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1.
“Why is your portion bigger than mine?” Sir Hans asks, so genuinely appalled that it’s almost endearing instead of annoying.
Henry is busy waving to the couple of regulars that are sitting down at the other table. The tavern is rather full this morning. It’s no wonder. The air is still fresh from the night’s rain, crisp and inviting, it would be downright criminal to break fast inside.
“No, I mean it,” Sir Hans twirls the spoon in his fingers, looking at his plate like it offends him. “Is my money somehow worse than yours, is that it?”
“Wouldn’t matter if it was,” Henry raises his eyebrows, eyeing his own plate appreciatively. The smell is divine. “Seeing how I was the one to pay for the both of us. So shut up and eat.”
Sir Hans does have a point, though. Henry ordered two standard breakfast plates but his has one more sausage and the piece of bread is larger. Hm. He looks into the tavern’s window, trying to see who is in the kitchen this morning, and catches the sight of a familiar face. Ah.
Henry smirks, taking a generous gulp of water.
“It pays to be polite to the kitchen staff, let’s just say that.”
“Polite? I’m always polite!”
“My lord,” Henry says, sincere and forgiving, “there’s a long road between being genuinely polite to the workers and not being an utter prat to them at every opportunity, and you have barely travelled on that road.”
Sir Hans huffs. “It’s just alehouse girls. I’m just the right amount of polite.”
Henry kicks him under the bench. Sir Hans hisses. “Alehouse girls are the ones that feed you. They’re the ones that would be kind enough to offer you clean water when you’re parched or free food when you’re truly starving. So if you can’t manage being polite because it’s a right thing to do, at least be polite because it’s useful.” He pauses. “I really hope that we would never find ourselves in a similar situation again but… you never know what God has in store for you.”
Sir Hans offers no retort to that, silently digging into his food. Henry sighs. He has a lot of skills, and turning every topic into a morbid one seems to be one of them. His lord might be wrong, but… Henry shouldn’t use their unfortunate adventures as a way to prove a point. It makes Henry feel bad. Especially when he sees a frown pinching Sir Hans’ eyebrows. After a moment of thought, Henry breaks his piece of bread in half and offers it to him. The man accepts without even a nod, but the frown disappears, so Henry considers it a win.
“My first sweetheart worked in an alehouse,” he says. “Bianca, was her name. Even before we got together, she was always so sweet and welcoming. Always made sure to have cold beer for my dad, and the best schnapps for me. Everyone loved her. I’m… sometimes reminded of her, when I talk to tavern maids.” He chances a glance at Sir Hans. The man looks at him, strange longing written on his face. Henry feels bashful all of a sudden. “I’m not saying I’m nice to the tavern girls in her memory or anything, it’s just… I think of her sometimes. And… I dislike when people are mean to kitchen staff.”
Capon rips the last of his bread into pieces and drops them into porridge, mixing it all up slowly like he is brewing a complicated potion. “Your girl… she didn’t survive the attack, right?” Henry nods. “I’m… sorry. Were you serious about each other?”
Henry shrugs. “As serious as two young people that haven’t known any sorrow are. We haven’t thought about what we want after, haven’t thought about future at all. But we were sweet on each other and spent a lot of time together. It was… I’m glad I experienced that before the peaceful part of my life was over.”
They finish their breakfast. The heavy feeling in Henry’s chest leaves, and when he signals for the maid to pour them a round of cool water, he realises that the bittersweet feeling he usually gets when talking to tavernhouse girls is much quieter now. Sir Hans offers a quiet Thank you when the girl refreshes his cup, and that brightens Henry’s mood even further. He taps his boot against Capon’s under the table, calling for attention, and smiles at him, wide and approving, and then smiles even wider when the man hides his face behind the mug, definitely embarrassed.
2.
Maybe, just maybe, running into his lord’s room in the middle of the night like there are cumans on his tail was not a good idea, Henry thinks idly as Sir Hans marches across the yard right towards him, eyes burning. People make way for him, watching with detached curiosity.
“What the hell was that last night, Henry?”
Definitely not a good idea.
“Good morning to you, too, my lord,” Henry greets, putting on his best innocent face that got him out of trouble with the law on more than one occasion. He even got away with accidentally stabbing a chicken once.
Sir Hans huffs, crossing arms over his chest. “I mean it, Henry. Why, for all that’s holy, were you pestering me for the whole night, asking for— I can’t even remember what you asked me for!” Paper. Ink. Some groschens. Fancy sealing string. “Because you know what? I was sweetly, soundly, asleep!”
A smile comes unbidden, stretching Henry’s mouth, and he hurries to hide it behind his hand. His young lord looked so unguarded in his night clothes, confused in his half-asleep state, it was unlike Henry has ever seen him. It was almost endearing. In an… enlightening way.
“I’m going to strangle you,” Sir Hans says, definitely noticing the smile. Damn it. “Right this night. Will see how you like it when someone interrupts your sleep. Now, stop smiling!” He gives Henry’s arm a light slap. “And talk!”
Henry can’t stop smiling. He is in a good mood, and his lord’s temper tantrums always sound funny when he is in a good mood. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry!” He isn’t, not really. “I promise it couldn’t wait until morning.”
Probably feeling disarmed by Henry’s unapologetic smile, Capon just raises an eyebrow.
“So here’s the thing. I was drinking with a group of traders from Troskovitz, and it turned out their caravan is headed toward Sasau! Sasau! I knew I couldn’t pass a chance like this.”
Sir Hans’ face scrunches, full of confusion. “What do you mean, pass a chance? What could you ever need in Sasau? Does monastery life call for you again?”
Henry should’ve never told him about the damn monastery. “There’s a trader route from Sasau to Rattay, I’m sure you know of it. It departs every two weeks. The caravan should arrive just in time to cross paths with them.” He wants to explain more but he can clearly see patience waning thin on his lord’s face. “A letter,” he says. “I arranged for a letter to be delivered to Rattay.”
“... A letter to Rattay?”
Henry stills at Sir Hans’ disbelieving, disapproving tone. And then it hits him.
“It’s not for the lords of Rattay!” The words fumble out of his mouth. Shit, shit. Sir Hans keep looking at him, face serious, without a hint of usual fondness. Shit. “Your Grace!” Henry stands up, straight, like a soldier. “I know you don’t want to write to the lords of Rattay. I know. And I know I told you I disagree with you, that circumstances changed, but I would not go against your direct order.” His heart is beating so loud everyone around must hear it. “It was a personal letter. I promise.”
Henry is breathing through the nose, trying and failing to control the pace. After what feels like a lifetime, something thaws out in Sir Hans’ face. He gestures for Henry to sit down, a gesture he instantly obeys. He risks a glance around. No one seems to be nearby. Thank God, the people here had sense to clear out, the fear of being noticed by an angry noble outweighing their curiosity.
“I believe you,” Sir Hans says. He offers nothing more. Henry would prefer an insult over this detached tone. Since their very first meeting, whether it's from joy or ire, there has always been passion in every word said by his lord.
“It is the truth,” he says. “I should’ve explained it right away. I didn’t even think it… would come off wrong. I’m sorry.”
Sir Hans nods. “Who is the letter for?”
“Theresa.”
“Hm. I thought she wasn’t your sweetheart.”
That is true. Henry shakes his head. “She is a good friend. I just… I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to her when we were leaving Rattay, and now that, well, we have no way of knowing when we will be able to go back…” He pauses. “Just wanted to let her know I’m okay. She has more fire in her than a gunpowder barrel ready to blow up. Needed to make sure she wouldn’t pick up a crossbow again to start a one-woman march to save my sorry arse.”
She is not his sweetheart, it’s true. They did feel a connection. Shared a wonderful date and no less wonderful of a kiss. But they both quickly realised it was just a wish for familiarity, for comfort from someone from their old life. They did not need to have sex or be in love to receive that from each other. In no time, they became the steadiest of friends, each other confidants. Henry treasures her, truly.
At that, Sir Hans finally huffs a something resembling a laugh. “Fits what I’ve heard about the gal.” He exhales. “You’re free to write to her, of course.” And adds, “Fetch me wine.”
“But—”
“Wine. Now.”
Henry feels guilty enough that he doesn’t even protest. And then he feels even more guilty because he understands he is the reason his lord feels the need to drink first thing in the morning. He asks the cook for two cups. He finds Sir Hans right where he left him, in the shaded table under the stairs, lost in thought.
Henry thinks about how he was full of laughter not more than twenty minutes ago, and he feels slightly sick.
They drink in silence, the expressions on their faces warding off everyone who might want to approach.
“Henry.” His name — like a command. Henry straightens in the chair. Sir Hans watches him, chin held high, shoulders wide, an air of true lordship around him. “Be better at your explanations next time. You understand?” At first, it seems… unfitting. A non-reaction, a non-answer. But right there, at the very end, the pitch of his voice slightly wobbles, so slightly you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his voice better than your own. It would sound like an order to anyone else. It sounds like a plea to Henry.
Of course he understands. It didn’t occur to him until he heard his lord’s voice shake. The mere thought of the trust being broken between them made Hans just as sick in the stomach as it did Henry.
I had to hear you confess about betrayal.
There are no words in the world to convey truthfully how sorry Henry is for making him think that.
And since words aren’t enough, he reaches across the table and clasps Sir Hans’ hand into both of his palms, sincere and secure, the way he always clasps his hands when he prays.
“I understand. I promise.”
And just like Henry heard everything left unsaid by Sir Hans, he trusts that his lord will hear everything left unsaid by him.
3.
Henry successfully hides under the maypole for the good fifteen minutes before Sir Hans finally finds him.
“Henry-y-y-y! My lad!” his lord yells, stumbling over an uneven patch in the grass. Good God. “What are you doing here? Come back! There’s still wine!”
“I’m good here, thank you,” Henry declines, saluting him with a half-full tankard of hard ale.
Two local youths, one from Zhelejov and one from Tachov, made a promise to be wed a day before, and now both villages are having a rowdy celebration near the Tachov’s tavern. It’s sweet, if he is to be honest. He was invited as a guest of honor, too, for his help in bringing an end to the old feud. Henry made sure to congratulate the guy and the gal, shared a toast with the elder ones, and quietly retreated to the field behind the tavern as soon as everyone got tipsy.
Sir Hans makes a wide dismissive gesture with his arm, almost losing his balance again. “Don’t be a pisser, Henry, it’s a celebration! Don’t you want to drink? Play dice? Dance?”
“God, no!” Henry blurts out. “No, no dancing,”
Capon barks a laugh, dropping down to sit near Henry, right on the slightly damp soil. His breath smells of wine and something sweeter. Probably ate half the plate of kolaches once again.
“I didn’t know dancing offends you that much!”
“It doesn’t,” Henry offers politely. “It’s just… have you ever had… a not very good… dancing partner?
“Plenty!”
“Have you ever had one that made you feel like you are laying in the middle of the road, dying, because three horses have just rode over you?”
“I… what?”
Henry huffs a laugh. He shifts, his back against the maypole. “There was a girl at the wedding. The wedding.” Sir Hans makes a little ah sound. “Her mother asked me to dance with her because no one else would offer. She said she is just shy. Turned out, she is the worst possible dancer in all of Bohemia! She kept stepping on my feet and I swear before God I felt life drain from my body. I met Cumans that were gentler, I shit you not!”
“Hah! Choose your stories better! I saw you at the wedding, Henry! Are you telling me one of those two little dames you danced with stomped on your feet so hard you have now sworn off dancing?” Now when did Capon find time at the wedding to count how many girls Henry has danced with? “Ridiculous!”
“She elbowed me too! Multiple times!
“I’m sure she did!”
“To my face!”
“Aww, not your face!”
That’s it, Henry thinks, scrambling to get up. “I’ll show you!” He shoves a hand at Sir Hans. “Get up!” The man blinks at him, face drunk and ridiculous, but grabs onto his arm anyway. It takes them a moment to stand straight, both tipsy, bodies soft.
Henry puts his hands just below Sir Hans’ shoulders and drags them around in a small circle. “Look,” he says, head bowed down to look at their feet, “we were standing exactly like this,” he steps to the side, “then moved like this,” brings his foot up, aiming, “and then..!”
Sir Hans shrieks with laughter, moving his foot away. “You lunatic!”
“No-no, come on, let me show you—” Henry squints, trying to stomp on his foot again. “Just stand— still—”
“Not a chance!” Sir Hans yells, shuffling away. He steps back — Henry follows, he steps to the side — Henry pulls him back. And the man just keeps laughing, choking on it, and Henry stumbles and almost makes them topple, hiccups — and starts laughing too. They twirl together, right over the nice patch of poppies, and one of Henry’s hands finds home over Hans’ waist, and they try to follow the barely-audible notes of the tavern music, giggling over every misstep.
They stumble over a steep upclimb, and somehow in his drunken haze Hans manages to curl his palm protectively over Henry’s nape, making sure he doesn’t hit his head too hard when they fall. They catch their breath for a moment, Hans sprawled over him, and laugh softly, getting air into their bellies.
The stars are numerous in the sky, twice as many as there usually is, doubling through Henry’s tipsy haze. Hans’ breath is hot against his neck.
Henry would gladly forget everything else tomorrow if it meant he would never forget the sensation of Hans’ breaths tickling against his skin.
“This wedding is much better than Semine’s one anyway”, Hans murmurs eventually.
“It is?” Henry says, confused. He knows all too well of his lord's lavish tastes, and this particular gathering is not even close to meeting all of his ridiculously high standards.
Hans shifts, settling right near Henry's side, just so his head rests comfortably on his shoulder. Henry's hand naturally follows down to lay on the slim waist once more.
“I got to spend this one with you”.
And Henry thinks, Oh. And he thinks, I went to that wedding well-dressed and well-fed but I felt poorer than when I was stumbling through the forests like a hog because you looked at me like I was no one to you. And he thinks, Dancing with that girl was awful but seeing you dance with some woman and save your smiles only for her felt even worse. And he thinks, The moment you start making sense you do something that leaves me wondering if I have ever truly understood you.
He tightens his hold, head leaning to the side, just so his lips almost brush against the blonde hair.
And he doesn’t say anything.
4.
As Henry makes his way towards the inner gates of the castle, a bag full of broken horseshoes heavy over his shoulder, something urges him to pick up the pace, like a silent command he didn’t hear but needs to obey.
“I ask again, where is he? Answer me this instant, you fool!”
Ah. That would do it. Henry’s ears have indeed been trained to pick out his Lord’s voice from very, very far away. It’s truly subconscious at this point. Urgently and silently, like the way he moves during his infiltration missions, he approaches the forge, coming to stand right beside Capon.
“My Lord!” Henry greets. The blacksmith looks heavenward. “How can I be of assistance?”
“Here he is, sire! Carryin’ horseshoes, just as I said!”
Sir Hans turns around swiftly, looking at him with hawk-sharp eyes. Henry fights to keep his face straight, wondering what sin he has managed to commit by helping in the forge today. He loses said fight, annoyance marring his face, when Sir Hans snaps his fingers, calling Henry to follow him. That is just plain rude.
“So,” Henry starts as soon as he closes the door to his room, “what did you—”
“Why can I never find you in this godforsaken castle?”
The words are sharp, hot like a slap against Henry’s face.
“You are never where you say you will be. When you appeared just now? It was to my, believe you me, utter disbelief, because you used the smithy as an excuse many times before and you were never there. I checked.”
“... You said it yourself multiple times, it’s a big castle.” It certainly is bigger than Henry's list of excuses. He really should come up with more.
Capon glares at him. “Not that big,” he says, crossing arms over his chest. “You are supposed to be at my beck and call. Do you even remember what a page usually does?”
“We… never really done it the way it’s supposed to be?”
“Well maybe we should start to do so!”
“Hans,” Henry says, gently, stepping closer, laying his palm over Capon's forearm. “What’s going on? So you can’t find me sometimes. It’s never been a problem before!”
Hans purses his lips. “The problem is not that I can't find you,” he says, contradicting his earlier words. “Is that you're lying about where you are. And I might not know where you are, but I know who you are with.” He squints, an ugly smirk curling his lips, and Henry instantly knows what he is going to say. “You keep disappearing with that… girl. The one that allegedly does not remember you. You act like thieves and— and have your rendezvous, and it’s a miracle from Mary no one talks about it yet, seeing how gossip is the only trade here.”
“No one talks about us?” Henry says. “You sure?”
Capon bristles even more. “This is the only thing you gathered from what I said?”
Dread pools in Henry’s stomach but he ignores it. Memory of their argument weeks ago surfaces, and he ignores it too. It’s fine. All is fine. As long as Hans is angry, not cold and detached, it’s all fine. Henry can salvage it.
Out of all things, accidentally making your lord think you’re scheming behind his back is not what Henry wants to excel at.
“It’s not what you think it is,” he says, words falling fast and hot from his mouth. “I promised you, didn’t I? That I wouldn’t do anything behind your back?”
A strange, lost expression settles on Hans’ face.
“I… yes, you did, but what does—”
“She is not a spy,” Henry continues, just as fast. “Or an informant. Or anything. We don’t talk about the pond stuff, okay?”
“... Pond... stuff?”
Henry nods. Aside from the moment they met during the incident with the gallows, Henry begging for her help, they haven’t said a word to each other concerning anything even remotely touching politics or nobility or their first meeting. He honestly thought they wouldn’t cross paths again unless something drastic happens but, as it turned out, not only she is a vicious little thing, she is also… lonely.
And nice, underneath all that bluster.
“She still doesn’t remember me,” he says, making a funny intonation at ‘remember’. “It’s probably for the best.” He thinks for a moment. Hans is often too loudmouthed when it’s not called for. Better to spell it out. “Actually, if anyone asks, we don’t know her at all.” He doesn’t want to put her in any danger. Well, extra danger. He is sure she is knee-deep into something dangerous already.
Hans still has that dumbfounded expression on his face. Or calculating, maybe? It also awfully resembles his Henry, are you stupid? You are stupid. You’re a stupid peasant and you’re lucky I like you expression. God be his witness, Henry can’t come up with a reason for that one to be present.
After another ten or so seconds of uncomfortable silence, Hans finally speaks.
“Then… what are you doing with her?”
That, at least, is easy to answer.
“Alchemy.”
“Alchemy?”
“Yes, alchemy. We go to the top of the westward tower and argue about— anything, really. Just yesterday, we had a shouting match about the proper way of removing marigold petals.” Laughter finds it way into Henry’s voice at the memory. “I thought she would stab me with the same scissors she was cutting the petals off!”
That’s where their rendezvous, as Hans called them, began. His cauldron overboiled as he was experimenting with brewing time of Hair of the Dog, and Katherine happened to hear him yelp from the room across. She tended to the burn on his hand, as displeased as ever. Her What were you even thinking? was supposed to be rhetorical, he could see it, but he still answered as if it was a serious question. She paused, looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time, and started rambling about how it’s all about the preparation of St. John’s herb, not the boiling time. They ended up arguing about the recipe for hours. And when she slipped up, saying how her company is full of drunkards, and Henry pointedly refused to ask any personal questions, she relaxed, smiled, and said she might visit him again for more alchemy talk.
They never spend time together outside the tower, and whenever they walk past each other, Katherine scowls at him like she does at everyone else. The kitchen cooks call her a harlot and give Henry the freshest pretzels whenever she glares at him too hard. Seeing how there is, indeed, no gossip about them being secretly friendly, they both play their public roles right.
Except his smart, brilliant, nosy lord ended up noticing Henry disappearing too often. Henry is sure that when his stomach settles after all this worrying, he’d feel flattered.
“I’m sorry,” he says, when Capon offers no more commentary. “I promised I would be better at talking to you, and now I went and cocked it up.” Feeling bold, he takes Hans’ hand in his, grasping tightly, bringing it to rest over his heart. “Let me make it up to you?”
Hans blinks at him, and then—
Laughs.
Sweet, bright squeaks of laughters.
Henry’s heart stutters at the sight of his lord’s brightened face.
Hans’ palm turns in Henry’s hold, bringing their joined hands closer to him, and for one delirious, wishful moment Henry thinks he is going to leave a kiss against Henry’s knuckles.
“Come then, Henry. Get us some mead from the kitchen. You owe me at least that. And maybe some alchemy wisdom too.” He pauses. “Or you can finally steal that Italian wine from Chamberlain—”
“Mead it is,” Henry interrupts him, opening the door to let them out. Capon has been pestering him about getting hands on that wine ever since Chamberlain bragged about it three mornings ago. “And as much of my wisdom as you want.”
(Henry ends up stealing the wine.)
(He can’t ever say no to his lord, after all.)
5.
Henry wakes up to the feeling of a grass tickling his nose.
He scrunches his face, turning away, hoping to move away from it and nap some more, but the damned wisp of grass follows him, smartly, like it’s intent to annoy him. Hm…
“Fascinating. You have no trouble sleeping while the blacksmith hammers over and over right next to you and with the sun shining right on your face, but a bit of tickling does it for you? Really, Henry.”
With a sigh of defeat, Henry slowly sits up. No chance of going back to his nap, it seems. The sun exists, the blacksmiths exist, the brawling drunkards and rowdy children exist, and yet the most annoying thing in this world is, somehow, his lord.
Henry blinks the sleep from his eyes. A slight breeze catches the drying linens (the ones he thought he cleverly hid behind to nap), and he catches a glimpse of the blacksmith’s forge. Radovan is inspecting a freshly made axe, turning it this and that side, lips pursed. The displeased expression melts instantly when his wife comes round the corner, calling him in for dinner. He kisses her soundly, first on each cheek and then on the lips, and playfully pats her bum as they take their leave. Henry chuckles. Seems to be a part of a blacksmith’s trade.
When he glances at Hans out of the corner of his eye, he sees a wistful, thoughtful expression settle on his lord’s face as he, too, takes in that picture of family bliss.
“Ever thought you’d be happy like that?”
The question is sudden and vague and Henry is still drowsy from his nap, but somehow he instantly gets what Hans meant.
“I used to,” Henry says, simply. It would’ve been hard not to wish for a life like this, watching his parents share easy happiness every day. He used to think he’d grow up exactly like his father, be a blacksmith the same way he is, settle down with a wife that he would love and be loved by her in turn, and have a son one day that would continue the tradition. Blacksmiths of Skalitz, for many generations to come. Even when his head became full of dreams of adventures, he still believed that eventually he would come back and settle down.
But Skalitz is no more.
Hans shuffles on the grass, arms settled over the knees. “And… now?”
Now. After the cumans. After having lost Skalitz and his parents. After enduring torture and torturing others in turn. After bloodying his hands beyond all measure. After learning of his bloodline and being saddled with new responsibilities.
… After gaining new opportunities. After watching the sunset from the walls of one of the grandest castles of his homeland. After understanding what it means to protect with all your honor and sometimes beyond that honor. After learning every possible trade under the sun just so he can live a day longer, thrive, provide.
All that, because of just one person — one amazingly annoying, annoyingly amazing person — he has been lucky to have met.
Well, the answer seems rather obvious, when you put everything down like this.
Henry nudges Hans with his shoulder, an easy smile gracing his lips. “How can I be happy settling down with any woman after I have met you?”
Hans’ eyes fly wide open. With a quiet fascination Henry watches his lord’s face go red, up to the tip of his ears. Henry’s face scrunches in confusion, a silent question. Was it… too much to say that?
… It’s Henry’s turn to go wide-eyed as Hans shuffles closer to him, much, much closer, and wraps his hand around Henry’s, squeezing gently.
“Did you mean that?” Hans asks, quietly, almost shyly, eyes shining really, really bright. “You… did you? Really?” And also, even more quietly, sweetly, painfully earnest, “Henry?”
Henry blinks. Then, “Mutt,” he calls. “Guard.” And he leans forward in one short, sure move, and captures Hans’ lips in a kiss.
They kiss gently, recklessly unafraid, the sun bestowing blessing upon them through the canopy of leaves, hidden by the tall grass and uneven shade and the long row of hanging linens and the quiet hour, Mutt dutifully circling around them, ready to warn. Henry’s free hand comes to rest at the line of Hans’ jaw, fingertips brushing against the soft earlobe. Hans’ whole body gives a shiver at that, and Henry’s own body absolutely sings with joy.
At the back of his mind, Henry thinks back to the last thing he said, and oh, the realisation comes, and he laughs against Hans’ lips, just for a moment, before leaning against him with intent and pushing him down, licking into his mouth, making his body shiver once more, Henry’s hands cradling his head, fingers sliding between the silken strands. He thinks back even further, and further, and further, with increasing delight at all the little lovesick things Hans did and Henry missed.
“Of course I did,” Henry says, low and whispery, breathing in the warm air between them. “Of course I meant it.” He hasn’t even known how much he meant it when he said it.
Hans looks at him, flushed and wide-eyed, and smiles at him, wide and earnest and loving, the way Henry always wanted him to smile at him, the way Hans has smiled at him before, Henry realises, Henry just didn’t know Hans meant it too, even back then.
Mutt growls, and Henry swiftly rolls to the side and sits up, chest rising-and-falling rapidly with deep breaths. The innkeeper is slowly descending the tavern’s stairs, eyes down, carrying two big heavy pitchers. Henry commands Mutt down and takes a second to catch his breath, looking around. No one else seems to be around, not that he doubted his loyal companion.
When Henry looks at Hans, his breath is lost once again at the sight of Hans all flushed over, eyes open wide and full of wonder and shine, lips wet and reddened. Like he has been kissed like never before in his life.
“Come,” Henry says, standing up and offering Hans his hand. “Let’s go.” And when Hans blinks at him, too boneless to get up, adds, “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Hans blinks at him once more, and grants him yet another smile.
“Please, lead, my Henry.”