Philosophers and Fools

“Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.”

—William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

———

It was November 26, the time was 11:38 p.m., and Hamlet Dane I was dead of a heart attack at fifty.

His only son, Hamlet II, sat alone in his bedroom, over 200 hundred miles away. His phone was in his hand, but the call had long since ended. Or maybe it had only been seconds. Hamlet didn’t know. He was unable to do anything but sit in the exact spot he’d been sitting in before he’d received the call informing him what had happened along with the instructions to pack a bag. A car would be coming to pick him up in an hour and then it’d be to JFK to board a private flight to D.C. The news hadn’t broken yet, and his mother and uncle had thought it would be best to get him out of the city before the chaos unfolded and the media were alerted.

All this was inconsequential to Hamlet. The only thing he’d heard was your father is dead. Dead, dead, dead. The permanent kind, the kind you didn’t come back from. Was there another kind? Spiritual, sure, but physical death was irrevocable. 

In a kind of jerky, spasmodic movement, Hamlet got to his feet—his phone falling onto the rug at his feet—and walked calmly down the hall to his roommate Horatio’s room. He knocked on the door twice, two quick raps, before he slowly eased it open. He didn’t have the capacity at that moment to feel guilty about waking Horatio up.

“Horatio?”

A sliver of low, golden light from the hallway illuminated Horatio, who slowly sat up in bed, his forearm over his eyes. “Hamlet?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

Silently, Hamlet shut the door behind him and sat down at the edge of the bed. Horatio blinked at him, not awake enough to consider turning on the lamp. Hamlet was grateful for it. He didn’t want Horatio to see whatever must’ve been on his face, and he wanted this moment to stay dark—unreal almost.

This can’t be happening.

Horatio blinked. “Hamlet?” he ventured once again, a little more awake this time.

He decided not to beat around the bush. “My father is dead.”

Horatio jolted into total alertness. “Oh my god. What…I mean…” He trailed off. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It was a heart attack. I just found out.” Saying the words had imbued them with truth, and the weight hit him like a tonne of bricks. He dug his nails into the meat of his palm. 

“I didn’t know he had problems with his heart.”

“I didn’t either. All that red meat, I guess,” he tried to joke, but then he was just crying, hunching into himself and sobbing, his entire body aching with it. He couldn’t stop. The tears were choking him, burning his cheeks as they flowed.

Horatio fumbled for the light and the room turned yellow and warm. “Let me make you tea—”

“No,” Hamlet interjected, suddenly afraid of the idea of being alone. “No, please stay.”

Horatio nodded and settled back down, his hands folded neatly atop his lap like a little Victorian lady’s. “Tell me what to do,” he whispered. “Tell me how to help you.”

But there wasn’t anything and they both knew it. Without a word, Hamlet crawled between the sheets and lay down, his hands at his sides, tears still flowing down his cheeks like a faucet, but there was no longer any ache attached to them. It was just a removed fact: oh, I’m crying.

“Just let me stay here for a minute,” he murmured, turning to bury his face in the pillow. 

“Of course. Do you…?” Horatio gestured to the lamp.

Hamlet nodded, and a moment later, the room was dark again, the only light coming from the window and the distant, pale moon. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and half-wished he’d gone to the bathroom instead to tear his skin up like the child he was stuck as—the urge was there, he was itching with it—but then Horatio settled down next to him, a comforting presence who he hadn’t yet run off, and he relaxed an infinitesimal amount.

They lay there in silence for Hamlet didn’t know how long, until he heard Horatio’s breathing even out. A glance at the clock told him that it was 12:18. 

He could’ve stayed there forever and ignored all this, but if he didn’t answer his phone, someone was going to knock, and he didn’t want to wake Horatio up again. Taking care to be quiet, he got out of bed, packed a bag, and checked his phone right as a message pinged from Marcellus letting him know that the car was outside. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised when he came into the hall and saw Horatio standing in his bedroom doorway, shrugging on a coat, his glasses and shoes on as well. Hamlet was too grateful to say anything, so he didn’t. They rode the elevator down to the lobby without a word, and as Marcellus loaded the bags out front, they didn’t speak either.

“Hey, bro,” Marcellus said to Horatio, giving him a nod.

Horatio smiled and nodded back before finally turning to Hamlet. “You’ll call me?”

“Every night,” he said with false cheeriness. “Expect long letters from the front.”

Horatio’s look was flat. “You won’t…You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”

They both knew to what he was referring. Hamlet swallowed. “Don’t worry about me,” was all he said. “You worry about everything, but try not to worry about me. You’ll get gray hair.”

Horatio rolled his eyes. “I see what you’re doing.”

“Is it working?”

Another eye roll. Already, Hamlet missed him and his life in New York. He had the sense that this would be the last he’d see of it. He wouldn’t be coming back. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.

“Just…Please take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry. Only one of us can be nuts at a time and Ophelia just got out of the psych ward, so. Spot’s taken.” When Horatio only sighed, Hamlet inched forward and lowered his voice. “I will be okay.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he lied, and he had the sense that Horatio could tell. 

They looked at each other. Marcellus called from the car, “Not to interrupt, but we need to get on the road.”

Horatio’s Adam’s Apple was bobbing. “Call me,” he repeated.

Hamlet gave him the two fingered salute. “Righty-o.”

“Have a safe drive,” Horatio added, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Stop worrying!” he called a last time before waving and ducking into the car.

When he started crying again five minutes from JFK, Marcellus and Bernardo—who was driving—had the decency to pretend that nothing was happening.

Listen: I’m going to tell you a story.

This isn’t a story I want to tell, and I’m not sure even now that I can. I’ve torn up and shredded and burned more pages and drafts than I can count. Worse, I don’t know that I should tell the story at all. Perhaps I ought to just let sleeping dogs lie.

But I promised. I promised, and every story needs a teller.

So, listen up: I’m going to tell you a story.

———

“It’s like a car crash,” Horatio’s younger sister Alma said as she sat down on the couch beside him, a bowl of New Year’s Eve dinner leftovers in her lap. “Except it’s one the whole damn country can’t stop watching.”

Horatio would’ve liked to claim the moral high ground here, but the truth was, he was sitting here watching too—desperate for any glimpse of Hamlet that he could get—so at best he was a hypocrite, at worst, just plain pathetic. But Hamlet had been unreachable since the day his father died. Horatio had called, texted, emailed, everything short of driving down to D.C. and begging Marcellus to let him talk to Hamlet, which would be completely asinine.

Logically, he knew that Hamlet had to be physically fine at least, but there was no telling how he actually was. So, as sad as it was, the television was the best he had.

Horatio remembered watching the funeral, watching as the camera panned to Hamlet— oh, Hamlet —and his mother, who were making their way to the coffin. They were both dressed in black and holding white roses, one each, and Gertrude’s gloved hand was in the crook of her son’s arm.

Hamlet had looked awful, plainly. His expression was dead, and although he was miles and miles away, Horatio’s hands had practically twitched with the nearly overwhelming urge he had to smooth out that furrow between his brows. His eyes were downcast. The black clothes, in contrast to his pale hair, made him look washed out. 

The same, however, could not have been said for Gertrude.

She’d looked beatific. For anyone else, the contrast of black clothes and hair so blonde it looked unnatural would have cast a ghostly effect, as it had done on Hamlet. But Gertrude had shown. Her beauty was plain to see, and at once Horatio had understood why she’d once been called Hollywood’s Helen of Troy. 

He still remembered with misery how Hamlet had looked. Why, he thought, why won’t you answer your damn phone?

Alma nudged his ankle. “What do you think of her dress?”

Horatio blinked. “Gertrude’s?”

“No, Hamlet’s girlfriend—” I haven’t a right to jealousy, he reminded himself as his stomach twisted “—yes, Gertrude. The bride.” Alma hit his shoulder. “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Around a bite of potato, she said, “You’re all mopey and distracted. And you keep checking your phone like you’re waiting for somebody to call you.” Growing keen, she prodded, “Are you?”

“You’re going to spill your food.”

She took another bite as he surreptitiously—and futilely—checked his phone. “See!” she crowed.

“Leave your brother alone,” their mother Annegrette admonished as she came in through the front door in her work clothes. 

Alma stuck her tongue out. With her slight build and childish ways, she resembled a twelve year old more than the sixteen year old girl that she was. 

“He is being weird, though.”

Annegrette wagged a finger. “If you don’t have anything nice to say…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

The terrible thing, though? It was that Horatio knew she was right. He was being weird. But his anxiety—usually generalized—had kicked up, to the point that he was staying at his mother’s for the week of New Year’s, unable to stand the stillness of their apartment, a result of a hectic finals week coupled with Hamlet’s absence. He always worried over Hamlet, that much was true, but this had been excruciating, because he couldn’t just knock on Hamlet’s door and “spontaneously” bring him a bagel or “randomly” decide to get them lunch when he thought he was spiraling.

Who’s looking out for you now?  

The wedding was lavish and, as many people had said, also rather tasteless. Hamlet Sr. had barely been in the ground a month, after all, and Gertrude had already swiftly traded the darkest mourning black for a pale cream. She and Claudius did look good together, but the picture was still unsettling. Horatio’s focus was on Hamlet, however.

The camera panned to him, looking for a reaction to the loving couple’s first dance. All Hamlet did, though, was turn his face away. A woman was standing beside him, but when she put a hand on his arm, he shrugged it off and walked away. The camera remained there just long enough for Horatio to see her face fall and for the man beside her to scowl at Hamlet’s retreating back before he put an arm around her shoulders.

The rest of the wedding was unremarkable. Horatio looked for Hamlet in the camera’s periphery but never saw him. He itched to text him but didn’t. He had enough things to worry about, he tried to reason with himself. He had work. His family. Other friends. But he was lying to himself. Sometime in the past four years, Hamlet had taken the spot as number one in Horatio’s mind. He worried over him, he saw things Hamlet would like or hate when out and about, and he wanted him too, but that was neither here nor there. He didn’t expect anything there. The worry was not so easily managed, however, especially when he knew that Hamlet’s idea of coping was to cut his skin to ribbons.

As he crawled into bed that night, setting his phone face down on the nightstand, he made himself count sheep to fall asleep. Hamlet will be fine. He’s an adult. He’ll be fine. He can take care of himself.

Right?

———

From: Hamlet Dane

Sent at 1:16 AM:

pls come i really need you

please

———

Horatio had a bag packed by eight in the morning—he’d woken up at seven, saw the message, and called three times to no avail—and was on the road by eight-fifteen after sending his mom a quick text message. He wasn’t sure how in-depth to get so all he said was: I’m going to visit a friend in Virginia for a few days. I’ll call you when I get there, before he started driving, clenching the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

A million terrible thoughts and conjectures were running through his mind throughout the entirety of the four and a half hour drive that turned into a six hour drive on account of it being three days after New Year’s. Everyone and their mother was going home, so the roads were stopped with traffic for miles.

Horatio was good at compartmentalizing—he always had been. If he ruminated anymore about Hamlet, about how God only knew how he was doing, about everything, he’d work himself right into a migraine. So, he forced himself to turn on an audiobook that he’d been meaning to read and pay total attention to it. 

Finally, at a quarter to six, he arrived in D.C., more relieved than he could name for no real reason. Hamlet still wasn’t answering his phone, and it wasn’t like he could march up to the Hamlet family apartment or the house and ask to see him. That was a good way to get arrested, and in any case, he only knew the house’s address from Hamlet’s many letters from over the years, all of which Horatio kept in a box in the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

Even then, despite the many letters, Hamlet had still called him a few times a week. Sometimes just to babble and complain— oh that you’d been there to see the look on old Polonius’ face when he saw Ophelia’s tattoo! Jesus, I thought his eyes were going to bug out— while other times, his voice flat and choked, he’d say, talk to me. So, Horatio did. He’d tell him about his family, what he’d been reading, who he’d seen, what he’d eaten even, and when all other avenues of conversation were exhausted, he’d pull a book off his shelf and start reading aloud until—sometimes mere minutes later, other times hours, by which point Horatio’s throat ached and his voice had gone hoarse—Hamlet would interrupt him.

Thank you, he’d whisper. I must’ve been a saint or something in a past life to deserve you. My good angel.

But those times had been different. Those had been holidays and summers, a family whole. This time, Hamlet’s father was dead, and Horatio couldn’t even get him to answer a text, much less call or write “long letters from the front.”

At a loss for what to do, he ended up getting a room in a Motel 6. Once he was inside, wrinkling his nose at the stale cigarette smell, he called Hamlet again. As had been par for the course since November, no one answered. As had also been par for the course, Horatio left a voicemail.

“Hi, it’s Horatio. I—I came to D.C., like you asked.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Please call me.” He hung up and sat down on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t sure what to do now. He rarely went anywhere—much less on vacations out of state—without a plan, but Hamlet had a way of making him profoundly stupid, and here he was in an unfamiliar area with his only friend, who had asked him to come, not answering his calls.

I am so stupid.

Then, his phone rang.

He scrambled to answer it, but in his haste, it fell off the bed and to the floor. Horatio for once didn’t care about the grimy, disgusting carpet as he grabbed it without even looking at the caller-ID.

“Hamlet?”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Horatio’s stomach dropped. It was only Marcellus, part of Hamlet’s security detail.

He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Hello,” he said, getting to his feet. Suddenly, he paused. “Why did you call?”

“You’re in D.C., right?”

A beat. “How do you know that?”

Evasively, Marcellus said, “I have my ways. But that’s not important.”

“I mean, I think—”

“—Shh, not now. Look, it’s about Hamlet.” Horatio fell silent. He could practically hear Marcellus’ smug grin when he spoke. “I knew that’d get ya.”

Was he really so predictable? He supposed so, because he found himself asking, “Is he alright?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really seen him.” Marcellus’ voice grew cagey. “Look, uh, this is an awkward thing to talk about over the phone. But you’re a reasonable guy! Let me pick you up at, say, nine. We’ll get dinner.”

“That’s rather late.”

“Yup.” 

Horatio sighed. “You’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?”

“Nope.”

What he really ought to do, he knew, was hang up. He wasn’t going to go on some wild goose chase. But his mind went to Hamlet, Hamlet, and he felt his little remaining resolve crumble. 

“Okay. Nine is fine.”

“Great. See you then.” The line went dead.

Only when he was getting into Marcellus’ car at 9:05 that night did it occur to him that he’d never told Marcellus where he was staying.

Forty-five minutes later, at a cheap diner, Marcellus finally finished talking. Horatio set down his fork, although he hadn’t touched his food. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Marcellus took a big bite of his hamburger. “I’m telling you, man. I know what I saw.”

Horatio wasn’t sure if he should laugh or just walk out and try to hail a cab, despite the snow and the icy wind blowing off the Potomac. As it was, he shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. Ghosts aren’t real.”

“I’m not making a statement here,” Marcellus said, raising his hands. “I’ll leave that philosophical crap to you and Hamlet. I’m just telling you what I saw.” Lowering his voice he said, “It looked exactly like the Secretary. It was scary.”

“The Secretary has been dead for a month.”

“Well, yeah.” Marcellus bristled. “I’m not saying the thing’s a zombie or something. I’m just saying that it looked like Hamlet Sr.”

Horatio pushed away his plate; he was no longer hungry. The rational part of his brain was simply annoyed, but there was a part of him that couldn’t deny the look on Marcellus’ face. He’d looked…He’d looked afraid, unsettled. Something heavy dropped in Horatio’s stomach. He swallowed hard.

“Does Hamlet know?”

Marcellus shook his head. “No. That’s why I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me?”

“Come on the watch with us tonight. We got patrol duty now that Hamlet’s not leaving his room. You’ll see.”

“You’re telling me you want me to go outside in the freezing cold with you to look for ghosts? Come on.” He got to his feet and put a folded twenty on the table. “I’ll catch a cab back to the motel.” He left, annoyed more than anything else. What kind of idiot did Marcellus take him for? What kind of idiot was he to have entertained it for even a second? Ghosts. How ridiculous. 

“Wait! Wait!” Marcellus called as he ran out after him. “Horatio, come on, I’m not fucking with you.”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Horatio said, crossing his arms over his chest and slowing to a halt. He felt bad making Marcellus have to run to catch up with him, even after whatever this had been. 

“I am telling you,” Marcellus said emphatically, “I don’t know what it is! Okay? I just know that whatever the hell it is, I know I didn’t hallucinate it. Neither did Bernardo. And if it is…” He swallowed, and Horatio’s chest tightened to see the look of real unease in his eyes. “Look, if it is real, then Hamlet probably should know, and I know you want to see him. I can get you in.”

Don’t be stupid, Horatio told himself. Don’t be a fool. Walk away.  

In his pocket, his phone was silent, just as it had been for almost a month now. Was there another choice here? If there was, Horatio couldn’t see it. And then there was Marcellus, looking at him imploringly, rocking back on his heels, obviously anxious. 

Damn me.  

“Okay,” he sighed. “Alright. I’ll come see…whatever this is. But in the interest of full disclosure, I don’t believe you.”

Marcellus’ relief was palpable. “You don’t have to believe me, man. You just have to see.”

The night air was colder than cold. The wind was blowing hard, and despite his layers, Horatio could feel it right down to his very bones. He was hunched into himself, his hands dug as deep in his pockets as they’d go. Beside him, Marcellus was bouncing on the balls of his feet while Bernardo blew onto his hands and muttered angrily about this fucking bullshit weather. Why the fuck did I move here?

This is for Hamlet, Horatio reminded himself as another sudden gust of wind hit him square in the face. It’s for Hamlet. This was not unusual. Almost everything for four years had been, in some way or another, for Hamlet. 

“What time is this… apparition supposed to show up?” Horatio ventured to ask.

Bernardo scoffed. “Apparition?”

“He’s a fancy scholar, remember?” Marcellus nudged Bernardo’s shoulder. To Horatio, he said, “Sometime around one.”

Horatio glanced down at his watch. “It’s one-fifteen.”

“Have some faith, man,” Bernardo offered. 

Horatio shook his head, kicking himself for his own foolishness, both for agreeing to this and for being so ready to come at Hamlet’s call. 

He says jump, you say how high, Ross had remarked once while drunk. Do you at least, like, get anything out of it? 

I’m sorry? he’d replied, shocked and a little tipsy himself. Had he been completely sober, he would’ve simply pretended not to hear.

You know. Like… Ross then made an obscene gesture that had made Horatio want to curl up into a ball and disappear into the floorboards. He’d been more than grateful that Hamlet and Ross’ semi-more reasonable twin Guin were out getting beer at that time.

He was torn from his thoughts by Marcellus’ hand on his arm. “Horatio!” he hissed.

Horatio turned—and froze. Standing only a few paces away was—He didn’t know how to describe or classify it, because ghosts weren’t real. But, his heart in his throat, he had to admit that, whatever it was, it looked a lot like Hamlet’s father. He could do nothing but stare as the—apparition, ghost, hallucination— being looked at them silently and imperiously. This was the man many had believed would be their next leader. The look in his eyes was what sold it.

“You talk to it,” Marcellus said, shoving him forward.

Horatio skidded to a halt, narrowly avoiding losing his balance. His heart was pounding so loud that it was all he could hear. Fear—icy and slimy—took hold of his body and rendered him still and dumb. His instinct was to say this isn’t real, but he knew he wasn’t drunk and he knew he wasn’t crazy. This was real. It was, somehow, the most logical explanation.

“Talk to it!” Bernardo hissed, and when Horatio chanced a glance behind him—terrified to let the being out of his sight—he saw that he and Marcellus were crowded together and that Marcellus was clutching Bernardo’s coat.

Horatio swallowed and summoned every bit of courage he had. “What are you?” he asked. “You look like the dead Secretary Hamlet I.” When the thing remained silent, Horatio—gathering strength—yelled, “Speak!”

At that—had he offended it? What was the protocol here?—it began to turn away. Horatio shot out a hand that he immediately pulled back as if he’d been burned. It had gone right through the thing’s arm, but for the second that it had hovered where the arm should have been, it had been like he’d stuck his hand into a vat of ice cold water. Pins and needles danced upon his fingertips and up his arm.

“Wait!” he called again. “I know your son! If you have something you want to tell him, I can make sure he knows!”

To his utter shock, that made the being pause. His—its?—gaze, when it was turned on Horatio, was empty and cold. Like this, it was hardest for Horatio to see the resemblance between father and son, and this reassured him in a way. Hamlet, only a mile away up the hill, was alive, warm and alive and bright, not like this thing which was made of shadows and chill and had death in its eyes.

But just as he thought the being was about to speak, it turned on its heel and was gone just as suddenly as it had come. 

It was like all the breath had been knocked from Horatio’s chest. Trembling, he dropped to a crouch—heedless of the snow—and put his head between his knees. He needed to stay alert and rational here—he couldn’t afford to have a panic attack—but it still took everything he had to pull himself from the edge. The wind cried in his ear, it whipped around him, the world had turned on its axis, and yet the ground stayed solid beneath his feet. Small mercies.

“Do you still think we’re fucking with you?” Bernardo asked, not mocking but genuine.

Horatio forced himself to his feet. “I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes.”

“It looks just like him, right?” Marcellus asked.

“It’s uncanny.” 

“Shit,” Marcellus said, coming over to him and beginning to guide him away. “You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Horatio lied, running a hand through his hair.

A flask emerged from Bernardo’s coat pocket. He held it out. “It’s vodka. Don’t tell our supervisor.”

“You’re getting drunk on the job? Doesn’t that pose a security risk?”

He scoffed, affronted. “I don’t get drunk. A sip here and there to keep me warm is all.” He forced it into Horatio’s hands. “It’ll warm you right up.”

Horatio didn’t typically like to drink, and he certainly didn’t like hard liquor. Had this been any other night, he’d have politely refused, but this wasn’t any other night. Nothing else made any sense, so why should he? 

He took a long pull from the flask.

“That’s a good man.” Marcellus clapped him on the back and took a swig himself when Horatio handed it back over, coughing.

“This makes no sense,” he muttered, more to himself than to either Bernardo or Marcellus. 

“We’ve seen it twice before,” said Marcellus, giving the flask back to Bernardo. “Always at or around one.”

“Shouldn’t it be three?” asked Horatio, laughing to himself. “That’s the witching hour.”

“Dude, I don’t fucking know how ghosts work,” Bernardo said. “He must have unfinished business or whatever.”

That forced the final memory of the thing back to the forefront of Horatio’s mind. “It stopped,” he said, running his thumb over his lower lip. “When I asked it if it wanted to talk to Hamlet. It stopped.”

“Unfinished business,” Marcellus repeated in a low voice. If it wasn’t already so cold, Horatio might’ve been compelled to say that the temperature dropped.

“You haven’t told anyone about this, have you?” he asked suddenly.

They both shook their heads. “Just you.”

“Keep it that way. Tomorrow, I want you to take me to Hamlet. He deserves to know. I—” he took a breath “—I would be willing to bet that if this… thing won’t talk to us, it will talk to him.”

Horatio nodded again, this time to himself. At least he had something like a plan in mind, something to fall back on. That was something. Something was better than nothing.

“There’s a brunch tomorrow,” Marcellus said. “A big one. A bunch of senators and bigshots. Something about the presidential candidacy?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. The important thing is that Hamlet will be there. I can get you in once they all leave.”

“Thank you,” Horatio said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had gripped him since yesterday morning—somehow, it had been almost twenty-four whole hours since he’d left New York—when he’d seen Hamlet’s message. The dread had rooted somewhere in his chest and he was conscious of it with every breath he took.

Worrying doesn’t do anyone any good, he tried to tell himself, but he couldn’t make himself quit. Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

All he could do was hope to God that he wouldn’t and that neither would Hamlet. They had trouble aplenty.

———

Ophelia stood in the doorway to her brother’s room, her arms wrapped around her torso like she was cold, which she was, but she was always cold. She hardly even noticed it anymore.

“Do you want me to go to the airport with you?” she asked. It was the grownup thing to do, even though what she really wanted to do was beg Laertes to stay. She couldn’t do that, though. Both because she’d already told him to go when he’d offered to stay and because she didn’t want him to see her like this.

Laertes shook his head, only half-listening to her as he pushed down harder on the top of his suitcase as he fumbled with the zipper, his teeth gritted. “This stupid thing, I swear…” With a pop, it closed, and he huffed, kicking it idly with the toe of his shoe as he got to his feet. Once he was fully upright, he shook his head again. “Don’t worry about it. I’m leaving right after that stupid brunch. Gotta make sure I rub all the right noses.” He rolled his eyes.

She nodded. “Okay.”

Laertes frowned. “I can stay, you know,” he said, which was what she’d been hoping he wouldn’t. “I mean, just until the semester starts, or for good even, if—”

“No,” she said decisively. “You love France. We’ll be okay here, Dad and I.”

“It’s not Dad I’m worried about.”

She smiled for him. “I’m fine.”

“It’s truly evil that you’re not a little kid anymore,” Laertes sighed. “Time is a sick, sick bastard.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the hardwood floor, something he’d always told her not to do because it was “rude.” He had something he wanted to say, she could tell, and the unsaid words were taking up all the air in the room.

“I wish you’d just say whatever you won’t right now,” Ophelia finally said, unable to bear it any longer. 

As she’d figured, that got him. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick here or whatever, but I really want you to listen to me.”

“I listen to you.”

“Sure you do,” Laertes snorted. 

“I do,” she said, and she meant it.

“Stay away from Hamlet.” Laertes’ voice was stern and low. “I mean it. He’s trouble. His whole life is a walking train-wreck. He has serious issues.”

“And I have enough of those on my own?”

The wounded look Laertes sent her made her look down shamefully. None of this was his fault, and it was hardly as if he were lying. Hamlet was trouble; that much was true. But there was the smart aleck Hamlet who quoted Aristotle from his ivory tower with a superior air and then there was the Hamlet who’d kissed her softly and called her beautiful and touched her not like she was glass but like she was something to be worshiped. She couldn’t expect Laertes or anyone else to understand this, nor did she want them to. It was hers and hers alone.

“Just be careful,” Laertes said again. “He might say he loves you, but he doesn’t. His love—” said in a voice dripping with derision and ridicule “—won’t last. He’s using you.”

“He hasn’t told me he loves me.”

“Ophelia.”

She slowly went over to him. “I’m sorry. I promise. But I think this is a little unfair. I don’t judge you when you bring home your partner of the week.”

“My partners aren’t basket cases.”

“I’m just saying. Don’t forget to take your own advice.” She poked his arm.

He gave her a sarcastic salute. “Just as long as you take mine too.”

“Your advice about what?”

They both turned to see their father standing in the doorway. 

Smoothly, Laertes said, “I was just encouraging her to get out more.” He got to his feet and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before turning to Polonius. “Ready to go, Dad?”

Polonius beamed. “My bright, bright son. You’ll like all these men, I mean it. Really, truly, great men, of the highest of calibers, exactly the kind of men you want in your corner as you begin to enter the glorious world of politics. As my only son—”

“Dad,” Laertes interrupted, “I’m gonna take my bags to the car, okay?” To Ophelia he said, “I love you. Remember what I said.” He grabbed his bags and disappeared. A moment later, the front door slammed shut with a bang that was as resonant as a gunshot.

The minute he was gone, Polonius turned to Ophelia. “What were you two talking about?”

She swallowed. “Hamlet.”

“Ah, yes. I should have figured. I’ve seen the way he’s looking at you. But you mustn’t even entertain the idea. That’s a sure road to ruin for the both of us. You’re green yet, Ophelia, you don’t know anything of the world, and Hamlet is a—a rambunctious young man, to say the least! I was one of those myself, once upon a time, would you believe it. I was handsome and I had urges too. But you mustn’t let him satisfy them with you!”

Too late for that now.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Don’t believe whatever he tells you. Young men say all sorts of things they don’t mean when a pretty girl is involved.”

“I understand, Daddy.” She got up—taking a sharp breath—and put a hand on her father’s arm. “Laertes is probably waiting.”

“Ah! Yes, yes! Goodness, I’m out of sorts today, yes, yes…” Polonius shook his head and said, sternly, “If he says anything to you in the name of love, you will tell me, won’t you?”

Obediently, she nodded. “I promise.”

“Good girl.” He patted her cheek and was gone, leaving her all alone in her big brother’s vacated room.

———

The morning was a bright and cheery one. Horatio sat in the car outside the Dane family home, exhausted from no sleep but somehow still filled with nervous energy. He felt like he was crawling out of his very skin, but he had no choice but to stay put in Marcellus’ car. He alternated between staring at the clock, checking his messages, and picking at his cuticles until he had to dig out the first aid kit in the trunk because his fingers were bleeding.

At least it gave him something to do.

Back in the car, he closed his eyes and tried to practice what he’d say, but he kept getting tripped up when he imagined the words actually coming out of his mouth. He’d sound crazy, and even if he could force them past his lips, how was he to go about telling Hamlet I think I saw the ghost of your recently deceased dad. Hamlet’s reaction was another unpredictable variable. He’d never been easy to predict, but this was different. This was horrible. He was grieving.  

Just as Horatio began to think that he absolutely could not do this—he wouldn’t, he refused to hurt Hamlet—there was a knock on the glass. Marcellus was standing outside, jabbing his thumb at the house and mouthing let’s go. Behind him, people were leaving. He could see Bernardo ushering Claudius and Gertrude—who were arm and arm—into a waiting car. 

Horatio got out once all the cars had gone and hoped to God that he was mistaken in his conjectures.

“See that?” Bernardo said, waving a fifty at Marcellus. “Cold hard cash. Read it and weep.”

“Fuck off,” Marcellus replied, pushing open the front door. 

It was the grandest entry hall that Horatio had ever seen. The floors were marble, polished until they quite literally shone. Horatio’s own face was reflected back at him with only slight distortions. Looking up, he saw a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. On one wall was what looked like a real, honest to God Rembrandt, and before him were two sets of grand, spiraling staircases. To Horatio, who had grown up in the projects, working school nights from the moment he turned sixteen and living in an apartment that barely had enough room for three people, much less five, this was by far the biggest, most ostentatious house he’d ever been in. He had to consciously remind himself not to stare like a dolt.

Marcellus and Bernardo were unfazed. “Come on,” the former said, grabbing Horatio by the arm and dragging him down the hall. “He’s in the dining room.”

Despite all the overthinking he’d done, Horatio was still unprepared to see Hamlet in the flesh. 

He was half-turned away, staring out the window with a highball glass of scotch in hand, a stormy look on his face. His weight loss was made even more plain this close; his face was gaunt, his already high, prominent cheekbones sticking out and making him look sick. 

Oh, Hamlet.

Marcellus nudged him forward, sending him a pointed look. Right. He was here for a real reason, horrible as it was. He hoped Hamlet would forgive him. He hoped he’d be able to forgive himself.

“Hamlet?”

Hamlet rolled his entire head. “Bernardo, I told you, I’m—” He stopped short. “Horatio?” Then: “Horatio!” and before Horatio could blink, Hamlet had thrown himself at him, his arms tight around his neck, his face buried in Horatio’s shoulder.

Some of the tension left Horatio’s body in one fell swoop. He wrapped his arms around Hamlet in turn. God, he’s got thin, he thought, but he was too honestly happy and relieved to let it get to him just yet. Because, after a month of radio silence and anxiety, here was Hamlet, so very broken but solid. Horatio could smell his cologne, his expensive French cigarettes, could hear his breathing. Nothing else mattered or would ever matter as much as this.

Hamlet pulled away first, but he stayed close. Horatio would’ve liked to fancy that perhaps Hamlet missed him just as much as he’d missed Hamlet. 

“Jesus, it’s you!” he said, his hands on both of Horatio’s shoulders. “It’s you!”

“It’s me.”

Hamlet laughed and gave him another brief hug. “Oh shit, oh shit,” he suddenly said, reeling back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Horatio frowned. He’d assumed Hamlet was drunk when he sent that text, but now he was wondering how drunk. His eyes flickered to the glass on the table behind them before going back to Hamlet.

“I just wanted to come see you,” he decided on, smiling. 

Hamlet’s laugh was bright as the sun. Horatio was ashamed at how it made his chest clench. How he’d missed him, the whole unholy mess of him. 

“Let me pour you a drink,” Hamlet said, turning to the alcohol cart. “If you’ll learn one thing here, it’ll be to drink, that’s for damn sure.” He handed Horatio a glass, the twin to his own, and poured a generous helping of scotch in. 

Horatio took a polite sip before setting the glass down. He glanced at Marcellus and Bernardo, who were waiting around the corner for their cue. Hamlet sat down with a huff of air and kicked the leg of the chair next to him. Horatio gingerly sat down, his initial joy over seeing Hamlet dissipating, to be replaced with anxiety.

“So,” said Hamlet, taking a drink, “what really brings you here?”

“I came to see how you were doing after your…your father’s funeral.”

Hamlet stiffened. “What funeral?” he asked churlishly. “I think you mean my mother’s wedding.” He spat the word like it was a curse.

“Well—yes, it did happen a lot… sooner than any of us would’ve thought.”

Hamlet’s laugh was harsh. “That’s one way to put it. They used the leftovers from the funeral for the wedding. They were even still warm.” He sighed and leaned his head back. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m sorry,” seemed the only thing to say, and the most honest, too.

“My father…” Hamlet trailed off and took another drink. “I think I see him.”

Horatio’s whole body went stiff. His neck popped from how fast he turned to look behind him. “Where?”

Hamlet frowned. “In my mind’s eye, Horatio,” he said flatly, nudging Horatio’s ankle. “You good?”

Get it together, he told himself.

“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry. It’s been a long day.” Horatio clasped his hands together. Now or never.  

“I saw him,” he blurted out, but when he saw Hamlet’s perplexed face, he chickened out. “…Once. I saw him once. He was a good leader.”

“He was a real man,” Hamlet said, affecting a deep voice and rocking his chair back. He landed it back down on the floor with a thump and sobered quickly, draining the rest of his glass. “I’ll never see him again.” 

“Hamlet,” Horatio said slowly, “I—I think I saw him last night.” 

God help me.

“Saw who?”

“Your father.”

“My father?” And he laughed. Hard. But Horatio watched that laughter die as he realized Horatio wasn’t laughing, as he noticed Marcellus and Bernardo. His entire face dropped. “Oh shit, you’re—you’re serious.”

Taking a deep breath, Horatio began. “When I got into the city, Marcellus called me. He and Bernardo had…they saw something. Something that looked like your father. So I went with them to check it out.”

Hamlet’s knuckles were white as he clutched the arms of his chair. “And?”

Horatio looked to Marcellus, who raised his hands. He sighed. “I don’t know… what I saw, but it…it looked just like your father.”

Hamlet jumped up. “Looked like?” he repeated, his voice rising in pitch with his panic. “Did you not fucking talk to it?” He was yelling, but there was no anger in it, just fear, like that of a caged animal.

“We tried,” Horatio said soothingly. “But it went away.”

As suddenly as he’d stood up, Hamlet collapsed back down. “Jesus H Christ,” he said, his head in his hands.

“It’s true,” Marcellus piped up. “Bernardo and I saw it twice before last night, which makes three sightings.”

“Yes, thank you, Marcellus,” Hamlet snapped through gritted teeth, “but I can count.”

“We thought it our duty to let you know,” Horatio said.

Hamlet looked up at him, his gaze harried and wild. “I have to see it,” he said. “I have to see him.”

Marcellus and Bernardo both looked as one at Horatio. He blanched. “Hamlet…”

“I have to.” Hamlet’s tone left no room for discussion. “It’s my dad.” He winced. “It could be my dad.”

“We can pick you up at midnight tonight,” Marcellus offered. “It usually shows up at, like, one.”

“We?” Bernardo repeated. “I got the night off, this one’s on you, bro.”

“Wow, thanks, asshole.”

Hamlet cleared his throat and they both stiffened. Horatio sometimes forgot, somehow, who Hamlet was. Rarely, but he did occasionally, and the reminders were always like being soaked with a bucket of ice cold water. In those moments, it was hardest to reconcile the Hamlet he knew from the Hamlet the world knew.

“We’ll—uh—” Bernardo jabbed his thumb at the door and left quickly, Marcellus in tow.

Once they’d gone, Hamlet deflated, his chin dropping, and Horatio thought: there he is.

“Horatio,” Hamlet said, his voice hoarse, “please tell me the truth. I know you’d never lie to me.”

He took a minute. Hamlet watched him all the while. At last, he said, “I don’t know what exactly I saw. But whatever it was…it looked a lot like your father.” 

Hamlet fell back in his chair, one hand over his chest, as if he had been shot, and said nothing else.

There was simply nothing more to say.

“I would just like it to go on the record that I think this is a bad idea,” Horatio said, his hands in his pockets, Hamlet standing close beside him—almost too close, but when had boundaries impacted them—and Marcellus a few paces ahead, blowing on his hands.

“So you’ve said.” Hamlet knocked his shoulder against Horatio’s. He was trying to seem uncaring and casual, but Horatio could see the tension in his jaw and the way he never stopped looking around, as tense as a rabbit alone in the woods, fearing a snare.

But you aren’t alone, Horatio wanted to say. I’m here. As it was, he just shook his head. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut—why hadn’t he? Now here they were, freezing in this cold, January night. Who knew what they’d find, if anything. Who knew the whims of such things. Certainly not Horatio. But more frightening than finding nothing was if they did, if the thing showed itself once more. Horatio looked askance at Hamlet from the corner of his eye. Could he handle it? What had he done—

“Horatio,” Hamlet breathed, grabbing his arm suddenly, his grip like iron. Ahead of them, Marcellus had halted. Horatio knew, he knew what it was, but he still found himself shocked to see the being standing before them, proud and imperious and dead.

Hamlet was shaking. He took a cautious step forward then faltered. His hand fell from Horatio’s arm. “You,” he called, his voice trembling, making him sound more like a boy than a man. “You,” he tried again, “you wanted to speak to me. Here I am. Your—your son.” At the word ‘son’, his voice broke painfully.

The thing said nothing. It only focused that cold gaze upon Hamlet and beckoned him forward. Horatio heard Hamlet’s intake of breath, and he stepped forward, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Hamlet—”

“It’s calling for me,” Hamlet breathed.

“Shit, don’t go with it,” Marcellus said. “Are you nuts?” Remembering himself, he tacked on, “Sir.”

“Definitely not,” Horatio agreed, but Hamlet didn’t seem to be listening to either of them.

“It’s calling for me. It won’t speak here.” He shrugged off Horatio’s hand. “I’ll follow it.”

Horatio grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice.

Hamlet swirled around to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, and there was something in his gaze that took Horatio aback. “Why should I be scared?” he asked. “I don’t care what happens to me! Do you think I’m afraid? It’s my father!”

When he tried to turn again, Horatio—in desperation, something he never would have done before under normal circumstances, but these circumstances were so far from normal that it made his head spin—grabbed him by both the shoulders. “Think,” he begged. “You don’t know what this—this thing is. What it is, what it wants. What if it’s—what if it’s not your father at all? What if it hurts you, or tempts you towards the road or into the woods? It’s so dark you could get run over, or lost, or—” he was babbling now, making no sense, but his mind was scrambling onto any reasoning he could grasp if only Hamlet would stay “—you could lose yourself—your reason?”

If Hamlet heard any of this, he showed no sign. He lurched out of Horatio’s grip. “Look!” he cried. “It’s calling for me! I’ll follow, you lead!”

Marcellus stepped in front of him. “Sir, I can’t let you do that.”

Horatio grabbed him by the arm. “Hamlet, please—”

“Get off of me!” Hamlet struggled against him, but Horatio was stronger and taller. He writhed and bared his teeth and tried to jerk away. “You asshole—!” 

Finally, Hamlet kicked him in the shin, and reflexively, Horatio stumbled back. He was so shocked that he fell down into the snow, landing hard on his back. His vision went white as his head hit the pavement, his mind going blank, his ears beginning to ring. When he could see again, a moment or so later, Hamlet was gone and Marcellus was hoisting him up.

“Shit, man, you good?” he asked, checking the back of Horatio’s head. “You’re not bleeding, at least, but you should sit down. Who knew the scrawny bastard had it in him?”

“Where did he go?” Horatio asked, swirling around so quickly that he almost lost his balance again.

“Woah, woah, careful.” Marcellus wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, I tried to stop him, but he ran off.”

“Damnit.” Horatio ran his hands through his hair. It was hard to draw breath, to think. “We have to go after him.”

Marcellus bit down on his lower lip. When he spoke, it was in a low voice. “There’s something rotten here. Something evil.” Then, to Horatio’s utter shock, he made the sign of the cross. Marcellus, he knew, had been raised Catholic but had not practiced for years. He didn’t even believe in God anymore. But this—whatever it was—had compelled him to go back to those childhood teachings, to reach out to a God that would protect him. And it was this, more than almost anything else, that sent chills up Horatio’s spine. 

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “We have to go after him,” he repeated.

Marcellus nodded. “You’re right, you’re right. Come on.” He started off in the direction Hamlet had disappeared, Horatio in tow.

They found Hamlet at the edge of the woods by the house, kneeling in the snow, his forehead pressed to the dirt. For a terrible moment, as he skidded to a stop, Horatio thought: I’ve lost him, but then he saw that Hamlet was shaking, and he ran the rest of the way to him, going as fast as he could, ignoring Marcellus’ startled shout from behind him.

“Hamlet!” Horatio gasped as he dropped to his knees before him and grabbed his icy cold hands. He nearly wept with the sheer relief of it all—the feeling of Hamlet’s quick pulse beneath the paper thin, scarred skin of his wrist—but that relief turned sour the moment Hamlet looked up at him, beaming with joy, his eyes red from crying. 

“What the fuck?” Marcellus panted, finally reaching them. “What the fuck, man.” 

Horatio ignored him. His gaze flitted over Hamlet, looking for wounds or damage, but all he saw was a lot of dirt and snow. He must’ve been freezing, his coat and pants were soaked. Without thinking, Horatio shrugged off his coat and started to throw it over Hamlet’s shoulders, but Hamlet intercepted him, clasping his wrist with a grip so tight it hurt.

“I’m alright, Horatio,” he said. “I’m wonderful.”

“What…happened?”

Hamlet exhaled. Slowly, softly, he said, “It’s an honest ghost.”

“What?”

He repeated himself. “It’s an honest ghost. There’s corruption here. Evil.” His voice was shaking. 

Horatio couldn’t help but laugh. “We didn’t need a spirit to tell us this.”

Hamlet pulled on his hand to get his attention. Looking over at Marcellus, but to them both, he said, “You have to swear to tell no one about this. Absolutely no one. Not a soul.”

Horatio could feel Marcellus’ eyes boring into the back of his head, looking for a cue. Before he could decide what to say, however, there came a voice, from nowhere and everywhere: Swear.

“What the motherfuck,” Marcellus rasped. 

“They hear you,” Hamlet called into the woods. Only he seemed unfazed. To them again: “Please. Swear it.”

Just to get them out of there and to somewhere warmer, Horatio nodded. “I swear it,” he whispered, his heart beating erratically in his chest, a song of violence and fear.

“Me too. I swear it too,” Marcellus echoed.

Then, without warning, Horatio felt somehow warmer, and the unnoticed but keenly felt silence that had fallen in the nearby woods lifted. He could hear an owl hoot, the scuttle of leaves. It—whatever it was—was gone. With this, some of the tension in Hamlet’s body left, too. His grip slackened and his eyes slipped shut in relief. 

“I don’t understand,” was all Horatio could think to say.

Hamlet looked up at him through his long eyelashes—his eyes as clear as a mirror—before putting a soft hand to his cheek. Horatio could feel every breath he took, every beat of his heart, every inch of his skin.

“There are more things,” said Hamlet softly, “in heaven and earth, Horatio, than you can even dream of.”

———

I never did find out exactly what it said to you, that night in the woods.

Even now, I do not know if I should be grateful for this or not.

Marcellus dropped them both off outside of Horatio’s motel, although he seemed skeptical about it. Yet, despite this, he also seemed eager to rid himself of the both of them, and Horatio didn’t think he mistook the look of relief on his face as he drove off to find somewhere to stake out the motel for potential dangers.

Hamlet stood beside him on the curb, rubbing his arms. He’d been shaking since the thing left. Swallowing, Horatio said gently, “Come on. My room’s this way.”

Hamlet wrinkled his nose when he saw the room. “This looks like the place you’d go to get murdered.”

Ashamed, even still, Horatio admitted quietly, “It was all I could afford.”

“Oh.” Hamlet looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“It’s fine.”

Hamlet sat down hard on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Horatio longed to go over to him and smooth back his hair, rest his head upon his shoulder, reassure him that it would all be alright, but he contented himself with getting Hamlet an aspirin from his suitcase and a drink of water.

“Thanks,” he said softly, his voice breaking. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

Horatio gingerly sat down beside him. “What…what did it tell you?”

He watched Hamlet’s entire body go as taught as a wire. He swallowed the aspirin dry and said, “My uncle killed my father.”

Horatio opened his mouth and then closed it. It took him a long moment to understand what Hamlet had actually said, and even then, his mind refused to piece the words together and make them make sense.

“What?”

Hamlet nodded, gnawing at his thumbnail. 

They sat in silence for a long, drawn out moment. Horatio thought things, almost said them, faltered, and fell silent once more. He was just so tired, exhaustion was tugging at him, but there was Hamlet, and he needed him, and this was insane, and he was lost. He was still shaking from whatever that thing had been, and now Hamlet was talking about murder?  

Hamlet’s voice was frail. “Please say something.”

Horatio dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “How do you know it’s true?”

“I don’t,” Hamlet acknowledged. “So I’m going to prove it.”

Horatio laughed a weak laugh, tinged with tiredness and incredulity. “None of this makes any sense.”

Hamlet nudged his ankle to get his attention. “Just think of it as undiscovered science. That is essentially what it is.” 

“It’s madness. It defies everything we know about the universe—”

Hamlet waved a hand. “Facts are debatable.”

“Hamlet,” Horatio said suddenly, “what did the— ghost tell you?”

He watched Hamlet’s throat bob, watched his long, graceful fingers still in their tracing of the flowers on the bed sheets. 

“It— he said I had to get justice.”

“If there was foul play involved, don’t you think the coroners would’ve noticed?”

Hamlet snorted. “This is D.C. Anything and anyone can be bought. We’re the corruption capital of the world.” He flashed a bright, fake smile that quickly fell.

“Hamlet.”

“I know,” he sighed. “Look, obviously I’m not just going to go into this trusting it. It could be a—a demon or who knows what. I have to prove it’s telling the truth.”

Horatio decided to skirt around the how of the matter for now, going instead to the substance of the problem. “And what then? Assuming it is telling the truth.”

Something dark, something scared, something young flitted across Hamlet’s face. He looked anywhere but at Horatio, the low light of the room throwing shadows and hiding half of his face.

“It wants revenge. An eye for an eye.”

Horatio’s spine stiffened. “You mean…?”

Hamlet gave him a curt nod. “A life for a life.”

Horatio was moving before he thought of it, jolting to his feet but going nowhere. Murder. Hamlet’s fair hands stained red. Horatio thought he might be sick. He felt Hamlet grab his arm, his fingers cold. 

“Please don’t go,” he begged. “I can’t do this by myself. Don’t make me do this alone.”

Horatio could’ve laughed. Like it was ever a question. He knew before Hamlet spoke that he’d follow him anywhere. He didn’t trust Hamlet by himself, and if something happened to him, he’d never forgive himself. And, of course, there was the simple fact that he loved Hamlet. Madly, despairingly. There was no one like him and there never could be. He could never deny him a thing, even when it hurt. He was practically cutting his own throat here—he’d known from the moment he arrived in D.C. that something was wrong—but he was too involved from the start to go. Hamlet had asked him to stay. What else was he supposed to say but,

“I’ll stay. You don’t have to ask.”

Hamlet pressed his forehead to Horatio’s shoulder. His whole body was trembling. This once Horatio couldn’t help himself, and he reached out to run a hand over Hamlet’s hair. He half-expected Hamlet to shove him off, give him a look, but all he did was let out a sort of choked, wet noise and grip Horatio’s arm even tighter.

“It’s okay.” Horatio murmured to him in the way he’d talk to a child. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Hamlet sobbed. “Nothing will ever be okay again.”

He couldn’t say anything to that, so he simply stood there and let Hamlet cry on his shoulder, like he let him do everything.

———

They met as sophomores in college. 

Hamlet wasn’t entirely sure why his family had been so insistent upon him getting a roommate in order to get “more in touch with the masses” (their words) but it was clearly not a choice, so he was forced to suffer it. Although, really, anything was better than being at home. He just hoped his roommate was quiet. Ish. 

“That bites,” Ross said, tossing a handful of M&Ms into his mouth. “Do you know anything about the guy?”

“I know they did a background check,” Guin piped up, walking side by side with her brother.

“And the sky is blue.” Hamlet raised an eyebrow at her. “Are we stating facts now?” Guin had the decency to look away, abashed. They made it too easy sometimes. 

It wasn’t that Hamlet disliked them by any means—although the spying thing was creepy—it was just that he thought if he was going to spend most of his time with them, they could stand to be easier to be around sometimes.

Bernardo joined up with them by the dorm building. “He’s inside,” he said boredly.

Hamlet shook his head and strode ahead. In the middle of the room, a young man was standing. He looked hopelessly lost, surrounded by a surprisingly small amount of bags, and his glasses were askew on his face, his hands at his sides. He stiffened when Hamlet walked in, an odd sort of expression flitting over his face.

“I’m Hamlet Dane,” Hamlet said cheerily, extending out a hand. 

“Horatio,” Horatio said, a beat too late. “Horatio Bauer. Sir,” he tacked on awkwardly. His cheeks were pink.

Hamlet smiled uncomfortably. “Save the sirs for my father.”

“Right. I’m sorry.” Horatio’s gaze flitted around the room. “Um, I didn’t know which bed you wanted, so I didn’t—I didn’t want to presume—” He waved a hand to encompass the bags and the box lying at his feet with Horatio A. Bauer written on the flap in a neat hand.

“What’s the A for?”

Horatio blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“The A.” Hamlet pointed to the box. “What’s it for?”

Horatio’s eyes followed the line of Hamlet’s finger. “Oh. It’s for Andrew. It was my father’s name.”

Was. Hamlet filed it away in the part of his brain he’d newly labeled Horatio.

“I didn’t know Andrew was a German name,” he said lightly. “I thought it was Greek.”

To Horatio’s credit, he didn’t miss a beat. “It is. He was from Brooklyn.” 

“So’s mine.”

Horatio’s gaze drifted to somewhere behind Hamlet’s shoulder and his whole body went taught as a wire. Hamlet turned and saw Bernardo leaning against the doorframe, the gun on his hip on full display, as Ross and Guin strolled in at the same time.

“You must be roomie.” Guin took Horatio’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m Guin. This is my brother Ross.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Horatio, smiling tensely.

“Hey, I know you,” Ross said, looking up from where he was peering into Horatio’s open suitcase. 

Horatio’s eyebrows came together. “I’m sorry?”

Ross ignored him and nudged Guin. “You see it?”

“Now that you say it,” Guin said, putting her elbow on her brother’s shoulder and leaning upon it, “I see it.” They scrutinized him with twin looks. 

Hamlet nudged them. “You’re being creepy. This isn’t Flowers in the Attic.”

Guin rolled her eyes as Ross snapped his fingers. “Got it. You work in the library. You charged me seventy bucks on late fees last semester.”

“Well, it’s the policy.” Horatio shifted with discomfort. “It wasn’t personal.”

“Not cool, man.”

“Guin’s the smart one,” Hamlet faux whispered to Horatio.

Ross flipped him off.

Horatio looked between them all and nodded. “I see.” He hovered for a moment before taking a step back and grabbing a black backpack from the floor. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he said politely.

“Where are you going?” Hamlet asked.

“Work.” Horatio smiled at them then hurried out, averting his eyes when he passed Bernardo, who was chewing on his fingernails, and the gun at his hip.

“You are incapable of being normal, aren’t you?” Hamlet asked flatly.

Later that night, once the twins had left and Bernardo had gone off to find somewhere to stake out, Hamlet was left alone. The room was dark as he lay down on his unmade bed, staring up at the ceiling. His mind was the most like a maelstrom at moments like those, and the urge to make a second trip to the bathroom, razors in his pocket, was stronger than ever. He often felt suffocated by people, but he was suffocated by himself too when he was alone, and this was somehow worse.

He sat up when he heard a key in the lock. But it was only Horatio, who flipped on the switch and froze when he saw Hamlet was in bed. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Hamlet shook his head. “No. Just thinking. It’s the prime time for it.”

“Ah.” Horatio gave him a nervous smile and set his bag down at the foot of his bed. He seemed unsure and uncomfortable. Hamlet wondered what they’d told him, if they’d told him anything, and he felt abruptly horribly guilty for him. 

“What’s in the box?” he asked as Horatio began to heft it up.

“Just books,” he replied as he hoisted them onto the top shelf of their shared closet with a grunt. He came out of the closet and smiled vaguely. “I’m an English major. It’s a right of passage.”

“What do you think of Homer?”

“Homer?” Horatio shrugged. “I like him.”

Hamlet smiled genuinely. A man could only spend so much time around philistines before he started to go a little batty. “A man after my own heart.”

Horatio laughed, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Are you a classics major, then?”

“Along with philosophy. How’d you figure?”

“Just taking a guess.” Horatio rifled around in his suitcase and grabbed a set of clothes. 

“I’m sorry about Ross and Guin,” Hamlet said. “They spend so much time with each other that they forget what normal people are like.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” Horatio replied quickly, shaking his head. “Really. They seemed nice.”

“You’d be the first and only person to apply that word to them.”

Hamlet couldn’t quite tell by the low light, but Horatio seemed to be smiling as he said, “Maybe I just have a mistaken first impression.”

“Oh no, you didn’t, you’re either just far too nice or a filthy liar. Which is it?” Oddly excited, Hamlet leaned forward, holding onto his ankles.

He was right, Horatio was definitely smiling. “I suppose you’ll just have to see.”

“I suppose I will.”

Horatio laughed again, shook his head, and quickly left the room, his head low. Hamlet watched him go and thought: huh.

———

The Dane family’s pool was heated.

Ophelia lay flat on her back, floating and staring up at the high, vaulted ceiling. Every inch of the walls up to the ceiling were windows, allowing those inside to see out and those outside to see in. Her brother had always scoffed at it and called it a garish display of wealth, and maybe it was because he remembered the years before their father met Hamlet Sr. while she didn’t, but Ophelia had always liked the grand frivolity of the Danes. There was something regal about every single one of them, even Hamlet, who dressed simply in blacks and grays all year round. 

Her limbs were pleasantly aching from an hour of swimming laps and she was, even still, out of breath. It made her feel proud and as clean as a whistle. She hummed to herself and let her eyes slip shut. She wondered if she could fall asleep here—if she’d sink to the bottom—or if her body would wake her first. 

“What are you doing?”

She opened her eyes and saw Hamlet standing at the edge of the pool. He looked tired, like he hadn’t been sleeping, but that was par for the course. Today, however, there was something distinctly different about him. Some switch within him had been flipped, perhaps. His clothes were also, she noticed, rumpled, like he’d slept in them. She knew she ought to have been jealous, but instead she found herself imagining Hamlet with someone else, his long fingers gripping some other girl’s wrist, his little pink mouth upon someone else’s. He would be very nice to watch in the act, she thought. Very nice to draw, too, if she had her brother’s talent for it.

“I’m floating,” she told him.

“Ah.” Hamlet sat down criss-cross-applesauce at the edge of the pool, his hands on his knees. “I hear your brother left us for greener pastures.”

She closed her eyes. Thinking about her brother’s absence made her ache. “He went back to France. He doesn’t like it here.”

“Good to know he has some common sense at least.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Anyone with half a brain cell would hate it here. A gilded cage is still a cage.” She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the anger and passion in his voice. 

“Hmm…” 

“Come here.”

Her eyes flew open and she saw that Hamlet’s expression had turned intense—a very familiar intensity at that. Cautiously, she paddled over to him. Once she reached him, he put his hands on her face and kissed her soundly. She sighed into his mouth—which tasted of cigarettes and mint gum—for one breathless moment before turning her head away, conscious of the cameras in this room. 

“I can’t,” she said. “I promised my dad and my brother that I wouldn’t see any boys.” That I wouldn’t see you.

She didn’t say the words, but Hamlet heard them anyway and rolled his eyes. “They’re not here, are they?” With that, he pulled her back in and kissed her again, deeper this time. One hand was cupping her cheek, the other was holding her waist. Ophelia was conscious of his erratic breathing. She pulled away again and this time swam back from the edge, her desire waning as she looked at him closer. An edge that had not been there before was present now and it made her nervous. He didn’t look drunk or high, but he didn’t exactly look sober, either. She self-consciously wrapped her arms around her torso.

“I can’t,” she repeated firmly. 

Hamlet laughed—a sharp and flat crack like that of a gunshot—and got to his feet, but he didn’t move to walk away from the pool’s edge. Unsettled and uncertain, Ophelia swam to the steps and hurriedly wrapped her towel around herself, both because she was cold and because she thought she could feel Hamlet’s eyes upon her.

She had almost made it to the door before she heard a whistle and turned instinctively. Hamlet was still standing at the pool’s edge fully dressed—peacoat and boots and all—but now he was facing her. He gave her the two fingered salute before falling backwards into the water with a loud, deafening crash.

She didn’t stick around to see him resurface.

———

“And how’s your friend?” Horatio’s mom asked. In the background, he could hear the sounds of traffic and people talking. She must’ve been taking her daily commute to work. 

“Oh, he’s…fine,” Horatio lied as he looked out his open car window at Hamlet’s house. He didn’t need to check his watch to know that Hamlet was running late because he was always running late and had been running late for as long as Horatio had known him. 

“When are you planning on coming home?”

What a question. “A few days, maybe,” he said hesitantly. He had enough saved up sick days for a month, but had told his supervisor that he’d only be gone for four days. That was, evidently, not going to happen now. Two days had already passed, and he could hardly leave Hamlet in this state, nevermind that he’d been asked to stay. 

Annegrette made a sound like she was suppressing a laugh. “Is this friend a girl?”

“What? No! Why would—why would you ask that?” he sputtered, feeling his cheeks go red. 

“If it is, you can say it,” she said sweetly. “I’d love to see you with someone.”

Horatio pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mom, no, he’s not a girl. We’re friends. His dad just died and he’s having a hard time.”

She hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Well, I’m not here to police your decisions—I know you’re an adult—but remember to be smart. You’re still very young, and even smart people can do very stupid things.”

“I will.”

“Good.” 

“I have to go now. Goodbye, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you too. Make good choices.”

He hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there for before the door swung open and Hamlet launched himself into the passenger seat with aplomb.

“What happened?”

Horatio shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. “Nothing. My mom called.” He sighed as he shifted the car into drive. “She thinks I’m down here shirking my responsibilities for a girl.”

He expected Hamlet to laugh, but his face fell instead. “And instead you’re here for me and my mess. God, Horatio, I’m sorry.”

“I’m happy to be here and help you,” he said quickly. It was true. There was no place he’d rather be.

Hamlet smiled weakly at him. He’d changed his clothes, but exhaustion still hung on him like seaweed. He looked himself over in the visor mirror before jolting forward and beginning to rifle around in Horatio’s glovebox. After a moment, he retrieved what Horatio had known he was looking for: a pack of gum. He popped a piece in his mouth then offered one to Horatio, an offer he declined. He didn’t like gum, but he knew Hamlet did, he just always forgot to buy it himself, so Horatio had taken to putting packs in his car and in the apartment for him. Sometimes, he wondered if Hamlet knew that he did it since he never ate the gum himself, but if he did, he didn’t show it. 

Horatio drove them to a diner called Yorick’s that Hamlet wanted to go to. It was a small place but very clean. The floors were checkered pink and white and cleaned until they shone; the walls were lined with signed photos of celebrities of all sorts—Marilyn Monroe, Ronald Regean, Priscilla and Elvis Presley—and in the corner was an authentic 50s jukebox, but when Horatio went to take a closer look, Hamlet shook his head.

“It doesn’t work. They won’t get it fixed, though. Something about maintaining the historical atmosphere.” He rolled his eyes and sat down without being seated. Horatio wasn’t sure if this was policy or just Hamlet being Hamlet. Cautiously, he sat down across from him.

When their waitress came over—a brunette with a name tag reading Erin— Hamlet ordered a pot of coffee for them to share, a pitcher of cream, and an omelet for himself. At a loss, Horatio ordered a BLT with a quiet thanks. He sometimes couldn’t help but wish he had Hamlet’s assurance. 

“So,” Horatio said, deciding to slowly broach the subject, “about last night…”

Hamlet didn’t look up at him and instead kept his gaze on the packets of sweetener that he was stacking. 

“I can’t have them suspecting anything,” was all he said, gingerly placing a packet of stevia atop the sugars.

Horatio thought for a moment, weighing his words, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off by Hamlet.

“There’s no way.”

Horatio, alarmed, followed Hamlet’s gaze out the window. A green BMW had pulled into the parking lot, a very familiar car. And, sure enough, Ross and Guin climbed out a moment later. Horatio watched Guin point out Horatio’s parked car.

“Those motherfuckers,” Hamlet muttered angrily. “Goddamnit.”

“What are they doing here?” Horatio asked, tearing his gaze from the twins to Hamlet. “I thought they were in Spain.”

“They’re supposed to be.” Hamlet bit down on his lower lip in concentration. “My mother and Claudius must’ve called them to babysit me.”

“Should we…try to leave?” Ross and Guin still hadn’t made their way inside but were instead conferring by their garish car.

Hamlet shook his head. “No. If Claudius told them to watch me, they’ll find me. Jesus. Not very subtle are they?” As he spoke, they began to walk towards the restaurant. 

A moment later, the bell over the door rang and the twins walked in. Hamlet ducked his head as Horatio debated turning around to get a look, when—in bad, obviously fake tones of surprise—Ross said, walking over, “Oh, shit! Hamlet!”

Hamlet straightened up and plastered on a fake smile. “Ross, Guin. What are you doing here? I thought you were in Spain.”

 A tense beat of silence. Horatio couldn’t help wondering who had thought they were good enough to be spies for anyone, much less someone as astute as Hamlet. They clearly had not anticipated him remembering this and were scrambling for a decent response. He almost felt bad for them.

“Spain wasn’t that great,” Guin finally said. “We missed home. And look who we ran into!”

“What a coincidence,” said Hamlet coolly. “I thought you hated the food here.”

The twins exchanged a glance.

“We saw Horatio’s car and thought he was probably here with you,” Ross said.

Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “Gray Camrys are pretty common, don’t you think?” Another long, tense moment of silence ensued that set Horatio’s hair on end. Hamlet stared down the twins, eyes cold—then, he laughed and the moment passed. “I’m just messing with you. Sit! The more the merrier.”

The twins’ relief was palpable as they sat down, Ross next to Hamlet, Guin next to Horatio. Horatio folded his hands and smiled tightly at them.

“I’m surprised to see you,” Ross said amiably enough. “I figured you’d have work in the city.”

“I mean, if you two could make it all the way from Europe, I could certainly make it from Brooklyn,” Horatio replied. Hamlet smiled widely and tapped his foot under the table.

“Congrats on your mom’s wedding,” Guin said pointedly. “We wanted to come, but it was so close to Christmas and all.”

“It made for a great gift,” Hamlet said easily, adding another sugar packet to his tower. “A new Dad under the tree to replace the dead one.”

Ross coughed as Erin the waitress came back with their food.

The brunch was easily one of the most awkward of Horatio’s life. He was more than grateful when it finally ended and they all trooped back to their cars. 

“Let’s see a movie sometime,” Hamlet said. 

“Sure,” Guin said. “What movie—?”

“We’ll see what strikes our fancy when it strikes,” Hamlet interjected before getting into the passenger seat. Horatio waved at the twins before getting into the car as well.

“Those two have got to be the world’s worst liars,” Hamlet said, shaking his head.

Horatio glanced through the rear view mirror at them. They were watching the car and talking. He looked back at Hamlet. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. Keep an eye on them for now. I don’t trust them.”

“That’s probably wise.”

“Do you think they…” He trailed off. 

“Do I think they… what?”  

“Nevermind.” Hamlet shook his head as if shaking off the thought. “Come on, let’s go literally anywhere else.”

Horatio nodded and put the key in the ignition.

———

“See!” Polonius said, pointing to the footage on the security camera. Ophelia turned her face away to avoid rewatching Hamlet fall backwards into the water. Never before had Hamlet scared her, never before had he made her feel uncomfortable, but in that moment, all she had wanted to do was get away.

“I see,” Claudius agreed, clasping his hands behind his back. He turned his gaze on Ophelia: outwardly warm but with no small amount of scrutiny. 

Turning back to the footage, Hamlet emerged from the water and lay flat on his back. He was talking to himself, and it took Ophelia a moment to realize that he wasn’t just talking inanely: he was reciting something. He had always had a captivating reading voice, and she found herself leaning in to hear him better.

“You can doubt that the stars are fire;

You can doubt that the earth moves;

You can even doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt my love.”

As one, both her father and Claudius turned to look at her. Ophelia regretted bitterly telling her father what had happened; she wasn’t even sure why she had other than that she’d run into him on her way out and that she was frightened beyond relief, that terrible look on Hamlet’s face burned into her mind.

“This is what’s wrong with him!” Polonius declared. “It explains everything. He’s in love with Ophelia. It’s why he kissed her, and she was right to turn away, so he threw himself into the water!”

She would’ve liked to point out that the two actions had little to no correlation, at least how she saw it, but she truly just wanted this to be over and done with.

“He has been struggling lately. But of course things have been… changing very rapidly as well…” Claudius frowned and looked back at the security camera footage, leaning in to see better. He remained thus for a moment— coiled like a snake ready to strike, Ophelia thought—before straightening up and turning around. “We’d have to prove it.”

“I’d be willing to stake my career on it,” Polonius declared. Ophelia could imagine the way Laertes would’ve rolled his eyes were he here.

“Yes.” Claudius nodded. “I hate to see him like this.” His gaze went distant for a moment before he snapped back and said kindly, “Ophelia, We truly do appreciate you helping us like this.”

“I just want to see Hamlet doing better.”

“As do We,” Claudius said. “As do We.”

Hamlet didn’t return home until it was nighttime. Ophelia, who had been sitting in the drawing room since seven, was close to falling asleep when she finally heard the front door open. Hamlet walked into the room but didn’t even seem to notice her presence—it was as if she wasn’t there at all. He went right to the drink cart to pour himself a glass of scotch. 

Ophelia cautiously stood up and cleared her throat. Hamlet whirled around, slapping a hand to his chest and exhaling loudly. “Jesus. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She was all too conscious of the camera’s gaze boring into her back. Her father and Polonius were in the control room, watching every second of this exchange. How, she wondered as she looked upon Hamlet, do they stand it, the constant eyes upon them? Although, then again, she supposed God never asked what it was like to observe His creations, did He?

“Shouldn’t you be at home?” asked Hamlet, taking a drink, his long, pale throat bared. She had once licked a stripe up it.

“I was waiting for you. I hoped we could…talk.”

Hamlet narrowed his eyes. “Talk,” he repeated flatly.

Ophelia nodded. This is Hamlet, she reminded herself, the boy she had willfully and gladly given everything to. 

“We can’t see each other anymore,” she said, quickly and bluntly to get it over with.

“Funny.” Hamlet poured more off the top. “I haven’t fucked you since August. Unless you’re confusing me with someone else.”

The sting of her nails digging into the meat of her palms grounded her. “Don’t be cruel,” she whispered. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

She didn’t dare wipe her eyes lest he see, so instead, she turned her face away. 

“I never loved you,” he said suddenly, setting down his glass with a violent thunk. “You were just a warm body.” She closed her eyes, accepting the words as if they were blows. “You were practically throwing yourself at me, what else was I supposed to do?” Somehow, he’d made his way over to her. He brushed her jaw with the tips of his fingers and she flinched. 

He dropped his hand.

“You made me think…” she began before remembering herself, the cameras. 

“Didn’t your brother tell you?” Hamlet sneered. “Men are all pigs. Liars and knaves and less than fleas on rats. You should never trust a single one of us. We only want one thing.” He grabbed her arm. “Never trust a one of us, but I’m sure you know that already. Don’t you, Ophelia?”

Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Then, to her surprise, Hamlet’s grip on her arm loosened. When she chanced a blurry look at him, his face had twisted.

“Where’s your father?” he abruptly asked. Of all the things she’d expected to come out of his mouth, that wasn’t it.

“At home,” she answered quickly, starting to take a step back, but Hamlet gripped her wrist tighter and held her in place. His gaze, she realized with horror, was on the camera behind them.

But he only smiled at her. “Pass along a little message to him for me, won’t you? A little piece of advice, if you will. Tell him that if he wants to ever stop being an insufferable, ass-kissing social climber, he should avoid playing the fool anywhere but IN HIS OWN HOUSE!”  

She had never heard him yell before, and she instinctively cowered away. “Hamlet, please,” she said, “my arm, you’re hurting me—”

“You’re a filthy liar,” he spat, his tone poisonous. “Get out! Get out and stay away from us all if you know what’s good for you!”

Dear God, she thought in horror. How were Claudius and Polonius allowing this? Why hadn’t they come yet? He was gripping her so tightly it hurt.

“Go!” he yelled once more before letting her go. She stumbled back and watched him storm out, slamming the door behind him so hard that it shook on its hinges.

She stood there like a tossed aside rag doll, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wasn’t sure how long she remained there for before she realized that neither Claudius nor her father would be coming in anytime soon. She went over to the window seat and curled up there, her knees pulled up to her chest and her head buried in her knees. She wished to be so small that she could slip through a crack in the floorboards and run away without being seen. She could see it clearly in her mind’s eye, living a life like those of the mice in Cinderella.

The moon rose higher and higher in the sky. She eventually fell asleep right there—missing her brother, missing the Hamlet she thought she’d known, feeling like a fool—beneath the ever watchful eye of the moon.

———

His suit jacket was too tight around the shoulders.

This, Hamlet knew, was his fault. He hadn’t wanted to go to the tailor’s in the first place and so had spent the whole session ignoring said tailor or moving around when he was supposed to be standing still. He hadn’t meant to tune him out and move so much—not that he was losing sleep over it—it was just that being in D.C. made him feel so, so small, like a bug about to be squashed. He could see the shadow of the oncoming shoe but was powerless to stop its descent. This, naturally, set him on edge.

He shrugged his shoulders in another futile attempt to loosen the jacket. He’d been nursing a flute of champagne for about thirty minutes while Ross and Guin ate cocktail shrimp and talked about nothing. Hamlet had long since tuned them out, something he was adept at when it came to them. He wished he could slouch, but his father and mother were making their rounds, and his father was already mad at him. He wasn’t sure what he’d done this time besides breathe, but he was trying to do what would make him happy, which was why he hadn’t snuck out of this whole sordid affair already.

He resisted the urge to drain the flute like a shot. The champagne was flat by now.

“Look,” Ross said, forcing him back into his body by slapping him on the shoulder.

He scowled. “What?”

Hamlet followed Ross’ gaze to the other side of the room. There was old Polonius, already shaking hands and probably babbling about who knew or cared what. Beside him was Laertes, who was Laertes, but beside him, arm in arm, was Ophelia.

Hamlet hadn’t seen her in almost a year—even then, only at a glance—and while it seemed impossible for someone to have changed so much in such a short amount of time, Ophelia had somehow managed it. Gone was the shy, plain teenager he remembered. Sure, she was still plain, but it only added to her appeal and made Hamlet’s stomach flip. The lavender dress she was wearing perfectly complemented her slim frame, and the spaghetti straps showed off her pale, freckled shoulders. 

“You’ll catch flies.” Guin nudged his shoulder. He shot her a look, but couldn’t help looking at Ophelia once more. Desire, deep and potent, coursed through his veins. It was a type of desire he had never felt before for anyone, certainly not for the myriad of girls who had thrown themselves at him over the years, many of which were objectively far prettier than Ophelia. And yet, it was her that he couldn’t look away from, her that had made his stomach go watery.

Perhaps feeling her eyes upon him, Ophelia turned her head and caught sight of him. He raised his glass to her, his chest feeling very tight. She looked away and he drained the flute, grabbing a replacement from a passing waiter’s tray.

A moment later, Hamlet watched as Polonius caught sight of them and began gesticulating.

“Oh shit,” Ross groaned. “Tell me the old bat isn’t coming over here.”

Hamlet was wondering how he could politely get away when he realized that it was only Ophelia and Laertes who were making their way over, obviously at their father’s behest, one looking a lot more pleased about this turn of events than the other.

“The siblings Polonius,” Ross crowed, like the tipsy jack-ass he was. 

“In the flesh,” Laertes said tightly. If there was anyone he hated more than Hamlet, it was probably Ross.

“I thought you were in France,” Guin said, polishing off another cocktail shrimp. It was her tenth. Hamlet had been counting for a lack of any other stimuli. It was depressing the state of these parties—that these people were the ones leading the country spoke to the truly horrible taste of the American people in picking leaders.

“I am. I came to visit for summer. I have an internship on the Hill.”

“How fun,” Hamlet piped up. “So do I.”

Laertes narrowed his eyes and laughed. “Sure you do. You know, I think that’s the first time you’ve said something actually funny.”

He smiled. “That’s nepotism, baby,” and clinked his glass against Laertes. “You’d know all about that, though, wouldn’t you, Laertes? I seem to remember something a few years back about the Law building at Harvard gaining a new wing after a bunch of drunken vandals destroyed Cambridge library’s property…”

Laertes looked like he was seriously contemplating murder when Ophelia cut in. “It’s good to see you, Hamlet,” she said in her soft voice. He must’ve been truly starved for decent conversation—with Horatio in New York, his options were severely limited—if the sound of Ophelia’s voice was getting to him.

“You too.” He let his gaze flicker over her figure before he met her eyes, which were almost amber and the brightest thing he’d seen all evening. “You look beautiful.”

She smiled and flushed, looking down. “Thank you. You look nice, too.”

“I’ll tell you a secret.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “My suit jacket is too tight.”

“Do you mind?” Laertes interjected. 

“No.”

Laertes opened his mouth to speak when Polonius’ voice came from across the room: “Laertes! Yes! Laertes, come here!”

“Jesus,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. In a moment, he was Laertes Polonius II, Harvard Graduate, Sorbonne University Law Student, and First Born Son. 

“Good luck,” Ophelia murmured.

He raised his eyes to heaven before setting off, not without shooting Hamlet one last glare. Unable to help himself, he waved a mocking goodbye in return. Laertes’ eyes flashed, but there was nothing he could do. He was just too easy to rile up sometimes.

Ross touched Hamlet’s arm. “Hey, we’re uh—” he made an unsubtle smoking gesture “—so if you need us, no you don’t.”

He waved them off.

Ophelia bit down on her lower lip to suppress a smile, he thought. “Won’t they get caught? There are cops everywhere.”

“Probably not,” Hamlet reassured her.

“Probably?”

“Well, nothing is certain.” 

“I suppose that’s true,” she agreed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. 

“Let me get you a drink.” He put a hand on the small of her back and began to lead her to the bar across the room.

“What about your champagne?”

He set it down. “It’s flat, anyway. Besides, how else will I get to show you off?”

Ophelia blushed—her complexion did her no favors there, although he found it endearing—and raised an eyebrow at him. To his surprise, she looked shockingly like her brother making such a face. She must’ve learned it from him.

“Am I your arm candy, then?”

“I’m certainly not yours. You’re the beautiful one.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth.” They had reached the bar. The bartender turned to them expectantly. 

“A scotch, neat for myself, and a…?” Hamlet turned to Ophelia.

“A vodka Diet Coke, please,” she said.

“And a vodka Diet Coke for the lady.”

“This’ll be in all the tabloids tomorrow,” Ophelia said, tapping her fingers—French tips—against the oak top of the bar. 

He shrugged, oddly uncaring, although in all honesty, the media stressed him out more than he’d ever admitted to anyone besides Horatio. If he didn’t have class, he often thought he’d be a hermit, but then again, maybe not. He’d get bored.

“So?” he asked. “We’re just old friends catching up, right?”

She nodded. Was it disappointment he thought he saw on her face?

Their drinks arrived. Hamlet looked around the room—no sign of his parents, although his Uncle was in the corner with another Senator, but he wouldn’t care—before turning back to Ophelia. “Do you smoke?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Let’s have a cigarette.”

“Okay.”

He walked her outside to the gardens. The moon was high in the sky and above them were the twinkling, ever dying stars. It had rained earlier and the ground was still a little damp, the smell of rain still in the air. This only made it muggy, but that just gave him an opportunity to shrug off his insufferable jacket.

He lit her a cigarette and then another for himself. Ophelia took a long drag, tilting her head back to exhale the smoke upwards. She was ethereal in the cool moonlight, Diana reborn, and he wondered if she too would turn him into a deer and rip him to shreds for daring to look upon her naked form, because oh he wanted to.

“It’s nice to get away from all that,” she said.

“You’re telling me.”

Ophelia’s gaze was keen. It was surprising, but so many things about her tonight were so.

“I’d never guess it,” she said, taking a drink and leaving behind a pink lipstick stain. “You seem like a natural.”

He snorted. “Trust me, I’m not.”

“You play the part well.”

“So do you.”

“You’d be the only one to say so,” she laughed good-naturedly. “Laertes is the charmer. I’m just the weird tag-along.”

“I like you a lot better than Laertes,” he said quite honestly. “You’re not his weird tag-along.”

Shyly, she asked, “You don’t think so?”

He shook his head.

Ophelia turned her face away, but he caught a hint of a smile. She had a birthmark on the back of her neck. Images of his lips upon that skin flooded to the front of his mind, and with it came other imaginings too.

“Look,” Ophelia said. “There’s a daisy.”

He came over to where she was standing. He could smell her perfume, something vanilla-y. At her feet was one singular daisy growing in the middle of the grass. Without thinking it through all the way, he ducked to pick it, sliding it behind Ophelia’s ear.

He heard her sharp intake of breath. He swallowed and let his hand come down to her cheek, trembling over the soft, pink, freckled skin there.

Ophelia looked up at him from under her eyelashes and he dipped to kiss her, keeping one hand at his side. For a moment, nothing happened, until she threw one arm around his neck and pressed herself against him.

He deepened the kiss, and for the first time that he could ever remember, his mind was quiet. It was just his lips against hers, her smell, her. He dropped the glass of scotch—who cared? Someone would pick it up—and ran his now free hand through her hair. She sighed and moved ever closer.

After another breathless, close minute, they broke apart for air. Ophelia giggled girlishly. Hamlet’s entire mind was screaming a chorus of more more more. He stepped forward to kiss her again when she went, quietly, “Oh!”

He stopped, suddenly uncertain. Was she laughing at him? Had he done something wrong? “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Ophelia was staring at their feet. “My daisy.”

At their feet was the daisy he’d tucked behind her ear. It must’ve dislodged during the kiss and it seemed he’d stepped on it by accident.

“I’ll buy you a hundred daisies,” he vowed. Perhaps he was a little tipsy, but he had truly never felt better. This beat any clarity from the blade or drink or anything. They ought to bottle and sell her for anxiety relief; they’d run Lexapro out of business in a week.

“Really?” asked Ophelia.

“I’ll buy you a thousand.” He kissed her again, his hands on both her cheeks. Ophelia put her arms around his neck, tilting her head up to meet his lips. Even in heels, he was a good bit taller than her.

“Come home with me,” he whispered in her ear.

A sharp intake of breath. “Won’t they notice we’re gone?” she whispered back, although there was no one around to hear.

“Fuck them. We don’t owe them anything.” His father’s disappointed face flickered behind his eyes, but then Ophelia’s breath was hot against his ear and he forgot everyone else on earth. The planet could combust, but if only he and Ophelia were to remain untouched, he would never care.

There was a long beat of silence. Then: “Yes,” Ophelia said, taking his hand. “Yes. I want to go back to your place.”

He kissed her again, and when they at last got to his apartment, she was lovelier than he could have ever imagined. 

He fell asleep, his head upon her chest, and did not dream. It was his first night of uninterrupted sleep since he’d left New York two weeks prior.

Something was beeping.

It took Horatio a second to get his bearings and another to realize that it was his phone that was going off. The clock on the nightstand blinked 2:59 at him in big, glowing red numbers. There was only one person who’d call him at such an hour. He reached over to grab the phone.

“Hello?”

“Shit, did I wake you?” Hamlet asked. Horatio, who was well-attuned to the many little hints that betrayed Hamlet’s erratic moods, immediately picked up on the slightly manic note in his voice. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“It’s alright.”

“That’s a yes.”

“Are you okay?”

A long beat of silence. He supposed that, given the circumstances, it was a stupid question. Of course Hamlet wasn’t okay. Who would be?

“Do you think I’m bad?” Hamlet suddenly asked. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Horatio was taken aback by the question. “What? Of course you’re not.”

“But how do you know?” he insisted. “I mean, I know I’m an asshole, and I can be a prick, but am I… bad?”

Unease, which had become all too familiar these past few days, coiled in Horatio’s stomach. “What brought this about?” he ventured, and he couldn’t help wondering if he wanted to know. It felt keenly like a betrayal.

Hamlet made a noise that could very well have been either a laugh or a sob. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” He sniffed—so he was crying. “I’ve asked so much of you.”

“Ask anything.”

Hamlet sighed. “Sometimes, I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

Horatio felt his heart drop. “…Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Neither spoke. Horatio could hear all his blood rushing to his ears. He let his head fall against the headboard and closed his eyes. He still hadn’t put his glasses on, but the room was dark and there didn’t seem to be a reason to. 

“Pick me up.”

Horatio hesitated. “Now?”

“I can’t be here,” Hamlet said. “I can’t… stay here, under the same roof as him.” Horatio heard the clink of a glass on wood, which begged the question: how drunk, exactly, was he?

Horatio was already getting up. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Hamlet’s relief was palpable. “Thank you. My good angel.”

The beat of Horatio’s heart stuttered, as it often did for so many reasons related to Hamlet. “I’ll be there,” he promised before hanging up and beginning to put on his shoes.

Hamlet was already sitting on the curb when Horatio pulled up to the house. He’d hardly stopped the car before Hamlet was throwing himself into the passenger seat. He smelled of smoke and his hair was tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it. Horatio had to resist the urge to grab Hamlet’s arm and pull up his sleeve, just to see the damage he’d wrought on himself. The not knowing was almost as bad as the knowing.

“I climbed out my window,” Hamlet said. “I felt so badass. But the point is Marcellus doesn’t know I’m not asleep.”

Horatio looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “And what happens when he decides to check?”

“I’m a troubled young man,” was all Hamlet said in an affected voice. 

They ended up just driving to a nearby 711. Horatio—the one without the recognizable face—went in and bought them food and drinks. Back at the car, he handed the bag to Hamlet. He picked out a bag of goldfish and a Coke.

“You should’ve got booze,” he said as he took a drink of the already sweating Coke.

“I don’t have my ID,” Horatio lied.

Hamlet laughed. “You’ve never once driven anywhere without a license. You’re too scared to get pulled over and arrested or something. Can’t lie to me, buddy. I know you too well.” His words were slurred and his movements large.

Horatio rolled his eyes. “Okay. Fine. I think you’re drunk enough.”

“You’d be too if you were me.” Hamlet slumped down—rather puerilely—in his seat. “This whole situation is so intensely fucked.”

“When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

“The night before my dad died.” He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been seeing him in my sleep.”

Horatio shuddered. “I’m worried about you.”

“You know what they say. One of the first signs of understanding is the wish to die,” he said in the voice Horatio knew as his Quoting Voice, a rather uncreative—albeit accurate—term coined by Guin.

The night seemed to grow ever colder. Horatio sucked in a breath, unable to think of anything else besides the wish to die.

“That was Kafka,” Hamlet provided when he didn’t respond.

“I know,” Horatio answered wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose as Hamlet watched, although Horatio was unsure if it was with amusement or solicitude.

After a minute, he asked in a small voice, “Can I be honest?”

“Please.” Hamlet turned to look at him, the look in his eyes raw. “You’re the only one who ever is.”

Horatio swallowed. “I don’t think you should do it.”

Hamlet stiffened. “You mean…?”

Horatio regretted the way Hamlet’s body had gone taught as a wire, the way his mouth was pressed into a firm line. But he had to say it. Someone needed to be the voice of reason here—he was used to it being him. 

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Don’t kill him.”

For a minute, Hamlet said nothing. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Horatio found himself wondering what exactly was going on inside his head. He took a long drag and finally said—coldly, flatly—“It’s my father. I wouldn’t expect you to get it. It’s not like you ever really had one.”

Hamlet could be cruel. Horatio knew this. He’d seen that cruelty, his brutal tongue in action, as true a shot as any. But he’d never seen that cruelty directed at him before, and all he could do was blink as he absorbed the words.

Then, he got out of the car and walked back inside the store.

He stood in the snacks aisle—staring down the chips, crackers, and chocolate covered pretzels—and didn’t move. His father had died of cancer when he was very young, a long, drawn out death that had ended with his mother being left both to raise four young children alone and to manage hundreds of thousands of dollars in hospital bills. Horatio, being only seven at the time, remembered just enough of his father to miss him desperately and just too little to not understand what fathers were supposed to be like. It was an old wound, but no less acute for this, and the fact that Hamlet had spoken the words made them as terrible as bullets.

He’s grieving, he reminded himself. It’s not his fault. I shouldn’t have pushed.

When he went back outside, Hamlet was hovering like an anxious bee by the car. He immediately made his way over to Horatio, already apologizing. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“It’s okay,” Horatio said gently. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t my place.”

Hamlet shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. First Ophelia, now you…”

“What happened with Ophelia?”

He winced. “Don’t ask. I was awful to her.”

“You’re going through a lot right now. Anyone would lash out.”

“You’re the best person I know,” Hamlet blurted out.

“I—”

“I’m not flattering you or anything. I mean, no offense, but you’re too poor to be worth flattering—” Horatio bristled and watched as Hamlet’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d said “—wait, that sounds bad, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I just mean I have nothing to gain from buttering you up. I’m saying this because I mean it.” He put his hands on Horatio’s shoulders. Horatio wondered if he was dreaming. He ought to stop Hamlet—he was awfully drunk—but then he was talking, his words slurred and running into one another as he spoke, and he didn’t get the chance to so much as open his mouth.

“You’re my best friend. You are the only honest person I know, and you’re good, and I—Jesus, I don’t know, I’m just so glad you’re here. You make me believe in God, because someone had to have sent you to me.”

He’s drunk, Horatio reminded himself. Snowflakes were dusting his cheeks, though, and he was so incredibly beautiful, and Horatio wished for so many impossible things.

“You’re my best friend too,” was all he said once he thought he could speak. 

“So you don’t hate me forever?”

“I couldn’t.”

Hamlet made a wet noise. Horatio put a hand on his elbow. “Let’s go back to the car. It’s freezing out here.”

“This is why they call you the smart one,” Hamlet joked, nodding his head. “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s.”

———

When Hamlet was younger, the teachers at his ritzy private school told his parents he was an effusive child, which was their polite, PC way of saying he was a spaz.

He flip flopped between the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, which his father blamed on him not having enough problems and his mother on him not being stimulated enough. In a way, she wasn’t wrong: he was restless—bored and restless. But even the piles of books and movies she (the school mental health counselor) plied onto him weren’t enough. His mind was always turning upon itself, bolting from one idea to the next faster than even he could catch up to, sometimes. 

He’d thought moving to a city like New York would help. There was always someplace to go or see, something to do. So far, two years in, that had not happened. Instead of counteracting his perennial restlessness, it had exacerbated it. Suddenly, he was flooded with things to do—without his parents physically around—and it created an odd sense of drowning in opportunities, which meant that he ended up spending most of his time in his dorm or the library where it was quiet and his options were limited.

He ran his fingers over the spines of the books in the way someone would caress a beloved pet. Books had been his first friends, and, he sometimes thought, the only ones he’d ever have. Ross and Guin, he could never forget, were paid to spend as much time with him as they did, which put a damper on any deep connection they could’ve built. Not that he wanted to with the likes of them. Christ. He had standards. But besides them, his options were limited. Laertes had a stick up his ass and his little sister was nice enough but shy. The last time he’d actually attempted to talk to her—last year, she’d been fifteen, he’d been eighteen—she’d flushed and given only monosyllabic replies. 

He grabbed a book off the shelf and skimmed it. It was in Russian. He didn’t read Russian. He tucked it under his arm and headed for the librarian’s desk. At least it’d keep him occupied.

He was surprised for a split second when he saw Horatio sitting behind the desk, reading, but then again, he shouldn’t have been. He knew Horatio worked here, he’d just temporarily forgotten. Hamlet watched him for a minute. The term had only just started and he’d seen very little of his new roommate. Hamlet wondered if he was really that busy or if his presence was just such a deterrent that he was contriving ways to stay away.

He walked up to the desk and set the book down. Horatio looked up and blinked. “Oh, hello,” he said. “What are you doing here?” He immediately cringed in embarrassment. “God, I’m sorry, that was a stupid question.” He got up and put a bookmark—a receipt by the look of it—between the pages of his book to hold his place.

Hamlet ignored this and craned his head to read the book’s cover. “Salinger,” he said.

Horatio paused, the Russian book in his hand. “Beg pardon?”

Hamlet cracked a smile at that. Beg pardon. If someone in D.C. had said that, he’d hate them forever just on principle. But this wasn’t D.C., and Horatio hadn’t sounded like he was trying to sound smart. It had just come out.

“You’re reading Salinger.”

Horatio looked down at the cover of his book as if to confirm. “Yes. I am.”

“Class or pleasure?”

“It’s for my American Lit class.”

“English major, right?”

“Yes,” said Horatio, seeming surprised that he’d remembered this. “You’re a classics and philosophy double major, right?”

“Unfortunately for the departments.”

He laughed. “Someone as smart as you? I doubt that.”

“Sure, I can crank out a damn good essay, but they do still have to deal with me.” He shrugged self-consciously. “They’ll get over it.” They might not have all liked him, although plenty did, but they sure loved his father’s money. Saying that to Horatio—in his old, beat up Oxfords—seemed like it’d be in poor taste, though. So maybe he wanted Horatio to like him. Sue him.

Horatio shook his head and handed him back the book. “You have two weeks to return it. After that, every day it’s late we add a two dollar fee.”

Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “This was what Ross was whining about? Two dollars?”

Horatio briefly looked at him then away. “It adds up.” Before Hamlet could kick himself for somehow managing to fuck up this conversation without even trying, Horatio stamped the inside cover. “This—” pointing to the date in red “—is when it needs to be back by.”

“Thanks.” He tucked the book under his arm. He and Horatio looked at each other. Something was making a clinking noise, but it was only Horatio, drumming his nails against the sides of his empty ceramic coffee mug with the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s logo on the side.

“Nice mug,” he said lamely. 

“Thank you.” Horatio removed his hand. “I found it in the staff room. It’s not mine.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need help with anything else, or…?”

“No, no, sorry.” Hamlet waved and quickly left, cursing when he saw that it had started to sprinkle. He shoved the stupid book under his coat and ducked his head against the rain, but it was no use. It picked up quickly and by the time he got back to his dorm, it was pouring and he was soaked.

He didn’t even bother to shower. He—uncaring if he got sick or not—lay down on his bed. He was oddly frustrated for no reason he could discern. Perhaps he was lonely. 

Eventually, he managed to get up to shower, but the minute he was dressed and dry again, he crawled into bed. He slept for he didn’t know how long, and when he woke up, it was half past two a.m. Horatio was asleep, his breathing even. Hamlet scowled petulantly at him and went to the common room when he paused. In the communal fridge was a small plate of Chinese food: egg rolls, fried rice, and beef and broccoli. Stuck to the container with tape was a note with his name on it, written in Horatio’s neat hand. It read:

Hamlet,

I think I might have come across as rude earlier, and for that, I am very sorry. Not that it is any excuse, but I was having a stressful day and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. It has been eating (haha get it) at me all day. I asked your friends the twins what you liked as a peace offering. They said Chinese and told me this was your order. I didn’t want to wake you, so I left it here. I’m sorry it’s not hot and for not being as polite as I should have been. 

Yours,

Horatio B.

(PS: I’m sorry too for the bad pun.)

Hamlet stared at the note and sat down hard at the table, oddly touched. It was the stupidest, kindest thing anyone had ever done for him. For once, reading it again, he even felt oddly calmed. 

He folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. 

———

I found that note, you know. After you were gone, I found it in the box where you kept your letters from Ophelia. You kept my stupid, guilty note. Why did you? More importantly: why can’t I ask you any of the things I want to ask you? Why is this stupid note getting the better of me? Why aren’t you here? Why why why? My entire life has become one big why since you left.

I wonder if you even remember you had it. If you even remember I wrote it at all.

Sometimes, I think I remember far too much.

———

To Horatio’s surprise, they did end up going to the movies with Ross and Guin after all. In fact, Hamlet was the one who brought it back up. After Horatio drove him back to the house just as dawn was cresting the horizon, Hamlet had told him to get some sleep because they were going out tonight. Horatio had simply nodded, too tired to argue. He got back to his hotel and slept for twelve hours straight until Hamlet called him and told him he’d be there in an hour and a half to pick him up.

Although Horatio had grilled him in the car, Hamlet had given only vague, half-answers. He was alone for once, sans security. Horatio assumed it was because they’d be with Ross and Guin, who’d be watching Hamlet like a hawk. 

“Trust me,” was all Hamlet said as they pulled up to an old theater in the arts district that looked like it had seen better days. Ross and Guin were already waiting, talking seriously, before they saw the car and twin fake smiles alit their faces. 

“So, what?” Ross asked as they bought snacks. He looked skeptical. “Is this some indie thing?”

At least, Horatio thought, they know less than I do.  

It didn’t comfort him.

“Something like that,” said Hamlet. He was in rare form today. Gone was the malcontent, grieved Hamlet of the night before. Now, he was whistling a jaunty tune and rocking back on his heels, one arm slung carelessly across Horatio’s shoulders. He was so close that Horatio could smell the cologne he wore, something rich and French. It was all very casual, something that would have been only too normal two months before. But that was then. And despite how much Horatio longed to bask in the normalcy of this, it was setting off alarm bells in his head. He wished Hamlet had told him something. He wished he’d had the guts to push.

The twins exchanged a look.

“Is it true that twins can read each other’s minds?” Hamlet asked cheerily. He was fiddling with a stray piece of thread on the shoulder of Horatio’s coat, a very simple act that was doing very detrimental things to his ability to focus.

Guin snorted. “I can’t read the mind of someone who doesn’t have one.”

“Fuck you,” Ross shot back, shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Suck a dick.”

Guin blew him a mocking kiss.

As they bickered, Hamlet tapped Horatio’s cheek and whispered into his ear, his mouth very, very close to the skin there, “I need you to keep an eye on them. I’m going to pull a little disappearing act, but I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Horatio asked, swallowing. He really should be better than this, but every time he saw Hamlet it was like it was the very first time all over again, and he was as helpless to him now as he had been to him then.

“I’ll tell you later. I promise.” 

He shook his head. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he warned in a low voice.

Hamlet winked at him. “You’re the angel here, not me.”

They made their way inside the theater and sat. They were close to the door, and Horatio wondered again what Hamlet was thinking. He glanced at him, but Hamlet didn’t seem antsy. He seemed relaxed. If anything, he looked eager. He shot Horatio a smile that made his stomach twist itself into little knots. 

Ross and Guin looked dubious as the film began, and for once, Horatio had to agree with them. This was the last showing of an indie film by a group who called themselves The Players. Twenty minutes in, he knew why they were the only ones sitting in the theater besides the teenage couple getting handsy in the back. It was perhaps the worst thing he’d ever laid eyes on. 

About twenty minutes in, Hamlet nudged his foot and slipped out the exit. Ross and Guin were none the wiser, too busy surreptitiously on their phones to notice. Horatio slyly peered down at Guin’s phone and saw that they were texting each other.

He HAS to be fucking with us, Guin typed.

idfk but im gonna blow my brains out, Ross answered.

Horatio shifted away and glanced back at the exit. What the hell was Hamlet doing? Did he even want to know? I’ll tell you later was all well and good when later came, but for now, Horatio was near to crawling out of his skin from anxiety. He was hit with an unexpected wave of longing for New York, for his bed, for his mom and sisters, for a world where he knew what to expect and where the things that lurked in the shadows stayed there.

Five minutes passed. 

“Where’d Hamlet go?” Guin whispered to him, finally noticing his absence.

“The bathroom,” Horatio replied coolly. “He’ll be right back.”

Another five minutes.

“Long bathroom break,” Guin said faux-casually.

Far above them, one of the teenagers kicked the back of the chair in front of them and made a very inappropriate sound.

Ross wolf-whistled and Guin rolled her eyes. 

Another three minutes. 

Horatio himself was beginning to get nervous, and both the twins were looking at him narrowly. They might not have been the sharpest knives in the drawer, but they weren’t complete idiots. They could tell that something was up. Horatio’s heart was pounding erratically. He had no idea what to do because he had no idea what was going on. Who knew where Hamlet was, what he was doing, when he’d be back. Horatio wasn’t a miracle worker, despite what Hamlet seemed to think of him. He was just a poor liar.

“Do you want me to go look for him?” he offered weakly.

“Nah,” Ross said, heaving himself up. “I’ll go.”

“Go where?”

Horatio almost sobbed with relief. Hamlet threw himself into his seat next to Horatio, one eyebrow arched. It was a look that had made fools of people much smarter than Ross and Guin. 

“Uh,” Ross said, taken aback, looking to Guin for a cue, but she seemed as nonplussed as he was.

“I told them you were in the bathroom,” Horatio said.

“Long line,” Hamlet replied, kicking his feet up. He sighed happily as he looked back at the screen. “Ah, the wonders of modern American cinema.”

“So,” Horatio said in the car once Ross and Guin had gone, “what happened?” He had been intending to snap and accuse him—he was a person with feelings too, and was it so much to ask for a little explanation?—but once they were alone, all the fight simply drained out of him. He never could stay mad at Hamlet for very long, even when he knew had the right to be— should be even. He tapped his fingers against the wheel. He preferred to drive and Hamlet preferred the passenger seat. It worked. Simbiosis. 

“I know how I’m going to find out if Claudius is really guilty,” Hamlet said. “Our new friends The Players were in the projector’s room and they are very easily bought.” He laughed. “God bless student loans.”

Ignoring this, Horatio pressed. “What do terrible filmmakers from Los Angeles have to do with your uncle?”

“On Friday, we’re going to present a little film. Look at me! Coming out of my beleaguered shell.” Hamlet laughed joyously, sounding like an eager little boy even as he took a drag from his cigarette.

Horatio held up a hand. “Hold on. You hired a group of filmmakers to make a film to present in two days?”

“No one said it had to be good.”  

“I still don’t get it.”

“You’ll see,” Hamlet promised, taking Horatio by surprise by grabbing his hand and interlacing their fingers. “I’m going to make everything right again. You’ll see.” He looked fresh and clear-eyed, like the Hamlet Horatio remembered, fresh off a victory of some kind, full of confidence, sure in his belief that nothing could topple him and that the world was a place of wonder and opportunity.

Horatio looked down at their interlocked hands before he met Hamlet’s eyes. 

I could walk away, a voice whispered to him. It’s not too late. He could go home to his mother and sisters, to his life in New York. He could go back to work and to his comfortable routine, let Hamlet clean up his own mess for once. Whatever happened, he could shrug and say I did what I could. The fault would not lie with him.

But that would require letting go of Hamlet’s hand.

Slowly, Horatio smiled back at him, and Hamlet positively beamed.  

Horatio felt very out of place, and despite himself, he couldn’t quit pulling on the jacket of his suit. Well, really, Hamlet’s suit. He hadn’t packed one, and since he and Hamlet were about the same size, Hamlet had lent him one for tonight. The suit was a little tight on him and a little short, but Hamlet had reassured him that no one would notice. Horatio hoped that this was true, even though it wouldn’t change the fact that he was the interloper here, the outsider who didn’t belong in this world of finery.

It was only a small dinner, or at least that’s what Hamlet had said. It didn’t look so small to Horatio, but he supposed Claudius and Gertrude were trying to show off Hamlet’s supposed upswing, so that made sense. Look! they seemed to be saying by all this spectacle, he’s being creative again! Sponsoring the arts! Horatio couldn’t shake the thought that this was the true beginning of something bad. Maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was intuition. He never could quite discern the two. Either way, he knew something was going to happen tonight. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. So, he stuck to the outskirts and nursed his champagne.

Once the dinner was done—medium rare steak, asparagus, potatoes, salad, and fresh baked rolls with cheesecake and raspberry ice cream for dessert—they all trekked to the screening room because of course they had a screening room. Almost no one had spoken to him. Hamlet introduced him broadly as his friend from New York, a fellow scholar at Columbia. He’d been asked where he was from. He said Brooklyn. No one asked him any more questions. In his borrowed suit and Goodwill Oxfords, there was no reason to. He was no one of importance, fit to be ignored once the demands of propriety had been met. He had thought he was past that shame after years of studying at Columbia, a scholarship student who worked two jobs—and had once worked three—but it never stopped stinging like a slap to the face. Hamlet cared for him, but he would never understand what it was like to struggle as he had, and he felt an odd burst of anger at Hamlet, and at himself for being so stupid as to come to this snake pit. But then Hamlet’s hand was on his wrist and he was whispering in his ear, 

“Keep an eye on Claudius for me.” He smiled brightly, and Horatio could never hate him. Every careless slight was nothing to Hamlet and nothing to him. He loved him so terribly. 

He nodded at Hamlet and smiled. “I will.”

Hamlet grinned and squeezed his wrist before slipping off. Horatio watched him put an arm around Ophelia, watched her startle and lean away from him. She was not pretty and not the kind of girl who would ever turn heads, but there was something about her, even he could admit. Her honey-colored eyes flitted around the room and met Horatio’s own for a second before she turned back to Hamlet.

Horatio took a long drink from the flute of champagne in his hand. When in Rome.

———

Hamlet’s smile was easy as he slung his arm around Ophelia’s shoulders. She was frightened of him. She remembered how he had scared her and she would need to have only pulled up her sleeve to see the bruises that still mangled her wrist from how tightly he had held her. Yet, despite this, she wanted him, too. He was the sun and she was a pitiful moth, drawn to the flame, a being drawn to its own destruction. She would burn herself up. She would be clean from the inside out, burned with his fire. 

“You look gorgeous,” Hamlet whispered to her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, despite everyone watching. His fingertips trembled over the skin of her neck.

She stiffened, at war with herself. She almost wanted to cry, conviction gone. She was a scared little girl. She wanted her brother to fix things like he always had, she wanted her father to hug her and comfort her, she wanted the man before her to be gentle as he had been before. But she was alone. Still, she cast her eyes around the room, looking for a familiar face, a lifeline. She met the eyes of Hamlet’s friend from New York, a tall, gangly fellow with light brown hair and glasses. His eyes—a dark brown, like two blackened moons—met her own. She thought, strangely, I know you, and it scared her, so she looked away.

“Where are you sitting?” Hamlet asked her.

“I don’t know,” she replied uneasily. He was so close and she felt so crowded and frightened. She wanted to scream. Won’t somebody help me?

Hamlet’s smile was a wolf’s smile. “Perhaps my spot could be in your lap.”

She balked. Hamlet grinned and led her to a seat. He sat next to her, as giddy as a child, but she smelled no liquor on his breath. No, for the first time since his father had died, he was sober. Sober as a saint. 

“You seem happy,” she said slowly, feeling her father’s and Claudius’ eyes upon her, gazes searching and keen. What were they searching for? She didn’t know. She wished to disappear beneath the floorboards. Around her, senators and representatives and bigshots chatted and sat. The amateur filmmakers were standing by the flatscreen, bouncing with excitement. Ross and Guin were among the last to trail into the room, arm in arm, pressed against one another, a little army. Hamlet’s friend sat down far in the back where no one was, alone. 

“It’s a glorious day,” Hamlet replied. “It’s a wonderful life! Why should a man not be happy? Life is short, so so short.” Something dark flickered over his face, but then it was gone, and he was throwing an arm out. “Look, my mother is happy too while my father died two hours ago. Why shouldn’t I be happy too?”

She frowned. What was wrong with him? “No,” she said softly, “it has been two months, Hamlet.” She almost reached out to touch him, but then he laughed loudly as if he’d never heard something so funny in his life.

“Two months!” he repeated, slapping his knee. “You know what they say. Time is a wheel. Ouroboros. That snake sure loves to eat his own tail.”

She wondered: had he lost his mind? 

“Hamlet—” she began, but he cut her off.

“Shh. It’s starting.” And sure enough, the lights began to dim.

The film was, plainly, bad. The directing was shoddy and the actors were wooden. “It’s called The Mousetrap,” Hamlet whispered to her. Ophelia struggled to keep track of the plot. It was a short film, she knew, but it seemed as if it was supposed to be part of a much longer film. The scene—in a garden—had no set up. There were three actors, two men and a woman.

There seemed to be an affair going on between the first man and woman, then the woman’s husband—the King to her Queen—came out and they pledged loyalty to each other. She had thought Hamlet had better taste than this. It almost concerned her more than the other things. Hamlet the snob had patronized this?

Hamlet turned around in his seat. “Mother, what do you think?”

Gertrude’s face was impassive. “I think the lady complains too much,” she said evenly. Her knuckles, though, were white.

“Oh, but she’ll keep her word,” Hamlet said with the weight of a vow before he turned back around to the screen.

The player Queen’s affair partner crept in the background as the Royals talked and poured some powder into a glass before sneaking off, like something out of a bad skit. The Queen left and the King went to sit at the bench, picking up the poisoned glass and drinking deeply. He had only just begun to tip over, dramatically groaning and rolling his eyes, when—to her surprise—Claudius jumped up and yelled, “Lights! Get the lights, damnit!” 

“Lights!” her father echoed.

“What?” Hamlet asked Claudius coolly. Ophelia shrank away from him. His words were as sharp as a knife, as cold as ice, and his eyes were flat and dead. 

Claudius spared him hardly a glance before storming out. Getrude remained rooted to her spot, hands clenched, her throat bobbing. Ophelia looked back at the screen then at Hamlet, but he was not looking at her. His eyes were on the now lighted corner where his friend sat. Ophelia watched him— Horatio, she remembered, that’s his name: Horatio— nod once.

Oh, she realized with a jolt. She felt very cold. She got to her feet, her hands pressed to her chest. Hamlet turned to look at her, eyes cold, one eyebrow raised. 

She hurried out quickly, making her way to their car. She didn’t care that her father wasn’t with her. “Take me home,” she told their driver, her voice not wavering. He did as she said without a word. On the drive over, she tried twice to call Laertes, but each time, it went to voicemail. Hey, this is Laertes Polonius. Text me if it’s important. Don’t bother to leave a voicemail. I won’t listen to it and I’ll get back to you when I get back to you.

She texted him, her entire body shaking like a leaf. Laertes, please call me. Please. I need you.

Once she was home, she locked the door and ripped her letters from Hamlet to shreds before she flushed them down the toilet. It was clogged. That was fine. She would unplug it in the morning. She called her brother again. He did not answer. She was a girl alone, frightened. 

When—three hours later—there came a knock at the door, she answered it, still dressed in her dinner clothes, and a part of her was unsurprised at what they told her. Hadn’t Hamlet told her to go if she knew what was good for her? Hadn’t her brother warned her?

It was as if something within her sprouted wings and took flight. She was tired of being afraid, and now, she no longer was. Finally, the bad thing had happened. It was over. There was nothing more to be scared of. 

She smiled serenely at the man standing on the doorstep and shut the door in his face. 

———

A biting wind was blowing off the Potomac and into Horatio’s motel room through the slightly cracked window.

He was lying in bed, struggling to sleep. Before Hamlet had gone off to see his mother, he’d told Horatio to go back to his hotel, so he had, unsure what else to do. He was still in shock. This entire time, a part of him had thought that the thing wearing Hamlet Sr.’s face was simply some natural phenomena, that it was all nonsense, that Hamlet was just angry and grieving and looking for a target, that it would not come to this—but he wasn’t a fool. He had seen Claudius’ reaction, had seen the horror in his eyes. God help them, it was all true.

Horatio tried not to think about any of it. Hamlet killing him simply didn’t seem possible. There had to be concrete proof, proof they could take to the cops. This was madness. He was trying to work out a way to tell Hamlet this—hours after the house had emptied and the moon was high in the sky—when he heard a knock at the door.

Horatio checked his phone, but Hamlet hadn’t texted him. The knocks came again, harder this time. Hurriedly, Horatio turned on the bedside lamp and went to open the door. But it wasn’t Hamlet standing on the other side.

“Marcellus?”

Marcellus’ face was pale. “You gotta come with me,” he said, looking queasy.

“Why?” Horatio asked. There was a beat. “Where’s Hamlet?” 

Marcellus averted his eyes. Horatio’s stomach dropped to his feet. No, he thought, reaching out to grab the doorframe. No. He wouldn’t. Not so soon. But he was thinking of the Hamlet he remembered. This one was different. Who knew what he’d do? 

“Marcellus,” he said slowly, “what happened?”

Marcellus heaved a great sigh. “Grab a coat,” he said. “Come on.” When Horatio didn’t move, he said, “You don’t have a choice here, man. I’m sorry.”

Silently, Horatio went to grab a coat. This was not a battle to pick, nor was it—whatever it was—one he could win. As he followed Marcellus out to the car, snow falling all around them, he thought of his family in New York. They couldn’t afford trouble. What would happen to them? The worst part was that he wasn’t even sure what was currently happening in the first place. Marcellus was quieter than Horatio had ever seen him, smoking as he drove, lips pressed into a firm line. Horatio didn’t speak either as he tried to stay calm. He was trying to think of some way to explain this to the police, but to his surprise, they pulled up to the Hamlet family home through a backroad Horatio didn’t know existed.

He craned his head, eyes widening. “Jesus,” he said, squinting to see better, “are those police cars?”

“News, too,” Marcellus said, parking the car in the garage and getting out, leaving Horatio with no choice but to scramble to follow. News? Police?

Hamlet, what have you done?

Marcellus walked him up two flights of stairs to a closed door. He knocked and a voice called, “Come in.”

Horatio’s relief to see Claudius standing at the desk was immeasurable. He wasn’t dead. Hamlet hadn’t done it. But the relief was short-lived. If he wasn’t being hauled in as an accessory to murder, why was he here? Where was Hamlet? Why were the police and the news out front?

“Sit, please,” Claudius said. He looked vaguely like Hamlet, Hamlet as if seen through a prism, but older, and his hair was dark like his brother’s and shot through with gray. As Horatio remembered, he was the younger of the two Dane brothers. He sat down.

“Sir,” he said.

“Can I get you a drink?” Claudius asked, already pouring him a glass. It didn’t seem like an offer, so Horatio nodded. Claudius took a sip of scotch and exhaled, long and hard. “We’ve never met,” he said, “but I’m Claudius.”

“Horatio Bauer, sir.” He stuck out his hand, which Claudius took. His grip was as firm as a vice.

“You’re Our son Hamlet’s friend. Yes, I remember seeing you at dinner.” He took another rueful drink. “What a show.”

“Hamlet has always enjoyed the arts,” Horatio replied, his unease growing. He swallowed hard. Did he dare ask? 

As if sensing his thoughts, Claudus sat down and said, “I imagine you are curious as to why We’ve called you here. I’m sorry to have woken you, young man, but it really was very important.”

Horatio shook his head. “I wasn’t asleep.” He took a fortifying drink of the glass. “What…What did Hamlet…” He couldn’t find the words.

Claudius’ gaze turned surprisingly keen. It was cold and calculating, missing nothing. Horatio had seen the look before—he’d seen it in Hamlet’s eyes. The knife in his heart twisted painfully. 

“You don’t know,” Claudius said, a statement, not a question.

No, sir, I thought your murder was the reason I was called here.

“No, Sir.”

Claudius took another drink. “Senator Polonius is dead.” He set the glass down. “Hamlet killed him.”

The glass fell out of Horatio’s hand, shattering upon impact with the floor. Marcellus, standing in the corner, flinched, turning his face away. Claudius simply watched him, but Horatio did not speak. He couldn’t believe it. He refused to. Polonius? Sure, Hamlet had disliked him, but what reason did he have to kill him? No, no, there had to be some mistake. He was grieving, lost, but he was no cold blooded killer. There had to be something they were missing. But when he tried to articulate this, all that came out was a stunned, choking noise. He put a hand to his mouth.

No one spoke until Horatio managed, his voice breaking, “I don’t understand.”

Claudius’ face became suddenly warm, the uncle that Hamlet had told him stories about. “Poor boy,” he said. “I know this must be a dreadful shock. We all are beside ourselves. To think Hamlet would do such a thing…” He shook his head mournfully. 

“How do you know it was him?” Horatio rasped, clutching the arms of the chair he sat in as if—if he loosened his grip even a fraction—he would fade away.

“My wife witnessed it.”

Horatio bent forward, putting his head in his hands. He knew he needed to try to get a grip, but he couldn’t think of anything other than Hamlet. Hamlet. The Hamlet he had held while he cried, the Hamlet who had recited Plato to him while drunk and spinning in the street, the Hamlet who had asked him only a few days prior if he was bad with such fear in his voice.

“How?”

“He stabbed him.” Claudius gave him another sad look. “His mother says it was an accident, and I am sure she is right. Hamlet is not in his…right mind. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

But Horatio couldn’t speak. Stabbing was such a violent way to do it. So gruesome. And the blood…

He jolted when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it was only Claudius. “Take however much time you need, son,” he said gently, “and I will send someone for your things.” He patted his shoulder twice and then was gone, the door shutting softly behind him.

“Dear God,” Horatio gasped. His entire body was shaking. “Dear God.”

This can’t be happening.

“How long ago?” he rasped. When Marcellus said nothing, Horatio forced himself to look up and meet his gaze. “How long?”

Marcellus averted his eyes. “A few hours.”

“They have to be mistaken. He wouldn’t…He couldn’t…” Horatio dug the heels of his hands into his eyes before he forced himself to stand. “I have to see him.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? You dragged me here!”

“Keep your voice down,” Marcellus hissed, grabbing his arm and nodding at the camera in the room’s corner. “Do you think they’re not listening?”

“I don’t care if they are,” Horatio shot back. It wasn’t even posture. He was beyond the point of caring. His mind was whirling, going over everything—there had to be a reasonable explanation, Hamlet would never, at least not without good reason—when he stopped.

“Why did he say he’d send someone for my things?” 

Marcellus looked away, saying nothing.

“Marcellus,” Horatio said, “why did he say that?”

“They…they want you here. Under their roof. To…keep an eye on you.”

Horatio took a step back. He couldn’t get enough air. “Oh. I get it. I’m your leverage.” If this wasn’t the worst situation imaginable, he might have been flattered about that fact, but as it was, it made him want to fall to his knees and weep.

“I need your phone too,” Marcellus said contritely.

“You’re going to tap it, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry.”

Horatio leaned against the wall, his head in his hands. He had stopped crying, at least, but he felt hollowed out. He wanted to see Hamlet. Better yet, he wanted to know what they would do with him. Surely they wouldn’t send him to jail? But he didn’t know. He was a fish out of water, a man in a strange land where he didn’t understand the customs nor speak the language.

Wordlessly, he handed his phone to Marcellus, who pocketed it, looking like he’d been hit very hard.

“It isn’t that bad,” he said, obviously trying to be reassuring. 

“Oh God,” Horatio said in horror as the gravity of the situation hit him all over again like a punch to the stomach. “What am I going to tell my family? My work? I’ll lose my job.”

“I’m sure they’ll work something out…”

He sobbed as the tears came once more, now out of fear rather than horror.

“Come on…Please, don’t cry…” Marcellus flapped his hands awkwardly. “Look, come on, you don’t want to cry here. I’ll take you to your room.”

Horatio straightened up and numbly followed Marcellus to the room that would be his. He didn’t even really look at it as he sat down hard on the edge of the bed and covered his face. His eyes burned painfully.

Marcellus coughed. “It’ll be okay, man.” Then, he was gone, the lock on the door clicking behind him, and Horatio was alone.

End of Part One

It was January 9, the time was 11:38 a.m., and Laertes Polonius I was dead of internal bleeding at fifty-six.

His only son, Laertes II, sat in his bedroom, over 3,000 miles away. His sort-of girlfriend Emma, who he had met at a dive bar in Monte Carlo, was sitting on the floor, scribbling in a notebook in bright red ink. She was wearing nothing but a lacy black thong and an over-sized Harvard rowing team shirt that had once belonged to Laertes. He thought she looked unfairly hot in it.

“Come back to bed,” he cajoled, unwilling to get up and actually cajole her but hoping his words would do the trick. He was exhausted. They’d been out at a series of bars from nine at night to five in the morning. He would have slept longer except that Emma had practically catapulted out of bed half an hour earlier, scrambling for a pen and muttering about prophetic dreams. Laertes’ roommate Derek—a German expatriate who spoke fluent English and about four words of French—said she was a coke head. He thought she was just an English major.

“Shh,” she hushed him, not looking up from her notebook. “I’m working.”

“On what?” he scoffed.

“My novel,” she replied dismissively. “You’re distracting me.” She briefly looked up to throw his boxers, abandoned on the floor, to him. “Make me breakfast.”

Food did sound good, he had to admit. He reluctantly began to pull the boxers on, followed by a wife-beater. “What sounds good?” He looked at himself in the mirror and resolved to shower next. He just looked hungover. Maybe he’d make them bloody Marys, he thought. He’d knock on Derek’s bedroom door and see if he wanted one too.

But Emma didn’t respond. Laertes huffed and shuffled to the kitchen, thankful that one of them had had the foresight to close the blinds last night. Earlier this morning? He didn’t know. He opened the fridge and wrinkled his nose. They desperately needed to go for groceries. He thought longingly of Suzanna, the cook his father hired at home. For once, he missed her. Normally, taking her food made him uncomfortable. His best guess for why this was was that it was a result of the years they’d spent in poverty before their father got elected. Garish displays of wealth always made him want to shrink into himself.

Which was ironic, because he’d gone to Harvard and was living in a townhouse in Paris. 

But he didn’t like to think about home. It made him miss his sister more than he already did. His father too, on his better days.

He had just begun to rifle around in the pantry when a guy he didn’t know stumbled out of Derek’s room. His blonde hair was a mess and he had a blooming bruise on his collarbone. He gave Laertes a nod and confidently strolled out, sunglasses already on. Laertes rolled his eyes and grabbed a half baguette from the bread box that was only a little stale.

“Nobody does the walk of shame when they leave me,” Derek said as he came into the room. He looked fresh and well-rested, somehow. He peered around the corner to the staircase. “Where’s Nuts?”

“Emma’s writing something,” Laertes answered, slathering his piece of baguette in raspberry jam. “Inspiration struck.”

“Inspiration,” Derek laughed. “Inspiration, my ass.” He very conspicuously rubbed his nose and sniffed.

Laertes rolled his eyes, knocking Derek’s shoulder with his own before taking a bite. 

“We need to go shopping,” he said around a mouthful of bread.

“Make a list.” Derek ripped off a chunk and put it in his mouth. He grimaced and quickly set the rest back down. “No food,” he said decisively. He grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge and strolled into the living room. Emma forgotten, Laertes followed, sitting down on the couch beside him. 

When Derek turned on the TV, it was showing the news. He frowned as he pressed unmute. “Isn’t that your dad?” 

Laertes’ stomach plummeted as he took in what the lady was saying. She was French, a correspondent to D.C., and she was so calm— so fucking calm as she explained the implosion of his life as he knew it—that he wanted to hit something just to watch it break.

“Fuck me,” Derek said, shocked. “Laertes—” He reached for him, but Laertes flinched so hard he toppled off the couch, hitting the floor hard. He scrambled to his feet as the stupid lady continued, going on that not only was he dead, but murdered. 

Laertes saw red, and he didn’t fully realize what he’d done until he was cursing in pain from the glass embedded in his knuckles, the TV silent and shattered on the floor. Derek gaped at him in stunned shock.

“What is with all that noise—what the fuck?” Emma stopped short in the doorway before taking a step back and beginning to yell. “What is wrong with you?! The TV! That’s going to be hell to replace—”

“Shut the hell up, Emma,” Derek snapped, going over to Laertes and crouching beside him. “Let me see your hand.”

Laertes flinched away. His mind was a hurricane, his body was thrumming with rage. “Those fuckers, I’m going to kill them, I’m going to…” He faltered. Ophelia. He was on his feet in a second, taking the stairs three at a time, thinking no no no please God anything but this.

He found his phone in the pocket of his jeans, close to dead but not quite. He let out a strangled scream when he saw the missed messages— Laertes, please call me. Please. I need you— and phone calls. 

He called her, no response. He called again. Still no response. He threw his phone across the room and began to sob, dry-heaving from the effort. 

“Laertes,” Derek was saying from somewhere beside him as Emma stood in the hall, watching all this with a mixture of unease and terror on her face. “Laertes, breathe.”

“My sister,” he sobbed. “Ophelia.”

“They didn’t say her name,” Derek reassured him. “She’s fine!” He pulled his phone out, typed rapidly, and showed an article to Laertes. His relief was immeasurable when he read Senator Polonius is survived by his two children, Laertes Polonius II (25) and Ophelia Polonius (21).

However, the minute the relief seeped away, the rage returned, and he jumped to his feet. He didn’t even feel the pain in his hand. “Those fucking—!” He was so angry that he could not speak. They hadn’t told him. Those useless bastards, born with silver spoons shoved up their asses, hadn’t even bothered to tell him that his father was dead, much less murdered. Claudius had assured him that he’d take care of everything, but here they were: his father was murdered and they hadn’t even bothered to tell him. He’d found out from the news, hours later.

“I have to go,” he said, pulling his suitcase down from the top of the closet—sending stacked crap plummeting to the floor after it—and throwing clothes in haphazardly. “I have to get to D.C.”

“Woah, woah,” Derek said, “buddy, pal, Laertes, you need to breathe—”

“You need to bandage your hand,” Emma added, now standing in the doorway instead of the hall. “It’s still bleeding.”

He shut the suitcase and went to the attached bathroom, his because he paid more of the rent. He grabbed a roll of ace bandage from the drawer and—very badly—wrapped his hand. But he didn’t care. This was for efficiency. He could get his hand properly wrapped later, once he was in D.C. and Claudius had answered for this.

He wouldn’t heed reason. He couldn’t.

He was on the first flight he could get from Paris to the D.C. International Airport two hours later.

———

Horatio didn’t sleep that first night at the Dane’s. Instead, he spent it going over every inch of the room with a fine-tooth comb, pacing, and debating if he could survive a three-story drop. In the end, he found nothing he could use to pick locks—not that he knew how to do that—succeeded only in driving himself to another panic attack, and decided that no, he could not survive such a fall, at least not without sustaining any serious damage.

He was lying on the bed, a pillow covering his face, when the door opened. He jumped up, but it was only Marcellus, holding a breakfast tray with a decadent spread: a pot of coffee, a pitcher of cream, a dish of sugar, two fried eggs, two pieces of toast with sides of butter and jam, and a bowl of fresh cut strawberries. The sight of the food made Horatio nauseous, and he turned his face away.

Making sure to shut and lock the door behind him, Marcellus set the tray down on the desk and pulled Horatio’s phone from his pocket. “Here,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. 

Good, Horatio thought with a degree of satisfaction that surprised him. He should feel guilty.

When he said nothing, nor did he move to take the phone, Marcellus cleared his throat. “If you want to call your family, you can…I just have to be here.” He cringed saying the words.

Horatio shook his head. “I’m not going to call them. What would I even say? How could I possibly even begin to go about explaining this?”

“Come on, man,” Marcellus pleaded, “this isn’t my fault. I’m just doing my job.”

“Tell me, do you make a practice of kidnapping people? How many others have you said that to?”

Marcellus flinched. “I don’t kidnap people—”

“—Hold them against their will, then, if you want to be pedantic.”

“I don’t know what that word means, but keep your damn voice down,” he hissed. “They have cameras in here.”

“What are they going to do?” Horatio asked. He had no idea where this bout of bravery was coming from. Hamlet would be proud. “I’m already trapped here!”

“It isn’t that bad,” Marcellus said, pretending as if Horatio hadn’t spoken at all. He sounded as if he were reciting a sales pitch. “Look. There’s a phone here that connects right to the kitchen. Anything you want, anytime of day. And the bed has massagers, the bathroom has—”

“Do you hear yourself?!” Horatio snapped, his voice rising in a panicked, angry pitch. “What planet do you live on?!”

Marcellus exhaled, long and hard. He sat down. “I’m doing my best here,” he said quietly. “Tell me how to help.”

“I want to leave.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Alright. Then I want to see Hamlet.” He held his breath, digging his nails into the meat of his palm.

Marcellus bit down on his lower lip and said, in nary more than a whisper—it was only then that Horatio realized his back was to the room’s sole camera— “He’s gone. They’re sending him to some psych ward in LA. The twins are escorting him, and Bernardo is driving. They left this morning.”

The words were as powerful and as painful as bullets. Horatio inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Did he…did he ask to see me?”

Marcellus nodded. “But they said no.”

“Does he know I’m here?”

“I don’t know.”

Horatio removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Please,” he begged, all anger gone and replaced with only rabid desperation, “please, let me go home. He’s not here anymore! Why can’t I go home?”

“They’re scared you’ll go after him.”

“There are a million psych wards in LA!”

“Are you saying if you knew which one he was going to, you wouldn’t go after him?”

Horatio had nothing to say to that. They both knew that, if he said no, it would be a lie.

“I’m really sorry, Horatio,” said Marcellus, and he sounded sincere—sincere and desperate. Clearly this had been weighing on his conscience. In a rush, Horatio felt awful for ever feeling spiteful towards him. This wasn’t his fault. He was only doing his job. His own neck was on the line here as well.

“It’s not your fault. But can’t I know anything? Can I have a newspaper, at least?”

“I’ll ask.” 

“Thank you,” he sighed, knowing that was the best he’d get.

Marcellus heaved himself to his feet. “Eat. It’s good as hell, and you’re gonna be here a while.” He clapped Horatio on the shoulder and left.

Once he was gone, Horatio almost regretted not calling his mom. Who knew when someone would come in again? He was all alone. Were they trying to crack him, he wondered? But what was there to crack? He didn’t know anything about Polonius’ death, and he doubted anyone would jump to ghosts as an explanation for Hamlet’s recent erraticness. 

He made himself eat a little of the food because he knew he needed to, and he drank three cups of coffee. It did not make him feel less exhausted. Perhaps nothing would. His exhaustion was of the bone deep variety. 

That done, he peeked out the window once more and took a step back in surprise: snow had begun to fall in torrents, leaving the entire lawn covered in layers of white, like frosting on a wedding cake. He gaped—even growing up in New York, he had never seen so much snow in his life—but had to quickly close the curtains when a man with a camera jumped out from behind a bush to take a snapshot. 

Once recovered from the shock, (was this really what Hamlet had dealt with for so long?) he fell into bed as the tears began to fall—helpless, angry tears that he couldn’t keep at bay no matter how he tried. How had things become like this? How had he ended up here?

Although, then again, that was a foolish question. He knew. Of course he knew.

———

Hamlet whistled to himself, his hands in his pockets, as made his way back to the dorms. He’d managed to evade Marcellus, and for the first time in he didn’t know how long, he was alone. Truly alone. He sighed contentedly and kept up his whistling, now to the tune of ‘Vienna’ by Billy Joel. The temperature had dropped suddenly earlier that week, although it had yet to start snowing yet and most likely would not for some time. It was barely October, anyway—much too early for snow. 

He was not dressed for the cold—he’d lost his coat…somewhere, with his gloves in the pockets, but he didn’t mind. The air seemed to blow right through him to his very bones, the chill it caused reminding him that he was alive. For better or for worse, he was alive. He’d have liked to blame these morbid thoughts on alcohol, but he was nowhere near drunk. He was just depressed, probably.

He unlocked the door to his dorm and found Horatio sitting on the floor—headphones in—making flash cards, a furrow between his brows. Hamlet nudged his foot and he jolted, taking out his earbuds.

“Woah,” Hamlet said, raising his hands, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Horatio shook his head. “It’s alright. Sorry.” He looked around the room. “I thought you went out with the twins?”

“I did,” he replied, throwing himself down on the floor beside Horatio. “But then I ditched them.”

“Won’t they wonder where you went?”

“Maybe they’ll think I got kidnapped. That’d be interesting.”

Horatio shook his head, disbelieving but undeniably amused, too. “I’m afraid I’m not doing anything very interesting. I’m studying for stats.”

“What are you taking stats for? I thought you were an English major.”

Horatio sighed. “I know, I am. But for some reason, it’s a requirement for a humanities’ degree, so here I am.” He waved a hand, encompassing the arranged flashcards.

“So here you are,” Hamlet agreed, picking up one of the flash cards and turning it over to look at. It was a formula for finding the Z-score. He put it down and stretched out his legs. “How long have you been at it for?”

“Since I got off work—” glancing down at his watch “—three hours ago.”

His course decided, Hamlet got to his feet. “Let’s get food. I’m starved. Positively withering away here.”

Horatio blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Hamlet nodded at the door. “Let’s get something to eat. The formulas will still be here when you get back, and I don’t want to be here when Marcellus notices I’m gone.” He didn’t think it was so wrong to occasionally want to pretend he was someone else, that his life was another’s, and if it was, then he didn’t care about being right. Sometimes, he even wished someone would go on and assassinate him already. 

But not tonight.

A part of him expected Horatio to say no, but he nodded and stood, putting the flash cards into a neat pile and placing them upon his desk before he grabbed a worn tweed coat from his side of the closet and put it on. With that, they headed out. 

“Aren’t you cold?” Horatio asked after a few minutes of walking in silence, or as silent as the city allowed, which was not very.

“I like the cold,” Hamlet replied easily. “This guy I know used to tell me I should’ve been a proper Albino because I look the part and have ice running through my veins.” Fucking Laertes. Prick.

Horatio’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Oh.”

Realizing he had made a misstep, Hamlet shrugged. “It’s fine. He wasn’t wrong.”

“You don’t seem so coldblooded to me,” said Horatio quietly. Hamlet turned to look at him and he flushed a deep red, looking down at his feet. 

“I dare say you don’t know me as well as he does,” he responded, smiling despite himself. 

“I’m a good judge of character.”

He raised an eyebrow, excited by this. “Oh? Is that hubris or truth?”

Horatio grinned back at him, only a little blush remaining in his cheeks. “I suppose you’ll just have to see.”

Hamlet laughed, cheered up. He couldn’t believe he’d ever entertained the idea of staying at that stupid party. 

After a few more blocks, he grabbed Horatio’s arm and directed him into the restaurant he liked. He liked it for the plain fact that it was a small place, so no one harassed him or even recognized him. A lot of college kids passed through here, many of whom had famous parents. He was just one of many. He’d never been part of The Masses before. It was fun, like trying on shoes you knew you weren’t going to buy.

Horatio sat down across from him and began looking through the menu, frowning slightly but saying nothing. When their waitress came over to take their drinks, Hamlet ordered a pot of coffee for them to share.

“So,” he said, “what are you thinking of?”

“Um.”

Oh wait, he thought. Shit.

“Get whatever you want,” he reassured him. “My treat.”

Horatio’s shoulders stiffened and he gave him an odd look that he could not read, but after a moment, he nodded and said, quietly, “Thank you.”

Relieved, Hamlet nodded back. “I’m starving too.” He ran his thumb over the edge of the table. “So, do you do anything but work and study? I never see you with anyone.”

“I go out sometimes,” said Horatio, affronted. “I’m just busy. I’m not used to being liked.”

“Me neither.”

That made Horatio laugh. “Come on.”

“I’m serious.”

“Who wouldn’t like you?”

“They like my family’s money and influence. They don’t like me.”

“I can think of worse things to be liked for.”

Hamlet shrugged self-consciously. He honestly could not decide if Horatio liked him or not, and he perhaps ought to stop caring, but he wanted him to like him. He was out of practice in the art of making friends, but there was something about Horatio that made him want nothing more than to know him better. 

“I’m sorry,” Horatio suddenly spoke up. “That was rude.”

“Don’t worry about it. But I did mean what I said. They think I’m a basket case. Mad Cassandra, eyes rolling, raving like a lunatic.”

“Cassandra had the gift of prophecy,” Horatio pointed out. 

“But no one listened to her. No one listens to me either.”

Horatio seemed to be giving his words real thought, something that made Hamlet sit up a little straighter. It was not a glaring, frightful attention, but rather something careful. Horatio was regarding his words— him —as something of worth, something to be gentle with.

It was an attention Hamlet didn’t know what to do with, but he wanted to bask in the warmth of it all the same.

“I’d imagine that’s lonely,” Horatio finally said softly.

“I’m used to being lonely. I’ve been lonely all my life.”

“But the twins—?”

“My parents pay them to babysit me,” he admitted, trying to play it off with a laugh, but failing—he was sure—spectacularly.

Horatio’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Jesus. That’s—Christ. And they told you?”

“They weren’t supposed to, but Ross is a chatty drunk, and a complete idiot, so…No, I mean it. I know smarter turnips.”

Horatio shook his head. “Still. I’m sorry.”

The waitress came back with their drinks to take their food orders. Hamlet ordered what he always did: a cheeseburger and fries. Horatio got the club sandwich, thanking the waitress twice before she left.

Hamlet began emptying packets of sugar into his coffee, enjoying the sound the spoon made as it hit the sides of the mug.

“I never know what to do when people like me,” Horatio said out of the blue. Hamlet looked up, watching him closely. Horatio’s throat bobbed. “I guess I mostly just hope they eventually leave me alone.”

“And if they don’t?”

Horatio gave him a slight, half-smile. “I don’t know. It hasn’t really happened yet.”

Hamlet grinned and nudged Horatio’s foot under the table. “We should go to the movies after this.”

And so they did, talking about anything and everything on the way. Hamlet had never met someone so happy to listen as Horatio, so content to bear his inane ramblings and diversions. Even once they were in the theater—which was completely empty—they couldn’t stop talking, and eventually just left halfway through. Hamlet lit a cigarette for himself and Horatio as they returned to campus.

Back at his dorm, Marcellus was pacing with his head in his hands while Ross slept on Hamlet’s bed and Guin played Candy Crush on her phone. She saw them enter first and said, “Found him.”

Marcellus swirled around and sighed in relief. “Oh fuck. Jesus. Are you trying to get me fired?”

Hamlet ignored this and punched Ross in the arm. “Get up,” he said, shaking his shoulder. “You’re in my bed.”

Ross grumbled, so Hamlet smacked him with the pillow. Horatio laughed as Ross sat up, muttering something about being late. His eyes were red and bleary.

“Dude, I was asleep.”

“Yeah, in my bed.”

“You weren’t using it.”

“Well, I’m alive now,” Hamlet said, shooing them from the room, “so you all can rest easy. Yes, yes, I’ll never do it again, on my honor, goodbye, goodnight,” and with that, he shut the door firmly in their faces, leaving just him and Horatio alone.

Horatio laughed quietly to himself and ran a hand through his hair. “That was fun,” he said.

“It was,” Hamlet agreed. “I’ll have to drag you from studying more often.”

Horatio snorted. “You hardly dragged me, you know.”

“Shh, let a man dream.” 

“Alright,” Horatio agreed, nodding, a little smile on his face. “As you like.”

———

The flight to D.C. was delayed seven hours by a snowstorm that was wracking the North-East. Laertes, who had already boarded the damn plane only to be escorted right back out ten minutes later, was furious, but there was nothing to be done but glare at the weather reports on his phone. If he was the superstitious sort, (which he was not) he might have considered this some sort of divine retribution. Whether directed at him or Claudius, he wasn’t sure. 

As he simmered, paced, and silently raged, only one thought provided him with even a modicum of comfort: if he couldn’t get into D.C., they all would have a hell of a time getting out.

He managed a fitful, nightmare filled nap before they were finally permitted to board. He spent the entire flight staring at the tracker, willing it to move faster, remembering the last time he’d seen his father, trying not to think of Ophelia: where she might be, how she was. He had tried many times to call her, but she had never answered, which made him even more desperate to get back home. What had he been thinking, leaving? It had been a stupid, childish attempt to maintain his agency, like he’d ever had it. He had been—was still—a colossal idiot.

It was only ten p.m. when the plane at last landed, but Laertes—running on Central European time—felt it keenly. It would have been four a.m. in Paris. Were it not for his adrenaline keeping him going, he was sure he would have collapsed from nerves and exhaustion. But no. He had made a promise to himself—and he supposed, to the ghost of his dead father—that he would not let himself stop until he had seen Ophelia, at the very least.

The cab ride home was short, and he hardly looked at the twenty he thrust at the driver before he was jumping out of the car and practically running to the apartment, taking the stairs up the three flights instead of the elevator. He dropped his sole suitcase to the ground and scrambled to unlock the door, thinking all the while please. He didn’t know what he was asking for.

He found Ophelia sitting curled up in a ball on the balcony, wearing nothing but a little black party dress. Her cheeks were stained with dried mascara that had run, and her hair hung in loose ringlets around her face. He sucked in a breath. For a second, he was frozen, before he regained control of himself enough to drop to his knees next to her.

“Ophelia?” he whispered.

She turned to look at him, eyes bloodshot and rimmed red. “It’s snowing,” she said simply. Her cheeks were flushed, and when he touched her hand, he flinched back. She was burning up. 

“Jesus, what are you doing out here?” He got to his feet and grabbed her wrists to pull her up with him, but she resisted, shaking her head and yanking her arms back.

“I want to see the sunrise,” she said plainly.

He blinked at her. “It’s the middle of the night. The sun won’t be up for hours. You’re going to get sick sitting out here.” Sicker, he silently corrected himself. She looked awful. He was hit once again with a wave of guilt over his failure. He had been an idiot to trust Claudius that he’d take care of things. Not when Ophelia was already so fragile. He crouched back down. “Daisy-flower—” the nickname had slipped out, and that was just another thing that made him want to cry and kick and hit walls “—come on. You gotta get inside.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself and rested her chin atop her knees. She looked up at him from under her lashes as tears welled in her eyes. “I want to go home,” she whispered. 

Something deep within Laertes cracked in half. “You are home,” he assured her, taking her burning hands in his and clutching them. She was already a slip of a thing, a girl made of dandelion fuzz, and he was scared, so scared that she’d simply float away if he let go. He had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep his tears at bay. He needed to be the strong one, but how could he be with Ophelia like this?

Ophelia gave him an impossibly sad look, as if she grasped something he could only hope to understand, but that time, she let him pull her to her feet. When she swayed, he put an arm around her shoulders to keep her upright. 

“Let’s get you into something warm,” he said, guiding her to her room and turning on the light, but when Ophelia winced and buried her face in his shoulder, he swiftly turned it back off, plunging them into a darkness only held at bay by the little glow in the dark stars that he’d put up on her ceiling for her thirteenth birthday. It was an endeavor that had taken him hours and almost ended with a broken bone as he narrowly avoided falling off the ladder he was using, but she’d loved them so much that the whole effort had been more than worth it. He hadn’t pasted a north star up there, he noticed. Perhaps he should have.

Ophelia clung to him, shivering violently now that she was out of the cold. He pulled a pair of warm, fleece pajamas from the drawer of her dresser and handed them to her. After a beat where she simply turned the clothes over in her hands like she didn’t know what to do with them, she began to pull her dress over her head. He turned away in an effort to give her some privacy. His anger had ebbed away and now all that was left was fear and the wish to sleep.

He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. He thought that, perhaps, if he just stayed very still for a minute and did not move, everything would right itself again. He’d be back in France, their father would be alive, Ophelia would be fine—hell, Hamlet Sr. would still be alive. 

Ophelia managed to get the pajamas on, but he had to button the top up for her. The act thrust him back into childhood, when he had cooked for her, bathed her, read her to sleep, walked her to school, forged their father’s signature on permission slips, raised her until he was eleven and their fortunes changed. But it had been a cruel fucking trick, he saw now. Because there they were, back to that time: him helping her get dressed and taking care of her when she was sick.

This done, he led her to the bathroom and wiped her face with a damp cloth. Ophelia’s breathing was ragged, and halfway through—when he turned to wet the cloth again—she clutched his wrist, nails digging into his skin, and said, “You can’t go, Laertes. You have to stay here.”

He paused. “What?”

She shook her head, wild-eyed, and said, emphatically, “You have to stay here. Promise me. Promise!” She was shaking, and her face was turning a blotchy, bright red.

“Okay, okay,” he hurried to assure her. As he watched her, a new fear was curling in his stomach. He crouched down before her and wiped her eyes carefully. He took a breath to rally himself and spoke in a low tone of voice. “Did he hurt you?” 

Ophelia frowned. “Did who?”

“Hamlet.” He held his breath. 

She shrugged.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Don’t curse.” Her voice was surprisingly stern, but a minute later, her lower lip was wobbling and she was blinking rapidly to keep her tears at bay.

Anger thrummed within him. “I’ll make them all pay for this,” he promised. “I swear. I’ll make it right—”

“No!” Ophelia screeched, sending him stumbling back onto his ass in shock. She shook her head. “No, no, no! You can’t! You can’t!” Then, she burst into sobs.

Laertes could bear no more. “Alright, that’s it. I’m taking you to a hospital. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No! You can’t! Please, don’t make me.” 

“You feel like you’re on fire, you’re talking fucking crazy—”

“I have to stay here,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have to stay here. Tomorrow morning, I’ll go.”

“Ophelia, please.”  

“Tomorrow,” she repeated.

He didn’t have the energy to argue; he was running on fumes. He sat down hard on the floor and buried his face in his hands. How had things gone so horribly wrong in so short an amount of time? How had it all turned so fucked?

Ophelia tucked herself under his arm. “You have to stay here,” she said again.

He kissed the top of her head. “I won’t ever go anywhere ever again. I promise. I’ll stay here. I’m never leaving you again. I’m so sorry I did before.”

“Pinky promise?” She held out her pinkie.

He intertwined it with his as if it was the most casual thing in the world, as if she wasn’t 21 and he 25. 

“I promise.”

Contented, Ophelia exhaled and tucked herself deeper into his side. “I’m going to miss you.”

He laughed weakly. “Didn’t you hear, daisy-flower? I’m never leaving you again. You’re lucky if I let you out of my sight.”

“I’m sleepy,” was all she said. “I want to go to bed.”

“Let’s go to bed, then.”

He led her to her bedroom—her leaning heavily upon his arm—and tucked her into bed like when she was a toddler and their mother had first gotten sick. He kissed her temple. “It’s going to be okay. I won’t go anywhere and you’ll feel better in the morning.” 

“Stay,” she begged. “You promised me you’d stay. You have to keep your promise.”

“I will, I will.” He got into bed next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Look, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here all night.”

Ophelia sniffled and gave him a squeeze as they nestled down to sleep, just as they had when she was little and frequently used to crawl into bed with him after a nightmare.

Despite how he fought, his body had no more to give, and within a few minutes, he was asleep. 

It would be the last dreamless sleep of his life. 

———

Ophelia Polonius was found dead the morning of January 10 at 7:21 a.m. by one of the early morning cleaners—her name was Genya Shawes, from Memphis, Tennessee—who worked at the Dane family manor. She saw movement in the pool house and so went to investigate. 

There, she found Ophelia, lying face down in the deep end, dressed in only a pair of fleece pajamas and wearing a pair of men’s boots, size ten. Out front, a white Ford truck was parked, half on the street, half on the curb. It belonged to her older brother, Laertes Polonius, who slept soundly twenty minutes away, and who, when he woke up to the news, screamed at the top of his lungs.

The security footage allowed the coroners to make a time of death estimation for 6:58 a.m., just as the sun was cresting the horizon. No one asked why the night security team hadn’t noticed her entrance, nor why the usually secured back door was unlocked, nor why they hadn’t seen movement on the cameras. After all, drowning is a slow, painful way to die and not often quiet.

They ask these questions now, of course, but no one did then. I wonder if you did, though, if sometime in those last, horrible, heartbreaking days, you wondered. 

I wonder now myself—although, in a way, I know the answer—but I didn’t then. 

All I remember is hearing the cleaner woman’s scream. 

———

“It’s a terrible thing,” Claudius said as he poured Laertes a glass of scotch. Laertes, for his part, said nothing, gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles were white and bloodless. He had been escorted to the house by security, but he’d only seen Claudius so far. Getrude, he’d been told, was feeling suddenly ill and was laid up in bed. Laertes didn’t care. He was unable to think straight, unable to comprehend half the things that were said to him. All he could think was Ophelia. His little sister. Dead. He’d changed her diapers, heard her first word, watched her take her first steps, walked her to her kindergarten classroom, taught her to tie her shoes, made her soup when she was sick, taught her to drive, watched her graduate high school. And now he was going to bury her.

“Here, son,” Claudius said gently, pressing the glass into his hand and sitting down next to him. He looked very like his brother, only that his face was softer. He had none of the frown lines that had marred his older brother’s face, frown lines that his son was already starting to inherit. Claudius sighed. “Anything you need, just let me know, and if it’s within my power, I’ll get it for you.”

Laertes knocked the drink back in one swallow, relishing the burn. “I want my sister back. Can you give me that?”

“I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. I can’t help feeling that I bear some of the blame, what with everything that… happened with Hamlet—”

Laertes’ stiffened. “What happened with Hamlet?”

Claudius winced. “I should not have said that.”

“But you did. Tell me. You owe me.”

With a sigh, he relented, surprisingly easily. “Hamlet…As you know, he’s been having a hard time lately, what with my brother’s death and mine and Gertrude’s marriage, but he…He is on his way to a psych ward in L.A. He has become dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Hamlet.” Laertes scoffed. “A gust of wind could knock him over. He weighs about ninety pounds soaking wet.” 

Claudius splayed his hands out, palms up, as if to say what can we do?  

“Hamlet,” he began, “killed your father.”

Laertes jolted to his feet. “I beg your fucking pardon?!” 

Claudius related the events: Hamlet and Gertrude arguing, Polonius waiting there for Gertrude’s safety, Hamlet stabbing him and dragging the body out of the room only to be apprehended by one of the security guards halfway down the stairs.

“I knew, of course I did, that Hamlet was struggling, but you have to know, son, I never thought he was capable of a thing like that. A man he grew up with.”

“I’ll kill him,” Laertes spat, clenching and unclenching his fists. He had been seeing his father’s dead body in his mind’s eye since that day he saw it on the news, and it had recently been joined with the image of a waterlogged Ophelia, but now images of a bloody Hamlet dragging the body joined the miserable tableau. Try as he might, though, he could not quite reconcile the image. It didn’t compute in his mind. Hamlet was a pretentious asshole with a screw loose, a reliance on alcohol, and an addiction to cutting himself to shreds, sure, but a murderer?  

“Laertes,” Claudius started, but he was cut off by a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called.

Two members of security came in. Laertes knew one of them as Marcellus, who had been part of Hamlet’s security detail. His eyes, surprisingly, were rimmed red, and while his fellow security guard did not cry, her face was blotchy.

“Sir,” she said, “we need to speak to you. It’s about Hamlet.”

“Where is he?” Laertes asked, interrupting Claudius before he could get a word out. 

“Go on,” Claudius said when they hesitated.

“He’s gone, Sir,” the woman said nervously. “They got to Nashville before they had some kind of accident. Those twins are in the hospital, but Bernardo…” She swallowed. “He didn’t make it.”

“And Hamlet?” Claudius had gone very still.

“We don’t know. He’s just…gone.”

Claudius pressed his lips together. “I see.” The coldness in his voice took Laertes aback, but within a moment, it was as if it had never been, and he wondered if he was just going crazy. “We’ll send emergency services to Ross and Guin, and I’ll contact their parents. Please, take the afternoon off. To lose a friend is a terrible thing.”

The girl trooped out, but Marcellus hovered behind.

“What is it, Marcellus?” Claudius asked, already walking over to the phone to make the call.

“Sir,” Marcellus said slowly, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to speak at all, “what are you going to do with Horatio, now that Hamlet’s…gone?”  

“Who the fuck is Horatio?” Laertes snapped, but both ignored him. He thought about throwing his glass to the floor. Would that make them pay attention?

“Right, Mr. Bauer…” Claudius tapped his index finger against the tabletop. Laertes couldn’t help watching him. There was… something in his eyes, and suddenly Laertes thought of Ophelia, begging him to stay, to not go.

At last, Claudius spoke. “Don’t tell him a thing. He doesn’t need to worry.”

“Okay, sir.” With that, Marcellus was gone.

“I’ll track down Hamlet myself if I have to,” Laertes warned Claudius. “He doesn’t get to get away with this shit, I don’t care whose fucking son he is.”

“I know,” said Claudius, raising a hand. “I know, son.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t anymore.” Claudius rubbed his temples, making him look—for just a minute—very old and tired, but then it passed and he was the same as always—robust and full of life. “I need to make a phone call. Why don’t you go get yourself something to eat, and when you come back, we can talk?”

“Fine. But—” Laertes pointed a finger at him “—we’re not done here. I don’t give a shit who you are, either.”

“As you should not,” Claudius readily agreed. 

Laertes stormed out of the room, enjoying the way the door slammed shut behind him, but it was a short-lived joy.

All he could think about was Ophelia. 

Horatio woke up to his shoulder being shaken.

He jolted into awareness and scrambled back against the headboard, already rushing to think of something to grab to defend himself with. Days of isolation had made him anxious and paranoid. He slept poorly and had dreams of his throat being slit in the night. He was starting to wonder how Hamlet had lived like this for so long—his entire life.

It was enough to drive a man mad.

“Woah! Woah!” Marcellus said. “It’s just me!”

All the breath left Horatio’s body in one exhale. He pressed his hands to his face. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” Marcellus shrugged, sounding very un-contrite. “Look, you gotta get up. Pack a bag. Come on. Chop chop.” He grabbed Horatio by the arm and started hauling him out of bed. Horatio, half asleep and groggy, stumbled over the trailing bedsheets and almost lost his balance, narrowly saving himself by grabbing the edge of the nightstand at the last minute.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to try and fully wake himself up. “I don’t understand.”

But Marcellus didn’t answer him. He had grabbed Horatio’s suitcase from where he’d shoved it under his bed and pulled out a pair of neatly folded pants and a shirt, which he held out to Horatio with an inpatient shake of the wrist. Horatio took a step back, his heart beginning to pound. He felt, at once, very awake.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he said, fighting to keep the quiver from his voice. He thought that, perhaps, if he put enough authority into his words, Marcellus would have no choice but to listen to him. It had always worked for Hamlet. But, then again, he was no Hamlet. He was just Horatio, and he had no influence or power here. He didn’t even have a phone. 

“Horatio, come on,” Marcellus hissed, his voice low. “Just trust me.”

For a second, Horatio just stared at him. “Trust you?” he repeated incredulously. “Do I need to remind you what happened the last time I went where you told me to?!” Marcellus cringed, but—to Horatio’s utter shock—pulled out his car keys and phone, holding them out to him. Horatio blinked at them, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I can explain later, but we gotta go. Like now.”

The urgency of the situation crept into his voice, and it was that, more so than anything else, that made Horatio take his phone and keys and pocket them. Marcellus zipped the suitcase back up and beckoned Horatio to follow him out of the room, suitcase in his hand. Horatio silently followed him, his head spinning. If he wasn’t so nervous, the absurdity of the situation might have made him laugh. 

My life, he thought. My life.

His car was parked down the street. Marcellus unceremoniously threw the suitcase into the backseat and clapped Horatio on the shoulder. “I’m really sorry about all this.”

Horatio stared at him. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, waiting for the catch. When had he begun to do that?

“Hamlet’s gone,” Marcellus said. When Horatio let out a choked, sob-like noise— gone? No, he can’t be gone, not Hamlet— he hurried to say, “Not dead! Not dead! Just…gone. Off the radar. I don’t know. The point is, they don’t know where the fuck he is, and I…” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t want whatever happens to you now on my conscience, alright?”

“What… happens to me?” he repeated breathlessly, one hand pressed to his chest.

Marcellus didn’t acknowledge this, instead, saying, “I know you’re not gonna listen to me, but don’t try and find Hamlet. I mean it. He’s trouble. There’s something bad here. I’d get the hell out of Dodge while I still can, if I were you.”

Horatio looked down at his car keys and his dead phone. He imagined going home, falling into his mother’s bed like he’d used to do as a child, crying into her arms. He imagined reading about Hamlet’s death in the news. But these imaginings were a waste of time—he already knew what he was going to do. And so did Marcellus, because he heaved a great sigh.

“He doesn’t deserve your loyalty, you know,” he said. 

Horatio didn’t know what to say to that. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, as well as the niggling thought in the back of his mind that this sounded very much like a goodbye. He took a step towards Marcellus and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Marcellus’ cheeks turned red. “Don’t be gay, dude,” he said and awkwardly bumped his fist against Horatio’s.

Horatio gave him a last look before he got quickly into his car. His relief when the engine did, in fact, start was immeasurable, but he didn’t feel any better. Even as he drove off, the pressure in his chest only built and built. Hamlet was gone—gone where? Gone in California? D.C.? What if Marcellus was lying? The enormity and vastness of all he didn’t know hit him like a punch to the stomach, and it took every ounce of will in him to remain on the road. 

At a loss of where else to go, he went back to his motel, which—he knew—was probably a bad call. It was the first place anyone would look, but where else did he have to go here, in this city he didn’t know, full of people who were all strangers to him? He parked the car in the near empty parking lot and rested his forehead against the wheel for a long moment. When he at last looked back up, someone was walking towards the car. 

Horatio was moving before he thought of it, throwing the car door open and launching himself at Hamlet, for it was Hamlet. Hamlet let out a grunt but threw his arms around him in turn without a moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t know where else you’d be,” he was saying, “hell, I didn’t even know if you were still in the city, but I just didn’t—”

Horatio took a step back and Hamlet, for once, fell silent. For a second, they just stared at one another. A million conflicting thoughts and emotions were wrestling inside Horatio’s mind. He wanted to hit Hamlet, to hug him again, to kiss him, to sob and scream. 

“Oh God,” Hamlet suddenly gasped, breaking the silence. “Horatio, are you— crying?”

Horatio touched his face and found that his cheeks were, in fact, wet. He was crying. He wiped his eyes quickly, but the tears just kept coming, and before he knew it, he could hardly breathe from how hard he was sobbing, his entire body shaking with it, but he managed to rasp, “I was so scared for you, you absolute idiot.”  

“Horatio,” Hamlet said, nothing else, and pulled him forward by his wrists, and Horatio let himself be reeled in, burying his face in the crook of Hamlet’s neck as he cried uncontrollably. All the days of fear and anger and anxiety were coming out in a rush. A small part of him thought of how selfish he was, burdening Hamlet like this when things stood as they did, but then Hamlet was clutching his hair and talking rapid fire and he forgot everything else.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Hamlet was saying desperately. “Don’t hate me. I need you. Please, please, don’t be mad at me.”

Horatio shook his head. “I’m not mad. Never.” Gently, he lifted a hand to remove Hamlet’s from his hair. Seeing him up close, he noticed the bags under his eyes, the gautness of his cheeks, and he put a hand to his face, brushing his thumb over his under eyes. Hamlet shivered. 

“It’s you,” Horatio said, somehow still unable to believe it. “This isn’t a trick.”

“It’s me,” Hamlet echoed. “It’s you. I didn’t know what’d happened to you…” He trailed off, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. After a moment, he laughed feebly and murmured, “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

The guilt and shame hit him like a wave. “I’m so sorry.”

Hamlet shook his head. “No, no, don’t.” He gave Horatio a weak smile. “So, you missed me, huh?”

Horatio forced himself to laugh, even as he wanted to cry, even as forcing the sound past his lips tore his throat to shreds in the process. He removed his glasses and wiped them—rather poorly—against the sleeve of his shirt, rendering the world briefly blurry. When he put them back on his face, Hamlet reached out and adjusted them.

Horatio could see his breath and Hamlet’s mingling in the cold night. For a brief moment, he thought what the hell do I have to lose? and considered grabbing Hamlet by the collar of his shirt, damn it all to hell, and kissing him, telling him everything he’d kept locked up in his heart and just facing the consequences. It would be so easy. So easy—

“We probably shouldn’t stay here,” Hamlet said. Horatio jolted.

“What?”

Hamlet frowned, tilting his head to the side slightly in that way he had that made him look a little like a bird. “Where have you been these past few days? The receptionist—a terribly rude lady, by the way, I’d leave a bad Yelp review if I were you—said you’d checked out days ago.”

Horatio put his hands in his pockets. “I was at your house. I was leverage, or so they told me.” When Hamlet stared at him in plain horror, he lightly added, “I promise I didn’t let it go to my head.”

“Horatio,” was all Hamlet said before he pulled him forward again and buried his face in his shoulder. He was trembling like a leaf and rambling incessantly about how sorry he was, how awful of a person he was, and making rasping, hitching noises like he might cry. Horatio ran a hand over his hair—in the way he’d comfort a child—and gently hushed him.

“It’s okay,” he assured him. “I’m alright. I promise.”

Hamlet pulled away slightly and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “So he said, be strong saith my heart. I am a soldier, I have seen worse sights than this.”

“That’s Homer,” Horatio said after a beat where he had to think about it. 

“The Iliad,” confirmed Hamlet.

“I think if anyone’s Odysseus, it’s you.”

That got Hamlet to smile, and he slung an arm across Horatio’s shoulders. “Well, then let us hope I haven’t run out of tricks just yet.”

———

They ended up at the little Church that Hamlet knew of. It was a very old building—built in the late 1810s during the rebuilding of Washington following the War of 1812—but very poorly maintained. It looked as if nobody had been there in years. Horatio wasn’t at all sure why Hamlet had wanted him to take him here, until he saw the crypt on the outskirts of the cemetery yard behind the Church.

Hamlet’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets as he rocked forwards and backwards on his heels. “My dad’s not buried here, if that’s what you think,” he said brusquely but not unkindly.

“I know that.” And Horatio did. He had watched the televised funeral, after all, and it wasn’t here that Hamlet Sr. had been buried. 

“They buried old Polonius here,” said Hamlet, confirming what Horatio had thought. Despite himself, he flinched. No one had told him the grim details of Polonius’ death, nor had he had the guts to bring it up to Hamlet yet, but the reminder was ice in his veins. He glanced at Hamlet from the corner of his eye and tried to imagine him a killer. (Which he was. It was not imagination but fact.) He couldn’t.

“Poor bastard.” Hamlet’s voice was oddly cold, without the expected intonations denoting grief or regret that one would expect. “He died,” he continued, “as he lived. Ignobly.” 

Horatio’s jaw dropped. He practically got whiplash from how quickly he turned to gape at Hamlet. “I—”

“We’re all equal in death,” Hamlet interrupted and suddenly marched off in the direction of the graveyard, leaving—a very bewildered—Horatio to follow.

A man was digging a grave, singing joyfully to himself, somehow, despite the gravity of his task. Hamlet, a few paces away, nudged Horatio as he approached, giving him a very familiar look that said can you believe this shit?

Horatio watched the man, who had headphones in his ears, before shrugging back at him. “He’s gotten too comfortable.”

Hamlet sighed wistfully. “That’s the dream,” and went over to the gravedigger. “What are you doing?”

The man calmly removed one of his earbuds and narrowed his eyes at Hamlet, apparently unfazed that a random person whom he’d never seen before had appeared out of nowhere at 4:00 A.M. but bothered, rather. He said, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Hamlet walked around the perimeters of the grave, deep in thought, considering. “Whose is it?”

“It’s mine.”

“I mean, whose will it be? Who’s in the box?”

The gravedigger shrugged. “Some girl. They’re keeping it hush hush.”

Horatio saw the way Hamlet practically perked up like a cat, ever the busybody with a finger in everyone’s pie. “Oh? Why?”

“She’s some politician’s kid.”

“You don’t know who…?”

“No. Why should I? Ain’t my business.”

Hamlet arched an eyebrow as he made a show out of looking at his watch. “Pretty early to be digging a grave, don’t you think?”

“They wanna keep it hush hush. Avoid the media and all that.”

“Respectable, respectable.” Hamlet nodded sagely and handed the gravedigger two quarters from his pocket. “Here. For the young lady’s passage to the Underworld. Might not be enough, though. Inflation these days.”

Somehow, the man remained proudly uninterested and unbothered, even as he took the quarters and shoved them carelessly into his pocket. Horatio put a hand on Hamlet’s arm. “We should go.” He pointed to the headlights of two cars that were coming up the drive. 

Instead—because when had he ever made it easy?—Hamlet grabbed Horatio’s hand and dragged him away so that they were closer to the crypt but still able to hear the action at the grave. It was dark enough that no one would see them, but for Horatio, it was not nearly dark enough. They shouldn’t be here. It was disrespectful for one, and for the other, there was something distinctly off here, he just couldn’t place its origin, but that didn’t make the feeling ring any less true.

Two men, two women, and a priest exited the cars and came up the walk, a somber little group. 

The Father cleared his throat. The only light was a flashlight held by the second woman and the gravedigger’s tiny camping lamp. The lights were weak, however—clearly intended just to get the job done—and so made it hard to make out faces very well.

“Let’s begin now,” the Father said tensely, looking around nervously. “No time to waste.”

“That’s Father Bouras, the old bastard,” Hamlet whispered to Horatio. “He used to give me hell for saying God was dead.”

“We all belong to the Lord’s will, and while we cannot always understand His ways, we must all the same acknowledge that they are for the best. Now, let us pray for the deceased,” said the Father. “If not for repose in this life than in the next.”

“That’s it?” a voice said. Beside Horatio, Hamlet went as still as death.

“Excuse me?” the Father answered.

“That’s fucking it? You say a stupid prayer over her and tell me to remember God’s will? Where are her rites?” Horatio realized then that he knew this man, and if he knew him by his voice alone, then Hamlet knew him in more ways than that: it was Laertes Polonius, Senator Polonius’ son and Ophelia’s sister.

The Father primly cleared his throat. “For deaths like these—“

“—Like these?” Laertes spat.

The Father continued on quite calmly, as if Laertes had not spoken at all. “—We have different procedures. Suicides—”

“—Suicide?!” Laertes yelled, taking a step towards the Father only to be held back by a man who could only be Claudius.

“Remember,” the Father said primly, “I was the only one who would agree to officiate this. Most priests would never allow a girl with such a death to be entered into consecrated ground—”

“You listen to me, old man,” Laertes snarled, “my sister is a goddamn angel, and while you’re rotting in hell, she’ll be—”

Hamlet ran forward.

It took Horatio a moment to register this, and then he was running after him, grabbing him by the waist and saying, “It’s not worth it, it’s not worth it!” as Hamlet yelled, stark raving mad, “You didn’t tell me it was Ophelia!”

Laertes stared at him, dumbstruck, and then he was charging towards him, shoving Claudius off with ease, no mind that he was taller and stronger and a veteran. “You bastard!”

Hamlet finally managed to free himself from Horatio’s arms—despite his best efforts—and the minute he did, Laertes punched him across the face. Gertrude let out a surprised shout. But, despite the hit, Hamlet charged right back at him as if nothing had happened. Laertes dodged the first swing but was not so lucky with the second, and he stumbled back, swearing.

“You killed my sister!” Laertes shouted as he ran for him again, grabbing him by the arm. Hamlet tried to pull away but only managed to elbow Laertes in the cheek, a blow that must’ve hurt but was not strong enough to dislodge Laertes’ hold.

“Someone stop them!” Gertrude cried, hands at her throat, while Claudius watched from beside her. His face was blank. He met Horatio’s eyes and looked unsurprised to see him there.

Somehow, in the struggle, Hamlet managed to shove halfheartedly at Laertes’ chest and to kick his shin, and a second later—so fast that it took Horatio a moment to realize exactly what had happened—they both went tumbling into the grave, landing atop the coffin with a sickening, ominous thunk.

That finally snapped Horatio out of his shock-induced paralysis. In an instant, he ran over to the grave, calling “Hamlet!” and holding out a hand. Thankfully, the shock of the fall seemed to have brought Hamlet back to himself too, and he took Horatio’s hand, allowing him to pull him up. He stumbled forward slightly once he was again on solid ground, but Horatio steadied him by grabbing hold of his waist.

The other woman—part of the security detail, presumably—pulled Laertes up as well. He was panting. 

“Laertes,” Claudius finally said, “please, calm down. He’s not in his right mind, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Fuck you,” Hamlet spat, still braced against Horatio. “I’m not crazy. I loved Ophelia.”

“Loved?!” Laertes repeated furiously. “How dare you—”

He fell silent when Claudius’ hand fell on his shoulder. Hamlet’s eyes narrowed. Claudius’ voice, as always, was even and measured when he spoke, ostensibly to Laertes but loud enough for them all to hear, “Don’t stoop to his level, son. Be the bigger man.”

“You’d know a lot about that, wouldn’t you?” Hamlet snarled, pushing himself away from Horatio and striding for the car, without looking back.

Horatio turned to follow, but he had barely taken a step before he felt cold fingers curling around his wrist and anchoring him to the spot. It was Gertrude. Up this close, she looked tired, but her face was Hamlet’s, and so were her eyes.

“Horatio,” she said—he barely had the time to be surprised that she knew his name— “look after him for me…won’t you?”

“Of course,” Horatio said without a moment’s hesitation. Gertrude held him there for another moment, scrutinizing him, before she presumably got whatever answer she’d been looking for and released him.

He didn’t waste a second before he turned on his heel to go after Hamlet.

Hamlet’s knuckles were white from how tightly he was clutching the steering wheel. Horatio shot him another nervous glance. When he’d got back to the car, Hamlet was in the driver’s seat and had declared, leaving no room for argument, that he wanted to drive. Horatio had only nodded.

Now, ten minutes later, he still hadn’t said another word and was driving with seemingly no real direction in mind. Horatio was torn between unease and concern. Hamlet’s knuckles were red and his mouth was bloody from his split lip. He knew he needed to say something, but every time he opened his mouth, his mind went blank. There was nothing to say. The woman Hamlet had loved was dead. What could he possibly say to make that right?

After another few minutes passed in silence and the sky gradually grew lighter as day broke, Horatio ventured to ask, “Where are we going?”

Hamlet didn’t reply, but instead, sped up. Horatio swallowed.

“Hamlet?”

The car got even faster, taking them well over the speed limit. 

Horatio’s heart began to pound in his chest. “Hamlet,” he said again, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, but the moment his fingers made contact, Hamlet flinched so hard that the car swerved.

Horatio jolted as Hamlet straightened the car, only to keep going faster and faster. Real panic was setting in, and for the first time, Horatio realized that he truly had no idea what Hamlet was capable of anymore, nor what exactly was going on inside his head. The Hamlet he’d come to D.C. for might as well be a stranger compared to the one in the driver’s seat.

“Hamlet, stop the car,” he rasped. Hamlet said nothing. Tears were streaming down his face, but he didn’t make a move to wipe them away. 

“Hamlet. Stop the fucking car.”

Maybe it was his tone of voice or something else, but Hamlet seemed to come back to himself all at once, pressing on the brakes so hard and so abruptly that Horatio’s head slammed back against the headrest of his seat.

“Shit,” Hamlet gasped, “shit.”  

“Get out of the car,” Horatio managed to say, still shaking with fear and confusion and fighting the ever pressing urge to cry.

To his surprise, Hamlet complied without a word. Equally wordlessly, Horatio got into the driver’s seat and drove the car over to the side of the road. When he got back out, Hamlet was standing—hands at his sides—in the middle of the road, staring ahead of him as if waiting for a car to come and mow him down. Despite the fact that it was early and this didn’t seem to be a main road, Horatio didn’t want to stand around to wait and see if a car would come. They didn’t need to tempt fate further. He grabbed Hamlet by the arm and dragged him off to the side of the road, where he immediately collapsed, pulling his knees up to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. 

Horatio stared at him, his stomach twisting itself into knots. He was torn between the desire to go to Hamlet and pull him into his arms, to shield him from all this pain—he just wasn’t meant for this hard world, he sometimes thought—and to turn away so that he didn’t have to look at him any longer. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and went to sit down beside Hamlet.

“I didn’t know it was Ophelia,” he said. “I promise.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hamlet wiped his eyes and rested his cheek on his knees so that he could meet Horatio’s gaze. “Don’t. It’s my fault. I break everything I touch. My father was right. I’m defective.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Ross and Guin’s deaths are my fault,” he said in a rush. 

Horatio felt all the air leave his body in one fell swoop. “They’re dead?”

Hamlet’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean for that part to happen, I swear. But when the car crashed…I knew they needed help and I waited until I was away before I called an ambulance.” Horatio said nothing. Hamlet’s voice took on a desperate, wheedling tone. “Don’t hate me. Please, don’t. I couldn’t handle that. I need you. Don’t leave.”

Horatio closed his eyes. He’d think about it later. He couldn’t stand it now.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, his hands clasped tightly together. With his words, Hamlet let out a great, relieved sigh and dropped his head onto Horatio’s shoulder.

“I’ve made such a terrible mess of things,” he murmured.

“It’s okay.”

“Not really.” Hamlet tilted his head up to look at Horatio. His eyes were clear and blue, with a look in them that Horatio had seen before, although never directed at him. That was what might have clued him in, he supposed, as to what was about to happen. 

Hamlet put a hand to Horatio’s cheek and kissed him. His lips were chapped but warm, and all Horatio wanted to do was open his mouth, pull Hamlet closer, do the selfish thing. Instead, he turned his face away.

“Don’t do that,” he said as gently as he could manage. “It’s cruel.”

For a moment, Hamlet looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened, before he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “How is it cruel?”

“You don’t want me. You’re upset and you want Ophelia. I can’t be your replacement. I won’t be. Not when…” Horatio pressed his lips together and shook his head resolutely. “I won’t.”

“How do you know I don’t want you?” Hamlet asked stubbornly. “You’re not exactly hard on the eyes.”

He was trying to deflect, but Horatio refused to let him. He made himself meet his gaze head on, even though it stung. “I know you.”

“You do, don’t you?” Hamlet kicked a pebble with the toe of his shoe, eyes lowered. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m a person too, you know. I have feelings too.” The words came out far sharper than Horatio had intended. He winced. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t. I’m an ass.” Hamlet took his hand and interlaced their fingers. “You’re my best friend. I never want to hurt you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Oh, Horatio,” sighed Hamlet. “What are we going to do?”

“We could still leave.”

He laughed softly, not mocking. “Where would we go?”

“Anywhere you wanted.”

“I bet it’s nice in California this time of year.”

“There’d be a lot less snow, for sure.”

Hamlet began to hum California Dreamin’ as they watched the sun rise. Slowly, he dropped his head back onto Horatio’s shoulder. Horatio let him and closed his eyes. If only…

There was no satisfying way to end that sentence, none at all. 

———

I’m not sure, even then, that I ever really believed we’d leave, that we’d ever even get out of D.C. But I like to believe I did.

I like to believe you did, too. 

———

“Laertes, you have to calm down.”

“Fuck you,” Laertes spat without ceasing his pacing. His knuckles burned from the blows he’d delivered and his body ached from his fall—no, no, he couldn’t think about that—and yet he couldn’t help wishing it hurt more. The blinding pain would ground him, remind him of what he should be doing. The urge to punch something or someone was there, thrumming just beneath his skin, and Claudius was making it even harder to resist, if that was possible.

Claudius sighed and poured himself a glass of wine. Gertrude was sitting beside him at the dining table, silent and still obviously rather shaken. She had not spoken a word since the bodyguards had managed to drag Laertes to the car and had instead sat twirling her wedding ring around her finger.

“Sit, please,” Claudius said again, offering Laertes a glass.

Laertes took it and threw it against the wall. But the relish he’d thought he’d feel when it smashed was hollow. It was just a broken glass.

Claudius took a drink. “Did that make you feel better?”

Laertes turned his face away petulantly. “Leave me the fuck alone. You’re not my dad. My dad is fucking dead, no thanks to you!”

“You must understand, I am as hurt as you are. I never, never would have thought Hamlet capable of such a thing. Right, dear?” He placed a hand on Getrude’s arm.

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“Don’t you agree that you never could have predicted the way Hamlet would act after my brother’s death?”

“Oh. Yes, absolutely. He was always such a gentle boy…”

“A fucking coward was what he was,” Laertes interjected. It was still an impossible task to reconcile the sullen—albeit hyper—boy he remembered from his youth with the man he’d punched no less than an hour ago. But, then again, a traitorous voice in his mind crooned, he never could have imagined Ophelia would turn into what she had become. His truck crashed on the curb, her lying in the water—

Laertes curled his hands into fists. “I won’t let him get away with this. I refuse. You’re either with me, or you’re against me.”

“No one is against you, Laertes. We’re your friends.”

“I feel ill,” Gertrude suddenly said, getting to her feet in one graceful movement. “I’m going to lie down.”

Claudius frowned, taking Laertes aback by the look of real concern in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

Gertrude nodded. “Yes. I’m just…” She glanced at Laertes and then away. “I’m just tired.” Without another word, she left the room, shutting the French doors softly behind her.

“It’s hard for her too,” Claudius said gently, with all the uxoriousness expected from a loving husband. “He is her son.”

“And they were my father and sister,” Laertes snapped, but he couldn’t deny that the words had hit their mark: he felt guilty for what he’d made Gertrude witness, even if he hadn’t been thinking of her at all in those moments—perhaps because of that.

“I meant what I said,” Claudius began. “I want to help you. I can’t bring your father back, nor your sister. But I can help you to settle the score.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. “You mean…?”

A simple nod was his response.

Laertes looked at Claudius long and hard. Polonius had always preferred his brother—the unfortunate Hamlet Sr.—to him, but when the chips had fallen, he’d stood by him all the same. And now he was dead.

You can’t go, Laertes. You have to stay here, Ophelia had said. He still remembered the cadence of her voice, her fear and desperation. She’d made him promise. Promise me. And he had. But she was dead—dead and gone and buried, and the man who might as well have held her head underwater himself was free and who knew where.

Laertes’ hands curled into fists. What were promises to the dead? What were they to him, who was left behind to live without her?

He nodded back, and when Claudius offered him another glass of wine, he took it and drank deeply. 

———

Horatio couldn’t help wincing when he looked at himself in the mirror. His skin was pale and blotchy, his under eyes were bruised a dark, angry purple, and his exhaustion seemed caked into the lines of his face. His mother would’ve had a heart attack if she saw him like this. At a loss, he turned away from the mirror and began to undress.

After Hamlet had cried himself out, he’d directed Horatio to—of all places—the Waldorf Astoria, right in the heart of D.C. He’d even paid for their room with that shiny, black Amex of his. Horatio was pretty sure he saw someone snap a photo too, but when he whispered this to Hamlet, he remained unfazed.

“I’m tired of hiding,” he’d said. “I want them to know I’m here.”

And that was that.

Although Horatio was undeniably worried about poking the two-headed bear that was Claudius and Laertes, he couldn’t deny that this was nice. The room was brightly lit with two queen beds that looked heavenly, and the water in the bathroom was hot with perfect pressure. Horatio, leaning against the wall as the steaming water ran down his tired body, nearly fell asleep right there, but he managed to rouse himself just enough to lazily wash his hair and his body.

Back out in the bedroom, Horatio paused when he saw Hamlet sitting on the floor, legs crossed, staring up at the TV, which was discussing the death of Ophelia Polonius. 

“She killed herself,” Hamlet said tonelessly. “She drowned in our pool.”

Carefully, Horatio shut the TV off. “Don’t do that to yourself,” he said, joining him on the floor. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, it is. You forget that not everyone is as good as you are.”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“I could’ve guessed. I wasn’t fucking thinking at all, that’s the goddamn problem.”

Horatio put a hand on his shoulder. “Go take a shower. There’s a bathtub, too. It’ll relax you.”

“I know other things that are relaxing.”

“I’m not having sex with you,” Horatio snapped, despite himself. “So drop it. It’s cruel.” He got to his feet in a rush, and—quickly remembering that he had nowhere to go—paced to the door and back before sighing and sitting down hard at the edge of his bed. 

Hamlet remained on the floor, frowning. He said nothing, and the words were suddenly spilling from Horatio’s mouth, almost against his will. Or at least that’s how it felt.

“You know I…I know you do. You’re not stupid. And—and I’ve never pushed you, and I’ve never made demands, so why…” Horatio faltered and pressed his knuckles into his eyes until he thought he could speak again without crying. “…So why do you insist on tormenting me like this? I’m not an angel and I can’t take it.”

Wordlessly, Hamlet got to his feet and made his way over to Horatio, coming to stand between his knees. Horatio refused to look up at him, staring instead down at his hands. 

“I’ve given you everything you’ve ever asked me for. I’d give you anything, but can’t you let me have just this? This is the one thing I ask of you. The one thing.” His teeth were gritted together. Maybe he was angry. He didn’t entirely know. He’d never been truly angry at Hamlet before.

Hamlet still didn’t say anything, instead getting to his knees and pressing Horatio’s hands to his face. Horatio didn’t move. It was a terrible, terrible thought, and one that he’d feel guilty about for the rest of his life, but he felt a sick sense of satisfaction that he had gotten to Hamlet in some way. 

“You know I love you, right?” Hamlet said quietly, pressing Horatio’s hand to his cheek.

“Yes,” he answered after a stunned beat.

“You’ve looked after me better than any angel ever could.” Hamlet pressed his cold, chapped lips to the back of Horatio’s hand, then to his palm, then to his wrist. Horatio shivered. His throat bobbed. He swallowed as his mouth turned suddenly dry.

“What are you doing?” 

But Hamlet said nothing. The man of a thousand words, people called him, but they didn’t know that while he knew how to use those words better than anyone, their real power was because he knew when to withhold them, too.

“You know I’d never leave you,” Horatio murmured, weakly raising one hand and running it through Hamlet’s hair. “You don’t have to convince me not to go.”

“Let’s run away,” Hamlet said, running his thumb over the lines in Horatio’s palm. 

“Do you use that line on all the girls?” Horatio asked, against his better judgment.

He expected Hamlet to play along, laugh, but he somberly shook his head instead. “No,” he said, “just you.”

The words slipped past his lips before he could prevent them. Later, thinking back on this moment, he’d think that it was all those sleepless nights finally catching up to him; even later, he’d think that those words had been resting at the back of his tongue for too long, and had simply seized their chance to enter the world at long last.

“Not even to Ophelia?” 

Hamlet pressed Horatio’s hand to his mouth. “No. Not even to her.”

“I don’t know why I always let you do this.”

“I’m sorry you were stuck with me as a roommate. I’m so sorry, Horatio.”

“Would you change that if you could? If you could go back, would you have picked somebody else?” He held his breath.

“I’m selfish,” was all Hamlet said. At last, he looked up and met Horatio’s eyes. “You know that. I’m terribly selfish. I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

Horatio shook his head, removing his hand from Hamlet’s hair. “Come on,” he sighed, beginning to pull his other hand away, but Hamlet kept his hold on it, holding on with both hands.

“I mean it. It’s not a lie.” His words had the weight of a vow. They sat in silence for a moment. Horatio couldn’t get enough air. He felt at once both horribly crowded and horribly exposed, as if the soft, inner parts of his body had been turned inside out for all the world to see—for Hamlet to see, which was practically the same thing. 

“You could live without me, but I couldn’t live without you,” he continued. 

“You’re wrong,” Horatio interrupted, shaking his head. “I couldn’t. Not without you.”

“You could,” Hamlet insisted. In a quieter voice, the look in his eyes distant, he said, “You will. You’ll live a long life without me.”

A chill went up his spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Hamlet kissed his palm again. “So much the worse for me that I am strong,” he whispered. 

Horatio furrowed his eyebrows together. “You’re quoting something. What?”

Hamlet smiled. “Aren’t you the English major here?”

“Humor me.”

His smile dropped. “No, I don’t think I will.” In one motion, he got to his feet, once more standing between Horatio’s knees. He raised his hand and brushed his thumb over the high point of Horatio’s cheekbone. “I’ll shower in the morning,” he said. “I want to lie down now.”

Horatio nodded, relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Sleep will do you good.” 

“Let me lay with you,” Hamlet said. “Please.”

He only held out for a moment before caving, like they both must have known he would. “Okay.”

Hamlet stepped back and began to strip. Horatio turned his head away out of politeness. Of course, he’d seen Hamlet in various states of undress more than once before in all their years of knowing one another and living together, but this time felt different. 

He and Hamlet—now in only boxers and a white wife-beater—climbed into bed together. Hamlet tucked himself under Horatio’s arms and threw one arm around his waist. Horatio felt all this in his chest as well as his body, a giant knot of frustration and yearning. 

“You’re the best person I know,” Hamlet said, his breath hot against the skin of Horatio’s neck. 

A single hot tear slipped down Horatio’s cheek. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

He stayed awake long after Hamlet’s breathing evened out.

That afternoon—after sleeping for almost nine hours straight—Horatio woke up in a cold sweat for no reason he could discern. The vestiges of the dream he’d had still stuck with him, but he couldn’t pick out any details more specific than the fact that Hamlet had been there and then gone, like a coin disappearing in a magician’s fingers.

He ran a hand over his forehead and tried to get his bearings. The world around him still retained a dream-like, hazy quality that unsettled him. The trepidation in him grew when he realized that he was alone in the room and in the bed. Pressing his hand to Hamlet’s pillow, he found that it was cold to the touch.

Oh God, he thought, getting to his feet and peering into the bathroom. No one was in there either, but the mirror was still fogged up, and there was a pile of clothes on the floor. This was good, he tried to tell himself as he hurriedly got dressed. It meant that he could not have gotten far. 

Hurrying down the hall, he pressed the elevator button furiously, knowing that wouldn’t make it arrive any faster but unable to stop himself all the same. He’d always been an anxious kid—fear something that was as natural to him as breathing—but this was something much more chilling and blood curdling. This wasn’t worrying over a test or spontaneously catching the plague—no, this was something beyond classification. He kept thinking of Ophelia, of all people, the woman he’d never once spoken to but knew practically everything about, from her favorite color to the pattern of freckles on her lower back, all a result of Hamlet’s enthusiasm in regards to her. Hamlet had loved her—this Horatio knew, even if Hamlet had never said it while she was still living—and yet there she was: buried, nothing more than fertilizer for an uncaring Earth that would one day forget her.

At last, the elevator doors opened and Horatio pressed the button for the lobby, tapping his foot. Perhaps luck was for once on his side—or, more likely, on Hamlet’s—because no one entered the elevator with him and waylaid him. Once he reached the ground floor, he realized that he had no idea where to go or where to start looking. Hamlet was smart, and if he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. It was as simple as that.

Horatio remained standing by the elevators, unsure what to do, when suddenly a man came over to him, looking relieved. He was short, stout, and middle aged. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “You’re Horatio—Mr. Bauer, sorry, right?”

Horatio blinked at him, but all he could think was that he was screwed. What was his position here? Where was Hamlet? He didn’t know what to do. He had never been a good liar, nor even a good bullshitter.

 “What?”

Horatio felt a hand on his elbow. “Who’s this, then?” Hamlet asked, and smiled at him as he held up two coffees and two pastry bags. 

“Osric, sir,” the man said grandly, bowing. 

Hamlet raised an eyebrow. “You must be a new hire, but if you want to prostrate yourself for me, I won’t stop you.”

Osric looked uncertain as to whether or not Hamlet was joking, or if he was really prompting him to do just that. Slyly, Hamlet nudged Horatio, grinning wickedly.

Osric cleared his throat. “Sir, Mr. Dane, sir, I am here on behalf of Senator Dane—Claudius Dane, of course, sir—”

“No, really?” said Hamlet flatly, taking a drink of coffee before offering Horatio a piece of the bagel he was picking at. Horatio shook his head.

Osric continued, undeterred, “—And your mother Mrs. Dane, as well as Mr. Polonius II—”

Hamlet straightened up at that, all superior amusement sliding off his face. “Laertes?” he repeated, voice low. “You mean Laertes?”

“Yes, sir! The recently deceased Senator Polonius I’s son, that one. I met him, you know, and I hear he is very smart. A graduate of Harvard—”

“—Spare me the biography. What does he want?”

“What does Laertes want, sir?”

“He’s used up all his words,” Horatio whispered to Hamlet when he just looked at him, as if in awe that one person could be so obtuse.

“Yes,” Hamlet finally said, his annoyance plain on his face and in his tone of voice. “Yes. That one.”

“They want to ask you to dinner, sir,” Osric said. “Tonight at 7:30.”

Horatio instinctively grabbed Hamlet’s arm as if to hold him back. From what? He didn’t know. He just felt that he needed to keep a hold on him, lest he slip away like sand through his fingers.

For a minute, Hamlet said nothing, deliberating. Osric patted his pockets and rocked on his heels nervously. Finally, Hamlet asked—seemingly equably, but Horatio could hear the note of real malice in those words—

“And if I say no?” 

“Senator Dane said that they would have no choice but to involve the authorities, sir, on a matter he said was best known to you and Mr. Polonius, sir.”

Hamlet laughed. “Nothing like a little coercion to start my morning. Well, Osric—can I call you Osric?—you can tell the Senator and the esteemed Mr. Polonius II that I’ll be there.”

“Yes, sir.” He sounded relieved. He gave one last half-bow that turned into an aborted handshake midway through the extending that finally became a salute, and then he was gone.

Neither Hamlet nor Horatio said anything for the duration of the elevator ride back to their room. Only once they were safely inside—or as safe as could be—did the dam break.

“You can’t go,” Horatio said. “Tell me you won’t.”

Hamlet peeled off his coat and gloves with methodical precision, one button and one finger at a time. “I have to,” he said. “You heard what the esteemed Senator had to say, and I don’t exactly fancy going to jail, you know.”

“That’s a cop out and you know it. You’re smart enough to get out of it.” The words came out as an accusation, and he supposed that’s exactly what they were. Why did Hamlet have to be so dedicated to cutting his own throat?

“I can’t. You know why I can’t.”

Horatio threw up his hands. He couldn’t stay in that room for a second longer or he’d start screaming. So, he turned on his heel and went out to the balcony, the farthest place he could get from Hamlet at present. Six stories below them, the city went about its routine as snow continued to fall almost lazily. There was far less of it now than there had been when he’d arrived, only a little more than a week ago, if that could be believed. It boggled his mind to think about it like that. He felt like he’d aged a decade since he left New York.

A few minutes later, Hamlet came out to join him, saying nothing. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. For all that Horatio tried to have patience, for all that he loved Hamlet, even he sometimes was pushed to his limit and would have to take a walk or go to another room, wherein Hamlet would join him a short time later and sit with him until he either felt guilty or was too tired to be frustrated any longer. 

“I have to go,” Hamlet whispered. 

Horatio’s shoulders dropped. “I know you do. But I don’t want you to.” 

“You worry too much.”

“You worry too little.”

That got him to smile, that smile that Horatio knew he would never deserve. Hamlet turned to him, his fingertips gently brushing against his jaw. “ There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. What will be will be.”

Horatio shook his head. “I don’t believe in fate.”

“And you didn’t believe in ghosts until last week either.”

“I still don’t know what I think.”

Hamlet clicked his tongue in faux reproach. “Ever the skeptic.” A beat passed. “Come with me?” he asked.

“You know you don’t have to ask.”

“I must’ve been a saint in a past life to deserve you,” he said before removing his hand, but before Horatio could even mourn the loss, he put his head upon his shoulder and leaned against him.

Somewhere, far above them, the call of a crow was swallowed by the wind. 

———

Laertes pulled on his suit jacket again as he looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t thought to bring a suit jacket when leaving France—who fucking would?— so that when this plan had arisen, he’d had to resort to the few clothes left in his closet, most of which didn’t fit anymore. There was, of course, his father’s closet, which might have fit him a little better, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that, leaving him stuck with clothes from undergrad.

He ran a comb through his hair. Maybe it was something psychological, but its usually vibrant color—more of a true ginger than Ophelia’s, which was more rusty—seemed duller. He rubbed his nose and winced. It didn’t seem to be broken, but Hamlet had probably fractured it. He might have been impressed that he’d put up as much of a fight as he had, considering he was a stick, but he was too enraged for that. He wanted to pummel Hamlet into the ground. And he might have, if Gertrude, Claudius, and Hamlet’s friend hadn’t been there.

But there would be no pummeling for him now, not after tonight. Tonight, the last few grains of sand in the hourglass would fall and it would all end. Claudius had walked him through it so many times that he couldn’t forget it even if he tried—and he almost wanted to.

Was this the man he was? Sure, he was an asshole and probably too brash, but this… was he this? 

He shut off the bathroom light and left the room. Ophelia and Dad, he thought, Ophelia and Dad, Ophelia and Dad, Ophelia and Dad. This was for them. For them. Then they could rest easy. After tonight, he’d go back to France, return to classes, and he’d claw himself out of this hole. He didn’t know how yet, but he would. He had to. There was no other choice.

He tied his shoes at the kitchen table where—in a different, much smaller apartment—he’d taught Ophelia to do the same, bribing her with candy. For every step she followed, she got a sour patch kid. For every time she did it all right by herself, she got a handful of sour patch kids, as many as she could grab with one hand. And for a week of doing it by herself, he’d taken her to the gas station and bought her a box all to herself, which she’d eaten on the curb outside their apartment. He couldn’t comprehend how one day she was five and another she was twenty-one and dead. 

At once—for no reason he could name, considering he hadn’t liked them at all—Laertes thought of Ross and Guin, both dead and both not yet twenty-four. He had to admit that the whole thing was suspicious. Ross, Guin, and Hamlet had been run off the road and Hamlet had run off—in good enough condition to disappear—while Ross and Guin had to be flown to D.C. where they died before ever reaching a hospital. The whole thing made no sense, but he wasn’t so stupid as to pick a fight with Claudius right now. He’d offered, after all, to help him, and he needed the help. Laertes was in no position to be questioning authority here. But damn if he didn’t want to.

As he passed the hall to the front door, he passed the crucifix that had belonged to his mother hanging from the wall, a memento one of them had put up when they moved. Laertes didn’t believe in God, but their mother had. He remembered her taking them to Church every Sunday without fail until she was too weak to stand, and she didn’t last much longer after that, anyway. She’d prayed with them both every night, but considering Ophelia was only four when she died, out of the two of them, he was the one who grasped it better. He hadn’t prayed since her funeral—not even then, really. Even at eight, he’d been so angry and so filled with resentment towards God for taking his mother who had been so faithful that he thought nothing but hate when the priest directed them to pray. 

If there ever was a time to give it another go, this was it. 

He checked to make sure his phone and keys were in his pocket before he left the apartment and all its ghosts secured behind a locked door. 

———

Horatio pulled his car to a stop outside the curb, reluctantly moving the clutch from drive to park. Beside him, in the passenger’s seat, Hamlet was staring out the window at the house, an unreadable look on his face. He’d been quiet the whole drive over, and Horatio had been too anxious to try and talk. But now he knew he had to say something. 

“You don’t have to do this,” was what came out.

Hamlet smiled and turned to look at him. “I was waiting for you to say that.”

“This is a bad idea and you know it.”

“Most of my ideas are, but I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

“Hamlet,” Horatio begged, exasperated. “Please, don’t do this. I have a bad feeling.”

Hamlet reached across the console to take his hand, intertwining their fingers. “It’ll be okay.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I’m the cynic here,” he said. “Not you.” He sounded almost sad as he said this, reaching out with his other hand to straighten Horatio’s glasses. “There. They won’t know what hit ‘em when they see you.” 

Horatio rolled his eyes and removed the key from the ignition before getting out of the car, turning the collar of his coat up against the wind. He shivered hard. It had been so nice that morning too. Of course, he didn’t believe in omens, but he’d have been lying if he said this didn’t only strengthen his conviction that this was a poor idea.

He followed Hamlet up the walk to the front door. For a second, standing on the porch, Hamlet froze, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked so impossibly young in that moment—a boy who had thrown a baseball through a window and was scared of being scolded—but then they were hit with a particularly strong gust of wind and he snapped out of it, shaking himself and knocking on the door three times. His face had turned hard and haughty. 

To Horatio’s surprise, a maid didn’t answer the door, but Claudius himself. He smiled at Hamlet and at Horatio, after doing a slight double take when he saw the latter.

“Hope there’s enough room for one more,” Hamlet said cheerily, putting his arm in Horatio’s.

“Of course,” Claudius agreed, stepping aside to let them in. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Bauer. I’m sorry We didn’t get to say a proper farewell last time you were here. You left so quickly.”

Horatio swallowed. “My apologies, but I’m very grateful for your hospitality.”

Claudius led them into a fine sitting room, where Gertrude was sitting on one of the settees, drinking a martini, and where Laertes was pacing back and forth like a caged tiger in front of the roaring fireplace. His head shot up when he saw Hamlet and Horatio, but he just as quickly looked away. 

“I want to thank you both for coming,” Claudius said. “I think it is in everyone’s best interest to let bygones be bygones. Don’t you boys agree?”

Hamlet and Laertes met each other’s eyes. There was a look on Laertes’ face that Horatio couldn’t read, but he didn’t like it. Laertes—to his surprise, after everything he’d heard of the man—dropped his eyes first, turning away to pour himself a finger of scotch.

“Can I get you a drink?” Claudius asked, already pouring two glasses of red wine and offering them to Horatio and Hamlet, leaving them no choice but to accept. Hamlet swirled the liquid around in the glass and sniffed it before taking a long drink. Horatio was struck with the absurd idea to knock the glass from his hand.

“It’s a 1930s vintage from Salinas,” Claudius told them. “Very fine wine.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Hamlet, somehow, managed to make it sound like an insult.

“It’s good to see you, Hamlet,” Gertrude spoke up quietly. “I trust you are feeling better now?” She was as put together as ever, in a knee-length black dress, with her hair pinned back from her face. She was holding a glass of white wine and had left behind a red lipstick stain on the rim of the glass. 

“Yes, Mother.” Hamlet’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he masked it by taking a drink. 

“You don’t like wine, Mr. Bauer?” Claudius spoke up. 

It took him a moment to realize they were talking to him. “Oh no, it’s fine,” he said, taking a tiny sip. “Thank you.”

No one spoke for another minute or so. The tension in the room was so thick that Horatio half-thought that his hand would come away covered in it like cobwebs. The roaring fire wasn’t helping, making him sweat. 

“So,” Hamlet said pointedly, drawing out the ‘o’, “Laertes, long time no see.”

Laertes scowled at him and took another long drink.

“How was France?”

“Cold,” Laertes said through gritted teeth. 

“This is my friend Horatio,” Hamlet said, grabbing Horatio’s arm and hauling him over to him.

“Have you slept with this one too yet?” asked Laertes, coolly looking Horatio over. 

Claudius cleared his throat. “I think dinner is ready.”

In the dining room—the one where Horatio had told Hamlet about the ghost, what felt like ages ago—the table was laden with dishes: a ham, rolls, potatoes, salad, rice, and—on the side table—a red velvet cake. Yet, there were no servants to be seen. Whoever had cooked the meal had set it out and left just as quickly. Horatio stuck close to Hamlet, who shot him a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, but to him just came off as disquieting.

“This brings back fond memories,” Claudius said once everyone had been seated, cutting into his piece of ham. “Don’t you agree?”

“I can remember someone in those fond memories who’s not here now,” Hamlet said sharply, taking another sip of wine.

“Crazy, so can I,” Laertes spat. His face was white with barely-suppressed fury.

“Please, boys,” Claudius sighed. “We need to bury the hatchet, for our own sake, and for the country’s.”

“You’re right,” said Hamlet. “Forgive me, Uncle.” Horatio did not think he mistook the note of real sorrow in his voice. This was the man, he knew, who had comforted Hamlet when he cried, taught him to drive, and taken him to baseball games. He had been like a father to him.

The key word, of course, being like.  

Claudius nodded. “We all make mistakes,” he said with understanding. 

Hamlet turned to Laertes. “I’m sorry, Laertes. I—” He swallowed, obviously pained. “I loved Ophelia. I never meant for this to happen. I was not myself. My grief…It took over me. I’m sure you can understand.”

Laertes’ nostrils flared. Horatio sat up straighter, unsure if this meeting too would come to blows, but then Laertes’ shoulders relaxed a fraction, he nodded once—short and brisk—and said through gritted teeth, “I accept your apology.”

Claudius leaned over to clap them both on the back. Hamlet flinched and Laertes tensed, but Claudius didn’t seem to notice this as he spoke, his voice booming, as though he were speaking to some invisible crowd and not to an audience of four.

“I am proud of you both for letting bygones be bygones. You two should be united in your grief. No one can understand it like the other.” 

“Right you are, Uncle. Right you are.”

Horatio picked at his food for the most part. He had no appetite—even the idea of eating made him want to gag, but out of politeness, he managed to choke down a few bites of salad, which was the lightest, least rich thing on the table.

The rest of the dinner continued without incident until, when reaching for a dish, Laertes knocked his glass over. He jumped up and cursed, gritting his teeth as he began to sop up the table cloth. His hand, Horatio noticed, was trembling violently, like a leaf shaking in the wind and clinging desperately to its branch.

“It’s alright, Son.” Claudius waved a hand. “Please, sit.”

Hamlet’s eyes were narrowed. “Laertes,” he said slowly, “let me pour you a drink.”

Laertes, inexplicably, looked to Claudius before turning back to Hamlet. He stood motionless for one breathless moment then nodded. “Alright. Have at it.” Once Hamlet poured him a glass of red wine, he immediately drained it like it was a shot then held out his glass for another. At the head of the table, Claudius was watching all this with a blank, emotionless look on his face, but his gaze was calculating. 

“I’ll have one too,” Gertrude said, holding out her glass.

At that, Claudius’ eyes widened. “Gertrude—”

But she didn’t listen and took the bottle from Hamlet herself, pouring a glass. When she finished it, she poured another. Claudius’  hands were curled into fists that were held so tightly his knuckles had turned white from the strain. Laertes was staring down at his plate, his napkin held to his mouth.  Hamlet was staring at his own glass of wine, eyes dark. His face had gone pale.

“Mom?” he asked quietly, but Gertrude only waved a dismissive hand and sat down again, a pacific look on her face.

Horatio touched Hamlet’s knee under the table. “Are you alright?” he murmured. 

Hamlet squeezed his hand once reassuringly, but the effect was lost on Horatio. 

Some ten minutes later, after a period where no one had said a word, had not even seemed to breathe, Gertrude got to her feet in a rush.  “I propose a toast,” she said, her voice shaking. “To you, my dear son. Forgive me.” She raised her glass, taking no heed of the fact that no one else was standing, and drained her third drink. She had barely set the glass down with a clatter before she collapsed to the floor.

Hamlet was up like a shot, rushing over to his mother. “Mom!” He skidded to his knees and pulled her to him. “Mom,” he said again, “Mom.”

Gertrude’s breathing was labored. “Hamlet,”  she murmured. Her face was screwed up in pain and concentration. “Hamlet—”

“Get a doctor! Call 911!” he yelled around a sob, but no one moved. Claudius was frozen, and Laertes was bent double, holding onto the back of his chair for support.

Gertrude grabbed Hamlet’s face, making him look at her. “Hamlet, the wine…Hamlet…” She trailed off, shutting her eyes tight. Then, she smiled, whispered, “My son” and was gone, her hand falling from her son’s face as her body went limp. Horatio took a step back, his hands pressed to his mouth, as Hamlet bowed his head, pressing his forehead against his mother’s. Laertes slid to the floor.

Slowly, Hamlet, still holding the dead body of his mother in his arms, looked up at Claudius. Gently, he lowered Gertrude to the floor and stood. 

“What did she mean?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. 

“I—”

“It’s poisoned,” Laertes spoke up from where he was slumped against the wall. “The wine was—it was poisoned.”

Horatio’s heart stopped as he registered what the words meant.

No. Please, no, not this. Not him.

Hamlet blanched. “How long?”

“Right now? Ten minutes, tops.” With painstaking effort, Laertes lifted his arm and pointed an accusing finger at Claudius. “He did it.”

Horatio looked back just in time to see Hamlet punch Claudius right in the nose, sending him careening to the floor. Before he could get up, Hamlet sat on top of him and grabbed him by the collar of his fine, French pressed shirt. “What’s the matter, Uncle?” he snarled. “Feeling a little uncomfortable? Why don’t you have a drink?” He grabbed the bottle of wine and forced it down Claudius’ throat until he had no choice but to swallow. Whether it was the poison or choking that did him in, Horatio would never know, because he turned his face away, unable to stand the sight. When he at last looked back, Claudius was dead and Hamlet was standing over him, his chest heaving. 

“I hope he rots in hell,” Laertes spat. Blood trickled down his chin. He made an attempt to wipe it, but was barely able to raise his arm an inch before it gave out and went limp. 

“So do I,” Hamlet agreed, getting slowly to his feet. Horatio rushed over to help him, and for a second, Hamlet remained slumped against him, trembling and taking deep, shallow breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” Laertes said weakly. It was then that Horatio identified the look on Laertes’ face that had so eluded him before: it was acceptance.

Hamlet put his hand on Horatio’s shoulder and stumbled over to Laertes, nearly falling to his knees before him. “I’m sorry too. I never meant for things to turn out like this. I meant what I said. You have to believe me: I loved Ophelia. I never wanted this.”

“I’d tell you not to let it bother you, but we’ll both be dead soon, so.”

Hamlet laughed softly. “For death is gain to him whose life, like mine, is full of misery. Thus my lot appears not sad, but blissful.”

“Who said that?” Laertes asked around a laugh, which quickly turned into a wet, hacking cough. “I know it wasn’t you. You—” he broke off to cough again “—aren’t that wise.”

“It was Sophocles.”

Laertes managed a minute shake of the head. “You pretentious…pretentious…” He let out a breath, all that was left in his lungs, and said no more.

“Goodbye, Laertes,” Hamlet whispered, forcing himself to his feet and immediately swaying. Horatio was moving before he thought of it, holding tight to Hamlet’s arm to keep him upright.

“Oh, Horatio,” said Hamlet, softly. “I’m dying.” Then, he fell forward into Horatio’s arms.

———

It was one of the first real days of spring in New York. The snow had finally melted, the temperatures were rising, and the weather was perfect. After months of cold so biting you felt it in your bones, it was finally the time of year where people walked around in shirtsleeves and tossed frisbees in the park. 

Hamlet was very drunk as he stumbled down the streets home, an equally drunk Horatio beside him, and he’d never been happier. They had to lean upon one another for balance as they fumbled home, laughing at nothing, drunk not just on cheap shots but on the nice night and their own youth. Their entire lives were ahead of them, Hamlet kept thinking, and the thought made him want to tell Horatio about it, but all he could do was smile up at him.

“I’m going to have such an awful headache tomorrow,” Horatio complained. “You’re a terrible influence.”

Hamlet snorted. “Maybe so, maybe so.” He lurched away and spun in a drunken circle, laughing to himself about absolutely nothing as Horatio watched, amused.

“Stay away from the street,” he called half-heartedly.

Hamlet laughed again and swirled around until he tripped. As he watched the concrete rise to meet him—or he fell to meet the concrete, maybe?—he wondered if the pain would feel so lovely and clear as this night did, but he never got the chance to find out, because Horatio caught him, hoisting him back to his feet.

“Do you want to crack your head open?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I want to be happy,” Hamlet countered. He inhaled deeply. “I am happy.” He tasted the words, decided they were delightful, and said them again, “I am happy.”

He was young, only twenty, and he was free. Who wouldn’t be happy? His worries could wait until tomorrow. For the first time he could ever remember, he was content—content, and confident that everything would work itself out. He had been a fool to think the world was not a place of miracles, as if this city and Horatio beside him weren’t proof enough of that. 

He laughed again just to hear the sound and grabbed Horatio’s hand, entwining their fingers.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

And so, leaning on one another and drunker than drunk, they stumbled their way home.

———

Despite his efforts, Horatio was unable to keep his footing as Hamlet fell into his arms, and they both collapsed to the floor. Horatio’s knees cracked against the hardwood beneath him, but he hardly felt it as he scrambled to Hamlet, pulling him into his arms. He was at once both so heavy and so light. 

No, no, no, he thought. Please, not this.  

“So the story comes to an end,” Hamlet murmured, laughing to himself. “I should’ve known.” A small trickle of blood rolled down his chin. 

“No,” Horatio said firmly, as if he could keep Hamlet with him if only he denied strongly enough. “No, don’t say that. You can’t leave me. You can’t.”

“Oh, Horatio.” Hamlet raised his hand and fisted it in Horatio’s hair, using the leverage—Horatio barely felt the pain—to hoist himself up slightly. “Horatio,” he repeated again breathlessly, then again, “Horatio.”  

Horatio sobbed, pressing his face into Hamlet’s shoulder. For four years, Hamlet had been practically his whole world—they went to classes together, they ate together, they shared an apartment together, for God’s sake. How could he just be expected to move on from that? How could he ever live again? He was nothing and had nothing without Hamlet. 

He’d come all this way for him, after all—what was one final journey?

Resolved, he reached for the bottle of wine on the floor that had rolled away from Claudius’ body, but he’d barely brushed his fingers against it before Hamlet grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.

“I want to go with you,” he sobbed.

“No,” Hamlet said firmly, and when Horatio’s fingers curled around the bottle’s neck, he threw himself forward. Taken by surprise, Horatio fell backwards, hurrying to right himself, but then he heard the shatter, and saw that Hamlet had thrown the bottle at the wall. On his knees, bracing himself against the lip of the table, his face was set into a firm, determined, but undeniably satisfied expression.

“No,” he said again, and dropped his hand; Horatio, tears streaming down his face, caught him before he fell.

“You have to live,” Hamlet said, raising his hand to cup Horatio’s cheek. “You’ve always deserved better.”

“I don’t want better,” Horatio sobbed. “I want you.”

Hamlet’s face crumpled, but still, he shook his head and grabbed Horatio’s hand. “Oh, Horatio. I’ve asked so much of you.”

“Ask anything.”

Hamlet clasped his hand ever tighter. “Live. You have to live. I’ve—” he gasped in pain and barreled on through it anyway, like he had done with every obstacle before now, but not this one, because death served no man, not even the best of them “—I’ve asked so much of you, but I have to ask one more thing: set the record straight. There’s so much…so much no one knows. Make sure they know. Tell the truth. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that, huh?” he asked around a weak laugh. “An angel can’t tell a lie.”

Horatio’s heart was breaking. “Hamlet—”

“Promise me.”

He had no other choice. He never could deny Hamlet a thing. “I will,” he vowed. “I promise. I’ll tell your story. I’ll make it known. I promise.”

Hamlet relaxed, nodding his head firmly. “Good, good.” He closed his eyes, a small smile on his beautiful face, beautiful even now, beautiful always. “The rest is silence.” 

Horatio could not define the sound that came out of him, or where it came from. It was violent, primal, and utterly broken. He pressed his face to Hamlet’s chest—there was no heartbeat, there never would be again, he was gone forever— and sobbed. He sobbed for he didn’t know how long, he sobbed until he had nothing left, until he was at last hollowed out.

He pressed his lips to Hamlet’s cold forehead. “Goodnight,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut tight. 

Then, with painstaking effort, he pulled himself to his feet.

———

Horatio walked out of the lawyer’s office without looking back. It was dark outside by now, after spending an hour discussing his options, or really having them spewed at him while a flock of reporters tried to get photos through the windows. Once, he would’ve cared, but since he’d been driven out of D.C. in the back of a cop car with Hamlet’s blood drying on his face and the last promise he’d made— set the record straight. There’s so much…so much no one knows. Make sure they know. Tell the truth. Promise me —to him still ringing in his ears, he had stopped. Nothing mattered. They—those mysterious, powerful people—could threaten him with NDAs and lawsuits until they were blue in the face. It wasn’t like he had anything to lose. They could take their money and choke on it.

He wasn’t sure where to go, so ended up just sitting down on the edge of the curb, his chin resting atop his knees. He felt so much older than twenty-three. He sat there for he didn’t know how long until a young-ish looking man came up to him. He looked normal enough, but Horatio had learned to pick them out, and he could already tell the guy was a journalist, albeit a young looking one. He hung his head, too tired to get up and walk away.

A weak “Please go away” was all he could muster.

“Is it that obvious?” the guy asked, coming to sit next to him on the sidewalk. He stuck out his hand. “Fortinbras.”

Horatio didn’t take the hand. “I’m not giving an interview.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from in there,” Fortinbras— that name cannot be real, Horatio thought—said. “That was pretty badass—what you did in there.”

Horatio frowned. “I thought you were a journalist.”

“I’m interning there part time.” He jabbed his thumb at the building behind them. “And I thought that was cool. Most people would’ve taken the money. Hell, I’d have taken the money.”

“I’m glad you respect my integrity,” Horatio said dryly, waiting for a cab to drive by. What had his integrity, his so-lauded goodness, ever done for him? Hamlet was still dead and he was still alone. He didn’t want to think about anything ever again, and he didn’t want to talk. He knew he’d have to one day, and when that day came, he would, but for now, he wanted to go home, fall into his mother’s arms, and cry.

Fortinbras lit a cigarette. After a beat, he held out the pack to him. “Want one?”

“Sure,” he said, surprising himself. Fortinbras lit it for him, and he took a drag, coughing as he inhaled. 

“A novice?” Fortinbras asked, laughing.

“My friend smoked. I never took up the habit.”

“Would that friend…happen to be Mr. Dane?” Fortinbras hedged. When Horatio shot him a look, he raised his hands. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

Horatio got to his feet, throwing the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out, before he waved his hand at a taxi that—thankfully—was driving by. 

“Hey, wait, wait,” Fortinbras called. “Look, I’m sorry.” He fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled old receipt, which he scribbled on with a pen and thrust at Horatio. “Here. Just…uh…if you ever do want to talk, here’s my number.” 

Horatio—for reasons unbeknownst to himself—took the receipt and put it in his pocket. He waved out of politeness then gave the taxi driver directions to the hotel he’d been put up at. 

From there, he’ll get in his car and he’ll drive home. Once home, he’ll fall into bed for a year and not get up. He won’t eat or sleep, and all he’ll do is wish he was dead, regretting his promise all the while. At last, his mom will give him an ultimatum, so he’ll go back to school and get another job. He’ll go to therapy, and he’ll manage to speak Hamlet’s name for the first time in a year. (He’ll come across those words Hamlet had said to him on his knees, too; he’ll read them and have to resist the urge to throw the book across the room.) A year after that, he’ll find the old receipt that somehow was never tossed, and—after hours of debating—he’ll call the number, half-hoping no one picks up. 

But someone will.

Someone will, and he’ll fly to D.C., and he’ll talk. He’ll cry, maybe even get angry, but he’ll talk all the same. He’ll talk until his throat is hoarse and his face is puffy from all the tears. Then, he’ll sit back and feel a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, one he’s grown so accustomed to, he hasn’t even known it was there. Perhaps he’ll even go to Hamlet’s grave, tell him he’ll always love him and that he’s fulfilling his promise. He’ll ask the man who answered the phone for the notes he took—they’ll email too, then they’ll text, then they’ll call, and then something else—and he’ll write like a fiend. He’ll write until it’s done and there’s nothing left. 

But all that will come in time. 

Then, all he did was rest his head against the back of his seat and close his eyes, telling himself to just breathe, the receipt heavy in his pocket.

———

I promised you, and let it never be said that I’m not a man of my word.

Horatio opened his eyes and found himself back in his and Hamlet’s old apartment.

He hadn’t been back since eight months after Hamlet died, when he was forced by necessity to temporarily drag himself from his grief-made cocoon to collect his things before being kicked out for not paying rent. For no reason he could name, he’d kept paying the rent up until then from their shared rent savings fund that he’d proposed back when they first got the apartment and which Hamlet had gone along with—and put twenty thousand dollars in—to ease his mind. He half-thought that maybe he’d hoped to bring back what he’d lost by keeping that one relic of the past the same as it was, as if Hamlet might show back up, but eventually, the money had dried up, and there was nothing left to do but pack up.

In his memories, despite everything, he couldn’t remember the apartment any way besides how it had been that last afternoon: covered with dust and creepily still—as still as the sepulcher. It had been one of the worst days of his life. He’d fallen to his knees and cried just at the sight of Hamlet’s unmade bed, and every time he did anything—touched anything, entered any doorway, breathed —he thought: the last time I did this here, Hamlet was still alive. It had been excruciating, and once he was back home, he’d sobbed so hard he threw up.

But now, it was restored to how it was in happier times. There were dishes drying on the rack and keys on the keyring by the door—all signs of life, unmarked by death and grief. Out of habit, without thinking, Horatio took Hamlet’s coat from the back of the dining room chair and hung it on the coat rack.

“You always hated when I did that,” Hamlet said, stepping into his line of sight from nowhere. 

“Old habits die hard,” Horatio replied—also out of habit—before his mind registered what he’d seen, the words, and he threw himself at Hamlet, burying his face in his shoulder. He smelled the same; he felt the same too, and wasn’t that the worst possible thing? 

Hamlet rested his chin atop Horatio’s head. “Missed me, huh?” he murmured, and pulling back slightly, whistled and said, “You got old.”

“I’m thirty-four,” Horatio said, affronted. “I’m not old.” It was too easy to slip back into this old routine, as if Hamlet wasn’t ten years dead and Horatio ten years older than he would ever be.

“I don’t know about that,” Hamlet said, reaching up to touch Horatio’s temples. “I always knew you’d go gray first. You worry too much.”

“You can’t go gray. You’re dead.”

They both flinched. 

Hamlet dropped his hand. “Ouch.”

Horatio took a step back, sucking in a breath. “Am I dreaming?” He was almost positive that he was, but then again, he wasn’t sure. Although he dreamed of Hamlet often, it was never like this. Usually, his dreams consisted of holding a dying Hamlet in his arms. Occasionally, if he was lucky, he’d feel Hamlet’s presence, but he never saw him.

“What do you think?” Hamlet asked rhetorically, and within the space of a blink, he was holding a glass of scotch. He raised an eyebrow as he took a drink. “You know ghosts exist.” When Horatio gave him a deeply skeptical look, he grinned. “Still a skeptic. Good. I was worried you’d change.”

“You broke my heart,” Horatio blurted out in a rush. “You died.” His voice broke and he turned his face away so Hamlet wouldn’t see. His breathing was hitched, his entire body trembling with a complicated mixture of fury and desperate longing. He wasn’t sure which he wanted to do more: throttle Hamlet or hold him. 

The thought of what he’d say to Hamlet if he ever saw him again had been the chief subject of many therapy sessions as well as many sleepless nights, but now that he was here, before him—in whatever form this was, however true or not—the words died in his throat and all he could feel was everything.

Hamlet took another drink. “It’s impolite to bring that up. Sensitive topic and all—”

“Fuck you,” Horatio snapped. “Fuck you! You died! You died and you—you left me.” The strength of his anger was tearing a hole in heart, which was pounding so hard it threatened to leap out from behind his ribs.

“I know.”

“You used me,” he continued, all his imagined eloquence evaporating into thin air. “I did everything for you, and you never did anything for me! You were cruel, and—and—” he made a frustrated noise “—God, you were such a fucking asshole, and you’re dead, so I can’t even be mad at you!”

Hamlet swallowed. “I always kind of thought this day would come,” he said quietly, running his index finger around the rim of his glass.

Horatio ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “What day?”

“The day you’d realize I’m everything everybody told you I was.” He took a cautious step forward as if unsure how Horatio was going to react. “I’m glad I died with you thinking the best of me.”

Horatio’s face crumpled. It was strange to know what Hamlet was doing and to still fall for it, but he softened anyway, some of his anger webbing away despite himself. “You left me,” he repeated weakly, his voice breaking. 

“I knew you’d be okay without me.”

“I didn’t leave my room for a year. I dropped out. I tried to summon your spirit with a ouija board. God, Hamlet.” He sat down hard on the couch, which was suddenly behind him because they were suddenly in the living room, but he was too upset to care or be disoriented. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

He felt Hamlet sit down beside him and press his head against his shoulder. He was freezing, but he’d run cold in life too. 

“Did you know?” Horatio asked. “Did you know you were going to die when you said yes to dinner?” 

Hamlet said nothing, but the weight of those unsaid words was heavy.

“You owe me honesty. If nothing else.”

“I had a good idea.”

Hearing this admission was almost worse than his own thoughts on the matter, which had been extensive.

“I did it,” Horatio said after a long beat. “I told your story. It’s a play. It’s running on Broadway. People are saying we’ll be nominated for a Tony.”

Hamlet grinned. “Look at you. Do you have a shelf for all your awards?”

“I haven’t gotten any yet. That seems presumptuous.”

At that, Hamlet laughed, a quiet, private thing that sent Horatio right back to when he was twenty-three and so in love he thought he’d die with the effort it took to keep it all inside. “Glad to see even success has kept you humble.” But in a moment, Hamlet grew somber and his shoulders dropped as if in relief. “Thank you,” he whispered, taking Horatio’s hand and kissing the back of it. “My good angel.”

Horatio’s heart twisted painfully.

“I’m married,” he said. “It was three years in March.”

“Is he nice?”

“Sort of.”

“I always knew you had a type.”

“Yeah, my type are assholes,” Horatio said bitterly. 

Hamlet looked down. “It’s rude to say true things, you know,” he finally said after a long moment of Horatio staring daggers into the side of his head.

Horatio’s shoulders tensed, but then he laughed bleakly. “I don’t know why I’m so upset. This is just my own mind.”

Hamlet clicked his tongue reprovingly. “You’re too smart to be so close minded.”

“I was never as smart as you.”

“That’s not true.”

“That’s not a self esteem thing. It’s just true,” he added, as if to clarify this to the voice in his head that sounded like his therapist, who wasn’t even here to hear it.

Hamlet’s look was amused. “You’re the one who minored in physics, not me.”

Another few minutes passed. Horatio could hear the sounds of the city below, just like it was when this apartment was inhabited, but when he craned his head to look out the window, he saw nothing but an empty street.

“Your dad’s not…?” Horatio finally cautioned to ask. 

Hamlet shrugged with affected carelessness, but Horatio noticed the pain in his eyes. “If he is, I haven’t seen him. I guess something good came out of all this. Someone got to rest easily.” Hamlet took a rueful drink. “But it’d sure be nice to hear him say thank you. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. Cheers.” With that, he drained the glass.

“Hamlet…”

Saying nothing, Hamlet turned to look at Horatio’s face. Something flickered in his eyes that was unidentifiable. “You grew up without me,” he murmured.

For the first time, Horatio really looked at him and realized with a jolt how young he was. Logically, Horatio had always known Hamlet died far too young—plucked right in the height of his youth—but actually seeing it now, when he was so much older and, well, grown up, was a shock. He was little more than a boy, really. Horatio taught people his age; he was their authority figure, thought to be so worldly and knowledgeable. It made his head spin if he thought about it too hard.

“I’m so sorry, Hamlet,” he said. What else was there to say?

Hamlet furrowed his eyebrows together. “What are you apologizing to me for? I should be apologizing to you.”

“I’m sorry I was the one left.”

“I’m glad it was you. I meant what I said, you know. You always deserved better.”

Horatio shook his head, in both refusal and denial.

“Can I ask a meaningless question, for old time’s sake?” Hamlet nudged his ankle with his foot.

Laughing, although it came out more as an exhale, he said, “Hit me with it.”

“Would you still choose me over everybody else?”

“Hamlet, you’re dead.”

“Humor me. My ego is fragile.”

“I don’t want to die anymore,” was all Horatio said. 

Hamlet smiled, but it was tinged with melancholy. Although, then again, he’d always had a somewhat sad way about him. “I hate that I can’t hate you for that. You’ve lived so long without me.”

I try every day to hate you, Horatio thought, and every day, I fail. I still love you. I don’t know how to stop. But he didn’t say this. What he did say was,

“I still miss you. I see a million things a day that make me think of you and wish you were with me so I could tell you about them.” 

“I miss you too.”

Horatio closed his eyes. Unable to keep them at bay any longer, hot tears began to roll down his cheeks. “I love you,” he said, because it was true and probably always would be. He could finally admit it now, at last. What was there to lose? Hamlet was long dead, and all that remained was Horatio’s patched but still bleeding heart. 

He was happy. Happier some days than others, yes, but he’d made a life. A good one. One that was his and his alone. Yet, his heart was still broken. Pieces had been interred with Hamlet, and they lived with him in that realm that was lost to Horatio. There was no choice but to live with it. Just as he’d had to accept a lot of things, he’d had to accept that, too. 

“Take your time, okay?” Hamlet said gently, brushing Horatio’s cheek with his thumb. In a quieter voice, he added, “Don’t forget me.”

“I could never,” Horatio said, but there was no one to hear because he was alone. He shut his eyes, aching and raw like it was ten years ago all over again, and when he opened them, he was in bed at home, with the early morning light creeping in past the curtains and Fortinbras asleep in bed beside him, snoring softly. 

Horatio touched his face, and finding it wet, wiped it with the back of his hand. The sun was rising outside. Taking a shallow breath, he climbed out of bed, opened the curtains—letting the soft and forgiving morning light in—and turned his face to the horizon.