#but finally I can present my first escalawrence fic to the fandom

[shadowofthemoth]

Okay; idk if giù want just a prompt or a ship to go with it too, but maybe Escalawrence - fernweh? Or Bentycutio - frisson

Thank you so much for this delightful prompt! 😘 I picked the first option (of course I did, ah duh, you’re probably not surprised), and so here we goooo! 

Note 1: I am using the Italian spelling of Friar Lawrence’s name, Lorenzo, to match it to the Prince’s name, Bartolomeo, and also because I am more comfortable calling him that way.

Note 2: click on the title to go read this fic on AO3!   

“Wish For You”

“I wish I could just leave.” The friar blinked, tearing his gaze away from the fire crackling in the fireplace, and turned to the Prince, not really surprised by what he had just heard. When it became clear that no explanation would follow, he sighed and leaned forward, reaching out towards Escalus and gently taking his free hand in his. “And what exactly do you mean by that?” he prompted. 

The Prince mirrored his sigh, setting his wine aside on the small table next to a mostly empty bottle and Lorenzo’s cup, and pinched the bridge of his nose with a wince. “Nothing. Nothing, really.” “You’re a bit like an oyster, you know? Snapping shut whenever it seems that someone might accidentally get too close.” Escalus hummed in agreement, “So I have been told.” “Well, you don’t have to be.” Lorenzo brought the Prince’s hand to his lips, the familiar feeling of hot breath against cold skin making Escalus shiver just like it always did, and lifted his gaze to look in his lover’s face. “At least not here and not now.” “I know. I’m just… formulating.” The Prince dragged a free hand through his graying hair and finally relaxed his posture, sinking into the depth of his favourite armchair. Now he, in his silvery black attire, seemed to Lorenzo like a darker shadow in the shadows of the room, with only his skin glowing softly in the uneven firelight. His voice grew slightly pensive. “I love Verona. I was born here, I grew up here, my family has ruled this city for years; I know it from the inside and from the outside, I have learned its inner workings, and I try my best to make my city better. Not only because I must, but also because I want to.” He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “though I am no longer sure I can… oh well, that’s beside the point.” “You can and you do,” Lorenzo argued, squeezing his hand reassuringly, and the Prince’s firm lips formed a weak smile. “Maybe. I don’t know. But there’s one thing I really can’t do, even though I want to.” “Leave?..” “Yes, dear friend. I can’t leave. Only for a short period of time, and only if my political affairs demand that I go elsewhere… and then I must go back, and that’s the end of it. But I’ve had enough wars and conquests already.” Escalus frowned, unconsciously rubbing at his left arm, just above the elbow, where a long ugly scar was hidden beneath the layers of expensive fabric; and Lorenzo made a mental note to himself to dig out one of his healing balms. He remembered that scar well - just as well as all other scars on the Prince’s body; he remembered them with his eyes, and his hands, and his lips. They were not many, those scars, but they spoke to Lorenzo of bloody battles, painful wounds, and countless feverish hours of recovery. He remembered which of them troubled Escalus, especially when the weather was chill, and knew how to make it better, putting his experience in healing to use. Meanwhile, Escalus continued, “And a peaceful visit to the Duke of Mantua or some other ruler is not much better than a war against them… don’t tell anyone I said so.” Lorenzo huffed a laugh, surprised by his lover’s unexpected admission. “Are they that bad?” The Prince smiled again, this time with a hint of amusement in his expression. “Oh no; just boring. Politics and business, that is all there is to my life, as well as theirs. To me personally, it is boring. But in general…” he made a vague gesture that could mean anything. “They are all good leaders and honourable men, though some less so than others; but that’s inevitable. None of them are perfect, but neither am I. None of us are saints, and those who possess power don’t have the slightest chance to even try to become such. Power and perfection… It is a contradiction in itself, dear friend.” “Oh Bartolomeo… Would that I could change your mind about that.” Escalus raised an eyebrow, leaning forward a bit. “Then… tell me: what think you of me as a ruler?” He didn’t seem to be seeking affirmation or approval, Lorenzo noted, even though his question seemed to indicate otherwise; but what Escalus was driving at was still a mystery to him. Lorenzo looked into his eyes, momentarily transfixed by the warm light shining in them - was that the reflection of the flames in the fireplace, or was that something else? - but quickly recovered his composure and nodded. “There is a lot to say in response to this, Bartolomeo, you know it. You’re a born leader, dear friend; Verona prospers, and the peace between us and other cities has never been so sound as it is now. And all of that is due to your efforts.” “Verona prospers…” Escalus echoed, shaking his head. “Oh, dearest friend. She prospers like a rich woman, dressed in finest robes but suffering from severe pains inside her fragile body; and I have no power over her pain, just like one man’s head has no power over the ache in another’s stomach. I have run out of remedies that could stop the disease. It needs a different physician and a different treatment, which I can’t provide.”

Lorenzo winced at the bitterness in Bartolomeo’s voice and could only run his fingertips tenderly over his hand in response to his words. He knew his lover’s sorrow well, he knew how much work the Prince was putting into stabilizing the situation in his city, torn by feud and soaked in blood… and how little it seemed to help. If only he could do something…

“You do what you can. And if it is not enough, then it is hardly your fault, my liege. My love. My Bartolomeo.” The Prince drew a shuddering breath and bent his head to press a grateful kiss to Lorenzo’s hands clasping his own. He then straightened up and smiled at Lorenzo with incredible warmth. “I do not know what I have done to deserve your kindness, dear friend, but I am eternally grateful to have you here with me.”

That smile… oh, that genuine, happy, beloved smile. It was a rare sight, and there were not too many people who got to see it; most were used to a stern gaze, a sharp gesture, a sombre expression… the Prince of Verona guarded his emotions well. But the rarer the sight, the dearer it was to Lorenzo. The friar could not explain what it was about the Prince’s smile that made his heart flutter and melt so easily; but then again, he would probably also be unable to explain how he had ended up loving the man in the first place, if asked. Not that it any longer mattered.

“You never answered my question though,” he reminded gently. “You said you wanted to leave Verona?..”

“Ah yes. I beg your forgiveness; my own thoughts led me astray. Yes, I said so, and I meant what I said. I am… tired, Lorenzo,” Escalus had never complained before, and so his wistful honesty surprised the friar a bit more than it probably should have done. “It is not even the fact that I stay here all the time that is daunting; it is the knowledge that I will never leave. Not even after death will I leave Verona’s beloved walls. I will be buried next to my ancestors, and then my kin will be buried next to me… All will be as it should be, and it is a good thing. But,” the Prince turned away to stare into the flames, pressing the tips of his fingers together, “some people are born with a strange innate need to see new places, and they are never content with their lives until they are on the road. This, too, is probably a good thing. Except it is not, not for those who can’t go to see those places. Some don’t have enough money, some have to remain with their families… and so they stay, and in their sleep they dream of faraway lands they will never see. And then they wake up to live their daily lives in a place they have known since birth, the place that will house their remains after their death… the only place they get to know.”

“You’ve never spoken of this before…” Lorenzo had moved closer at some point and was now half-perched on, half-leaning against the armrest of Bartolomeo’s seat. “You’ve never shown that you…”

“That I am not so different from my crazy, foolish daydreamer of an heir after all?” Escalus joked with a laugh. “Well, we are related, aren’t we? The only difference is…” his tone suddenly lost all the mirth, “that my nephew can say and do things openly, while I…” Escalus let his voice trail away, leaving the rest of the phrase unsaid.

Both men fell silent for a moment, Bartolomeo deep in thought, Lorenzo waiting for him to continue; for he felt there still was something weighing on his lover’s mind.

“Maybe I am too soft with him,” suddenly added Bartolomeo. “But I cannot be otherwise. He is sixteen now; I was his age when I first led my father’s men into battle. Oh, I was a good condottiero. Not a single lost battle. You know why? Because I hated war. I still do. The absence of war doesn’t mean peace, and you, living in Verona, you know what I mean. But at least there are no conflicts between Verona and other cities now, all because I am good at war. And at politics. But I hate politics, too. I am really good at things I hate. Wars, and treaties, and trade, and law, and dishonesty - all of these are things a proper ruler must be good at. No one had asked me if I wanted it or not, and I am what I must be, not what I want to be. I am not regretting it. But I can’t bring myself to do the same to Mercutio.”

Lorenzo could have argued; he could have stated the obvious and said that most people usually ended up being what they had to be, not what they wanted to be; that Escalus was not the only one. He didn’t. He only shifted a bit closer.

Escalus shot him a strange look, then reached for his half-empty cup, shaking his head to throw back a loose strand of hair falling on his forehead. “It’s ironic, really,” he twisted the cup to make the wine swirl. “I bet if I start hating travelling I will immediately be presented with hundreds of opportunities to travel. And if I stop wanting to end that damned feud then I will immediately see numerous ways to end it once and for all. Stop wishing for something and you will get it, is that how everyone’s lives work?”

“Don’t you hate the feud though?” Lorenzo pointed out sensibly.

“I do. And apparently, which is, to think of it, quite logical, I am good at not stopping it. But,” Escalus turned back to the friar, surprisingly looking a bit sheepish, “that’s not what I was going to talk about. I probably shouldn’t have drunk as much wine as I did, dear friend; it loosened my tongue and tangled my thoughts. Please do forgive me for not making much sense tonight.”

“You’ve been making perfect sense… up until now. What should I forgive you for, your honesty?” Lorenzo carefully pried the cup out of his pliant hand and set it back on the table, then put an arm around his lover. “There is no need for you to be tense and reserved all the time. One evening of relaxation and honesty could do you a lot of good, and wine is a good way to achieve it.”

“You sound like a physician,” huffed Escalus. He was now leaning against Lorenzo’s side, nuzzling into the soft creases of his robe. The friar was not so sure whether he was doing it unconsciously or just pretending to be unaware of his own actions, but couldn’t help but smile at the catlike gesture and resisted the urge to scratch the tired Prince behind the ears.

“I could be one,” he agreed instead. “I know how to heal wounds and treat illnesses.”

“I am not ill.”

“And I thank God for that. But you know what, there was something you said a minute ago… A question. I never answered it.”

Escalus looked up at him, intrigued. “So?’

“You said something like…” Lorenzo frowned, thinking. “Oh yes. ‘Stop wishing for something and you will get it, is that how everyone’s lives work?’ Did I get that right?”

“You did,” nodded the Prince. “Though that was more rhetorical, I wasn’t really expecting you to answer that.”

“Nevertheless. Bartolomeo,” the friar tenderly caressed his cheeks with his thumbs. “My liege, my friend, my impossible love. I never stopped wishing for you.”

This time Escalus remained silent. But the soft smile that spread slowly across his noble features, the warm glow that settled in his eyes, and the firm embrace he drew his lover into spoke volumes. They spoke of affection, and of love, and of gratitude; it was a thank you for giving me not only empty hope but a base for that hope, too; it was a thank you for being there for me; it was a quiet, wordless I love you.

Maybe wishes could come true after all?..