Title: Witching
Author: Val Mora
Rating: PG
Summary: "It be not just that sought Romeo sleeps next his lady, while Mercutio stands cold in vain hope for finding the cousin of the one he favors." (Mercutio/Benvolio angst-romance)
Disclaimer: I am not Shakespeare. This is true. I do not own any of the characters protrayed herein. This is also true, and I feel no shame in admitting it.
Notes: Dialogue and stuffs from Act 2, Scene 2. This isn't completely angst.

Witching

The shadows doth touch the sky, the clock-hands near a line to the witching hour. Benvolio seeks his cousin, but Mercutio hath no desire to chase the dreamer to a lady's bower. It be hardly just to make him halt for searching, when Romeo lies comfortable with fair Rosaline or some lady alike to her.

It be not just that sought Romeo sleeps next his lady, while Mercutio stands cold in vain hope for finding the cousin of the one he favors – favors in all senses, even that one unseemly. The façade of a womanizer is one worn well, but that when struck, rings not true. He would love – doth love – Benvolio as he should not, as is condemned by words and further writ, the law Judicial here in Verona, but when he looks – no sign affection, no hope.

Blind Love hath its sight with him, but in the twisted hands of Fate doth strings fall who bid it so, that Benvolio be blinded to affection's gaze. Might blindness strike Mercutio, and in place, be his beloved open-eyed! 'Twould be a gain worth sacrifice, no burden to see a lover using touch, 'stead of sight.

There be no hope of loving touch for him, from him; such would find only scorn, and such advances bring grave consequences, even upon a kinsman to he who doth pronounce sentence. The Scales seek but a single truth, and in face of truth, of charge, he would be guilty.

In searching, Mercutio jests, a casting wrought in chill night and warm irritation, desiring to bring a spate of mirthful laughing, in seeking forge-heat passion's cure. Perhaps in calling Romeo, he would chance upon a rite to call Benvolio's heart to him, but no spark of witching stays to reveal a spell for love.

Yet, no philter would grant to him that other's heart freely given, that which he desires. There be no worth to them if they cannot.

"Romeo, good night. I'll to my truckle bed; this field-bed is too cold for me to sleep," are Mercutio's words, in fair humor to mask truth against Benvolio's ears. "Come, shall we go?" A question to that other, a smile returned twofold with a glance whispering of secrets previously unnamed and unnoticed.

"Go, then, for 'tis in vain to seek him here that means not to be found." Go, then, to a warmer bed. Thou wilt find thy Benvolio waiting, promise hazel eyes Mercutio knows well.

The witch-work holds no calling now, false love naught against this true affection. Leave Romeo to his lady – Mercutio now holds the heart of the one who holds his.