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The road slithered beneath the horses’ hooves like a sluggish snake.
Mud squelched, rainwater leapt into their boots, and the steeds snorted as if they, too, resented the evening stroll through the arse-end of Bohemia. Somewhere on the horizon, a storm was brewing — and it was brewing suspiciously fast.
“Henry,” said Hans, leaning toward him with the posture of a man harboring a terrible idea. “If we get struck by lightning right now, I want you to know: I’ve always thought your arse was magnificent.”
Henry exhaled like a blacksmith who’d just had a dead pigeon thrown into his forge.
“If lightning takes us both, I’ll be glad I won’t have to hear your next line.”
“And if it strikes only me—grieve with dignity. And bite your lip.”
Rain began to fall—first in scattered drops, then thick and angry, as if the sky had finally given up pretending to be composed. They turned off the road and found shelter beneath a half-collapsed shed, the kind that smelled of hay, mice, and very modest ambitions. Compared to the open road, it was a palace.
It was cramped inside: two horses, two bodies wrapped in soaked cloaks, one flask with the last of the wine, and exactly zero inches of personal space.
Hans wrung out his hair and gave a delighted shake, sending droplets splattering in Henry’s direction.
“There,” he grinned. “Romance. Rain. Shelter. Just us. I’m still devastatingly attractive. You’re still… well, you.”
“I’m filthy. And pissed off.”
“And I’m wet. And emotionally available.”
“Wonderful.”
They huddled under one cloak like two barrels in a single sack. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee. Elbow jammed into rib. Hans, unable to help himself, slipped an arm around Henry’s waist.
“Let go.”
“I’m insulating. Your spleen radiates heat.”
“That’s my liver.”
“Doesn’t matter. Everything inside you sounds homey.”
A pause.
“Listen…”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m saying it anyway.”
He sighed.
“I really would’ve liked to travel the world with you. You know, see the villages, the castles. Walk through fields. Eat questionable food with honest names. Sleep under trees. Make love—not necessarily with you, unless you wanted, I mean—but with that sense of… adventure.”
“…”
“It’s just… if it weren’t for this marriage, you know?”
He said it lightly, like he was talking about supper. But in his voice, there was a hole—clean and aching, right through the center of him.
“We could’ve found a warm tavern in Rattay,” he added, quieter now. “Sat by the fire. Drank cider. Pretended the whole world was just you and me, and nothing else.”
The rain beat against the roof like the stomach of a lovesick man beating a war drum. Henry stayed silent. Breathing. His throat dry—not from wine.
Hans pulled back his hood. Water slid down his neck and cheekbone. He was soaked to the bone and looked like it only added to his conviction.
“I’d even eat your stews, if you cooked.”
“I can’t cook.”
“And I can love without a reason.”
He shrugged.
“Balance.”
Pause.
Henry turned toward him. The cloak tightened between them, a droplet slipping down the fold like a nervous thought. Hans leaned in. Their foreheads nearly touched. Henry closed his eyes — from shame, from tenderness, from the rain. Cheek to cheek, their breaths mingled. Fingers grazed. Shoulders pressed together. Just like always — only now, unbearably close.
Hans kissed him.
Not on the lips — just above. The cheekbone. A little off. A little hesitant.
They sat on damp hay, shoulder to shoulder, beneath a roof that had long surrendered but still pretended to hold. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted. Somewhere farther, the forest creaked. The rain had lost its fury and now just whispered — as though apologizing for being too loud.
Henry held a cup that barely had any wine left, but he drank anyway — out of ritual, not thirst. Hans chewed on a blade of grass he’d found in his collar. Like a knight, as if it were a trophy.
“You know,” Hans said without looking, “if I were ordinary—”
“You wouldn’t be you.”
“Exactly. Bloody shame.”
He leaned back, gently bumped Henry with his shoulder.
“And if you were… not you?”
“I’d still have ended up in this mess.”
“Even knowing how it ends?”
“Especially then.”
Pause. Just rain and breathing.
“What if I ran away,” Hans said, eyes on the rafters. “Right now. Didn’t go back to the castle. Didn’t marry. Stayed with you.”
“You’d run?”
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
“I wanted to hear what you’d say.”
“I’d say: you’re an idiot.”
“Is that romantic?”
“In our case — yes.”
They both chuckled. Quietly. Almost in harmony.
“I could’ve…” Hans began. Then stopped.
“What?”
“Everything. Lived with you. Stolen eggs from peasants. Slept in barns. Fought over firewood. Sold the same sword twice.”
“And then we’d die of dysentery.”
“Or of happiness.”
“Which is more dangerous.”
Hans stretched out his legs, sighed, and rested his head against Henry’s shoulder.
“I didn’t think it’d turn out like this.”
“Me neither.”
“And now, every time you look at me — my chest hurts.”
“My head hurts, but I think it’s the same thing.”
Hans smiled a little, but his eyes were tired. Warm, but fading — like a horse slipping its reins in the dark.
“I love you,” he said softly. “But it doesn’t change anything.”
“I know.”
“But I love you anyway.”
“And I’m still here.”
Pause. The rain no longer fell — it just hung in the air like damp between their hands.
“I’m getting married,” Hans said.
“Mhm.”
“She… has kind eyes. And a very straightforward father.”
“Better not mix up the two.”
“Hah. I’ll try. But I’ll still think — where you are. What you’re eating. Where you sleep.”
“In the mud, most likely.”
“And I’ll be jealous.”
“Of my mud?”
“Of your freedom.”
Henry stayed silent. Then looked at him.
Long. Slowly. As if trying to memorize the features he already knew by touch.
“I won’t come find you.”
“I know.”
“I won’t write.”
“You don’t have ink.”
“I won’t wait.”
“And I won’t ask you to.”
They both smiled. Quiet. Foolish. Too honest.
“But if you ever change your mind,” Hans added, “I’ll still be the man who kissed you in the rain.”
“And I’ll still be the man who let you.”
They fell silent.
Henry ran a finger along the rim of his cup, like trying to wipe away a memory — or trace it back into being.
“Remember that bathhouse in Kuttenberg?” he asked softly.
“Where you broke in uninvited and leapt into the tub like some cursed frog?”
“Where you called those women a ‘delegation’ and nearly drowned in shame when I took off my shirt.”
“Hah. You could’ve knocked.”
“Would you have let me in?”
“God, no. But I’d have had three seconds of moral panic first.”
Henry chuckled, not looking away from his cup.
“You said you didn’t need me.”
“I lied.”
“I knew.”
“And you still got in the tub.”
“Because you were watching the door.”
Pause.
“You said it was a delegation.”
“I said a lot of nonsense. Like I could handle seven. And couldn’t even handle one.”
“You also said I was your weakness.”
“Well… you’re still sitting on me. Not much has changed.”
Henry shook his head, smiled — crookedly, a little bitter.
“I remember how you washed me afterward. Like it meant something.”
“Because you were covered in blood and dirt!”
They both fell quiet.
Hans leaned forward slightly, almost touching shoulders — but didn’t. Somewhere behind the shed, the horse snorted again. The world was still there, though they pretended it wasn’t.
“If it weren’t for this life,” Henry murmured.
“Yes. If not this life.”
And again — silence. Rain tapping the roof like a musician no one dared tell to stop. A strange, distant bird called out in the woods — lonely. Henry leaned back, and their shoulders brushed once more.
“It’s a pity,” he said.
“What is?”
“That we didn’t live together long enough to start annoying each other. For you to grumble like an old miller, and me to forget where your shirt ended and mine began.”
“I’m already forgetting.”
“Me too.”
Hans closed his eyes.
“We’d have been a terrible couple.”
“Terrible.”
“Slept in stables, fought over bread, brawled over blankets.”
“And made up so hard the neighbors would summon a priest.”
“Even if there were no neighbors.”
“Especially then.”
Pause. Henry looked down.
“Will you be happy?”
“I… I’ll try.”
“To lie to yourself?”
“To live. With her. Properly.”
“And I’ll live properly too. Alone. On the road.”
“Not alone. With a sword. And a terrible memory.”
“She’s worse than enemies.”
Hans smiled, then placed his hand over Henry’s. Warmth passed between them like rain choosing to fall only on their fingers.
“Promise me,” he said, “that if one day you see me on a balcony with her hand in mine — you won’t look too long.”
“I promise.”
“And you won’t drink too much.”
“I already started.”
“And you won’t hate me.”
“I’m not talented enough for that.”
Pause.
“And you?” Henry asked.
“Me?”
“You’ll still be looking for me, won’t you? At fairs. In taverns. In every soldier wearing mail.”
“Of course.”
“And I’ll be hiding.”
“And I’ll know you by your back.”
“By smell?”
“By stupid phrases. By the way you laugh.”
“By the trail of disasters?”
“By the heart that still stutters like a bloody fool.”
They sat. Long after the hay had soaked, after evening had become night, after their almost-life had turned into one long “what if.”
And then Hans said:
“One more kiss — is it betrayal?”
Henry replied:
“No. It’s the last.”