Title: And Dog Will Have His Day
Fandom: Hamlet
Rating: PG
Length: 500 words
Content notes: canon character death, canon-typical violence and thoughts of violence
Author notes: Hamlet/Laertes(/Ophelia), then and now.
Summary: Laertes and Hamlet face off at Ophelia's grave and remember their past.


Laertes can't remember when it started, when he first felt a queasiness in his stomach when the prince so much as looked Laertes' way. He can't remember ever not feeling it - not for lack of trying, but howsoever he tries to get rid of it, it only seems to come back stronger.
He's not blind either. He can see Hamlet and Ophelia locking eyes across a room, and when they do it's like he doesn't even exist for either of them.

He gets the prince alone, at fencing practice, a lot of the time. He nearly excuses himself early because, while the physical exertion takes his mind off his emotions somewhat, looking at Hamlet, who's all flushed and panting, does not.

It fills him with a wicked desire to do something unbidden; to lash out and mar that beautiful face with a gash so it can't keep distracting him. It shocks him that he has that thought at all, and then he looks at Hamlet's face and that makes him think of all the things he'd like to do to Hamlet.

He stumbles and, unable to break the downward momentum, he falls and loses his foil.

He coughs once he's figured out which way is up. Hamlet's looking at him with a quizzical expression on his face. He waits for Laertes to get up, then hands him back the foil.

Laertes grips Hamlet's hand instead of the hilt and the weapon falls to the ground, utterly useless now. Hamlet's face screws up in pain, then bewilderment as Laertes runs his hand up his arm and all the way up to his face.

"I knew it," is all he says as Laertes' fingers brush over his lips. He exhales, then, with a relief that seems to encompass his entire body, and leans forward to kiss Laertes.

***

Ophelia never cared what either of them did with each other. She only wanted the three of them to be happy. By the time they were teenagers, their lives seemed inextricably meshed. She'd even teased Hamlet about having a secret consort, should he become king.

She loved both of them, in different ways, yet it was impossible for her not to notice the darkness that seemed to surround Laertes at times; the jealousy with which he regarded her and Hamlet's relationship and that always made itself known even though he tried not to show it.

***

Hamlet was going to choose one of them sooner or later, Laertes always thought; and no matter how progressive the prince was in his thinking compared to the older generation, there would have been no way he'd have chosen Laertes over Ophelia. It was always going to be her that broke it all apart.

And she had, in the end, though by ways entirely different and more cruel than he could have surmised.

They would both have walked to the ends of the earth to bring her back to them, yet it was Hamlet's fault that this had happened in the first place, Hamlet's and his stupid friend's, who hadn't been able to look after his sister for five minutes.

And so now here they stood, facing one another with fists full of fight and hearts full of bitterness, and Laertes gave as good as he got. They'd been sparring their entire lives; he'd have been a fool not to know where to place the hits.

"I loved you ever," Hamlet replied to Laertes' angry insults. His voice trembled and Laertes had no doubt that the tears that welled up in his eyes were earnest - but it was too little, too late. The rights of their fellowship did not matter now that it was broken, now that one of the pieces that had made it possible was gone.

Laertes thought that he should have destroyed that face when he'd had the chance - but then, as Hamlet himself said, every dog had his day and even through his grief and anger, Laertes was certain that, with the help of Claudius, his day was about to come.