Editing DbS (section)

== FIVE ==
⚇乂⚇

'''PREVIOUSLY ON: OBVIOUSLY THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA'''

I KNEW EXACTLY WHO WAS behind me. With as much calmness as I could muster, I turned around, only for the person who was behind me—a kid who looked to be anywhere between fifteen to sixteen with dark brown hair and brownish eyes—to ask me to move aside.

“‘Scuse me,” the person said, then, when I stepped to the left, he moved forward. He looked fearless, but at the same time, his face was stained with tears he’d forgotten to wipe off. His mother hurried after him, trying to console him, to no avail, as he brushed her off.

Montague turned to Benvolio, and said, “I hope you’re lucky enough to hear what’s really going on.” Then, turning to Lady Montague, who stood abandoned by Romeo, “Come on, let’s go then, Madam.” Benvolio’s face remained unreadable as the two left, although I could imagine him thinking something along the lines of “Wow, they just left me here with their angsty teenage son. Fun.”

“Good morning, Romeo,” said Benvolio, nodding in greeting to his younger cousin. 

Romeo frowned, then looked at the ground. Then at the sky. Then at Benvolio. “Is it really only morning?”

Benvolio’s face hinted at nothing. “It is. It’s only just now nine o’clock.”

Romeo gave a breathy sigh. “Time seems to go by slowly when you’re in grief.” He looked to the street in which Montague had just left. “Was that my father who just ran off like that?”

Benvolio nodded. “It was,” said he. Then with a gesture to me, “This is… actually I didn’t catch your name.” 

Humans are weird, really weird. Benvolio, having not known my name, had invited me to join him and Romeo, his cousin, whom he cared deeply about (read the book). Maybe it was just Shakespearean characters, but some people are pretty hard to figure out. Motives and all, I mean. 

My face paled. I’m sure I looked like I’d just seen a ghost. What type of names did Shakespearean characters have? Jonathan (probably) was one… Claudius another… Ophelia… wait, no, that was a girl’s name… I decided I didn’t want to be Julius Caesar; always bad luck, choosing someone who dies in the end. But then again, doesn’t everybody die and isn’t Shakespeare notorious for making everybody suffer?

“Hamlet,” said I, because I could come up with nothing else.

“No way! My mother’s sister’s husband’s uncle’s nephew’s sister-in-law’s son’s name is Hamlet! We have something in common!”

That’s what Romeo should have said. If he’d said that, it’d have been great and not awkward at all. But instead, he merely nodded his head, giving a shrug as if nothing really mattered at all anymore. 

“Right,” said Benvolio, looking a little unsure of his cousin’s mood, for once betraying some sort of emotion. Then he began to walk, beckoning myself and Romeo to follow him. 

“What’s making you so sad and making the hours take so long to pass?” asked Benvolio, steering the conversation back on track.

Romeo looked to the ground and crossed his arms moodily. “I don’t have the thing that makes time fly.”

Benvolio looked to his cousin in confusion. “You’re… in love?”

“Out.”

“Out of love?”

The conversation was slowly making its way by, but I was bored to death with it. Have you ever tried listening to something that’s completely boring and doesn’t have anything to do with you at all and yet you’re there, a mystified expression on your face? No? Then no comments for you.

Romeo gave a sigh, one that would come from a grieving mother, not a “young, carefree, lad” such as himself. “I love someone, but she doesn’t love me back,” he said miserably. 

Memories of middle school came flooding back to mind, and I didn’t like it one bit. I shifted a little, trying to figure out how to make the conversation go away, but couldn’t think of anything for the life of me. For once, the ideas guy had no ideas. 

Benvolio gave his friend a frown, nodding slowly, trying to get into a deeper conversation. “That’s unfortunate, Romeo. Love looks beautiful, and like it might be a good thing, but it’s actually pretty rough.”

And then Benvolio looked to me, expecting me to say something. I gave him a look like ''what do I say?'' And he gazed back at me, mouthing the words ''I’m sorry for your loss.''

I snapped back to Romeo and the situation at hand, and noticed he was looking at me like a sad puppy. What was I supposed to say? I could think of fifty people who would know what to say, but I had no words. Did I say it would definitely get better? Surely that wasn’t how you handled things like this. If I had been braver and if I knew Romeo better, I might’ve hugged him, like a bro hug, but that hardly would have worked. Besides, I knew how the story went. 

Romeo and Juliet both ''died'' at the end. How could I just lie to him and tell him things would be alright? It wouldn’t even be logical to say so and it wouldn’t help further the plot, either.

To be fair, I hardly knew the kid, but you don’t lie to a complete stranger unless it makes sense to and unless it’s for the greater good. Did it help the plot to lie? I wasn’t sure. So I didn’t. 

Of course, I, having not thought I could say something intelligent, I said, “Romeo, logically speaking, if this is a low, there must be a high. I’ve seen it in patterns of the past- every time someone has been sad, things must go up. That’s how it works–” I cut myself off before I could continue. ''That’s how it works here in the real world.'' But it wasn’t the real world. 

Romeo gave another sad sigh. “What’s sad is that love is ''supposed'' to be blind. You can’t stop love from making you do whatever it wants, though.”

“But love should be logic. Just because there are feelings doesn’t mean there’s no logic,” I argued, trying to make my point. Our trio had come to a stop, and we stood talking, debating, maybe. 

Romeo sighed, shaking his head, looking at the ground for the twentieth time, and upon seeing the blood streaks stepped back about half a step. “What’s ''that''? Who fought here? Wait, actually, don’t tell me. It was a fight started by hate. A hatred that burns between the Montagues and Capulets. But the fight has more to do with love than hate. Oh, loving hate! Beautiful things muddled together into an ugly mess!”

I wanted to roll my eyes and tell him there were things better than feelings, like logic, but I didn’t. Instead, Benvolio came to the rescue, starting to talk but being talked over by Romeo, so he stopped. 

Continuing, as if his earlier speech wasn’t sad enough, Romeo lamented love. “Love is both heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, healthy and sick, awake and asleep. It’s absolutely everything except for what it is! It’s an enigma—Benvolio, are you ''laughing''?”

Benvolio had turned his back to Romeo and I, and his shoulders shook as if he were laughing, or he was crying. Little gasps came from him, the telltale sign of crying.

“No, Romeo. I’m crying.”

“What’re you crying for?”

“I’m crying because of your sadness.”

Now it was Romeo’s turn to give a sympathetic look. “But this is what love does, cousin. My sadness weighs on my chest, and since you want to add yours to the present amount, there’s even ''more''. Love is a smoke made of lover’s sighs. When that smoke clears—” he looked straight into Benvolio’s eyes, which were watery and were now locked on Romeo’s “—love is a fire burning in your lover’s eyes. What else is love? Love is a wise form of madness. Goodbye, Benvolio.” 

Romeo turned and began to walk off, but Benvolio reached out, grabbing it. “Wait. I’ll accompany you. If you leave me here, you’re doing me wrong.”

Benvolio motioned for me to say something, giving me a look I took to mean that yes I did in fact need to say something. Alas, me, not being an empathetic person, I did not know what to say, so I stayed quiet. 

Once again, I wondered how exactly I had gotten myself into this situation. I barely knew these two, but they treated me like a close friend. Either this was plot development, or they weren’t human after all. 

To be fair, though, Romeo did marry a girl he’d just met. So, I mean, it must’ve been Shakespeare. 

Benvolio gave me the look again, urging me to say something, and I frowned, in ''I don’t know what to say.'' 

Benvolio sighed and started to say something, but Romeo looked up at Benvolio- for, he was shorter- and sighed himself. 

“I’m not myself. This isn’t the real Romeo- but have I ever truly been the real Romeo? Could this world be a guise for something greater?”

Benvolio, without skipping a beat, gave a shrug. “I don’t know, dear cousin. It seems a question for a philosopher–” and tipping his head to his younger cousin and draping an arm over his shoulders “–and you of all people know I am not a philosopher.”

Romeo cracked a smile, then Benvolio became serious again. “Who is it, seriously, that you love?”

Romeo gave a laugh. “Seriously? You wish me to tell you, clutching my side and groaning like a dead man?”

“Dead man tell no tales,” I said, and Romeo gave a thoughtful look to the statement, then shrugged. 

“True enough,” he said, relenting. “I cannot tell you seriously, Benvolio, for love makes one giddy with happiness. No man could tell of his love seriously.”

Benvolio sighed, and put a hand on Romeo’s shoulder, having detangled himself from his younger cousin. “Groan? Of course not. But seriously, tell me who your lover is.”

Romeo thought a moment, trying to come up with a way to avoid the question. 

“Answer me simply, and I may drop the topic,” said Benvolio, crossing his arms, now. 

Romeo tilted his head. “You would drop the topic? I doubt that. You’re Benvolio of all people.”

“Answer the question, dear cousin.”

“You wouldn’t tell someone who’s sick to ‘seriously’ write a will, would you? That’d just make him worse. I ‘seriously’ love a woman.”

''I ‘seriously’ want to end the conversation.'' 

To this, Benvolio raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. We were now walking the streets, a couple of loose pebbles under our feet crunching like gravel.

“I guessed that you were in love with a girl since you first said you were in love, Romeo,” said Benvolio eyebrow still raised, Romeo attempting to do the same, and failing miserably. 

“Then you were right on target. The woman I am in love with—she is beautiful.”

Benvolio nodded with understanding. “A beautiful target is the one that often gets hit first.”

Romeo frowned. “Well, there you’re on target. She refuses to be hit by Cupid’s arrow. She’s beautiful, smart, and she can’t be touched by the arrows of love.”

Benvolio blinked, trying to formulate a response. “Look, just take my advice: don’t think about her.” I looked between the two, watching their movements. Benvolio’s arms were folded over his chest, and he was thinking deeply about something. Romeo’s demeanor had changed slightly, instead of constantly sad, there was more of a neutral air about him. 

Romeo’s mouth twitched upward, a slight smile tugging at the corners. “Teach me to forget to think?”

Benvolio laughed, a deep, hearty, laugh, clapping both me and Romeo’s shoulders at the same time. “You’ve got to let your eyes wander freely. Look at other beautiful girls.”

Romeo sighed, then gave Benvolio a look that roughly translated to ''you think I haven’t tried?'' “That will only make me think about how beautiful ''she'' is. Looking at other pretty girls ''doesn’t help''.”

Benvolio sighed, but instead of weariness, there was slight jokingness in his voice. “I’ll help you learn to forget her, or else I’ll die trying.”