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.

It's knowing that this can't go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone

A little over a month after Hamlet had returned to Elsinore, Horatio opened a letter.

He was packing before he realized he'd even made the decision to leave.

The fierce thing in his chest that reared up around Hamlet hummed in anticipation the whole ride to the castle, and Horatio found himself staring out the window at the passing scenery with... Was it a thousand thoughts or none? He couldn't decide.

Maybe we'll get forty years together
But one day I'll be gone
Or one day you'll be gone

"Horatio."

"Yes?"

"Do you ever think about death?"

"An average amount, probably."

"Do you ever think about your own death?"

"Hamlet, what-"

"Do you ever think about mine?"

A silence.

"Horatio, answer me."

"Once, and it terrified me, so I stopped. Please come back to bed."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

If we were vampires and death was a joke
We'd go out on the sidewalk and smoke

"I've decided, my dear Horatio, that nothing had changed."

Horatio glanced sideways at him. "Okay?"

Hamlet grinned, kissed him, then ran the last short distance to the doors of the library. Horatio indulged in the wave of love that swept over him for a moment before following.

And laugh at all the lovers and their plans
I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand

Growing up, Hamlet didn't get a lot of physical contact.

He would hold Ophelia and Laertes' hands before he was old enough to know what it meant. Polonius put a stop to it by the time Hamlet and Ophelia were four, Laertes six.

Sometimes, when they wanted to spite their parents or were just lonely, Hamlet and Ophelia would be in love. Ophelia would give him flowers with very specific meanings and Hamlet would pretend his poetry was for her instead of Horatio. (The poetry drove Laertes and Polonius up the wall. Ophelia found this hilarious.)

Horatio read about their games from Wittenberg and smiled. If he couldn't be present to hold Hamlet's hand, at least Ophelia could.

Maybe time running out is a gift
I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift

Hamlet paced back and forth, manic. Horatio sat on the edge of his bed.

"I'm close now, I just have to prove it was him. I prove it, then I can kill him."

Horatio looked at Hamlet with sad, tired eyes. "And then you'll be okay? We can go back to school after...?"

Hamlet turned on his heel, softening. He sat next to Horatio and brought one of his hands to his lips.

"Yes," he said against Horatio's knuckles, then paused to kiss each bone. "Then we can get out of here."

And give you every second I can find
And hope it isn't me who's left behind

Finals week was just as hard on Hamlet as it was for full-scholarship Horatio, but for entirely different reasons.

Horatio was stressed nearly to the breaking point, staying up late and rising early to cram as much knowledge as possible. It was slowly eating away at his mental and physical health, but he chose to ignore this until he had time to regret it later.

Hamlet was doing something similar. The only differences were that he wouldn't be expelled for bad scores and that he worried more about Horatio than himself.

Returning to their dorm one night with dinner to find Horatio slumped over his desk asleep, Hamlet opted not to wake him. Instead, he draped a blanket over the other boy's shoulders, pressed a kiss to his temple, and ate his food in silence.

It's knowing that this can't go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
Maybe we'll get forty years together
But one day I'll be gone
Or one day you'll be gone

On the one-year mark since the prince's death, Horatio was still visiting the grave daily. He brought flowers according to the guide Ophelia had given him. (He was eternally grateful for how willing she was to let him into their little circle. Thus: pink, peach, and yellow roses.)

He picked up the previous day's dendrobium. He knew the answer already: Hamlet's last "I love you" had been to him.

Ricinus for Laertes. "Who's the most important person in your life?" My sister, fuck off, probably.

Lilac for Ophelia. "What did you like to do as a child?" Make flower crowns from what you've been putting on my grave.

Snapdragons for Hamlet. "At this moment, what do you want?"

Horatio shivered as a single gust of wind swept through the graveyard. He could hear Hamlet in his head, laughing without mockery.

You, Hamlet says, would say, had said. It's always you.

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I'm really having fun with these flower questions. I'll probably post a key at some point. They're very Ophelia and will be used again.

In the meantime, sob with me.

Hope you enjoyed, faeries. Zinnia?