Fic: When it Snows In Denmark
A fluffy, quite G-rated, Hamlet/Horatio story which was written in response to a prompt of "snow" by meemsers (the amazing Hamlet to my Horatio!). I took one mild liberty, which is giving Horatio slightly curly hair because ... I don't like the way he really looks in any movie I've seen, so I figure I'll write him as I picture him.
When it snows in Denmark, the children can not be found in their homes.
All around, small footprints are visible in the snow, accompanied by the sounds of gleeful laughter and shouting. Snowballs fly through the air, fingers turn numb, steam comes from the houses as parents boil water to warm their little ones. It is a moment of opportunity; they know the next day will bring rain that will melt the snow. But it is not only the children who know how to take advantage of the rarity. Concealed behind the castle in Elsinore, a man of twenty-something with pink cheeks and a broad smile dodges behind a tree.
“Thou’rt a coward, Horatio!”
“Aye, but a clever coward, my lord!”
Horatio laughs and adjusts his scarf. He listens intently for the tell-tale crunching of one approaching. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, is skilled in the art of sneaking through the snow, though, and Horatio is only aware of his presence when a shadow passing catches his eye. He turns to run towards the protection of a snow bank. His attempt gains him little ground before something hits him around the middle, sending him into skidding into the bank instead of behind it.
“Thou’rt a cheater, Hamlet.”
“Ay,” Hamlet spits snow out of his mouth, “but a clever cheater, dear Horatio.”
“Perchance I shall tackle you next time, my lord?”
“Thou hast not the nerve.” The prince flashes his companion a joking grin.
“Indeed, not now, my lord.” Horatio’s head shakes, sending the snow flying from his slight curls. “I fear bathing in snow is a trying pastime, for it is uncertain, nay, quite impossible, that I will have use of my fingers ‘til spring is upon Denmark once more.”
Hamlet crawls to Horatio. He is either not bothered by the cold, or so numb he no longer has feeling, and he takes the other man’s hands in his.
“Come now, Horatio. ‘Twill not snow again for perchance a year. Let me warm thy hands.” Cupping Horatio’s hands in his own, Hamlet breathes out hot breaths on to them. He delights in Horatio’s modest laugh and holds tight to prevent the hands from being pulled away. “Indeed, thy cheeks are no doubt in equal misery, your scarf far too wetted through to do any such good.” So Horatio’s hands are guided to the pockets of the prince. Hamlet ghosts his breath over his friend’s cheeks (which grow darker pink as Horatio blushes) and he places his hands respectively upon them.
“I thank thee, my lord.” Horatio smiles still, holding firm his reserve. “Thou hast done thy work. Let us play on.”
“Nay, patience, dear friend.” Something dances behind Hamlet’s eyes. “Your nose is cold. How canst thou breathe in effective manner?” And then his lips press lightly to Horatio’s nose. “Quite cold, Horatio! Not good in the slightest sense of the word.” Another kiss followed by the tips of their noses being pressed together. “Is that not better?”
“Ay, my lord, ‘tis better a thousand times over.” The wind whistles around them, making Horatio tense and at ease all at once.
“And yet, I wonder …” murmurs Hamlet with amusement. His breath plays against Horatio’s lips, and Horatio finds himself incapable of speaking. “For a nose to be so cold, ‘tis only understandable for lips to be frozen. Prithee, Horatio, is that way thou cannot speak? I’faith, if cold noses bring cold lips which therefore render a laugh I’ve grown undoubtedly fond of silent, I must remedy that.”
Hamlet allows Horatio only a moment to close to his eyes and exhale and inhale before he kisses him with a tender firmness. They sit like this for some time - Horatio’s hands warmed by pockets, cheeks by hands, nose by cheek, lips by lips - while the snow bank keeps them in their private moment. Horatio allows Hamlet only a moment at the end to open his eyes and inhale and exhale before he at last reciprocates the tackle. The two laugh louder than the children in the village below as they scramble to their feet to resume their game, and as he runs again to the safety of the trees Horatio remembers why he loves it when it snows in Denmark.