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The alarm on his phone wakes Horatio at 4am. He suppresses a groan as he turns it off, the silence of Elsinore ringing in his ears just as easily as the alarm. His room is lush, with off white cream accented with faux gold, but it’s brittle and cold. He misses the chipped cream and beaten metal of his and Hamlet’s dorm room at Wittenberg. That felt like home, and Elsinore feels like a prison. The gilded window frame might as well be bars, and Hamlet’s revenge plot might as well be a jailer.
Horatio stands, pulling off his pyjama shirt. He’s got a bag packed already, since last night when he convinced Hamlet that they should leave. He shoves his pyjamas in, throwing on a shirt and jeans and brushing his teeth as quickly as he can. He spits out the mixture of foam and water into the sink and looks up into the mirror.
His dyed hair is growing out, showing traces of brown other than the close shaved sides. There are bags under his eyes, which are duller than he’s ever seen them. He’s frowning. He wishes he wasn’t, but there are some things that come with the territory. Hamlet had said, sneaking into Horatio’s room one night when he couldn’t sleep:
“There’s nothing so permanent as the mark this castle leaves on your face.”
He had fallen asleep in Horatio’s bad, black pyjamas stark against the too white sheets with a high thread count. Horatio had never bathed in the luxury Hamlet had, and he was inclined to hate it.
The sheets are rumpled. Before he leaves the room, he straightens them. Hopefully it will be less work for the staff that the newfound king treats as disposable. He turns back at the room, scowls at it, and leaves it for the last time.
He’s been left close to Hamlet’s wing, since the prince gets what the prince wants only when it comes to the small things. It’s a small, quiet walk through the marble halls of the upper castle, dragging his suitcase, on the balcony overlooking the main hall. He looks down at Ophelia. It’s too early for her to be up, but she looks up at him and he knows not to question it. She smiles, and Horatio returns it just as easily. When she waves, he waves goodbye.
He enters Hamlet’s wing too easily, since King Claudius doesn’t care about posting guards at his nephew’s door. And if Horatio knows Hamlet - which he does, and he’d claim better than anyone - Hamlet doesn’t care if someone were to sneak in and take his life.
Horatio kneels by Hamlet’s bed, shaking him awake. “Hamlet,” he whispers.
Hamlet startles awake with a near scream, but his cold grey eyes meet Horatio’s brown ones and he relaxes instantly. “It’s too early for this,” he murmurs, but he’s already sitting up and pushing his long hair out of his face. “Already.”
“Pack, Hamlet. Get dressed. Come on, before your uncle hears us. Before all hell breaks loose.” Hamlet grins sleepily.
“You’re so romantic.” he stands, pulling off his shirt in front of Horatio. Horatio averts his eyes, but not without catching a glimpse of the scars that run underneath Hamlet’s chest. Hamlet tosses it into the empty messy suitcase that’s lying on the floor. It’s filled with clothes and other things. Horatio looks around the room. Most everything is up.
But Horatio also knows that Hamlet doesn’t like this room. It’s nothing like their dorm, which Hamlet covered in posters and weird skulls and raven memorabilia. It’s full of being a prince, and Hamlet doesn’t want anything to do with that. “Are you ready?” Horatio asks, and Hamlet grins, halfway through changing into a band shirt and black jeans.
“Born to run, baby,” he says, closing his suitcase. “Tramps like us, and all that.”
Horatio smiles. Hamlet hefts up the suitcase. “How long do you think it’ll take the guards to notice?” he asks, watching Hamlet scrub his teeth and run his fingers through his hair. Hamlet gargles mouthwash and looks towards the window. Outside is a balcony, and outside the balcony is a ladder.
“Long enough to get to the car.” Hamlet ties his hair back with a ribbon and grins. “Let’s go.” he grabs his bag and makes his way to the balcony. Horatio hangs back for a second, overtaken with a lust for life and brilliant feeling he’s never felt before. And then he’s on Hamlet’s heels, making his way out of the shithole Hamlet’s been in for his entire life.
The guards notice that their crown prince is climbing out the window with his American roommate before they get to the car, but the adrenaline is high now. Hamlet grabs Horatio’s hand and drags him along towards the car, whooping and laughing with a delight that Horatio hasn’t seen on his face since his father died.
Horatio climbs into the driver’s seat, adjusting to the European car and turning it on. He presses hard on the gas and goes over the speed limit to get away from Elsinore. Hamlet leans his head back and laughs and laughs until he’s sobbing.
Horatio blindly reaches a hand over, and Hamlet takes it and grips it. “Breathe,” Horatio guides him, “come on, keep breathing.” Hamlet takes it in a rough gasp of air, sobbing halfway through. “Don’t lose your nerve, breathe.” Hamlet breathes in deep until the sobbing stops, but tears keep coming down his face.
“I can’t do this alone.”
“I know.” Horatio strokes his thumb over the back of Hamlet’s hand. “I know. I’m here. I won’t stop being here. You aren’t alone.”
“I was.”
“Not anymore, honey.” Hamlet sobs again, and Horatio just stays with one hand in his. The drive is silent other than interspersed sobs and Horatio’s gentle sobbing words, until Hamlet decides to turn on the radio. When some loud song comes on he turns it up until Horatio can barely hear him cry.
They arrive at the train station as Hamlet is wiping under his eyes and checking to make sure they aren't too red in the mirror.
“You alright?” Horatio asks.
“Do you ever feel like you’ve just left behind everyone who you love except none of them love you?” Hamlet looks up to the roof of the car, sighing.
“No, but you can always see your mom and Ophelia again-”
“Not them. I don’t even want to think about the fact I’ve left them. But no, just… the kingdom itself. People love Prince Hamlet, my exes love Prince Hamlet. Everyone loves the prince and I love them all back and yet here I am, tossing being the crown prince aside like dirty laundry or my math homework.”
“Good. Fuck ‘em.”
Hamlet snorts, full of an odd sort of happiness. “Let’s go?”
Horatio opens the door, reaching into the back to get he and Hamlet’s bags as Hamlet gets out of the car. He carries them both, intent on not making Hamlet do work, but Hamlet takes his bag and shakes his head. Horatio would gladly do his work for him, but Hamlet refuses. He smiles at Horatio in a clear way of saying ‘thank you’. Horatio smiles a ‘you’re welcome’.
The man taking Horatio’s tickets looks at Hamlet, taking in the red hair and grey eyes that are all over social media and in videos. Hamlet smiles sheepishly, pulling his hood over his face. The man takes this in and shrugs, punching Horatio’s tickets and taking the Euros Horatio gives him. And then he takes the Euros Horatio gives him to keep quiet.
They find their way to a train car, settling into the seats in the corner. Hamlet flips out shades, covering his eyes. He slouches down, shoving in one earbud and looking at those in the train car like they’re about to post that they saw the prince of Denmark on a train to some small fishing village on the other side of the country. He’s on edge, glare made of sharp steel behind the dark glass of the shades.
Horatio sits next to him, handing over their tickets when needed and handing Hamlet a bottle of Sprite. Hamlet sips it, slowly, leaning his full body against Horatio. Horatio holds his hand, reading the Danish train magazines outloud to him. Hamlet listens intently to celebrity interviews and ads until they’ve made their way through every single piece of cheap literature.
“Hey, what’re you listening to?” he asks, finally, when they’ve made their way through every single magazine. Hamlet takes the earbud out, puts it in his ear closest to Horatio, and offers Horatio the other one. Horatio puts it in with a smile.
A slow gentle rock song, filled with soft bass and guitar and heartbroken vocals flows into Horatio’s ear. The singer strains at some invisible bit, and Hamlet leans his head back. Horatio wants to ask if he’s alright, but he’s not. Horatio knows he’s not.
The singer screams for dear life, and Hamlet doesn’t cry but he doesn’t smile. “Is there anything I can do?” Horatio asks, and Hamlet turns to him and cups his cheek.
“Come with me.” Hamlet says, and he’s leading Horatio to the bathroom - with their bags so they don’t get stolen - and crowding them both into a too small square. He shoves their bags to the side and locks the door and presses against Horatio. Not that he can avoid it - the space is barely five by five and their bags take up most of the space.
“Hamlet?”
“Too loud out there.” Hamlet buries his face into Horatio’s shoulder. “I’m being a burden, I’m sorry. This is my escape. I’m just dragging you along.”
“You say that like I’m not the sort of guy to follow you to the ends of the Earth if you asked.”
Hamlet looks up, taking Horatio’s face in his hands. His hands are warm and slightly sweaty, but all Horatio can focus on is the feeling of Hamlet’s skin against his. “I wouldn’t ask.”
Horatio breathes out, body tense with an odd sort of anticipation. A small swirling orange fog fills his stomach. “But I want you to.”
“I’d never require anything of you.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Fine, fine, then I ask this. Would you stay with me? Please.”
“Of course.”
Hamlet sighs out a smile. He cozies up to Horatio, melting into him. Horatio looks at where his hair is pulled back, stray strands caught painfully in the rubber band. Hamlet sways to the movement of the tracks, but this close to Horatio it feels like they’re dancing. Horatio places a hand on Hamlet’s waist, and Hamlet wraps his arms around Horatio’s shoulders.
“Would you dance with me as a prince?” he murmurs, face too close to Horatio’s. “In front of the entire royal court?”
Would he let Hamlet claim him? Become Prince Consort and the latest scandal of a country he doesn’t even know? For Hamlet? Of course.“Yeah.”
“May I?”
“Yeah,” Horatio breathes out, and Hamlet leans in and kisses him. Horatio raises his free hand up to Hamlet’s cheek, cradling his still wet cheek as Hamlet's lips move against his. Hamlet sighs into the kiss, pulling Horatio closer and closer. He wants to merge and never be apart, but that’s too much to ask in a train car going fast across Denmark.
Someone pounds loud against the door, making them pull apart as the stranger yells “stop fucking in the train bathroom!” Hamlet laughs, pressing into Horatio. Tears soak against Horatio’s shirt from Hamlet’s eyes, but the tears are from laughter this time.
“Sorry!” Horatio yells out to the stranger, face red. But when he leans into Hamlet, he’s chuckling.
They change trains an hour later, going even further and further from Elsinore. Horatio becomes accustomed to the feel of Hamlet’s hand in his, Hamlet’s body pressed against his side. Hamlet sleeps, once, entire self draped over Horatio’s arm and shoulder. He wakes up, nearly screaming, and Horatio calms him down with soft whispered words. He strokes a hand along Hamlet’s arm and hopes that the memories are escaping him so he doesn’t have to worry.
“I dreamt about my father dying. Poison in his ear, coming from my uncle. Horatio… Horatio, do you think my mother will be okay?”
Horatio doesn’t know. He’s not a prophet, and he’s not even Danish. He’s only Hamlet’s friend, Hamlet’s lover, Hamlet’s emotional support dog. The unstable line stopping Hamlet from murdering the entire population of a castle in a misguided quest to avenge his father and save those he’d ruin. “I hope so.”
Hamlet rests his chin on Horatio’s shoulder, sighing. “I hope so too.”
They leave the train with their luggage into a small village. There’s a big enough population that no one will care about the new arrival of two new men, one who looks like the prince and the other American. A small enough population that no one will ask about the prince maybe hiding there. Hamlet breathes in the cold sea air. It smells like salt, fish, and pollution. It smells like freedom. It’s perhaps a bit disturbing, but who could complain when it’s the first time their life hasn’t been laid out on a platter. Hamlet sighs out.
“I’m free,” he says, smiling at Horatio.
Horatio steps closer. “You’re free.”
A cold wind rips through the station, ghosting underneath their clothing and forcing Hamlet to draw his hoodie closer around him. He shivers. Horatio wraps an arm around him, and Hamlet leans in. “It’s cold,” he murmurs.
“I know. But it’s nice.” Hamlet nods.
They hail a taxi, have it drive them to the nearest hotel. It’s cheap enough, and later Hamlet will withdraw thousands of euros and put them into a new, shared account. They’ll find an apartment, and live a sort of life that Horatio is accustomed to but Hamlet is not. Maybe get a cat.
Right now, they’re in the back of a taxi, holding hands.
Hamlet tosses his antidepressants into his mouth, following them with a gulp of energy drink. He’s all energy already, but the caffeine makes him less hyper since he still hasn’t gotten his other prescriptions. He’ll take his mood stabilizers at night. The pills keep him semi-sane, and keep his head bearable to live in.
“Horatio, baby?” he asks, barrelling into the kitchen. “How do I look?” He spins around.
Horatio looks up from his coffee cup. He doesn’t have work for another few hours, so he’s still in his pyjamas. “You look fine.”
Hamlet pushes his hair out of his face, looking down at his black shirt and pants and trench coat. “Get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Did you not call out of work? We’ve got the trial.” Horatio panics for a second, before realizing that he did indeed call out of work, he just forgot he had. Of course. There’s no way he’s not accompanying Hamlet. And he’s got evidence too.
“Fuck, I forgot. Let me get dressed, I’ll be done in a second.” he races out of their kitchen, not that the apartment they occupy together is that big. Hamlet looks after him, whistling appreciatively at the sight of him going. Horatio rolls his eyes. “Thanks, love.”
“Anytime.”
As Horatio dresses, Hamlet shoves bread into the toaster and eggs into the frying pan. He didn’t know how to cook before Horatio took the long, painful process of teaching him, and now he likes to make egg sandwiches for heading to work. Or, to his uncle’s trial. He likes the routine, the having of something to prove that you did something right. And he likes eggs. He pulls them out, constructing them and wrapping them in foil.
Horatio emerges in his own semi-formal clothes, carrying their suitcases and suits. “You ready?” he asks, picking up his coffee and taking the foil wrapped sandwich. He pours the rest of his coffee into a travel can as Hamlet grabs an extra energy drink for the road.
They’re taking the train again. It’s almost a fond remembrance. Almost.
Elsinore seems colder than their fishing village when they reach it. Hamlet wraps his coat around him, but pushes his shoulders back and tries to imitate the best image of a prince as he can. He hasn’t seen any of the people here in months. He hadn’t expected his mother to discover his uncle’s sins. He hadn’t expected to ever come back.
Horatio takes his hand and sends him a reassuring smile. “It’ll be alright.”
“I hope so.” before, they had said that about his mother being alright. She’s fine now. Horatio thinks that that should mean it will all be alright in the end. And if it isn’t, he’ll do his best to make Hamlet happy again.
Together, hand in hand, they head towards the castle.
Ophelia sees them first, turning and grinning. She walks over to them like a noblewoman, but there’s a swing in her step that betrays that she’s happy to see them. When Hamlet opens her arms, she throws her own over him. She’s beautiful. Beautiful smile, beautiful hair, beautiful clothes. She looks like Horatio’s own mother, down to the new cornrows.
“I’ve missed you, Hamlet.”
“I’ve missed you too. Sorry for breaking up with you over text after running away.”
Ophelia laughs. “If anyone could hold a grudge on you, you’d be dead. Come on, your mother misses you and they’re about to parade Claudius down by us. I bet you want to see his pathetic face.”
Hamlet smiles. He doesn’t let go of Horatio’s hand. “You know me so well.” When he moves forwards, it’s with Horatio. Side-by-side, like music. He chats with Ophelia, but Horatio’s jealousy from months past is gone. He and Ophelia move better as friends, the same way that Horatio and Hamlet move best as some sort of HamletandHoratio, one word. Hamlet and Ophelia used to be tied by the golden ribbon of nobility and expectation, and now they’ve cut that. If there’s any strings on Hamlet, it’s some red string of fate. And, like Hamlet will say in one of his romantic moods, it leads to Horatio.
Queen Gertrude sits on the throne that used to be Hamlet’s father’s and then used to be Hamlet’s uncle’s. Her floor length gown is a starling deep blue, and she looks as regal as ever. She commands someone - ambassadors, if Horatio remembers correctly - with such regal stature that no one would believe she had not inherited the throne herself. She waves a gloved hand to dismiss the woman with a smile that errs on warm when she sees Hamlet in the door, in his black and red glory.
She stands, skirts falling around her. Horatio looks over to Hamlet who is gasping in relief, tears in his eyes. He looks at her and then is running across the throne room, boots heavy against the marble floors. Gertrude rushes towards him, heels clicking. They bear identical looks of relief and hope.
They meet in a hug, arms wrapped as tightly as possible. “My son…” Gertrude breaths out, like Hamlet is one of the seven wonders of the world. “I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too, Mom.” Hamlet is reluctant to let go at Gertrude pulls back. “I won’t apologize for leaving, though. Apparently I was having what’s commonly referred to as a manic episode. And, you know, yadda yadda. Elsinore was a prison of mine own making and all that.”
“And your uncle’s.”
“And Uncle Bitchface’s.”
Gertrude laughs, doing an excellent job of pretending she didn’t. “Don’t be cruel. Don’t stoop to his level.” Horatio, watching from a distance, has to stifle his own laugh. He supposes he’s the only one who knows that Hamlet genuinely had planned to kill Claudius when he could. He supposes he’s the only one who will ever know what overtook Hamlet’s brain, and how much work Hamlet went through to peel it away and toss it away.
“Well I’m not killing his father.”
The room sweeps to a silence. Horatio can barely hear his own breath. It’s definitely too soon. Everyone is staring at Hamlet, who makes an awkward line with his mouth. He shrugs.
“Sorry?” he offers.
Horatio, ever the fallen for Hamlet, chuckles, letting it echo over the throne room. It catches on, letting it flow over the room. Hamlet looks back and smiles at Horatio. “Thanks,” he mouths. Horatio blows him a kiss, and Hamlet pretends to catch it. He presses it to his cheek.
Gertrude, noticing, looks at Horatio. Her eyes flick up and down, and then she gives a small approving nod. It’s almost better than Hamlet’s gracious face. And it’s nice to see him so happy with his mother, especially when he had such an animosity towards her before. Hamlet has just barely stopped pressing his bicep against hers.
“My boy,” Gertrude says, running a hand over his hair. It’s long now, brushing his shoulder blades and shines in the sun. although there’s not much sun in the cold interior of Elsinore. Thank god the plan is to return to their small apartment after this trial. Horatio already misses the small kitchen and the bed where Hamlet has to lay half on top of him to be comfortable.
“Hey,” Ophelia says, cutting through the family moment. “Claudius is going to come to explain where his money is hidden soon. We should all go so we can watch.” and jeer goes unsaid, but it’s obvious to everyone in the room.
“Balcony?” Hamlet asks, jerking his head towards the part of the second floor that overhangs the main hall. He takes one step, and then another, and lets the rest of them follow. Horatio jogs up a step so that he can take Hamlet’s hand. His emotional support.
“Thanks,” Hamlet murmurs under his breath, leaning into Horatio. “For all of it, you know. For being the spark in my otherwise dull life. For saving me from ruin and saving me from splendor.”
“Can you talk normally?” Ophelia asks, “You never spoke to me like this. It was all half-hearted poetry. Literally ripped off the pages of a bad romance novel. And then you’re over here with Horatio going full Chaucer. How do you proposition him? Oh, my darling love, heart of hearts, the beauty in my soul, could I please suck your throbbing, elegant, meatstick? Because you light up my life and make it shine and I want to suck your dick.”
Horatio blushes and looks at Gertrude. The Queen is stifling a giggle.
“You’ve gotten meaner,” Hamlet points out, but proudly. Ophelia no longer feels conditioned to be meek, or be the perfect woman. Horatio, who’s seen it in his mother and in those around him in Chicago, is proud too. He should invite Ophelia out for coffee one of these days.
“I am simply pointing out the difference between ‘hey u up’ texts and ‘you saved me from ruin and splendor’,” Ophelia says primly, “What, does putting on your own personal play every day turn you on?”
“Horatio is stopping me from going insane, including but not only because he finally got me to go on mood-stabilizers. I might as well reward him.”
“You are a giant fucking nerd.” Ophelia skips ahead, leaning back against the balcony. “Massive nerd. I don’t know how we ever dated.”
“Ophelia, be nice to Hamlet,” Gertrude says, resting her hands on the thick railing elegantly. “He’s just come back.”
“No, bully him more,” Horatio says, “also, how’s your brother, Ophelia? Is he coming in for the trial?”
“Yeah, as Dad and I’s emotional support. He doesn’t actually know anything about the plots. We’re glad he left for Paris because, uh, how to put it lightly? Claudius would have been able to convince him to murder someone with a slightly powerful speech.”
Hamlet laughs. “True.” Horatio gently swats him on the arm, a reminder to be nice. “He’s my ex, baby, let me be mean.” Hamlet leans in, giving Horatio puppy dog eyes, but Horatio’s learned not to fall for it. He pushes Hamlet away, not hard but jokingly. It makes Hamlet laugh and take Horatio’s hand.
Ophelia opens her mouth to say something, probably “you two are gross” but there’s a long laugh cutting through the air. It’s not any of theirs, too masculine to be Gertrude or Ophelia and too cruel to be Hamlet’s. Horatio looks down to the main hall. The disgraced king looks up at them.
And the dethroned murderer laughs.
It’s a tall laugh. It should be deep, but it ventures into sharp with each pitch. Evil, mocking, spineless. The laugh of a killer, not the laugh of a king.
Claudius meets the eyes of everyone. Gertrude first. She doesn’t flinch, just holds her head higher. Ophelia next, and she does flinch. She doesn’t meet Claudius’ eyes. Hamlet reaches out and rubs her shoulder comfortingly.
Then he looks to Hamlet. He looks to Hamlet and Horatio’s conjoined hands. He sneers, pure disgust. And he laughs. Hamlet doesn’t look away, but his spine straightens and he tenses under his too big coat.
Horatio takes a deep breath. He isn’t Danish. He barely ever met Claudius. Claudius doesn’t scare him. So he says, projecting his voice over the entirety of the castle’s main hall, “choke.”
Claudius stops laughing and turns red. He growls, but he’s handcuffed. He barely knows who Horatio is. What can he do? Seeth?
Hamlet looks over at Horatio, mouth agape. “You really…” his open mouth turns into a wild grin as he starts to laugh. “Hell yeah.” Hamlet leans in and kisses Horatio’s cheek. Then he looks down, a black smudge over the too white castle and calls out “choke, Uncle dear.”
“I was king!” Claudius demands, “this is how you treat your king? I was a better king than your father. I had rules and wisdom, and he was a - a weak man that let his daughter go around saying she was a prince.”
Hamlet, who has been on testosterone for years and the prince of Denmark for longer, fake pouts. “Oh, that’s supposed to hurt me? I’m a prince and you’re a… worthless piece of chewed up gum stuck to my Demonias. Annoying, and you did kill my father, but you’re nothing. You couldn’t even keep your crown. I could have, in your place.” Okay, well that’s a lie. “We hope your rules and ‘wisdom’ choke you”
Hamlet spits down over the balcony. It manages, in some incredible feat, to hit Claudius in the face. And the handcuffed felon can’t wipe his own face off.
Gertrude politely laughs, hiding it behind her hand. And as they escort Claudius off, Hamlet crumples. He falls into Horatio’s arms, starting to cry. Horatio just holds him, because he knows why. It can’t be easy to tell the one who killed your father that they mean nothing - they mean everything, after all.
“Alright, love?” Horatio asks, and he knows the answer before Hamlet shakes his head. “I know.” Horatio strokes his hair and murmurs soothing words and lets Hamlet cry. Gertrude comes up and rubs her son’s back. It only makes him sob harder.
“Why?” Hamlet asks miserably, “doesn’t it get easier?”
Horatio thinks back to running away at 4am. Horatio thinks about crying and dancing in a train bathroom, finding an apartment. He thinks about shopping and choosing new kitchenware. He thinks about lying in bed with Hamlet. He thinks of Hamlet’s smile after Hamlet got a job for the first time in his life. He thinks of Hamlet’s mouth and hands and smile and his tendency to take pills with too much caffeine.
“It does. It has. It’s just easy to forget it.”