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Chapter Text

The corridors of Elsinore Castle were neither silent nor loud, but alive—a steady hum of whispers, boots brushing stone, and the occasional rasp of steel being drawn or sheathed. To Lucianus, it was the perfect stage. The world within those thick, foreboding walls seemed to him not a place of governance or royal decree, but a vessel of stories, each thread darker and stranger than the last.

But none captivated him more than the peculiarities of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Their movements were fluid, synchronized in a way that defied nature and spoke of long-forged bonds. Rosencrantz, with his sharp, wolfish smile, and Guildenstern, a quieter shadow with a gaze like distant thunder. They were a study in contrasts, yet their existence seemed entwined, almost to the point of obliterating individuality. He couldn't decide if this disturbed him or intrigued him further.

Their secrets whispered louder than the wind rattling through the castle’s stone veins. And The Player was drawn, helplessly, toward the sound.

It had begun subtly. A glance through the half-light of a cloistered gallery, where he saw Rosencrantz lean too close to Guildenstern. A laugh, soft but edged, and a hand lingering just a fraction too long on the curve of a shoulder. The moment had passed as quickly as it came, leaving him in its wake, his mind alight with questions.

Were they aware of the way they blurred the lines of propriety? Did they care? Did others see it too, or was he alone in noticing?

More than once, The Player caught himself staring at them during court functions. His gaze would fixate on the subtle exchanges: the flicker of a glance, the way Guildenstern's fingers would twitch toward Rosencrantz's sleeve as if magnetized, only to stop short of contact.

And then there was Alfred.

Poor, hapless Alfred, who trailed after him with a doggedness that bordered on tragic.

“My lord,” The fool would say, his voice a thin thread of supplication, “His majesty Hamlet has requested a performance. Shall I fetch the others?”

Lucianus rarely answered him. When he did, it was with a flick of his hand or a muttered assent, his thoughts too consumed by the enigma of the fascinating scholars. He was aware of Alfred’s efforts, the desperate attempts to curry favor, to prove himself indispensable. It grated on him, though he couldn’t quite articulate why. Perhaps it was because Alfred lacked the very thing that fascinated him in others: mystery.

This night was no different.

Lucianus stood at the edge of the Great Hall, where the air was heavy with candle smoke and the scent of spiced wine. The courtiers were gathered in clusters, their laughter brittle as glass. Somewhere in the haze of the crowd, they moved like shadows, their figures always just out of reach.

“My lord,” He ventured again, this time closer. The Player felt the faint tug of his sleeve and turned, his expression sharp.

“What?”

“The Good Prince awaits your presence,” He murmured, eyes darting to the floor.

He waved him off. “Tell him I’m preparing.”

Alfred hesitated, his face crumpling briefly with something like hurt, before he bowed and retreated. The boy’s footsteps echoed briefly, then were swallowed by the cacophony of the room.

He didn’t watch him leave. His focus was elsewhere.

Across the hall, the men had paused by a column. Rosencrantz was speaking, his hands gesturing in slow, deliberate arcs, while Guildenstern stood close, his head inclined toward him. The candlelight caught the planes of their faces, rendering them almost statuesque.

He found himself moving toward them, his steps slow and deliberate. He told himself it was nothing more than idle curiosity, the same instinct that drove him to watch a knife juggler or a fire eater. But deep down, he knew better. This intrigued him far more than mere performance.

The closer he drew, the more the sounds of the hall faded, until it seemed as though the three of them were suspended in some private sphere of conversation.

“Do you always speak in riddles?” Guildenstern’s voice was low, a quiet rumble that tugged at Lucianus’s ears.

“Only when the answers bore me,” Rosencrantz replied, his grin flashing like the edge of a blade.

The Player stopped short, his pulse quickening. He wanted to step closer, to interrupt, to insert himself into their orbit, but something held him back. Perhaps it was the way Guildenstern’s gaze flicked to Rosencrantz’s mouth as he spoke, or the fleeting touch of their hands as they turned to leave. It seemed too intimate for him to appropriately introduce himself. Not that that has ever stopped him before, mind you.

He stood rooted to the spot, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name.

“Do you think they notice you, my lord?”

The voice came from behind him, soft but unmistakably Alfred’s.

Lucianus turned slowly, his expression darkening. The actor stood a few paces away, his hands clasped before him, his face pale but resolute. His hair framing his face like that of a noble woman’s, if it were not so unkempt.

“They don’t see you,” He continued, his voice trembling but defiant. “You watch them, but they don’t see you.”

“Do you presume to understand me?” His voice was quiet, but it carried an edge that made the other flinch.

“I only mean to help,” Alfred stammered, his bravado crumbling under his superior’s gaze.

“Help yourself,” He snapped, turning away. His eyes sought Rosencrantz and Guildenstern again, but they were gone, swallowed by the crowd. Curses.

The night stretched on, but the weight of their absence lingered like a phantom in his mind.

The hall began to empty as the hours wore thin. Courtiers drifted toward their chambers, leaving behind the remnants of the evening—a haze of spiced wine and smoke, the echo of laughter fraying into silence.

The Player lingered.

He stood near one of the grand windows, the cold seeping through the glass like a phantom’s breath. Beyond the frost-limned panes, the night was a fathomless void, the moon veiled by clouds. His reflection stared back at him, sharp-edged and pale, but his mind was elsewhere, circling like a hawk over the enigma of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Why did they haunt him so?

He clenched his fists against the thought, his nails biting into his palms. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew this obsession was unbecoming, irrational. But that knowledge was a distant echo, drowned out by a relentless tide of questions.

“My lord?”

The voice was a splinter in his thoughts.

Lucianus turned sharply, his expression thunderous, to find Alfred standing a few feet away. The boy’s face was drawn with a mix of concern and nervousness, his hands clasped in front of him as though bracing for a blow.

“I told you to leave me,” He said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I thought…” Alfred faltered, his gaze flickering to the window, then back to the other. “I thought you might need me, my lord. The night grows late, and the Prince—”

“I do not need you.”

The words fell like stones into the still air, heavy and unyielding. But Alfred, stubborn as ever, pressed on.

“You seem troubled,” he pried, his voice soft. “Perhaps I can—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked like a whip, and the young man recoiled as though struck. But Lucianus didn’t stop.

“You hover like a carrion bird,” He hissed, his voice laced with venom. “Always watching, always waiting, as if you expect to catch me in a moment of weakness. Is that it? Do you hope to see me falter, to prove yourself superior in some wretched, small way?”

“No, my lord, I—”

“Silence!” Lucianus’s voice rose, echoing through the empty hall. He took a step forward, his shadow looming over the young man, who shrank beneath his gaze. “You speak of things you cannot fathom, offer help that I do not want, and presume to know me. You are nothing but a fool, a petty, insignificant fool.”

Alfred’s breath hitched, his face pale as a winter sky. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with the weight of Lucianus’s fury.

And then it broke.

His eyes glistened as he lowered his head, his shoulders trembling with the effort to hold himself together. Without a word, he turned and fled, his sniveling echoing behind him pathetically. 

Lucianus stood motionless, his chest heaving. For a moment, he felt a flicker of regret, but it was swiftly extinguished by the gnawing hunger that drove him.

His thoughts turned back to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

He imagined them now, somewhere in the depths of Elsinore, speaking in riddles and whispers, their hands brushing like conspirators. The vision filled him with both longing and frustration. He would understand them, no matter the cost. He would uncover their secrets, even if it meant losing himself in the process. He couldn’t handle the thought of not knowing something.

With a deep breath, Lucianus straightened his coat and stepped into the corridor. The castle was a labyrinth at night, its halls stretching endlessly into darkness, but he navigated it with ease. He didn’t know where they had gone, but he intended to find out.

The observation, he told himself, had only just begun.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t merely the absence of light that transformed Elsinore into something darker, more menacing. It was the silence—the kind that pressed against the skin, amplifying every creak and sigh of stone and wood. It was the unseen things that seemed to linger just beyond the edge of vision, the cold breath of the walls, the whisper of wind slipping through the ancient cracks.

Lucianus moved like a ghost through the corridors, his steps careful and deliberate. The torches had long since burned low, their embers casting faint, flickering shadows. He carried no lantern, trusting his memory of the castle’s labyrinthine passages to guide him. His destination was clear, though he told himself otherwise.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

He hadn’t intended to follow them. Not at first. The evening had bled into night, and he’d sought the solace of solitude to quiet the storm of thoughts in his mind. But then he’d seen them again, their silhouettes slipping through a distant doorway, and the compulsion had been irresistible.

They moved as they always did—together, seamlessly, like two halves of a single being. Lucianus had trailed them at a distance, his breath shallow, his heart pounding with an intensity that embarrassed him. He told himself it wasn't an obsession, but something nobler: a search for understanding, for answers to the questions that gnawed at him.

Now he stood at the threshold of their chamber.

The door was ajar, the faintest crack of light spilling into the hall. Lucianus hesitated, his hand brushing the cold stone of the doorway. A voice in his mind—a small, feeble thing—whispered of boundaries, of propriety, of the shame in what he was about to do. But it was drowned out by the deeper, darker voice that urged him forward.

He pushed the door open, just enough to slip inside.

The room was sparsely furnished, but warm. A single candle burned on a table near the bed, its light dancing across the walls and casting elongated shadows. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and linen, mingled faintly with something sweeter—perhaps the residue of wine.

And there they were.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern lay asleep, their forms half-covered by the thick, dark furs of the bed. They were close—closer than was customary, Lucianus thought, though he couldn’t say why. Guildenstern’s arm rested lightly across Rosencrantz’s chest, and their faces were turned toward each other, as though even in sleep they sought each other’s presence.

Lucianus’s breath caught in his throat.

He moved closer, his steps soundless on the thick rug. The flickering candlelight illuminated their faces, softening their sharp features and rendering them almost angelic. But there was no innocence here. Even in sleep, there was something unnerving about them—a sense of secrets held tightly, of a bond so intimate it bordered on otherworldly.

Lucianus crouched by the bed, his eyes fixed on them.

Rosencrantz’s lips were slightly parted, his breath slow and even. Guildenstern’s brow furrowed faintly, as though his dreams troubled him. Their closeness was magnetic, almost unbearable. Lucianus felt like an intruder, a voyeur, yet he couldn’t look away.

What was it about them that held him captive? Was it their defiance of convention, their blurring of boundaries that others dared not cross? Or was it something deeper—something he couldn’t name, but which pulled at him with an almost supernatural force?

A faint sound broke the silence—a murmur, soft and unintelligible. Lucianus’s gaze snapped to Guildenstern, whose lips moved as though forming words. His voice was too quiet to hear, but the tone was unmistakable: longing.

Rosencrantz shifted slightly in response, his hand brushing against Guildenstern’s arm. The movement was instinctive, unconscious, but it sent a jolt through Lucianus’s chest.

He wanted to reach out, to touch them, to break the barrier that separated him from their world. The thought was absurd, he knew. To touch them would be to shatter the illusion, to expose his fascination for what it truly was: an ugly, raw thing, born of envy and obsession.

Instead, he leaned closer, his breath ghosting over the edge of the bed.

“You are too perfect,” he whispered, the words barely audible even to himself. “Too complete. What are you hiding?”

Rosencrantz stirred again, his head turning slightly toward Lucianus. For a moment, Lucianus froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. But Rosencrantz didn’t wake. His breathing remained steady, his expression serene.

Lucianus exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing.

He lingered there for what felt like hours, watching the slow rise and fall of their breaths, the way their bodies seemed to mirror each other in perfect symmetry. The candle burned lower, its light dimming, and still he stayed, unable to tear himself away.

When he finally rose, his legs were stiff, and his head swam with the weight of his thoughts. He glanced back at them one last time before slipping from the room, his movements as silent as a shadow.

The corridor was colder than before, the air biting against his skin. Lucianus pulled his coat tighter around him, but the chill had already seeped into his bones.

He walked aimlessly, his mind a whirlwind of images and questions. What was it about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that drew him so inexorably? Was it their closeness, their defiance of the boundaries that governed everyone else’s lives? Or was it something darker, something he couldn’t yet understand?

As he reached the far end of the corridor, he paused, his hand brushing the rough stone of the wall.

“I will know you,” he murmured, his voice soft but resolute. “One way or another, I will understand what you are.”

The next night came heavy with a storm.

The skies above Elsinore churned like a blackened cauldron, thunder rumbling low and ominous in the distance. Rain lashed against the castle walls, its rhythm a ceaseless whisper that seemed to seep into every stone.

Lucianus felt the weight of it as he moved through the corridors, the storm’s presence pressing on him like a living thing. His steps were quicker tonight, more purposeful. He told himself it was curiosity that drove him, but in truth, the compulsion was far more primal.

The door to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s chamber loomed before him once more. He hesitated only a moment before pushing it open, the flickering of another dim candle spilling light into the hallway.

This time, the room was warmer, the air thick with the scent of damp linen and something muskier. The single candle cast long, undulating shadows across the walls, the storm outside creating an occasional flicker as wind crept through unseen cracks.

And there they were.

At first, he thought they were simply sleeping again, but the way the covers shifted drew his attention—a slight ripple, as though a hand moved beneath them.

Lucianus froze.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern lay close beneath the heavy fur blankets, their forms almost entirely hidden save for their faces. Rosencrantz’s eyes were closed, his lips parted as though caught in a half-breath. Guildenstern’s head rested on the same pillow, their foreheads nearly touching, his light hair a stark contrast to the paleness of Rosencrantz’s skin.

The blanket shifted again, a subtle, almost imperceptible motion.

Lucianus’s mouth went dry.

He took a step closer, his boots silent against the thick rug. The shadows played tricks on his eyes, or so he told himself, as he watched the faint rise and fall of their shared breath. The suggestion of their closeness was maddening, sending a sharp thrill through him that he hated himself for feeling.

Rosencrantz murmured something in his sleep, the sound soft and formless. Guildenstern stirred slightly, his head dipping closer, and Lucianus’s heart seized as he saw Guildenstern’s lips brush against Rosencrantz’s temple—so faint a touch it could have been mistaken for a dream.

The blanket shifted again, sliding just far enough to expose the curve of Rosencrantz’s bare shoulder, pale and smooth in the candlelight. Lucianus’s gaze lingered there, his thoughts racing with images and questions he could not suppress.

Were they awake? Did they know he was here?

His breath quickened as he stepped closer still, his shadow falling over the bed. The air felt heavier now, as though the storm outside had seeped into the room, wrapping them all in its oppressive embrace.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Why do you keep yourselves hidden away? What are you hiding?”

Neither of them stirred.

Lucianus reached out, his hand trembling, and brushed his fingers against the edge of the blanket. The fabric was soft beneath his touch, warmed by the heat of their bodies. He didn’t know what he intended—whether to pull it back, to see more, or simply to confirm that this moment was real.

Before he could decide, Guildenstern shifted again. His arm emerged from beneath the covers, draping loosely over Rosencrantz’s waist, his fingers curling faintly against the other man’s side. The motion was slow, languid, as though performed in sleep, but it was intimate in a way that sent a sharp jolt through Lucianus’s chest.

He staggered back, his hand dropping to his side.

They were too close. Too perfect. Their bond was a thing beyond his understanding, beyond the boundaries of propriety or even humanity. It was maddening, intoxicating, and utterly unattainable.

The candle flickered, and for a brief moment, Lucianus thought he saw Guildenstern’s eyes open, his dark gaze fixed directly on him. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and Guildenstern’s expression remained serene, his eyes closed once more.

Lucianus’s pulse thundered in his ears.

He turned and left the room, his steps faltering as he slipped back into the corridor. The storm raged on outside, the wind howling like a wounded beast. He pressed his back against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

What had he seen? What had he done?

The questions burned in his mind, but no answers came. Only the image of them remained—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern beneath the covers, their forms entwined, their closeness both beautiful and unbearable.

Lucianus closed his eyes, the darkness behind his lids offering no solace.

He would come again. He knew he would.

The pull was too strong, the mystery too consuming. He wouldn’t stop now, he didn’t want to.

Chapter Text

The storm from the night before had left the castle drenched in cold dampness, its halls filled with the muffled drip of rainwater seeping from the stone. Lucianus felt the weight of it in the air as he sat in the corner of the Great Hall, nursing a goblet of watered wine.

He had not slept.

The images from the night before still lingered in his mind, vivid and tantalizing. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, their forms entwined beneath the covers, their secrets laid bare to his hungry visage. The memory sent a thrill through him even now, though he kept his expression carefully composed.

He was toying with the stem of his goblet when he saw them enter.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern moved as they always did—together, their steps synchronized, their presence magnetic. But today, there was something different about them. Their expressions were sharp, purposeful, their glances scanning the room until they landed on him.

He met their eyes, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips.

They approached without hesitation, Rosencrantz leading with his wolfish grin, while Guildenstern trailed a step behind, his dark gaze locked onto him with unnerving intensity.

“My lord Player,” Rosencrantz said smoothly, his tone light but laced with something sharper. “May we have a word?”

The Player inclined his head. “Of course. Your company is always welcome.”

They did not sit, nor did they wait for pleasantries. Instead, Guildenstern stepped forward, reaching into his coat.

“We found something,” he said, his voice low and even.

He withdrew a small object and placed it on the table before Lucianus. A scrap of fabric—no larger than a handkerchief—bearing the faint trace of a seal in wax. The edges were frayed, as though torn hastily, and the wax bore the imprint of his insignia.

He felt the faintest prickle of heat at the back of his neck. He recognized it immediately: a piece of his coat, snagged and ripped the night before as he’d brushed against the corner of the bed.

He looked up, meeting Guildenstern’s unblinking stare.

“Curious,” he said, his tone unhurried. “Where did you find it?”

“By our bed,” Guildenstern replied, his voice calm but cold. “It seems someone has taken a peculiar interest in our chambers.”

Rosencrantz leaned on the back of a chair, his grin widening. “Tell me, Lucianus, do you often wander into the private rooms of your acquaintances? Or is this a… special occasion?”

He chuckled softly, lifting his goblet to his lips. The wine tasted sour, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he placed the cup back down and steepled his fingers, leaning forward slightly.

“I must apologize,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Curiosity has always been my greatest weakness. And you, dear friends, are an endless source of fascination.”

Guildenstern’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. Rosencrantz, however, raised an eyebrow, his grin faltering for a moment before returning, sharper now.

“Fascination,” Rosencrantz echoed. “An interesting choice of words. Most would consider such behavior intrusive—perhaps even dangerous.”

“Danger,” Lucianus replied, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “is often where the most intriguing truths are found.”

The tension between them was palpable now, a coiled thing ready to snap. But Lucianus felt no fear. On the contrary, his heart raced with exhilaration, his pulse quickening with the thrill of the game.

“I wonder,” Guildenstern said, his voice measured but tight, “what truths you think you’ve uncovered.”

He tilted his head, his pupils flitting between them. “That depends,” he said. “Do you consider yourselves truthful men?”

Rosencrantz barked a laugh, the sound harsh and humorless. “Truthful? Oh, I think you’ll find that truth is a matter of perspective, my dear Player.”

Guildenstern’s eyes narrowed. “You play a dangerous game, I must say.”

Lucianus leaned back in his chair, his smile widening. “Life is a dangerous game, Guildenstern. But don’t mistake me for your enemy. I seek only to understand.”

“Understand what?” Rosencrantz asked, his voice laced with mockery. “What could you possibly hope to gain from skulking about like a thief in the night?”

“Your bond,” He replied simply, the words hanging in the air like a challenge.

Rosencrantz’s grin faltered again, his attention flicking to Guildenstern. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with unspoken words.

Guildenstern was the first to recover, his expression hardening as he leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “If you value your position, Lucianus, you will forget what you think you’ve seen.”

He met his eyes without flinching. “What I’ve seen,” he said, his voice low and steady, “is something extraordinary. Something that transcends the petty machinations of this court.”

Guildenstern’s jaw tightened, but Rosencrantz’s lips twitched, as though suppressing a laugh.

“You flatter us,” Rosencrantz said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But don’t mistake your fascination for permission. You may be the King’s Player, but even you have limits.”

Lucianus rose slowly from his seat, his movements deliberate. He leaned over the table with careful intent.

“Limits,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “are for those without imagination.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The air between them crackled with tension, each man’s looks locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then Rosencrantz laughed—a sharp, abrupt sound that broke the spell. He straightened, his grin returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that,” he said. “But take care, Lucianus. Even bold men can find themselves in over their heads.”

Guildenstern said nothing, but he lingered on him for a long moment before he turned and walked away, Rosencrantz following close behind.

He watched them go, his heart still pounding. The confrontation had left him exhilarated, his mind racing with possibilities. They knew he’d been watching. They’d confronted him, challenged him. And yet, they hadn’t pushed him away.

If anything, they’d drawn him closer.

He smiled to himself, his fingers brushing the frayed edge of his coat where the fabric had been torn.

The game was far from over.

He remained in the Great Hall long after Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had left. His goblet sat untouched before him, its contents now little more than dregs. Unable to stay in the room any longer, he left, and went back to where The Players resided. His troupe was out celebrating, so he had it perfectly to himself. The thrill of the confrontation still coursed through his veins, but it wasn’t enough. The questions, the hunger, it gnawed at him, insatiable.

He needed to understand them, to feel what they felt, to glimpse the world as they did.

The sound of footsteps broke his reverie. He turned his head lazily to see Alfred hovering near the doorway, his small frame dwarfed by the imposing arches. That was right. The man did not drink. He had no need to participate with the others. A plan began to formulate in the depths of his mind.

“Alfred,” Lucianus called, his voice smooth, inviting.

The actor flinched slightly at being addressed, but he approached nonetheless, his gaze flickering with a mixture of caution and hope. “My lord?”

Lucianus gestured to the chair beside him. “Sit.”

Alfred hesitated, but the command in the other’s tone was unmistakable. He took the seat, his hands folding nervously in his lap.

“You’ve been very loyal to me,” He began, his voice soft but deliberate. “Always at my side, always eager to please. It doesn’t go unnoticed, you know.”

Alfred’s cheeks flushed. “I only wish to serve, my lord. It is my honor.”

Lucianus tilted his head, studying him. The boy’s sincerity was almost pitiful in its transparency, yet there was something endearing about his devotion… A pliability that Lucianus could not ignore.

He reached out, placing a hand on Alfred’s knee. He stiffened, his eyes widening in pleasant surprise, but he didn’t pull away.

“Do you trust me, Alfred?” Lucianus asked, his voice dropping like deep bourbon.

“Yes, my lord,” He replied, though there was a tremor in his voice.

Lucianus leaned closer, his gaze piercing. “Good. Because I need your help with something.”

Alfred swallowed hard. “Anything, my lord.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Lucianus’s lips. “I want to try something. A… performance, of sorts. But it requires your full commitment. Do you think you can manage that?”

He nodded, though the apprehension in his eyes was clear. “Of course, my lord. Whatever you require.”

Lucianus’s hand slid upward, his grip tightening slightly. “I want you to call me something different. Just for tonight.”

Alfred blinked, confused. “What do you mean, my lord?”

Lucianus’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Call me, let's see…Guildenstern.”

His face twisted, and he pulled back slightly, his expression torn between disbelief and unease. “Guildenstern? But why—?”

“Shh.” Lucianus pressed a finger to Alfred’s lips, silencing him. His touch lingered, his gaze unrelenting. “No questions. Just trust me.”

Alfred hesitated, his brow furrowing as he searched The Player’s face. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely audible. “As you wish… Guildenstern.”

The sound of the name sent a shiver down his spine. He exhaled slowly, his hand moving to cup Alfred’s cheek. “Good. Very good.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing Alfred’s in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. Alfred’s initial reluctance melted away under Lucianus’s insistence. The young man moved with practiced ease, as though the man kissing him were like any other client. It was all he really knew how to do.

Lucianus closed his eyes, his mind filling with images of Guildenstern—the real Guildenstern. The tilt of his head, the sharpness of his gaze, the way his voice lingered on certain words. Lucianus tried to summon it all, to inhabit the space Guildenstern occupied in his mind.

“Say it again,” Lucianus murmured against Alfred’s lips.

“Guildenstern,” Alfred whispered, his voice nothing more than a grunt.

Lucianus grinned against the other’s lips. He kissed Alfred again, more forcefully this time, his mind blurring the line between reality and fantasy.

The candlelight flickered, casting long, twisting shadows across the walls. Detailing their shadows as they left to The Player’s chambers.

Chapter Text

Lucianus stood by the window of his chambers, the shutters cracked just enough to allow him a view of the courtyard below. He was half-dressed, his shirt hanging open and loose around his shoulders, his bare feet cold against the flagstone floor. The chill didn’t bother him. His attention was fixed on the figures moving below.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

They stood near the fountain, their heads bent close together, speaking in low tones that he could not hear. Rosencrantz gestured animatedly, his unbreakable grin flashing in the dull light, while Guildenstern listened, his expression unreadable.

Lucianus’s lips curled into a faint smile. Even from this distance, their bond was palpable… An unspoken rhythm in the way they moved, the way they leaned toward each other as though drawn by some invisible force.

It was intoxicating.

Behind him, the bed creaked softly.

Alfred stirred, his movements sluggish, the weight of sleep still clinging to him. He didn’t turn, his gaze remaining fixed on the scene outside. He heard the rustle of blankets, the hesitant shuffle of feet against the floor.

“My lord?” His voice was small, hesitant.

He didn’t respond immediately. He watched as Rosencrantz clapped a hand on Guildenstern’s shoulder, drawing a rare, fleeting smile from the brooding man. The sight sent a pang through his chest—whether of envy or fascination, he couldn’t say.

“My lord,” Alfred tried again, his voice closer now.

The Player finally turned, his expression unreadable. The lad stood a few feet away, still wrapped in the linen sheet from the bed. His hair was tousled, his face pale and uncertain. There was something almost childlike in the way he clutched the fabric to his chest, as though seeking protection.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked, his tone detached.

Alfred hesitated, his eyes searching his face for some trace of warmth, some sign of affection. Finding none, he nodded. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

His gaze drifted back to the window. “Good.”

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the castle waking. The actor shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tightening on the sheet.

“My lord,” he said softly, “was last night… was it—”

“Last night was nothing,” Lucianus interrupted, his voice cool and dismissive.

He flinched as though struck– just like the night before– his face crumpling briefly before he masked it with a tight, forced smile. “Of course, my lord. I understand.”

He glanced at him, his eyes narrowing. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, though his voice betrayed him. “I only meant… I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” he said, his tone cutting. “Do not mistake my indulgence for something it is not. You were… useful to me, nothing more.”

Alfred’s mouth opened, then closed again, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the words. He looked down, his grip on the sheet loosening. “I see.”

The older man returned his attention to the window. Below, Rosencrantz had thrown his arm around Guildenstern’s shoulders, pulling him closer as they walked toward the castle gates. The sight filled him with a strange, hollow ache, though he would never have admitted it aloud.

He stood in silence for a long moment, his presence almost forgotten by the other. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “You care for them, don’t you?”

He stiffened, but he didn’t turn.

“They’re all you think about,” The younger one continued, his voice trembling. “All you talk about. Even now, you’re watching them. You…” He trailed off, his courage faltering.

He turned slowly, his expression dark. “Do you presume to lecture me, Alfred?”

“No, my lord,” he said quickly, his face flushing. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Then don’t.”

The finality in his tone silenced Alfred, who nodded meekly and took a step back.

Lucianus exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The young man’s naivety grated on him, but he couldn’t entirely fault him. After all, Alfred didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

How could anyone comprehend the pull Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had on him? How could anyone understand the way they occupied his thoughts, his dreams, his very being?

He turned back to the window, but the courtyard was empty now. They were gone, swallowed by the castle’s labyrinthine halls.

“My lord,” The other said softly, his voice carrying a faint note of desperation, “if there’s anything I can do—anything at all—please tell me.”

He didn’t look at him. “There isn’t.”

Alfred lingered for a moment longer, his shoulders slumping further before he finally turned and left the room, the sheet trailing behind him like a shroud.

When the door clicked shut, he sighed, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the cold glass of the window. The ache in his chest remained, heavy and unrelenting.

He whispered their names to the empty room, the sound of them lingering like a prayer.

“Rosencrantz. Guildenstern.”

Rosencrantz. Guildenstern.

Their names had become a kind of invocation, a mantra that echoed ceaselessly in his thoughts. He whispered them now, tasting each syllable on his tongue, letting the sound coil in his chest like smoke.

What was it about them that consumed him so completely?

He closed his eyes, his fingers curling into the rough stone of the window ledge. Images flooded his mind, vivid and feverish. He saw them as they had been the night before, their bodies entwined beneath the furs, their movements intimate and unguarded. He imagined the heat of their skin, the soft exhalations of breath shared in the dark, the unspoken promises whispered against bare flesh.

His pulse quickened, his breathing shallow.

He wanted to touch them, to tear down the invisible barrier that separated him from their world. But it wasn’t just desire that burned within him—it was something deeper, something darker. He wanted to possess them, to unravel them piece by piece until there was nothing left of their secrets to hide.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Rosencrantz first. The whiskey-haired scholar, with his sharp grin and eyes that glinted with mischief. Lucianus imagined grabbing him by the collar, dragging him close, forcing him to laugh that insolent laugh in his face. He wanted to crush the laughter, to see what lay beneath the mask of charm and frivolity.

And Guildenstern. The shadow to Rosencrantz’s light. There was a stillness to him, a quiet intensity that unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He imagined Guildenstern’s gaze fixed on him, unblinking and unwavering, like a blade poised to strike. Lucianus wanted to break that composure, to see him undone, trembling and vulnerable.

But it wasn’t enough to imagine. No, imagination was a hollow substitute for the reality he craved. He wanted to watch them in their most private moments, to see the way they unraveled when they thought no one was looking. He wanted to hear the sounds they made when words were abandoned, when all that remained was instinct and need.

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging the surface. A sick, hollow ache twisted in his chest, clawing at his ribs.

Was this obsession? Madness? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.

He thought of their closeness, their bond, the way they moved together as if drawn by some unspoken force. It wasn’t natural. It defied reason, defied explanation. It was almost… otherworldly.

What if he could split them apart, force them to reveal their secrets to him alone? What if he could possess one, claim him for himself, and leave the other hollow and wanting?

He shuddered at the thought, his fingers tightening against the window ledge.

No. That wasn’t enough. He didn’t want just one. He wanted them both—together. Their closeness, their intimacy, their inexplicable bond. He wanted to insert himself into the center of it, to feel their heat and their breath and their skin. He wanted to become a part of them, to be drawn into their rhythm until the lines between them blurred, until he no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

The thought was depraved, grotesque, and yet it thrilled him.

A faint sound in the courtyard below drew his attention, pulling him from the maelstrom of his thoughts. He peered through the crack in the shutters, his heart leaping as he saw them again.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern stood by the gates now, speaking with a guard. Rosencrantz gestured animatedly, his hands moving in wide arcs, while the blond stood close, his head inclined toward him.

Lucianus’s chest tightened as he watched them. Even in the small, mundane movements of their conversation, they exuded that same maddening closeness, that same impossible harmony that had ensnared him from the beginning.

He wanted to go to them, to step into the courtyard and confront them again, to challenge their bond with his presence. But he knew they would see through him. They always did.

Instead, he remained at the window, his eyes fixed on them as though they might vanish if he looked away. His thoughts churned, dark and feverish, spiraling ever deeper into the void.

And beneath it all, a single, terrible certainty began to take shape:

He would not stop.

Whatever it took, whatever lines he had to cross, he would uncover the truth of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. He would unravel their secrets, expose their bond, and claim his place within it.

Even if it destroyed him.

Chapter Text

He had been watching them for the better part of an hour.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern sat near the far wall, their chairs angled toward one another, their heads bent close in conversation. Rosencrantz lounged with his characteristic ease, one leg draped lazily over the other, his hands gesturing in tandem as he spoke. Guildenstern sat more rigidly, his posture tense, his fingers drumming faintly against the arm of his chair.

Lucianus noted the tension between them. It wasn’t the usual rhythm he had come to expect, the subtle push and pull of their unspoken bond. No, this was different—sharper, more fragile, as though something unseen had upset the delicate balance they shared. Perhaps they could feel his unbreaking stare.

It was the perfect moment to insert himself.

He approached with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his presence calculated to appear casual. He reached their table just as Rosencrantz laughed at something Guildenstern had said, the sound sharp and fleeting.

“My dear Rosencrantz, Guildenstern,” Lucianus said smoothly, his voice cutting through their conversation. “How fortunate I am to find you here.”

Rosencrantz’s grin faltered, his eyes widening slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “The Player. What a… surprise.” The brunette glanced briefly, yet somehow intensely at his partner.

Guildenstern didn’t speak, his dull eyes fixed on Lucianus with a guarded intensity.

Lucianus slid into the empty chair beside Rosencrantz, uninvited but undeterred. “I couldn’t help but notice the two of you, as inseparable as ever. Truly, it’s inspiring to see such… devotion.”

Rosencrantz’s smile returned, sharper now, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “Devotion, is it? I didn’t realize we were being observed so closely.” Another passing glance to Guildenstern.

He chuckled, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, you underestimate yourselves. You command attention wherever you go, whether you intend to or not.”

Guildenstern shifted in his seat, his fingers stilling against the arm of the chair. “Attention can be a dangerous thing,” he said quietly, his cool disposition unwavering.

The Player met his eyes, holding the stare longer than was comfortable. “Danger,” he said softly, “has always held a certain… allure for me.”

The tension at the table was palpable now. Rosencrantz’s grin had grown brittle, and Guildenstern’s posture had turned defensive, his shoulders squared as though bracing for an attack- be it physical or otherwise.

Lucianus pressed on, undeterred. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, his tone light but deliberate, “that the three of us might benefit from spending more time together. After all, we share the same stage, do we not? Why not collaborate more closely, as true partners?”

Rosencrantz laughed, the sound forced and hollow. “Partners, you say? That’s a… novel idea.”

Guildenstern’s tone didn’t waver. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

He smiled, spreading his hands in a gesture of feigned innocence. “Only that we might explore the depths of our craft together. You have a bond that fascinates me, one that I believe holds great potential for… inspiration. I’d like to be a part of it.”

Rosencrantz clears his throat, his grin faltering further. “That’s… flattering, Lucianus. Truly. But our bond is, shall we say, a delicate thing. We’ve always found it works best with two.”

“Two,” Lucianus repeated, his smile tightening. “How limiting.”

Guildenstern gave a malicious smirk. “It’s not a matter of limitation. It’s a matter of trust.”

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall.

Lucianus leaned back in his chair, his smile fading as irritation flared in his chest. “Trust,” he said, his tone edged. “Do you mean to suggest that I am unworthy of it?”

Rosencrantz’s eyes flicked to Guildenstern again, his brows upturning uncomfortably. “It’s not about worth, my dear Player. It’s about… balance. And balance is a fragile thing.”

The Player's fingers drummed against the edge of the table, his gaze darting between them. Their apprehension was clear now, their defenses raised. He had expected some resistance, but the wall they presented was firmer than he had anticipated, and it rankled him.

“Balance,” he said, his voice low. “How curious. Tell me, how do you define balance in a world so riddled with chaos?”

Guildenstern’s voice broke into something much more blunt. “Perhaps it’s not something that can be defined. Perhaps it’s simply something you feel. And perhaps,” he added pointedly, “it’s something that cannot be shared.”

The words struck like a slap, their meaning clear.

Lucianus’s smile returned, colder now. “Ah, I see. I had hoped for a more generous spirit from the two of you, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Rosencrantz’s grin flickered, a faint shadow of guilt crossing his face. “Generosity isn’t the issue, Lucianus. Some things simply… aren’t meant to be shared.”

Lucianus rose slowly, his movements deliberate. He smoothed the front of his coat, his expression carefully neutral. “I see,” he said again, his voice soft but laced with venom. “Well, I wouldn’t dream of intruding where I’m not wanted.”

Guildenstern’s gaze followed him, unflinching. “That’s wise.”

Rosencrantz forced a laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh of relief. “No hard feelings, of course. We value your… interest. Truly.”

He smiled thinly, inclining his head. “Of course.”

He turned and walked away, his steps slow and measured. The tension in his chest burned like a live coal, the sting of rejection twisting into something darker.

As he reached the edge of the hall, he glanced back over his shoulder. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were speaking again, their heads bent close, their voices low. Their bond was unbroken, their defenses firmly in place. Likely even stronger now that he had tried to shove in.

His fingers curled into a fist at his side.

This wasn’t over.

.

.

.

The conversation with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern replayed in his head, each word sharper and more humiliating with every repetition. Their dismissal, their carefully guarded distance—it festered like a wound.

But even as the sting of their rejection burned in his chest, his mind churned with possibilities. If they would not allow him into their world willingly, then he would find another way.

He turned a corner sharply, the faint shuffle of footsteps catching his attention.

Alfred.

The young man lingered at the far end of the corridor, his shoulders hunched and his face pale in the dim light. He was carrying a bundle of props from the troupe’s last performance, his thin frame sagging under the weight.

Lucianus slowed his steps, his lips curling into a smile that was equal parts charm and calculation. Alfred was pliable, eager to please—an instrument waiting to be played.

“Alfred,” he called, his voice smooth and inviting.

The actor turned quickly, nearly dropping the bundle in his arms. “My lord!” he stammered, his face lighting up with a mix of surprise and relief.

He approached, his steps slow and deliberate. “You’re looking rather burdened,” he said, gesturing to the props. “Let me help you.”

Alfred’s eyes widened, and he shook his head quickly. “No, my lord! I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, reaching out to lift a small piece from the pile. He examined it briefly—a large folded sheet—before tucking it under his arm with a smile. “There. A small act of kindness, but one I hope you’ll remember.”

Alfred nodded quickly, his cheeks flushing. “Thank you, my lord. You’re too kind.”

Lucianus chuckled softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Kindness is a currency, Alfred. It must be spent wisely. But tell me—are you happy in my service?”

The boy blinked, startled by the question. “Of course, my lord. I—”

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to command attention. “I mean it, darling. Do you feel valued? Important?”

Alfred hesitated, his gaze darting to the floor. Darling? “I… I do my best to be useful, my lord. I only want to serve you well.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ve been more than useful. You’ve been loyal. Dependable. I see that, even if others do not.”

Alfred’s face brightened, the faintest flicker of pride breaking through his nervousness. “Thank you, my lord. That means so much to me.”

He smiled, his hand sliding from the other’s shoulder. “Good. Because I have a task for you. Can I trust you with it?”

The young man straightened, his grip on the bundle tightening. “Of course, my lord. Anything you need.”

Lucianus stepped closer, his expression serious. “I need you to deliver a message. A private message.”

“A message?” He asked, his brow furrowing.

“Yes,” He said, his tone deliberate. “To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Tell them I wish to meet them tonight, in the old chamber by the west tower. Tell them it’s… a matter of importance.”

His face clouded with uncertainty. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? But, my lord, they—”

Lucianus’s hand cupped his cheek, stroking tenderly. “I understand your hesitation, Alfred. They can be… aloof, yes. But I believe they’ll come if the message is delivered properly. Speak to them with conviction. Let them know this meeting is not optional.”

Alfred hesitated, his gaze flickering between Lucianus and the floor. “What should I tell them it’s about?”

His smile returned, cold and calculating. “Leave that to me. Just tell them the Player requires their presence. Tonight. West tower. No further explanation.”

The inferior shifted uneasily, his fingers tightening around the bundle in his arms. “I’ll do my best, my lord. But… what if they refuse?”

“They won’t,” Lucianus said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Alfred nodded reluctantly. “Very well, my lord. I’ll deliver the message.”

His smile widened. “I knew I could count on you, Alfred. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded.”

Alfred’s face flushed again, and he nodded quickly before hurrying away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance.

Lucianus watched him go, his smile fading into a look of quiet satisfaction.

The trap was set.

Chapter Text

The hour grew late, the west tower chamber sinking into a quiet stillness broken only by the occasional groan of ancient wood and the soft drip of water from the cracked stone walls. Lucianus sat at the small table in the room, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the uneven surface. The single candle burned low, its weak light casting shadows that danced across his face.

Alfred was tardy.

Lucianus’s irritation simmered beneath the surface, his mind conjuring a dozen possibilities for the delay. Had the boy bungled the message? Had he hesitated, his pathetic nerves betraying him? Or worse—had Rosencrantz and Guildenstern ignored him entirely?

When the sound of hesitant footsteps echoed down the corridor, Lucianus straightened in his chair. The door creaked open slowly, and Alfred stepped into the room, his head bowed, his hands twisting nervously at the hem of his tunic.

“My lord,” he began softly, his voice trembling.

The Player leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Well? What news?”

Alfred hesitated, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. “They… They wouldn’t come.”

The words hung in the air like a curse, and he felt his jaw tighten. “What do you mean, ‘they wouldn’t come’?”

“They… they knew it was me,” The young man stammered, his hands twisting more frantically now. “They said they didn’t trust me. They said—” He swallowed hard, his voice faltering. “They said they knew I was your errand boy, and they wouldn’t be lured into some… trap.”

His hand slammed against the table, the sharp crack echoing through the chamber. Alfred flinched, his shoulders hunching as though bracing for a blow.

“A trap?” He repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “Is that what they think of me?”

Alfred nodded mutely, his eyes glistening with unshed, petrified tears. “I tried, my lord. I really did. But they wouldn’t listen. They… they said they wouldn’t trust anyone who came on your behalf.”

He rose from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate. The air in the room seemed to grow colder as he approached Alfred, his expression a mask of controlled fury.

“You failed me,” he said quietly, his voice like the edge of a blade.

Alfred shook his head quickly, his voice breaking as he pleaded. “I did everything you asked, my lord! I swear it! They wouldn’t listen—”

Lucianus’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close. The other gasped, his eyes wide with fear as his grip tightened.

“You pathetic little wretch,” He hissed, his face inches from the other’s. “You couldn’t even deliver a simple message. And now you stand here sniveling, making excuses?”

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” He snarled, shaking him slightly. “You’ve embarrassed me. You’ve made me look weak in their eyes.”

He whimpered, his hands clutching at the older one’s wrist as he struggled to pull away. “Please, my lord. I… I didn’t mean to—”

The Player shoved him backward, and Alfred stumbled, falling to the ground with a soft cry. He sat there, trembling, his hands pressed to the cold stone floor as he looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

For a moment, he stood over him, his chest heaving with anger. But then, as quickly as the storm had come, it passed. His expression softened, his breathing slowed, and he took a step back.

“Alfred,” he said gently, his tone now calm and measured. “Come here.”

The boy hesitated, his body trembling as he wiped at his face. “I… I don’t—”

“Come here,” Lucianus repeated, his voice soft but commanding.

Alfred rose slowly, his movements hesitant. When he was close enough, Lucianus knelt slightly, placing his hands on Alfred’s shoulders. The boy flinched at the touch, but Lucianus’s grip was steady and firm, not harsh.

“I’m sorry,” Lucianus said, his voice low and soothing. “I shouldn’t have let my anger get the better of me. You didn’t deserve that.”

Alfred blinked, his confusion evident. “My lord, I—”

“You’ve been nothing but loyal to me,” Lucianus continued, his gaze meeting Alfred’s. “I let my frustration blind me to that. You didn’t fail me, Alfred. They failed us both.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed, his lips trembling as he tried to process the sudden shift in tone. “But… they said—”

“They said what cowards always say,” Lucianus interrupted gently. “They’re afraid of what they don’t understand. They’re afraid of us, Alfred. Of what we can accomplish together.”

Alfred’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the tension in his expression didn’t fully fade. “You… you think so, my lord?”

“I know so,” Lucianus said firmly, his hands sliding from Alfred’s shoulders to grip his arms reassuringly. “We’re a team, Alfred. And I need you by my side. Don’t let their words shake your faith in that.”

Alfred’s eyes flickered, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something, but then closing again. He looked down, his brows knit tightly together, and for a long, quiet moment, he didn’t move.

He tilted his head slightly, his grip tightening ever so faintly. “What is it?”

The young man hesitated, then stepped back, gently shrugging out of his hold. His movements were slow, deliberate, and uncharacteristically resolute. He stood a little straighter now, his hands no longer trembling as they hung at his sides.

“My lord,” He began, his voice soft but steady, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I’ve followed you, trusted you, even when others said I shouldn’t. But…” His voice wavered slightly before he took a breath and steadied himself. “I need to know what I am to you. What I mean to you.”

Lucianus’s smile froze, and for a moment, his carefully constructed composure wavered. “What you are to me?”

“Yes,” Alfred said, his gaze lifting to meet The Player’s eyes. “You say you need me, that you trust me, but…” He swallowed hard, his expression pained. “I’m always chasing after you, trying to be enough. And I don’t know if I’ll ever get there. I don’t know if I’m just another tool to you—someone you use when it suits you—or if…”

He trailed off, but the weight of his words hung heavily in the air.

Lucianus felt his pulse quicken, irritation flaring briefly in his chest. The boy’s sudden show of backbone was unexpected, and for a fleeting moment, he considered crushing it beneath his heel. But then he saw the raw, desperate hope in Alfred’s eyes, and something inside him shifted.

“I…” He began, his voice faltering. He cursed himself for the hesitation, for allowing the boy’s words to unnerve him. He needed to take control, to defuse the situation before it slipped further from his grasp.

But then he spoke again, his voice breaking slightly. “If I’m going to keep doing this, if I’m going to stay by your side, I need to know that I matter to you. Not just as your errand boy, or someone to do your dirty work, but… as a person.”

Lucianus’s mouth opened, then closed again. He felt a sharp pang of frustration, directed as much at himself as at Alfred. The boy’s words had cornered him, forced him into a position he hadn’t anticipated, and now he was scrambling for a way out.

Without thinking, the words spilled from his mouth.

“I love you.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Alfred froze, his eyes wide, his face a mixture of shock and something else—something softer, more fragile. “You… you love me?”

Lucianus cursed himself silently, the weight of the impulsive lie sinking into his chest like a stone. He had said it without meaning to, a desperate attempt to regain control, to placate the boy and keep him tethered. But now the words were out, and he couldn’t take them back.

“Yes,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost tentative. “I love you, Alfred. You mean more to me than you know.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced himself to meet Alfred’s gaze, his expression carefully crafted to convey sincerity.

Alfred’s face crumpled, his shoulders sagging as relief and emotion washed over him. “My lord,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I… I didn’t know. I didn’t think—”

“Shh,” He interrupted gently, stepping closer and placing a hand on Alfred’s cheek. The boy leaned into the touch, his eyes closing briefly as tears slid down his face.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt,” he said, the lie flowing easily now. “You’ve always been more than enough, Alfred. You’ve been my strength, my confidant. I couldn’t do this without you.”

Alfred let out a shaky breath, his hands lifting hesitantly to rest against his chest. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I… I’ll do better. I promise.”

He smiled faintly, his hand sliding from Alfred’s cheek to rest on his shoulder. “You’ve already done more than I could ever ask. Just stay by my side. That’s all I need.”

Alfred nodded, his expression softening as he looked up at him with something that bordered on reverence.

He held the man’s gaze for a moment longer before stepping back, his smile fading as he turned toward the table. His hands gripped the edge tightly, his knuckles white as the weight of what he had said settled over him.

“Fool,” he thought bitterly, his mind racing with self-recrimination. He had allowed the boy to corner him, to draw a reaction from him that he couldn’t afford to give. And now Alfred would cling to those words, believe in them, hold them close like a talisman.

But perhaps, he mused darkly, that wasn’t such a terrible thing.

If Alfred believed he was loved, he would remain loyal. He would do as he was told, without question, without hesitation. And he could use that devotion, twist it to suit his needs.

He forced a smile as he turned back to Alfred, who was still watching him with a look of quiet awe. “Go get some rest,” he said softly. “We have much to do tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Alfred said, his voice steady now. He hesitated briefly, then stepped forward and placed a hand over his own, squeezing lightly. “Thank you. For everything.”

Lucianus nodded, his expression carefully composed. “Good night, Alfred.”

Alfred left the room, his steps lighter now, his posture straighter.

When the door clicked shut, he let out a slow breath, his smile fading into a grimace.

“I love you,” he muttered under his breath, the words dripping with disdain. “What a fool I’ve made myself.”

Chapter Text

The fire in the hearth had burned low during the night, leaving only embers that crackled softly in the stillness. Lucianus shifted beneath the heavy furs, his eyes cracking open reluctantly. He had slept poorly, his mind had been restless with half-formed thoughts and plans. The events of the previous evening weighed on him heavily, though not for the reasons Alfred might have imagined.

Alfred.

He became acutely aware of the boy's presence before he even turned his head. A warm, lithe body pressed against his side, an arm draped possessively over his chest. Alfred lay curled against him, his face resting on his shoulder, his breath soft and even.

He resisted the urge to sigh.

“Good morning,” The young man murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He nestled closer, his fingers lightly tracing patterns across his collarbone.

“Morning,” Lucianus replied curtly, his voice devoid of warmth.

Alfred smiled, his eyes fluttering open to meet The Player’s gaze. “You slept so soundly,” he said, his tone affectionate, almost playful. “It’s strange seeing you like that. Usually, you’re so… tense.”

He forced a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “A rare indulgence, I suppose.”

The actor’s hand slid up to pet his sleep-mussed hair, his touch gentle but insistent. “You’re different this morning,” he said softly. “Not so distant.”

He stiffened, his muscles tensing beneath the other’s touch. “Am I?”

Alfred nodded, his smile widening. “You are. And it’s nice, Lucianus.”

The use of his name, spoken so casually, grated on him more than he cared to admit. He had grown used to hearing “my lord” from Alfred’s lips—words that carried the weight of deference, of subservience. But now, there was a familiarity in the boy’s tone, an intimacy that Lucianus found… unwelcome.

He didn’t correct him. That wouldn’t be useful yet.

Instead, he carefully disentangled himself from Alfred’s grasp, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The cool air bit at his skin, but he welcomed the sensation. It was much better than the… cuddling.

Alfred sat up as well, the furs pooling around his bared waist. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“Nothing,” He said smoothly, reaching for the discarded tunic draped over a nearby chair. “There’s much to be done today.”

The other tilted his head, his expression softening. “Always so serious,” he teased, leaning forward to rest his chin on The Player’s shoulder. “Maybe you need another day to yourself. We could stay here, just the two of us.”

Lucianus stiffened at the suggestion, his jaw tightening. He turned his head slightly, offering him a tight smile. “Tempting as that sounds, duty calls. The prince expects another performance.”

Alfred sighed, a faint pout forming on his lips. “You work too hard.”

He ignored the comment, pulling his tunic over his head and smoothing the fabric. He rose from the bed, his movements precise and deliberate, and crossed the room to retrieve his belt and dagger.

As he fastened the buckle, an idea began to form in his mind.

“Alfred,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “I need your help with something.”

The young man perked up, his eyes brightening. “Of course. Anything.”

He turned to face him, his expression calm but serious. “I need you to watch Rosencrantz and Guildenstern for me.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed. “Watch them? Why?”

He approached him slowly, placing a hand on his shoulder and lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Because they’ve been avoiding me. Dodging my attempts to bring them into… the troupe. I suspect they’re hiding something—something important. But I can’t investigate while I’m tied up with preparations for the prince’s play.”

Alfred frowned, his gaze searching the older man’s face. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing drastic,” Lucianus said smoothly. “Just keep an eye on them. See where they go, who they speak to. Listen for anything unusual.”

Alfred hesitated, his uncertainty evident. “But… They don’t trust me. They made that clear yesterday.”

The Player’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder, his expression softening into something that resembled affection. “That’s why you must be subtle. Don’t approach them directly. Just observe. You’re clever, Alfred. I know you can do this.”

The boy’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and he nodded slowly. “If it’s important to you, I’ll do it.”

“It is,” He said firmly. “More than you know.”

Alfred leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to his stubbled cheek. “I won’t let you down,” he said softly.

Lucianus forced a smile, patting his shoulder. “I know you won’t.”

As Alfred began dressing, he turned away, his expression hardening.

The man was useful—more useful than he realized—but his growing affection was at some point going to become a liability. He could feel it creeping into their interactions, shifting the dynamic in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Still, he could use it for now. If his devotion made him more pliable, more willing to do what was necessary, then Lucianus would tolerate the boy’s affections.

For a while.

Alfred left the room shortly after, his steps light with purpose.

The Player lingered by the window, watching as the boy disappeared into the castle’s dimly lit halls.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern might have spurred him, but Lucianus was nothing if not patient. He would find the cracks in their carefully guarded walls.

And when he did, he would own them.

.

.

.

The backstage area of the Great Hall thrummed with quiet energy. The first act of the evening’s performance had gone off without a hitch, and the troupe was buzzing with the satisfaction of a job well done. Costumes were adjusted, lines were whispered under breaths, and props were hurriedly rearranged in preparation for the second act.

Lucianus stood at the center of it all, his posture relaxed, a faint smile playing on his lips. He moved among his players with ease, exchanging quiet jokes and bits of praise, his voice smooth and pleasant.

“Brilliant timing on that entrance,” he said to one of the younger actors, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You had the audience in the palm of your hand.”

The boy beamed at the compliment, his nervous energy melting into pride.

Nearby, one of the stagehands gestured toward him with a crooked grin. “You’ll spoil them, Player, talking like that. Next thing you know, they’ll think they’re better than you.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Impossible. There’s no one better than me.”

The others laughed, their good humor filling the small space. He basked in the moment, his sharp mind briefly distracted from the storm of obsession and plans that usually consumed him.

Then the door creaked open. Alfred slipped into the room, his presence timid but unmistakable. He scanned the bustling crowd for a moment before his eyes landed on him, and his face lit up with a smile so wide it bordered on embarrassment.

“There you are, my darling!” The actor called, his voice carrying over the murmur of conversation.

The room fell silent.

The Player stiffened, his smile freezing on his lips as every eye turned toward him. He saw the expressions of his troupe—most amused, some puzzled, a few openly staring. His composure wavered for the briefest moment before he recovered, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his so-called “lover” with a sharp look.

“Alfred,” he said evenly, his voice cool. “A word. Outside.”

His smile faltered, confusion flickering across his face. “But I—”

“Now,” Lucianus interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The boy’s face reddened in shame as he nodded quickly, stepping back through the door and into the corridor. He followed, his steps measured, his expression carefully controlled as it always tended to be.

The moment the door shut behind them, he turned to the other, his voice low but firm. “What in God’s name was that?”

Alfred blinked, his brow furrowing. “I… I don’t understand.”

“That,” He hissed, gesturing toward the now-closed door, “was completely unacceptable.”

His face crumpled with hurt. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just… happy to see you.”

The Player exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how that looked? What they’re thinking now?”

The young man hesitated, then shook his head. “Does it matter? So what if they know?”

His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “It matters because we don’t live in a world that would accept it. Do you understand that? If this were to get out…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “You could be ruined. We both could.”

He stared at him, his lips trembling. “I didn’t think of that.”

“No,” Lucianus said sharply. “You didn’t. And next time, I expect you to think before you speak.”

Alfred nodded, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed, his tone softening slightly. “Just… be more careful, Alfred. For both our sakes.”

Alfred nodded again, his voice barely audible. “I will.”

He stepped back, letting the tension in his posture ease. “Good. Now, what did you learn?”

The boy straightened slightly, his earlier discomfort fading as he focused on the task at hand. “I saw them,” he said, his voice low. “In the royal gardens. They were… together.”

-

The royal gardens had been quiet in the early evening, the only sounds the faint rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of water from the stone fountain at its heart. Alfred moved carefully through the winding paths, keeping to the shadows cast by the tall hedges. The air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of earth and greenery, and he felt a chill settle into his bones as he crept deeper into the maze of foliage.

He hadn’t expected to find anything at first. The Player’s instructions had seemed vague, like a shot in the dark, and Alfred had half-convinced himself that this was just another errand doomed to failure. But then he had heard voices—low, indistinct murmurs that carried faintly on the breeze.

He froze, his heart quickening.

Following the sound, he had pressed himself against the thick hedge, careful not to disturb the leaves as he peered through a narrow gap. Beyond the hedge, a secluded corner of the garden opened up, dimly lit by the dying light of dusk. And there they were.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

They stood close together, their figures half-shrouded in shadow, the tension between them almost palpable. Rosencrantz was speaking, his voice too low for Alfred to catch the words, but his expression was sharp and animated, his blue eyes catching what little light remained. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing in broad arcs that seemed to underline whatever point he was making.

Guildenstern stood silent, his arms crossed over his chest, his face partially turned away. There was something unreadable in his posture—a quiet intensity that Alfred couldn’t quite place. But then Rosencrantz stepped closer, his voice softening, and the air between them shifted.

Alfred felt his breath catch as Rosencrantz reached out, his hand brushing Guildenstern’s arm. The movement was tentative at first, hesitant, but then Rosencrantz leaned in, closing the distance between them.

Guildenstern didn’t move, his expression remaining stoic, but Alfred saw the faintest flicker of something in his dark eyes—a crack in the carefully composed mask.

And then, Rosencrantz kissed him.

It was slow, deliberate, a motion that seemed both practiced and tender. Rosencrantz’s hand slid up to rest against Guildenstern’s cheek, and Alfred could see the way his fingers curled slightly, as if desperate to hold onto him.

For a moment, Guildenstern remained still, his body rigid beneath his friend’s(?) touch. But then he relented. His arms uncrossed, one hand moving to rest lightly against the scholar’s waist, and he leaned into the kiss, his movements cautious but unmistakably reciprocating.

Alfred’s face burned, his hands gripping the hedge tightly as he tried to remain as silent as possible. He felt like an intruder, a trespasser in a moment he was never meant to see.

The kiss deepened, Rosencrantz’s hand sliding to the back of Guildenstern’s neck as their bodies pressed closer. The space between them seemed to dissolve entirely, their movements slow and deliberate, as though time itself had bent to accommodate them.

It wasn’t just the kiss, Alfred realized. It was the way they moved together, the way they fit. There was something so natural, so intimate about it, as though they had done this a hundred times before and would do it a hundred times again.

And yet, there was something furtive about it, too—an edge of desperation, of urgency. The way Rosencrantz’s hands clung to Guildenstern, the way the blond’s head tilted slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck as the other’s lips brushed against it.

They knew they were hiding. They knew the danger.

But they didn’t stop.

Alfred tore his gaze away, his chest tight as he pressed himself harder against the hedge. He couldn’t bear to watch any longer, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave. His heart pounded in his ears, his breathing shallow, as he waited for the sound of their voices to resume.

It came after what felt like an eternity.

“I told you we shouldn’t do this here,” Guildenstern muttered, his voice low and tense.

“And yet here we are,” Rosencrantz replied, his tone light, though there was an edge of something unspoken beneath it.

Guildenstern sighed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Someone will see us.”

“They’ll see nothing,” Rosencrantz said, brushing a stray lock of hair from Guildenstern’s face. “And if they do, they’ll say nothing. Who here would dare?”

Guildenstern didn’t reply, but Alfred could feel the tension radiating from him even from his hiding place.

After another moment, Rosencrantz stepped back, his hand trailing down Guildenstern’s arm before falling away entirely. The two of them lingered there in silence, their breaths visible in the cool evening air, before finally turning and walking away, disappearing into the deeper shadows of the garden.

Alfred waited until the sound of their footsteps faded completely before slipping away himself, his heart still pounding in his chest.

-

Lucianus stared at Alfred, his fingers steepled under his chin as the boy finished recounting what he had seen. The royal gardens. Rosencrantz. Guildenstern. Together.

The words hung in the air like smoke, curling into Lucianus’s thoughts, filling his mind with vivid images. He could picture it all too clearly—Rosencrantz leaning into the shadowy Guildenstern, their forms entwined in secret. His pulse quickened at the thought, a thrill of envy, fascination, and triumph coursing through him.

So, they were exactly as he had suspected. Bound together by something deep, intimate, and utterly forbidden.

For a moment, he forgot Alfred was still standing there, fidgeting nervously, waiting for some acknowledgment. When Lucianus finally spoke, his voice was smooth, almost breathless.

“You did well, Alfred,” he said, leaning forward and placing a hand on the boy’s arm. “Very well.”

Alfred’s face lit up, the earlier tension melting from his features. “You’re pleased?”

“Pleased?” Lucianus repeated, his lips curling into a smile that bordered on giddy. “You’ve given me everything I needed. More than I expected, even.”

Alfred flushed at the praise, his chest puffing slightly. “I told you I wouldn’t let you down.”

“And you didn’t,” Lucianus said, his hand moving from Alfred’s arm to cup the boy’s cheek. “You were perfect. My clever, loyal Alfred.”

The boy’s eyes softened at the words, his lips parting slightly as he leaned into the touch. Lucianus watched the movement, his gaze steady, though inwardly he felt a faint flicker of disgust. The boy was so pliable, so eager for even the smallest scrap of affection. It made him useful, certainly, but there was something faintly appealing about the raw need that shone in his eyes.

Still, Lucianus didn’t let it show.

Instead, he leaned closer, his thumb brushing lightly against Alfred’s cheek. “You’ve made me very proud,” he said softly, his tone rich with false warmth.

Alfred beamed at the words, his hands moving to rest hesitantly against Lucianus’s sides. “I only wanted to help. To be… someone you can count on.”

“And you are,” Lucianus assured him, tilting his head slightly. “More than you know.”

Alfred’s face flushed deeper, and for a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something else. But Lucianus pulled away before the boy could speak, his smile lingering but his tone shifting to something brisker.

“Now, I must return to the play,” Lucianus said, rising from his seat and brushing off his coat. “The prince’s entertainment waits for no man.”

Alfred blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “Do you need anything else from me?”

Lucianus paused, considering. He glanced back at Alfred, his expression softening into something almost affectionate. “Not right now. You’ve done enough for today. Rest, Alfred. You’ve earned it.”

The boy hesitated, then nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Lucianus smiled faintly before turning and making his way to the door. He could feel Alfred’s eyes on him as he left the room, but he didn’t look back.

As he stepped into the bustling corridors of the castle, the giddiness that had filled him moments ago began to fade, replaced by a colder, sharper sense of purpose.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had revealed their secret, and now Lucianus had the upper hand.

But there was still more to do.

He strode back toward the backstage area, his mind already shifting to the task ahead. The play was merely a distraction, a mask to wear while he plotted his next move. But for now, he would wear it well.

Lucianus stepped into the crowded backstage area, his voice rising above the hum of activity as he began giving orders, his commanding presence drawing every eye.

The show must go on.

And behind the scenes, so would the game.

Chapter Text

He knew the way well now.

The door to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s chamber was closed but not locked. He had noted before that they did not bother with such precautions. Why should they? They were members of the court, favored and protected, unaccustomed to the idea that danger might lurk in the same corridors they so freely roamed.

Lucianus pushed the door open slowly, inch by inch, until the gap was wide enough for him to slip inside.

The candle on the bedside table had burned low, its flame flickering weakly. It cast just enough light to illuminate the two figures lying beneath the heavy furs. Rosencrantz slept sprawled on his back, his hair a mess against the pillow, his lips parted slightly. His arm had fallen loosely over Guildenstern’s waist, fingers curled in the fabric of his nightshirt, as though even in sleep he refused to let go. The ribbon usually carried to tie up his locks was draped across his eyes in some makeshift sleep mask.

The other lay on his side, facing his counterpart, his breath slow and measured, his expression unreadable even in slumber. There was something unnerving about his stillness—unlike Rosencrantz, who shifted occasionally, murmuring nonsense under his breath, Guildenstern barely moved at all.

He watched them for a long moment, his pulse steady, his mind quiet in a way it rarely was.

They were beautiful. Perfect in their symmetry, their closeness.

But perfection could be touched. Disturbed. Remade.

He stepped forward, his movements careful and precise. He kept his breathing shallow, his footsteps light.

His gaze roamed the room, picking out small details in the faint light. A pair of gloves rested on the table near the candle, the fine leather worn at the edges. A discarded doublet lay draped over the back of a chair, its embroidery faintly catching the glow. Beside the bed, a ring—small, plain, unremarkable—had been placed atop a book.

Lucianus reached for the gloves first, his fingers brushing the soft leather as he lifted them from their resting place. They were Rosencrantz’s—he had seen him wearing them before, idly spinning one between his fingers during court functions.

Next, he took the ring. He did not know which one of the men it belonged to, and the thought pleased him. Perhaps it was something they shared, something between them, and now it would be his.

He moved toward the chair, carefully gathering up the doublet. The fabric was smooth beneath his hands, still warm with the remnants of body heat. He held it to his nose for a moment, inhaling faintly.

A shift in the bed made him freeze. Rosencrantz stirred, his head turning slightly on the pillow, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Lucianus remained motionless, watching, waiting.

Guildenstern did not move.

Slowly, Rosencrantz settled again, his breathing evening out.

He allowed himself a satisfied smile before retreating, slipping out of the chamber as silently as he had entered.

.

.

.

The morning light was dull and grey when Alfred woke.

He stretched, yawning as he sat up in Lucianus’s bed, the sheets tangled around his legs. The space beside him was already empty—he had risen early, as he often did, leaving Alfred to linger in the quiet warmth of the room.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His clothes from the previous night were scattered across the floor, but nearby, draped over a chair, were others—costumes, most likely.

His gaze drifted over them absently. A deep blue doublet with intricate embroidery. A pair of leather gloves. A small ring.

He smiled fondly.

Lucianus must have left them there after a performance, though he couldn’t recall seeing these particular pieces before. He ran his fingers over the fine fabric of the doublet, then picked up the gloves, pressing them to his face with a quiet sigh.

They smelled like him.

A slow warmth spread through his chest as he let the soft leather rest against his cheek. The other man always seemed so distant, so untouchable, but in moments like this—when the remnants of him lingered—Alfred felt closer to him than ever.

The door creaked open, and Alfred turned, his face brightening as Lucianus entered the room.

“There you are,” He said, rising to his feet. His voice was light, affectionate, as it always seemed these days. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

The Player glanced at him briefly before turning to pour himself a cup of wine from the pitcher on the table. “Unlikely.”

The actor grinned and moved toward him, draping his arms loosely around his waist from behind. “Mm. I should hope so.”

He tensed slightly at the touch, though he did not pull away.

Alfred took this as encouragement, pressing a light kiss to the nape of his neck. “You left some of your costumes out,” he murmured. “I like this one.” He turned slightly, motioning toward the doublet on the chair.

His eyes flickered toward it before returning to his cup. “Do you?”

The young man nodded, rubbing slow circles against his sides with his thumbs. “It suits you. I almost don’t want you to wear anything else.”

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle—more amused than affectionate. “I’m sure the court would find that rather distracting.”

Alfred grinned, turning Lucianus in his arms so they faced one another. “Let them be distracted,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair from Lucianus’s face. “I like you best like this. Just mine.”

Lucianus’s stomach twisted at the words.

There was something suffocating in his affections, in the way he clung to him so freely, so openly. He should have despised it wholly.

And yet.

The warmth of his body against his own was in an off-putting way… pleasant. The way the boy looked at him—like he was something precious, something irreplaceable—was intoxicating in its own manner.

The Player tilted his head, watching him with unreadable eyes. He traced his fingers lightly along Alfred’s jaw, feeling the way the boy melted into his touch.

Disgusting.

…Easy.

“Are you trying to flatter me, Alfred?” He murmured, his voice laced with a tone neither could place.

The man smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Would it work?”

Lucianus smirked, brushing his lips faintly against Alfred’s in a ghost of a kiss before pulling away. “Perhaps.”

Alfred exhaled a soft laugh, pressing closer. “Then I’ll keep trying.”

Lucianus hummed, though his mind was already elsewhere. His fingers curled absently around the ring in his pocket. A piece of them. A piece of their perfection. And now, a piece of him.

Let Alfred cling to him. Let him believe in his own importance. Lucianus had what he wanted.

For now.

.

.

.

The midday sun cast a weak glow over Elsinore, its pale light filtering through the high windows of the banquet hall where the players had gathered for their midday meal. A long wooden table stretched before them, cluttered with half-eaten loaves of bread, pitchers of ale, and remnants of roasted meat. Laughter and conversation filled the space, the air thick with the comfortable camaraderie of men who lived their lives in performance.

Lucianus sat among them, his goblet of wine untouched as he toyed absently with a scrap of bread. He listened to the idle chatter, offering the occasional smirk or well-timed remark, but his thoughts were elsewhere, drifting like a shadow over the room.

Then, movement near the entrance caught his attention.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had entered, their usual languid grace replaced by something more restless, more urgent. They spoke in hushed tones, their heads bent close together, their eyes scanning the hall with subtle intensity.

He straightened slightly, his interest piqued.

They were looking for something.

Or someone.

Guildenstern’s expression was tight, his jaw set in a way that made the tension in his body visible even from a distance. Rosencrantz, by contrast, wore an easy smile, but Lucianus knew him well enough by now to recognize the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides—the way his gaze flicked over the crowd a little too quickly.

Something was wrong.

He lowered his goblet, leaning back in his chair as he watched them weave through the room, their search growing more purposeful. Then, just as quickly as they had entered, they turned and slipped back through the door, disappearing into the corridor beyond.

His pulse quickened.

With practiced ease, he pushed back from the table, muttering something about fresh air to the players nearest to him before rising to his feet. He moved toward the exit with careful deliberation, making sure not to draw attention to himself as he stepped into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were just ahead, their voices low, their steps brisk.

The Player followed, his movements soundless, his breath measured.

“…Are you certain it was there?” Guildenstern’s voice was tight with frustration.

“I swear it was,” Rosencrantz replied, his tone lighter but no less urgent. “I left it by the bed last night—I remember placing it on the book.”

Lucianus slowed, keeping close to the wall as he listened.

A pause. Then Guildenstern exhaled sharply. “Damn it.”

His lips curled into a faint smile.

“I should have been more careful,” Guildenstern continued, his voice low, furious with himself. “It must have fallen. Or I—” He cut himself off, exhaling again, this time more unsteadily. “I don’t know how I lost it.”

“Perhaps the servants moved it?” Rosencrantz suggested, though even he sounded doubtful.

Guildenstern shook his head. “They wouldn’t dare. Not with something like that.”

His smile widened.

Something like that.

A realization settled over him like a slow-burning ember.

The ring.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling the cool weight of the small, unremarkable band he had taken the night before. A piece of them. A token of something private, something cherished.

Something Guildenstern was now quietly unraveling over.

“I’ll find it,” He muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I have to.”

Rosencrantz placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’s just a ring.”

Guildenstern stiffened, his gaze flicking to Rosencrantz’s face. For a moment, there was only silence between them. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “It’s not just a ring.”

Lucianus inhaled slowly, savoring the words.

Rosencrantz’s smirk faltered, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he let it slip away. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

This was better than he could have hoped for.

The ring wasn’t some trivial trinket…It was a gift. A symbol. And now it was his.

The blond sighed, his frustration bleeding into quiet resignation. “If it’s gone, it’s gone. There’s nothing more to be done.”

Rosencrantz smiled, though there was something in his expression that felt almost forced. “Well, if you want another, I can always—”

“No,” Guildenstern interrupted, his voice softer now. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

His fingers curled around the ring in his pocket, his grip tightening.

He had taken more than just an object last night.

He had taken something irreplaceable.

A small, satisfied chuckle ghosted past his lips as he turned, slipping away before he could be seen.

For the first time in days, he felt truly alive.

Chapter Text

He stood, as he had on many nights before, just inside the threshold of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s chambers, his breath slow, his body still.

They slept as they always did—close, effortless, as if drawn together by something beyond mere habit. Rosencrantz lay half-curled against the other’s side, one hand resting lightly over Guildenstern’s chest. His arm had wound its way around Rosencrantz in turn, holding him there even in slumber.

He had learned the rhythm of their breathing by now, the way Rosencrantz sometimes talked in his sleep, the rare moments when Guildenstern’s brow would furrow with some unknowable dream. He had memorized these details like a scripture, each one feeding the insatiable hunger in his chest.

Tonight, it felt heavier.

Perhaps it was the weight of the ring in his pocket. Or perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time since he had begun these secret vigils, he was not alone.

The moment he stepped back into his own chambers, he knew.

Alfred was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face pale and tight, his hands clenched in his lap.

He closed the door behind him with careful deliberation, his pulse quickening just slightly.

The young man looked up, and there was no softness in his gaze. No affection. No devotion.

“I saw you,” he said quietly.

He didn’t move. “Saw what?”

Alfred stood, his jaw tightening. “Don’t play with me, Lucianus. I followed you.”

A thin thread of irritation twisted through Lucianus’s gut. Sloppy. He had been too absorbed, too careless.

The actor exhaled sharply, his voice wavering but firm. “How long has this been going on?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as if burdened by the conversation. “You’re making a scene over nothing.”

“Nothing?” Alfred let out a hollow laugh. “You sneak into their room, you watch them, you—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You stole from them, didn’t you?”

The Player’s hand twitched at his side, but his expression remained impassive. “Why does it matter?”

“Why does it—” Alfred took a step forward, his voice rising. “Because I thought I meant something to you! Because you told me you loved me, and now I find you—”

“Alfred,” He interrupted, his voice low, almost soothing. “You do mean something to me.”

The shift in his tone was immediate, deliberate. He softened his expression, took a slow step toward the other.

Alfred tensed, but Lucianus reached for him gently, his fingers grazing his wrist. “You’re being emotional. Let’s sit, let’s talk—”

Alfred jerked his hand away.

Lucianus stilled.

“I don’t want to talk,” He said, his voice thick. “I want to leave.”

The words sent a sharp spike of fury through his chest.

“Leave?” His voice was eerily calm. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

Alfred’s throat bobbed. “You haven’t done anything for me. I gave you everything. And I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought I was enough.”

Lucianus felt something fray inside him.

“I love you,” he said smoothly, reaching for him again, cupping his face. “You are enough.”

Alfred shut his eyes briefly– as if about to give in– but then he shook his head, pulling away once more.

“No, you don’t,” he whispered. “You never did.”

His jaw clenched.

He could fix this.

He had fixed things before.

With practiced ease, he grabbed Alfred by the wrist, pulling him forward with just enough force to make the boy stumble. “Stop being foolish,” He murmured, his fingers tightening. “You don’t want to leave.”

Alfred winced, his free hand clawing at Lucianus’s grip. “Lucianus, let go. You’re— You’re hurting me.”

“No.”

“Lucianus—”

“You don’t get to leave,” Lucianus snapped, his voice sharp now, all pretenses of warmth dropping like shattered glass. “You belong to me.”

Alfred gasped as Lucianus shoved him against the edge of the bed, pinning him there. “You think you can just walk away?” Lucianus seethed. “That you can throw everything we’ve built aside because you don’t like what you saw?”

Alfred’s breath hitched.

“You disgust me,” Lucianus whispered, but his grip on Alfred didn’t loosen. “You cling to me like a child, and yet now—now, you have the gall to judge me?”

Alfred’s eyes were wide, brimming with something Lucianus had never seen in them before. Not fear. Not devotion.

Pity.

Lucianus’s breath faltered.

The realization was enough to send a fresh wave of fury crashing over him. His grip on Alfred’s wrist tightened even more, his nails biting into skin—

But then Alfred’s voice broke through, barely above a whisper.

“You’ll never have them,” he said.

Lucianus froze.

His vision swam, his ears rang. He felt his own breath, too quick, too shallow, a piercing ringing in his ears.

His fingers loosened.

And then, as if some unseen force had cracked him open, he staggered back, his chest heaving. He brought a hand to his mouth, but his fingers trembled against his lips.

His stomach twisted violently, and before he could stop himself—

He choked out a sob.

The other stared.

He turned away sharply, his shoulders shaking, his breath ragged. His hands balled into fists at his sides, shaking with the sheer force of what he was trying to suppress.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Alfred didn’t move.

He sucked in a breath, dragging his hands through his hair. “It’s not fair,” he repeated, louder this time. “They— They have everything. They have each other. And I—”

His voice crumbled, his nails digging into his scalp.

Alfred swallowed hard. “Lucianus…”

He turned, his face streaked with something desperate and broken. It was terrifying. “I don’t know how to stop,” he confessed, his voice raw. “I don’t know how to—” He exhaled shakily, dropping onto the bed, his head falling into his hands.

Alfred stood there, silent, unmoving.

And then, slowly, he sat beside him.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. The only sound in the room was his uneven breathing, the quiet crackling of the dying fire.

Finally, Alfred whispered, “I don’t know if I can stay.”

He shut his eyes.

But he didn’t fight anymore.

He had already lost.

Lucianus sat motionless on the floor, his head bowed, his hands still tangled in his own hair. His breath was slow and unsteady, though the worst of his trembling had begun to fade. The room felt unbearably quiet, the weight of his own words hanging heavy in the air.

And then, gently, carefully, Alfred’s fingers brushed through his hair.

He tensed for a moment, his body instinctively recoiling at the touch. But Alfred didn’t pull away. His hand moved slowly, stroking through the dark strands with quiet patience, his touch featherlight.

The Player exhaled, his fingers loosening from his scalp. He let himself sink into the sensation—not because he craved it, but because it required nothing from him.

Alfred said nothing. Not to scold. Not to pity. He simply touched him.

He let out a slow breath, his voice soft, raw, “I don’t understand them,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t understand how they can be so…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “So complete.”

The actor’s fingers didn’t falter, though the air between them felt fragile, as though it could break at any moment.

He swallowed hard, his voice growing quieter. “They don’t need anyone else. They don’t even look at anyone else. It’s like… the world exists around them, but it never touches them. They are the center of it. They are all that matters. They’re nobodies. But they are all that matters.”

His hands curled into fists against his knees. “I can’t stop watching. I can’t stop thinking about it. About them.”

Alfred remained silent, but his fingers brushed along the nape of his neck, soft, deliberate.

He closed his eyes. “I want to understand. I want to break them apart and see what holds them together. I want to know if they would survive without each other. Or if—” His breath hitched slightly. “Or if they would fall apart. If one of them could belong to me.”

Alfred’s breath caught, but he didn’t speak.

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s madness, isn’t it?”

Alfred’s hand stilled in his hair for just a moment before he resumed his slow, measured strokes. “Maybe,” he murmured. His voice was calm, but there was something distant about it, something empty.

He tilted his head slightly into Alfred’s touch, closing his eyes again. “I should hate them,” he admitted. “For shutting me out. For refusing to let me in. But I don’t.” His voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I love them. Both of them.”

The other inhaled sharply.

Lucianus opened his eyes, staring at the flickering embers in the fireplace. “And they will never love me back.”

Alfred said nothing.

He couldn’t.

His fingers slowed, his touch turning almost absentminded. His own breathing had become uneven, though he masked it well. He refused to let his hands shake, refused to let his tears fall.

Because this moment wasn’t for him. It never was for him. It was for Lucianus. Even if it tore him apart.

Lucianus’s breathing slowed. The room, the firelight, even the ache inside his chest—all of it dulled beneath the steady, rhythmic touch of fingers in his hair.

And then, it hit him.

Alfred had never left.

Even now, after everything, after the lies and the violence, after watching him shatter himself over two men who barely acknowledged him, Alfred was still here.

He turned his head slightly, not enough to meet those eyes, but just enough to feel the warmth, the quiet patience in that touch.

His chest tightened.

“Stay,” he whispered, barely aware of the word as it left his lips.

The hand faltered for just a second before continuing. “Lucianus…”

“Please,” he said, and this time, there was no calculation in his voice. No performance, no manipulation. Just the raw, pathetic truth of it. “Stay.”

Alfred inhaled softly, his fingers finally stilling.

Then, in a voice steadier than Lucianus had ever heard from him, he asked, “What are you giving me to stay for?”

He blinked.

The hand withdrew, and the loss of warmth was immediate.

“I’ve given you everything,” Alfred said, tone calm, resolute. “I have followed you, obeyed you, loved you. And I thought… I thought that might be enough.”

Lucianus turned his head slightly, enough to see the tension in Alfred’s jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly into his lap, as if resisting the urge to reach out again.

“But it wasn’t enough, was it?” The words were quieter now. “Because you don’t give. You only take.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

Alfred looked at him, truly looked at him, and for the first time, he felt exposed.

“I won’t stay if all I am is something you hold onto out of convenience,” Alfred murmured. “I won’t stay if you can’t even give me something real.”

The words cut deeper than expected.

Fingers twitched against the bedsheets. “I—”

A slight shake of the head. “No more lies, Lucianus. No more games.”

He swallowed hard, throat dry.

For once in his life, he didn’t have an answer.

And for once, Alfred didn’t fill the silence for him.

He just waited.

And for the first time, Lucianus understood that the choice had never been his.

Chapter Text

The weight of the ring in Lucianus’s pocket had grown unbearable. It pressed against his thigh with every step, its presence no longer a triumph but a thorn buried deep beneath his skin. He had barely slept. The previous night lingered in his mind like a sickness—Alfred’s words, his steady defiance, the quiet certainty in his voice when he said, No more games.

Lucianus hated how much those words had followed him.

He had always been in control. Always dictated the stage. But now, it was as if the script had been torn from his hands, and he was left grasping at lines he no longer believed in.

Perhaps that was why, for the first time, he wasn’t sneaking into Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s chambers under the veil of night. Perhaps that was why, this time, he knocked.

A pause. Then:

“What now?” Rosencrantz’s voice, muffled through the door, tinged with irritation.

Lucianus felt his pulse quicken, but he ignored it. He adjusted his coat, rolling his shoulders, before finally pushing the door open himself.

Rosencrantz was half-dressed, reclining on the edge of the bed, one boot on, the other abandoned beside him. His hair was disheveled, and his usual smile flickered with something closer to exhaustion than amusement.

Guildenstern, by contrast, stood near the fireplace, his posture stiff, arms crossed over his chest. He had been reading—an open book lay facedown on the table—but the moment Lucianus entered, his dark gaze lifted, locking onto him with immediate distrust.

He shut the door behind him.

Guildenstern’s stare hardened. “What do you want?”

The Player exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to meet their eyes. “To return something.”

From his pocket, he withdrew the ring. The light from the fire caught on the simple band, its dull gleam standing stark against the pale skin of his palm.

Guildenstern’s breath hitched.

Rosencrantz sat up straighter, his smirk vanishing entirely.

Lucianus had seen them both perform before, knew how well they concealed their emotions when they wished to. But this—this was different. Their surprise was real, unguarded.

Lucianus turned the ring slightly between his fingers before stepping forward and setting it on the small table beside them.

“I took it,” he admitted, his voice quiet but unwavering. “I stole it from your room while you slept.”

Silence.

Guildenstern’s fingers twitched against his arm, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His entire body had gone rigid, as if some invisible force had bolted him to the ground.

Rosencrantz, however, laughed.

It was short, humorless.

“You’re joking,” he said, though there was no amusement in his voice. “This is some sort of elaborate trick, isn’t it? A performance. Player’s theatrics. ”

Lucianus shook his head. “No tricks.”

Guildenstern’s voice, when it came, was low, dangerous. “Why?”

Lucianus inhaled slowly, running a hand over his mouth before dropping it again. “Because I had to.”

“Had to,” Guildenstern echoed, the words cold on his tongue.

Lucianus’s hand clenched at his side. “Because you have something that no one else does. Something that no one else could have.” He lifted his gaze, something raw flickering behind it. “I wanted to understand it. To hold a piece of it in my hands. Even if only for a moment.”

The room had gone deathly still.

Guildenstern stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. He was not a man prone to violence—Lucianus knew this. And yet, for the first time, he thought that if Guildenstern struck him now, he would not stop him.

Instead, Guildenstern reached for the ring.

The moment his fingers curled around it, something in him seemed to crack. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he turned the band over in his palm, as if reassuring himself that it was real.

Rosencrantz exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “So you’ve been creeping about like some lovesick wraith, breaking into our chambers, watching us—” His lips curled in distaste. “Gods, do you have any idea how mad that is?”

Lucianus let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Of course I do.”

Guildenstern’s eyes snapped back to him.

Lucianus lifted his chin. “I am not asking for your forgiveness.”

“Good,” Guildenstern said sharply.

“I am only telling you the truth,” Lucianus continued, his voice quieter now. “Because I don’t want it anymore. The lies, the pretending.” He exhaled, his hands curling at his sides. “It’s exhausting.”

Rosencrantz scoffed, throwing up his hands. “Oh, you’re exhausted? You? ”

Guildenstern remained silent.

Lucianus turned to him, watching the way his fingers turned the ring over and over again in his palm.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Guildenstern let out a quiet, shaky breath.

“Did you ever mean to give it back?” he asked.

Lucianus hesitated.

And then, softly—honestly—he said, “I don’t know.”

Guildenstern nodded once, almost imperceptibly, as if that was the only answer he had expected.

Rosencrantz ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “This is madness,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Utter madness.”

Lucianus let out a breathless, humorless chuckle. “Then at least you understand me.”

Guildenstern’s grip tightened around the ring.

For a long time, no one spoke.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Guildenstern said, “Get out.”

Lucianus blinked.

Guildenstern finally met his gaze, and his expression was unreadable.

But his voice—his voice was like a closing door.

“Go, Lucianus.”

Lucianus clenched his jaw. He wanted to say something else, something that might shift the balance, something that might let him stay a moment longer.

But there was nothing.

So he turned, and he left.

As the door clicked shut behind him, he stood in the empty corridor, breathless, lightheaded.

His chest ached, his hands trembled.

He had done it. He had confessed.

And yet, somehow, he had never felt emptier.

His feet carried him to his chambers before his mind had even made the decision.

Alfred was there.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, his expression unreadable as he lifted his head to meet Lucianus’s gaze.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Lucianus exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “I told them.”

Alfred blinked once, slowly. “Told them what?”

Lucianus let out a dry chuckle, stepping further into the room. “Everything.” He gestured vaguely, as if the weight of it were too much to name. “The watching. The taking. The wanting.”

Alfred’s fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his tunic. “And?”

Lucianus scoffed, shaking his head. “And nothing. They told me to leave.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Can you believe that? After everything, they just—just cast me out like I was nothing.”

Alfred’s gaze didn’t waver. “You expected them to let you stay?”

Lucianus opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked away, jaw tightening. “I don’t know what I expected.”

Silence settled between them.

Lucianus let out a long breath and sat beside Alfred on the bed. He turned to face him, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s done.” He reached out, fingers brushing Alfred’s wrist. “I was a fool to chase after something that was never mine. But you…” His grip tightened slightly. “You’re still here.”

Alfred inhaled sharply but didn’t move.

Lucianus searched his face, his voice dropping to something softer. “You were always here.”

A pause.

Then Alfred pulled his wrist free.

Lucianus froze.

Alfred’s expression didn’t shift—not anger, not sorrow, not even pity. Only quiet, steady certainty.

“I was,” Alfred said.

Lucianus’s chest tightened. “Then let me—”

“No.”

Lucianus flinched.

Alfred inhaled, exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling as if steadying himself. “You think that because you lost them , you can come back to me ,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “Like I’m something you can fall into when there’s nowhere else to go.”

Lucianus shook his head, reaching for him again, but Alfred caught his hand midair, holding it firmly. “I loved you,” Alfred whispered, and for the first time, his voice trembled. “And you threw me away every time it was convenient.”

Lucianus’s throat tightened.

Alfred swallowed hard, his grip loosening as he finally let go.

“I won’t be that for you, Lucianus.”

Lucianus’s breath hitched. “You said you wouldn’t leave—”

“I said I wouldn’t stay if you couldn’t give.”

Lucianus felt something crack inside him. “I can.” His voice was almost desperate now. “I can try.”

Alfred smiled then—small, sad, fond in a way that hurt more than any anger could have.

“I don’t think you know how,” he murmured.

Lucianus’s hands clenched into fists in his lap.

For the first time in his life, he had nothing to say.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally, Alfred stood.

Lucianus didn’t stop him.

He watched as Alfred gathered his things, as he moved toward the door.

He wanted to say something— stay, please, I love you —but the words wouldn’t come.

Because maybe Alfred was right.

Maybe he didn’t know how.

Alfred hesitated at the door, glancing back one final time.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” he said softly.

Then he was gone.

And for the first time in years, Lucianus was truly alone.

.

.

.

The seasons changed.

Lucianus stayed at Elsinore, but the castle felt different now. Perhaps because he was different.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern still moved through the court as they always had—laughing, murmuring to each other in private corners, inseparable as ever. But Lucianus no longer ached when he saw them. He no longer lingered in their shadows, hoping for a way in.

They had never been his to claim.

And Alfred…

Alfred had left.

Lucianus had expected that to be the end of it. He had expected never to see him again.

And yet—

One evening, just as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, he spotted a familiar figure lingering near the edges of the royal gardens.

Lucianus hesitated, his breath catching.

Alfred stood beneath an arch of ivy, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze lowered to the stones beneath his feet. He was thinner than before, his face more angular, but his eyes—when he finally lifted them—were the same.

Lucianus took a step forward before he could think better of it.

Alfred’s lips pressed together. He did not step back, but neither did he move toward him.

Lucianus swallowed. “You came back.”

Alfred exhaled softly, his gaze searching his face. “For a time.”

Lucianus felt something pull in his chest. “Why?”

Alfred tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Because I wanted to see if you were still looking for them.”

Lucianus hesitated. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No.”

Alfred’s expression didn’t change, but something in his shoulders loosened, just slightly. “Good.”

Lucianus let out a quiet breath, something almost like laughter. “I don’t know if I should apologize.”

Alfred gave a small, wry smile. “Would you mean it?”

Lucianus smirked, just a little. “Possibly.”

A pause. The gardens were quiet, the scent of late-blooming roses heavy in the air.

Then, softly, Alfred said, “I still care about you, Lucianus.”

Lucianus swallowed hard. “I know.”

Alfred nodded, as if that was enough. Perhaps it was.

Lucianus took a slow step forward. “Would you stay? If I asked you?”

Alfred watched him, eyes sharp, unreadable. “Would you give me a reason to?”

Lucianus considered the question.

And then, for the first time—not out of manipulation, not out of desperation—he said, “Yes.”

A long silence. Then, with a slow, measured breath, Alfred reached out and took his hand.

Lucianus laced their fingers together.

This time, he didn’t let go.

And neither did Alfred.