Hamlet's family seriously needs to get their priorities in order. Don't they know it's rude to yell in front of the guest?

TW: serious homophobia, use of f*g slur and others, a bit of racism (taps into Jim Crow era language), a LOT of swearing, mentions of suicidal thoughts and self-harm, Hamlet giving a detailed description of his bedroom fantasies at the dinner table, and low-key tablecloth abuse. In all seriousness, it's got some really disgusting topics, so please be careful reading this one.

Generally rated R. Do not reccomend for smol children.

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"You sure you're... ready for this?" Hamlet asked tentatively, not relinquishing his death grip on Horatio's hand in spite of himself.

"It's not the type of holiday atmosphere you'd enjoy," Ophelia added, which, unhelpful, but go off, Phe.

"And you may want to prepare yourself to see your boyfriend verbally get his ass whooped," Laertes continued.

Horatio sighed, somehow impossibly fond, and squeezed Hamlet's hand. It grounded him a bit.

"I'll be fine," he said, soft nearly to the point of fear, but his eyes shone with determination. He brought Hamlet's hand to his lips, still amazingly soft, and his eyes sang I hope this tides you over.

Hamlet nodded once, and, armed with the three people who made him feel like he could face anything, opened the door to the Elsinore dining hall.

It was lavishly decorated, boasting all manner of poinsettias and ribbons, and the smell of peppermint nearly suffocated the four of them. It was all beautiful and expensive and each of them hated it with the burning anger of a thousand suns.

The king sat at the head of the table, staring intently in that cold way of his that made Hamlet shiver. Gertrude sat to his right, back rigid with the effort of perfect posture and eyes terrified. Claudius sat across from her, expression minutely shifting from defiant to protective when he spotted Nephew and Co. approaching the table.

Hamlet tensed, fortifying his body against the need to wither under the king's gaze, and sensed the siblings doing the same. Horatio, not yet accustomed to the need to fortify oneself against withering, bit his cheek and looked up through his eyelashes meekly.

Ophelia and Laertes sat in their rehearsed places, down the table from Gertrude. The two women shared a look and Claudius gave a tiny nod to Laertes.

Hamlet sat next to his uncle, half wanting to put Horatio there instead to give himself another layer of protection from the man at the head of the table, and half knowing that he'd never put Horatio through that. He had to keep Horatio as far from the danger as possible.

Danger, Hamlet thought as he settled into his chair, realizing idly that he'd never really acknowledged what it was until now. His therapist back at Wittenberg would be proud.

"My dear Ophelia, will your father be joining us?" Gertrude asked.

Good job, Mom, assess the threats, Hamlet thought.

"He may," Ophelia said, then looked to her brother.

"He has some business to attend to, but he may arrive later," Laertes supplied.

Claudius shrunk a fraction, the corners of his lips turning down. Hamlet felt no sympathy. He didn't care that they were friends, he was glad they were not adding another layer to how careful Ophelia and Laertes would have to be tonight. Polonius wasn't actively a part of the problem, but he asked blunt questions and was much too nosy and Hamlet despised him.

"Shame," said the king, tracing patterns in the tablecloth with a fingertip. He glanced up and Hamlet swore he saw Satan behind those eyes. "I had a bet with him concerning the color of Hamlet's nail polish."

Okay. It was stupid, it was just a comment to get a rise out of him, and Hamlet was not going to give him the satisfaction of reacting. He clenched his fists in his lap (nails bare and cuticles scratched from a hasty removal of his favorite black polish earlier that day).

Horatio turned to him with eyebrows furrowed, and Hamlet twitched the corner of his lip upward just enough to let him know he was okay.

All were silent as the food was brought out. Duck and potatoes and rolls and those weird asparagus wrap things that Ophelia really liked for some reason, all made with a lot of effort and no love. Hamlet already felt sick.

"It smells amazing," Horatio said quietly, briefly filling the silence.

"Better quality that what you must normally eat, I presume?" the king responded with no hesitation and far too much condescension.

Horatio froze, then looked distinctly afraid. He glanced desperately at the friendlier faces around the table. Ophelia gave him a sympathetic look in return, biting her lip. Laertes looked disgusted, staring down at his food with rage bubbling in the clench of his jaw. Hamlet looked sad and angry and scared all at once and Horatio wanted to scoop him into his arms and keep him far, far away from this hellhole of a castle he grew up in.

But Horatio could not do that, because the king was staring expectantly at him and the king would not take bullshit. Especially not bullshit that concerned his son and The Gay Agenda.

"The food at Wittenberg is excellent, Father," Hamlet said, face now blank.

The king blew air out of his nose harshly, and for a second Horatio wondered if he'd keep pressing. To his relief, he did not, and those cold eyes moved away from the scholar.

Onto the prince, which wasn't much better.

"And how is the rest of Wittenberg, Hamlet? Considering you turned down so many great schools in its favor, I'd hope you're enjoying your time there."

Despite being the newbie at this nightmare of a family gathering, Horatio caught the undertone. The turned down so many great schools as in Wittenberg is inferior to where I was going to send you. Honestly, he wasn't surprised. Hamlet had cried enough over this man's opinion that Horatio figured this was only the beginning.

Goddamn, that couldn't have been more true.

All night it was "yes, sir," and "very good, sir," from anyone who wasn't the king. Everyone was stiff, alert, and treading on eggshells with every action. Horatio didn't see Hamlet's trademark smile at all that night; the prince's expressions were tight-lipped and neutral. There was none of the usual charming dimple, one side of his mouth pulling back more to reveal pearly teeth. Horatio had barely spent an hour in the king's company and already hated him for keeping away that smile.

The room's nervous tension, which had been simmering in the air all night, hovering and suspended in the silence, spiked suddenly when the king next spoke.

"So, Hamet. You're still taking that poetry class over a sport?"

Hamlet's stomach dropped. He begged around with his eyes for someone to say something.

"He doesn't need to do any sports, brother," Claudius said. Hamlet silently thanked him. "He's perfectly fit as it is."

"Really?" the king countered, sounding almost giddy. "Where is he getting all that exercise? Chasing girls around campus?"

Hamlet and Ophelia made brief, terrified eye contact. I may need to be in love with you tonight, Hamlet didn't say. Do what you need to do, Ophelia didn't respond.

"I'm not very focused on a romantic relationship right now, Father," Hamlet managed to get out.

The king smiled, unashamed and disgusting. "Then who are these for?"

He pulled several envelopes from under the table, deftly opening the first one as Hamlet realized with a red-hot flash of horror what they were.

"You may doubt the sun is fire
You may doubt the earth will move
You may call an honest man 'liar'
But don't ever doubt I love.
Just a snippet of a little something to tide us both over. I'm melting away here without you. From my heart of heart, he that you know is yours."

Hamlet's brain was full of static. The king smirked. Horatio went several shades paler.

"From what I see here, son," the king said, metaphorical maggots crawling in his teeth, "you are quite focused on romance."

"That's enough," Gertrude snapped.

The king turned to give her a scorching glare. She stared back with ice.

"As I was saying," he said through clenched teeth, "perhaps if you'd take a sport instead of your poetry, if you'd spend more time with real men instead of-" he gestured angrily at Horatio, "him, you wouldn't be such a-"

"Don't you dare!" Claudius snarled.

"-such a goddamn pansy!"

Everyone froze, and the world held its breath. There was a heavy pause before Hamlet spoke.

"Say it," he seethed. "Say 'faggot' like you've wanted to for years."

Ophelia and Laertes stared wide-eyed at him. Claudius still looked pissed. Gertrude just looked miserable.

"So you admit that you are? That you're subhuman, an abomination of nature?" the king pressed, somehow both cold and far too invested. "You are! I bet you like it up the ass like the rest of them!"

"Oh, you have no idea," Hamlet practically moaned, shooting a filthy glance at Horatio, who was pleased to see no fear behind Hamlet's eyes but also horrified by the turn in conversation.

"Fucking disgusting," the king spat.

"You know, in an ideal world he wouldn't be afraid to shove my face into the bed and rough me up a little, but he's always so goddamn gentle. Even if I manage to convince him to tie me up it's all is this too tight and tell me if it doesn't feel good." Hamlet paused for meaningful eye contact. "Too kind to me, Horatio."

In his peripheral, the king's glass looked close to shattering in his white-knuckled clutch. "If I ever considered you my son, I no longer do. You may consider yourself bereft of the family inheritance."

Gertrude let out an engaged screech. All eyes flew to her, and Hamlet's fist loosened from digging his nails into his palms.

"I cannot believe you! So what if he's not into sports, lots of kids aren't! So what if he likes poetry, it means he's got a good head on his shoulders! Stop trying to turn my son into a mirror image of yourself, you selfish bastard!"

The king and queen held eye contact, the only sound in the room being Gertrude's heavy breathing in the wake of her outburst.

"He paints his nails, Gertrude."

"So do I."

"He can't run a country."

"Neither can you."

Claudius couldn't contain a snort. The king whipped around to face him.

"She's not wrong-"

"Fuck you, the both of you!"

Without missing a beat, Claudius shot back: "What happens between your wife and I when you're on business trips is not for you to be a part of, brother dearest."

The king gave an almighty shout of anger and stretched an arm in Horatio's direction, pointing accusingly. Horatio - gentle, kind Horatio, who had willingly sat through an excruciating meal with the worst man alive - simply stared with wide, scared eyes.

"You!" the king snarled, throwing off everyone because Horatio was not a part of this conversation. "You, boy, this is your fucking fault! He was already pathetic, then you came along and taught him to be an uppity fag, too?"

Before Horatio could begin formulating a reply, Hamlet had stood, the backs of his knees pushing the chair away with the speed of his movement. The sound of its legs screeching over the floor was accompanied by the bang of Hamlet's fist on the table.

"Listen the fuck up, dad," Hamlet hissed. "I don't give a shit what you say about me, but he is off limits. Horatio is the best thing that ever happened to me, whether or not you decide to pull that stick out of your ass and accept it. He's made me happier in the few years that I've known him than you have my entire fucking life. You don't know shit about loving your family, and he taught me how to love, so lay off insulting my fucking boyfriend."

"Hamlet-" Horatio started, gently touching his arm. Hamlet belatedly realized that his nails had nearly torn the tablecloth. He released a breath in a shocked laugh.

"We're leaving, I'm fucking done with him," Hamlet declared, eyes bright with hope and shining with adrenaline, fixed on Horatio.

Horatio grabbed his hand and the rest of the world fell away. "Let's go, then."

Hand in hand, thrumming with adrenaline, they walked toward the door. The king's protests went in one ear and out the other for Hamlet, whose head had cleared of everything except for the surges of pure emotion that flooded through him. Fear pounding behind his temples, pride straightening his spine, shock widening his eyes, and love coursing through his fingers where they touched Horatio's. In the doorway, he froze.

"Mistletoe," he breathed, remembering where Ophelia had chosen to hang it earlier that day while decorating.

Hamlet immediately pushed Horatio against the frame of the door in an intentionally sloppy kiss, open-mouthed and passionate. He made a low sound of pleasure into Horatio's mouth, and hearing the king's raw shout of outrage in response, Hamlet flipped him off over Horatio's shoulder.

The king stood from his chair, causing Horatio to remember where they were. He grabbed Hamlet's hand again and all but dragged him from the room. Ophelia and Laertes followed seconds later and they all paused in the hall to breathe.

Hamlet, who until that moment had been a quivering ball of nervous excitement, slumped against the wall. Horatio was at his side instantly. The prince slid down to the floor, dropped his face into his hands, and let out a single, broken sob.

With considerable effort and difficulty, Horatio translated a piece of nearly inaudible mumbling: "'M sorry, shouldn't have dragged you into this, shouldn't have let him hurt you." He wrapped his arms around Hamlet to pull him closer and made gentle, soothing noises in his ear.

He murmured, "Shh, shh, I've got you, it's not your fault, it's okay," mentally blocking out the muffled arguing from the dining hall and the concerned presence of his friends. Gertrude and Claudius joined the group of hallway loiterers after a bout of particularly vicious shouting.

The queen, from under the hand that flew to her mouth, breathed, "Oh, Hamlet," before shakily settling on her knees in front of him to rub his shoulder reassuringly. Claudius sank down next to her, a support pillar who also happened to have tears in his eyes.

Hamlet cried for a long time, finally delving into the dark corner of his mind where he shoved everything to do with his father. Horatio pressed kisses into his hair all the while. Finally, sobs faded to hiccups and shaky inhales, and Hamlet lifted his head from where he'd hidden in the crook of Horatio's neck.

"Guess I've been cut off," he said idly, voice scratchy. His mother squeezed his shoulder.

"Hell no you haven't," Claudius barked. "That asshole doesn't control the family fortune. Tuition to Wittenberg is paid for, far as I'm concerned."

"He's right, Hamlet," Gertrude added, "and daily expenses if you need it."

Horatio gave her a grateful look. "Thank you, but I think we'll manage," he said, and Hamlet recognized the sudden warmth of his cheeks as the don't-remind-me-I'm-broke thought train, hardening some of the prince's sadness into dull resentment. He nuzzled back under Horatio's chin.

"My father hates my interests, my school, my fashion choices, my love life, and my existence as a person," Hamlet sighed with a crease between his brows, "but I still have money."

Ophelia made a sound between a laugh and a sniffle. "And a partridge in a pear tree."

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Only a day late! It's fine!

Srsly, this took SO LONG. I wanted to do three parts but this will have to do. (I may end up posting a happier scenario, like x-mas at Wittenberg or something, because this is really sad.)

Epilogue: as soon Hamlet and Horatio return to school, a story appears in the papers, outing Hamlet to the world. He cries in Horatio's arms. Hamlet says he wishes his father was dead. The next day, they get a letter.

I wish you a lovely whatever-you-celebrate, faeries, and a happy new year.