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Marty returned to school the next day feeling like an open wound ready to burst.
One wrong move, he'd spill his guts.
The image of Juliet—dead, with her milky eyes, hidden underneath a pile of leafs and moss—still plagued his memories. But he also remembered Warren; beautiful, perfect Warren, and his pilgrim lips touching his burning cheek. It was conflicting; two embossing memories, one sweet: Warren, and one not so sweet: dead Juliet, fought for dominance.
He focused on the sweeter of the two.
"—bring vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears: what is it else? A maddened most discreet, a choking gall and a preserving sweet," whispered Warren, his voice soft, "Farewell, coz."
Marco Plath—Benvolio, as he marched on the stage—was a terrible actor. He struggled with his lines and wasn't able to act to save his life. He got by on his good looks; his soft eyes, golden hair, and puffy lips.
He wrapped a bronze hand around Romeo's wrist.
Marty watched the scene, with his heart thudding in his chest, directing the lights when needed. He refused, refused, to be berated by Mr. Royce again. He was swift with his movements and directions.
"Soft!" Benvolio shouted, "If will go along. And if you leave me, you do wrong."
He stopped paying attention to the scene.
He focused on Warren.
The Romeo that had taken stage yesterday—the stuttering, feverous, unfocused Romeo—was gone. In his place laid the familiar, bewitching charming, Warren. He acted the part of the grieving boy. The heartbroken Romeo. It didn't suit him; the sad, broken boy—it wasn't him.
There was a tiny moment, barely a second—if he would have blinked, he would have missed it—when their eyes met.
Their eyes locked.
A small, sly, smile spread across Warren's pink lips.
It was small, barely there, but it was enough to send Marty's heart into his throat.
There was an air of familiarity, a secret shared between them, it felt as though their hearts were tied together with a red string.
