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This was not what Mercutio would have wanted them to do. All that silence and grief would have made him go crazy if he had to have sat through it and if he was honest with himself, he was starting to go a bit crazy too.
The faces of unknown nobles surrounded him and the priest droned on and on about how unfortunate it was, that such death had come over Verona and how blessed they were that such peace had settled over Verona. And all it took was four deaths, he thinks to himself bitterly. One of them twice. Poor Juliet.
He hated them all, their pretended grief, their fake condolences.
Thankfully he hadn't gone crazy at the funeral itself, but when he had been alone in that tomb at last, he had broken down into tears. His brother, all alone in that big building with only bones for his company. Then again, he was a corpse too after all, right? So really, Mercutio had been in good company, but he hated that he was dead. He hated that his brother had died in such a way, he hated that he seemed to be the only one to really mourn him, their uncle's face covered with a mask of neutrality or resignation. It was hard to tell these days.
For how long he had cried he didn't know. All he could feel was that crushing weight, that profound feeling of loss, that feeling that things would never be the same again, his life missing a big part of himself, his brother, who had loved to dance, who had loved to sing, who had loved to write, loved to laugh, loved to go out, loved-
loved to fight. Dammit! The anger started to burn through him and he pounded on the ground. Why? Why did his brother have to pick this fight of all the fights? Why did it have to be this fight that killed him? Why did it have to happen like this? Why, why why why why why why? No, he didn't blame Tybalt. The poor sod got himself killed after all and from what he knew about him he was just as much a pawn in the hands of Lords Capulet and Montague as every other member in those godforsaken families.
This fucking feud. His uncle had tried (and failed) to explain it many times and it just never made sense to him. Yet his brother just had to get involved in it for some godforsaken reason and it made no sense! It made no fucking sense! And he couldn't explain it to him either because he was fucking dead!
With all his might he banged his hands onto the ground next to the slab they had laid his brother onto. Thick tears rolled down his cheeks and he hated himself for crying again and he hated everything so much that he let out a wail.
After a while, he didn't know how long it was, it might as well have been hours or mere seconds, he stood up and when he did, his vision was spotted with black dots and he was dizzy for a few seconds before it went away. His eyes hurt and his knees ached; skin on his hands is broken and there was a hole in his chest and it felt like it was getting bigger by the second. Fuck. Just as he was about to say goodbye to Mercutio, the door opened and blinding light flooded in. For a moment he thought he had died and he'd gone to heaven somehow; he'd be in the right place after all. But his logic told him that was nonsense.
It was so bright that he had to shield his eyes and he squinted against what must have been the sun (so it had been a few hours) to see who was disturbing his mourning. The figure was tall and he didn't recognise the person, even after they closed the door and shut out the morning light again. The first thing he noticed was the lack of flowers in his hands. Strange. The man spotted him and was walking towards him, his clothes seemingly weighing him down with how hunched over he was walking, everything seemed to be drooping from his hair to his mouth and eyes, like a wilted flower. It painted a strange image in his head since the man had no flowers that he must be the flower that is brought to the grave, albeit a very sad one.
"…Hello," the man said, his half blond hair drooping over his eyes. His stance suggested he was thinking about leaving again.
"Hi. Who are you?" The stance he had assumed disappeared for a bit. The man didn't really have the look of a noble, hair too unkempt and eye bags too big for that. The black clothes may have looked expensive, but really he could see the edges beginning to tear.
"No one important. Who are you?" Those were some peculiar words. Looking over to Mercutio's tomb, he thought of how to answer, but the man caught onto his gaze.
"Valentine then."
"Wha- how do you know that?" Was the man a mind reader?
"Mercutio he-," the man looked away, "he used to tell me about you. A lot actually." So this man must have been one of his brother's friends then, quite a close one if he knew about him.
"Did he now." They just looked at each other in silence for a few moment. "I still don't know your name." The man looked away again and sighed.
"It's Benvolio." Oh. Oh, him! Mercutio's best friend whom he has exactly met once before. And promptly fallen in love with. How embarrassing of him to not have recognised him. But he looked rather different from what he remembers, his hair not fully blond anymore, the roots darker than the rest and three braids in his hair. How strange.
"It's nice to meet you, Benvolio. Despite the… circumstances." Benvolio Montague shoots him a wry smile and he's reminded so much of his brother that he has to look away.
"Mercutio would laugh his ass off I think, if he saw us meet like this." Of course he would, that was just how he was. So he nodded thoughtfully.
"He would also hate seeing us cry over him." That made Benvolio's face drop.
"Yes well. It's not like he can stop us." His voice was grave and it dropped about an octave which. Well. It wasn't the best time to think it hot.
"I suppose. And if his ghost is still lingering around, then too bad for him." That made Benvolio smile again. Yes, he was being successful in making friends with his brother's best friend, something reasonable to want and in within his means to achieve. It felt good, to talk to someone who he knew grieved Mercutio just as much as he did. He was well aware of how close Benvolio and his brother were. The thought sobered him up again.
For a few seconds they looked at each other again and he thought he saw something in his eyes, but it was gone again and he turned his head to Mercutio's grave. Valentine followed his gaze.
"We only buried him yesterday. They… My uncle wanted me to be here." Benvolio hummed.
"That's nice of him." Maybe it was. But he hated that his uncle had waited for him and that he had to inconvenience everyone by simple fact of not being there and having to be called home. What difference did it make if he visited his brother as he was being buried or as he was already in his grave. He could pay his respects and grieve better alone anyways. None to watch him break down, none to see him vulnerable. And the fact that Benvolio had only arrived after all this may have been a lucky thing but he was grateful for it.
"Yeah. My uncle didn't tell me exactly what happened to him. Just that… it was Tybalt." Someone he didn't really know. Only really by name and even then it seemed to get swallowed in the cacophony of names springing forth from the tragedy that had plagued Verona for centuries.
The two of them wallowed in silence for a while, standing there, looking at Mercutio's grave and the flowers until Valentine looked back at Benvolio, just to look at him. How had he never noticed just how blue his eyes were? At the moment they were clouded with grief and he found himself wanting to take that grief away.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked, immediately flushing after he had said it. Benvolio tilted his head as if to ask where that question was coming from. "It's just that Mercutio loved to dance and I think he would want us to mourn him by doing something he loved to do." The silence made him nervous, even if it was short-lived and he began sweating.
"Oh. Yes, yes I would like to. A Galliard?" Valentine smiled slightly and nodded getting into position. If Benvolio didn't know the dance, he wouldn't suggest it, so they agreed to count in and they danced to music that did not play, with people that were not there and to a beat that did not echo in the room.
At times one of them missed a step, but they laughed it off and started over if they did. All he could hope for was that the sweat on his hands wasn't noticeable and that Benvolio actually liked what they were doing, liked dancing, liked him. There was at least the consolation that shared grief was half the grief. If he had nothing else, he had at least this.
Eventually, they got tired and stopped leaning against the wall opposite the grave. When he looked over, he saw Benvolio smiling and he had to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
"Look at us." He looked at Benvolio as he said it. His hair was plastered to his face from the exertion, there was a small smile on his face and he was glancing over to him. "We're fools." That made him look away.
"Maybe. But we're Mercutio's fools." The idea did something to him. It really cemented the fact that they were in this together, that they could share their grief. Speaking of. Fuck. Shit.
"I- I'm sorry you wanted to visit his grave and I prevented you from doing so." How could he have been so selfish? His body stills as he waits for Benvolio to- to do something.
"No, it's okay. Besides I interrupted you," he says as he straightens up and turns to him.
"You didn't. I was about to leave when you came." Benvolio had no answer to that. Instead he walked over to Mercutio's grave and took a moment to grieve him. At least it looked like it from what he could see. It felt too intrusive to watch, so he averted his gaze and inspected his hands instead.
After what felt like a way too short amount of time, Benvolio started heading towards the door before stopping and turning around.
"Are you going to stay here? You said you wanted to leave earlier." Valentine all but jumped up and hurried over to him.
"No, I won't be staying here." They looked at each other for a few seconds before Benvolio nodded.
"Alright." The last few hesitant rays of the dawning sun flooded the tomb as he opened the door. They left together.