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"Pretty, isn't she, Henry?"
Henry snaps to life. He isn't sure where he was before, but now he's in a bath, watching Hans watch some woman watching them. Hans squishes her cheeks so they fatten between his fingers, pushing her lips together as her chin rests upon the palm of her hand.
She is good looking, if you like that sort of thing. A face full of freckles and long, dark hair undone from its plait. It pools around her where it meets the water, resembling a nest of snake's tails coiling at the surface.
"You'll hurt her feelings if you don't answer, Henry," Hans warns.
Henry's eyes dart to him. His eyes, his lips, his cheeks— rouge with wine and the heat of the bath; that's where Henry had been, before this, lost in the way Hans's teeth had been digging into his lower lip, thinking that could hide his smile.
"Aye, 'course she is," he says. "Prettiest lass in Kuttenberg."
"You sirs flatter me," she giggles. She has a name, Henry ought to know it. She'd said it when they met, lashes fluttering at the both of them, hoping to bag one. Little did she know she'd wind up with two. "I can think of half a dozen girls prettier."
"Then perhaps you ought to invite them! The more the merrier."
Hans is a few cups deep, shy of pissed but a well past tipsy. Henry can see it in how he moves: the sharpness of the young lord's tongue dulled by drink; his eyelids droop over his eyes, and everything is delayed, like the distance of time between an arrow's release and when it hits the target. The feelings it conjures in Henry are shameful, but he can't deny them. He wants to bend Hans over the nearest surface and—
"That won't be necessary," the maid says, sitting up so her nipples hover over the water's surface. Clever girl, knowing it would split the silver two ways, and by that point why not just lie with one man? "I can make myself count for two."
"Tempting." Hans leans back against the sides of the bath, propping his elbows up. At ease, his arms look wide, soft with muscle. Henry crosses his own across his chest, imagining them around him. The movement attracts Hans's attention. Through the mist of wine, a thought occurs. "But I am tired. It was a long and arduous day." He yawns and stretches for emphasis, joints and tendons cracking.
Henry scoffs before he can help himself. The day was easy, and fair, and if Hans is tired it is only from the sun they'd lazed in.
Hans cuts a grin his way, all teeth, and full of mischief. To what end, Henry must wait until he speaks. "My friend here, however… he looks a little lonely."
"Is that so, sir?" The maid asks, green eyes wide with concern that must earn her a small fortune.
"I'm alright," Henry says, holding still.
"Come now, Henry. How long has it been since you've held a woman? Not since that mill wench, I'd wager."
"Theresa's no wench. Not… not that there's anything wrong with that," he adds with an apologetic nod towards their company. "And besides, I've had other things to keep my hands busy, sir."
"I've no doubt you have," Hans answers knowingly. His smile is handsome and aggravating, and his mind is doubtless turning over the many ways they'd busied their hands since Suchdol. A business Henry would give anything for, now. "But there is no substitute for a woman's touch, I'm afraid. Francine here can attend to that."
Francine. He ought to have known that, he thinks as she glides towards him, hair streaming behind her. She starts to touch him— little touches, feeling his arm, his muscles, and for a moment it isn't so bad. But when her eyes dart up to his with intention, his belly grips his stomach like he's trying to hold down his drink.
"Where are you from, Francine?" he asks, to keep her mouth busy with other matters.
She laughs at him, but even that is pretty. Something men of a certain inclination might pay for. "Kuttenberg, sir."
"Oh. I just thought, with the name you might—"
"Be from somewhere else? No. Though my mother often told me my father was… but I can be if you wish, miss-yurr."
Hans laughs at her, and Henry would pay more than coin to hear that sound. "That would be monsieur, mademoiselle," Hans says.
She laughs— at him, at herself, turning her face so they each get a view of her perfect profile. It ought to be that Henry looks at, but she grows faded as he focuses his gaze past her; towards Hans, and how easily his lips curve around foreign words.
"And where are you from, monsieur? That you're educated in such matters?"
"It doesn't matter where you're from when you have a noble's education. In matters of the mind I've been as far afield as Jerusalem."
Christ, it would feel good to punch him. Or kiss him. Henry's not sure which he'd enjoy more. He settles for a jape:
"But in all other respects you've been quite homebound. Isn't that right, m'lord?"
Hans's easy smile strains, Henry can tell from how his lips thin rather than lifting, seeming to just press into his teeth. "For the time being. I'd consider this summer an excellent, if eventful, first foray into the unknown. The first of many, if I have any say." His eyes slide to Henry, shimmering devilishly above the water. "A pity it will soon come to an end, but perhaps you can give us one sweet memory before it's over, Francine."
Henry's run out of words to dodge the matter at hand— or in hand, rather, as Francine steps into Henry's embrace. He holds her, clumsy, stroking his finger up her spine and seeing her shiver. Her nipples perk and he folds one hand over one breast, as if to press it down. She shivers again, but says, "You're warm."
"I ought to be," he answers. "I'm in a bath."
She kisses him, perhaps to keep him from saying some other daft thing. She smells of the oils she had rubbed into Hans's shoulders before she'd joined him— a sharp, sweet minty scent that would wake the dead. He lets his eyes close, and pretends she is him. Working her bottom lip between his teeth and tongue, he can almost believe it. But the little sighs are high in the wrong way, and her outline of her smile against his doesn't line up like Hans's does. Her fingers, thin. Body, slender but without strength. Little wrong things that build and build.
He closes his eyes tighter, and kisses her harder.
"No, no!" Hans interjects. "You're doing it wrong."
Henry screws his brow together, unsure if Hans it talking to him or Francine. Trying to soften his lips leaves him feeling like he might vomit, which might make it the secondmost foul thing she's had to suffer— after the butchered French.
Around them, the Kingfisher breathes. Bodies touching bodies, water moving in rooms beyond this private one they'd rented for the night. The wine, the atmosphere, move almost dreamlike. Except the water at Henry's waist, cinching like a belt around him. His ears ring with the shout he doesn't permit himself to voice. Francine's touches grow sharp, feigning want.
"Like this, ma petite—"
Another pair of hands snake up his back, and he goes cold. His body tingles in old places, remembering where oils had turned him into a madman. A beast. Bodies on the forest floor, rotting. Blood in his mouth. Blood on his hands.
Henry swings his elbow back, connecting with a ribcage.
From a witch's mouth he hears Hans shout. He is doubled over behind Henry, curling just over the surface of the water in stunned disbelief. Water drips down the length of his long, sharp nose, disturbing the water that has gone still in the aftermath of Henry's strike. He hopes it's runoff from the baths, just falling down his face. Nothing else. Nothing worse.
"Oh, fuck… Hans, I didn't mean-"
"What in God's name was that for?!"
If those were tears in Hans's eyes, they've since burned away. Hans glares at him in outrage, a distressingly still anger that Henry hopes will swing his way. Blacken his eye, loosen a tooth, something that will exorcise the memory that had possessed his muscles.
Instead, a ringing in his ear. Hans, glaring. Francine with her mouth hanging open, with fright in her eyes.
Henry stands, a cacophony of water falling around his ears. He trips on his way out of the tub, scraping his toes on the lip, stopping only to pull his clothes over his body on his flight to the exit. Only his name, shouted, follows him out.
Hans's earlier words portend the chill in the air. The sun is set, and the city hums with the sound of tongues wagging after a long day's work. In the distance Henry hears the Hole's merry making— and in the baths, men who had more success than he'd had making the most of their coin. He ignores them all, and follows the path down to the stream that runs out of the city, a patchy-patterned dog lifting his head from the pillow of his paws, stretching before coming to join him. Mutt is at the perfect height to force his head beneath Henry's hand. He lifts his snout, trying to facilitate a rub behind the ears.
He ignores it, pushing Mutt away as Henry rocks off his feet. He settles by the bank, upon a dry spot that doesn't sink into his braies. He can imagine some washerwoman sitting here as he is now, settling back on her heels to watch the sky go orange. There's still some its colour in the sky, like a mist on the horizon.
"Hrrr." Mutt noses into his lap, wet nose pressing into Henry's arm.
"Alright, boy. You've made your point," he chuckles, curling his fingers in the soft corner of hair between the hound's ear and skull. He bounces one velvet ear, bending it to cover one eye until Mutt looks at him, beleaguered. "Sorry," he says, sheepish.
"You're apologising to him?" Comes an incredulous voice from behind. "I'm the one you ought to be saying sorry to."
Henry cranes his neck to look behind him, a pit of dread burning in his stomach. And yet the sight of Hans brings a paradoxical relief, the typically pressed and presentable nobleman dressed down reminds Henry of who he's with. He'd hit Hans before, and it had all worked out in the end.
He doesn't disagree with Hans, but he doesn't say sorry, either. He looks away and stares hard at the water, watching the surface glint in the moonlight.
"That was quicker than usual," Henry says instead.
"Go to hell," Hans snips. "As if I could even get hard after you ran out of there."
"What? Gone off girls, have you?"
"No, but…" Hans pauses, and Henry can almost feel the air disperse around his shrug. "I couldn't see the appeal anymore. She got her silver, that's all she cared about, anyway."
A long sigh whistles through a long nose, and Hans folds onto the ground beside Henry. He glances furtively, trying to read Hans's face in profile. He's pouting, lower lip stuck out so far it's a little comical. Or would be, if Henry knew what it meant. "Are you alright, then?" he asks, but only when he's sure looking won't answer the question for him.
Hans sits up a bit, supporting himself with one arm straight back. The hand it's attached to is tucked between them, fingers open wide enough for Henry's to fit between them.
"I suppose I might bruise," he says it like that's nothing. "I was more wondering what I had done to earn it."
"Nothin'," he says quickly, because it's true. Then, after, because even if it's true it's still a lie: "It was, em, soldier's reflex."
But it was no soldier's wound he'd taken in the woods outside Uzhitz. The next day he'd awoken to burning, irritated skin— like Hans's when he'd taken that potion— and the creases in his palm were stained with blood. The women, the garden, the demons were all gone; there were only the bodies of woodcutters, felled in the woods— and him.
Remembering forces something up out of him. A little air, at first, but it quickly becomes something more. Wine, and whatever else is churning in his stomach. It tastes putrid the second time down his throat, fist to his lips to keep it from making it farther than his teeth.
"That's a relief. I… never mind." Hans's hand is on his mouth, too, guarding the turn of his lips. His brow pinches too much for Henry to believe he could be smiling.
"What?"
"Well, it's obvious you aren't telling me everything."
He's no right to the defensive rise the remark gets out of him, a hot feeling that climbs up his throat, and sticks there. Mutt noses into him, but doesn't press when Henry elbows him away. "Is it, now?"
"I've seen you fight before, Henry. That wasn't fighting…" The fading light has stolen the summer from Hans's eyes. He looks at him, reflecting the water and the distant torches across the way. "It was running."
Henry's hand makes a fist, knuckles begging for a kiss. "Don't you start, Capon."
"You know I'm right, or you would've swung that arm of yours already. You have before."
He balls it tighter. "Maybe it's out of respect… for the battles we've fought in together."
"All the more reason to hit me. You've seen me take worse." The hand on his lips rubs at the new scar on his shoulder, moving it in the joint.
"Do you want me to hit you?" Henry baulks.
Hans shrugs. "You may as well. I'm not going to fuck anyone tonight."
Henry looks down at his hand. This late in the evening, with darkness edging out the last shreds of daylight, it looks like a black shape forming a tight ball in his lap. He can see the outline of his knuckles, and feel his fingers squeezing together to make half-moons in his palm.
He strikes Hans. Below his ribs, in the belly. Hans is ready to catch it, stomach braced, welcoming the impact. Grunting. Grinning. His elbow lashes out, jabbing Henry like a sword under his arm. It devolves from there. When Henry flinches, Hans dives; hands pinning his arms over his head, ankles locking his legs against the ground. It's over before it's scarcely begun, with mere moments between when the first punch was thrown and when Henry is reduced to squirming under Capon's weight.
Hans is framed by starlight, though his face lies in a shadow of his own making. Henry can make out a grimace, teeth gritting together in a frown he wishes desperately would soften enough to kiss.
He squeezes his eyes closed, shuts Hans out, but his scent— that minty, soapy smell— gets into his nose and makes him shiver. His dormant cock twitches against his leg, and it isn't missed.
"Are you yanking my pizzle?" Hans scoffs. "A woman kisses you and you shake like a leaf, but a few bruised ribs and suddenly you're growing a third leg."
"What," Henry asks, straining against his captor, "do you want me to apologise?"
"No! I want you to fucking say something. Say something true."
Henry says the first true thing that comes to mind:
"I love you."
Surprise, then affection, then anger flash upon Hans's face like a candle flickering in the wind. "Besides that! Something that can… something that will make this bruise I'll be sporting tomorrow make some sense. You can hit me every day so long as I know why."
Silence. The truth hangs on Henry's tongue, heavy as a body on the gallows. His ear falls towards the ground, evading Hans's darkened gaze to avoid the look of disappointment surely bearing down upon him.
"Fine then." He hears Hans say, "Don't tell me. I'll imagine for myself."
He rolls off of Henry, who sits up and rubs his wrists. Little pebbles impressed into the back of his hands spring off as he smooths his thumb over his skin. Despite the small pains where they'd bruised the bones, he misses the weight of Hans on him. It felt more certain than the bathmaid's kisses, her velvet fingers, her gentle eyes. That soft train of two hands down his face and neck, worshipping him to madness.
Hans begins to leave, the inviting hand that had been laid between them turns into the leverage he uses to get to his feet. Panic grips Henry, and he nearly grabs for his ankles, but he finds the hand before it leaves him, fingers slotting between his. He holds it as tightly as he held his fist, squeezing the blood in their veins.
"Wait—" he says. Commands. His lord, his Hans, obeys. Only half-turned to leave, Hans keeps one ear angled towards the awaited answer, which struggles to be born.
"I thought I was somewhere else. Somewhere I wish I'd…" Jerking one shoulder forward in a weak gesture of an unrealised strike, his free hand falls loosely in his lap. "Y'know."
Hans settles back beside him, much to the relief of the rhythm of his heart. His fingers curl tighter, making a fist with Hans's hand and dragging it towards his chest, so they both feel his heart return to its resting pace. He sees— out of the corners of his eyes— he sees Hans looking. Thinking. There will be a slight purse to his lips, thought snared in a slight crease between his brow.
"Say somethin', please."
When Hans breathes beside him, Henry breathes with him, pulling in a breath and out again. His ribcage expands against their hands, combined knuckles digging into his breast. With his far hand, Hans reaches, curving under the shape of Henry's jaw to address his bobbing chin. Their eyes draw together, colour now near-black from the faraway stars.
"There was a knight who once shared my guardian, Sir Henry's, table. He'd fought at Kosovo, like our Godwin." When Hans blinks, the night goes dark. Like all the heavens have pooled in the reflection of his eyes. "I remember him as… as one of the few people who could make Sir Bernard laugh." He snorts, laughing at memories Henry wishes he were privy to. Though that laugh soon dies as the remembering continues. "But when the banquets began, I would often find his seat empty— if not right away, then shortly thereafter. Or else I would see him… lost, staring into space, like the conversation around him were the cries of soldiers, charging to their deaths. Our knives against the plates may well of been swords being drawn from their scabbards.
"Or… my hands"— Hans swipes his thumb across the back of Henry's, stroking the veins standing out against the skin— "might have well have been some other man's. Ones with crueller intentions than I could ever muster… where you're concerned."
"Aye, some other man's," Henry mutters, which earns a questioning look that Hans doesn't ask. Perhaps because it doesn't matter. Man, woman, or demon— their hands aren't his.
Henry turns his cheek to kiss the hand that had captured his cheek, nursing his lips against the blue veins that run like spider's webs down pale skin. Hans's pulse quickens, just enough to measure.
They sit together, the heat of their bodies warding off the autumn together. Henry breathes, long and slow, letting his thoughts calm. Coalesce. Hans settles into him, fingers entangling in the nest of Henry's lap. The sides of their heads knock gently together, their crowns and shoulders making a diamond shape in the negative space between their bodies. It reminds him of Suchdol, and the veiled stories that had now become his life.
"That tale that French minstrel of yours told…" Henry begins, now drawing his thumb against the back of Hans's hand. "When Lancelot and Galehaut seduced court ladies and the like— did he specify how they'd take them?"
Hans's tongue clicks against his teeth. "You know, I don't think he ever did. I suppose that means we'll have to figure out how to go about it ourselves."
"That sounds…" Nice, Henry thinks. Hans is to be wed, and there's no telling what will become of Henry when they return to Rattay. Perhaps his father will legitimise him. Perhaps he'll marry Theresa. It would be nice to decide on one thing for themselves. "What were you thinking?"
"We've already seen where my thinking got us." Hans nurses his ribs with his other hand. "I think it's your turn to suggest something."
Henry turns his head, frowning at the offending ribs. "I could kiss it better."
He's jostled, shoulder to shoulder. They chuckle together but Hans insists, "No! I mean, maybe. But I was referring to women, you oaf!"
"Oh." Henry traces the outline of his lips, still trying to wipe the taste of Francine off them. White gunk collects under his nails, which he wipes off on his hose, reminded vaguely of the time Mutt had eaten something foul and started foaming at the mouth. Like his body was trying to burn the wrong taste off his tongue. He feels like that, now, tongue darting out to wash away Francine. "Well… truth be told, I don't- that is, I like talkin' to women, but… Never much liked doing more than that."
It feels good, being liked. He misses the walks with Theresa, round the millworks and up the stream. He could listen to her talk all day, he loves to make her smile.
But not like he loves to make Hans smile.
Hans gapes a little, then asks, "Did… I do that?"
"What? No!" A pang of guilt twitches his gut at how quickly he'd answered, and after Hans had looked so impressed with himself, too. "It's been, well, since as long as I can remember, really. Are you… not the same?"
"No. Everyone likes girls! I'd wager even girls like girls—"
Henry snorts in disbelief. "Surely not. How could they—?"
A bevy of possibilities, none which seem plausible, occur to Henry, but are dismissed by a wave of Hans's hand in the air. "I'm sure they'd find a way. We certainly have."
That much is difficult to deny. But two swords crossed is a duel… two anvils, on the other hand.
He shakes his head to dislodge the thought, then shakes it again to move the nearly dry strands out from in front of his eyes. Hans chuckles to himself when he sees, reaching out to comb them back, and ringing them around his fingers so they curl the way he likes them. Holding perfectly still, he watches as the light bounces off of Hans's eyes. The day is dark, evening firmly taken root, yet every shred of light there is to spare is surely reflected in the gaze that holds him within it.
There isn't a shred of disappointment that Henry can see, but he knows what can hide in the shadows. He sniffs, rubbing his finger under his nose, feigning nonchalance when he says, "Suppose this puts a damper on your plans for courtin' noble maidens."
Hans breathes out a laugh. "I don't think I planned on us courting them."
"Even still," Henry murmurs. "You're not… disappointed?"
"No, not at all. I may even rest easier because of it."
Henry's laughter hitches on sentiment he'd been trying to hide. Tears prick the corner of his eyes like little spears, painful as he ducks his face to wipe them away. "Bastard, 'course you'd make this about you."
He jostles Hans with his shoulder, who then pushes back, beginning a duel that doesn't end until Hans lets his whole head loll to one side; the weight of it feels nice, though his fringe tickles some under Henry's nose. "You know… it is a relief. I'd thought it might be nice, seeing what you look like when we kiss— then when she kissed you I thought, 'Christ, does he look that serious with me?'"
"Is that why you snuck up behind me?"
"Well, I thought it might help encourage you."
Pursing his lips, Henry finds the wagon wheels of his mind finally start rolling. Maybe it's the clear air, or the quiet evening— or maybe because it's easier to see past morning with Hans by his side.
"Maybe if you were the one in the middle. Y'know, between me and the girl." Shifting carefully, he's certain not to disturb the ear perched on his shoulder. Despite his efforts, Hans sits up bolt straight like a prophet cursed with a vision from on high.
"Christ, I should have thought of that!" As quickly as he's sat up he's down again, falling dramatically against the earth, throwing his arms over his head and across his face. Though he's sure to leave a place to peek out through his elbow. "You mean with my cock in her—"
"Aye, and me up your arse. Fucking you into her cunt."
Hans blinks up at the skies, gaping up like he's seeing heaven. "Taking man and woman at once… the things you dream up, Henry. You're practically a visionary."
"Ah, I wouldn't go that far, sir. Just the sort of lad who wants to keep his lord happy."
"Then I shall keep being difficult to please." Henry can hear the shape of Hans's smile, a content little press of the lips which he struggles valiantly against. "A pity Francine likely won't be open to it. Not tonight, at least."
"Pity for her, you mean," Henry says, grunting as he flaps Mutt's head off his thigh, rolling over to press half his weight on Hans. "We can have fun with just the two of us."
Hans's stomach pushes against his, snorting incredulously. "Hal, we're in public."
"It's dark. C'mon, I hear how you hit those high notes. Hit some of them for me." He finds Hans's collarbone with his lips and runs them along it, ending with a brush across his Adam's apple, feeling the echo of Hans's voice rumble against him. "No one will even know."
"You're mad," Hans breathes— laughs. Funny how the two become one and the same when they're together. They'll smile wide til their lips start aching, then nurse them with a kiss; laugh, til they steal all the breath from each other's lungs. He chuckles again, arching into Henry's touch. "I'm mad for considering it."
"I'd say you're more than considerin' it." Ducking down, he rolls up Hans's shirt and manoeuvres around his braies. They'd both dressed in a hurry to get out of the baths, and the strings come apart easily. In moments Hans is free, his cock lying invitingly against his stomach. He kisses the tip and takes him in his mouth, dragging his tongue around the head. The taste of bathwater lingers upon the skin. Hans smells like Francine, who in turn smelled like Hans, but he'll sweat the lord out of him soon enough. Then savour the taste of the man beneath.
"H-Hal, I can't even see you down there in this dark," Hans protests. He tugs at Henry. His hair, beard, cheek, until Henry draws himself up again, planting the taste of Hans upon his own lips. Whimpering into it, it sounds almost like a minstrel practising for a performance— hitting notes Henry hasn't managed since he was a boy.
They rut together, quiet at first. Just breathes mingling. Hans, holding Henry in his eyes like the stars.
Every push tucks Hans's shirt farther up his chest, Henry's own hanging like a second stomach around his waist. He can feel the distance between their stations rubbing up against his skin; the finer make of Hans's, sullied by his peasant prick. "You like this, eh?" Henry says. "Being fucked into the dirt like a village girl?"
Hans looks at him with a brightness to his eyes, mouth hanging open with his tongue curled upon the end of a thought. Instead, however, he sighs. It hits the back of his throat, high and sharp, striking Henry the same as the elbow to his ribs had. He grunts and drops his head to his hand where it lies flat on the ground, flexing his fingers so the fine bones play across his forehead.
A voice in his ear whispers, "Do you want to know what it sounds like to fuck a village girl, Hal?" His lips as he speaks catch the turned corner of Henry's right ear, the shape of them felt as keenly as the words are heard. They're grinning with a mischief Henry has brought upon himself, teeth testing their smile on the lobe. Every scrap of air is pushed from Henry's lungs in a groan that feels without end, thrusting his answer against Hans's stomach.
When he inhales, his nose— crushed beside the earth— can smell the last vestiges of the sun upon the stone. Or maybe, he thinks, it's Hans shining beside him.
Hans begins to gasp, quiet at first, like Henry is listening to a woman being fucked through a crack in a door. Then louder, higher. Almost comical, if Henry weren't so pent up. He imagines himself inside Hans, pushing up until his hips meet his backside. Fucking his insides like he would a woman's. Henry's rhythm stutters, hand making a fist and clawing the loose earth. Hans falters in his ear, performance lost to a genuine groan ripped from his lungs.
"Keep going," Henry rumbles, hearing his own voice in the chamber of Hans's ribs.
Hans's belly jumps when he laughs, pushing his cock into Henry's stomach. "Maybe you do fancy girls, after all," Hans jokes.
"Ha!" he snorts. Then says, with the words tumbling out of him, "Maybe if you were one."
Hans giggles, head falling to arch himself back into Henry. They couldn't get any closer unless he opened his chest to welcome Hans in, but he takes the invitation for what it is, tucking his right arm between Hans's shoulder blades to hold them together. He's close, now. It's near. A feeling so good he has no choice but to fuck it out of himself. And Hans encourages it, opening his hips so the early seed dribbles down his side. All the while, gasping and moaning, near-singing with how high he pitches his voice. Interspersed are little titters, spat between his tongue and his teeth; Henry captures the former between his lips, Hans's teeth melting into a kiss.
Near dizzy with lust, he neglects to hear or feel anything that isn't Hans or him— at least, until something wooden clunks hollowly against his skull.
"Ow! Kurva!" he hisses, scratching the back of his head. He lifts up to stare accusingly at Hans, certain he'd somehow managed it, although a voice nearby is quick to take credit.
"Sssh'ave it for the weddin' h'night, you two!" a man slurs, wrestling his cock out of his hose to piss down the side of a latrine. He must be quite tall, Henry thinks. The stream sounds like it's falling from someplace high. Hans is frozen beneath him, perhaps mulling over the consequences if they've been caught.
But it's dark. They're in a pocket of night that's all for themselves, and drunkards will grope any tit that fills their palms. It's likely the man thinks he's caught an altogether different couple.
Pushing himself up onto an elbow, Henry speaks past the stop in his throat. "I plan to, Goodman! In fact, if you have a priest handy, I'll marry her tonight."
"Fug'off… cunts," he mumbles, stumbling back to the baths with his hose sagging around his hips.
Hans and Henry hold their breaths, but the tension wound within his lord's lungs can be felt underneath him. It keeps only til the door is latched that the tension releases, a burst of laughter roiling in Hans's chest. Their eyes, wreathed with mirth, meet across the darkness— and Henry laughs, too. A great, big one from his belly that rolls him off Hans.
They curl together, foreheads tapping. Tears leak onto Henry's thumb where it holds Hans's face. Between the shakes of laughter Hans heaves a breath which sounds like it takes all his strength. "Jesus Christ, I thought we were for the stocks for certain. Or worse."
"Ah, I had faith in your… imitation," Henry snorts. His loins ache, begging for them to finish what they started. The memory of the texture from the hair on Hans's belly prickles, burning his shaft's sensitive skin. He tugs it, as if placating an animal. "Pity he couldn't wait for us to finish."
Hans scoffs. "Clearly he didn't trust you to pull out."
"Perhaps he was right not to. I'd fill you up with a baby if I could."
Unlike Francine, Hans doesn't kiss the foolish words from his lips. Henry lays his head on his arm, gazing at Hans still in profile, the sharp edge of his nose at odds with the soft curves of nature. He sees Hans's teeth flash in the dark before he says, "That would be one way to quash my wedding plans."
The remark is a quick jerk back to reality in the middle of an impossible fantasy, stunning Henry to silence. Hans likes women, and could maybe even love one if given time and opportunity. And just like that, Henry's tomorrows will be stolen.
He swallows thickly, and tries to concentrate upon the today right in front of him.
Hans turns his head, silhouetted profile slowly disappearing. Face-to-face, the shadows cast by his cheek are softer, the values leading to the slight pout of his lips. The night is settled, robbing them of their flush, but Henry bridges the distance between them hoping to feel that heat upon him.
He drinks it, and Hans, in— their lips sticking together as they pull apart.
"Let's go head to the baths," Hans murmurs, dragging the upturned tip of his nose against Henry’s. "We could both use another after that exercise."
"Just the two of us?" Henry asks. It's meant to sound casual, but his voice breaks over the question, betraying him.
"We have hands, don't we? I'll wash your back if you wash mine." Hans clambers to his feet, long legs folding awkwardly to lift him up from the ground. He holds out a hand when he's upright, and it takes a beat for Henry to realise he's not doing it for show. Grasping his outstretched hand, he's pulled to his feet, a weight that must now be familiar to Hans after Trosky and Suchdol. He's already tucking himself away as Henry stands stationary, nearly forgetting his cock's still waving about.
"What about it, then?" Hans asks, throwing his arm companionably around Henry's shoulders. Mutt returns, all smiles, wet nose pressing into both their hands as they make their way back. "Would you prefer the village girl, or the noble?"
It could be pitch black, not a star in the sky, and Hans would be able to see Henry smiling back, saying:
"Havin' tried both, I'd say the lord is more my taste."