Fic: Stitches
Title: Stitches
Fandom: Hamlet
Characters/Pairings: Laertes/Ophelia, Ophelia/Hamlet
Summary: How many stitches do you think it takes to fix a cut this big?
Word Count: 1499
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When Laertes was very young and didn’t understand what pregnancy meant, his mother started screaming that her water had broken. Polonius rushed off for a midwife and Laertes was hurried out of the room and promptly forgotten about.
Hours later, he was brought back to a room where his mother lay in bed holding something. At first he was more interested in the red bloody afterbirth still in a nearby pan.
“Mommy, do you need a Band-Aid?” he asked in his serious voice and when she laughed she was his beautiful mother once more.
“No, my darling,” she assured him. “I was sick for a little bit, but now I’ve never felt better. But come! There is someone you must meet.”
“Who is it?” he asked excitedly. “Tell them to come out.”
“She’s already here. Ophelia is your sister. She will be your best friend in the world, I promise.”
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When Ophelia was very young and hadn’t quite learned how to use her feet, she fell and scraped her knee. Laertes was the closest person to her when the incident occurred, but she would have called his name even if he weren’t.
“That’s quite a gash you’ve got there,” he said admiringly. “You’ll have a nice bruise for a week or so, but other than that you’ll be fine. Can you walk?”
“I think so,” she answered, but winced when she got to her feet. “I’m fine” she said in response to his worried gaze.
“Good. Let’s get you to the bathroom so I can put some antiseptic on it and get you patched up.”
“Is it going to sting?” she asked accusingly.
He shrugged. “Maybe a little but otherwise it could get infected and then we’d have to amputate it.” *-With the last few words he tickled her on the belly until she finally laughed. “Besides, I’ll hold your hand the whole time to help you be strong.”
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When Laertes was old enough to know what death was, but young enough that he thought he could fight dragons, his mother called him into her bedroom. She loved the sunlight but had pulled the curtains shut to relieve her headache. He noticed for the first time how pale she was and was suddenly afraid of whatever she was going to tell him.
“I’ll be going soon,” she said in a tone that told him she wasn’t just going out to the store to buy milk.
“No you can’t,” he blurted out in panic. “I need you.”
“It is my time. You cannot tell the world when to stop. But you are needed here. Ophelia is starting school soon and I want you to look out for her. I’ll be nearby whenever you do.”
“Yes, of course I will” he promised and when he hugged his mother for the last time, his tears clung to her face.
“My sweet prince,” she answered, and it was the last thing he ever heard her say.
After that, he grew up far too quickly.
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When Laertes was not yet old enough to be anything more than adolescent elbows and knees, his sister came to him in tears. He saw the bruises on her arms and the cut above her eye and was immediately on the alert.
“They made fun of me and called our father a doddering old fool,” she explained between her sobs. “And when I tried to defend him, one of them held me while the other one hit me until I shut up.”
“Who did this to you? What did they look like?” Whoever did it, he’d beat them into the dust.
“I don’t know. Younger than you, but big. I think one of them was called Horatio or something.” Laertes nodded. So it was Hamlet’s gang. That settled it. He’d been looking for an excuse to bring them down for months. Laertes felt a cold anger that began to define him. It turned him hard, and angular, and fiercely protective.
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When Ophelia was still too young to really care about the size of her breasts, but felt as if she ought to, she finally found a patch of blood on her underwear. Having no one else to talk to, she went to her brother.
He barely knew more than she did, but explained the intricacies of the female body as best he could. It just had to be enough to reassure her.
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When things began to get complicated, Laertes drove her out to the cemetery. They stood stiffly, side by side in front of their mother’s memorial.
“I still can’t believe she’s gone, sometimes.” He finally broke the silence. “I keep expecting her to come around a corner”
“I can hardly believe she was ever here at all,” Ophelia answered. “I was very young and don’t remember her nearly as well as I remember the stories you used to tell me.”
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When Ophelia was old enough to start dating boys, Laertes felt it like a knife to the heart. Up until the moment that she mentioned “my boyfriend,” he’d had some ridiculous notion that he was the only man she would ever need in her life. It was childish, he knew, but he was still a bit of a child, though he tried not to be. Sometimes, he realized, you had to let go of the people you loved most. So he decided he’d share in her happiness rather than begrudge her for it.
“Well, dear sister, who’s the lucky guy?” he asked, and did his best to keep the hurt from his voice.
“It’s Hamlet,” she admitted, with a smile so radiant she couldn’t possibly have been faking.
“Hamlet!?” he demanded too loudly. “Hamlet, the rich asshole, you mean? Hamlet who likes to beat up little girls for what their fathers are? That Hamlet? Or have you forgotten all that for the sake of a handsome face?” He hated that she got the prince he had always wished he could be.
“Laertes, you don’t understand me. I’m not some little girl anymore and I can make my own choice. Hamlet’s a good man. He loves me, and I love him. That’s all there is to it.”
“May you be very happy,” he spit at her, and hated that he still meant it.
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When Ophelia reached the age of consent, she gave it to Hamlet with a smile. She knew that Laertes would probably find out; in fact she counted on it.
“He will not respect you,” he warned her. “Even now he’s planning on what he’ll do when he becomes king.”
“Perhaps he is, but I will be his queen.”
“That’s all he cares for you as,” he snorted. You will be nothing more than a prize to be displayed at parties and affairs of state.”
“You are incorrect, but even if you were not, it is still my decision and I will do as I please.
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When Laertes was old enough to swallow his pride, he went to talk to the Prince of Denmark. “I’m sorry this happened,” he murmured and tried not to look at Hamlet’s red-rimmed eyes. “It is never easy when those you love are taken from us.”
Hamlet hesitated, then took the words in the spirit they were intended. “My father was a good man. I loved him, but now he’s dead. And as for my mother…” He sighed. “I still love her even though she gave herself to a man who never deserved her in his bed.”
Laertes nodded in understanding. “I lost my mother,” he said. And my sister, he wanted to say, but he wanted this uneasy peace to last more than anything else right now.
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When Laertes was finally old enough to go off to university, he made two last visits before he left. The first was to his sister in the privacy of her rooms, where he promised he’d keep in touch.
“You will be magnificent without me,” he told her, “but do not be afraid to write if ever you encounter something you can’t handle. I’ll fix it as best I can.”
The second visit was to Hamlet, whom he respected now but did not entirely trust. “Good luck with your country,” was the best he could come up with and he couldn’t resist adding “and if you fuck with my sister I’ll kill you myself.”
“Don’t worry - I’ll care for her like a sister.”
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When Ophelia was dumped for the first time, she learned that she was still young enough to get hurt. She wanted more than anything to write about Hamlet’s strange behavior and orders that she leave him at once, but she knew he’d only say he had called it, so she kept her troubles to herself.
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When it was too late to do anything about it, he came home to a stabbed father and a drowned sister. No number of stitches could get the water out of her lungs, he realized.