Chapter Text
Hans considers himself a fairly well rounded fighter. While he always has and always will feel more comfortable wielding a bow, his status as a noble has afforded him the opportunity to cross train in multiple disciplines. He has always craved new and exciting experiences, something to make a mark in his otherwise boring life of listening to stuffy men drone on in even stuffier rooms.
He found freedom in honing his body and relishes in the knowledge he is able to glean from various weapons masters. A well toned physique attracts lustful looks from women and jealous glares from men. Hans knows that he preens at being looked at and given attention, so he’s more than willing to dedicate his time to practicing combat arts.
He finds archery suits him best. The perfect intersection of strength of body and strength of mind. Many people are unaware of the force needed to fully draw a bow, let alone the fine muscle control to hold it steady. The quiet moment that settles between the initial draw and the release is where Hans feels at home, the high of anticipation he chases in other walks of life. The held breath while aiming down the arrow, the ache in his muscles at holding the bow steady, the tiny shift to release the pent up energy. It’s exhilarating.
Outside of hunting, he only ever has the chance to use unarmed combat. In the taverns of all places. Calling it combat would be wrong, calling what he does a bar fight or even a scrabble would also be incorrect. Hans only ever has the chance to throw few punches before someone shows up to stop the madness or someone realizes who he is and starts groveling.
What he wouldn’t give to have an honest fist fight once and while.
So when Radzig’s new underling shows up in an ill-fitting guard uniform to tell him to clear out of the tavern that is essentially his (or will be at least), well… that won’t do at all. Hans tries to dismiss him with an offhand comment and motion one would usually use for a dog, but the peasant doesn’t seem to be taking no for an answer.
“The bailiff instructed me to close the tavern at the proper hour.” And he just stands there, like he expected Hans to listen. “He doesn't want anyone disturbing the peace after curfew.” He cannot be serious.
“The bailiff?” Hans scoffs, “I trust you haven't forgotten who's the rightful Lord of Rattay?” He leans back and crosses his arms. He doesn’t like the look on Radzig’s lackey, it’s defiant. “No,” he has the gall to say, “it’s Sir Hanush.”
One of his drinking companions stifles a single laugh into his ale. Hans scrambles for the upper hand, “Oh, is he here?” He punctuates the question by jumping to his feet, “Or is he... hiding under the table maybe?” Hans makes a show of it, ducking to peer under the table. “No? Then what he wants isn't worth a fart in a bathhouse.” A nervous laugh from the innkeeper, still standing off to the side clutching his pitcher in nervousness. A chuckle from one of the men drinking at the table tumbling through the otherwise silent evening. Hans smirks. “And besides, he's only in charge till I grow up.” Hans moves to return to his seat, reaching for his tankard.
“Which clearly hasn't happened yet!”
Oh, that whoreson.
He spins around and sees the snarl on the other man’s face. Hans takes this as a chance to retaliate for the insult of being talked down at, for being bested in their practice sword fight the previous day, for the mere fact that this idiot’s existence is annoying him. He has a reputation for his short temper, so he might as well teach this yokel about it.
His first swing goes wide as the man steps out of his range. Fine, yes, Hans is quite inebriated. There is a momentary startled look on the man’s face, like he wasn’t expecting Hans to throw a punch. His posture shows indifference and his expression as sharp as a nettle’s sting. It rightly pisses Hans off more. Hans points an accusatory finger and threatens the him with the stocks. He searches his mind for the peasant’s name, wine and ale causing his thoughts to move like honey, thick and sticky. He is still trudging through his memories when, ah yes, Henry, has the utter audacity to repeat that its past curfew, Hans needed to clear out, and the tavern needed to close.
It riles him more than it should, this idiot in just a few days has been given more responsibility than he has during his whole life under Hanush’s thumb. Also the fact that he, a nobleman, is being ordered around.
By a peasant.
Hans would be loathe to admit how badly Henry is getting under his skin. Burrowing in and searing his blood. His irritation flares hotter when the he attempts a shove that Henry dodges with another simple sidestep. Someone behind him chokes back a laugh. So Hans fights dirty; he drops his shoulder and slams into the peasant. A move that should have knocked him off his feet, or off balance at least. But instead, Henry has the audacity to grab him. To put hands upon his noble person!
Hans takes advantage of the proximity and drives his elbow up into the side of Henry’s poorly shaven jaw. He lets out a pained grunt, but otherwise seems unaffected. A red mark starts to form under the dirt and stubble on his face and Hans wants to hit him again. He tries to pull his arm from Henry’s grasp, but he cannot break free.
This idiot, Hans thinks as he tries again to shake him off, is strong.
Ridiculously strong.
Strangely, Hans think of a fully drawn bow. The roughness of Henry’s appearance belies a raw strength; his taut and unsure motions from their bout earlier makes Hans think perhaps Henry is not aware of the power he already has.
Hans vaguely recalls something about him being a blacksmith son. That would explain the solid grip he’s got on Hans. One hand fisted in his fine, yellow quilted coat and the other firmly around his upper arm. Two fixed points of warmth seeping into his skin. He tries again to shove Henry off, but he’d have better luck pushing over Pirkstein itself. Hans pulls back his other hand, uncaring of the disadvantage of using his non-dominant arm. He aims for one of Henry’s bright blue eyes, lit only by torchlight but somehow still shining. Before he can connect the strike, Henry releases his shirt and catches Hans’ whole fist in his hand.
He can’t help but marvel how well his fist sits in Henry’s grasp, at the ease with which Henry cause it. The way his strong fingers curl effortlessly over his and lock him in place. Jesus Christ, why are his hands so warm? Would it be this warm if instead of his fist, Henry was holding his open hand?
The thought is unbidden; a sobering chill down his spine. Hans feels anxious, on edge, a drawn bow with no target. With both arms restrained and no other option, he drops his head - aiming for the center of Henry’s face. Hans’ forehead connects with the strong ridge of Henry’s nose and his mind, already adrift in ale, careens sideways. He’s distantly thankful that Henry still has a hold of him, otherwise he might be on the ground.
Hans draws his face up, intent on hurling another insult and demanding to be unhanded. Instead, he’s stunned silent. The blow to Henry’s face has caused him to tear up. God, the wateriness of the unshed tears is only accentuating the blueness of his eyes. There is a slight downward turn in the outer corners that makes his eyes seem kind. Henry blinks hard, tears welling up and causing his long lashes to clump together. Why in God’s green world are his lashes so long? It’s like looking into the demure gaze of a maiden. Hans wonders how Henry would look up at him through those lashes if he wiped away the wetness on his face with his thumbs. His mind supplies the vision of Henry’s hand catching his own in a soft reflection of the current iron grasp he has now.
Hans doesn’t even have time to examine why his mind has strayed into treacherous territory or even the chance to stop it as everything is dwarfed by Hanush’s booming voice.
“What in the name of Christ is happening here?!”
Henry startles and jumps back; releases his grip like he had been scalded by boiling water. Hans notices a ruddy blush staining Henry’s neck as he brings a hand up to rub the back of his head. He almost finds it pathetically endearing before Hanush starts demanding an explanation as to why they were ‘rolling around like hogs.’
Hans really does wish his first instinct wasn’t to worm his way out of responsibility and consequences. It’s second nature at this point, and usually by the time he realizes what he’s doing, he could no more change his course than he could reverse the flow of the river. He already feels unsettled by his thoughts this evening, and does what he knows best - gets out of trouble with his words.
As Hanush berates them both and metes out their punishment, Hans feels bruises forming where the blacksmiths son had gripped his arm. He’s too drunk to keep his eyes from flicking sideways to stare at Henry’s clenched fists and lowered gaze. He lets his eyes roam over the man’s wrists and forearms, only distantly aware of what’s being said. He’s fairly certain he’s gotten out of it when Hanush assigns Henry to accompany him on the hunt.
His eyes snap back to Hanush. He tries to protest, he does not want this backwater village yokel to follow him around, but it seems Hanush thinks there’s some lesson in all this. And when Hanush decides something is his good idea, it might as well be set in stone. He is dismissed like a child, so he stops off like one. Trying to keep his drunk mind from wandering by focusing on his walk back to his quarters.
Later that night, after swiping some bread from the kitchens and retiring to the safety of his room, Hans allows his mind to wander freely. As he changes, he stares at the bruise forming blue on his arm - a near perfect rendition of Henry’s grasp. At least he will have the chance to berate him about it in the morning. If Henry is to be around nobles, he should be trained.
Behind his locked door, he allows himself to be curious. He gingerly lays his hand over the mark, hissing at the ache and the small thrill that arcs across his skin. He is acutely aware of how the print is larger than his hand. His mind wonders at what I would look like to press his palm flat against Henry’s. Just how much wider is his hand? How much longer are his fingers? What would it feel like for Henry to close his fingers around one of Hans’ wrists?
Hans is dimly aware his mind is branching into a dangerous line of thinking, but he cannot stop the way his mind lights up and body warms at the thought of Henry’s bruising grip on his body. Everyone has always treated him delicately, as is befitting his station. Would Henry indulge him in an unarmed spar, a true fight? He was more than willing to accept the challenge of a sword fight in front of Captain Bernard.
Hans thinks of the snarl of Henry’s anger at the tavern, would he channel that same energy into throwing a punch? He unconsciously tightens his hand around the bruise and is surprised at the low whine he makes. He quickly draws his hand to his lap and looks around the room. He feels almost guilty in a way, letting his mind have free reign with this.
Tomorrow, he will have his hunt and clear his mind. He lays back and stares at the mural painted across the ceiling, absentmindedly running his fingers over the mark on his arm as he waits for sleep to take him.