#bentycutio

He was dying now. By Tybalt’s hand, in Benvolio’s arms. What more could he want?

Oh, how he wanted so much.

He wanted to spend one more “tiresome” night beside Benvolio’s study, soft eyes fixed on how Benvolio smiled that subtle, genuine beam of his while he poured over his passions.

He wanted to have one last spar with Tybalt, to bask in the man’s graceful, artful movement that he was free to do when every swing did not draw red.

All the world’s a stage, and here he was, taking his final bow in the wings.

---

And so he forced himself to leave Mercutio and traverse the square on shaking legs, for Tybalt would meet the same fate should the Prince-

No.

Please, not him, too.

He knew it from the glossy shine at the tip of Romeo's quivering blade. He knew it from the pool of red indistinguishable from the fabric it drenched.

He barely registered his own voice as he gripped Romeo's shoulders, practically shoving him down the street lest his cousin take Tybalt's place in the gallows. The city had seen enough death that day, and Benvolio refused to wrench another farewell from the depths of his heart after the one that was to come.

He rushed to the lying figure—whose chest sporadically rose and fell in shallow breaths—already knowing whose face he would see.

"Your cousin is a more apt swordsman than I'd thought," Tybalt remarked, attempting a strained smile.

Benvolio couldn't bring himself to return it, instead choking out, "Why? Did you attempt to parry at all? Had you forgotten our vow the instant your blade slashed Mercutio's skin?" 

Rather than respond, Tybalt surged up to unsheathe Benvolio's rapier, groaning as he summoned the strength to hurl the blade to the foot of his page, who had what he could only assume to be Tybalt's own rapier already in his hands.

Oh God, he had planned this, hadn’t he? Though he doubted Tybalt expected it to transpire quite like this, he had planned this in some form, for some time now. 

"Well, you mustn't forget it yourself, bastard," Tybalt spat, words riding a shallow breath and shot at Benvolio. "That amaranth must be in bloom by now, and I know why you had chosen to bury a blade. Rather than metal, bring that torn doll to your chest and, I beg of you, remember me that way. Drink Mercutio’s wine as you age with it, not to an early grave of your own.