Benvolio tips his head back and sighs. Mercutio watches the rise and fall of his chest and wonders if it’s just the warm wine staining his mouth that’s making his heart falter and his skin fever pitch – he decides it’s just that it’s two AM in July, and that the air is muggy and sticks his shirt to his skin, and that the car roof is warm and the stars are faded in the middle of the city.
Be it wine or sleep deprivation or both, Mercutio’s lungs are tightening. That’s been happening a lot, lately.
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