ay_my_lord | WWI-verse Anarchist AU

WWI-verse Anarchist AU

*Horatio has a room in a lodging-house not far from the castle; he shares the house with three other men on his floor and an extended family on the floor above him. his belongings, he has largely left in Wittenberg, on the (perhaps vain) hope that the war will soon be over and he will be able to return within a few months' time at most.

with his fellow-lodgers at work, though, he has the narrow front room to himself--or rather, in this case, to himself and Hamlet. he is pouring out tea for them, his spectacles slipping down his nose* I'm glad you came to call today. I'd been hoping I'd hear from you soon--it's been awkward trying to get back to the castle without a wedding invitation.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I did miss her -- she was our friend since we were young, and she couldn't come to Wittenberg with us, so I wanted her to know I was still thinking about her. And she was like a far-off star in the belt of shining Andromeda. *-- puts the most frankly ridiculous things in his letters ever* ... And I wrote you sweet notes, too! I wrote you that one in class that made you blush to the back of your ears -- because I wanted to see you blush like that. But I wrote it!

*as he remembers what he'd read in class, the back of his neck goes very red--at least his collar covers it* And that was it? You just wrote it to her because she was your friend? *pause* Does she know that?

I thought she ... *bites his lip -- and compared to staging a coup, his stupidboy-troubles are so refreshingly ordinary, but* But I said things, sometimes, when I was feeling sentimental and playful ... I said things to everyone, and I meant them when I said them, but the way I said them was a little extravagant, a little romantic, and no one took that seriously. You never took me seriously, did you? *-- see, this is where Hamlet's practice pretending to be mad came from, from playing the fool for his schoolmates, and that's part of why it's so hard playing prince, being dignified and responsible for what he does and says -- no one takes that seriously, do they? yes, Hamlet, they do*

*a weak little smile* Never really. Sometimes, at first, I would think you were completely serious ... and then it would all spin out into a gigantic joke, and I'd just have to be there laughing with you.

*quiet, small* I never hurt you, did I?

Of course not. *takes his hand, and takes a sip of his tea to steady himself* You've never hurt me.

*looking down at their hands, smiling a crooked half-smile* Not when you kissed me?

You did confuse me. *squeezes his hand, and lets go* But it was my fault for playing along.

I suppose so. *just looking at his own hand, now* I suppose it was strange, and unexpected. And when something strange and unexpected happens, you can't do anything better than laugh about it. I kept half-hoping --

*quiet, waiting for him to finish--if he shouldn't make to speak, Horatio will ask gently* What did you hope, or half-hope?

It doesn't matter. It's ridiculous now -- all of it is. I've been trying to make a joke of whatever's happening with Laertes, just so it can exist -- so that even if it isn't real, I can still talk about it and laugh about it as if it were. The more ridiculous it sounds, playing husband and wife or characters from a Gothic horror, the better off it is, because then it won't risk being true. Nothing feels true -- nothing that isn't about murder, or vengeance, or regicide, or rebellion -- and everything else is ridiculous. Untruths are better off. But for a moment I ... *curling his fingers, to keep from shaking -- it's harder, now, everything is so hard -- and looking up with a perfect, teasing smile* ... You know something? Those spectacles are adorable on you. Whenever I see them, I want to kiss the bridge of your nose and fix them for you. I think it's because they always need to be fixed.

Now you're being absurd with me, because you want to make me blush. *and he is blushing* And anyway lots of Gothic horrors are about murder and vengeance, and some of them are about regicide, too. It's real, too ... at least a little bit.

*laughing* You would point that out. It's not the same, though -- you can stop reading.

But they can't. The characters, that is. *quiet* I mean ... even when they try, they can't leave the story behind them. There's always a heart thumping under the floorboards, or a woman lying alive in the tomb ... and maybe I read too much Poe, but horror's not horrible because things are dead. It's horrible because things go on living even if you want them to be dead.

*as though he's agreeing* And that's the way it is in reality, too.

*sheepish* Yes.

*leans over and kisses the bridge of his nose*

*his face feels very hot; he looks down at his cup and tries very hard not to think about kissing a beautiful blonde woman from Denmark who had madsweet eyes like Hamlet's*

*nudging up his glasses with a laugh* Adorable.

*looks up, with a little smile* I hope Laertes can tell when you're playing with him.

I doubt it.

Oh. *pours himself another cup of tea*

He's in love with somebody.

Oh. *and topping up Hamlet's cup, while he's at it* That's ... all right, isn't it?

*mmtea* For me, it is. I think he'd rather not be -- that means it's serious. When you'd rather not love somebody and still do, it's usually serious.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject