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Many stupid decisions are made after a few cups of wine.
So when Henry finds himself taunting Hans at the side of the fighting ring, tongue alcohol-thick, he doesn't think much of the consequences. Lids heavy from his fifth drink - generously gifted to himself by himself for taking it from Vostatek - the half-crescents of his eyes can make out Hans' swordmanship skills. There's the old faithfuls that Henry recognises from their practise bouts. He favours his right side, doesn't give himself enough time to breathe, always on his opponent like a bloodthirsty hound, snarl and all. A particularly vicious near-stab to the shoulder puts him to rights, he parried it well, but, but—
"Kick his noble arse!"
Hans falters, then, his back foot stumbling as he tries to dodge, and Henry feels a little kick in his chest at the reaction. He'd been so dismissive before, looking past him in all his finery, leaving him for all the world feeling like a boy, a servant. That's a particular skill he hasn't deigned to use in a long while, at least on Henry.
He takes a long pull of his drink. Hides a small smile behind the cup.
Red-faced, wooden swords lowered, Hans is declared the victor. The brief show of weakness was swiftly followed by an onslaught of insults, risky moves, and dirty tricks.
Capon always performs best when he thinks he has something to prove.
His acceptance of victory is noble enough, a handshake, a self-satisfied grin, a clap on the back just rough enough to betray how drunk he is, loose in his camaraderie. The fabric of his pourpoint is dark with sweat, and he rewards himself with a deep drink of ale tucked away near the fence. Henry is unsurprised by him having a tankard at hand— he's always turned to it as a medicine for his ailments.
(Those being hangovers, a foul mood, and a general dissatisfaction with his surroundings.)
Hans wrestles with the impossible feat of balancing both a sword and his drink, before abandoning the move entirely and draining his cup in one smooth motion, tossing it so it lands with a soft thunk in the hay. The guests around him regard the whole thing with disinterest— the fun's over, it seems, only capturing their attention until the yell of I yield. Hans is just a blur of muted yellow, his own best friend in this victory, pacing the confines of the pen as if he's trapped there.
Henry should feel a little…odd, doing this. Watching him so intently. In the early days of their friendship he did, honestly and truly. Staring with little regard for respect, observing the finery of Hans' clothing, the way his calloused hands would toss a handful of dice. Whenever he was caught, head ducking sheepishly, Hans would just flash him a smile.
It's hard to determine what exactly Henry finds so interesting about him. He's seen enough nobles to last him a lifetime, each as human as the one before. Maybe it's because Hans lets him so close (let him so close). Exposes the human of himself, the blood, bone, skin of him, baring his throat and letting Henry's teeth skim the soft pale.
Their gazes latch just long enough for his heart to skip out of rhythm, the contempt in the curl of Hans' lip as vibrant as the Bohemian sun.
"Well done," he says in the direction of the two men, a little too loud for comfort. The alcohol here is strong, delicious, and plentiful.
Hans' opponent doesn't give him so much as a nod - he's a rotten git anyway, always sniffing around Henry in Semine - instead jumping over the fence and towards the nearest table full of food. He goes to open his mouth again, maybe to aggravate, congratulate, but before he can utter a word he's faced with ire.
"You," Hans snaps, with all the venom of someone who would wipe Henry's name off the face of the earth if he could, "don't get to comment."
Henry shrugs. "You put on a good show. I'm a spectator, ain't I?"
It's like prodding a yellowed bruise, a sour ache he feels behind his eyes and back teeth. Teasing doesn't feel as honest or good when Hans looks at him like that, all disdain and disgust. A practise sword swings idly between his fingertips, nothing in his grip, years of training shown through the lazy handling.
"Too active of one, I'd say." Hans' fingers curl around the hilt proper, as if preparing.
"I'll be sure to still my tongue around you, my lord," he lets the lord drag out for longer than it should, lets it roll on his tongue along with the wine, then Hans is righting himself, leaving, "wouldn't want to end up in the pillory again, would we?"
Hans is wonderfully red with contained anger. He wants to press his palm into the flushed skin of his neck, see how the colours flex and change.
"Leave it be, Henry, for fuck's sake—"
"Not until I have a go," he says, and it's desperate, humiliating, the bitterness in him creating an ugly mix that makes his cheeks burn. "It wouldn't be a celebration if I didn't get to knock you on your arse."
It doesn't take much to get Hans' blood up. The goblet is swiped from Henry's hand and he drinks, drinks, sating his newfound thirst. It's only when he shows his teeth— pink-washed, fierce, lacking anything resembling friendliness— that Henry realises it's an invitation. He can't help the eagerness beating in his wicked body, that tantalising promise of being able to let go and let his fists do the talking.
Despite their disagreement, Henry's instinct to follow has never wavered. He hops over the fence, chasing Hans' retreating back, blood rushing in his ears just from the anticipation. The flat of the practise sword makes a gentle tap, tap, tap on Hans' thigh as he walks and fusses, an idle thing betraying his excitement. He's prone to fidgeting in times like these, nearing the precipice of something more.
They fall into a self-made ring of sorts, a boundary smaller than the pen itself. It's like an invisible line has been crossed— the nattering of the guests fall apart around him, he's aware of the pacing of his heart, the way his fingers curl just so. Hans is much the same, a mirror image.
"Fists." As he tosses his sword to the side, it doesn't sound like a question.
Despite it all, Henry lets out a laugh. Bitter, exasperated at him still trying to call the shots— but it's laughter all the same.
"Aye, fists." He counts them both lucky that Captain Gnarly stepped out for a well deserved pint.
A terse nod, then Hans is fumbling with his buttons, wine-addled, grumbling to himself. It's only when he grabs at the hem of his undershirt that Henry realises what he's doing.
"We fighting or fucking?"
Hans rolls his eyes. "If I'm to wrestle around in the hay like a yokel, I'd rather look the part."
The many shades of him are revealed with each clumsy movement— he's bleached in the sun, Henry realises, his straw-like hair lighter, a consequence of making the outdoors his home. He thinks of the spitting campfire, the sodden cave, a metallic tang at the back of his throat from the entrails at the mercy of Hans' hunting knife. He risks a look at bare flesh, blessedly unchanged. Despite himself he hasn't been able to stop worrying— duty, genuine care, he can't tell the two apart anymore. A familiar starburst of flesh on his torso from a sword that got too close to the softest and most vital parts of him, well healed after a month or so. Nothing fresh, then. Nothing to feel guilty for. Nothing but the sight of Hans stretching his - capable, toughened, healthy - arms above his head, preparing.
"Well?" he demands, running roughshod over Henry's scattered thoughts.
He abandons his own clothing, down to his hose and shoes. The two of them paint a ridiculous picture: their well-tailored outfits left on the ground, bare to the other guests from the belt upwards. Hans is still thrumming with energy from his previous fight, sweat-slick with exertion, damp hair gathering at the base of his neck.
Henry feels more full of wine than blood at this point, the world tipping, but gentle breeze against his chest has given him a bout of sobriety. That, and the excitement fizzling in his joints at the prospect of a fight with his friend, his lord, the object of his irritation for the past few months. It's been a long while since they've fought under the reasoning of anything other than training— there's been no need to, and Henry always has good outlets for his restless energy in the form of bandits and groschen hungry opponents.
No, there's something of a score to settle, here. A lesson to teach. If not that, then it's the best thing Henry can think of to get Hans to fucking look at him.
And, well— even though he wished for it, pushed for it, even, the expression on Hans' face is nothing short of unnerving. Far removed from the friend he knows, every inch his better, a stranger, his chin is raised in superiority, eyes half-lidded as if Henry isn't even worth his full attention.
"Ready," he grunts, rolling back his shoulders, trying his best to shake off the tension. Hans will swing for the face first. He always does.
Hans' lips twitch, laughing at a joke he isn't privy to.
"So formal. I thought in these peasant bouts there'd be no need to—"
Taking a page out of his book, Henry goes for the face first.
Mid mouthing-off is the best time to strike someone, he decides. The whites of Hans' eyes are concerningly obvious, wide like saucers, taking up half of his face. A choked off, ugly sound cuts through the snark. Pincers of pain snip up his arm— his last hand to hand fight was with a toothless vagabond two weeks ago, and his fists are more used to holding a sword now. He misses the frequent roughhousing with his friends back home, how it would be low stakes and high adrenaline. Stale alcohol thick on their tongues, the sun baking the napes of their necks.
Hans' head snaps back with the force, one, two, three steps away, each thud of his feet in the earth more ungainly than the last. The satisfaction soaks skin deep. Henry matches his pace, advancing, using his momentary blindness to kick Hans' legs out from under him. He falls inelegantly, legs akimbo, an outraged yell knocked out of his chest.
Henry kneels. Pins him down. Swallowing, swallowing, he can feel the throbbing of Hans' throat beneath his palm. The rolling of his adam's apple, how his breath hitches wrong when he presses, not hard enough to hurt, just to know. He's is quietly furious in his subservience, a far cry from his usual pomp and circumstance, and it makes Henry's insides twist.
Before he can think of something in the quiet there's a knee to his gut taking the air from his chest, Hans' wheezing, triumphant laugh. The smell of hay tickling his nose as he falls face first. He grits his teeth and takes the straw in hand.
"Your body is even slower than your wits, today, my friend!" Hans mocks from above, the moment of vulnerability forgotten, friend feeling more like an insult than a token.
He grinds the word under his heel, rises to meet him.
"Eventually you're going to have to fight me proper, not just mouth off."
"I can do both," Hans smiles, sickly, condescending, "I'm excellent at multitasking."
It becomes a dance of sorts. They're not equals in this, but Hans' favouring of dodging over trading blows is effective enough. Henry knows he's wearing himself out in his doggedness, but the shouts of "Too slow!" and "Missed me!" are like shocks to the heart, small bursts of indignation keeping him fueled. Even though Hans is trying to aggravate him, he enjoys the chase— there's never been much fun in having an easy target.
Wonderfully alive in it, he aims another blow to Hans' heaving chest, the staccato rhythm of his lungs making him clumsy, sloppy. It hits just right, and Henry can almost taste the bittersweet tang of exhaustion from each sound leaving his friend. Hans seems to be frustrated at his own near-misses, admonishments whispered under his breath.
A particularly well aimed punch has copper bursting in his mouth, something rattling, coming loose. Hans feels it too, what with the way he's shaking the hurt from his fist.
"Hurt yourself, did you?" It comes out more like hursh y'self, d'you? with the reverberating ache of his face travelling through his body. The world tilts on its axis, unsteady. He falls forward a step or two. Spits in the hay.
Hans' responding pleasure is fierce. "I can't hear you around all that blood in your mouth!"
He puts the offending hand up to his ear, cranes his neck, dips low in a mockery of a bow. Henry hates the pantomime of it. Using the vulnerability of his position as an in, it's easy enough to fashion himself as a kind of trebuchet, catapulting himself towards Hans' bare stomach.
Hans is, as always, more observant than he's given credit for. He has just enough time to brace, almost holding Henry in his arms, a wall made of steel.
"Feels familiar," he breathes, digging into the taut flesh of Hans' bicep, struggling in their clinch. His feet scrabble for purchase in the earth, kicking up straw and stinging his eyes.
"Aye," Hans grits out. The whole of his body weight is on Henry now, "it's like in the tavern where I— kicked— your fucking— arse."
Their heads knock together for a moment. He soaks up the heat, the sweat, catches a whiff of perfume - from who, he's unsure, he doesn't want to be sure - and pushes hard enough to part them.
Henry wonders when the need to teach Hans a lesson dipped down into wanting to be close to him again. Capon has always been so careless with his affections, thinking nothing of sliding their palms against one another to guide Henry into another mishap, hooking a leg around his ankle to knock him off balance.
That's what he's always done, what he's somehow still managing to do without trying— leave Henry unmoored from his sense of self, what he thinks he knows. The anger weaving through his ribs is being quickly replaced by pity.
He's missed this.
Certainly, he has a home in the dirt, almost refined in his crudeness by now— but Hans is a quick learner, and unafraid of being indecent. The tricks he's using aren't unlike the same ones Matthew and Fritz would conjure when Henry had them in a corner. Scratching, taunting, hell, he feels the threat of teeth on his neck at some point.
In the flurry of their continuous blows Henry forgets to hate him, and laughs.
"What?" Hans demands, panting. "What's so funny?"
Fun, he nearly confesses. I'm having fun.
"Just imaginin' the look on our captain's face if he saw you in such a sorry state."
He scowls at the mention of home, of Bernard. "My captain, blockhead," darting forward, grabbing a chunk of hair, for fuck's sake, "watch your mouth."
"Fucking shit, you- watch yours," he hits back, regretting not getting his hair cut, being jerked forward like Pebbles on a particularly unstable road.
Hans had not anticipated what getting a handful of Henry would entail. He lacks proper balance, favouring brute strength over finesse in battle, so he doesn't think to steady himself before promptly crushing them both against the wall of the barn. It creaks in a half-hearted protest at the intrusion of their bodies.
Rocking forward to shuck off the bulk of him, Hans hisses through his teeth. Henry feels every tensed muscle underneath, taut lines, straining. Try as he might, he can't manoeuvre the two of them well enough to ensure any kind of advantage. Henry answers back with equal force, palm pinning Hans' shoulder fast to the wall, harsh enough that the air leaves him in one long whoosh. He imagines Hans like the bellows he'd work at the forge— one forceful move and they turn the coals a fierce orange, stoked and angry.
"Stay still."
"I will not, you fucking ox! You're crushing me!" Hans spits.
Twisting his head so violently Henry worries he's going to snap his own neck with the force of it, Hans has his gnashing jaws just an inch away from his fingers, trying to nip at him like an unruly pup. There's a river of angry red raising on his skin from the violence, the exertion.
An observation unbidden tells him that Hans has managed to shave, albeit badly. Shedding his knife of gore in the river, using it as a mirror as he kneels. Chin tilted, lower lip trapped in a bite. There's a stray patch he's missed just above his jaw. A hint of normalcy in the insanity that is the two of them right now, at odds in every sense of the word.
"Yield, then," he breathes, and it feels more like a question than a demand, the soft way it leaves him. He compensates by tightening his hold. The closeness makes Henry feel like he could squeeze the whole of Hans in his fist like an overripe fruit. A pained gasp, an attempt to escape - again - and he's getting a little sick of this.
"Yield," he repeats.
"Fuck off," Hans says. Always eloquent.
Then, a headbutt. Roaring pain. Chaos in his ears like rushing river water. Hans slips away like smoke, a ghost, you might say, and, Christ, Henry is glad he found this fool in the forest. It's made this fight a lot easier to stomach, less worry to offset the anger he feels. He reaches out blindly for an edge of clothing, remembers they shed them, and curls a hand around the closest solid thing. The spinning of his head has turned him towards the edge of the pen, to a fencepost.
"Aw, don't leave so soon, Henry," Hans coaxes, acrid words thickened with honey, "I'm finally having a good time."
"M'not leaving," he slurs, hip bumping the fence, "not while you're still standing."
"Like a dog with a bone," he hears, and if he weren't so lost in the fog of his brain he'd say it almost sounds fond.
Circles, hiccupping attempts at pulling the rug from under one another. Hans tries to go for his bad shoulder, a dirty move but a good one, palm nearing the site of pain. He manages to dodge at the last second. Irritation hums through Hans' teeth and makes itself known.
Shaking off the near miss, mouth wet with salt-sweat-ale, he can finally see the cracks in Hans' armour for what they are. He's clutching his right side when he gets a second, leaning on his left leg. Breaths are coming faster, fast enough that he'll faint if he's not careful. These are the things he'd look out for if he were the one defending Hans— but it seems that it works no matter which side he's on.
"Tired?" he pushes.
One hit to the gut, the width of his ribs, the stretch of his shoulders.
The head injury makes each hit a slog, probably hurting himself more than Hans, but he continues on. He tries his best to duck under Henry's wide swings, but his own exhaustion betrays him, an errant knuckle grazing the high point of his cheekbone. Another connects just right it almost sings in the high ceiling of the barn. An uppercut that causes a slick, sick, crunch, then Hans is clutching at his face, losing his balance, losing—
Losing.
The sight of him, battered and wrecked, gives Henry pause. What stops him completely is the mumbling through the thick hurt, two words spoken in Hans' defeated tone.
"I yield."
"You— what?"
Hans glares at him from the ground, blood trickling down his nose. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Good fight, Henry wants to say, or You almost got me, something to make him shake his head in exasperation, fondness, hit back with an insult delivered on laughter.
However, he's been a lot to Hans these past few months, but a liar is not one of them. The scuffle felt desperate, pawing at one another to coax out some feeling, discordant music wallopped out of sore bodies. Henry is uglier for it. Grim satisfaction behind his teeth, blood there too. He licks it off. Wipes a dirty hand over his lips.
"Good thing we weren't betting, eh? This time you don't have a bow to hand over."
It's feeble, and all it does is make Hans' face somehow darken further.
"Hilarious. My so-called bodyguard, a warrior and a jester all in one. How lucky I am."
"Fuck's sake, Hans, I was just tryin'…"
"No! You've had your— your fun—" Hans rises, rubbing a spot of blood into the hay with the toe of his shoe in a particularly hateful way, "so let's cut the chit-chat. I'm embarrassed, humiliated. All's well. Happy?"
He's gathering his clothes. The words won't come unstuck.
"I—"
Hans shoulders past him, mumbling something like I need a fucking drink. Not exactly an unfamiliar phrase, but one usually said with his arms around Henry, his cheeks pink with happiness. He can't recall exactly when he last felt that, a wonderful weight tethering him to the earth. Rattay, maybe? Before they were sent on this errand, or that inn prior to them settling at Rocktower Pond— words hot in his ear, fingertips tickling his collar. The memory comes at him so quick it hits harder than any punch Hans has thrown.
It hangs heavy as the wedding returns to him, all vibrant music and chatty strangers with tasks, innocuous gossip. Skirts and gentlemen's shoes alike brush his legs. Trying to force some joviality in him. He looks for the yellow pourpoint, he does— finds it too soon in that hayloft under candlelight, where bow-weathered hands skim over a delicate ladies' body. It's hard to pay all that any mind as they trade blows, verbal this time, but no less sharp.
Later, as the ceremony concludes, all Henry can do is trace the errant stain of blood under Hans' nose. A mark he managed to leave there, violent as it may be.
The redness blooming on his cheek almost looks like a kiss.