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Hans wakes up alone.
It shouldn’t shock him: this is how most of the mornings in his life have started. That was before.
It should shock him how quickly he’s grown used to Henry’s arms around him. He rolls over onto his front and drags himself to bury his nose in his lover’s pillow. He doesn’t need to hide his blush in the privacy of their room at the Den, but he does.
Sadly, Henry’s smell has faded from the linen, gone as he’s been for three days. Gallivanting around the country fixing everyone’s shoes and catching their chickens, as if Hans isn’t right here. Needing him too. He groans and fists a frustrated hand in the sheets.
Fuck, if he’s happy, then why does his heart still ache? It shouldn’t be possible to miss someone so much. Some days, Hans misses Henry from across the room.
Trust Henry of Skalitz to fix a war, and break Lord Capon in the process.
He is contemplating going back to sleep, with nothing to look forward to outside of their bed, when a commotion outside rouses him. He perks up, head off the pillow and ears cocked to better catch the sounds. Jesus, he’s turning into Mutt at this rate.
He struggles to make out the different voices all piling onto each other, but his heart knows, picking up a healthy gallop as he kicks the sheets to free himself faster. He’s just about stumbled out of bed when the door creaks open and lets in sunlight, only interrupted by the familiar and beloved silhouette in the middle.
Henry limps in.
“Fuck,” Hans curses, and launches himself across the room.
He is on his lover before Henry can close the door, catching his face between eager palms. “What happened?” he whispers, reaching around Henry’s tight shoulders to shove the door shut.
“Nothing,” Henry mumbles, his usual, stubborn self.
Hans tilts his head back to force him to meet his eye.
“I don’t feel particularly patient this morning,” he states plainly. It’s true on many accounts. One being the feat of restraint he demonstrates in holding back from kissing Henry senseless. And he is making it rather difficult with that silly moustache of his, framing a guilty little pout.
“I tripped.”
Hans tuts and takes a look down.
“How bad is it?” Stupid question. Henry looks like can hardly stand, and the way he avoids Hans’ eyes is confirmation enough.
With a sigh, Hans bends at the knees, slides an arm under Henry’s and another under his shoulders, and lifts him up like a maid.
“Hey!” Henry yelps, although he wraps his arms around Hans and doesn’t try to wriggle free. He really must be in pain, the lout.
Hans lowers him down onto the bed as gently as he can. He glares at him when the bastard has the nerve to roll his eyes.
“M’not crippled.”
“And yet it seems getting up the stairs took a great toll on you, you’re pale as an arse. Now spill, quick. What happened, who do I need to kill and do we need a sawbones.”
Henry giggles and Hans takes his first good look at him. It’s true Henry’s a little too white for comfort, and his brow is pinched. His gambeson is grey with dust and tattered, only his hose faring better because they were a present from Hans himself.
But under all the grime and exhaustion, Hans never fails to see the boy who once put a bucket over his head to make him laugh. In his mind’s eye, there is always a flower crown in Henry’s hair.
He mellows and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, bringing a gentle hand to Henry’s forehead. Henry still breathes harshly through his nose, but his eyes are smiling under Hans’ touch.
“All right, so you aren’t dying,” he relents. “You’re still hurt, and I want to help. So tell me.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer to take both hands to Henry’s left thigh and start carefully palming it, working his way down looking for the injury.
“I told you, I just tripped and sort of twisted my ankle.”
Hans reaches the knee and Henry doesn’t flinch. “Which one?”
“The right one.”
He twists his spine to reach for the offending foot and starts removing the cracked boot Henry insists is still good enough for wearing. If the bastard is immobilised, maybe that’s his chance to throw the eyesores away.
He tugs the laces loose and slowly frees Henry’s foot, bending close to check it for bruising or swelling.
“You haven’t answered my other questions. How did this happen?”
“Ugh! You’re like a dog with a bone today.”
Hans’ mouth opens in outrage. “A dog? Me?!”
“Yes! Stubborn as shit, you never listen and you only do as you please.”
“Henry, I’m afraid you have terrible references for dogs.”
Henry groans low in his throat in a way that is more canine than Hans will ever manage, proving him right. Smothering a grin, he presses softly into Henry’s ankle, looking for any sign of pain or something wrong under the skin.
“Well it doesn’t look broken. Which means you’re lucky. I would have killed you.”
“Of course it’s not broken. I just slipped into a hole by a root I didn’t see.”
Hans’ patience runs thin on a good day, but the fear crawling under his skin and the need to know if Henry is safe makes him snap.
“Henry, I said spill.”
“Ugh, fine. I… the other day, we rode past a spot where I saw some mushrooms. We didn’t have time then, but I thought I’d stop today on my way here. Bring back something nice.”
Hans deflates with a sigh that is both fond and irritated. “Good. So now we don’t have mushrooms and you can’t walk.”
“Oh, we have mushrooms. I left them downstairs.”
That pleased little smile finally breaks Hans’ composure. He grabs Henry’s chin and kisses him hard. Maybe even harder to feel how that moustache chafes against his upper lip. Part of him wants to emerge from this room marked, rubbed raw with his need for this other boy.
Another, louder, reminds him of the situation.
“I’ll go look for embrocation for your ankle. Don’t you dare move.”
A weary — still tender — hand lands in his hair and he looks up, painfully trained. Henry’s smile is so soft it makes Hans’ chest ache again.
“Hans, my ankle doesn’t hurt.”
“What? Then why are you so stiff?”
Henry averts his gaze, casting it resolutely to the other side of the room and the perfectly made, never used bed. He opens his mouth once, then catches himself and stops. Hans is about to lose his last thread of patience when that beloved voice makes itself heard again, too hoarse.
“My back seized up when I tripped. It… it hasn’t really been right. Since I fell.”
The memory returns in horrible flashes of red and panic in Hans’ vision, and his fingers unknowingly clench around Henry’s forearm.
His chest, God. Sometimes it feels like it will split open.
“Hal,” he says with his eyes closed, because he cannot do this with Henry’s pitiful cow gaze on him. “I order you to tell me those things from now on.”
When he chances a glance again, Henry has the decency to look sheepish. He nods, though, and Hans lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Some words are harder to force out than others – he learnt that in a room at Suchdol, borrowing someone else’s to unveil his heart. He doesn’t know a story for what he wants to say now, so he does his best by himself.
“It doesn’t make me happy that you hurt in secret.”
Those blue eyes can hold far too many things at once. Guilt floats somewhere within them, and yet they are still mostly obstinacy. Hans tuts and brings one hand under his Hal’s chin, unsure if he wants to caress or chastise.
“It doesn’t make you a better friend, or squire, or whatever else you’ve cooked up in that carved-out-turnip head of yours.”
Henry should be punished for how easily he undoes Hans with a snort, no matter how ungracious the sound.
“That’s a new one.”
“Did you listen to anything I just said?” Hans presses, though he fails to hold back a grin of his own.
“Aye. I’ll… I’ll do better.”
Hans doesn’t particularly like using his authority on Henry anymore — specific, naked situations excluded — but it is a last resort. If he has to order Henry to take better care of himself, or let Hans do it for him, then he will.
“All right,” he sighs. “Now show me where you’re in pain.”
With a grunt, Henry begins rolling over and Hans helps him, steadying hands on his hips until Henry lies on his front and allows Hans to finish undressing him. When he’s left only in his braies, he points an awkward hand at his lower back.
“Here.”
Hans hums and prods a knuckle at the swollen muscles. Henry hisses.
“Would heat help?”
“I… I think so.”
Without pausing his gentle exploration, Hans looks out the window, thinking. “You need one of those pouches full of cherry pits. We could leave it by the fire so it’s always warm when you need it.”
“Oh. Ma made something like that for Pa, I think.”
Hans pauses, thumb hovering above Henry’s spine. He speaks so seldom of his parents.
“Will you tell me more about them?”
He doesn’t have to look to know the puzzled frown that twists Henry’s strong brows.
“Uh… if you want.”
Hans leaves the bed with one last slide of his palm across Henry’s tense lower back. He hovers by his side, unsure. And leans to press a kiss on his shoulder before he can think better of it.
“I’ll be right back.”
He gathers Henry’s clothes to lay over the chair but keeps those dreadful shoes under his arm to throw to Mutt as a spontaneous chew toy. Hell, now that he thinks about it, maybe that’s what happened to them in the first place.
“Oh, and Henry?”
“Hmmm.”
“If I find you’ve moved in my absence, I’ll be very disappointed.”
Henry grumbles something into the pillow and Hans slips out laughing.
It isn’t a great feat to gather the supplies he needs. The soothing salve Henry makes himself, although he’s too generous to keep any stored in their room or in his saddlebags. A quick distraction born of Hans’ natural wits and charms is all it takes for him to snatch a jar and scarper. He steals some wine, honey, ham and bread and cheese, and a fresh apple pie. Maybe he’s not as discreet as he hoped when he climbs back up to their room, struggling to hold all his loot, but he needs to take care of Henry, and everyone and their mothers can fuck off if they mean to stop him.
His lips spread in a slow, satisfied grin when he finds Henry exactly where he left him. He unburdens himself by dropping most of his riches onto the table and picks up the salve only.
He mourns that it takes injury for Henry to allow himself to relax like this. When he sits on the edge of their bed again, Henry has all but melted into it, on the verge of sleep, if Hans is to believe the new haze in his eyes.
He sets about gently working the salve all over Henry’s lower back, pausing to play now and then with the hair there, the oil letting him draw patterns and comb Henry’s fur this way and that.
“You’ve got nice hands,” Henry mumbles into the pillow, his face turned to the side but still fairly squished into it.
“Wonderful, now you’re delirious with pain.”
Henry frowns and makes to rise on his forearm before falling back with a hiss. “I’m not taking the piss,” he says. “Always thought so.”
“Since when?” Hans asks, digging the bent knuckles of his right hand a little harder into the sore muscle, making his lover twitch.
“Since always, I said.”
Hans cocks his head, pensive. “It is true that my hands are quite proficient at wringing pleasure out of you.”
“Forget I said anything.”
With a tut, Hans wipes his hand on a corner of their bedding and puts the jar away. It doesn’t take much coaxing to guide Henry onto his back again. He is delightfully flushed, a perfectly ripe apple for Hans to dig his teeth in.
“I’m not forgetting anything. Sit up, just leave room for me so I can sit behind you. And then you can tell me all your dirty little thoughts about my hands.”
Henry’s cheeks are more cherry than apple when Hans returns to the bed and slides between Henry and the headboard, guiding the other boy’s back against his chest. Drizzling honey onto a slice of bread with his arms around Henry is awkward, but when a few drops land on that strong chest, Hans stores another idea for later.
He brings the bread up to Henry’s pouty mouth and nudges against it. “Come on. Eat.”
“I’m not a child, I can eat by myself.”
“I know, you’d eat an entire cow by yourself if left to your own devices. Care to indulge me, though?” Hans’ voice falters as he digs deeper into the treasure trove of his pesky desires for Henry. “I want to do this. Let me take care of you.”
He hides his face with a chaste kiss behind Henry’s ear. “I missed you.”
It feels like his words relax Henry more efficiently than the salve and his awkward massage did. “I missed you too,” Henry softens. “Why do you think I stopped for mushrooms?”
Hans takes a quick bite of his lover’s jaw. “Because you’re an insufferable hoarder who can’t help himself if he recognises a plant. You’re worse than a squirrel.”
“Fine then, no mushroom soup for you.”
Hans resumes his sweetness, feathering kisses up and down the back of Henry’s neck. “No, please. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t believe it.”
More honey drips off the side of the bread the longer Henry dithers and Hans tuts, trying to angle it back and getting some on his fingers instead.
“What would help you believe it more then, hm?” he asks, attempting to sound suave.
Henry tenses against him, unexpected. “I don’t think… with my back…”
“Oh God, you think I’m obsessed with yanking your pizzle, don’t you?”
“Well you are a bit, excuse me for pointing it out!”
There is a suspended breath before the tension seeps out in shared giggles. Hans tightens one arm around Henry’s middle and pushes the bread against his mouth again.
“Go on, open up. Maybe if you’re good you can suck the honey off my beautiful hands after.”
“I never should have told you that.”
Hans takes that last syllable as his literal opening and shoves the bread between Henry’s teeth. The glutton makes a vague sound of offence, but the honey on his tongue shuts him up, and he starts dutifully chewing as Hans feeds him little bites, until there is nothing left but a slightly sticky sheen on Henry’s chin and Hans’ fingers.
And since Henry won’t take a good offer when he sees one, Hans wipes his hand across his chest.
“Bastard,” Henry groans.
With his clean hand, Hans guides Henry’s chin to the side so they can share a kiss. He sucks that lower lip into his mouth until the sweetness transfers to his own tongue and Henry melts like butter in his arms.
“How do you feel now?”
Henry arches his back, testing for pain. He releases his muscles with a little groan. “Better.”
“I’ll see what we can do about a bath later.”
It is a crime the way Henry looks back at him, like he’s put all the love in the world in his eyes and left none for the rest. All of it to wreck Hans, even when he’s the one holding him.
“Thank you.”
Hans replies with a grunt and a kiss against his temple.
“Still hungry?”
“Always,” Henry laughs.
Hans feeds him the rest of his spoils, until Henry is giddy like he sometimes gets with his belly full, and starts pretending to bite his hands.
Hans lets him once, his index finger tucked between those eager teeth to see how hard Henry will go.
“So you do have a thing for my hands, hm?” Hans asks, hoping he sounds more smug than desperate.
The food and drink have turned Henry pliant, stupid sweet. He spits out Hans’ finger and gently cradles his hand instead, bringing the knuckles to his mouth.
“Hm. They’re nice.”
“How so?”
He knows when his Hal rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t dismiss him. Hans hooks his chin over a knotted shoulder to watch Henry pepper his hand in devoted kisses, and digs the weight of his head into the muscle to relieve him of the tension there, too.
Henry turns his hand over, again and again, traces the line of his palm. “You’ve got long fingers. Strong.”
Hans hums. Obviously, he knows this. He’s more interested in how that makes Henry feel. “That’s archery for you.”
Henry kisses the tip of his thumb. “They saved me quite a few times already.”
Hans’ cheeks heat up at the thought. He doesn’t like being reminded. Not because he isn’t proud of the times he pulled Henry out of danger, but because a festering part of him keeps a tally, and he’s losing.
“And punched you a couple, too.”
“Aye, but that was before.”
Before. How one word can encapsulate the devastation Henry has wrought upon his heart.
He leans their cheeks together. He isn’t sure he wants to keep talking after all.
“They make me feel good.”
Hans bites the slope between neck and shoulder in retaliation and Henry chortles, trying and failing to wriggle away.
Hans should hate the fact that, when all is said and done, Hal is the better poet of the two.
He will never tell him, though. Shouldn’t give him ideas of starting a new career. He’d rather leave Henry babbling and bullshitting his way through life outside those doors, and keep the words from his heart to himself.
God, it’s exhausting, this business of being in love.
Hans hadn’t understood it when he read about it in those books. It took a bumbling village boy, come out of nowhere, to give meaning to the words, and he’s terrified that the epics were right. That it’s pain and joy all in one, and that he might not be equipped to handle it at all.
Henry’s breathing grows heavy, head lolling back against Hans’ shoulder.
“Not that I don’t enjoy holding you like that, but I think you’d be more comfortable lying down.”
Henry groans, already half gone. The pain in Hans’ chest is an eternal battle between doing what’s best for his friend and a greedy monster that wants and wants and wants. With a sigh, he lets the first side win. He trails his mouth in a continuous kiss from Henry’s shoulder up to his ear and puffs air into it.
“Hnn!”
With a grin, Hans rolls them to their side and manoeuvres a sleepy Henry — heavy too, now they’re back to eating properly and the man can’t seem to lie still — under the cover. It’s a workout of its own to get those beefy legs up, balanced on Hans’ shoulder while he tugs the bedsheets out from under his lover, then wraps him up again.
Henry’s eyes are already closed when Hans slips a hand under his head and lifts it up enough so he can fluff that pitiful pillow as much as possible. When he makes to move away, Henry snatches his wrists, scarily precise for the state he’s in, and nearly succeeds in tugging Hans off balance.
“Come’re.”
Such a chaste request shouldn’t make Hans blush. And yet.
He bends, presses a quick kiss to Hal’s forehead. “I’ll be right back. Just cleaning up.”
Henry’s grip loosens and Hans makes quick work of gathering the crumbs leftover from their feast. With a pout, he throws it all out the window, with an extra slice of bacon, into Mutt’s expectant maw. Just because Henry isn’t looking.
He wets a cloth to clean his hands and divests himself of shoes, hose and pourpoint to remain in his underclothes. He pauses, frowning at his bare feet by the side of the bed. Why does it still intimidate him sometimes, getting into bed with his friend?
A knight in battle attire…
He shakes his head, laughing. Some battle he’s dressed for. Henry shifts and sluggishly casts a glance over his shoulder. With a hum, he scoots forward, making obvious space for Hans at his back. Hans shakes off his doubts and climbs in. He slips an arm under Henry’s head when he lifts it, silently asking, and carefully tucks the sheet around them before wrapping himself around Henry fully. His left arm drapes around Henry’s belly and he sneaks a caress up from the healthy padding there to rest in the middle of his chest. He brings his knees up to fit in the curve Henry has made for him.
It’s the middle of the morning and they’re both back in bed, absolutely indulgent. If a younger Hans had tried to picture a perfect life for himself, he couldn’t have dreamt anything better.
The bed is welcoming at last, Henry’s scent filling the space back up, and Hans inhales great gulps so it fills him, too.
“Are you ever so tired you can’t fall asleep?” Henry mumbles.
Hans closes his eyes and tries to picture it. He used to have such easy sleep, but there are days when the darkness of night encroaches on him like four walls and he needs a lit candle by the bed to let go. He isn’t sure he knows exactly what Henry’s talking about, but he can learn this about him too.
“Not sure. What would help?”
Henry lays a hand over Hans' forearm and traces it up and down, playing with the fine hair before stopping over his knuckles. Hans grins into his shoulders. Maybe tomorrow, or when Henry’s back doesn’t hurt, he can pry about the hand thing again.
“Sometimes, just… noise? Not — nothing like battle, more like talking. If I know there’s people nearby, sometimes I can relax my mind a little easier.”
“Oh…”
“It’s all right, I’ll fall asleep eventually.”
“No, no,” Hans protests, holding Henry tighter. “I can talk.”
The bastard has the nerve to laugh. “Ha! I know.”
Hans pinches a nipple to punish him — and feel him squirm. “Shut up and listen, then.”
Henry settles again, body growing lax and heavy.
“Um… Okay, I’ll tell you a story.” Hans clears his throat. “There once was a boy called… Jan. Who found the days very long. He was up with the sun, always eager for an adventure, but a lot of the time he spent looking out the window, wishing he was one of the birds circling high in the sky.”
He cringes at himself. What nonsense is coming out of his mouth? This is why he needs to stick to other people’s stories. Still, he’s committed now. Henry isn’t asleep yet and he’ll notice if the tale changes course too drastically.
“He found his joy where he could. Mostly in what was forbidden, and avoiding duty. Still, the days were… dull. Flavourless. Then one day, another boy came along. Dirty and bad-mannered but… bright. And free, in a way the first boy wasn’t.”
His whole face burns now, and still Henry doesn’t sleep, from the way he places a quick kiss on Hans’ arm under his head.
“What was the second boy called?” Henry asks, the little shit.
“Hal...bert.”
“Halbert?”
“Yes.”
Henry’s chest starts shaking, jostling Hans around him.
“That’s a fucking stupid name.”
“Yeah, for a fucking stupid yokel who can’t keep his mouth shut and listen to a story.”
One of Henry’s feet hooks around Hans’ legs, tugging them closer. Their shared heat is already too much in their little nook and they’re beginning to stick together with sweat.
“Come on, what happens next?”
“They go hunting and Halbert gets eaten by wolves.”
“No!” Henry gasps, still laughing. He struggles against Hans who easily settles him with a strong grip around his waist.
“Stop fidgeting, you’ll hurt yourself again.”
Henry relaxes with a huff and mellows with another kiss in his hair.
“How about a song then, if you won’t finish my story?”
“Henry, our hero Henry —”
“Oh my God —”
Hans cackles, sucking in his belly when Henry attempts to tickle him but he’s really too spent and easy to manhandle, Hans pinning those straying hands to the man’s chest. Laughter has deepened Henry’s breath and he sounds on the brink of sleep again.
Hans can’t find his voice to continue his stupid confession from earlier, so he brings a hand to Henry’s lower back instead, splays it so his thumb rests over the tense line of muscle along his spine.
Tentatively, he digs in, rubbing a slow circle.
“Does this feel good?”
And this is the moment Henry chooses slumber.
Hans scoffs, but continues his ministrations. He can’t be that terrible at it if the first touch of his hands finally puts Henry to sleep.
It hits him then. That Henry, with his nightmares and his pains and all the rest he hasn’t said yet, comes to him for comfort. He isn’t sure he understands why, but for all that he loves challenging established rules and status quo, Hans will never, ever question this.
Let Henry be mistaken, for all he cares.
He buries his face in chestnut hair where his smell is strongest, and this time, lets the greedy beast inside win.