Benvolio & Mercutio Turn Back Time

Copyright © 2024 by Lou Wilham & Elle Beaumont

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Praise for Benvolio & Mercutio

An absolutely delightful read. Beaumont and Wilham have created a masterpiece. I laughed, I cried, I laughed some more. This book is filled with humor, sarcasm, beautifully built worlds, and adorable characters. A must read for anyone who enjoys Romeo and Juliet, LGBT romance, and romantic comedy.

- Whitney L. Spradling, Author of These Dangerous Fates

In shorter words, you’ve likely never read a version of R&J like this, and it’s at its most fun when it doesn’t try to be a faithfully rote spin on it nor take itself seriously. It’s apparent the authors were having a lot of fun riffing with each other, and that I think is what makes it so fun to read.

- Justin Arnold, Author of Keep It In The Dark

A clever, adventurous twist of Shakespeare's iconic tragedy! This laugh-out-loud funny tale celebrates a tender, passionate, queer love between two underrated characters. A delight for Shakespeare fans and romance enthusiasts alike!

- Brenna Bailey, Author of Juniper Creek Golden Years

A whimsical, emotional, and overall heartwarming roadtrip through time and space. Beaumont and Wilham managed to perfectly blend the humor of Shakespeare with the magic of Doctor Who. Perfect for grown up theatre kids, queers, and anyone who wanted there to be more to Romeo and Juliet’s story. Shakespeare would be proud, and amused, but mostly proud.

- Sarah Zane, Author of Juniper Creek Golden Years

Contents

Prologue

Act 1

Scene 1

Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 5

Scene 6

Scene 7

Scene 8

Scene 9

Act 2

Scene 1

Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 5

Scene 6

Act 3

Scene 1

Scene 2

Scene 3

Scene 4

Scene 5

Scene 6

Scene 7

Scene 8

Scene 9

Scene 10

Act 4

Scene 1

Scene 2

Scene 3

Epilogue

About Lou Wilham

Also by Lou Wilham

About Elle Beaumont

Also by Elle Beaumont

Acknowledgments

These Stars Would Curse Us

Maiden of the Hollow Path

The authors would like to join Mercutio in

dedicating this book to

William Shakespeare.

Willy, my boy, we found your plot pockets. . .

and Benvolio.

Benvolio

The distinct sound of a pen scratching against paper echoed in the otherwise silent room. Long, elegant cursive stared up at Benvolio, and with the text came the flood of vibrant memories.

This is the story of how I lost my loved ones.

He dipped his head down, writing furiously—whether or not this would serve as a cautionary tale for anyone, he didn’t know, but it felt good to write down a large part of his life.

Edoardo’s health is declining rapidly, Romeo said as he sat down across from Benvolio and Mercutio at their favorite tavern in the industrial city of Verona—The Dancing Fool.

The sweet fragrance of beer along with the mouth-watering aroma of stew filled the air. Benvolio arched a brow as his cousin plopped down, his voice barely audible over the roar of the patrons’ chatter.

Thankfully, the hearth blazed and hungrily lapped at the logs. It was winter and cold, far too cold; even three layers of shirts did nothing to warm Benvolio.

Benvolio curled his fingers into his palms. Edoardo—Tybalt Capulet’s father, and brother to Lord Capulet. He had never been a particularly foul man, which made Benvolio wonder where Tybalt had come from. Now that was a foul creature.

Gas lamps cast harsh shadows on Romeo’s face, making his typically warm and open features seem aged well beyond his sixteen years.

Romeo shifted out of the way as a waitress brought over a tankard of ale. She nodded her thanks, then slid away to the bar counter across from their table. She set to polishing it but kept her eyes trained on Romeo.

But of course.

He’s not dead yet? Mercutio blurted. Wasn’t he nigh on death’s door the last time you visited him? He swept his shoulder-length hair back into a small club at his nape, oblivious or uncaring as to the weight of the situation. Typical.

Honestly, Mercy, Benvolio chided. I’m sorry to hear that, cousin. And he was, truly, sorry to hear it. The Capulet family had been a thorn in the Montagues’ side for years thanks to a tryst between Romeo’s father and Juliet’s mother. The now-Lady Capulet had been desperate for wealth and chose a Capulet to secure her station, leaving Roberto Montague heartbroken and angry.

Bitterness settled in, warping into an ugly family feud. Except Edoardo, Lord Capulet’s brother, always had a soft spot for Romeo. He seemed to cut through the nonsense between the families and see people for who they were. If only the rest could manage such a feat.

Tybalt has a bee in his bonnet, Romeo announced before taking a swig from his brass tankard.

"Tell us something new, Romeo. Something we haven’t known since infancy." Mercutio was well and done with this topic already, if his drawn words were anything to judge by.

Romeo’s gaze flicked toward a rowdy table in the corner, and Benvolio followed his line of sight. Near the window facing the street, a man dragged his lady into a lively dance. Her face reddened with excitement, or perhaps embarrassment.

Seeing nothing of importance, Benvolio kicked his cousin’s shin.

Don’t bite your tongue now.

His cousin shifted, fidgeting with his fingers in a way that was most unlike him. Edoardo wrote me into his will. Tybalt knows nothing of it.

Oh shit, Benvolio and Mercutio said at the same time.

Are you honestly that daft to have let him write you into his family's will? Mercutio's voice was soft and pitched high all at once. He nearly vibrated with energy. This differed from the sort Benvolio wished he could bottle and savor on the days he needed it most. This particular brand of energy was the sort that sent his dear friend headlong into trouble, every time.

Light shimmered behind Benvolio’s eyes, and his head ached at once. He pinched the bridge of his nose and summoned every ounce of patience he could muster. Romeo, please assure me that you knew nothing of this.

Romeo waved him off. He said something in passing, but it’s not as if I knew he truly meant it.

Mercutio placed his hands on the tabletop and laughed so abruptly that Benvolio jumped in surprise. You’re a fucking idiot.

Benvolio clenched his jaw to keep from chuckling and instead jabbed his friend in the ribs with his elbow. Stop that. He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. What Mercutio means is . . .What in the nine hells do you mean? You didn’t try to dissuade him? You know what the Capulets think of us already.

That was another ordeal entirely. Lord Montague and Lord Capulet loathed one another, and it stemmed from warring over one lady. Two friends pitted against one another, all for the sake of a woman’s hand. No matter who she’d chosen, it would’ve been the wrong one.

And, for a time, the Montagues and Capulets weren’t at one another’s throats, allowing Tybalt and Romeo to befriend one another, to the point that they were nearly brothers.

But this? This was idiocy on Romeo’s part. And Benvolio understood Tybalt’s upset.

His heart galloped like a runaway carriage. The implications of this wouldn’t end well for any of them. Romeo, convincing an ill man on his deathbed, had won his way into the will.

As usual, Benvolio was already devising a fallout plan because he knew that the reading of the will would result in unfolding destruction.

You’re overreacting, the both of you.

You’re underreacting, cousin. For once, think outside of yourself and consider your actions.

The table grew quiet as they all nursed their drinks, and Benvolio hoped that one day, his cousin would grow up, consider the consequences of his actions, and change his ways.

Except, time was a cruel mistress, and Romeo’s fickle heart was the undoing of them all. As was the foolish feud between the families. But never in his wildest musings would Benvolio have thought the families would unravel so.

To the point blood was shed and lives were lost.

Benvolio wheezed, needing to stop there. Bile crept up his throat, and he dropped the pen. The image of his beloved Mercutio, bleeding and lifeless, forever branded in his memory. Eight years after Edoardo’s passing, everything changed so drastically.

Benvolio flipped to the first few pages he’d written and stopped at the very first one. He picked up the pen and wrote beneath the first line:

In memory of:

Juliet Capulet

Tybalt Capulet

Paris Escalus

Mercutio Escalus

Romeo Montague

Elena Montague

Gone, but never forgotten.

Never forgotten.

Everyone was so bloody young. Too young to die so senselessly. Romeo and Mercutio had been his age—four and twenty. Juliet, even younger at twenty. Tybalt, the oldest of them, at eight and twenty. But did years matter? Nothing made this easier, not years, not reasoning, because there was no bloody good reason it had happened.

Benvolio’s heart constricted as he lifted the pen. Tears welled in his eyes as he reflected on the loss of family. But more than that, he’d lost Mercutio before he had the chance to tell him everything.

That he loved him.

Outside his apartment, a loudspeaker sounded. New in stock, H.W. Peddleston’s latest novel on testing the limits of science, space, and time. Come down and visit Beyond the Pages.

Now, that was a novel idea. There were plenty of radicals running about Verona, spouting tales of time travel. They were right up there with the ones talking about faeries walking among them in the forest and spirits in the sky. He snorted. But what if he could truly travel back in time to save his Mercutio? His cousin. The Capulets . . .Everyone?

It’s a mad idea, but someone has to take your place, don’t they, Mercy? Benvolio frowned as he stood from his desk and crossed the room to fetch his overcoat. He caught his reflection in the mirror, noted the shadows beneath his eyes, the fine layer of scruff along his jaw. At five and thirty, he thought perhaps the pain would grow easier, but it hadn’t. The loss of everyone clung to him, no differently than his shadow. Except this weight was unbearable. He grabbed his coat, pulled it on, and glanced around his quiet, empty space. I promise, I’ll get you back. I’ll fix everything, and we can all be together again.

Nothing but the silence responded to him, but if he listened hard enough, he could almost hear Mercy’s playful purrs.

Benvolio left his home and stepped out onto the cobblestones. Above him, the dirigible that had been announcing the new arrival of the book flew, dragging a banner behind it with the title of the novel and store name. The airships came in all shapes and sizes. This one had a sailboat as the deck, suspended by dozens of ropes. The balloon portion resembled a whale, with fins included.

He crossed the road, minding the passing horses and the steam-powered vehicles. Beyond the Pages was located in the narrow building across from his home. The brick building was triangular to accommodate the fork of the road, unique and awkward, but Benvolio expected nothing less from his favorite store.

He stepped in, the bell tinkled, and the familiar scent of fresh paper washed over him. On the front table, a navy-blue bound copy of H.W. Peddleston’s The Science of Time Travel greeted Benvolio. He picked it up and gently flicked through the pages.

Some might think it was a load of nonsense, but there were recent reports of fae meddling with those in the city and stories of the old gods walking among the mortal realm. So, how did time travel differ, at least in Benvolio’s way of thinking? If one had to suspend their belief for fae, for old gods, was time travel so out of reach?

He pored over diagram after diagram, then he paused at a chapter.

Building A Time Machine

Hope blossomed in his chest, intoxicating, as if he’d sampled one of Mercy’s mushrooms. I’ll take this. He waved it as he approached the counter and paid for it.

Upon returning home, he put the kettle on and opened the book. Now, where do we begin? Benvolio murmured and flicked through the pages.

For weeks, he pored over the book, making notes about mechanical pieces and particular lubricants he’d have to purchase later on. He’d hardly noticed he hadn’t left his hole until a knock came on the door.

Benvolio glanced around, suddenly aware of the atrocious state of the apartment. Dishes were piled high in the sink, and the coffee table before him was littered with papers, books, and old tea cups.

He wasn’t expecting anyone . . .

Benvolio grudgingly left the comfort of his reading chair and answered the door—only, there was no one there. He glanced down at the ground and saw a note.

You’re not a hermit.

And since when do you have a beard?

He lifted his hand to run it over his jaw: a fine amount of hair had grown, but he wouldn’t deem it a true beard. Still, the note bore no signature, but he knew without a doubt whose handwriting it was. Mercutio.

Tears came unbidden. How? Am I that close? He stood, clutching the note to his breast, and slammed the door. Damn the world. He needed to further his studies.

And that he did. For weeks, months, and even years. Before he knew it, he was a man of five and forty.

His obsession with building the time travel machine sapped away any free time he may have had. He spent every waking moment tinkering away at his device.

When it came time to build the actual machine, he rented a warehouse and fashioned it out of an elevator because that seemed the most practical and easiest to get ahold of without too many questions.

On the outside, it was a brass-framed booth with sprayed wrought iron twisting to resemble ivy. But the inside? While there was a control box, it had nothing to do with selecting a floor. Each number on the panel was used to type in a date.

The trickiest part was connecting the device to a pocket dimension, and Benvolio wasn’t even certain how he’d managed that. Sheer luck, or maybe the fates had taken pity on him. Let’s hope this works, he murmured and pulled on the emergency lever, which didn’t sound an alarm, but it did open the backside.

Instead of the warehouse, a cozy living room came into view. A fireplace crackled on the far side, and leather couches faced one another. Gas lamps flickered on the walls, and a bookshelf lined with dozens of books was on the wall closest to him.

Benvolio laughed, half in relief and half from exhaustion. The pocket dimension functioned.

With the intention of verifying its accuracy as a replica, he ventured deeper inside and went to the hutch in the living room, where the wines were stored. Benvolio reached for one of the brass knobs and pulled the mahogany drawer open. He rifled around inside and found a notebook with Mercutio’s handwriting on it.

How to summon a demon

He blinked and pulled it out. Sure enough, there were diagrams, instructions, ingredients . . .

What the hell were you into? He puzzled over the notebook, then placed it down on the coffee table. Sighing, he turned toward the doorway that led into the elevator. He closed the apartment up and glanced down at the typed-out instructions tucked away on the elevator’s shelf. Okay, let’s give this a go, Benvolio, and save everyone.

Benvolio entered the year and the date, then hit the button. He waited, fully expecting the machine to whir to life, and while it rumbled enough to unbalance him, it didn’t teleport him elsewhere.

He frowned.

Something clattered in the warehouse, startling him. He opened the door and glanced around, but in the dim light, he couldn’t see much. Who is there?

Nothing.

I say! Benvolio growled.

Okay, okay. An individual emerged from the shadows, shorter than most people Benvolio had ever seen. A thick layer of grease swept their hair back, and their features were sharp angles, putting Benvolio in mind of a rat. Tempting the hands of the fates, are you? They tilted their head to the side and motioned to the machine.

Benvolio rarely acted without thinking it through in a million ways, but the urge to throttle this being without reasoning with himself first was strong. Especially if they intended to meddle with his time machine. I enjoy tinkering as a hobby, he forced out.

Tinkering is fixing clocks and making them sing instead of tick, but you found a pocket dimension, Benvolio.

He tensed at once. He’d never said his name. Who are you?

Asmath. They paused, eyes darting to the side as if they regretted offering their name. I am a spirit—or, as some call me, a demon.

Benvolio clenched his jaw as he stared at the figure. Demon? His heart thundered in his ears. Had he summoned this creature from the depths by simply touching the notebook? He swallowed a screech.

It seems your lovely creation needs some finishing touches. Asmath pulled a skeleton key from their trouser pocket and stepped forward. Their pointed shoes clacked on the floor of the warehouse. Bottomless black eyes peered up at Benvolio, and they smiled. And a little flare of black magic to bring it to life— They lifted their hand, placing it against the glass window.

Warm lights flickered, brightening, then darkening, and the familiar whirring of the contraption came to life.

The key, dear Benvolio, will camouflage the machine, and the magic will help cut through time and space.

Benvolio wasn’t a fool to believe that this came without a price. A heavy one, he assumed. "What do you want for your help, then?" He took the key, eyeing it as though it would bite him.

Asmath’s form changed before Benvolio’s eyes. He grew from a mere four feet to six and a half. His features sharpened, boasting angles that no human possessed. I don’t know yet, Benvolio, but when I do, I’ll come for it. Do we have a deal?

Benvolio grimaced. If it meant a chance at getting his Mercy back, not losing Romeo or Juliet? He would pay the price and cross the bridge when he got there.

Why help me at all?

I have my reasons. Now, I ask you again: Do we have a deal?

Benvolio chewed his bottom lip, then hesitantly reached his hand out. The demon’s nails brushed along the inside of Benvolio’s wrist before clasping his hand.

This is binding and unbreakable. Asmath withdrew and lifted a finger. Before I go, you must know, the machine operates like a clock. You have twelve chances to change fate, and when the chances run out, you must not jump again in your own time. If you do, you’ll tear a hole in the fabric of time and space. And you mustn’t ever approach yourself.

Why not? Not that the entire ordeal didn’t sound far-fetched, terrible, and insane all at once.

Asmath dragged his tongue, which was more lizard-like than human, over his teeth. Because you’ll then have four hours before you are pulled back to your own timeline, without the machine. Paradoxes, you know?

Benvolio glanced up at Asmath. Does that mean everything will be fixed in my timeline? he asked, suddenly filled with hope.

Who's to say?

Just as another question formed on his tongue, Asmath snapped and disappeared. The elevator shimmered in the light as if fading into the background. Panicked, Benvolio touched it, but smooth metal greeted him. Camouflage.

Now . . .Now it was time to find his Mercy.

Stepping into the booth, he closed the door and punched in the fateful date, the day that had started it all.

Benvolio closed his eyes, and with a gentle whirr, the machine came to life.

Now that he had finally done it, he ran to the shelf plucked out his notebook and jotted down a new line.

How to run the time machine

Mercutio

Present Day Verona, 1901

The streets were a sea of riotous, writhing masses. The people of Verona were out in full force on the first warm day after so long a winter, crowding the cobblestone streets so much that no steam-powered carriage could hope to make it through. The sky was full of dirigibles of every shape and size. Verona was alive, alive, alive . And Mercutio was thriving, loving it. A smile split so wide across his face, it ached at his jaw. Even if his best friend—his soul’s mate in every way that counted—was walking beside him looking for all the world like someone had kicked his puppy.