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Hans swallowed.
The look in his eyes was that of a man who’d already gambled away his horse, sold his shirt, and was now placing a desperate final bet — on his own arse.
“All right. Last card. If you say no…”
He stood up. Arms spread wide — like he was about to get married, hanged, or both.
“I hereby give you… permission to fuck me in the arse.”
Silence.
At the next table, someone choked on a chicken bone.
A lute hiccupped somewhere in the background.
A candle flickered as if it, too, was unsure how to proceed.
Henry slowly, tragically, lowered his mug, his face radiating the grief of a man watching his sanity drown in beer.
He stared. He blinked.
And then — burst out laughing.
Loud, gasping laughter that only comes when you've fallen off a horse into cowshit and decided it’s a win.
“You… you’re serious?!”
“I… I don’t know! I’m tired!”
“You’ve lost it!”
“I’m improvising!”
“You just offered your arse like it’s the king’s bloody dowry!”
“It was… a strategic gesture of friendship! Or… noble self-sacrifice! For the sake of the boar!”
Henry doubled over, wheezing, pointing at him like at a miracle gone wrong.
“Hans… you’re worse than yesterday’s wine.”
“And you’re worse than all the boars in Bohemia! Unimpressed, smelly, and untempted by food, drink, or... me!”
“Because you are all of that at once!” Henry shot back — and then caught himself.
Pause.
He coughed.
“…In the worst way. The absolute worst.”
Hans froze like someone had stabbed his soul with a soup bone.
“I… you…”
“Don’t.”
“I prepared for this!”
“Stop.”
“Mentally! Physically!”
“Don’t you dare—”
“I even washed, Henry!”
Henry collapsed into the table, laughing like a blacksmith with a hangover and a hot poker down his pants.
“This is the worst seduction I’ve ever seen!”
“I was trying!”
“You offered your arse!”
“It’s… presentable!”
Henry shot up, red as a funeral apple.
“No, Hans. I’m not going into the woods.”
“But—”
“No actual or metaphorical boars!”
Hans looked at him, hopeful, drunk, offended, and wearing the expression of a man thinking, “Maybe he’ll change his mind.”
“But you did think about it? Even for a second?”
“….”
“Henry?”
“I thought about how I’d explain to Sir Hanush why his pageboy can’t sit down anymore.”
“PFFFT—HAAAH!”
They slammed their mugs on the table, laughing so hard they nearly fell off the benches.
“Fine,” Henry snorted. “If you offer me your noble arse-dukedom again, I might… consider the petition.”
“With a seal. And a crest. In the shape of buttocks!”
The next time didn’t take long.
It arrived twenty-three minutes later, wearing the form of a drunk Capon carrying a bow in one hand, a jug in the other, and a facial expression that screamed: “I’ve had a genius idea — or I’m about to shit myself.”
“Henry!” he burst into the hall like a pigeon that flunked flight school.
“No,” Henry replied without looking up.
“You don’t even know what I want!”
“No.”
“There’s a forest!”
“It didn’t send an invitation.”
“There are stars!”
“I prefer ceilings.”
“There’s me!”
“That’s the problem!”
Unfazed, Hans grabbed his arm.
“Get up.”
“No.”
“Get uuup…”
He tugged — and immediately collapsed to his knees.
“Oof. Slipped. On my charisma.”
Henry snorted through his nose.
“You’re a noble.”
“Nobles fall too. We just usually do it from thrones, not into dirt.”
“You dropped like a wounded duck.”
“That was dramatic flair.”
“That was a splat.” Henry slapped him lightly on the back of the head.
Hans yelped and promptly pressed his forehead against Henry’s thigh.
“That’s it. End me. Kill me right here. Bury me in your trousers.”
“They’ve already suffered enough.”
Henry sighed, grabbed Hans by the arm, and hauled him upright.
It took effort. In the process, they nearly took down a table, a maiden, and someone’s dinner.
The maiden was caught.
The dinner wasn’t.
“The forest…” Hans whispered with theatrical breathlessness.
“That’s the innkeeper yelling not to tear down his curtains.”
“He’s blessing us!”
“He’s threatening to call the dog!”
“Same thing, if you think about it!”
They stumbled out into the night.
The moon gleamed above them like a disapproving aunt who’s still going to watch the drama unfold.
Hans wrapped an arm around Henry’s waist.
“Whoops! Almost lost my prize.”
“I’m not a prize. I’m a fine.”
“You’re the grand reward.”
Henry elbowed him in the ribs.
“If we run into a boar…”
“He’ll propose an alliance and retreat.”
Henry exhaled, stared at the sky, then at Hans, then at the bow.
“All right. Lead on, Prince of Boars.”
“To the thicket!”
“Again, that sounds filthy.”
“It’s meant to.”
He slapped Henry’s backside.
“For morale!”
“Do that again and I’ll fuck you out of spite!”
“Oooh, I’ve got goosebumps.”
Henry seriously considered praying to the sunset to strike them both down before either a priest or a wild pig found them.
They wandered into the forest like two drunken flags on a mission from Dionysus, one swaying, the other whispering:
“Please let there be a boar. Please let there be a boar. Or at least a boar with the soul of a milkmaid…”
“Stop saying that out loud,” Henry muttered. “You sound like the prophet of a very stupid cult.”
“You sound like you’re halfway to aroused,” Hans shot back, peeking down Henry’s collar.
“That’s sweat.”
“That’s an aphrodisiac!”
“That’s filth, Hans. I stink.”
“Perfect! Half the romance’s done. All that’s left is for you to drop your pants.”
“You’re a lord.”
“I’m a lust-drunk mistake of creation when you’re nearby.”
“And what else?”
“Drunk.”
“Writing that down.”
At the edge of the woods, Hans stopped dramatically.
“Here.”
“Here?” Henry looked around at the windy clearing, where the grass bent like the morals of a tavern wench. “Even the rabbits here don’t sleep — they write wills.”
“This place has atmosphere.”
“This place has wind tunnels.”
“This place has us. And…” Hans paused, squinting into the darkness.
“…a boar?”
“…the perfect place to lie on top of you and simulate death by lust.”
And then he did.
Not violently — but like they were rehearsing a truly idiotic play titled Tragedy of Horniness: Act One — Collapse on Your Friend.
“Hans!” Henry shouted, landing in the grass. “Again?!”
“It’s tactical.”
“That’s my chest!”
“I’m resting my head where meaning lives.”
Hans nuzzled into the collar of his shirt. Henry twitched.
“Are you sniffing me?!”
“I’m losing control.”
“You lost it back in Kuttenberg when you offered your arse as a down payment!”
Hans snuggled closer.
“And you didn’t refuse right away. That’s… evidence.”
“That was shock!”
“That was destiny.”
“You’re heavy.”
“I’m a significant presence.”
“You’ve melted on me like unsanctified butter.”
“Butter with feelings.”
Pause. Henry tried to push him off. Hans hugged tighter.
“Shame you’re not a girl…”
“Shame you’re not unconscious.”
“I’d lick you like a honeycake.”
“HANS.”
“Or just sniff behind your ear.”
“You already did that!”
“I’m refreshing the memory.”
Hans groaned, the sound of a man denied access to the sacred.
“Henry… you’re just… mmm…”
He traced a finger along Henry’s cheek.
“Mmm… cheek. Then nose. Then… lips…”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Just a peek!”
“MY LIPS ARE NOT A PEEPHOLE!”
Hans tried to kiss him. Henry swerved — catching Hans’s nose with his cheekbone.
“Ow! That was assault!”
“That was defense against horny demons!”
“You broke my noble nose with your jaw of passion!”
“Hans…” Henry growled, foreheads pressed together. “Why do you want to kiss me?”
“To stop wanting everything else.”
“And what if you don’t stop?”
“Then we both die… smiling.”
Pause.
A long one.
Too long.
Henry sighed like a man accepting his fate in a particularly stupid play.
“One. One kiss.”
“Like in fairy tales?!”
“Like in nightmares if you don’t shut up.”
Hans leaned in. Kissed him. Slowly. Clumsily. Like a schoolboy kissing his first crush while trying not to sneeze.
They lay there. Tangled. Flushed. Ridiculous.
“Hans.”
“Yeah?”
“If you try to hug me, I will bite you.”
“What if I slither like a snake?”
“You’ll die like a toad.”
Pause.
“Shame you’re not a girl,” Hans muttered again, inching closer.
“Shame you’re not a cross. I’d nail you to a tree.”
“I can hear you breathing.”
“That’s the breath of love.”
“That’s the wheeze of lust.”
“You don’t hear it? It’s whispering — kiss him again, dumbass.”
“That’s your stomach growling.”
“Then I want you… and bread.”
He did try to kiss him again. Henry dodged. Again.
But Hans was relentless: cheek, temple, ear.
“Stop!”
“You smell like a summer horse…”
“That is not a compliment.”
“…and it’s doing things to me!”
Suddenly Hans shifted — and straddled him.
Yes. Straddled.
Like a noble idiot in full saddle and zero shame.
“OH GODS, GET OFF!”
“I feel a connection.”
“That’s my crotch, Hans!”
“It’s vibrating truth!”
Henry tried to shove him off — but Hans’s hands were now on his thighs.
“You’re— you’re touching me!”
“I’m checking for concealed weapons!”
“WHAT?!”
“Maybe you’re hiding a dagger… between your legs…”
“It’ll become a dagger if you don’t get off!”
And then — with a face full of inspiration — Hans slapped his thigh.
SMACK.
Henry yelped like a nun seeing her first codpiece.
“WHY?!”
“Motivation.”
“FOR WHAT?!”
“For you… to drop your pants and surrender!”
“YOU’RE INSANE.”
“I’M IN LOVE.”
They froze. Henry beneath him, fuming. Hans above him, glowing like a mildly anointed idiot.
Silence. Warmth. Absurdity. A twig snapped in the distance.
“If a boar shows up right now…”
“He’ll see a rival.”
“He’ll see two idiots.”
“He’ll know he’s lost. Because we already found… each other.”
“Don’t you dare go poetic on me.”
Hans leaned forward. Noses touched.
“Henry…”
“What.”
“I…”
He took a deep breath.
“I’m in love.”
“With who.”
“With your arse.”
“I’M DATING AN AXE, START RUNNING.”
Hans kissed him again. And again. Then, more gently — once, full on the lips.
Henry froze.
Lay still.
Bright red. Processing.
Then—
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Dying for a kiss is romantic.”
“You’ll die from my knee. In the groin.”
“As long as your groin remembers me.”
Morning.
Cold. Damp. With a gentle scent of regret, hungover sin, and poor life choices.
Henry woke up to the distinct feeling of being slowly devoured.
Not in the fun way.
In the “why is something breathing on my clavicle” way.
“...fuck,” he muttered.
He opened one eye.
Grass. Dirt. A tree root doing unspeakable things to his spine.
To his left — a very asleep Hans Capon.
Asleep, but with the expression of a man who’d just discovered true love… in Henry’s armpit.
“Hans.”
“Mmm…”
“Get off.”
“Mmmmm… don’t wanna…”
Henry tried to extract his leg. No luck. That leg was under Hans’s entire body.
And, more insultingly, under his ass.
“You sleep like a smoked carp.”
“You’re warm.”
“You’re shameless.”
Henry sat up. Or tried.
Hans whimpered, wrapped an arm around his waist like a human belt, and — with all the innocence of a criminal — grabbed his ass.
Casually. Automatically.
Like it was a familiar pillow.
“HEY.”
“Oops. That was… for balance.”
“Your hand is a scale now?!”
“No, your ass is just… temptingly ergonomic.”
Then — snap.
A twig.
Footsteps.
Henry froze.
Hans didn’t notice. He was still purring into Henry’s shoulder like a drunken blanket.
Then — from the bushes — emerged a man.
Not just any man.
A guard.
Spear.
Bags under his eyes.
And the expression of someone who had absolutely not signed up for this shit.
He stopped.
Henry stopped.
Hans shifted — and, without looking, pressed a sleepy kiss to Henry’s collarbone.
“Mmm. Morning kiss—”
“HANS.”
“Huh?”
“WE’RE.”
“What?”
“BEING WATCHED BY THE STATE.”
They both turned their heads.
The guard blinked.
Dropped his spear.
And without a word — just turned around and left.
No comment. No threat.
Just… gone.
Hans:
“He…”
Henry:
“Left.”
Hans:
“He…”
Henry:
“Saw.”
Hans:
“He…”
Henry:
“Understands.”
Hans:
“…envies.”
Henry flopped back into the grass and dragged his hands over his face.
“We’re going to be famous now.”
“They’ll call us… the lovers of the glade.”
“We’re going to be executed.”
“Or married!”
Birds chirped.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
Hans leaned down, whispering:
“Want me to tell everyone you saved me?”
“From what?”
“From hypothermia.”
“With your mouth?!”
Henry was the first to fully wake up.
As usual.
With a backache, scrambled thoughts, and the sharp, unshakable sense that somewhere nearby lurked a problem named Hans.
And sure enough — the moment he tried to shift, something warm, heavy, and outrageously confident rolled onto him with a sleepy moan.
“Mmm… you moved,” Hans murmured into his neck. “Means you're alive. Means I can pinch you.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Henry growled.
Too late.
As Henry reached for his shirt, he felt it — a quick, cheeky pinch between the legs.
Not hard. Not painful.
Just... suggestive.
“Oh God,” Henry groaned. “You’re supposed to be sober by now.”
“You catch on quick,” Hans grinned, sliding up behind him like a very smug scarf. “I’m not drunk anymore. I’m just... warm. And enamored. Let me kiss the back of your head?”
“Let me hit you with my forehead first.”
Getting dressed was an exercise in restraint and thinly veiled threats.
Henry tried pulling on his boots — Hans tried untying the laces.
Henry buckled his belt — Hans tried unbuckling his pants.
Solemnly.
Under the noble pretense of “checking for tears.”
“By the way,” Hans said, thoughtfully watching Henry tighten his sash, “your ass deserves a toast.”
“Your face deserves a beating,” Henry snapped. “A festive one. With drums.”
They walked like two flags in the wind — stumbling, muttering, laughing under their breath.
Hans, naturally, kept "accidentally" brushing against him.
An arm around the shoulder here. A hand on the lower back there.
Moving just close enough to be a nuisance — but not close enough to justify murder. Yet.
“You know,” Hans said as they passed under a crooked pine tree, “under different circumstances, I’d already be carrying you in my arms. Or, at the very least, brushing your hip more often.”
“Try it again and I’ll cut that hip off. Feed it to wild pigs.”
“Jealous?” Hans asked with a smile so innocent it should’ve been outlawed.
“Of pigs?”
“Of your own ass.”
“I have one, thank God. You have no brains.”
“But you didn’t push me off immediately last night…”
“I WAS ASLEEP, you bastard. I was defenseless!”
“It was beautiful. Almost chaste.”
“You groped me in my sleep.”
“I was checking for warmth.”
“And?”
“There was warmth. Very... persuasive warmth.”
They reached the road. Henry exhaled like a man seeing his own grave and wondering if he should just crawl in.
“If someone sees us like this…”
“They’ll think: ‘There go two idiots. One of whom is definitely in love.’”
“Guess who.”
“I don’t have a mirror, but I’d say… the one with the prettiest back.”
Henry snorted. Shook his head. Smiled — just a little.
Hans grinned wider.
“You’ll come back to me.”
“I’ll join a monastery.”
“I’ll sign up too. We’ll be brothers… and more.”
Henry turned, grabbed him by the collar, pressed their foreheads together, and said:
“If you pinch me one more time, I’ll make you a widow.”
“Then you’ll have to marry me first,” Hans whispered sweetly. “And that, my love, is commitment.”