Archive of Our Own

If there was one thing in Hans Capon's time as Lord of Pirkstein which he could accomplish for the good of his people, and really for all mankind, it would be to eliminate Spring.

The sun may begin to brighten windowsills earlier each morning, the days warmer and full of that smell; ripening strawberry bushes, marigolds curling up to the sky. But this was all a façade. A temptation for the infection that can take hold of ones body. A demon, the Nosoi, regaining life in the wake of the rivers heavy with new water, bringing disease and misfortune. Particularly to young, handsome Lords. It was smart, Hans had to admit, to look for the peak of mankind to take down.

Hans dug at his right eye viciously. Perhaps if he got into the small bulbous edge he could find it, whatever demon that had made its nest in there, making him want to gouge himself daily.

"I'll just be a minute, Sir!" Henry's voice from a few feet away, having left Hans to his death under a large oak tree.

"You said that an hour ago," Hans growled—or tried to, but his nose had betrayed him and his voice came out all wrong, a nasal imitation of authority.

"Sorry, sorry, I just didn't realise how much grew out here, and all my stocks were running low, my Ma would’ve knocked me round the head if I'd let them get this low at home," Henry's voice was getting louder, but Hans didn't deign him with a look. He was still trying to satisfy the overwhelming itch of his right eye, "Stop that, you'll cut your eye, Sir."

Hans hissed as Henry snatched Hans's hand away from him. He looked up at Henry then, water blurring his vision. He was smiling with such glee. Hans narrowed his eyes.

"What, did a tree yank on your pizzle out there?"

"What are you fucking on about?" Henry snorted, his good mood apparently unaffected.

"Why are you grinning like a lout," Hans sniffled, groaning at how pathetic it sounded. If his nose didn't stop running he might try to cut it off.

"Cause I picked these?" Henry looked down at the bouquet of florals he held tight to his chest; a blushing bride in a tacky green tunic. And that ridiculous red scarf. Unwashed, as usual.

"No one gets this excited about flowers, Henry, not even the witches deep in the forest."

"Just because you're a surling—"

"Excuse me!"

"You heard me, Sir Surling." Henry grinned as he dodged out of the way of Hans's kick, which was aimed at his shins, but instead reached thin air and had the effect of sliding Hans further down into the grass until his head hit bark.

"Can we please depart now, I've had quite enough of this for one afternoon," Hans gestured to the open field they'd stopped in between Rattay's widespread forest. Henry was tucking away his flowers carefully into his satchel.

"I don't think I've met anyone capable of being this grumpy about a sunny day in a field of flowers," Henry shook his head, meeting Hans as they walked back towards their horses, left to graze a mile back.

"Well some of us are bigger targets, more precious cargo," Hans went to scratch his eye, this time with his sharpest nail he'd been honing on his thumb, but Henry slapped it away again, "Do not slap your Lord!"

"You're not my Lord," Henry rolled his eyes, whistling to have Pebbles meet them, "Sir."

"You may as well not say it at all, with that attitude. You should be grateful I don't put you in the pillory more often. A less gracious Lord would have." Hans greeted his horse, a new stallion with a shining grey coat, appropriately named, Aethon. He gave him a long pet along his face, down to the nose.

"Thank you so much, my liege Lord and gracious host, for not having me put in the stocks after saving your life." Henry pulled himself up and onto Pebbles, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. Hans grimaced. He knew how much Henry bathed, and didn't want to know how clean Pebbles was.

"You should have just left me to die, had I known how much you'd use it against me." Hans followed suit, not kissing his stead, but giving him a firm, proper scratch behind the ear.

"I actually remember being told a bronze bust was going to be made of me, where is that, in your cupboards?" Henry's lopsided, peasant grin greeted Hans as they set off back towards the road.

"And I remember something about drinking a jug full of wine before you bothered to come get me." Hans couldn't help but grin back at him, his ridiculous face as infectious as the Spring air.

"Ah, you got me there, Sir, did I mention the nap I had as well?"

"I'm so glad to hear you got an afternoon's doze in, would have hated to have my page a little sleepy while I got stabbed."

The gravel road was as empty as they'd left it, but there was far less shade, the sun now beating down against Hans's back, a line of sweat beginning to drip along his brow.

"Alright, follow me!" Hans spurred Aethon on, without a second glance back to Henry. He could hear Henry's groan of frustration and the beating hooves of Pebbles as they attempted to catch up; he smiled in satisfaction.

The wind against his face was glorious. It was always a rush, no matter how many times he spurned a horse to its full capacity. To feel their bodies moving in tandem, allowed to move faster through the world than any man should. He spotted the bowed tree he'd been watching out for and made a swift turn, relishing the way Aethon had learnt the lean and press of his thighs.

Behind him, Henry's voice faintly called, "What the fuck, Sir!"

"Sorry, I can't hear you from all the way up here!" Hans bellowed in return, almost getting knocked flat by a tree branch for his comment. A worthwhile endeavour nonetheless.

He took Aethon through the trees he knew well, jumping a fallen log and nudging him softly to slow his pace as the terrain dipped. Pebbles crunched behind him, having caught up, and Hans directed them down and slightly left.

The trees began to thin, the ground softening as the forest opened up to reveal a the deep blue of a small hidden lake. Hans smiled wide. Finally, the first good swimming day of the year. He could at last wash this accursed disease from him.

Hans pulled on the reins, halting Aethon, and slipped from his saddle to land in the grass.

"Here we are!"

"Which is…?" Henry jumped down a little way down, casting a disgruntled look at Hans before patting Pebbles.

"My favourite swimming spot! It's perfect, hardly anyone bothers with it, and it's close enough to Rattay that one could safely stumble home in under an hour." Hans placed his hands on his hips and looked out over the horizon. Henry walked over to join him.

"It's, uh, beautiful, Sir," Henry's brows were furrowed. He picked at the edge of his tunic.

"I take it you weren't taken to many lakes before?"

"We had water in Skalitz, thank you!" Henry's voice got its Skalitz edge, as Hans had labelled it. Hans rolled his eyes.

"I don't doubt your town had fucking water, Henry."

Henry crossed his arms, looking back out towards the horizon.

"Well, no, not so many lakes in my past."

"Excellent! Another thing your Lord can show you," Hans clapped his hands together and tugged Henry's arm—larger than he expected, Sir Bernard's work he imagined—dragging them both closer. Once they were at the edge, Hans began to pull off his clothes, sighing as each one brought cooler air to his skin. Henry stood staring at the lapping edge as it wet the stones near his feet.

"We haven't got all day Henry, and wet braies on the ride home is something I wouldn't wish even upon you." Hans knocked him in the shoulder, pulling a smile out of him.

"I don't doubt that, Sir, I just.” He sucked in a breath, “Well I can't exactly swim."

"So?" Hans's forehead creased. He finally pulled off his tunic, stretching out as the sun hit his chest, for the first time in months.

"So?" Henry returned the look, "So I won't join you?"

"What you can't swim in this?" Hans stepped in to the water, internally wincing. He sucked in a tight breath, trying to hide how desperately cold it was. He turned and pointed down to where the water swished at his ankles.

"Very funny, Sir."

"Oh sorry, were you afraid of drowning in this?" Hans stepped further back until he was at his waist, the water creeping up to his stomach. Gods wounds, it was pizzle-shrinking cold. But he wasn't about to admit defeat.

"Alright, I bleeding get it!" Henry threw his hands up and began undoing his hose and pulling off his shirt, mumbling comments Hans could only half hear under his breath—“Scared?…I'll show…brat of…"

Hans watched as he shucked his tunic, left only in his braies. It seemed his arms were not the only things that had gotten bigger. His chest seemed wider, heftier than he remembered from their evening at the baths. Not that he remembered a lot from that raucous evening. Hans blinked as he realised Henry had moved closer, turning away from him and the odd feeling that had burgeoned in his chest.

Audentes fortuna Iuvat. The water licked up Hans's chest, as he held his arms above the water, avoiding the sharp chill. He heard a loud, “KURVA, CAPON” from behind him and took that as his queue to dive.

The water hit his chest like the impact of a mace, his whole body bracing at the cold. He swam slightly further in before popping out with a gasp and large breath of fresh air. It felt amazing. His whole body stung, his brain blissfully quiet. There was truly nothing like being in water; the pressure surrounding every inch of skin, the buoyant lift of him.

He rubbed at his eyes, mercifully less itchy—another gift of the water—and tried to make out Henry's form. He was standing at about knee height, face scrunched into a tight purse. He looked like he'd been kicked in the balls.

"How are you going there, Henry?" Hans couldn't keep the smirk from his voice and he could tell Henry heard it too as one of his eyes peeked open to glare. His whole upper body was shaking, "It's honestly nicer once you're in."

“I don't trust a word coming out of your mouth, Hans.”

Hans. The water didn't feel as cold all of a sudden.

Hanush would have told him off, learn to speak to your betters with respect. But he didn't always want to be like that man, did he? And Henry had saved his life. Hell, he'd brought him wine in the middle of the night. Surely, this meant they were, perhaps, something akin to, friends.

"Just dunk yourself in, all at once, like pulling out an arrow!"

"You're not meant to pull out an arrow!" Henry sucked in a deep, preparatory breath.

"Come on!" Hans rallied him, "Three, two, one, GO."

Henry dunked, his hair slipping under the water, and then, just as fast, he popped back up again.

"No, no no no no no, FUCK," Henry hissed through his teeth, turning tail and bolting out of the water, like a scared pup. Hans cackled, almost swallowing a mouthful of water.

"There is something wrong with you!" Henry called back to him from the water as Hans floated on his back.

"What was that? Come a little closer!"

Henry went quiet enough for Hans to stand up again, squinting out the sun to spot him raising a finger at him. Hans cackled even louder. He could practically see Henry's wet dog expression from here. He lay back again, lifting his chest and lowering his head until the water lapped the edge of his earlobes and he floated. The sky was a perfect blue.

When the chill began to creep into his toes he made the slow wade back to shore. Henry was sitting up in the grass, hair dripping into his lap as he meddled with something. He looked up when he heard Hans's splashing in the shallow end.

"Glad to see you didn't drown, Sir," Henry smiled, "Just give me two minutes."

"For what?" Hans plopped down next to him, "What are you doing?"

He tried to peak into Henry's circled arms but Henry jerked away.

"Hey! You'll just have to wait." Henry laughed at Hans's pout, "Did you think that brainless face would get me to change my mind?"

"You prick." Hans whacked him on the shoulder, "Well when you're done grab the wine, will you?"

"Broke both your legs, did you?"

"I'll break yours." Hans lay back on the grass.

A breeze wafted past them, goose flesh rising along his chest, but the sun still shone and he couldn't bear to force his tunic on while dripping.

"Ok, all done!" Hans turned his head on the ground to look at him. A colourful something was dangling above Hans’s head, Henry leaning partially over him, "Sit up for a second."

"For what?"

"Christ Almighty." Henry leaned further and placed a hand under Hans's shoulder blades, shoving him upwards.

"Hey! Wh—" Hans was interrupted by Henry shoving the item back in Hans's face. He looked down at it. A small circlet of flowers lay in Henry's open palms. A mix of red poppies and bright yellow marigolds. He looked up again at Henry's beaming face. Henry had made this, for Hans. He felt a little odd, like a stretching cat was waking up inside him, warm and clawing into his belly. Henry nudged it forward one more time before huffing and just placing it atop Hans's wet hair.

"Suits you." Henry nodded approvingly, reaching back in between his legs—a jolt in Hans's stomach, confusing and fleeting—to pull out another, this one made of blues and yellows. He placed it on his wet mop of curls.

You look like a fool. Hans bit his tongue.

"Suits you as well," Hans noted, the effort of the words palpable in the sheen of sweat against his palms.

"I used to make them, with my Ma." Henry shrugged, "I'd forgotten."

Hans wanted to ask, to prod, but his previous attempts had gone terribly, so he bit his tongue again. But not speaking for so long was equally frustrating so instead he asked, "About that wine then, Henry?"

"Of course, of course." Henry stood to get it, walking over to Aethon. Hans poked a finger softly to the crown. He could just barely see it in the edge of his vision. Then he sneezed, and again.

"This accursed weather," Hans groaned, picking up the crown that had fallen into the grass, inspecting it closely for damage before putting it back on.

"Do you get it every year?" Henry sat back down, hand him the wineskin.

"I didn't used to, but the last few years, yes." Hans glugged down some wine, sighing as the cool tang trickled down his throat. A swim, good wine and sun. Nothing better. As well as some good company, he supposed.

"Ah, probably shouldn’t have given you this then," Henry grimaced, going to pull the crown off him but Hans's body moved of its own accord, leaning away from him. Henry raised an eyebrow, amused.

"You can't go giving out noble gifts and then taking them away again." Hans huffed. The sun had begun to burn his ears, the tips of them hot.

"Noble gifts?" Henry snorted, but he dropped his hand all the same. Hans passed him the wine.

"Anything presented to me as a gift is noble."

"Well, I gave a peasant's gift to Bianca and she used to react the same. Actually, she used to get those red eyes you have too!"

"Red eyes!" Hans pulled at his eyelid, horrified. Henry grabbed his wrist this time, having the audacity to laugh at him.

"Not like red, red, more like," Henry squinted, staring at Hans's eyes. Hans didn't move a muscle, "Like if you'd been crying or something."

"How is that any better," Hans wrenched his hand away from Henry's, and tried to rub at them again, "I don't want to walk around like a heartsick wench."

"Stop! I promise you look more like a foolish twat, if that helps—Hans! You'll make it worse," Henry leaned over him now, trying to take hold of his wrists, but Hans dodged, curling sideways because the scratch was feeling so good.

Henry launched himself onto him. Hans, still curled into a ball, gasped in outrage as Henry straddled him, the side of Hans's left thigh pressed into Henry's groin. He wrapped both hands tightly around each of Hans's wrists.

Hans tried to arc his body back, but was stopped by Henry's knee. Henry pulled, hard, wrenching Hans's fists from his face and up towards Henry's chest, Hans’s body twisting to face him in the process.

"You little turd!" Hans cried, but he was laughing now, struggling against Henry as he moved to hold both of Hans's fists in one hand. He used the other one to push the edge of his palm against the side of Hans's skull, pressing him back into the ground. His legs squeezed.

"Do you yield?" Henry's mirth trickled into Hans's ear, so much closer than he expected. A shiver spiked down Hans’s spine. The grass tickled his eye.

"Never." Hans tried to refocus on his own body instead of the heat of Henry's all encompassing grip. Henry was strong, stronger than the last time they'd fought, but Hans was always more nimble than his thick, peasant body ever could be.

Hans wiggled his legs, feeling for the room between Henry's grip and then swiftly straightened his top leg, twisting to the side so Henry dropped suddenly. He swore and, as Hans had hoped, he let his hold on Han’s arms loosen, the instinct to brace his hands on the ground almost getting the better of Henry. But no matter, this was still enough.

Sliding a hand free before Henry could tighten his hold again, he maneuvered himself flat against the ground. Henry pulled his legs in tighter around Hans's hips, and Hans hissed at the pain on the bone. Henry was grinning down at him, wild-eyed.

Henry took Hans's moment of distraction to drop himself closer, letting go of Hans's hand only to shove his palms into the bone along Hans's shoulders.

"Losing your touch?"

"Trying to see if I could poke your eyes out." Hans struggled against him. He could feel his breath against his face. Henry's grin got wider. An idea came into his head, something he'd only seen in tavern brawls.

He made a gross, guttural noise with his throat, relishing in the confusion and then bracing of Henry's face as he pushed his head forward and spat, with perfect aim, if he did say so himself, into Henry's left eye.

"Gah! Do prdele," Henry groaned, his hands reaching up to wipe off his face. Success.

Hans vaulted his body upward with every inch of force he could muster, shoving Henry back and pulling up his legs in one swift movement. He landed on Henry like an animal, on all fours, knees on the outside of Henry's hips and his feet tucked under Henry's knees to restrain him. He almost made it to Henry's arms but Henry had recovered and brought his own up to meet Hans.

"Nice try, almost mistook you for a dirty peasant with that trick."

"Where do you think I learnt it, turnip-picker," Hans huffed, trying to wrestle back control, but they were in a deadlock, Henry's hands around his own as they pushed back and forth.

"I didn't know you stooped to scrabble with us low-life folk." Henry's grin was back, but he was beginning to pant like Hans, concentrating firmly on Hans's left bicep. Hans held his breath as Henry tried to twist them sideways, bracing his abdomen and fighting to keep himself on top.

"A good Lord always keeps an eye on his people." Hans's voice was straining. He could see Henry's forearms beginning to shake.

"Wasn't there some wine we were meant to be drinking?" Henry gave Hans a questioning look.

"What, can't keep up?" Hans tried for haughty, but it was deeply undercut by the heaving breaths he had to take in between. Hans frowned as Henry's face turned mischievous.

Faster than Hans could even react, Henry shifted his grip from Hans's palms down to his forearms and bucked, flipping them both back onto the grass. Hans, once again, underneath.

"Will you start scratching your eyes again if I let go?" Henry cocked his head to one side. Hans stared daggers up at him. Blood was coursing through him. He didn't want to stop, wanted this adrenaline high to keep thumping through his heart and gut. But he felt the clamp on his wrists, Henry’s grip impenetrable to Hans's writhing, "You know it's just making them redder."

"What?" Hans was distracted, trying to find some point to break him, "The scratching?"

"Yes, you idiot."

Hans looked up at him. Agreeing to stop at this point meant losing. It meant Henry would move back to his spot next to him in the grass. Hans's wasn't sure why that was a problem, but it was, his brain was yelling at him to prevent this at all costs—

Henry let his weight fall more onto Hans and he winced. Shit.

"Fine, we can call it a draw."

"A draw! You're impossible, Hans," Henry barked a laugh, his head thrown back. Hans. "Fine I'll agree to a draw if you agree to keep from putting a finger in your eye."

"I can agree to those terms."

Henry rolled his eyes but let go, sitting back on Hans's lap. Hans pushed himself up onto his arms, tucked behind his back.

"I thought you said there was wine?" Hans said, before he realised this meant Henry would get up. An odd hollow feeling sunk into him as Henry's weight and warmth lifted from his gut. He frowned, grazing a finger at his bare stomach. A good fight, nothing beats it.

A wineskin was shoved into his face.

"Come on, I want to see how well you manage riding through those trees with half of this in you."

"Henry, Henry!" Hans called, hands in the air.

"I'm already looking at you, Hans," Henry snorted, swaying a little on his feet.

"No, but you have to watch, watch carefully, Henry," Hans drawled, nodding profusely, "Are you watching?"

"Yes, do it already," Henry grabbed hold of a tree branch to steady him.

Hans grinned, planting his two feet firmly, or at least flat against the ground—any firm stance had left him two drinks ago—and then swung dangerously forward onto his hands. His palms pressed into the grass as his legs bounded upwards and into the air. Blood rushed to his head, already spinning with wine, and Hans could see a small curl of black hair on Henry's big toe—he tipped too far forwards, legs flying over himself and arms buckling as he landed with thud and a mouthful of grass.

"Sir!" Henry roared with laughter. Hans groaned, his body sprawled in the dirt, "Are you ok?"

"Fine, of course," Hans choked on a bitter strand of grass.

"Need a hand?"

"No." Hans pressed himself up onto his hands and knees, spitting out remnants of dirt from his gums. He looked down at his white chest, now covered in splotches of mud.

"Is this what you were trying to do?" Henry's voice sounded strained, and Hans looked over at him. This infuriating peasant PRICK.

Henry tottered on his hands, his legs vertical, but slightly bent, Hans noted, not as straight as they should be. Henry swung his legs back and onto solid ground, holding his hands out to steady himself as he brought his head back up to its normal position.

"Ha, cool," Henry grinned, "My head feels all funny." His face was flushed and boyish. Hans wondered if this is how he looked to that girl, that Bianca.

"Well you're meant to be straighter, so that hardly counted."

"You hardly counted," Henry pouted and then furrowed his eyebrows, "Sir."

Hans threw his head back in laughter, leaning his hands back on the ground, "Ok, ok, that mightn’t ‘ave been my best show, but I bet I can shoot straighter than you."

Henry cocked his head to one side, looking down at his groin and back up again. A flush creeped up Hans's neck.

"With my bow." Hans croaked, looking over at Aethon where his bow was slung.

"And what do I get when I win?"

"The honour of going against a Lord in competition!"

"That's shit, Sir."

Hans cackled again, uncontrolled, Henry’s soft breathy laughs egging him on.

"Fine, fine, I'll… umm…" Hans leaned back on his hands, trying to get his brain to think past Henry's leering face.

“Whoever loses has to...” Hans struggled, trying to think of something satisfactorily humiliating, “Has to be bathmaid to the other.” Hans waggled his eyebrows, “No funny business, obviously.”

"Deal," Henry reached down, holding his hand out to shake on it. Hans took his hand and yelped when Henry pulled him up instead. Hans stumbled over to Aethon, who nosed at him while he grabbed the bow and some arrows and walked back to Henry.

"Closest to that where that branch connects with the main…stump…bit, wins. Four tries." Hans rolled his shoulders back, "Should I go first? Show you how its done?"

"By alllll means, Sir Hans Capon, Lord of grass-munching."

Hans ignored him, well apart from the slight twitch of his top lip, but he quelled that almost instantly, focusing on the branch. This was his element, his time to shine. He knew just how to compensate for his drunken, swaying form, having spent more than a few late nights after the tavern alone in the archery range.

He pulled back the string, thumb pressed close to his nose and took in a deep breath.

"Don't miss," Henry whispered, his soft hair running a line along Hans’s neck. Hans shot swung wildly up and then sank into the earth.

"That doesn't count!"

"On what grounds!" Henry's mirth knew no bounds, his face full of wicked glee.

Hans narrowed his eyes, then kneed him swiftly in the balls before turning back to notch another. Henry's breath caught and he groaned. Hans heard him hit onto the ground.

Deep breath, shoulders down.

Thump, thump, thump.

Three perfect shots. Hans grinned, turning around to face Henry. He was cupping his groin, curled to one side on the ground, his cheeks puffed out. Hans leaned over him, arms on his waist.

"Come on Henry, all this laying about won't get you a win."

Henry shot daggers up at him. He turned back to the ground, closing his eyes momentarily before huffing and standing back upright. Henry stalked over to him, snatching the bow and then punching Hans hard in the gut as he took his position.

"You weasel," Hans wheezed, bent double. Henry ignored him, taking up a stance at the tree. He pulled back his string, the bow shaking violently in each hand. Hans watched in disbelief as Henry seemed to wait until his hands had lost all control on the bow to fire, the arrow shooting limply into the dirt.

"That was pathetic."

"Shut up," Henry said, frustrated. Hans wanted to make him more.

"How are you worse than when we competed like a month ago."

"Not all of us have the time to waste away at the shooting range," Henry bit back, but Hans just grinned wider. He walked over to him, tripping on a wineskin and almost pushing Henry over.

"Hey!" Henry turned and Hans stepped back, hands up in surrender.

"Sorry, stupid wine, thing, anyway. You're holding it terribly," Hans slurred. He tried to swallow a few times, his tongue heavy.

"Well fuck you too, Sir."

"Our Lady givesssme strength." Hans rolled his eyes, "Set yourself back up."

Henry paused, but then did so without further question. He pulled back his bow but Hans pushed his fingers off the string.

"No, no it's before all of that," Hans tutted, "Just…just stay still. For a minute."

Henry obeyed, again. Hans stepped back to see him clearer, circling his body to check his elbow and shoulder, the split of his legs.

"Ok, you need to, uh." Hans head was awash with the warm, buzz of wine. Sir Bernard’s words of technical instruction, any single book or phrase refused to come to him. "Ok just—"

Hans walked around to his back, mocking up his own stance directly behind Henry, chest almost flush with Henry's back.

"What are you doing, Hans?" Henry's voice was thick, much like Hans', with wine.

"Shush, I'm trying to think." Hans bent his knees slightly, dropping to Henry's shorter frame. Ah, much better. He could see the tilt of Henry's shoulder this way, the jut of his arm in all the wrong angles. He pushed his hands into Henry's hot skin, molding him into the position he would have taken. Then he stood back, hunching over to look at Henry's legs.

Henry had a very round, firm arse, which clenched a little as Hans looked. Hans wondered if his looked like that. He'd never really thought about arses in terms of firmness before. He supposed it was an important consideration in the holistic approach to warfare and body preparedness and all that stuff Sir Bernard liked to yell at him while he sprinted up and back along the training ring.

“Hans? The fuck d'you go?” Henry's lilting accent came out more when he was drunk, Hans noticed. He’d in fact noticed before, but it made him smile this time. I know this man. I know what he sounds like drunk. He knows that I can shoot a bow better than all of Bohemia while two wineskins deep.

A pleasant heat had begun filling his chest when Henry tried to turn around.

“Stay put!” Hans gripped his hips and turned him back to face the tree, “I'm tryna... tryna figure something. Hang on.”

Henry's butt was more tense than before, his legs bolted straight—a rigid line from Hans's firm hold, to the soles of his feet. No wonder he was such a bad shot, the man had no give.

“You need to relax.” Hans shook him a little and Henry yelped, much to Hans's delight. He wanted to do it again but Henry wrenched Hans' hands from him.

“It's hard to do that with a Lord up my arse,” Henry grumbled. Hans poked the back of his knee, another yelp, “HANS!”

“Relax here.” Hans poked the same spot again, and watched as Henry followed his instructions. Good. Hans poked at the other, and then took hold of each leg around the shin, stepping one slightly further forward and the other a little back.

Hans took a step back to admire his handiwork. Henry stood very still, a model student.

“Now take a deep breath.”

“I know how to breathe Hans.”

“You clearly don't.”

Hans walked up behind him again and placed a palm on Henry's stomach. It was also very firm. Nothing like a bath maids soft curving belly. And why should it be? Hans shook the thought away.

“Breathe in, make this big.” Hans instructed, poking his abdomen, his head near to Henry's shoulder. Henry didn't move for a beat, but then Hans felt his belly rise, and then fall.

“Now when you pull the bow back this time, breathe like…like you just did. And let it go free with your, uh—the out breath. And stay loose, you're all tense again.”

Henry grumbled through his teeth. But still, he took in a deep, full breath, pulling back the bow. The bow still shook ever so slightly, but angle was firm, shoulders stable. With a strong exhale, he released the arrow. It shot out, straight enough, digging itself into the bark.

“Ay!” Hans cheered, elation swinging through him, his arms up in celebration. Henry turned to face him with a wide, bright smile, his downturned eyes bright in the moonlight.

“I hit it!” He grabbed Hans's shoulders and leaned in, and for a small, desperately confusing, heart-thumping moment Hans imagined a soft press of lips. Hans stopped breathing entirely.

Henry's head moved to Hans's right, his arms wrapping around Hans in a tight squeeze before letting go, “You're not a bad teacher, huh.”

Henry turned back around, setting himself up to try again. Hans tried to watch how he moved, but he was so dizzy. He pressed a finger to his bottom lip.

“Sir? Hans?” Henry's voice came back into focus, and he jumped, blinking up at him. Henry looked concerned, “You feeling ok?”

“Always! Looks like I still won, but don't be disssssenheartened, not many turnip-pickers could rival me with a bow,” Hans spurted out words, thankful, for once, for his mouth's ability to move separately to his brain.

“How kind you are, M'Lord.” Henry snorted. He walked the bow back to Aethon, placing it delicately onto the ground, putting his hands up in front of it momentarily as if it was going to slide back, "We even then."

“Even! I'm the clearssst winner.”

“I stood on my hands, did the leg thing.” Henry pointed out, literally, his hand waving towards the grass as he stumbled back a little on his feet. He laughed again, at himself this time, and Hans couldn't help but join, feeling as if this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life.

“I'm gonst sit, just for a minute," Hans said, the dizziness becoming spinning as Henry's face become two. Two Henry's...

“I'll help y'ssir." Henry bounded over to him and together they clumsily sat back onto the earth, Hans swinging his whole body back so he could see up to the stars.

“I'll think of s'thing. A break, a breaker of the evenness,” Hans mumbled, “Just give me a minute.”

“Ok,” Henry's reply was so soft.

Hans could see so many constellations. He wanted to share them with Henry, he probably didn't know them – he probably couldn't even find them! But his mouth was so heavy. He'd do it later. Another time. He smiled to himself. Another time.

“Hans!” Henry's voice, like a church bell clanging in his ear. Hans jolted upright, blinking heavily.

“What!” Hans groaned, rubbing his head. Did Henry clobber him with a sack of flour?

“We fellssasleep, it's nearly morning.” Henry knocked his shoulder, pointing at the horizon, which was beginning to warm with a light yellow hue.

“Sakra,” was all Hans could manage. Henry cackled, falling back onto the ground. Hans looked over him with a glare, “Are you still drunk?”

“Are you still drunk?” Henry beamed at him, rolling over to lean with his hand pressed into his cheek. He watched Hans for a second and then slipped, his head jolting before he caught himself, “Yeah maybe I am.”

“We should probably get back, before my Uncle has my hide for disappearing again.”

“That twerp,” Henry huffed, dramatically, sitting upright again.

“You fucking lunatic.” Hans beamed down at him. This peasant, this foolish, headstrong, auspicious man whose now wicked grin made Hans's stomach suddenly flip.

Hans stood, reaching out to pull Henry up with him.

“You go ready the horses, I'm just going to splash my face.” Hans gestured vaguely to Aethon, not waiting for Henry before turning away and wandering over to the waters edge. He cupped his palms, scooping up some cold water and pushing it against his face. And then, for good measure, he scooped again, dunking it over his head. It trickled down his back, a shiver coursing through him.

He turned to rejoin Henry, rolling his shoulders, but stopped short just a few yards out. Henry had leaned his bare chest close to Hans's horse, his head pressed heavily against him, patting his hand slowly against his hair. Which would all be fine, if he wasn't at the wrong end.

Hans stepped closer, eyebrows raised. Henry still didn't notice him, even when he stopped just behind him.

“You're such a good boy, aren't you? Big, strong, fierce—”

“Are you trying to seduce my horse's arse, Henry?” Hans interrupted Henry's cooing, crossing his arms. Henry startled, pulling his head back and turning to Hans. He looked up to the crown of Hans's head.

“You're wet,” Henry replied instead, his eyes not moving from Hans's forehead. Hans panicked, roughing his hair up.

“What? Is there something on me?” Hans gave up his hand and just shook his hair out instead, like a dog, running his hand through it once more to flatten it back down. A bit curled into his eyes, “What! Why are you looking at me like that?”

Henry seemed to come out of his trance, moving back down to Hans's eyes.

“The horses a’ready, Sir,” He garbled, slapping a hand on Aethon's rump.

“Ready for what, Henry,” Hans sniggered, eyeing Henry's firm grip. He had to hand it to him, for all his nosing around Aethon's behind, the horse had yet to spook. Henry followed his gaze, his cheeks flushing a tomato red.

“I wasn' defiling your horse!”

“The more you speak, the more you implicate yourself.”

“Sir!” Henry put his hands in the air, “I would never.”

“No, Henry, it's too late, I've seen what you're like now, please step away from my horse's arse,” Hans spoke solemnly, but felt his cheeks twitch, betraying him. Henry stepped away, head bowed.

“What can I do to rebuild Aethon's trust,” Henry pouted, moving over to Pebbles and grabbing his clothes which had made their way on top of Pebbles' back. Hans looked down at himself. He'd forgotten he was still half-bare.

“He enjoys freshly pulled carrots and lemon peel water.” Hans drawled, finding his clothes piled neatly beside his carry bags. He didn't remember doing that, but thanked his past self as he began pulling on his hose, “And Kolaches.”

Henry stumbled in his hose, a laugh barking out of him.

They pulled on the remainder of their clothes, replacing the saddlebags and wineskins and—the light had risen a little more, Hans’s eyes catching on a splotch of colour on the green. He wandered over as Henry set up his own saddle, leaning down to pick up two, slightly mushed flower circlets. He tucked them into his pourpoint before he could think more of it.

Then, Hans went upright suddenly, turning to face Henry with what must have been a terrifying expression based on Henry's reaction.

“I've come up with our final competition.” Hans clapped his hands together. Henry raised an eyebrow, “A race.”

Henry's lip curled.

'”A race?”

“Back to Rattay.”

“Any rules?”

“Don't die.”

Henry laughed, a glint in his eye that Hans was sure he matched. Henry pulled his bags back onto Pebbles, latching his foot into the stirrup to loop his other leg over his saddle. Hans followed suit.

“Ready?” Hans leaned forward, watching Henry roll back his wide shoulders, reset his seat.

“On three?”

“Three, two, one, GO!”

“Shush,” Hans waved at Henry furiously, his clanking steps up Pirkstein Castle sure to wake the whole town. Henry pushed a finger to his lips, nodding, and then giggling to himself. He fell against the bannister and then pulled himself back upright. How did I lose to, that. Hopefully, Henry was drunk enough that he wouldn't remember half of the evening by morning. 

Together they crept through the main door and down the corridor. Hans opened the door to his room, and pointed in. Henry crept up to him, pushing his nose almost flush against Hans’s and shushed again, loudly, before slipping inside.

If Hans laughed any more he was sure his abdomen would split down the centre, so he bit the inside of his cheek and followed his drunk, half-witted page into his own room, closing the door.

“That's my bed!” Hans hissed at Henry's propped-up arse, his legs trailing on the floor, his face pushed into Hans's mattress.

“Butswherprotet,” Henry attempted. He pushed his head back and swallowed, trying again, “But this is closest to the door. Issss the guard bed.”

“You aren't my guard.”

“Sss'I am.” Henry flopped back down onto Hans's bed.

“For the love of,” Hans rolled his eyes, and then sighed, “At least get on there properly.”

“I is.” Henry mumbled, trying to inch himself up further onto the bed like a slug. Hans was going to tease him so mercilessly about this tomorrow. But for now, he leaned down and grabbed Henry's ankles, swinging him around so he was the right way along the bed, dropping them back down so his feet flopped over the edge. Hans huffed, and then pulled off his shoes too.

“Thanks, Sir.” Henry curled himself into a ball, turning to face the room.

“If you vomit in there you will be doing my laundry for a month,” Hans warned, moving over to the spare bed and kicking off his shoes. He lay back, still in his clothes, his whole body aching and weary.

“Thanks, Hans,” Henry said again. Hans couldn't see him from where he stared at the ceiling.

“You already said that, fool, go to sleep.”

“Noo... it's for, for...” Henry's words faded off into a wet mumble.

“Sleep it off.” Hans curled his feet under the sheets. His mind buzzed, unable to stop replaying the evening, Henry's big goofy smile, the sun baking his skin. He hadn't had that much fun since...Hans frowned.

Hans had fun; was a purveyor of fun. If his uncle were to hand him a list of his many sins, it would surely be filled with a delightful range of hedonistic amusement that his noble self was notorious for. 

He wracked his brain, full of memories, his favourite tavern tales: just as drunken, just as foolish. Nowhere in them was this light, giddy feeling; the sense that his belly was replete with a particularly good rabbit stew.

Something coiled in his body, tight and unyielding.

He would get his cook to make them something in the morning. Bacon, Henry surely would devour bacon. Maybe they could see Sir Bernard. They probably both needed a good soak. Would probably take the whole day, at least.

Hans looked down at his clothes. He would overheat very quickly in these. He pulled at his hose, throwing them on the floor, and then his pourpoint, startling when something fell out. The two crowns sat on his bed. He stared at them. 

Then, very quietly, as if Henry's drunken stupor would suddenly break, he slid them under his pillow. For safekeeping.

Hans slid into the spare bed properly, pulling the blanket over him. The air around him smelled like flowers. 

Hans scrunched his nose, taking in quick, short breaths—Achoo!

“Ugh.” Hans groaned.

“Don’ scatch,” Henry’s voice, half-asleep.

“I won’t,” Hans's fingers hovered inches from his face.

“Good.” Henry’s body shuffled, the noise of hair nuzzling against sheets.

Hans turned onto his side, curling his finger into a fist and tucking it under his pillow.