Return of the First Kiss Meme
Jul. 17th, 2008 07:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elabyHey, remember about a zillion years ago when I was doing all of those First Kiss memes? I finally finished the one for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
minyan! She requested Horatio and Laertes. I reread my manga Hamlet yesterday and was inspired to finish the tiny draft/idea I had started at the time I posted the meme. So we watched Hamlet last night and I had raptures of squee, as usual, and here's the fic :) God, writing Hamlet stuff takes me for-bloody-ever. But I enjoy every minute of it T_T
831 words
Notes: Horatio POV. This was sparked by the fact that in the Kenneth Branagh movie, Horatio is the one to tell Ophelia's nurse not to keep her from running out into the room where Laertes was when he came back after Polonius's murder.
--
It may have been one of the most foolish decisions of my life, but when I heard Laertes shouting – and his voice is unmistakable – I stopped the nurse from keeping his sister out of sight. It would have happened eventually, his seeing her. I am sure of it. I can only hope my part lent a bit of dignity to a situation that would have had precious little otherwise.
I followed her. Seeing them together, seeing him touch her face as if to assure himself this fond waif truly was his sister, was heartrending. And when Ophelia's nurse led her away, leaving Laertes alone to hear the King’s poisonous words, I could not make myself go after them. If my presence could do anything to save my lord Hamlet from the machinations of these men – the manipulator and the manipulated – I would risk overstepping my station to be there.
I had planned to wait quietly by until an opportunity presented itself, but it seems there was no need. The moment Laertes caught sight of me, he rushed at me and took me hard by the arm. He dragged me to a nearby door and pushed me through, slamming it behind himself to keep out the King.
I could almost feel the heat rolling off him. If some power had made his fury into a physical blade, it could not have pinned me as effectively as his gaze did. He was so much in contrast to my lord Hamlet that it shook me. His every move spoke of instant action, of all thought blotted out by his passion. He came toward me and grasped the front of my jacket, shoving me back into the bookcase.
"Where is he?"
"Who?" I asked, startled into obtuseness.
"Your master," Laertes snarled. I had never once considered that he could be a threat, but now I was very much afraid – and not for myself, for his anger was not directed at me.
"My lord Hamlet is in England," I said, steadily as I could, "sent there by his uncle the king."
He took this impediment like a death blow. I watched desperate frustration mingle with despair on his face, and then he released one hand and threw his fist at me. I flinched; he had never intended to hit me, though, and his fist slammed into the books over my shoulder. They toppled, folded, slithered off the shelf and crashed to the floor around my feet.
When I opened my eyes there were tears on his face. He made a strangled sound, and I automatically reached to steady him, though I knew he would push me off. He did, and stepped backwards, as if it hurt him to feel my hands. The air around him fairly prickled with unspent energy, and his inability to find it an outlet seemed to pain him as much as his father's death, his sister's madness. Gods, how could two men so much alike be so different?
"He would envy you your tears, my lord," I said without thinking. Laertes stared at me, caught between indignation and confusion. Something was trying to break through on his face, and he didn't want to let it. If I could do anything to calm his wrath, anything to make him understand in some small part what led my lord Hamlet to this, I would.
He was still standing close enough to touch when the fury took control again. He came at me – I was the only one there, after all, I suppose he had to – but this time I caught him before he could slam me back into the shelf.
"You dare to say such a thing?" he ground out, and it was painful to hear. "He has no right—"
"It is the truth," I interrupted. "To give expression to such depth of feeling... Would God my lord Hamlet could do the same." And then, I don't know why, but I released his arms and I bent and kissed his cheek, briefly. Perhaps it was for the same reason he handled me so roughly – the intended recipient wasn't here. He shoved me away with a shuddering breath, and more tears fell as he visibly tried to fight through the things warring within him. With his hands to his head, Laertes turned from me.
"The very last thing in the world I deserve is his envy," he said in a low voice. "And the very last thing I want is your pity."
Perhaps it had worked. His anger seemed muted, at least, but any relief I might allow myself to feel was tainted. The only man deserving of any of this pain was waiting without, poised to sharpen into a dagger the passion I had hoped to blunt. Laertes left me slowly, but when he wrenched the door open nearly hard enough to take it off its hinges, I knew that I had only momentarily submerged that which by its nature would boil over.
minyan! She requested Horatio and Laertes. I reread my manga Hamlet yesterday and was inspired to finish the tiny draft/idea I had started at the time I posted the meme. So we watched Hamlet last night and I had raptures of squee, as usual, and here's the fic :) God, writing Hamlet stuff takes me for-bloody-ever. But I enjoy every minute of it T_T831 words
Notes: Horatio POV. This was sparked by the fact that in the Kenneth Branagh movie, Horatio is the one to tell Ophelia's nurse not to keep her from running out into the room where Laertes was when he came back after Polonius's murder.
--
It may have been one of the most foolish decisions of my life, but when I heard Laertes shouting – and his voice is unmistakable – I stopped the nurse from keeping his sister out of sight. It would have happened eventually, his seeing her. I am sure of it. I can only hope my part lent a bit of dignity to a situation that would have had precious little otherwise.
I followed her. Seeing them together, seeing him touch her face as if to assure himself this fond waif truly was his sister, was heartrending. And when Ophelia's nurse led her away, leaving Laertes alone to hear the King’s poisonous words, I could not make myself go after them. If my presence could do anything to save my lord Hamlet from the machinations of these men – the manipulator and the manipulated – I would risk overstepping my station to be there.
I had planned to wait quietly by until an opportunity presented itself, but it seems there was no need. The moment Laertes caught sight of me, he rushed at me and took me hard by the arm. He dragged me to a nearby door and pushed me through, slamming it behind himself to keep out the King.
I could almost feel the heat rolling off him. If some power had made his fury into a physical blade, it could not have pinned me as effectively as his gaze did. He was so much in contrast to my lord Hamlet that it shook me. His every move spoke of instant action, of all thought blotted out by his passion. He came toward me and grasped the front of my jacket, shoving me back into the bookcase.
"Where is he?"
"Who?" I asked, startled into obtuseness.
"Your master," Laertes snarled. I had never once considered that he could be a threat, but now I was very much afraid – and not for myself, for his anger was not directed at me.
"My lord Hamlet is in England," I said, steadily as I could, "sent there by his uncle the king."
He took this impediment like a death blow. I watched desperate frustration mingle with despair on his face, and then he released one hand and threw his fist at me. I flinched; he had never intended to hit me, though, and his fist slammed into the books over my shoulder. They toppled, folded, slithered off the shelf and crashed to the floor around my feet.
When I opened my eyes there were tears on his face. He made a strangled sound, and I automatically reached to steady him, though I knew he would push me off. He did, and stepped backwards, as if it hurt him to feel my hands. The air around him fairly prickled with unspent energy, and his inability to find it an outlet seemed to pain him as much as his father's death, his sister's madness. Gods, how could two men so much alike be so different?
"He would envy you your tears, my lord," I said without thinking. Laertes stared at me, caught between indignation and confusion. Something was trying to break through on his face, and he didn't want to let it. If I could do anything to calm his wrath, anything to make him understand in some small part what led my lord Hamlet to this, I would.
He was still standing close enough to touch when the fury took control again. He came at me – I was the only one there, after all, I suppose he had to – but this time I caught him before he could slam me back into the shelf.
"You dare to say such a thing?" he ground out, and it was painful to hear. "He has no right—"
"It is the truth," I interrupted. "To give expression to such depth of feeling... Would God my lord Hamlet could do the same." And then, I don't know why, but I released his arms and I bent and kissed his cheek, briefly. Perhaps it was for the same reason he handled me so roughly – the intended recipient wasn't here. He shoved me away with a shuddering breath, and more tears fell as he visibly tried to fight through the things warring within him. With his hands to his head, Laertes turned from me.
"The very last thing in the world I deserve is his envy," he said in a low voice. "And the very last thing I want is your pity."
Perhaps it had worked. His anger seemed muted, at least, but any relief I might allow myself to feel was tainted. The only man deserving of any of this pain was waiting without, poised to sharpen into a dagger the passion I had hoped to blunt. Laertes left me slowly, but when he wrenched the door open nearly hard enough to take it off its hinges, I knew that I had only momentarily submerged that which by its nature would boil over.
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