"Do you think, maybe…?"
They are on a boat. They've established this already. It's been hours.
They lie beside one another – this too has been hours, looking up at the stars waiting for them to change. One tilts his head to find the sentence left hanging in the quiet freeze.
"Do I think what?"
The other one exhales, his breath going out visible and disappointed. "Oh – nothing."
"Oh, go on."
"I've forgotten." He says it glumly, which means he's telling the truth. They both sigh and look up again.
The players rehearse, quiet and muffled in their fur and scarves. Someone says something aloft as a wave breaks astern and the words part and tumble into uselessness. They pull closer together.
"Is he asleep?" he tries again.
"No. I don't know – how should I know?"
"Didn't you check on him, earlier?"
"Wasn't I with you?"
"Were you?"
"Was I?"
"Foul," he says softly, timidly. When this gets no response, he pushes his balled-up fist into the other one's ribs, but gently, and gets an unhappy murmur in return. It is very cold. They come from winter shores but it's different, at sea.
He rolls onto his side so he can see his quiet companion's face. The other one stares back at the brilliant cold sky, his gaze set far away, and he is suddenly not sure what to say.
"Guildenstern?"
"What?"
"Are you still in there?"
"What do you mean?"
"I said are you in there?"
He looks at him, finally, and frowns a little. "Foul," he says.
His friend beams. He mutters and rearranges himself, but in doing so he also turns and does not look at the sky again. They lie there watching their breath mingle.
"Can you remember spring?" the quiet one asks, but lazily.
He considers this on his own time, as he always does. There is a certain relief, though, in knowing he does not really expect an answer this time. He asks too many questions for which he expects an answer; they make him so angry he surprises them both.
"I remember we fell in a river, once. It might've been spring then."
"In Germany. You fell in. I fished you out."
"It must've been spring – otherwise we would've frozen. Come to think of it, it could've been summer-"
"You were cold when you came out. I had to give you my jacket."
"-but I suppose it's normal for people to be in rivers in the summer."
He blinks when the other one puts a hand over his mouth, none too gently. "Did you hear me?" he demands. "I said I gave you my jacket – I remembered, didn't I?"
"Did – mmph – did you?
They reflect upon this, solemnly, but one of them lets a grin tug at the corners of his face. It is unbidden, irresistible; he finds he cannot help it, and finally puts his head down and giggles helplessly.
"What? What's so funny?"
"I think – I've only just remembered, myself."
"What's that?"
He looks at him, and his eyes are full of mirth, alive and exploding with something warmer than the stars.
"That was when we decided we'd stay together, wasn't it."
The memory rolls the other one onto his back. He thinks for a moment and snorts. "You said you…couldn't live without me."
"The other way 'round."
"You told me?"
"I told you."
"I've just said that – foul-"
But he's said it too late, and the other one shrugs it off, pulling himself next to him again. He lowers his voice to a whisper against the sea.
"Do you think it's still true?"
He looks away from the bright face of the sky again. "Do you?"
"Do we have a choice?"
"Non sequitur," he says, and they fall asleep curled up tight.