Archive of Our Own ^beta

Henry wishes the ride could stretch on forever.

Not in the least due to the fact that horse riding is one of the best ways to pass the time with Sir Hans. He always seems more alive in the saddle, wind moving through his hair like wheat before the harvest. Soft enough to run his fingers through. Not that Henry would try from here.

Not that he isn't tempted to.

Today more than most, however, he rues the sight of their destination. Today, the journey seems far superior.

Hans had taken point almost immediately after they set off from the Devil's Den. He said he knew a perfect spot along the creek north of the den, somewhere no one could see them, but now that they draw near he reins in his horse. Manoeuvring in beside Pebbles, he grins over at Henry. The canopy casts an uneven light upon his features, leaf-shaped shadows stroking over his hair in the manner Henry longed to, moments ago.

"Well, Henry," he chirps, his good humour high, "are you ready to learn a thing or two?"

Usually, he'd agree with enthusiasm. Lessons with Hans typically means swordplay, poetry, and more— today, only misery.

Only water.

From here, Henry can just see the spot Hans had meant: a spring, or little pond, which feeds into the creek that flows into Grund and beyond. It's bound to be private, and cool. A fine place to dip his feet and ward away the heat, but Hans wants them to dip more than their feet in.

"I agreed, didn't I? Is that not enough?" he grouses.

"Come now, Henry. It won't be so bad. Civilisation was born upon the riverbank, mankind was made to be by the water."

"Aye, by the water, not in it."

Hans rolls his eyes, and guides Caballus a few paces ahead. Pebbles follows the pace he sets, snorting as he sweeps his long tail against her nose. Henry rubs her neck sympathetically, bristling the warm hairs under his fingers. "I know, girl," he says.

She has the better end of the agreement, he wagers, although he won't tell her that. A nice, cool day eating spring-fed grass and drinking fresh water; while he tries not to drown in it. He'd gladly take a few whips in the face with a horse's tail to trade her fate and his.

The sound of hooves, sucking in the mud, herald their arrival. Hans alights from his steed, sticking as well, but seeming not to mind as he leads Caballus to a patch of sunlight and a low-hanging branch. "Plenty of green to graze on here, isn't there?" The horse noses the centre of Hans's chest, pretending to chew on him. Laughing, he captures it by the muzzle, pulling it to his lips for a kiss. Henry can hear the smacking sound from where he unsaddles Pebbles. "Be good for me, Kabalík. I'll have my hands full with Hal here in a moment."

A soft snort from Henry interrupts his cooing. Hans prickles, looking over. "Can I help you?"

"I didn't say anything," Henry laughs, hands held out like he's warding off a blow. He waits until Hans has resumed attending to his horse before he adds, "I do think it's sweet. Cute, even."

Hans pulls a face, unsure how to take the compliment. Eventually he settles for pretending it was never said, "Just get a move on. You're delaying the inevitable."

Holding his laughter, Henry tempers it to a fond smile as he guides Pebbles to Caballus's grazing spot. She snorts in mild protest, ears flicking as the gelding bows to eat some weeds growing near her hooves. "You keep him in line, girl," he tells her, patting the broad side of her neck encouragingly. "Make sure he doesn't wander off on us."

"You're falling behind, Henry!"

Somewhere in the ritual of dismounting Hans had wandered off to disrobe. His pourpoint lies upon the cleanest rock the pond has to offer, unbuttoned to the point that he could simply pull it off his head. As he taunts Henry, he's already pulling off the light undershirt made to catch his sweat before it stains his clothes.

Bashfully threading Pebbles's reins between his palms, Henry watches.

Summer has left its mark upon Capon. He remembers the first time he'd seen Hans naked, how pale his shoulders were— though they're not much browner, now. Or rather, the brown is concentrated, clustered in tight freckles across his torso and back. The hair that grows there is so fine it can only be admired at a close distance, easier felt than seen.

Henry's tongue moves across his teeth, conjuring the memory of what that texture feels like when he takes Hans's tits in between his lips.

Hans slides his braies and his hose off in one motion, wiggling side-to-side in a display that feels intentional. Especially in how it makes his arse jiggle.

"Are you sure we came here to teach me how to swim?" Henry asks, question laden with scepticism.

"Quite certain!" comes the cheery reply. "Don't get any ideas, blacksmith's boy!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says. "Still, better to bait with a carrot than stick."

"Ha! I take it that means I'm the carrot."

Carrot isn't exactly the produce that comes to mind. The bottom that presents towards him while Hans eases his garters over his calves is worn a little pink from the ride here, better resembling a peach. Henry even knows from more intimate experiences that there's little blond hairs growing up it, so fine they can only be seen against the light. "Aye, something like that."

It takes more effort (and wiggles), to slip off his hose, but eventually Hans steps out of both legs. Henry can hear the wet earth well between Hans's toes, but to his credit the lordling doesn't baulk. It may be that the weeks he'd spent in Apollonia had cured him of many flaws a noble upbringing invites, but Henry expects the truth is that Hans, more than most of his station, appreciates the ugly bruises that come with the beauty of God's creation.

He stretches at the spring's edge, muscles in his back growing taut as a drawn bowstring before settling back into his frame. Tall and fit, from his angle Henry can see the jut of bone that points down to his legs— and the fruit that lies between them.

Henry has to physically shake himself to start moving. Like a dog sloughing off the rain, only instead of water he's banishing his own thoughts from his head.

A helpful branch holds out an arm to hold his stripped clothes: coat, hose, and braies hanging in a row. His shoes, he leaves at the roots, where the earth is driest, giving him no choice but to creep towards the pond on bare feet. The saturated earth swells like pockets of air burst beneath the soil; little rivers run over his toes where they sink. When he breathes, the air is fresh, no standing water leaves a boggy taste upon his tongue. Even the wet earth at the spring's edge flows.

Ahead, he hears a splash, and Hans has disappeared.

Pressure leans upon his lungs, his own ribs tight across them. Flashes of the sky, viewed from the distorted lens of pondwater, play in his mind's eye. Henry fights against the clench of his own heart, willing the blood back into it.

Hans emerges a moment later as if nothing had happened, because nothing has happened. He slicks his hair back against his scalp, the blond dyed to a honeyed brown when wet.

He sighs, refreshed. "Good Lord! Henry, you don't know what you're missing!"

Well, Henry thinks as he steps into the shallows, I'm about to find out.

The water has teeth like a cat has teeth. It grazes over his ankles, warning him. He ignores it, pushing further— to his knees, his hips, bracing for a swat. It parts without consequence, proving his instincts the fool.

"Almost there," Hans says. Henry can't tell if the laugh in his voice is teasing or encouraging. Maybe a bit of both.

Mid-morning light skips across the surface of the spring, bright enough that Hans has to squint to see him. The freckles across the bridge of his crinkled nose kiss together distractingly.

Looking at Hans, it's easier to move deeper. The water is up to his shoulders, but is quickly approaching Henry's chin. The slight discrepancy in height making all the difference in the world— at least right now.

"So, is it so bad as you believed?" Hans asks.

It's an important question, so Henry considers it carefully. He has to remind himself to breathe, and that the water around him is no more (or less) dangerous than a bathhouse's. Even if his chest has convinced itself he is being suffocated, his mind knows its not; it guides the former through the motions of breathing like a patient parent teaching a stumbling child to walk.

But the slight tug of the water is almost… pleasing. And feels good on his bones.

He shifts carefully. The slick, moss-coated stones lick the soles of his feet.

"I'm standin' on something slimy," he says, in lieu of anything remotely helpful.

Fortunately, Hans seems to find it funny. "We're wet! Everything will be."

"Yeah, well, I suppose I just find it a bit unpleasant is al—"

As if the pond is possessed with vindictive vengeance, his next step slides from beneath him. The stones launch him off his feet— his weight does the rest. His heels fly over his head. Then the water.

His mind, so pleased with its rationality (like some a little reading could make a Socrates out of a peasant like him), finds itself the victim of the same bodily panic which had gripped his lungs. He can't breath. Water issues in a stream from his mouth, and all the air with it.

He splashes helplessly, trying to find that same paddle he had in Trosky Pond— but it seems the same power that lifted Lord Jesus upon the waves of Galilee had instilled in him the ability to swim that evening. His limbs feel endless, useless. As likely to drown him than to do him any good.

Through water thrashing in his ear, he hears Hans. Distant, at first, then right beside him— speaking right into the shell of his ear. "Henry! Henry… Henry! Christ's wounds, hold still!"

He's wrestled into complacency by a second pair of arms, forcefully drawing his own around something (someone) soft, wet, and— well— slimy. But the instinct to wrap them around Hans wins out over the fight for his own life. He finds his toes floating barely above the floor, and when he tries to plant them flat, the water rises up like a hanged man's noose around his neck.

"Careful! Careful," Hans warns laughingly. Patience is still a new concept where his lord is concerned, and Henry isn't sure if he prefers this over the needling. It feels— condescending, and after all, Bernard hadn't taught him to wield a sword with affirmation and prayer. Still, the words to say all that fail him, and Hans's arms draw him back up to his level. "Unless you've grown since you got into the water, you might find the bottom just a smidge out of reach."

"Fuck off," Henry mutters, tucking himself against the side of Hans's face. It's easy to bury himself there, both out of convenience and comfort, his mouth safely above the surface so long as it's beside Hans's cheek.

Possessed with a life of their own, Henry's legs wrap around Hans's middle. Not an unfamiliar instinct in itself, albeit in atypical surrounds. They're far from any bed, and in water his heft seems to cause Hans no trouble at all. It's as if he weighs nothing— less than nothing. No burden to the lord, so reluctant to carry sacks, yet without a word of complaint now.

"What are you doing?" The laugh seems inextricable from Hans's voice, at this point. A delightful tremor that nearly banishes all the trepidation from Henry's heart. He tries to smile against Hans, only to find he is already; tucked into the cradle of Hans's face, he has every reason to be.

"I don't know," he admits stupidly. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Not swimming, certainly."

"You said you'd teach me." Reluctantly, he peels his face away, for once finding himself with the upper hand. Looking down at Hans, rather than up. "I haven't heard a word of advice since we got here."

"I can't help it if you tripped."

Henry blows air between his lips. "I didn't trip! I was… pushed."

"By what? Me?"

"No! Some manner of beast— a fish, it were, the size of a tree trunk. Had I not intervened, you'd be short an arm."

Hans snorts. "In that case, I'm grateful you intervened, but this beastly fish of yours seems to have swam to calmer waters; so I believe it falls to me to teach you."

Henry tightens his face, trying not to change it. Although from the comforting lift of Hans's smile, it appears he can see right through what Henry hides.

"Do you know how to float?" Hans asks.

Henry's brow furrows. "What, like a goose?"

"Not quite. You'll be on your back, for starters."

He instinctively tenses, pressing back against the arms circled around his waist. A thumb strokes a sympathetic arc in his skin. "Hm, I dunno."

"You'll be alright, Hal. I promise."

Six words, and he's sold. Fortunate that Hans is no devil, and wants only what's best for him.

Most of the time.

He nods wordlessly.

"Lie back for me," Hans says. "You'll be surprised by how easy it is."

Trying to put faith before sense, he nods.

Anchored by his grip around Hans’s waist, Henry lets himself be drawn back. His muscles clench to control his descent, and he thinks he sees Hans’s eyes flit admiringly over how they stand out against his stomach. A point of pride Henry holds close to his chest as he sinks into the water.

Above him, the open sky is crowded by branches, reaching like hands across the spring to dapple sunlight upon the water. Brilliant, blue. God has shown His favour by gracing them with a day poets dream of.

He concentrates on the sky, trying to ignore the lapping water that surrounds him. His mouth is above the surface, but he feels it teasing the corners of his pinched lips; an implicit threat he guards against no matter how foolish it may make him look.

Hans moves like he's liquid, ducking out from the grip of Henry's legs. He emerges, resplendent, the water lending a lustrous shine to his muscles. So distracting that Henry doesn't notice he's sinking until Hans says:

"Christ, Henry, are you made of stone?"

It isn't an inaccurate accusation. Henry's neck feels stiff as a sword's hilt, and the further he strains, the further he sinks: trying to move up somehow drags him down further. Circling his arms to stay afloat, he opens his mouth to speak.

Water splashes in. Between sputters, he spits, "Easy, my arse!"

"It won't be easy the way you're doing it. Here, let me just-"

Five fingertips spread across the small of his back; with barely any force at all, they lift him. Small rivulets run off his stomach from the pool sitting in the middle of his belly. Like before, there's no effort to the action. He is rendered near weightless in Hans's grasp.

No wonder, Henry thinks, that so many of Christ's greatest works were performed with water. Even absent of Divine Providence, the common man can work miracles through its nature.

"Of course you're sinking," Hans mutters, Henry's wonder made mundane by his knowledge. "You're lifting your head. Here."

Underneath him, Henry feels a current flow from his spine to the base of his neck. A strange, uncanny feeling, like he's seeing with his flesh.

"Put your head in my hand."

"But-"

"Do you question Bernard's instruction this way?" Hans asks, a fine pressure upon the question. "I'm the expert, here, so do as I say."

Henry scoffs out of the side of his mouth. "As you say, sir."

He settles. The waft of his hair, in desperate need of a trim, finds Hans before he does. He bends, all faith, beneath the surface of the spring.

Pressure leans upon his ears, gentle. Deceiving. It stands to reason that what stifles sound, steals breath, and though the caress of the waves upon his cheeks is cool— refreshing, it doesn't make it safe.

Safety, instead, is found in the trust he places in the hand at the back of his head. If he ignores the suspension of his body, he can almost pretend they're in a prolonged bath. Indulgence has cooled the steam from heated waters, and at last Hans has said perhaps it is time they washed properly. Henry would lean back, and let Hans's fingers work through his hair. He washes it almost as well as a bath maid, pulling gently on his scalp, working to the roots. When he was through, he would do it again, so the hair dries curly on his head.

Hans is speaking. The words are dampened, reduced to a hum and the shape of Hans's lips moving. He thinks he sees the snap of teeth that would make the sound the word 'back' would make. Coupled with an insistent press upon his waist, he arches up, towards Hans. To a place of utter suspension.

"Good," he sees Hans say. His lips then pull in a strange smile, which Henry reads as tempered pride. "Just like that."

If praise could lift a man, then Henry would be unbound from the shackles of the earth by those four words alone.

Gradually, Hans removes his hands, although Henry can feel their presence hover not far from where they'd held him. The longer he hangs here, the more the spring feels like one living thing, with him a part of it.

He closes his eyes.

The sky is blinked away by the knit of his lashes, only its memory plays— white and yellow— across the backs of his lids. He can feel the drag of water across the underside of his body, a current that flows from here to the Den, and beyond; that wells unseen beneath the earth to cradle him.

It's as if God has placed His thumb upon the pulse of the world, slowing all to a standstill.

The birds in their hollows, the wind in the branches— even his own thoughts dull. No dreams, no nightmares. His limbs melt into the water, into the infinity of God's creation.

Just Hans remains, tucked into the peripherals of Henry's senses. A guardian, there to correct the drift of his hips when they begin to sink.

He hangs there for what seems like forever, letting the water hold him.

Only when the arms under him nudge his sides with greater urgency does he open his eyes. He expects to find the warm afternoon turned to night— the sun having made another spin about the Earth— but the day greets him gladly, too bright against his eyes.

Directly above him, Hans is speaking, motioning circles with one hand.

When all Henry can do is gape up at him, he rolls his eyes and scoops him up. Water roars like falls around his ears, everything quiet now shouting. Everything except Hans, who simply speaks:

"Are you ready to move forward?"

Ear bent forward against the muscle of Hans's bicep, it's a little difficult to gauge whether he's ready for anything. He's reminded abruptly of a turtle Fritz had fished from the local pond, struck dumb by the human hands holding it aloft. "Ah, em-" he stutters, capping his tongue against his teeth before he tries again. Settling upon a reluctant, "Sure."

"That's the spirit. Here, hold on like this." Moving Henry's left hand so it grips Hans's right arm, he shakes Henry loose. He unfurls like a conquering flag over a captured castle, moored only by his hands. The skin where his fingers grip Hans is white, near translucent. One finger at a time, he softens his touch, and lets his legs float like they did before.

"What now?" he asks, feeling stupid.

"You start kicking, obviously."

"Any kind of kick?"

"There's certainly plenty of options. Although I'd recommend something more disciplined. Up and down is a simple enough place to start."

Henry dips beneath the surface, frowning in thought. He finds he has to kick— a few, fleeting flaps of his feet— just to keep himself up.

"You did something different with your legs in Trosky," he says. Not that he'd much time to study his technique, but he recalls how quiet Hans's swimming was compared to him. So quiet he'd feared he'd fallen victim to their pursuers more than once.

"We can try that if you manage not to drown doing this," Hans insists. "So kick."

'Kick,' he says. As though it's that easy. As though Henry's feet aren't dangling without purchase, precariously righted.

But when has he ever learned anything the easy way?

He starts kicking. It is both easier (and harder) than he imagines. The water has hands, and they drag, pulling at his heels as they dart in and out of the water. It's the total opposite of before— rather than feeling one with the spring, he feels at odds against it. Thrashing like they're in a fight. It thrashes back, splashing water onto him and Hans as he brings his foot up. Then down. Then up again.

It weeps down from his hairline, slipping between his lips. He spits.

More slides down.

He spits again.

He might have thought he'd swept the world away with the racket he's making, a second flood of a fool's making, not God's. Yet when he dips a little too low he feels Hans's arms tense, righting him. A proud voice cheers "that's it, Hal" and he surges forward, just to prove to Hans he hasn't seen the best he can do.

Although maybe he's overdone it. For next thing he knows, Hans is saying, "I think you might be ready to try on your own."

Spitting, Henry's mouth hangs open. "What?"

"I won't be far," he says. "In fact, you'll have to catch me."

"Catch you? You've got to be joking— you've years at this compared to me."

"That hasn't stopped you from besting me before. Besides, it's how I learned."

Henry squints is eyes, trying to picture it and coming up short. Hans is so at ease, he seems born for the water, his blond hair just another skim of sunlight off the top of the pond.

"If you say so," he grunts.

"I do." Hans steps back, their arms stretching out to their furthest reaches without parting. "Of course… to catch me you'll have to let me go, first."

"Right, of course." An obvious statement, but it's difficult to make his fingers fight the instinct to cling to him. Every muscle is shouting to hold fast to Hans, his buoy. One at a time, he lifts them away, until it's only his thumbs grasping around his wrists. They, too, unhook themselves, leaving him drifting in the open water.

"Move your arms to keep afloat!" Hans warns between exaggerated steps, his generous gait carrying him even further in the water. Henry begins moving his arms in impotent little circles, prompting a second piece of advice: "Not so timid, now! Pretend you're… sweeping aside the women who want on your cock!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I suppose I ought to think of something more relevant to your life experience." By now Hans has reached the deepest depths of the spring, far enough in that he's swimming himself, treading water through the very mechanisms he's trying to teach Henry as they speak. His face twists thoughtfully. "How does one thresh wheat?"

"Oh, fuck off—" Henry manages to say before he dips beneath the surface of the spring. The world above disappears. Henry feels his hair lifting like there's wind running through it. He falls no more than the breadth of a man's hand, but it takes thrice as long as the same height would above. His toes spread upon the bottom of the spring, stirring muck and mud.

He launches himself from the springbed. Suddenly, he's back where he was when he had been floating. Every muscle, feeling designed for water to flow off it. He cuts through to the surface, seeking Hans like an arrow. Laughter peals above the water as Hans ducks away, only his impression left behind for Henry to fruitlessly grasp at, his shape lingering in the water.

He turns, near blind, kicking and pulling. Sweeping wenches out the way by the dozen. Laughing, chasing, swimming.

When he catches Hans, his arm turns into a fish, slipping bonelessly from his grasp. "Almost!" he taunts. Now closer to the shallows, he's walking again, a slower exercise than when he swims. Henry rears in the water, lunging.

Hans breathes in, captures his breath in his lungs, and dives beneath the surface.

"Hey!" Henry shouts. "Cheat!"

Turning circles, he tries to estimate where Hans will emerge from the rings their bodies make. His own have cast a spell across the whole pond, lapping at the surface where their belongings lie. The horses are in a state of ignorance as to their riders' game, flicking flies with their ears and tails while they graze upon the spring-fed grass.

He kicks, and circles, and treads. Still, no sign of Hans.

Something sinks, and for a change it isn't Henry. Concern tugs upon his heart, and its object has a name: "Hans?"

A fleshy thing that slides past his leg, too bold to be a fish, makes him yelp. He kicks, foot connecting with something. A stream of bubbles sprays up to the surface, fizzing in his face.

Good, Henry thinks, swiping his nose. Fear quickly forgotten. The bastard deserves a good kick.

Water surges behind him, too fast for him to avoid. Taking full advantage of the spare few inches between them, Hans captures Henry around his middle, holding tight to compensate for their slippery bodies. "You kicked me, you arse!" he shouts laughingly.

"And you cheated!"

Twisting his body, Henry tries to push away; his fingers come dangerously close to slipping into Hans's nostrils, though it only makes him laugh more. He manoeuvres his knee to lend another ounce of strength, but Hans only traps him tighter, crushing Henry's chest against a noble cheek.

At a certain point, he can't help but picture a cat caught in the arms of a stubborn child.

"Fine," Henry says when he relents. He sinks back down into Hans's arms, feigning petulance. "You win."

"I believe the conceit of the game was that you catch me," Hans contests. "And it certainly seems I've been caught."

All Henry's soft bits seem to float within him. Like he's swallowed one too many mouthfuls of water, and now they're all inside him, swishing around like soup— but that would be the coward's solution; to attribute to nature what can only be explained by love.

Bashful and besotted, all Henry can do is beam down at Hans, who grins back through blond lashes.

"I'd learn to do anything for you," Henry says suddenly, stupidly. Hans's smile flicks away, but only because there's only so much joy one man's face can hold. "Readin', swimmin'… I think I'd learn how to fly if you asked."

Hans doesn't ask him to fly, though he arms Henry for the task. He surges up, holding Henry's legs around his waist, and their lips fast together. They kiss like they're at the baths, gliding together as though they're one being— one body. Holding one another as the water holds them. It isn't until he's breathing into Hans's lungs that he realises how little is left in his own. The dull ache of exercise strains against his ribcage, a pleasant pain he nurses against the flush of Hans's breast.

When he breathes, he tastes some air from noble lungs. Sweet as the clear summer air, fresh as the spring.

"Let's save that experiment for another day," Hans says. "You must be tired."

With a sharp inner kick, Henry realises he's suggesting they leave.

"We just got here," he argues. "I'm alright."

"I'd rather you not overdo it. At least take a rest, my nursemaid said too long in the water will make you old before your time."

Henry's new to the water, but something about that sounds wrong. He wonders if Hans's nursemaid hadn't just been looking for any excuse to get him out of the bath. "You may be right," Henry says, deciding he has more important things to say than argue with the memory of a woman he'll never know. "There's just one problem, my lord."

"What's that?"

He settles one arm on both of Hans's shoulders, feeling his grin cut one way into his cheek as he tries in vain to stifle it. "It seems I've become quite fond of the water. If I'm to be convinced to leave, I'm afraid I'll have to be carried."

"Will I have to teach you how to walk once we're on land as well?"

"I'm sure that won't be necessary, I'll get my bearings. But to be delivered there in your arms will alleviate the shock of dry land— they say sailors feel the ocean under their legs for days after they've docked, after all."

Hans's snort strokes by his cheek. "The longer we know each other, the more I understand how you get away with half the nonsense you do. Come here, then." Hiking Henry closer, he begins a blind and perilous trek towards the shore. The higher his body rises above the water, the heavier he becomes. He can feel his weight, his flesh, filling Hans's grasp; the meat of his thighs hugging him tighter to compensate.

"Christ, Henry," Hans grunts. "You've put back on every pound you've lost in Suchdol."

"And then some," he replies proudly.

The answering laugh is strained by the weight Hans struggles with, although to his credit he doesn't miss a step on his way back to the shallows. He lays him on a sunny stone, and crawls, winded, beside him as Henry stretches languidly upon the rock. The sun's heat bakes into him from both sides, and in moments hairs slick to his skin begin to stand freely.

Henry breathes, and stretches, spine growing so long he feels he might slip right back into the spring they'd just come out of. From the corner of his eye he catches Hans watching him from his side, and pretends he doesn't notice, a little too pleased with the notion of being admired in the same manner he had admired Hans.

"I have a thought," Hans announces, a statement begging for a belligerent remark, which Henry curbs only because he is too glad to think of one. He hears him roll over, and up, coveting Henry's sky with his silhouette. Something about Hans's face looks impossible, like no matter where he turns, he's always facing the light.

Tucking closer, so his naked body isn't burdened with the caress of bare stone, Hans leans his weight upon Henry. All the bones and muscle the water had smoothed away feel realer on land, the press of Hans's hipbone a little painful against his side. His fingers, though, are soft as ever— albeit a little wrinkled from the water. They tease Henry's chest hair, the man they belong to becoming distracted as he traces a line between Henry's breasts.

Kissing the bottom of his ribcage, just above the soft rise of his stomach, Hans remembers himself.

"I read once in some… medical text or another," Hans begins, waving his hand, dismissing the name of the work in the same breath as he will cite it, "about a technique called the 'kiss of life.' Said to bring the recently dead back to the living, and clear the water from a drowned man's lungs."

Henry raises a sceptical brow. "Is this a medical technique, or some clever excuse to kiss another man?"

"I can't speak for the writer… I, for one, don't need a clever excuse," Hans says, poking Henry's chest for emphasis.

"True enough." Henry pauses, long enough that Hans lowers his chin into the valley between his breasts. He doesn't turn his cheek to rest his head, but smiles, catlike, up at Henry while he waits for him to come to the obvious conclusion. "Though I suppose it can't hurt to practise some."

"That's also true." Every word has a fond humour to it, sowing warm feelings in Henry's chest. Hans takes his chin in his hand, angling Henry's head towards the side he lays upon.

Their drying bodies cling together, skin sticking when Hans makes the short trip from Henry's chest to his lips. Mouths open, he imagines he can feel his lungs full of Hans's breath, as warm within as it is without. So warm it makes the summer day cold. His fingers comb through blond hair, more reverent with it than the wind that carried them here.

And Hans holds him, scrapes his knuckles against the stone to cup Henry's head in one hand.

That effortless, infinite feeling dawns upon him again in Hans's embrace. He feels his own heartbeat pulse against Hans's thumb, liquid and alive, as the world around them slows to a standstill.