Chapter Text
If there's anything of which Horatio is certain, it's this: aristocrats' sons are prats.
He could have, perhaps should have, gone to Paris. In the end, he'd decided that the language barrier was simply too great: according to his ailing uncle, who had studied there, Danes were few and far in between, and the French had no great love of Germanic-flavored conversation. From a young age, Horatio had been under the starry-eyed impression that all scholars spoke Latin and Greek to one another, regardless of their mother tongues. As it turned out, he'd been wrong. His uncle's stories of humiliation at the hands of sharp-tongued Frenchmen and Flemings had been deterrent enough. In comparison, Wittenberg had promised him paradise.
Of course, a week into his studies, Horatio has discovered that it isn't heaven. Although there are Danes wandering about in spades, most of them come from families that wouldn't dream of rubbing elbows with Horatio's ilk. He's met at least a dozen of them: hard-headed lads with flashing eyes and smug grins, entirely unwilling to take intellectual risks in classroom debate, let alone in their written work, which they pass about the refectory and plagiarize at will. The tutors seem to turn a blind eye, secure in the knowledge that these wastrels' parents are content to pay their wages in return for taking their good-for-nothing sons off their hands for a few years.
After hours, they drink like the devil and gamble their way from one whorehouse to the next, heedless of the cost. When his work is finally finished, Horatio can't sleep for the volume of their carousing in the filthy streets far below. His cheap rented room smells of burnt wax and rotting wood. He wonders if the ceiling beams will even last the winter. Collapses are not uncommon, and neither are fatalities.
In the second week of term, three new students turn up to Master Schreiber's weekly philosophy debate. Horatio hears them before he can spot them, not interested enough to lift his eyes from the parchment. Their accents stink like a Zeeland fishmonger—yes, of the royal city itself. Helsingør, Elsinore, Kronborg's gloomy keep. Whatever your parlance, there's little to recommend either the place or the men.
When Horatio finally does glance up to watch them shuffle to whatever empty seats they can find upon the worn, creaky benches, one of the newcomers catches his eye. The other two move quickly, eyes on the far side of the room, with an unaccustomed liveliness. It's enough to pique Horatio's interest, except he's distracted by the third young man, the lagger-behind, the one who's fixing him with clear, calculating eyes the color of Jutland skies in spring. Fleetingly, Horatio longs for home. He returns the young man's stare, unblinking, startled to see the shadow of his pain reflected back at him with eloquent, unspoken empathy.
Still, the cut of those fine clothes can only mean trouble. Horatio is surprised to see the young man rise from his seat when Schreiber asks the next question: Is faith, then, a function of logic?
The old man raises an eyebrow and follows up, hastily, “Your Majesty?”
By all the saints, Horatio thinks, returning his gaze to the parchment. It's Young Hamlet.
“Faith is less a function than a necessity, sir,” says the Prince, humor curling gently at the edges of his voice. “In my experience, those who do not live by it are plagued with fear.”
Schreiber tilts his head, scratching under his chin with a quill. “What do you fear?”
“Only what horrors I can see,” the Prince answers. He sounds honest, but the constant laughter underlying his tone grates on Horatio's nerves, as does the snickering of his fellows from the back. Horatio raises his hand.
“Yes?” says Schreiber, eternally patient. “Speak.”
“Those horrors are, doubtless, few,” Horatio says, not bothering to look up. “For my own part, faith and logic in equal parts produce equilibrium. For example, I fear only that my rafters may fall on me as I sleep.” This earns him a few knowing chuckles from students of similar circumstance.
“Is that not what I said?” asks the Prince, and for a moment, Horatio thinks the question is aimed at Schreiber. By the time he looks up, those pale eyes have been boring into him for several seconds.
“My lord?” Horatio responds. His hands on the parchment begin to shake.
“You, too, fear only what you can see—that is, rotting rafters,” Hamlet says. “Is that not so?”
“Yes,” Horatio agrees. “Within reason. I do not fear, for example, that God will be the one responsible for such a collapse. I merely rue my own lack of means.” He regrets his words instantly, terrified that his insolence might be taken as a plea for charity.
“Interesting,” Schreiber intones meaningfully.
“Then trust in your faith and find new lodgings,” says Hamlet, turning back to their instructor. The pair at the back break into applause, punctuating the racket with hoots and whistles. Schreiber ignores them: yet another benefit enjoyed by the rich.
Horatio scowls at his parchment, hating the lot of them already.
* * *
Prince Hamlet has three shadows, two of which Horatio thinks he could do without.
Guildenstern, the tall one with unfortunate freckles and a well-meaning smile, is more than a little bit thick. Horatio finds him an easy target in the weeks to come, arguing circles around the poor soul's befuddled utterances until Rosencrantz, the short one with a stubborn frown, or the Prince comes to his rescue. Rosencrantz is invariably combative, but Hamlet parries Horatio's assertions with a delicate, stunning intelligence. It's like rising to find you've been bound from shoulder to ankle in fine gossamer, helpless to feel aught but admiration as you fall in wonder to your knees.
It's enough to make Horatio wish he could catch the Prince alone, just to talk to him, but he's not even certain such a thing would be permitted. Two of his shadows serve a fairly unnerving purpose, and Horatio wonders at the fact that Hamlet can't see it.
The court must get good gossip of his not inconsiderable progress.
The first time Horatio encounters the Prince unattended, he's up a gnarled linden tree behind the refectory. There is a modest pile of books perched precariously in Hamlet's lap. Horatio marvels that none of them have fallen like so many heavy leaves.
“You,” calls Hamlet, quietly, as if afraid of drawing attention to himself. “Mainlander!”
“That's not my name,” Horatio says, pausing directly beneath the Prince's perch. “But well done; I am what you take me for. Do you know what you northerners sound like?”
“No,” Hamlet says, forgetting himself, instantly curious. “What do we sound like?”
“Sea birds,” Horatio tells him. “Great, noisy gulls squabbling over the morning's catch.”
Hamlet nods, as if this makes sense. “There's no lack of squabbling at court.”
Horatio places both hands against the trunk of the tree and tests the sole of one shoe against the bark, finding the traction sufficient. Inside thirty seconds, he's hoisting himself up one branch higher than Hamlet, none too pleased with himself. He settles and peers down at the Prince.
“Is there much call for climbing?”
“Call enough. I learned on an old willow that's in worse state than your rafters—with a young girl as my teacher. Have you found a new room?”
Horatio shakes his head, abashed. “I have not been looking. Rents are high.”
“O ye of little faith,” Hamlet says, grinning, and he's suddenly hauling himself up beside Horatio, less than a hand's breadth away, breathing hard with the effort. He's slight, but strong. “There's a room on the same hall as mine,” he huffs. “Rumor has it they've knocked the rent down by half due to a leak in one corner that's prevented anyone from taking it. Rosencrantz turned up his nose at the place.”
Horatio stares. “I'd take a leak over rot any day. Who's it preventing, pray tell?”
“Foppish cowards,” Hamlet replies. “Who else? Listen, I'll lend you a bucket if I must.”
The invitation lodges itself uneasily between Horatio's throat and stomach. But he's already asking, with a voice full of hope, “How much?”
“Less what I'll give you to ease the blow?” Hamlet asks. “I'm not referring to the bucket, either, although I shall give you that, too, mark my words.”
Horatio stares at the ground. “That first day in debate, I had not meant—”
“You hadn't meant a thing,” says Hamlet, sensibly. “However, turnabout is fair play. Do you know what you southerners sound like?”
“No,” says Horatio, with a grimace. “My good lord.”
“Sparrows,” says Hamlet, and they sit for a while in companionable silence.
When Guildenstern finds them, he looks less than pleased, but before Horatio can open his mouth to defend himself, the Prince trades his seagull drawl for the fierce hoots of a jackdaw. By the time Guildenstern leaves, he's gasping like a beached fish.
Horatio decides never to assume he knows Hamlet's intent unless, well, he does.
* * *
In spite of the leak, the new room is warmer and drier than Horatio's old one. It's also located in one of the less bawdy corners of town, which means that he can, four nights out of seven, complete his work in peace. As for the other three nights, more often than not, Hamlet comes knocking. It's something of a surprise to discover that the Prince does not care to carouse as his friends do. Or go whoring, for that matter.
For the first few weeks of the arrangement, they drink wine, argue about philosophy (inasmuch as arguing entails the discovery of the multitude of points upon which both parties agree wholeheartedly), and plot various short-term fixes for the leak. Horatio insists they can't have it properly repaired, because the landlord will eventually discover what they've done and raise the rent. Hamlet gives him a strange look.
“Of course we can,” he says. “I'm paying the difference as it is. What's a bit more?”
“Do I amuse you so much? Truly?” Horatio asks. He means it in good fun, but as the Prince's eyes darken, he realizes he's finally crossed the line he'd been fearing all those months ago. He's only ever seen Hamlet give that look to Guildenstern.
“I did not think,” says the Prince, coldly, “that you thought so low of me.”
“My lord, no! I meant—”
Hamlet screws his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. At times, he is shockingly mercurial. “I know what you meant. Forgive me. It's just—”
“I am not welcome at court,” says Horatio, with black amusement. “Even in this wondrous microcosm we know as academia.”
“On the contrary, you are quite welcome,” Hamlet replies, squinting at Horatio as his eyes re-adjust to the light. “My fellows, however, do not appreciate their recent exile.”
“Why drive them away?” Horatio asks. “I might yet come to like Guildenstern. And Rosencrantz, for that matter. I do much prefer him to his fellow.”
“Because the more I like you,” Hamlet admits, reaching for the wine, “the less I like them.” He radiates self-resentment, swallowing the entire glass.
They're up the ancient linden again, and neither one remembers how to sing.
* * *
The fateful evening comes on the tail of a spectacular row in which Hamlet tells his shadows off with such aplomb that Horatio is left standing utterly speechless. In some corner of his mind, his conscience is whispering, You will see this time and again: world without end, amen.
Inexplicably, he is afraid for all of them. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern stalk off, defeated, glaring daggers. The wrongness of it rattles him.
They fly swiftly homeward, a mostly mute pair of birds, neither one sounding as harsh to the other as he had done at first.
Today, home means Hamlet's room, as they reach it before they reach Horatio's, and Hamlet knows that Horatio can't bear the thought of sitting alone with the ghost of his so-called betters' disapproval.
When Hamlet pins him against the closed door with a breathless, startling kiss, the world unravels. Horatio's knees buckle, but Hamlet slips one of his own up between Horatio's thighs to steady him. And more than that, and so much more.
Horatio had known, perhaps, that it had always been coming to this: the sound of Hamlet's ragged breath as Horatio's fingers tear his fine shirt free of his breeches and find purchase in the slats of his ribs. So thin, Horatio thinks again, wondering. Does he even eat when he's not told?
But the Prince's unsteady fingers are already unlacing Horatio's shirt, and his staggering breath, softest birdsong, is begging yes.
It's disorderly and tender all at once. Hamlet doesn't give him time to protest that they're only naked from the waist down, shirts still damp and clinging, but they're chest to chest in spite of it and Horatio's heart stutters at the feel of what's tucked between them, hidden, aching. He's wanted this beyond all logic, faith be damned. He's not afraid of what he can't see, and as for what he can feel, oh, Christ.
Hamlet shudders in Horatio's arms, his low cry a blessing. The unseen linden-leaves shake, wild with wanting.
“Are you afraid?” Horatio gasps, his fingers fanned like wings in Hamlet's dark hair.
Hamlet nods, smile disarmed, pressing their foreheads together. “But what of that?”
It's then that Horatio knows his faith is branch and nest enough, whatever horrors may yet come to haunt them.