Diary dearest-
Dad called you 'girly' today and I suppose he isn't wrong. I don't give a shit. God knows I can't talk to him or Mom about anything in my life, and if I talk to Laertes he might take it as an invitation for sex, and Ophelia is mad at me today, so girly diary it is.
You're possibly my only friend. How pathetic is that, huh? You don't care about me. There's a good chance you actively hate me because I keep crying all over you. Sorry.
I want to die.
Like, how bad could it really be? I know it would be easy. The top battlement is very high and its wall is easy to climb. I could get up there in ten minutes and be gone in eleven and no one would notice. Wonder if Mom would look for me in my room before she heard what I'd done. Would she cry? Would Dad yell at her? She wouldn't cry.
I'm so tired. Diary, here's to knowing I'll die before 30, completely alone.
Hamlet, prince of jack shit
~~~
Hamlet, exhausted but undeniably happy, closed his door with a sigh. A balloon with "happy 30th, you fucker" written on it in sharpie, courtesy of Ophelia, fell from his hand and bounced softly on the kitchen table. He kicked off his shoes somewhere in the dark hall and dropped his jacket over the back of the couch.
He paused outside his bedroom door, letting out a breath and with it the excitement of the day. It had been long, with lots of laughing and a good bit of drinking, heavy with kept promises. His actual birthday had been celebrated with a quiet evening at home with wine and a self-indulgent scented candle. And a good fuck. The party his friends insisted on came on the following weekend, "to allow time for recuperating after the existential crisis."
Hamlet, with no small amount of smugness, noted that he had yet to have his crisis.
It hit him when he entered his bedroom to find Horatio asleep in their bed, and their daughter snoring on his chest.
Hamlet had to catch his breath, and nearly choked when Horatio's wedding band glinted in the little moonlight that got through the curtains. He stared at his husband and his child. He thought about his father, then squished the thought with ferocity. He stared. Horatio shifted in his sleep. Hamlet swooned and laughed softly at himself for his entirely too sincere adoration. Horatio shifted again, and opened bleary eyes. He looked at Hamlet and his face turned fond. Hamlet couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but rush to the bed and pull his husband into a soul-baring kiss.
"Thought you were going to stay at Phe's tonight," Horatio said, voice full of sleepy cobwebs.
Hamlet shook his head. "I wanted to fall asleep being held. God knows Phe will be busy canoodling with the lovely lady she met at the bar."
Horatio exhaled, amused, and let his free arm fall open in invitation as his eyes drifted shut. Hamlet wasted no time in removing his jeans and replacing his slightly sticky shirt with one of Horatio's soft tees. He shuffled into place with Horatio's arm curled securely around his shoulders and close enough to their daughter to kiss her head.
As sleep washed gradually over the sands of his thoughts, Hamlet briefly wondered if he should show Horatio his teenage diary, kept in a shoebox in his closet along with several unused razor blades and his father's ring. He decided it would likely only frighten him, gave a single sigh of utter contentment, and lapsed into meaningless dreams.