Hamlet is the sort of person to throw his entire being into loving someone. He does not feel in half-measures. When he loves a person, he loves them wholly, with everything he has.

Not everyone is capable of carrying the weight of his heart, though.

Laertes did. For a while. Sort of. Laertes and Hamlet fenced together, loudly swore at each other, and laughed even louder. They were chaotic and an undeniable force to be reckoned with. So, naturally, their breakup was explosive; cry-shouting, awful words they didn't mean, doors slamming closed. Hamlet was angry for a long time afterward.

At Wittenberg, it was different. At Wittenberg, his heart could be supported from both sides in the form of Ros and Guil. What Hamlet felt for them was more of a platonic affection, he thought, but that didn't stop the three of them from sharing warmth in the prince's unreasonably large bed on cold nights. It also meant that the two were liable to forcefully drag him out of said bed in order to "participate in society like any human adult rightly should," even if Hamlet would much rather "sit very still and read macabre books." When they abandoned their efforts to connect more deeply with him, that was all he found he could do without thinking of the jokers he missed so much. Hamlet was depressed for a long time afterward.

Ophelia understood. Ophelia was there for him, told him it wasn't his fault, wrapped him up in sweetness and pretty sentiments to keep him safe from the world. Hamlet loved that. Hamlet loved her. He loved her like he loved starry nights and dark chocolate and the cute blush that adorned her face whenever he kissed her. Sometimes she'd avoid him for a little while, but she could never stay away for very long. She'd bury her face under his chin and mumble something about it being her brother's idea, which Hamlet was only upset about occasionally. He could forgive her, because he loved her, and wasn't that what one was supposed to do when one loved a person? He did love her enough to forgive her, didn't he? Of course he did.

But did she love him the same?

Hamlet never found out the answer, because she told him with a pained smile that she couldn't keep seeing him. No, it wasn't her brother, no, it wasn't her father, yes, it was someone he knew, but not by that person's knowledge, so don't be upset with them if they ever find out. Then she was gone, and Hamlet was trying to be angry, trying to be depressed, anything but the sadness prickling in his eyes and tightening around his throat.

And then he had an epiphany. He labeled this epiphany 'Horatio' seeing as that was, in fact, his name. The Epiphany Horatio, as opposed to Friend Horatio, how fare you on this horrid Tuesday, may I copy your homework, yes I know how to do it I just got caught up writing an essay, no you're right it turned into poetry, you know me better than I know me, aw c'mon you know you love me.

He did, apparently. The admission came late at night, whispered into the tiny distance between their lips before Hamlet kissed him full-force. After more words exchanged between more kisses, the prince realized with a start (thus his epiphany) just how long Horatio's heart had been reserved for him. "God, since a month after those two idiots introduced us," he sighed against Hamlet's lips, then swallowed the prince's gasp and clung to his shoulders like a man drowning. It shocked Hamlet a little, just how hard this man had fallen for him without his knowledge. How painful must it have been to hide a love like this, Hamlet thought, holding Horatio's waist just as tight. You don't have to keep your heart in the dark anymore. I'll bring it into the light.

"The light," as it turned out, was the too-bright lights glinting off swords and the small pools of blood on the floor. Even with barely anyone around to witness it, Horatio's heart - no matter how pained - was beautiful, and Hamlet drank in his love in place of an antidote that he wasn't sure existed. The prince, bleeding from his flesh and his mind, curled into Horatio's embrace in search of comfort. Instead, he felt trembling hands and choked sobs, and instantly switched their roles. He didn't need comfort if his Horatio was hurting; wounds were nothing compared to the grief in those eyes.

Hamlet's heart may have been broken more, but it had never been shattered quite like Horatio's. Anyone who had seen the two in emotional torment would deem Horatio the prettier, just as Hamlet would have wanted it. Horatio hurt so prettily. His agony was elegant, innate in his near-silence and in the way his face fell when he knew he had nothing left to live for. Marcellus caught it at eleven o'clock every night when Horatio returned to the battlements for a few minutes. Osric caught it whenever Horatio took a complicated detour just to avoid entering the hall where both their lovers had died in their arms. Fortinbras, though less schooled in the ways of the scholar's emotions, caught it when he said Hamlet's name over dinner and Horatio shut down until the topic of conversation was well clear of him.

It was decided among those still alive that even though Hamlet had loved a lot of people, he and Horatio were perfect. Neither loved the other in pieces or gradually. They loved like the state of Denmark had fallen apart: barely, then all at once. The force of their connection wrote books and rumpled bedsheets and made everyone around them green with envy. It was hardly a surprise that one end of the string tying them together frayed something awful when the other was neatly snipped off.

Because, just like his prince, Horatio is the sort of person to throw his entire being into loving someone. He does not feel in half-measures. When he loves a person, he loves them wholly, with everything he has.

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

Written in post-sleep delirium at 5:00 AM. All things considered, much longer than I intended it to be.

Anyway.

May you love with your entire heart, faeries. If it's broken, someone will come along and fix it.