Work Text:
The soft edges of Hans’s dream fray and dissolve in the blaze of the summer sun, tugging him into a sluggish consciousness. He blinks his eyes open as much as he can, crusty and weighted with sleep. They close against that blazing sun. Too bright. But he tries again, fluttering his eyes open just a sliver. Through eyelashes, he realizes he’s in his bed, and it’s not the sun—it’s a torch—and there’s a man behind that blinding light, closing the door.
Henry.
About time he came back. Lately, he’s been gone for days on end, sometimes a week or more, and Hans, stuck here at the Devil’s Den, with these rough, unpredictable people who can hold their liquor far better than Hans could ever hope—or want—to, feels trapped. And this room is small, with small windows, and it’s hard not to stare at the dark ceiling every night and see a stone cell materialize out of the darkness above him. But Henry—Henry is steady. Predictable. Each time Henry returns, Hans feels this small room open up and breathe.
Sleep drags Hans’s eyes closed again against his will. Feet step across the room, steady but careful. A board creaks, a terribly loud crack! in the quiet room, and the footsteps stop and hold. A warmth bubbles up in Hans’s chest. Henry, likely dead on his feet and wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed, still takes care to be quiet.
Words are slow to form in his brain, even slower reaching his tongue. “Henry…”
A rustle as Henry turns to look at him. Hans can only see the sleep-blurred shadow of him behind the torch, fuzzy at the edges.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, my lord.”
“Don’t go running off tomorrow,” Hans mumbles, tongue heavy, dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Need to talk to you,” he says, but it comes out more like, “Neeatawtoyou.”
Henry will understand what he means. He always does.
The bed across the room is empty when Hans wakes, an all too familiar sight these days. His heart clenches in his chest, the air kicked out of his lungs as he realizes Henry has left again. Henry risked everything to rescue him from Maleshov, and, now, has hardly stuck around to see him after. Hans doesn’t want to believe Henry doesn’t care—he knows Henry cares, possibly even to a fault, considering the number of times he’s needlessly put himself in danger for Hans—but he can’t seem to stay put for more than half a day, much to Hans’s irritation. He’s about to give an ill-advised punch to the wall when he hears, drifting up through the floorboards, a laugh he would know anywhere.
He bolts out of bed and dresses as quickly as he can—his fingers fumble with all those goddamn buttons—before heading downstairs, heels heavy on the floor in his haste.
Henry and Kubyenka are sitting at a table together. Kubyenka has a tankard in front of him, which is no surprise, even at this early hour. Henry tears a bread roll into pieces, but doesn’t seem to be eating it. For once, Henry isn’t dressed like he’s about to head out somewhere or other; his clothes are light and simple, unrestraining, a marked change from his usual kit of armor.
He could do to work on his posture, Hans thinks, eying the rounded curve of Henry’s back and shoulders, but his chest expands at the sight and he breaks into a wide grin, one he knows will ache later, but he doesn’t care. “Henry! Look who decided to remember his friends for once!”
“Good morning, Sir Hans.”
Henry’s voice rolls down Hans’s spine like the steaming water poured over his shoulders in the bath. He’s missed his name on Henry's tongue; no one else says it with such comfort and warmth. But there’s an amused twinge to it as well—again, as only Henry can do.
Kubyenka mutters a greeting, and Hans returns it, but his eyes are fixed on Henry. He grabs a bread roll and a sausage from the table and beckons Henry outside. Ever dutiful, Hans doesn’t have to check to know he’s following. The scrape of a chair against the floor is enough.
He passes the horses and starts down the narrow trail into the field beyond the tavern, scarfing down the bread and sausage as he goes. The tall grass ripples lazily in the breeze. A few minutes later, he loses the trail, and there’s nothing but gold in all directions. It catches on his knees, folds soft and pliant under his feet.
“Where are we headed?”
“We,” not “you.” Henry's trust knows no bounds. Wherever Hans is leading them, they're going together.
“Just a little farther.”
Over the swell of the next hill, trees in their periphery, Hans stops. The Devil’s Den and all its noise and chaos are far behind them now, and it's just him and Henry, the grass, and the sky. It seems a hundred years ago that they were riding toward Trosky together, happy, carefree, under the open sky.
There’s a curious look on Henry’s face when Hans turns to finally face him. It’s not confusion or irritation—more a cocktail of puzzlement and amusement, trying to figure out what Hans’s goal is here. Truth be told, Hans isn’t exactly sure himself. All he knows for sure is that he wants to get Henry alone, needs his attention focused on him, and only him. It’s been far too long since he had his friend to himself.
Henry seems to be searching Hans’s face for the reason for their little jaunt into the countryside, because he offers: “I apologize for waking you last night.”
Hans waves it away. “It doesn't matter. I'd much rather be woken by you than Kubyenka starting a drunken fight. Or, God forbid, Zizka and Katherine next door.”
He tugs Henry down to sit, grass flattening beneath them. Henry chuckles.
“I've never heard them.”
“That's because you sleep like the dead. Besides, you're never here.”
Hans doesn’t mean to come right out with that; it slips past his lips before he realizes. A sore spot he's constantly massaging, but the ache never fully eases. Henry is his only real friend, the person he's closest to, and without him here, he feels out of place, out of step with the rest. Instead of socializing, he spends his days playing dice with the men Brabant has scrounged up, hunting, or lounging in the baths. He misses Henry. Not that he'd say that aloud. He wonders if Henry misses him. Probably not, because—
“I've been busy.”
“Doing what?” Hans asks, though he can already guess the answer.
“Helping people out here and there.”
“Here and there? From the looks of the mud caked on poor Pebbles, it’s a lot more than ‘here and there.’” Hans’s eyes narrow on a faint bruise peeking out from beneath Henry’s collar. The roll and sausage he’d eaten on the walk here suddenly doesn’t agree with him. “And you’ve been cavorting with wenches, I see.”
“What?”
Hans prods at Henry’s neck. As if Henry doesn’t know, the bastard.
Henry’s hand goes to his collar, brushing Hans’s fingers out of the way. He sighs, then pulls the tunic over his head to reveal a bouquet of bruises that has bloomed across his chest and shoulders. Not a wench, then, clearly. Relief spreads through Hans, followed immediately by a sickening guilt. They’re dark and mottled, with green-yellow edges, so not fresh, but not all that old, either.
“What happened to you?”
“I was fighting. I hardly feel it now.”
Liar. He has to be lying. No one can take a beating like that and not have sore ribs, at the very least.
“Did you win, I hope?”
A smile ghosts the edges of Henry’s lips. “Aye, I did. More than once.”
“I’m glad. I can’t have my bodyguard losing at fistfights.”
Henry shrugs his tunic back over his shoulders, and that slight purplish mark peeks at Hans once again. He hates when Henry looks like this: tired and bruised, but cheerful and willing as always. The man doesn’t know when to stop.
He doesn’t know what to do except try to joke about it. “Don’t tell me you were ‘helping someone out’ by doing that. The only person you’re allowed to take a beating for is me, you oaf.”
Another ghost of a smile, a little chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Silence settles between them. As much silence as to be had among the shh-shh-shh of the grass in the breeze and the buzz and hum of insects in the flowers and weeds. Hans woke up not even an hour ago, but with the warmth of the sun on his face, heating his shoulders, he’s about ready for a nap.
A glance over at Henry reveals he feels the same; his eyes are closed, face relaxed, golden flecks of light shimmering on his skin.
“This is nice,” Henry mumbles, taking a deep breath, eyes still closed.
“You need a rest.”
“I'm resting now.”
“But you'll head off tomorrow, or even this evening, and we won't see you for another week.” Hans is disappointed, but the words leaving his mouth sound merely petulant. The stopper on the bottle where Hans keeps all his fears and frustrations sealed away is dislodged a bit, the contents leaking out. He can’t stop it now. “You need a real rest. At least two days’ worth. At least. Play some dice, practice shooting in the yard, eat real food and not those scraps I know you carry around. And get a proper bath—you’re starting to stink to high heaven.”
He isn’t, but Hans has to throw that in, lest Henry think—
“You’re being a right mother hen, now aren’t you?”
Well, fuck.
Hans has never been good at hiding his innermost emotions; much to his dismay, he’s been a sleeve-heart wearer since he was a boy.
“Did you bring me out here just to lecture me on taking better care of myself?”
Henry is chuckling, but it’s kind. He wouldn’t be intentionally cruel; if Hans didn’t know any better, he’d think Henry was warmed by Hans’s concern for him. But the laughter still strikes a chord, and a spark of humiliation rushes through.
“Well, what am I meant to do if my peasant can’t even look after himself? I can’t expect to trust him to look after me if that’s the case, can I?”
That only makes Henry chuckle more. “Your peasant?”
The humiliation eases away. This is Henry. He huffs a breath, amused now himself. “Come off it now, Henry.”
He flops onto his back, letting the earth do the hard work of holding him up. Grass tickles his neck. Still sitting beside him, Henry casts a shadow over Hans’s face, the sun perfectly behind him, weaving threads of gold into his hair, casting him in silhouette.
“What do you get out of it?”
Henry looks down at him, though Hans can hardly make out his face. “Out of…?”
“Helping people. Being busy all the time. Don’t you want to just let someone else do all the work for a change? Why does it have to always be you?”
The rustle of grass, the shifting of clothes, and Henry leans back as well, head hitting the ground with a dampened thud.
“It doesn’t have to be me. But it feels better when it is. It gives me something to do. And it helps with the dreams.”
On more than one occasion, on those rare nights Henry spent at the Devil’s Den, Hans had woken to Henry thrashing around on the bed, tormented by memories of Skalitz—he presumed, if the hallucinations he’d helped him through a few weeks ago were any indication.
“There’s plenty you could do around here,” Hans counters. He just wants Henry to stay for once. “Smolka needs a hand moving one of the bathhouse tubs, and no one will help her.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I—” Hans stumbles. “I mean— Henry— I’m a—”
“You’re a noble. I know. Look, Hans, I like staying busy because it keeps my mind off of… everything. Knocking down magpie nests or building pyramids with skulls or pulling weeds—it doesn’t matter what it is. I don’t have to think about Skalitz or my parents or Sigismund or any of it. Sometimes it just gets to be too much.”
Hans is listening, but he’s stuck on: “Pyramids with— What?”
“I’ll tell you another time.”
Desperate curiosity prickles beneath Hans’s skin. “You’ll tell me now.”
“I’ll tell you another time.”
“Henry!”
“Another time.” Henry is firm, but warm. “You wanted me to rest, didn’t you? Those aren’t always restful tales. I’ll tell you another time.”
Hans doesn’t know how to help, so he says, “There’s got to be another way besides working yourself to the bone,” and lets the words trail into the breeze, where they’re promptly whisked away.
Clouds drift lazily in the sky, birds wheeling past. Hans fills his lungs until they burn, then lets it all out in a quick rush of air. He hears a huff of breath beside him, and does it again. Henry copies it, and they breathe together, slow and measured, until Hans inhales a passing bug and almost chokes.
Henry’s sitting up and thumping his back before his mind has a chance to catch up.
“Enough! Enough,” he wheezes, and Henry withdraws his hand, palm leaving behind a burning trail across his back.
He hangs his head forward, against his knees. “It isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten. My nursemaid made the most vile stew once when the cook was ill. I was sick for three days. It must have multiplied in my stomach. More stew came out of me than I had eaten, I’m sure of it.”
Henry laughs.
“I never touched anything she brought me to eat after that.”
“I would have done the same.”
“And I wouldn't go near a stew of any kind for months.”
Henry plucks a blade of grass out of the ground and shreds it in his hands. “I ate a bit of moldy bread when Ma had gone out to the baker’s.”
“On accident, I hope?”
“No, I knew it was moldy, I was just too hungry to wait for her to come home.”
Hans can imagine him—an awkward, ruddy-cheeked boy pacing around the kitchen—and it's a fonder thought than it has the right to be. A smile lifts his lips. “Typical Henry.”
“That afternoon, a tree fell onto the neighbor’s house, and I thought it was the mold's curse.”
Laughter bubbles out, uncontrolled. “But that doesn't make any sense!”
The corners of Henry’s eyes crinkle. “It does when you’re not even ten years old. You can’t say you never had any superstitions as a child.”
“Right… You already know about my carrot demon.”
Henry parrots his words back to him, a smug smile on his face: “But that doesn’t make any sense, Hans.”
He’s caught. “Henry…”
“The carrot, the stew—it seems like you’ve had some bad luck with… stuff coming out of you. Are you sure we don’t need to cart around a chamber pot, just in case?”
“That’s enough! I don’t need you cursing me anew."
This time, it’s Hans who remains sitting while Henry lays back down in the grass. He can physically see the exhaustion and tension ease out of Henry’s face, his lips going slack, the pinch between his eyebrows melting away as his eyes close. Hans allows himself to stare a little longer than he should, eyes roving across Henry’s face, down his chest—knowing now the litany of bruises hidden beneath his clothes—and across his arms to the faint rouging on his knuckles.
“I can feel you watching me, you know.”
There’s a smugness to the way Henry speaks that wriggles beneath Hans’s skin. Spots of red bloom on his cheeks, spreading across his forehead and down his neck, reaching the tips of his ears. He doesn’t give Henry the satisfaction of acknowledging his gaze. He flicks his eyes away, to focus on the grass, the sky, the clouds, the trees in the distance.
He clears his throat, a sudden scratch there. “I feel like we’ve spent too little time together lately.”
A soft chuckle, but Henry’s eyes remain closed. “There was a time not too long ago that you’d’ve done anything to be rid of me.”
Hans lays down again, shoulder brushing Henry’s, just slightly. “Well… Things have changed. I’ve missed having you around.”
Henry shifts, and it’s probably an accident the way his shoulder presses more firmly against Hans’s, but then he doesn’t move away; he stays, shoulders touching. Hans doesn’t move either. The grass goes shh-shh-shh. A bird squawks from high up in the branches of a tree across the field. Hans breathes in, and out.
So does Henry.
“I’ll stick around for a couple days. I don’t have anywhere I need to be urgently.”
He’s glad to be lying down, because the relief Hans feels makes his head spin. A flood of words pours out. “You must play dice with me. And we’ll go hunting. And compete at archery. I’m going to need retraining if I don’t practice soon. If you’ve been out brawling, you’re probably in better form than me, so I insist on a five-second head start.”
“That’s all well and good. But first: I need something to eat. I’m starved.”
“Let’s go back then.” Hans pushes himself to his feet and holds his hand out to pull Henry up. The grass has been flattened in the shape of their bodies, small patches undisturbed in the spaces between them—everywhere but where their shoulders touched. The sight burrows into him, almost as warm as the sun.
Hans doesn’t charge on ahead this time; he waits for Henry to walk beside him, the wind blowing the bottom of Henry’s tunic into his wrist. Henry’s stomach gurgles and they both laugh.
“It must be so tiring being ordered around by your stomach all day long,” Hans says.
“Eh, I’m used to it. Makes being ordered around by a lord a little less… irritating, I suppose.”
Hans nearly breaks his neck with the speed he whips his head around to look at Henry. Henry is staring resolutely forward, a smirk curling the corner of his lips.
Hans huffs. “Well, if you’re going to be like that— You still owe me a hundred groschen, I’ll remind you.”
Henry’s voice pitches a fraction higher. “For what?”
“For what? Our duel! I beat you, fair and square.” At Henry’s continued confusion, he adds, “By the lake. The wager was a hundred groschen. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten! Thought you’d get away with not settling your debts, hm?”
“Are you serious? If I remember correctly, we were a little preoccupied with staying alive after that. Forgive me for forgetting a wager on a practice duel.”
Hans can hear the eye roll and grins. Getting Henry’s blood up has always been a particular skill of his, and if he can rile him up enough, it’s bound to be entertaining. And lord knows he’s been in need of some entertainment the last couple weeks.
“How about this—we go again and if you win, then your debts are settled.”
“And if I lose?”
“Then…” A thousand ideas for how Henry could pay back his debt sprung to mind, but he pushed them away. “Then we’ll just figure that out when we get there.”
Henry chuckled and fell into step beside him. “It seems like you’re expecting me to beat you.”
“I’m expecting you to put up a valiant fight.” The sight of those bruises on Henry’s chest float to the forefront of his mind. “But not until tomorrow at the very least. You’re still injured.”
“I’m fine.”
“As your lord, I’m ordering you to rest first.”
Henry throws him a smile. “Whatever you say, Your Grace.”
“Oh, quit that.”
“Whatever you say, Sir Hans.”
“Henry!”
Henry sighs, long-suffering but not weary. “Whatever you say, Hans.”
That’s better. A strip of sunlight catches Henry’s hair again, filtered through the trees, and for the first time in a while, Hans has something to look forward to.