Work Text:
i.
the sleek curve of the bow held between strong, smart fingers. slightly longer than henry’s, more refined, definitely, and there had been beauty in bianca’s or theresa’s loving hands but never as poignant. perhaps he didn’t think to look. he could kiss the sunspots on hans’ knuckles, if only the latter wasn’t so busy concentrating and pulling the arrow back. one eye closed, jaw taunt; all of these small things – discovered months ago, bewitching for much less than that – henry could gaze upon forever, even if he’s learning again not to look.
the forest is quiet, and hans is so close. warmth bleeds from him, and if henry was greedier, he’d nestle into his lap and remain unmoving till the ground swallowed him up. hans would let him after a bit of complaining, then he’d blush all the way to his forehead and run his hand through henry’s hair. he’d soothe the ache henry’s been nourishing. inspire, momentarily, the fear of being held down, but that, too, would dissipate into the open air.
the arrow clicks and burrows into the slender neck of a deer thirteen paces down. it falls into the kaleidoscopic canopy. hans turns to him, eyes blazing and smile proud. a light kiss follows the momentary awe, sweet on henry’s lips. of course, their love can only exist at the behest of violence.
ii.
henry’s bed has always been a modest affair, no matter where he found himself – the shared bedroom at the devil’s den holds no exception. it is too small to house two, but that has never stopped them before, and surely will dissuade nothing in the future. sometimes, hans sneaks underneath the covers when henry is asleep, and henry wakes an odd twenty minutes later sweating. the first time it happened, hans told him that he snores an awful lot and only stops when he has someone close. hans had, of course, put it nicer, put it beautifully, really, like a poet – “someone there to count your heartbeats.”
they’re all for you, henry wanted to tell him, but the words escaped him, so he laughed instead, because it really was silly – who even says things like that?
to find a place which allowed more privacy was more of a wish than anything. they could have saddled their horses and went on their merry way to drink through bohemia, disappear entirely into the campfire smoke where lord hanush could never find them. the wedding long forgotten, hans’ status stripped, and them together bare in the garden of their own creation. the ideal, the first moments of a dream before it eventually contorts into a nightmare. the truth is different. the truth is not much.
in the grand scheme of things – the scope of this war and the nebulous tides of history – it will never, can never be much. there will never be more than a second shared in the secrecy of a bedroom, or shed, or any other curtain that shies away prying eyes; there can never be more than a look, but even that’s too tangible, and in negligence may be caught. what then? ruin. there will never be much, but there will remain the bones of its existence underneath the ash.
he is being unfair, henry knows. it is unkind to hold hans and think of all the ways he can leave him; to touch upon sacred flesh and trace new constellations and then turn his mind onto different, more curious ventures. as though the body of his lord is of no consequence; as though it would make it hurt less in the end. perhaps it will.
“...-to listen when your betters are speaking.”
is it bad that henry wishes for the open roads and starry skies and destinations unknown? to never settle, to exist in that odd exhilaration – like a breath taken too quickly – and dizzy rush that’s brought by blood in battle?
a great man would bend the knee and submit, but as it is, henry is not even a good one.
“... hal?”
not anymore, that is. he was once, maybe, not too long ago. back when the world was smaller, and his future so clear. he would’ve ended up morose in that cage, but he would’ve been content. would have loved his wife and worked as a blacksmith and grown old where a grave underneath the linden tree waited for him. a cozy life, plenty of kids: soot, warm meals, horseshoes, and flowers.
loss in a wound that does not heal, does not sting, just sits – throbbing, now and then – between his ribs. it should hurt more, henry thinks. it does not hurt enough.
a touch upon his jaw, so startling that henry knocks his teeth together and nearly bites off his tongue. his eyes dart to hans’ face – close, close enough to hear henry's thoughts or see them through his eyes (“good god, henry! please, it’s difficult enough without you staring at me like that. it’s written all over your face! well, no, of course i don’t mind, but we need to be careful.” ).
the dark offers some respite, but the hitch in henry’s breath is unmistakable. surprisingly, for once, hans doesn’t tease. he might smile, a little crooked or a little smug. it’s hard to tell when the voice is so gentle, “...you disappeared for a minute, i think.”
“aye, sorry,” henry might be, but he’s not sure.
“you do that often,” hans says idly. he settles his head back on henry’s shoulder, in the safe nook he always seeks respite in and henry is more than happy to provide, “have you noticed? i have. i’m certain that scoundrel has as well.”
“who?” henry blinks, as though the answer could be written on the ceiling. the devil’s den and its thin walls shake with laughter from downstairs. it must be well past midnight, but the revelries are only growing, and someone should interfere before hynek pulls out his crossbow and aims again. “you mean sam?”
“so he hasn’t said anything?” hans mumbles, stubble scratching against henry’s skin. feels nice. everything hans does feels good, but the warm weight of his body is stifling. henry thinks that in their coupling, they have somehow merged, bartered, and remade each other. hans no longer fears closed spaces but it is henry that feels restless in an embrace, “that’s surprising, he usually doesn’t miss a chance to one up me.”
henry has learned that the quickest way to appease hans is to simply agree with him – no matter how egregious or, frankly, ostentatious the claim is. that does not mean henry agrees with him often, if ever. insufferable peasant he may be, but the privilege of defiance is his and his alone. another would be sent to the stocks; all henry receives are kisses.
“don’t think sam cares much to contest with you,” henry says sagely.
a snort. “as if he could win.”
henry would have never thought hans to be shy, but he is, in his own strange way. much like henry, overwhelmed and humbled by the scope of his feelings, a bit lost in the joy to have them reciprocated. confused, perhaps, as to where this will lead to and how it should work.
afraid.
“you’re both important to me,” henry assures, pressing a fleeting kiss to the back of hans’ head. he feels hans’ arms tighten around him, squeezing, as though trying to fuse skin. a flicker of panic comes and goes, almost a wince, “besides, he’s my brother. and you’re my lord. i wish you two could get along.”
“he’s the one picking fights.”
“...right.”
“you don’t believe me,” hans doesn’t lift his head. henry isn’t sure what goes through his mind when he gets like this – quiet, almost accusatory. worrisome. henry thinks of suchdol and the near dozen nights that came after it and wishes he could reach forward and kiss away the knot between hans’ brows, but he doesn’t. simply traces those constellations, builds new roads on the atlas of hans’ back. he has acquired freckles – a testament of his time in the sun.
“no, i do,” henry promises, earnest in a way he only ever really manages to be with hans. “i believe you. he can be a bit of a prick sometimes, true. but i don’t think he means it in a bad way. maybe he’s just teasing you. i never had siblings growing up, but me and the boys used to bicker all the time. matthew and i especially, christ, he was the worst. wanted to knock his teeth in more times than i can count, but all in good fun, really. it was always telling one another off one minute and then hugging it out the next. ma used to say it’s poor manners, but what did i care? she didn’t have siblings either, so she probably didn’t understand. ‘s how i felt, anyway.”
“think it’s a bit different with sam and i, hal.”
no one calls him hal anymore. it’s uncomfortable to hear, like speaking of a ghost. henry is no longer the youth that waited eagerly for the evening dance at the tavern, longing to see his sweetheart; no longer the youth that could do nothing but watch as all he loved perished before his eyes with a sword he didn’t know how to wield slipping through his sweaty fingers.
hal would remember bianca as she was. henry can only remember her lifeless, cheeks hollow and dirty from lying in the mud, dress soaked, wound gaping. he remembers the terror and the sudden, inexplicable urge to cover her up, protect her from the elements and the ugly carnage. hal must have died with her, moments before or after his parents fell to the cold ground and then into oblivion.
henry has not seen them since suchdol, and he has come to the conclusion that he will never see them again. that realization was met with calm acceptance. it should hurt more, but it doesn’t.
“if you say so,” henry responds after a beat too long, “he’ll be gone soon, back to kolin. so no more worries, right?”
“you’ll miss him, though.”
“aye, he’s my brother, but you’re my lord. i can always go and visit him after the wedding matter is settled.”
“you won’t leave right after, though, right?” finally, the tilt of his head. in the dark, henry can just barely make out hans’ expression. he wishes he couldn’t. “it would be unbecoming. a great slight to my honour if my squire abandoned me to take care of personal business. and,” he settles back, back to safety, back home, “and i don’t…” lips tremble against his neck, and henry knows what hans tries to say but the words escape him, too.
iii.
on the balcony, henry keeps his eyes level to the golden-orange skyline; never to heaven, where god’s angel choir awaits his arrival to pass judgement and cast him beneath the earth and deeper still, to all those horrible cracks henry spilled blood and felt no remorse for. along with a list of new feelings – the quick anger that fizzles as soon as it appears, the endless, unexplainable wait for something – it is shame that reveals itself most clearly, crawling along his skin, pinching and pulling. everyone knows, it taunts him when silence lapses by a shared table. it shouldn’t matter, because henry has done more horrible things than love so completely, and god should not care for this transgression when he weighs this sin against the rest.
no, it shouldn’t matter, but it does, and when his gaze drifts to the endless sweep of the darkening sky, he’s taken back to the cell of the sasau monastery. at moments, when the hour struck right or the light dimmed completely and the world fell in a strange hush, henry felt as though he wasn’t alone. that there was someone lingering just out of reach, listening and knowing. it would pass, always, not soon after, but the aftertaste would remain, and henry would look around just in case.
he waits, anticipating the arrival of a messenger bearing leipa colours. some poor sap kicking up dust, not knowing what he carries in his satchel. the prospect has him itching all over, bouncing his foot. underneath the weight, the floorboards creak like pishek’s mill used to – quiet, insistent.
(theresa laughing; mutt barking and running circles around her, slobbering all over her apron, leaving muddy prints henry’d once offered to launder, and then she laughed harder and called him a fool.)
door hinges groan and footsteps line closer. in the setting sun, hans’ gambeson is the colour of marigolds.
“an early night for me, i think,” hans tells him. the invitation is not lost on henry. a new sort of worry festers, and he tears his eyes away from the horizon.
“you go,” he says airily, hoping to mask the ugly thing that smothers, the strange thing that lingers. “i’ll stay for a little longer.”
with all his courtly lessons and bravado, the theatrics and playing pretend, hans can never manage to hide his disappointment. perhaps he doesn’t want to.
iv.
the ale offered at the devil’s den is palatable at best, watery and stale if one was truthful, and henry would expect that bounty from stolen barrels would provide more than this, but to men like him, there can never be more than the worst generously offered.
(“well, pardon me!” ma exclaimed once, waving a wooden spoon much like henry flailed around with his wooden sword; if pa would’ve done anything but try to hide his laughter, he probably would have commented on where henry gets it from, “didn’t know we’ve got the crown prince staying with us! too good for gruel, are you? eat up, else you’ll be complaining in the morning. and if you want something different, how about getting some work done for a few groschen instead of loitering about with those boys of yours? eat, hal, and don’t be ungrateful. i won’t hear a word of it more.” )
so, he drinks. nibbles on some bread, thinks about adding cheese but finds he doesn’t want any, not really, and refrains, waiting for something again. perhaps for god to finally smite him.
in a manner most predictable, henry’s prayers remain unanswered. god doesn’t listen to men like
“mind if i join you, brother?” sam appears with his own tankard near full to the brim and waits for no invitation to sit across from henry. brother , how henry always wanted a brother, and how embarrassingly had he begged ma when he was a child, when the intricacies of acquiring one blissfully escaped him.
“you seemed to help yourself just fine,” henry responds, but not unkindly. the weather has finally let up – the afternoon had been a scorcher, almost uninhabitable, but now a pleasant breeze winds around them, brushes through sam’s newly laundered clothes. sam makes a show of peeking at every shadowy corner and bush, and henry needn’t ask, he simply resigns himself with a sigh, “he’s at the baths.”
he tries not to think of that, all that naked skin and warm, damp flesh: water and lotions of all kinds, though the selection is hardly comparable to the impressive ensemble they got at the city bathhouse back in kuttenberg, before the flea incident, that is. henry's more concerned of the hands that touch, of smiles that can be bought, and he's not yet sure if he'll ask for clarification once hans returns smelling of soap and cedar.
one can never know, after all. henry did it to theresa. how cruel, really, one must be to do such a thing and think nothing of it.
"thank fuck," sam huffs, "does he sleep in your bed, too?"
"very funny," henry mumbles flatly, staring down into his tankard.
"just saying, surely you’ve noticed you got a massively clingy lord.”
“aye, would be hard not to.”
“‘least he’s getting married soon,” sam kicks him under the table impishly, just like mathias used to when he spotted bianca before henry did, “a free man at last, eh?”
a prison with heavy iron shackles. to stand aside and let go, henry perhaps could, must, manage. to watch, again? no. “i’ll drink to that.”
sam regards him, from the tuft of sun-bleached hair to fine threads of his shirt (princely, ma would tease, and now, henry would buy her so many dresses; he bought theresa so many dresses, and still, he has never and will never deserve her smile). “will you?”
“will i what?” henry’s fairly certain he has been listening closely, but he seems to have missed the entire question.
“get married,” sam clarifies, “start a family. die old and fat in bed.”
henry snorts, “you know better than most what they say about men and swords. ‘s a ditch for me, brother. besides, got no one to marry anyway. ”
“what? you? our handsome, beloved henry?” henry tries very hard not to smile or to kick him back, “what about that lady of yours, ruthard?”
“eh, think i was more of a passing fancy to her, to be honest. not that i mind. ‘s a miracle she even looked twice in my direction.”
“and katherine?”
henry shakes his head, “deserves someone better than me, surely even you can agree to that.”
“you’ll stay with your lord, then?”
it occurs to him, and not for the first time, how deeply he yearns – not for a woman, a family, or a home to call his own but for that deep contentment that one achieves when life is at its closest, brightest equilibrium.
“dunno,” henry admits softly, “i might. but zizka offered me a place under his command, so…”
all around is his destiny – this desolate shack and these desolate men with their stolen horses and bloodthirsty weapons. at once, henry’s clothes fit a saint and an apostate, a bandit and a diplomat, a lord and a bastard. the paradox of it has him drained, weary beyond his twenty summers. only his fate can soothe his bones, and fate wears the mantle of zizka's war banner. he thinks of that on sleepless nights, thinks of riding pebbles to chase down another fight, leaving everything important so far behind him it can never catch up.
(ma picking herbs in the garden, scolding henry for neglecting to fix her basket; pa in the forge, smoke burning his eyes; bianca's red dress at the tavern, loving hands brewing him his favourite drink; theresa sun-lit in the yard, turning her head to the sound of his approach; hans in the bath, cheeks pinked from alcohol and smile easy and wide like only henry got to see him.)
it occurs to him and not for the first time how selfish of a bastard he is. to love and see so much and to willingly let go – does it count as running?
if he needs to ask, isn't it already obvious?
"you know," sam begins carefully, eyes kind in that familiar way pa's used to be. it's a wonder henry didn't recognise him on the spot – a slightly shorter, grumpier version of martin, "considering how prissy your lord is, the wedding's gonna be a disaster."
a giggle sounds from the thrushes, bitten off by the distance, and another arrow lodges itself in henry’s waiting body, this time in the throat. it must be from the baths, that sound, it must. and it hurts, thoroughly, completely, and good – henry should listen and remember when he ever doubts. keep this pain as a memento, another scar, or perhaps that same wound acting up again.
"can't disagree with you on that,” comes out hard between his teeth, followed by a telling wince. henry rubs his shoulder and hopes sam will mistake his pain for that.
"could bet a few groschen you'll have to actually drag him to the altar," sam continues unfettered, and something in his gaze gleams oddly cunning for the topic of conversation, "i was there, you know, when they announced it. he looked like he'd shit himself."
“aye, so i’ve heard.”
“funny, really. looked so miserable even i almost felt bad for him.”
henry doesn’t know what to say to that. he’d been under sigismud’s eye, terrified out of his wits, so thoroughly paralyzed beneath the weight of that stare that he could scarcely breathe. all his bravery and all his skill – meticulously built, exhaustively nurtured – gone in a blink. von aulitz (“i remember every one i kill; don’t you? ”) sat so close henry could taste the anticipation in the air.
and he did nothing, bound by promise. and he would have done nothing, still, he thinks, crippled by fear.
“if you stay in rattay, i’ll know where to find you. could come visit,” there it was, the truth of what sam was working up to, but henry doesn’t understand the preamble. no matter. henry smiles, warmed by the sentiment. a fleeting happiness, so effortlessly caught. his brother, despite their short time together, has learned the ways of henry’s heart with surprising accuracy.
“but you’ll be in kolin,” henry’s quick to point out, eager to somehow return the favour, “unless you’re also planning on joining zizka. either way, you don’t have to worry about me. i’ll always find you, you have my word.”
“aye, but your lord will still probably need you to tie his shoes or something, so you’ll have to stay in rattay, won’t you, brother? i don’t trust him to survive, even after he weds. his wife will eat him alive, eh?”
henry’s smile falls a bit, and he’s so obvious. hans would be pissed, waggling his finger and reprimanding him again. but why must jitka be mentioned, is it not enough to simply imagine her? the all-consuming phantom, comely and sweet, and to know that this would come as a fact in less than a fortnight, perhaps tomorrow? or this night, an important missive, when hans is fresh-bathed, henry in bed, and both of them hoping for rest. dread claws at his stomach. his ears ring, echoing endlessly like the toll of the church bell at trosky.
“he’s stronger than you give him credit for,” henry answers mildly, “he’ll be alright.”
and yes, he will. with his wife and his lands, he will be happy. maybe not instantly, or with some struggle or another. perhaps some things, once lost, never fully return, and even henry knows that, but the sharpness, the bent-bone feeling – hans will not feel it forever.
"it's what's best for him," henry adds quietly, speaking it into existence, trying to make sense of why his heart clenches at the notion when he swears he’s become immune to it.
perhaps some things, once found, never leave you, either. suddenly, he wants to touch hans' hair, feel the damp softness under his fingertips; breathe him in, sun-soap-honey and pine resin and earth and sleep and dreams and never, ever let go.
"if you're certain, brother," sam says evenly, and henry doesn’t dare to glance at his face, afraid of what he might find there, "how about a game of dice? your lord is shit, but he told me you're better. unless he was lying, but i don’t think he’d ever lie about you."
v.
“by the way,” hans starts slyly. in the afternoon sunlight, the blue of his eyes is especially clear, like fresh water from a cold spring. sat on a log with his legs too wide apart, hans lets his fingers dance on the wood before he continues, as though he’s taking considerable care to construct a sentence. must be some scheme, then, since henry doesn’t know hans to think before he speaks, “i’m curious about something.”
“uh-oh,” henry utters, fingers weaving through the flowers, fastening them to a braid, “can’t be good.”
hans had been fascinated by this particular skill once, finding it equal measures girlish and extremely fitting for henry to possess. now, though, he has ceased his relentless mocking, likely in hopes that the wreath henry plaits will eventually end up crowning his head.
a knee nicks henry’s shoulder. sat on the sun-warmed grass, henry purses his lips to disguise his smile. “you donkey,” hans tuts, “not an ounce of faith left for me, is there? pains me to hear it, really. my poor, dear friend, you must know that i’ll forgive this transgression, but with a heavy heart, of course. that is not to even speak of the disrespect you show your lord. hey, now,” another hit, dulled by henry’s gambeson, but less impish this time, “do at least look at me when i scold you.”
“apologies, sir hans,” henry concedes, gazing up. hans’ ire, barely shown, instantly melts, “still but a lowly peasant, and all. can’t ever know what to do right.”
“well, that’s easily amendable, isn’t it?” hans grins. so pretty. his eyes crinkle when he does it, is he aware? should henry tell him? henry feels that hans might grow self-conscious if pointed out, but the satisfaction of seeing his ears go red might triumph over the need to preserve his lord’s dignity. “just listen to me, always! i know best, don’t i?”
henry hasn’t studied art much. he’s no poet nor painter nor sculptor, but what he does know is that somewhere in the world there exists something that must’ve been inspired by hans’ smile. “aye, my lord, that you do.”
hans looks at him oddly, some intelligible signal of emotion flitting across his features only to be buried somewhere henry could never hope to find. even at their most honest – for, really, the secret they share overcomes all other menial grievances – henry has managed to reveal something important about himself that hans was ignorant of. henry, too, perhaps.
he continues the plait, somewhat embarrassed. it is the season of flowers, of fruits and songbirds; life in its most beautiful manifestation, the church says. the feeling of hans playing with the hair at his nape makes him tingle, almost imperceptibly.
“tell me,” hans prompts much gentler, and henry feels a fool for accidentally making this more than it should be. it’d be better that whatever hans requested was done with that smug smile and a playful glint. it’s always easier to operate under the guise of a joke, “i’ve been meaning to ask for a while now, actually. time was never right, though. always this or that.”
“as is the way of things,” henry responds dryly.
a snort. “you smartarse. a blacksmith’s body with the temperament of a scholar. you’d be a nightmare at university.”
“actually, a blacksmith’s body with a blacksmith’s temperament,” henry says, proving hans right. his laugh is lovely, though – such a wonderful indulgence, well-earned each time, “ask already.”
hans slides from his perch, bumping his shoulder, “was just wondering when, you know. you started to, well. you know. mind looking at me, at least?”
“‘m busy,” henry rushes to say, fingers fumbling – is it the poppy that goes now, or chamomile? eyes-bright? “but…” he stops, lowering the unfinished wreath onto his lap. hans is right, henry should honour them both by saying it aloud and saying it directly to the one wanting to hear it. there’s courage in that, and you must always be brave to love. audentes fortuna iuvat.
gazes catch, and henry prays, silently, that he may always keep his eyes level with hans’ eyeline, never ashamed to be seen or discouraged by the weight of admission. “well, to be completely honest, i’m not entirely sure. it just happened, sort of. gradually. you were always important to me, mind you, i just didn’t realise that it was, well. you know. i think trosky might’ve made me a bit crazy about you, actually.”
“almost dying does have its uses, i suppose,” hans quips, but henry knows the memory of the noose is more painful to him than he lets on, “but i do remember you being very sweet to me afterward.”
“well, you were – are – my best friend,” henry explains, “i wanted you to know that i care about you. and that i always will.”
an appreciative sort of silence follows, drifting like birds aloft in the air. hans clears his throat, licks his lower lip, like the thought of speaking causes him a significant measure of unease.
finally: “for me, it was, i think…well, well karolina, perhaps.”
what? henry isn’t sure if he breathed the word out loud, but he’s certain his horrified expression says it all. so soon? that was barely weeks into their friendship, which, at the time, was no stronger than a newborn calf on unsteady legs. truly, since the letter to karolina? if there was a trail of crumbs hans left for him to follow, he was wholly unaware of it.
he feels ill, all of a sudden, for letting something like this slip past him. while the reality of a man courting another man existed somewhere in the far recess of henry’s mind, he considered himself so far removed from the notion that he never even thought to look twice at a proposition now made obvious by hindsight (“i’d rather have a drink with you.” ).
hans' kiss knocked him out of orbit. he was furious for many things, but namely that he didn't think to do it sooner.
hans yanks on henry’s hair, landing him back to reality, “not like that. well, kind of like that, actually. really, i just knew that, well, i was entirely obsessed with you. and that i wrote the letter with you in mind. kept thinking, oh, what would henry say to woo a comely peasant girl that didn’t know how to read? and then, somehow. well. i then just, wrote. what i thought you would like. and i wanted you to keep it. since i knew karolina couldn’t read. have i mentioned that?”
the rambling sets henry at ease. yes, looking back on the whole ordeal, hans’ attempts were transparent. still, henry was entirely blindsided. all he knew is that his friend – and his lord, no less – ordered him to keep the letter, and kept the letter he did. it’s still in his satchel, his very own private rabbit’s foot, but to admit to still possessing it would be…
“i liked it,” henry hears himself say, and hans face lights up, “you know me well.”
no matter how many times the stitches of henry come undone, he is always, without right or reason, ensnared. no matter the soliloquies of the almost goodbyes he tells himself each morning and then at night like a prayer, henry’s body betrays him. it’ll always betray him – the sword swings before he thinks of the words to ask, and his lips seek and find hans’ eagerly waiting before he can argue that to leave would be the best for everyone.
vi.
in the stretching shadows of the winding kuttenberg streets, henry sees her. the wound weeps.
hans calls for something, but his voice gets lost in the buzz of the crowd. what were they doing here, anyway? henry can’t think to answer. the familiar surroundings no longer fit their shapes.
there’s a pinch to his forearm, or maybe not. he doesn’t feel it, not really, no push or pull just the strange numbness that sets his limbs tingling. it’s her, her dress, her face that disappears into a shop, and henry should run, shouldn’t he, after her (won’t you reprimand me?). he should, but he doesn’t remember how to move, nor that he ever could in the first place.
ah, but that’s not right, isn’t it? ma can’t be here, she’s dead.
vii.
they sit across from one another, knees knocked together and calves touching, deep in the recess of the emperor charles tavern – a princely institution fit for his lord’s princely needs. hans’ senses had been offended – by the dirt, by the smell – no matter the impressive structures that left henry abashed or dumbfounded the first time he saw them. no, hans knew kuttenberg, not in the way henry did with the innards and the blood and the shadowy corners where his body laid waiting for a sign, but in a way a lord knows his dominion, which is to say hans knows nothing of kuttenberg at all.
it could have been a day or two of their stay, perhaps more; they might have visited the kingfisher and paid extra to not be disturbed in the warm, soapy water, and they may have even enjoyed their time. hans could have laughed, or henry could have remained silent, and the hush could have made them cross or closer than ever.
henry does not know. the warmth that syrups, the joy that spins, the something that lingers, claws and rakes and eats – henry can only describe it as one would white-hot pain. agony and retribution. men like him deserve that, don’t they? to be treated like dogs.
is he that? nothing but a mutt whining for his master. hans is dappled in the dim light, more waxen effigy than man. it should be warm, shouldn’t it? it is where hans’ touches fever-numb skin. henry’s eyes drop to the dice, moving his hand like a puppet on a string. no, henry is not a dog, despite the anger and the teeth (“you’re just like me! you murder in the name of revenge, and you don’t care about anyone else!” ). he was, once, a person worth something, however little it was. with a sense of autonomy he didn’t value or realize he possessed, wholly outside the jurisdiction and the mercurial whims of others. ("a hunting dog to find him and rip his throat.")
the joy spins along with the shadows. there’s a private satisfaction in knowing the truth. if he is to move on, he must admit (“the stronger dog fucks the bitches!” ), and he has, in a way, only negated to put it into words. the dice click, and hans claps and raises a toast to all the points he’s allocated. he is beautiful when he’s happy, even more when it is somehow henry’s doing, whether intentional or not. beautiful, but different from the hans that shows in the blood-red boudoir of henry’s dreams, or perhaps no different at all.
it is always the same setting – henry and hans in a familiar chamber made strange by the flashing lights. thunder always rolls against the night, and hans is always turned away from him at first, perking up only upon henry’s entry. black looks good on hans, such a fine ensemble, but henry never considers this in dream, only outside of it when trying to untangle the meaning.
“you just won't give up, will you?” dream-hans tells him, smug and expectant, almost proud. “you know, i actually like that about you."
in the dream, hans holds a goblet, and henry holds a dagger. it always ends before henry can tell him they’re nothing alike.
viii.
fetch, attack, undress – out of all commands, the latter is the most agreeable; henry does not hesitate or stall. no doubt, the execution of it is sloppy, spurned and clumsy. it makes hans tut softly but not chide him further.
a kiss. then more. the hand combing through his hair rests at the nape of the neck where the spine begins to curve downward. anticipation makes him tense, but expert fingers knead and ease, setting a thousand small fires underneath henry’s skin. hans could have learned to play an instrument if he didn’t consider it beneath him, but his lord only knows bows and swords and the conviction needed to handle both, so his touch is always just slightly off – too hard, too rough, too pinching. it’s what henry likes.
in the cradle of goosefeather pillows, hans smiles, lips reddened and swelling. they might have fallen in, or walked each other over slowly – it’s too difficult to think when henry’s presented with the truth of his feelings mirrored in hans’ eyes.
"am i not distracting enough for you?" hans murmurs, lips quirking before pressing deeper, his tongue sliding between henry's parted lips with no resistance.
"you're all i think about," henry admits hoarsely, fingers pulling hans’ shirt until the shape of his ivory collarbone comes into view. delectable, the most luxurious treat to henry’s naked eye and eager mouth. the shirt slips and falls somewhere forgotten.
henry has seen hans unclothed fully, modest only in first presentation, and has never not craved to further his inspection of the joints and muscles and tendons and the places where his jackrabbit pulse hammers and echoes beneath the skin. jutting hip and flat stomach and wiry legs that taper before rising into firm calves, the cause of henry’s fascination. henry could sketch it all from memory and still insist there’s more left to explore.
there's a freckle hanging just above hans' navel, a guiding star. hans swallows and lets out a trembling breath as henry maps kisses from there downward. the scent, the salt is enough to make henry's head spin.
less than a month of shared devotion, with the same conclusion, no variation. part of henry longs to take his time, even when the other part aches to close the distance, feel the shape of hans against his mouth; to test his lordship's boundaries by pushing him, watch as his lip curls and his face flushes. all henry’s doing – if he is to leave a mark on this world, let it be on hans’ skin.
it never takes much effort, is the thing. there has been nothing like this for henry: holding a man, a close friend and confidant, sinew and bone smothered in his arms as the hot, hard line of him burns into his thigh. getting too close, too hot, too fast, and not wanting to slow down, but wanting to watch hans' face glaze over.
how, how did he get this? all his life, hadn’t he struggled for a fraction of this bliss? yes, he always struggles, digs his own grave and then lays down willingly, waiting for another wake to fall six feet anew. but this is different; it must be different because this is hans in his grubby, feral hands, pinned to the bedding, letting henry devour him.
"don't tease," hans says, biting his lip, fingertips digging into henry's back.
he shouldn’t, not after the hellish day he has been through, at this ineffable hour. hurt and anger still throb somewhere at the back of his head. he is always simmering, low, right under the surface. if hans only knew how hard it is to control himself, to tame his own worst urges. still, when henry breathes out, only the affection makes its way onto his tongue, shaping itself in love, inaudible despite being so large and ever-present.
"i won't," he promises, because that is what hans wants, and henry must always have himself incomplete so someone could take the space and fill it with substance. his hand fists and tugs slowly, once, twice. hans groans into his mouth, a satisfying rumble. "anything you want, i'll give you."
"you," hans utters. "that's what i want. what i've always wanted."
but hans has always had him; in a more ignorant time, before the need to feel flesh against flesh consumed the innocence. how has their connection not changed, not deteriorated and worn itself out? it's something henry has tried to reconcile with himself using the knowledge he has accumulated and the morose sense of self-awareness. yet, here, in their special place where only the light from the burning candles is privy to the sight of them, henry thinks it might not matter, only it does, and when the act ends, henry will lay famished, eternally, and ponder the implications again.
hans moans, urging him, back arched into his hand. the sensation settles in the pit of henry's stomach, curling his toes, loosening the stranglehold. this is real. surely, that can't be wrong, can't it? the bells, the monastery, the night. even now, a part of henry is vacant, the part exempt from command. it's unfair.
“should ask for more,” henry tells him, searching for, what? reassurance? hope? sustenance? he suspects what hans might say, and he needs to hear it, else the pieces will come undone. “you deserve more, my lord.”
deserve more than secrecy, the morsel of it always stuck in the throat; deserve more than henry, who loves him so much he feels sick with the want he carries.
"i don't care," hans breathes, pulling on henry's hair to draw henry's mouth back to his, "anything, as long as it’s with you, i don't care."
ix.
it’s mid-afternoon somewhere too far from kuttenberg and not close enough to the devil’s den that henry realises he’s been staring the whole journey. his eyes snag on the golden threads, the graceful line of hans’ shoulders. hooves kick up dust and beat along with henry’s heart. up and down, up and down, how can henry reign in his gaze? he has seen hans in many such positions and admired them all equally, but when he catches himself in a daydream, he can only ask – how can i not look at you? how could i ever look away?
if he simply drinks it in, this vision of hans with the wind in his hair against the backdrop of henry’s beloved country, perhaps it will nourish him through the coming winters. inspire, briefly, the desire to fight for something other than duty when he cuts through the enemy, as though he still has something dear to protect. when blood sprays, there will remain the shape of hans’ shoulders, the suspended moment before hans turns to him and smiles with spit-slick lips.
henry could survive on that sight alone, he thinks. gnaw and chew at the memory of these affections, maul them to the marrow and ground them to dust – build his home on the ashes with knife-sharp bones, and in such a way, be happy.
is that not what henry has already been doing, long before they met? he has always been saying goodbye: to the woods he raged at, to the war in which he toiled, and to the hopes he buried deep, deep within. to the people he loved the most but never loved enough. (“henry, what kind of husband would you make? you can’t sit still for a moment!” )
perhaps he has not changed, henry muses. the realisation fits like an old, worn glove. he has always been tempted to brighter skies and greener grasses, the peasant illusions of grandeur – freedom and adventure. he can dress in nice clothes and he can pilfer noble veneers from the lords that praise him, but to him, it shall never come as naturally as stealing, or fighting, or lying does, these skills of his youth, from which neither fire nor carnage could deliver him.
he has never been a good person because even with bianca his eyes lingered on theresa and with theresa they lingered on the rest. he has never been a good person because he never thought to be anything but what he was, which might not have been a person at all.
(“you’ll suffer like the mangy fucking mutt that you are!” )
“you’re quiet again,” hans calls, but this time, henry doesn’t dare to gaze in his direction, unsettled, somehow, by his thoughts. henry’s always been so adept of running away and hiding, whether it be places or people he hid in. does hans know? does he look at henry and understand? “one of these days, i’m going to pry it out of you, and whatever i learn i bet i won’t like.”
“aye,” henry sounds, quiet, ashamed, “you might not.”
it’s unfair, he knows, to love hans and think of all the ways to leave him.