In the time it takes for a month to come and go, Rosaline’s death is all but forgotten and the people of Verona move on with their lives. Not all is as it was, however, as a familiar face has returned after months away. The impact of their arrival has yet to be seen. Only one thing is for certain: change is on the wind.

Julius mercilessly rips rose buds from the bush in his mother’s garden. Mercutio winces with each one he destroys. He stares at the discarded buds, their vivid petals ruined in Julius’ hands and under his feet. It is much too easy for him to picture himself in their place. 

“H-has something upset you, milord?” Mercutio says hesitantly.

Julius growls and plops down on the fountain. 

“Romana’s attention is elsewhere.”

He sensed it during their last meeting; her gaze had drifted into space, and she asked him to repeat himself one too many times. It was frustrating to say the least, but even more infuriating is she didn’t even spare him a second glance as she left for home.

“What has her so preoccupied?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be upset, now would I?” Julius hisses.

“I-I’m sorry, milord,” Mercutio mutters, pulling at his sleeves.

He wonders how much longer Julius’ foul mood will last; not even his time with the maids seem to be lifting his spirits. If this goes on for much longer, it is likely he will turn to Mercutio to alleviate his irritation—something Mercutio prays against with every fiber of his being. It is horribly selfish considering his own hand in aiding Julius’ ways, but he prays for his safety all the same.

A cruel light enters Julius’ eyes. He grabs Mercutio’s wrist, squeezing tight and bringing him to his knees. 

“You think it pathetic, don’t you?” Julius growls, twisting his hold. “That I’ve so easily lost her attention?”

“N-no!”

“Well, let me inform you that I still have her adoration! It’s just a matter of reminding her of it.”

Before he can do anything more—much to Mercutio’s relief—he sees a servant approaching and pulls Mercutio to his feet.

“The Lord and Lady request your presence, milord,” the servant says with a bow. “Master Benvolio has returned.”

Julius frowns. 

“And here I hoped the golden child wouldn’t grace these halls for some time yet,” he mutters under his breath.

It is no secret that the Lord and Lady favor Benvolio—Lord Montague especially. As a cautious man, Lord Montague often has suspicions of those closest to him. His wife is no exception; from the moment of Julius’ birth, Lord Montague has accused his wife of adultery though he never had any proof. If not for his mother’s silver tongue and strong desire to see her own bloodline in power, Benvolio would have been named heir in Julius’ place. This should have made him feel secure in his position, but with each visit Benvolio makes, he can see just how charmed his parents are and how fragile that security is.

Julius spares Mercutio a glance as he releases him. 

“Consider yourself lucky,” he whispers coldly as he heads inside.

As Julius approaches the salon, sounds of laughter and merriment reach his ears. It is a foreign sound in these halls—only occurring when Benvolio makes an appearance. Julius stands in the doorway, watching the scene inside. Lord and Lady Montague occupy a couch across from Benvolio, the sun shining on their faces as they enjoy each other’s company. Lady Montague, face hidden behind an ornate fan, can hardly contain the joy in her gaze while Lord Montague’s smile is as big as his belly is round. He laughs heartily at something Benvolio says.

“Ah, Benvolio, my boy,” Lord Montague says, wiping his tears, “you are too much for this old man to take.”

“You flatter me, Uncle,” Benvolio says, “but you’re still plenty young.”

“Nonsense,” he says with a chuckle.

Julius stands there, but remains unnoticed. He stares at Benvolio. His skin is sunkissed from travel, the simple clothes on his back no doubt chosen for ease of movement. He looks like a lower class man, something Lord Montague would never have tolerated, and yet Benvolio sits before him, unreprimanded and welcomed. Julius tightens his fists. Jaw clenched, he clears his throat, announcing his presence.

“Julius,” Benvolio says cheerfully.

Julius bites back a sneer.

“Welcome back, dear cousin,” he says with his sweetest smile. “We missed you in your absence.”

“What took you so long?” Lady Montague asks coldly. “You kept Benvolio waiting.”

“I do not mind,” Benvolio says. “I’m sure Julius is still grieving.” He turns to Julius with a sympathetic look in his eyes. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, dear cousin.”

“Thank you for your condolences,” Julius says, casting his gaze to the floor. “It is a pain I still bear.”

“Pain or no, you are to attend Benvolio while he is here,” Lord Montague says sternly.

“Please, Uncle,” Benvolio says, “I hardly think—”

“You are to be the perfect host,” Lady Montague adds. “And there are to be no accidents.” Her eyes narrow. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Aunt, it’s really not—”

“It would be my pleasure,” Julius says with a bow. “Besides, it has been a while since Benvolio and I have spent time in each other’s company. I’m sure we have much to catch up on.”

“Show Benvolio to his room,” Lord Montague demands. “I’m sure he would like to rest after such a long journey.”

Benvolio, realizing he won’t be able to convince the Lord and Lady to reconsider, bows. 

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he says and follows Julius out of the room.

As Julius leads Benvolio to his chambers, Mercutio falls into step behind them.

“Mercutio,” Benvolio says, “it is good to see you. How have you been faring?”

“Fine, Master Benvolio,” the man says timidly. “You seem to be in good health.”

“And you—” Benvolio frowns, noticing the way Mercutio tugs on his sleeve. “Is something wrong?”

“Pardon?”

“Your sleeve. You—” Benvolio pauses, noticing the beginnings of a black and blue blob forming on Mercutio’s skin. “You’re hurt.”

“Oh!” Mercutio bites his lip, averting his gaze. “This is nothing. I just—”

“Mercutio is a clumsy one,” Julius says with a light chuckle. “I keep telling him to be careful, but it does little good.”

Benvolio glances from Julius to Mercutio, still concerned. 

“Are you sure you shouldn’t have it looked at? I can call the physician to—”

“No!” Mercutio says a little too loud. His gaze falls to the floor, his voice barely audible. “I mean, it’s nothing serious. Thank you for your concern.”

Benvolio digs in his bag. He pulls out a small jar and hands it to Mercutio.

“Put this on your bruises,” he says. “It’ll help them heal faster. An old woman I met during my travels gave some to me. I can vouch for its effectiveness.”

“Thank you, Master Benvolio.” Mercutio takes the jar, holding it close. “You are too kind.” 

Julius glances at Benvolio.

“What brings you to this part of Verona, cousin,” he says, “if you don’t mind my asking. Aunt and Uncle’s death anniversary is still months away if I’m not mistaken.”

Julius hides a grin at the bitter look that crosses Benvolio’s face.

“It was last month, actually,” Benvolio says with a sad smile. 

“Oh! Do forgive me! I didn’t mean to offend. I’ve just been so occupied with my own problems.” He sighs. “Time got away from me.”

Benvolio places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Julius fights the urge to shake him off.

“It is fine, Julius. I don’t expect you to be aware of the world while you are hurting. But to answer your question, I had some matters come up that needed my attention.”

“Perhaps you should hire better help.”

“You may have a point there, especially if I’m to have more responsibility soon.”

His words catch Julius’ attention. Could he be talking about the position as heir? That could be what he was just discussing with the Lord and Lady that had them laughing so merrily. Julius tightens his fists. 

“Master Benvolio!” a servant calls, hurrying after them. “A letter has arrived for you.” 

Julius notices how carefully Benvolio handles the letter as he tucks it away. He caught a glimpse of Benvolio’s name written in a woman’s hand. A prospective bride, perhaps? Could this be Lord Montague’s doing?

“A letter from one of your many admirers, I assume?” Julius says with a smile.

Benvolio chuckles, running a hand through his cropped curls.

“Yes, well, something like that.”

“Is Father aware of her existence?” 

Julius doesn’t miss how his face darkens a moment before he answers. So this wasn’t his father’s doing. A secret lover is only a secret if knowledge of their existence would cause problems. He could use this to his advantage.

“Not yet,” Benvolio says, “though I intend to remedy that when the time is right.”

They stop before his chambers.

“Well, I look forward to the day I meet her,” Julius says cheerfully. “Please let me or one of the servants know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Julius. And you really don’t have to keep me company while I’m here.”

“Oh, but Mother and Father insisted. Besides, It’d do me some good to go out again.” His gaze falls away. “It’s been. . .a while since I have.”

Benvolio gives Julius’ shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“If you ever need anything,” he says, “don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I believe those are my lines,” Julius chuckles, “but I accept them with gratitude all the same.”

He waits until he is several feet away from Benvolio’s door before turning to Mercutio and grabbing his wrist—the same one he grabbed earlier—in a tight grip. Mercutio winces, just barely managing to keep himself from crying out as the jar Benvolio gave him crashes to the ground.

“Bring me one of the maids,”  Julius says roughly. “I don’t care which.”

“Y-yes, milord!”

Julius releases him and stalks down the hall.

Mercutio’s eyes fall to the broken jar on the ground. He laments the loss of such a thoughtful gift as he carefully pickles up the pieces with trembling hands. 

⬥⬥⬥

Benvolio tosses his bag on the bed, and sits at his desk. He carefully removes the letter he received from the servant and after caressing it lovingly, he opens it and reads. Almost immediately, he can hear her voice in his ears, can smell her scent in the air. If only she were truly in his presence, then he could hold her in his arms. He sighs as he reads over the letter again, her happiness and excitement at his return touching his heart in a way only she can. He tucks it in his bag and proceeds to grab a fresh sheet of paper and a pen.

It has been torture for him to be away from her for so long, but it is a pain he is willing to endure. After all, everything he did, he did for their happiness, and if his efforts were paying off as he hoped they would, then soon they would never have to part again. As he finishes penning his reply, the sound of the church bells catch his attention. He glances out the window—it’s almost dusk. He places his letter carefully in his pocket before grabbing his cloak and setting off. 

He does his best to leave the Montague manor without being seen; where he was going, Julius needent follow. In fact, it would greatly harm all of Benvolio’s efforts if he were to find out what he is up to. Moving through the streets as people prepare to end their day, Benvolio approaches the Sea Maiden Tavern. A hole in the wall at the end of an alley, most of the townspeople see it as a regular bar. In reality, it is the hub for gambling and information dealing. All types of dirty secrets and clandestine visits are held within its walls, and it is one of Tybalt Capulet’s favorite places to haunt. 

Benvolio’s eyes sweep over the tavern, stopping on a man dressed in Capulet blue with strawberry blond hair. He sits a few seats away from the rest of the patrons at the bar, his focus on his drink, but Benvolio knows better. Though he looks disinterested in the rest of the tavern, Tybalt is paying close attention to the conversations and people around him. Readjusting his hood to conceal his face, Benvolio slips into the empty seat beside him. He waves off the barman as he waits for Tybalt to address him. When minutes pass and Tybalt still has yet to acknowledge his presence, he sighs.

“I request an audience,” he mutters.

Tybalt shoots him a glare before taking a swig from his cup.

“I’m busy.”

“Nursing your troubles away?”

“Gathering information,” Tybalt growls, drinking the last of his drink.

Benvolio eyes a table behind them as the men gathered there stand to leave.

“Looks like they’re done for the night,” Benvolio says, turning back to Tybalt. “I assume that means you are too.”

Tybalt sighs.

“Aren’t you tired of this yet?” He signals to the barman for a refill. “It’s been half a year and you’re still no closer to your goal.”

“I’m hoping he’ll keep his word,” Benvolio says.

“He won’t.” 

“Nothing will happen if I just give up.”

“For love!” Tybalt says with a humorless laugh raising his cup. “Love will be the death of you. Heed my word. You’d be better off reaching for the fireflies instead of the stars.”

“Tell me something, Tybalt,” Benvolio says. “Are you happy?”

He shrugs.

“I’m alive and well. That’s all anyone can ask for.”

“I want more than just to live. I want happiness. . .for me and my loved ones.”

“Speaking of your loved ones,” Tybalt says with a snort, “I know you heard the rumors.” He shakes his head. “That poor girl. Offered to the wolves and came out a pile of bones.”

Benvolio frowns.

“Don’t you think it's a little cruel to refer to the dead in such a way?”

“Don’t you think it's a little suspicious how swiftly she was buried?” Tybalt holds his gaze. “You can’t tell me you’re naive enough to believe Julius is innocent.”

“He is,” Benvolio says sternly.

“And how would you know? You’ve been away all this time, have you not?”

“Enough. I’m not here to talk about Julius or anyone else from the Montagues.”

“Devils,” Tybalt spits. “The lot of them.”

“Please,” Benvolio says, tightening his fists. “I need to meet with him.”

Tyablt swirls his glass, eyes focused on the alcohol inside. 

“Did it ever occur to you to just take her and run?” he asks softly.

Benvolio frowns.

“That wouldn’t have given her peace of mind,” Benvolio says. “She’d spend the rest of her days looking over her shoulder, scared of being dragged back.”

“Would she?” Tybalt challenges. “Or is that just what you believe? Who's to say any of what you’re doing is what she would want.” He glances at Benvolio, meeting his eyes under the hood, and sighs. He chugs his drink down to the dregs and slams the cup down, rising to his feet. “I’ll send word when a time is confirmed.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m only doing my job.” He pauses. “I may like you, but you’re still a Motnague. If there should come a time when you pose a threat,” he places his hand on the hilt at his hip, “I will not hesitate to draw my sword.”

Benvolio chuckles.

“I would expect nothing less.”

As Tybalt heads for the door, he pauses and turns back.

“One last thing you should know. Paris has returned.”

Benvolio’s gaze narrows.

“Then time is of the essence, I suppose.”

“Or perhaps it's already too late,” Tybalt says, and walks away.