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The sun is already marching and a fire is crackling in the grate, but neither of them moves from the bed. Hamlet remains because he is asleep; Horatio, because he cannot bear to look away.
There is something captivating about vulnerability and openness that come from unconsciousness. The prince, Horatio knows, is seldom worried, but in sleep his face relaxes further and he seems almost a child. So sweet, so free from care.
As if he hears Horatio’s thoughts, Hamlet’s lips curl into a smile, though his eyes do not open. “Are you turning that lovesick gaze on me again?” he asks, slow, the tide of slumber dragging at his words.
“If I am in love, then it is not a sickness,” Horatio murmurs, “and if I am sick, then it is only because I lack a comforting touch.”
Hamlet chuckles. “What touch might that be?” One of his bare feet brushes Horatio’s leg beneath the heavy blankets, his skin freezing despite the fire.
“Try again,” Horatio tells him, leaning a little closer.
“I would,” Hamlet says, “but I see nothing—I am in the dark, Horatio, and cannot find you.”
“Open your eyes, my lord, and stop wasting the daylight by keeping them shuttered.”
Hamlet obliges, still smiling, and his eyes dance like the glowing embers. “If I’m opening my eyes to spend daylight, then I would like to spend it with you.”
Horatio will never tire of the play of winter sun over Hamlet’s features, the warmth of his lips against the chill of the season. Their chests press together and their arms twine about each other, pulling closer, searching and finding. He says, “I feel the same, but your laziness has cost us several hours. It won’t be long before you’re called away.”
Hamlet shakes his head. “Only with you, Horatio.”
His voice holds a hint of princely command, and it makes Horatio’s heart beat faster to know their closeness. “You flatter me,” he breathes, “but—”
“But what?” Hamlet asks, grinning as if he is not doing wicked things with his hands. “What is it, Horatio? I cannot bear the anticipation.”
Horatio, for his part, cannot bear his own anticipation, but after a kiss to Hamlet’s neck, he murmurs, “A courier demands your attention.” He pauses, gasps. “He arrived late last night and said the news would keep till dawn, but not much longer.”
Hamlet tilts his head to one side, inquisitive, his cheeks flushed as holly berries. “What news?” he asks.
“I couldn’t say, my lord.” Horatio kisses him desperately between the words, fighting to speak, to keep his head. “I know only that he—he comes from Elsinore—and it concerns your father.”
“It always concerns my father,” Hamlet says. His lips are treacherously soft. “It will keep a moment longer, I am sure.”
Horatio’s breath catches, his pulse sprints, and the sun burns through the ice on the windowpanes. He steals a moment, and another, and wishes only that they might stay here forever.