“if you were ever given the chance, would you give up everything you owned, everything you held dear to your heart, just to get what you want?”
macbeth shifted on the grass and glanced at banquo. those dark, mysterious eyes bore into him, and that look held meaning. that look held all the affection, all the love in the world, and immediately banquo knew what his answer would be.
banquo’s breath hitched. he was hesitant. he wasn’t sure if he should say it or not. but it wasn’t like anyone other than macbeth could hear him, right?
years of wanting would just drive him to insanity. so he didn’t hold back. he had nothing to lose.
“what is it that you really want?” banquo whispered, his voice husky, his eyes returning the silent conversation that their eyes were having; and that conversation was something that only the both of them would understand; something that only the two of them could look back and smile upon when they grow old. together.
(growing old was something that terrified the both of them, for it just means inevitable change and an inevitable departure. but if they knew what was to come in their futures, perhaps they would’ve preferred it if they just grew old, together, just the two of them in their own secluded world.)
and macbeth exhaled; and every moment he wasn’t speaking was agonising to banquo, but he waited, like how he would wait for the masked figures to deliver the finishing blow, like how he would wait for macbeth to snap out of his trance when they meet those weird sisters all those years later.
“i want..” and banquo’s breath hitched in his throat, he wasn’t sure what macbeth would say, but he closed his eyes and wished, and wished, and wished.
“i-“ macbeth, usually decisive and confident in his every move, was now reduced to a speechless puddle, his flustered expression and his flushed face giving light to what he wanted to say next.
and banquo heard it clearly, even though macbeth’s voice was reduced to a whisper, even though the thudding of his heartbeat resounded in his ears louder than ever. and there macbeth reached across the grass and cupped his face, tenderly, affectionately, pulled him in close and kissed him.
but banquo should’ve noted that hint of uncertainty in his voice, but love made him blind and wanting made him ignorant to everything else that was happening around him. for as long as their youth remained in their bodies and their voices, their love was reminiscent to a violent thunderstorm in the middle of the summer. it ended, like all things do.
but banquo never actually knew what macbeth wanted, what macbeth would actually give everything up for.
up until the inevitable happened, when ambition corrupted the man he once knew, when he was reduced to nothing short of a monster.
and as spots of black constricted his vision and his shirt drench with his own blood, he wondered why he ever kidded himself that everything he had would remain the same forever.
