Anti-OTP: Hamlet/Guil

[pipe_player]

Guildenstern slouches moodily in a chair, tapping his fingers irritably on the edge of the armrest. To a less experienced person, he would look angry at something, discontent with the state of the world. But those who know him better can tell easily that it's just another day for him, just another convoluted thread of logic he tries to hold the

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[thanitohercules]

Hamlet can either tell this or does not particularly care; most likely it is the latter, for it is a sort of night where he has lost hold of a bit of himself (the sort of night that is most nights, or so those that know him well would tell you). And so he is standing behind Guildenstern, wondering not what it is on the other man's mind, but rather what will get the most reaction, not that he's sure what sort of reaction he's intending, or why.

Reaching out, Hamlet very lightly runs his fingertips down the back of Guildenstern's neck.

[pipe_player]

If the odd silence that practically radiated from the Prince of Denmark behind him wasn't evidence enough that there was madness in the air, the fingers certainly prove it beyond doubt.

He flinches instinctively -- he feels it's going to be a long night -- and shifts away the slightest bit.

[thanitohercules]

Certainly, a man not speaking to anyone is no madder than a man speaking sense to himself, or nonsense not to himself-- or just as mad. Or just as mad.

As quickly as they had been there, the fingers are gone. As a replacement, however, Hamlet rests one elbow on Guildenstern's shoulder, then his chin on his hand; his small smile is secretive and just the slightest bit wild. "How farest thou?" he asks clearly, as though they had not been silent like this, at a statemate, for quite some time.

Typist: ...ignore me, jigga, plz.

[pipe_player]

At some point in time, his fingers have stopped their mindless drumming.

"--Well, my lord. Quite well." He doesn't know why he doesn't continue. It helps take his mind off madmen. "And for you, how is the world?"

[thanitohercules]

And now the other arm is draped over Guildenstern's other shoulder; there is no reason.

"Is't the manner of the world to be different for me?" Hamlet sounds a bit surprised to hear his own voice. Perhaps he had intended to say something entirely different.

[pipe_player]

This is an odd position. He feels trapped, that old familiar glancing blow of a taunting hand. Ineffectual.

"Wilder, perhaps, and stormier than for the average man," he answers, unsure. Why does he feel as though he ought to defend -- "It was no philosophical question, a mere greeting, nothing deeper."

[thanitohercules]

"Are not questions of philosophy evident in all?" His gaze is focused on Guildenstern's profile, the fingers of his other hand play at Guildenstern's collar (as if they are not connected). "Or--thou wouldst have me believe otherwise."

[pipe_player]

"It might be nice to take a rest from philosophy, from time to time," he replies. He doesn't quite know what he's saying -- or what Hamlet is doing -- or why he doesn't do something to distract himself. It's suffocating. "That was all I meant, my lord. We might begin this again if you like -- prosaically -- how do you do?"

[thanitohercules]

Hamlet's not quite sure what Hamlet is doing either, but at the moment it has Guildenstern ill at ease and this is no doubt a good thing. Spies of the King should never be at ease.

A pause. This question is more difficult than the past. "As have I always done; I am yet troubled, friend."

[pipe_player]

And he feels trapped, again -- ceaselessly -- buffeted about, with the King on one hand and Hamlet on the other, living a mad game of table tennis.

"How so, my lord?" He feels obligated to ask. Though, he thinks with a faint dread, he'd rather not know, if it's all the same to him.

[thanitohercules]

The fingers have strayed from collar, to just beside, beneath it; Hamlet's hands are warm, like a fever.

"Dost thou not know?" His voice has dropped. It is all at once challenging, taunting, warning... "The world hath wearied of me."

[pipe_player]

He can't see. This might be cold panic, or just wariness. He wants to think of it as being on guard, but he doesn't know for how long.

"Or you have grown weary of the world, as the fashionable theory has it," he says, flat.

[thanitohercules]

"Ay, 'tis most possible," he murmurs back. His lips are perhaps a fraction of an inch closer to Guildenstern's throat. "And all her pleasures."

[pipe_player]

This is a vampire as well as a madman, he thinks blindly before checking himself and dismissing the idea. But he can't help noticing -- can't help being so aware of --

"Man nor woman delights you, if I remember correctly. It must grow dull at times."

[thanitohercules]

"I'faith, 'tis so, and doth it tire!"

For a moment, Hamlet seems-- he does not know what he intends-- to be near a kiss, a fleeting, light kiss. Without warning, he pulls back completely, fingers gone from Guildenstern's collar, lips, hands, elbow gone.

His face is in his hands, then his hands are in his hair, and pain spreads across his face.

[pipe_player]

And for that split second, Guildenstern -- Guildenstern expects it, waits for the kiss to come and he doesn't know why.

"You're purposefully vague and it's never very revealing," he says curtly, but it isn't enough to distract him from a moment ago. "What ails you in particular, my lord? Concrete causes, I need reasons -- something to work from."