Work Text:
“Hold out your hand?”
Hans instinctively holds one to his chest, grasping it by the wrist with the other. “Why?”
Henry laughs his reply, “Because I asked.”
He offers his right, but is quickly corrected. “The other one,” Henry says, and so Hans listens, lying it palm up in Henry’s waiting hand. Something takes wing behind his chest, just watching how they fold together.
Whatever Henry had been working at for the last few minutes (hunched over so his broad shoulders took the full brunt of the brilliant summer sun) is at last brought forth; although Hans is preoccupied by the prideful glow on Henry’s face, as though it has stolen the sun’s glory. He almost misses the slight ring sliding onto his finger, green as the sky is blue.
“It’s been a few years,” Henry says when Hans says nothing, words stuck in his throat. “But I think I did alright.”
It’s a delicate ring, the strand of grass overlapping itself; it reminds Hans of their bed at night, legs woven together. A promise to wake up together tomorrow.
“Where’s yours?” Hans asks, more forcefully than he would like. Every word has to be dragged across the sentiment choking him.
Henry’s mouth hangs open a moment. “I can make another—”
“— I’ll make it,” Hans insists, twisting their joined hands to kiss the finger he intends to ring. “Show me how.”