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Chapter Text

Hamlet is dying in Horatio’s arms.

Horatio hopes against reason for a way out, tries to imagine a happy ending for them, but he can’t. All he knows is Hamlet leaning against his chest, one hand keeping Horatio’s arm in place around him (as though Horatio would ever let go), the other gripping tightly to the poisoned wine like he’s still afraid that Horatio might wrench it out of his grasp and drain the last few drops. Something about this brings a small, sad smile to Horatio’s lips. How long had Laertes said? Give it half an hour, and Hamlet would be dead. Yet here he is now, stubbornly strong, using everything in him, clinging to Horatio like an anchor. Fuck. Hamlet is dying.

Horatio’s other hand moves up to Hamlet’s hair, trying to memorise its softness, the way it slips all too easily through his fingers. It’s impossible, Horatio thinks, when he’s only done this once before — the previous evening, coupled with the heated desperation of Hamlet’s mouth on his, the urgent knowledge that it was now or never, the heavy certainty that this first kiss would be their last. Far too much to think about, and far too little time.

Instead, Horatio rests his head on Hamlet’s own, pressing his lips to where his hairline meets his brow again and again and again, wishing he could say something, anything, but forgetting how. Hamlet’s hand moves from Horatio’s arm to his cheek; he must have felt Horatio’s tears falling onto him, because he’s gently smoothing them away. Shame stabs through Horatio — Hamlet’s about to die, for fuck’s sake, and Horatio’s the one being comforted. His chest shakes, and there’s a sob clawing at his throat. He wraps his other arm around Hamlet, holding him as close as possible, feeling his ribcage rise and fall. Neither man speaks a word.

Half an hour must have passed by now, though Horatio doesn’t want to think about it anymore. In his arms, Hamlet is barely conscious, dark eyelashes fluttering as he fights to stay awake. There’s scarcely any colour left in his cheeks, but colour there is. Horatio holds onto this fact and wonders when hope becomes delusion. He seems almost peaceful now. As youthful as he was at Wittenberg, but far more fragile. They should be in their rooms right now, far away from Denmark, laughing over nothing. They shouldn’t be here. Horatio wants desperately to pick Hamlet up and run somewhere where this never happened. He should have done it the day they met — it’s been too late ever since.

Here, now, Hamlet’s breathing is becoming softer, shallower. Horatio knows this is it, does not feel it yet, not even as Hamlet tilts his head up to gaze through ever-closing eyes at him, and Horatio barely notices himself brushing Hamlet’s hair from his face and kissing the top of his head.

“Goodnight, sweet prince.” His voice is a choked whisper. “Sleep well.”

Hamlet’s smile is serene and beautiful, and what he mouths back might be I love you, and Horatio yearns for more time, but Hamlet’s eyes are shutting and the world might as well be ending and Horatio can’t think and he feels like his chest has been torn inside out, like his heart is right there, his own blood draining out in front of him. He’s in Pompeii and there’s nothing he can do but watch as the volcano erupts.

Everything is silent.

Hamlet isn’t moving.

Horatio crumbles, collapsing over Hamlet’s body. He doesn’t hear his sobs so much as feel them — they tear his breath to pieces, catching on every vocal cord as they convulse out of him. The side of Horatio’s face is pressed against Hamlet, and he’s still warm. If Horatio lies still enough, if he controls his shaking, he can convince himself that the rise and fall of breath is Hamlet’s, that he’s still alive, that it isn’t just Horatio’s treacherous lungs doing what Hamlet cannot. The bottle Hamlet held has smashed on the floor, the last few drops scattered on the castle’s austere flagstones. If Horatio hadn’t promised Hamlet to live — hadn’t sworn on his love — he’d try to drink it anyway. Instead, he clutches at Hamlet’s chest like he’s trying to tether him to life. He can feel Hamlet’s bones, his ribcage, his—

Holy shit.

Horatio snaps upright, then presses his palm back to Hamlet’s chest. Two fingers to the side of his neck, then the base of each wrist. Horatio checks once twice thrice, his eyes widening. Because there, faint but certain through Hamlet’s skin, is a pulse.

Hamlet is alive.

Everything from there is a blur, fuelled by that newly resolute spark in Horatio’s chest. He takes off his jacket and folds it underneath Hamlet’s head, carefully moving him into the recovery position. Once he’s done, Horatio sits, watching. Hamlet is definitely breathing, feather-light but visible, and his eyelids are twitching silently. Horatio can’t free his gaze from the man, can’t stop counting these signs of life, as though looking away will cause Hamlet to lie cold and dead and still. There’s a moment of peace in this storm-grey fortress; Horatio drinks it in.

Then — orderly, rhythmical footsteps. The roll of a military drum. Four soldiers in identical camouflage enter, making Horatio move instinctively closer to Hamlet. The soldiers briskly stand to attention, parting to reveal a figure that Horatio recognises instantly. He carries himself in the same way on the news, has the same strong jawline on the cover of papers, and, when he speaks, his intonation matches every clip in every bulletin that Horatio has heard.

“What the fuck,” breathes Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, as he takes in the bodies strewn before the Danish throne.

Horatio is inclined to agree.

Chapter Text

Horatio tells Fortinbras most of what happened. He doesn’t mention exactly how Hamlet found out about his father’s murder, doesn’t mention the wild expressions that would consume Hamlet’s face, doesn’t mention how Hamlet had kissed him like the world was about to end. That is not his alone to tell, nor is it Fortinbras’ to know. Horatio’s explanation reaches the duel, and Fortinbras’ eyes begin to flick from corpse to corpse. From Gertrude — silk dress pooled around her, shards of glass at her fingertips — to Claudius — eyes bulging in a waxwork rage, throne above him — to Laertes — skin greying, blood encrusting his clothes — to Hamlet — limbs carefully arranged, head resting on Horatio’s suit jacket. Horatio trails off, following the direction of Fortinbras’ gaze.

“Asleep or dead?” Fortinbras murmurs, still staring at Hamlet.

“Asleep,” Horatio replies, before remembering why Fortinbras must be here in a flash of panic. “But don’t—”

Fortinbras stops him. “I don’t want to harm him.”

Normally, Horatio would want to know more, but as long as Hamlet is safe, he can’t bring himself to care. “He needs medical attention. Can you…”

Fortinbras nods, a slight incline of the head. “Of course.”

It takes two days for Fortinbras’ doctors to deem Hamlet well enough to leave his room, and they don’t let Horatio visit him before then. Horatio spends most of them in a guest bedroom just along the corridor, impatient and restless. Now, outside Hamlet’s door, he’s suddenly nervous. Where do you go from a kiss you thought you’d never repeat, or a love confession whispered half-dead? He breathes. Shakes his head. Knocks.

The door flies open, and Hamlet is there, hugging Horatio fiercely.

All Horatio can think to say is “You’re alive,” feeling the ridges of Hamlet’s spine through his thin t-shirt and realising this is the first time he actually believes it. Horatio steps back and looks at Hamlet properly — rumpled clothes, messy hair, smile slightly too large for his thin, pale face. Not quite the same, but no less familiar.

Hamlet is staring back, his eyes wide. “I missed you,” he replies, voice strong with an emotion that Horatio doesn’t dare to name.

“They found poison in my blood,” Hamlet tells Horatio, the beach’s grey pebbles shifting under his steps. “Just not enough to do anything.”

Horatio nods, waiting for Hamlet to speak again.

“They tested Laertes for it, too.” Hamlet stops walking and looks out at the sea. “I was more violent, the cuts were deeper. Which I guess means it was my fault he died. So.”

Horatio stops too, coming to stand next to him. “My lord—”

“Horatio, please.” Hamlet cuts him off, the pain in his voice twisting something tight in Horatio’s chest. “Call me Hamlet.”

“Hamlet,” Horatio restarts, the first name softening his tone. “You didn’t know. There was no way it would’ve killed him without the poison. You didn’t put it there.” His fingers brush against Hamlet’s, and Hamlet threads their hands together, loose enough for Horatio to let go. Horatio doesn’t.

“Mm.” Hamlet replies, like he doesn’t quite believe him. He pauses, and Horatio feels the Baltic wind brush against his face. Wonders if Hamlet feels it too.

“Horatio.” Hamlet’s facing him now.

Horatio holds his gaze. “Hamlet.”

“You can leave, if you want. I don’t want to trap you here. Not when you still have a life.”

Horatio imagines leaving Hamlet, imagines knowing that he’s alone in Denmark and not being able to do anything about it, imagines only seeing him through television screens and in newspaper headlines. “No, thank you. I’ll stay.”

Hamlet’s expression becomes something like relief. “Thank God. You’re the only thing in this place keeping me semi-sane.”

Horatio waits for a subject change — like the one that followed last time Hamlet spoke to him like this — but nothing comes. They stay looking at each other, silent. When Horatio takes half a step forward, Hamlet is already there, lips meeting his in a kiss.

It’s slow and gentle and nothing like before. Horatio’s hand lingers in Hamlet’s hair even as they break apart, and stone-cold waves crash softly behind them.

Fortinbras is there to meet the pair when they return to the castle. “King Hamlet.” He nods at Hamlet, who grimaces at the title. “There are some things that we must discuss. As leaders.”

Horatio hears the implicit request in this and moves to leave, but Hamlet grabs his hand. There’s a steel glint in his eyes, like he’s daring Fortinbras to say something. “Horatio stays.”

Fortinbras opens his mouth and closes it, pausing before he settles on an answer. “As you wish. Now—”

“You can have the crown.” Hamlet cuts in. “I know that’s why you’re here, so I’ll save you the trouble. I don’t want it.”

“I’m not sure that would be the best idea.” Fortinbras replies.

“What?” Hamlet blinks, surprised. “Why?”

“Denmark is… not at its most stable. The last thing that it needs is a total change of monarchy. The Danish people will want to know what happened from someone they trust.”

“Yeah.” Hamlet snorts mirthlessly. “I’m sure they’ll trust me loads when I tell them how many people I killed.”

Fortinbras, somehow, does not rise to this. “Claudius can easily be proved guilty of the murder. Norway would help in the investigation — people would only suspect an ulterior motive if we testified against you. If we were on your side, it would seem genuine.”

“None of that changes the fact that I did kill people, though.”

“Self-defence.” Fortinbras waves his hand, and Horatio wonders how he can be so blasé. “Claudius was going to kill you, and the others were willing to do it for him. You had no choice, really.”

Others. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, then. Hamlet looks like he’s going to throw up. Horatio’s still holding his hand, and he squeezes it.

Fortinbras pats Hamlet once on the shoulder as he leaves, the closest he’s got to showing sympathy. “It’s not easy. But it’s how it works.”

Hamlet just nods. He doesn’t move until Fortinbras is gone, then he slumps against Horatio, sobbing silently into the base of his neck. Horatio holds him close and doesn’t let go.

There’s a knock at Horatio’s bedroom door that night. It opens a crack, and Hamlet is stood in the hallway’s glow, his face still wet. “Couldn’t sleep,” he whispers. “Not in there. Sorry about…” He gestures at himself and wipes his eyes. He might have gone on, once, but the Hamlet who came back speaks in fragments, not tangents. Something inside Horatio aches at this.

“You’re alright,” he replies, sitting up. “Come here.”

Hamlet sits carefully on the edge of Horatio’s bed and is quiet for a moment. Horatio stares at his silhouette.

“Everyone’s dead,” Hamlet starts, voice small, head bowed. “Everyone died and it’s my fault and I don’t know why I’m still alive.”

Horatio moves next to him, wanting to argue back. Knowing it won’t change anything.

“It’s like I’m a black hole,” Hamlet continues. “Something’s gone, and I’m what’s left over. Destroying everything around me.” Another pause. “I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it did,” Horatio admits. “If it meant I was still with you.”

Hamlet’s eyes meet Horatio’s, and there’s something indeterminable in them, something hopeful and unsure and all too intense. “Why?” he asks.

Horatio has to look away. He shrugs, aiming for casual and missing terribly. “Can’t really imagine anything else.” His voice betrays something far too real, and he feels like his every thought has been tattooed across his body for the world to know. No, not the world — just Hamlet. Somehow, this scares Horatio more.

Hamlet, in the way that he always does, understands. He leans his head on Horatio’s shoulder, breathing in and out. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They fall asleep in the same bed, and Horatio dreams of Hamlet dying over and over and over. Every time, all he can do is watch.

Chapter Text

The television in their Oslo hotel room can get channels from anywhere.

Click. NRK 1 News.

DRAPENE I HELSINGØR: PRINS FORTINBRAS II MØTER KONG HAMLET II AV DANMARK UTENFOR HØYESTERETT ETTER SISTE RETTSMØTE

A shot of Fortinbras firmly shaking Hamlet’s hand, the stern brick Norwegian Supreme Court looming behind them, camera shutters snapping in applause—

Click. TV 2 Danmark.

KONG HAMLET II VENDER TILBAGE TIL KØBENHAVN FØR ENDELIG RETSSAG VED HØJESTERET I MORGEN

A courtroom sketch of Hamlet, his grey eyes serious—

Click. BBC World Service.

KING HAMLET II OF DENMARK TO FACE SUPREME COURT IN COPENHAGEN FOR TOMORROW’S FINAL TRIAL

The reporter is live from the Oslo court building that Horatio and Hamlet had been in just a few hours previously, the collar of her coat turned up against the cold.

Horatio starts listening, relieved to find a semblance of familiarity.

“… over the past three weeks, King Hamlet has been testifying alongside British national Horatio Williams, the only other surviving witness. While no official statement will be released by the Danish palace until the investigation is concluded, sources suggest that the King will be declared innocent. Norway’s Prince Fortinbras has been vital to these proceedings, providing transport, lawyers, and even the efforts of the Norwegian Supreme Court in what many consider a diplomatic olive branch—”

Hamlet, sitting next to Horatio on the hotel room bed, laughs incredulously at this. “Diplomatic olive branch? I already have everything he’s given me. He’s only doing this because he knows I wouldn’t bother otherwise.” There’s a strained bitterness to his voice.

If they were at Wittenberg, Horatio would sit there with him, maybe push him to speak. Let Hamlet bounce an argument off him until they’re both alive and grinning from that rush of conversation. If they were still trapped in that castle as people died around them, Horatio might reach out for his arm, maintaining eye contact until he’s sure that manic look in Hamlet’s eyes has faded. On that nightmarishly beautiful day before Hamlet did not die, Horatio would hold him tight, letting him take and take and take as they count down to the end of the world.

They are not in any of those places, though; those moments have come and gone. This is all that’s left. Now, Horatio gently presses his shoulder against Hamlet’s, wondering as he does so where the line is and hoping, like always, that he isn’t crossing it. But Hamlet makes no effort to move away, so Horatio stays there.

Their hearings are split between Norway and Denmark; Horatio and Hamlet have become wearily familiar with the journeys to and from both supreme courts. They must either be driven between Elsinore and Copenhagen (a featurelessly flat motorway that suddenly becomes suburbia as they enter the capital) or be flown between Denmark and Norway. Both journeys are miserably suffocating, but Horatio prefers the car. There’s no bodyguard watching over them there, and Hamlet knows he can hold Horatio’s hand. Most of the time, Hamlet reminds Horatio of a drifting ship, floating through vast expanses of ocean. But in the darkened back seat, Horatio tries to become an anchor. His fingers, intertwined with Hamlet’s, can tether him to a shore that is tangible and safe, no matter how briefly. Amidst all these cameras, it’s something just for them.

Right now, Horatio misses being in that car. He’s flying back from Oslo with Hamlet, from the Norwegian Supreme Court and their last hearing before the trial. Horatio’s skin itches under the stare of the security guards; private planes have far too much open space, and it leaves them both exposed. Next to him, Hamlet has carefully arranged his face into a neutral expression, but his posture is tense and brittle, as if he’s on the brink of shattering. Horatio wants to grab his hands and go somewhere where nobody will ever call him King, somewhere he’s never heard of, somewhere nobody knows their names. He can’t, though. Instead, he sits perfectly still for the rest of the flight. Nothing pierces the leaden silence. The plane passes through grey cloud after grey cloud, and Horatio watches them through the window, wondering about how he got here.

The hearings have all largely been the same. Fortinbras had met them before the first one, introduced them to the two Norwegian lawyers whose names Horatio immediately forgot, and told them that it would all be fine as long as they agreed with what these lawyers said. When Hamlet questioned him on this confidence, reminding him that he had played a role in these deaths, Fortinbras had simply smiled in response. It had made Horatio uneasy — still does — but, without whatever Fortinbras has been doing, he’d lose Hamlet again. He doesn’t really have a choice. So, at each one, he’s listened silently to the lilting Norwegian arguments, nodding along when he’s expected to. At each one, Hamlet has whispered the verdict in his ear. At each one, he’s said the same thing: Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty. Horatio repeats this statement in his head as the plane lands, as he and Hamlet are ushered into a sleek car with darkened windows, as they are driven to Copenhagen for one last time.

The Danish Supreme Court is in a square filled with statues of Hamlet’s relatives wielding swords and mounted on horses. Imposing stone steps lead up to a pair of heavy double doors at the entrance, and the interior is full of high, ornately carved ceilings. Everything around them is painted a cold clinical white, and what light the chandeliers provide doesn’t quite reach the corners of the courtroom. It feels simultaneously claustrophobic and far too large, and Horatio hates it. Hamlet, in his suit, looks distinctly unlike himself — all straight edges and styled hair and crisp, spotless shirt. It’s still him, though. Horatio can see it in his slightly furrowed brow, the tapping of his fingers, the way he stares out at nothing. He steps imperceptibly closer; it’s subtle enough that only Hamlet will pick up on it, but Horatio hopes it reminds him that he’s there.

It passes in a blur. Horatio knows enough Danish to understand parts of what is said: fragments of information about plots and kings and self-defence. Hamlet must see the concentration on his face, though. He moves close enough for their arms to brush together and begins to whisper an English translation to him. Nothing being said is unexpected, and Horatio finds himself paying more attention to the feeling of Hamlet’s breath, soft against the side of his face, until a gavel bangs and a verdict is reached.

“…The court finds you not guilty on all counts. You are free to rule Denmark.” Hamlet says this like it’s a life sentence. In a way, Horatio supposes that it is.

They’re bustled out of the courtroom and into the open air by two burly members of security. Journalists clamour at the base of the steps, all microphones and questions and flashing cameras that sear Horatio’s retinas. A single piece of paper makes its way into Hamlet’s hand. He unfolds it, and the crowd falls silent as he begins to read. Horatio can pick out a few phrases. Ikke skyldig. Not guilty. Ideas of gratitude and relief and hope for the future that Horatio knows are complete lies. Doubtlessly, this was written by Fortinbras. The statement finishes, and the hubbub of reporters with their incessant demands starts up again. Hamlet’s eyes flick from face to face, and Horatio can see his panic rising. A path is cleared through the crowd, the security parting them like the sea. They get to the car, somehow, allowing themselves a moment of stillness.

“You alright?” Horatio whispers to Hamlet as soon as the car door shuts behind them.

Hamlet, pale and shaking, pauses. Nods slightly, then shakes his head. “Not sure.” As they are driven away, his grip on Horatio’s hand is so tight that Horatio can feel Hamlet’s bones.

Hamlet bursts into the royal apartment, Horatio following. The new King of Denmark loosens his tie, throws off his jacket, and runs his hands through his hair. When he undoes his top button, Horatio has to fight the urge to stare at this newly exposed triangle of skin below Hamlet’s neck. He forces his eyes back up to Hamlet’s instead.

“God, I hate wearing suits.” Hamlet exhales, coming to a stop at the pristine kitchen counter and resting against it.

“Mm.” Horatio responds, shrugging his own expensive jacket off rather more carefully as he moves next to him. “I never saw you wear them before I came here.”

“Yeah.” Hamlet pauses in thought. “I think for me, they’re like a uniform. Or a costume. Something for when I’m playing a role, not something I live in.” There’s something emphatic in his voice; he subdues it before continuing. “Not that there’s much of a difference now, I guess.”

Horatio wishes he could give him that choice, somehow. Nothing he can think of saying would get through to Hamlet; he wants to transmit his feeling wordlessly, to pair their minds together so Hamlet can understand everything in Horatio’s that is bigger than words. There’s a stillness in the room, and Horatio moves his hands across the kitchen island so they’re touching Hamlet’s. They stay there for a moment. A current flows between them, something heavy and potent.

Suddenly, Hamlet stands up straight, looking away and clearing his throat. “Right,” he says purposefully, and Horatio knows that he’d rather talk about anything else than acknowledge this thing between them. “I told you I’d teach you to drink like a Dane. Let’s do that.”

Horatio laughs quietly, feeling whatever strange tension there was ebb away. This, he is used to. “Sure. Why not.”

Hamlet smiles, and Horatio feels like there are embers glowing deep within him.

Horatio settles himself on a barstool, watching Hamlet busy himself finding glasses and ice and an intricately engraved whiskey decanter. He looks almost normal. Normal for a barely twenty-year-old king, still half in a suit he wore on trial, fixing drinks for his… his what? Friend? Boyfriend? Boy he’s kissed twice? Not quite normal, then, though Horatio’s idea of normal has become more based on Hamlet than anything truly objective. This should probably scare him more than it does.

Hamlet pulls himself into the seat next to Horatio and presses a glass into his hand, cool against his palm. Horatio knocks it back quickly. That way, he can pretend the alcohol is to blame for the buzzing heat that spreads through his chest. He pours himself another two shots and downs them, too. Hamlet does the same; Horatio watches him.

“I really fucking hate this castle,” Hamlet mutters, glaring into his glass. “And Helsingør, honestly.”

“Helsingør.” Horatio repeats the city’s Danish name in lieu of a response; the whiskey’s fuzziness at the edge of his thoughts has made him unable to notice this silently.

“I don’t like using English to talk about it. English is the language I speak far away from all this… king bullshit. Don’t want to tarnish that with this place’s name.” Hamlet looks up at Horatio. “God, I wish we could leave. I want to run off back to Wittenberg.”

“We can,” Horatio realises, and it’s out of his mouth before he can even think about whether it’s a good idea. Still, the awe and joy and hope shining on Hamlet’s face stokes the embers in his chest into a blaze, and he continues. “I can book the tickets now.”

Hamlet stands up, and he’s beaming, and Horatio must have got out of his seat at some point because he’s standing too. There’s a question in Hamlet’s eyes, like he’s checking this is true. Horatio nods a few times and doesn’t break eye contact, utterly transfixed by Hamlet.

They don’t move. A century, or perhaps a second, passes, until—

Until Hamlet surges forward and kisses him.

He’s holding onto Horatio’s face, and Horatio’s hands fly up to Hamlet’s back, to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. They haven’t done this since the beach — it’s different again, something wholly new. It’s an electric glow, it’s the spark of a match, it’s a buzz that reaches right down to Horatio’s bones. Dimly, faintly, Horatio wonders what this makes them, realises he should probably ask. But his thoughts are hazy and every atom in his body is chanting Hamlet’s name and he’s forgotten how to say anything else. Instead, he pulls Hamlet ever nearer, trying to close a gap that doesn’t exist. That thing burning inside Horatio roars in approval, and he knows what it is, has done for a long time. He never was good at lying, not even to himself.

When they pull apart, it almost hurts. Horatio reaches for his phone and pulls up a train route, one arm still holding Hamlet close. Hamlet rests his chin on Horatio’s shoulder to look at the screen, puffing out his cheeks and expelling the air with a pop as he reads. “Ten hours? Jesus.”

Horatio laughs a little at Hamlet’s expression. “It’s a cross-continental train journey. This is our only way, unless…”

Hamlet glances down and quickly shakes his head. “I don’t want to fly. It’ll be all…” — he gesticulates vaguely — “all… Your Majesty.” There’s a determination in what he says, and Horatio understands. This can’t have anything to do with King Hamlet II of Denmark. It has to be for Hamlet the person: the student far removed from any court, be it royal or legal, who only Horatio is allowed to know, with his band t-shirts and inky doodles and irreverent, crooked smile. The Hamlet who lives at Wittenberg.

Horatio nods, and reserves two seats on the 7.24 from Elsinore. He feels a slight twinge of apprehension — a foreboding sense of something — as he does so, but it’s dampened by the alcohol and the warmth of Hamlet pressed up against him. The feeling passes; Horatio soon forgets it was ever there at all.

Chapter Text

Elsinore Station is a strange Victorian echo of the castle, with the same spires and detail and desire to take up space but all clad in an industrial red brick hostility. The lobby is ornate, but the platforms are starkly grey — Horatio, sat on a hard plastic bench with Hamlet pressed against his side, is glad to be leaving. He stares up at the departure board, watching the glowing digital seconds tick by. Next to him, Hamlet is tapping his foot and gazing out at nothing, restlessly silent. Without thinking, Horatio places a hand over Hamlet’s — calming, he hopes.

Hamlet’s eyes flick to his with the sketch of a smile. “Hello.”

“You good?” Horatio asks, knowing that he isn’t, but not knowing how else to say it.

“I will be,” Hamlet replies, his gaze back on the sign hanging over the opposite platform, the one that reads Helsingør. “I just need to get out of here.”

Horatio nods and lets Hamlet slide their fingers together. They stay like that, sat together on the hard plastic seats, listening to the gentle rise and fall of each other’s breathing. As the train draws into the platform, Horatio holds onto what Hamlet said. If he thinks it enough, he can nearly believe it — they might be alright.

Miraculously, their carriage is empty; Horatio must have booked first class. He decides to worry about this later, stretching his legs out as he sinks back into his seat and rests his face against the window. Opposite him, Hamlet does the same, and together they take in the view: a winding journey that traces the coast. Kronborg Castle is visible for a long time, glaring stonily out at them from its tiny peninsula; Hamlet visibly relaxes when it finally slips from the horizon. His fingertips are brushing against Horatio’s on the table between them. Horatio stares at the sea as they pass port after port. For the first time since seeing the ghost, he almost dares to imagine a future.

Eventually, the journey stops being a tour of the Zealand coast and becomes what it is: the morning commute into Denmark’s capital. They’re greeted by a platform swarming with suburban city workers, all sleek ties and silver watches, as the announcement metallically informs Horatio that they’re arriving somewhere called Hellerup. It must be a rich town — everyone looks sharply put together, and some of them are trickling into their first-class carriage. Hamlet tenses immediately. He withdraws into his hoodie and gnaws at the edge of his lip, his expression thinning into something delicate as a papercut. Horatio can feel the other passengers staring. A few of them are carrying newspapers emblazoned with Hamlet’s face. Shit. Horatio pulls out his phone and texts Hamlet.

we can go back

if you want

Hamlet just shakes his head stubbornly.

Their first change is at Copenhagen. Someone mutters “After you, Your Majesty,” as they step off the train and Hamlet looks like he’s about to throw up, but there’s no time to think about that now. Horatio grabs his hand and they run — ducking and weaving through tides of commuters until they make it onto their next train. A low-level sea of whispers fills the carriage, rising and falling at every station all the way to Germany. Hamlet stares out of the window and says nothing, and Horatio wishes they weren’t being watched. There’s no way of reassuring Hamlet, not when everything is so public.

Their second change — at Hamburg — is worse. It leaves them with almost two hours to eat lunch: Hamlet freezes like prey at the idea of being in one place for so long. Even in Germany, the station’s newsstands are peppered with Hamlet’s name, with his face, with quotes from a statement that he didn’t write. They end up getting lunch from a bakery nearby, Horatio ordering the brötchen and buying the cheap vending machine snacks while Hamlet loiters outside, pressed into the space between buildings with his hood drawn over his head. Neither of them eat much of it, but it gives them something to do on the last stretch of their journey — a distraction from the icy, knife-like stares that cling to those last few hours into Wittenberg.

When the train finally arrives in Wittenberg, the sky is overcast and the sun is dimming. In this light, once-colourful buildings have become desaturated, and the river Elbe runs grey. Their walk from the station is over before it ever really begins.

Hamlet grows pallid as he punches in the code on the keypad. He holds tightly onto the railing when he climbs the stairs. His grip slips on the key a few times before he manages to turn it in the lock. Horatio places a hand on Hamlet’s shoulder, and Hamlet responds with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He opens the door.

Their room is embalmed with dust — how long has it been? Horatio stands in the doorframe, motionless in front of this place that was once his life. It looks like a film set now, displaced from the rest of the world.

Then everything jolts back into motion.

Hamlet falls to his knees in gasping, silent sobs that make his whole body shake, curling himself up tight as the tears flood his face. The dead air splinters around him, and Horatio can hear nothing but those rattling breaths that just keep coming. He’s there instinctively, dropping to meet him, fixing his eyes on Hamlet’s and doing his best to keep his voice level as he speaks — clear and steady and simple. “Keep breathing. I’m here.” Horatio counts up to four, makes Hamlet follow along, does it again and again until his cries even out and fade away and stop entirely.

Once the adrenaline peters out, only exhaustion remains. Hamlet moves wordlessly, pulling Horatio’s arms until they hold him. Horatio lets him, without thinking.

The Wittenberg twilight draws in and Hamlet looks tissue-paper fragile, all hollowed out and brittle. Horatio sits with him. Offers him some chocolate left over from lunch, watches the slightest tinge of colour come back to his face, holds him when he leans into his side again.

“I don’t think I can be here.” Hamlet mumbles, voice muffled against Horatio’s shoulder. “It isn’t me anymore.” He sits up, pressing his palms against his face and pushing the tears away.

“It’s ok to leave.” Horatio replies.

Hamlet glances over at him through tearstains and red-rimmed eyes. “No, it isn’t.”

Horatio doesn’t argue.

Hamlet looks away before he carries on. “I can’t go out. I’ll be seen.”

Horatio hates himself for ever having suggested this trip, hates how it’s pressed a curdling anxiety into everything Hamlet does. “This was my fault. I shouldn’t have taken you here—”

“Don’t.” Hamlet’s interruption is immediate. “I would’ve done this eventually, one way or another. Broken off, gone alone, then cried at the station when I couldn’t work out how to use the ticket gate.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Horatio murmurs. “Not alone. I’d still come with you.”

Hamlet’s gaze is searching, like Horatio is a mystery, one impossible to solve. He doesn’t move. Horatio doesn’t say what rests on the tip of his tongue. Even amongst the worry and guilt and regret, he can still feel that spark’s faint glow in his chest. He curses it, pushing it aside for a question. Something that could actually help Hamlet, instead of this thing that Horatio feels.

“Do you want to talk about it? About what happened, I mean.”

Hamlet doesn’t move, staring down at the beige carpet. It takes a moment for him to answer. “It felt like I was dying.”

“It was a panic attack.”

“It felt like I was dying.” Hamlet repeats. “I thought I’d be able to escape, but everyone can still see me and I don’t know how to exist here anymore.” His jaw is set but his shoulders are trembling. “I’m not making sense.”

“No need to.” Horatio reaches over to rub Hamlet’s back, feeling the bones in his spine and wishing that he could do enough.

Hamlet leans into Horatio’s touch. “You’re probably the only person who knows me.” He’s quiet again, like Horatio isn’t meant to hear this.

They lapse back into silence. When their eyes meet, Hamlet’s smile is shaky and faint, but it’s there.

Hamlet ends up calling for a jet. There’s a private airport nearby, and the Palace still has a royal car in Germany to take them there. He sounds deliberate and carefully controlled over the phone, but he’s pacing the room as he speaks, and his eyes are a little too wide. It’s a side of Hamlet that’s become all too familiar.

Horatio busies himself near Hamlet’s old desk — for the last time, he realises. It’s still a mess, and Horatio keeps noticing something new: a poem annotated in Hamlet’s distinctive scrawl; an untidy list of tasks that hardly matter anymore; a printed picture of him and Hamlet, laughing at each other in some bar’s photobooth. This last one stops Horatio — he can remember that photo being taken. He can remember the chatter around them, the easy way Hamlet flung his arm over Horatio’s shoulder and pulled him into frame, the laughter that flowed as smooth as the drinks. He finds himself picking it up and tucking it away in an inside pocket, suddenly overwhelmed. Maybe one day, he might be able to look at it again.

The car arrives as evening settles. They gather their bags and make their way downstairs together, but Hamlet stops Horatio in the lobby.

“You could stay.” Hamlet sounds sombre, serious. “You don’t have to ruin your life for me. You could finish your degree, find a new roommate, show him all the best bars in Wittenberg. You could still have a future here.”

Horatio can hear the engine waiting outside. “I don’t want that.”

“Why not?”

“I’d miss you.” It’s the truth, or most of it. The part that’s easiest to say.

Hamlet smiles his first real smile since coming to Germany, one that reaches his eyes and makes him look young again.

The warmth in Horatio’s chest is more like sunlight than fire. He doesn’t let go of Hamlet’s hand until they arrive.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Hamlet murmurs, once they’re inside the airport. The building is large and empty, and the guards are far enough away to be out of earshot. “Which is probably a bit selfish, but—”

“It’s not,” Horatio interrupts, because nothing Hamlet does could really be as selfish as that warm little thing that’s burrowed itself into Horatio’s chest.

“No, it is,” Hamlet replies conversationally, before swiftly not elaborating. “That’s not the point, though. I’m glad you’re staying.” He still looks delicate — the shadows under his eyes are pronounced, his cheeks are a little too hollow, he’s toying at a hangnail — but he’s palpably more present, approaching whole, smiling at Horatio again.

Horatio is very aware of his heartbeat.

Hamlet is still smiling. Taking a breath. Opening his mouth.

But above him, above them both, the air is thrumming and the guards have come over close enough to hear whatever might be said and Hamlet closes his mouth again as the stairs up to the jet are wheeled out, as he’s greeted by a row of salutes, as he and Horatio step onto the plane.

It takes off in silence, and Hamlet soon falls asleep. Horatio doesn’t look away from him.

Denmark is dark when they land, and the road back to Elsinore is punctuated by the white glow of street lamps. The driver doesn’t leave any space for quiet — instead, the car is filled with a barrage of small talk about coronations and ceremonies and duties, persistent in the face of Hamlet’s monosyllabic replies. Horatio is almost glad when they arrive at the castle, if only because it puts a stop to the conversation.

“The coronation,” Hamlet whispers as they duck out of the car and into a side entrance. The sliver of dread that’s been following them throughout the day has come back to his voice. “Fuck, Horatio, I don’t want to think about that.”

This, Horatio knows, means that Hamlet won’t be able to think about anything else.

When they get to Hamlet’s room, Hamlet doesn’t go in. Instead, he looks at it from the hall, Horatio at his side. Its walls are painted in an unthreatening cream colour, disrupted only by framed, glossily official portraits and floor-length curtains that are trimmed with gold. It’s only when Horatio moves to leave that Hamlet speaks.

“Wait.” It comes out sounding like a plea. “Could I stay with you tonight? This place is so…” — Hamlet gestures at the regal decoration — “and I’m not.”

Horatio can’t imagine saying no.

It’s not really late enough to go to sleep yet, barely pushing nine p.m., so they sit on the bed. Horatio thinks about that first night after Hamlet woke up; they’d sat together like this then, too. This time, though, the light is on and any tears have already dried and, when Horatio looks at him, Hamlet is already looking back.

“Horatio,” he begins. “What I was saying at the airport — I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Horatio replies.

“No, I mean—” Hamlet’s eyes are serious and fixed on Horatio; he sounds cautious, but his words are tinged with something else, too. “You’re the only person I’m sure of. Or trust.” He stops. The room faces out to the sea, and it’s become quiet enough to hear the distant murmur of waves.

Horatio is so in love with him. The thought doesn’t burn this time.

“Horatio,” Hamlet says again, still staring at him with that odd intensity. “I think I…” His voice is hoarse, and it cracks slightly around the sentence before he can finish it.

Horatio feels his expression softening, feels the smile that catches at the corners of his mouth. He moves a hand to Hamlet’s cheek, and whatever barrier there was breaks, and they’re kissing.

It’s not like any kiss they’ve had before — not like the thing that only pushes them together if they’re dying or coming back to life or drunk — it feels certain. Lasts a million years and is over in an instant. Hamlet’s mouth twists up into a smile when he looks at him, and Horatio kisses him again, lets himself be pulled back in.

“I’ve wanted to do this since we met.” Hamlet admits quietly when they pull apart, still holding onto one another.

“Me too.”

“Fuck,” Hamlet whispers in an empty half-laugh, forehead coming to rest against Horatio’s, “we could’ve had so much time.”

“We’ve got now.” Horatio tells him. But, even with Hamlet in his arms, his mind keeps coming back to the coronation, and he knows what Hamlet means.

Chapter Text

When Horatio wakes up in the undecorated guest bedroom that he’s coming to think of as his own, it’s the closest to peace he’s been in a long time. Pale winter sunlight ekes its way through the gap in the curtains. Hamlet is still there next to him, his eyes half-bleary but face unworried as he stirs. Horatio tries to fight the feeling of his own expression softening at this and then realises that he doesn’t have to. It’s easy to let it show, easier to let his gaze stay resting on Hamlet, even easier to let Hamlet kiss him.

Horatio can learn to trust things that are easy, he thinks. Hope tugs at his mouth even as he pulls away, just slightly, to look at Hamlet again. “This is something, right?”

Hamlet’s nod bumps their foreheads together gently. “I’d like that.”

Horatio would, too.

The morning is blissfully slow yet over in an instant. Horatio avoids looking at the clock by the bed — instead, he focuses on Hamlet. There’s a cut on his face, right along his left cheekbone, from when the fight with Laertes reached its vicious crescendo; it came close to killing him, Horatio thinks, before wishing that he hadn’t. It’s fading to a scar now, and Horatio traces his thumb gently over it. Hamlet smiles like he’s trying not to. Horatio knows the feeling.

Even separated from the rest of the world by Kronborg castle’s stern moat, they can both hear it when Elsinore raises its sleepy head. It came to life far earlier, with the chatter and clang of the dockworkers who rise with the sun, but as the bedside clock ticks on unwatched, the rest of the city begins to join them. The rumbling undercurrent of commuter traffic soon takes hold, the noise of people bound for bigger cities where buildings rise higher and roads stretch wider; the same sound echoing in the castle through the bustling footsteps of servants as they move through the corridors. In Horatio’s arms, Hamlet tenses. The day is beginning.

“I’m meant to have a meeting today,” he says stilly. “About the coronation. They want it to happen soon. The palace, I mean.”

“Oh.” Horatio replies. He waits, for a few seconds. Outside, the sound of cars passing by mixes with the hiss of the sea. “What do you want?”

Hamlet laughs, a hollow bark filled with anything but joy. “They don’t care what I want.”

Horatio moves back a little, meeting Hamlet’s eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

Hamlet sighs, ebbing briefly back into silence before replying. “I don’t want it to happen at all. I’d abdicate if I could, I’ve already said as much. You know how Fortinbras is, though. And Denmark… we haven’t had an abdication here since the 12th century. No way to back out quietly.” His head drops against Horatio’s chest. “I don’t want to leave this room.”

Horatio runs a hand through Hamlet’s hair; it’s getting longer, falling onto his face in a way that suits him. His eyes flick up to the alarm clock involuntarily. People are probably going to start looking for Hamlet soon. “Want me to come with?”

Hamlet follows where Horatio’s looking. “Always.”

None of the fawning sycophants who began their short-lived royal careers during Claudius’ reign are left at court now — Horatio remembers how Hamlet had let them all go one night between hearings, immediately bringing anyone left from his father’s reign back in their stead.

“I don’t want to become my uncle.” Hamlet had whispered in explanation, and Horatio had understood immediately.

All of this means that, outside a starkly impersonal boardroom, his hand wrapped tightly around Horatio’s, Hamlet finds it a lot more difficult to convince these people to let Horatio stay with him than he had done all that time ago with Fortinbras, back when he was freshly alive and stubbornly unbeaten. These people know Hamlet, have done for far longer than Horatio has, and are used to standing their ground against him. Horatio can see exactly when the defeat happens. It’s a flicker in Hamlet’s eyes, the glint dimming for just a moment, a slight incline of the head.

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” he murmurs to Hamlet, squeezing his hand. The courtiers all look away politely, and Horatio only thinks about how this must seem for a second — the Danish court has far more pressing issues to focus on than Hamlet’s personal life, after all.

At Horatio’s words, Hamlet pales, his face half-dead again. It’s a sight that Horatio has grown uncomfortably familiar with over his time at the castle, one that settles heavy and cold inside him. Hamlet pulls Horatio in for a hug, holding him close as he presses his face into the crook of his neck, then just as quickly draws back. His expression is guarded, as though a visor has been drawn over it. He looks like a king. He looks unrecognisable. Horatio raises his hand in a faint wave, eliciting a quirk of the lips from Hamlet that splinters through his regal veneer as he enters the boardroom. The door clicks shut, and Hamlet disappears.

When Hamlet comes back, his eyes are slightly too wide, and Horatio can feel him trembling as he takes his hand. Horatio opens his mouth to ask, but Hamlet just shakes his head abruptly, silent as they march back to Horatio’s room. It’s only once they’re both inside, once Horatio is holding onto him, that Hamlet seems to let himself feel again; it ricochets out of him in sobs that crash like waves against Horatio’s chest. Horatio moves a hand to cradle Hamlet’s head, smoothing his hair over and over again, waiting for Hamlet to speak.

“It’s happening next week.” Hamlet says finally, not lifting his head away from Horatio. “It’s all planned out already. Food, music, guests. They didn’t want my input at all.”

“What would you change?” Horatio asks him.

“Guestlist,” comes the muffled reply. “Apparently some fifth cousin who’s distantly in line for the Belgian throne is more important than you. Which is stupid.”

Oh.

“Bastards.” Horatio says simply, eliciting a surprised snort from Hamlet. He means it, though — the castle is full of people who want a part in carving the image of King Hamlet II, sculpting him into an alabaster figurehead with empty eyes. Horatio hates them for it, a little bit.

They peter back into silence.

“I hate having to do this,” Hamlet sighs. “I’d rather be anyone else, most of the time.” He laughs gently — Horatio feels it more than he hears it. “Imagine if I’d grown up in England instead, somewhere near you.”

Horatio tries to picture it: a younger Hamlet in his tarmac-grey town, tying his school tie on a bus ride full of swearing fourteen-year-olds and old couples poised to complain about them to the local newspaper, if not the Daily Mail.

“Everyone’s a dick in England.”

“You’re not.” Hamlet counters.

“Why do you think I left?” Horatio pauses. “It would’ve been better with you, though.”

Hamlet lifts his head up from Horatio’s chest. His face is still tear-stained and red from crying, but he’s smiling.

Horatio doesn’t get to see much of Hamlet after that, except for the mornings and evenings that bookend the days leading up to the coronation. Hamlet is constantly being whisked away for rehearsals and royal portraits and endless mingling with the steady stream of guests. He refuses to talk about it, instead whispering in the dark about imaginary worlds where none of this is happening. He’s had his hair cut, not by choice, and he looks clipped back and sheared into place. The texture is rough under Horatio’s fingers when he runs them over it, all harshly neat razor-cut edges that are impossible to hold onto. To an outsider, the week might have gone by in an instant. Horatio knows that he and Hamlet are both feeling every excruciating moment of it, though. It’s like being caught in stasis — or being the mouse in a game of cat and mouse. They know better than to run by now.

On the day of the coronation, Hamlet leaves early. Horatio wakes with him — he’s always been a light sleeper — and watches Hamlet shakily button himself into his brocaded military uniform. There are a million things Horatio could say, a million empty platitudes that mean nothing and carry nothing. In the end, he just walks with him until they reach the castle’s main exit. There’ll be cameras past this point. This is where Horatio has to leave him. A million things to say, and none that fit. Instead, Horatio moves forward and presses their lips together briefly. I’m here. I’ll miss you. I love you. Then, Hamlet is gone.

There are plenty of glamourous flat-screen televisions in the castle, with staff gathered around each one, but Horatio chooses to watch the coronation by himself, sat in his room with his laptop. (He’d brought the laptop with him when he set off for Denmark, in the vague hope of getting some university work done at the castle. The decision feels distant now, one made by a total stranger.) The broadcast is interspersed with Hamlet’s official royal portrait as they wait for Hamlet’s car to reach Copenhagen; one of the presenters excitedly notes that this picture is the one that’ll be going on coins. The first thing Horatio notices about it is just how alone Hamlet looks in it — the background is bare and uninviting, while Hamlet’s eyes gaze through the screen into nothing, his demeanour meticulously crafted. This is the Hamlet that the public will know, then. Horatio reaches for the photograph he’d found at Wittenberg, studying how he and Hamlet barely fit into the frame, how Hamlet’s eyes are fixed fondly on Horatio, how joy spills easily from his smile. The pictures belong to two different worlds.

The screen shifts to Copenhagen’s wide streets, lined with clamouring crowds waving Danish flags that make the scene look like an endless crimson sea. Hamlet’s windows are tinted, but Horatio doesn’t lift his eyes from the shining black motorcar, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of his silhouette. The motorcade rounds a corner to a stern, brown-brick cathedral and slows to a stop. It’s an austerely unceremonious building. A presenter breaks the strange, silent reverie and briefly recounts the cathedral’s rebuilding after the Napoleonic wars to the captive audience, her tone carrying a hushed gravitas that clashes oddly with statistics about Denmark’s post-war debt. Then, her voice slips away. She’s still talking, Horatio thinks dimly, but he can’t bring himself to listen.

Hamlet is stepping out of the car.

He looks drawn, mouth pressed into a tight smile as he’s directed by officials. It’s a good façade, but Horatio knows him too well not to see past it; Hamlet’s eyes dart around like a cornered animal, and he’s carrying himself with far too much tension. Horatio watches through the screen, wishing he were there to let Hamlet be more than just whatever version of himself the country wants. The broadcast moves inside the cathedral with Hamlet, focusing on the pews lined with European royalty; Horatio spots Fortinbras, sitting with his typically practised regal poise, his face betraying nothing. As the procession — ten bishops flanking Hamlet like he’s a sacrificial lamb — reaches the altar, Hamlet moves to a seat facing the congregation. It’s a throne so brightly white as to almost appear hostile, intricately carved with sharp angles and gleaming golden statues that make it more a piece of architecture than a piece of furniture. Hamlet’s posture is rigid.

One bishop steps forward from the crowd and begins to address Hamlet in a booming, solemn voice. The oath, Horatio realises. At each pause, Hamlet nods robotically. A diamond-studded vial is passed forward, cradled reverently in each bishop’s palm. The anointment. Hamlet flinches as it reaches him, a movement so minute that only Horatio would notice it. Shoulder. Shoulder. Arm. It’s meant to be sacred, Hamlet had told Horatio once, but it looks far too mechanically polished to carry any meaning. A ritual without any of the passion behind it. Hamlet stands. A deep red fur-lined robe is draped over his shoulders, the fabric pooling behind him on the pristine white floor. He stays stood as a prayer is read out, back straight as a toy soldier. The bishops disperse, leaving one behind — the same one who said the oath — who walks up to the pulpit as Hamlet returns to his throne. His sermon is long, preaching love for a country that Horatio doesn’t know, and Horatio finds his attention more drawn to the bishops who peel back into the cathedral, bearing velvet cushions that are laden with jewels. The crown.

The sermon wraps itself up, and Hamlet is presented with glistening treasure after glistening treasure. Sword. Sceptre. Orb. He bows his head to accept a crown made from serpentine twists of gold, then faces forward again, staring directly down the barrel of the camera. This is the image that will be used in every article. Horatio can barely see him move. Cannons rumble within the castle, a military salute that reverberates across the country with one clear message.

Hail to King Hamlet II of Denmark.

Hamlet returns to the castle stripped of all regalia. His over-decorated military jacket is whisked from him at the door, ready to be ironed and hung up far away. His trousers, pressed for the occasion, are now creased from sitting in the car. He’s peeling off those odd white gloves that they make royalty wear when he finally notices Horatio. All tension ebbs out of him; Horatio can see it leaving. He walks over to Hamlet and wraps his arms around him.

“You stayed,” Hamlet whispers.

“Obviously.”

Elsinore is quiet as the evening draws in.

Most of the time, the crowning of a new monarch marks a period of national mourning coming to its end. Most of the time, this period of national mourning takes place within a set timeframe, opening with a state funeral and closing with a coronation. Most of the time, people don’t ascend to the throne like Hamlet did. Sometimes, Horatio wonders if the mourning period was those months at the castle, dictated by a dead man’s revenge plot. He knows that’s far too neat a box to fit something like grief in, though. Mourning seeps its way into Hamlet’s reign, escaping the boundaries imposed on it with ease. Hamlet’s suggestion comes as no surprise.

“I want them to have a funeral.” Hamlet admits quietly. It’s late evening, a few days after the coronation, and they’re both tucked in Horatio’s bed.

“Hm?”

“Not Claudius,” comes the quick clarification, “but everyone else deserves a proper one. It’s the least I can do.”

To Horatio, it sounds a lot like guilt. He’ll never believe anything that happened was Hamlet’s fault, no matter how much Hamlet does, but he can also hear that stubborn edge in Hamlet’s voice. His mind, Horatio knows, is already made up.

Horatio pulls Hamlet closer and kisses the top of his head. “Okay.”

Hamlet wants the services to be small and private, but this is where his advisors draw the line. Gertrude was Queen; she has to have a state funeral, they tell him at the meetings — Hamlet organised these ones, and he’s made sure that Horatio joins them this time. Nobody can be offered more importance than anyone else, Hamlet insists. They let him stay at the castle, at least; Kronborg has a chapel bigger than most churches, after all. Even with the cutdown guestlist, there’s space for Horatio between the nobility and public figures. A date is arranged, an order of service is put together, media crews are notified. Horatio finds it slightly surreal: being part of this process, seeing how the court works when it’s not trying to mould Hamlet into something else. But this is far more personal than it is official. Horatio can’t imagine not being there.

It begins with a procession. Six coffins, each one draped in a Danish flag, winding through the streets of Elsinore. Rosencrantz. Guildenstern. Polonius. Ophelia. Laertes. Gertrude at the front. All caskets remain closed — it’s been too long since their deaths, now, and some bodies may never be found. It lends itself to the ceremony, in its own way. Traditionally, Hamlet would be wearing a full military uniform and marching out in front with the rest of the royal family, paying his respects to a title as much as he is to a person. Hamlet’s the only member of the royal family left, though, and these funerals are far more than a royal occasion. Instead, he and Horatio sit together in the back of a plain black car, tinted windows serving as a barrier between them and the outside world. Horatio slots their fingers together and squeezes his hand. They’re both in sharp black suits, an echo of their travels between trials. Hamlet seems more present, though. He’s still gripping onto Horatio like he’s the one thing tethering him to land, but duty weighs a little less heavily on his shoulders. This is the first choice he’s been allowed to make in a long time.

Kronborg’s chapel is beautifully sombre. It’s a stoic medieval building that sits inside the castle grounds, its heavy stone walls hiding the well-preserved interior. Rows of carved dark wood pews face the altar, and the aisles are lined with vases. Horatio had spoken to Hamlet, helped him choose the bouquets, and a herbal aroma wafts through the air as they enter. A priest begins the service — not the one who denied Ophelia her ceremony, but a different one, one with kinder eyes. Hamlet and Horatio sit in the second row; the first is reserved for media coverage. It’s an uncomfortable juxtaposition, these crews with their sleek equipment in such an old, personal place. Horatio holds Hamlet’s hand when the cameras are turned away from them and wishes he didn’t have to let go.

Then, it’s Hamlet’s turn to speak. He walks up to the front, clutching his pre-written speech. This is different to any other time he’s spoken in public, though. This time, the words are his own.

“As winter began,” he reads, “Hell came to Elsinore. It stained this castle with blood, dug graves from beds, and flew to the beat of death. I was lucky to survive. These people deserved to have that same luck. They were innocent, led by the invisible events that gripped Kronborg with so much force.

“But they were more than just their deaths. This is not a celebration of death, this is about life.”

Horatio watches, transfixed, as Hamlet paints a verbal picture of each person, one by one. He hasn’t used words like this in a long time, hasn’t allowed himself anything more than fragments. Up at the front of the chapel, Hamlet is utterly himself. All performance of kingliness has been abandoned. Horatio thinks it’s beautiful.

“Soon, it will be spring in Elsinore.” Hamlet concludes. “But I think I’ll always carry a piece of winter with me.”

He returns to the pew next to Horatio. Tears stream mutely down his face for the rest of the service.

At the end of the service, the camera crews and congregation all trickle out of the chapel. Hamlet remains seated, so Horatio does too. When they’re the only ones left, Hamlet steps towards the closest vase, taking six sprigs from it and laying one on each coffin.

Rosemary. For remembrance.

He takes Horatio’s hand, and they leave together.

“You did well.” Horatio tells Hamlet once they’re back in their room. (He’s come to think of it as theirs rather than his, he realises.) It doesn't even begin to cover what he’s trying to say.

“Well for a king, or well as myself?” Hamlet asks. He sounds shattered.

“This isn’t about kings,” Horatio answers, wiping a stray tear from Hamlet’s face. “I still think you did well, though.”

Hamlet rests his forehead against Horatio’s. “I’m crying again. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.”

Hamlet stays there, arms loose around Horatio. “I love you.” It comes out in an almost inaudible whisper.

“I love you too.”

Soon, Hamlet will have to leave again. Soon, he will be sucked back into the world of royal duty and obligation and performance. Soon, he will sit in more meetings with people who refer to him by title only. But soon, he will come back to this room. Back to Horatio.

For now, though, there is respite. Horatio and Hamlet hold their breaths. They can have this.