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The night was still young, or at least the full moon made it feel like so, drowning the world in its bright glow. The crickets were too busy to sleep, they played a steady melody for the pack of ducks and drunkards still on the inn's battlefield, with their mugs half-filled and bags half-lighter from all the groschen lost in rounds after rounds of farkle. Two figures inside of a room on the first floor also seemed to enjoy the concert, their bodies illuminated by the silver gloom – one of the men tall and broad, the other scrunched on the straw bed.
They didn't speak for some time, but it was soon to be changed after the standing one made a particularly harsh tug with his arm.
"Ouch!"
"Stop moving so much!"
"Maybe I would, if you were more gentle! Ouch! Have you thought of that?" Hans made a high-pitched sound, almost a squeak. He instinctively flinched away from the blacksmith, shoulders first, but his arse stayed in place, body knowing better that Henry's actions weren't ill-willed. But Henry didn't let him escape far either way. His big hands wrapped around Hans' arm again, this time harsher to make sure he won't slip away so easily. Another wave of pain shot through his body.
"If I were even a bit gentler, you'd end up a bloodless carcass beneath my feet." Henry explained with a harsh tone. But when his annoyed gaze clashed with Hans' sad blue eyes, so big and bright in the moonlight, his brows bent downwards, and a thing shifted in Henry's ribcage, chest heaving with a long sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was more understanding and a tad softer: "I need to tighten the bandage to staunch it properly."
Hans winced when the man tried to touch the skin around the cut again. It was a long, nasty one. Not too deep to cause any serious threat to the noble's life, if treated properly. And Henry really wanted to tend to it, but Hans seemed to deliberately make this whole thing difficult for him.
The young lord didn't even seem to realize how childish he behaved as he didn't even try to stop an excusatory murmur from leaving his lips:
"And I wonder whose fault may it be…"
Henry's eyebrows went up high.
"My Lord, let's not forget that I wasn't the one who incited the innkeeper's son because of a girl."
"But you were obviously the first one to punch him!" Hans scoffed. He was full of himself, his chin high. With the spoiled brat persona that he put on most of the time not leaving him, Hans tried to cross the arms on his naked chest – but it only made him hiss, face distorting as a new wave of pain shot through his whole body.
"After he pulled a knife on you?!" Henry couldn't believe the words he'd just heard.
Hans swallowed, loudly. The conversation led somewhere he didn't plan it to go, and now it made him all silent. Not for long though, a couple of ripostes brewing in the noble mind of his. The dumbest was the loudest, of course, so it won, and the pompous words smoothly reached the peasant's ears.
"Not the first, not the last time that someone threatened me with a blade."
"A knife-" The man tried to cut in but to no avail.
Hans continued as if he didn't hear Henry's remark: "Besides that, I had everything under control! I could handle the situation perfectly well on my own."
"I bet you'd be well on your own at the bottom of some lake or in a ditch…" Henry said those words in a half-whisper, loud enough for Hans to hear, but still quiet so it sounded as if he simply talked to himself.
And Hans wouldn't be himself to not catch the bait.
"What? Do I hear it right?" The noble spoke high. He was perching his neck like a young bird, intrigued by some unfamiliar noise. "Are you insinuating that I wouldn't have made it without you?"
"You know what? I do." Henry gave up his attempt to be nice – if he ever even tried. "There was four of them – two of us. Count it three, if we take that gal into consideration."
"You're talking about a wench! She doesn't count." Hans threw his arms upwards; his frustration showing in the way his moves were frantic, hasty enough to make him ignore the pained moan that was torn out from his throat.
"Aye, a wench who knocked out one of those guys with a jug in your defense. You never realize how lucky you are to have the gift of the gab; otherwise God only knows if she would have helped us." Henry's eyes went to the side, to Hans' arms. The scarlet oozed from the cut after all the shifting, painting the fair noble skin. "And quit moving so much. You're bleeding again."
Hans darted past his own shoulder and frowned at the view. A short sigh left him, and when Henry was ready to hear another complain, he simply stretched his shoulder in his direction, allowing him to finally work undisturbed.
Henry didn't want to waste any second his Lord was merciful enough to let him help him, so with a steady hand he took the already-bloodied wet rag and cleaned everything that was below the wound. It was addicting. To see the grey material turn pink as it soaked in the blood. Then he squeezed it above the wooden bowl, the water becoming more and more red each time he repeated it, only to bring the rag to the skin again.
He tried to be gentle, but with Hans it was hard. Not even his face, but the expressions it wore, were more than enough to make people want him to feel pain – to make Henry want to cause this pain, to an extent, of course. But something switched in the air, and even the way Hans rolled his eyes or puckered his lower lip did not make Henry's fists tighten but his heart melt. He fulfilled his duty with an earnest sort of devotion, quietly, efficiently cleaning the skin, then the wound with upmost care, and after that all he had to do was to put on the bandage.
Henry flinched when he heard Hans speak again:
"And you?" His voice trembled in the air. Hans desperately tried to act tougher than he was, showing that something hurt him only when he wanted to bitch about it. But now he tried not to, so he desperately attempted to hide the ache in the soft tone. The characteristic playfulness never fully left, though. "Do you help me only due to my incredible and mind-blowing way with words?"
"No, I don't think so." So Henry answered truthfully, because that was his obligation, and a man of honour he was.
"Then what for?" He inquired. Henry wondered why he always started conversations when the most unpleasant parts of a task were ahead. But somewhere deep inside he knew – by the way his lip quivered, glossy eyes looked all over frantically, breath hitched as Henry put his knuckles higher – Henry knew what was the reason.
Hans continued: "Maybe that bastard pulled out his knife, but he didn't do anything with it. Not yet, at least. But you," He nodded in Henry's direction, "reacted anyways. There was no fight, not yet at least, and your fists already crunched that guy's nose. Why?"
Henry thought that it didn't need to get physical to be called a fight – that the conflict started far earlier, somewhere around the moment Hans decided to woo a girl that was clearly taken. But he was too tired to argue with the young nobleman, his vigor never letting him quit the conversation before winning with arguments or annoying the opponent to death. Henry chose not to speak up his thoughts. But a backhanded comment never hurt anyone – so he indulged in this guilty pleasure.
"Because if I wouldn't, it would feel like leaving a damsel in distress at the mercy of some cutthroats." He jested, a playful tug at the end.
Hans raised his already fixed eyebrows. "You see me as some damsel in distress?"
"Sometimes it's hard not to with all of your ohs and ahs." Henry shrugged.
The blonde closed his eyes, then brought a fist to his lips and cleared his throat. When he opened them a foreign sparkle danced on the blue surface. Henry swallowed, seemingly ready for everything, but not for…
"Oh, ah, my dear Henry, be more gentle to your precious Lady!" Hans spoke in a high-pitched voice, imitating the way noble women chirped to one another. He was terrifyingly good at this. "Show some mercy to your beautiful erm- beautiful me, as it hurts when your brute rough hands tend to my delicate skin…"
Henry squeezed the material harder around Capon's forearm. The way he had to suppress the laughter inside of his body had costed him at least three years of his life. But he managed, the warrior that he was. Duh! He was a better actor than his friend, so after taking a deep breath-in, he deadpanned:
"There's a huge difference, my Lord. A lady would have far less muscular arms. I wouldn't need to squeeze her so hard to stop the bleeding."
It was partially true – mostly even. But Hans didn't know this, so he was sure the blacksmith's boy was yanking his pizzle.
"Excuses, excuses… You're saying this only to bully me some more."
He smirked. "Out of sheer politeness I won't deny it, my Lord."
"Oh, fuck you, you arsehole!" He yelled, but there was not even a hint of offense in his tone.
And they both laughed. Henry low, his belly shaking with the intensity, and Hans just as loud, his healthy hand already clapping his own thigh. It was nice – to have such a friend that you couldn't get mad at, even though he got you into a fight – they both thought simultaneously.