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“Oh don't be so fucking proud of yourself, you fu–” the rest of his words, no doubt intended to be ugly insults hurled at Hans, are drowned out by the repugnant sound of vomit hitting the bottom of a wooden pale. It sounds like a day old slop being thrown into a bin.
To Hans though, it's angelic singing. A herald’s trumpet. Gabriel announcing the birth of Christ.
“Stop fucking smiling, you know I–” Henry gags again, white knuckled grip on the wooden pale near splintering his palms, “I have plans for myself. Things I want to do.”
Hans does not stop smiling. But he does not approach. Henry’s sword hangs at his side. And while at present, Hans doesn't doubt he could best, certain circumstances may implore him to pull his punches and swings.
“I'm not going to apologize. We were both drunk.” He defends, “and it's not like we didn't know this could happen.”
“But suddenly, despite you fucking your way through the entirety of Rattay, I'm the one you end up giving a bastard.” The irony is maddening. It's embarrassing.
“Won't be a bastard if you just marry me,” Hans ducks just in time to avoid a boot to the head. It's an impressive feat considering Henry's deadly aim. On another day Hans would have celebrated his achievement. But he’s already walking on thin ice.
The concept of marriage had been debated endlessly by them – each man laying out the positive and consequence of an imaginary union. Each debate saw them further away from a unified agreement, until it seemed as both Henry and Hans stood on opposite sides of a growing canyon Earth breaking in two as each argument hounded into the ground like a hammer.
“You can't marry a blacksmith's son,” Henry says, standing on shaky footing, “You are meant to be a Lord, Hans. I will not get in the way of that. Besides, I have my position in the guar–”
Hans chuckles smugly, “Bernard is not going to let you in the guard after we make him aware of your condition. Let alone Hanush. Besides, I need an heir and he says I need responsibility, I –”
“Can you stop thinking about yourself for one minute? You spoiled brat!” Henry snaps, “What will Radzig say?”
“Oh fuck him,” the mirth of the moment is squished under Hans’s obvious distain. The mere mention of Radzig is enough to make him forget Henry’s attack on his character. “That man doesn't give a damn about you.”
Hans’s feelings about Radzig were well known, especially in relation to Henry. Still, the Blacksmith grimaces.
“You shouldn't say those things you know, he's my father. And the King’s hettman,” with incredibly shaky hands, Henry eases himself onto the bed, “he has his reasons.”
“He wants to rid himself of you, sending you on suicide missions and all that. You should be thanking me. I've saved you.” Hans crosses his arms and pokes his nose into the air like the spoiled brat he is. He waits patiently, as if Henry’s supposed to fall to his knees and thank him.
Realization strikes Henry immediately. And suddenly, a second boot is flung at Hans's head.
“You whoreson. You fucker. You silver spooned devil. You did this on purpose!” Henry is at his feat again, only to deflate back onto the bed when another wave of vertigo seizes him.
“Were you even drunk? Or did you just pretend?” He groans, as he slings an arm over his eyes.
“I never pretend to be drunk, Henry. I absolutely drank. I just made sure you did too.”
“So it was planned?” Henry asks, gently. Defeated. The exterior of a battle hardened soldier eroding. Smoothing. Leaving behind the confused, scared son of a blacksmith and bastard of a Lord.
God, Hans thinks to himself, I swear upon my father's grave that I will take care of you both.
“Henry, I don't want to lose you. You've nearly lost your life for me, more times than I care to count. And nothing’s stopped you.” Hans pulls the small wooden chair beside the bed, plopping down into it, “So yes, I made the decision. You gave me no choice.”
“Hans, I never wanted children. At least not like this. I don't want to cause a scandal,” then says, quietly, “I’m scared.”
“You're scared. Why?”
“Because this has happened before. To me. Radzig left me and my mother because of who we are. And you're a Lord, and it's your duty to….” Henry turns away. Hans can hear the thickness in his voice, but thankfully allows him his time alone, “When you’ve decided you want to be serious about your Lordship, you’ll do what? Send me away, and your kid? Will you try to get rid of us?”
“Henry I would never.” Hesitantly, Hans puts a hand on Henry’s shoulder. Not unexpectedly, Henry shoves it off.
“Sure Radzig said the same,” Henry sniffles, sitting up, “and I was lucky. Most noble bastards and their parents meet their end on the blade.”
Against his better judgment, Hans reaches for Henry’s face, directing the blacksmith’s gaze towards him. Henry responds in kind, seizing Hans’s at bone breaking speeds. Hans winces. It will certainly bruise later on. But a bruise is worth making Henry feel safe. Making their child feel safe.
“Henry you need to understand me when I say this. I would never harm you nor my child. If swearing on my father’s grave isn’t enough, then I don’t know what is. But you have to believe me.” It’s the most serious Hans has ever been in his life. And the ferocity and conviction in which he makes his proclamation startles him. It startles Henry too. His grip on Hans’s wrists slackening until his own hand falls pitifully in his lap.
“You’re serious. Aren’t you? You mean to claim it?” Henry says, eyes shining, “me?”
“I will go tell Hanush now if that’s what it takes.”
Henry deflates again – though less from exhaustion and more from relief. His head falls onto Hans’s bonier shoulder.
“What, no kiss?” Hans muses, stroking Henry’s hair.
“I have been spewing my guts out for the past hour, you do not want a kiss from me now.”
Hans hums, burying his head into Henry’s brown locs. He places a chaste kiss on shorn brown hair and thinks that will do for now.