Take Note, Romeo.
Fanfiction: Take Note, Romeo. Mercutio/Benvolio
Fandom: Romeo and Juliet
Ship: Mercutio/Benvolio
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1,019
Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not lay any claim to the ownership of Shakespeare's characters/plays.
Warning: Does include canon character death.
Rating: Borderline PG to PG-13
Summary: "You pull out your handkerchief and press it against his side, but it’s too late, you realize in a flash and goddamn it, you can’t handle this."
~~
And he’s stumbling back, surprise flashing briefly across his face. A hand rises slowly to just under his ribs. Tybalt stands there, smile large and sadistic. Words come pouring out of Mercutio like a flood and can no one but you see how he winces and presses his hand in harder? He’s near you now, and you have to contain yourself, stop yourself from reaching out and holding him like you do when you’re away from this bright sun and the words and stares that you know would come. Falling to his knees, he keeps talking, but now he’s demanding a surgeon and there’s an urgent tone you’ve only heard once before and that’s neither here nor there.
He’s biting his lip so hard that it’s white like a bone, and a dot of blood creeps out from behind his hand. A cry rips itself from your throat, but it’s quiet, under control, and no one’s heard you, it’s okay still. Heaving himself to his feet, Mercutio grabs your hand and his palm is chapped and hardened, but familiar. Everything’s changing and you can’t keep track of it all, but maybe if you just stood here holding hands it would be okay. He’s pulling you away from the crowd and cursing the world, calling for death upon their families. He hopes they truly do suffer, you can tell from the look in his eyes. It’s despair, mixed with anger, mixed with loss, mixed with you can’t even tell anymore and you’re not sure you want to.
An arm of yours is around his shoulders now and he’s leaning into you, pale and drawn. He’s shaking slightly and you want to mutter soothing things to him like he does for you when you wake up from another screaming nightmare of darkness and death and not a single exit. But it’s not the time and you lie to yourself, tell yourself there’ll be time tomorrow. You’re in an empty hall that connects the church to something; you can’t be bothered to remember where. You do remember the time when Mercutio dragged you here after a party, drunk and happy, and kissed you roughly against the wall, shirt loose and eyes dark. You do remember him not talking to you for a week after, before coming to his senses and showing up with a book you’d been looking for. But now Mercutio sinks on to a bench and you help him lie down, brushing his hair off his forehead. You’re kneeling next to him and the stone floor is cold and hard and that just doesn’t matter. He lets go of a shuddering breath and the red spreads across his doublet and he takes his hand off his wound and it too is stained crimson. He’s grimacing, eyes shut, and you just don’t know what to do.
You pull out your handkerchief and press it against his side, but it’s too late, you realize in a flash and goddamn it, you can’t handle this. He smiles at you now, soft and sad, not like he smiled at you an hour ago. He mutters something about Cupid’s butt-shaft and you shouldn’t laugh, he’s dying in front of you, but you can’t help a short chuckle. It sounds nervous to your own ears and he places his blood covered hand on top of yours. It’s sticky and slightly unpleasant, but you’d give anything for it to stay there, alive and warm. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips. It’s dry and quick and not the slightest bit romantic. You can feel his breathing getting less and less and you don’t think you’ve ever been this scared before. The feeling rips into you and your heart feels like it might just explode. The blood under your hand is coming out fast now; your handkerchief is utterly soaked. He raises his other hand and traces your jaw lightly and his hand drops before you can fully lean into it. Your eyes go wide and you say his name over and over again until it’s nothing but a blur with no meaning, but he doesn’t respond. You drop your head down on his chest, right over his heart and there’s nothing there anymore. Nothing from the nights you spent together, from when he would smirk at you during the day, from when you would sneak off together during parties and no one knew a thing. His blood is wet on your face and you should be disgusted, but you don’t care and you can feel tears beginning in your eyes. They run off your face, hitting his chest with finality.
You know you have to get up and go back and act like you weren’t just crying on the chest of your dead whatever he was to you. Lover? Paramour? You’d never discussed it. And you’d have to tell them that Mercutio was dead; tell them that they had best be happy, because you certainly weren’t. But you can’t get up, can’t leave Mercutio’s corpse on this stone bench, alone in death. Sometimes when the world was dark and he was next to you, he’d tell you how he felt like there was nothing real in the world and you didn’t know how to respond, you just held him and he held you and then you knew what he meant. You swallow, but the tears don’t go away and you lean back and take in the stillness of his death. You can’t recall the last time you saw him still; even in sleep he moved. You rub a hand over your face, knowing it’s smearing blood and tears across it and you don’t care at all. You struggle to your feet, legs feeling weak and useless. You have to do this you keep telling yourself, have to get up or else you may just stay here, falling deeper and deeper into a mire of sadness. With one last glance to Mercutio and a silent promise to make sure that he has the burial he deserves, you step outside, blinking in the stabbing, laughing light.
Fandom: Romeo and Juliet
Ship: Mercutio/Benvolio
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1,019
Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not lay any claim to the ownership of Shakespeare's characters/plays.
Warning: Does include canon character death.
Rating: Borderline PG to PG-13
Summary: "You pull out your handkerchief and press it against his side, but it’s too late, you realize in a flash and goddamn it, you can’t handle this."
~~
And he’s stumbling back, surprise flashing briefly across his face. A hand rises slowly to just under his ribs. Tybalt stands there, smile large and sadistic. Words come pouring out of Mercutio like a flood and can no one but you see how he winces and presses his hand in harder? He’s near you now, and you have to contain yourself, stop yourself from reaching out and holding him like you do when you’re away from this bright sun and the words and stares that you know would come. Falling to his knees, he keeps talking, but now he’s demanding a surgeon and there’s an urgent tone you’ve only heard once before and that’s neither here nor there.
He’s biting his lip so hard that it’s white like a bone, and a dot of blood creeps out from behind his hand. A cry rips itself from your throat, but it’s quiet, under control, and no one’s heard you, it’s okay still. Heaving himself to his feet, Mercutio grabs your hand and his palm is chapped and hardened, but familiar. Everything’s changing and you can’t keep track of it all, but maybe if you just stood here holding hands it would be okay. He’s pulling you away from the crowd and cursing the world, calling for death upon their families. He hopes they truly do suffer, you can tell from the look in his eyes. It’s despair, mixed with anger, mixed with loss, mixed with you can’t even tell anymore and you’re not sure you want to.
An arm of yours is around his shoulders now and he’s leaning into you, pale and drawn. He’s shaking slightly and you want to mutter soothing things to him like he does for you when you wake up from another screaming nightmare of darkness and death and not a single exit. But it’s not the time and you lie to yourself, tell yourself there’ll be time tomorrow. You’re in an empty hall that connects the church to something; you can’t be bothered to remember where. You do remember the time when Mercutio dragged you here after a party, drunk and happy, and kissed you roughly against the wall, shirt loose and eyes dark. You do remember him not talking to you for a week after, before coming to his senses and showing up with a book you’d been looking for. But now Mercutio sinks on to a bench and you help him lie down, brushing his hair off his forehead. You’re kneeling next to him and the stone floor is cold and hard and that just doesn’t matter. He lets go of a shuddering breath and the red spreads across his doublet and he takes his hand off his wound and it too is stained crimson. He’s grimacing, eyes shut, and you just don’t know what to do.
You pull out your handkerchief and press it against his side, but it’s too late, you realize in a flash and goddamn it, you can’t handle this. He smiles at you now, soft and sad, not like he smiled at you an hour ago. He mutters something about Cupid’s butt-shaft and you shouldn’t laugh, he’s dying in front of you, but you can’t help a short chuckle. It sounds nervous to your own ears and he places his blood covered hand on top of yours. It’s sticky and slightly unpleasant, but you’d give anything for it to stay there, alive and warm. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips. It’s dry and quick and not the slightest bit romantic. You can feel his breathing getting less and less and you don’t think you’ve ever been this scared before. The feeling rips into you and your heart feels like it might just explode. The blood under your hand is coming out fast now; your handkerchief is utterly soaked. He raises his other hand and traces your jaw lightly and his hand drops before you can fully lean into it. Your eyes go wide and you say his name over and over again until it’s nothing but a blur with no meaning, but he doesn’t respond. You drop your head down on his chest, right over his heart and there’s nothing there anymore. Nothing from the nights you spent together, from when he would smirk at you during the day, from when you would sneak off together during parties and no one knew a thing. His blood is wet on your face and you should be disgusted, but you don’t care and you can feel tears beginning in your eyes. They run off your face, hitting his chest with finality.
You know you have to get up and go back and act like you weren’t just crying on the chest of your dead whatever he was to you. Lover? Paramour? You’d never discussed it. And you’d have to tell them that Mercutio was dead; tell them that they had best be happy, because you certainly weren’t. But you can’t get up, can’t leave Mercutio’s corpse on this stone bench, alone in death. Sometimes when the world was dark and he was next to you, he’d tell you how he felt like there was nothing real in the world and you didn’t know how to respond, you just held him and he held you and then you knew what he meant. You swallow, but the tears don’t go away and you lean back and take in the stillness of his death. You can’t recall the last time you saw him still; even in sleep he moved. You rub a hand over your face, knowing it’s smearing blood and tears across it and you don’t care at all. You struggle to your feet, legs feeling weak and useless. You have to do this you keep telling yourself, have to get up or else you may just stay here, falling deeper and deeper into a mire of sadness. With one last glance to Mercutio and a silent promise to make sure that he has the burial he deserves, you step outside, blinking in the stabbing, laughing light.