Shakespeare one shots

A very grave man

"Relax, Benny. He started it, so I'll finish it and we'll be done. I'll be fine," I reassured him.

Finally abandoning my friend regardless of his current emotions, I swaggered out to where Tybalt was waiting with his sword drawn. His rapier was certainly that of a high-class swordsman, engraved with his initials and studded with various jewels, but I never envied it of him. My sword was far less glamorous, but it had been designed with my hand and style in mind. I'd practiced for years with this sword.

Most of said practice consisted of Y/N and myself in the courtyard doing anything but actually swordfighting (take it in what sense thou wilt), but the sentiment and the few actual hours of training were there.

"Now that you've taken a moment to catch your breath," Tybalt said angrily, as if he had a pressing engagement and he had just managed to squeeze a fencing match into his schedule.

"I may need a moment more, because I tend to waste terrible amounts of breath on you. Y/N always says you're not worth it, and I fully agree, but I figure someone's got to put you in your place."

Tybalt snarled, aiming the first jab at me. I blocked it easily.

"Oh, come now! Surely you don't take me for an amateur! Or do you always thrust weakly like that? No wonder your significant others don't last you a week," I laughed.

We slashed and parried back and forth for a while, exchanging insults. I would like to point out the fact that mine were much better than his petty name-calling.

After a solid fifteen minutes of nonstop fencing, my dominant arm was beginning to weaken. Tybalt had long ago switched between his hands. It had never occurred to me that I might train with more than one hand, assuming that I didn't immediately win the match and needed a fresh arm. I made a mental note to tell Y/N that I needed to do so the moment I returned home.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, a stray cat darted between my legs and across the street, throwing me off balance. My sword was up, my guard was down, and say what you like about Tybalt, but he was a damn good swordsman.

With no hesitation, he stabbed me.

~ Your PoV ~

I was putting new laces in a pair of boots, happily leaning against a tree and taking my sweet time. I tried to create different patterns by pulling the laces through different holes. I tried the many different knots I'd learned. Everything was peaceful.

"Y/N!" shouted the panicked voice of Benvolio from the house.

I sighed. I got up, dusted off my clothes, set the boots down for later, and trotted inside. My friend looked more horrified than I'd ever seen him, immediately sending me into a state of stress as well.

"What is it? What happened?"

"It's Mercutio! We were at the tavern, and Tybalt walked in, and you know how those two can't stand each oth-"

I didn't give him time to finish as I bolted down the street to the tavern. Going by the sound of footsteps crunching in the gravel behind me, I guessed he was following.

What I saw when I arrived at my destination caused my heart to stop, my brain to shriek, and my body to go numb.

Mercutio lay on the ground with a larger-by-the-second bloodstain on his shirt, and Tybalt stood several meters off holding a red-tipped sword.

I immediately fell to my knees next to Mercutio, pulling his torso up off the ground and resting it on my legs. He opened his eyes slowly as I ran my hands over him to check for more wounds.