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“Real theatre is much better than whatever it was in Elsinore,” Hamlet mused while he and Horatio were finishing their wine.
The pair had just come back from the Globe to their discreetly small but still a mansion they called a home while in England (and to be frank, neither of them had any wish to return to Denmark. Horatio planned on going to Wittenberg again, and still was in process of churning Hamlet’s conscience so the prince would finish his education too).
“Oh, oh! You should write a play!” Hamlet clapped his hands and almost knocked over his goblet.
“I think it's a great idea,” Horatio nodded, lowering his hands he threw forward to catch the goblet. “I will definitely try.”
They were sitting by Horatio's desk, and if the wine was spilt, it would stain the papers with his notes. He chided himself for the mess he left behind (though it was almost pristine), and looked back at Hamlet.
“Do you have any ideas?” he asked.
“Hm. Not yet. But it should be something epic. Tragical,” the prince gestured widely with his left hand, holding the goblet in the right.
“Huh. I was thinking something lighter. A comedy. Ophelia's story would fit this format just nice. Or something absurd Ros and Guil could do.”
Hamlet wrinkled his nose.
“I won't be telling your story,” Horatio said firmly. “It’s not dark enough, and I don't want to try and make it so, even on paper. Imagine if we, for some reason, had to kill Polonius? Or if your dad had already been dead when we arrived?”
“You are right, my bird,” Hamlet sighed and drank the last drops of his wine.
“I am always right, my prince,” Horatio smiled and, before Hamlet could react exasperatedly, added, “You say it yourself every time.”
“I do,” Hamlet admitted. “Need you, perchance, any help with the buttons of your doublet?”