A/N: I've always thought that Hamlet and Horatio made a wonderful couple without the sex, but... I don't know. This just came out. Lime goodness from someone that doesnt write ghei pr0n for shit. First attempt, be kind Or not. Whatever works.
Hamlet lay in bed, wrapped in quilts, staring at the ceiling. Midnight had long since passed, but he lay without moving, hands behind his head. Ever since he had talked to the ghost of his father, his mind had been on one thing only—the revenge he had demanded. Hamlet was a bit slow in delivering it, but he had convinced himself that he had to think of a sound plan instead of doing something rash.
Sighing, he pulled the quilts higher over himself. The night was cold and his gossamer nightgown did little to keep him warm. He was tired and he knew he should think about this in the morning, when his mind was more clear, but he could not let himself close his eyes.
There was a soft knock on the door. At first, Hamlet though it was just the wind picking up outside, but then there was another knock, louder than the first one, and then the door creaked open.
"Hamlet?" He heard someone whisper. It was Horatio.
"Come in, Horatio." The younger man slipped inside and closed the door. "What are you doing here?"
Horatio didn't answer, but padded silently over to the bed and climbed under the covers. Hamlet felt the warmth radiating from his best friend.
"You don't mind, do you?" Horatio questioned, indicating himself under Hamlet's quilt.
"I don't mind."
"I brought something to cheer you up." Grinning into the dark, Horatio pulled a bottle of whiskey seemingly out of nowhere. Hamlet laughed and took the bottle. Moonlight leaked through the heavy curtains and diluted the amber liquid with its bluish-white light. He opened the bottle and took a sip. The whiskey burned pleasantly as it went down his throat, leaving him feeling warm from the inside.
"How did you know I was awake?"
Horatio shrugged. "Lucky guess." He took the bottle back from Hamlet. "But in all seriousness, Hamlet, I know you well enough to know when you sleep and when you do not."
Feeling warmer than he had been a few moments ago, Hamlet shifted closer to Horatio. Lifting the bottle to his face, he looked at the distorted image of his friend through it.
"What do I do?" he pleased quietly.
"I don't know, sweet prince." Horatio brought his hand up to play with a strand of Hamlet's curly, light brown hair. "But why think about this tonight? Why don't you sleep? You need it…"
Hamlet took another sip of whiskey and then sat it down on the floor beside his bed. He faced Horatio in the darkness. "But I cannot. Do you realize how unnerving it is for your father's ghost to show up at random times, demanding revenge against some scum that has now married your mother?"
Horatio pulled Hamlet closer, until their legs tangles under the warmth of the quilt. "I do not, Hamlet, but please… put this though to rest, at least until tomorrow."
In the dark room, Horatio's chocolate eyes were pools of black. Hamlet stared into them, trying to think. But his mind was blank, numbed with whiskey and exhaustion.
Under the covers, Horatio's other hand had found his hip and he traced comforting circles on it with his thumb.
"Hamlet… please…" Horatio whispered, eternally concerned.
"I know, I know. I'll stop thinking." But he remained far away.
Horatio sighed quietly and leaned forward, kissing Hamlet softly on the corner of his mouth. Hamlet didn't move for a moment and then kissed Horatio back, tasting whiskey on the familiar lips. They used to fool around like this all the time in college, he remembered, but after they graduated it stopped, and neither of them ever spoke of it.
He pulled Horatio closer so that their bodies were pressed against each other, and his hands found themselves under Horatio's nightgown, exploring the flat, angular planes while Horatio moaned softly into his mouth.
Wrapped in the quilt and in each other, they were happy. Hamlet, although he was too concerned with other matters to realize it, had been starved for closeness and affection. Sure, Ophelia was pretty, but she was quite empty-headed and they had nothing in common. Horatio on the other hand, had been his best friend since as long as he could remember, was one of the most intelligent men he knew, and had absolutely everything in common with Hamlet. And, to be quite honest, he was a lot better looking than Ophelia.
Hamlet sprinkled feather-light kisses on Horatio's jawbone, his neck, his collarbone, his shoulders, and then his pomegranate red lips again. Meanwhile, his hand had wandered down Horatio's torso and was doing all sorts of wonderful things that made Horatio squirm and gasp and arch his back under Hamlet.
"You're wonderful, you know that?" Hamlet whispered into Horatio's ear between kisses.
"So are you…" Horatio moaned back, spellbound by the rhythm of Hamlet's hand. His own hands were gripping the sheets under him. He bucked his hips, feeling just how close he was, breath caught in his throat.
And then he was still, panting heavily in Hamlet's arms, a sticky sweetness between them.
"Hamlet…" he mouthed meaninglessly, breath heavy, while the other cleaned him off with the nightgown that had been discarded long ago. He eventually lay back down, leaving a small kiss on Horatio's forehead. He smelled of whiskey, and sex, and perhaps even love.
"What about you?" Horatio whispered.
"I'll be fine." Hamlet whispered back, sweet voice so low that Horatio barely heard it. "Good night." And he pulled the quilt over both of them.
Horatio settled himself down comfortably in Hamlet's arms, sleep making his eyelids heavy.
"Good night, sweet prince…"