Chapter Text
Horatio stretched his arms and gathered his hair up off of his neck. He’d given up on trying to sit still, but remained determined to keep from pulling at the collar of his doublet. A fourteen hour carriage ride, he reminded himself, was no excuse to look like a scoundrel. He redirected his energy to flicking the corner of the letter in his hand- the only thing he'd carried with him (spare a large satchel of coins he’d used to convince the coachman) when he ran off the grounds of Wittenberg several days ago. He ran his finger over the words that he'd memorized during the daylight hours. He wished he could say he'd done that because he’d been bored.
“My dearest Horatio,
Just yesterday I was thinking of sitting down and writing you. I miss you and Wittenberg dearly, and it remains my intention to return within the season to pursue a higher degree, but I have been glad to be back home. My time has been so joyous these months, and I thought that, for once, I might perhaps share a scrap of pleasant news with you. I've been taking long, lovely walks through the rolling hills, seeing fine performances, riding horseback with my father…
How heavy sits my heart for plaguing you with my pain- you would be all the better off for burning this parchment right now. Go on, do so, I beseech you.
Ah, no, I did not think you would. Horatio, my noble father is dead! A manservant found him near noon-time today, lying as if sleeping underneath a tree. Oh, how I wept, Horatio- like I'd never wept before. You, more than most, know how much that means. I do not hesitate to tell you that I nearly followed him to his grave. For what other reason, I ask you, would a castle have such an armory as ours?
I am sorry. You would not like me to speak in this way. I am sorry, in fact, for speaking at all. Rather, writing at all. You have written highly of your time at Wittenberg and now I have cast a shadow upon your joy. Take no action but to pray for my father's soul.
Your undeserving friend,
Hamlet
Vast amounts of money and several horse switches had cut the journey to Elsinore down from eighty to sixty hours, but it seemed hardly to matter. Hamlet had been rambling around Elsinore for going on six days now. The prince could hardly be trusted alone that long. What if he had broken into the armory? What if he had disappeared altogether? He might have done anything, for how much he cherished his father. No, Horatio should never have let himself take those breaks. He had no need to stop for food or exercise when his dear friend-
He stopped himself. He was coming to Elsinore to comfort Hamlet; he would be no use if he was panicking himself. Thankfully, before his mind could start racing again, the carriage clunked to a stop. “Twenty chains from Elsinore castle,” said the coachman.
Horatio threw open his door and jumped shakily to the ground, teetering towards his driver on unsteady legs. “Do I owe you anything more? I could sent a messenger with-”
“No, no, Goodman Horatio, you've been more than generous.”
Horatio nodded. “Do rest your horse.”
“I will, sir.”
“Well, thank you, then. Goodnight,” he said, taking up a branch from the ground and beginning the hike to the castle. The carriage rode off into the darkness.
His head finally cleared during his walk to the back gate. In fact, the first information Horatio registered after speaking to the coachman was the gleam of Osric’s ingratiating grin.
“My lord, how well you look!” he enthused.
“Osric,” Horatio sighed, “I've just spent two and a half days in a carriage. I've slept sitting up, I haven't changed clothes since Tuesday, and I’m growing the first beard I've had since that ill-fated attempt at the age of fourteen.”
“Yes, my lord, and how it all suits you!”
Horatio sighed again. “Osric, could you perhaps take me to Prince Hamlet's chambers?”
“Why, of course!” said Osric, leading Horatio down the corridor. “What are you planning to do there?”
“I-” Horatio began before freezing up. “What? ”
“Well, Prince Hamlet has not been in his chambers since the king died.”
“Then will you take me wherever he is currently spending his nights?”
“Of course, Lord Horatio.”
...
Several excruciating niceties later, Horatio found himself gingerly opening the door to the buttery. “Lord Hamlet?” he called into the candlelight.
“Who goes there?”
Horatio felt a soft grin creep across his face. “Your faithful servant Horatio.”
For a moment there was no response. Then Hamlet, along with a candelabra and a rather sizable block of cheese, appeared from behind a shelf. “I thought I told you to burn the letter,” he said, setting down both items and throwing his arms around Horatio.
He's in pain. He's in pain, Horatio. You've come to comfort the poor thing, not to- he's suffering. He would never be clinging to you were he not in such a state of misery. It is not about you. God, why did he take so much pleasure in having the prince in his arms?
Hamlet pulled away and sat down against the wall, motioning for Horatio to join him. He set the cheese and the candelabra down between them. “Gruyere?” Hamlet asked, a haunted edge to his voice.
“I- sure,” said Horatio, taking a piece of cheese. “I've hardly eaten in days.”
Hamlet bobbed his head emptily and stared straight at the far wall. Horatio fixed his eyes on the same point and, for a moment, the two men sat together in a comfortable sort of discontent. After several minutes, Horatio let his eyes slip towards Hamlet’s face and found that the prince was crying.
“Have they buried him yet?” asked Horatio gently. Hamlet shook his head. “I apologize. We can be silent.” Hamlet nodded and both men went back to staring at the wall. Several more minutes, then Hamlet moved the cheese and the candelabra from between them. Horatio's breath hitched in his throat as Hamlet put his head on his shoulder. He fought to keep from hyperventilating- Hamlet would surely feel it. Steady breaths. Deep breaths. No, not that deep! Horatio looked frantically around the room for something to distract his attention from the feeling of Hamlet's weight. Hamlet moved his head a bit farther back, his breath disturbing the hairs on Horatio’s neck.
“Horatio,” he said softly.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for coming.”
“I'll always come.”
“I know,” said Hamlet, finally cracking a smile. “I need to stop calling.”
“It feels right, being back at Elsinore.”
“I thought you enjoyed Wittenberg.”
“I do.”
“They haven't.”
Horatio looked towards Hamlet, confused. “Buried him,” Hamlet explained.
“Oh.”
“Claudius is to be king.”
“Do you know when he is to be coronated?”
“No. He says he may wait until he grows something of a beard. He says it looks more kingly ,” spat Hamlet. “He has been using that word ‘kingly’ since the guards carried my father's body through the gates.”
“Men often refer to concepts at which they can never hope to grasp.”
“Then he speaks not of it enough.”
“He could not possibly,” Horatio agreed. “How fares your mother?”
Hamlet heaved a sigh. “I know not. I have not been able to catch her alone since my father’s death.”
“She is comforted by her ladies-in-waiting?”
“She is comforted by no one. She has had no need of comfort; the block of stone sits by Claudius’s side at all hours with her fingers in his hair. The servants seem to believe that they will wed.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Christ has no home in these walls.”
It was bitter cold in the buttery, even with their combined body heat, and Hamlet blew into his hands. Horatio squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that Hamlet wouldn't notice. Those hands. The two men had shaken hands when they were formally reacquainted at the age of sixteen, and Horatio had never fallen out of love with Hamlet since then. Closing his eyes backfired; he could see the hands better in his imagination than in the dim light of the buttery. They were so overwhelmingly gorgeous: big and powerful, but not the sort of power that could ever be used to cause pain. They had long, straight, beautifully groomed fingers. Perfectly rounded nails, and their skin was just as creamy as it was on the rest of his body. How was it even possible for the skin on one’s hands to be unmarred with pink? He'd mused on the subject longer than any man with a sense of decency ever would. He'd surrendered to the fact that his sense of decency disappeared whenever his attention was drawn towards those hands.
“No,” Horatio ventured, “at times it seems He doesn't.”
Hamlet moved his head from Horatio's shoulder. He sorely missed the weight. “How was your ride here?”
“Long.”
“It must have cost quite a lot. I would be glad to repay you for-”
“Must I remind you, my lord, of my own wealth? If I could not have afforded the journey I would not have come.”
Suddenly, Hamlet brought his knees up to his chest, clung to them, and burst into tears. Horatio pulled the prince close and rocked him back and forth. “He is dead, Horatio!” Hamlet blubbered. “Why must he be dead? I didn't want him to go! I know that some men wish their fathers dead, but I did not! I loved him, Horatio, I loved him, I- I do not want Claudius to be king! The words, they do not fit together! No! No, my father should live! He should sit up there on his throne right now!” He broke off to take a heaving breath. “He never left his throne, you know. Never except when we went riding. He loved Denmark! He was always there to rule her! He- and now Claudius as king?!”
“Shh,” Horatio soothed. “Shh. I know. I know.”
“He does not deserve it! No man deserves it- there can be no king but my father! There can be no king! No king… no king…”
Horatio held Hamlet tighter. “Shh,” he repeated. He shushed and rocked the prince until his sobs finally died down. “Shh. Here, listen.”
He didn’t listen, just kept speaking on in a quavering voice. “It's all over, Horatio. My whole life- everything I've known- it's all over. How am I to look at that wretch upon my father's throne? And now with my mother by his side? What will become of the state of Denmark? My good Danes- how they will suffer under Claudius. That man… he has already drunk half our coastline… merely celebrating my father's death. I am afraid, Horatio. I… I want my father back.” He descended into sobs again.
Horatio angled Hamlet's face to look at his own. Tears flooded down the prince’s reddened cheeks, but he watched Horatio with wide, trusting eyes. “Listen to me,” said Horatio. “You are right. It is all over. Nothing is ever going to be the same again. Your father is gone and he is never coming back. He- he was a young man. You expected more life from him. We all did. You are not just grieving the loss of your father; you are grieving the loss of what you thought your life would be. And that I do understand. You will never hold him again. You will never get to sit with him on his ship again, listening to him threaten to keelhaul Osric.” Hamlet gave a pained smile. More tears. Horatio continued, “The throne has been given to a man who loathes you. Loathed your father. Indeed loathed everything but the promise of unchecked power. But he will never attain unchecked power, Hamlet.”
“No?”
“No, of course not!” Horatio smiled. “Have some faith in your Danes, sweet prince. Claudius has always been a quick-witted man, but hiding his own sordidity is not his greatest gift. Your countrymen will smell something rotten in the state of Denmark: he will not destroy your country. He- he will not destroy your father's work.”
“He loved Denmark,” said Hamlet, wiping away the last of his tears.
“He did,” Horatio agreed. “Do you recall when that Dutch envoy appeared at court and went on about the whaling in his country?”
“So father put a harpoon in every man’s hand and challenged that envoy to catch one!” Hamlet laughed, breaking into a hesitant smile. “I'd forgotten. That was a wonderful day.”
“You certainly have forgotten, then. You loathed every moment.”
“I most certainly did not!”
“You did so!” said Horatio. “You wailed the entire time about the cold and how the rain would warp the leather in your shoes.”
“Which it did! I could hardly pull my feet out of them when we got off of that boat.”
“Oh, I remember. It took me, you, your father, and two stewards to get you free. And then without the slightest pause, your father picked them up and-”
“-and put them on the dog!” Hamlet laughed. He paused for a moment with a bright grin on his face. Then the grin slipped away and the tears returned. “We got the whale.”
“I still have the oil lamp.”
“Where is it?”
“At Wittenberg.”
“Oh,” said Hamlet. He ran a hand up his face, wiping away his tears and brushing through his hair.
“I miss him too, my lord.”
“I know. So many people do. It is… it is vain of me to pity myself as I do.”
“No!” said Horatio, sitting up on his knees. “No. That is not what I meant.”
“I know. I apologize, I…”
“I know.”
“At least I got to see him before he died,” Hamlet squeaked, choking up again. “If I'd heard the news from a messenger…”
“How did you hear the news?”
Hamlet looked straight at Horatio. “I was sitting in the hall when they carried his body in.”
“By God…”
“No, I am glad of it. When a dog dies, you know, the owner is supposed to put its body in front of the other dogs so that they will know what happened to it. If they do not see the body they will just assume that the dog was taken away. I sincerely believe that I would behave in the same manner. If Claudius had to tell me that my father was dead, I never would have believed him.”
“Closure is a soothing thing.”
“I would reap its benefits if only I understood the cause of his death.”
Horatio put his arm around Hamlet’s back. “There is no knowing.”
“And it maddens me! I- I cannot shake the belief that Claudius has done something.”
“How do you mean?”
“I know not,” he admitted. “But the mood in this house has changed. Claudius has changed- a different change than would result from a death. I apologize; it must sound mad to you. It likely is, I admit, and-”
“No,” Horatio jumped in. “I am of the opinion that Claudius ought always to be suspected of something. Even if one cannot quite define the thing of which they suspect him.”
Hamlet threw his arms around Horatio, who could feel the prince smiling into the front of his shoulder. “Thank you, Horatio,” he said, pulling his head away to meet the man’s eye. “For everything. I do not deserve you to cry to.”
“No, you do not. You deserve to never have to cry to anybody.”
Hamlet smiled with gratitude and, removing himself from the embrace, put his head back on Horatio’s shoulder. “Who let you into the castle? Osric?”
“Yes. He is useful at times.”
“He is. Discreet, even,” said the prince, gazing blankly at the wall again.
“Nobody knows that you've written to me, do they?” Horatio realized.
Hamlet sighed and buried his face in those beautiful hands. “No. My mother and my uncle, they… they think all the grief is untoward. I cried before them exactly once, and I overheard them complaining to each other about it the next night.”
“I am so sorry.”
“My own fault. I could have wept elsewhere. I could at least have kept from listening to them speak of me.”
“They are both so fond of that word ‘unprincely’,” he remembered.
“They are.”
“I can leave before dawn, then. They need not know I was here.”
“No, no, I do not wish that of you! You've come all this way, you-”
“Your life requires that you bend to their ridiculous image of a prince, my lord. And all who enter your life should be aware of that. I am and have been for some time. Only humans need friends for comfort. You are above all that- you are royalty! ”
Hamlet chuckled softly. “I want you to stay here, it is only that-”
“I know,” he promised. He thought a second. “Perhaps I could stay in the region and lie about it. Or I could claim that I returned for the king’s funeral.”
“You do too much for me.”
“Oh, I've nothing else to do with my time,” said Horatio, waving his hand in a joking manner.
Hamlet smiled weakly and the men sat together in silence again. Hamlet’s ragged, tear-broken breathing accidentally extinguished a couple of the candles.
“I love you, Horatio,” Hamlet eventually murmured. Horatio's heart jumped- did the prince truly say that? In such a place? On such an occasion? He suddenly felt years of unsaid words rising to the surface: declarations of love, vows of loyalty… “You've always been just like a brother to me.”
Oh.