Chapter Text
There were limits, Henry thought, to what he would do in the name of minimum wage, and tonight was dangerously close to pushing them all.
“Hal! I need you in the Dragon’s Lair.”
“What?” Henry just blinked at Jaroslav as he took the mop and bucket from his hands with a grimace. “I was on my way to clean up after that girl in Sir Puttsalot—“
This was not, strictly speaking, what Henry was employed to do. But Tuesdays were two-for-one cocktails and half price entry, and so it was all hands on deck. Plus, he felt partially responsible for the girl in Sir Puttsalot; it was her birthday, they’d been in the same lab group for a semester, and he’d mixed her a very generous espresso martini.
“Change of plans,” Jaroslav said glumly, handing an increasingly nonplussed Henry a whistle. “Janek’s on it. Can you tell the group in the Dragon’s Lair that we’re closing?”
“At half ten?” Henry held up the whistle. “Hang on, what’s the whistle for?”
“Oh, for getting their attention.”
“Getting their— wait, what the fuck—“
Jaroslav was already hurrying off with the mop, yelling back down the corridor: “Sorry, Hal! But Janek reckons they might listen to you.”
Bemused, Henry shoved the whistle in his pocket and headed back the way he’d come with a weary sigh.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for the job. He was. He’d be beyond fucked without it, his overdraft already groaning at the seams, and most of the time, it wasn’t even that bad a way to spend an evening.
Most nights, all their customers were long gone by eleven, and he’d close up with Janek and Jaroslav. Janek would pour each of them a healthy measure of schnapps and insist that they always did this and had Hanush’s blessing to help themselves. Henry couldn’t quite decide if this was the truth or if it was pity schnapps. Maybe both.
The Dragon’s Lair was their largest course, themed — as was the rest of Rattay Races — in a vaguely incoherent medieval fantasy style, with the centrepiece being a dragon huffing out dry ice, which doubled as the final hole. Before he moved to the city, Henry had always thought of ‘crazy golf’ as a series of sparse but cheerful greens of moulded plastic next to a run down shack where you could buy barely chilled cans of coke and rent five rickety clubs and a battered ball by the hour. This was nothing like that. Various sound effects played loudly as all the gaudy set pieces flashed bright in the dark, the balls and clubs glowing purple in the UV.
He caught himself wondering a lot what Fritz and Matthew would say if they could see him now. They’d probably laugh themselves stupid.
Henry rounded the corner and caught his first glimpse of the group he’d been sent to remove. They were getting a little rowdy — he could see two were sitting on the dragon’s head, drinks precariously balanced on a wing — but nothing that explained why Jaroslav had been scuttling away nervously. This was fairly tame for a Tuesday night. No one was throwing up or throwing punches, no one was making any serious attempts at property damage, nor were they—
Then Henry saw him, his aggravatingly blonde hair almost luminous in the low light, his loud guffaw echoing across the room and setting Henry’s nerves on edge. Of course. Of course it was him, the smug bastard. Of course he and his stupid friends thought it would be hilarious slumming it in the Rattay Races, in their merino quarter-zips and their ugly boat shoes and their stupid chino shorts. He couldn’t quite tell in the darkness, but Henry just knew his shorts were probably yellow or red or some fucking stupid colour. He always looked like he’d been violently accosted by a fucking crayola starter set.
Henry didn’t pull out the whistle. He wasn’t going to need it.
“Evening, gents,” he said loudly, plastering a placid smile on his face. “Time to wrap it up, I’m afraid. We’re closing in ten.”
Go on, Henry thought savagely, go on and argue, you entitled little shit. All their faces swivelled towards him in a mixture of mild confusion and vague disappointment, but he wasn’t interested in those. There was only one face whose reaction he was looking for.
Sure enough, Hans Capon’s head turned towards him with his chin raised and his eyes flashing furiously, mouth already open in a half-formed protest. Upon seeing Henry, recognition blossomed across his face along with an angry flush high on his cheeks.
“Look who it is,” Hans said, leaning casually against the plastic dragon with an infuriating level of cultivated ease. “Rattay’s latest nepo hire. It’s the long lost Kobyla.”
This garnered a bunch of titters and smirks from his hangers on, which Henry ignored.
He kept his voice as level as he could. “Bit rich coming from you, isn’t it?”
“Careful,” Hans said, just as levelly though with a very sharp edge. His one redeeming quality was that Henry clearly got beneath his skin as much as Hans did his. “Care to explain exactly what you meant by that?”
“You know what I meant,” Henry told him, smiling determinedly through his teeth. “Anyway, we’re closing early tonight. Time to finish up.”
“God, you really think you can throw me out, don’t you?” Hans stood up straight now, those pink spots on his cheek flushing ever more angrily. “I literally own the place, you fucking simpleton. You just work here.”
“Your uncle Hanush owns Rattay Races,” Henry said stubbornly, “and he hired me, so I’m just doing my job like he asked. We’re closing.”
“He hired you,” Hans said, taking a step towards him, “as a favour, you idiot. And not even to you.” There was a brief pause as they glared at each other, Hans’ group now looking increasingly unsure. One stepped forward to place a hand on Hans’ shoulder, which he shrugged off with an irritated jerk.
“I’m just doing my job,” Henry repeated, and maybe he was as bad as Hans when it came down to it, adding mildly: “Not that you’d know anything about that.”
“My name is on the deeds,” Hans said, “my uncle is simply acting in a caretaking capacity—“
“Can’t say I blame him.”
“— and don’t think that just because Kobyla’s apparently developed a paternal instinct that I give a shit who you are,” Hans finished, now stood squarely in front of Henry and looking mutinous.
“Not asking you to give a shit.” Henry’s palms were damp where he kept clenching his fists at his sides. “Just asking you to leave.”
Hans was inches from Henry’s face, all blotchy flushed rage and clenched jaw. He dropped his voice a notch. “I’m not blinded by your little sob story, you know, not like everyone else. Keep this up and I’ll have you fired.”
Henry’s temper flared bright and furious in what his Pa would’ve called his worst instincts. He’d have told Henry to take a deep breath and use his head. He’d have told Henry a lot of things.
“Oh yeah? Lot of admin, that. Wouldn’t you find it a bit too much like hard work?”
Henry expected the fist that slammed into his jaw, slightly startled by the force behind it nonetheless, and he knew he ought to feel something that wasn’t grim satisfaction, but he couldn’t find it. He was going to actually get fired, probably, and he didn’t care. He balled his own fists and gave as good as he got.
They both slammed into the side of the dragon, the hollow fibreglass groaning in alarm in time with the campy roars playing over the speakers.
One of Hans’ friends actually held out one of the clubs towards him, and Henry was savagely gratified to see Hans wave it away. He understood, then, that this was bare fists or nothing. Henry needed to feel the skin of his knuckles against Hans’ mouth, the blood in his teeth from Hans’ fist in return.
It felt good not to be underestimated.
At some point, Janek must have killed the sound but not the dry ice, and by the time Jaroslav had a fistful of the back of Henry’s shirt and Hans’ friends were hauling him away in the opposite direction, they were both coughing.
“Jesus, Henry,” Jaroslav was hissing frantically, grabbing for him again as he lunged forwards once more. Somewhere to his left Henry caught an echoing what the fuck, Birdie, Hans paying about as much attention to that interjection as Henry did to Jaroslav. He was saying something else by Henry’s ear, but Henry couldn’t hear him.
Hans’ lip had split badly, he noted with some pride, and had bled all over his crisp white shirt and expensive merino. Henry was fired, no doubt, he was beyond fucking fired, but he couldn’t help but twist his aching jaw into a satisfied grin.
It was the strangest thing, but as he caught a flash of bloody teeth, he was certain that Hans grinned back.
“You are incredibly fucking lucky that I’m not firing you,” Hanush said, and Henry kept his mouth firmly shut and his eyes respectfully directed at the floor. He couldn’t agree more. “You broke my dragon.”
“That’s your objection?” Hans said incredulously, and Henry raised his head to look at him from the corner of his eye. The two days since their fight hadn’t been any kinder to him than they’d been to Henry, the pair of them sporting a rainbow assortment of bruises and sitting in their respective chairs stiffly. “The fucking dragon? He broke my nose!”
Admittedly, Henry did feel a little bit guilty about the nose. He’d been on the other side of that particular equation, courtesy of Fritz and a hurried getaway over a wall, and hadn’t enjoyed it much. Hans had entered Hanush’s office wearing oversized sunglasses, and no wonder — now they were off, Henry could see the bruising beneath his eyes was an oil spill of ugly colours. His lip was still swollen, too, not that it stopped him articulating every word with displeasure.
Still, Hans hadn’t complained. He’d give him that.
“The dragon,” Hanush said, a warning edge to his voice, “never talked back.”
Hans rolled his eyes and slumped down further in his chair, arms folded. Henry, meanwhile, sat ramrod straight, hands tucked nervously under his thighs. Hanush’s office in Pirkstein even smelled expensive: the slight smokiness of wooden panelling and the faint tang of old metal trophies behind glass.
He’d been here before, including the first disastrous time he met Hans Capon, not long after the first time he’d met Radzig. He’d got the job at the Races here, Hanush narrowing his eyes at him over the miniature golf cart on his desk that he would roll absently back and forth when thinking something over. He had one hand on the roof now, wheeling it over his memo pad as he considered them both.
Hanush’s attention swivelled back to Henry, both friendly and threatening, a unnerving kind of scrutiny that made him squirm.
“Now, what to do with you?” he said, almost not to Henry at all. “You’ve had quite a year — not that it’s an excuse — and Jaroslav says you’re very good with the customers.” Hanush snorted. “Present company excepted, obviously.”
“Again,” Hans said loudly, “he broke my nose—”
“So tell me,” Hanush continued, even more loudly than his nephew, “what could possibly have led to the kind of behaviour you both displayed on Tuesday? Hm?”
A brief but tense silence followed.
Hanush placed both elbows on his desk and glared at them both. “Was my nephew drunk? Disorderly?”
Hans groaned. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“No,” Henry said truthfully, shaking his head. “I mean, he might have had a drink or two, but nothing like that.”
“Did he run his mouth?”
Hans looked at Henry out of the corner of his purple-rimmed eyes, and raised a shoulder very slightly before turning away with his jaw clenched. Henry hesitated for a long moment.
"Well? Did he? It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“No,” Henry said, suddenly decisive. “No, he didn’t.”
Hans raised his head again with a sharp jerk.
Hanush leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed. “Hmm.”
Henry took a deep breath. Martin had been a great believer in facing the music. Perhaps it was time he took a leaf out of his book, even if it was a couple of days too late. “If anything, it was my—”
“It was just high spirits and stupidity,” Hans said, sitting up a little straighter. “We weren’t ready to wrap the night up so soon, and I… communicated that poorly.”
Henry turned to look at him properly then, at his split lip and swollen nose, the determined way he held his chin in the air. “Yeah,” he said eventually, nodding slowly, “poor communication. Something like that.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“I should fucking hope not,” Hanush said, freshly ferocious, and then shot them both a toothy grin. “Radzig and I have always been good friends, you know. I’d hoped you two might find some common ground.”
Another awkward silence.
“Well, luckily for you both,” Hanush said, continuing as if he’d felt none of the tension during his pause, “I’ve thought of a way for you to cover the damages you caused the other night.”
“Of course,” Henry said at once, at the same time that Hans muttered: “Jesus Christ.”
Hanush’s grin widened. “Can you play, Henry?”
“Can I— play what?”
“The royal and ancient game.”
“You mean—” Henry shifted in his seat, nonplussed. “—do you mean golf?”
Hans looked at him sideways. “Obviously.”
“Right.” Henry cleared his throat. “Er, not really.”
“Well, that’s a good place to start, isn’t it?” Hanush turned to Hans with that same grin, somehow even sharper than before. “And fortunately my nephew here is… between caddies. Excellent way to learn, seeing someone else play the course.”
“Absolutely not,” Hans said, an angry flush creeping across his cheeks beneath the bruising. Hanush merely sat back into his chair looking exceptionally pleased with himself. “And anyway, what’s this got to do with the dragon?”
“We’ve got the Trosky group coming here in a few weeks.”
“Yes, and I’ll wine and dine them as required, obviously, but I don’t need—”
“I like the optics of Radzig’s boy caddying for you.”
“Well, I fucking don’t.”
For a long moment, Henry felt distinctly forgotten, Hanush and Hans glaring at each other across the desk as he simply sat very quietly, wondering when would be a good time to ask exactly what it is that a caddy does. He had a notion of carting round some stupid bag on wheels, but not much more. Something about fetching balls, maybe, or perhaps he was thinking of tennis.
Eventually, Hanush leaned forward with a wolfish expression. Whatever silent struggle had taken place, he’d emerged victorious. “Consider your objection noted. Ignored, but noted.”
Henry cleared his throat again. “Er, sorry, just so I’m clear, what exactly—“
“Fine,” Hans said forcefully, standing up with a barely noticeable wince and shooting Henry a filthy look that was, despite the irritation, absent of the vitriol they’d been flinging at each other for the past few months. It was as if Henry’s fist had knocked it out of him. “Tomorrow. Be there at seven. And for God’s sake don’t wear those filthy trainers.”
Henry tucked his battered converse defensively under the chair. “At seven? On a Saturday? Hang on—“
But that was that: Hans stalked out the door. Henry barely had a chance to process any of it before Hanush stood up with a booming laugh, ushering Henry out of his office too, none the wiser on what he’d just agreed to.
“Jesus Christ preserve me,” Hans said dryly, leaning against his stupid fucking car with those stupid fucking sunglasses on. He pushed them up onto the top of his head with an incredulous look. “Did you cycle here?”
There didn’t seem to be a bike rack at Pirkstein. Henry had picked a section of railing around the car park that looked as though a stray bike wouldn’t cause any problems, though he hardly knew why he was locking it up. No one here was stealing the piece of shit he’d bought off Facebook marketplace for a tenner.
He wiped his forehead self-consciously on his sleeve and looked briefly up at Hans, who was still watching him curiously. “Obviously.”
“It’s eight miles from the city.”
“Yeah, not too far.”
Hans let out a snort. “If you say so. Please tell me that’s not what you’re wearing.”
“I’ve got shoes,” Henry said, bristling slightly. Loathe as he was to ever do this, he’d called Radzig the night before and reluctantly mumbled something down the line about not having suitable footwear. His father had, of course, graciously dropped off a spare pair of golf shoes for him during his shift at the Races, to Jaroslav’s incredulous delight. They were half a size too small, but they would do.
Hans was dressed in rather more muted colours today, in dark red shorts and a subdued mustard polo shirt, as if either the lingering bruises beneath his eyes or just the burden of Henry’s company was already dampening his spirit.
“Trousers?” Hans asked sharply, and evidently guessed the answer by Henry’s hesitation. He’d worn dark jeans, at least. He’d thought that might be fine. He’d even ironed them. “Christ. All right. You’d better come inside.”
This was by far the longest and most civil conversation they’d ever managed to have, Henry thought wryly, following Hans dutifully into the club house. Miracles really did happen.
The corridor which Hans led him down went past Hanush’s office. Henry had been here only once before, but given he’d thought he was on the way to be dramatically fired from the one thing standing between him and absolute rock bottom, he’d been too miserable to pay much attention. This time, he looked around with interest at the framed photos that covered the walls. It was strange to see so many of Radzig, from some only a few years ago to the ones that looked at least a decade old. Weird to think that Henry hadn’t even known that he existed when they were taken. Weirder to think that Radzig had.
“You’re in luck,” Hans was saying, pushing open a door and revealing another egregiously expensive looking room. “I’ve got a few spare things in the locker room.”
The spare things turned out to be a pair of offensively beige trousers and a white polo shirt, both so far from anything he’d ever seen Hans wear that Henry was forced to conclude they were there in anticipation of him needing outfitted. He supposed at least Hans wasn’t gloating about it.
“Go on, then,” Hans said, tapping his foot impatiently as Henry held the trousers up dubiously.
“What, now?”
“No, next week. Obviously now, you idiot.”
Henry hesitated. “I’m still a bit, well. Sweaty.”
Hans looked at him for a long and unreadable moment. “So wash them before you return them,” he said eventually, turning back to the locker with an exasperated sound and leaving Henry to awkwardly shuffle out of his jeans and T-shirt while Hans fished out his own shoes.
Radzig’s loaned shoes pinched at his heels, and the loaned trousers didn’t feel as though they left a lot of breathing room, but the polo was soft and comfortable. It felt expensive in that inexplicable but undeniable way that even Henry could recognise, and he was suddenly filled with a terrifying certainty that he’d manage to fuck it up in the wash, somehow. He resolved to simply stop sweating, and so, of course, only felt himself growing clammier. God, and it was white. Just his fucking luck.
“That’s much better,” Hans said, sparing him an appraising glance having ignored Henry completely as he put on his shoes. He looked away almost immediately, as if bored of his new challenge already, no doubt. Henry felt a small wave of annoyance surface. “You almost look the part.”
“The trousers are a bit tight,” Henry muttered, then added hurriedly as Hans started to open his mouth indignantly, “Not that I don’t appreciate it. Thank you.”
Hans seemed somewhat mollified. “It’s the best I could do at short notice. This too, by the way.” He threw Henry a balled up fluorescent vest. He only just caught it, opening it to reveal CADDY printed in big black letters on the back, two crossed ostrevs in a comparatively tasteful logo on the front.
“What am I, a fucking lollipop lady?”
“All the caddies wear them,” Hans said, in a tone that made Henry think that no, all the caddies didn’t wear them. “Safety first.”
Henry shot him an annoyed look, but pulled it over his head without further protest. “Fine.”
Hans pulled on a glove and fastidiously pulled each finger into place — white and pristine enough that Henry felt inexplicably annoyed about it — and flipped his sunglasses back down in front of his eyes. “Shall we?”
“The sun’s hardly even out,” Henry said, rather stupidly. “Don’t think you’ll need those.”
The look Hans gave him through the dark lenses was decidedly cool, and Henry had the good grace to wince as he put two and two together, somewhat belatedly.
“Come on,” was all Hans said, however, shoving Henry’s ratty backpack in his locker and jerking his head towards the door.
Henry, fluorescent and resigned, followed after him.
Hans hardly said a word to him until he’d finished the second hole, or teed off, or cleared it, or whatever stupid term Henry was supposed to be using. He wasn’t likely to learn anything at all if Hans was determined to stay this uncharacteristically quiet.
The only thing he’d really said was just after the first hole, having fumbled around in his pockets with a long-suffering groan, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. Henry had shot him a look he hadn’t intended to be particularly judgemental, but clearly that was how Hans had read it. Either way, he hadn’t seen fit to offer Henry one. This irritated him disproportionately.
“Not a fucking word,” Hans had mumbled around the cigarette in his mouth. “To either me or my uncle. You wouldn’t believe how hungover I am.”
And so, Henry had lapsed into obedient if disgruntled silence.
“This is just like the fourth hole on Sir Puttsalot,” Henry said eventually, sick of the silence and having nothing to entertain him except endless manicured grass.
“What?” Hans glared at him. “Of course it’s not.”
“It is, look.” Henry pointed at the slight slope ahead of them. “The way that pulls to the left around the headless knight.”
“There’s not a fucking headless knight here, is there? Jesus.”
“Yeah, but that’s where it would be, isn’t it? It catches everyone out.”
“Does it,” Hans said flatly, eyeing him with a veiled curiosity. “And how’s that?”
“You’ve got to hit it wider.”
“Wider,” Hans said with amused derision, enough for Henry’s neck to flush hotly. It was clearly not the correct word.
“Whatever,” he muttered, and resolved to stay quiet. He was here to placate Hanush and keep his job, he reminded himself.
“No, no, if you’re the expert, suddenly,” Hans said, holding out his club with an acrid little smile. “Do show me how it’s done.”
There was a long moment of silence in which Henry’s fierce sense of competition bristled against his desperation not to fuck up this second chance Hanush had given him. Unfortunately, the former won. It always did where Hans was concerned: that was the problem.
He all but snatched the club from Hans’ grip, planted his feet stubbornly, and hit the ball before he could lose his nerve. It was like Sir Puttsalot, he thought furiously; he’d messed about on it often enough after closing with Janek. This club was heavier and the ball less prone to skittering about the place, but he knew the shape of it.
To his disbelief — and apparently Hans’ too — the ball curled around obligingly and rolled cheerfully into the hole. For a few seconds, they both simply stared after it.
“Well,” Hans said, “your technique is appalling, but that was rather good. Was it a fluke? Do it again.”
And so, Henry found himself hitting another ball from that same position, Hans watching him with increasing interest. This time, when the ball followed the same path into the hole, he startled Henry by letting out a sudden and delighted laugh.
“Good Lord. You might be the first person to ever actually learn something at the Races, you know that?” Hans had pushed his sunglasses back onto the top of his head, bruises apparently forgotten. He was grinning. “Maybe it really is the Kobyla genes. Come on, I want to see you on another.”
Henry opened and closed his mouth in confusion. “What?”
“This is much more fun. Grab the seven iron. Your stance is ridiculous, you look like you’re about to take a shit. Straighten your knees out a little, for God’s sake, this isn’t cricket. You’ll just lose distance, not to mention splitting my fucking trousers. In fact—“ Hans turned back to look at him, gaze impassive beneath his sunglasses, “—perhaps best not to bend at all.”
Henry's face heated up once more at that, but despite the easy flow of criticism, Hans was as enthusiastic as Henry had ever seen him, taking off down the hill with a spring in his step. Henry followed, still faintly bewildered.
He tried not to bend.
“All right,” Hans said, “let’s see it, then. Par three, so don’t fuck about.”
“What, just hit it?”
Hans stared at him. “Did I cause some permanent damage on Tuesday night? Obviously, Henry, come on.”
Henry glared at him, ears reddening, only to be met with a delighted and disarmingly boyish smirk. It was the first time he could recall that Hans had ever used his actual name. Embarrassed, annoyed, and none the wiser on how he ought to be holding the club or how he should be standing except for straighter, he took out his frustration on the golf ball and hit it as hard as he could. It soared away and above them, glinting briefly in the sunlight.
Henry regarded it with a faint sense of pride; it went much further than he’d thought it would. Much further than any of them had on the driving range that day before he and Hans had started squaring up to each other until Bernard intervened. This was surely a victory.
“Jesus Christ,” Hans said fervently, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I said hit it, not launch it into fucking orbit.”
Henry’s pride deflated rapidly. “Don’t you have to hit it hard for the first one?”
“Not indiscriminately, you lunatic. Where do you think the green is?”
Henry’s cheeks burned. “I dunno.”
Hans let out a loud bark of laughter, squinting into the treeline with his hands on his hips. “Christ. All right. I suppose that one’s on me, in a way. Come on, then.”
“What?”
“Let’s find the ball.” Hans hauled his set of clubs cheerfully over his shoulder, having apparently forgotten that was Henry’s job.
“Don’t you have more?”
“Henry,” he said, truly bewildered now, “do I have to start from the absolute basics? You don’t use a new ball for every shot. Please tell me you know this.”
“Obviously I know that.” Henry pointed sheepishly at the direction in which his ball had flown. “But shouldn’t I start over if I’ve got it in the bushes or whatever —“
“Absolutely not. We’ll recover it and you’ll have to find a way to get back on track, that’s how you learn.” Hans sounded far too pleased about this.
“Don’t you get a go first?”
Hans regarded him with a bemused expression, then placed the bag down and held out a hand. “Fine. Seven iron.”
“Er, is that this one?”
He saw Hans bite the inside of his cheek, but more to repress a laugh than anything, it looked like. A half-grin escaped as he took the club. “Now, watch and learn.”
Henry scoffed loudly and rolled his eyes, resolving not to find anything that followed impressive in the slightest.
There was something about Hans lining up a shot that was almost funny to Henry, too, though Hans didn’t catch his grin, so absorbed was he in placing his feet and shifting his grip on the club. None of the minutiae of his movements meant anything to Henry, none of his careful stillness provided any illumination to the mechanics behind it at all, but he could grudgingly see that it all meant something.
For all his obnoxious confidence, the Hans that Henry had seen had always been self conscious in his brashness, his scorn, whether surrounded by his idiot friends or not. This Hans had none of that.
Hans looked up across the green, back at the ball and up once more, then grinned and hit it in one decisive motion. Henry wrenched his curious gaze away from that grin to follow the ball, which swam through the air in a perfect and elegant arc before rolling delicately into the hole.
“Woah,” Henry said, impressed despite himself, and the look that Hans gave him then was pure delight, not a hint of smugness to be found. They just grinned at each other before Hans flipped his oversized sunglasses back down in front of his eyes, the moment gone. The smugness was back.
“And that’s how it’s done.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Henry said, but with an amiability that was new and slightly unexpected. “It’d be embarrassing if you couldn’t ace your own course, wouldn’t it?”
“Henry, I’m not sure you’re appreciating how incredible a shot that was. Familiarity does not necessarily equal excellence!”
“Yeah, but it helps, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps a little,” Hans conceded, preening nonetheless, “but I’ve got a nickname to uphold, haven’t I? Come on. Let’s find your ball.”
Twenty minutes combing through the undergrowth yielded no results. Henry had, apparently, managed to hit the ball somewhere it simply didn’t want to be found.
“Look, let’s forget it,” he said, more embarrassed by the minute. “I’ll pay for the ball.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Hans appeared to be taking their inability to find this ball personally. “It has to be around here. I watched the bastard land right there— ahah!”
There was a small wooden shed right up against the fence where Pirkstein bordered a small nature reserve — that land was also owned by the Capons, Hans had told him, adding with an eye roll that it was a concession to local wildlife activists. They hadn’t searched much in that direction, focusing on the long grass and bushes instead, but Hans pointed to it now, looking triumphant.
“Good Lord, I think you got it on the roof of that thing,” he said, squinting up at it with his hands on his hips. “Give me a leg up, would you?”
“I dunno,” Henry said, eyeing the shed and its flat roof dubiously. “It doesn’t look very stable.”
“Nonsense, it’s fine craftsmanship. It’s only for holding a few things for the green-keepers.”
Hans looked at him expectantly until Henry reluctantly held his hands together for Hans to place one foot onto, heaving himself up the side of the shed.
“Ahah! It’s there, just let me get on there and grab it.”
“Hans,” Henry said, once more strangely aware this was the first time he’d ever actually used Hans’ first name. The shed was quivering against his leg, and he couldn’t get a better grip on Hans with both hands interlocked beneath his foot. “I wouldn’t. It’s wobbling.”
Hans ignored him, pulling himself up fully onto the roof. “I should really make you chip it off here. Make it a real challenge.”
“I don’t think it’d hold my weight. Look, I’m serious, it’s shaking. Are you—”
There was a truly horrifying creaking noise followed by a loud, groaning crack, and then, before either of them could say anything else, Hans crashed through the roof into the shed.
“Hans? Hans?” Henry started tugging at the door. The lock was weak enough that with a little frantic force he pulled it open, splintering the wood around the handle. It most certainly was not fine craftsmanship, or if it had been, it wasn’t anymore. “Oh, Jesus.”
Hans was lying dazed and blinking on the floor, but looked more or less unhurt. “What the fuck?” he said weakly, shifting slightly with a wince. “What a useless piece of shit. Completely rotten. I’m going to be having some strong words with — fuck!”
“Are you all right?”
Hans sat up, sunglasses askew on the top of his head. It would’ve almost been funny if he didn’t look so genuinely rattled. He was quite pale. “I—I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, how many fingers am I—”
“There’s nothing wrong with my head, you idiot. It’s my ankle.”
“All right,” Henry said softly, crouching down to be level with Hans, who was now visibly panicking, breathing a little too fast and erratically. “Let’s have a look at it, then.”
“Oh, are you a medical professional now, too?”
“No, but I’ve seen a broken ankle or two, aye.”
“What?” Hans demanded, growing rather shrill. “When? Why?”
“I had a rough and tumble childhood,” Henry told him wryly, expecting the glare he got in return. “Come on. I can’t make it worse, can I?”
“You might,” Hans muttered, but when he didn’t protest further, Henry reached slowly for the shoe on the foot he was pointing gingerly at, then undid the laces as Hans sucked in a breath.
“What if I’ve broken it?”
Henry bit back a grin. “I don’t think you’re screaming enough to have broken it.”
“It’s not fucking funny, Henry. I can’t break my ankle. It would ruin everything. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Oh, yeah?” Henry raised an eyebrow as he started to slowly ease the shoe off, taking care not to jolt the foot more than he had to. “I use my ankles too, you know.”
“Obviously, everyone does. But I need to be able to play.”
“Yeah, and I need to be able to go to work. I’m not sure my overdraft has another rent payment in it.”
“Oh, come on,” Hans scoffed, amusingly unaware that he was being so successfully distracted. “As if Kobyla would allow you to end up destitute. I don’t know why you’re even working that stupid job, to be honest. Surely he’s paying for your accommodation.”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean?” Hans hissed briefly as Henry pulled the shoe over his heel. “He’s giving you a stipend, yes?”
“I don’t know what that is, exactly, but I don’t think so. You okay if I take the sock off?”
“Carefully,” Hans said, fretful again for only a moment before he peered into Henry’s face. “Why isn’t he giving you any money? Someone ought to have a word with him, that’s outrageous—”
“I don’t want his money. No need for anyone else to get involved.” Henry started to peel the sock down Hans’ ankles, very slowly and carefully. “Anyway, I don’t need it. I have a job.”
“But he has at least offered, yes?”
“He’s offered.” Henry pulled the sock the rest of the way off. “Can you wiggle your toes?”
Hans wiggled them obediently. “You didn’t take it? Are you insane?”
“I really don’t think it’s broken. You might have sprained it a bit, though.”
Hans was simply staring at him. “So that’s why you have the job?”
“Yeah, and I’d appreciate not losing it, actually.” Henry pressed a thumb cautiously against the inside of Hans’ ankle, daring a brief grin up at him. He didn’t flinch away from the touch or the look. “My landlord’s an arsehole. Not sure he does payment plans.”
Hans fell silent for a moment, gritting his teeth and rotating his ankle slightly in Henry’s grip. “Not sure I can put weight on it.”
“Best not to, probably. We should get you back, get some ice on it.”
“Hanush is going to kill me.” Hans reached for his sock and Henry pulled his hands back with a slightly embarrassed start. Hans didn’t expand on that, simply extending his arm to Henry with a grimace. “Help me up?”
Henry hauled him up by the elbow, and after a moment’s hesitation looped Hans’ arm around his shoulder, taking his weight as he balanced on his uninjured foot. “How’s that? Can you walk? Anyway, I can tell Hanush it wasn’t your fault.”
They began to make their slow and hobbling way back towards the club house, mostly in silence.
“Henry,” Hans said eventually, somewhere close by his ear. “Yesterday, with Hanush? You didn’t need to say that. It wasn’t true. I said some rather insensitive things to you.”
Henry half shrugged a shoulder. “I wasn’t exactly polite either.”
“Well, be that as it may. I’m not proud of what I said about—” Hans hesitated briefly. “—about your having a sob story. And, well, I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” Henry said, not looking at him. “It’s better than the way people usually are about the dead parents thing, to be honest.”
“Yes,” Hans said, more to himself than Henry. “I know that feeling.”
Henry shot him a sideways glance. He knew some of it, a little gleaned from Radzig, then a little more gleaned from campus gossip. The former was only in general terms and the latter quite possibly nonsense. Perhaps Henry wasn’t proud of the way he’d dismissively filled in the blanks, either.
“Anyway,” Henry said, chancing a half-hearted grin. “I broke your nose, so I think we’re even.”
Hans snorted, but there was a hint of a grin to his mouth. “I can put some weight on it now, thank God.”
“See? What did I tell you. I’d still go easy on it, though.”
“You know what, Henry,” Hans said, faint amusement in his voice, “I think before our next excursion, we should spend some time at the driving range, perhaps. Next time we should at least aim to finish the course.”
“Next time,” Henry said, “I think I need another pair of trousers.”
Hans didn’t quite manage to turn his head away before the grin spread across his face. “Mm. Perhaps. And I’ll pick you up.”
“What?”
“It’s absurd, cycling all that way. I’ll pick you up.”
“I— all right," Henry said, instead of the polite refusal he'd thought he was going to make. He let out a bemused huff of laughter. “Sure. Thanks.”