Shakespeare one shots

Hamlet's god-awful home life

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.