Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rosencrantz could feel someone trying to rouse him. He couldn’t tell who, not from behind his sleeping mask, but someone was definitely there. Shaking his shoulder gingerly at first, then with increasing intensity. He murmurs, “Gimme a second…” Though, the unidentified person did not give him such luxury. He flinches as his mask is ripped from his eyes, and the harsh sunlight from through the window punches him in the face. He groans, immediately bringing a hand to his face, ghosting his fingers over his eyelids before squinting over them.

“Get up, we have to go,” grunts Guildenstern, his gaze pointed harshly at the other man.

“Why?” Rosencrantz asks groggily.

“Because…” The blond’s words trail off. “Well, I–”

A thick, germanic voice calls out their names from behind the door. Banging on the shutters. Both men flinch and back away towards the wall at the harshness of it.

Rosencrantz scrambles backward, his heart thudding in his chest. Guildenstern’s hand, as if out of instinct, darts out to steady him, fingers gripping tightly onto Rosencrantz’s tunic sleeve. Their eyes met, and for a split second, there was a fleeting companionship there. But then– as like before– Guildenstern’s hand pulled back, his gaze hardening, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“What in the world are we waiting for here?” Rosencrantz whispers, glancing confused at the door. “What does he want with us?”

Guildenstern shook his head, as clueless as Rosencrantz was, but he had the same prickling feeling that had been gnawing at him since he had woken up. He was beginning to think that Rosencrantz had forgotten what he hadn’t. The players, the noose, the tightness around his gullet. He shakes his head noncommittally, and opts to slap a hand over the other’s mouth instead. “It doesn’t matter. Just shut up. Now.”

“Right. But where are we even going?” Rosencrantz muffles, voice softening as he sees Guildenstern’s usual confidence falter. Guildenstern rarely showed any uncertainty; he was all edges, strict lines, no room for doubts or unnecessary feelings. Rosencrantz sometimes envied that. However, at this moment, he felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest. He realizes, “Hey, kinda nice…” No. Not nice. He did not like this new feeling.

“I don’t know,” Guildenstern admits, his voice a little more frustrated than before. “Anywhere but with that man.”

Guildenstern’s hand twitches, and Rosencrantz saw it before his face revealed anything at all. Without contemplating, he reaches forward to place his hand over Guildenstern’s. He felt Guildenstern stiffen, then pull away. After some silence, his fingers curl over Rosencrantz’s hand, guiding it away as though revolted.

Before either one of them could overthink on it or let the awkwardness fester, the voice boomed for them again. “Rosencrantz! Guildenstern!”

“No time for this,” He mutters, his eyes darting around the room for an escape route. He gestures to the window with a jerk of his head, and Rosencrantz nods, swallowing hard. Guildenstern pushes open the window, glancing at the ground below. They were on the second floor—nothing they couldn’t handle, but certainly nothing to linger over.

“Quick,” Guildenstern hisses, and with one final glance back toward the door, he climbs out, landing with a low thud in the grass. Rosencrantz follows, his heart in his throat as he drops beside his friend, the two of them immediately breaking into a run through the tall grasses surrounding the house.

Behind them, the banging on the door grew louder, the man’s voice now an irritated shout as he realized they weren’t replying. Rosencrantz stumbles, but Guildenstern grabs his arm, pulling him forward without a word. They sprint side by side, the trees closing in around them, muffling the sounds of pursuit. For a brief, fleeting moment, it felt like they’d made it.

Then—hoofbeats. Rapid, relentless. The unmistakable crunch of dry leaves and snapping twigs under the weight of horses.

Guildenstern’s face twists in frustration as he yanks Rosencrantz down behind a fallen log. “Stay low,” he whispers, breathing heavily. They could hear the rider approaching, drawing closer by the second.

But it was too late. The messenger had caught up, his voice ringing through the trees like a death knell. “Rosencrantz! Guildenstern! There’s no running from this!”

Rosencrantz exhaled, smirking with resignation. “It’s alright,” he said softly, half to himself.

The messenger grinned, a cold, triumphant look in his eyes. “Found you.”

Guildenstern gave a weary sigh, readying himself.

Chapter Text

The road to Elsinore stretched endlessly before them, a winding path of dirt and gravel that cut through fields and forest, cloaked in the muted light of an overcast sky. Rosencrantz adjusted his pack over his shoulder, glancing back at the messenger trailing just behind them. The man sat tall in the saddle, his gaze sharp and unyielding. He hadn’t spoken a word since finding them, but his presence was heavy, like a shadow neither could shake.

“Not exactly the scenic route,” Rosencrantz murmured, his voice low and edged with discomfort. “Do you think he ever blinks? I don’t think I’ve seen him blink.”

Guildenstern walked briskly beside him, his steps firm and purposeful. “He doesn’t need to blink,” he replied tersely, his tone clipped. “It’s not his purpose.”

“And what is his purpose?” Rosencrantz asked, raising an eyebrow, speaking through a soft chuckle. “Other than ruining my day.”

“To ensure we don’t stray.” Guildenstern’s voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful, as though speaking more to himself than his companion. “To make sure we arrive where we’re meant to.”

Rosencrantz frowned at the words, tilting his head. “Where we are supposed to? I thought we were going to Elsinore to, you know… Well, I can’t quite recall, but he did tell us. Seems simple enough.”

Guildenstern didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, and Rosencrantz’s unease grew. It wasn’t like Guildenstern to be this distant, this inscrutable. He has come to observe him very closely these days. Or, he thinks so anyway.

“Do you ever feel like we’re not in control?” Guildenstern finally said, his voice unusually soft. “Like… like the things we do, the choices we make—they’re not ours?”

Rosencrantz blinked at him, startled by the sudden vulnerability. “Why would you ever think of something of the sort? Of course, we have control. God gave us freedom of choice, did he not?”

Guildenstern’s jaw tightened, “I hardly believe there is a god…” he didn’t press further. The sound of distant hoofsteps broke the moment, drawing both men’s attention ahead. A troupe of players had set up an impromptu performance on the roadside, their bright costumes and lively gestures a jarring contrast to the dreary road.

The leader of the troupe—tall, theatrical, with a commanding presence—noticed the travelers and grinned broadly. “Gentlemen! How fateful! Three weary wanderers on the road to Elsinore. Come, be entertained! Times being what they are, and all!”

Rosencrantz’s face lit up, the tension in his posture easing as he nudged Guildenstern. “Hey, this might be fun. We’ve got time, don’t we?”

Guildenstern’s expression darkened. “No, we don’t. Keep walking.” No. None of these players, these so-called actors. Not this time.

“Oh, come on.” Rosencrantz tugged lightly at his sleeve. “What’s the harm in stopping for a few minutes? You look like you could use a break.” His smile faded into a distinct frown, pouting almost. “Besides, do you see that lady there?” He stuck a thumb towards Alfred, the rather effeminate man.

Before Guildenstern could argue, the messenger rode up beside them, his horse’s hooves kicking up small clouds of dust. His cold gaze swept over the players before settling back on the two men. “Keep moving,” he said flatly, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Rosencrantz hesitated, glancing between the messenger and the players. The troupe leader, undeterred, stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Ah, but surely even the most pressing journeys need a moment of reprieve? What is life, after all, without a little theater?”

Guildenstern stiffened, his hand clenching at his side. “We don’t have time for your games.”

The leader tilted his head, his grin widening. “No? And yet, you play them all the same. Every step you take, every word you utter—you’re part of the grandest performance of all. But you already know that, don’t you?” His gaze flickered to Guildenstern, sharp and knowing.

Rosencrantz looked between them, confused. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing,” Guildenstern snapped, his voice hard. “We’re leaving.”

But as they turned to go, the leader called out after them, his voice taking on a darker, almost ominous tone. “You can’t escape it, you know. The ending’s already written. The curtain will fall, whether you want it to or not.”

Guildenstern paused, his shoulders rigid. He didn’t look back.

Rosencrantz frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the players. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think? Oh well, I suppose that they ARE players, aren’t they?”

“Forget them,” Guildenstern said tightly, his pace quickening.

The rest of the journey was silent, the weight of the leader’s words hanging heavily between them. The road seemed longer now, the air colder. Rosencrantz found himself sneaking glances at Guildenstern, who looked more haunted with every step.

By the time Elsinore’s spires came into view, the tension was almost unbearable. The castle loomed over the landscape, dark and foreboding, its windows like hollow eyes staring down at them.

Rosencrantz tried to muster a smile, but it faltered. “Well… here we are. Elsinore.”

Guildenstern said nothing, his gaze fixed on the castle. The messenger dismounted, his expression as impassive as ever. “Inside,” he ordered, gesturing toward the gates.

As they crossed the threshold, Rosencrantz couldn’t shake the feeling that they were walking into something far bigger than themselves. Something they couldn’t escape.

Something they couldn’t survive.

The messenger went to show them they’re rooms prior to their meeting with the queen and, all the newest, king. Both of them had separate beds, a rarity in these times. Though– it is a castle… Luxury is to be expected.

“Cheer up,” Rosencrantz chirps, clapping the other scholar on the shoulder firmly. “Why don’t we take a bath? I’m feeling awfully dirty from our venture.”

Guildenstern wanted to yell at him for his optimism, but knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere. So, after their task to check on Hamlet was gifted to them from the King and Queen, they departed to bathe.

Chapter Text

Guildenstern gazed into the tarnished, tugging a frayed string between his teeth, dislodging the remnants of a meal he barely remembered eating. The ritual was mechanical, devoid of thought, like everything else lately. He tilted his head to check his molars, squinting against the fog of steam, which seemed to be comically dispersing more and more throughout the room.

He had been here before—he knew it. Not just in this room but in this moment. The act of seeing himself, of searching for imperfections, felt eerily familiar, as though he’d performed it countless times in a dream. Rosencrantz was absent, as usual, likely amusing himself elsewhere, no doubt surrounded by the same leering actors and false women he often found so fascinating.

It didn’t matter. Guildenstern could feel the air grow heavier, the shadows in the corners of the room deepening. He turned, sensing a presence, and there he was—the Player. Cloaked in a haze of smoke and the acrid scent of tallow, the man loomed in the doorway, his expression inscrutable, his eyes gleaming with knowing.

Guildenstern froze, his body betraying him with a shiver he couldn’t suppress. The Player’s gaze stripped him bare, though he was fully clothed. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, a self soothing mechanism. A poor defense against a sensation that emanated from within.

“You’ve been here before,” the Player murmured, his voice smooth as silk, yet weighted with finality. A rage inducing, smug grin on his face.

Guildenstern said nothing. He didn’t need to. He merely glared.

The Player took a single step forward, his boots tapping softly against the wooden floor, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence like a dagger. The haze of smoke curled around him, tendrils of gray licking at the edges of his cloak. His grin widened, maddeningly calm, as if Guildenstern’s glare only amused him further.

“You’re angry,” the Player said, his tone light and conversational. “I suppose that’s fair. No one likes to see the strings, do they? To feel the weight of a hand guiding their every step.”

Guildenstern stiffened, his nails digging into his palms. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice low and tight, though it trembled at the edges.

The Player tilted his head, his expression one of mock curiosity. “What do I want? Oh, my dear Guildenstern, it’s not about what I want. It’s about you. It’s always been about you. You and your idiot friend.” He gestured broadly, as if encompassing the entire room—or perhaps the entire world. “After all, the performance wouldn’t exist without its players. And you... well, you’re the finest of them all.”

Guildenstern’s teeth clenched, a spark of defiance flaring in his chest. “I’m not your pawn,” he spat.

The Player laughed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to echo far longer than it should. “Oh, but you are. And so much more. A pawn, a knight, a king—whatever the script demands. And don’t mistake me, Guildenstern: there is always a script.”

Guildenstern took a step back, his shoulders brushing against the cool stone wall. His breath quickened, his mind racing. The Player’s words tugged at something deep inside him, something he couldn’t quite name. A memory, a feeling, a truth he had buried so deeply it was nearly lost.

“You speak in riddles,” Guildenstern growled. “I’ve no time for games.”

The Player’s grin faltered, if only for a moment, replaced by something sharper, more menacing. “No time?” he echoed, his voice soft but heavy with mockery. “What else do you have, Guildenstern? Time is your stage, your prison, your curse. It loops and stretches and snaps, but it never ends.”

Guildenstern’s chest tightened. He wanted to deny it, to shout that the Player was wrong, but the words stuck in his throat. The shadows in the room seemed to press closer, the air growing colder.

The Player’s eyes softened, his grin fading into something almost pitiful. “I don’t envy you,” he said quietly. “To play a part is one thing. To *know* you’re playing it—well, that’s another entirely, isn’t it? The rest of us can lose ourselves in the illusion, but you...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You can’t help but see the seams.”

Guildenstern’s fists trembled at his sides. “Leave me,” he hissed. “Whatever your game is, I won’t play it.”

The Player sighed theatrically, spreading his hands. “Oh, Guildenstern. You misunderstand. Whether you play willingly or not, the outcome remains the same. But very well.” He stepped back toward the doorway, his form fading into the thick smoke. “I’ll leave you to your mirror, your string, your moment. For now.”

As the Player disappeared, the room seemed to breathe again, the shadows retreating, the air warming. Guildenstern sagged against the wall, his legs threatening to give out beneath him.

The mirror still hung on the far wall, its surface now fogged with condensation. Guildenstern stared at his distorted reflection, his own face a blur. He reached out and wiped the glass with a trembling hand, but the clarity he sought did not come.

Instead, he saw the faint outline of another face—familiar and mocking—just behind his own.

The Player’s voice whispered in his ear, faint and echoing, as though carried on the last wisps of smoke. “You’ve been here before, Guildenstern. You’ll be here again. And again. Until the curtain falls.”

Guildenstern stared at the mirror, his breath hitching as the ghostly outline of the Player’s face lingered in the warped reflection. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw the grin again—that infuriatingly smug grin, as if every moment of his life were a punchline in some cosmic joke. He jerked back, turning sharply, but the room behind him was empty. No smoke. No figure in the doorway.

Only silence.

Yet the words lingered, curling like an acrid wisp of smoke in the recesses of his mind: You’ve been here before. You’ll be here again.

He clenched his jaw, dragging a hand down his face, willing himself to shake off the weight of it. It was nonsense. It had to be. Guildenstern was not a man to dwell on riddles or entertain the notion of fate. Fate was for poets and playwrights, for actors like the Player who lived in the ephemeral worlds of their own making. But as much as he tried to dismiss it, the feeling of inevitability gnawed at him, burrowing deeper into his chest.

A curtain slid open behind him, and Guildenstern spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. But it wasn’t the Player this time.

It was Rosencrantz.

“Good Lord, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Rosencrantz said, his tone half-jesting but tinged with genuine concern. He stepped into the room, his boots clicking softly against the floor. His face was flushed from exertion—or perhaps excitement—the telltale signs of his earlier revelry clinging to him like perfume.

Guildenstern exhaled sharply, trying to compose himself. “Where have you been?” he asked, his tone harsher than he intended.

“Out,” Rosencrantz replied with a shrug, clearly unbothered. “The troupe was putting on another show. Quite bawdy, actually. You should’ve come. A bit of laughter might do you some good.”

“Laughter,” Guildenstern muttered, turning away. “What good is laughter in this endless charade?”

Rosencrantz frowned, stepping closer. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you spiral. You get all broody and cryptic and start speaking in riddles that even I can’t understand. And that’s saying something.”

Guildenstern opened his mouth to retort but stopped short. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye again, and for a moment, it wasn’t his face staring back at him. It was Rosencrantz’s.

He blinked, and it was gone.

“What’s wrong?” Rosencrantz asked, his voice softer now. He took another step closer, placing a hand lightly on Guildenstern’s shoulder. “You look like you’ve been chewing on something bitter all night.”

Guildenstern flinched at the touch, his body instinctively recoiling. “Nothing,” he said tersely, shaking him off. “I’m fine.”

Rosencrantz didn’t press, though the hurt flickered briefly across his face. “Right. Of course. Fine.” He pulled back, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable. It was always like this. Guildenstern retreating behind his walls, Rosencrantz hovering just outside them, unsure whether to knock or walk away.

“Do you ever feel like...” Rosencrantz began hesitantly, his voice breaking the quiet. “Like we’re going in circles? Like no matter what we do, we just end up back where we started?”

Guildenstern’s gaze snapped to him, his chest tightening. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Rosencrantz said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just... lately, it feels like everything’s the same. The same arguments. The same rooms. The same roads. And it’s not just that it’s familiar—it’s like it’s... inevitable.”

Guildenstern stared at him, his heart pounding. Rosencrantz was rarely so introspective, so attuned to the subtle currents beneath their lives. It unnerved him to hear his own thoughts reflected back so plainly.

“Maybe we’re just tired,” Guildenstern said, his voice strained. “It’s been a long journey.”

Rosencrantz smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. “Has it, though? I can’t even remember where it started.”

Before Guildenstern could respond, a loud knock at the door shattered the moment. Both men turned toward the sound, their bodies tensing instinctively.

“Rosencrantz! Guildenstern!”

The voice was deep and booming, reverberating through the walls. The same voice that had pursued them earlier, relentless and commanding.

Rosencrantz glanced at Guildenstern, his expression a mix of fear and resignation. “What do we do?”

Guildenstern’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have an answer.

The knock came again, harder this time, rattling the door on its hinges.

“Rosencrantz! Guildenstern!”

“Is there even a point in running?” Rosencrantz whispered, his voice barely audible.

Guildenstern didn’t reply. Instead, he grabbed Rosencrantz by the wrist, dragging him toward the window. “Out,” he said curtly.

Rosencrantz hesitated, but only for a moment. He followed Guildenstern’s lead, climbing out into the cold night air.

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The woods enveloped them, the tall trees stretching like skeletal fingers toward the sky. The air was thick and damp, the ground uneven beneath their feet. They ran without speaking, the sound of their labored breaths mingling with the distant echo of hoofbeats.

When they finally stopped, collapsing behind a fallen tree, Rosencrantz looked at Guildenstern, his chest heaving. “We can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice raw.

Guildenstern didn’t respond. He leaned against the tree, his face buried in his hands.

“What are we running from?” Rosencrantz pressed. “Who are they? What do they want with us?”

“I don’t know,” Guildenstern admitted, his voice muffled. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Rosencrantz reached out hesitantly, his hand brushing against Guildenstern’s. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it sent a jolt through both of them.

Guildenstern flinched, pulling away.

Rosencrantz sighed, leaning back against the tree. “We’ll end up back there, won’t we?”

Guildenstern looked at him, his face pale and drawn. “Yes,” he said finally. “We always do.”

Above them, the sky began to lighten, the first hints of dawn piercing the canopy. The world continued its endless spin, dragging them along in its orbit.

And somewhere, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of the Player’s laughter.

Chapter Text

The sun was creeping over the jagged edges of the treetops when Guildenstern finally spoke. He had been silent for hours, his shoulders hunched as though the weight of the sky bore down on him alone. Rosencrantz trailed behind, his steps unsteady on the uneven forest path, his mind drifting between idle thoughts and vague unease.

"I've been thinking," Guildenstern began, his voice low and sharp, breaking the morning stillness.

Rosencrantz looked up, startled. "Oh? Dangerous business, that."

Guildenstern turned slightly, fixing him with a withering glare, but the edge of it softened almost instantly. "Do you recall how we got here?"

Rosencrantz tilted his head, puzzled. "Here? You mean this exact spot in the woods? Or do you mean..." He gestured vaguely, his hand cutting through the foggy air. "...everything?"

"Everything," Guildenstern replied, his tone clipped. "This forest. That castle. Our... summons."

Rosencrantz squinted as though trying to bring the memories into focus. "We were sent for," he said slowly. "A royal request, wasn't it? Or was it more of a command? Either way, it’s an honor, surely."

Guildenstern pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. "An honor," he echoed. "Is that what it feels like to you?"

Rosencrantz shrugged, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It feels like a lot of walking. And a lot of guessing. But isn’t that how things are always with us?"

Guildenstern stopped abruptly, causing Rosencrantz to stumble slightly as he caught up. He turned to face him fully, his gaze intense. "Do you really not see it?"

"See what?" Rosencrantz asked, genuinely confused. "The forest? The path? The castle up ahead?"

Guildenstern exhaled sharply, his frustration palpable. He gestured around them, his movements stiff and deliberate. "This. All of it. It’s the same. Every step we take, every word we exchange. We've done it before."

Rosencrantz frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to follow Guildenstern’s reasoning. "What are you talking about? This is the first time we’ve been to Elsinore. Isn’t it?"

Guildenstern’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "No. It isn’t. I don’t know how I know it, but I know it. We've been here before, Rosencrantz. Again and again."

Rosencrantz blinked, taken aback by the sudden vehemence in Guildenstern’s voice. "Are you feeling alright? You sound... Well, you sound like one of those players, always spinning tales and riddles."

At the mention of the players, Guildenstern’s expression darkened further. He turned away, resuming his pace along the path. "Forget it," he muttered. "It’s pointless trying to explain."

Rosencrantz hesitated before following, his thoughts churning. He had seen Guildenstern frustrated before, angry even, but this was different. There was a weariness in him, a depth of despair that Rosencrantz couldn’t quite grasp. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

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Abruptly, the pair saw themselves inside of a room, shrouded under a conjoined sheet. They rip it off of themselves, thrashing a moment, coming up and glancing panicked around the grand room. The castle. Again. Guildenstern felt himself become overwhelmed with dread.

Rosencrantz, however, seemed oblivious to the foreboding atmosphere. He whistled a tuneless melody as they approached the gates, his demeanor light and carefree. "Do you think there’ll be a feast?" he asked, glancing at Guildenstern with a hopeful grin. "I’m starving."

Guildenstern didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the great doors of the castle, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t articulate. He had been here before—he was sure of it. But how could that be possible? How could he remember conversations that Rosencrantz didn’t, moments that hadn’t yet happened?

"Rosencrantz!" a booming voice called from the battlements, breaking through his thoughts. "Guildenstern! Welcome to Elsinore!"

The figure of the messenger loomed above them, his presence as imposing as ever. Guildenstern felt a chill run down his spine as the man’s piercing gaze met his own.

Rosencrantz, oblivious to the tension in his companion, waved cheerfully. "See? They’re expecting us! That’s a good sign, isn’t it?"

Guildenstern said nothing about how just before the man had been angrily lingering over them, his unease deepening as the gates creaked open.

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The throne room was as grand as it was oppressive, its vaulted ceilings and ornate tapestries dwarfing the two men as they stood before the King and Queen. Claudius greeted them with a genial smile, though his eyes betrayed a cold calculation. Gertrude, seated beside him, looked on with a mixture of warmth and weariness.

"My good friends," Claudius began, his tone smooth and practiced. "How grateful we are for your swift arrival. We have a task of great importance for you—one that requires your unique... talents."

Rosencrantz beamed, clearly flattered. "Anything for Your Majesties," he said, bowing deeply.

Guildenstern, however, remained silent, his gaze flickering between the King and Queen. He felt a growing sense of dread, as though the walls of the room were closing in around him.

"It concerns my nephew," Claudius continued, his voice lowering slightly. "Prince Hamlet. He has been... unwell. Distracted. We fear for his well-being and for the stability of the realm. Your task is simple: speak with him. Observe him. Help us understand what troubles him."

Rosencrantz nodded eagerly. "Of course, Your Majesty. We’d be delighted to assist."

Guildenstern’s stomach churned. The words felt too familiar, as though he had heard them countless times before. He could almost predict what Claudius would say next.

"And remember," the King added, his gaze hardening. "This is a matter of the utmost discretion."

After being dismissed, the two men were shown to their quarters—lavish chambers with separate beds and roaring fireplaces. Rosencrantz immediately flopped onto his bed, sighing contentedly. "Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?"

Guildenstern didn’t reply. He stood at the window, staring out at the courtyard below. His reflection in the glass seemed to shift and waver, as though mocking him with its inscrutability.

"Do you think Hamlet will recognize us?" Rosencrantz asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "It’s been ages since we last saw him, hasn’t it?"

Guildenstern turned, his expression grave. "What do you remember of Hamlet?"

Rosencrantz frowned, clearly puzzled by the question. "What do you mean? He’s the Prince. Always a bit... odd, but a good fellow, I think."

"Do you remember how we met him? What we talked about?" Guildenstern pressed, his voice rising slightly.

Rosencrantz sat up fully, his brow furrowing. "Well... not exactly. But does it matter? We’ll see him soon enough, and it’ll all come back, won’t it?"

Guildenstern’s shoulders sagged. He turned back to the window, his reflection staring back at him with an unsettling intensity. "I don’t think it will," he murmured.

Later that evening, they were summoned to Hamlet’s chambers. The air in the castle seemed heavier as they navigated its winding corridors, the flickering torchlight casting long, distorted shadows on the walls.

When they entered, Hamlet was seated by the window, his gaze fixed on the night sky. He turned slowly at the sound of their footsteps, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Rosencrantz. Guildenstern," he said, his voice low and measured. "The King’s messengers. Or are you something more?"

Rosencrantz laughed nervously, stepping forward. "Hamlet, old friend! It’s good to see you."

Hamlet’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Is it? Or is it merely convenient?"

Guildenstern stiffened, his unease deepening. Hamlet’s gaze shifted to him, sharp and piercing. “The woes of scholars. You and I are alike, friends. Aside from that fact that you both, of course, were sent for. By my oh so loving parents. Dare I call that serpent a father.” The former opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Hamlet chuckled softly, turning back to the window.

Guildenstern’s heart pounded in his chest. He glanced at Rosencrantz, who looked as bewildered as ever, and felt a pang of guilt. Rosencrantz didn’t know. He didn’t see the seams, the repetitions. And for that, Guildenstern envied him.

"Come," Hamlet said suddenly, rising to his feet. "Let us speak plainly. Or as plainly as we dare."

The three men sat, the flickering candlelight casting strange patterns on the walls. Hamlet’s words were cryptic, his gaze shifting constantly between his two visitors. Rosencrantz tried to engage him, but the conversation spiraled into riddles and half-truths.

Guildenstern said little, his mind racing. Hamlet seemed to know. About the loops, the inevitability, the futility of it all. But how? And more importantly, why?

As the night wore on, the air in the room grew heavier, the shadows darker. Guildenstern felt the weight of it pressing down on him, the sense that he was trapped in a story he couldn’t escape.

And through it all, Rosencrantz remained blissfully unaware, his laughter ringing out occasionally, a fleeting light in the encroaching darkness.

And Guildenstern, contemplated.

How would it be to kill himself? Would he come again? Just as before? Certainly, if he were to just stab himself in this present moment, they wouldn’t let him go from this endless torment. Hell, they might not even let him try.

Ah, well.

Chapter Text

Rosencrantz woke to the sound of muffled breathing, uneven and harsh, as though someone were trying to choke back sobs. He blinked, disoriented, the haze of sleep clinging to him as he pushed himself up on one elbow. The room was still dim, the faint gray light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

"Guildenstern?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

The sound of breathing stilled, as if the person in question had been caught. Rosencrantz turned his head, squinting into the gloom, and saw Guildenstern sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over, his head in his hands. His shoulders trembled slightly, betraying the facade of control he was so clearly trying to maintain.

"Hey," Rosencrantz said softly, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. The chill of the floor against his bare feet made him shiver, but he ignored it. "What’s wrong?"

Guildenstern didn’t respond. His fingers curled tightly into his hair, and his breathing remained shallow and ragged.

Rosencrantz hesitated, unsure whether to approach. Guildenstern was not a man prone to displays of emotion; his composure was as much a part of him as his sharp wit and biting sarcasm. To see him like this, so raw and vulnerable, felt almost wrong—like witnessing something private and unguarded. But the sight also stirred something deep within Rosencrantz, a gnawing ache he couldn’t ignore.

"Guildenstern," he said again, more firmly this time, taking a cautious step forward. "Talk to me. Please."

When Guildenstern finally lifted his head, his eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and drawn. There was a wildness in his gaze, a desperation that Rosencrantz had never seen before. It sent a jolt of fear through him.

"I can’t do this," Guildenstern whispered, his voice barely audible. "I can’t... I don’t even know what 'this' is anymore."

Rosencrantz’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean? Is it about Hamlet? The King? Something else?"

Guildenstern let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and brittle. "It’s about everything. Nothing. I don’t know. It’s like... like I’m trapped in a play I don’t remember auditioning for. Every step I take feels like I’ve taken it before. Every word I say feels rehearsed." He looked up at Rosencrantz, his expression pained. "Doesn’t it feel that way to you?"

Rosencrantz hesitated, caught off guard by the question. He tilted his head, his gaze softening. "I mean... I suppose there are moments, sure. Like déjà vu, you know? But doesn’t everyone feel that way sometimes?"

Guildenstern shook his head vehemently. "This isn’t déjà vu. It’s... it’s something else. Something worse. I keep thinking—no, knowing—that we’ve done all this before. This room, this conversation, this... feeling." His voice cracked on the last word, and he turned away, his hands clenching into fists.

Rosencrantz took another step closer, his chest tightening as he watched his friend unravel. "I don’t know what to say," he admitted quietly. "I don’t feel it the way you do. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong. Maybe you’re seeing something I can’t."

Guildenstern’s shoulders sagged, and for a moment, the room was filled with an unbearable silence. Then, slowly, Rosencrantz reached out and placed a tentative hand on Guildenstern’s shoulder. The muscles beneath his touch were taut, like a bowstring stretched to its limit.

"Hey," Rosencrantz said gently, his thumb brushing against the coarse fabric of Guildenstern’s tunic. "You don’t have to carry all this alone, you know. Whatever it is you’re feeling, whatever it is you’re afraid of... you can tell me."

Guildenstern let out a shuddering breath, his head bowing slightly. "It’s not that simple," he muttered. "You wouldn’t understand."

"Maybe not," Rosencrantz admitted. "But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of the silence pressed down on Rosencrantz, but he refused to let it crush him. He tightened his grip on Guildenstern’s shoulder, as if anchoring him to the present, to something solid.

"I’ve been scared, too," Rosencrantz said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. He stared at the floor as he spoke, his own vulnerability surprising him. "Not like you, I guess. Not about... reality or time or whatever it is that’s haunting you. But about... other things. About saying things I shouldn’t. Feeling things I shouldn’t."

Guildenstern glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, his brow furrowing slightly. "What are you talking about?"

Rosencrantz hesitated, his heart pounding. He hadn’t meant to say so much, hadn’t meant to let his own thoughts slip into the open. But now that the words were hovering between them, he couldn’t take them back.

"It’s nothing," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "Just... sometimes I feel like I’m not brave enough. Like there are things I want to say but can’t, because... well, because they might change things. And I like the way things are. I don’t want to lose that."

Guildenstern studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Rosencrantz felt his cheeks flush under the scrutiny, but he held his ground, his smile faltering only slightly.

"You’re a fool," Guildenstern said finally, his tone lacking its usual bite.

Rosencrantz let out a soft laugh, relief flooding through him. "Maybe. But at least I’m your fool, right?"

Guildenstern’s lips twitched, as if he were on the verge of smiling, but the expression didn’t fully form. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the floor, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly under Rosencrantz’s hand.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the tension in the room began to ease. The shadows on the walls seemed less oppressive, the air less heavy. Rosencrantz stayed where he was, his hand still resting on Guildenstern’s shoulder, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t alone.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty or stifling. It was a silence filled with understanding, with a fragile but genuine connection that neither of them dared to break. And for that moment, at least, it was enough.

Chapter Text

Rosencrantz had not meant to stumble upon it.

The morning sunlight streamed through the window as he idly searched for his other boot. Guildenstern was out—fetching provisions, perhaps, or pacing the grounds in one of his brooding fits. He, left to his own devices, had decided to tidy their shared quarters in an uncharacteristic fit of helpfulness. He crouched to peer under Guildenstern’s bed, brushing aside the dust with a sweep of his hand. And that was when he saw it.

A corset.

It lay folded neatly, its fabric a deep crimson that shimmered faintly in the light. The intricate lace detailing caught his eye, delicate and undeniably feminine. For a moment, he simply stared, his mind a cacophony of questions and feelings that he couldn’t quite name.

He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the smooth fabric. The thought of Guildenstern—stern, sharp, unyielding Guildenstern—having something like this hidden beneath his bed was jarring. And yet, as the shock ebbed, another emotion crept in, uninvited and insistent: jealousy.

He sat back on his heels, clutching the corset in both hands. Was it for someone? Had Guildenstern been... seeing someone? The idea sent a pang through his chest, sharp and aching. He had always been close to Guildenstern—closer than anyone else—but now he wondered if that closeness had been a lie, a comforting illusion he had clung to while Guildenstern’s attentions were elsewhere.

He folded the corset hastily and shoved it back under the bed, as though hiding it might erase the storm brewing within him. But the image of it lingered in his mind, vivid and unshakable.

When Guildenstern returned that afternoon, his boots scuffing against the stone floor, Rosencrantz was seated on the bench outside their quarters, arms crossed and the corset lying conspicuously between them. Guildenstern froze in the doorway, his gaze snapping to the incriminating garment.

"I found it," He said, his tone unusually sharp. "Care to explain?"

Guildenstern’s expression shifted—first confusion, then suspicion, then a glimmer of something colder. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate slowness. "Where did you find it?"

"Under your bed," Rosencrantz replied, watching him closely. "Where else would it have been?"

His eyes darkened, and he took a step closer. "You shouldn’t have been looking under my bed."

"I was looking for my boot," he shot back, standing now to match the other's imposing posture. "I wasn’t expecting to find... this."

The blond glanced at the corset, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Rosencrantz thought he might deny it entirely. But then he sighed, running a hand down his face. "It’s not mine," he said quietly.

Rosencrantz blinked, taken aback. "Then whose is it?"

Guildenstern’s jaw tightened. "The Player."

"The Player?" Rosencrantz echoed, frowning. "What does he have to do with this?"

The other man paced to the window, his movements tense and deliberate. "It’s his sort of thing, isn’t it? A prop. A piece of the performance. He’s trying to unsettle us, to draw us into one of his games."

The brunette frowned, his initial confusion giving way to indignation. "Why would he do that? What does he care about what’s under your bed?"

Guildenstern turned to face him, his eyes narrowing. "Because he knows it will get to us. He knows how to manipulate, how to sow doubt. This isn’t about the corset, friend—it’s about control."

Rosencrantz hesitated, his grip on the corset loosening. "So... you think he planted it to mess with us? To make us fight?"

"Precisely," He said, his voice clipped. "And it’s working, isn’t it?"

Rosencrantz’s shoulders slumped, the fire in his chest dimming as the truth of Guildenstern’s words sank in. But even as the jealousy ebbed, a deeper ache remained—a longing that no amount of logic could dispel. He looked down at the corset, its rich crimson mocking him with its beauty.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Rosencrantz asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

His brow furrowed. "Tell you what?"

"That there’s someone else." The words tumbled out before Rosencrantz could stop them. He looked up, his eyes searching Guildenstern’s face for any hint of denial or reassurance. "I thought... I thought I mattered to you."

Guildenstern froze, the weight of Rosencrantz’s confession settling between them like a physical presence. "You do," he said, his voice unusually soft. "Of course you do."

"Not like that," Rosencrantz said, shaking his head. "Not the way I want to."

Guildenstern’s eyes widened, and for the first time, he looked truly uncertain. "What are you saying?"

Rosencrantz took a deep breath, his heart pounding. There was no going back now. "I’m saying that I love you," he said, the words raw and unpolished. "I’ve loved you for longer than I can remember, and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But now..." He gestured to the corset, his voice breaking. "Now I can’t stand the thought of losing you to someone else. Even if it’s just a stupid trick by the Player."

He stared at him, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Rosencrantz couldn’t bear it any longer. He turned sharply, storming to the door and locking it behind him before collapsing onto his bed. The tears came quickly, hot and uncontrollable, and he buried his face in his hands, hating himself for the outburst but unable to stop.

.
.
.

The door creaked open sometime later. Rosencrantz looked up, his eyes red and swollen, to see Guildenstern standing in the doorway. He had picked the lock, though his exasperated expression suggested it had taken more effort than he liked.

"You’re a fool," Guildenstern said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. His tone was neither angry nor mocking—just tired.

Rosencrantz sniffled, sitting up slowly. "I know," he muttered. "You don’t have to tell me."

Guildenstern crossed the room and sat down beside him, his movements deliberate. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them thick with unspoken emotions. "I’m not angry," he said finally, his voice quiet. "I just don’t know what to say."

"Say you don’t feel the same," Rosencrantz said bitterly. "It’s fine. I can handle it."

Guildenstern shook his head, his gaze distant. "I don’t know what I feel," he admitted. "But I know I don’t want to lose you. Whatever happens, I can’t—" He broke off, his voice faltering. "You’re the only thing in this madness that feels real."

Rosencrantz looked at him, his breath hitching. He hadn’t expected Guildenstern to say anything remotely close to that, and the weight of it left him reeling. "Do you mean that?" he asked softly.

Guildenstern turned to meet his gaze, his eyes steady. "I do."

The words hung between them, fragile and unspoken promises in the air. Rosencrantz nodded, his heart aching but lighter than it had been before. "That’s enough," he said, his voice trembling. "For now, that’s enough."

Guildenstern’s hand lingered on Rosencrantz’s shoulder, the weight of it steadying yet hesitant, as though he were anchoring both of them to the moment while grappling with what it meant. The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too deeply for fear of shattering whatever fragile understanding had just begun to form.

“I don’t... know what to do with this,” Guildenstern said finally, his voice low and unsteady. His hand fell away, and he stood, pacing to the far side of the room. His movements were restless, his fingers raking through his hair as though trying to claw through the thoughts crowding his mind.

Rosencrantz watched him, his heart sinking. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said softly, though the words tasted hollow in his mouth. “I didn’t mean to force this on you. I just... I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

Guildenstern stopped, his back to Rosencrantz, his shoulders taut with tension. “It’s not that,” he said, his voice sharper now, as if trying to push away the vulnerability creeping in. “It’s not just about you. It’s about—everything.”

Rosencrantz frowned, sitting up straighter. “Everything? What does that mean?”

Guildenstern turned, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions—fear, frustration, and something else that Rosencrantz dared to hope might be love. “Do you have any idea what this could mean? For us? For me? If anyone were to find out—”

“No one has to find out,” Rosencrantz interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. He stood, closing the distance between them. “Man, I’m not asking for the world to know. I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know how I feel. That’s all.”

Guildenstern shook his head, stepping back as though Rosencrantz’s presence was too much to bear. “It’s not that simple. You think we can just... carry on like nothing’s changed? Like we’re not playing with fire?”

Rosencrantz hesitated, his throat tightening. “I don’t think anything’s changed,” he said quietly. “Not really. I’ve always felt this way about you. The only difference now is that you know.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that?” Guildenstern demanded, his voice cracking. He turned away again, his hands gripping the back of a chair as though he needed something to hold onto. “What do I do with the knowledge that I feel the same?”

The words hit Rosencrantz like a physical blow, and for a moment, he could do nothing but stare. “You... you feel the same?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
Guildenstern exhaled sharply, his grip on the chair tightening. “Of course I do,” he said bitterly. “Do you think I’ve spent all this time with you, walked this endless road with you, and not—” He broke off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that this is dangerous. For both of us.”

“It only matters if we let it,” Rosencrantz said, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside him. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching who he longed for. “We don’t have to let fear decide for us. We can decide.”

Guildenstern turned to face him, his eyes filled with a mixture of longing and torment. “You’re a fool,” he said, though the words lacked their usual bite. “You don’t understand what this could cost us. What it could cost you.”

“I don’t care,” Rosencrantz said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I don’t care about the cost, Guil. I care about you. That’s all that’s ever mattered to me.”

The scholar’s expression crumbled, and for a moment, Rosencrantz thought he might lash out, might push him away again. But instead, he reached up and cupped his face with trembling hands, his touch both hesitant and desperate.

“You’re an idiot,” Guildenstern whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “And so am I.”

Rosencrantz smiled faintly, his heart pounding in his chest. “Then we’re idiots together.”

He let out a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against Rosencrantz’s. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he murmured. “The world isn’t kind to men like us. To feelings like this.”

“I know,” Rosencrantz said softly, his hands coming up to rest lightly on Guildenstern’s arms. “But I don’t care about the world. I only care about you.”

Guildenstern closed his eyes, his breath shuddering. “I’m scared,” he admitted, the words barely audible.

“I know,” Rosencrantz said again. “But you’re not alone. You never have been.”

Chapter Text

Guildenstern woke with a start, the cold weight of the morning pressing down on him like a sodden cloak. Rosencrantz was still asleep, his form sprawled across the opposite bed, the faint rise and fall of his chest offering a steady rhythm against the unease that churned within Guildenstern.

He had dreamed of the Player—his mocking grin, his voice like honeyed poison dripping into Guildenstern’s ear. The memory of it lingered, vivid and cloying, as though the dream had left an indelible mark on his waking thoughts.

Unable to bear the stillness of the room, Guildenstern rose quietly and slipped into the corridor, his boots echoing softly against the stone. The castle seemed unnervingly empty, the usual clamor of servants and courtiers replaced by an oppressive silence. He wandered aimlessly, his mind a storm of doubt and self-recrimination.

"You look troubled," came a voice, smooth and infuriatingly familiar.

Guildenstern turned sharply, his hand instinctively going to his side, though he was unarmed. The Player stood at the end of the hall, his silhouette framed by the flickering light of a distant torch. He was dressed in his usual theatrical finery, the garish colors and exaggerated embroidery lending him an air of derisive flamboyance.

"I’ve no time for your games," Guildenstern snapped, his voice cold.

The Player’s grin widened, his teeth gleaming like a predator’s. "No time for games? My dear Guildenstern, life is a game. And you, of all people, should know that the rules are rarely kind to those who break them."

Guildenstern stiffened, his hands curling into fists. "What do you want?"

The Player began to walk toward him, his movements slow and deliberate, like a cat stalking its prey. "I’ve been watching you," he said, his tone conversational but laced with menace. "You and your dear Rosencrantz. Such a touching scene, the two of you last night. Fragile, tender... doomed."

Guildenstern’s heart lurched, his face flushing with a mixture of anger and shame. "You don’t know anything about us," he growled.

The Player chuckled, the sound echoing mockingly in the empty corridor. "Oh, but I do. I know every line, every cue, every hidden desire you think you can bury. And I know that men like you don’t get happy endings."

Guildenstern lunged at him, his vision blurring with rage. The Player sidestepped easily, his movements fluid and effortless, and Guildenstern stumbled past him, nearly losing his footing.

"Temper, temper," the Player chided, his voice a singsong mockery. "Is that any way to treat the one who holds the script?"

"Enough!" Guildenstern roared, turning to face him again. "You don’t control me! You don’t control us!"

The Player tilted his head, his expression one of amused pity. "Don’t I?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. "Do you really believe that anything you do is your own? That your little confession, your moment of vulnerability—it wasn’t written long before you ever spoke the words?"

Guildenstern swung at him, his fist aiming for the Player’s smug face, but the blow never landed. The Player moved with an unnatural speed, catching Guildenstern’s wrist and twisting it painfully. Guildenstern gasped, his knees buckling as the Player forced him to the ground.

"You’re a puppet," the Player hissed, his grip like iron. "A marionette dancing to strings you can’t even see. And no amount of rage or rebellion will change that."

Guildenstern struggled against him, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the Player’s strength was unrelenting. He pressed Guildenstern’s face to the cold stone floor, his voice softening into something almost pitiful.

"Such a shame," he murmured. "You could have played your part so well, if only you weren’t so intent on fighting it."

Guildenstern gritted his teeth. The Player’s grip on his wrist was unyielding, the weight of his presence as suffocating as the words he spoke. But Guildenstern, despite the pain and humiliation, refused to yield entirely. He let out a strained breath, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"Why?" he demanded, his words sharp but laced with desperation. "Why do you do this? What’s the point of all this torment, all this manipulation?"

The Player’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something inscrutable passing over his face before it was replaced with his usual mocking facade. He leaned closer, his breath warm against Guildenstern’s ear.

"The point?" he repeated, his tone almost amused. "Oh, my dear Guildenstern, must there always be a point? Does the wind blow with purpose? Does the sun rise with intent? I do what I do because it is written. Because I must."

Guildenstern clenched his jaw, his frustration boiling over. "That’s not an answer! If you’re following a script, then you’re no better than the rest of us! You’re as much a puppet as I am!"

The Player laughed softly, releasing Guildenstern’s wrist and stepping back, his movements as fluid as ever. "Ah, but there’s a difference, you see. I know the script. I understand the roles we play, the steps of the dance. You..." He gestured to Guildenstern, his eyes gleaming with condescension. "...you stumble blindly through it, grasping at meaning where there is none."

Guildenstern pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his body trembling with anger. "If it’s all meaningless, then why make me aware of it? Why not let me remain ignorant like Rosencrantz?"

The Player’s expression shifted again, this time to something darker, more serious. He crouched down so that he was eye level with Guildenstern, his grin fading into a thin line.

"Because someone has to see the strings," he said quietly. "Someone has to feel the weight of it, the inevitability. Without awareness, there can be no despair. And without despair, there can be no tragedy. And tragedy, my dear Guildenstern, is what makes the performance truly sublime."

Guildenstern stared at him, his breath hitching. The words struck something deep within him, a primal fear that he had tried to suppress ever since the first flickers of doubt had crept into his mind. "Why me?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "Why am I the one who has to bear it?"

The Player’s gaze softened, though his pity felt like a knife twisting in Guildenstern’s chest. "Because you are strong enough to endure it," he said simply. "And because your suffering makes the story richer. More compelling."

Guildenstern let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. "So I’m nothing but a tool for your amusement? A pawn to make your precious story more dramatic?"

The Player straightened, his grin returning, though it no longer reached his eyes. "You are whatever the script demands you to be. And whether you fight or submit, the ending remains the same. But your fight, your struggle..." He spread his arms wide, his voice rising theatrically. "It adds texture. Depth. You may not believe it, but you’re the most important player of all."

Guildenstern staggered to his feet, his body aching but his resolve hardening. He met the Player’s gaze, his own filled with defiance. "I don’t care about your script or your tragedy. I’ll find a way out of this. I’ll find a way to break free."

The Player chuckled, his grin widening once more. "Oh, Guildenstern. You’ve been here before. You’ll be here again. The stage may change, but the lines never do." He stepped back into the shadows, his form dissolving into the flickering light. "I’ll see you in the next act."

Chapter Text

Guildenstern sat in the dim corner of their shared room, the cold stone wall pressing against his back. Outside, the muffled sounds of life in Elsinore droned on—the clatter of hooves in the courtyard, the distant murmur of voices, the sporadic clang of metal against metal as guards trained or patrolled. All of it seemed so far away, like a world he could no longer reach.

Rosencrantz, sprawled across his bed, was humming to himself as he toyed with a deck of cards. He had been at it for an hour, occasionally flipping a card toward the edge of the bed with an exaggerated flick of his wrist, as though practicing some great sleight of hand. His face was bright with simple, boyish concentration.

Guildenstern envied him.

It wasn’t that Rosencrantz was ignorant—he wasn’t, not really—but he existed in a state of unburdened curiosity, a kind of innocence that Guildenstern could no longer access. To Rosencrantz, their world was confusing but manageable. To Guildenstern, it was an endless pit, yawning wider with each passing day.

"Ah! Look at that!" Rosencrantz exclaimed, holding up a card triumphantly. "The King of Hearts! Rather fitting, don’t you think?" He waved it toward Guildenstern with a grin. "A lucky sign, maybe?"

Guildenstern didn’t respond.

Rosencrantz’s smile faltered slightly, but he quickly shrugged it off, returning to his game. "Or not," he murmured, more to himself than to Guildenstern.

Guildenstern closed his eyes, letting the weight in his chest grow heavier. It was always there now, this oppressive force that sapped his strength and dulled his senses. Even his anger—once a fiery defiance against the Player and the script—had cooled to ashes. He felt hollow, his body moving through the motions of existence while his mind drifted further and further into despair.

Later, Rosencrantz had gone off in search of some entertainment, leaving Guildenstern alone in the room. He welcomed the solitude. The silence was a balm, though it did little to lift the suffocating darkness that clung to him.

Eventually, the quiet became unbearable, and he wandered aimlessly through the castle. The halls were dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting shadows that seemed to mock him with their liveliness.

He found himself near the players’ quarters without realizing how he had arrived. The faint sound of a lute drifted through the corridor, accompanied by soft laughter and the occasional burst of theatrical dialogue. Guildenstern hesitated, unsure whether to turn back or keep going.

"Lost again?" came a soft, vaguely familiar voice.

Guildenstern turned to see Alfred, the young man who accompanied the troupe, standing in the doorway of one of the smaller chambers. His slight frame was silhouetted against the warm glow of the room beyond, where the other players lounged and drank.

"I’m not lost," Guildenstern replied stiffly, though he didn’t sound convincing even to himself.

Alfred stepped forward, his expression gentle. "You look it," he said simply.

Guildenstern scowled, though it lacked any real force. "Shouldn’t you be in there with the others? Playing your part?"

Alfred shrugged, glancing back at the room. "They don’t need me right now. And I don’t much care for their company when they’re like this." He paused, studying Guildenstern with a keen, unflinching gaze. "You don’t look like you’ve had much company yourself."

Guildenstern felt a flicker of something—resentment, perhaps, or shame. He looked away, his hands clenching at his sides. "I don’t need company."

"No," Alfred said quietly. "But maybe you could use it."

The words hung between them, soft but insistent. Guildenstern looked at Alfred again, noting the boy’s calm demeanor, his lack of judgment. For a moment, he felt as though the distance between them—the chasm of age, status, and circumstance—was not so insurmountable.

"Why do you stay with them?" Guildenstern asked, his voice softer now.

Alfred hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. "They give me a place," he said finally. "And in their way, they protect me. It’s not perfect, but... it’s something." He looked up again, his eyes filled with a quiet strength. "Sometimes, something is all we have."

Guildenstern nodded slowly, his chest tightening. He wanted to say more, to ask Alfred how he managed to endure the constant mockery and exploitation, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he turned and walked away, the actor’s quiet presence lingering like a ghost.

By the time Rosencrantz returned, Guildenstern was back in their room, sitting in the same corner where he had started the day. Rosencrantz burst in with his usual exuberance, his cheeks flushed from the cold outside.

"You should’ve come with me," Rosencrantz said, tossing his coat onto the bed. "The market was full of the most ridiculous performers. One fellow was juggling flaming torches while balancing on a barrel. Nearly set himself on fire!" He laughed, shaking his head. "It was brilliant."

Guildenstern said nothing, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Rosencrantz faltered, his laughter fading. "You’ve been like this all day," he said, sitting down on the bed opposite Guildenstern. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Guildenstern replied automatically.

"It’s not nothing," Rosencrantz insisted, leaning forward. "You’ve barely said two words to me. Come on, whatever it is, you can tell me."

Guildenstern’s jaw tightened. He wanted to tell Rosencrantz, wanted to spill everything—the despair, the anger, the hopelessness that had consumed him. But the words refused to come.

Rosencrantz sighed, his expression softening. "You’ve been so... far away lately. I don’t know how to reach you."

"You don’t have to," Guildenstern said, his voice hollow.

"But I want to," Rosencrantz said earnestly. He hesitated, then added, "You’re my friend, Guildenstern. My best friend. And... more than that, I think."

Guildenstern’s heart twisted at the words, the weight of his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He looked up, meeting Rosencrantz’s gaze, and saw only sincerity there—no pity, no judgment, just an open, honest concern that cut through the darkness like a blade.

"You don’t understand," Guildenstern said quietly. "You couldn’t."

"Then help me understand," Rosencrantz said, his voice breaking slightly. "I don’t care how messy or complicated it is. I’m here, aren’t I?"

The room fell silent, the tension between them thick and almost unbearable. Guildenstern closed his eyes, his breath shuddering.

"I don’t know how to do this," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I don’t know how to... keep going when everything feels so meaningless."

Rosencrantz reached out, his hand hovering just above Guildenstern’s. "Then don’t do it alone," he said softly. "Whatever it is, we’ll face it together."

Guildenstern felt the fragile moment between them begin to stretch, thin and precarious as a glass thread. Rosencrantz’s hand lingered near his own, warm and steady, offering a connection that should have been comforting but instead set Guildenstern’s nerves on edge.

"You don’t get it," Guildenstern said suddenly, his voice sharp as a knife. He jerked his hand away and stood abruptly, pacing to the other side of the room.

Rosencrantz blinked, startled by the shift in Guildenstern’s tone. "What don’t I get?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Guildenstern whirled to face him, his eyes blazing. "Any of it! You don’t get what it’s like to feel trapped, to know that no matter what you do, it won’t make a difference. You don’t understand the weight of it, the futility. You just... you wander through life like it’s some grand joke, like none of it matters!"

Rosencrantz flinched, the words hitting him like a physical blow, but he quickly recovered, his brow furrowing. "That’s not fair," he said, his voice steady despite the hurt creeping into it.

"Isn’t it?" Guildenstern snapped. "You’re oblivious to everything! You don’t see the strings, the way we’re pulled along without any choice. You just laugh and go along with it, and I—" He broke off, his breath hitching. "I can’t do that. I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter."

Rosencrantz stood slowly, his usual easy demeanor replaced by something more resolute. "Do you think I don’t feel it too?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with a quiet intensity.

Guildenstern narrowed his eyes. "You don’t act like it."

"Maybe because I don’t want to drown in it," Rosencrantz shot back, stepping closer. "Maybe I don’t want to spend every waking moment thinking about how little control we have. Yes, it terrifies me. But you know what? I still try to find something—anything—to hold on to. A moment, a laugh, a... a person."

Guildenstern opened his mouth to retort, but Rosencrantz wasn’t finished.

"You think I don’t see the strings?" Rosencrantz continued, his voice rising. "I see them. I feel them. But I don’t let them choke the life out of me. And maybe that’s foolish, maybe it’s naïve, but at least I’m trying. What are you doing, Guildenstern? Just standing there, wallowing in your misery and pushing away the one person who actually cares about you?"

Guildenstern stared at him, stunned. Rosencrantz had never spoken to him like this before—never raised his voice, never challenged him so directly. It was like looking at a stranger, and yet, at the same time, Guildenstern felt an odd, grudging respect for the fire in Rosencrantz’s eyes.

"You don’t understand," Guildenstern said finally, his voice quieter now but still strained. "I’m not like you. I can’t just... move on. I can’t ignore what’s happening to us."

Rosencrantz’s expression softened, though the resolve in his posture remained. "I’m not asking you to ignore it," he said. "I’m asking you to let me help. To let me in."

Guildenstern looked away, his chest tightening. "I don’t know how."

"Then start small," Rosencrantz said, stepping closer until they were barely a foot apart. "Stop shutting me out. Stop pretending that you’re the only one who’s scared." He hesitated, his voice softening. "And stop thinking you have to do this alone."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the air between them charged with unspoken emotions. Guildenstern’s hands clenched at his sides, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts.

"I’m sorry," Guildenstern said finally, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. He looked at Rosencrantz, his expression a mixture of regret and vulnerability. "I didn’t mean to—"

"I know," Rosencrantz said, cutting him off gently. "But you’ve got to stop pushing me away. Because I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard you try."

Guildenstern let out a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. He didn’t know how to express the gratitude that welled up inside him, didn’t know how to tell Rosencrantz what his presence meant.

Instead, he gave a small nod, his lips twitching into the faintest ghost of a smile. It wasn’t much, but Rosencrantz seemed to understand. He smiled back, his usual warmth returning as he clapped Guildenstern on the shoulder.

"See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?" Rosencrantz teased, his tone light but kind.

Guildenstern shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him despite himself. "You’re insufferable," he muttered, though there was no venom in his words.

"And yet, you put up with me," Rosencrantz said, grinning.

The weight in Guildenstern’s chest began to lift. It wasn’t gone—not entirely—but it was lighter, more bearable. And as Rosencrantz returned to his usual antics, shuffling his deck of cards and humming an off-key tune, Guildenstern found himself watching him with something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Rosencrantz caught Guildenstern watching him and raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. "What? You’ve never seen someone shuffle cards before?"

Guildenstern shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "I’ve seen you shuffle cards a thousand times. It’s hardly a novel experience."

"Ah, but maybe this time I’ll actually manage something impressive," Rosencrantz quipped, flipping a card from the top of the deck and frowning when it landed face down on the floor.

Guildenstern let out a low chuckle, the sound unfamiliar in its ease. He took a tentative step forward, drawn toward Rosencrantz as if by an unseen force. "You really are hopeless," he said, his voice quieter now, almost fond.

Rosencrantz looked up, his grin softening as their eyes met. "And yet, you’re still here," he said, his tone gentle.

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Guildenstern felt his breath hitch, his chest tightening as something he had tried so hard to suppress rose to the surface.

"Why do you put up with me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rosencrantz tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. "Because I want to," he said simply. "Because I care about you."

Guildenstern’s gaze dropped to the floor, his mind racing. He wasn’t used to this—this openness, this vulnerability. And yet, standing here now, with Rosencrantz’s unwavering presence grounding him, he felt a flicker of courage he hadn’t known he possessed.

"Rosencrantz," he began, his voice trembling slightly.

"Yes?" Rosencrantz said, leaning forward slightly, his attention entirely focused on Guildenstern.

Guildenstern hesitated, the words caught in his throat. But then Rosencrantz smiled, that warm, disarming smile that seemed to cut through every wall Guildenstern had built around himself, and the tension in his chest eased.

"Thank you," Guildenstern said finally, his voice soft but steady. "For not giving up on me."

Rosencrantz’s smile widened, his eyes shining with something unreadable. "You don’t have to thank me for that," he said. "It’s just... you, Guildenstern. That’s enough."

Guildenstern took another step closer, the distance between them now barely a breath. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. He didn’t know what he was doing—didn’t know if this was right, or if it was madness—but he couldn’t stop himself.

"Rosencrantz," he said again, his voice quieter now, almost reverent.

Rosencrantz looked up at him, his expression open and unguarded. "Yes?"

Guildenstern hesitated for only a moment before leaning in, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Rosencrantz’s shoulder. Their eyes met, and in that brief instant, everything else faded away—the weight of the script, the Player’s taunts, the looming shadow of inevitability.

It was just the two of them.

Guildenstern closed the remaining distance, his lips brushing softly against Rosencrantz’s. The kiss was tentative at first, barely more than a whisper of contact, but it carried a depth of emotion that words could never have conveyed.

For a moment, Rosencrantz froze, his breath catching. Then, slowly, he leaned into the kiss, his hand coming up to rest lightly against Guildenstern’s arm.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other’s, their breaths mingling in the stillness.

"That was..." Rosencrantz began, his voice barely audible.

"Unexpected," Guildenstern finished, a faint, nervous smile tugging at his lips.

Rosencrantz laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. "Good unexpected," he clarified, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Guildenstern let out a shaky breath, his own smile growing. "Good," he agreed.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, the world beyond their room forgotten. It wasn’t a grand declaration or a dramatic gesture—it was quiet and simple, but no less meaningful.

For the first time in a long time, Guildenstern felt a sliver of peace. And for the first time, he dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth holding onto after all. 

Chapter Text

The sun rose bright and warm over Elsinore, spilling golden light into the small room that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern shared. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the sea, and for once, there were no pressing summons, no ominous messenger pounding at the door. It felt like the kind of day that existed outside of time, a gift untethered from the weight of their usual uncertainties.

Guildenstern stirred first, the early light stirring him from sleep. He turned his head, his gaze falling on Rosencrantz, who lay sprawled across his bed in his usual undignified sprawl, one arm draped over his eyes and the other dangling off the side of the mattress.

A small smile tugged at Guildenstern’s lips. For all the chaos that surrounded them—seen and unseen—Rosencrantz’s ease in the face of it was something Guildenstern had come to rely on, a steadying force he hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

“Are you going to sleep all day?” Guildenstern asked softly, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Rosencrantz groaned in response, shifting slightly but keeping his arm firmly over his eyes. “It’s too early for questions,” he mumbled.

“Statement, one love.”

That earned another groan.

Guildenstern chuckled, shaking his head as he swung his legs over the side of his bed. “Come on,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s make the most of it.”

Rosencrantz cracked one eye open, peeking at Guildenstern from beneath his arm. “Beautiful day for what? Getting yelled at by the King? Watching the players do... whatever it is they do?”

“For neither,” Guildenstern replied, a rare warmth in his tone. “For us. For doing whatever we want.”

That got Rosencrantz’s attention. He sat up slowly, his hair sticking out at odd angles. “Whatever we want?” he repeated, grinning. “Now that’s a dangerous thing to say to a man like me.”

Guildenstern smirked, standing and stretching. “I’ll take my chances.”

.

.

.

The gardens were alive with color as they wandered through them, the late summer blooms swaying gently in the breeze. Guildenstern walked at a steady pace, his hands clasped behind his back, while Rosencrantz darted from one flower bed to the next, marveling at the vibrant petals as if he were seeing them for the first time.

“Look at this one!” Rosencrantz exclaimed, holding up a pale blue bloom with a ruffled edge. “It looks like something from a dream, doesn’t it?”

Guildenstern raised an eyebrow, though the faint smile on his face betrayed his amusement. “It’s a flower, Rosencrantz. Hardly the stuff of dreams.”

“Oh, but you lack imagination,” Rosencrantz said, waving the flower at him. “It could be anything—a wizard’s hat, a bird’s wing, a piece of the sky that fell to earth.”

Guildenstern chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you,” Rosencrantz said, plucking a cheerful yellow flower and tucking it behind Guildenstern’s ear with an exaggerated flourish, “are now a work of art.”

Guildenstern reached up to remove the flower, but Rosencrantz caught his hand, his grip surprisingly firm. “Don’t,” Rosencrantz said, his grin softening. “It suits you.”

Guildenstern froze for a moment, then sighed, letting his hand fall. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Rosencrantz said, stepping back to admire him, “you’re still here. Which means I must be doing something right.”

Guildenstern shook his head, the faintest of smiles lingering on his lips as he followed. “That or I’m a glutton for punishment.”

Rosencrantz laughed, a sound so carefree it seemed to blend with the breeze rustling through the leaves. He stopped suddenly and spun on his heel, bending down to examine another cluster of flowers. “Look at these,” he said, gesturing excitedly. “They’re shaped like tiny bells! Do you think they make a sound if you shake them?”

Guildenstern rolled his eyes, but his footsteps carried him closer, drawn as always by Rosencrantz’s infectious energy. “Flowers don’t make sounds,” he said, crouching beside him.

Rosencrantz shot him a sly look. “Says the man who thinks flowers can’t be dreams. Maybe you’re just not listening hard enough.”

Guildenstern snorted. “I think you listen enough for both of us.”

They stayed there for a while, crouched side by side, the world around them fading into a blur of color and light. Rosencrantz held up one of the tiny bell-shaped flowers, tilting his head as though trying to hear its imagined chime. Guildenstern, for his part, watched him quietly, a strange warmth settling in his chest.

It was moments like this—simple, unguarded, and fleeting—that reminded him why he stayed. Rosencrantz had a way of making the world feel lighter, as though even the heaviest burdens could be set aside, if only for a little while.

“You know,” Rosencrantz said suddenly, straightening and brushing the dirt off his hands, “if I ever had a garden, I’d fill it with flowers like these. And you’d have to help me take care of them, of course.”

Guildenstern raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know the first thing about gardening.”

“Well, neither do I,” Rosencrantz admitted with a laugh. “But how hard can it be? You plant things, you water them, you talk to them a bit, and they grow.”

“You talk to them?” Guildenstern asked, incredulous.

“Of course!” Rosencrantz said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Everyone knows plants grow better when you talk to them. You’d have to help with that, too. Though I imagine you’d lecture them more than chat.”

Guildenstern rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”

“Oh, no,” Rosencrantz said, grinning. “You’d be perfect. Imagine it: Guildenstern, the philosopher gardener, delivering stirring monologues to rows of tulips and daisies. They’d be the most educated flowers in all of Denmark.”

Guildenstern gave Rosencrantz a dry look, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a twitch of amusement. “I’d imagine they’d prefer someone less verbose,” he said, brushing past Rosencrantz and continuing down the path.

Rosencrantz fell into step beside him, his grin unfaltering. “Nonsense. You’d charm them with your eloquence. And your stern demeanor, of course. Flowers love a man of mystery.”

Guildenstern sighed. “If flowers had preferences, I doubt they’d waste them on me.”

“They wouldn’t waste them,” Rosencrantz replied, his voice softening. “No one would.”

Guildenstern faltered mid-step, glancing at Rosencrantz, who met his gaze with a smile so easy and warm it could have melted the frostiest morning. Guildenstern quickly averted his eyes, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t name—or perhaps wouldn’t.

“Anyway,” Rosencrantz said brightly, as if the moment hadn’t happened, “what about roses? You’d have to give them a speech about thorns, obviously. Something deep and metaphorical.”

Guildenstern shook his head, though his lips quirked upward. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Rarely,” Rosencrantz admitted with a laugh.

They walked in companionable silence for a time, the faint rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds filling the gaps between their steps. Rosencrantz plucked another flower—a small white one this time—and twirled it idly between his fingers.

“Here,” he said suddenly, stopping and turning toward Guildenstern.

Guildenstern paused, watching as Rosencrantz reached up and tucked the flower into the buttonhole of his tunic. “Perfect,” Rosencrantz said, stepping back to admire his work. “Now you’re ready for your lecture tour.”

Guildenstern’s brow furrowed. “I hardly think—”

Before he could finish, Rosencrantz leaned in and kissed him.

It was a brief, casual thing—a soft press of lips that carried all the warmth and lightness Rosencrantz embodied. He pulled back just as quickly, his grin as unbothered as if he’d simply said hello. “There,” Rosencrantz said, his tone as easy as ever. “Now you look the part.”

Guildenstern stood frozen, his mind racing. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat echoing in his ears. “You...” he began, his voice unsteady. “What was that?”

Rosencrantz tilted his head, his grin softening. “What was what?”

“That,” Guildenstern repeated, gesturing vaguely in the air between them. “You kissed me.”

“Did I?” Rosencrantz asked, feigning innocence. He twirled the flower between his fingers again, his casual demeanor entirely unconvincing.

Guildenstern’s cheeks flushed, his thoughts tripping over themselves as he tried to process what had just happened. The warmth of Rosencrantz’s lips lingered on his own, a sensation so vivid it made his pulse quicken.

“You can’t just... do that,” Guildenstern said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something that might have been panic.

“Why not?” Rosencrantz asked, his grin returning. “Didn’t you like it?”

Guildenstern opened his mouth, then closed it again, his face burning. He couldn’t form a coherent response, caught somewhere between indignation and something far softer.

Rosencrantz watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on Guildenstern’s arm. “Relax,” he said, his voice gentle now. “It’s just me.”

Guildenstern looked at him, his breath catching. The way Rosencrantz was looking at him—so open, so unguarded—made the knot in his chest loosen, if only slightly.

“I don’t...” Guildenstern began, but the words trailed off, lost in the warmth of Rosencrantz’s gaze.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Rosencrantz said softly. He squeezed Guildenstern’s arm, then stepped back, his grin brightening once more. “Now, come on. Let’s see what other flowers need your philosophical musings.”

As the two wandered further down the garden path, their lighthearted banter gave way to a comfortable silence. Guildenstern’s thoughts were still a tangle of confusion and warmth, the memory of Rosencrantz’s kiss lingering like the scent of the flowers around them. He stole a glance at his companion, who was humming softly to himself as he idly twirled another plucked bloom in his fingers.

But the peace was short-lived.

A sharp voice cut through the air, piercing the tranquil quiet of the garden. “Mother, you have my father much offended!”

Both men froze, their attention snapping toward the source of the voice. It was unmistakably Hamlet, his tone laced with fury. The sound was coming from one of the castle’s upper chambers, carrying easily through the open windows.

Guildenstern’s stomach churned. "The Queen's chamber," he murmured.

Rosencrantz frowned, stepping closer to Guildenstern. "What’s he doing? It sounds... heated."

“Stay here,” Guildenstern said quickly, his voice tight.

“What?” Rosencrantz asked, startled. “Why?”

But Guildenstern didn’t answer. He was already moving, his strides purposeful as he made his way back into the castle. Something about the tone of Hamlet’s voice, the raw edge of anger in it, set his nerves on fire.

He ascended the stone staircase two steps at a time, his breath quickening. The closer he got to the Queen’s chamber, the louder the voices became.

“You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife!” Hamlet’s voice was venomous now. “And—would it were not so—you are my mother.”

Guildenstern reached the door and hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the handle. This wasn’t his place, wasn’t part of the script—but something about the scene felt wrong. Urgent.

A muffled cry came from within. The Queen’s voice, trembling with fear.

Guildenstern’s hand closed around the handle, and he pushed the door open just in time to see Hamlet raise a dagger. The arras behind which Polonius hid was trembling, the shadow of the old man barely visible through the fabric.

But Guildenstern wasn’t looking at Polonius. His eyes darted to Alfred, who stood off to the side, dressed in the exaggerated robes of the Queen’s attendant, his expression wide-eyed and fearful.

“Hamlet, wait!” Guildenstern shouted, stepping forward.

The room fell silent for a split second, the weight of Guildenstern’s interruption hanging thick in the air. Hamlet turned, his eyes wild and unhinged.

“Who calls me now?” he demanded, his voice sharp as the blade in his hand.

Guildenstern took another step forward, raising a placating hand. “You don’t have to do this.”

Hamlet’s expression twisted, and without warning, he lunged—though not toward Guildenstern. His blade struck the arras with brutal force.

The room seemed to lurch. The fabric parted, not to reveal Polonius, but Alfred, who had moved behind the curtain in his nervous confusion.

Alfred’s eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping his lips as the dagger sank into his chest. He staggered forward, his small frame crumpling as Hamlet stepped back, his expression one of dawning horror.

“No!” Guildenstern shouted, rushing to Alfred’s side as the boy collapsed to the floor. Blood seeped quickly through his robes, pooling beneath him as his breathing grew shallow.

Rosencrantz appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “What happened?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Alfred—” Guildenstern choked out, pressing his hands against the wound as if he could stem the flow of blood through sheer will. The boy’s eyes fluttered, his lips moving soundlessly.

Hamlet stood frozen, the dagger still clutched in his hand. “I... I thought it was Claudius,” he said, his voice distant, almost detached.

“You’ve killed him!” Guildenstern shouted, his voice cracking as he looked up at Hamlet.

The room felt heavy, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone within it. And as Alfred’s breathing slowed, Guildenstern felt something cold and inescapable settle over him—the crushing realization that he had stepped outside the script.

And the script had punished them all.

Chapter Text

The cold wind whipped at their faces as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern found themselves on the boat, rocking gently on the water. Guildenstern’s eyes snapped open as he sat up, disoriented, the salty air filling his lungs and the smell of the ocean surrounding him. The wooden boards beneath him creaked in the rhythmic sway of the vessel, and the crests of the waves slapped gently against the sides. The boat seemed like a small, insignificant thing compared to the vastness of the ocean around them.

Rosencrantz was beside him, blinking in confusion, his hands gripping the side of the boat for stability. "Where are we?" Rosencrantz asked, his voice strained with uncertainty.

Guildenstern didn’t respond immediately. His mind was still reeling, the memory of Alfred’s death fresh and raw. His hands were still stained with blood, the weight of it pressing down on him, and every beat of his heart felt too loud in the silence of the sea. How had this happened? How had they gone from wandering the gardens, basking in the rare comfort of an ordinary day, to this? To being on a boat, with no explanation, no context—nothing.

It all felt so surreal, as though the world had shifted beneath them and everything was suddenly out of their control.

“We’re—” Guildenstern began, but he stopped. The words felt strange in his mouth, like they didn’t belong. “We’re supposed to be transporting Hamlet. To England.”

Rosencrantz turned to look at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Hamlet? To England?”

“Yes. To his execution,” Guildenstern said, almost bitterly. He rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of it all. But his thoughts were jagged, like broken glass.

A voice interrupted his thoughts. Low, calm, and dripping with disdain. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Guildenstern’s body stiffened, and he turned to find the Player standing at the far end of the boat, his usual theatrical garb fluttering in the wind like some kind of mocking flag. The Player’s eyes were narrowed with an expression of displeasure that sent a ripple of tension through Guildenstern’s already taut frame.

“Alfred,” the Player continued, his voice laden with contempt, “was supposed to be part of the show. He was a part of the story. But you— you stepped out of the line, didn’t you? You just had to make it all real, didn’t you?”

Guildenstern’s heart hammered in his chest. “You—” He didn’t even know where to start, how to respond. The Player’s words felt like a whip cracking against his skin, but it wasn’t the Player he was angry with. No, it was himself, for every misstep, every failure. For stepping beyond the lines that had been drawn for him. For defying the script.

“I did what I had to do,” Guildenstern snapped, his voice rising. “You don’t care about Alfred. He was just a tool to you. A pawn in your little game. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

The Player’s lips curled into a smirk. “A tool? Perhaps. But he was part of the performance , Guildenstern. He had his place in the story, and you—” The Player leaned forward, his gaze darkening. “You ruined it.”

“You think I ruined it?” Guildenstern’s voice was ice now, his anger cutting through the air like a blade. “You think I ruined it when you were the one who used him, who discarded him as easily as you discard anyone who’s no longer useful to you?” His breath was quick, a pulse of adrenaline lacing his words. “I’m not the one to blame for this. Not this time.”

The Player didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to register the venom in Guildenstern’s tone. Instead, he smiled, that same mockingly sweet smile that always made Guildenstern’s skin crawl.

“Oh, Guildenstern,” the Player said, his voice soft with amusement. “You have no idea, do you? You think you’ve made a choice. That you’ve done something outside of the story. But you haven’t. You’ve just made things more complicated. More chaotic. You’ve played right into the game. The game that has been set out for you from the very beginning.”

Guildenstern’s chest tightened. He could feel the weight of those words sinking into him like stones in his gut. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to think that his actions, his emotions, had been nothing more than part of some greater, invisible design, but he knew deep down that the Player was right.

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to break free from this hell, he was still a part of it.

“And now,” the Player continued, his eyes gleaming with something darker, “the consequences of your actions have come full circle. Alfred’s death is just a small price to pay for your rebellion. But you’ll pay it all the same.”

Guildenstern clenched his fists, but before he could respond, Rosencrantz’s voice cut through the tension. “Guildenstern, we don’t need to do this. Not now.”

Guildenstern’s gaze flicked to Rosencrantz, and for a brief moment, the anger within him faltered. He looked at Rosencrantz, who was looking at him with a mix of concern and confusion. There was something about Rosencrantz’s quiet presence that always calmed him, soothed him, even when everything else around them was falling apart.

“You don’t get it,” Guildenstern muttered, looking away. “None of us do. We’re all just—just playing our parts, spinning in circles, waiting for someone to tell us what happens next. And no matter how hard I try to escape, I’m always bound to it. To the script.”

Rosencrantz didn’t respond at first, just stared at Guildenstern with a quiet intensity that made the air around them feel still, heavy. “We’re not just playing our parts,” he said finally, his voice soft, but firm. “We’re more than that.”

Guildenstern shook his head, frustration bubbling up once more. “You don’t understand. You’re not the one who—”

“I understand more than you think,” Rosencrantz said, cutting him off. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been carrying all of this on your shoulders. And I know it’s heavy, Guildenstern. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

For a long moment, Guildenstern said nothing, unable to find the words. He couldn’t shake the weight of the Player’s words, the looming sense that no matter how much he struggled, he would never escape the role assigned to him. He had no choice but to follow along, like a puppet tied to invisible strings.

The Player watched the exchange with a smirk, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—perhaps a hint of genuine interest, or perhaps simply a reflection of his amusement.

“Ah,” the Player said finally, leaning against the mast of the boat with a lazy grace. “The ever-persistent search for meaning. You do know, Guildenstern, that you can’t escape the play. No matter how much you try. It’s already been written.”

Guildenstern glared at him. “You think you have all the answers, don’t you?”

“Not all,” the Player said, his eyes narrowing. “But I know one thing for certain—you’re not the one writing the story. You never were.”

Guildenstern stood, feeling the pull of the sea beneath him, the distant horizon stretching endlessly in front of him. A strange calm washed over him, as though the stillness of the water was reflecting the stillness in his mind.

But the anger and frustration didn’t fade. They were still there, bubbling beneath the surface.

“If I’m not the one writing the story,” Guildenstern said, his voice soft but laced with bitterness, “then who is?”

The Player gave him a slow smile. “Oh, Guildenstern. You really have no idea, do you?”

The Player's smile grew wider, the edges of his mouth curling like a predator who had just cornered his prey. He shifted, standing at the center of the small deck, the sway of the boat seeming to ground him in a way that Guildenstern found deeply unsettling.

“Who writes the story, Guildenstern?” the Player repeated, as though savoring the question. His voice was low, silken, and dripping with mockery. “A fascinating question, isn’t it? And one that you, for all your cleverness, cannot answer. But perhaps…” He trailed off, his gaze flickering toward Rosencrantz.

Guildenstern stiffened, his body tensing instinctively. “Leave him out of this,” he snapped, stepping slightly in front of Rosencrantz as though to shield him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Player said smoothly. He took a step closer, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “He’s a part of this play, after all. Just as you are. Just as I am. But unlike you, Guildenstern, he’s... pliable.”

“Pliable?” Rosencrantz echoed, frowning as his gaze darted between Guildenstern and the Player.

“Yes, pliable,” the Player said, nodding toward Rosencrantz with a theatrical flourish. “You, dear boy, are open to the wonders of this performance. Unburdened by the weight of understanding. A blank slate, as it were. It makes you a perfect audience member.”

Guildenstern clenched his fists, the anger simmering within him threatening to boil over. “You’re trying to manipulate him,” he growled. “It won’t work.”

The Player raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “Won’t it?” He turned to Rosencrantz, his tone softening, becoming almost fatherly. “Tell me, Rosencrantz. Do you know why you’re here? Why you’re always here?”

Rosencrantz grimaced, his lips parting as though he wanted to respond, but no words came. He glanced at Guildenstern, his expression uncertain.

“Don’t listen to him,” Guildenstern said quickly, his voice sharp.

“Oh, but he should listen,” the Player said, his voice soothing now, like a snake charmer coaxing his audience. “He should listen because it’s time for him to understand. Isn’t it exhausting, Rosencrantz, to be left in the dark? To follow along without knowing why? To trust someone who hasn’t told you the truth?”

Rosencrantz’s frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“Guildenstern,” the Player said, his tone almost playful now, “has been keeping secrets from you.” He turned to Guildenstern, his smile sharpening. “Haven’t you?”

Guildenstern felt his stomach drop. “You’re lying,” he said, his voice unsteady but firm.

“Am I?” The Player’s gaze remained fixed on Rosencrantz. “Tell me, Rosencrantz. Did he ever explain why Alfred is gone? Why are you on this boat, delivering Hamlet to his death? Why do things feel… wrong?”

Rosencrantz’s eyes widened slightly, his grip tightening on the edge of the boat. “Guildenstern?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion and something that Guildenstern couldn’t bear to name—doubt.

Guildenstern opened his mouth, his thoughts scrambling to form a coherent response, but the Player spoke first.

“Exactly,” the Player said, his voice ringing with triumph. “He didn’t. Because he knows. He knows how this ends, Rosencrantz. He’s always known.”

“That’s not true!” Guildenstern shouted, his voice breaking. He turned to Rosencrantz, his heart pounding. “Rosencrantz, you know me. You know I—”

“Do I?” Rosencrantz interrupted, his voice quiet but cutting. His gaze met Guildenstern’s, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes that made Guildenstern’s chest ache. Something distant.

Guildenstern stepped forward, his hands outstretched in a pleading gesture. “Rosencrantz, please. He’s twisting everything. You can’t believe him.”

The Player’s laughter cut through the air, sharp and mocking. “Oh, Guildenstern. It’s almost endearing how much you underestimate him.”

Rosencrantz turned back to the Player, his expression conflicted. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because the script demands it,” the Player replied, his tone softening once more. “Because balance must be restored. And because, Rosencrantz, you deserve to know the truth.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Guildenstern said again, his voice desperate.

But Rosencrantz didn’t reply. He stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the Player as though searching for answers that Guildenstern couldn’t give him.

Guildenstern felt his breath catch, his chest tightening with a crushing sense of inevitability. The Player had sown the seeds of doubt, and Guildenstern could already see them taking root.

The wind howled around them, the boat rocking slightly with the waves, and Guildenstern knew, with a sickening certainty, that this force was tightening its grip. The Player was pulling the strings, and no matter how much he fought, Guildenstern couldn’t stop it.

But he would try. For Rosencrantz, he would try.

“Rosencrantz,” Guildenstern said quietly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “Please. Look at me.”

Rosencrantz hesitated, then turned slowly, his eyes meeting Guildenstern’s.

“You know me,” Guildenstern said, his voice firm but gentle. “You know who I am. Don’t let him take that away from us.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and heavy, as the waves continued to crash against the boat. Rosencrantz stared at him, his expression unreadable.

And then, slowly, he nodded.

The Player’s smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing as he watched the exchange.

“Interesting,” the Player murmured, his tone laced with something that might have been amusement—or perhaps, something darker.

At least for now.

The rocking of the boat felt more pronounced now, as though the waves themselves mirrored the unease in the air. Guildenstern stood firm, his fists clenched at his sides, watching as Rosencrantz’s gaze shifted between him and the Player. Though Rosencrantz had nodded, the flicker of doubt in his eyes hadn’t disappeared. It sat there, like a crack in the foundation of their connection, threatening to widen with every moment of silence.

The Player, ever the opportunist, stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. He tilted his head, his smirk returning as though he had already won, even if Guildenstern didn’t know it yet.

“How touching,” the Player said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Loyalty in the face of uncertainty. It’s almost poetic, really.”

“Enough,” Guildenstern snapped, his voice cutting through the Player’s theatrics. He stepped between Rosencrantz and the Player, his stance protective. “You’ve had your fun. Leave him out of this.”

The Player chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Guildenstern’s spine. “Oh, Guildenstern, you really don’t understand, do you? This isn’t about fun. This is about the stage. And the stage demands conflict. A rift. Drama.” He leaned closer, his dark eyes gleaming. “I’m simply giving the audience what they want.”

“There is no audience!” Guildenstern shouted, his voice raw with frustration.

The Player’s grin widened. “Oh, but there is. And they are watching every move you make, every word you say. They’re waiting to see how this plays out, and who can blame them? It’s quite the performance.”

Guildenstern’s chest heaved with the effort of containing his rage, but Rosencrantz’s hand on his arm stopped him from stepping forward.

“Guildenstern,” Rosencrantz said softly, his voice tentative. “Maybe we should just... listen to him.”

The words were a knife to Guildenstern’s heart. He turned to Rosencrantz, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Listen to him?” he repeated, his voice low and strained. “After everything he’s done?”

Rosencrantz frowned, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know what to believe,” he admitted, his tone apologetic but firm. “He’s saying things that... make sense, in a way. And you—” He hesitated, looking away. “You haven’t exactly been honest with me, have you?”

Guildenstern recoiled as though struck. “I’ve been trying to protect you!” he said, his voice cracking.

“Protect me from what?” Rosencrantz demanded, his voice rising. “From the truth? From understanding what’s happening to us? Because if that’s what you were trying to do, Guildenstern, you’ve failed.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, all Guildenstern could do was stare at Rosencrantz, the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a physical force.

The Player clapped his hands, breaking the tension with a theatrical flourish. “Ah, splendid!” he exclaimed, his voice bright with mock enthusiasm. “Now this is what I call drama! The doting lover, torn by doubt! The protector, undone by his own secrecy! Truly, a tale for the ages.”

“Shut up,” Guildenstern growled, his voice low and venomous.

But the Player was undeterred. He turned to Rosencrantz, his expression softening into something almost kind. “You see, Rosencrantz,” he said, his tone conspiratorial, “Guildenstern isn’t the man you think he is. He’s made choices—terrible choices—that have brought you both here. And yet he expects your trust, your loyalty, without question. Is that fair?”

Rosencrantz hesitated, his expression conflicted. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“Rosencrantz,” Guildenstern said, his voice trembling. “Don’t let him do this. Don’t let him turn you against me.”

“I’m not turning against you!” Rosencrantz shot back, his voice laced with frustration. “I just—I just want to understand!”

“And you will,” the Player said smoothly, his gaze fixed on Rosencrantz. “All you have to do is trust me. Let me show you the truth.”

Guildenstern stepped in front of Rosencrantz again, his body a shield. “The only thing you’ll show him is more lies,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

The Player’s eyes narrowed, his smirk fading. “Careful, Guildenstern,” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “You’re walking a fine line. The script is already strained, and I’d hate to see it snap entirely.”

“I don’t care about your script,” Guildenstern said, his voice firm. “And I won’t let you use him to punish me.”

Rosencrantz hesitated for a long moment, his eyes flicking between Guildenstern and the Player. The conflict on his face was clear—fear, confusion, and something deeper, something that Guildenstern hoped was trust.

Finally, Rosencrantz took a step closer to Guildenstern, his expression steadying. “I’m with you,” he said quietly.

Guildenstern felt a wave of relief crash over him, so powerful that it almost buckled his knees. He glanced at Rosencrantz, the resolve in his companion’s eyes reigniting the fire within him.

The Player watched the exchange, his smirk faltering for the first time. “How touching,” he drawled, though his tone lacked its usual venom. “The loyal sodomite chooses his side. But tell me, Rosencrantz—do you truly know what you’re siding with? Do you understand the consequences?”

“I don’t need to understand everything,” Rosencrantz said, surprising Guildenstern with the strength in his voice. “I know enough. I know Guildenstern wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this.”

Guildenstern felt his throat tighten, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the emotion. He turned to the Player, his jaw tightening. “You’ve played with us long enough,” he said, stepping forward. “This ends now.”

The Player raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning as he spread his arms wide in mock invitation. “Oh? And how do you intend to end it, Guildenstern? With words? Or something more... final?”

Guildenstern didn’t respond. He moved quickly, his hands reaching for the Player’s throat. The suddenness of the attack startled even Rosencrantz, who stumbled back as Guildenstern slammed the Player against the mast of the ship.

The Player’s expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it melted into something calmer, more calculating.

“You think killing me will solve your problems?” the Player asked, his voice strained but still infuriatingly composed.

“It’s a start,” Guildenstern growled, his grip tightening.

The Player chuckled, a low, rasping sound that sent chills down Guildenstern’s spine. “Oh, Guildenstern,” he said, his voice softening into something almost pitiful. “Do you truly believe I can die? That any of this is so simple?”

Guildenstern hesitated, his grip faltering.

The Player seized the moment, wrenching himself free and stepping back with a dramatic flourish. He straightened his tunic, his smirk firmly back in place. “You could kill me a thousand times, Guildenstern,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “And each time, I would return for the encore. That’s how the play works. That’s how it always works.”

Rosencrantz stepped forward, his face pale but determined. “He’s bluffing,” he said quickly. “He’s just trying to scare you.”

“Oh, am I?” the Player asked, tilting his head. “Shall we test it, then? Go ahead, Guildenstern. Strike me down. Tear me apart. I assure you, it will be quite the spectacle. And when I return—because I will return—it will only prove my point.”

Guildenstern clenched his fists, his mind racing. He wanted to believe Rosencrantz, wanted to think that the Player was nothing more than a manipulator, a liar. But deep down, he knew the Player was telling the truth.

“Even if you return,” Guildenstern said slowly, his voice cold, “I’ll make sure it’s a return you regret.”

The Player’s grin widened, and for the first time, Guildenstern saw something behind it—an edge of nervousness, a crack in the facade. “Bold words,” the Player said. “But words are all they are. You cannot rewrite the script, Guildenstern. No one can.”

“Maybe not,” Guildenstern said, his voice steady. “But I can refuse to play by your rules.”

The Player’s eyes narrowed, and the tension between them crackled like a storm. Rosencrantz stepped closer to Guildenstern, his presence a steadying force.

“What now?” Rosencrantz asked quietly, his voice trembling but resolute.

Guildenstern didn’t answer immediately. He turned to the Player, his gaze unwavering. “Now,” he said, “we see how far we can go without the script.”

The Player laughed, the sound hollow and humorless. “Good luck with that, Guildenstern. But be warned—the script has a way of catching up with you. And when it does, it won’t be kind.”

With that, the Player disappeared into the shadows of the ship, his mocking laughter echoing faintly before fading into silence.

Guildenstern exhaled shakily, the adrenaline leaving his body in a rush. He turned to Rosencrantz, his expression softening.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Rosencrantz nodded, though his hands were trembling. “I’m fine. I think.” He hesitated, then added, “Do you think he meant it? That he’d come back?”

Guildenstern didn’t answer immediately. He looked out over the endless expanse of water, the horizon stretching into an uncertain future. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever happens, we face it together.”

Rosencrantz managed a small smile, his grip on Guildenstern’s arm tightening slightly. “Together,” he echoed.

And as the waves rocked the boat gently beneath them, Guildenstern allowed himself a rare moment of hope. Whatever the script had in store for them, they would face it—not as pawns, but as allies. As something more.

Chapter Text

Guildenstern leaned heavily against the ship's railing, his eyes fixed on the endless expanse of water. The waves rolled gently under the boat, their rhythmic ebb and flow steady and unchanging, mocking the storm of doubt raging in his mind. The horizon stretched on, indistinct and unreachable, like the answers he so desperately sought.

Behind him, Rosencrantz was fiddling with a coil of rope, his movements uncharacteristically slow and distracted. The usual lightness in his demeanor was dimmed, his earlier resolve replaced by an uneasy silence.

Guildenstern exhaled sharply, the sound loud against the otherwise quiet of the night. “We should turn back,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

Rosencrantz straightened, blinking in surprise. “Turn back?”

“To Denmark,” Guildenstern clarified, his tone clipped. “This is madness. We’re delivering Hamlet to his death, and for what? A sense of duty to a king who barely remembers our names? To our demise?”

Rosencrantz hesitated, then stepped closer, his brow furrowed. “You really think we can just... turn the ship around?”

Guildenstern turned to face him, his expression grim. “Why not? If the player demands we go to England, then surely defying it is the only way to break free. Isn’t it worth trying?”

Rosencrantz bit his lip, his gaze flickering to the horizon. “And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then at least we’ll know we tried,” Guildenstern said firmly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the gentle creak of the ship’s boards and the whisper of the wind through the sails.

“Fine,” Rosencrantz said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, then let’s do it.”

Guildenstern nodded, a spark of determination igniting in his chest. He led Rosencrantz toward the helm, where the ship’s wheel stood unmanned, its polished wood gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

Guildenstern gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles whitening as he turned it with deliberate force. The ship groaned in protest, the sails fluttering wildly as the course shifted.

“We’ll see how much power this script really has,” Guildenstern muttered under his breath.

.

.

.

Hours passed, the night stretching into a pale gray dawn. The two men took turns at the wheel, their efforts unwavering despite the growing tension between them.

But no matter how many times they adjusted the course, no matter how determinedly they worked to steer the ship back to Denmark, the horizon never changed. The ship always veered subtly, inexorably, back toward its original heading.

Guildenstern leaned against the wheel, his shoulders slumping in defeat. His hair was damp with sweat, and his hands ached from gripping the wood so tightly. “It’s no use,” he said finally, his voice hollow. “We’re trapped. It’s as if the ship itself is conspiring against us.”

Rosencrantz, who had been sitting on a nearby crate with his head in his hands, looked up. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. “Maybe it’s not the ship,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s us.”

Guildenstern frowned, his gaze snapping to Rosencrantz. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... maybe no matter what we do, we’re always meant to go to England,” Rosencrantz said, his voice trembling slightly. “Maybe it’s not about steering or decisions. Maybe we’re just... destined to end up there.”

Guildenstern’s stomach churned at the word destined. He turned away, his hands clenching into fists. “I refuse to believe that,” he said through gritted teeth.

A soft laugh broke the tension, startling both of them.

They turned to see Hamlet standing near the mast, his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly, as if observing them with mild amusement.

“Busy, aren’t you?” Hamlet said, his tone light and conversational.

Guildenstern’s eyes narrowed. “Hamlet.”

Hamlet took a step closer, his expression neutral but his eyes alight with something unreadable. “You look like you’ve been wrestling with the gods themselves,” he said. “What’s the trouble? Surely sailing to England isn’t that taxing.”

Guildenstern exchanged a wary glance with Rosencrantz before turning back to Hamlet. “You know what this journey is about,” he said coldly. “Do you feel nothing about it? About where this ends?”

Hamlet raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Where this ends? I think you’re mistaken, Guildenstern. I’m going there for my own safety, as the king had told me so. They believe me insane.”

“That’s not…,” Guildenstern snapped.

“But it is,” Hamlet replied, his tone maddeningly even.

Rosencrantz cleared his throat, stepping forward cautiously. “Hamlet,” he said tentatively, “about... Alfred.”

Hamlet blinked, his expression shifting to one of confusion. “Alfred? Who’s Alfred?”

Guildenstern’s chest tightened. “The boy who was killed in the Queen’s chambers,” he said, his voice low. “The boy you killed.”

Hamlet’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “I killed Polonius,” he said, his tone measured, as though explaining something simple to a child. “Not some boy.”

Guildenstern felt his stomach drop. “You—what?”

“Polonius,” Hamlet repeated, his gaze steady. “He was behind the tapestry. You were there, weren’t you? Surely you saw.”

Guildenstern turned to Rosencrantz, his pulse quickening. “He doesn’t remember,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rosencrantz looked just as unsettled. “How could he not remember? It... it was Alfred. We saw it.”

“Did you?” Hamlet asked, his voice soft but insistent. “Or are you so caught up in something else that you’ve made yourself mistaken?”

Guildenstern’s hands trembled as he took a step back, his mind reeling. He didn’t know what was worse—the possibility that Hamlet was lying, or the possibility that their reality had erased the truth. His mind churned, his thoughts racing in circles like a ship lost in a storm. He stared at Hamlet, who stood calm and composed, his expression tinged with mild confusion rather than the knowing amusement Guildenstern had come to expect.

“Do you truly not remember?” Guildenstern demanded, his voice tight, a vein of desperation threading through it.

Hamlet frowned, tilting his head slightly. “Remember what?” he asked, his tone genuinely puzzled. “Guildenstern, you’re speaking in riddles again. You’ve a gift for making the simplest things unnecessarily complicated.”

Rosencrantz stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “We’re not being complicated, Hamlet,” he said earnestly. “In the Queen’s chamber. You stabbed—” He faltered, the memory flashing vividly in his mind. “It wasn’t Polonius behind the arras. It was Alfred. The boy.”

Hamlet’s confusion deepened. “Alfred?” he echoed, shaking his head slowly. “Who is Alfred?”

Guildenstern’s chest tightened. “The boy who was part of the players. You—” He hesitated, his words faltering under Hamlet’s uncomprehending gaze. “You killed him, Hamlet. Not Polonius. We saw it.”

Hamlet’s frown deepened, his expression one of quiet indignation. “I killed Polonius,” he said firmly, his voice low. “I know what I did. He was behind the arras, spying on my conversation with my mother. You were there, weren’t you? Surely you saw.”

Rosencrantz glanced at Guildenstern, his voice trembling as he whispered, “How could he not remember? It... it was Alfred. We saw it. We know it. And– And he’s starting to repeat himself, do you notice?”

Hamlet sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Guildenstern, Rosencrantz, I understand you’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, but this is absurd. I don’t know any Alfred, nor do I care to. What I know is that I am on this ship because my uncle deems me a threat, and my mother lacks the resolve to stop him. And as for Polonius—” He paused, his expression hardening. “That was a regrettable accident. But it was necessary.”

Guildenstern’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re lying,” he said, though his voice wavered. “You must be lying.”

“Why would I lie about this?” Hamlet asked, his tone more bewildered than defensive. “You think I enjoyed what happened? That I wanted any of this?”

Rosencrantz hesitated, his gaze flickering between Guildenstern and Hamlet. “Could he be... telling the truth?” he asked softly.

Guildenstern turned to Rosencrantz, his pulse quickening. “No,” he said firmly, though the certainty in his voice was beginning to crack. “We saw what happened. We saw it with our own eyes.”

Hamlet crossed his arms, his expression softening into one of wary concern. “Perhaps you’re mistaken,” he said, his voice quieter now. “The mind plays tricks, especially in moments of chaos. You’ve both been under a great deal of strain, haven’t you?”

Guildenstern took a step back, his breath hitching. The gentle rocking of the ship beneath his feet felt more pronounced now, as though the ground itself were shifting beneath him.

“Do you think he’s right?” Rosencrantz asked, his voice trembling. “Could we... could we have imagined it?”

Guildenstern shook his head violently. “No. No, we didn’t imagine it. I refuse to believe that.”

“Then what’s the explanation?” Rosencrantz pressed, his tone edged with desperation. “If Hamlet doesn’t remember and the boy isn’t here—if Polonius really is the one he stabbed—then what does that mean? Are we losing our minds?”

“I don’t know,” Guildenstern admitted, his voice cracking. He turned back to Hamlet, his gaze hard. “But I know what I saw. And no matter what you say, Hamlet, it won’t change that.”

Hamlet sighed again, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I don’t know what you think you saw, Guildenstern,” he said, his tone tinged with weariness. “But it sounds like you’re looking for answers I don’t have.”

Rosencrantz stepped closer to Guildenstern, his hand resting lightly on his arm. “What do we do now?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Guildenstern didn’t answer immediately. He looked out over the endless expanse of water, the horizon stretching into an uncertain future. It was England—he was certain of it, though he wished with every fiber of his being that it wasn’t.

He gritted his teeth, his voice low and fierce. “We fight it. Somehow, we fight it.”

Hamlet tilted his head, his confusion giving way to a flicker of curiosity. “Fight what?” he asked.

Guildenstern turned back to him, his expression resolute. “The course. The plan. The so-called destiny that’s pulling us toward England.”

Hamlet raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smile. “And how, exactly, do you intend to fight the sea?”

Guildenstern didn’t respond. He turned to Rosencrantz, the determination in his gaze unwavering. “Help me adjust the course again.”

Rosencrantz hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Together, they moved toward the wheel, their resolve renewed.

Hamlet watched them, his expression a mix of confusion and faint amusement. Then, he simply walked away.

And as the ship groaned and creaked beneath their efforts, the horizon remained unchanged, an unyielding reminder of the course that refused to be altered.

Chapter Text

The cell was dim and cold, the faint flicker of a lantern casting shadows on the rough stone walls. The air smelled damp, heavy with the metallic tang of rust and despair. Rosencrantz sat hunched in the corner, his knees drawn to his chest, his body trembling as though the chill of the room had sunk deep into his bones.

Guildenstern sat opposite him on the small wooden bench, his back straight and his hands resting calmly in his lap. His face was a mask of composure, betraying none of the turmoil that churned beneath the surface.

“They’re going to kill us,” Rosencrantz whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant drip of water echoing through the corridor.

Guildenstern looked at him, his gaze steady. “Yes,” he said simply.

Rosencrantz flinched at the word, his arms tightening around his knees. “How can you just sit there?” he asked, his voice cracking. “How can you be so calm?”

Guildenstern tilted his head slightly, considering the question. “What would you have me do?” he asked. “Rage? Weep? Beg? None of it will change what’s coming.”

“But don’t you feel anything?” Rosencrantz’s voice rose, his hands gripping his knees tightly. “Aren’t you afraid? I—” His breath hitched, and he buried his face in his hands. “I don’t want to die, Guildenstern.”

Guildenstern stood slowly, crossing the small space between them. He knelt in front of Rosencrantz, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know,” he said softly. “Neither do I.”

Rosencrantz looked up, his face streaked with tears. His eyes searched Guildenstern’s, desperate for some kind of reassurance, some hope that didn’t exist. “Then why aren’t you... why aren’t you like me? Falling apart?”

Guildenstern hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Because falling apart won’t save us,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “It won’t make the fear go away. It won’t stop what’s coming. All we can do is face it.”

Rosencrantz shook his head, his tears falling freely now. “I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m not like you. I can’t just... accept it.”

Guildenstern reached up, cupping Rosencrantz’s face gently in his hands. His thumbs brushed away the tears, his touch steady despite the storm raging within him. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said, his voice soft but resolute.

“I’m not,” Rosencrantz whispered, his voice trembling. “I’ve never been.”

“You are,” Guildenstern insisted. He leaned closer, his forehead resting against Rosencrantz’s. “You’ve been by my side through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I pushed you away. That takes strength.”

Rosencrantz closed his eyes, his breath shuddering. “It doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted.

Guildenstern’s hands tightened slightly, his grip firm but gentle. “It’s enough for me,” he said.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, the silence between them filled with the faint sound of Rosencrantz’s uneven breathing and the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor.

Finally, Rosencrantz spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think... do you think it’ll hurt?”

Guildenstern hesitated, his own fear clawing at the edges of his composure. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll be with you. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

Rosencrantz nodded slowly, his body relaxing slightly under Guildenstern’s touch. “Together,” he echoed.

Guildenstern leaned back, his hands falling to his sides. He sat beside Rosencrantz, his shoulder brushing against his lover’s. “Try to rest,” he said quietly.

Rosencrantz let out a shaky laugh. “Rest? Here? Now?”

Guildenstern smiled faintly. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”

Rosencrantz sighed, leaning his head against Guildenstern’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can,” he said softly.

Guildenstern wrapped an arm around him, holding him close. “Then we wait,” he said.

And so they sat in the cold, silent cell, waiting for the inevitable. The lantern flickered, casting their shadows on the walls, and the drip of water echoed like the ticking of a clock.

Despite the fear that lingered in the air, Guildenstern found a strange solace in Rosencrantz’s presence. They were trapped, yes, but they were together. And in this bleak and unyielding moment, that was enough.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Words felt too fragile, too small for the weight of what they felt. But the silence couldn’t last—it was never in Rosencrantz’s nature to let it.

“I’m sorry,” Rosencrantz murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His head was still resting against Guildenstern’s shoulder, his fingers curling into the fabric of Guildenstern’s tunic.

Guildenstern glanced down at him, his brow furrowing. “For what?”

“For being like this,” Rosencrantz said, gesturing vaguely to himself. “For falling apart. For making things harder.”

Guildenstern shook his head, his hand moving to gently cup the side of Rosencrantz’s face, tilting it upward so their eyes met. “You’ve made nothing harder,” he said, his voice steady but quiet. “If anything, you’ve made it easier. I couldn’t bear this if I were alone.”

Rosencrantz blinked, his lips parting slightly. “You mean that?”

Guildenstern nodded. “You’re the only thing keeping me grounded right now.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that had preceded them. Rosencrantz’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, his lips trembling as he searched Guildenstern’s face for any sign of hesitation. There was none.

“I don’t deserve you,” Rosencrantz whispered, his voice breaking. “You’ve always been stronger, smarter. I’m just... me.”

Guildenstern’s expression softened, and he leaned forward slightly, his forehead brushing against Rosencrantz’s. “You are you,” he said firmly. “And that is more than enough.”

Rosencrantz let out a shaky breath, his hands clutching at Guildenstern’s tunic. “I’ve never told you,” he said, his voice trembling, “how much you mean to me. I should have said it sooner. So many times.”

Guildenstern closed his eyes, his own breath unsteady now. “I know,” he said softly. “But I want to hear it.”

Rosencrantz swallowed hard, his tears spilling over. “I love you,” he said, his voice breaking on the words. “I’ve always loved you. Even when I didn’t know how to say it. Even when I was too scared to admit it to myself.”

Guildenstern’s chest ached, a raw, overwhelming emotion threatening to consume him. He tightened his hold on Rosencrantz, his hand slipping to the back of his neck, holding him close. “You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he murmured. “Because I love you too.”

Rosencrantz’s breath hitched, his hands trembling as they reached up to grip Guildenstern’s shoulders. “You do?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Guildenstern nodded, his own tears now escaping. “You know I do. I just... I thought it was something I had to bury. Something I couldn’t let myself feel.”

Rosencrantz let out a soft, broken laugh, his tears mingling with his smile. “We’ve both been fools, haven’t we?”

Guildenstern managed a small smile of his own, his thumb brushing away the tears on Rosencrantz’s cheek. “Yes,” he said simply. “But no more.”

They stayed like that for a moment, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the cold air. The cell, the looming shadow of death, the world outside—none of it mattered in that moment. There was only the two of them.

“I wish...” Rosencrantz began, his voice faltering. “I wish we’d had more time.”

Guildenstern closed his eyes, his chest tightening at the words. “So do I,” he admitted. “But whatever time we have left, it’s ours. No one can take that from us.”

Rosencrantz nodded, his hands clutching at Guildenstern’s tunic as though he were afraid to let go. “Stay close,” he whispered.

Guildenstern pulled him into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around Rosencrantz’s trembling form. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.

Chapter Text

Guildenstern sat on the cold bench in the cell, his gaze fixed on the damp, uneven stone of the floor. Rosencrantz was asleep against his shoulder, his breathing shallow but steady, his face streaked with the remnants of dried tears. Guildenstern’s hand rested lightly on Rosencrantz’s back, his fingers absently tracing the seam of his tunic, though his mind was far away.

He didn’t look up when he heard the faint creak of the cell door, nor when the Player’s footsteps echoed softly against the stone. The familiar flourish of the Player’s coat and the faint scent of greasepaint preceded him, filling the cell like an uninvited guest.

“Well,” the Player said, his voice low and almost conversational. “Here we are again.”

Guildenstern didn’t respond.

The Player stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the floor. “I must admit,” he continued, his tone light and breezy, “this is not quite the scene I envisioned. It’s all so... still. Lacking in dramatic flair. Don’t you think?”

Still, Guildenstern said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, his expression impassive.

The Player tilted his head, his smile faltering slightly. “I expected more from you,” he said, his voice taking on an edge of irritation. “You’ve always been so delightfully contrary. So determined to fight, to claw at the edges of your fate. And yet here you are, silent as a grave.”

Guildenstern finally lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting the Player’s. There was no anger there, no defiance—just a hollow, empty calm. “What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice flat.

The Player stared at him, his smirk slipping into something closer to a scowl. “I want you to care,” he said sharply. “To rail against me, against the script, against the gods themselves if you must. But this?” He gestured to Guildenstern with a sweep of his hand. “This apathetic resignation? It’s boring.”

Guildenstern’s gaze didn’t waver. “What’s the point?” he asked. “We both know how this ends. No amount of fighting or pleading or shouting will change it. So why bother?”

The Player’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “You’re giving up,” he said, his voice low and accusing. “After everything, after all the struggle, you’re just... giving up?”

Guildenstern looked away, his expression unreadable. “Call it what you want.”

The Player let out a sharp laugh, though there was no humor in it. “How utterly disappointing,” he said. “I thought you had more fire in you, Guildenstern. More spirit. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you’re just as hollow as the rest of them.”

Guildenstern’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “Maybe I am.”

The Player stepped closer, looming over him. “Do you think this makes you noble?” he demanded. “This quiet surrender? Do you think it spares you from the pain, from the inevitability of the ending? Because it doesn’t. It only makes you a coward.”

Guildenstern didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up. “I don’t think it makes me anything,” he said quietly.

The Player’s frustration was palpable, his movements sharp and restless as he began to pace the small cell. “You think you’re punishing me with your apathy?” he said, his voice rising. “You think this lack of resistance is some grand rebellion? It’s not. It’s pathetic.”

Guildenstern’s gaze flicked briefly to the Player before returning to the floor. “You’re upset,” he said flatly.

“Upset?” the Player repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. “No, Guildenstern, I’m not upset. I’m disappointed. I expected more from you. You were supposed to be my foil, my adversary. And yet here you are, sitting in the dark like a man waiting for his own funeral.”

Guildenstern shrugged, a small, indifferent motion. “Maybe I am.”

The Player stopped pacing, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You think this is freedom,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “This... complacency. But it’s not. It’s just another form of surrender. You’ve traded one cage for another, and you’re too blind to see it.”

Guildenstern finally looked up, his expression calm but hollow. “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

The Player stared at him, his face twisting with something that might have been anger, or perhaps disappointment. “You’re pathetic,” he said coldly. “A shell of the man you were. If this is how you want to face the end, so be it. But don’t think for a second that it absolves you.”

With that, the Player turned sharply, his coat swirling around him as he strode toward the door. He paused briefly in the doorway, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for in the darkness, Guildenstern,” he said, his voice laced with mockery. “But somehow, I doubt you will.”

The echo of the Player’s footsteps faded, leaving Guildenstern alone with the oppressive silence of the cell. Rosencrantz stirred slightly against his shoulder, but his breathing remained steady, deep in the uneasy slumber that exhaustion had finally claimed for him.

Guildenstern’s gaze lingered on Rosencrantz for a moment, his hand resting gently on his back. Then, with deliberate care, he shifted, easing Rosencrantz to the side so he could lie against the bench. Guildenstern adjusted the folds of Rosencrantz’s tunic, ensuring he was as comfortable as possible given the cold, unforgiving stone beneath him.

He stood slowly, his movements fluid and quiet, his gaze fixed on the cell door.

“Player,” Guildenstern called, his voice low but carrying an unsettling steadiness.

The silence stretched for a moment, the air thick with stillness. Then, from the shadows beyond the bars, the Player’s voice answered, sharp and sardonic. “What is it now, Guildenstern? Come to offer more of your riveting silence?”

“Come back,” Guildenstern said simply, his tone devoid of emotion.

The Player stepped into view, his expression a mixture of irritation and curiosity. He stopped just outside the bars, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilting slightly as he regarded Guildenstern. “What is it you want, then? Another lecture? A moment of introspection? I thought you’d already resigned yourself to your tragic little ending.”

Guildenstern stepped closer to the bars, his movements slow and deliberate. His face was calm, his gaze unwavering. “I have something to tell you,” he said.

The Player raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Oh? And what grand revelation has brought you back to the land of the living?”

Guildenstern didn’t respond immediately. He reached into his tunic, his hand finding the small, sharp piece of metal he had pried loose from the bench days ago—a jagged shard, crude but serviceable.

The Player’s smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned closer, his hands resting lightly on the bars. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting, Guildenstern. Enlighten me.”

Guildenstern moved quickly, his hand darting through the gap between the bars. The shard of metal gleamed briefly in the dim light before it plunged into the Player’s side.

The Player gasped, his eyes widening in shock. He staggered back, clutching at the wound as blood seeped through his fingers, staining the garish fabric of his coat. “You...” he rasped, his voice breaking.

Guildenstern didn’t move from the bars, his expression calm and unyielding. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’ve resigned myself. But not to you.”

The Player stumbled, his back hitting the wall opposite the cell. He laughed, a wet, choking sound, his lips curling into a grimace. “You think... this changes anything?” he said, his voice weak but laced with defiance. “You think you’ve won?”

Guildenstern tilted his head slightly, his gaze cold. “I think it doesn’t matter.”

The Player’s laughter grew harsher, his body trembling as he slid to the floor. “You fool,” he spat, blood staining his teeth. “I’ll come back. I always come back. You know that. This—” He gestured weakly to the wound. “This is nothing.”

Guildenstern’s grip on the bars tightened, his knuckles whitening. “Then I’ll do it again,” he said simply. “And again. However many times it takes.”

The Player’s laughter faltered, his gaze locking with Guildenstern’s. For the first time, there was no smugness, no mockery in his eyes—only a flicker of something uncertain. “You...” he began, but the words trailed off, lost in a ragged breath.

Guildenstern watched as the Player’s body went still, the faint rise and fall of his chest ceasing. The corridor beyond the cell was silent once more, save for the faint drip of water echoing through the darkness.

He stepped back from the bars, the shard of metal still clenched tightly in his hand. His gaze fell to Rosencrantz, who remained asleep, blissfully unaware of what had transpired.

Guildenstern sat back down on the bench, his breathing steady, his expression calm. He didn’t know if the Player would return, if his defiance had truly meant anything in the grand scheme of the script. Guildenstern allowed himself a fleeting moment of peace.

Chapter Text

Darkness enveloped Guildenstern, pressing in from all sides like the weight of the deep sea. He was aware of nothing—no sound, no light, no sensation of his body. For a moment, he thought this was it: the end. The final act, as the Player had so gleefully foretold.

And then, suddenly, there was air.

Guildenstern gasped, his lungs burning as though he had been underwater for hours. He blinked rapidly, his vision blurry, the faint outlines of familiar shapes coming into focus. The rough texture of a wooden floor greeted his fingertips as he pushed himself upright, his breathing ragged.

A groan from beside him made him turn sharply. Rosencrantz lay sprawled on the floor, his face pale but his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“Rosencrantz?” Guildenstern’s voice cracked as he crawled to his companion’s side, his hands trembling as he shook Rosencrantz gently. “Rosencrantz, wake up.”

Rosencrantz’s eyes fluttered open, his expression dazed and confused. “Guildenstern?” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. “What... what happened?”

Guildenstern’s gaze darted around the room, his heart pounding as recognition settled over him. They were back. Their home—the modest space they had shared for years, with its worn furniture and faint scent of old books—was exactly as they had left it.

But something was different.

There was no banging at the door. No sharp voice calling their names. No shadow of impending doom hanging over them like a storm cloud.

“We’re home,” Guildenstern said, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Home?” Rosencrantz echoed, sitting up slowly. His eyes widened as he took in their surroundings, his hands gripping the edge of the rug beneath him as though to anchor himself. “But... how? We were—”

He stopped, his breath hitching as the memory flooded back. The execution. The sharp, cold finality of it. The weight of the rope around his neck.

“We died,” Rosencrantz whispered, his voice trembling. “I remember it. I felt it.”

“So did I,” Guildenstern said softly, his hands curling into fists.

They sat in stunned silence, the weight of their memories pressing down on them. Every detail was vivid: the march to the gallows, the jeering crowd, the snap of the trapdoor beneath their feet. And then... nothing. Until now.

“Is this... real?” Rosencrantz asked, his voice shaking. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Guildenstern’s arm, as if to confirm his presence.

Guildenstern’s gaze remained fixed on the door, his jaw tightening. “It feels real,” he said. “But so did everything else.”

Rosencrantz shook his head, his hands raking through his hair. “I don’t understand. How can we be here? How can we be alive?”

Guildenstern turned to him, his expression grim. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we are.”

Rosencrantz’s eyes filled with tears, his emotions overwhelming him. “Does it matter?” he asked, his voice cracking. “We’re here, Guildenstern. We’re alive. Isn’t that enough?”

Guildenstern hesitated, his own thoughts a tangled web of doubt and confusion. Finally, he nodded, his hand resting on Rosencrantz’s shoulder. “For now,” he said. “It’s enough.”

Rosencrantz let out a shaky laugh, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. “Do you think it’s over?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Guildenstern’s gaze returned to the door, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But whatever this is, wherever we are now... it’s ours.”

The two of them sat in the quiet of their home, the morning light streaming through the windows, casting warm, golden hues over the room. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no looming threat, no unseen hand guiding their steps.

Rosencrantz leaned against Guildenstern, his head resting on his shoulder. “Do you think we’ll ever have answers?” he asked softly.

Guildenstern’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his hand resting lightly on Rosencrantz’s. “Maybe,” he said. “But for now, let’s just enjoy the quiet.”

And as the minutes stretched into hours, the two of them remained there, grounded in the fragile peace of their shared existence, their hearts beating as one.

No one came, no one bothered.