Work Text:
Horatio's arrival at Elsinore a few hours ago had been a lovely, welcome surprise: Hamlet embraces him, kisses him on both cheeks (if only to make Laertes uncomfortable), pokes his chest gently, informing Horatio they're gonna get hammered. Even under Horatio's dark brown skin, Hamlet can see he's a little flushed, and that his pupils are a little dilated. Good god, Horatio's gonna be the death of him.
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Both of them are grinning wildly as Hamlet steals Horatio away (steals being a strong word, Horatio is as eager as ever to follow him into the dark) into his rooms on the far side of the palace grounds. Chatting, they flop down on Hamlet's bed, Hamlet stretching languidly on the duvet as Horatio presses himself into the dozen fat, heavy feather pillows at the head of the bed.
They talk aimlessly for the better part of six hours. They talk about their friends, their families, their lovers. Hamlet rants about Claudius, hypothesizes about Laertes, murmurs his feelings towards Ophelia so quietly that he's almost silent. Horatio listens, and listens, and he listens even more still. When Hamlet becomes tired of this, Horatio draws himself closer and allows Hamlet to pick his brain. Hamlet asks about ancient Egyptian myths, Horatio explains. Hamlet asks about deep-sea sharks, Horatio explains. If Hamlet wants to know about differential calculus or the edges of the known universe, then Horatio will teach him. All this he does in his deep, calm voice as he sits up in bed, Hamlet lying near him. As the minutes dwindle away, Hamlet sneaks closer to him. His questions start getting more personal: will Horatio marry when he's older? Does he love his family? Is he afraid of dying? Can he speak his native language (Arabic) for just a few sentences, because Hamlet loves to hear it? (If anyone else requested this, Horatio would probably think they're a jackass. Given, Hamlet is a bit of a jackass anyways, but Horatio is faithful, and loves to indulge him.)
Looking at him from across the bed, Hamlet looks...sad. He's thin: Horatio can count the vertebrae of his spine through the back of his shirt, his wrists and ankles are pale and impossibly narrow. His cheeks are wan and hollow, with glaring dark circles beneath his eyes. He seems cold, too, the way he intermittently trembles and shivers. Horatio feels for him so much, it makes his chest ache with tenderness and his knees weak.
"My lord, come here," he says, patting the bed right next to him. "Sit with me, and I'll tell you a story." Hamlet's eyes widen almost imperceptibly before he obliges. Horatio realizes that he's treading deep water here, in acknowledging the warm, delicate tension that exists between them. Still, he gathers Hamlet up under his arm, allows him to curl into his side and make himself comfortable there. They're reclining back against the litany of pillows, Hamlet's cheek pressed to Horatio's chest, when Horatio begins to speak.
"This is a fairy tale, like the kind that mothers tell their children before bed. It's about a woman who was raised by gazelles, but she marries a king." Hamlet grins and closes his eyes.
Horatio tells the story in its original, long-winded form, intentionally embellished and repetitive so to make rowdy children drowsy. Granted, Hamlet can't understand any of the Arabic, but he seems wonderfully content where he is, nuzzling into Horatio's chest to feel the vibrations of his voice. Horatio squeezes him closer still, rubbing circles into his back and even daring to press kisses into his hair.
By the time Horatio has finished the story, Hamlet has melted into him completely, his eyelids heavy and his breathing slow and even. Upon realizing that Horatio's tale has ended, he sits up in bed, climbing away from Horatio and startling at the sudden chill. "Horatio-" he begins hesitantly, pausing to clear his throat. "My good Horatio, stay with me tonight. We can share my bed, please, I'll lend you some clothes to sleep in, I just- I mean...I've missed you so much, you know." Horatio's heart stops, for a moment.
"Yes, my lord. Of course I will."
Hamlet's already wearing soft sleep pants and a T-shirt, this is his palace bedroom, for that matter. Horatio feels overdressed, still wearing his finest button-down shirt and an argyle sweater with dress pants; the clothes he had chosen to visit his prince in. He turns away from Hamlet as he undresses and changes into borrowed sweatpants and a T-shirt. There's no particular reason for his modesty, as they've already seen each other in every state of dress or undress imaginable, when they shared an apartment at Wittenberg. Sometimes, they would have these long, lovely conversations that they refused to interrupt even with daily tasks, so Hamlet would sit on the floor of the bathroom and chat with Horatio as he bathed, his long, soapy legs sticking out over the side of the little claw-foot tub.
Hamlet's already burrowed himself away under the covers, and he beams happily when Horatio joins him. The bed is expansive, soft and warm and Horatio seems to sink into it in the loveliest way. Hamlet's hand reaches out, pushes up into his dark, curly hair and strokes it, his fingertips rubbing at the scalp and it's bliss. They move into a clumsy embrace, both of Hamlet's hands in Horatio's hair while Horatio sighs into Hamlet's soft neck. Horatio tells Hamlet that he loves him. Hamlet cries, a little.