A/N: This is a short vignette based on the interpreted love between two characters from Hamlet. I think most would agree that if there's anyone the Prince of Denmark truly cares about, it's Horatio.
~Blind Heaven~
His eyes haunt me. Pale blue ice. Private gaze that devours me, undresses me, claws at my chest until the skin tears and my pulsing heart trembles beneath the blue storm. Ice, yet they are not cold. Unknown to me is the reason he chooses to bestow such gifts upon my body. My soul. My soul, when he could have anyone.
The fair Ophelia does not know that her lion-of-prey actually stole his first kiss from a young student in the deserted library of Wittenberg.
His hands placing their soft weight upon my shoulders, resting there as I read words on the page that lack recognition. Slender fingertips twine themselves through my unkempt locks, every once in awhile daring to glide over the curve of my jaw, dance past lips parted in confusion and longing.
Soon replaced by his own.
Had virgin Ophelia's virgin eyes witnessed such a scene, I doubt she would have accepted his toying letters with the same girlish grace.
But we are never seen. Never seen. Never will be. Undetected remain the more-than-passing glances that devour my body when we are in the presence of others. The disgrace unimaginable were the King to find his own flesh and blood in bed, doing what God had not intended two men to do.
His fingertips creating a slow, mindless trail through the warm rivulets of semen on my chest. Still breathing heavily, his eyes fasten themselves upon my tired form, undressing me still, though I already lie naked amidst the sheets. Sweet Horatio…So beautiful, he whispers to no one. But never to be mine. He rolls over so that I cannot see his face. Rolls over. I cannot tell if he is asleep or not.
I ask myself if I love him.
I cannot answer that. How can you love someone you do not understand? He looks at me with those eyes of blue steel, but I do not know what he sees. Is it my body he desires? My friendhip? Soul? What haunts my mind is not why he feels, but the way he strokes my hair when nobody is looking, peppers kisses down my neck because he knows it drives me mad with lust, makes love to me when all the laws of the world proclaim that it should not be. The pull of his gaze that isolates me in his line of vision…so what if I cannot understand the magnetism. He loves me for reasons I cannot comprehend. Perhaps, in fact, they do not matter. Can such indescribable feelings be returned through the same invisible cause?
I ask myself if I love him.
How could I not.
My lord. My Hamlet; the worship goes both ways. His eyes haunt me still.
If I could only look into them again.
~fin