolio."
His voice is panicked as he responds, "Yes, Mercutio?"
"Do you recall Romeo's last birthday?"
I close my eyes with a grin and the memory takes hold of me like a drowning man in deep waters.
'The hour is late and Romeo's grin is stretching from ear to ear as he waves an empty wine bottle, "We're out of drink, friends! Stay put, and I'll return with more in short!"
He stands up and leaves, while I stagger drunkenly to a bush of marigolds and begin to pick the flowers from the garden of Montague.
Benvolio laughs and rises from the ground, "Mercutio, what are you doing? Gathering a bouquet?"
"Oh you'll see." I laugh as I snap a string of twig from the brush.
Soon, I finish my craft and place a crown of bright marigolds upon my head and turn, "Look Benvolio, I'm Capulet's Wench!"
Benvolio's laughter fills the night air like music, "Lady Capulet! What brings you here?"
"Oh, darling don't play fool," I shimmy my behind and mock said Lady's voice, "Don't you remember calling forth my name, Lord Capulet?"
I can hardly hold my laughter at the sight of Benvolio's look of surprise, "W-what- oh! Of course I remember my Lady, I was merely, er, testing you!"
"You're so silly dear," I am now waltzing toward my friend with great swagger, "Why don't you give your fair Lady a kiss?"
Benvolio is laughing harder now, "Okay Mercutio, I get it. Your impression of Lady Capulet is most humorous."
"Impression? Mercutio? Dear Capulet have you hit your head," I continue to walk toward Benvolio with a cheshire grin, "Perhaps I should kiss your crown and make it better- woah!"
I soon realise that I'm rushing forward, having tripped on a hidden vine. My eyes close as I brace myself for the fall and I hear Benvolio shout. When I open my eyes I'm on top of my friend. I must have tripped on to him.
"Mercutio."
"You have beautiful eyes, Lord Capulet." I smile above my friend.
His laughter is so rich and so angelic that my breath catches in my throat as I stare down at him. I don't notice that his laughter has ceased until our foreheads are touching, and my lips are a breath away from his.
"Mercutio." He says my name again and it sounds so right being whispered by him.
Before I can respond, a laugh rings out just beyond the garden and my friend and I jump away from eachother before Romeo 'rounds the corner with more wine.
"You two look like you've just seen a ghost," Romeo laughs harder and links his arms with Benvolio's and mine, "Come friends, let us drink to this most wonderful night!"
"Just like yesterday," I murmur quietly in Benvolio's lap, "I wish it was that night again, dear Benvolio. I wish it was. I wish. I wish.."
"Here comes Benvolio, another sweeting clung to his side," Romeo called, rolling his eyes.
"I care not," Mercutio muttered, bringing a wine bottle to his lips. He did not even glance in my direction.
Romeo scrambled to his feet, readying himself and grabbing Rosaline's hand. "An honor," he said, kissing the fine porcelain skin of her hand. He studied her: rose petal lips, raven hair, ocean eyes.
"Good morrow," I said, politely. The two inclined their heads towards me, but that was all, and Romeo's eyes stay trained on Rosaline's the rest of the evening.
Mercutio, curious with his brown eyes, asked her name. "A fair flower, a delicate dove. She's called Rosaline."
He laughed bitterly. "Things like this make thou crazy," he informed me.
"Things like what?"
"Love." He scoffs at the word, turning his nose up in distaste.
"Be serious."
"I've never been more." Mercutio went back to his wine bottle, turning his attention away from me for the rest of the night.
How vivid it was, with the air smelling of the fine incense Rosaline had doused herself in and of the sweet wine Mercutio kept drinking.
"I should'st be getting off," Romeo rose and turned his attention back towards Rosaline. "Shall we meet again at a later date?"
"Perchance," she replied, accepting her hand to be taken in his, and smiled, showing her perfect fine teeth.
"Such a beauty," he sighed, kissing her hand once again.
Flushed, Rosaline stood with him. "I must be getting off too."
"But the night is young, my dear," I scoff. She simply shook her head and walked off with Romeo, towards the front of the wine shop.
For moments of silence, we sat there alone: Mercutio, gathering up sobriety so he could also leave and I playing with a corner of the white tablecloth.
"Alas! I'll be off, too." Mercutio swayed on his feet before walking slowly towards the door.
"As you will," I chuckle under my breath, taking the empty wine bottles from their spots on the table and placing them with the others.
The warm, maroon color coating my hands wakes me from my stupor, as did the quickening of Mercutio's shallow breaths.
"I am dying," he laughs, the statement coming out raspy and hoarse.
Tears swim in my eyes. "You can't be, you're made of marble." My grip on his hand tightens, turning my knuckles white.
I can feel myself fading, here, in Benvolio's lap. I'm aware of his tears falling upon my person and his hand squeezing mine as I slip in and out of consciousness. By Gods, tell me this isn't happening; that this is all a nightmare, and that there's not a single drop of blood pooling from my core. Tell me my dear Benvolio isn't weeping here for me and my demise like a broken angel.
"Benvolio," my breath is short and rugged as I point to my wound, "I'm holy. Ha."
My friend, who's become so much more than a friend, lets out a laugh that soon becomes a sob, "Here, even at Death's feet you still make jest?"
I smile as much as my muscles will let me and close my eyes.
"Benvolio." I whisper his name one last time. I whisper the name that belongs to the man who's always been behind my eyelids when I'm alone. Benvolio. My dear Benvolio. And in those eight letters I find solace in my own death. I find so much peace in his name that I try it again.
"Ben..vo..li..o."
The droplets are falling from my love's cheeks faster, and his pleading is growing louder, though I can barely hear it. Second by second Benvolio and fair Verona melt farther and farther away from me. First the feeling of his arms, now wrapped around me, begin to fade until I can't feel a thing. Then his voice, calling out my name, becomes muffled. It's like I'm drowning. I'm sinking deeper and deeper until there's nothing left.
Nothing left but my very shell, and the empty echo of the last, and most beloved name I'd ever speak.
Benvolio.
Time seems to stop; everything moves around me as if it is in molasses. Slowly, Mercutio's chest stops rising, his eyes go unblinking, the color drains from his ivory skin.
"I am not a man of much worth," I breathe, blinking back tears. "But you, you could fill an ocean with yours." Shifting, I cradle his still corpse in my arms. "Rest, I whisper and allow the tears to spill over my cheeks onto Mercutio's stiff body. My hand was still clutched in his, unable to let go. A sob broke through me—racked my body, echoed down Verona.
His last words—the last things he'll ever say consisted of my name. Am I a fool to think he cared for me? By God—I'm using the past tense like he's not here beside me.
Unable to escape the pool of blood, I shuffle to my feet.
"Romeo!" I call as I wipe the wetness from my face, sprinting to the main square. "O Romeo, Romeo! Brave Mercutio's dead!"
His stony face confirmed my thoughts, it must have been only I to have close relations with Mercutio.
"The day's black fate on moe days doth depend; this but begins the woe, others must end."