Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Guildenstern counted the cobblestones beneath his boots. One, two, three—he skipped a crack—four, five, six. He started over. He had stepped wrong. He always stepped wrong. The numbers reset, and his chest tightened.

Rosencrantz strolled beside him, whistling something tuneless, hands stuffed into his sleeves. His gait was easy, unburdened, a sharp contrast to Guildenstern’s rigid movements.

“Would you believe,” Rosencrantz said, oblivious, “I had the most peculiar dream last night? I was a swan. But not an ordinary swan—a very large one, with a crown. No one noticed the crown, though, which was disappointing. What do you make of it?”

Guildenstern barely heard him. He had lost track of his steps again, and his hands twitched with frustration. A mistake. A mistake meant something . He didn’t know what, but the weight of it pressed against his ribs like iron bands. He should start again. He had to start again.

One, two, three—

A thought slid into his mind, unbidden, oily and thick. What if you pushed him into the road?

Guildenstern inhaled sharply. The thought had no voice, no reason, only presence. It had been there before. It was always there. A thousand variations of it, whispering in his brain like smoke curling under a door.

Rosencrantz, still talking, still smiling, still alive , had no idea.

Guildenstern’s fingers dug into his palms. He flexed them once, twice, three times—no, four, better make it even. He looked at Rosencrantz, standing so close, so trusting . His stomach curled in disgust.

“You look troubled,” Rosencrantz said, finally noticing his silence. “Is it the weather? It does have a certain gloom about it.”

Guildenstern swallowed, his throat dry. “It’s nothing.” His voice was steady. That was something.

Rosencrantz clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let’s find some revelry! Something light, something warm. You need a drink, my dear.”

Do you? Or do you need to be rid of yourself altogether?

Guildenstern clenched his jaw. His hands burned with the need to count again, but Rosencrantz was watching now, and that made it harder.

“Come,” Rosencrantz urged, already leading the way. “The world is only as dark as we let it be.”

Guildenstern forced himself to follow. One step, then another. He wouldn’t start over this time. He refused. His conscience screamed at him, but he ignored them, let them twist inside him like a nest of biting insects.

He didn’t stop thinking the entire way there.

The tavern was loud, filled with the warmth of bodies and the slosh of ale. It smelled of sweat, stale beer, and roasting meat, an oppressive closeness that made Guildenstern’s skin crawl. He kept his hands folded in his lap, pressing his nails into the meat of his palm. The sting was grounding, a small, controlled pain that kept his mind from unraveling.

Across the table, Rosencrantz was already two drinks in, his face flushed with cheer. “You should drink,” he said, pushing a mug toward Guildenstern. “It’ll loosen you up. You’ve been terribly stiff lately.”

Stiff. Guildenstern repeated the word in his head, turning it over, twisting it. Was he stiff? Had Rosencrantz noticed something was wrong? Did he look wrong? He tapped his fingers against his thigh, counting. Four taps, then eight, then twelve. Even digits were safe. Odd ones meant something , but he didn’t know what.

He didn’t touch the ale.

Instead, he stared at the flickering candle between them. The flame wavered, bright and fragile. He imagined pressing his hand into it. Just for a moment. Just long enough.

You could do it. You should do it.

The feeling was familiar. It had been creeping closer these past weeks, its voice growing bolder. There had been a time when it was easier to push aside, to smother it beneath routine, beneath numbers and symmetry. But the units were losing their power. 

His hands curled into fists.

Rosencrantz laughed, oblivious. “I saw a man juggling on the way here. Juggling, mind you! With knives! Wouldn’t that be something to learn?”

Guildenstern barely heard him. The candle flickered. He reached out, slowly, his fingers hovering just above the flame. Heat licked at his skin.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Rosencrantz said.

Guildenstern jerked his hand back. “What thing?”

“The staring. You go all quiet, like a man deep in his musings.” Rosencrantz grinned. “What’s on your mind, Guil?”

If I smashed this glass and dragged it across my skin, would I finally feel clean?

He swallowed. “Nothing.”

Rosencrantz rolled his eyes. “Well, then you must have the most interesting sort of nothing.” He took another sip of ale, unbothered. “You really should drink.”

Guildenstern reached for the mug—not to drink, but to count the ridges along the handle. Four. Then again. Eight. Then again. Twelve. The rhythm soothed him, but only slightly. It was not working as well as they used to. The thoughts still clawed at the edges of his mind, intrusive, relentless.

You are a monster.

He flinched. The candlelight warped in his vision, too bright, too sharp.

“You’re pale,” Rosencrantz noted. “Are you ill?”

Guildenstern hesitated. Then, very softly, “Yes.”

Rosencrantz laughed. “Then have some ale, and be miraculously cured!”

Guildenstern wished it were that simple.

Instead, he flexed his fingers beneath the table and wondered how much deeper he would have to dig his nails into his skin before he could break it.

.

.

.

Guildenstern awoke to darkness, a crushing, suffocating kind that made his breath come short. The room was still, the only sound the faint shuffle of Rosencrantz turning over in his sleep. Guildenstern’s body ached, his muscles tense as if bracing for impact. He had dreamed—something terrible, something with fire and shattered glass—but the details had already slipped away, leaving only the weight of it behind.

His fingers twitched.

Count.

He exhaled slowly.

One, two, three—

No. Too fast. Again.

One. Hold. Two. Hold. Three.

They weren’t enough. His skin burned, his mind churned, and the intrusions crept closer, whispering their cruelty.

You are broken.

He shifted, curling inward. The floor beneath the small inn’s bed was uneven—he had counted the wooden planks earlier, but now he doubted himself. Had he missed one? Had he counted wrong? The uncertainty sent a chill through him.

Guildenstern sat up, careful not to wake Rosencrantz. He slid out of bed, moving silently to the corner of the room where the moonlight barely reached. His breath hitched.

He could feel it coming.

It started in his chest, a thick, choking sensation, crawling up his throat like a scream that would not escape. His heartbeat was uneven, wrong, and the only way to fix it was to do something .

His nails found his forearm.

Press. Drag. Release.

Not enough.

Again.

Pain blossomed, sharp and red, grounding him for a fleeting moment. His cognition recoiled, but not for long. He could already feel them shifting, slithering back.

He bit down hard on his lip and tasted copper.

Behind him, Rosencrantz stirred.

Guildenstern froze.

He had been careful. He had been silent .

Rosencrantz let out a small sigh and rolled onto his back, snoring softly. Guildenstern let out a slow breath. Safe.

Not safe. You are never safe.

His head dropped against the wall, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The moonlight cast long, warped shadows, and he imagined himself as one of them—thin, insubstantial, easily erased.

It would be easier that way.

It would be better.

But Rosencrantz would wake in the morning, bright and careless, and Guildenstern would still be here. Still counting. Still pretending.

And it would still be waiting.

Guildenstern stared at his arm in the darkness, the pale skin stretched too tight over bone. It was wrong. He was wrong. No matter how many times he counted, how carefully he stepped, how much he tried to keep the thoughts caged, they always won. The numbers no longer worked. The rituals no longer soothed him.

His hand trembled as he reached for the small knife on the nearby table. It was Rosencrantz’s, carelessly left beside his empty tankard before he had collapsed into sleep. Rosencrantz never thought about things like that—where he placed sharp objects, whether the door was properly latched, whether the world could turn cruel in the space of a breath. He would never understand.

Guildenstern pressed the tip of the blade against his wrist.

One.

A shallow cut at first, a test. The sting was immediate, a bright point of focus in the churning storm of his mind.

Two.

He pressed harder, dragging the blade upward. The skin split easily beneath the edge, parting like fabric. The pain followed, sharp and hot, but it was distant, insignificant. It made sense . This was control.

Three.

The knife carved a slow, deliberate path along his forearm, moving past the crook of his elbow. He could feel the warmth of blood sliding down, but it didn’t bother him. It felt clean. Right.

Four.

All the way up. All the way.

He exhaled shakily as he reached the top, just below his shoulder. The thoughts were silent now, awed into submission. His arm pulsed, wet and red in the dim moonlight, but he felt— lighter . As if something inside him had finally quieted.

Guildenstern wiped the blade on his sleeve, careful, practiced. The bleeding was heavy, but he did not move to stop it. It was not necessary. He had done what needed to be done.

The world blurred at the edges, but he forced himself to stand, moving slowly so as not to wake Rosencrantz. His limbs felt sluggish, weighted, but he managed to return the knife to its place. Then, just as carefully, he climbed back into bed, turning away from his love’s sleeping form.

His arm ached, but it was a good ache. A controlled one.

The sheets would be ruined by morning.

Rosencrantz would notice.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

For now, Guildenstern closed his eyes, and, for the first time in what felt like forever—he slept.

Chapter Text

Guildenstern woke to the sharp pull of dried blood against fabric. His arm throbbed, sluggish and sore, but the silence in his mind remained. That alone made the pain worth it.

Morning light filtered through the crooked wooden shutters, dust motes drifting lazily in its path. The world had not ended. It never did. No matter how deep he cut, how much he wanted it to, the sun still rose.

A rustling sound beside him made his stomach turn.

Rosencrantz.

Still asleep, sprawled on his back, his mouth slightly open. He looked unbearably peaceful, as if the night had never touched him. Guildenstern envied that—envied how easily Rosencrantz existed, how effortlessly he woke to a new day without the weight of yesterday crushing his ribs.

Guildenstern sat up carefully, peeling his arm away from the sheets. A sharp sting lanced through his nerves as the fabric tore free, and for a moment, he saw nothing but red. His stomach twisted.

The sheets were ruined, just as he had expected. The wound, though closed in places, was raw and ugly, jagged where the blade had caught unevenly. He had not been careful enough. 

Panic clawed at the edges of his mind.

Fix it.

Before Rosencrantz woke. Before he saw.

Guildenstern swung his legs over the side of the bed, his pulse hammering. His clothes from the night before were stiff with blood, clinging to his skin like a second punishment. His fingers fumbled with the ties of his shirt, but his hands were shaking, weak from blood loss. He needed water. He needed—

A yawn. A stretch.

And then—

“Why does it smell like metal in here?”

Guildenstern went still.

The bed creaked as Rosencrantz shifted, smacking his lips, still half-drowned in sleep. Guildenstern didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, the moment would pass. Maybe Rosencrantz wouldn’t—

A pause.

“Guildenstern?”

Guildenstern clenched his jaw. His fingers dug into his knee. He did not turn around.

The sheets rustled again. Then a sharp intake of breath.

“…Why is there blood?”

A long silence.

Guildenstern forced his voice to be steady. “It’s nothing.”

Rosencrantz let out a short, confused laugh. “Nothing? Guildenstern, the bed looks like you died in it!”

Guildenstern still didn’t move. He could feel Rosencrantz’s stare boring into his back, could already hear the worry creeping into his voice. This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid.

The mattress shifted. And then—warm hands on his arm.

Guildenstern flinched violently.

Rosencrantz pulled back as if burned. His voice was smaller now. “What happened?”

Lie.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Slowly, Rosencrantz sat beside him. He didn’t speak again for a long time.

Guildenstern kept his eyes on the floor, waiting for anger, for disappointment, for anything. But when Rosencrantz finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Uncertain.

“…Did you mean to?”

Guildenstern swallowed, his throat dry. His mouth opened—but no answer came.

Rosencrantz exhaled. “You should have woken me.”

Guildenstern let out a bitter laugh, hollow and humorless. “And what would you have done?”

“I—” Rosencrantz faltered. “I don’t know.”

Exactly.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Then, without another word, Rosencrantz stood, moving toward the washbasin.

Guildenstern didn’t stop him.

He listened to the quiet sounds of water being poured, of cloth being wrung out.

Then—gentle hands pressing a damp cloth to his arm.

Guildenstern inhaled sharply at the sting, but Rosencrantz didn’t speak. He only worked carefully, methodically, dabbing away the blood with a tenderness Guildenstern did not deserve.

His throat burned.

“I didn’t want you to see.” His voice barely broke the silence.

Rosencrantz’s hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. “I see you anyway.”

His fingers were careful, moving over Guildenstern’s arm with a tenderness that made his chest ache. He had never deserved this softness, never wanted to be seen like this. But Rosencrantz saw him anyway, and worse—he stayed .

Guildenstern kept his gaze fixed on the floor. It was easier that way, easier than looking at Rosencrantz’s face and seeing whatever was written there. Pity? Worry? Love? He didn’t know which would be worse.

The cloth dragged against raw skin, pulling another sharp breath from him. Rosencrantz hesitated. “Does it hurt?”

Guildenstern almost laughed. That’s the point, isn’t it? But he bit back the cruel answer, swallowing it down with everything else festering inside him.

“I’m fine,” he said instead. A lie. One of the small ones.

Rosencrantz didn’t argue, but his silence was heavy.

For a long time, there was only the sound of water dripping into the basin, the soft scrape of cloth against skin. Then Rosencrantz shifted closer, and his voice was quiet when he spoke again.

“Was it bad last night?”

Guildenstern didn’t answer right away. He flexed his fingers against his knee, feeling the dampness of the cloth still pressed to his arm. He hated how much Rosencrantz knew him. How easily he could see the things Guildenstern tried to keep hidden.

“It’s always bad,” he murmured finally.

Rosencrantz set the cloth aside, his fingers ghosting over Guildenstern’s wrist. He didn’t press, didn’t ask the questions Guildenstern didn’t want to answer. Instead, he leaned in, resting his forehead against Guildenstern’s shoulder. His breath was warm against his neck, steady and alive .

Guildenstern’s throat tightened.

“You’re angry with me,” he said.

Rosencrantz shook his head against his shoulder. “I’m not.”

“Then you should be.”

Rosencrantz sighed, and his arms came up, wrapping loosely around Guildenstern’s waist. A slow, hesitant embrace. As if he was afraid Guildenstern would slip through his fingers if he held too tight.

Guildenstern turned his head slightly, just enough that their temples brushed. A small touch, but it sent a shiver through him. He had been untouched for so long. No one else had ever held him like this—not to control, not to punish, not to fix , but simply to hold .

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean into it. Into him .

Rosencrantz shifted again, tilting his head, and Guildenstern felt it before he saw it—the gentle press of lips against his temple, barely there, hesitant, waiting. A question. A promise.

Guildenstern turned to meet it.

It was soft. A whisper of a kiss, warm and grounding, the exact opposite of everything inside his head. His fingers curled around Rosencrantz’s wrist, gripping tight, real , as if to steady himself against the fragile moment.

Rosencrantz sighed against his mouth, pressing closer, and Guildenstern let him.

For once, he didn’t count the seconds.

Rosencrantz’s hands slid up his sides, tentative but sure, mapping the lines of his body as if memorizing them. Guildenstern’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t dared to hope for it.

“Is this okay?” Rosencrantz murmured, his lips brushing against Guildenstern’s jaw.

Guildenstern nodded, unable to trust his voice. His fingers tightened around his wrist, anchoring himself in the moment.

Rosencrantz’s hands moved lower, tracing the curve of his hips, the dip of his waist. His touch was gentle, reverent, as if he was afraid he might break.

“You’re beautiful,” Rosencrantz whispered, his breath warm against his skin.

Guildenstern’s cheeks burned, his eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t believe him, couldn’t believe him, but he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to.

Rosencrantz’s lips found his again, slow and deliberate, his tongue tracing the seam of Guildenstern’s mouth. He opened for him, a soft moan escaping his lips as their tongues met.

Rosencrantz’s hands moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants. He tensed, his breath catching in his throat.

“Trust me,” Rosencrantz murmured, his lips brushing against his ear.

He nodded, his entire body trembling with anticipation.

Guildenstern’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven gasps. His fingers tightened in the sheets, the fabric twisting under his grip. He could feel Rosencrantz’s smile against his neck, smug and knowing, and it made his stomach clench with a mix of embarrassment and desire.

“Tell me,” Rosencrantz murmured again, his lips brushing against the shell of Guildenstern’s ear. His voice was soft, coaxing, but there was a firmness underneath it that left no room for evasion. “Tell me what you want.”

Guildenstern’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his cheeks burning. His thoughts were a chaotic jumble, torn between the shame of asking and the raw, aching need that pulsed through him. He had never been good at this—at voicing his desires, at letting someone else see him like this. But Rosencrantz was relentless, and the heat of his body pressed so close made it impossible to think straight.

“I—” Guildenstern’s voice cracked, and he had to pause to steady it. “I want you to… to…”

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. The words stuck in his throat, heavy and humiliating. But Rosencrantz didn’t push. He only waited, his breath warm against Guildenstern’s skin, his hands burning where they rested just above his hips. And somehow, that patience was worse than any demand.

Guildenstern squeezed his eyes shut, his lip tucked in his teeth. 

The scholar already knew. Guildenstern could feel it in the way he shifted, the way his hands moved lower, the way his breath hitched with anticipation. And then—

Rosencrantz’s lips were on him again, but this time, they were moving lower. Down his chest, over his ribs, across the flat plane of his stomach. Guildenstern’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, his body trembling with every touch. He could feel the heat of Rosencrantz’s breath against his skin, the way his lips curved into a smile as he pressed a kiss just below his navel.

“Tell me,” Rosencrantz murmured again, his voice soft and deep. “Say it.”

Guildenstern’s hands clenched in the sheets, his head falling back against the pillow. He was unraveling, coming apart under Rosencrantz’s touch, and he hated it—hated how easily Rosencrantz could do this to him, how he could strip him bare with just a few words, a few touches.

But he hated the thought of stopping even more.

“I want you to—” Guildenstern’s voice broke, and he had to take a shaky breath before he could continue. “To suck me.”

His words were cut off by a sharp intake of breath as Rosencrantz’s lips wrapped around him, hot and wet and perfect . Guildenstern’s back arched off the bed, a strangled moan tearing from his throat. His hands moved from the sheets to Rosencrantz’s hair, tangling in the soft strands, gripping tight as if to ground himself.

Rosencrantz hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting up Guildenstern’s spine. His tongue swirled around the tip, teasing, tasting, before he took him deeper, his lips sliding down his length with a practiced ease that left Guildenstern dizzy.

“Oh, God.” Guildenstern gasped, his hips bucking instinctively. His fingers tightened in Rosencrantz’s hair, pulling slightly, and Rosencrantz moaned in response, the sound muffled but unmistakable. It sent a fresh wave of heat through Guildenstern’s body, and he couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his lips.

Rosencrantz pulled back slightly, his lips still wrapped around him, and looked up at Guildenstern through his lashes. His eyes were dark, filled with a kind of hunger that made Guildenstern’s stomach twist with want. And then he smiled—slow, satisfied, and just a little bit smug.

“Good?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Guildenstern could only nod, his chest heaving. His hands were shaking where they gripped Rosencrantz’s hair, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back. “Don’t stop,” he whispered, his voice desperate. “Please, don’t stop—”

Rosencrantz didn’t need to be told twice. His lips closed around him again, his tongue swirling in a way that made Guildenstern’s toes curl. He moved with a rhythm that was maddening, alternating between slow, deep strokes and quick, teasing flicks of his tongue that left Guildenstern gasping for air.

Guildenstern’s body was on fire, every nerve alight with pleasure. He could feel the pressure building in his gut, coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke of Rosencrantz’s tongue, every suck of his lips. His hips moved instinctively, thrusting shallowly into the warmth of Rosencrantz’s mouth, and Rosencrantz moaned again, the sound sending a jolt of pleasure straight to Guildenstern’s core.

“You’re so good,” Rosencrantz murmured against his skin, his voice low and rough. “So fucking good, Guildenstern. I could do this forever.”

The words sent a shiver through Guildenstern’s body, his chest tightening with something that felt dangerously close to affection. He didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve the way Rosencrantz looked at him, touched him, wanted him—but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when it felt like this.

Rosencrantz’s lips moved faster, his tongue pressing against him in just the right way, and Guildenstern felt the coil inside him snap. His back arched off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as he came, his body shaking with the force of it.

Rosencrantz didn’t pull away. He stayed with him, swallowing every drop, his hands gripping Guildenstern’s hips to keep him grounded. His chest heaved, his body trembling as he came down from the high, his fingers still tangled in Rosencrantz’s hair.

Rosencrantz pulled back slowly, his lips swollen and wet, and looked up at him with a satisfied smile. “You taste perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Always so perfect.”

Guildenstern’s cheeks flushed, his chest tightening with a mix of embarrassment and something softer, something he didn’t want to name. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat when he leaned in, his lips brushing against his.

The kiss was slow, tender, and Guildenstern felt his heart clench in his chest. His hands moved from Rosencrantz’s hair to his face, his fingers trembling as they traced the line of his jaw. He could taste himself on his tongue, and it sent a fresh wave of heat through his body.

“You’re too good to me,” Guildenstern whispered, his voice barely audible.

Rosencrantz smiled against his lips, his hands moving to rest on his hips. “You deserve it,” he murmured. “You deserve everything.”

Chapter Text

Guildenstern smiled. He had practiced it carefully, smoothing the edges, making sure it looked real. He nodded at the right times, laughed when Rosencrantz laughed, and kept his voice light, as though last night had never happened.

He knew Rosencrantz didn’t believe it.

Across the tavern table, Rosencrantz watched him with a softness that made Guildenstern feel like glass—thin, delicate, easily shattered. Every movement was met with quiet scrutiny, every moment of silence filled with hesitant glances. It would have been unbearable if not for the way Rosencrantz tried .

Tried not to hover.

Tried not to make it obvious that he had washed the bloodstained sheets himself after Guildenstern had woken up.

Tried not to hold him too tightly when they walked through the streets, as if afraid Guildenstern might slip through his fingers and disappear.

Guildenstern didn’t want to be a ghost in Rosencrantz’s life. So he played his part well.

“So,” he said, lifting his mug as if nothing had changed, “where are we off to next?”

Rosencrantz blinked. “Next?”

Guildenstern shrugged. “We’re always drifting, aren’t we? It seems unnatural to linger.”

Rosencrantz hesitated. “We don’t have to leave.”

“Of course we do,” Guildenstern said, too easily, too quickly. He took a slow sip of ale, ignoring the way his stomach churned. “What else would we do? Sit here forever? Drink ourselves into oblivion?”

Rosencrantz tilted his head, studying him. “You don’t even like ale.”

Guildenstern set the mug down. Carefully. He had not counted his sips. He forced himself not to. “A man can change his tastes, can’t he?”

Rosencrantz’s fingers drummed lightly against the tabletop. His usual brightness, the careless way he filled the air with words, was subdued today. “Are you pretending?” he asked, not unkindly.

Guildenstern forced a smirk. “Aren’t I always?”

Rosencrantz frowned but didn’t press.

Instead, he reached across the table, sliding his hand over Guildenstern’s wrist. His thumb traced absent patterns against the skin, lingering near the bandages hidden beneath Guildenstern’s sleeve. A reminder. A silent question.

Guildenstern let him, though every muscle in his body was screaming to pull away.

“I just don’t want you to think you have to—” Rosencrantz exhaled, shaking his head. “You don’t have to be fine with me. Least of all pretend to be”

Guildenstern swallowed down the bitterness rising in his throat. But I do. If he wasn’t fine, Rosencrantz would worry. If Rosencrantz worried, he would pity him. If he pitied him, he would see him, really him. And if he saw him—

Guildenstern squeezed Rosencrantz’s hand, cutting off the thought before it could finish. “I know.” Another lie. One of the bigger ones.

Rosencrantz didn’t look convinced, but he smiled anyway. Practiced.

The two of them, smiling at each other, pretending.

Guildenstern wondered which of them would break first.

“Let’s get going.”

The library was quiet, filled with the soft rustle of turning pages and the occasional scrape of a chair against the wooden floor. Light streamed in through the high, arched windows, dust floating in the still air. It should have been peaceful. It looked peaceful.

Guildenstern’s hands were shaking.

Not enough to be noticeable—he made sure of that—but enough that the words on the page blurred when he tried to focus. His fingers curled into the paper, pressing down to keep himself steady. He forced himself to count the lines of text, but the numbers slipped through his grasp like water.

Not good enough. Start again.

“Guilden?”

He flinched before he could stop himself. Rosencrantz was watching him from across the table, a faint crease between his brows.

“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes,” Rosencrantz said, voice light but careful.

“I’m thinking,” Guildenstern replied smoothly, forcing a smirk. “It happens sometimes.”

Rosencrantz didn’t laugh. He wasn’t laughing as much lately.

Guildenstern turned his gaze back to the book, but he could feel Rosencrantz still looking at him. The weight of it pressed against his ribs, tightening until his breath came short. The lie was suffocating, but the truth—God, the truth —would be worse.

He didn’t want to lie to Rosencrantz.

But if he told him—if he showed him—then it would become real. Then Rosencrantz would look at him differently, and that was a guilt Guildenstern couldn’t bear. But this? Hiding it? That was guilt, too.

He was drowning either way.

Guildenstern tapped his fingers against the table. One, two, three, four—

Too fast.

Again.

One. Pause. Two. Pause. Three.

He didn’t know what would happen if he got it wrong, only that it would .

His stomach twisted violently. His shirt sleeves felt too tight. His skin was burning beneath them. He hated the feeling. Hated the way the bandages pressed against the fresh wounds, a reminder of what he had done, of what he needed to do.

The thoughts were getting louder.

The knife was upstairs, in their dorm.

Rosencrantz’s hand brushed against his across the table, grounding him. It was not enough.

The air in the library was thin, stretching too tight around him. The walls felt closer than they had before. His fingers twitched against the pages of his book. His eyes traced the words, but they might as well have been ink stains, meaningless shapes drowning under the weight of his thoughts.

His breathing hitched.

Wrong. It was wrong.

He had been sitting here too long. Had he shifted in his seat evenly? Had he breathed evenly? What if he had disrupted the balance of things? What if— what if —

His hands started to tremble harder. His pulse skittered, too fast, skipping beats, or maybe adding beats—he didn’t know, but it was wrong .

Fix it.

Guildenstern pressed a hand against his chest as if he could physically hold himself together. The numbers weren’t working. The counting wasn’t working. He needed—he needed something, anything—

“Guil.”

Rosencrantz’s voice was soft, but it hit like a crack in glass.

Guildenstern’s breath caught in his throat. His vision narrowed. The edges of the world blurred, the sound of rustling pages turning into a roar, the light from the windows too bright .

“Guildenstern.” Rosencrantz’s chair scraped against the floor as he leaned closer.

Too close.

Run.

But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe .

“Hey,” Rosencrantz murmured, his voice gentler now. “It’s alright. Look at me.”

Guildenstern couldn’t .

His fingers dug into his own ribs, nails pressing into skin hard enough to hurt, but the pain wasn’t enough . His lungs wouldn’t expand properly, his body felt wrong, and the thoughts were too loud, spiraling too fast for him to catch.

You’re dying.

He knew it wasn’t true. He knew it. But his body didn’t.

His chest was collapsing.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this here.

Rosencrantz’s hand wrapped around his wrist, careful . Not tight, not pulling—just there . Solid and warm.

“Breathe with me,” he said softly. He inhaled, slow and steady, holding it for a beat before exhaling. “Just like that. Can you try?”

Guildenstern squeezed his eyes shut. His throat felt tight, his body stiff, but he tried .

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

It wasn’t enough. But it was something .

Rosencrantz didn’t let go. Didn’t press him. Didn’t pity him.

He just stayed.

And somehow, even through the chaos in his mind, Guildenstern found himself clinging to that.

The walk back to their dorm was quiet. Rosencrantz stayed close, but not too close—just enough that Guildenstern could feel his presence, steady and there . He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to talk.

Guildenstern was grateful.

His body still felt wrong, his skin stretched too tight over his bones, his ribs aching from the effort of breathing. The panic had receded, but it left behind a hollow exhaustion, as if something inside him had cracked further, widening the space where all the thoughts festered.

The library had been too open. Too public . Even now, his mind churned with the fear that someone had seen —had watched him fall apart like a child —

He clenched his fists. Stop. Stop thinking about it.

The dormitory hallway was empty when they reached it. The dim glow of lanterns flickered against stone walls, and the familiar stillness of the place settled over them like a heavy blanket.

Guildenstern reached for the door to their shared room, but his hand was unsteady. Before he could fumble with the handle, Rosencrantz reached past him, opening it with ease. He didn’t say anything about it. He just let them inside.

The room was small—barely enough space for two beds, two desks, and a single window. The sheets on Guildenstern’s bed were clean now, free of blood, the memory of last night scrubbed away. But he could still feel it. The ghost of it clung to him, clung to the air.

He lingered near the door, unsure of what to do next.

Rosencrantz set his bag down, then turned to him. “You should sit.”

Guildenstern almost refused. He wanted to say he was fine. That he didn’t need to be fussed over . But his body betrayed him, his knees weak, exhaustion pressing into his skull like a dull ache.

So he sat.

Rosencrantz hesitated, then sat beside him on the edge of the bed. He fidgeted, fingers twitching against his knee. He was holding back—Guildenstern could see it.

Finally, he spoke, quiet but firm. “You scared me.”

Guildenstern swallowed hard. He knew. He had seen it in Rosencrantz’s eyes back in the library, in the way his usual brightness had dimmed into something more fragile.

“I’m sorry.” The words felt thin, insufficient.

Rosencrantz let out a breath, shaking his head. “I just—” He turned slightly, studying Guildenstern with something unreadable in his expression. “I don’t know how to help you.”

Guildenstern looked away. “There’s nothing to help.”

Rosencrantz made a frustrated noise. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

Silence.

Guildenstern stared at his hands, at the bandages hidden beneath his sleeves. His mind itched with the urge to count something, anything, but it wouldn’t fix this .

Rosencrantz exhaled slowly. Then, as if making a decision, he moved closer. His hand hovered near Guildenstern’s before finally resting on top of it, his touch light but present .

“You don’t have to talk,” Rosencrantz murmured. “But can you just—stay here? With me?”

Guildenstern didn’t answer right away.

But he didn’t pull away either.

Rosencrantz didn’t move his hand. He didn’t fidget or shift nervously the way he usually did when the air between them grew too heavy. He just waited .

Guildenstern let out a slow breath. He was tired. Not just in body, but in everything . The kind of tired that seeped into his bones, that made his thoughts heavier than they already were.

Without a word, Rosencrantz shifted, tugging him gently—not pulling, not forcing, just offering . Guildenstern hesitated, but only for a moment.

Then, cautiously, he let himself lean into the warmth of Rosencrantz’s body.

The contact was soft, uncertain at first. Rosencrantz adjusted carefully, letting Guildenstern settle against him, then wrapping an arm around his waist in a slow, deliberate motion. His grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t suffocating—just there , warm and steady. His other hand traced absentminded circles against Guildenstern’s back, soothing in a way he probably wasn’t even aware of.

Neither of them spoke.

Guildenstern closed his eyes, listening to the quiet rise and fall of Rosencrantz’s breathing, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against his ribs. It was grounding. Real.

His body still ached. His skin still crawled with the memory of panic, the phantom weight of too many thoughts pressing down on him. But here, in this small space, in the warmth of Rosencrantz’s arms—he felt less alone .

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t matter.

For once, there was nothing to count.

Just this.

Just him .

A thought pressed against the edges of his mind, insistent and unavoidable. Rosencrantz had given so much, had taken care of him, had made him feel things he hadn’t thought possible. And now, Guildenstern wanted to give something in return.

He pulled back slightly, his gaze flickering down to Rosencrantz’s mouth, then lower. His pulse quickened. He wasn’t sure he could do this—wasn’t sure he knew how—but the way Rosencrantz looked at him, with that mix of adoration and quiet longing, made him want to try.

Rosencrantz tilted his head, his brow furrowing in concern. “Guildenstern?”

The sound of his name, spoken so softly, sent a shiver down his spine. Guildenstern swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they moved to the laces of Rosencrantz’s breeches.

“Let me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Rosencrantz’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face before it was replaced by something warmer, something that made Guildenstern’s chest ache. His hands moved to cover Guildenstern’s, his touch gentle but firm.

“You don’t have to,” Rosencrantz said softly. “Not unless you want to.”

Guildenstern’s throat tightened. He did want to. He wasn’t sure why—wasn’t sure if it was the way Rosencrantz had cared for him, or the way he looked at him like he was something precious—but he wanted to. Needed to.

“I want to,” he said, his voice steadier this time.

Rosencrantz hesitated for a moment, searching his face for something, before nodding. He leaned back slightly, giving Guildenstern room, his arms resting loosely at his sides. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven movements.

Guildenstern’s fingers fumbled with the laces, his hands shaking so badly that he had to stop and take a steadying breath. Rosencrantz didn’t rush him, didn’t say a word. He just waited, his gaze fixed on Guildenstern’s face, his expression soft and patient.

Finally, the laces came undone, and Guildenstern slid Rosencrantz’s breeches down just enough to free him. His breath caught at the sight of him, fully erect, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. Guildenstern’s mouth went dry.

He glanced up, meeting Rosencrantz’s eyes, and saw the trust there, the quiet encouragement. It gave him the courage he needed.

Leaning forward, Guildenstern pressed a tentative kiss to the inside of Rosencrantz’s thigh, his lips brushing against warm skin. He felt Rosencrantz shiver beneath him, heard the sharp intake of breath, and it spurred him on.

His lips trailed higher, leaving a path of soft, open-mouthed kisses until they reached the base of Rosencrantz’s cock. Guildenstern hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, before he took the tip into his mouth.

Rosencrantz’s reaction was immediate. His hips jerked, a low groan tearing from his throat, and his hands flew to Guildenstern’s shoulders, gripping them tightly. Guildenstern froze, his eyes darting up to Rosencrantz’s face, worried he’d done something wrong.

But Rosencrantz was staring down at him, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted. “ Shit , Guildenstern,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire. “That feels incredible.”

The praise sent a jolt of heat straight to Guildenstern’s core. Encouraged, he took more of Rosencrantz into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head before he began to move down the length of him.

Rosencrantz’s grip on his shoulders tightened, his fingers digging into flesh, but Guildenstern didn’t mind. He focused on the weight of Rosencrantz’s cock in his mouth, on the salty taste of him, on the way his breath hitched with every movement of Guildenstern’s tongue.

It was overwhelming, the way Rosencrantz reacted to him. Every moan, every twitch of his hips, every half-whispered word of praise made Guildenstern’s body burn with need. He hadn’t known it could be like this—hadn’t known he could make someone feel this good.

“ God , you’re perfect,” Rosencrantz moaned, his voice trembling. “Your mouth— fuck —it’s like you were made for this.”

Guildenstern’s cheeks burned at the words, but he didn’t stop. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder, his hand moving to stroke the base of Rosencrantz’s cock in time with his mouth.

Rosencrantz cursed under his breath, his hips bucking involuntarily. “Guildenstern— wait—I’m not going to last if you keep—”

But Guildenstern didn’t stop. He wanted this—wanted to hear Rosencrantz come undone, wanted to be the one who made him fall apart. He increased the pace of his movements, his tongue pressing against the underside of Rosencrantz’s cock, and felt the moment Rosencrantz’s control snapped.

Rosencrantz’s hands tightened painfully on Guildenstern’s shoulders, his back arching off the bed as he spilled with a strangled grunt. Guildenstern swallowed everything, his throat working around the warmth that flooded his mouth, his hand slowing to a gentle stroke as Rosencrantz’s body shuddered with the force of his release.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was Rosencrantz’s labored breathing, the quiet rustle of the sheets as he shifted. Then, slowly, his hands relaxed, sliding from Guildenstern’s shoulders to cup his face instead.

Guildenstern looked up, his lips swollen, his face flushed, and saw the look of awe in Rosencrantz’s eyes.

“You’re incredible,” Rosencrantz whispered, his voice still rough with pleasure. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Guildenstern’s lips, his fingers gently brushing against his cheekbones.

Guildenstern’s heart swelled at the touch, at the way Rosencrantz looked at him like he was something to be cherished. He’d never felt like that before—never thought he could.

“No,” Rosencrantz continued, his lips brushing against Guildenstern’s as he spoke. “You’re more than incredible. You’re… you’re everything.”

Guildenstern’s throat tightened, his chest aching with an emotion he couldn’t name. He didn’t know how to respond—didn’t know if he deserved those words—so he just kissed Rosencrantz instead, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the way his lips moved against his.

Rosencrantz sighed against his mouth, his hands sliding down to rest on Guildenstern’s hips. He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against his, breathing still uneven.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on his skin.

Guildenstern’s hands trembled slightly as they rested on Rosencrantz’s shoulders. His heart pounded in his chest, a wild rhythm that echoed the storm of emotions swirling inside him. Their lips had barely parted after that last kiss, and now, without words, Guildenstern shifted, straddling his hips.

Rosencrantz’s hands instinctively moved to steady him, his fingers warm and firm on his thighs. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice hushed, almost reverent.

Guildenstern nodded, though his throat felt dry, his thoughts jumbled. He wasn’t sure of much these days, but he was sure of this—of him. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice rough with need.

He searched his face for a moment, his expression soft, before nodding. “Okay,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to cradle Guildenstern’s waist. “But… are you ready?”

Guildenstern’s lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile. Ready. As if he’d ever been ready for anything in his life. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he leaned down, his forehead pressing against the other’s. “I want this,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “I want you.”

Rosencrantz’s breath hitched, and he nodded again, his hands tightening ever so slightly on Guildenstern’s hips. “Okay,” he repeated, his voice barely audible.

Guildenstern closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of Rosencrantz beneath him—the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest. He reached between them, his fingers brushing against Rosencrantz, who was still slick from their earlier intimacy. Rosencrantz let out a shaky breath, his hips twitching involuntarily.

Taking a deep breath, Guildenstern guided Rosencrantz to his entrance, his body tense with anticipation. He knew this would hurt—knew he wasn’t prepared, knew Rosencrantz had only just finished moments ago. But he didn’t care. He needed this—needed to feel Rosencrantz inside him, grounding him, anchoring him to the present.

He sank down slowly, his breath catching as the head of Rosencrantz’s cock pressed against him. The stretch was immediate, sharp, and he bit his lip to stifle a gasp.

“Guildenstern,” Rosencrantz murmured, his voice tight with concern. “Wait—let me—”

“No,” Guildenstern interrupted, his voice firm despite the tremor in it. “I need… I need this. Please.”

Rosencrantz hesitated, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling back on Guildenstern’s hips. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice strained. “Just… go slow.”

Guildenstern nodded, though slow was the last thing he wanted. He pressed down further, his body burning as it stretched to accommodate Rosencrantz. His fingers dug into Rosencrantz’s shoulders, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The pain was intense, almost overwhelming, but beneath it was something else—a deep, aching need that made him push through it.

Rosencrantz’s hands tightened on his hips, his own breathing ragged. “God, Guildenstern,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You’re so… tight.”

Guildenstern’s lips curved into a faint, pained smile. “Good,” he managed, his voice shaking. He continued to lower himself, inch by agonizing inch, until he was fully seated, Rosencrantz buried deep inside him.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Guildenstern’s body trembled, his muscles clenched tight around Rosencrantz, who let out a low, shuddering groan. The pain was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but it was starting to fade, replaced by a heavy, aching fullness that made Guildenstern’s head spin.

“Are you okay?” Rosencrantz asked, his voice thick with worry.

Guildenstern nodded, though his eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Just… give me a second.”

Rosencrantz nodded, his hands moving to rub soothing circles on Guildenstern’s thighs. “Take your time,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “I’ve got you.”

Guildenstern breathed deeply, focusing on the warmth of Rosencrantz’s hands, the steady rhythm of his own breaths. Slowly, the pain began to ebb, replaced by a strange, heavy pleasure that made his stomach tighten. He shifted experimentally, his hips rolling slightly, and a shiver ran through him as Rosencrantz’s cock brushed against something deep inside him.

Rosencrantz let out a low groan, his hands tightening on Guildenstern’s thighs. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice strained. “You’re so good...”

Guildenstern’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he opened his eyes to meet Rosencrantz’s gaze. There was something raw, almost primal in the way Rosencrantz looked at him, and it sent a surge of heat through Guildenstern’s veins.

“Move,” Guildenstern whispered, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

Rosencrantz hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching Guildenstern’s face, before nodding. His hands moved to Guildenstern’s hips, gripping tightly as he began to thrust up into him.

The movement was slow at first, careful, hesitant, but Guildenstern quickly urged him on, his hips rocking to meet Rosencrantz’s thrusts. The friction was intense, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through him, and he let out a low, broken moan.

Rosencrantz’s breath hitched, and he began to move faster, his thrusts growing deeper, more urgent. His hands tightened on Guildenstern’s hips, pulling him down onto his cock with each thrust, and Guildenstern could feel the heat building inside him, coiling tight in his stomach.

“God, Guildenstern,” Rosencrantz gasped, his voice rough.

Guildenstern’s fingers dug into Rosencrantz’s shoulders, his head falling back as pleasure washed over him. He could feel Rosencrantz inside him, every inch of him, and it was overwhelming, intoxicating. He moved with Rosencrantz, their bodies crashing together in a rhythm that was almost desperate, as if they were trying to erase the distance between them, trying to become one.

“Rosencrantz,” Guildenstern panted, his voice ragged. “I’m… I’m close.”

“Me too,” Rosencrantz gasped, his thrusts growing erratic. His hands slid up to grip Guildenstern’s waist, pulling him down hard onto his cock, and Guildenstern cried out as pleasure exploded through him.

He came hard, his body trembling as waves of ecstasy washed over him. Rosencrantz followed moments later, his hips jerking as he buried himself deep inside Guildenstern, his release hot and intense.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies pressed together, their breaths mingling as they came down from the high. Then Rosencrantz’s hands moved to cradle Guildenstern’s face, his thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks.

Guildenstern nodded, though his body still trembled. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m… I’m fine.”

Rosencrantz searched his face for a moment before nodding, his expression softening. “Good,” he murmured, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Guildenstern’s lips. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Guildenstern’s throat tightened, and he shook his head. “I’m not,” he whispered.

“You are,” Rosencrantz insisted, his voice firm. “You’re… everything.”

Guildenstern’s chest ached with an emotion he couldn’t name, and he leaned into Rosencrantz’s touch, his eyes closing as he allowed himself to be held. 

He’ll be okay.

Chapter Text

“Yes, well,” The teacher monologued, “there is, of course, soft wheat, which is grown in the western fields of here, and is commonly used for such and such, owing to its mild name. Hard wheat, unlike so, is in fact much more brittle…”

Guildenstern blinked twice. Not at the wheat taxonomy, but at a creeping thought just beneath it: You aren’t counting, one, two, three–

He pressed his palms together to keep from whispering it now, right here. His knuckles whitening.

“…The ancient Romans categorized not only by amount but by length and color. There was also spelt—”

Guildenstern’s eye twitched. He looked at Rosencrantz.

“Tell me something insane,” he whispered.

Rosencrantz didn’t even blink. “If you hum loud enough near the barley, it will dance.”

He focused on that instead of the itch behind his jaw. the teacher had now moved on to barley, of course.

He started to chew the inside of his cheek, subconsciously numbering the amount of times that it took for his teeth to catch the loose skin. Though he caught himself, and quickly forced the action away.

“…A wise man once wrote, ‘The righteous grain nourishes both soul and bowel.’”

Rosencrantz raised an eyebrow. Guildenstern snorted softly.

“…both soul and bowel,” the teacher repeated, turning slowly toward the benches with the solemnity of a man delivering scripture.

That’s when he spotted it—Rosencrantz, leaning back, smiling like a man who knew he didn’t belong in a room full of reverent ears and dusty scrolls.

“You there,” Bertram said, lifting his chalk like a sword. “Yes. You with the grin. Find aught amusing in the theology of grains?”

The room turned. Twenty heads pivoted like weathervanes. Guildenstern stared straight ahead, willing himself invisible.

Rosencrantz sat up, brushing crumbs of nothing from his tunic.

“Only wondering, sir,” he said with an easy lilt, “whether the righteous bowel you mention is metaphorical or… in fact the sort that informs one’s humours.”

A beat of silence.

Someone in the back snorted.

His lips tightened into a line so thin it might’ve snapped. “You mock the sacred labor of agronomy?”

Rosencrantz lifted his hands in mock deference. “Not at all, my lord. I merely seek clarification. For instance—when you described soft wheat as having a ‘mild temperament’… would you say it’s more melancholic or phlegmatic in disposition?”

A ripple of laughter passed through the room like a breeze through tall grass.

Guildenstern shrank in his seat. His heart kicked up. This wasn’t part of the plan. Attention meant unpredictability, and unpredictability meant chaos. He could feel the compulsions stirring, grasping at control.

He slammed his chalk against the board with a crack.

“Out,” he barked. “If you cannot maintain seriousness, you will not remain.”

Rosencrantz stood up, sweeping his arms like a courtier at the end of a play. “And so I am expelled by barley and saved by rye.”

Another wave of chuckles. Even the teacher looked ready to combust.

“Go,” He said. “Now.”

As Rosencrantz sauntered down the aisle, he winked at Guildenstern.

Guildenstern didn’t wink back.

The moment the door closed behind his friend, the room settled. Bertram grunted and returned to his diagrams of grain supply.

But Guildenstern’s thoughts didn’t.

He felt them rising now—because Rosencrantz was gone. The buffer. The distraction. The part of his mind that wasn’t just his . And now it was all him. All noise. All exposure.

You didn’t stop him. You could’ve. If he gets in trouble—if something happens—it’ll be your fault.

He squeezed his hands together until his knuckles ached.

The professor droned on. “The distinction between oat and millet has long been a source of confusion…”

Guildenstern couldn’t hear him. Not really. His focus narrowed to a point: You must say a phrase. Under your breath. Twelve times. Or Rosencrantz will trip and break his neck on the chapel stairs.

He resisted once. Twice.

The pressure rose like steam behind his eyes.

He gave in.

Whispered it—fast, quiet. Someone near him turned, just barely. A glance.

He flushed and turned the whisper into a cough.

Outside, he imagined Rosencrantz laughing, completely unaware of how precariously his life was balanced in his mind.

He wanted to follow him. To make sure he was alright. To stop thinking.

But instead, he sat still in the hall, bound by shame.

The professor was still talking.

“…and if one examines the shape of the kernel…”

Guildenstern’s thoughts blurred into static.

He just had to survive until the end of the hour.

.

.

.

Inside of their dorm, Rosencrantz lay sprawled on his back across his narrow cot, one leg hanging off, a book open on his chest, completely unread.

“Ah,” he sighed, “The righteous grain returns.”

Guildenstern shut the door with more force than necessary.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

Rosencrantz tilted his head toward him, brow raised. “Done what?”

“You know what.” Guildenstern crossed to the small desk and started rearranging the ink pots, even though they were already in order. “You embarrassed us. In front of everyone.”

“Us?” Rosencrantz blinked. “I was the one thrown out. You were the portrait of studious despair.” As if to emphasize his point, he slumped back with an exaggerated grimace.

“That’s not the point.”

He adjusted the candle. Turned it half an inch. Then back again.

“You laughed,” Guildenstern said. “You made a scene. People looked at me.”

“They laughed,” Rosencrantz said. “They enjoyed it. Even grim old Henrik was trying not to grin.”

“They looked at me.”

“And?”

Guildenstern finally stopped fidgeting. He turned around, arms crossed, the pressure building again like it had in the hall.

“And I—” His voice caught. “I don’t like being watched. You know that. I don’t like being… seen. Not when I’m not prepared for it.”

Rosencrantz sat up slowly, the book falling forgotten to the floor.

“I wasn’t trying to put you in the center,” he said. “You weren’t the target. Bertram was. And his sermon to the sacred oat.”

Guildenstern sat on the edge of his own cot, elbows on knees. “You don’t get it.”

Rosencrantz stayed quiet.

Guildenstern rubbed his face. “After you left, it got worse. I couldn’t stop. The thoughts came like they always do, but louder. Because you weren’t there. Because I was alone and people were looking and I whispered and I broke . Again.”

“You didn’t break,” Rosencrantz said. “You stayed.”

Guildenstern let out a bitter laugh. “No. I whispered compulsions under my breath like a lunatic. I counted steps to the dormitory and still checked the candle twice. I’m barely holding it together most days. You know that… and then you…” He looked up. “You make it all look like a joke.”

Silence.

Rosencrantz looked at him, and for once didn’t smile.

“I joke because it’s the only way I know how to live in this place,” he said. “Because if I take everything as seriously as they want me to, I’ll go mad in a much louder, much less poetic way than you.”

Guildenstern’s hands tightened on his sleeves, “That’s not comforting.”

“I’m not trying to be comforting,” Rosencrantz said. “I’m saying: I know I’m not like you. I don’t see the same ghosts you do. But I do see you fighting them. Every day. Quietly. In the middle of lectures about millet. And I know that if I didn’t sit next to you and say something stupid now and then, you’d lose your grip. So would I. So would anyone.”

Guildenstern stared at the floor. His mind was already chewing through the interaction, layering interpretations, worrying over tone, word choice, posture.

Was Rosencrantz patronizing him? Dismissing him? Or worse—was he right?

The room was dim. The candle flickered in its dish.

“You’re reckless,” Guildenstern muttered.

“You’re rigid.”

“I have to be.”

Rosencrantz leaned forward, elbows on knees to match him. “I know. And I’m not trying to fix you. But you can’t fix me either.”

Guildenstern didn’t reply.

Rosencrantz sighed and sat back. “Look. If you want me to shut up during lectures, I will. If you want me to stop making light of things, fine. Just say so. But I won’t stop trying to make you laugh.”

Guildenstern looked at him, brow furrowed.

“Why?”

“Because sometimes that’s the only way I know you’re still in there.”

They sat in the quiet for a while. No grain lectures. No chalk scratching. Just the sound of the wind scraping the shutters and the low hum of the evening settling in.

Eventually, Guildenstern stood, crossed the room, and checked the candle. Once. Just once.

He turned back to Rosencrantz. “You still shouldn’t have mocked our teacher.”

“I absolutely should have. That man’s a wheat fetishist.”

He tried not to smile. He failed.

“Just… warn me next time,” he said.

Rosencrantz leaned back onto the cot. “What fun is that?”

Guildenstern rolled his eyes.

The flame flared up, small and steady. He didn’t check it again.