Title: Acute Angles
Fandom: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Rating: G
Length: ~ 600 words
Content notes: TW: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, implied incest (if you squint)
Author notes: Ophelia, Hamlet, and Laertes are a complicated triangle.
Summary: Ophelia and Laertes' mother dying is the beginning of the end for the three of them.



After their mother's death, Laertes' face is all hard angles. The shape of his mouth changes, every line in his body sharp and straight as the cuts on his arms. Ophelia wants to go near him, to offer some comfort, but it's as if he's grown spikes. All she hears is the sound of his door slamming in her face.

She's in need of comfort too, and, of course, she finds it in Hamlet.

They both know they shouldn't let it happen, but it's late and there's wine and they're sixteen.

After the kiss, they look at one another and giggle and decide they don't love each other that way, but there is something underneath the looks they share now, some undercurrent in their interactions. It isn't long before Laertes notices, and Hamlet takes one look at him and sees the storm brewing behind his eyes.

Ophelia comes to Hamlet's room in tears one night because Laertes has locked himself in his room for hours. This in itself is not unusual these days, it was the fact that he stopped shouting back at her that cinched it.

Hamlet hugs her and kisses her on the forehead, then lets himself be led to her brother's room. He knocks and when there's no answer, he takes a step back and kicks the door.

There's a scramble within and then a key turns in the lock, but Laertes doesn't open the door from within. Hamlet looks at Ophelia, gives her a small nod, then pulls it towards him a little and goes in.

It's dark inside. "Laertes." Hamlet whispers - a weird instinctive choice because it's dark. Slowly, his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can see Laertes now, sitting at the other end of the room, on his bed. He's still, hardly breathing, radiating silence like a poison.

 "Brother." That gets a reaction out of him - he sniggers through his nose, throws his head back with indignation. "That's all you got?"

"It's the truth. Is truth not enough for you?"

Hamlet steps towards Laertes carefully, wary of any movement. Finally he sits down by his feet.

"If it were truth, you'd have to give up my sister." There's something behind the words that he doesn't say, but it comes out in his inflection and the slump of his body and to Hamlet, it sounds like Just like I did.

"We're not," he starts, "it's not like that," and Laertes gives the same weak laugh as before.

And Hamlet makes for the light switch. 

Laertes flinches when the light comes on and makes a half-hearted gesture to turn it off again, but drops his arm halfway.

The skin on his left forearm is cut to shreds, sliced into neat millimetres, some crusted over, some still angry. Hamlet looks at it, then into Laertes' eyes. He doesn't ask why - the answer would not serve anything. Instead, he says, "What can I do."

Laertes takes two step towards him, grabs him mercilessly, and presses his lips against Hamlet's. Hamlet freezes, lets it happen.

Laertes pulls away. Their eyes meet like steel blades, engage briefly, then slide down.

"Because I am used to wanting things I can't have," Laertes says, pre-empting the question.

"Things were always going to break, and you were always going to be the one who did it."

"Where's the bandages?" 

It's all that's left for Hamlet to do, to bind Lartes' cuts. He leaves him and Ophelia to it. He doesn't want to know what will happen after he closes the door, but he decides that things are already broken so much without him doing anything wrong that it can only get better for the two of them from here on out.