Disclaimer: This fanfiction contains yaoi, as well as a bit of anachronism. Also, I’ve taken literary liberty to use the much debated teenage Hamlet (as opposed to the 32-year-old Hamlet).
Sing Thee to Thy Rest...
He stormed into the room in a blind fury, Horatio following closely on his heels. The young prince snatched a porcelain vase from a nearby table and flung it across his room, watching with morbid satisfaction as it shattered against the wall. He then picked up the wooden end table and swung it against the wall, the loud crack echoing with finality.
Horatio looked on helplessly, not wanting to get hurt in the crossfire, but desperately needing to calm Hamlet down. It had been days since the incident at Ophelia's grave, and Hamlet had been deceptively composed. He had been dreading the day when it would all finally catch up to the young prince, and that day was here. “Hamlet,” he called out weakly.
Hamlet turned and glared at him. “What?” he shouted. “WHAT? What do you want from me? What does everyone want from me? I can’t—” In frustration, he clutched at his hair and sat down heavily on his sofa. With a loud sigh, he covered his face with his hands and fell silent.
Horatio stood where he was, unsure whether or not Hamlet needed to be alone, but when he saw the first shudder rack his body, he hurried over to be with his lover.
As soon as he sat down, though, Hamlet sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “She’s dead, Horatio. Dead. All because of me.” He sat back down and stared at Horatio, tears streaming from his clear blue eyes.
Horatio gently held Hamlet’s face in his hands, wiping away the tears as Hamlet closed his eyes and turned away. Enveloping him in a tight embrace, he murmured softly, “No, no, shhh--”
“No, no! Don't—don't try to make things better, Horatio,” Hamlet pleaded, pushing away from his lover. He stood abruptly, clutching his hair with a wild desperation. “I killed her, Horatio. I killed her father, and now I've killed her.” The distraught prince shook his head, repeating his self-sentenced crime over and over again, as if they were the only words left he knew how to say.
Horatio could see that Hamlet was on the brink of losing it all. Firmly grasping his friend by the shoulders, he held him still, saying, “Lettie, please, just listen to me. Please. This is not your fault.”
Hamlet held a hand over his face, pushing soggy strands of hair from his dripping eyes. He looked away and said in a low voice, “She killed herself, Horatio. Because she found out—about us. She's dead.”
“I know,” whispered Horatio, “I know. But please, you cannot simply fall to pieces. For your sake—Hamlet, for my sake, you must keep yourself together. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, Hamlet. Please.” He gently took hold of Hamlet's hand, bringing it away from his face and kissing it gently before kissing him. Horatio could feel the soft wetness of the tears on Hamlet's cheek, taste the bitter saltiness on his lips, and nearly wept himself as Hamlet buried his face in his shoulder. In truth, he knew there was only one thing he could do should he ever lose the prince; Horatio fervently wished it would never come to that.
The young prince's keening cries were muffled in Horatio's clothing as he wept, clutching onto Horatio, his life, his light. The moments that passed seemed like eternities, until Hamlet finally said with deadly decisiveness, “This ends, now. The only further death I shall allow is that of the traitor Claudius, and I assure you—”
He was interrupted by a knocking on his door. Hastily wiping his face, Hamlet motioned for Horatio to attend to whomever was there. The brunet returned with two letters in hand, one still unopened, the other unfolded as he scanned its contents.
“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern...they're dead,” he murmured.
Hamlet laughed blearily. “Yes, of course,” he said as Horatio handed him the letter. “I must have forgotten to tell you in all of the fuss lately. Those letters Claudius sent me to England with were for my execution. Thanks to good fortune, I was able to change their instructions to the demise of those two worthless fools.”
Horatio stared at him for a moment. Such a change from the Hamlet I once knew, he thought to himself with a small smile. “Of course,” he muttered. “And this one...” He handed Hamlet the other letter.
The blond prince opened the letter with a quick flick of his wrist, a frown steadily marring his face as he read to the end. “It says...Laertes wishes to challenge me to a duel, in a few hours from now,” he said, looking up at Horatio, whose face darkened with disbelief.
“What?” Snatching the paper from Hamlet's hands to see for himself, Horatio scowled, “No doubt to try and avenge his dead sister.”
“It's a duel, Ratio,” Hamlet scoffed, “how much revenge could he stand to gain? He cannot harm me.”
Horatio's eyes darkened at the prince's flippant attitude. “Hamlet--”
“Horatio,” said Hamlet calmly, “I did not mean physically. You are the scholar of us both; decipher my meaning. If I am meant to die, I shall not die. If I am not meant to die, I shall. None of us know what our time here is meant to be, so it means nothing to die young.” He leaned back and leveled a cool stare just to the right of Horatio's face, avoiding his gaze. A part of him was terrified that the lover who knew him so well would immediately recognize the emotions on his face.
The brunet was speechless with shock to hear such words from his friend and lover; the letter fluttered to the ground from his lifeless hand. “I—I wasn't aware that you—you embrace death so, Hamlet,” he stuttered coldly. “I didn't know what we have is of such little value--”
Hamlet seized Horatio by the wrist and pulled him into a passionate kiss. “You did not,” he murmured, eyes gazing deep into Horatio's own, “let me finish, my little philosopher. Physical trauma means nothing to me. The only thing that truly matters to me is you, Horatio. You are the only one who could ever truly hurt me beyond remedy. A slight to you is a slight to me, one I will never stand for.
“I do not fear this duel because I do not fear Laertes,” he continued in a rush. “He is looking for peace in the wrong place. The most he will gain from me is an apology for all that I have done to him. If he expects me to feel pain as he does...he obviously hasn't figured out my weakness.” He delicately kissed Horatio's lips once more, only to have the brunet push him away with shaking hands.
Horatio turned his back to Hamlet and muttered harshly, “Then how can you agree to this duel, knowing that both Laertes and Claudius are after your blood?”
Hamlet shook his head softly, prepared to explain, but Horatio cut him off, spinning around sharply on his heel. “If I am the most important thing to you,” he hissed, tears choking off his words, “if my happiness means more than the world to you, then how the hell can you throw your life away like this? I can't--”
The blond prince watched helplessly as Horatio succumbed to his tears, his body racked with shuddering sobs. “Horatio,” he said weakly, before gathering him tightly in his arms.
They stood in broken silence until Hamlet whispered, voice thick with emotion, “Horatio, I know. Trust me, I know. But this must be done. I must end this thing with Laertes, and then Claudius. Yes, there is the risk that I may face death--” Horatio gave a soft whimper at this, and clutched harder onto his prince, “--however, would you rather me die fighting, or as the coward I once was?”
Horatio made a strangled sort of noise that might have been part laugh, part sob. “I would rather you not die at all, Lettie,” he murmured. Before Hamlet could interrupt, he continued, “But I see you have made up your mind, and I—I shall support you.”
Hamlet gently kissed Horatio, pressing their foreheads together. “Thank you. Besides, all this talk of death! My swordplay skills have increased dramatically since last I dueled, have they not? I believe all the practice we have done together has done much to improve--”
Horatio interrupted Hamlet's reassurances with a hiccupy giggle. “I believe the practice we have done together will mean nothing in the ring, Hamlet,” he said with a shy smile.
With a laugh, Hamlet hugged Horatio tight once more before pulling away. “Then I best away to the practice rooms,” he said, turning towards the door.
Horatio hastily grabbed his wrist. “Wait,” he said softly, eyes pleading.
Hamlet turned back to him, and Horatio then said, “Stay...please. Just...with me. I mean—what if—” He faltered, words trailing away as he refused to voice his fear.
The lighthearted grin on Hamlet’s face melted away like a light snow on the first day of spring, and he locked eyes with his lover. “What if...indeed,” he whispered, drawing Horatio closer for a passionate kiss.
The brunet responded eagerly, fervently, his dark grey eyes sliding shut almost immediately. As of late, Hamlet had become more the aggressor in their relationship, but Horatio didn’t mind. In fact, he relished the feel of the blond’s delicate hands as one held onto his hip while the other gently caressed his face. His lips moved hungrily against Hamlet’s, pushing them both higher and higher, closer to that unseen barrier they were both trying to break, until Horatio finally lifted Hamlet into his arms. The blond automatically assumed a position he had been in time and time before, wrapping his legs around Horatio’s waist and his arms around Horatio’s neck.
It made Horatio think of the way things used to be, before Hamlet’s father had been murdered, before the weight of an entire country had settled on his friend’s shoulders. As he carried his lover into the bed chambers and they each fell into their default roles, he was reminded over and over again of everything that they shared—body, mind, heart, and soul. As he impatiently tore off Hamlet’s white blouse and saw the wry twist of Hamlet’s grin, he was instantly reminiscent of every time he had seen that smile on his best friend’s face, and of every time that smile had been because of him. When Hamlet began moaning unceasingly of his growing desire, Horatio already knew what his lover wanted from him. He pressed him to the mattress and held his head in place by his hair, harshly biting his neck and then soothing the skin with languid laps at his sweaty skin. And as he felt the familiar prickle of his prince’s nails digging into the skin at his hips, he couldn’t help but laugh at the memories of all the scars they each had, mementos of their escapades together. This...this would just be another scar they would soon laugh over.
With light kisses and feathery touches, their love-making was unhurried and sensual, each trying to reassure the other that things would be alright, as long as they had each other. Horatio could still feel, though, the slight tremor in Hamlet-- his fingers, stomach, his whole body—that belied the confidence he portrayed, the confidence that Horatio so desperately needed to believe in.
“My Hamlet...my prince,” he choked out as they both came, his hot, sated body sticking to Hamlet’s, his lips resting against the wildly beating pulse in Hamlet’s neck. “Mine...forever.”
Horatio could feel his lover’s breath whisper past his ear, ruffling his hair. “My Horatio,” he murmured, his fingers stroking along the curve of Horatio’s back, “I will never leave you.”
The Rest...Is Silence
It was terribly hard to breathe; ironically, it was almost the same feeling he felt whenever Horatio was near. His vision faded in and out as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He had offered up his peace to Laertes, accepted the duel as a gentleman, fought honorably as a prince, and this...this was to be his end, a death of treachery and deceit.
“HAMLET!” Horatio was hysterical as he ran out into the midst of the chaos. The entire court present had fallen silent as first the queen, then Claudius, and finally Laertes himself fell dead, all victims of the king’s selfish scheme. Now they could only watch in growing despair as the prince’s beloved friend rushed to his side in his final moments.
“Hamlet, no, no, no,” he frantically said, his voice cracking several times. “This isn’t happening, you’re fine, you are fine, you will live, Hamlet, no, no...”
Hamlet gave a weak laugh, raspy and wheezing. But how he had wished that this day, this hour, this minute, would never come. “Oh, Horatio,” he whispered, “my dearest, most cherished Horatio. I am but for dead. You were—right, as usual.” Claudius, if only he had done it when he’d perfect opportunity.
Tears sprung from Horatio’s eyes anew. “No, no, please don’t say that to me, please, if you love me, Hamlet,” he sobbed, placing trembling fingers along the side of Hamlet’s rapidly paling face.
“Shhhh,” Hamlet whispered, touching his hand to Horatio’s hand briefly. “Don’t cry for me, Horatio, you know it breaks my heart to see you cry.”
“I...I can’t,” he said, his words nearly drowned out by his cries, “I just can’t. I can’t live without you, Lettie, I can’t, I can’t...”
Hamlet squeezed Horatio’s hand with as much urgency as he could muster. “You must, my darling, my love. You must live, and tell them everything. Of Claudius’ deception and treachery. Of his...” The world suddenly became dark again, though Hamlet couldn’t tell if this time it was his own eternal sleep.
Horatio screamed as Hamlet’s eyes slid shut, desperately grabbing his shoulders and cradling his head in his arms. “No, no, don’t go, I swear, I’ll go with you...the cup...where’s the cup...I’m sure there’s a drop of poison left for me,” he said, frantically searching for the poisoned wine.
Hamlet became aware of his surroundings again, though this time, he could barely keep his eyes open more than mere slits. But he needed to do this. He needed to make sure no one else would die because of him. “Horatio,” he pleaded, “don’t. Please.”
With a gasp, Horatio glanced downward to confirm that his prince had not yet left him. “Hamlet,” he said weakly, the salty tears dripping down his face and landing on Hamlet’s cheek. Horatio smeared them away with his thumb and vaguely thought about all of the times he had cleared away Hamlet’s own tears, and cried all the harder.
Hamlet struggled to raise his hand, his strength failing him in his last moments, and managed to get a weak grip on Horatio’s shirt. “Live for me, Ratio. The best way for you to love me now...is to tell them my story. Our...story,” he whispered, voice naught but a mere breath of shaky air. “And Horatio, never doubt...I love you.”
Horatio struggled even to breath as Hamlet, his prince, his best friend, his one and only love, drew his final breath, his eyes slipping shut for the last time, his body going lax all at once in his arms. It was as though his very body shared the same heart as Hamlet and wanted to stop beating along with his. With halting, broken breaths, he leaned down and pressed a final kiss to the dead boy’s lips, breaking down in sobs. Horatio’s anguished cries reverberated around the eerily still hall as he mourned the loss of all he ever had to live for.
“Good night, my sweet prince,” he whispered, kissing each of Hamlet’s eyelids in turn, tasting the bitterness of his own tears, “and may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
--
A/N: Finally, this is done. I almost cried myself writing that last bit. Sorry it took so long, to those of you who were following it. I got really, really busy over the past six months or so. And also, sorry if the last half seems really crappy. I wrote it at midnight on four hours of sleep from the night before. But it was calling to me to get finished, so I answered. I hope you all like it, and thanks to those of you who commented it!
