An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Thy body is a map, and it tells me many stories."
-
I finally finished my fic for the RandJWeek challenge at @rjficexchange! It is a sorry attempt at Elizabethan English combined with some escalawrence and some pillow talk, because my brain was unable to come up with anything else for these two secret softies. And I am really grateful to this challenge for motivating me to overcome my writer’s block and finally create an actual text!
Tiny stars drop into his palm. Tiny stars are covering Verona’s cobblestones: it is April, and lemon blossoms fill the air with a bittersweet fragrance...
But the stars in the Prince’s palm smell of blood, and their white petals are stained red.
How ironic: the Scaliger symbol bears the same two colours.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Romeo and Juliet (1968), Romeo & Juliet (2013)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Characters: Escalus (Romeo and Juliet), Mercutio (Romeo and Juliet), Valentine (Romeo and Juliet)
Additional Tags: Halloween Challenge, Family Drama, Escalus doesn't deserve this, This is supposed to be scary, Angst, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author Regrets Everything, my beloved Scaliger family, I am so sorry for what i keep doing to you, I love you guys, I swear I do
Summary:
The city is fast asleep, and it knows not that its Prince's eyes are open. It hears not the sounds of the child crying, it cares not for the quiet steps in the empty corridor of the royal palazzo.
But the Prince does.
And the voice in the corridor is painfully familiar to him.
i'm having benvolio feelings this fine wednesday so may i humbly request for the 10-minute fic meme: benvolio + moonlight
Just Like The Moonlight
Benvolio rarely feels comfortable sleeping with even the smallest amount of light. Lamps, candles, phone screens or glowing indicators on various pieces of equipment are all equally irritating, so he always makes sure none of those can disturb him. It is easy to simply turn the laptop off for the night and hide the phone under a spare pillow. Drawing the thick, dark blue curtains closed is usually more than enough, too, to keep all the lights from the street out.
But tonight it’s different. Tonight his own room, he room he knows like the back of his hand and even better, feels too dark, too gloomy, the darkness like a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, seeping through his nose into his mouth, and throat, and lungs, and into that huge hollow cavity somewhere deep within - he’s not sure where exactly - the one that appeared not too long ago. How long has it been, two hours? Two days? Maybe two months? Two years? Two of… something.
Two.
Thump, thump,
The two of them.
Thump, thump. That must be his heart. How so? There should be no heart, there should be only a huge, hollow, horrifying emptiness where his heart had once been.
Thump, thump. One, two. No, just one. No longer the two of them. Just one of them left now. Just him. Just Benvolio now.
It is too dark.
Tonight, Benvolio opens the thick, dark blue curtains instead of closing them.
The moon is huge tonight. Huge, like the void inside Benvolio. Huge, like Benvolio’s love for someone who is gone forever, someone who was buried two days ago.
The moonlight is bright. Too bright, even. Too bright, just like Mercutio’s cheerful smile; too overwhelming, just like Mercutio’s whole personality; and it’s probably making Benvolio’s blond hair glow like he’s a character from some ridiculous anime. That’s what Mercutio would say if he were here. Or maybe he would say some other nonsense, something absolutely illogical and funny, and it would put a smile on Benvolio’s face.
But the moonlight isn’t Mercutio. You can’t touch it, you can’t hear it, you can’t feel it. You can only see it. Mercutio is all touches, and hugs, and warmth, and loud laughter, and sparkling eyes, and searing hot kisses, and…
…and maybe Mercutio now is the moonlight. Benvolio can’t touch him anymore. Benvolio can’t hear him anymore. Benvolio can’t even see him anymore - except in the pictures on his half-charged phone.
Maybe Mercutio is just like the moonlight.
Tonight, Benvolio goes to sleep with his curtains pulled open and his laptop perched on a pillow next to him, screen brightness set to 100%. Mercutio is smiling at him from a ridiculous blurry photo they took at the prom, and maybe, just maybe, Benvolio will be able to pretend that everything is alright.
Genre: Hanahaki AU
Fandom: Romeo Et Juliette
Ship: escalawrence
Co-author: @shadowofqueenmab
Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804946
It is winter when the friar first develops a persistent dry cough that feels like there is a naughty cat trying to claw its way out of his throat. But the winds are cold and the rains are long, and Lorenzo doesn't worry too much, deciding that he must have simply sat in the draught for too long.
So he continues with his usual routine, which, by this time, looks a bit different from that of a normal priest's. Every Wednesday he visits the Prince of Verona in his library and spends a pleasant evening, talking to him and sipping mulled wine; this has been their favourite pastime for almost a year now. Besides, Lorenzo, skilled as he is in healing and the like, spends many evenings working on developing a cure for a peculiar illness that has been plaguing Verona for quite some time already. No one is sure who brought it into the city and just when exactly it happened, but it's been several decades at least.
People call it the Flower Plague and fear it - quite fairly so, for Verona is a city torn by hatred and folly, and unrequited love is not a stranger to it. But never before has unrequited love equalled death... at least not until the Flower Plague came.
Lorenzo tries everything, but his medicines and potions can only numb the pain for a bit, and they certainly don't heal. He even tries to use the flowers that the sick people cough up, hoping that maybe fighting fire with fire could help...
He is not afraid of catching the disease himself: after all, he is not in love with anyone, is he? So there is absolutely no risk.
Or so he believes.
His belief shatters one winter morning when he wakes up to an unusually sharp coughing fit that soon subsides, leaving a small, soft violet petal in its wake.
Lorenzo crushes the petal in his hand and closes his eyes.
Later, he sets to work with renewed vigour, for the smell of the crushed petal and the colour and the shape of it send him to the library of the monastery. And indeed, after leafing impatiently through several old tomes, he stumbles upon - not even a recipe, just a tiny paragraph and a sketch of a flower that might just be exactly what Lorenzo needs for the medicine that he seeks to develop.
Having failed to find more information on the subject, he copies the paragraph and hurries home, not yet daring to hope. And a week later Verona is filled with rumours that friar Lorenzo has found a cure for the dreaded Flower Plague.
The rumours are soon proved to be true: those who have only begun to develop the symptoms are brought back to full health within a week, and those who have been suffering longer or developed the symptoms faster find it much easier to breathe, and none of them coughs up blood anymore - only flowers, and even those fits become shorter and less regular.
Verona is over the moon: finally there is nothing to fear. But no one knows just what exactly Lorenzo uses to make the cure; no one knows the cost at which it has come. No one even suspects that he suffers himself.
And Lorenzo doesn't want anyone to know. He doesn't even dare to hope that his feeling could possibly be returned; and what is more, through his own illness he can help others, so why even bother to stop it? It would be sensible to try and find the same flowers just growing somewhere in the woods, yes; but they look unfamiliar, he has never seen them anywhere, or he would know.
But Lorenzo isn't the only one in Verona who has something to hide. One evening, upon hearing his uncle's hacking cough, Mercutio enters his study, worried, without knocking, and freezes in his tracks. For there are bloodied violet flowers scattered across the table, and Escalus breathes heavily as he leans on the said table, pale and tired, one hand pressed to his mouth. He tries to smile at the sight of his nephew's shocked and frightened face, but the smile comes out a little crooked.
"Who?.." Mercutio dares to ask, not really hoping for an answer. The Prince waves his hand dismissively.
"Unimportant. Don't worry about it."
Mercutio knows better than to argue; but he also knows the Flower Plague when he sees it, and knows that it kills. So the next day, there is a tiny bottle of medicine in front of Escalus, on the very table where the flowers had been.
Time goes by, and the Prince's condition improves, for Mercutio brings him the medicine every week and makes sure that he drinks it. The coughing fits come less and less often, and by the beginning of summer Escalus is almost completely healthy... and has almost no time to care about his health, since Verona is once more filled with blood and death, fight after fight breaking out in its streets. Try as he might, he is unable to reason with his bloodthirsty subjects.
And then it's July. And there is a duel. And a funeral. And then more deaths and funerals, and then there is finally peace. And Mercutio stops bringing Escalus the medicine, Mercutio stops bringing smiles to people's faces; for he is no longer alive, and the only thing that he can now bring is bittersweet memories.
Lorenzo worries. His own illness develops very, very slowly, he is lucky; but the person Mercutio needed the medicine for might not be so lucky, and he doesn't know who that person is - Mercutio had never mentioned the name, and now Mercutio is dead, so how can he find out who needs his help?..
...he finds out soon enough, when at the end of August the Prince of Verona comes to the church for confession and he hears his wracking cough. Lorenzo doesn't need to ask: he knows the symptoms well by now, and he knows that the illness came back after a break... and he knows exactly how long that break was.
He also has no idea who the reason for the Prince's suffering is, and he dares not ask. He merely offers his help, wishing to save the person he loves from death; and Escalus accepts. Half because he doesn't want Mercutio's efforts to go to waste, half because it gives him the opportunity to see Lorenzo more often.
Their regular meetings had stopped at some point, which, to the Prince's mind, was easily explained by how much time Lorenzo was spending on his cure. Escalus doesn't wish to disturb the man's work... and oh well, the real reason he avoids Lorenzo as much as he could is that he is unwilling to make his feelings known but unable to hide them.
And yet Escalus is only human, so when the opportunity to see Lorenzo more often presents itself again, he seizes it without thinking.
So the Prince starts coming to Lorenzo for the medicine, every week, just like before. He has no idea what his visits do to the poor friar and how difficult it is for Lorenzo to hide both his feelings and his illness from him. He does notice that the friar looks more pale and gaunt than should be normal, though; but the man simply shrugs, "I work a lot." And there is really nothing else Escalus can say.
On his third visit the Prince arrives a bit earlier than usual and hears something he was not supposed to hear - that is, heavy wracking coughs reverberating behind the closed doors of Lorenzo's... cell? laboratory? Escalus knows not how to name it, and really, it's the least of his concerns right now. Frowning, he pushes the door... and freezes in his tracks, just like Mercutio several months prior.
"What..." He shakes his head and reaches out towards the table in front of him, not quite touching the flowers scattered across it. They are violet, large, still smeared with fresh blood... and they look familiar. Too familiar, actually. "But these are... Where did you get these?"
Escalus focuses his gaze on Lorenzo and realizes that the man looks... pale, yes, gaunt, yes; but he also looks frightened and is pressing his hand to his chest, as if in pain.
"My friend..." Escalus pauses, not yet daring to voice his thoughts, even though deep inside he knows them to be true. "Whom do you love so?"
But Lorenzo is unable to respond, not when he is once again doubled over, coughing like mad and almost choking on the oh-so-familiar violet flowers. Escalus moves to hand him the medicine that he spots on the table, but the friar waves him away.
"It won't..." one more flower drops to the floor. "Won't help me. Not me."
And as the coughing fit hits him again with even more force, almost like a seizure, the Prince finds that there is only one course of action that he can take now. So he simply puts the bottle with the potion back and steps closer, taking Lorenzo by the shoulders.
"If your own flowers can't heal you, maybe mine could? They look exactly the same."
And as the friar simply stares at him, shocked, uncomprehending, Escalus leans in and gently touches Lorenzo's lips with his own, desperately praying that it would help.
Lorenzo doesn't move at first, too surprised to actually do anything but just stand there; but when Escalus is already about to step back, the friar's hands grab his shoulders convulsively, and he is pulled back into the kiss. Lorenzo kisses him hungrily, desperately, like their kiss is water and Lorenzo himself is a traveler in a desert, dying of thirst. Which, to think of it, is not too far from the truth.
And, embracing him and responding to his kiss, Escalus doesn't even notice that his own ever-present pain deep inside his chest dissolves into nothing, as if it were never there, and that it suddenly becomes so much easier to breathe... Escalus notices nothing, really, save Lorenzo's closeness, his warmth, his touch; he doesn't care about the weak taste of blood on his lips. The only thing that matters is that he was not mistaken in his assumptions, that Lorenzo loves him back; the only thing he feels is overwhelming tenderness... and overwhelming relief, for now everything will be all right, Lorenzo will be fine.
Dearest heart of mine,
I wear your words on my wrists,
I mold your masks into my mind,
I take your thoughts to the treasury
of my memory
to keep them there until my memory fades
into bleak yellow, like an old photograph
that used to be black-and-white once.
but maybe what mind can’t preserve
and images can’t contain,
words could?..
and so I am writing you this,
I guess you could call it a letter,
o dearest heart of mine.
Dearest heart of mine,
when you walked into my life, you did not change it,
but helped me stay true to myself;
and it in itself was a change,
and also the best thing you could have done for me,
o dearest heart of mine.
Dearest heart of mine,
you did not open a brave new world to me,
but you showed me my old and worn world
through your eyes:
it looked renewed and unusual, and yet the same,
and I am glad that we share it;
and I am glad that I have you in my world,
just as you have me in yours,
o dearest heart of mine.
Dearest heart of mine,
you would, of course, resent me
if you knew what I know,
and what I know is that these lines
are for you, my friend, and about you;
and so, my friend, you will never know
that it is you whom I call
"dearest heart of mine".
“If you make one more stupid pun, I will literally stab you.” for Paris and Mercutio
He-llo there! I bet you though I’ve forgotten all about those amazing prompts you’ve chosen for me - but I haven’t! I’m terribly sorry I am such a slow writer. DxI only hope you haven’t lost all interest in the prompts youself, because here’s a little something for you under the cut: a bit of quality family time for our favourite Scaligers! (I apologise in advance if the characters seem OOC to you; that’s just the way I see them. And also I couldn’t resist the temptation to include one more character in this short story, sorry; I hope you don’t mind!)
I Win
(Also posted here as part of my Viva Verona series).
“If you make one more stupid pun, I will literally stab you,” Paris warned, turning away from Mercutio and purposefully striding across the small balcony in a futile attempt to get as far away from the annoying twelve-year-old as possible. He sounded distinctly disgruntled, and it made Mercutio laugh in absolute delight. Driving his prudish, pretentious elder cousin out of mind was one of the boy’s favourite pastimes - that is, when he was at home, of course. Outside the palace, there was other fun stuff to do.
And of course, Mercutio could never bear the temptation to ignore the warning he’d just received.
“My, my, now that’s what I call the stab-ility of relationshi…”, and then Paris was upon him, and Mercutio didn’t get to finish the phrase. Of course, he didn’t even attempt to stab the boy - they both knew it was nothing but an empty threat; but Paris was much older, and therefore much stronger, and Mercutio was ticklish - a weakness his cousin was well aware of. Which meant that Paris got him laughing hysterically in no time, gasping for air and struggling in vain to wriggle free of his cousin’s firm grasp.
“No more!..” he barely managed to get out in between bouts of laughter, trying to catch his breath. “Paris… stop! Please, no more! Let me go!” and then he was laughing again, since his cousin decided to attack him once more before he could regain his composure.
“That wasn’t nearly convincing enough, young man,” Paris grinned. A grinning Paris was a sight so unusual that Mercutio would’ve done a double-take to make sure he hadn’t been hallucinating, had he not been busy struggling free. “How about a deal? No more stupid puns from you, no more tickles from me, how’s that?”
“I would agree to this if I were you,” a third voice commented. Both cousins turned just in time to see their uncle coming to stand in the doorway, smiling at them benignly, and Paris quickly let go of Mercutio so that they both could greet the Prince with proper bows. Escalus nodded at them, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “A man must choose his battles carefully, and act according to the circumstances.”
“But uncle, that’s unfair!” Mercutio protested, more for show than anything else, straightening out his dishevelled clothes. “I’m ticklish and he’s strong!”
“Yet somehow you manage to drive me up the wall with your wit and words alone,” Paris retorted, almost managing not to smile. “You couln’t expect me not to retaliate, now could you? In fact, you wanted me to retaliate, and that’s exactly what you got. See, there’s nothing unfair about the whole affair.”
“Why do you always have to spell it out and ruin all the fun?” Mercutio whined, rolling his eyes at his cousin’s pedantic explanation. Both Escalus and Paris laughed at that, and the latter bent down to look him in the eye.
“So do we have a deal or not?”
Mercutio huffed in childish exasperation. “Fine! Deal! But actually,” he made a short pause, which made his uncle raise an eyebrow questioningly, and then triumphantly added, “I win!”
Paris looked genuinely confused. “How so?”
“You smiled! And you laughed, too! You almost never do that, you’re always so stern and distant and all that; but you did smile, so I win!” and Mercutio laughed, too, at his own words.
This time, his elder cousin’s tone was almost sheepish. “I am sorry, little cousin. Tell you what, let us change our deal a bit: you promise not to annoy me so much, and I, too, promise not to annoy you by being so, how did you put it, stern and distant. What do you think, would Valentine like to participate in this deal as well?”
Mercutio looked surprised by his tone and actually gave the matter some thought before replying, “I think he would like that very much, too.”
“Why don’t you both go and ask him himself?” Escalus suggested, winking at his nephews. Mercutio nodded enthusiastically, and Paris readily held out his hand to him. A moment later they bolted out of the balcony and down the corridor, both the elder and the youngerlaughing like children.
The Prince watched them go with a smile. And if his gaze seemed somewhat sad, then, well, no one was there to notice it.
Okay; idk if giù want just a prompt or a ship to go with it too, but maybe Escalawrence - fernweh? Or Bentycutio - frisson
Thank you so much for this delightful prompt! 😘 I picked the first option (of course I did, ah duh, you’re probably not surprised), and so here we goooo!
Note 1: I am using the Italian spelling of Friar Lawrence’s name, Lorenzo, to match it to the Prince’s name, Bartolomeo, and also because I am more comfortable calling him that way.
Note 2: click on the title to go read this fic on AO3!
“Wish For You”
“I wish I could just leave.” The friar blinked, tearing his gaze away from the fire crackling in the fireplace, and turned to the Prince, not really surprised by what he had just heard. When it became clear that no explanation would follow, he sighed and leaned forward, reaching out towards Escalus and gently taking his free hand in his. “And what exactly do you mean by that?” he prompted.
The Prince mirrored his sigh, setting his wine aside on the small table next to a mostly empty bottle and Lorenzo’s cup, and pinched the bridge of his nose with a wince. “Nothing. Nothing, really.” “You’re a bit like an oyster, you know? Snapping shut whenever it seems that someone might accidentally get too close.” Escalus hummed in agreement, “So I have been told.” “Well, you don’t have to be.” Lorenzo brought the Prince’s hand to his lips, the familiar feeling of hot breath against cold skin making Escalus shiver just like it always did, and lifted his gaze to look in his lover’s face. “At least not here and not now.” “I know. I’m just… formulating.” The Prince dragged a free hand through his graying hair and finally relaxed his posture, sinking into the depth of his favourite armchair. Now he, in his silvery black attire, seemed to Lorenzo like a darker shadow in the shadows of the room, with only his skin glowing softly in the uneven firelight. His voice grew slightly pensive. “I love Verona. I was born here, I grew up here, my family has ruled this city for years; I know it from the inside and from the outside, I have learned its inner workings, and I try my best to make my city better. Not only because I must, but also because I want to.” He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “though I am no longer sure I can… oh well, that’s beside the point.” “You can and you do,” Lorenzo argued, squeezing his hand reassuringly, and the Prince’s firm lips formed a weak smile. “Maybe. I don’t know. But there’s one thing I really can’t do, even though I want to.” “Leave?..” “Yes, dear friend. I can’t leave. Only for a short period of time, and only if my political affairs demand that I go elsewhere… and then I must go back, and that’s the end of it. But I’ve had enough wars and conquests already.” Escalus frowned, unconsciously rubbing at his left arm, just above the elbow, where a long ugly scar was hidden beneath the layers of expensive fabric; and Lorenzo made a mental note to himself to dig out one of his healing balms. He remembered that scar well - just as well as all other scars on the Prince’s body; he remembered them with his eyes, and his hands, and his lips. They were not many, those scars, but they spoke to Lorenzo of bloody battles, painful wounds, and countless feverish hours of recovery. He remembered which of them troubled Escalus, especially when the weather was chill, and knew how to make it better, putting his experience in healing to use. Meanwhile, Escalus continued, “And a peaceful visit to the Duke of Mantua or some other ruler is not much better than a war against them… don’t tell anyone I said so.” Lorenzo huffed a laugh, surprised by his lover’s unexpected admission. “Are they that bad?” The Prince smiled again, this time with a hint of amusement in his expression. “Oh no; just boring. Politics and business, that is all there is to my life, as well as theirs. To me personally, it is boring. But in general…” he made a vague gesture that could mean anything. “They are all good leaders and honourable men, though some less so than others; but that’s inevitable. None of them are perfect, but neither am I. None of us are saints, and those who possess power don’t have the slightest chance to even try to become such. Power and perfection… It is a contradiction in itself, dear friend.” “Oh Bartolomeo… Would that I could change your mind about that.” Escalus raised an eyebrow, leaning forward a bit. “Then… tell me: what think you of me as a ruler?” He didn’t seem to be seeking affirmation or approval, Lorenzo noted, even though his question seemed to indicate otherwise; but what Escalus was driving at was still a mystery to him. Lorenzo looked into his eyes, momentarily transfixed by the warm light shining in them - was that the reflection of the flames in the fireplace, or was that something else? - but quickly recovered his composure and nodded. “There is a lot to say in response to this, Bartolomeo, you know it. You’re a born leader, dear friend; Verona prospers, and the peace between us and other cities has never been so sound as it is now. And all of that is due to your efforts.” “Verona prospers…” Escalus echoed, shaking his head. “Oh, dearest friend. She prospers like a rich woman, dressed in finest robes but suffering from severe pains inside her fragile body; and I have no power over her pain, just like one man’s head has no power over the ache in another’s stomach. I have run out of remedies that could stop the disease. It needs a different physician and a different treatment, which I can’t provide.”
Lorenzo winced at the bitterness in Bartolomeo’s voice and could only run his fingertips tenderly over his hand in response to his words. He knew his lover’s sorrow well, he knew how much work the Prince was putting into stabilizing the situation in his city, torn by feud and soaked in blood… and how little it seemed to help. If only he could do something…
“You do what you can. And if it is not enough, then it is hardly your fault, my liege. My love. My Bartolomeo.” The Prince drew a shuddering breath and bent his head to press a grateful kiss to Lorenzo’s hands clasping his own. He then straightened up and smiled at Lorenzo with incredible warmth. “I do not know what I have done to deserve your kindness, dear friend, but I am eternally grateful to have you here with me.”
That smile… oh, that genuine, happy, beloved smile. It was a rare sight, and there were not too many people who got to see it; most were used to a stern gaze, a sharp gesture, a sombre expression… the Prince of Verona guarded his emotions well. But the rarer the sight, the dearer it was to Lorenzo. The friar could not explain what it was about the Prince’s smile that made his heart flutter and melt so easily; but then again, he would probably also be unable to explain how he had ended up loving the man in the first place, if asked. Not that it any longer mattered.
“You never answered my question though,” he reminded gently. “You said you wanted to leave Verona?..”
“Ah yes. I beg your forgiveness; my own thoughts led me astray. Yes, I said so, and I meant what I said. I am… tired, Lorenzo,” Escalus had never complained before, and so his wistful honesty surprised the friar a bit more than it probably should have done. “It is not even the fact that I stay here all the time that is daunting; it is the knowledge that I will never leave. Not even after death will I leave Verona’s beloved walls. I will be buried next to my ancestors, and then my kin will be buried next to me… All will be as it should be, and it is a good thing. But,” the Prince turned away to stare into the flames, pressing the tips of his fingers together, “some people are born with a strange innate need to see new places, and they are never content with their lives until they are on the road. This, too, is probably a good thing. Except it is not, not for those who can’t go to see those places. Some don’t have enough money, some have to remain with their families… and so they stay, and in their sleep they dream of faraway lands they will never see. And then they wake up to live their daily lives in a place they have known since birth, the place that will house their remains after their death… the only place they get to know.”
“You’ve never spoken of this before…” Lorenzo had moved closer at some point and was now half-perched on, half-leaning against the armrest of Bartolomeo’s seat. “You’ve never shown that you…”
“That I am not so different from my crazy, foolish daydreamer of an heir after all?” Escalus joked with a laugh. “Well, we are related, aren’t we? The only difference is…” his tone suddenly lost all the mirth, “that my nephew can say and do things openly, while I…” Escalus let his voice trail away, leaving the rest of the phrase unsaid.
Both men fell silent for a moment, Bartolomeo deep in thought, Lorenzo waiting for him to continue; for he felt there still was something weighing on his lover’s mind.
“Maybe I am too soft with him,” suddenly added Bartolomeo. “But I cannot be otherwise. He is sixteen now; I was his age when I first led my father’s men into battle. Oh, I was a good condottiero. Not a single lost battle. You know why? Because I hated war. I still do. The absence of war doesn’t mean peace, and you, living in Verona, you know what I mean. But at least there are no conflicts between Verona and other cities now, all because I am good at war. And at politics. But I hate politics, too. I am really good at things I hate. Wars, and treaties, and trade, and law, and dishonesty - all of these are things a proper ruler must be good at. No one had asked me if I wanted it or not, and I am what I must be, not what I want to be. I am not regretting it. But I can’t bring myself to do the same to Mercutio.”
Lorenzo could have argued; he could have stated the obvious and said that most people usually ended up being what they had to be, not what they wanted to be; that Escalus was not the only one. He didn’t. He only shifted a bit closer.
Escalus shot him a strange look, then reached for his half-empty cup, shaking his head to throw back a loose strand of hair falling on his forehead. “It’s ironic, really,” he twisted the cup to make the wine swirl. “I bet if I start hating travelling I will immediately be presented with hundreds of opportunities to travel. And if I stop wanting to end that damned feud then I will immediately see numerous ways to end it once and for all. Stop wishing for something and you will get it, is that how everyone’s lives work?”
“Don’t you hate the feud though?” Lorenzo pointed out sensibly.
“I do. And apparently, which is, to think of it, quite logical, I am good at not stopping it. But,” Escalus turned back to the friar, surprisingly looking a bit sheepish, “that’s not what I was going to talk about. I probably shouldn’t have drunk as much wine as I did, dear friend; it loosened my tongue and tangled my thoughts. Please do forgive me for not making much sense tonight.”
“You’ve been making perfect sense… up until now. What should I forgive you for, your honesty?” Lorenzo carefully pried the cup out of his pliant hand and set it back on the table, then put an arm around his lover. “There is no need for you to be tense and reserved all the time. One evening of relaxation and honesty could do you a lot of good, and wine is a good way to achieve it.”
“You sound like a physician,” huffed Escalus. He was now leaning against Lorenzo’s side, nuzzling into the soft creases of his robe. The friar was not so sure whether he was doing it unconsciously or just pretending to be unaware of his own actions, but couldn’t help but smile at the catlike gesture and resisted the urge to scratch the tired Prince behind the ears.
“I could be one,” he agreed instead. “I know how to heal wounds and treat illnesses.”
“I am not ill.”
“And I thank God for that. But you know what, there was something you said a minute ago… A question. I never answered it.”
Escalus looked up at him, intrigued. “So?’
“You said something like…” Lorenzo frowned, thinking. “Oh yes. ‘Stop wishing for something and you will get it, is that how everyone’s lives work?’ Did I get that right?”
“You did,” nodded the Prince. “Though that was more rhetorical, I wasn’t really expecting you to answer that.”
“Nevertheless. Bartolomeo,” the friar tenderly caressed his cheeks with his thumbs. “My liege, my friend, my impossible love. I never stopped wishing for you.”
This time Escalus remained silent. But the soft smile that spread slowly across his noble features, the warm glow that settled in his eyes, and the firm embrace he drew his lover into spoke volumes. They spoke of affection, and of love, and of gratitude; it was a thank you for giving me not only empty hope but a base for that hope, too; it was a thank you for being there for me; it was a quiet, wordless I love you.
