Shakespeare one shots

Vampires (songfic)

Another songfic. I cry at this one anyway, so I figured might as well tack my tragic Danish boys to it. The accent from last time might linger. Just a little.

Timeline's a bit chaotic here. Not chronological at all. I couldn't be bothered.

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It's not the long, flowing dress that you're in
Or the light coming off of your skin

Horatio had an old wool and denim jacket. Ophelia called it out of season. Laertes called it tacky. Hamlet called heaven.

It became a game between the two of them, that old jacket. Hamlet would invite Horatio out to the balcony or for a walk in the garden, forget his own coat, and when Horatio offered his, Hamlet would deny to a point, then let Horatio drape the jacket over his shoulders.

Hamlet loved that moment. The jacket was always warm and soft and smelled like Horatio, and Hamlet would grab his hand, and for a moment he thought he might drown in Horatio. That was a noble death; he'd die smiling to drown in Horatio.

The fragile heart you protected for so long
Or the mercy in your sense of right and wrong

Horatio did his best to keep Hamlet's heart safe. Always had, always would.

When Hamlet's heart was light and free, in the best weeks of Wittenberg, the way Horatio took care of him was stitched into the spines of books, boiled into the milk in their coffee, and scattered through the poems Hamlet wrote. It was raw, a little fragile, and absolutely beautiful.

When Hamlet's heart was cracked and heavy, the night he got the news of his father, the way Horatio took care of him was in how careful his fingers wiped away tears, how soft his voice said, "He was a good man," and how gently his arms kept the prince from falling. It was still raw, still fragile, but then everything else hurt too much.

It's not your hands searching slow in the dark
Or your nails leaving love's watermark

Hamlet's return from sea had been a joyous affair with an underlying fear for the next day.

He met Horatio at the docks. Horatio cried first. They both laughed, but it was the laugh of a person who knows this may be the last time their heart is intact enough to do so.

They spent the night at an inn. They ignored the cold seeping into their bones as they undressed, because the most reverent of touches chased away anything that wasn't warm. There were no words. Only the gasping syllables of each other's names on their lips, a secret whispered to the dark in the room.

It's not the way you talk me off the roof
Your questions like directions to the truth

"Hamlet," Horatio said, his voice trembling.

"Horatio," Hamlet responded, blank.

He stood on the very edge of a tall battlement, a long way from the ground. The toes of his shoes hung out over nothing.

"Hamlet, please come back."

Hamlet took a deep breath. He knew that the second he looked at Horatio he'd change his mind, but he had no way to convey everything he wanted to say with only words. He stared at the earth far below with sharp eyes.

"Convince me."

He regretted it the instant it came out. The burden he'd just set on Horatio's shoulders, an unspoken if you fail you've killed me, wasn't something he ever wanted to make him feel.

Horatio let out a single sound of immesurable pain, a cracked sob, and it was over.

Hamlet turned, stumbling away from the edge, into Horatio's arms.