Anywhoodle, I come bearing fic.
Rating: High PG-13/low R
Summary: There's a reason why Mercutio takes the pills...
A/N: Inspired by my mood ring and acid. (No, I don’t drop acid, just FYI.)
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters that belong to Shakespeare. However, I own Bianca and all of her stuff.
Warnings: Drugs, suicide attempt mentions, angst, gay sex scene and swearing.
Misc. Stuff: This is partly inspired by the 1996 version of R & J, but it’s not, like, a fic of that movie. The similarities are just that it’s modern-day and Mercutio does drugs. Originally, this was supposed to be really short and just Mercutio/Benvolio, but then a bunch of other ideas invading my fucking head and it morphed into what it is now. It’s also sort of a Mercutio study, kind of. Because he’s generally fucked up, and I also wanted to include his (original) sister in here, too, because she’s pretty fucked up as well.
There are reasons why Mercutio takes the pills.
It’s not just that he enjoys it: He’s a risk-taker and he loves the rush, but that’s just a small part of it, a fragment.
It doesn’t matter what kind of container they come in; a plastic bag, a tube, a bottle, a deflated balloon.
He doesn’t give a fuck, because it’s always the same pill. He doesn’t care if it comes in a sweaty tube sock as long as it’s always the same pill. Always white with the red heart on both sides with the arrow going through it.
Piercing the skin.
He takes them with water or wine or tears.
Then there come the colors.
He loves the colors. They’re such a nice break from the black-and-white monotony of his life.
The colors laugh and swirl around his head, and he laughs, too, and they sweep him away. Fluorescent orange, sparkling turquoise, electric pink, flaming red, emerald green. A tidal wave of jewel tones and vibrant paints.
His room becomes a dance hall, as it always does. It must be; the walls stretch out so far. There’s music, loud and fast and harsh. There are guitars and drums and electric synthesizers.
There are people everywhere. There’s no black or white clothing, just like Mercutio likes it.
Everyone wears electric colors, just like Mercutio likes it.
Bianca is there on the stage singing. She’s dancing and running and her voice doesn’t tremble now. Her black hair is thick and shining again, with multi-colored streaks. Her nails are painted bright red and she’s wearing an acid green shirt that shows her stomach and Mercutio can’t see her ribs anymore. Her feet are bare and her toes are painted electric blue and her legs don’t look like sticks anymore: they’re fuller and stronger. Her body isn’t fragile, and she doesn’t look like she’ll snap in half at any given moment.
She’s not a baby bird now.
She’s laughing and waving her arms around. The bandages on her wrists are gone, so are the scars. Her coloring is normal and she doesn’t look like a corpse. Her black eyeliner isn’t smudged from endless crying and her bright blue eyes aren’t full of tears.
She calls Mercutio up to join her on the next song and he obliges.
He plays the guitar, and it’s loud and raw and she sings along and reminds him of Shirley Manson.
Tybalt is there and Mercutio doesn’t care. His world isn’t black and white here. There are no Capulets or Montagues. There’s no feud here. Tybalt kisses Bianca like he used to and Mercutio doesn’t want to kill him for putting his hands on his little sister.
He just lets them kiss.
There are bracelets on Bianca’s wrists, diamond ones that catch the light and vibrant colors and shine give off a rainbow of color, and he knows that they’re not covering any wounds.
They don’t when she’s here.
Romeo is in the crowd watching a girl with red hair and a tattoo. She’s dancing and he watches, enamored of her and Mercutio doesn’t feel the urge to tease him and tell him that love is for fools.
Not here. Love is for everyone here. Love is free here.
He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. It’s elongated and magnified and twisted grotesquely and he laughs at it.
Then the colors shift like the colors in Bianca’s mood ring do, even though her mood never changes, because she’s always sad, always crying with a fake smile plastered on her face to prove to everyone that she’s strong.
The colors fade, but only slightly, because then Benvolio walks in, and everything dims when he’s around.
Time slows down.
Benvolio walks in the room and he’s beautiful, and everything softens.
His skin is a shallow gold color and his hair is jet-black with a blue tint to it and his eyes are a vibrant blue.
He’s naked and nobody cares. Mercutio certainly doesn’t, and here Benvolio is so care-free that self-consciousness doesn’t mean anything to him.
He walks up to Mercutio and gets on the stage and kisses him in front of everyone and doesn’t give it a second thought.
The other people fade away and the only thing that matters is Benvolio.
Mercutio leads him to a bed of goose-feathers and downy blankets.
The floor is unsure of itself and disappears and the ceiling vanishes and the stars are there. They laugh at Mercutio, laughing at the boy with the wild eyes and stupid dreams.
He laughs with them and Benvolio kisses his neck.
When the magic takes him, he can always kiss Benvolio or vice versa. Nothing is black and white. Everything has it’s own shade of grey. Bianca isn’t miserable, Tybalt isn’t evil, Romeo isn’t foolish.
Mercutio isn’t crazy and Benvolio isn’t introverted.
When the magic takes him, Benvolio is his. He’s the king of his own world and he likes it. His world has shades of grey and there is no distinct line. His world isn’t made of alabaster and ebony.
Benvolio unbuttons Mercutio’s shirt and kisses his collarbone. His mouth moves up Mercutio’s neck and finally to Mercutio’s mouth. Benvolio tastes like wine and cigarettes, just like Mercutio knows he would.
He takes off Mercutio’s shirt and throws it to the floor and kisses Mercutio’s chest.
They don’t talk. They don’t need to.
Actions speak louder than words.
Benvolio doesn’t fumble with the buckle on Mercutio’s belt and soon they’re both completely naked and kissing and sucking and rubbing up against each other, panting and gasping for air. Needy. Longing for the feel of the other’s skin.
Mercutio thinks that even if he were inside Benvolio, it wouldn’t be close enough.
He can’t get over how Benvolio’s lips feel against his; the solidity of Benvolio’s body; the feeling of completeness.
When they’re finished and laying in a sweaty, sticky heap on the bed of goose-feathers and downy blankets, Benvolio twists Mercutio’s black hair around his fingers.
Mercutio loves the feeling of Benvolio’s hands on his scalp.
Benvolio whispers, “I love you,” and Mercutio knows it’s true.
A buzzing, fading grey. Hours have passed.
Time is back. There’s no music.
Everything is fading and Benvolio is dust in his arms.
Instead of eyes in his sockets, Mercutio has balls of lead and his head is several sizes too big.
Everything on his body aches.
Bianca is there, standing over him. He wants to cry looking at her.
Her long hair has lost its sheen and hangs, limp, over her shoulders and her skin is ghostly pale and her blue eyes are sad and tired.
She reminds him of a scarecrow, only instead of being stuffed with straw, she’s full of sorrow.
The bandages are back around her wrists, barely covered by her black sweatshirt.
She touches his cheek lovingly and he can see her mood ring. It’s purple, which is supposed to mean tranquility and inner-peace and happiness and he knows how much it lies, because Bianca has anything but tranquility and inner-peace and happiness ever since she got sick.
“Mom says it’s time for supper,” she says, her voice a little more than a whisper and he nods mutely, trying not to cry looking at her. “Oh, and Benvolio called. He’s coming over in an hour.”
Benvolio doesn’t tell him that he loves him that night, and Mercutio doesn’t expect him to.
He takes more pills, with water, with wine, with tears.
It doesn’t matter if the feeling fades, because he can always get it back.
Magic works that way.
As long as Benvolio is blind, the magic will always work.
x-posted to my writing journal