Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Sir Hans, would it be alright if we stopped for the night?” Henry asks, doing his utmost to sound subservient in front of the retinue of soldiers with them. From the strange look Hans sends him over his shoulder, his acting may have been a bit too well done. “There’s an inn in Tachov. I know you’d prefer to stay away from the castle but the horses need rest.”

“And I need ale,” Janek grumbles. 

Riding at his side, because Henry isn’t sure they can survive separation, Jaroslav titters under his breath. “Do you really think we’d be staying in the inn, ya tosser? Sir Hans and Henry might, but we’d be camping nearby in the woods.”

“We can buy mead and ale though,” Janek points out. “We have two more days of traveling to go and I’m almost out!” The handful of other soldiers, most of which are Leipa men sent by Hanush to collect Hans, mumble their agreements. “See! We all need a booze break!”

Henry has yet to be given an official reason why Father’s most loyal soldiers stayed behind Suchdol while he and the rest of his men returned to Rattay, but after one or two or seven drinks, Henry learned their role is of a more personal nature. They’re spies. Terrible spies, but spying on him. For his father.

Apparently, Sir Radzig doesn’t have better things to do than keep an eye on his only son.

An eye! On him! What’s he going to do? Steal Hans away in the middle of the night so he can’t get married and life can remain the way it is until they die by each other’s sides?

It’s silly, absolutely ridiculous. Henry would never be so foolish as to leave in the middle of the night, it’s much too obvious. Late evening, near supper, when everyone is gathered around the hearth, is the perfect time to stage a kidnapping.

Once Henry made his irritation known to Janek and Jaroslav, the former guardsmen hurried to claim that His Lordship appeared more worried about Henry than of the mind he’d be the cause of any (more) trouble, but Henry knows all too well that Father sees more than he lets on. He’s the bloody Royal Hetman for Christ’s sake, he has his nose in everything. 

All Hans has to do is have a moment of fear, of weakness, and beg Henry to whisk him away, and Henry would already be preparing Pebbles for a long journey.

Loyalty is Henry’s greatest boon and greatest weakness. He’s loyal to Hans and his father and all the people he’s met on his travels, but his heart often lingers in one particular place. In Skalitz.

Father kept his men stationed with Henry, because while he would do just about anything for Hans, he would also never abandon his former neighbors to run off, and his father knows that.

Hans slows his horse and falls back into step alongside Henry. “We could all do with some rest, I suppose, and I don’t like the look of the sky, much too dark for this time of day.” He’s not wrong, the white clouds have been swept away by gray imposters. “No one will be staying at the inn though, we’ll make camp for the evening around these parts and send someone into the village for supplies,” he drawls, and their men cheer. Lowering his voice, Hans slants his gaze Henry’s way. “As long you stop using that silly voice. When you try to be respectful, it sounds so wrong. What in the world has gotten into you? Why precisely are we stopping?”

Henry smiles slightly, as the men ride ahead, towards the thicket of trees leading into Apollonia. “Ah, there’s someone I want to visit before we leave the area.”

For some reason, Hans grows tense in his saddle, his back straightening and the leather of his riding gloves cracking on the horse reins. “Someone you want to visit,” he repeats, his voice dangerously low. “And who might that be?”

Henry has to bite back the wave of amusement threatening to bubble out of his chest. Though Hans claims to have forgotten about the mere existence of Black Bartosch and whatever happened between him and Henry, whenever so much as the color is brought up, he looks as though he’s taken a bite of tart plum.

“Oh, I’m planning to take a visit to Trosky for a roll in the hay with an old mate.” 

It’s a bit mean of him to ruffle Hans’ feathers but he has to learn to keep it together, otherwise, people are going to start noticing his aversion to the color black. 

“What?” Hans squawks, almost tipping out of his saddle. Henry blindly reaches out to steady him, Pebbles canting to the side to assist and grabs ahold of his shoulder. “You – you – you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“What do you think, my lord?” Henry chuckles.

Hans grumbles under his breath and swats Henry away. “You aren’t funny.”

“I dunno, I’m laughing.” A halfhearted kick knocks into his ankle and he catches a slight smile appear on Hans before it’s gone as swiftly as it came. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. There is someone I want to visit, and it is a man – an old man by the name of Barnaby. He’s a herbalist.”

“Oh. Why do you need to see a herbalist? You’re not hurt, are you?” Hans asks, his blue eyes flickering over Henry’s form, as though he could have somehow missed an injury or ailment since they departed Suchdol. 

“No need to worry about me, my lord, I’m in perfect health,” Henry assured him. “I want to check in with him. Say my farewells. I’m not sure when, or even if, we’ll get back to this area, at least not anytime soon. We have a wedding to prepare for.”

Hans shudders, turning his face up into the faint rays of the sun, the softest of glows peaking out from behind the dismal clouds and highlighting the gold in his hair. “Don’t remind me. The very thought of binding myself to this woman sickens me. The only person I want to bind myself is to you,” he grumbles.

“Careful now, Hans,” Henry murmurs, casting a sharp glance through the tree line. The trees loom high above them, curving and arching in a shadowy curtain, and the uneven ground melds into boulders larger than most huts. A stiff echo curves its way up his knee, unable to ever forget how he sneaked his way through these very hills after he killed Istvan Toth. 

“No one is around,” Hans replies dismissively. “And I don’t care how much you argue with me, you’ll share my tent with me tonight, I have a hard time falling asleep without you snoring in my ear these days.” Henry should argue, he’s going to argue, but Hans silences him with a hard look. “It’s going to storm, Henry, why wouldn’t I open my tent to my dearest friend? Besides that, none of our men would think anything of it even if the weather doesn’t turn. We’re attached at the hip, everyone knows it and accepts it.”

“Aye, but they don’t know we’re attached at the hips and the lips,” Henry hisses.

Hans stares at him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Hips and the lips?”

Henry is many things, but a minstrel, he is not. Unlike George and Michael, he accepts his fate.

“Yes?”

Hans burst into raucous laughter, sending the birds on their branches scattering into the sky. The force of his amusement bends forwards over his horse, and the urge to gallop off to Barnaby’s cabin and leave his lordship to choke on his tongue is mighty strong. 

“Oh, Henry, no one makes me laugh like you do,” Hans snickers, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. His smile is stretched wide across his face, and a light curve of darkened dust from the road is swept across his upper cheekbone. 

“And here I thought I wasn’t funny? Did a hare whisper that to me?” Hans acts as though he cannot hear him and turns his nose up to the sky, pretending to search the heavens for a blessing to heal his sudden ailment. “Well, should my current lifestyle not work out, it’s good to know I can fill the role of jester in some other noble’s court.”

“Ha! As if I’d be foolish enough to let you go,” Hans says, his smile growing soft as silk. “You and I are entwined for the rest of our lives, dear Henry, best remember that.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Henry peers up through branches, delicate glimpses of light spill into the forest, a light breeze ruffling the leaves. After the long, caged days spent trapped and hungry during the siege in Suchdol, Henry will never take freedom and open air for granted. 

“If we want to make sure that happens, we need to have more care going forward,” he says, chewing on his lower lip. “We can’t grow complacent. If your uncle or my father were to find out…”

Well, Henry refuses to be sent to a monastery, one stay there was enough for many, many lifetimes. A cabin in the woods could be agreeable, somewhere near Hermann and Elishka maybe, they wouldn’t shun him, but he refuses to be parted somewhere far away from Hans. Like Hans said – entwined until they die. 

“We already are careful! What we need is for you to loosen up, you’ve been out of sorts since we returned to Suchdol. I touched your arm before we set out and you almost tumbled off the balustrade. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing has gotten into me,” Henry objects, then catches the filthy smile Hans is sending him. “Really? Right now? Is this the time?”

“It is always the time for me to appreciate my Lancelot.”

“See! That right there, Galehaut!” Blushing bright, Henry flails wildly to point at his favorite pain in the arse. “You’ve got to watch what you say around me.”

“Why?” Hans snorts, pulling the reins to guide his horse off to the left, in the direction of where their men have found a place to settle for the night. “Because I can make you blush like a maiden on her wedding night?” Henry tries to give him a shove but Hans just laughs and grabs his hand, their fingers twisting until their palms meet. He’s tugged forwards, closer to Hans, though his Pebbles neighs in annoyance, and stares into eyes bluer than the clearest of water he’s ever not swam in. “I like making you blush, Henry. You’re not an easy man to fluster, you’ve been on too many strange adventures for that, but with a simple whispered phrase, I can strip you of that cool exterior. That power is more intoxicating than the drunken call of any wine or ale or brandy.”

A lump has lodged its way into Henry’s throat, the blood in his cheeks having descended south, and he can’t hear the many sounds of the forest due to the pounding in his chest. He finds himself tilting forward, Hans’ tiny smile growing broader and broader, red lips so terribly inviting…

“Oye, you two, no roughhousing!” Janek calls out, shattering the tension with a deep rumble of a laugh. Henry flinches and Hans drops his hand, startled despite himself. “Begging your pardon, Sir Hans, but I won’t be the one to tell Sir Radzig and Lord Hanush why you’re both covered in scrapes and bruises! That’ll be on you two!”

Hans clears his throat, the slight swipe of his pink tongue poking out to wet his lower lip. “We weren’t – oh, never mind. Get to work setting up my tent, I won’t be sleeping in the open, not in this cursed land!” 

“See!” Henry hisses, once Janek turns his back on them to start assembling Hans’ tent. “This is why we need to be more careful, you make me lose all sense. All good sense! Much as I like these lads, they’re not all that bright, we fuck up around my father and we’re done for.” 

He makes no mention of Lord Hanush. While Hans’ guardian is strong of mind and body, he is too blinded by Hans’ past whoremongering to see what sort of man he has become. It’s doubtful that he will notice Hans has set his ever-hungry heart on Henry. They will need to be cautious around him, a few rounds of innuendo won’t matter, but less care will be needed in comparison to how they must behave around Henry’s father. 

Sir Radzig Kobyla is sharp, he didn’t get to the position of Royal Hetman by simply swinging his sword around and talking shit with King Wenceslas. He’s got a mind meant for warfare and political schemes, little passes by him unseen, and after Toth’s treachery, he’s upped his guard. Factoring in that Henry’s got the dubious honor of being Radzig’s only child….the only one who can embarrass him…means his father will be watching him as closely as he ever has.

Hans sighs and rolls his shoulders back. “While I doubt Sir Radzig would send you away to your death –” Henry scoffs, pulling Pebbles to a stop by the other horses, and Hans’ brow furrows. “Why scoff? Radzig is extraordinarily fond of you, it’s plain for anyone to see. He didn’t hesitate to take you into service, he sings your praises –”

“No, he doesn’t!” Henry splutters. 

Hans glances at him from the corner of his eye. “I fear he does. He’s a subdued man, I can’t ever tell his moods, but he’s always polite enough. Unfortunately, he loosens up after an evening of drinking with my uncle, I’ve had to suffer more than one meal listening to them go on about you. It’s no wonder I wanted to throttle you for such a long time, everyone around me loved you from the moment you barged into the room.”

A deep warmth, traitorous and giddy, blooms alive in his chest. He strove to make Father proud even before he knew of their relations, and now, with him being the only family he has left, he wants to keep being a point of pride for Sir Radzig and not an endless embarrassment.

“My Ma and Pa always said he was a good man, and I have never disagreed.”

He’s not legitimized, nothing has been said or implied he ever will be, who knows how far Henry can stretch Father’s good nature before it snaps and he’s sent far away, never to see Hans again?

“With an even better son,” Hans says decisively. 

“Eh, I’m a bastard, Hans. My father has put a lot of trust in me, that’s true, but nobles have done away with their mistakes for far less than what I’m doing. I don’t want him to sequester me to a damned cabin in the woods until I die.”

Hans blinks in quiet confusion. “A cabin in the woods? What are you on about?”

Henry swipes a hand across his brow, the leather hot on his already warm skin. Perhaps a visit to Barnaby is good for his heart but bad for his mind. He’s not thinking straight, his quiet fears are all the louder here amongst the rocks and memories of the past.

“I –” Henry sighs and tightens his hold on the reins. “It’s nothing. I’m overthinking everything. This place brings about bad memories, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Hans chuckles, dropping down off his horse. He reaches out and pats Henry on the thigh, his lingering palm warm through his hose. “Simply stop thinking so hard. When I work myself up, I cease to think.”

“Well, if that’s what you do to calm yourself, then it explains a lot,” Henry says wryly.

Hans gasps and gives his thigh a firm slap, higher than is appropriate. “Watch what you say to your lord, blacksmith, or I will punish you and that insolent tongue of yours,” he teases.

“Perhaps if you can keep quiet later…” Henry trails off, letting Hans’ imagination take over.

With a loud groan, Hans turns on his heel and presses the back of his hand to his forehand. “You’re a terror, Henry! A menace! How dare you do this to me? I am needed now! I’m a leader, I can’t be thinking about you all the time.”

“Sorry, my lord,” Henry chuckles, lightly clicking his tongue and backing Pebbles up. “Time to bring out your own tricks and stop thinking while you’re ahead.”

“Not. Funny!” Hans sweeps back around, hands on his hips, and frowns. “Where are you going?” 

Henry rolls his eyes, it’s in one ear and out the other with Hans once he starts thinking with his cock. “To visit my friend northwest of the castle, we discussed this just a few moments ago.”

“Ah, yes, your friend.” Hans nods once, twice, three times. Mutt trots up next to him and licks his hand. “Hullo, Mutt, it would appear as though your master is abandoning us for a savage.”

Henry rolls his eyes as his dog looks between him and Hans and whimpers in confusion. 

“Don’t listen to that nasty noble, boy. I’ll be back to bring you your supper and then we can have a nice cuddle. Your little legs must be exhausted from all that running you did.”

If dogs could grin, Mutt would be beaming brighter than the sun.

Less happy, is the sour mug of nobleman next to him.

“So the dog gets a cuddle, and what do I get? A bit of a pull and tug once the fire dies out?” he grumbles. “Not fair. That’s it I’m putting my foot down, the dog is not sleeping with us.” Mutt swings his head up, his brown eyes cloudy with sadness, and Hans shudders. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you look like Henry when he’s sad – I stop! Christ, fine, you can join us but you must wait until after I get my special goodnight, I can’t have you staring at us. It’s too strange.”

Mutt barks sadly in reply. 

“Well, I’m sorry you feel like I’m excluding you but trust me, dog, it’s for your own good,” Hans argues steadily. “And mine.”

Mutt barks again, happier this time, a little inquisitive too.

“Yes, yes, we don’t need to wait for silly old Henry. We can look for hare ourselves. The forest is teeming with them in these parts.”

Henry shakes his head, leaving his dog and his…Hans to their conversation. They’ve really been getting along well as of late, Hans claims to be making the effort to for Henry’s sake but he can tell he’s grown fond of the pup. Considering Hans never did get around to helping him search for Mutt after they were separated, it’s quite nice to have harmony between them.

The ride to Barnaby’s cabin is uneventful. Some wolves howl in the distance, their call nothing but a bone-deep annoyance to Henry. He’s put his sword to more of them than he has bandits and ruffians, they never give up. The shadow of the castle looms over him, the shadow of Istvan Toth’s nasty smile and bent body crunching against the rocks creeping into his memory. He sees Istvan and Erik in his dreams more often than he cares to admit, and whenever Erik’s bloody and bruised howl turns into Hans’ sweet laughter he wakes to the sound of his own racing heart and an incurable ache tainting his soul.

Pebbles carries him across green fields and through a thin cluster of trees, to the small hut and garden sitting on the edge of the forest, just in view of the castle. Near the entrance to the shed that holds the alchemy bench, Barnaby’s dog, Dog, lifts his brown head, his ears flat against his skull and his beady eyes narrowed. A snout lifts into the air and the suspicion clears, a cheerful, welcoming bark greeting him.

“Evening, Dog! Where’s that master of yours hiding?” Henry asks, stepping down off Pebbles. His arse is killing him. During his many adventures back and forth through the land, he much preferred a mixture of walking and riding. He’s not in possession of the patience to sit still for so long.

And besides, Hans’ voice snickers in his mind, there are better things to be done with that arse, eh? Eh?

Dog barks once more and trots up to him, his rough tongue gliding across Henry’s hand in greeting. Henry pets him with one hand and reaches into a saddle bag with the other, a hefty stack of books and herbs bundled together for his secluded friend. Being alone out here is awfully boring, though Barnaby denies it, and Henry thought a collection of books he’s picked up over his travels might be a helpful parting gift. He has every intention of keeping up a correspondence with Barnaby, who can read and write, all self-taught, but letters take time to be delivered, therefore new knowledge can help fill the time.

A graying head pokes out from the shed, and Barnaby’s rough but handsome face transforms from cautiousness to outright cheer. “Henry! What are you doing here, lad? It’s been ages!” the herbalist crows, stepping out with a wine and oil-stained rag caught between his rough hands. 

“Sorry, it’s been so long, Barnaby. Life has been…” Henry searches inwardly for a word that can sum up his experiences over the past few months but comes up with little to describe the epic highs and lows of multiple kidnappings, robberies, battles, and two awful minstrels. “Chaotic, to say the least.”

“I imagine so,” Barnaby snorts, amicably clapping him on the shoulder. The smack rattles down into his bones, and he has to bite back a wince. Fighting Barnaby hand to hand left him with bruises that not only haunted his skin for days after but his mind as well. He sure can pack a punch for an older fellah. “Word travels fast in these parts, and your name has been on the tip of everyone’s tongue since Lord von Bergow’s men started telling everyone to keep an eye out for you. I’d avoid the castle if I were you. He’s not there but I doubt you’d be welcome.”

Henry grimaces, he hadn’t given much thought to what sort of impression he was leaving behind in Trosky after everything went to shit. Again. “Is my reputation that bad now?”

“Ha, don’t worry yourself too much, most folk around here appreciate all the good you’ve done, the messiness with Semine aside.”

“Just so you know,” Henry says, giving Dog another friendly scratch behind the ears, “I didn’t kill nobody. Well, nobody apart from von Bergrow’s men but they were out of their minds. I killed them and let Lord Semine and his son flee.”

True to form, Barnaby doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the revelation. “Goodness, Henry, you really are a troublemaker.”

“You should meet my partner in crime,” he chuckles. “He’s my best and worst influence, when we’re together the trouble tends to grow into an outright catastrophe.”

“Ah, that lord of yours! Good to hear that’s all worked out, bad enough as it may be for the rest of us,” he chortles. 

Henry frowns, unease nipping at his heart, he can’t recall ever mentioning Hans to Barnaby. They did drink an awful lot though, during Henry’s sporadic visits. God only knows what he rambles on about after too much schnapps.

Well, God and the Cumans in the nomad camp know what his drunken self admits to. Hans can never find out about that particular incident. Never. Henry will never live down the shame of thinking he met a talking dog.

“Er, how much have I told you about Sir Hans?”

Barnaby’s smile is wide with amusement. “Enough,” he says cryptically. “Now come on inside, I want to hear what you’ve been up to! Secondhand gossip from the folk that pass through isn’t near enough. I’ll pour you some mead. I’ve been experimenting.”

Mad man, Henry thinks with quiet affection.

“Sounds delicious. I don’t have mead but I have brought gifts!”

“What in the world – you didn’t have to do that!”

“I wanted to,” Henry insists, hefting the package up. “I’ve brought as many books as I could fit in my saddlebag. I read them all already, so now they’re yours.”

“It’s too much, Henry,” Barnaby scolds gently, but the curiosity, the ravenous hunger for the world outside his tiny cabin, is plain in his gaze.

“Nah, it was nothing.”

Barnaby sighs and his shoulders droop. “I won’t win this argument, will I?”

“You won’t even come close,” Henry replies cheerfully. “Now are you going to invite me in or do I have to break out my lock picks?”

Barnaby snorts and waves him inside and they settle in with a mug of homebrewed mead, the honey and mulled spice sweeter and stronger than anything he can order at the inn. 

“This is wonderful, Barnaby!” Henry declares after taking a sip, then another. The warmth of the mead travels through his body in a slow shimmer, from the tips of his ears to the bottoms of his feet. 

Barnaby smiles proudly and thumbs over his shoulder toward two large barrels shoved into the corner of his bedroom. “Glad to hear it. I’ve been trying out new recipes for the winter. Once the cold comes, this is the kind of warmth I’ll need to make it through the longer nights.”

Sadness tickles at the back of Henry’s throat. Barnaby is the friendly sort. He’s cautious and guarded, for good reason, but once Henry won their fight and they got to know one another over too much ale, he turned into one of the most affable fellahs Henry has ever encountered. It’s a deep, ugly shame that he’s forced to live out here, alone, not when he hasn’t ever harmed a soul that didn’t want to be knocked unconscious by a single punch.

“How have things been?” Henry asks quietly. “No one’s been giving you trouble, right?”

Barnaby waves his concern away. “No, no, don’t worry yourself about that. People keep their distance until they need a tonic or concoction and then they’re off on their merry way,” he assures him, then pauses, an almost imperceptible streak of red filling his tanned cheeks. “Well, most people. I’ve had myself a regular visitor showing up lately. Er, two, actually.”

“Really?!”

“A new huntsman, Jakub, moved into a cabin not too far off with his daughter. Good folk. The lass is no more than seven summers. Smart as a viper that one.”

“I know a few girls like that,” Henry says, thinking of Theresa, Katherine, and Lady Rosa. The three of them together in one room would be a right terror for mankind. “How did you meet?”

“Poor thing has been bored stiff at home while Jakub goes off to hunt. It finally got to be too much and she set out to explore – sent her poor old Pa to an early grave by doing that, of course, but she ended up here. I showed her my garden, told her she only had to ask if she needed any herbs or help, and then took her right home. Her Pa was mighty appreciative and sent me back with a skinned hare and everything though I didn’t do much. Good man that Jakub. They’ve been coming round for supper.”

“That’s amazing, Barnaby!” Henry beams. “What’s this Jakub fellah like?”

Barnaby peers out the small window, his stare far, far off. “Hm, he’s stoic when you first meet him but he’s got himself a fine sense of humor after he relaxes some.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Barnaby shakes his head, his hat dipping low. “No, he’s a better man than I. I told him he’d best stay away, else the other villagers start to talk, but he won’t hear of it. Brings me fresh meat every morning and won’t take payment for it.” Every morning? That’s a bit much, he must like Barnaby an awful lot. “He’s been through his fair share of hardship. They came out here after they lost their last home in a fire, and that was after his wife died two winters ago of a plague and almost took little Markéta with her, poor lass still has a cough that acts up from it. I’ve been supplying them with a tonic to help ease it.”

Relief, quiet poignant relief fills Henry. He’s been so worried he would be leaving Barnaby with no one but here he is, opening up, allowing someone in, and appearing properly happy about it, all without Henry’s intervention.

“You’re a good man, Barnaby,” Henry murmurs, pretending as though he misses the herbalist’s eye roll. “You are, and clearly this Jakob sees that.” Henry’s fingers tighten around the mug. “Does Jakub know why you’re out here?”

Barnaby flinches and drains his mug, already moving to refill it. “Doubt it. Rumors are what they are but Jakub doesn’t busy himself with gossip. He’s too good of a man for that.”

The certainty, the secondhand pride, in his voice is all too similar to the way Henry talks up Hans to anyone he meets, and it leaves him to wonder if there’s something more there lurking under the guise of respect.

Henry cocks a brow at the older man. “He sounds like a fine fellah.”

“He is. The finest.”

“Oh, he’s handsome, then?” Henry asks with a cheeky smile.

Barnaby turns the color of a ripe apple. “Henry! Bite your tongue!” He gulps down another mouthful of mead and mumbles around the rim, “He’s not bad to look at.”

Laughing, Henry slinks to the side and braces himself up by an elbow. He’s gotten warm under the collar all of a sudden, the mead soaking into his blood faster than expected.

“Do you want to keep talking about your Jakub –” Barnaby’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head and Henry giggles some more. “Or shall I get on with my tale?”

“Please,” the herbalist chokes out. 

“Ah, well, last I saw you we were headed off to settle matters in Nebakov…”

Henry’s journey is a long, spiraling tale that jumps from place to place, rescue to capture, and from person of ill repute to person of really ill repute. Barnaby fills his cup and remains an attentive listener, asking all the right questions yet keeping quiet at the most pivotal moments, and he hears Henry’s story with an open mind.

“…and now we’re riding back home to prepare for Hans’ wedding. We are finally at the end of a very long, twisted-up attempt to deliver a letter.” Henry gulps down the mead, his throat scratchy and dry from so much rambling. Outside the sun has set low behind trees, the change from day to dusk in full effect.

“Well, my friend, that was quite the story,” says Barnaby, falling back against the wall, experiencing a wave of secondhand exhaustion from the mere retelling of the odyssey. “I’m relieved to still have you here with me to tell it! How many near-death experiences was that? Five? Six?”

Henry scrubs his hands over his face, his riding gloves left in a pile at his elbow. “Christ, I have no idea. I’ve long lost count. I was too preoccupied making sure the number of attempts on Sir Hans’ life didn’t increase to keep track of my own.”

Barnaby’s crooked smile travels all the way up to the crinkles by the sides of his eyes. “That lordling of yours is in need of more rescuing than a fair maiden locked away in a tower, eh?”

“He’s got awful luck, but while he’s no maiden,” Henry snorts, “he is rather fair.”

“Is he now?”

“Very handsome. He turns everyone’s head when he enters a room.” Grinning down into the beaten-up mug, Henry’s thoughts are clouded by a fog of pure warmth and affection for his favorite lord. Apologies to his father, he will have to take the place of his second favorite lord. “Then he opens his mouth and they all run in the opposite direction,” he snickers, more fond than scathing. “I don’t of course. I like that he comes off as a bit of a prick because he’s actually quite nice when you get to know him. Funny. He says I make him laugh more than anyone he knows but he has no idea I find him hilarious, sometimes unintentionally so, too. He’s the very best. You’d love him.” He squints down into his mead, when in the world did he order two mugs? “Or not. His first impressions vary. The first time we met he was a total snot, although it was pretty bold of me to waltz into the castle and start asking for things after just disobeying my lord. My other lord. I suppose it all depends on the day….am I talking a lot? I feel like I’m talking a lot?”

Henry traces the table, three almost invisible lines forming an H in the wood. If he hadn’t left his dagger in his saddle bag, he’d have carved it properly. H for Henry and Hans. 

Barnaby slowly reaches across the table and drops his hand atop the mug of mead. Huh, maybe he ordered just the one. Where is that wench serving the ale…? “Er, lad, yes, you are. Maybe too much. I think we should call it quits for the night. Why don’t we fill you up with some supper? I’ve got a stew going.” He sounds worried for some reason. Concerned like Henry is about to get into trouble. 

Again.

“Nah, I like your mead, Barnaby!” Henry says with wide, earnest eyes. Barnaby doesn’t appear convinced. “It’s true! This is the finest mead I’ve ever tasted! You brewed this yourself? It’s nothing like the stuff we had last time. This is delicious!”

“This is very strong.” He tries to tug the mug away but Henry pulls it back and cradles it to his chest. “Oh, bugger. I fermented the honey for far too long. Jakub warned me…” 

“I wish I could take a whole barrel home with me,” Henry says, a wistful sigh building at the bag of his throat. “I’d share it with Hans. And Father. Have I ever told you I’m a bastard, Barnaby?”

“Aye, lad, you mentioned it briefly.”

Henry nods and slumps further in his seat. “Never knew I wasn’t my Pa’s son til after he died. Still my Pa though. Always wanted to do right by him but I don’t think his spirit is very happy with me. I chose the sword over a hammer. Sir Radzig over Martin.”

A warm hand claps down onto his shoulder, Barnaby’s blurry figure hunching over the table to give him a gentle jostle. “Hey now, don’t go thinking like that. You can’t go talking for the dead,” he scolds. “Your Pa, God rest his soul, is mighty proud of you. You’re a fine, upstanding lad.”

“Didn’t you – Didn’t you just say we can’t talk for the dead?” Henry asks, squinting at the herbalist. Pa had so many secrets, some days it felt like he never really knew him, and it stings worse and worse with every uncovered truth. “Hm. I think I might be a bit tipsy, Barnaby.”

Barnaby snorts. “Just a bit. Sit back and I’ll get you some stew. It’ll help sober you up.”

Henry lets out a noncommittal grunt, carefully tracing the slightly wobbly H. He’s not normally so conflicted, he chose his path and he stands by his decisions, but knowing how his pa didn’t want him to live a life of adventure weighs heavy. 

Maybe he should start considering what Ma would have wanted – other than grandchildren that is. Though he doubts he’s giving her any of those, not now that he’s committed himself to Hans.

First and foremost, he would like to think she would want him to be happy, but she would want him to be safe most of all, to stay under his father’s protection and not be on the frontlines of his battles. 

Steam swirls off the stew set down in front of him and somehow his mug is replaced by a wooden spoon. It’s practically witchcraft.

“Eat up, Henry. There’s some bread there for you too. You need to have your wits about you if you ever hope to get back to your camp.”

Henry peers up at the tall figure standing over him, his arms clasped behind his back, and he swears for just a moment it’s Pa standing there, then Father, their faces twisting and fogging until he finally sees the strong, square jaw of Barnaby.

Odd.

Henry does as he’s told and spoons the hearty stew into his mouth, chunks of beef and carrot sticking between his teeth. The bread is crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, perfect to be soaked up by savory broth. Barnaby chatters on about the latest tonic he’s brewed, the herbs he’s thinking of planting for next season, and his plans for the annual trip to town he loathes to make. It’s nice, for a time, to simply exist in another person’s story and not need to think ahead, to expect to be asked to do something or go somewhere. Fifteen or twenty minutes pass, the meal filling his stomach, and his clouded mind starts to feel a little more clear.

“ – and I told her I’d teach her letters, to read too if she likes, we just need to convince her father. I doubt there will be any trouble though, Jakub is a forward thinker,” Barnaby is telling him, still singing the huntsman’s praises. Henry prefers hearing him fawn, his own loose gob has gotten him into enough trouble as it stands. “They’ll be over tomorrow for –” He’s cut off by a howl from the dog and his brow creases. “What’s that dog doing?”

“Maybe he senses the oncoming storm?” Henry guesses, chewing slowly on his last bite of bread.

Outside, the Dog starts to bark in earnest, and in a single breath, another dog starts to respond in a familiar bark. Muffled cursing follows…from a human, obviously.

Barnaby pushes up off the table to peer out the window. “Someone’s out there. Most of the bandits cleared out but there’s always a straggler or two,” he says grimly. “I’ll get my crossbow. Stay there, you’re too sloshed to swing a sword.”

Henry wants to argue, he has fought far, far drunker than he is now, but that bark he heard has stuck with him. Pure instinct is telling him they’re not under attack.

“Wait, let me take a look.”

On wobbly legs, Henry rises to take a look of his own. The sky is a dark shade of blue, close to black, and gray clouds have filtered in, the threat of the storm nearer. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the colorful blooms and fragrant herbs. Dog is poised for the attack, dark lips pulled back in a fearsome snarl and beady eyes locked on a corner of the small plot of land near the eastern corner, but he doesn’t go for the immediate attack, his nose quivers in confusion. Through the darkness, Henry catches a glimpse of sunshine yellow, and he wishes he had taken the time to drink more mead.

“Aye, someone is here, but we won’t need a crossbow to handle them – though they could do with a bolt to the arse. This particular bandit belongs to me.” Barnaby glances at him in concern as he leans out of the window. “Oi, Hans! Next time you want to sneak about, maybe don’t wear yellow! You stick out worse than a sore thumb!”

Another cuss echoes from the shadows, and the rumpled figure of Sir Hans Capon emerges from the darkness, the licks of flame illuminating his handsome, dirt-smudged face.

“Henry?” Hans squints at him, as Mutt inches out next to him, his eyes never leaving Dog’s. They got on during their previous interactions but he’s a territorial little fellah, and that territory now extends onto Hans, apparently. “Is that you?”

“No, it’s the butcher’s daughter, come to finally reclaim her love letter – yes, it’s me, you turnip.”

“Turnip?” Hans splutters, rearing back as though Henry has thrown a handful of mud at his most noble person. “You’re the turnip picker!”

“Aye, and I picked you.”

He can’t be sure, it’s too hard to see, but he thinks Hans grows redder. “Christ, Henry, are you bloody drunk?”

Henry crooks his arm out the window and holds showing off a definitely accurate approximation of how drunk he is with his thumb and pointer finger. “I’m this much drunk,” he says.

“Are you joking right now? Mutt and I have been searching for you everywhere all evening and –”

A crash of distant thunder roars off in the distance.

“I told you where I was going,” Henry points out. The storm is on its way, and the rain descend upon them soon.

Hans crosses his arms tight over the bright, bright yellow top he’s chosen to continually stun the world in. “You said you were going northwest to a herbalist’s hut,” he retorts. “Do you know how vague that is? Mutt had to track you!” He looks down his nose at Henry’s beloved dog. “Badly. Have you bothered to train him at all? He weaves around like he’s never walked on four legs and barks constantly. At nothing. It’s like he’s chatting to the Holy Ghost.”

Henry opens his mouth, then closes it, because he doesn’t understand why Mutt barks so much either. He never used to be so chatty, then suddenly every tree needs a bark hello.

“Er, he’s got himself a free spirit, that’s all!”

“If free of spirit is what you call no sense of direction, then we are in agreement.” Mutt stops his standoff to huff up at Hans, affronted by the slander against his character. Hans glares right back down at him. “You need your nose checked, I know Henry’s socks are rancid but they couldn’t have damaged your nostrils that badly.”

“Hey…” 

Henry feels a light tug, pulling him back from the window, and meets Barnaby’s amused eyes. 

“Why don’t I call Dog off and you invite your friend in? You still need to sober up and the rain is about to start pouring.”

It’s hard to hide his excitement, but he makes an attempt not to smile too hard and doubts he does a very good job of it from the way his cheeks ache in retaliation.

“Can I have more stew?” Henry asks, then recalls years' worth of Ma’s lessons on proper manners and etiquette. He wonders now, apart from the hope to have a polite son, if she knew he might be brought into his father’s life, the life of a noble with blood bluer than Hans’ eyes. “Please.”

Warm laughter rumbles from Barnaby’s chest, as he pats him on the back once more. “Sit yourself down. There’s more than enough to go around. Let me go fetch your friend then you can have more to eat.”

Henry plops himself back down but leaves space for Hans to sit next to him, because while he would have preferred he stayed back at camp, safe and incapable of finding himself in need of a timely rescue, he’s pleased to have him here. He’s never not happy to see his best friend.

“Come on in, my lord,” Barnaby says from the doorway, once Dog has reacquainted himself with Mutt. “Are you hungry? Henry’s about to tuck in for another helping of my stew.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is, good sir. His stomach is an endless pit.”

Henry leans back a little too far and receives a somewhat awkward view up Hans’ nose as he stomps inside, mud streaking up his hose. “The stew is very tasty. You should have some,” he says, then turns to Barnaby. “He’ll have some. I know he hasn’t eaten. He gets extra tetchy when he’s hungry.” Hans glares at him and Henry responds by tipping his head back further until he touches him. “Sit down already.”

Hans glares for a moment longer before begrudgingly sitting down. “You’re in big trouble,” he mumbles, as another heavy rumble, this one closer, rattles the sky. Barnaby sweeps in to gather Henry’s empty bowl and fetches another from a trunk by the wall. “I was worried you’d gotten yourself into trouble. Again.”

“I’ve been good as gold,” Henry chuckles, patting his thigh under the table. Hans’ cool hand briefly squeezes his own. “Been catching up with Barnaby here. Oh, I suppose I should introduce you – Hans, this is Barnaby, the best fighter and herbalist in all of Trosky.” Barnaby lets out a low scoff as he ladles stew from the pot into their dishes. “And Barnaby, this is my Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein.”

Hans peeks up at him through his gold-tinted lashes and lets out a soft sigh that brushes by Henry’s cheek. He presses closer to him, from shoulder to ankle, and they meet in an unspoken embrace. I can’t hug you hello to show you how relieved I am that you’re well but I want to more than anything, that little sigh seems to scream.

“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Master Herbalist,” Hans says, his voice twisting away from the casual way he addresses Henry to a more formal facade. “Any friend of Henry’s is a friend to me.”

“Even Black Bortasch?” Henry sniggers under his breath. He, rather rightfully, receives a proper stomp on the toes, and winces on impact. “I deserved that.”

“Hmph.” 

“I ain’t no master of anything, sir, that’s just Henry being kind,” Barnaby says, serving up the steaming bowls of stew. He places one each in front of both of them, before placing the rest of the bread loaf between them. “Would you like some schnapps? It’s nothing fancy, not like you’re used to, but it will help wash down the stew.”

Hans inclines his head, his cheeks flushing pink from the heat spilling out of the bowl. “Thank you, I’m sure it will be fine. You would be surprised what I’m used to drinking in desperate times, and Henry always carries Saviour Schnapps on him.”

“Are you trying to say my Saviour Schnapps is bad?” Henry frowns, stew dribbling down his chin.

With a wrinkle of his nose, Hans reaches out, the pad of his thumb swiping across Henry’s chin. “No,” he says, “it’s not bad. It’s just not the most…appropriate of drinks. You can’t have a four-course meal and expect Saviour Schnapps to be served with it, can you?”

“Yes, I can,” Henry mumbles. He feels Barnaby watching them, but when he looks up, the herbalist is turning to leave. “Is the schnapps in the shed? I can go fetch it for you.”

Barnaby waves him off. “Nonsense. Keep eating, I’ll just be a moment.”

“But –”

“Henry,” Barnaby says wryly, “no offense but I won’t risk the wrath of your lord here should you accidentally impale yourself on a pitchfork out there in the dark. You are not steady right now.”

Henry’s lower lip pulls out in a slight pout. He’s really not that drunk.

“I do prefer you in one piece,” Hans snorts, Barnaby disappears out the door. With a cautious spoonful, he takes his first slurp, then another, and a low hum rumbles from the back of his throat. “This is very good. You manage to meet the most fascinating people, Henry. What did you do for this one, eh? Kill a pack of wolves? Pick a hundred poppies? Arrange a marriage between his daughter and the Bailiff’s son? Out with it, what was it this time?”

“We wrestled, then he told me he liked men. In the biblical sense.” Henry slaps a hand to his mouth as Hans chokes, brown liquid spewing across the table and dribbling down into Henry’s beloved H. He didn’t mean to say that. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You didn’t hear me say that. God, maybe that mead is some sort of serum that makes men spill the truth.”

Han’s eyes all but fall out of his head and into his bowl, which, eyeballs would really ruin such a fine stew. It’s meaty enough as it is.

“Henry, what the fuck?” he hisses. From over his shoulder, he glances back at the door, like he’s waiting for Barnaby to storm in with his crossbow so as to defend his secret from int out. “Tell me you didn’t…”

Henry looks at him blankly. “Didn’t what?” Hans glares at him harder, his brows arching, and it takes a moment longer than it should to decipher the outraged annoyance. “What? Did I sleep with Barnaby? For fuck’s sake, Hans, he’s old enough to be my father. When I say we wrestled, I mean we really wrestled. He’s the toughest challenger in Trosky – and my friend.”

“Hold on a moment, what you were saying before about being sent away to a cabin in the forest, is that why he lives out here? He was banished here?” Wincing, Henry nods, unable to meet his eyes. “Jesus, poor man. I – well, shit, Henry.” The tense line of Hans’ shoulders relaxes, and he ducks his head, a touch embarrassed by his reaction. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you…even if you had, it’s not right of me to get so worked up about past dalliances. I need to work on my jealousy, I know.” He breathes in deeply and tears off a piece of bread to hand to Henry. “Here, oh bottomless pit, swipe up some of that broth so Barnaby doesn’t think we feast like animals.”

Smile hidden away, Henry uses the bread to sop up Hans’ mess. “I know you don’t mean any harm.”

“Still, it’s not very gentlemanly of me to accuse you of sleeping with every sodomite we come across.”

“No,” Henry agrees, “it’s not, but it is deeply amusing that you think I’m some sex god capable of seducing everyone I come across, regardless of their sex.”

Outside, the pitter-patter sound of raindrops finally descending onto the hard ground fills the room, and Hans’ lips press together, his shoulders quivering in held-back laughter. “Sex god might be going a little too far.”

“So, you don’t think I’m a sex god?!” Henry faux-gasps. “I’m hurt.”

“This is highly blasphemous,” Hans grins. “Stop it now.”

“I’ll stop once you admit I’m sex god.”

“No.”

“Tell me I’m a sex god.”

“Henry.”

“Come on, say it! Just once!”

“Fine, you’re a sex god.” Henry beams, his cheeks aching from the force of his grin, and plasters a firm kiss on Hans’ cheek. The noble’s eyes go wide as he looks in concern toward the still-shut door. “Jesus Christ, how much did you drink?” he laughs in relieved disbelief. “I said relax, not drink yourself reckless.”

“Barnaby brewed the best mead I’ve ever drank in my life,” Henry sighs, reaching over into Hans’ bowl with his spoon, to procure himself an extra piece of meat. Half-heartedly, Hans gives chase with his own spoon, trying to knock him away, but Henry prevails. “It made me slightly drunk.”

“Slightly? You’re downright silly, darling.”

Silliness is fine in moderation, Ma always told him, just don’t lose you’re head or it may go rolling off your body. It was a nice way for her to say, stay out of trouble, otherwise the Executioner will be on his tail. Curious now, that he’s become true friends with a man oft poised to swing his axe. He wonders how Ma would fathom his openness to befriend anyone willing.

“My mouth won’t stop moving,” Henry admits.

The corner of Han’s lips quirks up into a sly smirk. “Is that so?” 

Before Henry can reply, the door to the hut swings open, and two soaked pups trample in, their coats soaked through. Barnaby follows at a slower pace, his shirt and hair wet, and two tin pitchers clutched under each arm. 

“Here we are! Time to drink up!”

“Excellent!” Hans crows cheerfully. “Then sit down, my good man, I want to hear all about how you met Henry. He tells me all sorts of outlandish stories, I can’t ever decide if I believe him or not.”

“I don’t lie to you,” Henry mutters.

“Just the other day he was telling me about a sheep that reminded me of him. Me? Remind him of a sheep? Can you believe him?”

Barnaby casts Henry a quick, amused glance as he pours out everyone a drink. “Unbelievable, sir.”

“Ignatius has a name and you both should do well to remember it,” Henry huffs, tossing his spoon into his empty bowl. It’s quite a miracle that he feels full.

The way Hans looks at him can only be thought of as exasperatedly fond. “Only you could befriend a sheep.”

“Henry has a very good heart,” Barnaby says, sliding onto the bench across from rather them. “Only someone with as much an open mind as he could befriend a man like me.” Henry wants to object, they are giving him far too much credit, if he doesn’t like someone he simply pretends as though they stop existing once they leave his line of sight. He’s got his limits as much as anyone does. “Now, as for how the lad and I met, well, he showed up at my door asking very politely for a fight.”

“Sounds like Henry,” Hans laughs. “Tell me everything!”

Conversation and good company carry on into the night, Hans warming up to Barnaby at an astounding pace, understanding why Henry needed to see him before they left finally settling in. Hans treats them both to tales of his misspent youth, stories not even Henry has heard, including his first attempt at shooting a bow as a boy, which led to the need of a new nanny, a shrine in need of replacement, and the bottom of the captain of the guard forever scarred. 

As lighting streaks across the sky and thunder rolls into the hills, the rain shows no sign of stopping, and Barnaby offers them up his bedroom for the night. They refuse, though, unable to take advantage of more of the herbalist’s hospitality than they already have, and together take refuge in the shed, the space enclosed and sheltered from the harsh rain pounding on the roof.

“This isn’t so bad,” Hans says, spread out on the blankets Barnaby offered them, his arms crossed under his head. Though the air has cooled from the rain, the night is still warm, they stripped down to their braies. Henry lights the lanterns hung on the wall before wandering over to the alchemy bench. Water. Wine. Spirits. Ah, there it is. Oil. “No worse than sleeping in a tent.”

“Will the others worry that we’re not back yet?” Henry asks, hiding the oil off of the side as he settles down beside Hans. The straw packed underneath the blankets provides some comfort on the hard ground, but what really helps is Hans flinging an arm out and blindly reaching to pull him closer. He rests his head on his shoulder, the pink scar from an enemy arrow just beneath his cheek, and stretches his tired legs out until he feels a satisfying crack ripple through his joints.

Hans makes a low noise at the back of his throat. “I told them we had to make a few stops to see people in town and that they shouldn’t worry if were not back until late.” Cool fingers lightly tap just beneath his chin and tilt his head back, Hans’ wide smile bright enough to see even in the dimmest of lights. “Or at all because of the storm. I had planned to find us an abandoned barn or something else terrible but very much private. This shed is good enough.”

Laughter, warm and light and cheered on by the mead and schnapps flowing through their veins, bubbles free out of his chest, and he wastes no time at all, rolling atop Hans, who snickers in delight. Deceptively strong arms curve around his back and hold on tight as he leans down to capture his favorite pair of lips in what has become his favorite sort of kiss. Lazy, happy, slow. The languid slip of Hans’ tongue between his teeth, his hands skimming through his hair, across his jaw, and over the tips of his ears, it all makes him feel weak in the knees. 

“I love you,” Henry grins, his mouth dragging down Hans’ neck, the faint prickle of stubble rubbing across his chin. He sinks his teeth down into the taut flesh, thinking of the mark that will be left behind, the curious little bruise no one but Hans will think twice about come morning. 

Hans lets out a sweet groan, one Henry can feel under his lips. “Christ, you’re affectionate when you’re soused.”

“I’m no drunker than you are,” Henry objects. “I sobered up while you got filled up with schnapps. We’re on even ground here, my lord.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right. That Barnaby can fucking drink,” Hans grunts, as Henry’s hand slides down the front of his braies, his fingers tracing over the outline of his cock through the fabric. Hans’ wide smile gleams in the low light, his blue eyes dancing merrily up at him. “Feeling frisky, are you, my dearest?”

“What was it you expected from me earlier?” Henry pretends to search his memory for Hans’ bout of whining. “A bit of a pull and tug?”

“Only if you want to,” Hans says, playing the innocent he most certainly is not. “We are in a sodomite’s shed, after all.”

“You do realize that sounds like the ideal place for us to fuck around in, right?” Henry snickers.

Hans’s eyebrows curve into two perfect arches. “Does it?” 

“Aye,” Henry smirks, leaning back down. “It does.” He wipes away Hans’ “innocent” smile with his mouth alone, wishing they could be closer than they already are. Hans runs his hands up and down Henry’s back, his long fingers dancing across his spine and his body already pushing up against his, never stopping from wanting more as well. “Hm, have I told you how handsome I think you are?”

Hans’ hands stutter near Henry’s backside, his lashes fluttering a delicate sweep. “What? I – yes, it’s come up, I’m sure,” he replies, stumbling over his words. “Why wouldn’t you have told me? Not that you need to, no one needs to tell me I’m handsome, I know I am.”

Chuckling, Henry reaches for the jug of oil he set aside and dips his fingers in the silky smooth liquid. It would be vastly more enjoyable warmed, but some matters can’t be helped – or prolonged. 

Fighting for privacy in the coming days, coming weeks, will not be easy, not impossible but they will need to work for it, and Henry is prepared to make this a moment Hans won’t soon forget.

“Well, that may be so, but I plan to tell you whether you know it or not.” His slick fingers slip down the smooth plain of muscle and under the waistline of Hans’ braies. Hans sucks in a sharp gasp as he takes hold of his hardening length. “Do you know what the first thing I noticed about you was?”

“Other than from my immediate objections to your disrespectful presence?” Hans mutters, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. He chews on it when he’s nervous, a tick, Henry isn’t all too sure he even knows he has.

“Apart from that, aye,” Henry laughs softly. With a series of well-practiced strokes, Hans’ cock comes to life beneath his palm. It was familiar yet foreign, at first, to pleasure another man, to learn the steps to a dance he already understood, yet reverse them, but once he put himself in the shoes of another and thought about what he would like, it became far easier to adjust. “All I could think was this is the kind of boy stories and fables are written about. He’s rude and thinks he’s better than everyone but he’s beautiful – the fairest lord in all the land.”

Hans’ hips buck up into his hand, and a shiver wracks down Henry’s back as dull nails dig into his skin. “You’re just saying that to make me feel good about myself,” he says and clenches his jaw, a touch of defiance in his darkened gaze.

“No,” Henry hums, “I’m not.” He braces himself on the elbow crooked just above Hans’ shoulder and brushes a finger across Hans’ rumpled brow. “Your skin was touched by the sun, not like a farmer’s rough and hardened from spending your days under the sweltering sun, but from long walks and trips through the forest with your bow.” Hans tries to avert his gaze, his breaths uneven and shaky, but he clucks his tongue in disproved. “None of that now, I want you to listen to me. Look at me.”

Hans’ blue eyes, a little dazed, a lot lost, hesitantly shift back to him. “What have I gotten myself into with you?” he mumbles as though he believes Henry can’t hear every word uttered in the small space left between them. 

Friendship, loyalty, happiness, companionship, love, Henry yearns to say, but cannot fully articulate at the moment, else Hans burst into laughter at his saccharine ravings.

A small smile, one that refuses to fall away from his lips, grows as he thumbs his way over Hans’ cheekbone, just beneath his left eye. “Your face was carved in sharp lines, sharp enough to cut through stone, and your eyes...” With his oil-slick hand, he lazily keeps up a slow pace, his fingers drifting and twisting around Hans’ cock, while his own rubs up against the noble’s hip, ravenous for his touch. “You were so angry with my mere presence they burned like ice.”

“You were out of line,” Hans breathes, twisting beneath him, the drag of his hip a gift to a starving man. Seed beads at the head of Hans’ swollen cock, the swift brush of Henry’s thumb causing him to squirm and twitch beneath him.

“I was desperate,” Henry admits. He brushes the golden strands of hair off Hans’ brow with the flick of his thumb, more than a little breathless. “Your hair was like a halo, ruffled yet elegant, and when I got close enough in our little battle, I could smell flowers on your skin.”

“You paid an awful lot of attention to me,” Hans attempts to jest, but the watery sheen bubbling over his blue eyes tells another tale. 

“There it is – that crafty tongue of yours. You spoke as though the blue in your blood had turned to fire,” he dips down, his mouth hovering over Hans’, the secondhand taste of schnapps tickling his lips, “with lips that looked like they only knew sin.”

A low groan, weak down to the knees, rolls through Hans, as Henry steals the very air from his lungs, the tender touch of their lips, no more, no less, before he pulls back with a lopsided grin. Hans is flushed all the way down to his shaking chest, his gaze wild and hungry for more.

“Henry,” he croaks. “I – I –”

“I laid in bed the night after our hunting trip, bruised and broken, my body sore from the swipes of a Cuman’s saber and my muscles aching from pulling the bow you gifted me, and pictured you as a fallen angel. The Devil in disguise come to ruin my plans, and my hopes for vengeance, and I could not fathom why or how you got under my skin so thoroughly in such a short period of time. And do you know what I did, Hans?” Henry’s lips ghost over Hans’s tight jaw, to his ear, and he whispers, “Do you want to know the disgusting truth?”

“Henry.”

“I touched myself, while you lurked in the corners of my mind, your smile and laughter and your fucking mouth overtaking any thought of faceless girls I tried to conjure in mind,” Henry admits in a hushed whisper. 

The weeks after Skalitz were a blur. He should have mourned Bianca, he should have focused on moving forward with Theresa, he should have thought longer about bedding Lady Stephanie, he should have walked on down to the bathhouses and gotten himself taken care of…but he didn’t. He laid in his bed in the mill, Peshek gone to visit one of his fellow millers for the evening and Theresa off supping with the tanner’s wife, and touched himself while pretending Hans bloody Capon wasn’t whispering mischief in his ear.

“You fucking bastard,” Hans chokes out as his body tenses up, a shudder pulsing through his cock. With a lasting whine that rings between Henry’s ears and settles low in his gut, his seed spills across Henry’s hand and over his briares. 

Deeply satisfied, Henry watches Han’s expression crumple into speechless pleasure. 

Well, he should have figured out a lot sooner that praising Hans – complimenting him – would get him going faster than just about anything.

“I hate you,” Hans murmurs once he’s caught his breath. 

“No, you don’t,” Henry laughs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When he tries to pull back, he’s grabbed by the back of the neck, and taken in by a much more thorough thank you.

“You’re right.” Hans nods, and does what he always seems to do whenever Henry gets all emotional and lowborn affectionate around him – he steels himself, shoving all his learned behaviors to the back of his mind, and returns the affection. “I love you too – though I’m not sure I believe you were thinking such sinful thoughts about that early on in our acquaintance. It makes for a nice story, at least.”

“A story?” Henry splutters, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His neglected cock runs uncomfortably against the linen of his braies but he ignores it as best as he possibly can. “Hans, it wasn’t even a few weeks after that you invited me to the baths with you. Don’t act all innocent, you weren’t merely interested in getting my help to woo some bathmaid whose name even I can’t remember. You were touchy.”

“I wanted to spend time with you,” Hans replies defensively, “…yes, it was in the baths, but it was friendly camaraderie. Most men carouse there after hours, there’s nothing wrong with inviting a new friend to have a soak with you!” Henry scoffs playfully and Hans makes a half-hearted attempt to hide a smile, as pushes himself up. “A new friend who I couldn’t stop thinking about.” He shifts onto his knees and threads his hands behind Henry’s neck. “A new friend who I couldn’t help but reach out to whenever he got close enough.” Henry’s heart pounds furiously inside his chest as Hans straddles his lap, his gaze dropping low in amusement. “A new friend who I wouldn’t have minded seeing without his tunic and braies on.”

Henry grips Hans’ hips. “All for theoretical study, I’m sure?” he grins.

“Oh for sure,” Hans says. “I had to compare our statures and our manhood. It was for the sake of continuing the pursuit of knowledge and bettering myself.”

“Right,” Henry drawls, as he begins to feel the slightest hint of discomfort. “The pursuit of knowledge and bettering yourself.”

“Correct, I’m an eager student, my dearest Henry.” Their noses brush and Henry aches to have him close again, to feel his skin layered upon his, to align their bodies in perfect harmony. He’s never wanted someone he already has, heart and mind. “I plan to study you for all my life.”

Henry’s mouth quirks up into a wry smile. “We can only pray that is the case,” he murmurs, and Hans frowns. “Hans?”

Before Hans closes the distance between them, he stops, a faint furrow between his brows. He cradles Henry’s cheeks as though he’s something precious, something he plans to never lose or let go of. “Henry of Skalitz, listen to me well, I won’t ever let anyone send you away to live the rest of your days in seclusion, away from me, away from everyone you care for. Our secret is ours to keep and should anyone ever learn of it, I will protect you as you have protected me from every sort of danger these past weeks. I swear it on my name, as the Lord of Leipa and Pirkstein, nothing will ever separate us. Do you hear me? Nothing.”

A ball of flame seems to catch fire in his chest, eating up all the air in his lungs. Henry, so full of doubt and fear and wishes to stave off the future, wholeheartedly believes Hans. He’s heard Hans deliver political declarations and solemn oaths, always offered in true faith, but this is the first time Henry can feel his righteous belief – his intentions to never see them part. No one can come between them and no one will. Not wives or fathers or uncles. They are bound in a tight, unbreakable web of their own creation. 

Henry believes him.

“Aye, I hear you,” Henry replies, his tongue two sizes two big. “You and me, we’re in this together.”

“That we are.” The switch between Hans’ solemn stare and the filthy smirk graving his lips might be the true case in need of studying. “Now enough dwelling, I believe you are in need of my sinful attention, are you not?”

As a laughing Henry is pushed back onto the blankets, light streaks across the sky, the wrath of the heavens no match for the devilish mouth of one Sir Hans Capon.