Hey. I'm feeling particularly existential and wordy, and I'm quite happy I'm in the mood to write at the same time.
This is a kind of AU where Hamlet has to go back to Elsinore every winter, and he absolutely hates it. His father is verbally abusive and his mother is a coward, and Claudius is the only one who stands up for Hamlet but he's not there (To End the Heartache style), so Hamlet is basically dead inside until he can fall back into Horatio's arms.
♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤
~ I'm gonna try 3rd person ~
Horatio was going to have an ordinary day.
His plan for the evening was to get home from the library, eat a sad excuse for dinner, have his daily emotional breakdown from worry he built up over the day, and collapse into Hamlet's bed wearing one of Hamlet's shirts and wish more than anything else that Hamlet was actually there.
This plan was interrupted right before the third item by a knock on his door.
He rubbed his eyes in hopes that it would make him look less tired, which failed, of course, so he just settled for an attempt at a cheerful smile as he pulled the door open.
His breath was practically sucked from his lungs as he saw a very familiar boy who currently looked more like a standing corpse than his prince on his doorstep.
Hamlet looked awful, even for Hamlet. His gaunt frame (had he eaten anything in the last three days?) barely had the energy to shiver against the still-cold wind, his eyebags were so dark that Horatio almost mistook the color for ridiculously thick eyeliner, and the scariest part was the eyes above the spots of black.
Hamlet's bloodshot grey eyes that used to be silver rose to meet Horatio's as if he was scared to initiate contact of any kind, and they didn't seem to comprehend the fact that Horatio was standing in front of him.
His voice was scratchy from a combination of disuse, shouting, and dry-sobbing.
"Horatio," Hamlet breathed quietly, as if the name was something remembered from a past life, or perhaps a word of divinity or power that he wasn't worthy of speaking.
The ghost of a smile crossed Hamlet's lips as he stepped through the doorframe and began removing his cloak. Horatio stood by, wondering whether he should hug his lover or wait for him to consent to a touch.
It had happened before. After one particularly bad winter, Hamlet couldn't be touched by anyone other than Horatio, and even then Horatio had to get a nod or some form of "yes" before he could even hold Hamlet's hand.
The prince wandered into the house that was half-his, raking his gaze over everything in a way that would have been giddy if it was anyone but Hamlet. He would only admit to feeling giddy on one occasion: when he had first kissed Horatio. They'd both been drunk on the feeling for days afterward, to the point where Ophelia got sick of their giggles and finally resorted to locking the two of them in a closet until they worked out their feelings.
(This backfired, and Hamlet sometimes wondered how she ever got the smell of sex out of that poor closet, or if she had at all.)
But right now, he was NOT giddy. He could have been, he thinks bitterly, if he was normal. He could have opened the door and given Horatio a long kiss and they could be on the couch exchanging news of what happened over the winter.
But no.
Hamlet sat down (collapsed) on the couch with what was going to be a sigh but somehow was a sob, and this snapped Horatio out of the semi-trance he had been under.
"H-Hamlet, oh my God," he stuttered, sitting carefully next to said boy and trying not to cry himself.
The prince was breaking down, the scholar had collected himself, and the spectre presence of the king telling Hamlet how weak crying made him look was overwhelming.
"H-Horatio- please, m-make him go away," Hamlet sobbed, clutching his hair and staring at nothing.
"My lord, my sweet prince, he's not here. He can't hurt you, he's far away, it's just me and you," Horatio murmured in the same calming tone he used every time this happened.
"No, y-you don't understand, he's h-here and he's angry and he's y-yelling at you, he t-thinks you're corrupting me! He doesn't understand, Horatio, y-you're the best thing that ever h-happened to me, he j-just doesn't see it-"
Hamlet's illusions faded away when Horatio reached up and gently stroked his hair. The prince felt himself subconsciously lean into the touch, and Horatio made a mental note to remind him what the phrase "touch starvation" meant at some point.
For the moment, he decided, he'd have to be content with letting his lover use him as a teddy bear to heal some of the damage the empty halls of Elsinore had inflicted.
Hamlet suddenly couldn't seem to get enough contact. He crawled onto Horatio's lap, wound one arm around Horatio's chest, let his other hand find Horatio's fingers, and nuzzled his head up underneath Horatio's chin.
He was still crying, albeit less violently than before. His wracking sobs had subsided to occasional sniffles and hiccups, muffled by the collar of Horatio's sweater that Hamlet had buried his face in.
"Thank you," Horatio mumbled into Hamlet's hair.
"What for?" Hamlet mumbled back.
"For coming back in one piece."
The prince lifted his head to gaze curiously at the other boy.
"Why on Earth are you thanking me?" He said, incredulous. "You're the one who waits here all alone all winter, and then deals with my breakdowns and whining until I leave again."
Horatio let out a dry chuckle.
"My lord, I would hardly say it like that. If it's the separation anxiety you're referring to, you should know that I've developed enough tactics and made enough friends to be just fine until you return. As for your breakdowns, nothing gives me more happiness than to see that you're okay afterward. I'm the one who should be thanking you."
Hamlet shook his head and burrowed back into Horatio's neck.
"I'm serious!" He continued. "I'd still think I was aromantic if it weren't for you! I mean, I'm not far off considering how bad I am at connecting with people, and that's kind of what being demi hinges on, but I would be very lonely without you around."
The two sat in contented silence for a while after that. Hamlet eventually resumed shivering, and Horatio hardly gave him a chance to protest before he was being carried up the stairs, changed into more comfortable clothes, and settled into the bed that was supposed to be Hamlet's but had become shared as it grew harder for him to fall asleep without Horatio there.
Currently, the situation was this: Hamlet was laying on his back with an arm around Horatio and a hand running through his hair, and Horatio was laying partially on top of Hamlet, able to place an occasional kiss somewhere between his collarbone and his jaw.
"I think when I die and go to Hell, I'll just be back in Elsinore, and every day that does by adds another day until I can come back to you," Hamlet hummed.
"That hardly seems fair, my lord," Horatio responded with controlled levels of concern. "To assume you're going to Hell, I mean."
"Really? I don't believe I'm unbroken enough to get into Heaven."
"You're going to Heaven, my lord," Horatio insisted, pressing feather-light kisses to Hamlet's shoulder every few words, moving gradually closer to his face.
"And I think," kiss, "that it will be," kiss, "just like this." Kiss. "We'll be here," kiss, "in your room," kiss, "with each other," kiss, "and enough books," kiss, "to last us," kiss, "an eternity."
Horatio finished the thought with a kiss to Hamlet's lips, which was immediately reciprocated.
It was meant to be a sweet, innocent gesture, but Horatio suddenly found himself pinned on his back with Hamlet hovering over him. Coherent thoughts had a difficult time existing as Hamlet kissed a dark bruise into his skin.
"Is this okay?" Hamlet asked, noticing the surprise on the other boy's face.
"Yes."
~ Time skip because that's as far as I'm comfortable writing at the moment ~
When Hamlet finally collapsed next to Horatio, still reeling from his climax, both were exhausted. Hamlet laid for a moment, building up the willpower to move, and then heaved himself upright to wet a washcloth.
"Horatio, you're trembling," Hamlet noticed when he returned. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"
Horatio smiled sleepily up at him.
"I'm fine," he sighed. "That was amazing."
Hamlet chuckled. He adored Horatio's tired, dazed, awed mood afterward.
He cleaned them off and slid back under the sheets, pulling Horatio's back to his chest to spoon him.
"Welcome home," Horatio whispered with a weak laugh.
"So glad to be back," Hamlet murmured into his ear. And, as an afterthought, added "No one in that damn castle lets me top them."
He recieved a half-assed whack on the arm and a grumbled "Keep making that kind of joke and you won't be topping me either."
Hamlet grinned to himself. Maybe he could take Horatio with him to Elsinore someday. He'd certainly get a kick out of all the noise complaints. They could even compete with Ros and Guil to see who could make more servants scowl at them in the halls the morning after.
"Someday..." he said under his breath, and promptly fell asleep.