|Winterstice #4 & #5, squeeful & peach_megumi:
||[Dec. 16th, 2011|04:32 pm]
These two new Hamlet pieces are set in the following universe, since there has been so much interest in it over time (the impending visit to Norway in particular, which I intend to cover in the two new fics below). You will want to read these pieces first:
What You Don't See
[EASTER EGG: Sand, Silver, Stone]
At This Chance
The Backs of His Hands / The Sun in His Eyes
Changes and Dreams
Akershus looms over them in the snowy twilight, and Horatio can see his breath.
"More a fortress than a castle," he mutters, shoving the ice-jammed carriage door open. "It's half a foot deep if it's an inch, my lord. Wrap yourself warmly."
"Given the blizzard we've endured for the past twelve hours or more," Hamlet says from within as Horatio lands with a powdery crunch, "I find it no surprise."
"Had we gone by ship, we'd have frozen on a sea of glass," Horatio tells him, gathering up Hamlet's heavy fur-lined cloak as he descends, bracing Hamlet's arm.
"You'd have warmed me until the melt," Hamlet says in a low voice, finding his footing as his feather-and-garnet-decked cap slips down over his eyes. Above, the footman sniffs, pretending he hadn't heard. Horatio rights Hamlet's cap, swallowing laughter.
He boldly steals a kiss while the footman isn't looking.
"What of the monsters waiting out in the deep?"
Hamlet considers this, licking his lips with a frosty exhalation.
"Your discourse would have thoroughly bored them, no doubt."
Horatio yanks Hamlet's cap back down over his eyes as the footman dismounts. The second coach is not far behind them, heavy-laden with their belongings, gifts for the court, and a recalcitrant Osric. It has been a hard, cold three days' journey.
Hamlet removes his cap and gestures at Akershus, regarding Horatio with awe.
"It is the Eve of Christ's Mass," he says. "And we are here as friends, not foes."
"As Fortinbras would have it," Horatio replies. "And, between us, as lovers."
"As surely would I," Hamlet murmurs, taking hold of his hand. "Norway awaits."
"You are merry, my lord," says Horatio, leaning over Hamlet, frowning. "With drink."
Hamlet tries to sit up, but the guest-chamber bedding is far too soft, and he flops ineffectually back against the exorbitant pile of silk pillows with Horatio pinning him in place. His vision swims, and Horatio's frown intensifies. His lips are stained pink.
"Why did you take it?" he asks, shaking Hamlet gently. "You could have refused."
"I've not tasted eiswein in many years," Hamlet slurs. "Or tokaji, for that matter."
"No, not since Wittenberg," Horatio sighs, releasing him. "But that's not so long ago."
"Is it not?" Hamlet asks, entranced by Horatio's shadowed gaze. "Truly?"
"Now I know why you detest drink. It robs you of wit and words, heaven forbid."
Hamlet raises himself unsteadily and claims Horatio's mouth, a messy clash of teeth.
"You taste of those sweets," he mumbles. "Devils' fruit."
"Angels' fruit if they're any," Horatio shushes him, laying them down. "Cloudberries."
"Abominations," Hamlet insists, uncertain why he's still talking, "don't grow in winter."
"I should not have said what I said," Horatio murmurs, stroking Hamlet's hair. In spite of their inebriation, they're both hard beneath the tangled sheets, naked since moments after they stumbled in from their first audience with Fortinbras.
"Said what?" Hamlet asks, fumbling for Horatio's cock. It leaks freely in his palm, heavy with need. He squirms, spreading his legs so that Horatio rests flush between them. They kiss again, ravenous, fingers and and ankles tangling.
"That you are...sweet Christ, never mind it."
"You taste of them," Hamlet whispers, stealing another bruising kiss. "Of Eden."
"Fortinbras has gardeners," Horatio manages. "The cultivar grows year 'round."
"That I am what?" Hamlet persists, and then sucks viciously at Horatio's neck.
"Merry," Horatio groans. "An ill-chosen phrase."
"Damn your long memory," Hamlet sighs, stilling as his head spins. "I'd forgot."
"Don't, I pray you," says Horatio, gently, kissing Hamlet's closed eyes.
"I am a fool," replies Hamlet, and attempts to roll out from under him.
"No more than I," Horatio says, trapping him. "Stay."
"Berries," Hamlet sighs, fingering Horatio's stained lips. "Not blood."
"Hush, my love," Horatio tells him, falling back into that familiar, comforting rhythm.
Surrendering, Hamlet holds him fiercer and closer than life.