An Ill Fated Tale about Rosencrantz & Guildenstern

Rosencrantz believed that sometimes it was wisest to act like you don't know things. If someone is bothering about things you don't want to talk about, its just easier to smile blankly... eventually they'll leave you alone. For that to really work, of course, one had to let things go when necessary. After a while, forgettting things becomes a habit.
He didn't forget everything. He was sure of that. But as he tried to reconnect the events of the past month or two (has it been a month? more?) a lot of it was based on half remembered conversations... more a feel of what happened than any specific recollection of events. It wasn't all true... a lot of it was based on half heard arguments, odd statements, and what he liked to think about Guildenstern. It was true enough.
Even now, he felt the events of a few hours ago slipping out of his mind... most of it he was happy to see go, but some of it he wanted to keep....



Guildenstern had stumbled into Rosencrantz's room looking dazed. Rosencrantz had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw that his eyes were still tinged with moist redness. He made no effort to hide it or rub it away. Not then.
Guildenstern had his hand on the side of his face, as if he were sitting and thinking... but then it stuck. No, it more reminded Rosencrantz of stories about the ostrich, hiding in the dirt. It couldn't really think it was hiding, Rosencrantz reasoned, but it must have made it feel better. No... it looked more like he had been slapped, and, unused to such treatment he still hadn't gotten over the shock. Not the pain, just the shock.
Rosencrantz pulled himself out of his reverie -- he was being addressed.
"Where do birds live?" Guildenstern spoke in an monotone that was both airy and dead. Rosencrantz wasn't sure if he had missed an introductory statement, or if this were all Guildenstern had to say. He didn't want to ask.
"I suppose," he said after some consideration "they live where they land."
Guildenstern settled himself on the edge of Rosencrantz's bed and sighed, his hand still in place -- looking oddly out of place as he made no attempt to anchor the arm... allowing his elbow to drift.
"Yes... they fly away when you come too close... never towards you... always away. What would you do... if one landed in your hand?"
Rosencrantz was not sure if this was a real question. It didn't have anything to do with King Hamlet's death, he supposed. And the other thing... was already slipping away. But it could only be assumed that if she had spoken to him about the other thing...
Rosencrantz couldn't stand seeing Guildenstern's hand there one minute longer, and pushed it away from his face using one finger against the inside of his wrist. Guildenstern used the opportunity to grab his wrist violently.
"Why are there birds? Why does fire burn? Why is yellow so difficult to find?"
"I'm sorry." Rosencrantz gasped. It was the only thing he could think of to say... the only answer to those questions that seemed to make sense, even as it didn't. The grip on his wrist weakened. Rosencrantz brought his hand up to Guildenstern's face, and put his hand in the place where Guildenstern's had previously been. He could feel the moist flesh where the fingers had been, the prickle of stubble... "I'm sorry." Rosencrantz said again, this time truly apologizing. Guildenstern seemed a bit confused by the apology, but didn't move away. His skin was moist, but cold.
Rosencrantz leaned forward and kissed him on the opposite cheek.
"I'm sorry." he said again. Either Guildenstern fell back or Rosencrantz pushed him back onto the bed. Maybe it was both. It was a bit confused. There were mouths, hands and clothing so frustratingly in the way. Guildenstern felt strangely light and frail reminding Rosencrantz of the time he picked up a limed bird. The memory was disturbing, so when he felt Guildenstern's hand pressing up against his shoulder he immediately backed off. His brain was a confused mess of emotions and hormones that told him many different things all at once.

Rosencrantz didn't like what happened next, so he made up a different ending. One where he took Guildenstern back into his arms again... but the truth kept intruding, even as he tried to avoid it.

What he did was say, "I suppose, we shouldn't do anything further, because that would just be indulging ourselves wouldn't it? Not that..." Rosencrantz never got any farther than that. He couldn't continue in light of the growing look of horror on Guildenstern's face.
"She was right..."
Rosencrantz wanted to say that it came out wrong, that he just was trying to say what he thought Guildenstern would want him to say -- but the words didn't come together.
It was his own fault of course... letting her believe he didn't really know what he had done. But what else was he supposed to do?
What would Guildenstern have said if he hadn't interupted? He had never before wondered anything like that. But now he did. His mind ached with what might have been, even as Guildenstern put himself back together and hurriedly left.

The only thing to do of course, was pretend it never happened. He had a feeling that wasn't completely right, but it was right enough to sleep on, and it allowed him to keep his memories untinged... He replayed everything else in his mind again, trying to remember....