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Henry had been busy at the forge for the entirety of the day, his focus on metal and meeting his anvil in the middle. He’s stretched himself out into a range, nails and horseshoes and a sword and even a dagger. The last was essentially for fun, using the last of the materials he had out just so that he had less scraps to clean up after. None of the collection would be picked up for another few days at minimum, he had gotten ahead of this curve to catch others in his life. Now was his break between the waves, a calm that makes the world feel patient.
The forge is still warm, heat sticking to the air and drying it out. Henry’s changed from his clothes into ones that are thin and less protective, missing his thick socks just to prevent his sweat from returning. He’s a vegetable well-steamed and not the only in a homely feast. It’s a meal of two, paired on the same platter. Henry, however, would consider his forge more of a bowl with how it holds him.
He has cultivated the space as he’s grown his reputation, piecing together his collection of furniture like a church organizing their shrines. Having the space full allowed for the noises of his work to be softened, repetitive sound absorbed into furs and cushioned chairs and even mismanaged blankets that had become rugs in their own right. It was in a sense, a home. His home.
It was only right that his favored guest had a space of his own. That had started with a singular chair and a dream, just a concept for having his other sit with him while he worked even if they weren’t truly interacting. It was about sharing the space and the knowledge that they were close. Hans hadn’t gotten to exist there but Henry could hear him in his head anyways, complaining about how dull the accommodation was even on the days where just catching the sight of the other was enough. So, it was upgraded to indulge the spirit of future.
The chair had gained a quilt, a few thin sheets of wool that had been sewn together for thickness and trapping in any heat. Henry had personally seen it dyed blue and dried dull purple. He had even embroidered it as best as he could, workmanship shoddy from doing it as an afterthought instead of when its layers were still separated. It stayed off the ground when possible, well washed and wrapping his dried sage so it holds the additional smell.
Then it had gotten a low table and a fur to warm the stone below foot when the smithy wasn’t doing that job instead. An additional chair had joined the assortment, this one for Henry to join so that he wouldn’t loom. The last addition had been a trunk just for Hans to use, it even had its own lock despite fingers made nimble by being attached to Henry’s hands. Their things still got mixed up with each other, too close to each other that even their roots kissed.
Hans was there, a thumb pink and well pricked. He was mending some of his clothes. His table had a pile of folded hose and forgotten letters and a mug still trying to turn cold despite the chamber’s heat. It was his turn to play at being too busy for his paired partner. Henry was in the chair next to him now, lazily watching with his own cup cradled between legs so he didn’t have to hold it with sore hands.
He notes the way Hans sews. Having watched him enough in different settings, he can realize the effort has changed into something more efficient.
“Where'd you learn how to do that?” Henry asks, practicing his voice and retraining himself how to speak when his throat had only been shaped to whistle and hum throughout the day. The short words catch on vocal cords but he doesn't stumble or clear his throat, staying committed with his undertone of gravel.
“Katherine showed me better knots than the proper way,” is the easily offered answer. He had been waiting for conversation even when pretending not to be, eyes stuck to the work in his hands.
“Did she really?” Henry asks this time, sounding coy and incredulous like the combination is soluble in his throat.
And instead of something direct, Hans turns his body inward in his chair. It’s done with a huff, the great effort of opening a heavy door. Even when his mouth opens to taste his own words, it still isn’t a proper answer but guarding such with his own question. “Christ, will you stop being so petulant, Henry? Let me focus.”
He’s trying not to sound smitten, falling back on the old annoyance he used to have. It doesn’t fit right, doesn’t have that same shape anymore and how could it when he’s been held in hands since and remolded like a child’s clay to never be a part of earth again? He’s art now and his new position lets him rest his ankle against Henry’s.
It’s enough, for a short time, and they sit quietly.
That’s something they’ve also gotten better at with time spent together, the not moving. Every moment had to be filled with something, catching up with the pieces of each other they missed and never got to know first hand. It was how their first hunt went, trading uncomfortable questions or making noise just to annoy. Even rides had their own conversations that stuck to the horses like correspondence through letters to be dropped and picked up again the next time instead of continuing in the meetings between.
Once there had been a time where Hans had been far too drunk to keep a proper hold on his reins and had made Henry stop on the side of the road with him so they could be tied together, Henry leading by half his horse and they had taken up most of the dirt. Despite that and all of their history and even what he had asked of others, he found Hans tolerable and had said just that. The mentioned had promptly fallen from his saddle with laughter, had still laughed with his back covered in the smear of grass and Henry’s concerned face looking down at him.
“Hal, I’m intolerable. Everyone says that, you just don’t think so because you like me,” Hans spoke into the night air with his hands sticking to Henry’s pourpoint longer than necessary but with the cover of being helped back up.
Henry thinks of it now with his gaze too soft to burn any holes into his lover’s side, clears his throat and speaks up again for the first time in the few passed hours. “My ma used to say love was like a limb everyone has to grow into.”
It’s what finally gets Hans to look at him again but the look is lit with delight, mouth knotted like he’s going to do that laugh only meant for late nights again. The sock and all of its doctoring accessories are put down in his lap so his hands can be free, one of them pointing accusingly.
“Henry, are you telling me you finally grew a cock?”