My first shot at H2O. (Considering what happens to O, is this name awful or genius? You decide, dear reader.) Even without any shipping, I firmly believe this should be canon for how Ophelia and Horatio learn of each other's existence. It would be SO in character for Hamlet. Anyway: ambiguous era.
There's a reference to another fluffy fic in here, and if you're on Ao3 like I am, you might spot it ;)
Here. Have a ridiculously fluffy, kinda short, tentatively shipped piece of mostly-straight (though I stand by Horatio being gay) garbage.
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"And you could only be Ophelia," Horatio said, smiling as if he had a wonderful secret, eyes glinting with knowledge behind his glasses.
Ophelia was beginning to understand why Hamlet liked him so much.
"A confident assumption, stranger," Ophelia teased. Okay, this might be a bit more like flirting than intended. Okay. This is fine.
Horatio sighed, then broke it with a smile. He beckoned gently to follow as he stepped away, and she took his arm. "Well. When I saw a girl wandering around the garden at sunset with dirt under her nails, I thought, 'this must be Ophelia,' because no one else I've heard of would tend to the flowers with a butterfly's touch quite like she would. Then the girl looked at me, and I saw the eyes like the sea after a storm, the golden hair of Apollo, the very essence of a spring fawn, and I knew it must be her. Ophelia; fae, nymph, firefly, lioness, fall apple, winter snow, flower crown, silk dress on a summer evening Ophelia. Girl of all girls, Horatio, and she loves me."
Ophelia giggled. "I take it Hamlet doesn't change much between Wittenberg and Elsinore."
"He does not, my lady," chuckled Horatio in the good-natured tone she suspected he always used.
"He's poetic about everything, then? Or rather, more things than just me?"
"Awfully."
They wandered in easy companionship. Ophelia occasionally darted off to examine some plant or another, muttering to herself about inadequate garden staffing, and Horatio patiently hovered until she returned to his arm.
"So you're the wonderful Horatio," she said, sitting them down on a stone bench facing her favorite fountain. "He won't shut up about you, either."
She watched the emotions flicker across his face like the prince had told her she must. Shock, delight, steady amusement.
"He won't?"
Ophelia didn't miss the badly-smothered hope, either.
"All the time," she mused. "He comes home in the summer just bursting with stories about his Horatio, his Patroclus, his Hyacinth, his Athena in an earthly body."
Despite his melanin to hide his blush (Curse him, I need that, she thought), Ophelia sensed the heat of his face. She smirked.
"Even just the way he reads, Phe!" she whined, managing what she thought was a pretty damn accurate impression of Hamlet. "It's like... Christ, I swear he's got a whole library's worth of words in his head, but I can't find one that comes close to describing him!"
Here, she feigned a sigh, holding Horatio's shoulder for balance as she leaned back with the force of the gesture. He laughed, spurring her on.
"Lovely, radiant, sublime, the very picture of scholarly perfection, ancient knowledge, eternal gentleness, sweet as the chocolate of his skin-"
"Ophelia, beauty beyond description," Horatio chipped in.
"Horatio, roaring fireplace and warm blanket."
"Ophelia, surely a goddess."
"Horatio, shelter in a hurricane."
"Ophelia, sun after a lifetime of rain."
"Horatio, home away from home."
"Ophelia, the perfect rose."
"Graceful."
"Ethereal."
"Composed."
"My moon."
"My stars."
Then, at the same time: "And poem-worthy kisses."
Ophelia stopped to consider how close they had gotten. They were touching shoulders, brushing knees, and if she moved her hand a bit she could place it on Horatio's. She did.
"I think it's silly to call them poem-worthy," Horatio said quietly. "It's a touch, isn't it? That's all."
"Frantic make-outs in the library aren't the only way to kiss," Ophelia teased, smirking when Horatio looked away. The risk of her guess had paid off.
"I've never really had it any other way," he admitted sheepishly.
Ophelia lifted the hand that wasn't connected to Horatio's, moving slowly and giving him plenty of time to stop her. Gently, she stroked his cheek, turning him back to look at her.
"Would you like to learn?" she offered.
"Are you willing to teach?" he countered.
Ophelia smiled. "Anything for Hamlet's Horatio."
She kissed him softly, and found that she didn't have to pretend he was Hamlet to enjoy herself. Horatio's kiss was intense, needy, so she slowed him down with a gentle hand on his jaw. As he figured out that he didn't need to rush, he let out a happy sigh against Ophelia's lips, moving his free hand to her waist and lacing their fingers together.
Ophelia took the time to notice the differences between her boys. (Could she call them hers yet? She thought so, at least until told otherwise.) Where Hamlet would cling to her like a lifeline, Horatio's hands were steady and sure. Where Hamlet would have melted under her fingers at the rubbing of her thumb over his cheek, Horatio leaned into the contact like a kitten. She found herself entirely smitten with both scenarios.
Horatio, meanwhile, was beginning to see where Hamlet got his occasional streak of sweetness. Ophelia was sweet all over; her voice, her touch - Christ, she even smelled like flowers, was that normal? - and yet, he could tell that there was power and maybe even danger hiding in the soft curve of her lip and the pastel coloring of her outfit. She delighted and fascinated him.
"I see the garden walk was a good idea."
Horatio and Ophelia pulled not-very-far apart to shoot their respective quizzical and irked looks at Hamlet, who was wearing a grin to split his face.
"I knew you two would be beautiful together, but Jesus, I'm not sure if my heart will recover," he laughed, squeezing into the nonexistant space between them with an arm around either's shoulders.
"It'd better," Ophelia scoffed, shifting to tuck her head into Hamlet's neck, "or my only source of love will be from Horatio's letters." She squeezed his hand (Ah, we're still holding hands, Horatio noted) across Hamlet's lap. "You will be writing me more frequently, won't you, college boy?"
"After recent developments, yes," he said, faux-serious, before grinning similarly to the prince.
Said prince reeled him in for a kiss, allowing Ophelia a moment to marvel at both the spectacle of her gorgeous boys in love (she could call them hers, she decided) and her own lack of jealousy for it. Her moment ended when Hamlet turned and swooped in to kiss her too, giving Horatio the opportunity to do the same as she had done.
"So," she said as soon as her mouth was freed. "We want to give this a try?"
Horatio said "Yes, I do" at the same time as Hamlet's "Hell yeah!"
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(If anyone would like more context; eg. how Horatio and Ophelia know each other, what was planned and what wasn't, feel free to ask. I loved fleshing out this alternate plot.)
H2O is a thing I might occasionally write now. I've been reading JediStormPilot stuff (which started with just StormPilot because I ran out of Hamratio things and they've got a similar dynamic) and loads of it was actually really good, so I thought I might try writing a bit of polyamory. I now have lots of cute and/or heartbreaking ideas. So. Look out for that.
Seriously: Hamlet and Ophelia bitch to each other about how Horatio calls them by their titles - my lord and my lady - but he keeps doing it because he loves to watch them exchange put-out looks whenever he does. (Mature content warnings blah blah blah. Also consider: one returning to their shared chambers at night to find the other two having sex, and just standing there in the doorway falling in love all over again.)
Plus, the aesthetic: a skull resting on a dusty book with a rose between its teeth.
Sorry for the abrupt beginning of this one, my faeries. I promise I'll write H2O of decent length someday. May your love life prosper and thrive in the way that works for you.