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.