Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“That's shit, Satan's fuming shit. In stupid white flecks.”

Hans whines, leaning against the window’s sill as his breath comes out in little puffs. He rubs his hands, blows on them. Huffs, once, twice. Thrice is when Henry loses his calm. 

“Stop it,” he grunts. 

“But it's been weeks. Weeks! Hal. I can't just sit there on my arse all day.”

“We'll go in a few days, when it melts,” Henry sighs, slotting himself behind Hans as they watch the snow fall in thick clumps. 

“If it melts.”

“Aye, my lord, that's what it usually does. More so in April,” Henry teases, rocking his hips into Hans's, groping his arse for good measure. 

“God, quit this,” Hans scoffs and really drives his point across by pushing his bottom intently against Henry's crotch, “we're not on hunting grounds, this is,” he skips a beat, “this is bloody pointless.”

“Alas.”

“A-fucking-las,” Hans turns around, stealing a quick kiss on the way, anxious eyes at the door, anxious ears perked to attention. His desk is the last room of the corridor, a small mercy for stolen kisses during long days of biting on quill tips as he pens the vapid little edicts of his lordly life. 

It's somehow remarkable, Henry thinks, that such little touch has him at half-mast.  Pent-up, aye, he is. Hans fares better, with that wife of his that he loves and beds on that huge canopy bed of his, a sin of indulgence wrapped in eiderdown and furs. Henry's is more modest, only fits one and bears witness more often than not to his solitary grunts and humps. The pillow, off-white, Henry might as well just call it his own personal lord of Pirkstein, Rattay, Kunstadt - seed stains included. Poor thing hangs on by a thread, does it stand on its own yet, Hans teased once as he was beckoned discreetly in the house by the forge. 

He had refused to rest his noble head on that horrific pillow as Henry took him as dogs do, only a thick gob of spit to ease the way - the lord's imperious request, just drool on it, Christ, he had growled. Both men had bared as little skin as needed to allow for the slotting of stiff cock in eager arse. It was but a handful of sweaty hourglass spins stolen during a busy fair, drunken moans and swears, mostly swears and mostly Hans’, drowned in festive songs and hurdy-gurdy boasts. Hans obviously had no objection to painting Henry’s bed with even more seed - one rarely feels bad about soiling what's already soiled.

Change those fucking sheets, Hans had ordered as he headed back to the celebrations, threading his fingers in his hair to tame it back into decency, walking funny with a light frown on his pretty face. He probably felt some seed leaking out of his hole, caged in place by tendrils of dark blonde hair. Henry had waited for a while in his tepid room, careful not to attract too much attention by sticking to Hans like some lovesick burdock. Still, observing through the door's judas he watched his lord stroll back into the flowers, the wines and the lutes with a joyful spring in his step, well-fucked and happy. Henry felt some pride and wished the minstrels would dedicate some good bloody ballad to that cod of his that worked miracles on Rattay's morale - he laughed a bit to himself, brushed his own sweaty hair off his forehead and fixed his Sunday's clothes before finally exiting too. 

Henry eventually did change the sheets, he's not that much of a swine, but not before doing a couple of things he would not admit even under Inquisition's levels of questioning.  

“Fucking winter,” Henry whines, and Hans just paces around, huffing, puffing. 

-

“How's life, Hal. Forging nice things, those days?” 

“You care?” 

“Of course?” 

“It's going well.”

“Don't go too deep in details, I'm bored already.”

“Sorry. It's going.”

“I sometimes visit, but you've never noticed.”

“Really?”

“Really. I just make myself thin - I do! And observe from afar. Would not want to rob you of your concentration.”

“I'd end up quenching my cod and swording you, in confusion.”

“Sounds appealing.”

“Then come, my lord, but it's not that entertaining. Lots of meagre weapons, no great blade that would catch your interest,” save for a specific one, Henry thinks. His lips tug just a bit and Hans’ eyes roll up. 

“I'd visit, were you a fish or a nun. I'd breathe underwater, for just one!” Hans flaunts a finger at Henry's nose - Henry’s eyes converge, silly, “One sight of you.”

“Don't tease me, Hans, I'll cry. Already that close to tears,” Henry says, pinching two fingers together and slipping seamlessly in his battered dog’s manners, to please his lordship - a lordship that's usually not so keen on dogs, safe for one, blue eyed and tailless. 

“You don't look the part,” Hans says, fond. 

“Don't I?” Henry grins, “and now?” he adds, rounding his big eyes into even more canine longing as he tilts his face just so. 

Hans lays his head on Henry's shoulder, arms laying dead at his lap as they sit next to each other. 

“Is it bad that I miss battles, sometimes?” Hans asks, a hint of shyness dirtying his voice - embellishing it, perhaps. 

“Yes, it is.”

“It felt so simple.”

“Death is no trivial matter, Capon,” Henry says, observing his own hands, focusing on the thick veins and the odd colour surrounding the nails. Little burns scarred into a map of white dots, a smith's heraldry: stars on azure, a chevron where some little silver beasts would roam. 

“What's life, in here? All I do is bend my arse over and get fucked in papers, papers and more papers. I'm the- the supreme! Supreme whore of those lands,” Hans flares up, gesturing something lewd with a puffed up cheek, a hand at his mouth and another cupping invisible parts - the stamp of a true connoisseur of his craft. 

“My lord is being overly dramatic,” Henry managed to get out, thunderous lust birthed and felled in a second, I'm a grown-up man for fuck's sake, he thinks. 

“Your lord's work is but a lame one. You're lucky to be born a shit-stained peasant.”

Shut up , Henry thinks, “Blessed by the angels, the Christ child and the Holy Mary, amen,” he says. 

Hans digs his head deeper on Henry, close to nuzzling at his armpit as he stops talking. Suddenly, he's sweet. It's a nice change of pace: Henry rewards him with an arm tenderly dropped over his shoulder as he accepts his knighting as pillow-in-chief. 

“Wish we were in camp, right now.”

“You'd be cold.”

“Not at all. But I could lay on you, just like this.”

“Among your men?” 

“They wouldn't give a shit, maybe at worst, God, look, lord Capon is sleeping on his squire, ridiculous! And that would be it.”

“Hmm.” 

“Nothing the battlegrounds haven't seen. Christ, we'd still have our codpieces on - more than can be said for some of those fuckers.”

“Would you dig the muzzle of your bascinet on my neck, sir?” 

“We're wearing armour?” 

“Well, we're at war. Para belli?”

“Bellum.”

“Aye. No, but you're right, no one would bat an eye. They would not know I'm smiling under my helm.”

“Aww, Henry. You're a dove,” Hans teases, fond enough to be barbless. 

Henry closes his eyes, focused on his friend's content breathing. It melts harmoniously with the crackling wood : it's simply nice. Hans might have dozed out a bit, his head lax on Henry's shoulder. As long as he doesn't drool on my tunic I'll be fine , Henry thinks, staying as vigilant as he can, ears tuned to the castle's heartbeat.

Should it be a surprise that Hans has to wake him up shortly after - not really. Hans never naps for long, nerves alight with thunder. Henry could fade multiple times a day, swallowed into sleep as soon as he rests his head: an old man rhythm he saves for lazy days. 

Sloth is the firstborn daughter of gluttony : earlier they had shared a fat poularde, skin roasted to perfection. Hans still thought it was but the noble thing to do to keep the noble breasts for his noble self - Henry knew the carcass and limbs had far more delights to offer, namely the precious oysters Hans did not seem to know about. The order of the world was thus preserved, Hans eating with his back straight as Henry dug into the thin meat coating the ribs with his teeth and hands. 

Henry took perverted delight in the rump, that heavenly piece of fat and crisp, and Hans grimaced and just said, they shit from here, Henry laughed and answered, ‘never stopped you. He had then held his greasy fingers up, confident as they were alone, and Hans had sucked them clean, looking into Henry's eye for the whole thing as he silently tried to make him flinch - Henry had not. They shared a fat kiss afterwards, slick and fragrant. Hans had straddled him to push his tongue in Henry's mouth, fucking it pliant just so. Henry had submitted, tongue dead at the floor of his mouth, letting his lord own him that way : his reward came as a huffed little ‘ love you spoke from glistening lips. A small praise worth the prodding of his tonsils and the pilfering of all that good aftertaste. 

“Lucky no one walked by,” Hans berates him as he finally stops shaking Henry like a tree. 

“We'd be none the wiser.”

“Lousy watchman you make.”

“Take it off my pay.”

“Certainly!”

“Or I could repay you otherwise,” Henry draws out, humming low. 

“Oh? Please, do elaborate.”

“I could forge you a dagger. A new one - yours is frankly mediocre.”

“It was expensive!” Hans cries out - he doesn't even gobble Henry's previous bait, far too weary, that pike. 

“You got scammed, Capon. As your kin always does.”

“Then make it worth my time and grip.”

“For sure, I'll order the most precious of guards, the softest of leathers, all for your darling hand.”

“My darling hand thanks you,” Hans barks, digging down to squeeze at Henry's cock just hard enough to make it a threat and not a treat. An elbow to the tender side doesn't deter him. 

Henry squeaks as his back straightens, “I'll - oof - I'll get it nicely engraved for you,” Henry sighs once he's released, rearranging his cock to the correct side - he loads on the left, Hans on the right : divine poetry. 

“Prudentia est omnium virtutum mater.”

“No, this one definitely doesn't suit you.”

“A fitting joke for a joke of a weapon. Daggers! I'm no slit-throat.”

“Do you want it?” 

“Of course I do. You're the one making it,” Hans says, batting a diminutive hand as he gets up to do God-knows-what. 

Henry has no answer to this but to turn his head away and feel uncomfortably warm. It's like Hans has no idea how sweet he sounds, sometimes. 

Some God-knows-what gets done as Henry just stays seated, thinking about metalwork. Alloy musings don't keep him at the edge of his seat. Bored, he gets up to grab a book and reads the same sentence over and over again. The letters melt into one another. After a while and as he still has no clue as to what he's reading, he puts the tome down. If only there was a way to occupy one's hands and mind, something convenient, practical - but all there is to do is to observe the logs slowly combusting on the hearth and sympathize with them, somehow. 

“I'm mortally bored. Let's fight, Hal,” Hans breaks the silence, done disorganizing the strange trinkets he keeps on his grand table, noble gifts, parchment knives and a small whittled bird, smooth from longing palms. 

“People will hear us and come sniffing around. Can't be arsed.”

“It will be fun.”

“It's not that fun if we can't whore each other out,” Henry blurts out because it's true - without the bitter aftertaste of seed the feast feels cheap and mundane. Fighting is fun, yes, but fucking is tremendously fun. And fucking Hans is a challenge wrapped in an ordeal. A tussle spiced with sex is a heavenly delight, one that coin doesn't buy at the baths, regardless of the maiden's musculature or moral inclinations. Henry used to be satisfied with mere violence, but his tastes have mellowed: old age, perhaps, standing tall at twenty-four. Dead already, were anyone to ask him. 

“Such dirty words on that plump mouth of yours. I'm shocked.”

“I'm bored too.”

“Mary and child, the world would much rather find us fighting than you on all fours begging for it. Which is preposterous. Love really has left this land!”

“I don't do that.”

“Are you stuck on the begging for it bit? Hit a nerve, perhaps?” 

“I'll hit a nerve alright, if you don't stop running that bratty pie hole of yours.”

“Would love to see you try,” Hans goads and Henry simply swallows the bait, hook, line and sinker and manhandles Hans, grabbing at his hips. 

A silent brawl follows, both men keeping it down as much as they can - seen from the outside it's perfectly ridiculous but all they see is each other's reddening face and wandering forearms. Quickly they're on the ground, half-bitten grunts that they puke on the other's ear. Henry takes the advantage, Hans withdraws and slaps him across the face hard enough to sting yet soft enough to humiliate. Henry sees red and feels the formidable and irresistible need to assert his masculinity, which he does in one skilfully applied headlock. 

“Cunt,” he whispers venomous at Hans’ ear. 

“Kiss my arse,” Hans squeaks out, face turning crimson. 

“Say sorry and I'll let you go.”

“No - hmmph - I'd rather fucking die.”

“Then die,” Henry spits out, but he's starting to worry - it's all fun and games until someone just has to act precious and die. 

“Release me, I'll piss in your mouth, I'll bite your fucking balls off, you - hrrrrgh - you bloody dog!” 

“Bark bark, you noble turd.”

Hans makes a noise much reminiscent of a lapdog getting sat on and Henry lets go of his grip. 

“Jesus Christ, Henry, you're a proper devil! Well, that was lovely,” Hans laughs, massaging his throat as his face slowly pales down to normal. How good that stupid throat would look bulging around his cock : Henry can't help the fleeting whim. 

“Thanks. You're correct, this was fun,” Henry says as he extends his hand: they share a brotherly handshake. 

“I really can't win when I'm not cheating, can I?” 

“You could, if you'd only practised your holds. Rubbing your arse on your foes is no sound strategy on the slaughter fields, my lord.”

“Good thing we're in my chambers, then.” 

“Good for you.”

“Good for me!” Hans concludes, getting up to pace once more like a caged bear and accomplish strictly nothing. 

-

Henry toys with the cinders, dragging the firebrand around as he kneels by the hearth. He has half a mind to get to the smithy and roll in the furnace. No place's warmer. Were it not for the heavy snowfall, he'd be in the woods, right now. True to his word, Hans had freed this day for them. It had become quite unusual, caught up as he was in matters of the uttermost importance : broken windmill, bandits settling, wheat prices going up (good) or down (bad) and many other riveting shards of dominion. He was good at ruling, bold yet fair in his decrees though often bored, sometimes upset - Henry always cheered him up on the rare days when Hans would let himself wither away in bloated malaise. 

Were it not such a shit, cold year, the flowers would be in bloom, the air would be crisp, yes, but pleasant as he'd lean against a tree, Hans’ legs hooked on his arms. In his fantasy Henry has his lord lifted off the ground and grinds against him as their lips never part, devoid of the need for air as corpses are. The ghostly Hans is not making aggravating comments about what he had for lunch or his most recent meet up with the lord of Wherever as he usually would, he just sighs or laughs, running his hands on Henry's shoulder instead of his nails. He's almost uncharacteristically sweet, the way he sometimes is on early mornings before he remembers to ham up the cunt's part; Henry hasn't had the chance to wake by his side in a while. Their eyes are half-closed: it's a sunny day. He's light as a feather here - Henry knows well he could not hold him up like this for long, the fucker's heavier than he looks. The rough cork of the oak doesn't scratch nor hurt Hans’ tanned back, or if it does, he doesn't complain - firmly assessing this oneiric Hans as a pure product of the mind. 

Henry sighs and wills his daydreams away. The object of his desires sits crooked on a chair, yawning as it flips through some sturdy looking leather-bound book - evidently fascinating. His teeth glimmer, a peek at the skull that lays underneath. Henry can see all the way down into his gullet, a direct line to his pink guts. Were he to aim just right, he could spit perfectly in the middle : bull's eye. Hans would love it, or hate it. He stretches his limbs as his yawn recedes, eyes opening one after the other - the left one lingers half-closed for a bit, making him look adorably childlike. 

“What are you gawking at, peasant?”

“You,” Henry admits, bashful. 

“It's getting pathetic. Come, sit - sit here -, let's have a round of dice. No - better, chess. I'll get the board.”

There are no substitutes to affairs of the flesh, be it a quick fuck or the intimate skinning of a hare, the deep-red blood swirls and the decaying warmth of death. But chess does the trick, sometimes. They are both miserable at it. Hans sought Henry as an opponent when he proved incapable of beating his demanding wife. The rules had quickly been learned : strategy lagged behind. The matters of the mind mattered in Kunstadt - here, honourable men dabbled more in cunt and ale. 

It's not ale, it's wine that Hans carries with him as he comes back with the chess board. The pieces come out of the calfskin bag, softly, a grandiose reveal that never loses its charm. 

Hans holds up both of his closed hands in front of Henry's face. Henry leans forward and kisses the right one, the tip of his tongue dragging delicately against a knuckle or two. 

“You're not making this house arrest feel any more tolerable, you know, Hal?” Hans sighs, a slight creeping of pink staining his pretty ears, making Henry as proud as a rooster, “anyway, you go first. Set up the board,” Hans orders, revealing the white queen fitting snug in the crook of his palm. 

Henry places the pieces carefully, everyone in their rightful places. Hans sits next to him. 

“And here's the king,” Henry croons with a wink. 

“You're no queen, boy, don't flatter yourself,” Hans ripostes immediately. 

“I'd fancy myself a knight.”

“The horse underneath, maybe.”

“The cock?” 

“The stench. Oh, Hell, the ears too,” Hans adds, flicking one of Henry's large ears gently. Henry files this little touch deep in his heart. 

Henry huffs one small laugh and pushes his king’s pawn out. Hans pretends to think hard, holding his chin in his hand, hand hovering, building tension - and pushes a pawn of his own. Slowly, the board develops, both men careful, an honourable skirmish that sounds like many tiny horseshoes against the marble board. When Henry's bishop gets trapped and he's forced to concede it, he feels properly emasculated. A weaker man would have drawn his sword and fought to the death, but Henry is a man of rust and sweat : he takes it as men do, kneeling in the dust with spit slick lips. If he must be a court eunuch, let him be the one in charge, at least. 

“What are you thinking of?” Hans asks, toying with the felled bishop with his long fingers. 

“Stupid things,” Henry answers, caught up in odd musings. 

“Focus, will you?”

“Aye,” Henry nods, recapturing the hostile little pawn. There's neither angelic chorus nor sounding of horns to crown such meagre victory. 

-

The bells toll and Hans’s shoulders jerk up ever so slightly. I love you so much, it hurts my very soul, Henry thinks in abstract shapes, before staring at the board as if his precarious position was to change, moved by his tender feelings. It unfortunately still looks awful - so much for his forlorn heart. A shiver runs through him. 

“Cold?” Hans asks, looking at Henry's neck, fluttering upwards to his lips and ignoring his eyes entirely. He's transparent in his needs and always so terribly obvious. Strange windmill, Lord Capon, running on hot-air and grinding through the world. 

“Yes.”

“Take my shawl, I'll fare well without it.”

“You've always run so hot, my lord.”

“It's the sinful thoughts, Henry, keeps you warm as hellfire,” Hans winks, “though you seldom lack those, do you?” he adds, removing the emerald green garment, elegant on purpose for some mysterious reason, walking behind Henry and draping it around his neck. It smells strongly of perfume, yet nothing like Hans. 

Hans's hands linger, arranging, caressing. He closes his arms around Henry, resting his chin over Henry's head and sighing sweetly. 

“Would you lose your mind, were I to kiss you? Let it not be said of Lord Capon that he must resort to such extremes for a mere game of chess, you understand,” Hans whispers in his ear. Henry breathes through his heart. 

“Door's unlocked.”

“You're worth the risk,” Hans says, kissing Henry's forehead, hands snaking around his neck with maddening pressure. Fleeting pleasures, as silent as snow and pale as stillbirths. Henry hums contently under his breath, digging his chin in his chest. 

“Stop it,” he asks when a wet tongue laps at the tip of his ear. 

“Beg,” Hans teases, weaving his hand through Henry’s hair, pulling with perfect measure until Henry has to look up - Hans has better angles, certainly.

“Please.”

“Decorum, Hal.”

“Please, my lord.”

“Hmm, hmm,” Hans concedes, planting one last firm kiss where the crown would fit and finally pushing his friend away gently. As he walks off, footsteps resound on the corridor. They both straighten up and Henry hammers his face into Henry, the Knight, the Valorous. Henry the Besotted burrows deeper, clawing through graveyard's soil, where it's lonely, dark but safe. 

“Hans?” Jitka's voice calls softly, wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove - the Bible speaks only in truths. 

“Come in, love,” Hans says, absentmindedly dusting his gambeson. 

Jitka enters, her piercing eyes measuring, assessing, landing on the table where the chess board lies. She smiles and takes a few steps forwards as Henry gets up, bowing and standing pretty and demure, greyhound at the hunt. 

“Blessings, my lady.”

“God be with you, Henry. I won't bother you two for long, I need some papers.”

“You're no bother,” Hans retorts, “if anything, help your foolish consort,” he smiles, pointing at the stalled board. 

Henry knows that she knows, and she knows of that, too. He can't find the courage to not quake in his boots in Jitka's vicinity. She's always so pleasant, with sometimes only the ghost of a grin on her clever face to taint this image of perfection. It had been impossible from the very start to hate her. It somehow hurt more that way. 

“It's poor manners to intervene on a game,” she tuts, yet eyeing the board intently, calculating, “who's playing white?” she asks, however. 

“I am, my lady,” Henry blurts out, unable to sound any more eloquent. 

“Interesting,” she just smiles, a tad wicked. 

Henry and Hans look at each other, then at the board. Sitting as Jitka rummages through the desk, they try to get back into the proper mood. 

“Thought you liked the shawl, Hans.”

“I do! Don't worry, he's not taking it back to his hay pile. The poor boy was cold. You did tell me to care for my subjects, uhm?” Hans bats his hand, dismissive. Henry shrinks a bit in his tunic.

“Aye, it's, uh. Quite cold, haha,” he says. 

“Snowing, one might say,” Jitka jests, and Hans snorts mockingly. Henry feels like getting up and slapping him but he settles on sinking deeper into his chair and looking zany, “I'll get you one too, red would suit you just fine, Henry.”

“I thought this was a very special gift,” Hans puffs. 

“It's silk, yes.”

“You'd just clothe every beggar that comes whining in silk now? Think of our finances, woman.”

“You're tedious, Hans Capon,” Jitka scolds, and Hans just laughs, springing to his feet to join her at the desk, sauntering there. 

“I'll fare well with linen, my lady,” Henry softly says. 

“Yet silk you'll get, precious thing! You're embarrassingly privileged in this castle, Christ,” Hans flares up, “soon you'll be patrolling the chemin de ronde garbed up as a sultan's concubine, and all paid up on Kunstadt's gold.”

Henry still isn't comfortable enough to retort in the presence of Hans's wife but the stinging desire to get up and beat him raw flares up nonetheless. Yet, he has the distinctive feeling that this would not cut him from Jitka's good graces - all the contrary, more like. He grinds his teeth and files the incident on the corner of his mind that keeps track of Hans’ antics. Later he'll make him pay, with considerable interest. Unfortunately, Henry had yet to find punishments that did not simply spur Hans on to do worse. Bending him once over his lap would have no result but to ruin Henry's new leggings - very pretty velvet ones, crimson and azure. It was a losing battle that Henry, deep down, enjoyed losing. 

“Don't listen to him,” Jitka says, ignoring Hans with intent as he flutters at her side. 

“I often don't,” Henry admits.

Hans now pushes some of the papers away from Jitka's eyes, she laughs, stop that, you fool, and as he keeps doing it, he honest to God giggles. Henry watches from the corner of his eyes and gets this pressing urge to fall on his sword, puke, or cry. 

“Ah - finally. Found what I needed,” Jitka triumphs, snatching the letters away from Hans’ teasing hands. 

Hans sits back on his ridiculous brocade pillow and Jitka, as she leaves, pauses to stand behind him and rest her freckled hand on his shoulder. The other, she erects by the top of her face, tipping it lightly back and forth as she shakes her head slightly from left to right. She looks at Henry, then at the chess board, then at Henry, intently. Again, the gesture - a neighing horse. She smiles, winks, and takes her leave with a bow. 

“Eat with me tonight, Hans. See you, Henry.”

Henry looks at the board, focused on his knights. Whatever Jitka saw there eludes him. As the door closes, he breathes out an eternity of stale air. 

“You need to stop shitting up your braies each time she's around, you oaf,” Hans spits out hurriedly. 

“I can't fucking help it.”

“Jesus, then help it. Oh, to hell, you two will talk,” Hans bolts up and to the door in a couple of great strides.

“Don't,” Henry squeaks through his teeth, looking at Hans with his big bovine eyes glistening with angst. 

“Holy wounds, don't give me that look. Fuck. Fuck!” Hans deflates like a game bladder, gesticulating for a bit before he returns to his chair. 

Hans sighs loudly, making it a show, blowing a raspberry as he rolls his eyes. Henry barely feels like air has returned to his lungs and he’s certainly not going to waste it on disciplining his lord.

“Talk to Jitka next time you see her or I’m walking out,” Hans finally spits, waving a menacing finger.

“Walking where?”

“Out. All the way into Poland, if you don’t behave.”

“I can’t,” Henry groans as he takes his head in his hands, dreaming of being far, far away. Poland seems nice.

“She does not care, for God’s sake!”

“I’m sure you told her awful things.”

“Well, yes, your point being?”

“I’ll throw myself off a cliff,” Henry concludes, “in Poland.”

“Be more dramatic, will you? What’s a bit of adultery in a noble court, really? It’s the spices of life, Hal, fucking precious - I imported mine from a shit-stained village, worth gold anyway!”

“Thanks, I suppose,” Henry says, too tired to even defend Skalitz - sure, let it stay shit-stained for now.

“You’re welcome - your turn to play.”

-

“So, old friend, how is it going with the butcher's daughter?” Hans breaks the silence as his hand hovers above the red and white squares, fingers fluttering as he calculates his next moves. 

“I'll save you some spit, your highness, no , she hasn't tried my meat.”

“Nor has the innkeeper's let you touch her jugs, or the baker's offered you sweet buns. What's wrong, you old cuckold?” Hans digs in and Henry kicks his shin under the table, forcing a wet whelp out of him. 

“I'm too busy hammering the castle's cur, I suppose,” Henry boasts and Hans starts laughing, shrill as rhinestones. 

“I've walked into this one, haven't I?” 

“I'm just not too keen on womenfolk, these days - no, not like that, don't give me that look - I've been nothing but awkward to the poor ladies, recently.”

“Play the dealt dice, for God's sake, you're making it worse on yourself,” Hans says as his eyes avoid Henry's, a fleeting hint of sadness that folds his face the wrong way, “You're busting on purpose.”

“It's not that easy, sir.”

“I don't like seeing you like this, Hal. Pity doesn't suit you, you're far too strong-willed. Have I mentioned beautiful?”

“You haven't.” 

“You're so pretty,” Hans croons, using the sugar-tempered voice he usually saves for bathmaids. Henry bats lightly at Hans’ cheek in mock offence, a gesture that he often favours in the sack, a quick way to have his lord eating from his hand when he's thus inclined. 

“It's just that unending winter messing with me, aye. Let me lick at my wounds for a while, I'll be fresh as daisies in a beat,” Henry smiles. 

It's not a lie, not really: in the long days of Midsummer Henry will ride the province and busy himself, the knight errand on the bay mare, Pebbles the Second - first one duly honoured a month ago after a bad fall had sealed her fate into rosaries of sausages - Henry's heart had pinched a little. Sun-tanned, he'll be painted in joyful hues, unbothered as they smudge. 

Hans does belong to him more often in the warm days, it's a fact. If anything, the snowdrops could sprout from his eyes and mouth - in less poetic terms, Hans feels like those first sunny days when the animals start breeding and the doves puff up in idiotic dances. 

“Let me just pout for a bit, it's no privilege of yours,” Henry grins, puffing his cheeks afterwards as a moody child, very Hans-like, truly. 

“You're no ranting flagellant, it looks grotesque on you. Lest you crave the whip - not that I'd judge,” Hans says, raising two inoffensive palms, washing his hands clean from his own digs, “If I can be of any help…” he grins, innocent as a lamb, a lamb that then whistles a little tune for emphasis. 

“Sod off, Capon.”

“Dirt-mouthed peasant,” he tuts, resting his head on his hands, observing silently. Silence never fits Hans - it's just more time spent brewing his hare-brained thoughts, sublimating them into idiocy or insult, in this case mischief, “Are you sure, you're not interested?” 

“I am sure, indeed.”

“I'm interested. You bruise very pretty, you know?”

“Don't mistake your fantasies for mine,” Henry groans in that deep gruff of his, the corner of his mouth splitting into a half-smile. Henry is far from opposed to a bit of rough-playing, flopped on his belly with his cock crying in the dead leaves, pounded into a blank state of submission as red prints bloom on his strong arse or coil at his nape. Without limits Hans would probably kill them both in search of some novel piece of love-making. His imagination is far too fertile, perhaps spurred on by the delirious De Paenitentia book Jitka reads to him as guidelines as they giggle, huddled together in fur and night. 

“Hmm. Shame,” Hans sighs, retreating for a while in his mind as he glances at the board. The glint in his eyes betrays the nature of his thoughts - odd chimeras of desire, eagerness to ride on each of them, even just once. It's all glassy and transparent, especially for Henry, so accustomed to the horned tapestries that line his lord's mind. Hans had once told Henry as they nursed a flask of moonshine God-knows-where, when I was just a lad, I shit you not. Hans used to fuck everything he could get his shaft in, tormented by a particularly vigorous puberty that flowered on his face and left many dainty poxholes as he wilted into a man. Henry had no such insane tales, having stuck to the comfort of his own two hands - the clumsy left one had been of great comfort, a numb treat for the quiet days of the Lord where he'd sit on it as the preacher dragged on. I'd carve holes in apples and fuck them, then would be dragged to mass smelling like cider, I swear I speak the truth, on my honour. Henry had pretended to puke, almost managing fully with how soused he was, and Hans had stuck his tongue out, bloody wounds, I probably sired hundreds of mandrakes, the witches would love me. 

For months, riding by the orchards Henry would always kindly ask his lord to keep his head on his shoulders and pizzle under lock, and Hans, good-natured as he is, would always laugh and twist his voice into the adolescent horrors of an off-tune mandolin, groaning loud into mock-completion. And once, this isn't what the Lord meant when he told us to roam the land and be fruitful, Capon, Henry had teased. Hans fired back, swift as an arrow, well, would he have been more satisfied if had stuck them in my- A sheep bleated, censor from above. 

-

“We had a great village idiot, in Skalitz.”

“Pleased to meet him,” Hans extends his hand over the board for a shake, and Henry bats it away.

“Hark, hark. Jiří was his name. He’d sneak out during mass to climb the belfry and ring the bells. Or he’d just drool puddles under his chair. I quite liked the fella.”

Hans crosses himself, blowing a kiss to the ceiling, silent thanks in order. 

“He seemed quite likeable indeed!”

“Well, he once got caught wet-handed - wet-pizzled more like - in the fields, eastbound, consorting with an ewe. Soured everyone's mood a lick.”

Hans snorts at this and manages to bleat out a climax pretty convincingly. 

“You're sick, Bird, I liked those sheep. They had character,” Henry adds, reaching for his glass to get more adequately drunk. 

“I'm glad you're telling me all this, Hal.”

“You're welcome,” Henry bows and moves his bishop to the left of the board: the center has cleared, the diagonals have emptied, “Check.”

“You thought that fucking long for this? Christ, Henry, sure,” Hans says, pushing a pawn to block the way. 

“Check, princess,” Henry grins, moving his knight closer. A pawn stands there at the ready, but he's pinned in place, defending his lord from the distant reach of a tower. 

Hans’ hand moves to that pawn in instinct, stopping himself to groan deep. He drops his head on his hands and thinks, his eyes darting over the board - one could almost see a chequered pattern reflecting on them, if one were to look intensely - one does. The tip of his tongue bulges his lower lip from the inside as he clenches his jaw. He's in deep waters. Slowly, he inches towards his king and tips it back to safety, closer to a corner. 

Henry's plan takes a dive for the worse as he somehow forgets Hans’ pawns are no longer frozen in place. As he moves his queen to assist his rook, preparing the most vicious of attacks, he completely abandons his knight. 

“Oh, you're going to love this, boy,” Hans says, and does something so stupid it knocks the wind off Henry's lungs. Hans doesn't take the hanging knight, no, he hops his own forwards, on a square that's thrice defended, “Check.”

Henry shrugs, one utterly unmanly hiccup of laughter escaping him. He pushes a pawn to capture the knight, toying with the piece as he sets it aside. 

“Thanks,” he gloats. 

Hans grins and points, slowly, at something properly horrifying. The knight’s sacrifice was no idiocy, no ill-placed bravado : as he hopped forward, he freed the sights of a bishop. The grin on Hans’ face is enough to know what lies at the end of those sights : Henry's queen. His blood freezes. What is it with this stupid game, he wonders, that makes it feel like one is properly at war, arrows dashing by in high-pitched wails? 

“Oh, such bloody delights. Whatever shall I do?” Hans slurs out through teeth of tar, devilish. 

“Yeah, bravo , Capon. Just fucking do it and keep playing.”

“Yum,” Hans snatches the queen away, tilting it all over to assess the purity of its craft with the precise elegance of a lapidarian, “a queen for a knight. I'm striking quite the bargains, today.”

“You're so good at this game, my liege,” Henry rolls his eyes, biting on his tongue one second before he'd add something horribly idiotic in the line of you just got lucky. 

“Thank you!” 

Refusing to give up, Henry scratches his temples, deep in calculi. Barely a few moves later the winds turn again when Hans, cocky arsehole, blunders his queen too in an absolutely ridiculous fashion. 

“You just got lucky,” Hans pouts, frowning, “What if we went on a walk, you and me, my good friend. And came back to this a tad later. Enticing?” 

“Fuck, absolutely,” Henry stands up, “white to move - let's try and remember it.”

-

“Heaven, Hal, that's properly rejuvenating, isn't it?” Hans gloats, his ears growing red as the snow melts sweetly in their shells. 

“Bloody cold is what it is, sir,” Henry grunts, burying his hands in his sleeves like a pouting child, choked in wool, wrapped up like those who slit throats at night. 

“Thank God your eyes are so pretty, only part of you that sticks out. Can you even breathe?”

“Aye. ‘More worried about you.”

“Told you blacksmith, hellfire,” Hans struts around, snow up to his knees and smiling, white on white, “he is keeping me warm and cosy, twice blessed, his forked tongue.”

“Wish he'd share.”

“He also has his favourites.”

“Lucky lordling,” Henry laughs, jumping behind Hans and walking easy on his footsteps, careful, a one-man trail that stretches on, graceful. 

They march in silence as the snow paints the town dead. Crackling wood and muffled laughter, muffled weeps. Rattay rests, easy. They reach the outer murals. The air is grey yet bright, melting seamless with the land. Hans's red cape is a setting sun under the blond one of his hair. It floats up and down as he dashes forwards, embroidering the divide through land and sky in thin blood thread. It restores some order to the landscape. He turns, smiles, bends to pick up some snow and Henry groans so earnestly, so mean, that the lordling actually, miracle , reconsiders his childlike plan. 

“Pisspot,” Hans sticks his tongue out, rubbing at his codpiece in affront. 

“Proudly.”

They walk on, Hans still delighting in long strides that have Henry struggling to keep up in his wake. 

Henry feels the frost biting around his eyes and wonders if it's cold enough to freeze on his lashes, giving him and Hans the gaze of a dolled-up strumpet. Soon, they wade through a field, an utter limbo that priests never somehow managed to describe as accurately. The ghost of a treeline sometimes appears through the haze, swallowed back on the double into desolation. Hans turns around, extending his naked hand, and Henry grabs it with his gloved one. 

“Easy getting lost, isn't it?” Hans says. 

“Never seen such a bad day,” Henry answers, then forgoing any attempt at leisure talk he pulls Hans to him, dragging his scarf down to free his chapped lips. Hans kisses back, responsive as ever, hands digging under Henry's furred hood to cover up his ears, tug at his nape, hold up his skull. Henry breaks it up, a second or two, biting on the top of his own fingers to pull out his gloves, stuffed in his pocket in a heartbeat. His hands shoot up, resting demure against Hans’ jawline.

“I want you,” Henry says, bashful and self-conscious at how bloody pathetic he sounds. 

“I know,” Hans answers, and he doesn't mean it to sound cruel. 

“All the time,” Henry whispers as low as he can. 

They kiss a bit as the snow falls in large patches. Hans reads the atmosphere, tones down his ardour, lets himself be kissed as sweetly as needed, offers his mouth as bribes. It's peacekeeping, in some way. Henry is cold, bone cold, and he wishes he could carve his way into his lord, lodge deep in his stupid heart, summer scorched. He's grown unfortunately far too plump with muscle and sorrows to fit there. 

What's left to do but walk on, and so they walk on. On a whiteout there's only one direction, forwards. Even burdened by feelings of his own there's just so long Hans can carry on in silence. He quickly resumes his idle babbling, and Henry just tunes his dark humours to match the sanguine of his lover - Hans has enough for two. 

-

“Oh. Poor little fucker,” Hans startles, crouching in the snow to pick up a dead bullfinch. The snow has not set: it probably just fell. Hans gets up and observes it, bringing it close to his face, petting the colourful feathers as Henry leans against his shoulder, marvelling at the pink throat, the large beak. 

“You shouldn't…” Henry starts, and Hans shushes him. 

“What is it?” he asks, blue eyes hard-set and curious. 

“Plum bird, we called them, back home.”

“Makes sense. It's pretty.”

Henry removes his glove as Hans passes him the little thing and he nestles it in the hollow of his palm. 

“Mutt would swallow it with no second thought,” he says. 

“Fiendish beast.”

“Always a sad sight, a dead bird.”

“Hmm,” Hans agrees, nodding his head softly. 

Hans pets the plumpness of the bird with one finger, more than enough. Henry can't help but feel his heart flutter - delicateness suits his lord just fine. They're huddled together as if trying to protect a spark from roaring winds. Suddenly, the bullfinch shakes itself alive. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hans spooks, crossing himself faster than Henry's ever seen him do. As the bird flies off, Henry crosses himself too, “Proper Lazarus, the fella.”

“Aye, I've started working miracles. Henry, court charlatan.”

“There's just nothing you can't do, Hal.”

“You flatter me. Got the good Lord on my side, always.”

As they keep walking, silence creeps in, both men lost in thoughts and vaguely anxious - is God spying on them through the bullfinch's eyes? It's too foggy, anyway - ideas worth discarding. 

-

“I’d feel lonely pissing alone. Join?” 

“Sure. Never weep gold alone, it's bad omens.”

“Never heard that.”

“It's new, aye, the Gospel of Henry. There's more.”

“Pray, tell!”

“Book 3, verse 8: you shall covet your squire's hairy behind.” 

“Amen, Hal. Halle- fucking -lujah, dare I add.”

“Manna from above,” Henry slurs, tugging clumsily at the drawstrings of his braies, one cold hand out as he holds his glove between his teeth.

“Blasphemous today, are we, knave?” Hans laughs, already pawing lightly at his cock, waiting with delight for Henry to join him. Nice pizzle , he says, and Henry says thanks, like each fucking time they take a leak together. Henry squirms a bit, a dumb shiver shaking him from top to bottom, “What's gotten into you?” 

“Wine,” Henry pockets his glove and grabs his own shaft, then turning towards Hans he pauses, sinking for a second, honest and silly, “Bit of you, too.”

Hans rolls his eyes and more red creeps to his freezing ears. Next comes steaming hot piss, the kind that rises dust under a horse's trail. Hans bites on his lip to focus, willing his soused body still. In him is the confidence and arrogance of every fine craftsman of the land. His work is perfected, accomplished, radiant. He steers his rudder in accomplished arcs, and finally grunts like a sated boar as his grand oeuvre appears in the snow, no grand alchemical diagrams but an - albeit shaky - erect cock, complete with circular balls. As Hans inhales sharply to shout out his success to the world, Henry's own stream overflows, intently, soiling the regal art piece with torrential mischief. 

“Stop fucking pissing on my pizzle, you utter yokel!” Hans roars. 

“Rather I'd piss on your leg all over again, my lord?” Henry laughs through hiccups. 

“Don't even mention this, Christ's nails.”

“It's prettier with stripes, see.”

“You ruined it!” Hans shouts, punching at Henry's side with far too much strength. 

“Ow,” he whines, tucking himself back to warmth and trotting behind Hans, away from their masterpiece. The lord shrieks. 

“Look at this, blacksmith's boy, they're gone, they're fucking gone! I'm a bloody eunuch! Christ!” Hans blurts out, holding up his soft cock in one hand as the other points to his shrunken balls, pinky finger delicately pushing the flap of his braies aside. 

“Proper capon, at least.”

“Droll, never heard that one!” Hans flares up, grinning, still exposing himself most indecently, out of balance on tippy-toes with forward thrust hips. 

“Get that away.”

“Look!”

“Alright, I'm looking. Aye,” Henry crouches, inspecting, “Hell, mine never tuck themselves up all the way like this. God was in a funny mood when he stitched you up.”

“Feel them - oh, just stop looking around, can't even see that old milkmaid's house and we're barely ten paces away, go on, be good, Hal.”

“I pet Mutt, I pet horses. I've no interest in petting you.”

“You pet their balls?” 

“Are you jealous perhaps, my liege?” 

“Yes.”

“Tuck this back where it belongs, harlot,” 

“That's an oo-ordeeer,” Hans sing-songs. 

“You've but enough chewed my ears,” Henry straightens his back, puffing his cheeks, putting on a falsetto, “Don't ‘lord’ me when it's just the two of us, Hal. I'm not the heir of Rattay and Pirkshit and whatever here, just your little whiny b-” another punch, in the kidney this time , “Fuck, you fiend, that hurt - alright, I take it back, stop it, stop,” Henry whines, assaulted by vicious little attacks. 

“Good, I pick the rules, peasant. Fondle me.”

“Go to Hell,” Henry spits out, reaching one hand down to grab his lord by the balls, and squeezing far too hard. He stands nose to nose with Hans, both men engaged in a staring contest, odd stakes hanging heavy between them. Hans tilts his chin up, resting the tip of his nose on Henry's. Henry feels the warm air on his skin, oddly reminiscent of horses’ in the depths of winter. The breath sometimes hitches in a cadence of his own making, Hans's eyelids drooping when he curls his fingers sharp. 

“Sakra, they really just went back in, you're as smooth as a wench,” Henry says, whistling low, in awe of God's manifold wonders. 

“Am I?” Hans asks through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut. 

“You are,” Henry answers, rubbing the pad of his thumb in insistent and monotonous circles like he’d do to a lass’s cunt - it's not lost on Hans, who produces possibly the strangest noise Henry's ever heard. 

More moans as Henry rakes his nails through the soft hair down there, intently. Hans forgets about the cold, dropping his head on an icy shoulder. 

“Fuck, Hal, do it harder. I think I quite like it.” 

“You're odd,” Henry whispers in his ear. Hans is so soft down there. He's not even stiffening and Henry feels a tad vexed. The cold, maybe. Definitely not the wine - Hans had been blessed with a peculiar resistance to alcohol. Some would dare call him a drunkard. On many hunting getaways they'd partake in a wineskin or two, honing their teeth on lean hare or plump woodcocks. Henry would lay supine in the dust, Hans hovering over him with a stupid grin on his crimson face, teasing him endlessly as he'd ram into his body with graceless enthusiasm. Henry's soused cock would lay soft and useless on his belly, dripping seed as he'd take his pleasure as wenches do. Hans would paw and scratch at the sad thing like a kitten, hiss as one too, pounding into his underling with a feline cruelty that inevitably dissolved into pure affection. Under a grotesque amount of irritating layers did lay some enormous heart, girded in thorns like the painted one in Sasau, under the pulpit, casting long licks of flames in every direction. 

The huffed whimpers coming out of Hans as blow balls are perfectly worth his time, Henry ponders.

Henry toys with Hans for a couple more seconds before reason overcomes him. A whiteout is its own blessing, but they're still being bafflingly stupid, doing this in the open, undercover of the snow. One last pinch, meant to hurt just a bit, has Hans moaning loud - swallowed by the pale nothingness. Henry wishes he could drop down, rub the roughness of his cheeks between Hans's legs, drive him mad like that. Hans would bend to swear at his ear, rutting his cock against Henry’s face without elegance. Perhaps, if in luck, Hans would even use Henry's throat, sheathing himself in its slick depths as plump balls would smear gooey slug trails on his chin, ramming wildly. Seed would adorn Henry like a wedding veil and he'd lick the corners of his mouth until they shine. It's too good a vision to be lost to the snows - Henry files it in that one corner of his mind that could well be called an altar: one more bead on that peculiar rosary, rolled under his hand. There thrones the icon of saint Hans in majesty, an image of the Maculate Conception that he ardently prays to at vespers and lauds, without fail, tired sword hand robbed of its usual tool of trade. 

“You're doing it again”

“What?”

“Riling me up,” Henry whispers, arousal coursing through him like a fever, barely pleasant any more. 

Hans pauses at that, his blue eyes rummaging in Henry's like a snout on an anthill, growing numb and glassy. He laces his codpiece back into place with the practised ease of the enthusiast. 

“Should I apologize?” he asks, childlike. 

“No. Would be silly, wouldn't it?” Henry snorts, eyes lowering, battered hound. 

Hans' arms close around Henry's waist, squeezing in little increments like thumb-tacks. Henry grunts as he's suddenly picked off the ground, Hans manhandling him higher on his grip with a few tiny throws. Strong bastard, Henry thinks. He looks down, Hans looks up, one glint of mischief in his eyes, and the world flips over as Hans lets himself fall backwards. It feels so sirupy and slow, the way time stretches for love or horrors. Finally, they fall through the snow, a delicate thump that still has Hans wheezing a bit, buried under too many pounds of knight flesh. He kept his hold tight, but now releases it just enough to lower Henry to his level, sticking his face in his neck. 

“Good sparring move, my lord,” Henry laughs timidly, little grunts of discomfort as snow creeps under his clothes. 

“I love you so bloody much, Henry,” Hans cries out, squeezing harder, tangling their legs. And he abruptly flares up into fantasies, tells Henry he'll take him to see the ocean, to walk the streets of Rome, that he'll find a way, a diplomatic excuse, Jitka can manage for a while, she likes all the political scheming, anyway, Hanush is so fond of her, he'll agree, and they can be together, fooling around on horseback, hitting each other on the head with wooden swords, mouthpieces of Bohemia under the scorching sun of Provence, sunkissed in vineyards and lavender fields, stung by wasps, fucking in the Pope’s bed, as much as they want, and so many other things. He doesn't stop running his mouth, weaving dreams Henry never dared to dream; Hans’ voice cracks down and he's fucking crying in the snow, in a white-pulsing rage that has Henry feel this strange need to snuff him out, a mercy kill. 

Instead, Henry lets himself be held tight until Hans composes himself, little lordly pieces going back to where they belong, breath evening out. Arrogance seals the deal in a tilt of the head, a baring of noble throat, and Hans Capon, lord of Rattay, is fully returned to his former persona. Henry kisses his nose, once, twice, before laying his cheek on Hans’, hearing scattered breaths that sound strangely like the many wooden teeth of the mill cogs, those machines that bite and grind. When the trembling and the rattling are gone, the transmutation is complete and Hans stands as newborn gold. Getting up, he offers his hand to Henry, obviously relieved that his friend simply has no words, no comments or jibs - that he kept this honourable silence. Henry watches him for a beat, the tears and the molten snow running down his face, his wet air powdered white, his eyes, ears and nose red and cold bit, the snot under his nostrils, pooling at his upper lip and under, finally, the pale tombstone marble of his teeth glistening with pearls of spit. Haloed by the pale sun creeping through the whiteout, Hans is exactly what the priests describe when they utter, hushedly, fearing for their words becoming tangible: lightbringer. Henry takes the offered hand, gets on his feet and, motherly, holds Hans’ head between his hands as his thumbs rub off all the wetness in a few tender strokes. 

“Bird,” Henry says, on edge, muscles weak as his words fail him. 

“Hmm?” Hans answers, dusting the snow off his gambeson nonchalantly, back in his own skin, threaded gold and deep blue hued. 

“I'm fucking freezing.”

“I'm fucking freezing,” Hans’s sorry excuse of a baritone rumbles through the air, “Get a grip.”

“Please,” Henry asks, cow eyes widening, and sealing the deal with the irresistibly cheeky, “my good lord.”

“Let's stop by the kitchens and get you some hot milk, little infant Christ, you are.”

“Thanks, mother,” Henry delights, upbeat, as Hans's face curls into a grimace. 

“It's getting dark. Where the fuck are we?” 

“South, I think.”

“Guess we'll track our steps back. Sa, sa, taïaut!” Hans shouts, disappearing in the whiteout in a few long strides as he bolts off, waving an imaginary blade. Henry snaps out of his snow-white thoughts, shakes them off his head like wet dogs do then runs humble, his eyes to the ground. 

“Audentes…” screams the fog. 

“Fortuna iuvat,” Henry shouts back, grinning half-heartedly as his heart lingers tight in his throat, frostbitten. Burdened by the sweat that sticks to his skin and freezes him from the inside of his woollen cage, he risks a summer thought, Hans and him wading through the poppies and mantled, no, coated in burdocks, laughing childlike as they gather more in their wake.

-

And so, lucky boy, Henry does get his share of warm milk from the kitchen as Hans pesters the cook to keep mulled wine at the ready on such awful days. To his dismay, Hans also leaves with a jug of milk. Henry smiles as his lord inevitably ends up with a white moustache, and looks intently as a pink tongue slithers out to lick it clean. 

Back at the board, Hans tries his best to cheat and play first, but Henry reminds him with a grin and a nagging finger, nuh-huh. Having left for a couple of hours and experienced far too many things in the snows, both men take their time to deeply observe, faces squaring up, jaws clenching, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Stupid game,” Hans growls. Has he noticed something in his disfavour, Henry wonders. 

“You're stupid,” Henry shoots back on instinct just for the sick pleasure of receiving a rant on etiquette, society, manners and so on and so forth. 

“Will you eventually play or should I go and get myself a proper drink?” 

“My liege grows impatient for defeat, I see.”

“I'll have you hanged if you win.”

“Won't keep you hanging, then,” Henry says, pushing forward a wing pawn. It's not the best of moves, but he can not see an attack that wouldn't backfire horribly. Instead, he quietly waits for Hans to fuck up on his own. 

Hans mirrors the inoffensive move, giving Henry a look that says: I see through you.

The rook would fit just fine here, controlling the open column, if it wasn't for Hans’ pesky bishop posted in a corner, arbalist peeking at the meurtrière. I could push it away, Henry thinks, but trading pieces would be foolish at this point. 

Hans’ foot suddenly perches on his lap, heel resting politely atop his cock. Giving Hans the satisfaction of acknowledging his whims is always a mistake, so Henry stays stoic, focused on the board. He drops one hand to caress the leather boot, as absentmindedly as he can pretend. The game is afoot, Henry thinks as a dumb smirk splits his face in two, lamenting the lost opportunity of a quality jest - the silence is far more golden. 

Henry's hand moves up and down, soothing the soft cordovan, circling the heel, flattering the shaft. Hans rests his other foot on his squire's lap, and Henry now has two toys to take apart, softly. He digs his thumb on the soft sole and feels the dust there, rolling under the pad. 

Hans, impatient as always, digs his heels deeper on Henry's codpiece.  Soft flesh is pushed downwards, covering and pressuring his balls as he squirms a bit in his chair, adjusting his seating as to not have the game turn into torture. He hoists up Hans’ left foot just enough to kiss at the brim of the boot, bending his head. He has kept blissfully silent and the only noise in the room is now Hans’ patchy breath, barely audible. 

He strokes the boots as he’d do his cock, feeling Hans’ calves hard with tension and muscle. Slowly, he pulls at the tall boots, twisting them gently to free his lord's heel and laying them standing on the ground - he actually puts the left and the right in their correct alignment, ever so thoughtful and reverent. Hans’ feet rest once more on his lap, the ultramarine blue of his leggings bright against the deep brown of Henry's. 

Hans still remains silent, pretending to look at the board, but eventually his resolve shatters as Henry delicately massages his soles - only then does he moan softly, once. Henry caresses his calves, rubs his thumbs under the arch, feather touches at the toes that he guesses by touch, enshrined in the soft fabric. Once more, he picks Hans' foot to kiss it, dragging his tongue from bottom to top as the other now flutters at his cock, coaxing it into hardness. 

“Leggings,” Henry says, “the only piece of garment cursed to smell both of feet and arse.”

“You're ruining this, Hal.”

“Oh, shut up. You're enjoying it,” he smiles and looks at his lord. Hans's neck is flushed red and Henry doesn't need to see it to know that under the collar his lord’s skin is painted peach pink, all the way down to the nipples. His hands grow rougher, massaging with great strength, eager to milk more sighs and breaths in their wake. One quick peek confirms what Henry could have guessed : Hans's codpiece tents, indecent. It mirrors Henry's own. 

Hans pulls his feet back to him, teasing, a grin on his face that doesn't need to be seen to exist. Henry chases after them, taming them into obedience like he'd praise a peevish horse's neck. Hans scoots his armchair closer. One foot finds its way to Henry’s face, again, and he rubs his cheek against it. He bites at Hans’ toes, leaving little spit stains on the fabric as his tongue works its way in circles - like pleasuring a lady, in some fashion. Hans doesn't say much, probably stunned by desire, gasping for air that's being stolen away from him in dozens of nips and licks. The foot is guided back to Henry's cock, pushed against it with a tad too much force. Henry grits his teeth as he fears the triumphant arrival of pain, but it's so coated in pleasure that it simply never surfaces. 

It's Henry's turn to melt, reduced into blind need by the feet casing his hard length, resting demure on each side. He wraps his huge hands around the ankles, fingers sprawled out to cover more ground and guides their movement to relieve himself, puppeteering Hans to his heart's desire, angling the regal blue feet just so to fuck softly in the divine space between their arches, hips thrusting upwards terribly lightly. 

It's one rare occurrence of Hans shutting down, shutting up: it's quite nice, and something to remember and cherish for sure. 

Henry's mind is blank but for a small embarrassed afterthought, I'll ruin those underthings; Hans removes both feet hurriedly from his shaft, sticking them in his boots as fast as he can. Footsteps in the corridor. Both men clean up as well as they can : Henry pushes the edge of his tunic over his lap and Hans crosses his legs, tucking his cock between them inelegantly as he lets out a small pained squeak. The footsteps quiet down, for a beat, then resume; going away. 

Hans’ feet do not return after this - a dog barks outside, the moment has died. 

“Saving a couple groschen of laundry, here,” Henry jests to no answer but a snort. Recently it seems Hans and Henry often both lose at their own games. The red tide withdraws from Hans’ face and rod. Their eyes turn back to the board, time passes.

Henry thinks of Jitka, earlier, as she had tried her best to school her freckled face into a horse's. He looks at his surviving knight. He has nowhere to ride but trouble. Perhaps there's something to be found in troubles, and Henry lacks a plan anyway. He sends his rook crashing into Hans' side of the board. Hans raises an eyebrow, capturing the rook with one of his own. 

“Board's too busy for you, friend?” 

“Aye,” Henry nods, capturing Hans’ rook with a pawn that had lingered in enemy territory for already far too long. Hans takes it in return. 

The game stalls, both men too wary to make the first step, virginal doubts eating away at their boldness. Pawns march forward, perish and only leave more problems where they fell. 

Hans’ remaining rook is a certain threat. It's a matter of two moves: overseeing the battlefield then crossing it, swiftly getting behind the infantry, the cavalry, the flocks of whores and pages, the field priests garbed in blood. Behind, there's mud and there's royalty, defenceless. Hans knows of it : his utmost focus is locked on that piece, his jaw tight and eyes ablaze. 

As it is, it stands just next to the king, huddled in a corner. The best defence is always attack, be it at the training grounds, on a battlefield or even, sometimes, in bed - when your lover is odd that way. After two more moves, Henry's path is now secure : he had forced the hand of Hans, leaving him no alternatives. 

Suddenly the stars align, heavenly chorus roar up in unknown tongues, the sun falls from the sky, et caetera. Henry has it : his body burns from the inside and again he thinks about the whole absurdity of that game, far too tense, and to what end? 

He takes his knight and moves it forward, slowly, savouring the moment as anticipation makes his guts flutter. 

“Checkmate, Capon,” Henry delivers with attempted gravity as he tries and fails to tame down his childlike glee. 

Hans opens his mouth to retort, looks at the board, grabs his face in his hands. A minute passes as his eyes roam from square to square, and finally the great climax of the day : he moves his hand as hieratic as an acolyte waving a thurible and tips his king on its side. 

“Fuck, Henry, that one was mean!” Hans says, grinning at his very own downfall. He's no sore loser - to many people's surprise. 

The knight delivered a mere check, but Hans’ king had nowhere to go, no safe escape : the rook at his side stood solemnly in the way. Hans’ pawns were all pinned in place by distant threats, made immobile by duty - one could almost see shame on their marble faces, were one of poetic nature. Smothered by his own men, the king dies without fanfare. Henry holds up his hand over the board and Hans shakes it a bit too tight: quickly they dissolve into a puerile game of crushing each other's hand. Henry grins wide, his eyes almost closing entirely from those absurd joys the gamblers and hunters are also well familiar with. 

“You're right, it is a stupid game,” Henry laughs as his heartbeat returns to normal. 

“You rigged the pieces, haven't you Hal?” 

“Added some when you weren't looking, yes.”

“Now for punishment,” Hans says, getting up to squeeze his hands jokingly at Henry's neck, the promised hanging, and Henry plays into it, sticking his tongue out as his eyes roll in their socket. Hans laughs too, planting a sopping wet kiss on Henry's cheek that he smudges with his tongue, loudly. 

“Consider me thoroughly deterred from winning,” Henry groans, wiping the spit from his face with the back of his hand. 

“Good. Now you can take on my wife,” Hans adds, and Henry can't help but wonder if there's some double entendre in there or if he's just gone mad. 

“Speaking of her, it's getting late.”

“Shit,” Hans swears, sauntering to the window to witness the late hour with his own eyes, “clean up a bit, Hal,” he commands, and Henry nicely returns the scattered pieces to their little pouch as his lord flutters around aimlessly, simply too regal to assist in any shape. 

-

Hans’ face is scrunched and oddly assembled. Henry reads through him, he has something to say and he's arranging it as carefully as he can, the thin fingers of a maid on a budding flower crown. This was the face he had that night in Suchdol, stained by shyness, soiled by anguish. It wouldn't be fair to call it the real Hans - this was a very rare Hans, actually. 

“We've been trying, uh. With Jitka.”

“Trying what?” Henry says before he thinks. 

“Dresses, you bloody imbecile. I look dashing in crimson.”

“Oh. Oh, alright,” Henry straightens up in his chair, a deep blush creeping on his face as embarrassment creeps in, thick as mud. 

“Just so you know.”

“Well, I was starting to get worried about your vigour, my lord. I suppose.”

“Maybe I was wasting all of it on your barren arse,” Hans grunts, digging a finger in Henry's chest as his ears turn red, “but no more. I'm not joking, you know, I will call my son Heinrich and you will teach him those silly sword tricks of yours.”

“At your orders, I'm flattered, really. Hey - Bird, what if it's a girl.”

“Well, lady Heinrich better grow a respectable beard.”

“Jitka's pick?” 

“Heaven, yes, we agreed. Poor little mite! Named after that crazed German - Gerwoman more like,” Hans blurts out and Henry snorts, “Hildegard. Jitka has this Bavarian copy of her writings, it's that big,” Hans stretches his arms wide, “and full of insane drawings. I quite like it, honest.”

“Are you well, Hans?” 

“I'm frankly shitting up my braies on the daily.”

“You'll do fine. Any village idiot can sire a child.”

“Well, thank you , Hal. I'd be fucking lost without your wisdom.”

“Does Hanush know?” Henry asks, innocent. Though Hans was now properly in charge of things, it was no big secret that he still relied on his greying uncle, a certain friendship between the two having bloomed as Hans had mellowed - to a degree. 

“Oh, but of course, I caught him quickly after dinner the other day, told him I was covering my wife every night like a rutting swine, he's very proud of me. God, Henry.”

Henry gets up, picks Hans off his feet and hugs him. Hans’ arms go impossibly tight around his friend. 

“Get yourself a wife, blacksmith, I want my children to have company, for God's sake, I don't want them to grow all miserable and alone as I did.”

“I'll do my best,” Henry just lies, softly. He would need to scoop out so much Hans from his bloated heart to fit anyone else there that the mere suggestion feels grotesque. The poor thing’s close to bursting already, the way big bloody pomegranates open up from the inside as they rot. Time heals all wounds but Hans is such an open one, it bleeds, it hurts, scratches when it scars and leaks puss endlessly when left to fester. 

“She should not be prettier than me, though,” Hans tuts as he pushes Henry away gently. 

“Can she have bigger jugs?” Henry asks, meek, perfectly content to distract himself from his unwelcome thoughts. There's always time to wallow in despair later, eventually, caught between an unlucky roll of the dice and the dark smoke of quenched iron.

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose she could. Though you'll have to reach far and wide for a wench more buxom than yourself. You've quite filled up, you know,” Hans whistles as his hands draw lewd curves in the air. 

“You noticed, Capon?” Henry grins, leaning back in his chair as he preens, regal as a plump tomcat, shadows striped. 

“I notice many things.” 

“Don’t make me blush, you bugger.”

“You'd make a proper wet nurse if those weren't dried up,” Hans, that bastard, licks his lips, darts his tongue out, hollows his cheeks and flutters his eyelashes. Not for one second does the got-the-cream grin fades from his wine red face. 

“Then latch harder, might just work out in the end,” Henry winks. 

“Noted.”

Hans stops to reflect one last time, face like old crumpled linen : he has by far exceeded his usual amount of thoughts for the day. It’s an act of his, playing the castle’s idiot, but it’s so full of charm - Henry can not resist it.

“Henry.” 

“Yes, my lord?” Henry drawls out, coiling his words into cheek.

“Go and get yourself a bath will you, you reek something fierce, on the Lord's coin - nothing less,” Hans says, less venomous than he'd usually would. And he drops a fistful of coin on Henry's hand, a fistful that pays for far more than a bath. Looking at his palm, Henry counts the exact amount that would offer him the highest quality of service one could enjoy in the provincial baths of Rattay. Very fucking delicate, Capon , he thinks, and for a second he considers bursting at his seams, collapsing into a fat pile of bones and shit and blood, but he just says thanks , and complains sweetly, everyone thinks I smell lovely, actually. Hans gives him a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and he reaches for Henry's hand, dragging him behind him as he leads them out. Pausing for a beat he turns towards Henry, caressing his nape for a stroke or two. Henry is terribly fond of having his hair played with and he sighs once, almost loud enough to echo; Hans retrieves the silken shawl. The fabric now drips down Hans’ neck, disappearing down his collar, Jitka will tear me a new one if I forget it, he says, and you'll get your own soon anyway. People will talk! 

Hans threads their fingers together, holding his hand tightly as long as he reasonably can as they meander tar-like through the castle's deserted corridors. They split, kiss once short and tender as no one's around, god be with you, and Henry walks off, heading for his night quarters. 

Henry now heads to the tavern for a quick shovelling of gruel down his gullet. On his way he thinks of Hans hunched over Jitka, the low rattles he always makes when he spills, his fingers tangling with his wife's as he lingers inside, eyes locked into each other's, both hoping for the best. Henry's eyes burn with pain and blur with tears that he summons with his musings, and he lets them build here, ebb and flow, but never allows them to spill - there's an ineffable beauty in the act, something that somehow carries him forward and keeps him whole. 

“Cursed fucking winter” he groans under his icy breath as he strides into the night.