Chapter Text
In Henry’s defence, it all started very small and innocent, at first.
After the most unexpected turn of events, followed by numerous escapades that life had rapidly dragged him into, he eventually found himself being bound by hip to the most obnoxious and exciting creature that was Lord Hans Capon. Even if in the beginning Henry outwardly hated him (even though hate would be a very strong word – more like Hans was actively playing with a blazing fire that was Henry’s broken mind when they first met, and it led to a lot of poorly thought-through decisions on both of their parts), now Henry could actually dare to call the young noble his dear friend, albeit only in the quietest parts of his soul, for now. Hans Capon was funny and humorous, bold and challenging; they kept each other on their toes every moment they spent together, and Henry was grateful – it was a pleasant distraction from the chaos and pain and running that his waking days were now filled with.
One evening, they were drunk and merry, siting at the farthest table at The Broken Wheel. The tavern was roaring with the sounds of laughter, music and clinking tankards, when Hans suggested a game of dice.
“Luck is on my side today, Henry, I can feel it!” Hans’ cheeks were flushed with wine, grin as cocky and confided as ever.
Henry couldn’t help, but smile in return. “So, the stakes are high this time, aye?”
“Pff, I’m not interested in robing you blind, blacksmith,” Hans laughed, waving him away. There was something wicked in his gaze – half-tease, half-challenge. “I have something more exciting to offer.”
Henry frowned at the obvious mischief in Hans’ eyes and grin, already dreading what kind of trouble the young lord had in store for him, and Hans laughed once he noticed his expression.
“Don’t be such an arse, Henry! Surely you are not afraid of a slightly more interesting wager!”
“Depends on the wager,” Henry grumbled in his mug, narrowing his eyes.
Hans chuckled again, low and smug, and leaned in with a sly twinkle in his eyes.
“Simple rules: you lose a round – you answer a question. Any question, and truthfully. No backing out.”
Henry snorted, shaking his head slightly at how childish this all sounded.
“Fine, why not?”
The questions were harmless – in the beginning. First round was won by Hans, and he asked about something silly, like how many chickens had “a peasant like him” stolen in his life, to which Henry said none, but told a story about how he and his friend Matthias once stole a sickly looking lamb from a drunk neighbour who wasn’t caring for it. Then, Henry won, and asked what was the most reckless thing Hans has ever done in his life, to which the lord admitted to running away from the castle sometime after his ninth name day - and, apparently, Hanush sent an entire Rattay garrison to look for him, and they found Hans hiding behind some chicken coop. Henry laughed so hard and loud, imaging the small version of Hans with chicken feathers stuck to him all over, that the lord turned beet red and tried to hit Henry in the forehead, but missed terribly.
The game flowed in this playful, childish mood for a few more rounds, questions silly, pointless and friendly: whether Henry preferred ale or mead (ale, always), what would be the meal Hans would eat for the rest of his days if there was no other choice (pork with bay leaf and ginger and roasted bread on the side), what Henry thought was worse – stepping into horse dung, or kissing someone who ate garlic (“I’ve stepped into someone’s guts yesterday, and even that washes off – the memory of that kiss doesn’t”, and Hans drunkenly snorted at that), and whether Hans ever named his horse something embarrassing (Henry ignored the faint tug in his chest when Hans proudly said that his first pony was named Dandelion).
And, of course, the more wine Hans poured into himself, the bolder and rowdier the questions were becoming – Henry was actually quite impressed that the lord managed to keep the silly mood for so long. What surprised him even more was how Hans was suddenly winning round after round, and Henry had a faint suspicion that the lord was cheating - and that Henry was promptly being cornered.
‘Ever snuck out of a lady’s window before?’
‘Ever lost your hose to a bet?’
‘Ever flirted with someone just to get out of trouble?’
‘Is there anything you’d be too afraid to admit even in a confessional?’
The questions were slowly creeping closer to that invincible, hidden something Henry wasn’t quite getting, yet made his pulse steadily quicken.
And then it happened – the question that started this whole mess.
“You ever fancied someone you weren’t supposed to?” Hans asked, his tone light and curious, head tilted slightly to the side.
Henry looked at him, something uncomfortable stirring in his chest.
“Isn’t it the whole point of fancying someone?” he muttered, trying to sound casual.
Hans hummed, looking at him, too steady, too assured, and tossed the dice once more.
Another round – another sly victory for Hans, and at this point Henry was sure that he was shamelessly cheating. Yet, he said nothing, too drunk at this point to actually care, preparing himself for another unruly inquiry.
“Have you ever wanted to kiss someone so badly it made you a fool?”
Henry felt the air knocked out of him, and almost choked on his ale, spilling some onto himself. He laughed at first, sharp and breathless, thinking that it was just another silly question made up by Hans’ wine addled mind - until he caught the lord gazing into his eyes with a strange air surrounding him. Hans still looked sly and sure of himself, maybe a bit curious, but at the same time there was something in his expression that made Henry feel like he was being observed.
He blinked once. Twice.
Hans was watching him, almost unmoving.
“Is that a real question?”
The lord grinned in response, assured and wide, like he often did during archery training when his arrow was loosed and sent flying just right, perfectly hitting the target.
“Why won’t it be?” he mused, voice too smooth, tone almost lazy, as he picked up his cup and swirled the wine in it. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it’d be like… to do something foolish for someone.”
Henry hesitated, suddenly feeling caught in the way Hans’ eyes were burrowing into him – in the way Hans always looked at him lately, as if daring Henry, baiting him.
“Maybe,” Henry said quietly, catching himself off guard.
There was a flicker of something in Hans’ gaze – something dangerous, something that made Henry stop breathing properly for a moment.
And then he felt the toe of the boot brush against his shin, soft and fleeting, so momentary that it could pass for accidental – but he knew it wasn’t. Hans looked at him from above the rim of his cup, and Henry felt his skin prickle, body shuddering slightly as his mind reeled.
He was way too drunk for this.
Hans smiled at him, sweetly, honey-like. “Another round?”
It wasn’t about dice anymore – this was a different game, and Henry had a hunch that he was already losing.
***
After that there was a couple of days when Henry almost didn’t talk to Hans, too busy with training or being sent to run some errands around Sasau. He had almost convinced himself that he’d forgotten about the game and the questioning, even though the memories, albeit foggy, of that evening left him baffled and dizzy; he would try to shake them off, but then he would feel like he was being watched, and every time he turned around, he was met with Hans’ gaze – lingering on him, burning into him – before the lord turned away with a ghost of a smirk on his face.
And then it happened.
The sun was high that day, air thick and damp with the warmth and the possibly oncoming rain, and Henry was constantly wiping his face with his gloved hand, feeling beads of sweat roll down his spine and causing him to shiver. He was on his way to report to Sir Radzig, half-way up the narrow stairs leading to the hall, feeling slightly light-headed from exhaustion and heat, when he unexpectedly ran into Hans, almost knocking them both out. He jumped a little, hastily becoming aware of his surroundings as he caught the blue of Hans’ eyes, the lord looking a touch surprised, too. They were close, too close - so close Henry could have sworn he felt Hans’ sigh against his face – when he felt a soft touch on his waist. His breath hitched, and Hans just looked at him, his stare somewhat playful as he was pushing Henry to the side. His fingers lingered above his hipbone, touch light, barely a brush, but long enough to not seem accidental at all.
“Careful, blacksmith,” Hans murmured, his hand sending hot flashes through Henry’s body. “Keep pressing into me like this, and folks might get the wrong idea.”
His smile was slight, the mischievous glint in his eyes buried under practised ease.
He pushed Henry from his way – slowly, deliberately, not once looking away – and then turned back to the stairs, walking down as if nothing happened, leaving Henry winded, the ghost of the lord’s touch like a burn mark on his hip.
From then on, Hans never quite kept his hands to himself.
The lord seemed to make it a habit – brushing too close, lingering too long. When Henry escorted him to the market place during the fair, Hans leaned into his side, as if trying to avoid the graze of the crowd – but the contact was too prolonged, the warmth, radiating off of Hans’ body, sent shivers down to Henry’s bones. In the tavern, Hans started to sit next to him instead of opposite, resting his hand on the edge of the table only a hair away from Henry’s knuckles or elbow, subtle enough for no one else to notice, but enough to make Henry’s breath catch in his throat. Once, when they were both summoned by Sir Hanush, Hans stopped him before the door leading to the hall and roughly tugged at the collar of his tunic as if adjusting it, pestering him about how he looked more like a disgrace than a squire – but Henry felt the feather-like caress of his briefly exposed collarbone, and prayed that the flush on his cheeks didn’t look as obvious as it felt.
Hans was everywhere. Touching, tempting, pulling him closer without ever crossing the line – and Henry squirmed at the shameful realization that he was starting to lean into it, drawn to those fleeting, daring touches, feeling something that he didn’t dare to name.
Something that tasted dangerously like craving.
***
The worst came when Hans decided to join him for training.
One of their sparring matches lasted longer than they intended to, both too proud to yield despite being drenched in sweat, their breaths coming laboured, limbs shaking. The combat area was half-mud, soil still wet after last night’s rain, and Henry cursed quietly as he lost his footing for a moment, boots slipping in the sludge. Across from him, Hans straightened his posture, resting his sword over his shoulder, clearly more interested in watching Henry squirm.
“Your stance is terrible and unsteady,” Hans mused. “Unless you plan to trip into my arms.”
Henry grunted, annoyed, readjusting his feet, pushing his soles harder into the soil. “You wish.”
“Oh, I do,” Hans smiled, swung his sword lightly, and began to slowly circle him. “Though I would prefer something else. Like you falling at my feet, for example.”
Henry shot him a glare. “You’re all talk.”
“I’m studying my opponent,” Hans replied, smirking. “Though, he isn’t even trying.”
“If I tried,” Henry gritted through his teeth, “you’d already be on you back.”
Hans let out a laugh, quick and breathless. “Is that a promise?”
Before Henry could answer, Hans lunged at him, movement fast and wide, and their swords clashed with a sharp clatter. Henry held firm, countering quickly, and moved to the side, using the momentum and striking the lord on his side. Their bodies were angling closer, boots slipping and gripping in the mud, and after another successful strike Hans staggered back, almost falling against the railing.
He smiled at Henry in the most wicked way Henry has ever seen.
“I’m starting to think,” he said between breaths, “you rather like the idea of me on my back.”
Henry growled low and swung again, Hans quickly dodging. “I think you talk too much, my Lord.”
“And I think, dear Henry, you’re blushing.”
Henry snapped, advancing quickly again. “I’m overheated.”
“Sure you are,” Hans parried, their blades clashing once more. He leaned into it more, close enough for Henry to see specks of dirt dusting his cheeks, to track a drop of sweat running down his temple. “But if you want to cool down, I can help with that.”
That broke something in Henry – he surged forward violently, catching Hans off guard and knocking the sword out of his hand. They tumbled together, and Hans landed on his back hard, getting air knocked out of him as Henry hovered above him, sword jabbed into the mud near Hans’ head.
The lord laughed heartily, his hands finding purchase on Henry’s shoulders, chest rising and falling rapidly. They stared at each other, Hans’ eyes darting across his face, searching for something.
“Well, do your worst,” he said, voice low, tone daring, forward – inviting.
Henry looked at him, chest heaving, one hand braced into the mud, another clutching the handle of the sword. He didn’t dare to move, his jaw painfully tight.
Then, after a heartbeat, he pushed himself up.
Hans blinked, momentary startled. “Wait, what—“
Henry stood on shaky legs, movements stiff, muscles locked tight and burning. He avoided Hans’ stunned expression, just reached for his sword, snatching it from the mud, and turned around, walking away.
“Henry!” Hans called, laughing slightly – he tried to sound teasing, but it came out a touch bitter, winded and thin. “I thought you wanted to beat me!”
“I did,” Henry retorted. He climbed over the fence and left the training grounds, leaving Hans behind and never looking back.
***
Ever since that day in the training yard, Hans hadn’t pushed quite so hard. Not outwardly. His teasing came quieter now, laced with something almost cautious. His glances became more heated and open, lingering longer, burning. His laughter came softer, breathy, but ever present, his grins always on Henry’s mind.
Sometimes, his knuckles would brush Henry’s in passing, his hands grazing the small of Henry’s back; sometimes, he hovered nearby like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind in the last minute.
Henry told himself that it meant nothing – Hans was just bored, playing, getting on his nerves for the sake of it.
Henry told himself he wasn’t slowly going mad.
He wasn’t watching Hans from across the courtyard or while passing the archery training nook; he wasn’t holding his breath as he stared at the perfect posture, back slightly arched, arms tense with each draw of the bowstring – Hans made it look so effortless it was infuriating.
And Henry definitely wasn’t thinking how beautiful Hans looked at that moment.
***
It all came crushing down one night when Hans got exceptionally drunk.
Henry was in the stables, checking on Pebbles and taking the saddle-bags before turning in for the night when he suddenly became aware of the lingering presence behind him. He turned around and nearly collided with Hans. The lord stank of wine, and he was too close, again, his breath warm against Henry’s cheek, his presence dizzying. Henry flinched, his throat tightened, a sudden rush of heat crawling up his neck. Hans was staring at him through a hazy gaze, eyes darting everywhere – his eyes, his cheeks, his lips – and the air around them was suddenly thick with heat.
“Why do you keep running away?” his voice was warm and soft like silk; he was slurring, barely standing straight, yet the step he made toward Henry was confident, and Henry instinctively backed away.
“I’m not”, Henry muttered – it was a lie, and they both knew it.
Hans laughed, bitter and low – tired. “Yes, you are. You’ve been running since the very first moment I touched you.”
Hans reached out and put his hand gently over Henry’s wrist, thumb brushing against exposed skin.
Henry’s breath hitched, his heart screaming at him. Stay. Stop thinking. Close the distance.
Instead, he yanked his hand away, taking a step back.
“Don’t”, he almost growled, sharper and rawer than he meant. “Don’t do this to me.”
Hans froze. His eyes widened, lips parted in shock, looking as if Henry slapped him across the face.
Henry felt him shutting, locking himself away; watched it happened in an instant right in front of him – and immediately regretted everything.
He quickly turned away and walked – no, almost ran – into the dark, both head and heart pounding painfully.
He didn’t want to think about whom he’d just hurt more.
***
Hans avoided him for three days.
Every time they passed each other – in the courtyard, at the market, at the stables of the Upper Castle, – Hans didn’t speak to him, the barest hesitation flushed through him each time their gazes had inevitably met; no more glances, no more accidental brushes of hands when passing something, no more easy, teasing smiles thrown across the tables. Of course, he had still made himself known – it was Hans’ very nature – but his laugh, his usual charm around other folks had a certain, tangible chill to it, almost careful, lacking the typical flare.
For the first time in weeks Henry didn’t feel his eyes on him. And it unsettled him more than he dared to admit.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Henry wanted him to stop.
Still, it ached. Desperately.
Hans was almost like a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any moment, looking like he had no right to meet Henry’s eyes, and it was driving Henry mad.
Because now it was Henry who was chasing after him. Henry, who was leaning into the sound every time he heard Hans’ laugh, heard him talking to someone else; Henry, who was watching Hans’ throat every time he drank, watching his hands as he brushed his hair from his face or slung his bow across his shoulder with definite grace.
It was Henry who couldn’t sleep at night, shamelessly clinging to the memories of Hans’ warm, soft hands caressing his skin or tunic, fingers dragging against his hip like a feather, heat of promise pressing into him; the way he stared at Henry’s lips that damned day during training when Henry pinned him to the ground.
It made Henry ache all over so badly he gritted his teeth.
Then, one evening, he found Hans alone.
The stables were mostly quiet, the grooms and hired hands long gone as the night started to settle, the only sounds being low snorts of drowsy horses and the creek of wood settling. Henry was on his way to his lodge after a long day of helping with patrolling, stopping for a moment to check on good Pebbles and bid her a calm night, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Hans stood at the farthest stall, petting his gelding’s neck as he fed him a piece of apple. He was out of his usual pourpoint, the collar of his shirt was unlaced, the light from the single lantern flickering across his collarbones, casting long shadows across his face; he looked soft and delicate in the dim golden light.
Henry didn’t mean to stare – but he did.
He didn’t mean to move – but his feet carried him anyway.
His breath quickened as he made the first step – not from nerves or fear, but from something deeper, something carnal and burning white hot inside him. Hans didn’t hear or see him at first, too focused on his task or simply lost in his thoughts, until Henry was right in front of him, too close, and Hans lifted his eyes to him.
He barely had the time to react before Henry kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle, or delicate, or cautious in any way. Henry tried to pour everything into this kiss – days of confusion, heat, anger and desperate longing – as he cupped the back of Hans' neck, pinning him in place, pressing him in as hard as he could; his other palm slipped beneath Hans’ shirt, gripping his waist hard enough to leave bruises.
It was rough and aching, and Hans leaned into it, willingly, obediently, like he was waiting for it, like he needed it as much as Henry did. He grabbed Henry by his shoulders and whimpered – fucking whimpered – into the kiss, and that sound broke the last bits of Henry’s already cracking and fading resolve so violently it almost hurt.
He led Hans further into the shadows, away from potential peering eyes, and shoved him against the rough stone of the castle walls, caging him, not letting him slip or squirm away. Hans was panting against him, he tried to say something, tried to speak into the kiss – but Henry wasn’t having it.
Not now.
Not after everything they dragged each other through.
He pressed even harder, his hand roughly tangling in Hans' hair, pulling hard enough to make Hans gasp. The horses stirred, but neither of them cared – the world narrowed down to desperate touches and fevered rhythm of mouths finding each other again and again.
Hans was clinging to him like a man drowning, grasping the fabric of his clothes so hard he could rip it, clawing at his shoulders as if to steady himself.
Henry kissed him over and over, biting at his lips, his jaw, down the side of his throat as Hans tipped his head back against the wall with a dull thud, a broken, quiet moan escaping him, baring him completely. His hips rolled forward into Henry's, shakily seeking friction, making them both tremble at the touch of their clothed lengths. Henry grabbed Hans’ shirt, pushing it higher, baring more skin, caressing his ribs, the warmth of his stomach, down to the muscles of his pelvis, drunk on the way Hans arched into every touch. He kissed him again, slowing down a bit, less frantic now, less messy, as Hans shakily reached down to him, fingers lingering above the waistline – asking permission. And Henry gave it – he moved his own hands to the laces of Hans’ hose, tugging the fabric of his braies aside, rough and impatient; Hans did the same, trembling so much Henry had to bite back a groan.
Finally, finally, there was nothing between them. Both were gasping from the relieved pressure of their clothes only to press into each other again, skin sliding against skin, and Hans let out a chocked moan that went directly into Henry’s spine. There was nothing tidy, nothing gentle in the way they thrusted their pricks against each other, every touch precise in its hunger.
Henry buried his face in Hans’ neck, breathing him in, whispering something – either words or senseless sounds – into his skin, as Hans reached his hand down once again, and took them both at the bases, squeezing tightly, flesh pressing against flesh. He found a rhythm after a moment of scrambling and started to slightly flick his wrist in time with their rutting. Henry bit into Hans’ collarbone as one particular movement made him feel just right, made him tremble from head to toe, and Hans moaned again, clutching the back of Henry’s neck with his other hand. At some point it stopped being enough, and Henry grabbed Hans’ leg under his knee, resting it on his elbow, drawing it higher, and pressed hard into Hans’ grip, making them both stutter.
Hans’ voice, rough and raw and quiet, finally broke through the haze, gasping near Henry’s ear, “God, Henry, please–“
And that did it.
Henry quickened his pace, moved harder, rutting against Hans and into his hand, feeling the combined wetness of their pricks leaking more and spreading across his stomach, the squelch of skin and slick almost deafening in the dead of night. Hans started moaning higher in pitch, and Henry muffled him with a bruising kiss, knees buckling slightly. He was overwhelmed – by the heat of Hans’ skin, his scent, the way he trembled against him like he was burning alive.
He didn’t last long – couldn’t, and, with a distinctly brutal push, spilled his seed across Hans’ hand, their lengths, getting some on both of their stomachs and maybe even clothes. Hans followed almost instantly, whole body shuddering violently as he fell apart beside him – for him, because of him.
For a moment, neither of them moved, bodies still pressed together, the quiet around them almost ringing, broken only by their laboured breathing. Hans slowly let them both go, and Henry gently lowered Hans’ leg, mindful enough to keep a steady hand on his hip. The lord looked dazed while Henry tucked him away into his braies, tying up the laces as fast and as secure as he could with how shaky his fingers were, and then did the same to himself. He leaned into Hans again, resting his forehead on the noble’s shoulder, his hands circling around Hans’ waist, the heat of him grounding, relaxing. He felt Hans’ hand rest on his nape, softly scratching, brushing absent-minded patterns. They both still couldn’t stop touching each other.
The silence stretched between them, but there was no coldness or uncertainty.
Finally, Henry exhaled.
“’m sorry,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “For that night.”
He felt Hans tense against him, then take a shaky breath. “You don’t have to–“
“No, I do,” Henry interrupted him, lifting his head and looking Hans in the eyes. “I was afraid. I didn’t know what you wanted. Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted.”
Hans turned away slightly, brows furrowing, looking uncertain. “I thought I ruined it. Thought I pushed too far.”
Henry shook his head, cupping Hans’ face and turning him to face him again. “You didn’t, I just– Fuck, Hans, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and then you looked like you were scared of me, and I hated it.”
Hans chuckled, softly, almost like a sigh. “You didn’t scare me – you made me feel like a fool.”
There was no accusation in his tone, no venom – only weariness, something wounded, something aching and sad underneath it all. Henry hesitated for a moment, and opened his mouth to say something, when Hans continued.
“You made me wait,” he said. “And I would have waited longer, if it meant you would be near me again.”
'you’ve never wondered what it’d be like… to do something foolish for someone?'
Henry stared at him, his chest full and aching with a trembling hope and desire to hold Hans and never let him go.
Instead, he leaned in, kissing him softly, slowly, reverently – apologizing again, trying to tell everything he couldn’t find words for, answering every question left unspoken. And he basked in the delight that spread in his chest once he felt Hans smile into the kiss.