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It was one of those nights when sleep eluded Samuel, so he simply lay next to John, enjoying his fingers as they played in Samuel’s hair while John read. John picked up the book while he went out to town earlier that day. It seemed that lately, John was always running here and there, speaking with this or that person, though these meetings were never public. After all, one does not plan the rescue of a king under the bright sun, where information travels faster then it’s rays- for example to a certain Margrave who does not wish to stay only a Margrave.
They were currently staying in the town of Mikulov, acquired by the Liechtensteins not that long ago. It’s position was favourable, as it was not that far from Vienna, where Wenceslaus was currently being held.
Samuel missed his family in Kolín, and the days he had spent there, after returning from Suchdol, were full of laughter and tears of joy.
That said, there were a few moments from his time in Kolín he would rather erase from his mind, like that one time his Mame found him and John kissing in the middle of her kitchen, to which she responded by patting Samuel on his shoulder, fondly shaking her head and promptly leaving the house.
John insisted at first that he should stay, that he should be with his Mame, let her fuss over him a little longer, let himself rest more. But Samuel knew that the anticipation of waiting for John to return, of waiting for a word whether all has gone smoothly would slowly but surely drive him mad.
“If that is truly what you wish for,” John had said, “then I would welcome your company. Far be it from me to tell you what you can and cannot do.”
With that said, they departed for Mikulov shortly after.
And although Samuel was a realist, in his heart of hearts, he hoped, that maybe, if John rescued the king, and the king was receptive to what John had to say, then perhaps, there could be some satisfaction. For him. For his people. For Kuttenberg. But he only entertained such thoughts in the middle of the night, when all else had fallen quiet.
When Samuel asked about the book, John said that it was about a woman named Silance, and that it was French. Samuel must have made a face of distaste then, for John quicky added: “I do not have any more love for them then you do, not after… everything, but once in a lifetime, they manage to produce some literature worth entertaining.”
Samuel liked these slower moments with John, when life didn’t have the anxious atmosphere as it had in Kuttenberg. Which also left more time and space in his mind to ponder. He and John had of course traded stories of their childhoods and early adulthoods, different like dusk and dawn, but Samuel had realized there was one thing they had not really spoken about.
Samuel propped an elbow under him and John turned to look at him, expectant. “When did you know?” Samuel asked, brushing a stray piece of hair behind John’s ear.
John tilted his head to the side slightly, like he always did when trying to figure something out. “Know what, exactly?”
Samuel considered for a moment how to best phrase such a question, then settled on: “That you… wished to lay with men.”
Unlike his brother, he did not wish to call it sodomy. It sounded too harsh for what he and John had between them.
And really, he was curious. John, for all he was a spy, did not hide his inclinations all that well, especially if one knew what to look for. Or maybe Samuel was attuned to John from the start, without even really knowing, and that is why he thought it obvious. Either way, it did not take Samuel long to realise who John preferred.
How strange, Samuel thought. John felt guilty for everything that he thought went wrong in the world, as if his presence alone marred it, but not for the thing his religion condemned him for.
John looked taken aback for a moment. Then his expression softened, he shut the book, and laid on his side on the bed, looking Samuel in the eyes. Sensing a certain fragility, Samuel put his hand in John’s, caressing his skin with his thumb, also laying down again.
“I suppose…” John started, then fell silent again for a long few minutes, looking somewhere past Samuel. It was rare to see him without an answer ready within seconds. “I suppose,” he tried again, “that when looking back, I must have had some inkling since I was very young.”
“I remember, when I was about twelve, father decided to have a wall around our garden rebuilt. I kept sneaking off to look at the workers toiling under the sun. When my tutor scolded me for not fulfilling my duties, I told him I wished to know how commoners made their living, because wasn’t I, as a nobleman destined to lead, supposed to educate myself on their lives too?”
He grinned then at Samuel, “Of course, now I can admit to myself that I just liked looking at their arms.”
“My first… experiences came only after I started working for Jobst,” John said, more sombre again. “And Jobst was content to look the other way, especially if my nightly escapades made it easier to convince others of Jobst’s various plans.”
Plans that, Samuel knew, most likely originated in John’s head anyway.
“And you? What about you, my dear Samuel?” John asked, smile again evident in his voice. His hand came up to rest on Samuel’s chest, fingers tracing patterns only John understood.
Samuel scrunched his forehead a little, discontent that the attention was wholly on him, but he thought it only fair to repay John with his own history. “I realised only a few years back. Then I had a few encounters, as one might say, and then nothing, for a long time. Until you moved into my basement.”
John gave a little laugh at that. Not breaking eye contact with Samuel, he moved to straddle his hips.
“It’s truly an honour,” he whispered against Samuel’s lips, then captured them in his own. And Samuel thought that if he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, he might as well spend the night pleasantly.