Let's talk about touch starvation, yeah?

It fucking sucks.

Anyone who is physically affectionate knows That One Person who isn't big on friendly touch, and that's fine, because you learn how they express affection and you respect their boundaries. Well, 90% of my friends are like that. Every time we're in a show and our characters require physical contact, I savor that moment as long as possible. (Props to Bob for having me sit on Isaac's lap for a whole act, it was totally worth all the Jisaac whispers.)

ThE pOiNt iS that this is an actual thing, and yes, it is this strong. I've mentioned it in previous one shots but I've never properly addressed it.

TW for past abuse, but nothing terribly explicit. Itty bitty TW for dysphoria because trans!Ham all the way.

Also content warning for smut. I finally got around to writing it! Tell me if it's shit, yeah?

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Horatio knew that royalty tended to be high-maintenance, but Jesus Christ, he could never have fathomed actually gaining the priviledge of dealing with it.

His sleep schedule was in shambles, carefully taken apart by a prince that had a habit of picking his lock to wake him about some book or another. His meticulously organized living space, an oasis of equilibrium among the chaos that was his life, looked like a tornado had swept through it before the prince finally went on his merry way. Horatio always spent a good hour fixing the mess, smiling through the tingle of anxiety all the while.

Despite the prince's innate ability to leave traces of himself everywhere he went (Horatio had a small fortune's worth of 'forgotten' money - subtle), he was very tactful in one manner. Well, aside from his picky eating habits, difficult-to-please taste in literature, and sense of disdain for all but the best actors.

He never touched anyone.

Horatio didn't have the context to figure it out before they started talking. The snobbish student with sycophant followers flanking him at all times wasn't an uncommon sight, and when the prince recoiled from any hands that dared to reach out for a shake, Horatio assumed it was out of the holier-than-thou attidute that his previous experiences with Wittenberg's rich kid population had proven likely.

But no. As the scholar discovered, Hamlet actually just deeply disliked being touched. Fair enough. An unexpected pat on the shoulder from a stranger was never something Horatio enjoyed, either.

Baffling, though, was how Hamlet avoided any and every form of physical contact. Horatio observed as the prince (subconsciously, he guessed) recoiled from a large gesture of his hand, how he established a certain distance between himself and the other when sitting side by side, and downright dodged attempted hugs.

So Horatio was a physical man, sue him. There's only so long the oldest of five siblings is able to maintain personal space. His sisters had no regard for it; had probably never heard the term. He blamed them entirely for the way he couldn't seem to express affection without touch. He wasn't sure if he ever could.

Thus, it was naturally very irritating to him when the object of his affection completely avoided allowing him to show it. Thus, it was reasonably hard on Horatio's poor feelings when that irritation bloomed into pain. Thus, he'd keep trying.

Horatio sat down next to Hamlet on the couch in the former's dorm. The latter scooted away further.

Ouch.

"How was biochem?"

Horatio swallowed. "It was fine."

Hamlet, the arrogant prick he was, didn't notice the slight waver in his friend's voice because his attention was lasered in on the book in his hands. "That's good. Hey, you know that dog whistle the English prof put into the lecture yesterday during his Apollo rant?"

"The Hyacinth dog whistle?"

"Mhm. So, I've been doing some thinking, and even though I'm sure I liked Ophelia a lot for a while, I don't feel that way strictly about her. Or, ah, her type. Of person. I mean, I go for the pastel artsy look any day, but not just on her. The pronoun being the emphatic part of that sentence. Er, confession. You know?"

Horatio was giving him a strange look; he hadn't caught up to the meaning of the words just yet. That was okay, Hamlet could work with hesitating confusion.

"Yeah. I know you know. There's a reason you cuff your pants, and I trust my gaydar more than I trust your denial. I mean... I hope? I don't want to assume, but it's really hard not to with the way you look at me, though I might just be projecting. Projecting what, Hamlet, you ask? Why, Horatio, that's the very point I wish to convey. Um. I'm hoping you're not straight because I like you...?"

Horatio's gaze flickered between Hamlet's eyes, his thoughts running at light speed behind the motion. In the time it took him to [process] and [analyze], Hamlet had lost all previous courage and was shooting up from his seat.

"You don't have to say anything! I'll just- you know what, it's better this way. I know you're too good for me even though you probably think I'm out of your league, which you don't because you're not into me like that. I wouldn't be into me either. God knows why anyone would be, really. I totally get it. I'm a handful, I'm difficult, I'm-"

Sometime during the stream of regret and awkwardness, Horatio had regained his ability to move and speak. He stood, reached for Hamlet's wrist, stopped himself at the last second, and managed a panicked, "Wait!"

Hamlet froze. Turned slowly, eyes shimmering. Horatio let out a breath.

"It's okay," he said, voice quiet and reassuring. "I'm definitely not straight. And I like you, too."

A brilliant grin broke out over Hamlet's face, and, well. Horatio was a weak man. He copied the expression, lifting his hand to the prince's cheek.

Hamlet rocked his weight away from Horatio's touch, smile faltering just enough for Horatio to remember himself and lower his arm.

"Sorry," he said, and was relieved at the steadiness of his tone.

"S'okay," Hamlet responded rather shakily.

Horatio chose to clasp his hands tightly behind his back lest they get more ideas and move on their own accord. "So. Are we..."

"Together?" Hamlet supplied, grin returning full-force.

Horatio's fingers twitched; he chastised himself for it. "If you're alright with that."

Something warm and vulnerable floated in the air between them as Hamlet nodded, and for a split second Horatio had an urge to kiss him. It would be so easy. All he had to do was reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, take a step forward...

But Hamlet was already walking around him to press his face into a pillow and let out a shrill scream.

"God, that was terrifying," he breathed, and Horatio laughed his agreement.

~~~

Six months of dating the unfairly pretty, unsurprisingly nocturnal, adverse-to-touch prince of Denmark. Six months of bliss. Six months of Horatio practically milking his friends for hugs so as not to get too greedy around his boyfriend. Six months of desperation.

So far, so good.

Hamlet no longer scooted away when Horatio sat next to him, now trusting the other boy not to invade his space. Horatio believed that Hamlet put too much faith in his (slowly withering) self-regulation. Horatio also believed that he was incredibly lucky to so much as breathe in the direction of who he now considered his favorite person, and therefore resolved to bury his unwarranted needs until further notice.

Well, Hamlet noticed.

Horatio thought he had been doing a good job of brushing off the feeling. He wasn't rigid anymore when the prince sat next to him, nor did he stand an awkward distance away. He stuck as close to the unofficial space bubble - a small stride away normally, a forearm's length when they were Having a Moment - as he could, because that's what he believed a good, attentive, respectful boyfriend would do. And Hamlet deserved a good, attentive, respectful boyfriend.

It wasn't Hamlet's fault that the lack of contact was putting Horatio's normally strong self-control through the metaphorical wringer. But Hamlet, being Hamlet, instantly commenced analyzing his recent actions when he realized that Horatio was acting... off.

And Hamlet, being Hamlet, found a million and one reasons to blame himself, but couldn't figure out which had upset his beloved. So, he did what he did worst and got right to the point, plopping down across from Horatio at his designated study table.

"Have I done something to upset you?"

Horatio gave him a look over his textbook and glasses like he had just declared that ghosts were real - and Horatio, the resident skeptic, had a plethora of arguments justifying the opposite - and Hamlet held his gaze.

"No, you haven't done anything," Horatio said, with an air of finality that Hamlet completely ignored.

"But something's upset you."

Horatio put down his book (Here we go, Hamlet thought) and took off his glasses to run a hand over his face. "I'm not upset, I'm just..." He exhaled softly. "Tired, is all."

"Horse shit," said Hamlet emphatically.

They locked eyes for a heavy moment, exchanging expressions of what are you hiding from me, that's for me to know and you to never find out, you know I won't let this go, and finally, fuck it.

"It's not a big deal," Horatio stated, breaking eye contact and looking at his fingers balled beneath the table. "It's a me thing and it'll fix itself."

"Also horse shit."

The corners of Horatio's lips turned down the way they did when he was discontented with himself, and Hamlet softened.

"Look, I'm not trying to accuse you or put you on the spot or anything, I just want to know what's going on so I can help. You're clearly not 'just tired', I know what that looks like and you can't fool me with my favorite excuse, so quit shutting me out and tell me what's bothering you."

Horatio furrowed his eyebrows in deep thought (a gesture Hamlet found utterly adorable and that never failed to melt his heart) and brought his arms above the table to tap out a rythm with one hand and rest his cheek on the other.

Without thought, Hamlet reached out to rest his hand near Horatio's, leaning in in case he chose to murmur his troubles instead of just saying them at a reasonable volume.

Then, several consecutive things happened very quickly. The first was that Horatio halted his absentminded tapping to lay his hand over Hamlet's. The second was that Hamlet's instinct - learned from countless slaps over the hand from his parents - kicked in, causing him to pull his hand back as if the touch had burned him. The third was that Horatio was pulled abruptly from his train of thought to realize what he'd done, and his eyes widened in horror.

"Fuck," he spluttered, quickly pulling his sleeves over his fingers and using the sweater paws to cover his face. "Shit, I'm so sorry!"

Hamlet remained frozen, just looking at Horatio with big eyes and shallow breaths like a cornered animal.

Horatio felt a burn behind his eyes and a lump in his throat. "This is what's bothering me! I don't- I can't be sure I won't do things like that, and accidentally give you flashbacks or whyever the hell you won't touch people, and it's been driving me up the fucking wall!"

When the prince still didn't respond, Horatio stood - probably shaking like a chihuahua, he supposed - and grabbed his glasses. He muttered one last desperate "I'm so sorry," before he fled to wallow in his guilt by himself.

~~~

Hamlet despised having ample time to think. It meant that he would eventually run out of distractions and be forced to acknowledge the junk pile that was his general emotions, and that wouldn't do.

Alas, his number one favorite distraction had become his boyfriend, and when Horatio wasn't around in the physical, daydreaming would always fill the void. The whole situation was very ideal.

Until, Hamlet found out, anything to do with Horatio sent his brain into a very bloody war between his wants and his needs.

He wanted Horatio to come back to the dorm they now shared, to pretend like nothing happened so Hamlet wouldn't have to think about it. He wanted Horatio to give him that soft smile he didn't give for anyone else where his eyes glowed like he was looking at a god that was so blindingly brilliant that it was all Hamlet could do not to kiss him.

Which led to his needs. He needed Horatio to do that again. He needed to feel Horatio's hand again. He feared his parents' touch, was disdainful about his friends' touch, but Horatio's was different.

After he'd left in a flurry of shame, Hamlet had put a few seconds of thought into the event before beginning to ignore it, and had been floored to find a streak of something good. It was buried under layers of trauma, but it was fluffy and safe and wonderful. And he needed to feel it again.

So, naturally, he perked up like a dog when he heard the near-silent opening of the door.

Hamlet crept up from his perch on the couch, treading lightly to where Horatio had his back to him, closing the door as quietly as he could.

"Hey," Hamlet said, and Horatio jumped.

"Hey."

Hamlet's heart tugged a bit at the waver in his voice. Had he been crying?

"Horatio, please look at me."

He did not move.

"I'm not mad at you. I'm not afraid of you. Please."

Horatio turned. He kept his eyes trained carefully on the floor, knowing himself well enough not to look up, because he very well might cry.

Hamlet had other ideas. He took a tentative step forward, and when Horatio didn't move away, Hamlet gently latched onto the hem of his shirt and led him to sit on the couch. Hamlet hated the silence and broke it.

"I know how you express affection, I've seen you with friends, but I just- I can't. I've never been able to take in that sort of nonverbal interaction before and it's not like my parents fucking helped. But... I can see now it's been tearing you up, which tears me up, too, s-so I..."

He stopped himself before his stutter could make its way to the surface, instead opting to watch Horatio for a reaction. When all he picked up was a lowered head at the mention of his parents, Hamlet knew he couldn't go on longer with the offer burning on his tongue every time he noticed Horatio holding himself back.

"What do you need?"

It was soft, quiet, but Horatio's head shot up like it was a fire alarm. Hamlet concentrated on his face, watched the feelings run at light speed; shock, questioning, comprehension, relief, trepidation, painful resolve.

As his expression foretold, Horatio said, "Hamlet, I can't ask you to do this, it's-"

"No," Hamlet interjected, cutting him off. "I want to. It's not your choice. It's mine, and I've made it. What do you need?"

Horatio seemed to deflate at that, squeezing his eyes shut and- was that a whine? He breathed in shakily.

"To h-hold your hand, or give you a hug or-" he made a choked sound that damn near broke Hamlet's heart, "anything. Anything, Hamlet, whatever you're willing to give."

Hamlet bit his lip. Slowly, as if the moment might shatter if he did anything sudden, he grasped the edges of Horatio's sleeves between thumbs and forefingers, moving his hands up and forward. Hamlet brought Horatio's trembling palms to either side of his face, looking directly into his eyes all the while, seeing them shimmer with something undefinable.

When delicate artist fingers traced the edges of Hamlet's face, he did not feel his own tears making rivers over his cheeks, nor the harsh, reddening smack his mother might put there for being rude at the dinner table. Instead of these familiar things, all he could feel was Horatio's touch, fluttering and gentle and so, so loving, and Hamlet thought he might have melted then and there.

But he hadn't melted, because Horatio was becoming more confident, pressing and cradling the prince's face, and it was all too real.

He allowed his eyes to slide closed (a trust fall, though he already trusted the scholar with his life), and focused entirely on the sensations. His nerves felt aflame, every touch magnified tenfold with intensity. But Horatio was gentle, and it all felt so wonderful that Hamlet found himself nuzzling into his hands without registering the action.

"Is... is it okay?" Horatio asked, breathless with awe and love but still cautious to a fault.

"More than okay," Hamlet practically purred, and brought any coherent thought to a screeching halt by turning to press his lips to the edge of Horatio's hand.

He worried for a moment that he might have caused his boyfriend to blow a fuse, because Horatio sucked in an audible gasp and completely froze. Hamlet was thankfully proven wrong when Horatio suddenly leaned forward and pressed their lips together.

Before he could pull away and stutter the apology Hamlet knew was coming, he chased Horatio's mouth with a "no you don't" to keep the contact going. It was heaven.

Then Hamlet realized it could be even better, because he had hands, and he tentatively reached up to place them on Horatio's shoulders and apply gentle pressure there.

This was a bit of a relevation to the prince. See, he had always known that Horatio was an attractive specimen. Even before they started dating or were even really interested in one another, it was on Hamlet's radar that Horatio was simply nice to look at. Hamlet had eyes; he noticed the silky curls and the defined jawline and the flawless brown skin. Button-up shirts weren't exactly flattering, but they weren't terrible, either, so Hamlet was generally aware that Horatio appeared to have some form of muscle instead of the prince's own lanky toothpicks for arms. When they got together and he was officially allowed to think about it, he knew in a removed way that Horatio had really nice shoulders.

Well, he had been correct. Horatio did, in fact, have really fucking nice shoulders and smooth skin and virtually no flaws, and Hamlet was surprised at his own lack of hesitation when he spread his fingers and clung more firmly just on either side of Horatio's neck. Hamlet's boyfriend was very clingable, and Hamlet wanted to cling.

This, combined with the eventual fluidity of their kissing and Hamlet's steadily increasing need for more, eventually pulled their chests together and Hamlet decided he loved it. In the same thought, Hamlet also decided it wasn't enough.

In a move he hadn't comprehended himself, thus completely understanding Horatio's sudden gasp against his mouth, Hamlet swung himself over to straddle Horatio and kept them close by the hands on his shoulders.

And oh, that was a good idea, because Hamlet could feel Horatio's hips between his legs, could press him against the back of the couch. His hands were moving, trailing down Horatio's chest to feel his heart hammering against his ribs. Good, that made two of them.

But Horatio's hands were still on Hamlet's face (clearly against their will, because they were literally trembling with the need to travel), and that simply would not do, so Hamlet took it upon himself to rescue the poor limbs by taking each in his hands and shoving them unceremoniously downward, where they nestled quite comfortably on his waist.

Once this was done and Horatio had made a soft noise into Hamlet's mouth (which he mentality recorded for later, seeing as it was very, very hot), Hamlet allowed his screaming lungs a moment to take in air. He pulled back just enough, their lips barely brushing as both boys gasped and panted for the annoying oxygen that had forced them apart.

"Hamlet," Horatio said reverently, tracing circles against the prince's shirt with his thumbs. "Hamlet. Love, you're shaking."

So he was. Shivers ran up and down his spine, tremors radiated from Horatio's chest beneath his palms (Christ, Hamlet wanted him shirtless), Horatio's hands on his waist, and Horatio's lap that Hamlet was happily spread over.

"It feels so good," Hamlet breathed. "Ratio, everything feels so fucking good, oh my God-"

He cut himself off with a deep, throaty sound he didn't know he could make. It was only after considering this that he realized just what had caused it.

Hamlet repeated his subconscious motion, experimentally moving his hips, and sucked in a breath of shock and delight. He had been vaguely aware that he could feel his heartbeat between his legs, but instead of feeling the usual rush of dysphoria and residual stress, he allowed himself to remain relaxed. Horatio knows, he thought. Horatio knows and he doesn't care. It doesn't matter.

Less vaguely than in the case of himself, Hamlet noticed that Horatio had also been affected. Hamlet could feel him against the inside of his thigh, and the realization hit him with a small burst of pride.

Holyfuckingfuckhe'shardbecauseofme-

Hamlet moved his hips again, rolling against Horatio and pulling a gasp from the other boy. Then again, and again, until Horatio made a sound like a wounded animal and held him still.

"Hamlet, hold on."

"God, Horatio, please-"

"I need to know you're sure about this. If you're not positive, it's going to wait."

Hamlet recognized that tone, and knew that arguing against it was an exercise in futility. So he pulled back, looking at Horatio levelly but not without a touch of nervous thrill, and said, "I'm sure."

He punctuated his sureness by taking one of Horatio's hands from his waist and guiding it to the zipper of his jeans. The nearly inaudible whimper that Horatio made in response was immensely gratifying.

"I want you to touch me. I want to feel you, please," Hamlet breathed, staring steadfast into Horatio's eyes.

Horatio followed the impatient nudges of Hamlet's hand, deftly unzipping his jeans and brushing against him through his boxers. It was then that Hamlet realized he was practically dripping into the fabric and would need to wash the pair later, dammit.

His irritated huff became a choked groan as dexterous fingers traced along his slit, and even through a layer of fabric Hamlet thought he might combust. Briefly it occurred to him that it would be even more intense without the barrier of his underwear.

He was not left to wonder about this for long, because the very affected Horatio who was drinking in his every sound and expression suddenly slid his hand beneath the elastic waistband and oh, fuck, that's what all the fuss around sex was about.

"O-oh, Christ, Horatio."

Involuntarily, Hamlet moved his hips again, and the friction had him repeating the motion, chasing sensations with little care for anything else. Horatio groaned and leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Hamlet's neck to leave kisses and gentle bites.

When Horatio prodded a finger inside him, Hamlet just about died. It was far too much and not nearly enough, so he bucked his hips forward, and Horatio obligingly added another finger with a low curse.

Hamlet curled his fists around the material of Horatio's shirt in an attempt to ground himself, and Horatio, angel he was, wound his free arm around Hamlet's back to keep him stable.

"Easy, I've got you," he murmured, then had the audacity to nip at Hamlet's ear, which was massively unfair and had him arching his back with a gasp.

Even better, because Horatio was a very scholarly and very mature person who had surely read his fill on all kinds of anatomy, he added his thumb to the assault on Hamlet's senses and rubbed it in small circles over his clit. This combined with the steady pumping of two fingers inside him and the general bliss of physical contact made something coil low in Hamlet's belly, tight and hot and growing more intense.

Attempting to inform his partner of the new development, Hamlet forced his mouth to work and panted, "H-hah-Horatio," but couldn't fish enough words from his scrambled brain to describe the sensation, much less make them into cohesive sounds when all his vocal chords wanted to do was whimper and moan.

After a mental pause while Horatio worked a third finger into him (and holy shit, did that feel amazing), Hamlet resolved to simply let his body do whatever it damn well pleased, because he didn't know how to handle any of it and he was incapable of asking Horatio and thus entirely clueless.

With this in mind, Hamlet released his death grip on Horatio's poor shirt and trailed his hands everywhere he could reach. Up over Horatio's shoulders, down his sides, up his stomach to his collarbone and then back down, not even touching the buttons and trying to remove his shirt through sheer willpower and want. (Unsuccessful.)

Because he was very deeply distracted, Hamlet didn't notice that Horatio was doing something fancy with his fingers until his pleasure spiked and the tight, hot thing in his belly unraveled. He threw his head back with what was totally not a wail, feeling himself tighten around Horatio's fingers and spill over his hand.

Hamlet happily drowned in the hazy nothingness of sensations, tired and comfortable. Time lagged across his mental clock and he let it; still, he knew it took him a good while to resurface, reality coming back to him in gentle waves of awareness.

The first thing he noticed was the hand drawing patterns between his shoulder blades. Then the soft kisses being pressed into his hair, and the sweet nothings murmured in Horatio's lovely voice between the kisses. Hamlet hummed in content to alert Horatio to his consciousness.

Hamlet felt Horatio smile, and heard a tentative, "Good?"

The massive understatement nearly made him snort. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

Apparently taking the affirmation as an okay to stop, Horatio shifted the dead weight of Hamlet to the side and stood. Hamlet made a quiet sound of protest and latched onto his arm.

Even with his eyes closed, Hamlet knew exactly what combination of exasperated and adoring Horatio's expression was.

"Hamlet, we need to clean up a little."

"Mmh."

"I need you to let go of me."

"Mmh."

Hamlet heard him sigh fondly, then step closer. He pulled Horatio's arm to his chest as a prize for successfully prolonging contact.

Horatio leaned down and brushed their lips together. "I'll be right back," he said. "I promise."

Hamlet cursed his weak heart for giving in, letting Horatio slip from his grasp and blearily half-opening one eye to watch him walk to the bathroom. He returned moments later with a washcloth.

Not particularly caring about dignity around the person who he just had sex with (!!!), Hamlet lazily spread his legs for Horatio to gently wipe him down and then let himself be manhandled from the couch to their bed.

It was while he was barely managing to get on a pair of soft pants (probably belonging to Ophelia) that Hamlet's muddled brain realized he hadn't been reciprocating the pleasure at all the entire time. He knew that Horatio had been turned on - had been very aware of it, if a little shocked by it - and for all his own desperate rutting he knew Horatio hadn't gotten any attention whatsoever in that regard.

Probably sounding a bit more alarmed than necessary, Hamlet said, "Horatio?"

Horatio paused his digging through a drawer. "Yes?"

"I-I didn't touch you at all-"

"Don't worry about it," Horatio said quickly.

"But-"

"Hamlet, don't worry about it."

Horatio resolutely avoided eye contact, returning to his hunt for sleepwear. Hamlet's eyes widened in realization.

"Did you really...?"

"Yes."

"Untouched?"

"Yes."

Hamlet looked at the carpet. "Oh. Wow."

Horatio, as he did when he was trying to cover up awkwardness or embarassment, talked breezily and with purpose. "I mean, you were kind of grinding down on me from the beginning and with the sounds you were making I really didn't need much else. You have no right being as ridiculously attractive as you are, nor having the best sex face ever to have existed. Some of us mortals can't handle you, damn incubus."

Hamlet laughed, a bit dazed at the concept of being pleasing enough to make Horatio come without even meaning to do so. Then he realized that he missed it, and thought, Next time. Because there would certainly be a next time if he had anything to say about it. (He couldn't imagine Horatio not wanting a next time, but each of them had 50% authority and they would figure it out as a team. Or rather, they'd both come to the same conclusion and it would manifest unexpectedly.)

Horatio returned to the bed, laid down on his back and stretched, looking for all the world like a sleepy, satisfied panther. The corner of his lip was tilted up in a tiny smile, his face relaxed, and as his eyes slipped shut Hamlet gave in to his urges and snuggled against him.

For a brief, tense moment, Horatio stiffened. Then he turned on his side, tucking Hamlet's head under his chin and snaking a protective arm around him, and Hamlet sighed happily. Everything was perfect.

(Even though the hugs were lovely and the sex was awesome, the best part of the entire experience for Hamlet was the look on Guil's face the next day when he and Horatio showed up for their weekly group breakfast holding hands.)

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Holy hECC this is 5,000 words-

I have more one shots in the works, but this became a bigger project and I've been neglecting pretty much everything in my life anyway; my books aren't special.

Hope you're all Not Dying in this fucked-up new normal. Remember that the goal is just getting by, not thriving. Don't push yourselves too hard, please. (Yes I want to write a quarantine fic. Horatio teaching online classes at Wittenberg post-canon and Hamlet crashes his classes from time to time to bring him some food and a kiss.)

Sorry for the wait, faeries, I promise I'll keep updating, however slowly. You are worth more than your productivity.