The Seasons of the Years

by patronsaintofchemicalwarfare

Summary:

Struggling to keep his professional dreams afloat, Henry is ready to give up on becoming a top-league ice hockey player and resign to being a welder for the rest of his life. But moments before a tryout that could change everything, he receives a call from a friend that he has not seen for over a year.

Hans has everything he could ever want: the stellar career, the nuclear family, the penthouse in the city, the more-than-comfortable lifestyle… But when his picture-perfect life comes crashing down around him, there is only one person that he can count on to help pick up the pieces.

They say that time heals all wounds, but some leave scars. A story about friendship, family, ice hockey, politics, summers, winters, heartbreak, and love.

—
Modern AU, updates weekly!

Notes:

hi, thank you for reading! i have been working really hard on this fic and im excited to begin posting it!! i am eastern european myself and i latch onto media from/based in our part of the world as if my life depends on it, PLUS ice hockey is one of the most popular sports in Czechia, so i could not not write about it.. i mean, is hockey gear and knight armour really that different?? anyway, here are my brain worms unleashed, i hope you enjoy!! - sadie <3

Note: for characters, I go by the English version of their names just to keep track of everyone (so many Jan's...), but for place names and such I will use the Czech; for Hans's son, I have gone by the game codex, which says Hynek,,, yes, I know he says he'll call him Heinrich in KCD2, but i felt it didnt sit right in this fic. ty!!

Chapter 1

SUMMER

-

 

 

“Are you nervous?”

The locker room felt unbearably small—like someone had taken his skate laces and tightened them around his throat. From where he sat hunched over on the cold plastic bench, right leg quivering up-and-down-and-up-and-down, Henry glanced up across the dead-aired void at Sam and shook his head. His shoulder pads were weighing down on him a little more than they normally did; he swallowed thickly.

“No.”

“Good.” Sam crossed his arms. “You know they’d be stupid not to take you on.”

The low drone of the ventilation system underpinned shallow fluorescent lights, as if they were enclosed in the hull of a ship adrift in a frigid sea, rocking slowly, uncertainly. Henry dug his gloved fingers into his breezers and pressed his lips into an unconvincing thin line. “Sure.”

Beyond the heavy double doors that glared menacingly at him from time to time was an ice rink, waiting for him with bitter patience; the digital clock on the wall ticked over to 18:26, and his gut lurched a little. It was an odd and foreign feeling, but he would be damned before he allowed any sign of it to fall upon his face. Cool, calm, collected—icy, even. There was a memory burned into his skin: a grainy TV box and the smell of summer beer and the symphony of cheering and late night practices and burgundy posters against a light blue bedroom, and it all swelled and came apart in waves whenever he looked over at the large red “S” decal on the wall. Each moment in time had been placed so, it seemed, but to join the ranks of warriors—knights in shining shin pads—was supposed to be an untouchable thought. He gently tapped his ice skates together and exhaled slowly.

Sam tipped his head towards the wall behind him. “Smells like feet in here.”

“Didn’t before you got here.” At least he could manage a joke; Sam rolled his eyes.

18:28, and one of the double doors swung open as a lithe woman with a clipboard poked her head through. “Henry Kovář? They’ll see you now.”

There are a handful of moments in one’s life that can truly be described as defining—as the catalyst for the journey ahead; the needle point among the haystack of junctures. For Henry it meant taking up that long hockey stick beside him and exemplifying everything he had worked for, his dedication, his talent and his fondest love for the sport in a matter of minutes along the ice—to compress his entirety down into less than half an hour. He rolled his shoulders back and adjusted his elbow pads out of usual pre-match habit, then ran his tongue along the back of his top teeth before inserting his mouthguard. It was funny, how want and care became one so very quickly. Henry’s helmet glinted in the corner of his eye, and he arose from passivity, hooking his last two fingers on its cage so that it dangled by his hip.

As he took a balanced step forwards, however, his phone rang.

The muted ringtone was still audible from within the depths of his duffle bag, and Henry stopped. Both Sam and the aide looked at him expectantly; the former told him to leave it, that he could call back later, but something pressed him sorely and he furrowed his brow, turning back towards the bag. Although he had silenced his phone, there were only three contacts that he had set as exempt from this, and one of them was in the room with him.

He set his helmet and stick back down to hurriedly zip it open (yanked off his right glove with his teeth) and dug around for it. The vibrations shivered up his hand and into his forearm as he retrieved it, as if it were shaking away some bad dream, and he looked down to the name in bright white letters that flashed across the screen.

Henry went still.

He would have preferred a telemarketer. He would have preferred a scam caller. He would have preferred a wrong number.

Anyone but him right now.

Because the moment he saw that name, he knew that he would pick up the call; that the ice would have to wait for however long. Henry quickly fished out his mouthguard and hit the little green answer button. There was brief static.

“...”

“Henry?”

A distant sound to him.

“Fuck… Henry–” Choked sobs punctuated the fatigued words, and his heart seized up. “She’s gone, she just– Henry, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know, I don’t–”

“Hans…” Across the room, Sam’s eyes widened slightly and he gave his brother a wary look. “Breathe, okay? I need you to breathe and tell me what’s happened.”

“She left, she… She fucking left…! Henry, I can’t– I don’t know–”

“Listen to me– Hans, breathe.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Where are you?”

Through the tears, he heard, “Home… The apartment…”

“Okay, just…” He glanced over at the aide, who checked the clock on the wall, then her watch, then the clipboard, then stared right back at him with pursed lips.

There are a handful of moments in one’s life that can truly be described as defining; deciding.

So, Henry decided.

“Just stay put. I’m coming.”

A stupid, stupid decision, really.

Some suffocated, incoherent murmuring crackled through the receiver unhelpfully, so Henry ended the call with a quick prayer beneath his breath and dropped the phone back into his bag. Sam and the woman exchanged a baffled look, especially as Henry dropped back down onto the bench and frantically untied his skates.

“What are you doing?” He could not look at Sam; focused on yanking the double knot free.

“Something came up,” Henry supplied, but his brother’s eyes simply grew wider.

“Are you serious?” Sam looked at the aide as if to check she was hearing this lunacy as well, then back at him. “Henry, you aren’t going to get this opportunity again!”

“Sure I will.” He chucked the skates aside and began to peel off the rest of his gear. The slight tremor in his hands was to be ignored, to be masked by the stillness in his voice. “There’s always next year.”

“Next–?!” Sam made a throaty sound and bit his fist, holding back the flood; a deep sigh rattled past his fingers. “Your current contract ends in two weeks. Two! If you don’t go out there now, you might not be on any team, let alone in the Extraliga. You don’t know when there’s going to be another vacancy like this.”

“It’s an emergency–“

“Fucking think about yourself for once, Henry!”

He paused, fingers hovering over the straps of his shoulder pads.

Sam was right. These circumstances—these stars were not going to align again. He doubted they would email him again and rearrange a time: it was now or never. How could he commit to a team if he could not even commit to the tryout? The aide tapped her pen against the clipboard. The clock read 18:32.

Think about yourself for once, Henry!

Sam was right.

 

***

 

The car door slammed shut and Sam turned the key in the ignition.

“I can’t believe I drove you all the way to Prague for you to bail on this.”

Henry shrank a little in the passenger seat beside him; opened up the map on his phone and punched in Hans’s address, before setting it up for his brother to follow the route across the city.

“I’m serious, Henry.” Sam looked over his shoulder as he reversed out. “I can’t wait for you to get your own car.”

“When I can eventually afford one, you’ll be the first person to know.”

“Cheers.”

They sat in silence for the first few minutes of the drive, until Sam turned the radio on and dialed it into the first station he could find. Trashy pop music quietly played after the tail-end of a shout-outs segment and he drummed his fingers against the wheel to the rhythms. Henry squirmed in his seat.

“Can’t we listen to something else?”

“No.” They stopped at a red light and Sam frowned. “I hate city traffic. Hans better be dying.”

Henry made a small noise and leaned his head back against the headrest. A car horn blared somewhere behind them and Sam swore as he checked the rearview mirror, then glanced over at his brother.

“Henry, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

His tone was a little kinder now, perhaps with resignation. Henry gazed out of the window, chewing at the skin around his thumb nail as he mumbled, “I think something’s happened with Jitka.”

There was a tight, wordless moment, underscored by a synthy baseline from the radio, until Sam finally replied, “Oh.”

They both fell silent again. The light changed and they continued onwards.

Sam cleared his throat not-so-subtly. “It’s been over a year, right?”

Henry furrowed his brow and looked over. “What? No, we always wish each other a happy birthday.”

“Texts and calls don’t count. I’m talking about seeing him in person.”

“Oh.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. ”Yeah, then. A year and a half, actually.”

Not that he was counting.

“That’s a long time.” Sam tutted; shook his head. “You used to be best friends, as well.”

“We’re still–”

But Henry stopped himself. Sam was right again, but this time he could not disregard it. A lot could change in a year, and maybe the Hans he thought he knew was in fact a complete stranger now. Henry could not picture it; could not picture anyone but that good-hearted, insufferably-annoying, immensely-bright soul, because that just was Hans. But there was nothing that could be done about the time that had passed, the months that were lost, and sure, Henry blamed himself for that. He would be the first person to put his hand up and say mea culpa.

The drive took just over 25 minutes, but a further three to find somewhere to park on the narrow road. The apartment was on the top floor of one of the tall Baroque-style buildings in the heart of the Old Town—a very short walk from Old Town Square—on a street lined with high-end shops that made Henry feel poor by simply looking at them. The early July heat hit him as he stepped out of the car, and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Sam rolled down the window and leaned out.

“I’ll wait, but don’t be long. I’m not fucking paying for a ticket.”

Henry nodded, then headed down the pavement towards the building. His pace matched his unsteady heartbeat, ears drowning in the sounds of the city, but he was in front of the main door and pressing the buzzer before he knew it. He waited, but no response came so he tried again. Once more, nothing. As he considered giving Hans a call on his phone, however, the door opened, and he was greeted with the sight of an older woman, whose eyes tripled in size as Henry quickly slipped past her and into the building.

He took the stairs: more time to clear his mind, to figure out what he was going to say. I’m sorry I disappeared. I needed to focus on hockey. You seemed happy enough without me around. I had to work. I couldn’t see where I fit into the picture of your life. Stupid excuses. He dragged his hand up the cold metal bannister.

That could wait, he decided, finally face-to-face with the white door, because this was not about him.

This was about Hans.

Before he could turn and run like the last time, he knocked on the door.

Once again, he waited for an answer that never came. Swallowing down the anxiety, he knocked again, slightly harder. When nothing returned, he tipped his forehead against it and grimaced. “Hans…”

His eyes wandered down to the shiny brass doorknob. Giving it a slight push, he suddenly found his weight shifting forwards as the door opened with a faint creaking sound, surrendering to reveal the long corridor behind it. Henry stepped inside and shut it quietly.

He had always liked Hans’s penthouse. It was spacious and bright and well-furnished, with beautiful herringbone floors below and original ornate Baroque ceiling mouldings above. The corridor branched off into different rooms, and he poked his head into each one to check for Hans. A convivial living room with a great fireplace and whiskey cabinet; a pristine bathroom with a heated floor and Italian-style tiles on the wall; a simple spare bedroom that he himself had slept in a few times before, so he knew how soft that mattress was… Something about each perfect space now felt vacant, almost melancholy.

A lacrimal sound alerted him, and Henry turned towards the kitchen.

He stepped inside and was met with the familiar marble countertops and fashionable appliances, but his entirety honed in on the gentle sniffing. He stopped; felt the threads of himself begin to fall apart. Hans was sitting on the pale linoleum floor with his back against the island cabinets, and his legs were folded awkwardly up to his chest. Around him were discarded tissues and a half-emptied bottle of white wine, the cap lying out of arm’s reach, and his shoulders trembled terribly. When he looked up, startled by the movement, Henry’s chest tightened at the sight of his handsome face streaked with tears and blue eyes turned crimson. Hans stared at him for far too long, then sniffed.

“Henry?”

“Hey.” He spoke softly, as if the other man was an animal quick to scare. “I… I let myself in. The door wasn’t closed properly. I figured…”

“No, of course.” Hans wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt—an office shirt, Henry noticed. “You came.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I said I would.”

“I know, but…” A perturbed breath escaped him and he held back another sob. “I’m sorry.”

“Hans…” But the words died on Henry’s tongue. He resolved to that of which he was certain. “What happened?”

Hans gestured weakly to the counter above him, and Henry noticed the wad of paper stapled together, edges bent from being gripped too tightly. He walked over and picked it up; did not need to read any further than the first page before he sank to the floor beside his friend, concern etched across his face. “Christ… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know things were bad.”

“Neither did I, apparently.” Hans squeezed his eyes shut, and Henry could see him replaying the events behind his eyelids. “I got home and she just stood there… She just handed it to me as if it all meant nothing and left.”

Henry frowned and set the papers aside. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

Hans let out a curt, dry laugh. “That makes two of us.”

They both went quiet, but not the sort of easy quiet that they used to share after late night drinks and a game of cards. This one had hard edges.

“What did I do wrong?” Hans shook his head, staring into his lap. “I thought I was a good husband.”

“You are.” Henry bumped their shoulders together gently. “She’s a fool if she doesn’t see that.”

“Careful.” Something twitched at Hans’s lip. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

He exhaled slowly, then leaned and rested his head on Henry’s shoulder, making the other man go ever-so still.

“Thank you.”

It was so tiny that Henry almost did not hear it. So small, but he felt his heart crumble and give way, and pulled Hans closer and into a hug. Nothing more needed to be said.

 

***

 

Henry collected his belongings from Sam’s car and sent him on his way, not before giving him money for petrol—it was the least he could do after all this mess. He promised he would call him later and explain, and Sam begrudgingly accepted that answer before driving away, headed all the way back to Kutná Hora.

He took the lift this time: he would rather not carry all of his gear up the winding stairs. Reentering the apartment, he dumped it all by the door (to easily be dealt with later) and walked through to the dining room, which was connected to the kitchen by a set of tall, wood-panel folding doors, now opened all the way. Hans sat at the table, slowly nursing the coffee that Henry had made for him, warming his hands on the mug, but he stared out of the long windows that overlooked the city; the fleeting rays of daylight. His eyes looked tired. Distant.

“You’re certain you want me to stay here?” Henry shifted his weight between his feet. “I can find a hotel if it’s uncomfortable.”

Hans did not look at him, but replied, “I don’t want you to go.”

A memory floated through his mind like a passing breeze. It took shape: suits, champagne, flowers, a towering cake, polite laughter, dancing, but the form felt warped and scarred. No, stay longer, c’mon! I don’t want you to go.

Henry said nothing; nodded. He moved past and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the cupboards. Perhaps he could rustle up some dinner, something warm and hearty, and then maybe nip out to grab some beers (yes, he had already checked the cooler) and then they could put some television on, perhaps some football, just a little distraction–

He came to a halt, staring at a bag of egg noodles eye-level with him in the open cupboard. This was not just some shit day—this was not coming back to their dormitory from a week of tiring classes and crashing out, numbing it all with each other’s company like they used to. This was an entire life uprooted in a matter of moments.

As if on cue, a terrible sob came from the dining room, and Henry turned to see his friend hunched over the table, face in his hands.

“Hans–?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to tell Hynek?!”

The pain in his voice was unadulterated, unbearable; the worst Henry had heard yet. He hesitated, then came over to sit down beside Hans.

“He’s a smart boy. Whatever you say, I’m sure he’ll understand, even if it takes a while,” he reassured, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “Where is he, anyway?”

“At a sleepover. I didn’t want him to go, but… Well, it makes sense now why Jitka arranged it.” Hans sat up and sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Fuck. I need to pick him up in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about that now. We’ll sort it out, okay?” Henry rubbed his back; offered the best smile he could. “C’mon, I’ll make you dinner.”

But Hans sniffed and shook his head wearily. “I don’t think I can eat right now. Might just go to bed.”

Dropping his hand, Henry acquiesced. He would have rathered if his friend ate something, but he would never force him to. Especially not now, not when he could see all the cracks forming, teasing the idea of shattering into a million little fragments. A few chips had already fallen out of place, of course, but he would be damned if he let another one break away. Hans slowly rose to his feet, and the chair scraped back over the hardwood.

“Goodnight, Henry. Thank you, again.”

“It’s okay. Goodnight, Hans.”

And before he knew it, the sun was gone, disappearing over the Prague rooftops, and he was alone in a home that was not his.

Notes:

You can find me on Tumblr!

Kudos and comments appreciated! <3

Chapter 2

Notes:

screaming crying shaking nervous as all hell to post, here you go before i can change my mind

Note: in this fic I use the Czech words for direct address to family members, mostly influenced by how I refer to my own parents & grandparents; Czech ppl PLEASE CORRECT ME if i get anything wrong <3

I know that ceiling, Henry thought, blinking up at the swathe of white stucco above him. But then he shifted his legs, felt the soft sheets against his bare skin, and the previous day’s events came flooding back to him.

The tryout. The call. Hans.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, reaching out for his phone on the bedside table, and squinted as he brought it up to his eyes, his lock screen (a photo of Mutt, of course) blaring at him. Fuck, it was 05:46… Way too early for a Saturday. Directly beneath the time, however, was a notification from the night before.

Theresa – 23:12
Sam told me what happened. CALL ME.

Henry sighed and buried himself beneath the blanket, shimmying down like a worm into the loving embrace of the earth. He could already hear her voice in his mind; could already hear exactly what she was going to say, but that was a problem for later.

He tried to fall back to sleep, but laying in bed quickly turned into a Herculean chore, so he righted himself and pulled on yesterday’s t-shirt. The impromptu stayover had left him to sleep in his underwear, of course, but not that he minded. Hans would surely still be asleep—mental exhaustion and all—so he did not bother with his jeans: his boxers would be fine. He padded across the corridor and into the smallest of the apartment’s three bathrooms (which Henry thought there was really no need for), yawning the whole time he sorted himself. Half-way through brushing his teeth, he made eye contact with himself for a moment too long in the mirror, and something unnerved him; moved below his stomach. Something about his face was not sitting right, though it was the same face he had always had. It was not his complexion, nor his gaze, nor his posture. No, nothing had truly changed, but against the olive porcelain and jasmine aroma, the being that reflected back at him simply sat wrong.

Henry frowned and spat out his toothpaste.

Feeling quite hungry, he made his way to the kitchen and drew open the curtains, allowing in the first light of the day, which graced over the marble with a hazy glow and caught on the leaves of the herbs on the window sill. Not wanting to disturb the careful equilibrium of a home where he was desperately out of place, he settled for buttered toast and a coffee—nothing that would be missed.

He moved to the living room, fancying a little morning television with his breakfast, but stopped on the threshold. Curled up on the sofa with a blanket drawn up to his chest was Hans, the light casting over his features and making his skin glow like satin, a perfect halo enveloping him. He was so motionless that Henry was momentarily unsure if he was even breathing, but finally he turned his head and offered the most exhausted of smiles.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Henry faltered, forgetting how to move. He rubbed an ankle against the opposite shin. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d still be asleep.”

Hans’s eyes briefly flickered down to Henry’s bare legs and snorted. “I’ve seen you butt-naked before, Henry, it’s fine. Come and sit down.”

A hand emerged from the cocoon and patted the cushion beside him. Henry nodded and took a seat, setting his food down on the coffee table, and the hand retreated.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gingerly, but Hans just shrugged.

“I don’t know. A little numb, I suppose. Barely slept in the end.” He chewed his lip and knitted his brow together. “I think I’m just worried about Hynek now.”

“I can imagine.” Henry took a bite of his toast; offered the plate out to his friend, who shook his head, though not in unappreciation. “Do you want me to pick him up?”

“No, it’s fine. I can manage it.” Hans sat upright a little more. “I think it will do me some good to go outside. Stretch my legs a bit. It’s only a twenty minute walk.”

Henry understood, and did not press further. He knew, somehow, that the boy’s presence was exactly what Hans needed.

He gestured to the television remote and Hans nodded. The flatscreen flickered to life, and Henry surfed through until he found ČT24, letting the news chatter turn into background noise as he munched through his breakfast. Beside him, Hans relaxed slightly, pulling the blanket down and away from his torso, revealing his pyjama shirt—recognisable from their university days—but his fingers twitched as he fiddled with the stitching along the border. His body shifted slightly towards his friend, which the other man noticed out of the corner of his eye.

“Henry.”

Henry hummed in acknowledgement and sipped his coffee.

“You…” Hans hesitated, drawing his face tight into a ponderous expression. “Your hockey equipment is in the corridor.”

Henry affirmed this information with another hum.

“Last night, it… It didn’t take you long to get here after I called you, did it?”

The mug tapped lightly against the table as it was set down.

“You were already in Prague, weren’t you?”

Henry cleared his throat; kept his eyes fixed on some report about the economy. “Uh, yeah. I was.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to be in town.” Hans’s voice had suddenly become very small.

“I…” The words stuck against Henry’s palate, the words that wanted to crawl out of his aching chest. He pressed the tip of his tongue between his canines. “I assumed you’d be busy.”

“Oh. Henry.” Hans frowned. “I would have made time. I’ve missed you.”

His lips flattened into a firm line. “Yeah.”

Hans sighed, perhaps at the lack of an answer, and leaned back. “So, how was it, then?”

Henry furrowed his brow and looked over. “How was what?”

“The Sparta open tryout. I assume that’s why you came, right? Believe it or not, I still keep up with hockey news.”

Henry wriggled uncomfortably. “Wasn’t exactly open to just anyone. You had to get an invite.”

“And you got one.”

Henry nodded. And suddenly, like a blinding light, it was the first time in a year and a half that he had seen his friend truly grin.

“Bloody Hell, Henry! That’s amazing! So, how did it go?”

When he opened his mouth to speak, however, nothing came out but the dull croak of his throat, and he froze. He wanted to lie. He wanted to look into those big, hopeful eyes and say that it went well and that he could not wait to hear back and how it had been such an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and then in a week or so he would lie again and say that he had received a regretful rejection, but that he had treasured such an invaluable experience…

But how could he? He was not entirely sure he knew how to lie to Hans.

Even if he did, the bastard would simply pick up on it, just like now, as his face fell and he tilted his head to the side. “Henry?”

“It was–” He coughed; returned his attention to the television and shrugged. “It was in the evening, so…”

The silence stretched out and away from them unbearably, filling every corner of the room, and when he finally worked up the courage to look back at Hans, he saw that the joy had dissipated into distress.

“You missed it?”

“Hans–”

“Did you miss it because of me?!” The man looked as if he might cry again, and Henry was not sure if he could take that.

He shook his head. “It really doesn’t matter–”

“Fuck off, you selfless bastard!” His tone shifting all of a sudden, Hans ran a hand through his hair and gripped it firmly. “You complete fucking idiot.”

Henry screwed up his face and inched away from him. “Christ, mate. Calm down.”

“Calm down?!” A laugh of utter disbelief. “Henry, have you lost brain cells since I last saw you or were you always this stupid? That was your fucking dream team.”

“I made my decision–”

“You shouldn’t have had to! Why the fuck would you waste that on me?!”

“Waste it?!”

It was Henry’s turn to snap.

“You think I wasted it?” The irritation boiled up into his larynx and spilled from his lips like fire. “Jesus Christ, Hans, is it so difficult to believe that I care about you?!”

“Yes, actually!” Hans’s exasperation grew to match his, and he spread his arms wide. “Because I don’t know where the fuck you’ve been all this time!”

Henry scoffed. “Oh, sure, because that peasant you kept around fit so perfectly into your perfect life.”

“Well, it’s clearly not fucking perfect, is it? Or do I need to remind you that yesterday my wife filed for a fucking divorce?!”

Hans shot to his feet and flung the blanket at Henry’s head, before storming from the room as he ignored the call after him. From somewhere within the vast chambers of the apartment, a bedroom door slammed shut, and Henry was alone once more.

 

***

 

After an hour, Hans flitted past for a brief moment, fully dressed, and left without so much as a glance to go and pick up his son. The moment the door clicked shut, Henry felt the tightness in his chest dissolve and he could finally breathe again. As much as he wanted to, he could not find it in himself to blame him for anything that had been said. There had been truth in his words, even if Henry did not want to hear it, because how dare Hans think that he did not care! It should have made him angry. All he felt now was cold. Henry grumbled and switched off the television.

He cleared away his crockery—a dishwasher: fancy—but soon found himself idle. There was too much empty space now, and part of him wanted to catch the next bus or train home and curl up in bed in his tiny apartment with Mutt and pretend that none of this had happened. But now the cork had been removed, setting free the last eighteen months, and it would be impossible to wedge it back in again. Seeing Hans again after all this time, it had been unavoidable. They had never been ships in the night: they were always destined to crash.

Henry scrolled through his phone until he found Sam’s contact and pressed the call button. It connected on the fifth ring and there was a dazed mumble.

“Henry…” His brother whined, and he could hear him stirring. “It’s half seven in the morning.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But you deserve to know what happened and I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t talk about it right now.”

He heard a tired, muffled, “Who’s that?” in the background, quickly followed by Sam making a shushing noise.

“Sure, go on, then.”

Henry exhaled. “Jitka wants a divorce.”

He heard bed sheets rustling and imagined that Sam had sat upright; his voice sounded far more alert now. “Oh, shit… Seriously?”

“Yeah. She just walked out, apparently. He still hasn’t told me exactly how it happened.”

“Fuck.” Sam went quiet for a moment. “I always thought it would be the other way around.”

Henry frowned. “What, why?”

“I don’t know. She always seemed more into him than he ever was into her, I guess. But what do I know, hey? You’re his best friend; you tell me.”

Henry did not want to.

“He’s tearing himself apart over it,” he refocused the subject. “I think he’s trying to seem like he’s okay, for me. But we had an argument this morning.”

“An argument? About what?”

Henry hesitated. “He found out I missed the tryout because of his call.”

“Ah. Guilt, then.”

“Sam!”

“Are you going to tell me that I’m wrong?”

Henry stayed silent for a while.

“Maybe I should just come home,” he tried, but Sam let out a loud, fatigued sigh.

“Look, although I’ve had my disagreements with Capon in the past, even I can see that he needs you right now. Yes, he shouldn’t have sprung all of this on you, but there’s a reason you’re the first person he called. And there’s a reason why you abandoned a chance at your dream to be there for him. Stay.”

Henry bit his lip; nodded, even though he could not be seen. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good!” He could hear the bed creak. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Henry chuckled. “Roll over and tell John I said hi.”

When Sam made a choked noise of indignation, he rolled his eyes and explained, “I heard him. You can’t deny it.”

“So, what?” his brother countered. “We had drinks last night and fell asleep.”

“In the same bed?”

“We live together.”

“I know that. Still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Piss off, Henry, nothing happened. We’re just flatmates.”

“Flatmates. Sure.”

“I’m hanging up now.” And he did.

Henry smiled to himself and shook his head. There was not a day that went by where he was not thankful that he and Sam had found each other after being apart their whole childhoods. Brotherhood had come so naturally to them that one would have thought they had grown up together. He only regretted that they had not met sooner; that Sam never had a chance to meet their father.

Henry frowned. Dad would have known what to do. Mum would have kissed his forehead and told him that it was all going to be okay.

Next he searched for Theresa’s name and hit call. He had a feeling that this one was going to be much longer. She tended to wake up early, so he knew the chance of disturbing her sleep was low. And right he was, as she picked up on the second ring.

“Theresa–”

“So, I’m guessing I’ll be looking after Mutt all weekend, then.”

He winced. “If that’s okay?”

Theresa huffed. “It’s fine, don’t worry. I might be able to rearrange a shift. What the Hell happened, Henry? Sam said you ditched the tryout.”

“It was for a good reason, I swear–“

“So help me God, if you tell me that that bastard was more important than the one thing you’ve wanted since you were old enough to be on the ice…”

“They’re getting divorced, Theresa.” Henry dragged a hand over his face. “Jitka asked for one. It’s… It’s a fucking mess.”

“Oh.” A moment passed. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t think he’s quite processed it yet.”

“And you?”

Henry pursed his lips. “What about me?”

“Are you okay?”

That was the million-koruna question, was it not? He could think of a hundred different emotions that he was presently feeling, and ‘okay’ was not quite one of them.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” was the answer he settled on regardless. Theresa made an unconvinced noise.

He told her about the argument. He told her about sour words and frustrated looks and all that horrible fucking guilt—because Sam had been right again, and he told her this too. He told her about Hans’s eyes, all round and wet with tears; about the gap that Jitka had left in her wake. He told her how Hans’s main concern was now solely Hynek, and how to tell him; how Hans loved his son so, so much. And Theresa listened to every word with little interjection.

Finally, as he winded down from his rant, she entertained a thought.

“Well… It was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

And it struck Henry as odd.

“Why would you say that?”

“An engagement and marriage as quick as theirs?” She laughed dryly. “I’m surprised they even lasted a year, let alone six.”

Before Henry could make some half-hearted rebuttal about love, she continued, “It was, what, all in the span of five months? We all thought he’d knocked her up or something, remember? But no, they just… really wanted to get married. You never thought it was strange?”

His jaw stiffened. “No.”

Theresa hummed. “No. I suppose you men don’t think about these things all too much.”

 

***

 

Henry was in the guest bedroom, having finally moved his belongings from the corridor, when he heard the front door open, followed closely by two sets of footsteps, one much lighter than the other. His own door was open, and he could not help but smile to himself as a child’s voice filtered in through the air and reached him, accompanied by the warm familiarity of Hans’s softer laugh, one that was reserved for only a few people—used to be for him, too.

He poked his head around the doorframe and watched quietly. Hans was crouched by the entryway, helping the small boy take off his summer jacket and dragon-shaped rucksack and nodding to whatever was being babbled at him. Henry’s eyes widened. It was astonishing how much Hynek had grown since he last saw him, and how much he was starting to look like his father. A mop of golden blonde hair stuck out at odd angles—Hans kept trying to smooth down this one section by his ear—and he had full, rosy cheeks and big, curious eyes. In his hand he had squished a carton of Fruta apple juice, and continued to chew on the straw despite it being clearly empty.

“–and then me and Jakub went on the swings, but Matěj didn’t want to go on the swings, but his mum said that it was okay that we could go but we did all go on the slide together, and I think you’d like the slide, Tati, because it's a very big slide and you won’t get stuck–”

Definitely Hans’s kid. No doubt about it.

“Mhm. Stop biting the straw, Birdie, you’re going to hurt your teeth.”

Then Hans glanced up and made eye contact with him, and Henry stilled, wanting suddenly to vanish back into the room. Hans, however, offered him a placating smile, so he stepped out into the hallway fully. Rising to his feet and hanging up the coat and bag, Hans ruffled his son’s hair and pointed at his friend. “Look who’s come to visit, Hynek!”

The boy turned to look at Henry and blinked a few times, then tilted his head as if trying to make sense of exactly who this man was supposed to be.

“You remember your godfather, don’t you? You remember Uncle Henry.”

At the mention of the name, however, something lit up behind the child’s eyes and Hynek gasped, breaking into a big, toothy grin and charging forwards, barrelling straight into Henry’s legs with a shout of, “Uncle Henry!”

He laughed and squatted down to the boy’s height, immediately being tackled into a hug by little arms. Henry hugged him back, and he did not miss the mellow smile on Hans’s lips.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he said, pinching at Hynek’s shoulder playfully and making him giggle. “You’re so tall now.”

Hynek straightened up proudly, holding his head up as high as possible. “Máma said I’m going to be taller than Táta one day!”

Henry’s eyes flickered over to the sudden pained expression across Hans’s face at the reference to his wife, but he smiled back at the boy and his brave face. “I think she might be right.”

“Go and change, Birdie,” Hans instructed. “Then we can have some breakfast with Uncle Henry, okay?”

Hynek cheered and was off at once down the corridor, diligent little thing that he was, and Henry rose, watching after him. He shifted to look at Hans and took a step forward, opening his mouth to speak, but the other man put his hand up, cutting the words short before they had even been conceived.

“We’ll talk about it later.” He seemed drained; a lack of colour in his features. “I don’t want to fight. Not with Hynek in the house.”

Henry dipped his head and agreed, “Later. Promise?”

His friend held out his pinky finger and Henry scoffed, but linked his own to it anyway.

“Promise,” Hans concurred, then gave a tight-lipped smile. “Fancy some scrambled eggs?”

“Only if you don’t burn them.”

“That was one time, Henry!”

And their laughter grew weightless, trailing after them into the kitchen.

 

***

 

The day had passed them by easier than Henry thought it would. Now that his son was home, Hans seemed far more measured and patient, with a modicum of normality returned to his life. He watched as a stool had been brought out for Hynek to stand on, Hans behind him and guiding his hands, helping him crack open the eggs and empty them correctly into the bowl. It was weird, in a way, to see the brash young man he once knew—temperamental; hedonistic; throwing up in a bathroom at a house party; somewhat arrogant—being so patient and mild, smiling and encouraging his child and making jokes out of tiny mistakes, causing Hynek to giggle loudly. Henry made himself helpful by cleaning up dirty utensils as they came, and soon there was warm food laid out on the table; Hans cut up Hynek’s into smaller pieces. They migrated to the living room shortly afterwards, as the boy was desperate to show his godfather all his favourite toys, stored in a wicker basket at the bottom of a shelf unit which he dragged out to the centre of the room. Henry sat with him and listened as each figurine and stuffed animal was explained, complete with their own adventures and stories, while Hans observed from the sofa, sipping a coffee, but there was an absent look in his eye, as if he was looking straight through them and instead inspecting every fibre of the carpet in excruciating detail. The light tremor in his hand maintained. He retreated to his study soon after, though it was fine. It was for Hans to set the pace. Henry was simply pleased to catch up on lost time with his godson.

The evening encroached upon the skyline, and after dinner Hans told him, “I’ve called the babysitter. We’re going for a walk.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder, both hands still in the sink as he scrubbed charred onions off the metal pan, then nodded. He would save his words for later.

The buzzer rang an hour later. Henry was lacing his trainers in the living room when he heard a female voice greet Hans at the door, then enter the apartment. He stood and joined them. There was a woman beside his friend, who had just taken her coat, and she now turned to face him upon hearing footsteps, and Henry was met pleasantly. She was fair with ginger hair, which was tied back into a bun as delicate wisps framed her face, and had intelligent, quick eyes; she was undeniably pretty, in a way that seemed so effortless. Slung over one shoulder was a laptop satchel, and she smiled at Henry, hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

“Rosa, meet Henry,” Hans introduced them. “Henry, meet Rosa.”

“Nice to meet you,” she greeted him, her eyes already scrutinising him, Henry could tell, as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle.

“Likewise,” he replied, feeling the back of his neck grow a little hot, and Hans stepped between them.

“Henry here is my best friend,” he explained to her, and to Henry, “Rosa’s father is a family friend. She’s studying for her PhD at the moment.”

Henry commended her, but she shrugged and jested, “It’s nothing, really. Just a bit of fun.”

“You know where everything is. I’ve already put Hynek to bed,” Hans said, turning to her now with a sudden clarity. “Thanks again for doing this at short notice. We shouldn’t be out too late, just… A few hours.”

Ah, Henry realised. They were really going to have that talk.

They left Rosa to it, capable girl that she was, and took the lift down to the foyer. Stepping out into the evening air, Henry felt a chill travel up his back and into his neck; pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself, he felt a light tug at his elbow—Hans guiding him in the direction they were to walk.

The city was beginning to wind down, and they moved with her, adopting a leisurely pace as they went up the boulevard. Wordlessly they strolled past the closed boutiques and the tourists returning to their hotels and the tourists ready for a night out on the town and the bars ready to accommodate them. Everything at once was filtered through a gauze of memories—they had been to that shop before, and he had taken a cab from there once, and he remembered when there used to be a car advert over there—the world reproduced, as if on the dirty, old polaroid camera that Hans used to keep under his dormitory bed, and Henry suddenly felt a pressing nostalgia, the lanes and streets asking if you would enjoy a little contemporary with your antique. They stopped at one crossing to let a rowdy bridal party pass by (head-to-toe in some sort of pink cowboy getup, but British, judging by the language and accent), then continued on up, past the Old New Synagogue, until they reached the riverside, then turned left to wander along the bank. The water shimmered, relaxing into each ripple, and Henry glanced at Hans. Day was fading, but those very last orange tendrils of light reached out over the scattered clouds and old buildings, through the streets and the traffic, catching on the crest of his friend’s blonde hair and warming its colour; dressing his skin with a golden lustre. Then, Hans turned to him.

Caught, Henry looked away quickly and cleared his throat. He heard Hans sigh heavily.

“I want to apologise for this morning.” He sounded as if he had only recently learned how to breathe. “I wasn’t upset with you. I’m upset with myself.”

Henry furrowed his brow. Guilt, said Sam’s voice in his mind. “I figured. But I don’t want you to be.”

“How can I not? I made you abandon your dream.”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” Henry reassured him, kicking a twig out of their path. “I could easily have stayed, sure. But I made my choice, and I don’t regret it.”

“But I put you in that position.” Hans made a slight pained noise. “You shouldn’t have to choose.”

“But I did.”

“And that’s what I don’t understand, Henry!” He rubbed his hands over his face. “How could you choose me over a chance at your dream?”

“It was easy.” Henry smiled privately. “I’ll always choose you.”

He swivelled his head to look at Hans, and was met with a dazed, empty stare. Chuckling, he rolled his eyes.

“Hey. I know you’d do the same for me.”

Hans bit his lip, then eventually agreed, so quietly, “I would.”

They said nothing for the next few minutes.

They passed a man playing an accordion for a small crowd, and stopped to listen for a short while. In that time, the sun dipped below the horizon and the city turned to the street lamps for illumination, but for Henry, Hans continued to glow all the same. He admired him, truly. It took strength to deal with all of this; to be brave for his child. A strength that Henry felt he lacked.

“What changed?”

The question almost startled him. They had begun to walk again, the river accompanying them.

“That’s a big question,” Henry said. “I don’t think there’s just one answer.”

This reply was not sufficient for Hans, however, and he wrinkled up his nose. “Those first two months, after the New Year’s party, I… I thought I had done something wrong. I thought you hated me.”

Henry fixed his gaze to the ground. That night, a year and half ago… The lights and the booze and the dancing and the countdown and the fireworks– It still played fresh in his mind.

A hand pulling away.

“When you finally replied to my text,” Hans continued, “I was so relieved. Until you vanished again, of course.” He frowned. “Did Theresa tell you? About your birthday?”

Henry looked up and shook his head. “What about my birthday?”

“April last year,” he explained. “I drove to Kutná Hora to come and surprise you, but you weren’t there. Nobody knew where you were.”

“Oh. That.” Henry sighed. “No, Sam told me. I was in Skalice. I wanted to be alone, so I didn’t tell anyone.”

But hurt flashed through Hans’s eyes and he grew quiet. “You knew?”

And all Henry could say was, “I’m sorry.”

They followed the bend of the river southward, through a small park and past a statue of a famous painter, sculpted in bronze yet breathing in the night air all the same—life could almost twitch in those fingers, paintbrush and palette in hand. A boat glided past along the water, one of those sightseeing cruises that had come all the way from Dresden, its soft blue and white lights glittering on the waves. There was peace in everything—just out of arm’s reach. Henry tipped his head back towards the sky, where the first stars were starting to emerge, and he exhaled slowly.

“I couldn’t do it,” he confessed, and a tightness in his chest began to unravel. Hans furrowed his brow, so he proceeded, “It got to a point where I just couldn’t be around you anymore. It hurt.”

“I hurt you?” Hans’s expression grew distressed at this possibility. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. You should have told me.”

“No, listen. It wasn’t you. It was never you,” Henry clarified. “I think I was jealous. Or it was something like jealousy at least. In the same amount of time on this planet, I hadn’t achieved half as much as you. You had a good job and a nice flat and a family, you know? And I’d come over and I’d meet your new friends from parliament or through the charity, and I just…” He ran a hand through his hair, in a poor attempt to steady the burning in his lungs. “Where did I fit in? A welder, a mechanic, a failed pro-hockey player… I’d be sitting there, eating off a plate I couldn’t even afford, thinking about how I was going to be able to put rent money together while you and your lot were discussing the fucking caviar or the champagne.”

Hans opened his mouth to speak, but Henry, in his newfound agitation, stopped him, “I’m not done. But honestly, there aren’t enough words, Hans. There aren’t enough words for me to explain just how shit it felt to walk through that world that I didn’t belong to, and then to listen to them sneer behind your back for keeping some lowlife around. So, yeah, I’m sorry I disappeared, but you were better off for it, okay? We already lived in different cities, so it was easier than it should have been. Maybe I was jealous; maybe I was uncomfortable, sure, but in the end I did it for you–”

“For me?!”

While Henry kept walking, Hans had ground to a halt, so he turned around to look at him and the outrage smeared across his visage, arms spread out.

“You didn’t do shit for me!” he yelled, and a young couple who had been walking past quickened their pace. “I needed you, Henry. Do you think I enjoyed all that pomp and circumstance?! You were the only thing that made those evenings bearable, and then you fucking ran away.” Hans shook his head. “Like you always do.”

“Couldn’t you see that I hated it?!” Henry countered. “I was miserable back then, for a bunch of different reasons, and I was invisible to you. It was about what you wanted; what you had planned; what you needed. How could I be in your life when I couldn’t remember the last time you had truly been in mine?! So forgive me for being selfish, but I left you because if I had stayed any longer, I would have hated you.”

The city grew still. They were met with a silence, unnatural and heavy, staring at one another’s flayed soul. Running a hand over his face, Henry returned them to a sore repose.

“Fuck, Hans… Can’t you understand?” Each word was desperate to be understood; tired.

“You had everything. All I had was you.”

They were eclipsed by a sudden aphonia between them, and nothing was said until they reached Charles Bridge. It was not empty—it never was—but there were far fewer people now at night than during a typical summer’s day. The street lamps cast light and shadow across the cobblestones, aged by the millions of feet that had passed through over the centuries, and they stopped halfway, leaning against the parapet as they overlooked the sleepy waters. Nothing was said for a while.

“Why is it so easy with you?” Hans started, and Henry raised an eyebrow.

“What is?”

“Everything.” He bit back a smile. “When we’re not screaming at each other, I mean. The way you were with Hynek today, and me… It’s like you never left.”

“I’m not going to run away again,” Henry promised quietly, finally meeting his eyes, and Hans believed him.

“We’re not going to fix the last year and a half tonight. But we can start.”

Henry dropped the tension from his shoulders and bowed his head. “I’d like that.”

Pleased, Hans grinned and took his hand, pulling him along. “Come on, then. You’re going to tell me every little thing that I’ve missed.”

That drew a laugh out of Henry and he pretended to resist Hans’s insistence, bringing his weight backwards, but allowed himself to be dragged along. “Fine, fine… As long as I hear the same in return.”

Hans agreed, and the night embraced them.

“So, where to begin…?”

Notes:

You can find me on Tumblr!

Thank you so much for all the support on the first chapter!! I love you all so so much <3<3

Chapter 3

Notes:

i have been fighting demons this week. here, have a chapter.

5 Years Ago

 

Henry hurried down the street, the soles of his black dress shoes scraping against the cobbled paving as he followed the bend in the road; the slight downhill incline. Adjusting his tie with one hand, he slipped through the metal gate into the churchyard and ran down the corridor of short hedges, shaded by a towering deciduous, then crossed the mossy grass, passing long-forgotten gravestones, to reach the door, already ajar—in his other hand he clutched a small blanket, no bigger than a tea towel and pale yellow with an embroidered duck in the corner. Henry paused outside and straightened out his suit jacket, let the sunshine warm the back of his neck for a moment, then reentered the church.

There was a rich scent—frankincense mingling with cypress—that filled the air, reaching up into the heights of the nave, the bowed ceiling held aloft by tall, cream-coloured walls. Pews, made from a strong, dark wood, lined either side of the aisle, which had a long red runner, trimmed with golden-yellow embroidery, going down the centre and up to the chancel, where light poured in from a south-facing window and washed over the high altar. Fresh, white flowers filled every corner, brightening the space. Icons and portraits; holy scenes and saints, painted in deep colours, faced them, embellished with ornate golden frames, and a low-hanging candelabra glittered above all who had gathered, in their smart suits and attire, for the occasion. There was animated chattering from all the guests, seated and waiting patiently, though it was underpinned by infantile wailing, a piercing noise. Henry was only looking for one person, and spotted him immediately by the doors.

Hans had his arms folded, pacing back and forth in thought as he bit his lip firmly. When he turned and looked up, spotting his friend, he sighed with relief and walked over, patting him on the shoulder as he took the blanket.

“Thank God. Thank you, Henry.” He smiled, but Henry could see the fatigue pooling beneath his eyes; it was well-hidden by this navy suit and light blue shirt combination that he was wearing, which truly brought out the colour instead. “You’re a lifesaver, honestly.”

“All in a day’s work,” he teased back and fished the car keys out of his black slacks, offering them out to him, and Hans chuckled as he took them, tucking them into the inside pocket of his blazer. Together, they walked past the pews and up to the chancel. There Jitka was speaking with the priest, holding the screeching baby in her arms and trying desperately to shush him. She looked even more tired than Hans did, but was still effortlessly pretty, in a deep blue dress and with a white lace veil over her hair. When they approached, she happily handed the little fiend over to her husband for a moment of respite, and Hans took him, hushing him gently and wrapping him in the blanket. The boy was barely six weeks old, but it was incredible how much he had grown in such a short amount of time. Henry had practically dropped everything and driven to Prague at once the moment Hans had called—in tears, of course—to tell him that the child had been born. He watched now, standing to the side in this quaint church in Rataje, as his best friend managed to soothe the baby slightly, the crying now replaced with upset gurgling; Hans had grown too, he knew. How on Earth was this the same person as the one he had seen absolutely shitfaced at a nightclub just off Národní at 3 AM (before trying to fight a lamp post, German tourist, and traffic cone) only a year ago?

Henry felt a nudge in his side, hearing, “What are you thinking about?”

He looked to his right and smiled. Theresa looked great: her hair was done up into a braided bun, and she wore a green floral dress—which Henry remembered from one of their last dates. After a year, it was thankfully no longer awkward between them, and if anything they were better friends for it. He shrugged, then looked back at the parents coddling their child as the priest began to motion for a server to help settle the congregation.

“Not much,” Henry replied. “Just happy, that’s all.” And he meant it.

The ceremony went smoothly, or as smoothly as it can with a protesting baby. Hymns were sung, the gospel was read, prayers of intercession were said, and little Hynek was baptised in the name of the Lord. Henry and Theresa played their part as the chosen godparents—and they both felt honoured—standing side-by-side with Hans and Jitka around the font as the priest anointed the child’s head with holy water; the baby squirmed and burst into tears once more, but Jitka was quick to comfort him. Hans was the one to receive the light from the paschal candle, and Henry really had to pull himself together and try not to chuckle when his friend nearly dropped it and spilled hot wax on his hand. They glanced at each other for a moment during the Ephphatha rite, so Henry decided to very discreetly stick his tongue out at him, and Hans had to quickly disguise his snort of laughter as a sneeze; Jitka gave them both a dubious side-eye. It was all over eventually and after one last blessing and a final hymn, everyone filed out of the church in orderly fashion.

The reception was held in a restaurant on the ground floor of a family-run pension the next village over, which they had rented out for the occasion, and the guests arrived in their cars one by one, having made their way over at a leisurely pace. But soon enough, there was hot food on the tables, the beer was flowing, and music was playing over the speakers, accompanied by convivial laughter. Henry sat on a table with the new parents and Theresa, thoroughly enjoying his schnitzel and potato fries; on the table beside theirs was Hans’s uncle Hanush and Jitka’s parents and grandmother, as well as her uncle Botschek; and seated elsewhere were various relatives and close friends. In all, it was not too many people, but just who needed to be there. Jitka’s mother had been kind enough to hold the baby so that the starving parents could eat, but once Hans was done he took his child back and decided to tour around the guests, so that he could thank them again for coming and they could all sing their praises about how adorable Hynek was; Jitka had developed a splitting headache by this point, so she vanished to go and take a well-deserved lie down. Henry finished eating and joined his best friend as they table-hopped.

First stop was Jitka’s aunts, who cooed and fussed over the infant, before proceeding to bombard Henry with a series of questions about when he was going to find a nice girl and settle down, and even began to offer their daughters’ phone numbers; they had to laugh it off nervously, and just about escaped. Next was some of Hans’s distant relatives that Hanush had summoned out of the woodwork. When Henry asked afterwards, Hans could not name a single person that had been sat at that table, even though they had been at his wedding as well. After that was more of Jitka’s family: cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles once removed… They then entered more relaxed territory, walking up to a table with a few of Hans’s colleagues (although they were invited more for political gain than genuine connection), but it was the loudest table that had to be their favourite.

“There he is!” Janosh cheered, raising his glass, but when Hans smiled, he waved a hand at him and shook his head. “No, no, not you! The baby!”

Janosh set his pint down and held his arms out, into which Hans carefully deposited his son, chuckling, “Watch out. He might not have teeth yet, but he bites.”

“He’s a little fighter, then,” said Žižka, sitting across the table, and he nodded firmly. “Just like his father.”

Beside him, Katherine scoffed. “His mother, more like.” She gestured towards Hans with her drink. “You forget, she has to deal with him.”

They all erupted into laughter and he rolled his eyes. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Katherine’s got a point,” Henry noted, a slight smirk on his lips. “I lived with you for three years, remember, and that was enough for me, so I’ve no idea how Jitka’s going to cope with the rest of her life. She’s got to be Superwoman or something.”

Hans pouted at him, but the twinkle in his eye was undeniable. He shoved Henry’s shoulder playfully, then took his son from Janosh when he began to fuss; he rocked the infant gently, then placed a kiss upon his tiny forehead. As they all began to talk among themselves, as well as lament that Kubyenka and Adder had not been able to join them (although they had sent their best wishes), there was suddenly a shout from behind them, a grating and rough voice, and they turned to see Dry Devil grinning (a frightening sight, indeed), his arms spread wide with a bottle of beer in one hand.

“C’mon, lad, let’s see him.” He took a long swig of his drink and slammed it down onto a nearby table, not theirs, then stepped forwards wrapped an arm tightly around Hans’s shoulders, peering over at the child. “Look at him, what a beauty! He’s got those good Kunštát genes, eh?”

Henry wondered if Hans still would have married Jitka if he had known that their friend was related to her—a second cousin, no less.

“Still can’t believe you named him after me,” Devil continued, dramatically feigning a tear in his eye, which he pretended to wipe away. “I’m so honoured.”

Hans sighed and made a frustrated noise. “For the last time, I forgot that that was already your name! How was I supposed to remember when we only ever call you Devil?! Besides, I was trying to name him after Henry!”

The world momentarily sounded muffled in Henry’s ears, and he blinked several times, staring straight at Hans. Before he could say anything, however, the child began to scream again, and he jolted back to reality.

“I’ve got this, I’ve got this!” Adult Hynek rolled up his shirt sleeves and scooped Baby Hynek out of his father’s arms, and after only a second or two, the child calmed. Everyone gawked at him, and the Devil shrugged nonchalantly. “What’re you staring at? I’m great with kids.”

The afternoon turned into the evening. Hans inevitably left his son with Hanush—who spoiled the child rotten, really: Henry had seen how much baby equipment the man had bought for his nephew—and the two of them headed out onto the decking, lager in hand, and they leaned against the wooden railing as they looked out over the countryside, lush and green in the fading summer light. The music from inside could only be heard faintly now, and a bird chittered in a nearby tree; it was a moment to breathe.

“What a day!” Hans exhaled, taking a swig of his beer, and Henry simply nodded beside him.

They lapsed into silence, and Henry realised he could not remember the last time that it had been like this; that it had just been them. University and graduation had only been two years ago, but now it felt like a lifetime. Here they were, best friends living out completely different lives with different aspirations in different cities, but there had always been that gravitational pull back to one another that neither of them could deny—it was comforting; stable.

“So,” Hans began, turning to face him, “how’s it going in Most?”

Henry’s jaw tightened. Great. He really had not wanted to tell Hans today.

“It’s going well.” He sipped his ale, then set the bottle down on the picnic table behind him. “We played against Hronov last week. Won 4-1.”

“I know, I put it on the TV,” Hans smiled. “I watch all your games, remember? Plus, I need to start Hynek off early if he’s ever going to be a pro like you. And you were amazing, honestly. You scored, what, two of those goals?”

Henry chuckled. “Three, actually.”

“See! And I swear you weren’t even on the ice that long.” Shaking his head, Hans put his beer down. “I’ve no idea how some Maxa or Extraliga bigwig hasn’t come along to snap you up.”

Although he nodded in humble agreement, Henry kept silent and looked away. His friend frowned.

“Henry? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I, uh…” Henry shut his eyes, and sighed slowly. “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be at the club.”

Hans furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that it’s going under.” The words poured out now, sharp and agitated. “The club is going to be dissolved and most of us aren’t going to have jobs. Not that they fucking care. It’s too late for anyone to secure a transfer in time if they didn’t already have one in place. There’s only so many teams and so many spaces.”

“Henry… I’m sorry–”

“It’s fine.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I just wanted you to hear it from me rather than on the news next week.”

Hans understood. He asked what had happened, and Henry explained the financial turmoil that was going on behind the scenes, even though he himself was not privy to every detail: he just knew that the situation was not good. When Hans offered to speak with Hanush, see if he could find Henry a place on the small team that he owned, he shook his head.

“Don’t bother,” he told him. “They’re a regional team. If I have to relegate, I might as well move back home to Kutná Hora.” Henry pursed his lips. “Most is… okay. But it’s not beautiful. And I do miss everyone. Žižka said there’s always a space for me on the team.”

“I don’t blame you. I sometimes miss our friends, too.” Hans grew a pensive look, then spoke a little softer, “But I mostly miss you.”

Henry giggled and shuffled over, bumping their shoulders together. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Hans gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. I suppose you are.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, until Henry cleared his throat and asked, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“You know.” Henry could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. It must have been the alcohol. “Naming Hynek after me.”

And Hans threw his head back and laughed; Henry would never admit it, but it was his favourite sound.

“You seriously mean to tell me that you only just realised this? That I had to say it outright?” He shook his head in disbelief, smiling brightly—brighter than a thousand suns. “Come on, Henry, I thought it was obvious.”

Henry glanced at him shyly. “Thought it might have been a coincidence.”

“Never.” Hans put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Not when it comes to something as important as my child’s name. Or someone as important as you.”

They went back inside soon after. Henry could not explain the strained feeling beneath his rib cage, but he was certain that it meant nothing.

 

***

 

Present Day

 

The door clicked shut behind Henry as he reentered the apartment, and he wiped the perspiration of his morning jog from his forehead as he kicked off his running shoes. It was tricky readjusting to the busier and often narrower pavements, especially when cafés and restaurants would set tables and chairs out front and he would have to dodge past other pedestrians, but it was pleasant nonetheless. The creak of a floorboard alerted him, and he looked up to see Hans standing in the doorway to the living room, his hair still tousled from the night, though he was otherwise dressed, seemingly cosy in a warm, cashmere jumper.

“Hey, how did you sleep?” Henry asked softly, and the other man nodded wearily.

“Okay.” He sniffed and rubbed his eye. “I was just about to make some coffee.”

They migrated to the kitchen, and Hans shut the door, not wanting the smell to drift. The view from the windows was utterly radiant, the sunlight illuminating the space indoors as well, and Henry seated himself at the island counter as he watched Hans flit around the kitchen, retrieving a cezve to make their coffee on the stove, for a stronger, heartier taste. It was what Henry felt he needed, in all honesty. After last night, all those hours of talking, and even after his run, he was still not entirely awake. He rested his chin in his hand, leaning against the counter, and traced his sight over the line of Hans’s shoulders; the way that they slumped slightly, yet without the tension of yesterday.

“I don’t think I’ve laughed that much in a long time,” Henry admitted to the stillness lingering between them, and Hans turned fractionally towards him, keeping one eye on the coffee pot.

“Last night?” Hans raised an eyebrow, and Henry nodded. “I don’t think I have, either. It was… nice.”

A rich aroma filled the room and Hans soon poured out two cups, then slid one across the marble surface towards his friend. He himself stayed where he was, standing on the opposite side; just out of reach. Henry thanked him and took a sip. It was perfect.

“Hans,” he tried again, “I need you to understand something.” He was met with an apprehensive look, and continued, “I don’t care that we’ve been apart as long as we have, all right? You’re still my best friend. And I care about you. I want to help you through this.”

Hans bit his lip, replying quietly, “I don’t know how to show you how much I appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Henry gave him a lop-sided smile. “That’s what friends are for.”

They made but a little conversation as they enjoyed their hot beverages—and the quality could really be tasted—absorbing the reality of one another’s company; how time had passed them by. Henry asked if he could use the computer to check his emails, and Hans gave him permission, saying that he needed to call Jitka anyway. Henry’s eyes widened.

“She texted me this morning,” Hans explained. “We need to talk about Hynek.”

Not much more was said. Coffee finished, Hans shuffled off, and Henry heard the soft click of the living room door as it shut, synchronised with his slow breathing.

Hans’s study was one of the smaller rooms in the apartment, but it felt just as homey. One wall was lined with bookshelves, filled to the brim with literature, yet there was careful consideration to make room for old family photographs and an award or two; and another was floor to ceiling windows, with double doors that opened up onto the roof terrace, providing a pleasing vista of the city’s southward skyline. As he walked over to the desk and settled down into the leather chair, Henry’s eyes flitted over all the paraphernalia lying around: empty coffee mugs; pens and pencils, their ends visibly chewed; a hockey puck being used as a paperweight, and Henry remembered exactly which game it was from; a small box of mints; Hans’s degree hanging on the wall, beside a picture of Hynek as a newborn; a whiteboard with a scrawled spider diagram of innovative ideas for his charity; the mess of paperwork crammed into a folder that was about to burst… It was all simply Hans. Henry reached over and turned the computer on.

He did not need to call for him: Henry had counted on it, and correctly assumed that Hans still used the same password from when they were at university. Opening the browser, he began to type, to log in to his email account, but he felt absent, as if his fingers were moving on their own; his heart quickened. He had only done this to himself, he knew. He felt no frustration, but a churning, slippery sickness pooling in his gut—there was one unread message, and it was from HC Sparta. It demanded opening, and Henry complied, entirely against his will.

Dear Henry, blah blah blah… We are sorry to hear that there was an emergency, yada yada…

He went still.

We regret that due to the competitive nature of this tryout, we will not be able to offer you another chance…

And that was it.

Henry let his body stoop backwards into the desk chair and he let out a long, stuttering sigh. He knew that this was going to happen, of course, but the disappointment still cut deep, right into a wound that had still not quite healed. To want something so badly, despite the impossibility of it—a feeling familiar for reasons he could not quite ascertain. Running a hand over his face, everything that could have been flickered behind his eyelids, pressing down on the back of his tongue. His parents’ voices were in his ears, but he could not hear them over the rushing of blood, and when he blinked, they were gone. He was not sure how long he had sat there, staring straight at the blaring screen, but enough time had passed for him to notice that at least two more emails had entered his inbox since. Henry logged out, not even sparing them a thought.

Stepping out into the corridor, Hans’s voice was audible, but muffled behind the door. Shouting, Henry realised. He screwed up his eyes and made a beeline for the kitchen—his mouth was dry all of a sudden.

He hardly needed to fetch himself this glass of water, for his head was swimming already, but he downed it in one go and braced himself against the counter. Once there had been a clear path for him, but he had strayed long ago it seemed, as he itched at the ache under his throat; a tide had turned against him, dashing hope to the rocks and leaving him adrift. Perhaps, he considered momentarily, hockey was not supposed to be for him. After all, this many signs from the universe, all acting against his favour, had to mean something. Perhaps he should have settled for the quiet life his parents had wanted for him: there was little disappointment there, despite the unfulfillment. But he had wanted to make them proud. He wanted to take the one thing that he was truly good at and become great; to show them even in their repose that he could.

He missed them. Even though the years had passed, that peculiarity of grief lingered: to feel as if they were only a phone call away, when in reality it was a lifetime.

Footsteps alerted him, and he raised his head. Hans stood in the doorway, shaking; his eyes were red, and he gripped his phone tightly. Nothing had to be said. Henry was at his side in an instant, pulling him into a firm embrace—and perhaps it was more selfish than he intended for it to be. Hans’s hands came up weakly to reciprocate, and he sobbed into the crook of his friend’s neck, breath hot against the skin there. Henry squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face into Hans’s hair.

It was going to be alright.

 

***

 

The day passed; evening fell. Hans had spent most of the afternoon playing with Hynek, but barely spoke, though he masked the sorrow for his son’s sake. Henry undertook all the errands that needed to be done: the laundry, the cleaning, watering the plants, unloading the dishwasher… While normally a drag, the chores grounded him; gave him a sense of rhythm that was a welcome distraction. Now and then, when he passed the living room, he would catch a glimpse of his friend’s troubled countenance, and something ugly would twist below his stomach. He could not allow himself to be upset about Sparta, he decided, not when Hans’s plight was tenfold.

Diced onions sizzled in the frying pan while Henry chopped up some mushrooms—he would make something simple, thrown together from whatever ingredients he could find around the kitchen. Music played softly over the radio, and he hummed along, even though he did not know the songs. Hans came in, carrying Hynek on his hip and holding a colouring book and box of crayons in his other hand, with a light smile on his lips and his shoulders not drooping as much as before. He placed the tot down on a stool and gave him the drawing apparatus, then moved around the island to stand beside Henry, shifting into his space and gingerly taking the knife from his hand, before sliding the cutting board towards himself.

“You need to slice them into smaller pieces,” he explained as he took over, an air of amusement in his voice. “You forget that Hynek’s only little. He might choke otherwise.”

Once the mushrooms were added to the pan, Henry practically had to force Hans to sit down and relax—“I can handle it, honestly. Don’t trust my culinary skills, hey?”—then continued cooking, stirring the egg noodles that boiled in the stock pot. Hynek, meanwhile, was scribbling away, his tiny fist gripping a blue crayon with pure determination, until finally he grinned ear to ear and raised up his masterpiece for the world to see. Hans took it from him with care and looked it over, a proud smile creeping up on him.

“This is beautiful, Birdie.” He ruffled his son’s hair and kissed the crown of his head, then pointed to one of the stick figures, whose arms and torso were obscenely longer than their legs. “Is this me?”

“No!” Hynek exclaimed, as if the answer was glaringly obvious. “That’s Uncle Henry!”

“Oh, of course, silly me.” Hans turned the page around so that Henry could see, and gestured to the drawing. “I think it looks just like him.”

Henry snorted and held back a laugh, almost burning himself as he strained the pasta. Hans turned the artwork back to face him, then leaned in conspiratorially towards Hynek and tapped the slightly smaller figure. “Then, that’s me!”

But Hynek burst into a fit of delighted giggles. “No, Tati! That’s me!”

“Then which one am I?”

The boy pointed at a disfigured blob of yellow wax scratchings, then immediately covered his face to hide the absolute glee. Hans coughed out a short, disbelieving laugh, then shook his head and looked at Henry, as if to check that he was hearing this too.

“The cheek on this one!” He tickled Hynek, and the child shrieked happily as he was then hauled into his father’s lap and had his cheek smothered with kisses. “Honestly, Henry, I’ve no idea where he gets it from!”

Casting a glance over his shoulder, Henry chuckled. “Yeah. No idea.”

Hans then pointed at what appeared to be a small box with three figures inside. “And who are these?”

“That’s Máma,” the boy said, indicating to the one on the left. “She’s far away at Babi and Děda’s house.”

Facing the stove, Henry went still. Hynek’s innocence was a blessed thing, truly, and in an ideal world he would keep it forever and ever, but now there was another fragility, and Henry had become very wary of how easily it could break.

But Hans, much to his credit, simply replied, “Ah, that makes sense. Lovely drawing, Birdie.”

Dinner was served soon after, and with the connecting doors to the dining room having been opened, they sat down to enjoy it; Hans’s expression melted with the first bite.

“God, Henry…” Their eyes met across the table, and suddenly Henry felt quite small. “You’ve made this before. You made this in our second year, after I sprained my ankle at practice. I think I had a cold too, that week, but…” Hans smiled. “It’s just funny, you know. I never forgot the taste.”

Henry ducked his head, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m flattered that it was that good.”

But Hans threw back his head and laughed—so unchanged after all this time. “Oh, no, it was absolutely not.” He gestured at his plate with his fork. “This, however, is bloody brilliant.”

After the meal, Hynek was allowed half an hour of cartoons, before promptly being tucked into bed; the boy was out like a light anyway, drifting off midway through his bedtime story. Henry had lingered on the threshold, watching as his father lovingly stroked his hair and made sure he was snug. Not long after, Henry and Hans migrated to the living room, the latter having taken a detour to grab a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He shut the door with his heel upon his arrival and poured out their fill, handing one to his friend. Henry gave it a sniff.

“Are you sure there isn’t some lager hiding around here somewhere?”

“Piss off.” Hans settled on the opposite end of the sofa. “I’ll have you know that this St. Laurent is of local produce. And I paid a pretty penny for it, too.”

“Pilsner’s local enough, I would’ve thought.” When all he received was a glare, Henry snorted. “Well, I’m honoured that you’ve chosen to waste such a beverage on my unrefined taste buds.”

But Hans just sighed at him and leaned back into the cushions. “For goodness’s sake, Henry. When are you going to stop seeing yourself that way?” He did not sound angry or annoyed; simply tired. “I’m not wasting it. You’ve never been a waste.”

Henry took a sip. It was not actually that bad.

“I’m sorry about Sparta,” Hans continued. Henry shrugged.

“I’m sorry about Jitka.”

It went quiet.

But then, Hans blew a raspberry.

“Look at us.” With a chuckle, shook his head. “What a pair of sorry sods!”

And Henry laughed too. So, they sat and talked, anything to distract themselves from reality imploding around them. Memories were passed back and forth between them with ease, and a familiarity that had been sorely missed encroached upon them. Looking at Hans now in the dim light, Henry felt the knot in his stomach unravel—healing takes time, but perhaps these scars would not run too deep, if he did not let them.

He placed his glass down on the coffee table. “I need to go back to Kutná Hora in the morning. As much as I’d like to stay, tomorrow is still Monday, and I’ve still got work.”

Hans considered this, then nodded. “Of course. Do you want a lift to the station?”

“I’ll be alright. I’m planning on taking the early train, so I can let myself out. You sleep in, yeah?”

“If you insist…”

The wine was polished off and the lights were snuffed. Lying across the bed, Henry stared blankly up at the ceiling until sleep claimed him with a heavy hand and a promise of escape, until the last image that ghosted his mind was that of a dark city skyline and bright, colourful fire flaring across the heavens, and an unrecognisable young face from long ago.

Notes:

This fic is taking over my life and I'm so happy you guys have decided to come along for the ride! <3

Note: the 1st hockey league of czechia's name only changed from chance liga to maxa liga in 2024, but for coherence sake, we're just gonna refer to it only as 1st league or maxa liga; to those of you unfamiliar with ice hockey, in the ČSLH, Maxa liga is the second-highest level, Extraliga is the top league

You can find me on Tumblr, you beautiful people!

Chapter 4

Notes:

FUCK THIS WEATHER the heat in this country has absolutely wrecked me, i have barely been able to write with how humid and disgusting it has been, its clouded my brain, but i bring you now this chapter as penance (even tho i lowkey hate it)

There was a fleck of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror. It was white, with little teal crystals, and smeared across the glass haphazardly, like someone had given up half-way through wiping it away—Jitka’s toothpaste, of course. The mint flavour was far too sharp for Hans, so they had never shared, not once throughout six years of their marriage. And Hans stared at the dried glob of calcium carbonate now as he rinsed his mouth out. The walls of the en suite felt closer than they ever had, as if they may give way and collapse in on him any second; as if the pipes would burst and flood the room with icy water, drowning him in this ceramic tomb. His reflection looked back at him with pity; he washed his face, and hurriedly turned off the light.

Henry, it seemed, had left in the early hours of the morning. The spare bedroom was empty, no man nor hockey equipment to be found, with the covers neatly made and the window left open to let in fresh air. The curtains gently moved with the breeze, rising and falling in slow rhythm, and Hans ran his hand over the soft fabric; the eggshell cotton was weightless beneath his fingers. He glanced out of the window, over the russet rooftops and down into the courtyard between the buildings. It mostly consisted of concrete and metal, the back ends of the street-facing businesses, but there was one sliver of greenery among the drab: a patch of grass with a sorry-looking tree. It strained its branches skyward, grasping at the sunlight despite the shadow of the flats and apartments; desperate for even the slightest taste; unrelenting. Hans shut the window with a firm tug. There was little time for dawdling.

A quick glance at the clock in the kitchen, as he was preparing Hynek’s breakfast, told him that he had to hop into a work call in about half an hour. Had he really slept in that long? Sure, it had not been the most peaceful sleep of his life, but it was definitely one of the more restful nights as of recent. In that great, big, king-sized bed, there was now an aching emptiness, but he was very gradually adjusting to falling asleep each night with cold feet and legs. Biting the inside of his cheek, Hans twisted his wedding ring pensively. The thought of taking it off had never crossed his mind—if anything, he had forgotten it was even there. It had been part of him for so long, so rarely taken off ever since their big day, that it might as well have melded with his skin. Ticking from the clock pulsed heavily in his ears, and Hans winced. He would call in sick today. On the budget meeting, on the sitting in parliament later, on everything… A migraine was not far from the truth, anyway.

It would do both him and his son some good to go outside and enjoy the warm weather, he felt. Even before the impending divorce, he had been so busy that the last time he took his boy to the park was now escaping his memory. Shame wormed its way into his skull at this, but he screwed up his face in an attempt to banish it. It was not his fault though, he reasoned; how could it be? He worked two jobs, after all. And he worked damn hard, too. Sacrifices had been made over and over again, all for his family, and he should be proud of it.

And yet, when he looked at little Hynek’s face, all he could see were the days that had passed them by; moments that he had missed.

After waking up his son gently—and the boy had the most adorable bed head and sleepy expression—and helping him dress, they ate breakfast and Hans asked him what he wanted to do today. With a mouthful of food, Hynek’s eyes lit up and he jumped up in his seat with a shout of, “Bubbles!” Hans scolded him about speaking while eating, but agreed. Before they left, he retrieved the small plastic pot of bubble liquid, the wand attached to the lid, which had been stored on one of the tallest cupboard shelves in the apartment, lest Hynek try and drink it again.

Normally, he would take his son to the park just across the river, but today it was too close to the government buildings for his liking, so they took the Metro a couple of stops south and exited at the National Museum. They then strolled up to the park by the main train station, which had enough open space but was at least a comfortable distance away from his place of work; there was always a tendency to run into the people you wanted to see the least. As they had emerged from the subway, he really had to wrangle with the boy to stop him from running into the road, the promise of bubbles far too enticing. Maybe he should buy one of those child leashes, like he had seen other parents use, but while he understood the safety element of it, something about the concept rubbed him up the wrong way.

He slipped on his sunglasses as they entered the park, shielding himself from both the sun and prying eyes. He was not famous by any means, he knew that, but his face was still fairly recognisable to anyone that kept up with politics, and he would rather not be caught in his absence.

Son of late Ješek Capon Avoids Parliamentary Duty to Blow Bubbles in the Park. Now, that was a headline he did not mind; he would rather that than read about his divorce, plastered across the tabloids. It was only time until word spread.

Whenever there was the occasional article about him, which thankfully was normally to do with his charity and their work, he had noticed that he was always referred to first and foremost as his father’s son. Part of it annoyed him. Part of it made him sad. Either way, there was an undeniable legacy, but he would be damned before he let Hynek take on the same burden that he had. If he remained nice and quiet, stayed in his lane and kept to himself, then perhaps the tumultuous shadow that his father had left behind would fade.

Having found a nice, open spot, just off from the path, Hynek roared with delight as he ran through the cloud of bubbles that Hans blew in his direction, swatting his little arms as they floated past. Wonder lit up his big, blue eyes as he watched them dance in the sunlight, before reaching out to pop these iridescent spheres and giggling each time. And Hans laughed too, every worry having melted away so easily. He crouched down and allowed his son to have a go at blowing bubbles, which required a decent amount of patience, but soon he had tired out, and they sat on the grass together, soaking up the sun. Hynek’s tiny freckles dusted his cheeks, and Hans wiped the spatterings of bubble mixture off of them. He listened as the boy babbled, pointing at flowers and birds and anyone who came walking past with a dog, and gently carded his fingers through his son’s golden hair. All he wanted to do was protect this preciousness; to wrap him up and keep him safe from the hurt. But there was no avoiding it, and it was going to happen eventually. The only thing he could do now was try to soften the blow.

“Birdie.” He pressed a kiss to his hair. “You know that Máma and Táta love you a lot, don’t you?”

The boy grinned and stretched out his arms as far as he could. “This much.”

Hans laughed and did the same, then swung his arms around to pull him into his embrace; kissed his cheek. “Even more than that.”

Hynek giggled and cuddled closer. “More?”

“So much more.” A quiet wind whispered past them, and Hans grew a more serious expression. “And I know Máma is sad that she can’t be here at the moment. She misses you a lot.”

“I miss her too.” The boy wriggled and looked up at him. “When will she be home?”

He would not lie. He could never do that, not when he deserved the truth.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do know that she loves you. And even if things change, she’s still going to love you.” Hans brushed his son’s hair away from his face and took a deep breath. “Even if she’s going to be living somewhere else for a while.”

Confused eyes looked back at him, and that stubborn little voice said, “No. Máma stays with us.”

“I’m sorry, Birdie.” The anguish rose up through his chest and into his throat, choking his words. “It’s just going to be the two of us for some time. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

When Hynek began to tear up, Hans knew he should not have brought this up now; he should have waited, so that he and Jitka could explain it together. He hugged him closer and tried to soothe him, but the child was crying now, demanding his mother’s presence, and he could feel another part of his heart chip away at the sound. He said everything he could think of to reassure him, but the reality was simple: Hynek wanted his mother now, but Hans did not even know where she was—staying at a friend’s house, he presumed, though he had told his son that she went to visit her parents. He could call her and beg her to come home, and it had crossed his mind again and again, but there was a wall; an invisible barrier that he could not fathom. Yesterday’s conversation over the phone, which had so quickly turned into a shouting match, had only reinforced it.

There was no universe in which he could have anticipated that she would offer him full custody.

 

***

 

Stepping out of the train station, Henry yawned, blinking away the sunshine that dared to glare into his eyes. He had not slept well last night, and he could feel the effects racking his body now. His attempt to nap on the train had been unsuccessful too, with the fear of missing his connection at Kolín and ending up in Brno being too great. Heaving his bags over his shoulders, he took the next bus into town, watching wearily out of the grimy window as the streets and houses and shops passed by without a second thought. His bag jostled in the seat beside him; there would be no time to stop off at home before work, so the hockey gear would have to come with him and the clothes on his back would have to do. Not that he minded, but he would rather be wearing steel-toed boots than his scruffy trainers. After the bus ride, it was a five minute walk to the workshop. It was on a back alley north of the main road, near to one of the sports fields, and consisted of a series of adjoining garages that had been gutted of the walls between them to create one large space. All of the metal doors had been lifted, as was customary at the beginning of each day, permitting light into the otherwise windowless room, which was filled with workbenches, materials, scraps, wrenches, nuts and bolts, soldering irons… The air was warm with the smell of car oil and sawdust, and he could hear now the familiar clanging of metal against metal.

Henry dropped his bags and leaned against the brickwork with a sigh. Across the room, an older man ceased his clamour and set down his hammer to lift up his goggles, before he pulled off his gloves and smiled.

“Henry!” Radovan greeted him, but then caught sight of the fatigue etched across his face and frowned. “You alright, lad?”

He hummed in affirmation, but another yawn seized him and his boss folded his arms, unconvinced. Radovan gestured towards his hockey gear.

“What’s all this, then? I thought the tryout was on Friday. Did it go well?”

“There was an emergency.” Henry rubbed his eyes. “Friend of mine. Divorce.”

His boss raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Sorry to hear that, son. You still up for work today?”

Henry nodded and took a step forward, but Radovan held out a hand to stop him, wagged a finger, then pointed towards the young man’s shoes. Groaning, Henry conceded and went to the back of the workshop, grabbing the Safety Boots of Shame from the cupboard. Once they were laced up—horrible, worn, smelly things—he tugged off his hoodie and tossed it aside, leaving him in his t-shirt, then pulled on an apron and snatched up a welding mask from a nearby bench. Luckily Radovan had enough mercy to take pity on him today, and only assigned him some smaller tasks: there was no chance that he was going to let Henry anywhere near his clients’ cars in this condition.

It was while Henry was using an arc welder to attach the legs to a metal garden chair, the attention to the work having awoken him slightly more, that he worked up the confidence to turn to his boss and ask, “I was wondering… Would it be possible for me to take some time off sometime soon?”

Radovan, half-way through eating his lunch, looked up from his desk. “I suppose so. What for?”

“My friend. The one getting the divorce,” Henry explained. “Well, he’s my best friend, really. It’s hit him really hard, and I want to be there for him. But he lives in Prague.”

“I see.” His boss scratched his chin. “We’re quite swamped at the moment… But I could give you next week off.”

A sigh of relief left Henry and he grinned. “Thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

Flipping his visor back down, he continued welding, and did not stop for a break once until it was the end of the working day.

 

***

 

Henry knocked firmly on the door, then waited. Wildflowers crept along the border of the front garden, lined with a short, red wire fence as it looked out onto this suburban road. There was low shrubbery by the walls, and he glanced up at the flat, yellow-orange face of the house, just catching a glimpse of movement by the lace curtains on the first floor. Soon, he could hear approaching footsteps, and the door opened. Before Henry could even greet his friend, a bundle of energy charged at him from below, panting and sniffing with excitement.

“Good doggy!” Henry laughed, crouching down as Mutt tried to jump up and slobber all over his face, and Theresa rolled her eyes.

“Trust me, he’s missed you much more than you’ve missed him.” She shook her head. “He kept staring at the picture of us from school. Honestly, I moved the photograph and he just followed it. I don’t know how he was able to spot your face in the crowd, but he did.”

Henry grinned and scratched Mutt behind the ear in praise, then was welcomed in by his friend. They sat in the small kitchen and Theresa put the kettle on; he could tell she was dying to hear every single detail, though she waited for him to bring it up first. Mutt laid down by his feet, tail wagging cheerily, and Henry fiddled with the plastic tablecloth, tracing his finger along the sharp-dull edge. He wondered what Hans was doing right now; felt that he should have texted him earlier, that it was wrong of him to not say goodbye. But he had promised to return, so was it really farewell? Eventually, Theresa set down two mugs of coffee, and Henry accepted his gratefully. And so he caught her up on everything that had happened, but it begged a question.

“I can’t figure it out,” he told her between sips. “Why would she leave him? Who in their right mind would leave a guy like Hans?”

Theresa shrugged. “You did.”

Nearly choking, he hurriedly stammered out, “That’s different, you know that. I was miserable back then.”

“And you think she’s not?” When Henry gave her a perplexed look, she elaborated, “It just seems to me that his life, those circles that he moves in… None of it feels real, to be honest. It feels–” She extended her hands and wiggled her fingers. “–shiny. A little bit too polished. Maybe she needs out. Just like you did.”

“That can’t be the case,” Henry disagreed. “They’re married. She knew what she was getting herself into. She’s cut from that cloth anyway, she knows more than anyone.”

“It’s not that simple. People change.” She gestured between them. “I mean, look at us.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t married with kids in a fancy house.” He scoffed. “Living the dream.”

At this, Theresa frowned. “Dreams are subjective. If anyone should know that, it’s you.”

He grumbled an unintelligible response, then exhaled with exhaustion. “Look, he never elaborated, so I just don’t know.” Then, he pouted slightly. “Perhaps he doesn’t trust me.”

“It has been a year,” Theresa concurred, then chuckled when Henry corrected her, “Year and a half, actually.”

“Has he gone bald yet or something? Any patches?” she asked, but when he certified that Hans in fact still had a full head of healthy hair, Theresa ruled it out, “Hmm. Not that then.”

“He’s handsome,” he defended his friend against an absent argument. “Anyone can see that. And funny and kind. Which is why I just can’t wrap my head around it. He’s the perfect husband, as far as I’m aware.”

Theresa sipped her coffee; smirked ever so slightly. “Is it really that hard to imagine someone not being in love with him?”

And Henry refused to dignify her with an answer.

 

***

 

A sharp crack resounded around the empty rink as the blade of his hockey stick collided with a puck, sending it hurtling across the ice and into the back of the goal net. Henry had turned on only the white lights overhead when he had entered, and they washed out this central space while the edges of the stadium remained steeped in shadow. He reached with his stick and slid another puck towards himself from the pile that he had laid out, then skated with it in a small circle before squaring up again. A heavy thwack, and it flew across the frost, striking its target dead centre. Henry repeated this process over and over again, until he ran out of pucks, at which point he skated down and gathered them all up, before starting the ritual once more. It helped to clear his head, this monotonous motion; it centred him, although tonight his thoughts continued to drift. The threads tangled and muddled, giving him a headache, and he was desperate to pull them apart, even if it would have to be by force; if he had to tear himself away from his own mind. Maybe he should leave for a while, he considered, and go somewhere new and exotic—like Pardubice. He shook the irresponsible thought away, and drew another puck towards him.

“I thought I might find you here.”

At the same moment that he swung, Henry startled and sent it soaring past the net, straight into the boards. Cursing, he turned and shook his head at the man who had just stepped out onto the ice.

“Christ,” he groaned. “Don’t do that.”

Žižka chuckled and leaned against the glass barrier, not daring to venture too far out without skates on.

“Remember what I said about being aware of your surroundings.” Of course he had found a way to turn it into a lesson. “Your opponents can sneak up on you when you least expect it.”

Henry scoffed; shot another puck into the goal. “You always talk like it’s warfare.”

“Isn’t it?” the older man challenged. “If you want to win, you’ve got to fight. And I don’t mean the type of fighting that gets you penalties.” Žižka beckoned him over. “C’mon, lad. I think we need to have a chat.”

Having collected all the pucks, Henry glided over and they left the ice, sitting down on one of the wooden benches. As he began to unlace his skates, he noticed Žižka was waiting patiently, as if he was some wild animal that he dare not provoke. Henry ground his teeth and focused on untying the double knot.

“So,” Žižka began for him, “are you going to tell me what happened? I texted you.”

“Sorry.” Henry chucked his skates into his bag and pulled on his shoes. “Didn’t see it. What did Sam tell you?”

“He told me that you didn’t go. Told me about an emergency. Care to elaborate?”

“I did go,” he rebutted. “I just… didn’t do the tryout. And it was for a good reason, I swear.”

“It better have been,” Žižka huffed. “Christ, Henry, when was the last time you’d even seen him?”

He did not answer. A dark sky full of thousands of stars in every colour imaginable…

“It’s fine, if you don’t want to talk about it. Just–” Žižka sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about you.”

Henry looked at him now. The man’s brow was fixed downwards, and downwards turned too was his mouth. It made the scar over his left eye seem deeper than it was.

“When you didn’t renew your contract, I thought maybe you’d decided it was time to move on. I was proud of you, thinking perhaps you’d been scouted.” He shook his head. “How could I have guessed my star player was ready to give up?”

Henry frowned and picked at a loose thread on his jeans. “If I was your star player, you would’ve made me captain, not Frenzl.”

“And I wanted to make you captain,” Žižka explained with mild exasperation, “about three years ago now, but there was a sadness in you that I couldn’t look past, and it was translating into your playing. You were excellent, but numb. I thought, maybe he’ll grow from it. But I’m not sure you ever did.” He pursed his lips. “What happened to the lad that turned up to the rink one day and demanded lessons, hey? Where’s that confidence gone?”

Reaching over and placing a firm hand on his shoulder, Žižka plained, “Henry, you’re a very talented young man. I don’t want to see you throw it all away just because you don’t think you’re worth it.”

Fixing his jaw, Henry stared blankly at him. Worth was an unclear thing to define. Worth was attached to so many parts of one’s being, that he could not for certain say where his lay. He remembered well the summer before university, when he had rocked up to Kutná Hora with nothing more than a backpack and pleaded with the great Jan Žižka that he might teach him how to become a legend too. Back then, he had not been afraid to ask; he had been shameless, turning up every day until finally the man had caved. He had been bold. Had that been his worth?

But that was then, and this was now.

He shrugged Žižka’s hand away, then dug out of his pocket the set of spare keys for the backdoor, which his friend had given him for nights like these, and surrendered them. Henry stood and slung his bag over his shoulder.

“I’m going back to Prague at the end of the week. I won’t be able to make the last practices of the summer.” He shifted awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”

Žižka nodded. “It’s alright, son. I just hope you’re making the right decision.”

There was a chill breeze outside when Henry left the building, and so he tugged his hoodie tighter around himself as he began his walk home. He did not want to think—that was why he had gone to the rink in the first place—but he was plagued now. So lost in his thoughts he was, that he barely even noticed an approaching car as he crossed the road, despite its glaring headlights. He jumped backwards just in time, and held his breath as it carried on past. What was happening to him? Žižka could not be right; he simply could not! He watched the car disappear, red brake lights blinking out of existence, then continued on his way.

I’m fine, he told himself. I’m fine.

Notes:

I really enjoy putting Henry through it :)

Thank you again for all the love, you guys are the ones that keep me writing, even through this absolutely miserable heatwave <3

Hit me up on Tumblr!

Chapter 5

Notes:

"sadie," i hear you cry, "why do you keep setting scenes in the kitchen?" because i am a firm believer that the kitchen is the heart of a family home, next question

anyway, sorry for the delay on this one, it has been a busy week... but i like to be a few chapters ahead before posting in case i need to make changes, and there was something that had to be altered so i am glad i waited; anyway, enjoyyyyy <3

The working week passed by in a haze of metal and grease and late afternoon beers. Knowing that he would become a one man workforce come Monday, Radovan had really put Henry to it, not that Henry minded. It kept him focused throughout the day, before sitting in King Solomon’s each evening, watching wearily as Sam pulled him a pint.

“You’re going to need a liver transplant,” his brother noted on Thursday, sliding the glass across the bar, but Henry just scowled and downed half of it in one go.

He kept a tab on Hans—they texted each other early in the mornings and just before bed. Not much was said, simple messages, but it was an anchor, keeping him steady amidst the sea of uncertainty. As much as he did not want to admit it, and he would surely never admit it to his friend lest he be told he was an idiot, perhaps it really was time to hang up the skates and call it a day on his career. He could donate his gear to the team; he was sure he had some old sticks lying around somewhere too, as well as a couple from his junior years that the kids’ team might like to use. It was an unsettling thought, to kiss away all the time and energy that he had spent chasing the dream—and he had begun this pursuit when he was only six. He remembered well the first game he had ever seen in person, a match between Sparta Prague and Vítkovice Ridera that his father had taken him to. He had felt a rush unlike anything else as the players charged across the ice, kicking up frost with their blades to the roar of thousands of fans, hawk-eyed and honing in on the puck like lions descending on their prey; a raw ferocity that thrilled. Adrenaline pealed under his skin, and in the car journey home he had begged for lessons, then continued to plead over the following weeks over and over, until finally his parents gave up their reluctance and conceded.

And in hindsight, what a waste it seemed.

Radovan kindly let him go early on Friday so that he could catch his train back to Prague, and Henry had to stop himself from sprinting back to his flat. He had already dropped Mutt off at Theresa’s again that morning, so that was certainly one less thing to think about. Standing in his bedroom now, he haphazardly stuffed clothes into a larger rucksack, just enough to tide the week over, then stopped to admire the mess of shirts and trousers strewn across his bed in some sort of abstract art display. He could sort it out later; his only focus now was making that direct train.

A pinging sound alerted him, and he dug through the clothes to find his phone buried beneath them. There was a notification across the screen which read:

Hans Capon – 16:03
What time does your train get in?

Henry bit back a smile and texted him with the time and platform, to which Hans apologised that he would still be at a work function then, but he should still be able to enter the apartment. And Henry replied that it was fine, ending the conversation and putting his phone aside to finish packing, but a few moments later there was another ping, and a new text.

Hans Capon – 16:05
Bring your hockey stuff btw

Frowning, Henry asked why. He would rather not lug it all the way back to Prague, especially as he had concluded that his gear was now useless to him.

Hans Capon – 16:05
You’ll see ;)

He sighed and slipped his phone into his pocket, then began to gather his duffle bag together as well. It was not like Hans to be unforthcoming; in fact, he was probably one of the most forthcoming people that Henry knew. But he trusted him, even if perhaps his friend did not feel entirely the same way. Regret snaked its way around his gut and squeezed—there was still much to amend.

Since he was busy working, Sam had asked (read: forced) John to give Henry a lift to the station, which was thoroughly appreciated.

“Honestly,” John complained light-heartedly, “I know I have flexible hours, but it’s as if Sam thinks I don’t actually do anything.”

“What is your job again exactly?” Henry asked, but the other man simply chuckled to himself, steering around the roundabout.

“Oh, sweet Henry.” John grinned. “I could tell you, but then I might have to kill you.”

Never a dull moment with this man.

John dropped him off at the station car park, where he clambered out and hauled his bags with him, then waved his friend off as he sped away. Henry watched him go, before turning and entering the station beneath the dark blue veranda, sheltering the few people waiting from the bright sun. He took the subway that delved deep beneath the tracks, which was muralled with national symbols and scenes, and emerged on Platform 2, where there were decidedly more expectant commuters. He shuffled along to find an empty bench, but his eyes widened when he noticed a figure—slumped backwards with arms folded across his chest and dozing lightly as his flat cap tipped downwards—whom he had not seen in a while. Henry came and stood in front of him, and the man cracked an eye open when the sunlight was suddenly blocked.

“Father Godwin.” Henry smiled. “You awake?”

“I am now,” the older man replied, returning the amiability, then shifted himself to sit upright. “What time is it?”

“About quarter to five,” Henry told him, and Godwin relaxed back into his seat.

“Wonderful. Haven’t missed my train, then.” He moved over, making room for Henry to sit, and he did. “Goodness, my boy, it’s been some time.”

“It has,” Henry agreed. “Since, what, February? When you came to one of my games.”

“That’s the one,” the priest affirmed. “How have you been holding up? Busy, I assume.”

“Just fine. And quite busy, yeah.” There was no desire within him to elaborate; he dropped his bags at his feet. “And yourself? Where are you headed?”

“Getting by, you know how it goes.” Godwin scratched at his temple. “Christopher’s playing a concert with his orchestra in the main square in Kolín.” He smiled proudly. “He actually became concertmaster a couple of months ago.”

“Congratulations to him. I hope you have a good time.”

“Thank you, Henry.” Godwin nodded to him. “And what about you? Off on a grand adventure?”

Henry laughed and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I’m going to Prague.”

The older man gestured to his duffle bag. “Playing a match?”

“No, uh…” Henry winced, debating momentarily on what to say—if he should admit, out loud for the first time, that hockey was no longer his path to tread—then settled for, “I’m visiting a friend. Hans, if you remember him.”

Godwin thought for a second, then, “Ah, yes! Tall, blond gentleman, your old roommate, correct? I think he may have sung in the choir, too.”

“That’s him.”

Picking at his palm, Henry looked both ways up and down the track, then leaned back when there was still no train in sight. Beside him, Godwin fetched a packet of cigarettes from his pocket—those nasty Communist-era ones that smelled like peat, and Henry knew that they had been sourced from the back of a vestry cupboard—offered one to Henry (who refused), then took one for himself. As the priest stuck it between his teeth and lit the end, with a match no less, the younger man glanced past him at the ‘No Smoking’ sign directly behind his head.

“Father,” Henry started cautiously. “Is now the wrong time to ask if I can make a confession?”

Godwin chuckled, the smoke escaping past his laugh. “Of course not. There’s no time like the present. Just let me…”

And the priest reached into a different pocket this time, pulling out a folded clerical collar, which he quickly slipped beneath the lapels of his shirt. Henry snorted, and Godwin raised an eyebrow at him.

“What? It makes a difference, I promise.”

They both made the sign of the cross over themselves, and so Henry began, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been…” He paused to think, then quickly faltered at the realisation. “…uh, a year and six months since my last confession, I think.”

A soft trickle of light had poured in through the windows of St Jakub’s in the waking hours of a day in early January of last year, and he and the priest had sat upon a bench in the narthex, where Henry had rattled every ounce of guilt off of his body, casting it into the abyss to rid himself of that gnawing sensation below his stomach. He would never speak to any other clergyman than Godwin when it came to confessions: a firm layer of trust had been built upon hours spent in the university chaplaincy, trying to make sense of the passions of grief.

Henry continued, “I’ve been having selfish thoughts–“

“For Christ’s sake, Henry.” Godwin’s interjection sounded exhausted, and the younger man screwed up his face.

“You’re not supposed to judge.”

“I’m not judging, you’re just being daft.”

“So this is what I get for trying to be a good Christian?” Henry huffed. “My own priest telling me I’m an idiot? You old git.”

Godwin laughed and motioned vaguely with his cigarette. “Listen. Have you acted on these selfish thoughts? Has anyone, yourself included, been harmed in any way because of them?”

Henry hesitated. “No.”

The priest shrugged. “Then as far as I see it, no sin has been committed here.”

“Isn’t the thought itself just as bad?”

“If that were the case, then Hell would be full.” He exhaled a trail of bitter smoke. “I chose to believe we live in a world where our Lord is kinder than that.”

Considering this for a moment, Henry then asked, “But what about my other sins?”

“Which are..?”

“Excessive drinking, blasphemy, and not attending Mass.”

Godwin nodded. “Now, that we can work with.”

Just as Henry finished saying the Act of Contrition, there was the heavy clacking sound of the rails, as a large, blue train began to pull in. Godwin waved his hand a bit and sped through the absolution, then Henry gathered his bags and they stood. It ground to a halt along the platform, with the doors of the nearest carriage almost directly in front of them.

“The Lord be praised,” Godwin said, then dropped the cigarette and put it out with his shoe.

They boarded, and spent their limited amount of time together passing anecdotes back and forth as the bright cornfields rolled past, until they made it to the first stop. Before Godwin disembarked at Kolín, he said, “You’re a very giving man, Henry. It’s alright to look after yourself as well.”

Henry carried those words with him all the way to Prague.

 

***

 

The latch made a harsh whirring sound and Henry was able to push open the main door to the building, then promptly took the lift to the top floor. Someone had let him in, and if Hans was at a work event like he said, then it could not have been him. Curiosity peaked, Henry knocked on the door. The lock clicked, and it opened to reveal the same fair face and red hair that he had become recently acquainted with. She smiled and leaned against the doorframe.

“Rosa, right?” Henry greeted her. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise.” The woman stepped aside to let him in, and he lugged his bags into the flat. “How was your journey?”

He dumped them by the coat rack and stretched out his back. “It was fine, thanks. Had a full day of work as well, so I’m quite knackered.”

“I was just about to make some dinner for Hynek,” she told him. “I can make an extra portion for you. Hans said you might be hungry.”

Henry’s cheeks warmed slightly and he nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Deciding to move his belongings later, they migrated to the kitchen, where the doors to the dining room were open and Hynek was sitting at the table, an assortment of arts and crafts in front of him. He had glue on his little fingers and was focusing so intently on the shapes he was trying to stick down to a piece of A3 card paper. Without looking up, he singsonged a mellow, “Hi, Uncle Henry.”

Across the table, a laptop was set open with a stack of books beside it, each one bearing protruding sticky notes, as well as a notepad and pen. On the screen, all Henry could see were words—hundreds of words that filled it to the brim, paragraph after paragraph, all annotated and highlighted. Rosa turned to Henry and offered him a coffee, which he politely declined.

“Remind me, where did you come in from again?” she asked, fetching a pan from one of the cupboards, and Henry seated himself on one of the stools around the island counter.

“I came from Kutná Hora; I live there,” he replied, and her eyes lit up.

“Really?” Rosa grinned. “That’s where I’m from.”

They shared a few tales of their time living in the town, and it was interesting to compare their different perspectives, with Rosa having grown up there and Henry having moved. She asked about where he grew up, and he told her as briefly as he could about Stříbrná Skalice before steering the conversation back to her life, gesturing towards the study space she had set up and saying, “I don’t think I ever asked what you’re studying.”

“Medieval Literature,” she explained as she filled the kettle. “I focus on Czech language texts specifically, so mostly Protestant writing and a lot of works from around the time of the Reformation.” She chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, though. I still love the odd Latin chronicle.”

“That’s amazing,” Henry said earnestly. “A lot of reading, then.”

“So much reading.” Rosa shrugged. “But that’s why I love it.”

“I was never too good at reading,” he told her, then tapped the side of his head. “Dyslexia, you see. Hans always used to proof-read my essays.”

She nodded in understanding, then inquired about what he had studied, and he told her that he had done his degree in Sports Science, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he claimed it was, “Nothing impressive.”

“I beg to differ,” Rosa countered. “We all have our strengths and weaknesses. They just happen to be different, and that’s what makes you interesting.”

Hynek tottered over, pouting as he looked up at Henry, holding out his glue-covered hands. He laughed and scooped the boy up, taking him over to the sink to help him wash it off. As it failed to come off, the child smacked his palms together with frustration beneath the running water, spraying it everywhere, so Henry showed him carefully that he needed to rub his hands together; that it took a little patience. Patting Hynek’s hands dry with a towel, Henry noticed that he was quieter than usual—the bright and playful energy that he had been greeted with a week ago had seemingly depleted. Henry kissed the top of his head, and the boy wandered back over to his project.

He offered to help cook, but Rosa forbade it, telling him to rest after a long day. Henry insisted, until the knife being used to chop the vegetables was suddenly being pointed in his direction, and he backed down, the two of them breaking into a fit of giggles. She was very easy to talk to, he pleasantly discovered, and very curious. She asked about how he and Hans met and how they became friends, so he regaled her with the story of a bar fight subsequently followed by the world’s worst roommate arrangement, which in truth ended up being some of the best years of his life.

“You should’ve seen him back then,” Henry chortled. “He was such a prat when we first met. If anyone had told me during those first few months that he’d end up being my best friend, I would’ve laughed in their face.”

He found out that Rosa’s father was in fact Kunzlin Ruthard, the Mayor of Kutná Hora and a member of the Chamber of Deputies, alongside Hans, although according to her, he was considering retirement soon. He knew Hanush, she explained the familial connection, and had been friends with Hans’s father before he passed. When Henry asked if she too would pursue politics, Rosa scoffed, “Absolutely not. I’ve seen enough of those old farts to last me a lifetime.”

Dinner was ready, so Henry—once he had explained to a reluctant Hynek that he could finish his art later—laid the table, and they sat to eat. The boy was fussy with his vegetables at first, but was encouraged by Rosa when she said that he could only be as big and strong as Uncle Henry if he ate them. There was little rebuttal after that. A spare portion had been left on the stove for when Hans returned, whenever that would be; Henry tried his hardest to not look at the clock.

His friend had not checked in with him since before he had left his flat in Kutná Hora, and it set a churning feeling about Henry’s stomach. Not even a text to say that Hans was having a good time, and he felt ridiculous, worrying so much, because Hans was an adult—and far more settled than Henry had ever been. Their days out on the lash were over, what with all the responsibility of a high-profile job and a child, and Henry could not help but mourn those times. After all, they were still in their twenties! Back then, even if Hans was plastered out of his mind, on the verge of blacking out, he would still always send Henry his location or a quick message of garbled nonsense; he always checked in.

As if she had read his mind, Rosa smiled at him from across the table. “He’ll be back, don’t worry.”

Later, after Hynek had been put to bed and they were sat in the living room (Henry had a beer now: Hans had seemingly stocked up), Rosa ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass, feet tucked beneath her, and tilted her head to the side, asking, “So, what’s the deal with ice hockey?”

Henry raised an eyebrow and set his drink down. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You play professionally, don’t you?” She shrugged. “My family has always been more into football; I play on the university’s women’s team, too. So, I want to know more.”

“What do you want to know?”

Rosa hummed in thought. “Let’s start with the rules.”

And Henry barked out a laugh, astonished. “It’s one of the most popular, dare I say most important, sports in the country, and you don’t know the rules?”

“Well, I know some, and I just said, I have a football family!” she exclaimed as a way of explanation, holding a hand up in defence, and Henry shook his head, feigning disappointment.

“Fine, fine…” He pursed his lips. “I mean, it’s a fairly simple concept, you know. Shoot the puck into the goal, score a point…” Henry leaned in slightly, resting an arm against the back of the sofa. “But essentially, you’ve got six players on each team on the ice at a time—if we forget about penalties right now—a goaltender, two defencemen, and three forwards. And like I said, the aim is to shoot the puck into the opposing team’s goal net; score as many points as possible before the time runs out. And if the other team’s in control of the puck, then you do whatever it takes to get it back.” He reached down and picked up his beer, taking a swig. “Even if that means slamming them into the boards with your entire body weight. That’s called checking; body checking, specifically.”

Rosa blinked. “A contact sport, then.”

Henry chuckled. “Very much so. But it’s a little more complicated than that, though that’s the main gist of it.”

He could see the keenness in her eyes to know more, narrowing them with intrigue. “And what position do you play?”

“I’m a forward,” he told her. “There’s three types: left winger, right winger, and centre. The centre starts play in what’s called a faceoff, opposing centres battling with their sticks for the puck, and he then tends to lead the charge. Wingers are on either side, looking for an opportunity to shoot on goal. I mostly play right winger, although I’ll happily be whatever the team needs me to be.”

“So, you’re the one scoring goals?”

“And sometimes assisting them, yes.”

“Interesting…” Rosa sipped her wine politely.

Henry explained line changes (“It’s when they swap us out. Gets very tiring very fast out there.”) and the different zones (“Pretty straight forward: neutral, defensive, and offensive. Last two are dependent on which way your team is facing, but each one does what it says on the tin. Also, faceoff circles: two at each end, and one in the middle.”) and penalties (“There’s a lot of shit that can get you in trouble...”) and more, then asked her about football in return, and they continued to talk about sports and teams until he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and that atrocious festering in his gut returned. It was nearly eleven at night, and still not a word.

Just as he was about to make note of this, the turning of the lock was heard, and they both inclined their heads towards the sound. There was the rattle of keys being dropped into a dish and the door slamming shut, accompanied by an incoherent noise, and suddenly Hans was in the doorway to the living room, slumping against the threshold. His eyes were red and drooping, while his hair was ruffled and his tie was loosened, suit jacket hanging limply over his arm, with the sorriest look on his flushed face—the pinnacle of misery.

Henry was on his feet at once. “Jesus Christ, Hans, what the fuck happened?”

“I’m sorry,” was the slurred response, rubbing his eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this… I never should’ve agreed…”

Hans looked as if he might topple over, so Henry came over and held him upright, immediately hit by the strong stench of alcohol. “You’re drunk as shit, you bastard.”

But Hans stared at Henry, his pupils blown and dazed, and licked the purple tannins from his lips as he brought a hand up to cup his friend’s cheek weakly. “You shouldn’t be here… Why are you here?”

“To take care of your noble arse,” he bit back, smacking his friend’s hand away, but Hans trembled at the contact.

“You don’t want to be here.”

“Stop.”

“You hate me.”

“I said, stop.”

The firmness in Henry’s voice seemingly startled him, and Hans went quiet. Sighing, Henry slung his friend’s arm over his shoulders to hold him up, then looked back at Rosa, who was hesitating where she stood in the middle of the living room.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologised, and she smiled placatingly.

“It’s fine.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I know about the– Y’know…”

He did know.

Henry wrangled Hans to bed, and thankfully the man was lights out the moment his head hit (and then promptly fell off) the pillow. As he dutifully untied his friend’s shoes and chucked them aside, Rosa had fetched a tall glass of water and left it on the bedside table. They shut the door quietly, Hans’s light snoring now muffled, and Rosa gathered her belongings to leave. Standing before the front door, Henry asked, fishing out his wallet, “How much does Hans normally pay you?”

“850 an hour.”

“And how many hours have you done today?”

“Since 4 PM, but Henry, it doesn’t–”

Sorting through it, he found a couple of notes and held them out. “I’m sorry, I’ve only got about 600–”

“Henry.” Rosa gently closed her hands over his, refusing the cash. “Don’t worry about it, please.” She smiled cheekily. “I’ll send him an invoice, yeah?”

Henry bit his lip. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” she confirmed, slinging her satchel over her shoulder as she opened the door. But Rosa paused, then turned back to him. “It was nice to get to know you today. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around.”

“Likewise.” Henry held the door for her as she stepped out into the hallway, and offered an expression of gratitude. “Get home safe.”

Just as she made to leave, Rosa thought for a moment, then added, “For what it’s worth, you’re a really good friend to him, I can tell. He’s lucky to have someone like you in his life.”

Then, she was gone. Henry shut the door and pressed his forehead against it, exhaling slowly as he stared at the white varnish, so blank and so empty. The silence throbbed in his ears now. He pivoted to collect his bags, still heavy with the weight of inadequacy, then returned to the confinements of the spare room.

Notes:

angstangstangstangstangst hehehehehe

also, dyslexic!henry is very important to me.

aaaaanyway thank you for reading!! <3 You know where to find me!

Chapter 6

Notes:

behold, a chapter!
has been a busy week, im trying to write as much as i can before i go away to visit my family, so maybe 2 updates next week? we'll see...

anyway, enjoy :3

Also, massive thank you to @tevl33 for correcting my forms of address in Czech!

It was a dizziness that Hans had not felt in years. The throbbing at the front of his cranium was thick and dull, like a beat against a loosened drum skin, and he groaned into the bedcovers like it was some sort of remedy. Vertigo gripped him first, when he tried to lift his head, quickly followed by a wave of delirium. The night before was deformed and mushy in his mind, his current condition morphing those supposedly simple after-work drinks with far off memories of a sweaty dance floor and flashing lights and too much tequila. Hans’s mouth still tasted like Moët & Chandon. In his dreams, there had been a pair of hands, firm and safe; they had caressed his shoulders, trailed down his arms painfully slowly, then stopped at his wrists—a feather of a touch, rubbing gentle circles into his skin. Hot breath ghosted the shell of his ear, a light kiss to the lobe, but the voice was incoherent; out of reach, even though he could feel every movement. When he awoke, there was nothing but the hum of distant city traffic.

As if his own flesh and bones had grown heavier and betrayed him, Hans was a dead weight on the bed. Chest downward against the warmth, he screwed his face up and stretched his limbs away from himself languidly, only to realise that he was in fact on top of the duvet rather than beneath it, and furthermore he was still dressed in his clothes from the day before. His shoes however were missing, and he surmised that Jitka had probably taken them off when he had crashed. Glancing over, one eye cracked open and squinting at the low light through the curtains, he spied the water left for him on the nightstand and smiled. That was kind of her too, and he appreciated her tolerance for his behaviour, although he could not quite remember drinking so much, or why he would let himself reach such a state. He sat up, dragging his weary body with him, and guzzled it down, the glass landing heavily against the wood when he finished.

Socks sliding against the floor, Hans rose and shuffled out of the bedroom, but was instantly alerted to a smell, warm and sticky sweet, drifting from the kitchen and it sobered him slightly. A smile played on his lips, and he followed his nose. He felt lucky. Jitka was no doubt making a  delicious breakfast for him to sink his teeth into, and he could hear his son’s voice too. A murmur of pride grew in his chest: he was proud of what they had, of the hard work that it had taken to build this family; of the trust that had been forged. He thought back to when he had first met his wife, and how silly it seemed now that he had been so reluctant to talk to her… The sound of something sizzling away in a pan made his stomach growl, and he pushed the door open. Yawning and blinking profusely against the glare, he stretched his arms and entered the bright room.

“Good morning, my darli–”

He stopped, and stared vacantly at Henry.

Reality quickly set back in; Jitka, he remembered, was not here.

He only just kept his knees from buckling and steeled the lousiest smile that he could, clearing his throat sharply as he looked anywhere but at Henry’s concerned face. His friend’s torso twisted to look at him, having been facing the stove, where Hans could see slices of bread laid in the pan, and his brow knitted together in that stupidly annoying way that it always did. And so Hans tried again, “Good morning, Henry.”

Henry huffed, as if he had been told a rubbish joke of some kind, and turned back to his cooking. “Morning.”

Hynek sat at the counter, playing with figurines of knights and dragons, but said nothing when his father came over and sat beside him, pressing a kiss to his hair. He hoped that it was because his son was so enraptured with the story that he had created, he could not possibly acknowledge anything else in this moment, but he knew that it was not true. Suddenly, a plate of hot food was shoved beneath his nose, and he glanced up to meet Henry’s eyes. Blue appeared more grey than usual.

“French toast,” Henry said dully, and placed it in front of him. “Your favourite.”

French toast was not Hans’s favourite, but it was when Henry made it.

“Thank you.” His friend then passed him a knife and fork, and he began to tuck in. It tasted just how he remembered; tasted like those nights when they would talk for hours and hours until the sun came up, so they would make breakfast before bed. Hans smiled and asked, “How was your journey back? I don’t remember–”

“No, you don’t.” Henry’s tone was clipped. “I got in last night. Train was fine.”

Hans did not push. He knew a volcano set to erupt when he saw one, especially when it was Henry-shaped. As he polished off his meal, his friend explained that he and Hynek had already eaten, and that was when Hans finally noticed that it was almost 1 PM. He blanched at the realisation, staring up at the ticking clock, and there was no wonder why last night was so hazy in his mind: it had been filtered through the bottom of empty bottles, after all.

“Hynek.” Henry spoke calmly, helping the boy down from the stool. “Why don’t you go and play in the living room for a bit? I heard that the teddy bears need rescuing, perhaps the knights can help.”

And when the two of them were finally alone, Henry made sure the door was firmly shut, but before Hans could even register what was happening, his friend was glaring daggers straight into the back of his skull with his nostrils flared.

“Are you out of your mind?” Henry growled at him. “Do you know how fucking worried I was about you?” He counted on his fingers. “No texts, no calls, no idea where you were, only for you to turn up reeking of a brewery.”

Hans bristled, “You knew I was at drinks.”

“Drinks, Hans. Not a fucking bender.”

“Forgive me, Henry, that I let a bit loose for one night.” He sighed. “You know there’s been a lot on my mind recently–”

“But you’re still a father.” He could practically see the steam coming out of Henry’s ear. “You’re still a friend. You still have responsibilities. It’s not all going to magically disappear if you blackout.”

“It was a lapse in my judgement–” But his friend was not finished.

“And what if Hynek had been awake? Imagine if he had seen you in that state.” Henry scoffed and shook his head. “You of all people should know what that’s like–”

“Don’t.” Hans was on his feet now, a sudden wrath struck through him as it was his turn to interrupt, and he jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t you fucking dare bring him into this!” And they both knew that they were not talking about his son.

“Then don’t let the cycle continue!” Henry implored him, desperation now colouring his voice. “Do you really want that for Hynek? For him to go through what you did?!”

“Of course, I don’t!” It was like drowning; Hans gasped for air. “Fuck, Henry, I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t– I don’t fucking know…!”

He did not realise that he was shaking until Henry’s hands—firm and safe—were grounding his shoulders. It was not a gentle touch, but a careful one. If they were younger, still fresh-faced students with a penchant for a brawl, Hans probably would have hit him by now, but they had grown from impetuosity and mellowed. This was the Henry that took his shoes off for him when he was drunk and cooked him a hangover breakfast; Hans wondered what he had done to deserve it. All he wanted now was to cry.

“Breathe, Hans.”

“I’m sorry.” He sniffed and dug his fingers into Henry’s forearms. “Jitka came over on Wednesday. I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry.”

At that, Henry quieted; pulled Hans ever so slightly closer, dropping his hands to the other’s elbows. He encouraged softly, “Tell me now.”

It poured out of Hans in a way he had not expected, as if Henry had taken him apart by the seams and now he was unravelling, not knowing how to stop. He recounted how she had returned midweek so that they could talk to Hynek together and explain it to him the correct way, unlike his failed and premature attempt at the park, a deeply regrettable moment. Even so, the boy had not taken it well.

“He’s four and he’s already not talking to me.” Hans lamented, but a half-hearted laugh snuck past his lips. “Imagine what he’s going to be like when he’s a teenager!”

There was the matter of formalities, he continued: the details that had to be ironed out and the dates that needed to be entered into the calendar. They had to be living apart for at least six months, so there was no possibility of a resolution before December, but then Henry cocked his head and asked about the court hearing. Hans’s slow exhale was one of resignation.

“There won’t be one.” He pursed his lips. “I’m not contesting it.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Jitka and I have agreed,” he made plain, twisting his wedding ring habitually, “on most everything, despite my chagrin. Custody, assets, everything… I’m not going to stand in her way, you see. I love her, and if I have to let her go for her own happiness, then so be it.” He barely met Henry’s gaze. “You taught me that.”

“I still don’t understand.” He could see the way that Henry was studying his face, as if the answer was hidden somewhere there, in big letters. “Why would she leave you?”

But Hans frowned. “I don’t want you to think of her as a villain, Henry. She has her reasons.”

“Which are?”

He paused, selecting his next words with care; deciding how much he was permitted to share. “Our circumstances… Our relationship hindered certain aspirations for her. There’s a lot that we haven’t–” He stopped himself from opening that can of worms, and instead noted, “I remind you that we got married at just twenty-two.”

“Technically, you were still twenty-one,” Henry winced, and Hans let out a short, dry chuckle.

“My point exactly.”

They shared a weak laugh, but then Henry was stepping backwards.

“Hans…” There was a miserable tempest in those eyes. “I came here to help you. But you need to help yourself, too.”

Hans bit his lip and nodded. “I know.”

And suddenly Henry was walking back towards him again, coming in close, right into Hans’s space, and for but a moment he braced himself, head swimming—although he was not sure if it was from the remnants of alcohol in his system or his twenty-year-old self trying to claw his way back to the surface—as he leaned himself ever so slightly towards his friend… But Henry reached around him and grabbed the empty plate and dirty cutlery, then was gone, busying himself at the sink.

The ache in Hans’s gut distended momentarily, until he squeezed his eyes shut and willed it away. He made a mental note to not drink so much for the foreseeable future. Opening them after a few seconds, he watched Henry set the dishes aside on the drying rack, following the curve of his shoulder and arm, built for sporting pads and handling a hockey stick–

“Christ!” Hans could not believe that he had forgotten, after all the trouble that he had gone through for it. He whipped around to look at the clock, then back at Henry as his eyes doubled in size. “We ought to go!”

The other man turned, drying his hands on a towel. “Go? Go where–?”

And Hans’s cheeks ached from how wide his smile grew. He had contained his excitement for the last two days, and now it threatened to burst free. “Your tryout, Henry. I can’t believe it nearly slipped my mind!”

Shaking his head, his friend tried to make sense of his ramblings. “Tryout? What are you talking about?”

“Why do you think I made you bring your gear? You, my dearest, oldest friend–” Hans approached and planted his hands on Henry’s upper arms. “–have a tryout this afternoon with Slavia Prague.”

A moment of silence passed between them, and he could see the cogs whirring in the other man’s head as he tried to make sense of the sentence that had been uttered.

“But that’s a 1st League team,” Henry stammered, empty-eyed. “That’s… You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” Grinning ear-to-ear, Hans explained, “Hanush bought the club last year, and I know, I know, this is probably a bit nepotistic of me, but I can’t let you throw your dream away because of me. I won’t let it happen to Jitka, and I certainly won’t let it happen to you.” His expression softened, and everything felt somewhat lighter. “I want to take care of you as well, you dolt.”

“Hans… Thank yo–”

“There’s no time!” And Hans was pushing Henry out of the door, causing his friend to laugh, but in truth, one look into Henry’s big, puppy-dog eyes was enough to set him off, so he shoved him out of the kitchen. “You need to be there by 3 PM!”

“How did you even convince Hanush? No offense, but your uncle is one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever met.”

“Aside from me being a master of persuasion?” Hans chuckled. “Oh, sweet Henry, have you forgotten? He owes you a favour.”

 

***

 

8 Years Ago

 

The couple that Henry passed by in the dingy stairwell offered him a cigarette, but he refused and continued his ascent as they resumed their sloppy makeout session. He always took the stairs: he would rather not step into that death trap that they called an elevator. The building was an old, brutalist Communist-era housing block converted into student apartments in the south of Prague, smelling mildly of newspaper ink and lit with fluorescent tubes that were definitely not regulation, but despite its charms, it was home. On the third floor, he could see disco lights beneath a doorway and hear a thumping bassline; on the fifth floor, there was a strong aroma of Staropramen and pot; but when he reached the seventh floor, he smiled as he arrived at his apartment door, with its chipped maroon paint and police tape plastered across it, and turned the key in the lock, ignoring the cacophonous sound of love-making from down the hall.

For all its shortcomings—such as the draughty window and the concerning buzzing sound coming from the ceiling lamp and the plug socket that sparked occasionally, just to name a few—the cramped studio flat was rather homey. Upon entry to the right was the world’s smallest kitchenette, fitted with a gas stove and mini fridge, which was covered in stickers and magnets, some of which had been left by the previous tenants. Mismatched coffee mugs sat in the sink, waiting for their turn to be washed as brown stains dried inside, as well as several pint glasses that Henry had unintentionally walked off with every time they went to the pub. To the left of the doorway was a small table, upon which dried flowers resided forgotten in one of said pint glasses, and one of the chairs was unusable, thanks to the pile of laundry that it had been unceremoniously burdened with. The heart of the room, however, was the sleeping area. There was a bed and wardrobe against the wall on either side, with Henry to the left and Hans to the right, and between them was a scruffy carpet, the colour of which neither of them could agree upon—orange or brown, who knows? A pile of shoes was stuffed into one corner towards Henry’s side, and the shelving unit between the beds housed an assortment of belongings and essentials, including a basket of shower products, as the communal bathroom was down the hall (Hans occupied most of it; Henry was content with his 5-in-1 daily wash). A graveyard of bottles lined the window sill above, and the walls were covered with everything important: polaroid pictures of them and their friends; a pilfered road works sign; clippings from sports magazines; beer coasters, hanging like works of art; more polaroids, taken in each pub that the coasters were stolen from; team photographs and more hockey posters; and their academic timetables, just to remind them that they were here to graduate. Music played softly from Hans’s CD player—an 80’s band that Henry did not recognise—and of course, their hockey gear and duffle bags gathered in one corner by the door, ready to be grabbed on the way out, directly next to the traffic cone, also stolen.

But now, there were clothes everywhere as well: on Hans’s bed, on Henry’s bed too, over the back of chairs, on the table… Henry felt as if he was witnessing the aftermath of an explosion in a clothing shop.

“What the fuck happened here?”

Hans’s wardrobe door was open, and the young man suddenly stepped out from behind it, wearing a yellow dress shirt and nothing else but a pair of red boxer shorts covered in white hearts (a gag gift from one of the boys on the team), while three different patterned ties hung over his arm, and the emotion on his face could only be described as distress.

“Yellow or blue?”

Walking over to his side of the room and dumping his rucksack, Henry simply raised an eyebrow at him, and Hans groaned, reaching back into the wardrobe to subsequently reveal a pale teal shirt, then repeated with growing frustration, “Yellow or blue, Henry? It’s not that difficult.”

“Does it matter?” he shrugged and shoved Hans’s clothes off of his bed so that he could sit. “You’ll still look like a twat either way.”

Hans grabbed the nearest item—a silk scarf—and launched it at Henry, who caught it and pulled it around his head, laughing.

“This isn’t funny, Henry!” he snapped, his cheeks a little red. “The invitation said ‘business casual but ready to party’...” Hans slumped inwardly. “What the Hell does that even mean?!”

But Henry unhelpfully pretended that the scarf was hair and flicked it back over his shoulder, putting on a silly voice, teasing, “It means you’re going to be the belle of the ball, Sir Hans.”

“Shut up.” And this time, a baseball cap hit Henry square in the forehead.

“Well, you never know.” He rubbed the zone of impact, hoping it would not leave a mark. “Maybe tonight you’ll meet your one true love. Steal a kiss at midnight and then never see her again.”

“As if,” Hans scoffed, then gestured to the shirts again. “Yellow or blue?”

“Blue. Brings out your eyes.”

As Hans began to unbutton his shirt, Henry kicked off his trainers and shuffled backwards on his bed until his back was against the wall. He did not really know Hans’s friends from the Politics and Debating Society, and one would have thought that, having lived together for nearly two years, he would have meshed with them by now. In truth, however, he was not their sort and they were not his. When he had met them at parties, they had all been lovely people, but he felt like a meathead talking to them and would end up glued to Hans’s side for the rest of the evening. Not that he minded, because it was more fun spending time with his best friend anyway.

“But if I’m being honest, Henry,” Hans started, bare-chested now as he pulled the blue shirt from its hanger, “I don’t think I’m interested in dating at the moment.”

“Because of what happened with Klara?”

“Partially.” Hans pressed his lips into a thin line. “But that was, what, three weeks ago? I’m so over it now. If she’s happy with Arse’n’Balls, then she’s happy. I’ve accepted that.” He sighed and began to do up the buttons. “But I think being over it and moving on are two different things, because while I’ve banished my feelings for her, I still feel… stagnant. Like I’m not ready for something new, y’know? And I think it’s also to do with the culture. Everyone’s got a dating app these days and crazy standards and expectations, but I just want something…” He paused at the top button, worrying it between his fingers. “I want something real. A genuine connection with someone, like I thought I had with Klara before it turned out she had a boyfriend the whole time. So yeah, sometimes you can’t be with the person that you’re in love with, and you just have to deal with it, which sucks a lot but I think it’s part of growing. Helps you to figure out what you really want from a relationship.” A blush deepened in his cheeks and he bit his lip. “And I know I want someone kind. Someone caring, who laughs with me and picks me up when I’m down. Honestly, I want someone like y–”

But when Hans turned to look at his friend, he gawped at him with irritated incredulity.

“Henry! Did you even hear a word I just said?!”

Henry blinked and looked up from his phone. “Huh?”

“Oh, for goodness–!” Hans put his hands on his hips. “God forbid I share my innermost thoughts with my closest companion!”

“Sorry,” Henry mumbled, grinning at his mobile with a dreamy look in his eye. “Was texting someone. What were you saying?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Hans grabbed a pair of grey dress pants from the floor and began to pull them on. “Who were you messaging?”

“You remember the girl I was telling you about? From back home.”

“Oh, Táňa…? Tamara…?”

“Theresa,” Henry corrected him, looking positively giddy. “She’s coming to visit for the weekend.”

Hans frowned; made a clicking sound. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Only just organised it now,” was the explanation, accompanied by a twinkle of excitement in his eyes. “I’m going to ask her to be my girlfriend.”

One leg stuck halfway down his trousers, Hans froze, then swivelled his head to look at his friend. “You don’t mean that.”

Henry furrowed his brow. “Why not? We’re both happy to do long distance, and we can spend the summers together.”

“But, Henry, what about–” he gestured desperately to the room that they had so expertly curated. “–‘The Bachelor Pad’? Bros before hoes.”

“Firstly, she is not a hoe. And secondly, I didn’t kick up a fuss when you were trying to get your hands down Klara’s pants.”

“That was different!”

“How is it any different?” Henry crossed his arms. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Because I–” And he watched as Hans caught his own tongue, a pained expression flickering across his face—perhaps his trousers were too tight. Hans pursed his lips, then exhaled slowly. “No, I’m sorry, Henry. I am happy for you. Just a shock, that’s all.”

“Good.” Henry nodded. “Thank you.”

“Whatever.” Hans rolled his eyes and finished pulling on his trousers, then reached for his ties, holding up the options for Henry to see. His friend hummed in thought, then pointed to the one with navy and cream stripes.

“Didn’t realise fashion assistant was a part-time job when I signed the tenancy agreement,” Henry joked. “Your uncle must have printed it in very small letters.”

But Hans looked back at him with confusion, tucking the tie beneath his lapels. “My uncle? What are you talking about?”

“You know,” Henry continued, although Hans’s face was telling him that perhaps he did not. “When I signed the tenancy agreement–”

“No, I got that part. What does it have to do with my uncle?”

And now it was Henry’s turn to stare at him in disbelief. “You mean… You don’t know?”

Hans huffed. “Explain, Henry. Now.”

He leaned forwards, resting his forearms on his knees. “Hans. Your uncle pays half my rent.”

When he was met with further bafflement, Henry rolled over and grabbed his laptop from his bag. He opened it and began typing away furiously, pulling up his inbox and scouring his emails. Five minutes later, he found it, starred and saved, so he turned it around to show his roommate. Hans came in for a closer look. It was an advert for a student flat-share, requiring someone who was responsible and hardworking to live with the advertiser’s young relative in exchange for half the rent to be covered.

“Appeared in my inbox when I was looking for accommodation before first year. I got interviewed and everything.” Henry shook his head. “He said that since your family was fairly high profile, he didn’t want you to be stuck with someone random that might take advantage of you. I honestly thought you knew all this.”

“Two years.” Hans chuckled, but it was the sort that was a result of shock; of complete and utter perplexity. “Almost two years, and now I find out that you get paid to live with me?”

“Well, not really. And it worked out, didn’t it?” Henry shrugged. “If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be able to afford anywhere. But the best part is that I got a best friend out of it.”

Hans wrinkled his nose. “You sicken me.”

“And yet I don’t think you’d want to live with anyone else.”

Hans did not confirm nor deny this, but the way he struggled to hold back a smile told Henry everything he needed to know. Just as he put his laptop away, a text message alerted from his phone, and he quickly read it, another beaming grin forming.

“Hans?”

“Hmm?”

“When Theresa comes over, do you think she and I could have the room to ourselves for one evening?”

“Why would you–? Ugh, Henry, you’re disgusting!”

Notes:

uni flashbacks go brrrrrr
a good dose of angst and emotions and mild fluff, i hope?

as always thank you for reading!! love you all so much, all the support has been so overwhelming and it means the world to me <3

I am the proud owner of the one and only 24k gold tumblr.com

Chapter 7

Notes:

i am so so sorry that this is late, i've literally crossed an entire continent this week ahhh but i am happy to be visiting my grandma, and the countryside here is beautiful and very inspiring for my writing at least!! apologies again!!!

if you need a refresher on hockey terms, i would recommend a reread of Henry and Rosa's conversation from the previous chapter; may come in handy here

After he was forced to drink copious amounts of water, Hans drove them out to the sports complex that afternoon. He chatted the entire way there, excited and with a renewed vigour, but Henry remained quiet, staring out of the passenger seat window and watching the city roll past. Since his time on the university team, which felt like aeons ago now, Henry had not felt nervous before a game. He could count on one hand the amount of times he had felt that fluttering sensation just above his gut in the past eight years, but now his stomach was making up for lost time, and he wanted to throw up. So he pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and held his breath, letting Hans’s voice and the cars going by ground him; a tram clinked past at the traffic lights. Of course cruel Lady Fate could not leave him alone, casting one last chance his way, and he was not sure if this was a blessing or a curse, as if he were an overambitious Tantalus, reaching and bending every which way for something that would always be out of reach, no matter how many times he was unsuccessful, even if it broke his back. Henry bit the inside of his cheek to fend off his growing nausea.

In his head he ran through a checklist of his gear over and over again, convinced he would be missing something and it would ruin his hopes; the thought of just one small error throwing him off his game was petrifying. His duffle bag sat in the back beside Hynek’s booster seat, where the child was strapped in, licking an ice lolly—bribery on Hans’s part to convince his son to get in the car without kicking up a fuss. How Hans had managed to pull strings to give him this opportunity was beyond him, but he was grateful nonetheless, even if he was currently bricking it; even if a tiny part of him wanted to roll down the window and launch himself out into oncoming traffic. He winced at the thought, then turned to look at his friend.

Eyes fixed on the road ahead, Hans was still rambling on about the club and how his uncle, an incredibly affluent businessman and senator, had come to buy it, as well as singing Henry’s praises, which teased a smile from the corners of his mouth.

“I mean, I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen someone control the puck quite like you.” He was grinning as he spoke, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel. “Do you remember the game in our third year, mid-season versus Masaryk University, when you scored that hat-trick within about fifteen minutes of play? I’m deadly serious when I say there’s no one better at stickhandling.”

“Their goalie was shit,” Henry attempted to deny his abilities, but Hans shook his head profusely.

“No, their goalie was good. All the shots on goal after you left the ice were stopped, Captain.”

As his friend beamed at him from the corner of his eye, Henry snorted at the old title; he had not heard it in years. The sickly sensation began to calm, and he could only credit Hans.

They pulled into the car park, and Henry dug his fingers into his thighs as he peered out at the squat grey building which bore the words ‘HC SLAVIA PRAHA’, emblazoned in blue against the upper panelling. It heralded his last chance; if this was it, he could not begin to verbalise how badly he wanted it. Whether he felt he deserved it was an entirely different matter. Hans killed the engine and they stepped out of the car, and Henry fetched his bag from the back as the other wrangled with his son, who had spilled melted ice lolly down his front, staining it shades of strawberry and blackcurrant, and now whined as his hands had become sticky. Fortunately they were early, but Hans still apologised to him over and over as he cleaned up the mess with the wet wipes he kept in the boot for occasions like this. Henry reassured him that it was fine; that he should not have to say sorry for being a caring parent. Watching the way that his friend looked after his child, it made him wonder if he would have had children by now if he and Theresa had stayed together, but he quickly wrinkled his nose at the thought—he could not imagine himself as a father firstly, not when most of his mind was occupied with hockey, and was certain that Theresa deeply valued her free time in between shifts at the hospital. Then, out of nowhere and surprising himself, he thought of Bianca. They had talked about life after high school, about marriage and children before she–

“Right!” Hans chucked the dirty wipes into the door pocket and unbuckled Hynek from his seat. “Sorted. Let’s get going.”

Each step Henry took up the stairs towards the building was sturdier than the last, and the closer he grew to those doors, the more emboldened he felt; he was not sure how or why, but the knowledge that he would be in his skates soon enough put him at ease—as well as the warm presence beside him. He gripped the handle of his bag tighter and followed Hans inside.

A member of staff working there greeted them and took them through a door reserved for staff and players, which led them down a corridor to the changing room. While Hans and his son waited outside, Henry had never put on his gear faster in his life. He was alone, but the players’ belongings were scattered throughout the room, having already begun their training, he was sure. Pads and shin guards were strapped to his torso and arms; helmet tight against his head and skates secured to his feet, he left his duffle bag in a corner, out of the way, then emerged carrying his stick and cage, glad that everything had been in place, proving his fears wrong. Now having returned to the corridor, Hans looked him up and down, before breaking into a smile.

“You look…” He cleared his throat, then dipped his gaze as if trying to hide his face. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you in your gear. It’s been too long since I watched you play.”

And that would change, Henry prayed.

They were then taken through one last corridor, which brought them to the tunnel that led out to the arena, and Henry’s heart seized at the sight, one which he had only seen on television. There were red plastic chairs, the sort where the seat folded down, along one side of the stadium—the side that bore the tunnel—and concrete steps along the other side, enough to seat a few thousand people. Red and white banners hung from the rafters, which too were that same shade of crimson, some bearing players’ names and jersey numbers, others triumphing the club’s past trophies and achievements. The bright white lights concentrated above the rink, where various sponsors had their logos plastered across the boards or frozen in a layer beneath the ice, and now he could see the team in training, each one either wearing casual gear or half of their uniform. They were running drills independently, with one group practicing passes and puck control at one end and another playing small 2-on-2 rushes in front of the net, and Henry started to analyse their movements without even thinking about it: it was second nature to him.

There was a man in a red polo shirt with a very closely clipped buzzcut standing on the ice with his back to him and Hans (and Hynek, who had a firm grip on his father’s hand as he too marvelled at all the new things to see), leaning against the gate between the players’ benches as he flipped through pages attached to a clipboard. The staff member left them to it, which entailed Hans walking up to the boards and greeting the man as if he were an old friend.

“Bernard, good to see you!” Hans smiled, and the man turned to them. Henry could now see that he also wore rough stubble across his jaw, and the shirt bore the team logo on the left side of the chest.

“Afternoon, Mr Capon.” He nodded towards Henry. “This him?”

Before Hans could answer for him, Henry tucked his cage cage beneath his arm and stuck out a gloved hand over the gate, introducing himself, “Henry Kovář. Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

Bernard shook it, but his serious expression remained fixed. “We’ll see about that.” He slipped a pen out from his pocket and clicked the end. “You used to play in the 2nd League, correct?”

“Yes, Sir. Played in Most, before the club went under.”

Bernard hummed in thought, then scribbled something down, inquiring, “But now you’re coming from a regional team?”

“That’s correct.” Henry glanced at Hans, who gave an encouraging nod, then gave a slight tug to his black and yellow jersey. “Kutná Hora. I trained with Jan Žižka.”

The mention of Žižka’s name made the coach stop and raise an eyebrow, but he then huffed and proceeded all the same, “Attempting a jump from Regionals to 1st League is incredibly ambitious.” He pointed at Hans with the end of his pen. “You being buddies with the boss’s nephew doesn’t guarantee you a spot.”

“I know,” Henry affirmed. “But I want to prove to you that…” He swallowed; let his breathing steady in his chest. “I want to prove that I’m worth it. I promise I won’t waste your time.”

Bernard studied him for a moment, then reached over and unbolted the gate. “Alright then. Let’s see what you can do.”

Taking a deep breath, Henry moved forwards, but a hand on his shoulder pad stopped him, and he glanced back at Hans, who now carried his son on his hip. His friend looked at him with wide, confident eyes, and smiled.

“You can do it, Henry.” The quiet words perforated through the cold air and quickened his already pounding heart. “I believe in you.”

And even though he did not really know what was going on, Hynek grinned at him and echoed his father with a cheer of, “You can do it, Uncle Henry!”

The belief strengthened him; Henry nodded in appreciation, then stepped out onto the ice.

Bernard had skated out to centre ice and gestured for Henry to join him, so he glided over, finding his bearings with this surface, but he savoured the sensation of his blades against the frost. There, the coach flipped to another piece of paper and asked, “What position do you play?”

“Right winger,” Henry told him, but there was no movement on Bernard’s face.

“Fine.” He wrote something down. “As you’ll notice, we’re several men short today, what with it being out of season. Holidays and whatnot.” Bernard pointed over to the side where the players were running passing drills. “Join them for a warm up.”

And so Henry fixed his cage in place on his helmet, tightened the chin strap, then tagged onto the back of the exercise, and after taking a moment to watch, he deduced that they would skate forwards in pairs, maneuvering the puck between the green plastic cones and passing when they reached the red ones; when they reached the end of the course, the puck would then be shot back down for the next pair to start: simple enough, but the skaters operated at such a speed that the real challenge would be keeping up. He slid up beside one of the players at the back of the make-shift queue, and the man tilted his head at him; he could only just see a pair of grey eyes scrutinising him from beneath the shade of the helmet.

“Fresh meat?” the player asked, and Henry smiled back.

“With some luck.”

And suddenly it was their turn. The puck had been shot back across the ice, the player catching it against the blade of his stick, and they both surged forwards. They reached the first set of red cones almost immediately, where Henry received the puck, and he weaved it between the green ones smoothly before having to pass it back, his focus sharpened with the accelerating pace. At the top of the course, he shot it back down to the next skaters before swinging back around, and the process repeated.

After a short while, the whistle blew and the ice was cleared, all the players gathering in the benches; the one that Henry had partnered with for the exercise gave him a light fist bump as he skidded past. On his way over, he noticed that Hans and Hynek were sitting high up in the stands, so as not to disturb, and he could not help but grin as they noticed him back, Hans encouraging his son to give a little wave; Henry chuckled to himself as he took a seat. Bernard came to stand in front of his team and folded his arms, and the chatter quietened down.

“Thank you all for being here,” he began. “As you know, it’s never too early for pre-season training. And while some of our lazy sods are off lounging on a beach somewhere, you’d all rather be here, wouldn’t you?” There was a roar of affirmation from the players, and Bernard nodded. “Exactly. Now, as you all are aware, Bílek will be leaving us for Dukla Jihlava, and I’m sure if he were here right now he’d say something touching–”

“No, he wouldn’t!” someone piped up. “He’d grunt and tell us all to go fuck ourselves!”

The skaters fell into fits of laughter, and even Bernard’s mouth twitched.

“Settle, settle…” The ruckus died down, and he continued, “The search is on to replace him, and our dear Mr Leipa has sent a new sacrifice our way.” He gestured to Henry. “Kovář?”

Henry stood and gave a polite nod to the players as Bernard told them, “Kovář here thinks he can scale his way up two leagues overnight. Isn’t that right?”

“Umm…” Henry shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose so, Sir.”

The skater sitting beside him snickered, and he quickly sat back down.

“All our candidates so far have been unsuccessful. Their playing hasn’t been up to scratch; they don’t meet our standards; they can’t keep up,” Bernard said, and Henry was not sure if it was a general statement or targeted at him. “So, I want you all to show Kovář here why that is. Don’t go easy on him, boys.”

Bernard picked out ten players to take to the ice first—the goaltenders were already assigned of course, taking their positions and making it twelve in total—and it must have been a small mercy from the coach not to send him on first thing. Half were handed neon pink bibs, making up one team, and then the whistle blew again; Henry watched as the play began. He took the time to examine each player and pick out any strategies, to figure out the strengths to play to and weaknesses to exploit. The puck hissed across the ice between the skaters, the sound only broken by the clacking of sticks against one another as they battled for it. One winger on the bibbed team made a good move at cycling the puck along the boards, which Henry felt he would have done too, but the wrist shot went wide of the goal and it was quickly snapped up by the opposite team’s defensemen, who had descended upon it like birds of prey.

The score was 1–0 to the plain team when the coach blew the whistle for a line change. “Kovář, you’re up. I want you to play centre. Swap with Vitek.”

A bib was thrust in his direction. Without question, Henry slipped it on and skated out onto the ice.

The pace was faster than what he had been used to playing for a regional team, he realised a split second into his shift, having fumbled the first faceoff as he was still to make sense of his surroundings. It was not long before the opposing team had planted the puck into the back of their net, and the score was 2–0. Henry tightened his grip on his stick and hunkered down; the determination to turn this game around seized him, and when the whistle blew again, it was do or die.

“Where’s that confidence gone?” Žižka had asked. Now Henry understood: it had not left him, but was buried deep down, and now was the moment to dig it back out from its sorry tomb.

His aim was simple. He was not here to be flashy or show off; it was not about how many goals he could score. Reliability was what Bernard would be looking for: a team player who could take them from losing to winning—that was why he had been assigned to this team, he knew. He steeled himself for the next faceoff and said a wordless prayer.

The puck dropped.

He reacted within an instant and took control, sweeping it beneath his stick and passing it off to their left winger before beginning the chase forwards, blades scraping against the ice with resolve, immense power in each stride. As he approached, an opposing defender forced the winger deep into the corner, gearing up to check him with his entire body weight, but Henry was there and ready, receiving the puck again when it was shot back from his teammate and into his wheelhouse in escape. A quick flick of his wrist and using the near side of his stick, he sent it backhanded to the right winger who was tearing it down the slot, the area of ice between the faceoff circles, and– Score! The winger had shot it beneath the goalie’s pads before he could drop down into a butterfly stance, and buried it into the net.

2–1, and already an assist under his belt. But there was no time to celebrate, and they began again. Next play, he out-maneuvered the opposite centre and surged forward, sliding the puck back behind the net with him. Spotting the right winger, poised and waiting, they silently communed as he dodged a defenseman, then snapped a pass straight to his teammate’s stick. They went for the wraparound, controlling the puck effortlessly around the goal post from behind, and soon it was 2–2.

Another line change took him off the ice, but the bibbed team were heartened now. Catching his breath, he watched in earnest as they pushed through and scored another goal, turning the tide as it was now 3–2 to them. After a while, he was back on for his second shift, and the adrenaline was coursing through him like a river raging its way downstream. The perfect moment struck when the puck deflected off of a shinpad and slipped away between the defensemen; Henry pounced. He feigned left, pulled it back to the right, then took a chance as he encroached upon the goal crease: Henry wedged the blade of his stick between the puck and the ice, then rifled it into the top shelf. Only when he heard Hans’s distant cheering did he realise he had scored a goal. 4–2.

One last attack, and another assist from him drove them up to 5–2. Bernard blew the whistle, and the practice game was over. On their way back to the benches, a few of the skaters slapped Henry’s helmet in either celebration or appreciation, and behind his cage he could not stop grinning. The thrill of play still thundered in his chest as sweat pooled at his temples and in every divot of his gear, but he calmly skated over and took a seat with the rest of them as their coach dished out feedback. He barely heard a word of what was said, still inhaling every moment, and he wondered, really wondered, how on earth he had been so stupid as to think he should give up on his favourite thing in the entire world; that post-match feeling was priceless.

Training was over, and the players shuffled out, back down the tunnel to their changing room, but Bernard stopped Henry and waited until the last of his men were gone (he took a moment to pull off his helmet and let the dampness in his hair feel the cool air of the stadium). And suddenly, much to Henry’s surprise, there was a hand being held out towards him, and he shook it with learned conviction.

“I underestimated you,” the coach admitted. “You showed incredible teamwork and efficiency today. It makes me wonder how a skater like you hasn’t progressed up the leagues sooner.”

Henry ducked his head and bashfully thanked him, but Bernard chuckled.

“Don’t thank me yet.” He turned to a different page on his clipboard and held it out to him with the pen. “Fill this in.”

Taking it gingerly, Henry asked, “What is it?”

“We need your measurements—height, shoe size, et cetera—if we’re going to get a kit that fits you properly.”

It was as if the air had stilled, and Henry looked up at him, his eyes widening and his heartbeat making no effort to quieten. “Do you mean–”

“Yes, son.” Bernard nodded to him. “Welcome to the team.”

Henry took a deep breath to contain himself and thanked the coach again, but felt his whole body rattle with joy, so much so that the first few numbers he wrote down looked as if they had been written in a moving car on a dirt road. A torrent of emotions shook him: ecstasy that he had not given up the fight, sorrow that his parents were not here to see it, pride in himself… Despite the overwhelming feeling, he filled out the form, thankfully knowing his rough measurements off the top of his head, then wrote down his contact details in the space provided and handed the clipboard back to the coach. Hurried footsteps came from behind him, and Henry turned to see a face brighter than the sun.

“I take it that it went well.” From the way Hans was glowing, one would have thought that he was the one who had just made the team; he adjusted Hynek on his hip.

“Where’ve you been hiding this one, Capon?” Bernard scolded light-heartedly. “We might’ve been champions last season with a talent like this.”

Bernard then informed Henry that paperwork would be sent his way, various other forms and a contract to sign, as well as a calendar for practices and training sessions. He then bid them farewell, and once Henry had changed back into his regular clothes, they headed out to the car. The early evening air caressed over his cheeks and Henry shivered—somehow, the world seemed fresh and made anew; even the city traffic sounded sweet. He tossed his duffle bag into the boot while Hans buckled his son into his seat, then leaned against the vehicle, the black paint having been warmed in the sunlight. He could not comprehend what he had done right to deserve this, but it was good. Perhaps this moment was set in stone, perhaps it was all meant to happen this way… Nevertheless, it was still a lot to process.

“Henry?”

He glanced up to look at Hans, then took a bold step towards him and pulled his friend into a hug. He felt the other man hesitate for the slightest moment before he reciprocated, and so they simply held each other, swaying gently in an empty car park.

“Thank you,” Henry whispered into the space below Hans’s ear, and felt his friend’s arms tighten around him; tears threatened the corners of his eyes. “Thank you.”

On the journey back to Hans’s apartment, Henry was given the honour of deciding what they would have for dinner, so they stopped to pick up a Chinese takeaway on the way, and when they finally arrived home and settled on the sofa (after Henry had taken a speedy shower), it was still piping hot. As Hans fetched a plate and fork for his son—as well as extra napkins, fearing the mess that would be made lest he get his little hands on the sweet and sour chicken—Henry picked out a film: an American romcom, dubbed over in Czech for his sake, and Hans joked that he would need to start taking English lessons if he climbed up the leagues any higher; Henry stuck out his tongue and jabbed him in the ribs with his chopsticks. It was nice, sitting here with his best friend, eating something probably quite unhealthy out of cartons while watching a shit film, just like they used to do all those years ago. Hans brought them beers and made a toast, to Henry and to the club, but quickly glowered at him when he added one on the end for Hanush, which sent them both into fits of laughter. It was the icing on top of the best day he had had in such a long time; now all that was missing was the cherry.

“Henry,” Hans called quietly to him an hour or so later. There was not long left of the movie, and Hynek had fallen asleep between them, snoring ever-so gently as he curled into his father’s side, a precious sight. Henry looked over at his friend, just making out the edges of his features in the dark, nose and cheekbone illuminated by the low light of the television. He looked ethereal like this, like a dream that Henry was going to wake up from any second.

“I was thinking,” Hans continued as the leading lady on the screen had her dramatic realisation in the rain. “You should move in.”

Henry shifted and angled himself towards him. “Move in?”

“Well, you’re going to be working here now, aren’t you?” Hans shrugged and returned his gaze to the film. “It only makes sense for you to stay here until you’ve found your own place. My treat.”

“Hans, I–” Henry hesitated. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Hans jested, then pointed at the screen. “Shush, they’re about to confess their undying love or whatever.”

How could it be so simple? Henry did not know, but it just was and he could accept that; he would not fight it, not when he had missed his friend so sorely. They watched the rest of the film all the way through to the end of the credits in silence, then departed for bed with an almost hug and a familiar blessing of “goodnight”.

Notes:

ice hockey? in an ice hockey fic? it's more likely than you think.
i hope everything is somewhat understandable even if you don't watch the sport; big ty to the lovely @latorgator for helping me amend bits to make it somewhat more coherent

as always, tysm for reading i love you all <3

"Nothing, just an inchident on the race."

Chapter 8

Notes:

hiiii i'm posting this from a hotel room in salzburg lmao

hope you're all having a great week; let's just dive straight in!

“Bin,” Theresa exclaimed, wrinkling her nose up at the dirty sock that she had found wedged between the sofa and the wall, pinching it with two fingers as she held it away from her. “Bin, bin, bin!”

Sam held the black bin liner open and she tossed it in.

The afternoon sunshine trickled in through the open window, brightening the otherwise beige walls of the small living room and tumbling over the litter of cardboard boxes, half marked ‘DONATE’ and the other ‘KEEP’. With no room to move, Henry stood in the middle of the mess, looking around him at all the clutter that he had accumulated over the past five years, and sighed. Part of him would miss that grubby sofa, where Mutt was presently sleeping, and the radiators that worked during every season but winter, but at the end of the day, he was ready to leave; a new chapter was approaching. First, however, he had called in the big guns for this operation.

“This would go a lot faster if you didn’t just stand there like a lemon,” Theresa chided him, then held up a dead potted plant, far beyond saving. “Bin?”

“Bin,” he confirmed, and she dumped it into the trash bag.

Theresa then vanished into the bedroom, while Sam grabbed a stack of DVDs from the side cabinet, rifling through them as he turned to his brother. His expression was tight, as if judging every choice that Henry had made with his interior decor.

“Have you even watched any of these?” He listed the films off one by one, then shook his head. “Seriously, Henry, these are movies that my grandfather likes.”

Stepping over a pile of plastic containers, Henry reached over and took them from him, sorting them into a ‘keep’ box and a ‘donate’ box—most of them went into the latter—replying, “I think I ‘long-term borrowed’ most of these. Don’t know from who though.” He dropped his copy of The Terminator into a ‘keep’ box, making a mental note to return it to Adder at some point.

Sam went back to sorting through the riff-raff, but added, “You better take advantage of Hans’s streaming services while you’re there. The library is not going to be as close by as it is here.”

He made a fair point: it had been a long time since Henry had lived in the big city. The cosy, cushy town life was something that he had become very accustomed to: it was comfortable and easy to have all one’s friends nearby and live only a short walk from where you worked; to have a routine that you could rely on. In Prague, he would have to take the tram for around forty minutes to the stadium, and it would be over an hour’s drive to see anyone, and that was only if he would have the time to visit Kutná Hora. Change was a startling thing, yes, but he could not ignore the little part of him deep down that hungered for it.

“Henry!” Theresa called from the bedroom. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

He frowned and called back, “What?”

She reemerged moments later, holding up a short-sleeved button-up on a hanger, pale blue linen with a delicate flowering pattern along the trims. “You have such nice clothes hiding in that wardrobe, and yet all you ever wear is jeans and a t-shirt!”

Henry looked down at the clothes he was currently wearing—jeans and a t-shirt—then pouted at her. “But it’s comfy.”

Rolling her eyes, Theresa disappeared back into the room. Samuel, meanwhile, had found an old backgammon set at the back of the cupboard and held it aloft for evaluation; Henry shook his head and gestured to a ‘donate’ box.

“Something’s wrong,” Sam commented suddenly and Henry faltered, quickly turning to busy himself with organising a stack of books that he had never read. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m not,” he protested, but Theresa shouted from the other room, “Yes, you are!”

“You’re thinking too hard and it’s annoying,” his brother continued, chucking a three-year-old shopping receipt into the bin liner. “So tell me, is it moving cities or living with Capon that you’re worried about? Because it’s one of them.”

Henry pursed his lips. He hated how well his brother could read him. “Maybe a bit of both.”

Sam stuck his head out of the cabinet for a moment to give him a look. “Go on.”

Sighing heavily, he dropped the books into a ‘donate’ box and shook his head. “I don’t know, Sam… I’m excited, honestly. This is everything I could have ever wanted, but– Is it weird?”

“Is what weird?”

“You know…” Henry brought his shoulders up tightly. “Technically, Jitka still lives there.”

“Jesus Christ, Henry,” Theresa groaned, entering again with a ‘donate’ box full of clothes—Henry immediately lunged towards it, rifling through to make sure she had not planned to discard any of his favourites—and tutted at him. “It’s not like you’re his secret mistress. I’m sure he’s already told her about all this. And like you said, it’s only until you find your own place.”

Salvaging an old hoodie with about twenty moth holes in it—he ignored the disapproving look she gave him; he loved the ratty old thing—Henry shrugged. “I feel like I’m intruding.”

“He invited you, Henry,” Sam reminded him, standing up from where he was crouched, putting the old junior hockey trophies into a ‘keep’ box. “He wants you there because he cares about you and he missed you. Can you blame him for wanting his closest friend around when he’s going through such a difficult time?”

Henry winced; Hans’s words were still etched into his skin. You hate me. “I’m not sure how close we really are anymore.”

“Then use the time to fix whatever broke,” Theresa suggested. “You told me you talked about what happened. About why you grew apart.”

“Partially.” He could still see fireworks, hear the clock striking midnight, whenever he closed his eyes. “I told him how I felt that we just… We didn’t fit into each other’s lives anymore. He didn’t take it well at first, but we came to an understanding.”

“Baby steps, I suppose,” Theresa mused as she moved the box of clothes onto the growing tower at the side of the room—at that moment, the buzzer rang, and Sam went over to answer it, leaving the front door slightly ajar—then, placed her hands on her hips and gave Henry a kind smile. “You’re going to thrive in Prague, Henry. I just know it.”

He blushed and ducked his head. “Thanks.”

“Tess is right,” Samuel concurred, returning to his excavation site. “You’ve been cooped up for too long. We could all see how you’ve been itching to get out.”

Theresa giggled, then stage-whispered to Sam, “Maybe he’ll finally get a girlfriend.”

The two of them chuckled as if it was some hilarious inside joke, and Henry scowled at them. “Not funny.”

“Lighten up.” Sam snorted. “When was the last time you were in a relationship?”

“I was the last time he was in a relationship,” Theresa pointed out. “It’s been that long.”

Henry countered, “You’re forgetting Katherine–”

“Boo, Katherine doesn’t count,” she denied his attempt. “Fucking around for a week three years ago because you were sad and she broke up with Žižka again isn’t a relationship. Did he ever forgive you for that, by the way?”

He hesitated. “We don’t talk about it.”

“See! You’re so emotionally constipated these days,” Sam remarked, and Theresa nodded profusely. “I hate to say it, but you need to get laid.”

“Speak for yourselves,” Henry folded his arms and scoffed. “Don’t harp on at me when you’re both single.”

The front door swung open and a delightful aroma of warm coffee and sweet pastries wafted in as they were greeted to the friendly sight of John, smiling brightly as he carried a cardboard tray of four disposable cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other, where a light stain of butter was visible towards the bottom. Kicking the door shut with his heel, he raised an eyebrow at them. “Who’s single?”

“All of us, apparently,” Theresa faux lamented, taking the coffee with her name as John passed the cup holder around. “Except Henry doesn’t realise that chronic singlehood does not equate to abstinence.”

“You mean, you don’t fuck around?” John inquired at Henry, whose cheeks were growing hotter by the second. “No one’s asking you for commitment. You’re allowed to have fun.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to find the right person,” Sam argued, taking a sip of his drink. “Sex is always better when you’re emotionally involved.”

“Thank you,” Henry sighed, sending his brother an appreciative glance. “Look, I just want to focus on hockey right now. If I meet a girl I like along the way, I’ll make a move, okay? Happy with that?”

There was a resigned sound of consensus among his friends, before John then dished out the fresh koláče that he had brought them from the bakery down the road and they ate in comfortable silence, a moment’s respite from packing boxes. There was still a bit more to be done before they headed out for the evening later, but looking around now, Henry believed it was achievable between the four of them. He shivered slightly, and it was not from how delicious his pastry was: it was odd, seeing all the cardboard towers around him. He had handed in his resignation to Radovan yesterday—and was pleasantly surprised with how happy he had been for him—and sent an email to his landlord expressing that he no longer wished to renew his lease. His tenancy was due to conclude at the end of September, and so that gave him two months to find a permanent residence; he could leave most of his belongings here for the time being.

The situation was manageable, he felt, and less stress-inducing than he had anticipated, especially when he looked around at his friends now, stuffing their faces with the sweet treats. There was a light pang in his chest—he would miss this, having them all so close by; being able to meet up and hang out whenever they felt like it, finding solace in each other’s company after a long day’s work. But it was not as if he would never see them again, he reminded himself; there was nothing to be sad about, and they would tell him the same thing. Koláče polished off and coffee drank, Henry nodded to them and they resumed their mission, packing boxes and sharing laughter until the sun began to dip in the sky.

 

***

 

Theresa drove them in Sam’s car out to The Devil’s Den, a dingy but beloved roadside pension just outside of the city which had become a frequent watering hole over the years, tuning the radio to a relaxing music station while Sam and John argued over something trivial in the back seat, Mutt wagging his tail unaware as he sat between them—Theresa gave Henry a pointed look, and he agreed: those two needed to sort their shit out before it drove them all insane. The road curved through lush copses and sprawling fields, now shaded with colours of dusk, and Henry leaned his head against the window, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment. He let himself smile; he was right where he wanted to be. Nothing troubled him, surprisingly: his mind was clear, what with everything now packed and the promise of a drink or two on the horizon; the knowledge of good company. He did not think about Hans, or at least he turned his thoughts away whenever they drew towards the man; those notions were charged with a certain melancholy he did not wish to face presently. Opening his eyes, he watched the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror sway gently with each bend, and listened as Theresa laughed at something John said; snickered as Sam reached forwards to turn up the music with a dial on the centre console.

After turning down a side road and rattling over the fanned cobblestones, they parked outside and clambered out of the car (Mutt hopped out and obediently trotted along at Henry’s heels), the old bed & breakfast greeting them with warm light against the growing night and the muted sounds of chatter and glasses clinking, and of a small, drunken chorus caterwauling along to a traditional song. It was a simple rustic building, with half-timbering on the upper level and a red terracotta roof, while a stone patio wrapped around the front, sporting wooden benches and branded umbrellas, all of which were closed now for the lack of sun and rain. A couple of smokers conversed outside, hanging about by one of the long arched windows, as the dim lamplight shone out of the pension like a beacon enticing them in, and so they acquiesced and headed inside, thirsting for a pint each.

It was not too crowded tonight, with plenty of room to move between the water-stained tables and tired seats. There was dark oak panelling on the lower portion of the walls, which were decorated with all variety of memorabilia, from old photographs of times past to snippets of Bohemian heritage, such as the antique-style maps of the region and the odd decorative sword. Milk churns were repurposed into planters in each corner, and above the bar was a new flatscreen TV that the patrons had all chipped in to fund, wanting to watch sports in better quality than before. At one end there was a brick fireplace, the flames crackling away, and the regulars sitting at the table beside it were already on their feet as they saw them walk through the front door, cheering brazenly.

“Would you look at that?” Kubyenka was the first to raise his glass, wobbling slightly as he rose. “Henry has come to see us!”

“Our rising star!” Janosh added, and Henry rubbed his neck and thanked them sheepishly as the two patted him on the back in congratulations as he came to sit down—Sam and John had dragged over another table and chairs to make more space, as they and Theresa were welcomed too. Opposite them, Hynek necked his beer and banged his fist against the table in felicitations.

“Don’t be so humble, boy!” the Devil grinned. “If I were you, I’d be singing it from the rooftops!”

“Then we ought to thank God it isn’t you,” Katherine scoffed, sitting to his right, and Žižka rolled his eyes beside her, an arm around her waist. She then turned to the younger man and gave him a delighted smile. “Congratulations again, Henry. You deserve this and more.”

“You truly do, son,” Žižka agreed. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

“Thank you, all of you.” Henry ducked his head bashfully. “I honestly never thought–”

But he choked on those words, momentarily gasping for air, as an arm had suddenly come down and put him into a playful headlock from behind, squeezing him as he heard a string of laudatory words in a foreign but familiar language.

“Lay off him, Adder,” Žižka laughed, scratching at his old scar. “You don’t want to end his career too soon.”

The Pole let out a dramatic sigh, then placed a pint of beer on the table in front of Henry, ruffling the young man’s hair in celebration before he took a seat beside Janosh. Henry chuckled and saluted him with his glass before taking a sip.

“As I was saying, I genuinely never believed that this would happen,” he told them. Mutt came and sat beneath his chair, sniffing happily at his ankles. “I was ready to give up, but…” He caught his former coach’s eye across the table and the man nodded. “But it’s you lot who inspire me to keep going, so… Cheers!”

There was a joyful echo of “Na zdraví!” around the table as they all brought their bottles and glasses together, clinking them against one another’s as they all eventually dissolved into nattering away amongst themselves.

Theresa had pulled up the chair beside him, a bottle of Pilsner in her hand, and gently bumped his shoulder. “So, what’s next, Hal?”

He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Dream job, nice apartment in the city…” She took a swig of her drink. “What’s the next step?”

“Aside from finding my own place?” Henry shrugged. “Survive the upcoming season, I suppose.”

“That’s a point,” Katherine joined in, leaning forwards—half-way across Devil, who screwed up his face as she left no room for him to take a sip of his ale—and sporting a curious expression. “You’re moving in with Hans?”

Henry pursed his lips and nodded. “Only temporarily.”

“And Jitka’s okay with that?”

Right. None of them knew about the divorce, apart from Theresa and Sam (and probably John, because John knew everything about everyone). He faltered and cleared his throat, quickly making up an excuse that yes, she did not mind, and that she was away visiting her parents anyway. But when he momentarily caught Dry Devil’s hard, knowing gaze across the table as the man took a long swig of his beer, he shivered. Perhaps it was not as much of a secret as he had previously thought.

“I don’t remember the last time Hans came around here,” John noted. “Well, apart from last April, but he didn’t stay more than a day when he couldn’t find you.” He shivered. “It was awkward.”

“It’s not his fault,” Henry defended him, although he was not sure why. “He’s a very busy man.”

“It’s not like it used to be though, is it?” Hynek weighed in, though mostly in an attempt to drive Katherine out of his personal space. “When you first brought him around all those years ago, he was a bit mouthy but well-tempered and a good laugh. But after that wedding?” He shook his head. “He got a bit too serious. A bit dull.”

“He grew up,” was all Henry had to offer, but he was not dignified with a response, and quickly the conversation steered towards when they would all be able to tune into his hockey games.

He bit the inside of his cheek, forcing Hans out of his mind. He was thankful for his friend, that was without question, but tonight was about him. Though he pondered: it really had been such a long time since the man had properly visited Kutná Hora; those peaceful summer evenings, having a barbecue outside altogether and sharing stories and conversation, still played fondly in his mind from time to time. He and Hans would sit on a pair of folding chairs, passing a beer back and forth between them because they were one short and did not mind sharing; he recalled how the neck of the bottle would still be warm from his fingertips, the lip still tasting of his stupid beeswax chapstick. Henry blinked the memory away and took a long gulp of his brew, trying to focus in on the current discussion.

The atmosphere was buzzing. Drinks were flowing, and they were regaled with one story or anecdote after the other, each told in part through interjections or jibes. Live music was being played now too—a couple of local lads, George and Michael, but someone (probably Adder or Kubyenka) had clearly told them about Henry’s big break, and now they were serenading him while all his friends cheered him on; he tried to bury his face in his hands. Only those two could come up with a song that rhymed ‘luck’, ‘fuck’, and ‘puck’.

The group turned back to conversation, and it was a feat in itself how they never ran out of things to talk about. After a while, Henry quietly excused himself to step outside for some air. It was dark now, standing out on the patio, and there was a slight chill. The surrounding trees and the road that led to the pub were almost entirely obscured, if not for the one parked car that had its headlights on as the driver said farewell to his mate out of the window. Henry leaned against the wooden railing and sighed, listening intently to the wind through the leaves; the distant hoot of an owl. A calmness passed through him—he did not understand it, but that did not matter.

“Mind if I join you?”

He looked over his shoulder as Žižka walked up beside him and nodded. The older man said nothing and simply looked out into the dark all the same; Henry wondered what was going on in that wise head of his. But something in his countenance appeared disturbed, although he could not quite place his finger on it.

“I want to show you something,” Žižka spoke eventually, and Henry raised an eyebrow. The man side-stepped closer then glimpsed warily back towards the door, before pulling a small box, velvet and navy blue, from his jacket pocket. He held it between them, angling his body as if to hide it from prying eyes, then carefully popped the lid open, revealing a beautiful silver ring. It was of delicate design, the dark sapphire in the centre enchanting in the low light.

“It’s gorgeous,” Henry remarked in awe, then a sly smile crept upon his face. “But I don’t think it’s my size.”

“You git,” Žižka grumbled, and he bit back a laugh.

“Sorry, sorry…” He gingerly took the box from his friend to take a better look, and quietly gasped as the ring glittered. He handed it back and smiled in disbelief. “Žižka… Are you serious?”

“I don’t think I’ve been more serious about anything in my life,” he mumbled, staring down at it. “There’s no one else I want to spend the rest of my days with, grow old with… She’s my world, Henry.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Only Devil.” He scoffed. “The bastard just laughed and wished me luck. But he did buy the next three rounds.”

Henry hummed in amusement, imagining the scene perfectly. “So, do you know when you’re going to, y’know, pop the question?”

“When the time is right.” Žižka snapped the lid shut and put the ring away. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year… When the moment comes, I’ll know.”

“I’m happy for you,” Henry said earnestly, and the older man thanked him.

“I’m happy for you, too.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve found your spark again.”

“I thought about what you said. When I was on the ice,” Henry admitted. “You were right. I am worth it.” Courage held him aloft. “And I’m going to keep proving it. If others doubt me, fine, but I’m not going to doubt myself.”

“Now, that’s what I like to hear.” Žižka smiled; for a moment, it reminded him of his father. “I’m proud of you, Henry.”

And gazing out into the black forest—staring uncertainty in its darkening eyes—he let a cool wave of contentment wash over him to the sound of mirth; to the joy of his friends and the love of this unconventional family. His heart distended, and he exhaled his old skin. Henry was proud of himself, too.

Notes:

devil's pack my beloved <3

anywayyyy thank you for reading, much love as always <3

And they were roommates! (ohmygodtheywereroommates)

Chapter 9

Notes:

two updates in four days??? who is she??
another short one to whet ur appetite bc i am GEARING UP to give you guys chapter 10,, i love chapter 10 sm..

anyway heres chapter 9 lol (i love her too dw <3)

The last sitting of the day was over, and Hans slumped back in his chair as he closed his notebook and filed away his papers on the desk in front of him, stuffing them into his briefcase. Deputies chattered amongst themselves, most of them as they were filing out of the grand room, with its tall ivory walls and towering gilded ceiling, all in an elaborate Neoclassical design, accompanied by the large crystalline chandelier that hung above the symmetrical rows of fixed wooden desks. He sat back and watched them all scurry off for the afternoon, rubbing his temples as he tried to regain his sense of self—if he had to hear the words “budget cuts” one more time, he might just lose it.

Hans loosened his tie slightly as he eventually emerged from the meeting chamber and turned down the long corridor, his mind already wandering towards what he should cook for dinner. Henry would be arriving at some point, so he needed to take that into consideration too; he sighed. It was a relatively startling realisation, just how much he had depended on Jitka: how maybe, it dawned on him now, he had taken the warm, delicious meals after work and his shirts perfectly ironed and their son in bed before 9 PM for granted; he had never needed to lift a finger. At least he always thanked her—he was sure he did.

“Ah, Capon!”

Hans pretended he had not heard his name and quickened his pace.

“Hans! Might I have a word?”

Bugger. It was too vacant of noise; he had no choice but to acknowledge the call. Donning his politest smile, he stopped and pivoted on the spot, only to see old Divish Talmberk heading straight for him. Hans bit the inside of his cheek hard.

“Divish! To what do I owe the pleasure?” he greeted the older gentleman, who returned the amicability.

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine,” he chuckled, patting Hans on the shoulder. In truth, he liked Divish a lot: the man was sage and often had good advice, as well as a respectable career behind him. He was also one of the few people that had not treated him like a child when he had first entered into politics. “I was wondering if you and Jitka might be available Friday evening. We’re planning a small get together for Stephanie’s birthday.”

“I’m afraid Jitka’s away visiting her parents currently,” Hans lied, then balanced it out with a truth to validate his excuse. “I also have a friend staying with me at the moment, and I don’t think it would be very fair for me to leave him alone. I appreciate you thinking of me though, truly.”

But Divish, bless him, was not the sort to give up easily. “Why don’t you bring him along? The more the merrier!” He then leaned in conspiratorily and whispered, teasing, “And trust me, I’d rather there were more people attending. I’ve ordered quite a large buffet table, and I’d like to get my money’s worth!”

Hans laughed lightly and considered this for a moment. Perhaps it would be good for him (and Henry, by extension) to take the evening off, and he was certain that the food there would be a dear respite from whatever monstrosity Hans would otherwise come up with. And it would be poor of him to decline a birthday invitation, especially from someone that had been an ally for the last few years—after all, the chamber was looking more and more like a battleground each day, what with a divide in loyalty of both deputies and senators alike simmering beneath the surface of every sitting: whether their support lay with the incumbent or former president. No one spoke of this tension aloud, but to deny its presence was impossible.

Twisting his wedding band out of habit, he nodded. “In that case, we’d be delighted.”

“Wonderful!” he beamed, and his gratitude was evident. “I’ll send you the details!”

Divish shuffled off and Hans exhaled slowly as he continued his departure from parliament for the day, steadying himself. The weather was still just as pleasant as it had been in the morning, with a bright blue sky overhead, and he began his walk homeward, leaving Malá Strana and heading back over the river to the Old Town. He always enjoyed the view from Mánes Bridge, and today he found himself stopping to look back up towards Prague Castle, patiently nursing the coffee he had picked up on the way. Back at his property in Rataje (which he hardly ever visited these days regretfully), there was an old photograph on the mantelpiece, which he called to mind now, of him and his parents, standing in the presidential residence as his father shook hands with whoever the dignitaries pictured were. He must have been only three years old at the time, a small and unassuming boy trying desperately to hide in his mother’s arms—she was beautiful, in a floor-length opaline dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline and her golden hair arranged into delicate curls, her timeless composure accentuated by the strong line of her face, and he often joked that she had left him so soon because Heaven needed its angel back. Father looked stoic and professional, a dark and robust bronze statue compared to his marble wife, but the glint in his eyes betrayed his jovial interior and penchant for comedy; if there was anything he remembered about them, it was that he was the only person that could make her laugh. He could not recall their voices, however—or at least, he could not recall his father’s voice sober. Perhaps it was for the best: he did not need them haunting his ears alongside the eventuality of Hanush’s disappointment, but that was an issue for later.

His last correspondence with his uncle was over text to thank him again for allowing Henry the opportunity to make the team, which had been duly reacted to with a thumbs-up emoji, and he was fine with that. In all honesty, he would rather the papers knew about his divorce before Hanush did.

Hans continued his stroll home, leaving tomorrow’s problems behind him, when his phone alerted him to a new message.

Henry – 15:36
train should get in just after 5

Henry – 15:36
we’ll c u then

Henry – 15:36
:D

The emoticon made Hans laugh—Henry made Hans laugh. In the man’s year-and-a-half-long absence from his life, he had forgotten just how funny his friend was. But it was stupid, really, that something as simple as a smiley face could evoke a giggle from him, as if he were some blushing teenager all over again. There had been a time, he knew, when he had purposely laughed a little too hard at Henry’s jokes, and the shame of it crept up on him now; the pointlessness. That was years ago, however, and he had long since dispelled any lingering butterflies.

He worked from home for an hour before driving to the station, and he sat idly for a moment in his car after he parked opposite, glancing out of the windshield up at the large Art Nouveau building. Its monumental facade glared back at him and he sighed, leaning down to press his forehead against the steering wheel. Inviting Henry to live with him had been one of those spur-of-the-moment ideas which he was so prone to having, and now he wondered if it was a mistake. He had told Jitka; she actually believed it was a good idea, somehow. Had part of him hoped that she would have said otherwise? Perhaps, but she was smart about these things, and despite everything he still trusted her judgement.

There was no time like the present; Hans took a deep breath and stepped out of his car. Having changed out of his suit and tie when he arrived home, he now straightened out the creases in his cream linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and dusted down his pleated trousers—he had wanted to wear something nice to mark this occasion, but casual enough so that it seemed effortless. Not that he cared what Henry thought (he could have turned up wearing a bin bag and the man would not have batted an eyelid), but there was nothing wrong with looking after oneself. He checked his reflection in the glass, ruffling his hair so that the light waves fell naturally, then satisfied, slipped on his sunglasses and headed down the subway into the station.

A couple of pigeons roosted in the metal beams that held up the glass roof, and Hans watched them as he ambled along the platform; it would still be some time yet until the train arrived. They nestled together high above the commuters, carefree in their rest as they enjoyed the way that the sun shone through and warmed their home between the spandrels, sitting fat in units of three or four—a happy pair bobbed and cooed at each other on the opposite platform, but soon flew away when a station guard wandered past. Metropolitan fowl living free above metropolitan people: it was a simple life, and Hans bit the inside of his cheek at his own idiocy. It was ridiculous, this notion of envy that bristled beneath his ribs. He sat on a bench by the arrivals display and waited; his heart rate quickened with every minute that counted down from the board. A large family with more suitcases than children huddled at the other end of the bench as they sorted their tickets, and Hans tried his best not to look their way.

He heard the rumbling of the tracks moments before the blue dot that eventually became a train rounded a distant corner and came into view, slowly chugging along until it ground to a halt at the platform; Hans was on his feet at once. As the passengers disembarked, he peered through the crowds to no avail. Had he come to the wrong platform? Was it the wrong train? He lifted his sunglasses for a clearer view. But before he could make himself too sick with worry, his eyes met with familiar sky blue ones, coming down the platform from the far end of the train, and suddenly he could not remember what he had been so nervous about. Hans almost did not notice Theresa beside his friend; she looked well, he thought, carrying a box and smiling as she appeared to whisper something to Henry, who in turn ducked his head as if he were trying to hide the endearing blush that coloured his cheeks. Hans felt his own jaw tighten involuntarily, but then his feet were carrying him, weaving through the alighted to approach and greet them. Just before he reached them, however, he stopped and stared downwards at that creature that he had entirely forgotten about; that beast that was sniffing along the concrete and nosing at an empty crisp packet, before perking up and staring right back at Hans.

“Down, Mutt!” Henry ordered as the dog bounded as far as his leash would allow him, jumping up at Hans as his tail wagged furiously—trying to put his grubby paws all over his nice trousers. Hans swore that little monster was out to get him, but crouched down and scratched behind the dog’s ears regardless. He supposed they could feign amicability towards one another for Henry’s sake.

“It’s fine,” Hans reassured him with a light smile. “Hynek is going to be beyond excited. He’s been pestering his mother and I for a pet of some kind for a while now.” He quickly turned his attention to Theresa, and they shared an embrace the best they could with a cardboard box between them. “It’s been too long. How are you keeping?”

“Not too bad,” she replied, then thanked Hans as he relieved her of the box. It was mildly heavy, but nothing he could not manage. In turn, she took Mutt’s lead from Henry, so that he could drag along his suitcase and hold the box beneath his arm easier. “You’re right. It’s been far too long. I don’t think I can even remember the last time I saw you.”

Lowering his sunglasses over his eyes, Hans hummed in thought, then realised, “Must’ve been the New Year’s Eve party.” He chuckled. “Not that I remember much of that night, anyway.”

Theresa agreed, and as they began to walk, she recalled with amusement having to break up John and Adder’s shots competition—which they had decided to have in the bathroom, for some reason—before one of them keeled over from alcohol poisoning. Hans laughed, only vaguely recalling any of this happening. Henry remained quiet, he noticed, but perhaps he was simply tired.

In the car park they loaded the luggage into the boot; Henry was banished to the back seat with Mutt—“Shut up, Hans, he does not smell!”—and Theresa was more than happy to sit in the passenger seat, gazing out at the city as they drove past. They caught up on various matters, from the mundane to the more personal, and commiserated with one another about long hours of work, no matter whether it was at the hospital or in parliament. On the other hand, the divorce was not brought up once. He was sure that she knew: after all, he was well aware that Henry confided everything in her. If she was trying to spare his feelings by not bringing it up, he would rather that she would not. It was better to be forthright with it, even if the truth stung, but he himself was hardly going to be the first to mention it. It sat uncomfortably in the back seat alongside Henry.

 

***

 

The cork popped with a welcome excitement, and Hans could not help but grin as he poured out three glasses of champagne—he had originally saved it for his and Jitka’s wedding anniversary, but that date had since been struck from the calendar. Standing in the kitchen together now, Theresa leaned into Henry’s side, and he had an arm comfortably around her shoulders; Hans ignored the twist in his gut when she in turn slipped an arm around his waist in a sidelong hug, and handed them the flutes. He raised his own and saluted his friend.

“To Henry,” he congratulated. “May your mind be as sharp as your skates, and your future prosperous!”

“To Henry!” Theresa echoed with cheer and clinked her glass against the man in question’s, who ducked his head, a deep blush forming.

“It’s nothing, really, but thank you,” Henry replied sheepishly, then tipped his glass towards Hans, bright eyes shining with something that could easily be mistaken for adoration. “None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for you, though. You deserve most of the credit.”

Hans shook his head profusely. “Out of the question! It’s your talent and hard work that got you where you are. Stop being so humble and enjoy it.”

The champagne was sweet and the company sweeter; Hans and Theresa speculated and inquired about the upcoming season, and about Henry’s integration into the team. He explained that he was most likely going to be playing centre most of the time, since one of the team’s centres was leaving, but he appeared content with this. Hans knew his friend’s adaptability well—he recalled a match against the University of West Bohemia, when one of their defencemen sprained an ankle and Henry had replaced him, even though he had not played defence in so long; they won that match 2–0.

Mutt started barking from somewhere in the apartment, so Henry put his flute down on the counter and excused himself to deal with whatever grievance the dog had. The moment he left, Hans could feel Theresa’s gaze fix upon him with that keen intensity that she had, and he took a long swig of his champagne, trying to disregard his urge to top up his glass.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” she said finally, and Hans felt an odd sense of relief. “About the divorce. How are you holding up?”

He answered her with a tight-lipped smile. “Not terrible, but not good either.”” He gestured vaguely towards the door, where Henry had gone. “This has been a nice distraction.”

“I’m sure…” Theresa tilted her head at him, brow furrowed slightly, and cautioned, “Just don’t be afraid to reach out if you need anything. While having Henry around will be good for both of you, remember, you have other friends too. And we’re here for you.”

His other friends… It had been some time. There was a missed phone call from Janosh, unread texts from Katherine, an unopened email from Kubyenka… He struggled to communicate with his own colleagues half the time, let alone those people that he had once considered to be like family. When Henry had first started bringing him around, they had welcomed him with open arms, but he could surely be no more than a stranger now; he failed to imagine they missed him. Nevertheless he thanked Theresa and poured her some more tipple, just as Henry reentered with that lopsided grin and his eyes alight, none the wiser.

After a few drinks, they walked Theresa back to the train station—she did express how she would have loved to stay longer, but unfortunately she had an early shift in the morning. The late afternoon air was light and pleasant, the sun traipsing in pretty patterns between the old buildings, and they bid her farewell, waiting on the platform until the train was out of sight. Moments before she had departed, however, she had whispered in Hans’s ear, and the words burrowed deeper into his skin with every step they took further away from the station.

“You deserve to be happy, too.”

Whatever that meant.

“We had drinks at the Devil’s Den before I left,” Henry told him, like he had read his mind, as they walked back through the city, stifling a yawn as he followed Hans’s lead. His body weight was shifted backwards: Mutt was tugging at his leash, desperate to sniff every cobblestone and cock his leg up against every other bollard, mesmerised by the new surroundings. “Everyone sends their regards.”

Hans nodded in appreciation, but quickly faltered. “Henry?”

“Mhm?”

“Who knows?”

“Oh.” Henry scratched his head. “I only told Theresa and Sam, but you know I can’t keep anything from them. Sam probably told John, but it’s not gone any further than that, honest.” He winced. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Hans reassured him, picking at his cuticles. “But I’d still like to keep it private for now. Until I’m ready.”

Henry made no affirmation; the quietude disturbed him.

“Henry?”

His friend sighed awkwardly. “I think Devil knows.”

Hans stopped in his tracks, grabbing Henry by the arm and stilling him too. “What?”

“I swear I didn’t say anything,” Henry promised him hurriedly. “But he gave me a look. He’s Jitka’s cousin, Hans. He knows something.”

In that precise moment, it occurred to Hans that he had never considered the possibility that his soon-to-be ex-wife would tell her family about the divorce, and probably already had. If his own parents were still alive, he surely would have told them by now, too.

But he had no one to tell. Just Henry.

What about Hanush?

No. Hanush could not know.

Hans took a deep breath and pursed his lips. “We mustn't worry about that now. It will all be fine…”

Whether he convinced Henry of the fact or not, he did not care—this was a self-reassurance.

They continued on past Republic Square and turned onto a side street, stopping at the front door to an apartment complex. Hans rang the buzzer, they were let in, and they ascended two floors. After a moment, the door to the flat opened and Hynek—dragon rucksack on his back and eyes wide—gasped and barrelled straight past his father with a cry of, “Doggy!”

“Gentle hands,” Hans reminded him, ruffling the boy’s hair as his son attempted to pet Mutt; Henry crouched down and showed him how. He then turned to Hynek’s friend’s mother and thanked her, happy to hear that his son had been good throughout the playdate, and as they left, Hynek could hardly contain his joy.

“Is it our dog?”

“No, it’s Uncle Henry’s dog.”

“Oh… Uncle Henry, can you share your dog with me?”

“What’s the magic word, Birdie?”

“Please.”

Henry laughed. “Of course. As long as I’m staying, he’ll be around.”

Hynek squealed with excitement and tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Tati! I want Uncle Henry to stay forever!”

One could only dream.

Hans lifted Hynek onto his shoulders, wincing as the boy grabbed fistfuls of his hair, and they strolled home at a leisurely pace, enjoying the calmness of the city which settled around them. Restaurants were setting out their terrace chairs for the evening, commuters waited for a tram homeward bound, and as they encroached on Old Town Square, they could hear music drifting away on a passing breeze. A string quartet, in fact, and they played for the passersby—some watched peacefully, a handful of tourists recorded on their phones, and an elderly couple swayed in time with the waltz—an arrangement of a Dvořák piece, Hans knew. They stopped to listen as well, and Henry gently bumped into his arm.

“Fancy a dance?”

Hans snorted. “Piss off. I don’t dance.”

“Aye, but you used to.” Something in Henry’s demeanour was different from the Henry of a week ago; this one was eager, and daring. “I practically had to drag you out of the club, countless times, remember? You danced all night, I was certain your legs would fall off.” His expression softened. “I miss those days.”

Hans’s chest clenched, and he suffered a smile. “Well, I’m afraid I’m too busy for that sort of thing now. You said it yourself: responsibility.”

Henry hummed. “Sure.”

A light pressure on the crown of his head alerted Hans that Hynek was beginning to grow weary, and they continued home; a silhouette of his youth impressed upon where Henry had touched him, and fractured beneath his skin.

Notes:

they cannot be normal about each other for 5 minutes. also hans doing his job!

thank you for readinggg, i love you all <3

I'm claustrophobic, Darren!

Chapter 10

Notes:

chapter ten... the big one...

i actually cant believe we're here!! ten chapters in and still a longgggg way to go but im very very happy with everything i've written so far, this is the longest fanfic i've ever written!! and i have never been so passionate about writing a fic, it literally haunts my every waking moment... im okay, i promise,,...

anywayyy i hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing this chapter <3 i love you all sm <3

The first time Henry had babysat for Hans was when Hynek was two years old. He had been staying over while repairs were being done on the plumbing in his flat, and even though he could have easily stayed with Theresa, Hans had immediately offered him a place in his home. So, Henry booked time off of work and visited, and ended up staying over for an entire month. One of those evenings, Hans and Jitka had a dinner booking—Hans insisted that he could cancel, but Henry scolded him and urged him to take his wife for a nice meal, which she deserved; Jitka had thanked him for it—so Henry was left with the child, and quickly discovered why this stage was known as the ‘Terrible Twos’. By the time he had wrangled him into his bed, the clean up operation was worth having the military called in to help. Hynek was trouble incarnate: his father’s son. At his present age, at least, he could better understand his carer’s instructions. Whether he followed them was an entirely different matter.

“Hynek, wait!” he called, but the little agent of chaos was on his feet and making a break for it towards the fountain. While Hans was at work, Henry decided it would be a good idea to take the boy and Mutt to a park in New Town for some fresh air. Now, however, he was beginning to regret the decision, and hurried to catch up with the child, who leaned over the edge and splashed his hands in the water. Sighing, Henry bent and scooped him up by the armpits—Hynek protested loudly—and sat him on a nearby bench, kneeling down and wiping Hynek’s fingers clean with the bottom of his t-shirt.

“I know I’m not your father, but you can’t run off like that,” Henry chided him gently, and the boy pouted. “He’ll have my head if anything happens to you.”

Hynek continued to pout wordlessly and twisted to face away from him. Henry chuckled and sat on the bench beside him; Mutt sniffed at the ground, then laid down obediently and watched the pigeons.

“I know that you have a lot of energy,” Henry tried. “I was the same. My parents took me ice skating to tire me out.” He smiled at the memory, then ruffled the boy’s hair. “Has your Táta ever taken you ice skating?”

Hynek peered up at him now, and shook his head. Henry’s eyes widened.

“Really? That’s… surprising.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and leaned in so the child could see. “Here, let me show you.”

He opened his photo album and scrolled through to pictures from years ago, all the way back to when they were at university, showing them to Hynek. There was one of the two of them celebrating on the ice after a game: a candid photograph that a friend had taken where they had an arm around each other and a smile of victory on their faces. Their faces were flushed with adrenaline and the cold arena air, their hair tangling as they pressed their foreheads together. Another showed them standing next to each other with their backs to the camera, on the ice once more, glancing over their shoulders and grinning as they pointed with their thumbs to their jerseys, Henry wearing number 14 and Hans wearing 3.

“See. That’s your Táta. Looks so young, doesn’t he?”

Then, Henry’s eyes lit up as he found a video that he had not watched in years, and pressed play. The camera shook for a moment, but came to focus on the ice rink, washed out by the floodlights, and Henry could hear his own voice coming from behind it, saying, “You’ve got this.”

No light came through the windows, and he remembered that they had gone at night so that the rink was empty. He had been standing in the player benches, just behind the boards, and the camera then zoomed in on Hans’s figure at centre ice, adjusting his skate laces; they were not hockey skates. Then he righted himself—and God, he really did look young, with softer cheeks and the blonde of his hair looking more starkly like gold—and laughed. At least some things never changed. Hans took up position, and then with a quick flourish he was off, gliding across the ice with grace and precision. Behind the camera, Henry was doing his best to follow every movement; every perfect turn and twist and jump. This version of Hans danced across the screen effortlessly, despite the lack of music, and all that could be heard was the scratching of his skates against the frost and Henry’s occasional, “Wow.”

Hynek was staring intently at the video now, having turned his body back to face Henry, who wondered what was going through the boy’s mind.

The routine ended with a pirouette into a lunge-like pose, and Video-Henry was cheering loudly down the microphone. Hans chuckled and hid his face as he stood and skated over, but then his eyes widened and he pointed at the camera with an amused shout of, “You filmed that?”

The video ended abruptly as Video-Hans’s hand closed over the lens.

Before Henry could say anything, Hynek looked up at him with an awe-filled curiosity. “That’s Táta?”

Henry nodded. “Yes, he’s a very good skater. I think he started when he was slightly younger than you, actually. Your grandma wanted him to be a professional, before she–” He held his tongue; quickly steered the conversation away from that path with, “Anyway, that’s why I’m surprised he hasn’t taken you.”

The four-year-old wiggled in place and kicked his legs; Henry could see the cogs whirring in his little mind. Then, he gripped Henry’s arm and shook it with a shout of, “Can we go?”

He laughed. “I’m sure we can.”

“Now, Uncle Henry!”

“I’ll talk to your father, okay? I don’t want to take that moment away from him.” He held out his little finger to Hynek. “I pinky promise.”

This seemed satisfactory to the boy and, not really knowing what to do, he grabbed Henry’s finger with his whole hand; Henry snorted, then showed him the correct way to do it, which made Hynek giggle with delight. He had grown so much in a year and a half and, if not for the rest, Henry was sorry to have missed it.

They walked a few more laps of the park, so that Mutt could properly stretch his legs, and thankfully now Hynek was holding Henry’s hand, the threat of running away again having subsided. The child babbled continuously about the games he liked to play with his friends and the stories he made up with his toys, skipping happily alongside Henry and squeezing his hand a little tighter every time he got excited. They came to a halt as Mutt stopped to say hello to a fluffy, white Bichon Frisé, and the owner smiled at them politely as the two dogs sniffed at each other with curiosity. But Hynek was curious too, and broke away from Henry to inch a little closer.

“You need to ask permission, Hynek.” The boy looked back at him with pleading eyes, and he shook his head. “Not me. Ask the nice lady.”

Hynek glanced up at the woman shyly and said in a small voice, “Can I pet your dog?”

“Where’s the magic word?”

“Can I pet your dog, please?”

She assented, and the boy grinned from ear to ear as he gently patted the dog’s woolly fur. The woman laughed and encouraged him that “Sněhulka” would not bite; that he did not need to be so cautious.

“What a sweet boy,” the woman cooed, while Hynek was so entranced. “You must be a very proud father.”

“Oh, uh…” A blush crept upon Henry’s cheeks and he rubbed the back of his neck. Would it be weird if he explained that he was not Hynek’s father? He decided instead upon a simple, “Thanks.”

The Bichon Frisé was wagging its tail as the child continued to pet it, and the woman crouched down to show Hynek a place behind the ear where Sněhulka enjoyed being scratched. She looked up at Henry and smiled. “Beautiful, blonde hair. He must take after his mother, I assume.”

Before Henry could reply, Hynek answered for him, without looking up, “Máma doesn’t live with us anymore.”

“Oh…” The woman stood and frowned apologetically. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s fine,” Henry quickly reassured her. After all, it was not his burden.

“It must be so difficult, raising a child on your own. You must be so brave.”

Only when she tilted her head and fluttered her lashes slightly did Henry realise that he was being flirted with. Oh. He had not expected that.

The conversation that he had had with Theresa and Sam when they were clearing out his flat replayed in his mind. Chronic singlehood, Theresa had called his current condition, and perhaps they had been right: there was no harm in putting himself out there. The woman looked as if she might be older than him, but such a thing had not bothered him before; she was certainly very pretty. He could see himself asking for her number, maybe taking her out for a few drinks and seeing where that took them, but he would rather clear the air and admit the confusion than let any attempt at a relationship start on false pretenses. And he was still feeling like a new man, damn it. Why should he not have some fun?

He chuckled and scratched his jaw. “Well, actually–”

“But he’s not on his own!” Hynek interjected with glee, looking up now and bouncing on the balls of feet. “He’s got Táta!”

“Oh?” The woman blinked a few times, then her eyes widened. “Oh…”

Henry did not even have time to ask before she started apologising again.

“Oh, sorry, my mistake! I’m sure you both do a wonderful job.” She smiled politely again. “Love is love, after all, and I’m sure two fathers are better than one!”

Henry froze. Two fathers…?

Wait a second…

He stammered out a half-baked explanation, but she did not hear it; Mutt and the Bichon Frisé had lost interest in each other, and the woman waved them goodbye, continuing on her walk. Hynek giggled and waved back, calling out, “Bye-bye, doggy!”

As Hynek took his hand again and they kept walking, Henry sighed and pushed down the knot below his gut, although he was not entirely sure how it had tangled there. He made a note to himself: when encountering an attractive woman while looking after the kid, clarify that you are in fact not his father. And the concept of– No, it was better not to imagine something like that.

He glanced down at Hynek and shook his head. “You owe me one.”

 

***

 

“Henry!” came the shout from somewhere across the apartment. “What time is it?”

“Uh…” He looked up at the kitchen clock, then shouted back, “Nearly five o’clock.”

“Thank you!”

Henry chuckled to himself and took another sip of his coffee. If they arrived at the party on time, it would be nothing short of a miracle. Back at university, Hans had always insisted that they show up fifteen to thirty minutes late on purpose, as a statement (which Henry never really understood), but thirty minutes always turned into one hour, and occasionally one hour would turn into them ditching the party altogether to go and drink by the river near Vyšehrad, and chuck rocks at boats and geese—not their proudest moment, admittedly. They had fallen in one time, early October when they had been knocking back beers as they sat at the end of a nearby dock, after laughing so hard that Hans slipped and promptly dragged Henry in with him. When they arrived back at their flat, they had huddled beneath three layers of blankets on Henry’s bed and pirated an action movie on Hans’s laptop. It had not taken them long to fall asleep.

After polishing off his drink, Henry stood and went in search of his friend. When Hans had told him that they were going to a party, Henry had immediately asked him if was sure he wanted him there. After all, this sort of environment—these fanciful evenings where he knew no one’s name and grew small beneath alien expectations—was one of the reasons that had set them apart in the first place. He bristled at the thought of rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty all evening, peering down their prosecco glasses at him, but Hans pleaded him to come; explained that he himself did not want to go, but it was a birthday party, and it would be rude not to, especially when the host was a decent man and someone that had been supportive of him in the past. So Henry conceded, and now lingered in the doorway of Hans’s bedroom, watching as the man compared two dress shirts laid across the bed. To Henry, they looked exactly the same, but he knew that his friend saw them in a completely different way than he ever would, as if the exact shade he wore would have dire political consequences. Hans’s hair was still drying from his shower, and he stood shirtless, in just his boxers and socks, as he eyed up his options. Henry’s eyes passed over his friend’s body—he kept decently in shape, it seemed, despite his busy schedule. Suddenly, Hans turned to face him, and he brought his eyes back up at once.

“For goodness’s sake, Henry, why aren’t you dressed?!”

Henry scoffed. “Speak for yourself. And besides, we’ve still got over an hour.”

Hans sighed heavily, staring him down like a lost cause. “Freshen up, at least. Then, please, go and put your suit on.” He picked up one of the shirts and slid it off of the hanger. “I want to see what you’re wearing.”

The answer to that was simple: Henry only owned one suit. He left and made a beeline for the bathroom. Having already taken a shower earlier that day, he decided to ‘freshen up’ by splashing some cold water on his face, then went back to the spare room—his room, although he was still adjusting to the fact—and put his suit on. It was very plain: a white shirt, with a matching black blazer and trousers, but he had made sure to iron them out earlier, having been folded and screwed up in his suitcase. A few minutes later, he returned to Hans, who had not made much progress himself. The door was open to the en suite, and he was at least wearing the shirt now, though it hung open over his torso, as he combed his hair in the mirror. Henry could see now against his friend’s soft, pale skin that the shirt in fact bore a gentle yellow hue, so subtle that it took a keen eye to notice, or a figure like Hans to bring it out. He leaned away from the mirror and looked over at Henry, his face contorting in a poor attempt to hide his disinclination.

“Oh. What happened to your old suit?”

Henry shrugged and sat on the end of the bed. “I grew out of it. Put on a few more muscles in the last two seasons.”

Hans hummed and went back to styling his hair. Once he was done, he padded across the bedroom and opened his cupboard, fishing around for something as he instructed Henry, “Stand up.”

Henry did so, and Hans came over with another shirt, then gestured towards his clothes. “Off.”

Furrowing his brow, Henry protested, but his friend was far too insistent, and suddenly he found himself shirtless in Hans’s bedroom. He was not granted a single second to process what was going on before Hans shoved the shirt towards him. “Try it on. For me.”

Henry took it from him carefully and pulled it on as Hans explained, “This one is too big for me now. When I gained a little weight after Hynek was born, you remember. Dad bod, I think Theresa called it.”

Chuckling, Henry began to do up the buttons. “I do remember, yes. You pulled it off really well, though.”

Hans snorted and looked away. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The shirt was now closed over Henry’s chest, albeit barely. His shoulders had always been and were still far broader than Hans’s, and the fabric pulled taut, the buttons straining slightly. Henry huffed and dropped his arms to his sides.

“I don’t think this is going to work...”

He watched Hans closely: the man’s eyes were fixed on the top button as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth, mumbling a very quiet, “Probably not.”

Then, he stepped closer. Hans’s fingers reached out and fumbled with the button ever so slowly, teasing it out of its loophole as he muttered, “Your suit will be fine. It’s not quite Prada, but at least you look good.”

Hans continued to work the buttons open with an intense yet quiet focus, his fingertips brushing against Henry’s chest every now and then, sending a shiver to the base of his abdomen. His own eyes wandered over Hans now, and the way those light eyelashes hid his gaze, and the way his lip was flushed scarlet; the way the afternoon sun illuminated his figure from behind, and the way Henry could so easily slip his hands beneath that shirt and grasp at the smooth skin at his hips–

What?

That woman from the park had clearly messed with his head, putting silly ideas like that in it.

Hans opened the last button and pulled away to do up his own, walking back over the wardrobe. Henry swallowed thickly, then quickly pulled his own clothes back on. It was not the first time that Hans had ever undressed him: that was thanks to late night boozing after winning a game, on the rare occasion that Hans remained the sober one, an arm around Henry as he stumbled back to their flat drunk out of his mind and unable to form coherent sentences, and yet he always woke up in clean pyjamas. So really, he concluded, there was nothing here to be discussed. They were simply returning to old habits, like old friends do.

While Hans dressed, Henry took a moment to properly look around the bedroom. The four-poster bed was large enough to comfortably fit at least three people, its gossamer curtains tied back, and white fitted wardrobes lined one wall; a snug carpet sat underfoot and there was the door to the en suite beside a dresser, which was covered with personal trinkets. He took a closer look at the photographs standing in their light oak frames, then smiled as he saw a loving record of Hynek’s childhood thus far captured in each one. There was even one photograph towards the back of the collection of Henry holding him as an infant. Some frames, however, were face down against the dresser top. Henry pursed his lips and lifted one just an inch, momentarily catching a glimpse of Hans and Jitka’s wedding portrait before hurriedly setting it down again.

“Right, how do I look?”

Henry turned, and the words stuck in his throat. Hans looked good. Better than good, even. The shirt, now buttoned, tapered in at his waist, accentuating his slimmer features, and over it he wore a deep brown suit jacket with notched lapels and a tweed texture. The trousers matched, somehow making his legs appear longer, and were secured with a dark belt; he had slipped on a watch too, its face golden and the strap leather. And his hair was perfect as well, naturally. It was as if he had stepped out of one of those old films his mother had liked, where they spoke English with that funny accent. Henry felt his jaw go slack.

Hans frowned. “Why are you making that face? Don’t you like Burberry?”

Remembering himself suddenly, he shrugged. “Never tasted one.”

Despite rolling his eyes, Hans laughed and turned to the en suite, vanishing within. Henry exhaled slowly and rubbed his hand across his forehead, trying to scrub away the feelings of ridiculousness. He could only surmise that the twisting in his stomach was envy, that he could not pull off a suit like that… That was surely it. Hans reemerged holding a small glass bottle, royal blue and rectangular, and sniffed the nozzle. He then passed it to Henry. “What do you think of that?”

Henry inspected it for a moment, then took a whiff. It was very pleasant, with those forest smells that he did not have the words for, and so he nodded at his friend. “I like it a lot.”

“Good! That’s one of my favourites.” He waved his hand vaguely and disappeared back into the bathroom. “You can have it.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “What? No, if it’s your favourite–”

“I said it’s one of my favourites,” Hans corrected out of sight. There was the sound of light spraying, then he reentered the room, swinging around the doorframe with a spirited smile. “Do keep up.”

“What about you, then?” Henry asked without thought, and so Hans came to stand in front of him, offering out his right wrist. Hesitation ruminated in the space between them, until finally their eyes locked—a deep horizon: the exact point where the sky met the ocean—and Henry embraced his newfound courage, gingerly taking Hans’s hand in his own and guiding his friend’s wrist up to his nose. He sniffed once.

‘Intoxicating’ was one word to describe the aroma. ‘Hans’ was another. It was warm and somewhat floral and he could almost taste the long summer days and the hot summer nights as they wove beneath the tenderness of his friend’s skin, lapping every shade of dusk across the senses.

“Oh… God, yeah, that’s… That’s good. That’s really good.” Henry inhaled once more, lips brushing against Hans’s pulse. “Jesus… What if I want that one?”

Hans giggled oh-so quietly, the stillness between them so fragile.

“We can’t wear the same cologne, Henry,” he mumbled with amusement, but then his demeanour shifted and he hushed with solemnity. “People will talk.”

Let them, a terribly selfish part of him dared, but he swallowed it down and said nothing.

The buzzer rang.

At once, the spell was broken, and Hans pulled away, dipping out of the bedroom with extraordinary speed. Blinking, Henry stood motionless, then tipped to the side and braced himself on a bed post. Something was wrong with him today, very wrong indeed. Had he eaten something bad? Slept on the wrong side of the bed? There was a throbbing sensation in his temples now, and he dug his fingers into the skin there to will it away. This was just Hans being Hans, he tried to reason, teasing him like he always used to; making him uneasy for the sake of a laugh, and so Henry forced a timid one, despite the bitterness it left beneath his tongue. He sprayed a light amount of the gifted cologne on his neck, then left it on the dresser and followed the sound of chatter down the hallway.

Rosa had arrived, satchel over her shoulder as usual, and Hynek was already clinging to her leg and begging her to come and play with him. Hans was giving her an approximation of when they would be back and explaining the food that he had left in the fridge, even though she already knew the drill, astute as ever. She wore her hair up in a ponytail today, Henry noticed, and a red football t-shirt with her jeans. Seeing him, she smiled, while Hynek dragged Hans away into the living room, babbling something about knights fighting a dragon.

“Nice to see you again,” Henry greeted her, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Likewise.” She rocked on the balls of her feet, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “How have you been?”

“Not too bad,” he told her. “I’ve been signed with a new team since we last spoke, actually.”

Rosa grinned and lightly punched him in the arm. “Henry! Congratulations!”

He blushed and rubbed the spot as if it had hurt. “Thank you. It’s nothing really.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s nothing! Which team?”

“Slavia Prague.”

Her eyes lit up. “Seriously?! I follow their women’s football team!” Rosa laughed. “Do you think you could nab me a free season pass while you’re there?”

“I can certainly try.” Henry chuckled. “And how are you?”

She shrugged. “Just came from practice, so I’m a little tired, but otherwise all my school work is going well. I’m helping host an exhibition on manuscript illumination at the end of August, so I’ve been working on that.”

“That sounds impressive.”

“You’re welcome to come along, if you’d like,” she invited him, just as Hans stepped back into the corridor. The sound of a kid’s show on the television meant that Hynek was finally sitting still.

“Welcome to what?”

“Rosa’s doing an exhibition in a month,” Henry explained to him. “We should go to it.”

Hans smiled at her. “Really? Well, definitely send me the details then. We’ll be there.”

She thanked them and went to put her belongings down in the dining room, and once she was out of earshot, Hans gave him a pointed look.

“Can you not flirt with my babysitter?”

“I’m not flirting, I’m being nice!” Henry whisper-argued back. “It genuinely sounds interesting. And even if I wanted to, she’s way out of my league.”

Hans simply scoffed and grabbed his keys.

They bid Rosa farewell, and Hans gave Hynek a big hug and kiss on the cheek before they left, causing the four-year-old to erupt into fits of giggles. Henry caught himself grinning at the sight, the love warming the room around them.

Even though it surely would have been quicker to walk, Hans made them take a taxi, since he fancied a modicum of privacy and did not want to sweat in his suit. His colleague lived in one of the beautiful Baroque buildings near Panská, and according to Hans actually owned the entire top two floors, making for a wonderful environment for hosting. It was a short ride there, but marked with a silence between them, underscored by the taxi driver’s radio blasting pop hits. Henry glanced over at Hans, watching him twist his wedding ring as he stared out of the window.

“Have you really never taken Hynek ice skating?” he asked. Perhaps it would distract Hans from whatever was troubling him.

His friend turned to look at him and blinked. “What?”

“You’ve never taken Hynek ice skating.”

“Oh.” Hans thought for a moment. “No, I haven’t.”

“How come?” Henry inquired. “I thought you would’ve put him on blades the moment he could walk.”

“I don’t want him to get hurt,” was the explanation, though Henry personally thought it was a weak one. “I got injured all the time when I was his age because of skating.”

“Isn’t that just part of growing up though? You know, scraping your knees, hitting your head… He’s a tough kid, Hans.”

Hans finally met his eye and smiled, though there was something doleful beneath his gaze.

“I know he is, I just–” He sighed and leaned back against the headrest. “I’d bubblewrap him if I could.”

“I know,” Henry chuckled. “You’re a good dad, you must know that.”

Hans shrugged. “I try.”

“C’mon, why don’t we take him some time? Together. If he’s anything like you, I think he’ll really enjoy it.”

His friend nodded, and they were returned at once to their regularity. “Thank you, Henry. I’d like that.”

The taxi dropped them off outside of the building and, once Hans had heavily tipped the driver, Henry caught the scent of that cologne again as they shuffled out of the car. This time, however, he refused to let it go to his head, and pushed down that airy feeling that swelled under his ribs. He focused instead on the task at hand: surviving the evening.

 

***

 

“More wine, Sir?”

“Thanks.”

Henry held out his glass as the waiter refilled it, pursing his lips as he glanced around the room. If he had never seen the outside of the building, he surely would have mistaken this place for some kind of palace, with its high ceilings and chandeliers; the Rococo furniture and the fine art on the walls. Hans had insisted that only part of Talmberk’s apartments were like this, and that this area was designed specifically to host parties and receive guests, while the upper floor was living quarters. Either way, Henry had not seen such finery since the last time Hans had dragged him along to this sort of thing, and that had been many years ago.

He had established himself by the buffet table, while Hans had wandered off to go and exchange niceties with suited men that Henry could tell he was not keen on. He could see his friend across the room now, speaking with a man who seemed too haughty for his own good, knuckles growing white as he gripped his wine glass with a tight-lipped smile that looked uncomfortable to bear. Moments like these, Henry was thankful he was a nobody to these people. Divish and his wife Stephanie had been pleasant enough though, and genuinely appeared happy to see Hans. The couple’s age difference, however, had taken him by surprise, but according to Hans they made it work and deeply cared for one another—although he was also warned not to accept any invitations to an ‘after party’.

“All I’m saying is that there’s a reason the downstairs bathroom is pineapple themed,” Hans had said, knocking back the champagne that they had been handed upon arrival. “Just thought you should know.”

He had spoken with Stephanie while Hans and Divish had talked about work—although it sounded far more like gossiping to him—and she had been lovely, even if rather flirty, albeit in a friendly way, and was thoroughly enjoying her birthday party. She had looped her arm through his and whispered advice on which people to steer clear of; the ones who had only been invited on a formality. Henry appreciated it, and with a wink she let him go, heading over to speak with her female friends.

With Hans busy—and he really had tried to stick by his side, but his friend had sensed his restlessness and reassured him that he could go and look around—he had naturally gravitated towards the food, as anyone in an awkward spot would. Not that he minded, however, as it was absolutely divine: canapés, mini sandwiches, salads, fruits, cheeses, bruschetta… Every bite was more delicious than the last, and it certainly helped that the waiters never left a glass empty. At one point he filled a plate and brought it over to Hans, noticing he had not eaten yet, who took it without breaking the conversation he was having, then wandered off again.

Something appeared to be happening in every room, whether it was a game being played in the billiards room or conversation at the open bar. Feeling a little lost, Henry sat down on a long ottoman in one of the quieter rooms, the purpose of which only seemed to be for displaying artworks. He stared up at one of them, a modern piece in which splatters of primary colours were dashed across a white stucco background, and tilted his head. Perhaps it was supposed to have some deeper meaning that he was too uncultured to understand. Maybe it all meant something profound about life and the human condition, but he was not exactly sure where to start.

There was a groan to his right as old bones came to sit down, and he looked over to see the host himself beside him. Divish smiled and nodded to the painting.

“I acquired this one in 1992,” he told him unprompted, and his tone was wistful. “After the Curtain came down, I drove all the way to West Germany and booked the first ticket I could to America. I spent my entire life as a good, loyal member of the Party, and then it was all gone and I couldn’t help but feel just as incentivised as my countrymen to experience something entirely different. When that many people demand change, you have to listen.” He chuckled to himself. “Of course, I was fortunate to be in the position that I was. That’s how I discovered this ‘abstract expressionism’, as they call it.” Divish pointed to the painting. “Now, this was painted between 1959 and 1961. The artist was holed up in New York, painting his days away, and each line upon the canvas was painted whenever he saw the woman he was in love with pass by his window, each colour communicating how it made him feel. And if you follow their direction, over, up, then back down again…” He gestured to a point in the bottom right corner. “You finally arrive at the moment when he never saw her again.”

Henry leaned forwards; the man was right. That area of the painting was tragically bare in comparison.

“It always reminded me, carpe diem. Seize the day. So, I gave it to Stephanie as a present when we first started seeing each other.” Divish laughed. “Luckily she married me, otherwise I never would’ve gotten it back!” Then, he stood. “I’m about to make a speech for my wife’s birthday. Care to join?”

With a smile, Henry rose and followed him out of the room, not without glancing back at the painting one last time.

On the way, Divish dipped in through each doorway to call people to gather in the main reception room. It was a damn good speech that Divish made, and everyone was applauding by the end, before the biggest sing-a-long of ‘Happy Birthday’ that Henry had ever been a part of. He only just spotted Hans on the other side of the room, twisting his wedding ring as some old man spoke at him. His expression was blank; somewhat vacant. Their eyes met momentarily, and Henry gave him a look as if to ask, are you okay? Hans nodded subtly to him, then returned his attention to the suit nattering in his ear.

He drifted back over to the buffet table, and huzzah, they had brought out the cakes now, and there was even a chocolate fountain. Henry stared at the selection, debating where to start. Cream cakes, miniature éclairs, tiny gateaus, macarons, strawberries… Perhaps this life was not so terrible after all. But when Henry reached over to pick up a jam tart, his hand bumped against someone else’s and he recoiled.

“I’m so sorry, I–”

He glanced up at the person in question, and was struck with an odd sensation that he could not quite pinpoint. It was a man, roughly around the same age as him, if not slightly older, with handsome features and black hair, swept across his brow. He sported smart facial hair, a sort of Van Dyke beard, and had dark brown eyes to marry his fine attributes together. The suit he wore was flattering to his figure, wearing a maroon shirt with his black jacket and trousers, while the curious smile on his lips completed his air of mystery.

“No, it’s my mistake.” He had a pleasant voice too, but something about it was familiar. “You go first, I insist.”

“Thank you.” Henry took a tart and put it on his plate, and the man then did the same. Neither of them moved away however, and Henry could feel he was being examined all the same.

“I’m sorry, but have we met before?” he asked. “I can’t shake the feeling that I know you from somewhere.”

The man pursed his lips. “No, I don’t–”

But then his eyes widened.

“Henry?”

Henry blinked.

“Henry… Kovář, was it?” The man broke into a grin when he nodded dumbly. “I don’t believe it… You probably don’t remember me, it’s been so long, but I don’t ever forget one of my players.”

At that, something clicked in Henry’s mind and he gasped with the realisation.

“Bartosch?”

The man confirmed with a laugh, “So you do remember me.”

Suddenly, Henry felt nineteen again, joining the university team in his first year, looking up to their captain as if he had hung the stars in the sky. He had never seen anyone so quick and precise, and so adept at making strategic plays. He was older though, and untouchable, and there was never the chance to get to know him properly. And of course, Bartosch had graduated at the end of that year, and Henry had never seen him again. Until now, that was.

Henry shook his hand. “How are you? I mean– It’s been years.” He gestured to the other man’s facial hair. “The beard, it suits you.”

“You think so?” Bartosch ducked his head bashfully and curled the end of his moustache. “I’ve been well, thank you. A lot has happened since.”

“I can imagine… You were such an amazing player. Did you ever go professional?” Henry asked, because of course hockey was always the first thing on his mind, but the man shook his head.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied, although did not seem disheartened. “I put myself out there at first, but there came a point when I realised that it wasn’t a life made for me.” He inclined his head and inquired, “What about you? You were quite the hotshot, if I remember correctly. You still play?”

“I’ve just been signed with Slavia Prague, actually,” Henry told him, and he enjoyed the kick it gave him every time he told someone.

“Congratulations.” Bartosch raised his wine glass in salute. “I look forward to seeing you on the TV.”

“Thanks.” Henry laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “So, what are you doing these days, then?”

“I run a private security firm,” the man explained. “I have quite a few politicians as my clients, hence the invite. I worked for Divish several years ago during his second term as Mayor of Prague.”

“Wow…” Henry could see it now, with the sleek, put-together look that definitely disguised a firm build. “That’s really impressive.”

“Thank you. It took a lot of hard work to get to where the business is now, but it’s all been worth it.”

Henry opened his mouth to reply, but before he could utter a word, he felt a tug at his sleeve. Glimpsing over his shoulder, he saw Hans, and his stomach dropped. He looked pale and his eyes were red, and he sucked his cheeks in the way one does when trying not to throw up; he gripped Henry’s jacket tightly.

“Henry.” His voice was quiet and trembling. “I want to go home.”

“What happened?! You look–”

“Please, Henry.”

“Right, umm…” He turned back to Bartosch to apologise, but the man was already nodding, brow furrowed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let Divish and Stephanie know that your friend isn’t feeling well. You just focus on getting him home.”

Henry sighed with relief. “Bartosch, thank you… I’m sorry our conversation has to be cut short.”

“Honestly, it’s fine.” But then, Bartosch reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen. He took Henry’s hand and scrawled out a phone number on his palm, before putting the pen away again. “There. Now we can continue this later.”

That twisting sensation in his gut returned for a moment as the ink bled across his skin.

They hurriedly said goodbye to one another, and at once Henry was guiding Hans out of the apartment and back down the elevator, until finally they burst out into the open, the city air wrapping around them with her chill embrace. A dark sky loomed over them, and when Henry pulled out his phone to call a taxi, he saw that it was almost 11 PM. Before he could do anything, however, Hans crumpled into his arms and let out an enormous sob.

“All evening,” he bemoaned, shaking, and Henry pulled him closer. “All fucking evening, people kept asking me about Jitka… Where’s Jitka? How’s Jitka?” He groaned, his frustration overflowing. “Like I fucking know!”

“It’s okay…” In truth, it was not, but what else could Henry say? He gently rubbed Hans’s back as his friend soaked his shirt collar with tears. “Let me call us a cab–”

“No.” Hans perked up and took a step back, shaking his head thoroughly. “We’ll walk. I’ll be sick if I get in a car.”

“Alright. If you’re sure.” Henry opened his arm out towards him. “C’mon then. You can lean on me.”

They walked home in silence, Hans pressed into his side, but Henry could barely smell the cologne anymore, its tantalising scent replaced with the sharpness of an aged whiskey, and he knew better than to ask his friend how many he had drunk. That did not matter now. The only thing on his mind was home and tucking Hans into bed once he had dried his tears for him. Henry bit back a smile.

Home. He liked the sound of that.

Notes:

divish and stephanie have a healthy marriage in this thanks to the invention of viagra. anyway..

also the cologne scene was probably the horniest shit i ever wrote.. what da helllllll

ALSO THERE IS ART!!!! by my incredibly amazing and talented friend swedenis-h!! pls pls pls go and show her some love, she's the best!! thank you again pookie <3

tysm for reading!! <3 CHAPTER TEN AHHHHHH!!!!!!! LONGEST CHAPTER WHAT

And in case I don't see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight!

Chapter 11

Notes:

hai frens!! <3 im so sorry that this chapter has appeared at the last minute of this week, i've been trying to work on the next few chapters ahead but i have been suffering from the most awful writer's block ;-; the plot and everything is fleshed out but there has been this one paragraph i cant get through and it has caused me unnecessary amounts of stress lol - also life has not been very smooth recently for a bunch of reasons, but im making it through

so anyway, i hope you enjoy this chapter!! <3 love you all

An early morning jog was always good for clearing the mind, and Henry’s head felt like an old antique shop, the newly-acquired clutter rattling around among the ancient before being swept behind a curtain to never be seen again while the sign on the door always read, ‘CLOSED’. He had awoken with a light hum at the front of his skull, granted he had not slept all too well that night. Drifting in and out of consciousness, in the moments that he was awake, lying there and staring up at the ceiling, all he had thought about was Hans. Hans, who had cried into his shoulder and clung to him like the world was about to end; Hans, who smiled at him in a way he did not deserve; Hans, who he knew was pretending so desperately to be okay about all of this, but Henry did not know what to do. There was no perfect manual or guide on how to comfort your friend going through a divorce (he had found internet articles, glaring into his eyes at half past midnight, but they all offered the same surface level advice), so he was well and truly winging it. All he was certain of was that he would be there for his friend no matter what, but he wanted to help pick up the pieces; holding him, letting him cry his heart out was fine, but Henry wanted to stop the river at its source. If he could take away even a milligram of Hans’s pain, he would; if he could carry it all for him, he would accept that burden in a heartbeat.

Henry adjusted his earphones as he rounded the corner past the Powder Tower, his playlist dictating his pace. Luckily it was early enough that he had space on the pavements for his run, before the hustle and bustle of local life and the throngs of tourists took to the streets. The city was waking up slowly—it was the weekend after all. He brushed his hair back and maintained his rhythm, but caught sight of an advertisement in a shop window as he passed by: it was a sports retailer, and they were selling replica jerseys of different hockey teams, either personalised or with the names of players. A slight thrill travelled up his back. Would anyone ever buy a jersey with his name and number on it? One could only dream.

When he had filled out the paperwork and the forms for the club, he had been very pleased to discover that the number fourteen was free for him to pick. It had been randomly assigned to him back at university, and since then it simply was his number—he did not want any other. He had played with jersey fourteen at Kutná Hora too, which had truly cemented his belief. It was funny, how something as simple as a number could hold so much meaning.

Jogging through the town brought back memories, especially as he passed by some of the university buildings, noting in which ones he had sat in classes and lectures. It truly did feel like a lifetime ago now, those days of leaving the wake-up alarm to the last possible minute and then regretting it as he rushed all the way to class; of agonising over essays and tests at midnight in the library; of cheeky drinks after a lecture and picnics in the park and flat parties that went on until the early hours. He almost had not even gone to university, and it was strange to think about that now, about how much he would have missed; about how he never would have met Hans. In the end, he was glad his parents pushed him to go, and after they were gone, when he was on the verge of dropping out, it had been their voice in his head telling him to stay; to make it all worth it. They did not raise a quitter.

He considered this further as he looped around and headed towards the river, passing the Clementinum, where they had spent many a study session. Hans had barely known Henry at the time, and yet he had been so unconditionally supportive when his parents passed away. Later, of course, he found out that his friend had been through the same thing—dead parents was not exactly an icebreaker topic—but it had meant so much to him, to have just one person give a shit about him.

Henry hoped they could see him now. He hoped he had made them proud.

His run was a long one today, progressing across the river and up into Malá Strana, and ended uphill in the gardens just below the castle; he sighed, looking down at the view of the city as he wiped the perspiration from his brow. It was quite breathtaking in the early morning light, which brushed a soft orange glow over the rooftops. So much, yet so little, had changed. If he squinted hard enough, he imagined that he would see the flat, chuckling to himself at the thought. Hans was probably still sleeping off yesterday’s distress, and he could not blame him. Henry seated himself on a bench and pulled off his earphones, leaning back as he caught his breath. The fresh air filled his lungs and stung his nose, the mild metallic taste in his mouth not unpleasant, though he was starting to feel quite hungry now; yesterday’s buffet had been more than filling, so he had forgone breakfast before his jog.

Then, he thought of Bartosch. That had been a welcome surprise.

After he had put Hans to bed, he had entered the number carefully into his phone and saved the contact, lest it be washed away after he took a shower. Henry unlocked his phone now and scrolled through, finding it near the top of his contacts. He should say something. It would be rude not to. That, and the fact that he genuinely wanted to catch up with the man. He pressed the contact and opened up a new message, shifting the weight of the phone in his hand as he debated what to say. It could not be that difficult; he should just let it flow naturally! Henry sighed and pressed record for a voice memo.

“Hi, Bartosch, it’s Henry… Umm, it was really nice meeting you yesterday, uh…”

He deleted the note. Breathe, think, start again…

“Bartosch, it’s Henry. Just leaving you a voice note to say hi, typing isn’t always so easy, so… Fuck.”

Henry deleted that one too. The man did not need to know everything about him just yet.

“Hello, Henry here…”

Now, that was just silly.

Why was it so difficult? He scratched his forehead and groaned. Fuck it. He typed out a quick message and hit send before he could change his mind.

Hi, it’s Henry :)

That would have to do.

For the brief moment that he had been in Bartosch’s company the night before, he had really enjoyed it. The man was just as charming and courteous as he remembered, for the year that they had been acquaintances, and Henry smiled at the thought of becoming friends with him now. If he was going to live here, he had to know people, and this felt like a safe start.

Henry stood and stretched out his muscles, before beginning the jog back to the flat. The sun shone a little brighter now, and he had a feeling that it was going to be a good day.

 

***

 

Henry had taken Hans’s keys before he left, and used them now to let himself back in quietly. Not that there was any need to be quiet, however, as the first thing he heard when he opened the door was a little voice screaming at the top of his lungs, “I don’t want to!”

Frowning, he kicked off his trainers and followed the ruckus of shouting and crying down the hallway. He had not imagined that this was the sound that he would return too, having guessed both father and son would still be asleep, but when he peered through the door to Hynek’s bedroom, there was the boy, standing on his bed in his pyjamas with his fists clenched at his sides as he yelled, his face red and tears on his cheeks, while Hans stood in front of him holding some clothes, exhaustion riddled across his face.

“I won’t ask you again, Birdie,” Hans said firmly, but his voice cracked, as his son’s tantrum bounced off of the walls, and he held the clothes out. “You need to get dressed.”

Hynek continued to refuse through the power of screaming, and when Henry met Hans’s eye, he watched as something snapped behind the other man’s visage, and suddenly tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Hans shoved the clothes into his hands and brushed past out of the room; Henry blinked, then turned to the wailing child. He needs me, he thought, and it did not matter which of them he meant.

Henry set the clothes down on the end of the bed and lowered himself to the boy’s height, bending his knees slightly. Yelling and crying had turned into choked sobs now, and so he very carefully reached out and wiped Hynek’s little cheeks with his thumbs; the child let him.

“Deep breaths,” Henry encouraged him with a gentle tone. “That’s it.”

He sat down on the bed and gestured for Hynek to sit beside him; the boy dropped down and buried his face into Henry’s side. He winced: he was still quite sweaty from his jog, but Hynek did not seem to realise this. Henry placed an arm around him, and asked, “What’s all this fuss, then? You don’t want to get dressed?”

Hynek said something, but it was muffled. Henry shook his head.

“No, I need you to speak clearly and calmly. Can you do that for me, like a big boy?”

The child hesitated, then looked up at him.

“I don’t want to,” he whined, and Henry pursed his lips.

“Why not?”

“I’m comfy.” Hynek sniffled. “But I want to go to the park.”

“You can’t go to the park in your pyjamas, though.”

“No!” the child sobbed, hiding his face in Henry’s arm. “It’s not fair!”

Life isn’t fair, was Henry’s gut instinct, but Hynek was small and would not understand and surely that would only worsen his crying—so he thought, glancing back over at the clothes. He had been fine on other days, so why not today? Henry reached over and grabbed them—a linen t-shirt and some trousers—then held them out to Hynek.

“These are comfy, too.” He rubbed the material. “Here, feel.”

Hynek stretched out his hand and touched the t-shirt, but immediately recoiled and whined, shaking his head profusely. Ah, Henry thought, there’s the issue.

“You don’t like it?”

Hynek shook his head again. Henry hummed.

“I see.” He set the clothes aside again, then carefully brushed those blonde curls away from the boy’s eyes. “Hynek, if you don’t like something, you need to use your words, okay? Because your Táta and I can’t read your mind. No one wants to force you to do something you’re uncomfortable with. Do you understand?”

“The top is itchy,” the child said quietly in confirmation, and Henry nodded.

“Okay, why don’t you pick out some different clothes? Then Táta can help you. Is that okay?”

This seemed to be a reasonable agreement for the four-year-old, who hopped off the bed; Henry opened the cupboard for him, then slipped out of the room while he decided. The door to the kitchen was diagonally across from Hynek’s bedroom, and so Henry gingerly pushed it open, squinting against the morning sun as it came in through the long windows. Hans had his back to him, arms braced against the island counter with his jumper sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he hunched forwards, the light creeping around the edges of his figure. The door clicked shut, and the silence throbbed in Henry’s ears.

He waited. Hans did not move. The man was like a statue, and Henry feared that the wrong words would send him crumbling.

And so he waited.

And waited–

“What do you want?” Hans’s voice was low and broken. “Are you going to lecture me on responsibility again?”

“No.” Henry shifted. “I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

There was a pregnant pause. He watched as Hans moved—as he put something away in the lower cabinet, but his body obscured Henry’s view—and turned slowly to look at him. His eyes were red, just as they had been the night before.

“I’m sorry.” He exhaled shakily. “I just— I don’t know how she did it. How on Earth did Jitka manage him? He’s so–”

“You?” Henry smiled lightly. “Impatient, temperamental, sensitive… Reminds me of someone I know.”

Hans looked momentarily as if he wanted to laugh, but bit his lip; hesitated. “I miss her so much.”

“Tell me,” was Henry’s careful encouragement, because he could see the storm brewing beneath his friend’s facade.

“It’s not–” Hans grumbled and dragged a hand down over his face. “It’s not just because of Hynek. She’s my wife. We’ve spent every day together for the past six years; that’s not something I can simply cast aside and pretend never happened. She’s part of me, you must understand. Even if in the beginning–” He held his tongue, and sighed. “There’s this gaping hole in my chest where my heart should be. Despite everything, I still love her.”

“I know you do.” Henry studied his expression; those aching eyes. He did know, truly: he had felt it himself, after Bianca… In the pocket of his running shorts, his phone buzzed, but he ignored it. “How are you feeling after yesterday?”

“Fine.” Hans frowned when Henry frowned. “Before you ask, no, I didn’t have that much to drink. The… emotions came first. Then I went and had a drop of whiskey to try and take the edge off, but it didn’t work.” He looked away, focused on a speck of dust on the floor. “That’s when I came and found you.”

“Don’t worry, I believe you.” Henry pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to ignore them all for now. Until you decide to go public with it, that is.”

Hans groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “Fuck… Did I do something terrible to deserve this? Honestly, enlighten me if I have.”

“I don’t know,” Henry shrugged. “But I do know that I’m going to stick by you through this, okay? You’re not alone, Hans. You can talk to me.”

And Hans, despite himself, snorted.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Henry furrowed his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Waving a hand dismissively, Hans just shook his head and turned away. “Leave it, Henry–”

“Do you seriously think I hate you?”

Those words of Hans’s were still eating away at him. You hate me.

“Because I don’t, for the record,” Henry continued, and he could hear his own tone rising; sharpening. “God, Hans, I don’t think there’s a single world—a single universe, or a single lifetime, or whatever—where I could hate you. I know I said I could, I know, but I stopped that from happening, even though that meant leaving you, because the thought of living in a world where my feelings towards you had bittered was even more unbearable than the distance between us.” He faltered; took a deep breath. “So don’t you dare ever think again that I hate you, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Henry exhaled. The weight of his words sat between them, and all he could see was Hans.

Hans, who looked at him now with a look so lost that all Henry wanted was to guide him home.

Just as it seemed as if his friend might say something, there was a tiny tapping at the door. Henry turned and pulled it open, and little Hynek peeked through with bright eyes. “Tati, can you help me? Please.”

Blinking several times, Hans cleared his throat, then stood up straight. “Of course, Birdie, I’m coming. Go and wait in your room, and I’ll be there in a minute.”

Footsteps padded away against the floorboards, and Hans squinted at Henry.

“Did you…?”

Henry put his hands up in defence. “All I’m saying is that the two of you are very similar. And I’ve handled enough of your tantrums, too.”

“Thank you, Henry.” Hans walked over, this glossy, unreadable colour in his eyes, and for a moment Henry thought they might hug, but his friend slipped past and followed his son back to his room.

Catching his breath, Henry dug his fingers into his chest and nearly doubled over. While he did not hate Hans, he did hate the circles that they were spinning in—far more tiresome than any jog or run he had been on; than any hockey game he had played. The distance had not been bridged just yet, despite the lack of miles between them now, but he could not for the life of him figure out why. Something was stuck in the middle of it, digging into their sides, carving away at their spirits, but it did not have a name.

Henry curled an eyebrow, then walked over to the cabinet that Hans had been fiddling with, carefully prying it open.

He sighed and swore beneath his breath.

On the shelf, a glass tumbler was still wet with brown pearls of liquid, and the screw cap of the bottle of brandy beside it was loose.

 

***

 

8 Years Ago

 

It was a quiet night, the sort where one could hear their own thoughts far too loudly in their head, and the streetlights cast a dreamy, golden halo into the dark sky. High above the south city traffic, a distant world from the beauty of the inner city, a cold breeze whistled between the old apartment blocks, rattling the thinner window panes as the past groaned beneath the concrete. And on the roof of one of these buildings were two lads, a crushed six-pack of Pilsners discarded between them and a cackle of laughter in the air.

Hans stood with one foot on the ledge, tearing at the paper in his hands before casting it to the wind, a pitiful expression ridden across his face as he watched the words of adoration scrawled across them disappear upon the midnight breeze. Letters—so many letters never sent—had become obsolete in a single evening; feelings spurned with a single sentence. He grimaced and tore up another poem about her eyes, scattering it like ashes, hoping that maybe this time his anguish would dissipate too.

A chuckle ripped him from his self-loathing, and he turned to frown deeply at Henry, who perched on the edge, dangling his legs as if he were invincible.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Hans snapped, but Henry only laughed louder as another stream of love-letter confetti whipped past his head and dashed out across the neighbouring park. His cheeks were pink with the cold and he pulled his ratty hoodie tighter around himself, a crinkle in the corner of his eye as he grinned back at Hans.

“Scream.” His eyes were thorough and luminous. “Shout, yell, whatever… It’s good for you; releases endorphins. We learned about it in class.”

Hans furrowed his brow with disbelief. “What?”

“Trust me,” Henry implored. “It’s no one here but us. Just let it all out.”

They watched each other for a moment, drinking in their lonesome together. Hans’s day had started perfectly—the spring in his step that morning could not be denied—but then they had gone to that stupid party and his stupid feelings had been stupidly hurt, because of course the girl he thought he had been in the talking stage with had a boyfriend. Of course they had been wrapped around one another in the living room, making out to some corny house music; of course Klara had looked him dead in the eye, pouted, and as the techno lights filtered through him, said those tragic words, “I thought we were just good friends.”

Hans tore up the last letter and chucked it from the rooftop with abandon.

Then, he took a deep breath, and screamed.

Eyes screwed up and fists clenched, he yelled at the top of his lungs, and his voice echoed between the blocks of flats, ringing wildly into the night—a strained melody that he poured every ounce of himself into, until it was done, and he took a step back, listening to his own tenderness as it was carried away on the wind. A passerby looked up to search for this peculiar bird call among the blackening heavens, but found nothing bar the starlight vying to break through the urban haze.

Hans looked at Henry. Smiling, laughing Henry, whose hair was tousled by a harsher zephyr, and suddenly Hans caught his affliction too. He felt the smile stretch across his wind-bitten lips before turning back to the emptiness, and howling out once more. And Henry joined him, shouting out nothing with his entire chest, rough and ape-like. A cacophony of abstract noise, of feeling and fear and fondness, became their strange catharsis; their togetherness. As they hollered and roared and whooped and squalled, everything at once was let go. All was whole; just a couple of lads shouting from the rooftop.

At last they exhausted their lungs and fell back upon the gravel, watching fuck all above them pass by, giggling and snickering into each others shoulders as dust marked their clothes.

“You were right,” Hans admitted, panting as he glanced over at his friend. “That did feel good.”

“See!” Henry ran a hand through his hair and winked at him, before staring back up at the sky. “I have good ideas sometimes.”

Hans traced his eyes over his friend’s visage, dim and russet with the city lights on one side, backlit by the faint green emergency exit sign on the other. Henry closed his eyes slowly and hummed a silly something to himself, and Hans followed the curve of those long eyelashes as they fluttered. All that agony was now supplanted by something quiet and profound—a sense of peace that was so immeasurable, for a moment he entirely forgot about his own plight. His heart stuttered and he exhaled all he knew about himself.

Everything was so intensely Henry, and Hans was seeing for the first time all over again.

Notes:

i shamelessly stole/was inspired by a scene from my favourite film when i wrote the flashback. if anyone can tell me what film it is, you get five bajillion doubloons !!

anyway, i am actually going to take a little break (re: notes at the start), but also bc i am literally moving to another COUNTRY in two weeks and so much is happening for me between then and now, so chapter 12 will probably be out some time the week of september 15th, thank you sm for understanding <3<3<3 love you all, you are the best <3

ALSO more art????!!!! i woke up one morning to discover that the amazing pinacoladamatata on tumblr had done the most BEAUTIFUL sketch of chapter 7 omfg.. thank you again pina, im obSESSED! <3<3<3

ALSO first rounds of the Maxa liga and Extraliga starts 10th Sept. (but Ceske Budejovice vs Sparta Praha is 9th Sept.) !! looking forward to a great season!!

If my grandmother had wheels, she would have been a tumblr.com!