kiss kiss bang bang

by Domoda

Summary:

All Henry and his team of spies need to do is seduce the young socialite Hans Capon and string him along until they can use his connections to kill the criminal Ištván Tóth. At least... that's the plan.

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It's not a slowburn. The word count is because it goes off the rails.

Chapter 1: Eat Me

“Does anyone recognise this man?”

An image appeared on the projection. A young man with a squarish face, stubble, close-cropped soft blonde hair and blue eyes. He wore a clean hoodie and there was a ring in his left ear. Although the photograph was very crisp and professional, it was candid, snapped with a long-angle lens as the young man was walking down the stairs of some office building in the city. He hadn’t noticed the camera.

Henry looked around the small gathering in the dark debrief room. As usual, his coworkers looked varying degrees of bored. Despite the debrief sessions being potentially the most crucial aspect of any espionage mission’s success, the eclectic group of professionals tended to treat it like school detention, and their chief handler, Jan Žižka, as a barely-tolerated tyrannical headmaster.

“His name is Johannes ‘Hans’ Capon,” Jan Žižka continued. “Heir to the Capon Co., Ltd company. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It owns a great deal of real estate and it’s one of the wealthiest companies in the country.”

“Ahh. Are we going to see that money?” Dry Devil asked, rubbing his jaw.

“You’re not the only one asking that question,” Jan Žižka said. “But I’m getting to that. You’d think young Mr Capon would have lived an easy life, but that’s not really the case. He has a criminal record for petty theft and he’s been rehab three times.”

Katherine drummed her long nails on the wall and watched Jan Žižka speak. Her expression was perfectly calm.

“Young Mr Capon only recently came back into the public eye,” Jan Žižka said. “He’s enrolled in university using his Mother’s maiden name. Does anyone know why? It was on the news when it happened.”

Adder grumbled something indistinct. Next to him, Janosh raised a hand. “He’s wondering if we can stop the, uh, audience participation and get to a point, yes?”

“His uncle died,” Dry Devil said.

“Not dead yet, but yes,” Jan Žižka said. “His uncle, Hanush is in a coma following a car crash. Capon, who had been in a conservatorship since he was seventeen, is finally back in the public eye again. Capon’s father died a long time ago, and his mother’s not in his life. He can’t inherit the bulk of the money whilst his uncle still lives, but he’s also out from anyone’s protection as the conservatorship ended. He fired all his old staff and doesn’t employ any security.”

“He’s vulnerable,” Henry said.

“Yes,” Jan Žižka said. “That’s why I did some digging into the circumstances of Hanush’s crash and found it’s no accident at all.” He clicked the next slide.

Ištván Tóth’s face filled the projection.

Something rippled through the room. A change of mood. Everyone paid a little more attention, and Henry shifted forward in his seat. His heart started to beat hard.

“We have reason to believe Tóth, consigliere for the Bergow crime family, secretly orchestrated the car crash,” Jan Žižka said. “Ištván’s very smart, and it’s only because he follows the same pattern as always that we’re able to track him. He’s letting Capon run around and taste freedom, but eventually Capon will want some mentorship, some direction, and that’s when Ištván will be there... to give him guidance.”

“Kurva…” Henry hissed.

“With a couple billion at his disposal, we’d never have a chance against Ištván again!” Dry Devil grumbled, kicking the chair in front of him. “I shudder to think what that bastard could cook up with that kind of money...”

“He’ll become harder to kill than a President, for a start,” Jan Žižka said. “But it’s not over yet. Capon is still up for grabs, and he might just be the bait we need to bring Ištván out of the woodwork. So far, the problem we keep running into is that we only catch Ištván’s low-level minions and never get the head of the snake. But we can assume he’ll make a real appearance to solidify his alliance with Capon.”

“So we’re going to follow him around?” Henry guessed.

“Cheh. Catching him won’t be the problem, but keeping him will,” Dry Devil rumbled. “How long until the meeting? I imagine the tomcat can keep him distracted for two weeks.”

“It’s in three months,” Jan Žižka said. He folded up his notes. “He’ll just have to manage that long.”

Dry Devil chuckled. “This is stupid.”

“What are you talking about?” Henry asked, looking between them.

Adder made a comment. Janosh cleared his throat: “Adder says the longest relationship is four months, so a month to spare, all is good.”

“Relationships with whores don’t count,” Dry Devil muttered.

Janosh shook his head. “He says he didn’t pay, so it counts.”

“Adder will seduce Capon and keep his claws in long enough to get an invite to the fundraising event,” Jan Žižka said. “Henry will be acting as on-site handler. You’ll have an apartment opposite Capon and keep an eye on things and be there to act as support for Adder.”

Katherine put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s the first time you’ll be in the field, but don’t worry, we’ll be on hand if you need any help. If it all goes to plan… your next three months should be pretty boring.”

 

*

 

Henry slammed the boot shut and buzzed himself into the building’s foyer with a box on his hip.

The small apartment building was unassuming, slotted into place between the library and the town hall in the centre of the city, and Henry could hear the rattling churn of cars even in the building’s foyer. When he climbed the stairs, he could hear the faint noise of the apartments through the wall as he passed by. He glanced at the faded wallpaper.

As he turned to climb another set of stairs, he glanced out of the window. The glass was so yellow it was almost opaque. Water stains darkened the wall under the windowsill.

Capon seemed to have chosen the apartment at random. It certainly wouldn’t be where Henry would have chosen, not if he was the heir to a substantial fortune. There wasn’t even a concierge. Henry swapped the box onto his other hip and fished the keys out of his pocket, unlocking his door.

Henry’s new apartment was fairly standard. Henry set the box down on the pristine kitchen table. There wasn’t much point in personalising anything, but there were a few things he might hang up on the white-washed walls. A framed photograph of his parents, perhaps a calender. But nothing he would regret leaving behind, in case he had to make a hurried exit. He headed back out.

Henry left his apartment and nearly stumbled into Hans Capon.

Hans sidestepped him in time, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Well, hey. Are you moving in?”

Hans wore a pink polo shirt and off-white slacks, loafers and a shiny silver rolex. Henry realised that the arms of the black sweater tied around Hans’s waist also partially disguised a small semi-automatic pistol in a leather holster on his hip.

Henry stared dumbly at the other man. After so much study and research, actually seeing the Capon heir in the flesh was like being in an art gallery and one of the paintings striking up a conversation. “Yes. Flat 17, that’s me.”

“I’m number 16,” Hans said. “So, did the old lady who used to live in 17 die, or was the awful rotting smell just a coincidence?”

“I have no idea,” Henry said. There was a short silence, and Henry mentally kicked himself. He wasn’t usually so awkward. “I didn’t know her. I just found a good deal on the rent.”

“Student?” Hans asked.

“No, I have a job nearby,” Henry said. He groped for any suitable profession. “I’m a baker.”

“Well, you’ll have to bring me the best of the leftover stock at the end of the day,” Hans said. He fished his keys out of his pocket. “There’s no two ways about it.”

Henry glanced to one side and then back to Hans. “...do you have any allergies?”

“I’m allergic to boredom, tweed suits, loud chewing noises and plastic open-toe heels,” Hans said. “You?”

“Bananas,” Henry said.

Hans chuckled and opened his front door. “Okay. You’ve promised now, don’t forget.”

“I won’t,” Henry said.

Hans shut the door behind him. A few moments later, he opened it again. “I’m Hans. FYI.”

“Henry,” Henry said. “I’ll probably see you around.”

“You know where to find me,” Hans said, slipping back behind his door. It shut and there was the sound of the latch sliding into place.

Henry stared at the closed door for a long moment, before he realised Hans might be watching him back, through the keyhole. The thought jolted him and he hurried back down the stairs to his car.

 

*

 

At eight that evening, Henry stood at to the back of the bar, dressed in the same black and mahogany brown as the wall behind him, watching the orange overhead light glint off all the glasses and beer bottles. There was a constant chatter; driven up by the anonymous pop music vibrating from the speakers and underscored by the occasional slap of the double doors as staff left the kitchens and returned with stacks of dirty glasses rescued from busy tables. The bar tender operated the bar like a worker on a factory line.

Hans Capon had not noticed Henry. His blonde hair shone with a copper polish. Hans sipped his beer, checked his phone and occasionally focused on the conversation his lively friends were having. When he talked, he gestured wildly, and when he laughed, he threw his head back. His shirt was unbuttoned to the sternum to display the full span of his long and graceful neck.

Adder came through the doors at 8:13 PM. He went straight to the bar and pushed his way through the waiting crowd, sparking loud complaints which Adder bypassed, waving for the bar tender’s attention. He got his drink. He pulled up a chair at Capon’s table and introduced himself. One of the girls looked angry and sipped her drink, shooting a glare that Adder ignored.

Hans Capon noticed him. His eyes went bright, and he leaned towards Adder with an eager smile. He said something.

Clearly, Hans spoke at least a little Polish, because Adder’s reaction was loud and pleased. He clapped Hans on the shoulder and leaned in to talk in his ear. Hans threw his head back in a laugh. There was a brief discussion, and even if Henry had been close enough, he would not have understood it. Something Adder said made Hans flush and shift about in his seat.

Adder tugged him by the elbow and Hans bowed to quickly finish his drink before setting it down and stumbling along with the other man towards the bathroom.

When Henry shifted his weight to go after them, he found his boots had fused to the sticky floor. It made a noise when he peeled them away. He wove between the patrons, and lost sight of the men he was following when he had to take the long way round to head towards the bathroom. The stairs down to the basement were steep. Henry was glad he was sober and in full control of his legs.

In the Men’s Room, one stall was occupied, and Henry glimpsed two sets of shoes from under the stall door. Hans laughed, there was the sound of a belt unbuckling and Hans’s knee was visible as he knelt down.

Henry turned on his heel and climbed back up to the bar. The clamour of the crowd washed over him, the smell of alcohol and perfume and the warmth of nearby people. There was such a thing as dignity, and although Henry was still very new to being a handler, he didn’t feel Adder needed him in the room whilst he was getting his dick sucked. Better to stand where he could see but not be seen, watch and wait for the deal to be closed. He resumed his station waiting by the wall.

 

*

 

About fifteen minutes later, Hans and Adder had left, weaving through the bar and slipping out into the early night. Lingering heat made the air curiously soft, and the warm breeze carried a tang of motor oil. It was a short walk back to Capon’s apartment; Henry didn’t feel like he needed to risk being spotted tailing them and so waited about five minutes before he left the bar, too.

Even though it was just gone 8:30 PM, the summer sun wasn’t done with them yet and the city still glowed in dusky orange. The only indication that it was actually night was the lack of traffic, the wide-open pavements, the stores which were now closed and dark for the night and the clubs which had all turned their neons on. A pretty woman in an exceptionally short leather skirt waved at Henry, and Henry resisted the polite urge to wave back. She probably wasn’t just being friendly.

Climbing up the stairs to his apartment building, Henry fished the keys out of his pocket. The door clicked closed behind him.

Hans’s voice reached him, and Henry paused on the stairs, just out of sight. Hans was indeed speaking Polish, with a strong accent but fast and confident, and Adder responded with his voice rising in a question. There was the sound of keys. Hans’s apartment door shut after them and there was the noise of the latch.

The coast now clear, Henry climbed the rest of the way up to his floor and unlocked his own apartment. He switched the light on as he entered. Inside, it was as cold and barren as he’d left it. He took his shoes off and dropped his keys in the pot. He texted Katherine to update her on the progress: sᴏ ғᴀʀ, sᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ. She sent a thumbs-up emoji back to him.

Henry ate something and showered.

As he was dressing for bed, he heard the rhythmic banging of the bedframe against the wall he shared with Capon’s apartment. Buttoning up his pyjamas, he considered whether he should update Katherine on that. Maybe even send her a voice memo. The thought made him uncomfortable.

Henry took his pillow and duvet from the bed. With his headphones on, he slept on the couch, as far away from the shared wall as he could get.

 

*

 

At 4:56 AM, Henry woke to the sound of his front door swinging open. Adder stalked into his apartment, slammed the door shut and flipped the lights on. He had a cheeky, satiated grin, and strutted about Henry’s apartment like a tomcat. He pulled the fridge door open and helped himself to Henry’s milk, drinking straight from the bottle.

“What the—? What are you doing here?” Henry snapped, pulling his headphones off.

Adder rolled his eyes, screwing the cap back onto the milk bottle and setting it on the counter.

“You have your own apartment,” Henry muttered in an undertone. “You can’t go in here just because it’s closer.”

Adder flipped him off and kicked open his bathroom door. There was the sound of the shower running. Water drummed against the tiled wall. Adder shut it off and climbed out, scattering water everywhere. He dried himself haphazardly on Henry’s towel, walked naked through Henry’s apartment, and then dropped the wet towel on Henry’s bedroom floor. He dug through the cupboard draws until he pulled out a clean shirt, underwear, and baggy jeans which he pulled on, taking Henry’s sneakers for good measure.

Adder reappeared in Henry’s kitchen/living room dressed in Henry’s clothes. He knocked on the kitchen island to get attention and mimed turning a steering wheel.

Henry glared at him, still muzzy-headed with sleep. “No, I’m not letting you borrow my car.”

Adder grumbled and repeated the mime.

“I said no.” Henry massaged his face. “Isn’t it going to look crazy suspicious if Hans goes to your place and my car is parked outside? Just walk you lazy bastard, your place is only a twenty-minute walk from here.”

Adder said something obviously rude and showed him the bird before pulling the apartment door open again and slouching out.

With a grunt of effort, Henry got up from the couch. Adder hadn’t even closed the door properly and Henry had to shut it, locking it again. He was thankful that his car keys were still in his jacket pocket, hanging up on his bedroom door, otherwise Adder wouldn’t have had to ask for them.

Moving about like a zombie, Henry followed the path of destruction and undid it, putting the milk back in the fridge, putting Adder’s dirty clothes in his hamper, setting his toiletries on the shelf and retrieving his wet towel, and finally packing his clothes back into his cupboards in the bedroom. Hopefully, Hans Capon really liked doing chores and tidying up — otherwise his relationship with Adder was probably doomed.

 

*

 

At 9:32 AM, there was a loud knocking on Henry’s door.

Henry set his coffee down and went to the door. He peered through the keyhole, frowned, and pulled it open.

“Hi,” Hans said. “Good morning. I’m Hans. Number 16, remember, from yesterday?”

Henry nodded, slowly.

Hans grinned. Despite the warm weather, he wore a turtleneck, presumably to hide the love bites on his throat. “That’s your car downstairs, isn’t it?”

“Did something happen to it?” Henry asked. He started to scowl, already imagining a tipsy Adder scratching something profane into the paintwork.

“No? Not that I know of,” Hans said. He held up his phone. “Look, I woke up late and I have an exam at 10. I tried to get an Uber, but they’re all thirty minutes away and it’s a ten-minute drive from here and I really don’t want to be late. Um, I know this is a crazy request, but could you give me a lift? I have cash.”

Henry stared at him for a long moment. “Sure, why not? Let me get my keys, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Thank fuck,” Hans said, breathing out a sigh of relief.

Just a few minutes later, and Henry was pulling out of the narrow parking lot attached to the apartment building, only reasonably sure he was doing the right thing. Hans sat in the passenger seat, his textbook open on his lap. Ideally, since handlers were not field agents, they were not supposed to directly interact with marks, this much Henry was pretty sure of. The mistake had been made yesterday, when Henry had been friendly and introduced himself. At least he knew for next time.

“I like all the pebbles you’ve superglued to the dashboard,” Hans said. “Very creative. Kind of reminds me of this beach I went to in Malibu.”

Henry pulled an embarrassed smile, turning into the main road. “It wasn’t me. It was my, uh, I guess I’d call her my ex. She was a fan of Tiger’s Eye.”

“Oh, right,” Hans said, running his fingers over the glossy, golden-brown gemstones. “This is a lot of Tiger’s Eye. Is it expensive? I’m surprised your girlfriend didn’t return and take it all back during the breakup.”

“She’s dead,” Henry said.

It dropped like a brick into the conversation.

Hans sat back in the seat, straightening up. He rested his hands flat on the textbook open in his lap. “I’m so sorry, Henry, I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay. Also, Bianca wasn’t my girlfriend, she was my fiancée,” Henry said, and then mentally kicked himself. As if that additional information was really necessary? Had it helped at all? “Anyway… they’re actually all lab grown, so…” he just gave up.

Hans nodded.

The silence that followed was painful.

Henry pulled the car to a gentle stop at the red light. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Sunlight gleamed across the bumpy landscape of golden-brown tiger’s eye gemstones that stretched from one end of the dashboard to the other. Henry had only pretended to like it when Bianca had surprised him with her DIY project, but in time, the beauty of it had come through. It reminded him of the little creek in Skalitz in springtime, when the waterline was low enough that it could only gloss the surface of the riverbed, turning the pebbles and stones into shining amber and gold.

“What are you studying?” Henry asked.

“Business,” Hans said, immediately, clearly eager for the tension to end. “I’m doing Business Studies.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

“Eh, it’s not the worst. I actually did a year of Liberal Arts and transferred over here into the second year of study, because for some reason they let me keep the credits. My exam’s on Advanced Quantitative Analysis in Management and please don’t ask me what that means, because I certainly don’t know.”

“You used to study Liberal Arts?” Henry glanced over as the lights changed, and the car rolled into motion. “Seems like a big change.”

“Business will probably be more useful,” Hans said. “Anyway, I actually didn’t even like Liberal Arts. I think I knew that even when I applied, to be honest.”

“Then why did you apply?” Henry asked.

Hans opened his mouth and then paused. He grinned, apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s kind of personal. If we ever get drunk together, maybe I’ll tell you…”

Henry nodded. This was how normal people treated sensitive matters. “No problem. I’m glad you’re enjoying it, though. Is this the right entrance?”

Hans glanced up, out of the window. The University building loomed very large and white. “Yes! Just pull up anywhere, I’ll jump out.” He scrambled for his wallet and flipped it open. “Is $30 enough?”

“You don’t have to pay me,” Henry said, waving him off.

“Of course I do, you saved my skin and also, it’s not like we’re friends,” Hans said. “$40?”

“Get out of the car, Hans.”

Hans brandished the cash. “Just take the cash, seriously, it’s not like I need it.”

Henry pressed the seatbelt button on Hans’s seat, and it released with a click. “Jump out before I get a ticket because trust me, they’re more than forty bucks these days.”

Hans relented, pushing the door open. “You’re a star, Henry. I won’t forget it.”

“Okay, okay. Good luck with your exam,” Henry said, reaching over to shut the door.

Hans climbed up the broad, majestic steps up to the plinth where the university building rested. It looked more like a courthouse or a parliament building than the dinky little community college building Henry had been frequenting back in Skalitz. Hans quickly became a small mark on the white steps and then vanished entirely.

On the short drive back, Henry wondered if he should mention the situation to Katherine. Katherine had been training him, somewhat informally, and she would probably not be happy with the contact he’d had with Hans, innocent though it had been. She hated it when too many variables were involved. They had a debrief that evening and if she asked him directly, he would mention it, otherwise… what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Sunlight sparkled on the rare bands of quartz in the Tiger’s Eye stones. It highlighted every mote of thick dust that lingered on the bumpy surface of the dashboard. Normally, Henry would have cleaned them, but the dust helped mitigate the glare from hot-gluing about fifty sparkly gemstones under the windscreen and then driving around in the middle of summer. God… he missed that crazy girl.

Henry was leaving his car when he noticed something peaking out of the pocket in the passenger side car door. He pulled it out. It was four crisp $10 notes, hidden behind Henry’s tattered map book.

 

*

 

That evening, Henry sat cross-legged on his living room floor, his laptop across from him and his headphones in. There was a cake box open to his right, currently containing a few slightly crushed cinnamon buns. Katherine was talking.

“We’ve managed to secure job roles for Žižka, Dry Devil and Janosh as waiters,” Katherine was saying. “I’ll stay off-site to coordinate, and we’re working on something for Henry. Of course, we’ll still need Adder there as a free agent otherwise it’ll be pretty much impossible to keep an eye out for Tóth and maintain our covers at the same time. Adder can go where we can’t without raising much suspicion.”

Henry unwrapped a few croissants he had bought from a local deli, squeezed them to make them look dishevelled, and set them beside the cinnamon buns. He picked up one of the croissants and turned it over, setting a butter knife into the pastry.

“…able to infiltrate the event as security,” Katherine continued. “But if Tóth’s to attend any event, he always has staff on the security team. We’re spooked him that way before and this might be our last chance to neutralize Tóth before it’s too late. Does everyone understand?”

Into the cut he’d made in the croissant, Henry tucked the $40. He set it into the box. “Understood.”

“Good, great,” Katherine said. “Excellent work so far, Adder, Henry. We’ll speak again soon.” The call ended.

Henry pulled his headphones off. Even the brief voice call had made his ears slightly sweaty. He scooped up the box of squished pastries and climbed through his window, down the fire escape, and into the street. From there, he re-entered the apartment building and climbed all the way back up to his floor. He knocked on apartment number 16.

After a few minutes, Hans opened the door. He wore a tank top and there were a couple large, lurid hickeys on his throat. He looked down at the box and then up at Henry. “Hi, Henry. Is that for me?”

“Discarded pastries from work,” Henry said. “You asked for them, remember?”

Hans raised both his eyebrows. “Are you trying to win best neighbour award or what? Have you fallen madly in love with me or do you just need the karma? It's a bit much.”

“Don’t be such a prick,” Henry said, pulling the box back. “I’ll bin them if you don’t want them. I’ve just gotten really tired of eating pastries, that’s all.”

“Hey!” Hans snatched the corner of the box and dragged it back. “I didn’t say that. Thank you, really.”

Henry let Hans take the box out of his hands. “It’s nothing. I’d just bin them, otherwise.”

“No, honestly, I am genuinely grateful, sorry for being a dick,” Hans said, flipping the box open. He closed it again. “I’m just not used to people being nice to me without, you know, wanting something from me. But I guess that’s just how the city is, and you’re a country boy, so you have manners and human kindness and stuff from small-town living.”

“Why do you think I’m from the country?” Henry asked.

“Aren’t you? Your accent’s pretty strange, but kind of familiar too somehow,” Hans said. He leaned against the door-frame and tore into one of the cinnamon buns. “Do you want to come in?”

Henry almost said yes but managed to stop himself in time. He took a deliberate step back and gave himself a mental shake. It was just so easy to talk to Hans, so natural, that he was starting to forget what he was actually there for. He had that uneasy, dizzy sensation of a near-disaster, like a car passing an inch away when he was jaywalking, or a bridge collapsing the moment after he’d finished crossing. What the actual fuck was he doing?

“No, sorry,” Henry said instead. He took another step back.

Hans glanced down at the floor as if to check something and the look seemed to confirm what Henry felt. Henry might have only taken two steps away, but the distance that yawned between them was suddenly much greater than that.

“That’s okay,” Hans said. “Are you free later? I was going to go to the bar with some friends, and you could…”

“I can’t,” Henry said, tone abruptly cold. “Sorry. I just came to deliver your pastries and I’ve done that now.”

“Alright,” Hans said, a slight frown marring his brow. He made an effort to smile. “Offer’s still open if you change your mind, Hal. You know where to find me.”

“I’ll see you,” Henry said, and privately hoped he wouldn’t. He slipped back inside his apartment and shut the door. Through the thin walls he could hear Hans’s apartment front door shut and lock, a few moments after his own did. Henry could hear the other man move around inside his apartment, and listened intently until he realised he was listening intently, at which point he put his headphones on and tried to think of something else.

Notes:

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_{if he's your mark, why he is doing romcom shit with me?}

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<sub>Director's Commentary
The usual way to make a romance interesting is to highlight the rough edges of the characters, where they jar against each other, the pride, the arrogance, the misconceptions, the miscommunications, all that needs to be overcome throughout the tale in order to arrive at a satisfying conclusion where both characters are on the same page.

But one of the reasons I'm so drawn to hansry (like many people) is because they are just two very compatible people. They go together like cheese and tomato. in KCD1 they go from beating the crap out of each other to Hans dressing Henry up in his clothes canonically in a matter of weeks. in KCD2, in order for them to fight, Hans has to lose everything, be beaten unconscious, have human shit poured on his face, and be locked in a pillory for 8 hours. Yes he's a brat but I must admit, I would've been much worse.
So I wanted to write a story where it's their inherent compatibility which causes all the trouble.</sub>

Chapter 2: Closer to You

A routine began to emerge. Every other day, Adder would come into Hans’s apartment sometime after 11pm, they would fight loudly in Polish about something. At just past midnight, the bedframe would start to bang against the wall.

Henry slept on the couch.

Whatever the fights were about, Henry did not learn. It wasn’t in Adder’s “reports”.

Ever since that evening when he’d brought pastries across the hall, Henry kept a low profile. He avoided being in the foyer or the hallways when Hans was likely to be about, and he didn’t make conversation with any of the other neighbours he bumped into, even though he felt his Mother’s disapproving look beaming down from Heaven. Ma had had to suffer through many instances of her boy’s rudeness and would probably suffer many more before his task was done.

It was odd to avoid someone because he liked them too much. Hans was a strange case. Affection jumped up in Henry’s chest like a puppy.

It had been a year and a half since the disaster at his home-town of Skalitz, and Henry had spent most of that either truly alone or living like an outsider. The Devil’s Pack consisted of an eclectic collection of veteran espionage agents drawn from several different agencies, all of whom were incredibly talented, dangerous and unpredictable. Although he had their trust, when he worked with them, he sensed all the unspoken, invisible history that tied them all together, all their past enmities, the defeats and the triumphs, the intimate knowledge of each other’s unfixable flaws, and Henry couldn’t escape feeling very young and green.

Janosh was the natural choice for Adder’s handler, but Henry’s face was largely unknown to the world, and he was the right age to be lingering anywhere without arousing much suspicion. In this way he could walk after Adder and leave no footprints. No trace that he had ever existed anywhere.

 

*

 

Henry paused in the hallway. Muffled noise in Henry’s apartment was suspicious, until he identified the source. After that, it just made him angry.

His front door had been left ajar and Henry shoved it open, chest hot, and slammed it shut behind him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Adder had a girl against the kitchen counter, her white legs around his waist and her long curly black hair tumbling over her shoulders. She noticed Henry first and straightened up, pulling the halves of her unbuttoned shirt together with a curse. She tossed her hair back. “Jesus!”

Henry snatched Adder by the collar and yanked him backwards. Adder’s erection was so wet that it dripped onto the kitchen floor.

Adder punched him in the eye.

The two men fell into an ugly, scrambling fight. Although Adder had technique on his side, Henry was taller and slightly heavier, and Adder was hampered both by the jeans around his ankles and the lack of blood reaching his brain.

The door slammed as the girl dashed out, and her exit seemed to extinguish the last sparks of anger in Adder. He sagged and let Henry pin him to the floor.

“Will you get a grip already?” Henry snarled. “You think he won’t realise? It’s not worth the risk!”

Adder spat in his face.

Henry released him and the other man climbed out from under him. Adder dragged his jeans back up and buckled his belt. For once, Henry was glad he didn’t understand the black curses that Adder cast under his breath – the tone was intimidating enough. Adder kicked every wall he passed and slammed the bathroom door shut behind him.

 

*

 

A few hours later, Henry pulled the black plastic bag out of his garbage disposal and tied a knot in the top. He pushed his apartment door open with his hip and locked the door with one hand, heading down the hall to the second set of stairs. Every step quaked under his weight, loud like a shaking can of pennies.

The outside bin area for the apartment was a fenced-in square of dull grey concrete, where the air was almost sweet from the heavy scent of decomposing food waste in the gigantic steel skips. Henry had to lift the bag over his head to toss it inside.

“Hey,” Hans Capon said, from the top of the stairs. The fading light came through the mesh fence of the bin area and fell across him in hundreds of tiny squares.

“Hi,” Henry said. He wondered if Hans had heard him leave and followed him out, or if that was self-centred thinking. “Did your exam go well?”

“I passed, but I could’ve done with a wider margin. Thanks again for the lift,” Hans said. He leaned against the doorway, accidentally blocking Henry’s path back inside the building. “Who hit you?”

Henry touched the lump forming under his eye. “It was… a guy at work.”

“Really? A cook, that I can imagine, but I never thought bakers could get so violent. Are pain au chocolat truly so rage-inducing?”

“There are assholes everywhere,” Henry muttered. “Besides, I probably intervened in something I shouldn’t have. He’s been working there a lot longer than me… I don’t have as much experience. He probably knows better than me what he should be doing.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself of something you know isn’t right,” Hans said, wryly. He raised his fists and mimed boxing the air for a moment. “If you ever need someone to give the guy a taste of his own medicine, you can call on me Henry! Anytime.”

Despite himself, Henry smiled.

Hans dropped his fists and beamed. He wore a faded band shirt and khaki shorts with Nike slides. The hair on his shins was dark, but on his thighs, visible for about half an inch below his shorts, his downy hair was fine and pale, almost luminous gold. The hickeys along his throat had faded to a few splotches of tawny yellow, and so Adder had left a new one on his collarbone, renewing his claim.

Guilt gnawed at the back of Henry’s throat. Hans was straightforward, almost guileless, and Henry had the sense for the first time that letting Hans get trapped between the teeth of their endeavour was immoral. Adder was making a fool out of him. Henry hoped he was wrong. He really hoped he was wrong.

“The relationship that you have with your boyfriend,” Henry asked. “Is it open?”

Hans’s eyes went wide.

“No, not because—” Henry realised his mistake the moment the question had left his mouth. Fuck, fuck! “Not because, I mean, I’m not asking for me, I’m just think—I’m just curious.”

Hans blinked rapidly, clearly bamboozled by the question. “Um. Well.” He took a moment to collect himself. “Just for your curiosity, then, no it isn’t. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Henry said, feeling his ears burn. “Can you move so I can get past?”

Hans stepped aside and Henry rushed past him. The stairs rattled and clattered as he climbed up them, and although he didn’t look back, he felt eyes weigh down on him every step of the way up to his floor.

 

*

 

A door slamming open woke Henry in the early hours and he peeled himself up from the couch.

“You rat bastard!” Hans’s voice was audible through the wall. “I don’t believe this! In my fucking apartment?”

Adder’s voice was rough and loud, so incensed that it was almost squeaky.

Hans cut him off: “Oh yeah?! You think I’m an idiot, don’t you! Whose fucking thong is this?”

Adder cursed and tried to shoot back a few remarks, but there was the unmistakeable sound of him retreating. The stairs creaked under him.

“And don’t come back!” Hans bellowed after him. The neighbouring door slammed shut again.

Henry stared around his dark apartment in the curious silence. He pulled the covers off himself and stood, retrieving his phone from the kitchen table. The sudden light of the screen was blinding.

He texted Katherine through the secure app: ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ 🖓 .

Despite the late hour, it took only a minute for Katherine’s reply to appear. >>ʜᴏᴡ ʙᴀᴅ? Ғɪxᴀʙʟᴇ?

Henry grimaced. His thumbs hovered over his phone’s keypad for a few moments. ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ☹ .

>>ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴏᴏᴅ. ɪ'ʟʟ sᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ.

Henry nodded, although Katherine could obviously not see him, and switched his phone screen off. Moonlight burned white on the windowsill like pale fire. He didn’t return to the couch, instead he curled up on his rarely-used bed and fell quickly back asleep.

 

*

 

The following afternoon, Henry was taping up the last of his boxes when he heard a knock at the door.

Expecting Adder, Henry pulled the door open. When he found Hans Capon on his doorstep, he only stared at him, bewildered.

“Hi Henry,” Hans said. “Sorry to drop by without warning. Can I talk to you about something, really quick?”

“Sure,” Henry said, for lack of anything else to respond with.

Hans frowned, and tried to peer around him. “Wait, are you boxing up your stuff? You’re leaving?”

“Probably. There was a problem with my lease,” Henry said. He diverted the conversation: “You wanted to talk about something?”

“That’s such a shame…” Hans said, sounding genuinely regretful. He shook his head. “I wanted to know if you’d seen Komar cheating on me, and that’s why you asked about our relationship. Am I wrong?”

Henry hesitated. “I wasn’t sure if I should say…”

“I get it, we’ve only just met. I’m not sure it would make any difference at this point, I was just curious.”

Henry regarded him, evenly. “So, that’s it then? You probably won’t take him back?”

“C’mon, Henry! Why on earth would I do that?” Hans grimaced.

Henry nodded. He’s expected that. “Alright then. See you.”

Hans went to leave and then, muttering something under his breath he turned back on his heel and caught the handle of Henry’s door. “Look, I know you’re leaving soon and probably pretty busy, but is there any chance you’d like to come and get a drink with me?”

Henry hesitated.

Whilst Henry had done his best to make the mission work, he couldn’t deny he was secretly glad it had been scuppered. He understood spy work required a certain level of deception, but while he could live with harming guards and staff members who had put themselves in the game, manipulating a random bystander into a fake relationship made him feel uncomfortable.

Tomorrow he’d be back in the central safehouse and by the end of the week, he’d probably be training to pass as a waiter or a cleaner in one of Tóth’s mega mansions, and this brief stint would be nothing more than an embarrassing memory.

“Right now?” Henry asked. “Sure, I could go for a drink or two.”

 

*

 

Hans bought them both drinks and fought their way back out to the outside tables, where the patrons at varying levels of inebriation spilled out into the street. Seagulls landed at the outskirts of the crowd, flapping their brilliantly white wings and keeping their heads cocked to search for food.

Henry sat down on the bar’s bench and kept his elbows aloft to avoid sticking to the table. He accepted the cold glass of beer Hans pushed into his hands.

“So, baking,” Hans said. “How did you get into that? Did you go to culinary school?”

“It just happened,” Henry said. “My mother was a baker.”

“A family business? What does your father do?” Hans asked.

Henry sipped his beer, wondering how he could divert the conversation away from himself. “He was… a mechanical engineer. What about your parents?”

“My father’s up selling real estate in Heaven,” Hans said. “And my mother’s an air hostess, so I guess she passes close by him, sometimes.”

It wasn’t even a lie. Henry considered it, mentally comparing Hans’s comments to the reports he’d read on him. The information his team had been able to glean was minimal, and Henry wasn’t the best scholar, but it was true that Capon Inc was a real estate giant, and that Hans’s mother had been a famously beautiful air hostess who had been hired to work in Hans’s father’s private jet.

Hans finished his beer in record time and set the glass down. “Do you want another? I could get a couple, and then we don’t have to keep going up to the bar.”

“Maybe we should slow down,” Henry suggested.

“But it’s a beautiful night,” Hans said. “You don’t want to drink?”

“Not me,” Henry said, and then hesitated. “Sorry, if I’m overstepping, I just… you mentioned going to rehab.”

“I did?” Hans frowned. He shot Henry a puzzled look. He hesitated for a moment. “I’m not an alcoholic, Henry. I was in rehab three times for Heroin.”

“Oh,” Henry said.

Hans turned his arm over and ran a hand from his square wrist upwards, over the soft underside of his forearm and across the pale skin inside the hinge of his elbow. Between the freckles and moles there were healed track marks scattered across the lines of his veins, varying in size, some of them quite large.

Henry touched them before he realised that he had reached out a hand. The scars were bumpy under his fingertips and the skin under his fingers was warm. The thicker tissue pulled tight the skin around it, like fabric gathered up by a stitch.

“What’s it like?” Henry asked.

“What’s what like?” Hans asked, smiling faintly. “Heroin?”

“Sorry,” Henry said, lifting his fingers away from Hans’s arm.

Hans shook his head. “I don’t mind.” He thought for a moment, drumming his fingertips on the sticky bar table. He looked tired. “It’s like… a warm hug.”

Henry drew back.

The summer sky was burning a pretty blue behind the buildings and the heat of the day lay close across the city like a heavy blanket. Seagulls fought, wings thrown back and their yellow beaks wide, and the Styrofoam box they were jousting overturned over under their feet. The temperature was tiresome, and the air felt thick.

“Even if you’re curious, don’t try it, Henry,” Hans said. He grimaced. “Not even once. It will put a splinter in your soul, and you’ll always feel it there.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Henry assured him. “My Ma would never approve. Alcohol and nicotine are as dangerous as it gets for me. I only stared smoking a bit over a year ago.”

“Really?” Hans asked. “Was it so you could get smoke breaks at work?”

“No, it was…” Henry hesitated. He decided to tell the truth. “My… my parents died. And my fiancée, and most of my friends. So, I guess I picked it up to cope with the… the stress of everything.”

Hans went quiet. He shifted about in his seat. “All at once? God, that’s… I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, uneasily. “Don’t worry about it. I know, I should probably quit smoking, but I guess I’m waiting for my life to settle down a bit first. Though, maybe that’s just an excuse.”

“Jesus, you’re tough as nails,” Hans said. “Your life was upended, and you only picked up cigs? Most people would be drowning in drink. I mean, you’re talking to a guy who got into class A drugs just because he was bored. You’re like Superman compared to me.”

Henry laughed, cheeks heating. “I’m not that tough.”

“Okay, modesty,” Hans said, sliding out of the bench seat. “Now I’m definitely buying you a drink. Not out of pity, but honestly, admiration – in your situation, I’d be roadkill by now.”

Still grinning, Henry caught his elbow. “Actually, now that you mention it, I could really go for a smoke. If that’s okay with you?”

“I only have Lucky Strikes,” Hans said, fishing them out of his back pocket. “Not everyone’s favourite, I know.”

“Should we go around to the back?” Henry asked. “I don’t want to smoke in this crowd.”

“You’re so polite,” Hans said. “My mother would love you.”

A few minutes later they had woven through the thick crowd of drinkers inside the bar and found themselves standing in the smoking area outside the back of the building. Cigarette butts collected in the creases of the uneven concrete floor. A black mesh fence kept them separated from the bin area.

Henry leaned against the hard brick wall. Hans put a cigarette between Henry’s lips and when he lit it, Henry caught the scent of Hans’s cologne from the inside of his wrist.

“Thank you,” Henry said, taking a drag off his cigarette. The cherry-red end flared brightly.

Hans’s smile had a conspiratorial edge, as if he’d gotten away with something. He lit his own cigarette. “No problem.”

“Since I’ll be going soon, this is my last chance to ask you,” Henry said. “Why did you study Liberal Arts if you never liked it?”

Hans leaned against the fence that connected with the brick wall. They were standing close, Hans’s jeans brushing Henry’s shin. Hans had a tendency to fidget, as if he could never quite get comfortable and kept knocking into Henry or tripping over him, even though Henry stood very quiet and calm, leaning against the cold wall.

Hans blew out a cloud of smoke. “I enrolled in Liberal Arts to piss off my uncle. When I was about eleven, my father passed away, and my mother couldn't sue for custody, so I went to my uncle’s care. Hanush – my uncle – was pretty conservative, both politically and personally, so I knew going into something like Liberal Arts would make him mad.”

“I see,” Henry said. “And what changed?”

“Oh, he was in an accident,” Hans said. “He’s in a coma now. You can’t piss off a vegetable, so I guess it seemed pointless to keep doing it.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry said.

Hans shook his head. “It’s fine. Can we talk about something else?”

“Is there really no chance you’ll take your ex back? Komar?”

Hans groaned and shifted about, rattling the fence he was leaning against. “When I said something else, I meant something less personal. And why on earth are you asking me that again? Do you know the guy or something?”

“I’m just asking as your neighbour,” Henry smirked. “You seemed to spend a lot of time… enjoying each other’s company.”

Hans frowned, and then went red. “You could hear that?”

“I started sleeping on the couch to give you two some privacy,” Henry admitted.

“God, my life is so embarrassing,” Hans lamented. He rubbed his eye. “Actually, that’s partly why I’m not so torn up about it. It wasn’t even like a real relationship. Our connection, if you can call it that, was purely physical. Frankly, it was clear he couldn’t stand me, but he still wanted to shag me almost all the time. It was hot at first and then I felt like I was basically his cum sock.”

“That’s disgusting,” Henry hissed.

“Sorry,” Hans said. He shrugged. “Well, it’s true.”

“Do you get a lot of guys like that?”

“Kind of… I’m making it sound worse than it is,” Hans said, waving his cigarette around as he gestured. “Plus, we have to admit, I’m a bit of a man-whore anyway. I keep doing it, I know what I’m getting into, so I only have myself to blame.”

“No, it still isn’t right,” Henry muttered, mostly to himself. “I can understand wanting to sleep with you – but you’re a great guy too. You’re so easy to talk to. They’re seriously missing out.”

Hans looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He dropped his cigarette out and ground the end of it with his heel to kill the flame.

Slowly, smoothly, like a warm snake unwinding its coils, Hans reached out and brushed his fingertips across the stubble on Henry’s jaw. His thumb was warm against Henry’s cheekbone, touching the soft skin under his eye. With the long fingers of his other hand, he plucked the lit cigarette from Henry’s lips and dropped it.

Just as Hans was sinking closer, his eyes flicking to Henry’s mouth – Henry made a noise.

Hans paused, his mouth only centimetres away. His hands were very warm. He looked down at Henry through his lashes, a question in his gaze.

“I don’t think we should, um,” Henry breathed, “…kiss.”

“Why not?” Hans asked, his voice feather-soft.

Gently, very gently, Henry put a hand on Hans’s shoulder and eased him backwards. Daylight filled the space between them.

Hans tried to hide how disappointed he was. He bit his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Henry said. “It’s not—it’s nothing you did, Hans. I like you. I like you a lot, actually, but I’m… I know I seem normal, but I’m really messed up on the inside. Sometimes I don’t know how I’ll respond to things, and I can get really angry. I can be dangerous. I don’t think I can trust myself to get close to someone yet.” He swallowed. “Plus, even if you say you don’t care about your ex, it’s still not even twenty-four hours since you broke up with him. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.”

“I wouldn’t regret anything,” Hans groused. He wrinkled his nose. “For the rest of it, I guess you’re right. But do you have to be like that? If you weren’t so sensible, your cock could be down my throat right about now.”

Henry felt a sharp kick of heat in his gut and ignored it as best he could. “It isn’t a good idea.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree, but thanks for letting me down easy,” Hans said. He stepped away and made himself grin. “I think I’m going to go home.”

“Let me walk you,” Henry insisted.

“I’m not that drunk,” Hans muttered, but allowed Henry to follow him back through the thick crowd at the bar and into the street beyond.

Skyscrapers blocked the low sun, forming a massive chequerboard of shadows that stretched across the thoroughfare. Baking in the heat had given the tarmac a spongy, bouncy texture.

“Do you know where you’ll be going?” Hans asked.

“Depends mostly on where I can get a job,” Henry said. “I have a criminal record, so that makes it kind of hard.”

Hans straightened up. “Really? What did you do? Or is it rude to ask that?”

“Assault with a deadly weapon,” Henry said. “I served two months of jail time before my sentence was suspended.”

Hans scratched the back of his neck. “What was jail like?”

“Not so bad. I met a lot of interesting people.”

They passed a house playing music so loudly that the ground throbbed. Hans’s sandals made a rhythm on the pavement.

“You know it’s funny, I never seriously thought about jail,” Hans said. “But the amount of junk I was getting through… if there was any justice in the world, I should’ve been locked up as well.”

“Maybe. Who would it have helped?” Henry asked.

Hans said nothing.

Cars backed up across the free-way, honking loudly at each other indignantly and letting off foul exhaust. Pavement radiated the day’s heat through the souls of their feet and the street side garbage bins had been roasting under direct sunlight for over ten hours. The crisp bright wilderness of Skalitz and the surrounding hillsides seemed very far away to Henry now, like memories of a different world. The city was artificial, barren and grey-black, and memories of his home town made Henry feel like he was on the moon, thinking of Earth.

Hans came to a stop at the base of their apartment stairs. He wrote something on the back of a pharmacy receipt. “I’m giving you my number in a purely chaste, platonic and utterly non-sexual way. Okay?”

“Okay,” Henry said, accepting the folded-up receipt.

“Just call me, if you’re ever in the area again,” Hans said. “We can do exclusively family-friendly activities together.”

“I’d like that.”

Hans nodded. He stared at the floor, and what he wanted to say worked up through him like it took a lot of chewing. “I don’t think I’m wrong about it, though. I mean, just for the record, I think we’ve got a spark. Maybe I’m crazy. It’s just that when I was younger, I used to think I’d find these great connections with all different kinds of people – but now that I’m a bit older, I realise it happens so rarely.”

“You’re not crazy, Hans,” Henry said. “It’s just the wrong time for me. I’ve got a lot going on.”

“Yeah, you said. It’s not you, it’s me,” Hans muttered. He scraped the heel of his sandal. He looked fed up, like a five-year-old who’d been yelled at.

“You’re going to find someone who’s right for you,” Henry said. “All of a sudden, you’ll be living in the future. Everything will turn a corner, and you’ll think: What the hell was I so worried about?”

Hans glanced up at him. A small grin lit up his face. “What about just the once? One kiss, no strings attached. How much harm could that do?”

Henry looked at him, heart in his throat. He swallowed, wondering how much he could trust himself. It was very tempting. How much harm could a kiss do? And if one kiss was harmless, two couldn’t be any worse, and would it really be a bad thing to go all the way? After all, he’d be gone tomorrow either way. Henry could feel the desire linger in the air between them, what they both wanted, and what Henry, like an addict, had to avoid.

Henry’s sticky heart picked up affection like lint. He was not casual. To him, a kiss could never just mean nothing.

“Just the one?” Henry asked, finally. “You won’t change your mind and ask for another?”

“I promise I won’t,” Hans said. “Kiss me just once, that’s all.”

Henry swallowed. His eyebrows knitted together. “Okay.”

Gingerly, Henry cupped the other man’s face and slid his fingers into Hans’s hair. The skin of his cheeks and neck was very warm and his ears were turning pink. Hans was slightly taller than him. His eyelashes were curiously piebald, mostly blonde with some threads of brown.

“I feel like you’re going to eat me,” Hans muttered.

Henry whispered: “Shut up.”

As Hans laughed, Henry could feel the warm breath on his cheek. He smelled like tobacco and a musky, woody cologne. His heartbeat flickered in his throat.

Just as Henry was about to turn his head for a kiss – Hans slipped out of his grip.

“Actually, I don’t think we should kiss after all,” Hans announced, grandly.

Henry was left a half-step forward, his hands empty. “What?”

“Now we’re even,” Hans said, his face breaking into a brilliant, cheshire-cat grin. He puffed his chest out.

“You are such a brat!” Henry snapped, embarrassment crawling up his throat.

“And you’re too stuck in the mud,” Hans said. “Therefore, I think we’d be terrible for each other, Hal. That’s the decision I just came to.”

“Is that so?” Henry asked, folding his arms. He couldn’t hide his wry amusement. “You just decided that?”

“We’re better off as friends,” Hans said. “Don’t try and convince me otherwise… it would totally work, that’s why I don’t want you to try.” He slipped past Henry and continued on down the street, his sandals making a beat against the hot tarmac.

Henry turned to watch him go. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going home after all?”

“I think I’m just going to take a walk,” Hans yawned. “I want some time alone to think about some things. Don’t worry, I’ve been rejected many times before, I’m not about to fling myself off a bridge just because I’ve been spurned again.”

“I wasn’t worried until you said that!” Henry said. He brandished his phone. “I’ll send you a message, so you have my number – text me when you get home. I won’t go to sleep until you do.”

“Ha… You’re sooo clingy,” Hans laughed and padded off into the city.

Henry watched him go. 

It was a funny thing. Two years ago (if he hadn't met Bianca first), his answer would have been totally different. He could see himself relaxing around Hans like a cat in a sunbeam. It would be enough just to be in his presence. But, although he felt a twinge of cold pain in his chest, he knew he'd made the right choice. Too much competed for space in Henry's chest for him to add a relationship to the chaotic mix, and his attraction was too potent for a one-night stand to be the end of things. Henry could see himself acting very stupid very fast. 

Dusk had fallen across the city, the twilight bringing the fuzzy rainbow lights of the clubs and 24-hour stores into dramatic contrast. There were so many people, lingering in clusters at every bar door and the entrance to every night club, breaking off in twos and threes to sprint drunkenly across the busy road. Summer pumped life back into twisting veins of the city streets, animating them long after dark.

Henry unlocked the street door and stepped into the stale warmth of the apartment building’s foyer. A smashed-up radio had been wrapped up by its cable and tucked against the broken-down elevator. When he climbed the stairs, he found that on a few steps the carpet had developed a crunchy texture under his shoes.

A mother sat in the hallway, her baby resting on her chest. As Henry passed, she looked up at him. “My wife’s grinding coffee beans and Sid here doesn’t like the noise,” the mother said.

“I see,” Henry said, turning the corner to take the final flight of stairs up to his floor.

A dog barked inside one of the apartments he passed, followed by muffled laughter. From another, he could hear a sports announcer talking rapidly.

Head full of thoughts, Henry fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked his apartment door. He was surprised to see it wasn’t empty.

Katherine sat on his couch. She wore a long, sleek blue dress and her hair was done in its usual tight mahogany-brown braid. Her earrings swung as she turned her head. “Hi Henry. Can you close the door?”

Henry shut the door behind him and leaned against it. “Is something wrong?”

“Actually, it’s all going perfectly,” Jan Žižka said, appearing from the hallway. He put a hand on the kitchen table. “We’ve got great news for you, Henry.”

“You’re being promoted,” Katherine said, “to field agent. I’ll be acting as your handler. All you have to do is build on your existing relationship with Hans Capon – seduce him, get an invite to the fundraising event, and we’ll finally be able to deal with that bastard Tóth.”

Chapter 3: Complicated

Henry knocked three times on the apartment door and stepped back.

His heart was thump-thumping, high in his chest, and he felt slightly sick, like an actor just before their cue. He wiped his palms on his jeans.

After a short silence, Henry had to knock again.

Hans opened his apartment door half-way through the knock. He was dressed in a black vintage Gucci shirt and Levi jeans. He had a leather messenger bag already over one shoulder, and a bouquet of yellow and white flowers. Henry noticed that Hans didn’t seem to be wearing his concealed pistol, which was unusual – Hans had even taken it to the bar with him yesterday, although it had been slotted into a more discrete holster.

“Who are the flowers for?” Henry asked, hoping for a neutral topic.

Hans scowled at him, lowering the pale bouquet. “Are you being serious, Henry? You’re asking me that?”

“No,” Henry said, quickly. He shifted back a step. “Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday, I’ve just been—”

“Is this about the suicide joke?” Hans asked. “I know it was stupid, but it was just a joke. As you can see, I’m alive and well and none of your concern. If that’s all, I need to go.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Henry said, a note of frustration entering his voice. “I’ve been… thinking. And I think I’d… I’d like to take back what I said.”

Hans’s scowled faded. He folded his arms, holding the bouquet with as much delicacy as a bunch of leeks. “Which part?”

“You know which part,” Henry huffed. “About the… About not being ready to try something. A relationship. Um. I’d like to take that back.”

Hans watched him. His eyes were bright, and light seemed to pass through them, as if they were blue glass. “You can do that? Just take it back?”

Henry abruptly ran out of words. His mouth was dry.

Hans stepped out into the hallway and turned to lock his door with a jangle of keys. He shifted his messenger bag over his shoulder, slipping his apartment keys back inside. Hans leaned against his front door and regarded Henry with a mild caution.

“What changed your mind?” Hans asked.

“Even when I said it, I knew it wasn’t what I felt,” Henry said. “I said it because I thought I had to say it. To save you trouble, and because I was leaving soon, but also because when I really click with someone I get scared because suddenly the stakes are higher. But I changed my mind. I’m sorry I didn’t think that way yesterday.”

Hans raised his eyebrows. “Are you always this complicated, Hal?”

Henry shrugged, helpless. “I wish I wasn’t.”

A faint, sympathetic smile lit Hans’s tired face. He descended the stairs, bumping his bouquet against the wall, scattering yellow and white petals. Pulled by his tide, Henry followed along behind him, wondering if he should stoop to retrieve the petals.

Outside, the city’s scent washed over them. It was still early and the air was still cool. Above them, the sky was a freshly-printed, postcard blue, dusted with faint white that hadn’t collected into real clouds.

“Can I ask about the bouquet?” Henry ventured again.

“It’s for my uncle,” Hans said. “He’s in the Hospital.”

“Which Hospital?” Henry asked. “I could drive you.”

Hans came to a halt, holding his bouquet face down. He huffed. “It’s not exactly a perfect first date scenario, Henry.”

“Let me drive you,” Henry said. “I don’t have to go in if you don’t want me to, but I can at least drive you there and back.”

Hans held up his hands in defeat. “Alright.”

 

*

 

The drive to the Hospital was silent.

Hans climbed out of the parked car, running a hand through his short golden locks. Henry had been not-so-discretely eyeing him on the drive over, trying to read his mind. It was dawning on him that despite the instant sense of familiarity that he felt towards Hans, he didn’t actually know him at all. His deeper temperament, the wrinkles and folds of his soul, had not been recorded on the information provided to Henry prior to commencement.

“C’mon,” Hans said, knocking his sunglasses back onto his forehead.

When Hans approached the reception desk, the receptionist seemed to recognise him. She smiled. “Good morning, Mr Capon. Your wrist please.”

Hans pushed back his watch and the receptionist snapped a white plastic band around his wrist. She beckoned Henry, and he rolled up his sleeve for the bracelet to be snapped around him. It was a simple piece of plastic with a blinking chip and a barcode.

As they stepped away from the desk, Henry put his thumb in the band and tugged it towards Hans. “What’s this for?”

“It’s so they know you’re a visitor and not some violent maniac wandering around,” Hans said. He looked down at his phone, the bouquet tucked in the corner of his messenger bag.

Henry frowned. “What if I actually am a violent maniac, though?”

“I know you are, but the Hospital doesn’t,” Hans said, his serious expression easing. His eyes flicked up from his phone screen. “So just keep it between us for now, okay?”

Hans led him down the wide plastic-paved thoroughfare and around a serious of confusing short staircases until they ended up on a long ward of curtained beds. Only the unoccupied beds were uncovered. Nurses and cleaning staff wove between the beds.

“It’s so quiet,” Henry said.

“It’s a coma ward, Henry.”

The main ward branched off into a series of small, square rooms and Hans made a beeline to one of the largest doors. The room beyond was pristine. Pale wood furniture matched the beige plastic floor. The walls had been painted a pale, soft blue.

Hans pulled the thready, dried out stems from a previous bouquet and dumped them into the nearby waste bin. He unwrapped the white and yellow bouquet he had brought from the packaging and replaced the flowers, fluffing them so they flowed naturally out of the glass vase.

Henry leaned against the wall.

Hanush lay in the hospital bed, dressed in a blue-spotted gown and wrapped up in very thin sheets. A brownish-black beard obscured most of his face, trimmed in at the sides to allow for the straps of his clear plastic face mask to be wrapped around his ears. His hand was strapped with an IV and the cabling was hooked up to a heart rate monitor.

With a sigh, Hans sat down in the visitor’s chair. He pulled his bag onto his lap. “I never know what I’m supposed to do after I’ve brought him new flowers…”

Henry put his hands in his pockets. “Talk to him, maybe? They say hearing’s one of the last senses to go… people can often hear long after everything else’s shut off.”

Hans scratched his jaw. When he smiled, it was not a nice smile. “Better not. He told me he hated the sound of my voice.”

Henry frowned. He wasn’t sure what he should say to that. He picked up one of the chairs on the other side of the room and carried it over, setting in near, but not next to, Capon’s chair. He sat down and watched Hanush’s mighty chest rise and fall.

Hans rubbed his own chest with his knuckles, pulling down the collar of his shirt. “Maybe I should start a fight with him! That way he’d feel right at home.”

Hans was as tight as a screw. His elbows stuck close to his side and he kept rubbing his long fingers together, as if he was craving a cigarette. Tension seemed to radiate from him, making Henry’s hair stand on end. If Mutt were here, Henry thought, he’d be growling.

“You don’t have to make a joke out of it,” Henry said, softly. “It must be hard, looking after him while he’s sick considering you had a difficult relationship when he was healthy.”

Hans looked sideways at him. His eyes were dry.

Slowly, Hans’s shoulders relaxed, lowering from his ears. “I just wish he had someone in his life that wasn’t me. He had friends. But at this point, I’m the only one who visits him and he doesn’t even like me.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate it, if he knew,” Henry said. He tried hard to think of something comforting that wasn’t overstepping. “Hans… People aren’t just one thing. You clearly care about him, even if you didn’t always… like him. It’s possible he felt the same way. You can’t know what someone feels.”

Hans said nothing for a while, his gaze distant. He breathed out shortly through his nose and resettled the way he was sitting. He pulled the strap of his messenger bag off his shoulder and dumped it on the floor.

“I know I don’t have anything to complain about,” Hans said. He sniffed loudly, voice raspy with emotion. “I grew up with every kind of privilege and nobody was beating my ass or anything – but I went to rehab twice while he was healthy and it only stuck the third time, when he was comatose. I just couldn’t cope with leaving the rehab centre and going back to a life just as strict and confined. After his accident, when I finally had control of my life, I had to unpick… all the things I was only doing because I knew it would hurt me and anger him… that was almost everything I did.”

Henry sensed the other man had more to say, so he kept quiet.

“It’s stupid to admit that I kind of miss him,” Hans said. “Or—or I miss… I wish I could’ve had… He’s not an idiot and he’s not cruel, he’s not uncaring. It’s just I meet normal people who can go to their parents and ask for advice and it’s not some stupid mind-game like it was with my Uncle where he was always trying to find an excuse to take control. Hanush would have given me great advice, if we had trusted one another.”

Hans leaned back in his chair. He looked at the ceiling. “I just wish there was somewhere I could turn, someone who’s done this all before. I’d have hell of a lot to ask them. I might not always follow their advice, but it’d be nice to know what they’d say.”

Henry glanced from Hans to the man in the bed. He shifted his seat, squeaking against the plastic, until his seat was flush with Capon’s seat. He put his arm around Hans’s shoulders.

Hans stiffened at the touch. “Sorry, Henry if I dumped all that on you… you don’t have to stick around.”

“I don’t mind,” Henry murmured.

Moving slowly, Hans shifted in his chair and put his head on Henry’s shoulder. It took a long time for his body to relax, like ice thawing. His hair was soft on Henry’s cheek, almost ticklish. His chest rose and fell as he made a few, forceably deep breaths and his eyes fluttered shut.

Henry rubbed his cheek against the top of Hans’s head. After a fierce internal debate, he turned his head and kissed the crown of Hans’s head and rested his jaw there.

Hans rested there for a moment or two and then he moved off, running a hand through his hair and standing. He stretched, and pulled his bag back over his shoulder. “We should go.”

“Okay,” Henry said.

“Bye Hanush,” Hans said, glancing at the comatose form of his uncle. “See you soon. Enjoy your flowers.”

 

*

 

When they pulled back into the apartment building’s parking lot, the mood between them was thick, but not tense. Henry shut the engine off, and silence filled the car. The seat creaked as he leaned back. His passenger had clearly been thinking hard, lost in black clouds, throughout the entire journey back from the Hospital. Hans took a long time to surface from his ruminations.

Finally, Hans unbuckled his seatbelt. “What did I tell you, Henry? Worst first date ever? Let’s go visit my dying uncle in Hospital and then listen to me whine about my life?”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Henry said, and meant it.

Hans looked at the footwell and then glanced up at Henry. The leather creaked as he leaned over and kissed Henry on the cheek. “Thanks for the lift.”

Henry smiled. His cheek was warm where the kiss had landed. “When can I see you again?”

“Unless you want to sneak onto campus, I’m going to the shooting range on Saturday?” Hans said. “Not ideal, I know, but thankfully we’ve set the bar so low that any second date that isn’t at the Holocaust Museum will be a cheery breeze by comparison.”

“Text me the details,” Henry said.

Hans climbed out of the car and headed up to the apartment steps. He gave a wave before he vanished into the foyer.

Henry ran his fingers over his scalp, digging his nails into the skin. A wash of fatigue lapped over his head and swallowed the sound from his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed thinly.

Something imperious loomed over Henry, something that eclipsed the bright sweetness of day. Ištván Tóth. The idea of him was so intimidating that he seemed to manifest inside Henry’s car, smiling knowingly at Henry’s dread. Jan Žižka’s words came ringing back in his ears: Eventually Capon will want some mentorship, some direction, and that’s when Ištván will be there... to give him guidance.

Chapter 4: Gunpowder Blues

Henry lifted the weapon, holding it steady for a beat, all things aligning in his mind. He saw the sway of the sight when he breathed, and imagined he could see the tiny shiver of his heartbeat being transmitted down his arm, through his wrist, into his pistol.

He pulled the trigger.

With a powerful kick, the gun fired. Heart dancing, Henry pulled the trigger again and again, revelling in the choppy burst of noise, the power of the weapon. He found himself breathing hard and his fingers were damp around the plastic grip. He pulled the trigger and the gun clicked.

Henry pulled the gun back, slipping his finger out of the trigger guard and lowered the gun, pointing it to the floor. He looked through the plastic dividers that separated the firing stalls. Hans was reloading with practised speed.

The tight ear defenders over Henry’s head made the sound of his own breathing loud in his skull. He looked down at his spent gun and sighed.

Henry missed his own gun, his Father’s gun; the colt’s pearl ivory handle and the inscription he used to rub with his thumb so often he had been worried about wearing it away. Melancholy washed over him. He wondered if he’d ever see it again.

There was a warm touch on his lower back.

Henry glanced over his shoulder and yanked his ear protectors off his head.

Hans leaned around Henry and pointed through the front of the stall, at the target. “You see that plastic target, Henry? You’re supposed to be trying to hit that.”

Henry glared, shrugging him off. “Not all of us have the time to go to the shooting range twice a week.”

“You’d need more than twice a week to correct that kind of clumsiness,” Hans said. He leaned close. “Where’s my handsome, rugged criminal? Is the plastic target not exciting enough?”

“I’ve never actually shot at anyone, if that’s what you’re implying,” Henry said.

Warm hands covered Henry’s grip and Henry released his gun into Hans’s care. Hans detached the empty magazine and refilled it so casually that he didn’t have to look at his hands. The cartridges gleamed dully in the harsh overhead light.

“Is that so?” Hans tilted his head. “I thought you were in the slammer for assault with a deadly weapon? It wasn’t a gun?”

Henry hesitated. “No, it was… I had an axe. The other guy had a gun.”

With a snap, Hans slot the magazine back inside the pistol. He paused, Henry’s gun in his hand, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “I should have probably asked this earlier, but… you weren’t trying to kill an ex-boyfriend, were you?”

“No,” Henry said. He wondered if he should explain himself further, but he refrained.

Hans grinned. He passed the loaded gun to Henry, grip first. “That’s a relief. Though if your aim really is this shit, maybe I don’t have much to worry about anyway.”

Henry accepted the gun and watched Hans return to his own firing stall. He turned the gun over in his hand, feeling the weight of it, the texture of the plastic grip under his fingers.

Silence filled Henry’s skull when he pulled the ear protectors back over his ears. He heard himself swallow. His heart kept time. It was occurring to him that most people would not have accepted a confession of a violent criminal conviction with such geniality, not from an intimate partner, not without a long string of follow-up questions and time to think it all over. But Hans was more than just tactful.

If anything, the mention of Henry’s history of violence brought out a smirk on Hans’s face. It made him laugh, but not out of amusement, instead it seemed almost giddy. Excited. Henry thought back to the afternoon in the Hospital room, Hans’s words painting a picture of chasing danger in a needle, the poisonous self-destructive streak tangled up with revenge against his uncle, and wondered if he fell in somewhere around there. Henry wondered if he was something of a fetish – a wild, frighteningly vicious lover, falling somewhere between driving drunk and skydiving without a parachute. He wondered if Hans was expecting, perhaps even hoping, it might end very badly.

If that was true, then Hans would get what he wanted. Like he always did.

Henry pulled the trigger. And again. And again.

 

*

 

Gun spent and smoking, Henry set it on the rack, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. His heart hadn’t calmed down. It thumped like a rabbit in his throat. He pulled his ear defenders off his head and his ears felt damp, the hair sticking to his head.

“Gave up?” Hans asked. He had clearly already finished. Hans’s target looked like it had been thoroughly mauled by a dog, peppered with bullet holes across the head and upper body of the unfortunate silhouette. In contrast, Henry’s target had sustained only a handful of scattered wounds and one eye-shot that Henry was quite proud of.

Henry shook his head. “I need more bullets.”

“Cartridges,” a deep male voice said behind him.

Henry spun around.

The international assassin Erik Tóth leaned against the plastic divider between firing stalls. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, a deep chest like a stallion, his arms and thighs heavy with muscle. Even though he leaned away from Henry, menace rolled off him like a chill from ice.

Henry took an involuntary step away. He’d read many articles on Erik, about his methods, about kills that had been traced back to him by the police and others that Katherine herself had deduced was his work. He was as precise as a scalpel and as unstoppable as an eighteen-wheeler. Absolutely no emotion.

When Erik looked down at Henry, Henry sensed that precision. His face was pale, his hair thin and almost white, his mouth downturned – but his eyes were dark and bottomless. They displayed a frightening intensity without even an ounce of passion.

Hans touched his shoulder. When Henry turned, Hans said: “He’s being pedantic, Henry. You load cartridges into your gun and a bullet is just the projectile part of the cartridge. I knew what you meant.”

Erik curled his lip. “Ignorance shouldn’t be coddled.”

“Nobody’s talking to you, steroid wanker,” Hans said, waving him off. “Why don’t you go beat off to the Unibomber manifesto and leave us alone?”

Henry grabbed Hans by the shoulders, panic jumping in his chest. “Can—can I talk to you? Privately?”

Erik’s eyes followed them out.

Hans allowed himself to be tugged anxiously through the double-doors and into the hallway beyond. The soundproof door swung slowly shut behind them, and their boots squeaked on the linoleum. Hans smelled of gunpowder.

“Do you know him?” Henry asked.

“Who, Erik?” Hans asked, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door. “Not really. He’s just around at the shooting range a lot, creeping everyone out. My bet is that he’s a cop that’s banned from the precinct’s shooting range.”

“Have you talked to him much?” Henry asked.

Hans shrugged. “He’s tried to talk to me a few times, but I usually just insult him and he storms off. He gets really tense when he’s angry, it’s funny.”

Henry winced. “Hans… You should probably stop pissing him off. Especially when he has a loaded gun in his hands.”

“Come off it!” Hans laughed. “He’s not going to shoot me, there’s a lot of people around. Also, it would be illegal.”

Henry kept a grip on Hans’s shoulders. “Just… give it a rest.”

“Relax, Hal,” Hans said. “You shouldn’t be such a people-pleaser. You can get a lot of fun out of being an irritating little bastard.”

“For the sake of my sanity,” Henry said, squeezing Hans’s shoulders tightly. “Please stop making him angry.”

There was a chime. Hans brushed Henry off as he fished his phone out of his pocket, swiping the screen on. He laughed. “Saved by the bell. Do you want to go to a club instead of finishing up here?”

“Yes,” Henry said, sagging in relief.

 

*

 

Henry should have known when the bouncer leaned over and kissed Hans on both cheeks that the club was actually a bad idea. He hurried forward to slip in behind Hans, who was cutting a path through the thick crowd of bodies. Just before he vanished, Hans reached out behind him and snatched Henry’s hand.

Pulled through the sea of people Henry finally washed up by the bar, Hans’s hand tight in his.

“Do you want to dance?” Hans asked, speaking so close to Henry’s ear he felt the heat of his breath more than he heard the words.

Henry rolled his shoulders back. Hans had dressed him in a tight green dress shirt and black jeans which hugged his thighs. Hans assured him that he looked good, but he was hyper aware of the way the jeans creaked and the shirt rustled, even in the oppressive noise of the club.

“Maybe later,” Henry shouted in Hans’s ear.

Hans’s mischievous grin said: I’ll hold you to that. He waved to the bartender, who abandoned someone she was already serving to lavish attention on Hans. Hans had painted a streak of golden glitter down his jugular and when he turned his neck the skin flashed like a knife blade.

The scent of mingling perfume, synthetic sugars and body heat filled Henry’s face. His skin was already warming. It was summer, too hot to be pressed between the crowd, and yet the dance floor was almost full. Lights swinging over the crowd caught fragments of colour, a red dress hem, the glint of a watch face, a strappy black heel.

Henry wasn’t looking for anything when he saw him – Erik Tóth sitting at the tables by the wall.

Stupidly, Henry froze stock-still, staring at Erik across the club floor. Erik sat straight-backed on his stool, dressed in the same white vest and black tactical trousers that he’d worn at the gun range. He must have followed them. Worse – he must have somehow guessed where Hans was going to appear and been confident enough to wait for him there.

Henry glanced through the crowd. He felt like he was watching for signs of movement between the trees in a dark forest, watching for the prowling sheen of black wolf fur.

How long had Ištván been hunting Hans Capon? He had sent his top pet to sniff after him, and it was only Erik’s own fatal lack of charisma that meant he wasn’t standing here where Henry stood, waiting for Hans to bring him a drink. The rest of the Devil Pack would’ve seen Erik’s presence as an excellent indicator that Ištván was liable to take the bait... but Henry couldn’t help the creeping sense of dread.

There was a knock on Henry’s elbow and he flinched. Hans looked bemused, two half-pints of beer in his hands. He held one out.

Henry kissed him.

Hans was startled and then tried to reach up – but realised his hands were full of their beers. He took a half-step backwards, breaking the kiss, and wiped his mouth with his wrist. His eyes shone.

Henry took the half-pints and set them on the nearest flat surface and pulled Hans towards the dance-floor. It was too noisy to hear Hans’s laugh but Henry saw him do it. Hans walked as close behind Henry as he could, tripping him up.

The music was so loud that it was hard to know what song was playing. It was so loud that it was more physical vibration than audible sound, a pulse which throbbed the dance floor, beating through the massive speakers and shivering the smoky air.

Henry pulled Hans close to him, more out of a desire not to lose him in the thick crowd rather than anything else. Hans pressed against him like an affectionate cat. Henry got a mouthful of the scent of Hans’s cologne – oud and warm spice.

Bass notes rained down on them like thunderclaps. Hans rolled against him, body moving in time. Henry slipped his arms around his waist and Hans pressed so close that he pushed Henry back a step.

Anxiously, Henry realised he had lost sight of Erik. He scanned the crowd.

Hans tugged his ear, drawing his attention back to the dance. Henry tried to communicate an apology with a smile.

Something white in the crowd caught Henry’s eye. Erik’s hair was so pale it was faintly luminous in the dizzy club lights. Henry followed him with his eyes, making his way through the crowd towards the exit.

Suddenly, Hans shoved him away. He shot a disgusted look in Henry’s direction and stalked off.

“What—?” Henry asked, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the music. He darted after him, squeezing through the gyrating bodies. Hans didn’t slow down for him, and obviously had much more experience moving through crowds, twisting through them like a fish through reeds.

Henry didn’t catch up with him until he had reached the bathroom.

The club bathroom was black tile, a bubble of calm despite the pounding music that could still be heard through the walls. A row of mirrors reflected the bathroom stalls. Hans stood at the sink farthest from the door, washing his face in the bowl.

“Hans,” Henry asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you fucking serious?” Hans snarled. Water gleamed like diamonds over his forearm and his mascara – discrete until it started to smudge – blackened his eyelids. “What is wrong with you? You don’t want me, then you change your mind for no reason. Next you don’t want to touch me and now you do – but only to make that creep Erik jealous?”

Henry’s mind stuttered. “I don’t know what you’re – ”

“Save it!” Hans snapped. “It’s just so funny to toy with me, isn’t it?”

“I’m not toying with you, Hans,” Henry said, desperately.

“Just forget it,” Hans muttered. He shoved past Henry.

“Hans, wait,” Henry said, trying to follow him. “Hans!”

Hans dodged Henry’s attempts at grabbing him, and pushed into the crowd. Henry lost sight of him almost immediately.

For a moment, Henry stared through the dancing bodies, ears ringing. Light spilled and flashed across the crowd. Red, purple and white light swept across the dancers, catching in every oversized bangle and winking earring.

Cowed, Henry retreated back into the bathroom, heart thumping. He felt a sharp prickle in his extremities, as if he’d been out in the cold. He fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped through his contacts to find Katherine’s number.

She picked up immediately: “Henry. What’s the situation?”

“I…” Henry swallowed. “I’m making a fucking mess of things.”

“I’m sure we can patch it up, Hal,” Katherine said, with all the professional calm of 9-1-1 telephone operator. “How’s Capon? Is he angry?”

“Yes,” Henry said. He pressed his eyes shut.

“What did he say?” Katherine said. “Tell me his exact words.”

“He said it felt like I was toying with him,” Henry said. His heart was heavy. “Honestly, he’s right. I really like him, but my head is such a mess, especially because Erik Tóth is skulking about and it makes me – ”

“Erik Tóth is around?” Katherine said, an obvious interest in her voice. “So Ištván can’t be far behind. It looks like Žižka’s hunch was right, Capon’s the exact kind of bait that bastard would just love to sink his teeth into.”

There was some noise in the background and Henry frowned, trying to make out the words. He heard Jan Žižka’s voice, and Dry Devil cackled something. It set Henry’s teeth on edge and the tension only mounted as he struggled to follow the indistinct conversation about his own love life. Pressure built.

When Henry spoke, the words just burst out of him: “I think I should tell him the truth.”

Katherine was speechless. “Uh…”

“...fucking awful idea, Kat give me the phone,” Jan Žižka’s voice grew audible and there was a fumble as he was passed the phone. “Did you hit your damn head, Henry? You’re really feeling guilty because you’re lying to get into bed with a pretty young thing – if that’s unforgivable, there’s no hope for any man on Earth.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Henry said. “It’s putting him in danger.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have made Henry a field agent,” Jan Žižka said, his voice slightly fainter as he spoke away from the phone’s microphone. “I’ve got no use for a spy with a sense of shame.”

“Last time you were on the field you killed the damn mark, one-eye,” Dry Devil’s voice reached the receiver.

Jan Žižka’s voice was even fainter. “For the last time, she got herself killed! If your intel hadn’t been so shit…”

“Henry,” Katherine said, loud enough that it was clear she had regained custody of the phone. “I know you’re in the deep end and it’s overwhelming. It’s only a few more weeks until the fundraiser, it’s natural to be nervous. But, listen to me, Henry, because this very important… you’re not actually in love with Hans Capon. You don’t know him.”

“I-I never said that I…” Henry’s heart hammered.

“The intensity of the situation is tricking you,” Katherine said, a note of iron in her voice. “The butterflies you feel are just nausea. You don’t think about him all of the time because you’re taken with him, it’s because you’re working. It’s just a job, a job you’re good at. You don’t care about him. You don’t.”

Henry’s mouth was dry. He clenched his jaw.

“You don’t love him, Henry,” Katherine said. “You just like fucking him.”

Henry’s heart squeezed. “But we’ve never…”

“WHAT?” Dry Devil’s voice crackled over the line. There was the brief noise of a fight. “Henry! Did your dick fall off?”

“It’s none of your business,” Henry said, hotly.

“Yes it is!” Dry Devil snarled down the line. “No shit the target’s angry with you! Did you even read the briefing? If Capon charged for all his whoring he’d be twice as wealthy.”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” Henry snarled, matching the Devil’s tone. “You can’t just—”

“Spare me the pearl clutching, you frigid bitch!” Dry Devil started to shout. “This is the only chance at Ištván we’re ever going to get! Let me make it simple: If you ever cared about your parents, even a little, you’ll fuck that little tramp and let the rest of us can do the actual work of getting justice for Skalitz. Is that clear?”

Henry did not respond.

“Hynek... you have such a way with words,” Katherine said, her sarcasm barely masking her real irritation. “Henry—”

Henry hung up.

Fuzzy static filled Henry’s ears. Dimly, he was aware of his phone screen lighting up with Katherine’s call, and he declined it. He felt his chest lift as he breathed.

Henry felt his blood pulse through him like a thing trapped, throbbing in his jaw, his belly, his fingertips. The world seemed very far away as the camera in Henry’s head zoomed all the way out with a mechanical whirr. Drunk young men fell through the bathroom door, and although they were loud Henry couldn’t hear a word.

 

*

 

Hans pulled his door open.

The young Capon heir had changed out of his dancing clothes and wore cotton shorts and an oversized shirt. He’d scrubbed the glitter from his neck but some of it still remained, clinging to his stubble and gleaming behind his ear. His hair was dark and damp in a halo around his face, as if he’d just finished washing his makeup off.

“Henry,” Hans said. He ran a hand though his hair.

Henry’s chest felt constricted. It was as if a vice had been tightly turned in the back of his throat, locking something away. He couldn’t say a thing.

Hans shifted back to allow Henry into his apartment. “I tried to call…”

“My phone died,” Henry said, tonelessly. He slipped past him. “I thought we should talk in person.”

Hans reached for the door handle and pushed his door shut. When it closed, it made almost no sound at all. His eyes were glued to the floor. “That... sounds ominous.”

Henry glanced back at him.

“Look, Henry, I’m sorry for freaking out,” Hans said. He circled around Henry, his bare feet silent on the wood floor. “I… I just find it hard to know what you’re thinking. One moment you’re super sweet and sexy and the next moment it’s like we’re suddenly strangers. I don’t like it. I really don’t.”

“I want you,” Henry said.

Hans blinked rapidly. “Henry—?”

Henry kissed him.

When the kiss ended, Hans made a noise like he wanted to speak, so Henry kissed him again. It was a deep and filthy kiss, messy, and Henry took advantage of Hans’s surprise to guide him backwards until he knocked into the kitchen cabinet. Henry moulded himself to Hans’s front.

“Wait,” Hans gasped, finally managing to break away. “What’s happening?”

“I know I’ve been inconsistent and I’m sorry,” Henry said. “But I do want you. I’ve always wanted you, Hans. You’re the only one I want.”

Hans’s eyes flickered across Henry’s face and his pale eyebrows furrowed. “If that’s true… why are you so tense?”

Henry kissed him again.

Hans’s body heat was intoxicating, Henry let his head drop against the his shoulder. It was easy to slip his hands under the elastic waistband and run his knuckles over damp, curly hair. Henry rocked against him with a little too much force, rattling the draw behind him, drawing a whine from low in Hans’s throat. Henry bit his neck and sucked a mark.

When they kissed again, Hans tasted the saltiness of his own sweat. Henry gave him a mean squeeze and Hans jerked in place, like a spurred horse. He kept Hans trapped against the cabinets with his body weight and heard him moan through his clenched teeth when he stroked him roughly.

Blunt fingers dug into the meat of Henry’s back. Hans dragged his hands upwards, feeling the muscle tight as iron underneath the skin.

“Your shoulders are s-so tense,” Hans said. It was hard for him to talk with Henry’s tongue in his mouth. “Fuck, Henry, it’s like you’re expecting me to hit you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Henry hissed.

Hans put both hands on Henry’s chest and shoved him off.

The moment Henry stepped back, Hans had to lean against him to avoid falling. His knees were shaking. Even though they had been parted, Hans’s hips moved in helpless little jerks until he managed to get control of himself. His erection was so thick and heavy in his cotton shorts it must ache.

“Jesus, Henry, if we’re relying on my power of self control then we’re both in the shitter…” Hans rasped, trying to stand in a way that didn’t aggravate his borderline-painful arousal.

“We don’t have to stop,” Henry insisted. “I want you, Hans.”

Hans looked up at him, vision foggy. He lifted one leg up, trying to keep the cloth of his shorts from rubbing against his erection. “I’m worried you’re desperately trying to sleep with me because what I said at the club’s made you feel if we aren’t having sex, I’ll break up with you.”

Henry’s eyes widened. His mind was blank. After an awkward silence, he said: “That’s not what’s happening.”

“You’re a shite liar,” Hans said. He shook his head, leaning heavily on Henry. “It’s just weird to be on this side of things. You’re stealing my lines, Hal.”

Henry closed his mouth. He frowned. Hadn’t Jan Žižka identified Hans as an easy target? Naive? Either Hans was craftier than anyone gave him credit for, or Henry was much stupider than they’d feared. It might well be both.

“Don’t worry, Henry,” Hans said. “When we eventually break up, it won’t be about the sex.” He straightened the waistband of his shorts and made to push past him.

Henry caught his elbow. “Can I stay the night?”

“Drop the act,” Hans grumbled.

“I… I have,” Henry said. He frowned. “You’re right, I’m not ready, but… I’d like to share your bed. Not to have sex, just…” He released Hans’s elbow. “If you don’t want to, that’s alright. Nothing has to change.”

Hans looked at him, guardedly. Finally, he relaxed. “Alright. I need to go have several cold showers in a row, so… can you meet me there?”

 

*

 

Henry didn’t realise he was so exhausted before he climbed into Hans’s empty bed.

It was the first time in a very long time that he was in a bed that seemed to belong to a person. Henry had been sleeping in motels, park-benches and safehouses ever since his last night in Skalitz, usually under anonymous, scratchy white sheets that smelled of air freshener. It was strange to be in clean, expensive cotton sheets that smelled like someone else.

Hans’s bedroom, much like the rest of his apartment, was in a state of chaos. Clothing was strewn across the floor and every flat surface was stacked with textbooks, notebooks, takeaway containers and general trash. There was a bedside table on either side of the headboard and the precariously stacked books loomed over Henry. Everything smelled like expensive perfume.

At some point, Hans had cleared a little floorspace to place a massive 50” box fan which sounded like a jet engine, and the resulting turbulence stirred up the loose papers, lightweight clothing – anything that wasn’t nailed down could gently dance. Muffled music could be heard from the street below. It was late.

It was around midnight that Hans finally appeared in his own bedroom, dressed in fresh new clothes that covered him from wrist to ankle, despite the night’s heat. He picked up the corner of the duvet and crawled inside.

Henry shuffled closer, opening his arms. Hans slotted himself against Henry’s chest and rested his head against Henry’s shoulder. He smelled like strawberry shampoo and skin cream.

“I just wanted to say, Henry… I don’t want to be crude, but it’s not hard for me to find some dick,” Hans said, voice rough with fatigue. “If I just wanted to spend the night with someone, I could do that easily. But there’s only one Henry. Does that make any sense?”

Henry smiled. “Yes, it does.”

“Goodnight Henry.”

Henry kissed the side of Hans’s head. “Sweet dreams, Hans.”

Hans rubbed his face into Henry’s chest and wrapped his arms around him until he was comfortable. When he settled, he breathed out in a deep, slow sigh, melting into Henry’s side. He was warm and relaxed, like a big, affectionate animal.

Henry’s heart gave a sickening thump-thump. He was so screwed.

Chapter 5: No Sudden Moves

In the warm, semi-darkness of his bedroom, Hans’s phone began to ring. From within the piles of blankets and the tangle of limbs, Hans began to shift about, sliding over Henry’s body like an anaconda unfurling. His head broke the surface of the covers and he leaned over Henry to fumble through the trash on his bedside table, scattering empty coke cans and scraps of paper. He extracted his ringing phone.

“Hello?” Hans answered the phone.

“Hi,” Henry said, sleepily. He peeled his eyes open and tried to sit up.

“Not you,” Hans said, pushing him back down. He rubbed his eyes and there was the faint noise of conversation on the other side of the call. “Yes, I understand, I thought… oh, yes. Yeah. Yeah.” Hans turned his shoulder, stretching his neck. “Oh, really? Mm… Yeah, of course. And you’ll send me a—of course you have, I shouldn’t have doubted you, Cecile. Okay. And I can bring a plus-one?”

Henry watched him. The blue light of the phone screen made Hans’s cheek glow.

“That’s great,” Hans said. “Thanks, Cecile.” He shut off the call and ran a hand through his hair.

When Hans resettled, he had on leg slung over Henry’s middle like he was trying to mount a horse. He put his head on the same pillow as Henry, his nose under Henry’s ear. Henry felt the temperature of his breathing across side of his neck.

Unbidden, Henry thought about Bianca. She had been the last person who had touched him like this, slept in the same bed as him, relaxed against him with no pretence. Henry was keenly aware of what her long auburn hair had felt like, tickling his chest.

He had expected the memory to hurt. It always had before. Instead, whilst it wasn’t comforting, it wasn’t painful either… it felt unusually solid. Recent, somehow, although he knew she had been dead for over a year now.

Bianca would not approve of what he was doing. She would have had some very choice words for him. If Henry had still been the same man who had propose to her – he would have agreed with every word she’d say. But Bianca had never had to deal with her family dying at Skalitz. Bianca hadn’t been split open like he had. Bianca was the same, forever the beautiful girl she’d always be, while Henry had changed, twisting under the weight of his fate, the painful days carrying him further away from the nice boy he’d once been.

Henry turned his head, trying to shake the vision of her disapproving glare from his mind. “Who was that?”

“My personal secretary,” Hans said.

Henry rubbed his eyes. “You have a…?”

Hans slid his phone back onto the side table, under the piles of debris. He rested his head on Henry’s chest and his eyes shut briefly. “Yeah, I do.”

Henry sighed. “Most people don’t have a personal secretary.”

“You’re joking,” Hans mumbled. “Next you’re going to tell me most people don’t have a butler, a French maid or a private chef.”

Henry looked around the chaos of the trash filled room. “You should probably fire your maid. Even if she is French.”

“You’re right, I should’ve got a German one,” Hans muttered. He lifted his head. “Actually, Cecile’s the only member of staff I have left. My real name is Hans Capon … you know, of Capon Co., Ltd company, that kind of ‘Capon’. My Father made an insane amount of money in real estate and banking, and when he died I was his sole heir, only I was too young to inherit. So my uncle was in charge, but he’s obviously not able to manage it any more. So I’ll inherit.”

“It’s kind of like The Princess Diaries,” Henry said.

“It’s not totally unlike The Princess Diaries,” Hans agreed half-heartedly. “Anyway, there’s a gala in two weeks. Because I’d be inheriting a job as CEO, basically, I have to prove to the shareholders that I’m not a total waste of space, and I can represent the company in a good light. Despite… my history.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” Henry murmured.

“Kind of,” Hans said. “But if they don’t decide in my favour, they’ll liquidate my position and I’ll get bought out. It’s not the end of the world.”

Henry watched him out of the corner of his eye. He held his breath. “You mentioned a plus-one on the phone?”

Hans rolled over slightly. “Hmm… Do you like champagne?”

“I could like it,” Henry rumbled.

Hans grinned. He straightened up, the inside of his thighs sliding over Henry’s torso until he sat just above Henry’s hips. His morning wood pressed into Henry’s navel almost insistently, his skin very hot and damp with sweat.

With a small noise, Hans kissed him. The kisses were quick but frequent, nudging Henry’s head back into the pillow. Bedsheets crinkled as their weight shifted on the mattress. Apparently unconsciously, Hans rocked his hips slightly, rubbing his half-hard cock into Henry’s belly.

Henry’s mind overflowed with the thought of Hans’s body. It lit up his brain like a firework.

Did it matter that it was a lie? Henry wasn’t an actor – Hans genuinely liked him, all the parts of him that were real. All the parts of him left over from Skalitz, the parts Bianca had liked, too. Hans knew a little of the violence, but he didn’t know about the espionage, the dark plans he had cooked up with the Devil’s Pack.

It was more than that, too. Hans was about his own age. They clicked. The Devil Pack were an eclectic mixture of nationalities and lifestyles—from what he could gather, they were all at least a decade older than him. They taught him very useful things (when they were in the mood) but when they relaxed and chatted, he just didn’t speak their language. He could never be truly friendly and easy with them, not like he already was with Hans.

And maybe it could stay that way. When Ištván Tóth was dead, Henry and the pack would have to vanish… but, after a suitable amount of time had passed, could he…?

Hans’s hips stilled. He was leaning on his hands, bowed over Henry with his nose against Henry’s jugular. “Is it too much?”

“—yeah,” Henry managed to gasp. “Sorry.”

“No drama,” Hans said, and kissed Henry’s ear. He climbed out of bed and padded to the bathroom. The door swung shut behind him.

Henry rolled over. He couldn’t escape Hans’s scent which clung to everything, the salt of his sweat, his musky cologne. Henry’s cock was painfully hard and seemed to glow with heat, trapped against his belly. Hans would enjoy it, too. Henry could make him come until he was incoherent, and he’d really enjoy it, even if he was mad about it later. And maybe… after Ištván, Runt, and Markvart were all dead and the hungry ghosts of Skalitz had all been appeased, Henry could come crawling back, begging on his knees and… and maybe Hans would find it in his heart to…

Stupid thoughts plagued him. Henry growled to himself and squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to dispel them.

When he had picked up the axe and gone after Runt, he had crossed a threshold. There hadn’t been a normal life to return to then, and there wasn’t one now. Bianca’s fiancé had died at Skalitz and only his duty remained.

Henry couldn’t live in the real world any more, and he couldn’t fall in love. His head knew that, but his heart needed to learn the lesson. And his cock should take notes, too.

 

*

 

It was a lazy Sunday.

Henry made an omelette and managed to wow Hans by using not just salt and pepper, but other spices too. For a guy who once must have eaten in michelin-star restaurants more often than some people got take out, he was surprisingly easy to impress. He even complemented Henry on not getting eggshell in the omelette.

When Hans was done “washing up the plates” he excused himself to go to the bathroom, and once the coast was clear, Henry crept across to the sink and re-washed everything that had been put in the drying rack.

Hans’s phone buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed again.

Henry set the plate he’d been washing onto the drying rack and wiped his soapy hands on his thighs. He scooped the phone up.

MAMA 9:52
>> ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇ
>> ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴀғᴇ
>> ʜᴀɴs ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ʀᴇsᴘᴏɴᴅ
>> ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ?? ᴘʟᴇsᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇ!
MAMA (missed call) 9:58
MAMA (missed call) 9:59
MAMA 10:02
>> ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀ ᴍᴇ

Henry’s heart was wild in his chest.

In a split second – he was dislocated from reality – his mother’s corpse was limp across her bed, and in the moonlight her blood was black, like tar pooled across her chest, congealed into a thick oil which dripped steadily into the carpet.

A call came through, startling Henry into the present moment. He answered it immediately.

“Hans, baby,” a woman’s voice came through the phone, ragged and squeaky. It was clear she had been crying.

“Hans is okay,” Henry said, trying to sound comforting despite the rapid beating of his heart. “It’s okay. He’s safe, he’ll be back in a moment and I can put him on the phone.”

There was a painful, tense silence. Laboured breathing came down the line. When she spoke, she sounded horrified: “Who… who is this? Why do you have Hans’s phone?”

“I’m Henry, I’m his—his friend. He’s in the bathroom,” Henry said. “He’ll be back in a moment.”

“Oh, god. What did you do to him?” The woman’s tone slipped towards absolute despair. “Is he alive?”

“Of course he’s alive,” Henry said. “He’s just—”

“Oh god,” the woman sobbed. “Oh, god. Please don’t hurt him.”

“I wouldn’t hurt him,” Henry said, trying to avoid panic reaching his voice. “He’s fine, he’s just—”

At that moment, Hans made a blessed reappearance, padding into the kitchen. Henry beckoned him over quickly. “Your mother’s on the phone.”

Immediately, Hans’s expression tightened. He glared at Henry. “Why did you answer it? I can get that you’re curious, but you’re only upsetting her more. She’s not a freak to gawk at.”

“What?” Henry blinked. “Hans, she sounds really worried—”

“Don’t play dumb,” Hans cut him off. He snatched the phone out of Henry’s hand and vanished into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Henry could hear the muffled sound of conversation from the other side. Hans was speaking softly and soothingly, pacing around his bedroom.

Left alone in the kitchen, Henry returned to his washing up. He cleaned the frying pan and the forks until they were pristine and then wiped down all the counters and the stove, and pulled the broom out of the cupboard to sweep the floor. He tried to avoid thinking of his mother’s glassy eyes.

After about an hour, Hans returned and set down his phone. He looked exhausted and he sat down heavily on the stool at the kitchen island. He put his head in his hands.

“Coffee?” Henry asked.

“Please,” Hans murmured into his hands.

Henry turned around to pour another cup from the cafetière he’d already made. “I’m sorry for answering your phone. I didn’t know.”

“Well, you must have been living under a rock or something,” Hans said. “You don’t read the tabloids? Or even the pop culture podcasts? It’s general knowledge. I think E! did a retrospective on it a few months ago…”

Henry set down the mug of coffee he’d just poured in front of Hans. He shrugged. “I don’t follow that sort of stuff.”

“Well… It’s not that complicated, I’ve just never had to explain it before. Most people know it even before I say Hi, How ya doing? ” Hans ran his thumb around the rim of his coffee cup. “When my Dad died… uh, for context, he got full custody at the divorce, which was all mutual, she didn’t feel able to care for me. But when he died a few years later, she went to court to fight my uncle for custody but she didn’t have very good lawyers… I mean, my dad left enough money for her in his will, but my uncle threw up a lot of legal mud to stop her from accessing the money, so she couldn’t afford a proper family lawyer, so she was using a trainee…”

Hans trailed off. He sipped his coffee.

Slowly, Henry took the seat opposite him. His mug clinked against the pristine counter.

“Um, there’s no easy way to say it, but my mother’s—she’s always had persecutory delusions and schizophrenia which sounds scary but it usually isn’t that bad,” Hans said, awkwardly. “But the stress of the custody battle, and all the paparazzi, and the legal threats she was getting, it all… triggered an episode. And, um, she technically kidnapped me and tried to flee the country. But it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “How old were you?”

“Eleven,” Hans said. “But she wasn’t… she just got really worried and she wasn’t in her right mind, she was suffering. But she wasn’t a threat to me. I wasn’t in any danger until my asshole uncle called the police, and I wasn’t even scared until she got shot.”

“Jesus,” Henry said.

“Relax,” Hans smiled. “I know what it sounds like. Maybe she’s crazy, but she loves me a lot. I think a lot of people wonder how much their parents actually like them, they think would they take a bullet for me? Well, I don’t have to wonder.”

Henry nodded. He managed a smile. “It’s strange… but I think I understand. Her delusions were real to her… she felt like she was protecting you.”

“Exactly,” Hans said, relaxing.

“So that’s why she called?” Henry asked. “Something triggered an episode?”

“They’re altering her medication,” Hans said. He sipped his coffee. “She’s having kidney trouble, so they’re trying to find something that works, but anti-psychotics always have pretty serious side-effects.”

Henry nodded, vaguely.

“So you really didn’t know, huh?” Hans grinned.

“No,” Henry said. “It must be weird that people know something so private without you telling them.”

“For me, it’s weird to have to tell you,” Hans said. “Mm… this must be how the people of Earth talk to one another.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, amused, but there was a tickle at the back of his mind. It was definitely odd that he didn’t know… wasn’t it?

 

*

 

The door to the safehouse swung shut behind Henry as he walked in. The ugly yellow warehouse lighting bore down on him, bleaching all the colour from the room. There was a constant hum of the machinery.

“What’s missing from my file on Hans?” Henry asked, when he reached Katherine’s desk.

Katherine looked up from her monitor. “Henry. I’m happy to see you, but you could’ve called. Coming in person is an unnecessary risk. And why are you asking?”

“He told me about his mother kidnapping him,” Henry said.

“That’s great!” Katherine beamed. “Combined with him inviting you to the gala unprompted, that’s a clear sign he’s over the fight. He definitely trusts you.”

“Please don’t avoid the question,” Henry said, taking a seat opposite her.

Katherine pushed her keyboard back. “Okay. There’s a huge amount missing from your file on Hans. The total amount of data I have on him accounts for about four Terabytes. If you watched all the footage I have of him, and you didn’t eat or sleep, it would still take you about a month and a half to watch all of it. Even I’ve not reviewed every file.”

“I’d like to see it,” Henry said.

“Well, you can’t,” Katherine said. She pushed her glasses onto her forehead to rub her eye. “You’re allowed access to whatever files we deem appropriate for you. If that changes, you’ll be informed.”

Henry leaned across the desk. “How do I know I’m doing the right thing if I don’t have all the information?”

There was a disgruntled bark from across the room and Adder shot him a cold glare. He pointed a accusing finger. “Kim do diabła jest ten koleś? James Bond?”

Janosh cleared his throat. “Adder said—”

“I think I know what Adder said,” Henry snapped. He ignored the rude gesture Adder made and kept his eyes fixed on Katherine. “I’d just like an answer to the question.”

“The truth is, you’ll just have to trust us,” Katherine said. “You’ll know everything you need for any mission we send you on.”

“Why should I trust you when you don’t trust me?” Henry asked.

Katherine paused. She tapped her well manicured nail on her desk and considered him at length.

There was a creak of linoleum as Jan Žižka approached. He had a clipboard dangling from his hands and his sleeves were rolled up. There were marks on his wrists from shackles and it was clear that he had, at some point, been imprisoned somewhere brutal. “May I take this one?”

“Be my guest,” Katherine said, waving a hand.

Henry turned his glare from Katherine to Jan Žižka. He felt like a child speaking to a principal and he felt the corresponding surge of rebelliousness in his gut. He’d never been all that good at following the rules.

“Henry, information is controlled within our organisation for a good reason,” Jan Žižka said, sounding oh-so-reasonable. “We have videos that Capon doesn’t know were filmed, reports on him that he hasn’t read, and a great deal of information nobody’s ever made public. It would blow your cover if you revealed something you had no good way of knowing.”

“I understand,” Henry said. “So give me the full file on Ištván and Erik Tóth.”

Jan Žižka looked down at him impassively for a long moment. He worked his jaw. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Henry asked, eyes growing hard.

“Okay – you want to know why not?” Jan Žižka asked, sharply. “Because we’re not equals.”

Henry leaned back in his chair. He gritted his teeth.

“When we sprung you out of prison after your stupid plan to kill Runt failed, you became our agent,” Jan Žižka said. “That’s our subordinate. You’re our dog. We’re all working for the same goal – we all want Ištván Tóth dead. Lord knows he’s given us all enough reasons. But Henry, you’re just a kid. You’re barely twenty and you’ve got no experience, and knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Is that clear?”

Henry’s eyes were flat and cold. “It’s clear.”

“Good,” Jan Žižka said. He gave a brief and charismatic smile, like a car salesman who had just sealed a deal, before he turned to walk back to his desk.

Katherine cleared her throat. She folded her arms. “I’ll review the file again and see if I can add some more information for you. On both Capon and the Tóths.”

Henry sighed and tried to let go of his growing frustration. Without him noticing, his hands had curled into fists and he flexed his fingers, working feeling back into them. “…Thanks, Katherine.”

Chapter 6: Man Eater

The mirrors in front and behind Henry reflected into one another. The light over his head gleamed on the buckle of his belt, which lay across the tailor shop chair, the white shine repeated and repeated into infinity. Movement in the corner of his eye came from all directions at once.

With a whisper, the fabric measuring tape was pulled taut around Henry’s chest. “Chest, 40,” the tailor’s assistant said, speaking to nobody in particular.

Hans sat in the tailorshop chair, his elbow resting on Henry’s discarded belt. He had already been measured, and although he’d pulled his shirt back on, he hadn’t buttoned it. There was a naked line from his collar to his unbuttoned fly.

Henry kept his head forward, but the repeating mirror images meant he couldn’t quite ignore the eyes. Hans was watching him.

“Waist, 37,” the tailor’s assistant announced, wrapping the measuring tape around his fingers.

Sex was on Henry’s mind. It had grown like black mould around Henry’s brainstem. He felt like a puritan at church, unable to stop thinking about Hans’s neat-cut collarbone, the flat of his sternum, his pale gold-brown body hair. The thoughts could not be pulled from his mind – they stuck so stubbornly, they stained.

Henry was a man realising he was an animal, too. He was an animal first. He wasn’t used to it surging up him. He had been with Bianca for so long and had never felt tempted by anyone else; his senses had dulled. Now it felt like he had awoken and realised how hungry he’d become.

The tailor’s assistant touched the top of his shoulder and his wrist. “Crown to cuff, 24.5.”

Hans had one leg over the other, his well-polished, black Italian shoe catching the light. He slowly moved his foot, like the twitch of a curious cat’s tail.

Like a man on a raft at sea, it wasn’t enough to have water to look at. Henry needed to drink it. Hans was magnetic, and sex was a way to have him, not just look at him—but be with him. It was serious. Henry wanted to leave a mark on him, have something solid, bring their connection out from the invisible.

“Centre back,” the tailor’s assistant said, pressing lightly into two points across his shoulders to hold the measuring tape taut, “30.5.”

Henry was thinking like a caveman.

Stupid, again, and if he was honest with himself—it was even dumber than the idea of returning to Hans after Ištván Tóth’s death and making an honest man of him. Because Hans didn’t think that way. Sex meant nothing to him. In the weeks since his breakup with Adder, Hans had not mentioned him a single time, not even off-handedly or accidentally, despite the fact the love bites took days to fade. Hans had never mentioned any other lover, an ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend, although Henry knew he’d had dozens, and it felt like more than mere politeness—Hans simply... did not think of them at all.

There was no mind-blowing sexual experience that Henry could give him that would be significant. It was only Henry’s peculiar madness that tempted him to act foolish, like the stage of hypothermia where the victim took their clothes off. Henry was working himself deeper and deeper, against his own better judgement, but Hans wouldn’t notice.

Hans Capon’s heart was coated with Teflon. It could just be wiped clean.

“Alright, we’re done here,” the tailor’s assistant said, glancing over his notes to double check. “The suits should be with you by Thursday, and we can do any minor alterations the same day if needed—although they probably won’t be. Is that suitable?”

“It’s perfect,” Hans said. “The gala’s on Saturday, so it gives us a bit of leeway. Shoes next, Henry?”

Henry took a moment to pull himself back to reality. He startled. “Um, yes.”

“What are you daydreaming about?” Hans purred.

 

*

 

“...and frequent check-ins are important, especially for those more visible,” Katherine said over the phone, rounding up the last of her long pre-mission ramble. “If we’re caught, god forbid, it won’t be all at once. It’ll be one-by-one. Is that understood?”

Henry murmured affirmative. There was a chorus of agreement from the field agents.

“And Henry?” Katherine asked.

Henry’s eyes darted up to the lamp-post. He tried to keep his tone neutral. “Yes, Katherine?”

“Just… don’t lose your head,” Katherine said. She cleared her throat. “Good luck, everyone.” The line dropped.

Henry gritted his teeth very hard. He was glad nobody could see his expression. He shut off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. The night was cool and bright, the street-lights blazing against the backdrop of deep orange that smog that hung over the city. No wind nor rain had visited them in the past week, and the scents and sounds of the city had been left to linger like dust in an unused room.

The tap of expensive shoes announced a visitor, and Henry didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. “Is there time for another cigarette?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Hans. He was dressed in an imperial, tar-black suit with a crisp white collar and blue tie. It wasn’t that he normally looked bad – but this version of Hans, clean-shaved, perfectly quaffed, tailored from snout to tail – seemed like a freshly made Hans Capon, one just snapped out of the packaging.

Henry straightened up. He smoothed down his suit and slipped his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t put your hands into your pockets, it’s bad form,” Hans said, tiredly.

Henry pulled his hands out. “Is there any reason for it, or is it just a stupid rule?”

“If you must know, the reason is that it pulls the seat of your trousers too tight,” Hans said. “It’s indecent.”

Henry grinned. “So the issue is, my ass is too fat.”

Hans didn’t seem to hear him. He checked his phone. “The limo’s around the corner.”

Henry padded after him.

As the days had approached and the gala had drawn near, Hans had stiffened up. He smiled less. Nothing was particularly funny to him any more. It was if a cord in Hans had been gradually pulling into a knot.

The driver pulled the glossy door of the limo open as they approached and Hans slipped inside. When Henry joined him, he felt more like he was clambering onto a boat. There was no way to make it look as easy and dignified as Hans did.

Smoothing down his suit again, Henry took the seat opposite him. Without looking up from his phone, Hans reached over and unbuttoned Henry’s blazer, so that the thick fabric didn’t bunch up when he sat.

“Thanks. Are you alright?” Henry asked.

Hans glanced up from his phone. “I’m fine.”

The limo pulled smoothly away from the curb. They were insulated from the noise of the city outside, and even the air that circulated inside the vehicle had been mechanically purified and cooled.

“You seem tense,” Henry prodded.

Hans shut his phone off. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“That was rhetorical,” Hans muttered, dryly. His gaze drifted out of the window.

Steadying himself on the roof, Henry got up from his seat and wobbled forwards so he could sit down next to Hans. Their thighs pressed together. “What’s wrong?”

Hans looked at him. Their faces were very close. He glanced down at Henry’s throat. “You’ve got a Four-in-Hand. It should be a Half-Windsor.”

“What?” Henry asked.

“Your tie.”

“It’s the tie you gave me.”

“I mean the type of knot, Henry.” Hans smoothed his hands over Henry’s front in a way that sent a blush of heat right through Henry’s body. Deftly, Hans slipped his index finger inside the silk inside folds of the tie and tugged it open with one move. Hans pulled the ends until they were at length and folded the fabric over his fingers, working quickly.

When he was finished, he pushed the tie knot up to Henry’s throat. Henry swallowed. Hans’s eyes lingered on the column of Henry’s throat, his thumping pulse. He swiped his thumb on a tiny patch of black stubble beside Henry’s adam’s apple. “Tch. You missed a spot shaving, too. Did you think you were headed to a day at the office, Henry?”

Henry kissed his forehead. He smelled hair spray.

“Do you want to look dishevelled?” Hans glared at him.

Henry grinned. “I’d quite like to dishevel you.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Hans said. He adjusted his own pocket square. “You wouldn’t believe how many cameras there will be. Once you’re inside the event, it won’t be so bad, but entering and exiting will be heavily documented.”

“Is that what’s eating you?” Henry asked.

Hans lapsed into silence. His brow furrowed.

Henry put a hand on Hans’s thigh, squeezing it gently. “You can tell me.”

“It’s not just the cameras,” Hans admitted. He spoke haltingly. “It’s… everything. It’s like I’m going backwards.”

“Backwards?”

“I’ve done all this before. It’s all the same, and it never gets any easier,” Hans said. He lifted a hand up and it hovered mid-air as he stopped himself from running his fingers through his hair. “It’s such a pain when I’m dressed nice—nothing to fidget with.”

“Can I help?” Henry asked. “Is there something that your uncle would do that would help you calm down? Music, maybe?”

Hans glared out of the window. “Oh, my uncle.”

“Let me guess, he wasn’t very comforting,” Henry ventured.

“He didn’t give a shit, to put it mildly,” Hans said, dryly. “I used to think he didn’t know just how bad it was… but that was before I fainted at the reception of a Christmas do a few years ago. Back at the hotel room, he rinsed my head in the sink and—rambling on, one moment he’d berate me, the next he’d be trying to comfort me, all nonsense to get me to go out in public again—but it dawned on me, then. Total clarity. There was never going to be a rock bottom. He would always be pushing me in front of cameras. I could never be too sick, or too anxious, or too upset…”

Henry squeezed Capon’s thigh. He rubbed his leg.

Capon’s expression was dark. As he’d spoken, he’d sounded very unlike himself, bitter, bitter, and older too. It was as if Henry was catching a glimpse of something far within, between scales of armour.

Hans noticed his look and smiled, a stretch of elastic, and life flowed back into him as if he’d switched on an internal faucet. “But thinking back on it, maybe it wasn’t that. I mean, I was seen fainting. If I fainted, and then didn’t return, it would be in the papers for weeks. But if I fainted, and then made an appearance later in the night, all the journalists would find something else to gossip about. I didn’t mean to make it sound so fatalistic.”

“If you want, we can skip tonight,” Henry said, the words just falling out of him, unbidden.

Hans looked shocked.

Henry was just as surprised. What the fuck did I just say?

Hans gave an awkward half-laugh. “Uh… no I can’t skip. But… thanks.”

Henry nodded, pathetically grateful. Cold sweat prickled under his collar and his heart was beating hard. He mentally slapped himself in the face. Henry was really not cut out for this. What use was a spy who didn’t think before he spoke? Thank God Hans had the sense to turn him down, or Katherine would beat him black and blue.

Trying to regain a little sanity, Henry tried to conjure up the spectre of Ištván Tóth. He’d see his face soon enough, and the reality of Skalitz would come crashing back around his ears. All that fear and pain and misery pushed to the surface, as easy to access as pressing on a bruise. But the horror of Skalitz was met in equal measure by how much he wanted to insulate Hans from it. He didn’t want Hans Capon anywhere near Ištván Tóth—he’d be happy if they lived on either end side of the planet, and happiest of all if Ištván Tóth was erased from existence entirely, scrubbed out like a stain.

The limo came to a halt.

“Henry...” Hans’s brow was worked into a frown. “Did you really mean—?”

The limo door was pulled open and the moment was broken. It was like the curtain opening unexpectedly, catching the actors off-guard. Henry took a moment to adjust, but Hans slipped out of the car. A riot of flash-photography popped and sizzled from behind the rope barriers.

Hans smiled, big. He lifted a regal hand to the crowd.

Hurrying after him, Henry was suddenly painfully aware of how shabby he really was. His posture was all wrong, his walk was shambling and his gait was uneven. Although tailored, his suit didn’t fit like it should. His hair wasn’t as silky and obedient as Capon’s—when it was short, Henry’s hair stuck up in bristly black strands, like the scratchy guard hairs on a jack russel.

“What were you about to say?” Henry asked, in an undertone.

“Never mind,” Hans murmured. He spoke under his hand, artfully blocking his mouth from the cameras. “It’s too late, now. Let’s enjoy tonight.”

Just before they ascended the last steps to the venue, Hans cast his eyes over him. With a gesture that was almost maternal, Hans pulled the two halves of Henry’s blazer together and fastened them again, straightening the fabric.

Once the double-doors had been opened for them by the waiting guards in fine suits, the pair of them slipped into a gentle, neat world.

Everything was out of scale. The ceiling stretched far too high above them, painted in classical pure white and pink. The twin, mirrored sweeping staircases which flowed down from the first floor was too large to be built inside a domestic house. There was too much empty space.

“Who on Earth needs a house so big?” Henry asked, when he was over his shock.

“I know, right? Until you actually visit a place like this, it’s hard to imagine,” Hans said. “Remember that murder a few years ago, where the wife gets chopped up in the basement while the family eat breakfast in the kitchen? It can only happen in a house this big.”

Henry shot him a strange look. “That’s awful. I hadn’t heard of that.”

“You don’t watch enough television,” Hans said. “It’s one of your biggest flaws.”

Henry rolled his eyes. They drifted away from the door. The foyer was so grand that, even though the gala was well-attended, it looked half-empty. Henry recognised the Mayor in a stunning halter-dress, talking to her husband beside a Chinese vase.

Katherine sent through a pulse-check and Henry confirmed the okay with a press on the hidden button on his wrist watch.

“How many people do you know here?” Henry asked.

“Plenty,” Hans grinned. “The real question is—who’ll admit to knowing me?”

They drifted through one of the glossy marble rooms. Henry caught sight of the Dry Devil, dressed as a waiter, taking an order from a visiting ambassador. Hynek looked so unlike himself that he was hard to recognise. The Devil vanished from view.

“Why would they pretend not to know you?” Henry asked. “You’re about to inherit some serious cash. Don’t you get a lot of people pretending to be your best friend?”

“The parents do that,” Hans said. “Their children, who are my age, don’t want to have to explain where they met me, if you catch my drift.”

They found a long table of champagne flutes, all glittering and sparkling with effervescence. Hans plucked one like a flower and held it by the long glass stem. He plucked another and held it out.

“Look, there’s a familiar face,” Hans said, gesturing with his spare champagne glass.

Henry turned and followed his gaze. Erik Tóth leaned against the marble wall, beside the heavy silk folds of the drawn curtain. He looked posed, like a store mannequin, dressed in an impeccable funeral-black suit with a glass of gold champagne in his hands that he wasn’t even pretending to drink.

Katherine sent through a pulse-check and Henry confirmed the okay with a click. He accepted the champagne Hans offered him.

Henry pulled his eyes away. “Oh. Has Erik talked to you lately?”

“Well… Not audibly,” Hans drawled. He tapped his brow. “But sometimes he stares at me so hard I think he’s trying to telepathically force something into my mind.”

The joke was lost on Henry. He sipped his sparkling champagne and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“If you want something else, there’s an open bar,” Hans said, when he noticed Henry’s scowl.

“No, that’s not…” Henry shook his head, and drained his champagne flute. “Actually, let’s go to the bar.”

Henry took Hans’s elbow and steered him on, towards the dark-green walls of the bar room. It was more populated than the other rooms they had passed through, and the swell of conversation was a welcome change from the near-silence. Piano drifted across the party like birdsong.

Some of the crowd Henry recognised, a few he could even place—faces he’d seen on magazine covers or billboards. There was a famous musician at the corner of the bar, talking to the city’s chief of police.

None of them were Ištván Tóth.

“What do you want?” Hans asked, slipping out of Henry’s grip.

Henry blinked like someone being shaken awake. “Oh, whatever.”

“I don’t think they have that,” Hans said. He squeezed Henry’s elbow. “Let’s get you some wine.”

Henry watched Hans slip through the crowd and snap at the bar tender for attention. When Hans had been on his arm, people had been much less obvious with their attention, but now that Henry glanced around, he realised just how many people were following Hans with their eyes. They didn’t disguise their attentiveness—there was something instinctive about it, like cats watching a twitching mouse.

When Hans returned with two glasses of red wine, Henry drew his eyes away from the crowd. “I don’t like red wine. It makes me head sore.”

“What happened to whatever?” Hans frowned.

Henry accepted the glass of wine. It was nice to have something to do with his hands. Where in the world was Ištván Tóth? Briefly, Henry wondered if his own presence had disturbed things, but that was just ridiculous. Tóth didn’t know Henry’s name, and even if he did, Ištván Tóth wasn’t the type to back down.

Maybe it was just too busy here. Too many other sharks circled the bar. Henry took Hans’s elbow and went to shallower waters.

There was a small deringer pistol strapped to Henry’s calf. It didn’t really matter where it happened, but he’d prefer it to be somewhere secluded. It was useless to hope that Hans wouldn’t have to see it. He would. But all Henry could hope was that Hans wouldn’t try to stop him.

“Do you find Erik attractive?” Hans asked, sipping his wine.

Henry jolted back to reality. Katherine had sent through a pulse-check and Henry confirmed the okay with a click. “What? Me?”

“Every time he pops up, you get all spacey,” Hans said. There was something sharp in his expression—vicious? Humorous? There wasn’t always a difference to Capon. He could be jealous and pleased at the same time.

“I don’t like guys like that,” Henry said, with a curl of his lip. “Cold and forceful isn’t my type.”

“That’s why you’re with me,” Hans said, smile settling on vicious. He hid his expression behind his glass of wine. “Warm, soft and pathetic.”

Henry frowned. “Come on. That’s not what I meant.”

Hans managed to drain his wine in a few swallows and set the empty glass down on the side. A waiter spirited it away. Hans gestured to Henry’s untouched glass of red. “Are you going to finish that?”

Reluctantly, Henry let him take the glass of wine. Hans sipped it.

“Don’t you find it weird that he keeps popping up?” Henry probed. “The shooting range, the club, even here…?”

“Not that weird,” Hans said, between sips. “His mentor has a lot of connections.”

A twig snapped in the forest. Henry startled. “His…?”

Hans gestured vaguely and the red wine swung around in his glass. “I guess it’s his legal guardian… Sometimes, they’re like father and son. Other times, they’re like lovers. Makes my skin crawl. Thank God my Uncle was firmly heterosexual.”

Henry shook his head slightly, trying to pull apart what he was hearing. “You know all this?”

A broad grin cracked Hans’s smug face. “See, Henry? You would love reality television! You’re a closeted gossip whore!”

“Hans, be serious,” Henry said. “I want to meet Erik’s mentor. Is he here tonight?”

“I dunno,” Hans said. “If he is, he’s not going to be out with the general chum. He’ll be in the exclusive VIP lounge.”

“There’s a VIP lounge?” Henry asked. Of course there was a VIP lounge. There was always a more exclusive club, and people who would pay to be part of it. “Can we go there?”

Hans looked unhappy. He sipped his drink.

“What’s wrong?” Henry asked.

“Well, there’s no open bar in the VIP lounge,” Hans muttered. “All the Über-rich are too afraid of being poisoned. You have to pre-arrange to have your alcohol with your staff there already.”

For a moment, Henry was baffled by just how surreal the situation was. “Please?”

“If we must,” Hans said. He finished his glass of red wine and set it down on a passing table. He wrapped his fingers around Henry’s wrist and led him through the crowd. His touch was surprisingly cold.

They walked away from the crowds and as they retreated from the gentle music and polite conversation, their footsteps seemed to grow louder. Crisp black dress shoes rang out across the marble. Hans held his wrist tightly, like a shackle.

A lone doorman was stationed in front of a magnificent, polished-wood door. He inclined his head to Hans like a Knight towards a Feudal Lord, and his eyes skated sightlessly across Henry like they weren’t even recording a memory. The door open silently and smoothly, revealing a long dark passageway.

Hans pulled him inside. It was difficult to see from the doorway, but the passage sloped quickly downwards. His footsteps made no noise.

“It’s so quiet in here,” Henry said. “Why is it so dark?”

Light drew closed as the cellar door swung shut behind them. Hans’s blue glance was the only part of the sky which reached the subterranean levels. A moment ago, Capon had been clumsy and tipsy, but he’d sobered up in a second.

“Through here,” Hans said, coming to a halt. Henry didn’t realise there had been a door there until Hans pushed it open.

Inside, it looked like a nice, but generic hotel room. White sheets, and a large, clean mirror that reflected the bed. It was empty. Henry looked around the clean, anonymous wood furniture. It could be a hotel room in any country, any city, except for the fact there no windows.

“Why are we here?” Henry asked.

Hans released his wrist and crossed to the dresser. There was an eerie calm about him. He opened the top draw and pulled out a gun.

Henry stiffened. Cold fear pooled in his gut. “Hans?”

Hans turned. He flipped the safety off the pistol and raised it, aiming at Henry’s chest. “Get on your knees.”

Henry stared at the gun, uncomprehending.

“I don’t want to ask again,” Hans said. He held the gun very steady. “And don’t reach for your concealed weapons—I know that suit better than you. I know where they are.”

Henry couldn’t think. His head was filled with static.

Hans aimed at the ceiling and fired. The bang was incredible. Plaster shattered and separated. Cement dust showered from the bullet hole.

The noise shocked Henry out of his fugue state. Clumsily, he got down and knelt on the floor. “What’s—what’s going on?”

“What happened is that you and your team lost the game,” Hans said, dully. All the light that usually shone through him had been snuffed out. “And Ištván Tóth isn’t even in the country.”

Even though Henry’s incapacitating shock, the dread started to saturate him—His team? When had Katherine last checked in? It had been too long.

“Hans, you’re on the wrong side of this,” Henry said, and it came out like a beg. “Whatever Ištván told you, it’s a lie. He’s the one who hurt your uncle. He’s the reason—”

“I know,” Hans said. “That was our deal.”

Henry looked up at him, desperately. “Your deal?”

Hans took a step forward. His pistol was trained on Henry’s forehead. “Ištván promised to take care of Hanush for me. And in return… I would act as bait for the group of spies that had been hunting him down.”

“The whole time…” Henry’s eyes widened. “You knew the whole time.”

“The stronger dog fucks the bitches, Henry,” Hans said. “I’m just tired of being the bitch.”

A fury rose up inside Henry like bile. He spat. “You’re siding with Ištván? Do you even know who he is? What he’s done? He’s going to eat you alive. You’ll be nothing but—”

Someone kicked Henry in the back of the head. Stars popped in his vision. He was manhandled, his wrists drawn painfully up and manacles slapped around them. They were looped around the bed frame, so Henry couldn’t even roll away.

“You took your time,” Hans said.

Erik Tóth straightened up. He stood over Henry but didn’t even glance down. His expression was somehow remote without being vacant—like being watched by a security camera. He was silent.

Hans flipped the safety back on his gun and tucked it into his waistband. He was breathing hard. There was a heat in him that couldn’t get out and pulsed around inside him like a pacing animal—hot like fury, like embarrassment, like excitement, it was almost pure agitation.

Heart beating frantically, Hans pushed open the other door and didn’t look back. Someone else would be around the collect Henry. The other man was yelling something but Hans’s ears were hot and ringing.

He climbed the stairs and darted into the night like a rabbit.

Erik Tóth followed his shadow. He didn’t rush. When Hans slowed down, breathing heavily, Erik caught up with him. It was gone midnight. The sky was very dark but the city glowed golden, lined with the light of the living.

From inside his funeral-black jacket, Erik drew out a pack of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. He broke the seal and held them out.

With shaking fingers, Hans plucked a cigarette out. He bent and allowed Erik to light it.

“Ištván’s plane lands in an hour,” Erik said. “He’ll speak to you soon. I am sure he will be pleased with you.”

Hans breathed out sharply. The lit end of his cigarette flared red, light catching in his wet eyes. “So, is that all?”

“Did you want more?” asked Erik.

Notes:

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_{My dad doesn't like the Escape (Piña Colada) song by Rupert Holmes because it's about a guy cheating on his wife but personally I've always kind of liked the idea. Cheating, tricking and manipulating your partner is obviously bad, but if you're both doing it to the same degree? Well ehhh?}

_{I was excited/nervous to share this chapter because it changes the direction of the story quite dramatically. Hopefully you like it. Hans pov for the next few chapters :)}

Chapter 7: Snake-Pit

Somehow, Hans ended up in a dark booth at a down-town bar. He was crammed in by the sticky table and his left ear was too close to the bar’s crackling speaker. Summer nights were hot and sweaty, and even though he’d taken off the blazer, his nice suit clung to him like shrink-wrap.

It was One in the morning. Hans had that dazed, wide-eyed tiredness, as if he’d just been on a transcontinental flight. Nothing seemed real.

Erik Tóth set a cardboard coaster down in front of him, and on top of it, a perfectly centred glass of beer.

Hans looked at the beer for a long moment before his eyes flicked up to the well-built, tall man who had placed it on the table. “How long until I can go home?”

“Ištván’s plane has landed,” Erik said. “He’s taking a car into the city. It won’t be more than two hours. We’ll meet at his town house.”

Hans stretched and shuffled about in his booth. He shouldn’t be so impatient, but he wished he could just blow off Ištván and head back to his apartment with a bottle of whisky and drink himself insensible. His heart hurt, much more than he thought it would. Something deep within him had been ripped out.

But Hans had (reluctantly) matured since the days of blowing off his responsibilities and leaving his Uncle in the dust. For all his faults, it had been Hanush’s own interest to keep Hans’s life in some kind of order, and could be trusted to smooth things over in his feral young ward’s absence. For better or worse, there was nobody looking out for Hans now, except Hans himself.

Erik took a seat opposite him.

“You don’t have to watch me so closely,” Hans said. “I’m not going to try to bolt.”

“Are you tired?” Erik asked. “Ištván can re-arrange.”

Hans narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend to be reasonable, Erik. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Erik glanced to one side. Slowly, he raised from his seat and took a step around the table. He settled in the seat near to Hans.

“Capon… We owe you. I owe you,” Erik said. “If not for you, Žižka probably would have killed Ištván. I’ll work hard to repay my debt to you.”

He hesitated, but reached a hand out and touched Hans’s collar. He gripped the nape of Hans’s neck, not tight but firm, and gave him a slight shake, like a man with a good hound. With a tug, Hans was bowed forwards, his forehead pressing against Erik’s.

“You’re one of us,” Erik said.

And all Hans could think was: Bullshit.

Gratitude and mercy were fantasies small children and weak men relied upon. Hans was not stupid enough to be tricked like that again. But the strangest thing was that Erik seemed to believe it. There was an earnest gleam in his cold blue eyes, like sunlight on arctic tides.

It took a certain kind of man to maintain a keen sense of honour for so long in close proximity to the snake Ištván Tóth. Either Erik was as dense as a brick or was a master of mental gymnastics.

With twist of his head, Hans put a polite distance between them. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Erik leaned back, blessedly giving him some more space, but his gaze was still just as intent.

Christ. It was like having a dog eager to fetch something. Hans cleared his throat. “Actually, I think alcohol will just make me too tired. Can you please go get me a canned espresso from the 24-hour place on the corner?”

Erik’s ears pricked. He nodded and stood, smoothing his blazer, and left the bar.

Finally alone, Hans sighed. His sigh came from very deep within him. He leaned on his hands, wiped his eyes, and cracked his jaw in a yawn. He felt like a thoroughly thrashed boxer, staying awake to avoid exacerbating a concussion. Because the bartender was occupied cleaning glasses, he slipped another cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and tried to be sneaky about where he blew the smoke.

 

*

 

It was another few hours until Hans was being let into Ištván Tóth’s beautiful Georgian town house. The walls were a rich, lovely dark green and someone had gone to great pains to decorate it in a tasteful, modern style. Gold glinted from picture frames and the fringes of lamps.

“Is that you?” Ištván Tóth called. “Come in, come in.”

Street lights glowed through the bay windows, staining the curtains. Ištván Tóth stood when they entered the foyer, crossed to Erik, embraced him briefly, kissed him on both cheeks—and then did the same to Hans.

Hans had not been expecting to be touched, so he could only freeze as Ištván hugged him tight, brief, and kissed his face. The older man’s cologne was woody: cedar needles, lavender, and oak. The contact was done almost as soon as Hans realised it was going to happen, and he was left cold and unsettled, but unsure if he was allowed to feel it. It was like when his Uncle had raised his voice at someone other than Hans—it triggered the same nervousness, but he knew it was also irrelevant.

“You look very handsome, Hans,” Ištván Tóth said, when he released him from the embrace. “May I call you Hans? Or is Capon better?”

“Hans is fine,” Hans said. He tried to mentally shake off his awkwardness. “Everything went off without a hitch. I caught Henry—Erik caught the others.”

“Yes, I’ve had Erik’s report,” Ištván Tóth beamed. “I must say, you definitely have the capacity for this kind of work. And it’s clearly doing you good. I’m so pleased to see how much healthier you look these days.”

Hans hesitated. He glanced at Erik.

“Oh, Erik’s heard much worse, believe me,” Ištván said. He addressed his ward. “It’s so bizarre to think of now, dear boy, but when Hans and I met, he was strung out and sucking his dealer off for another few grams.”

Hans reacted like he’d received an electric shock. “Watch it.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Ištván said, turning his mischievous gaze back on the young man. “What part of that story is inaccurate?”

Hans ignored Erik’s probing gaze. He grimaced. “It’s... I don’t like thinking about it.”

“I see. I apologise for bringing it up,” Ištván said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I’m sure that’s deep in the past, but I won’t mention it again. And the better news is, Jan Žižka is caught, hopefully for the last time. He’s a bit of a weasel, but thankfully he’s also not the brightest—the issue with Žižka is that he’s excellent at big picture, but he doesn’t pay attention to the details. He leaves weak links, and our dear Henry… was one of those weak links.”

Hans looked at the floor.

“Still, there’s no rest for the wicked,” Ištván said. “The first steps will be to see what information Jan Žižka and his team—”

“I’m pleased that you were successful,” Hans said. “But the way I see it, our deal is over… You’ve helped me, I’ve helped you, we’re both grateful… I think that will be all. I’ll be going now.”

A note of iron slipped into Hans’s voice and Erik reacted to it like a dog hearing a command. He stiffened, glancing between Ištván and Hans, his blue eyes wide and expectant. Ištván ignored him, staring straight into Hans’s eyes.

“...of course,” Ištván said. He blinked. “Going where?”

“That’s my concern,” Hans said. He kept his expression stony and hard, his back as straight as an arrow.

Ištván smiled, softly, tilting his head. “Easy now. We’re all friends here, Hans. The reason I’m asking is because… I don’t know if you’ve heard about the fire. You won’t be able to return to your apartment.”

Hans blinked. He pulled his phone out. There was nothing on the news app yet, but when he scrolled through Twitter he found that Ištván was right—he scrolled past shaky videos and photos of his apartment building, spewing flames into the night air.

“That’s a pain,” Hans said, trying to ignore the yawning dread that opened up inside him. He switched apps. “I’ll—I’ll just have to… find a hotel.”

There was a touch on his elbow and Hans realised that, while he’d been looking at his phone, Ištván had crept silently closer, until he was almost upon him. Hans swallowed thickly.

“My only concern is...” Ištván said, voice steady and reasonable, “you just made your debut back into city society last night, after a long absence. Tomorrow, they’ll be printing gorgeous photos of you in all the local magazines. If you were to get a hotel, especially at short notice…”

Ištván’s hand travelled up from Hans’s elbow to his bicep, and gave his shoulder a squeeze. His hand was very warm, and briefly, very tight.

“I’m worried the other rooms might be taken up by journalists,” Ištván said. “Or worse. You don’t have a security team any more, dear boy. It might not even be… safe. For you to be alone.”

Hans said nothing. He drew himself up, and although he didn’t glance at it, all his thoughts were directed to Ištván’s paw on his shoulder.

“I have a lot of rooms here,” Ištván said. “This town house is actually connected to the others on this block—I bought them together when the market was on a downturn. Maybe I’m just too soft-hearted, but I feel like our accounts aren’t settled yet… I mean, I took out old Hanush, who was probably going to drink himself to death anyway, and you saved my life, Hans. Why don’t you let me put you up for a few nights?”

Hans stared back at him, transfixed. Every instinct recognised something predatory in the other man. He wrestled with the overwhelming desire to say No. His hindbrain recognised the stillness behind Ištván’s eyes, the quiet power of his voice.

Capon had never felt more like a bird in a cage, being watched by a cat. The cat’s claws were hooked around the bars, and the slit yellow eyes watched him so intently.

“That’s kind of you,” Hans said. “Thank you.”

Ištván smiled. He said: “Excellent. Don’t worry, you’ll have your privacy. Erik can show you to your temporary lodgings. I’m sure you’re tired, but when you’ve had a chance to sleep, won’t you join me for dinner?”

 

*

 

Hans couldn’t sleep.

Thoughts pulsed around his brain. The guest apartments were a series of neat, stylish willow-green suites. The large cabinets held only soft, snow-white towels and spare sheets in folded stacks. A large bay window looked out on the courtyard at the centre of Ištván’s properties, a pale stone path cutting through the outline of black trees like a white scar on a dark scalp.

A voice, confused and surprised, like a child waking up from a pleasant dream: What’s—what’s going on?

Henry haunted him like a restless ghost.

Ever since the party, Hans had felt the devil crouching on his back. He caught sight of the man’s blue eyes in mirrors, slamming doors, his silhouette in fluttering curtains. There had been pain in that last look Henry had sent him.

“You don’t get to act betrayed,” Hans snapped, under his breath. “I didn’t betray you. We were playing the same fucking game. I don’t have to feel guilty for being better than you.”

“The whole time…” Henry’s eyes had widened. “You knew the whole time.”

“We’re the same,” Hans snarled. “Don’t you dare look at me with those eyes.”

Whatever he might have felt for Henry, none of their relationship had existed in reality. It had been like an silly television soap, and he could suspend his disbelief for the run time. Hans would never actually be a young college student, studying business, setting his life back on track.

But it had been surprisingly easy to slip into the rhythm—it was effortless to be sweet on Henry when the TV show cameras inside Hans’s mind focused on the scene. He could play Sweet Boyfriend for as long as was needed, and so long as it wasn’t real, all the messy, disgusting parts of Hans could be left on the cutting room floor. It was a summer fling, and Henry would never have to deal with a breakdown or a relapse, he’d never have to cope with Hans’s mood swings or foul temper or erratic self-destructive episodes.

Handsome, dedicated and steady Henry was the kind of boyfriend Hans could never have. That love never found him. Hans would feel guilty about dragging such a nice guy into his chaos, his bad luck, his foul attitude.

And, of course, Hans didn’t betray Henry because he didn’t know Henry. He’d only known Henry the mask. They’d always be strangers. He didn’t know the real Henry at all, Henry had just been a figment of his imagination, Hans had looked into the screen and seen what he’d wanted to see, it was only—

“If you want, we can skip tonight,” Henry said, the words just falling out of him.

Hans punched the wall.

With a growl, Hans threw his apartment door open, stalking down the long corridor. Empty guest suites lined the long corridor. He paced silently past, taking the stairs two at a time, unnerved by the silence.

The last thing he wanted to do was stumble upon Ištván’s bedchambers. The man’s coffin was probably installed in one of these rooms. Instead, Hans headed down the next set of stairs and wandered through empty, cold kitchens until he found the door which led out into the courtyard.

Dark trees leaned over the path. A cool wind stirred up the waxy black leaves, creaking the trees. Everything seemed to loom up at Hans as he passed. The courtyard wasn’t large, and Hans kept reaching one of the other houses which pinned him inside, so he was forced to circle around and around, beating a path into the pavement. He passed the same wrought iron bench over and over. It only made him feel more like a caged animal.

Erik materialised out of the night.

“Jesus!” Hans snapped, stopping abruptly to avoid bumping into him. His heart thumped.

Erik looked down at him. It was only about an hour until dawn, and the dark heavens had an orange tint to it at the corners. Erik was so pale in the pre-dawn half-light that there was an unearthly glow about him, like an extraterrestrial. He wasn’t used to the air on Planet Earth, and human clothes didn’t fit on his body like they should.

“What are you doing creeping around out here? Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Hans asked. His tone was almost scolding.

“I could see you, Capon,” Erik said, pointing back towards the direction he’d come in. “From my window.”

Hans tried to work out which of the black, glossy windows he was pointing to. It could be any one of them.

Erik put his hands back in his pocket. “Do you want to talk about something?”

Hans scoffed. “With you?”

Erik only looked down at him. The question clearly hadn’t been covered in his human-language phrasebook.

Hans leaned back. He folded his arms, irritation draining out of him. Misery curled up in his belly like a cold snake. “You’re an assassin, aren’t you? Do you ever… I mean, what do you do when you feel guilty? About the people that you kill?”

Erik tilted his head. In the watery, pre-dawn light, his irises looked grey and his pupils were dilated to catch all the possible ambient light. “You’re thinking about your Uncle?”

Hans hesitated. He averted his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

Erik drew back slightly. He thought, his eyes flickering across the gloomy paving slabs that separated them. Then, regretfully, he just shook his head.

“Ištván gives me my orders,” Erik said. “I’ve never felt remorse.”

Hans was speechless. A rush of heat—hot fear, like a sudden fever. He’d spent all this time fearing that Ištván would devour him. But there was a worse fate. The deeper fear—that Hans might some day end up as a dog of a man, just like Erik, walking and talking just for Ištván, licking Ištván’s palms, forever waiting on Ištván’s command. Hans shuddered. He’d rather be dead. He wouldn’t call a life like that living.

“Well. I mean, that certainly makes things…” Hans searched for the word. “Simple.”

Notes:

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<sub>Thank you for the phenomenal reception of the last chapter :D I think the concept of Hans enlisting Ištván's help to escape Hanush is so funny... if you liked the frying pan you're just gonna LOVE the fire >:O

I've been sooo excited to explore Ištván, Erik & Hans... I have so much in store ;)</sub>

Chapter 8: At Home in the Mirror

Hans woke up from a restless dream and peeled himself off the mattress. He had stripped to his white vest and wore his dress trousers without a belt or socks, in lieu of sleepwear. In the full light of day, the willow-green wallpaper showed subtle tracings of vines which stretched from wall to wall in delicate, looping curls. Their pattern was so intricate that Hans’s gaze kept getting trapped in their coils.

There was a knock at Hans’s door. He crossed to the short hallway and pulled it open.

Ištván Tóth stood at the entrance to his guest suite. There were a stack of brown paper wrapped soft parcels in his arms. “I know you lost a lot of your belongings to the apartment fire, so I took the liberty of buying you a few new suits and more casual outfits that match your measurements. Nothing couture, I’m afraid, but they’re still high-quality for pieces that are off the rack.”

Hans took the stack of parcels. Actually, it was quite a thoughtful gesture. He’d been wondering what he was supposed to wear whilst Ištván’s staff laundered his only suit.

“Thank you,” Hans said. He set the parcels down and unwrapped the top one, pulling out a crisp white dress shirt cut in the Italian style. He held it up to his chest, watching himself in the mirror.

“Is there anything else you might need?” Ištván asked.

“A discrete holster,” Hans said, holding the shirt against his chest. His eyes dropped to his reflection’s unshaven jaw. “I don’t like having my gun in my waistband.”

“Are you sure you want a holster?” Ištván said. “I have plenty of men on staff who would be able to protect you far better than you’re able to protect yourself.”

“Better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it?” Hans asked.

“But it ruins the line of your suit,” Ištván said, touching the bottom of Hans’s ribs. “You have such a nice waist.”

Hans reacted like a spooked horse. He jolted back, elbowing Ištván in the chest and scrambling away. The fine white shirt was crushed in his fist. “What the fuck was that?” Hans snarled.

“What was what?” Ištván asked, innocently. He rubbed his chest, where Hans had elbowed him.

“Why did you…?” Hans tried, but his indignation fizzled out, leaving him cold. Ištván had only touched his lower ribs, over his vest, to illustrate the cut of his waist. Hans tried to articulate in his head why the touch had sent such a white-hot bolt of fear through him, but he couldn’t find the right words.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ištván said, softly. “I know you’ve had a difficult past few days. It’s natural to be highly strung.”

“That’s not what I…” Hans frowned. “I’m sorry. You’re fine, you’re right, I’m just stressed.”

“Any particular reason?” Ištván asked, sitting on Hans’s bed.

Hans said nothing. He extracted the crushed shirt from his fist. It was hopelessly wrinkled, the white cotton forming an interesting geometric pattern where his fingers had tightened.

“Hans… I am genuinely sorry,” Ištván said. “Look, if anything I did overstepped the mark then I apologise. That’s never been my intention. It's just that you remind me of myself at your age and nobody looked out for me. I’d rather you didn’t have to go through that.”

Hans turned and looked over his shoulder. His heart was still beating, hard, and his skin had a cold prickle like static electricity running over it. “I’m not your ward.”

“Of course not. It’s too late for that,” Ištván said. “But I can't say I have much respect for the men who did fill that role for you."

Hans looked at him, warily. "What do you mean?"

"The way you react shows how you're used to being treated,” Ištván said. “Boys shouldn't flinch and jump when someone touches them, but many Fathers treat their children like lepers. They don't kiss or cuddle them. It's a lonely way to grow up... being so suspicious of physical affection."

The cat licked its whiskers, pushing the hanging cage by its bars to watch the bird shuffle about on its perch.

“I think I’d like you to leave,” Hans said, tightly. “Please.”

Ištván watched him. He lingered, staying sat on the bed for a long moment, just to show that he could. It was his bed, after all, his suite, his house, his world. In all ways except the strict legality, Hans did belong to him.

But Ištván rose, smoothly, to his feet. He bent close to Hans’s ear and said: “You should wear the blue suit to dinner tonight. It brings out your eyes.” He shut the door quietly behind him as he left.

 

*

 

When Hans had dressed (in the ugly cream-white suit that washed him out) he went for a smoke in the courtyard. After finishing three cigarettes he couldn’t escape the feeling of being closely watched—although he couldn’t see anyone in the walls of square windows that surrounding the small courtyard.

After choosing one of the buildings at random, Hans ended up in a library. It wasn’t a large room, but he found pacing the bookshelves to be more calming than pacing the courtyard had been. Henry would have liked a room like this—he had mentioned going to college, but that his home town had been too small for a decent library. Hans had wanted to take him to memorial library a few cities over, where the domed ceiling had been painted with beautiful frescos of the garden of Eden.

Christ! Hans needed to speak to another human being who wasn’t Ištván or Ištván’s brainless Igor. He needed a break from the constant anxious ruminations. He left the library, caught sight of movement, and headed towards it.

Three guards were playing cards at the end of the corridor. The largest one looked up as Hans approached. “You’re not supposed to go past the doors behind us.”

“I didn’t want to,” Hans said. Behind the guards was the modified rooms that formed Ištván’s cellblock—probably the last place on Earth Hans wanted to visit, even though he kept navigating back here with a magnetic pull.

“Oh,” the large guard said. “Are you waiting for someone, then, Mister…?”

“Capon,” Hans said. “And yourself?”

“I’m Runt,” the large guard said. He gestured at his companions. “That’s Mariusz, and Arutr.”

When Runt moved, something pearly-white flashed at his belt. The gun at his belt wasn’t a boxy glock or a practical, standard issue pistol, but something far more ornate.

“Can I see your gun?” Hans asked, abruptly.

Runt glanced at his companions. None of them seemed willing to object. With great reluctance, Runt pulled his gun out and held it out. “Don’t touch the trigger, sir, it’s loaded.”

Hans resisted rolling his eyes. He took the colt and turned it over. It was phenomenally beautiful. The slider had been etched with a delicate floral pattern. It was the pearl ivory grip of a custom colt revolver, tucked into his holster. Hans couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was like finding a sewer rat wearing a diamond earring.

Upon the pearl handle had been carved an inscription, visible only in certain angles of light but always felt when the gun was in hand, pressing into the fingertips of the shooter when they held it to fire.

_{HAL - DO NOT REPAY EVIL FOR EVIL
OR REVILING FOR REVILING, BUT
ON THE CONTRARY, BLESS,
FOR TO THIS YOU WERE CALLED.}

Hans ran his thumb over the inscription. He recognised it as a bible quote, although he wasn’t familiar enough to place it properly. He liked it. It stuck in his mind. Bless, for to this, you were called.

“It’s... a strange thing to write on a gun,” Hans said.

“Ain’t it?” Runt said. “I suppose it’s sarcastic.”

“I think you mean ironic,” Hans said. “How much do you want for it?”

Runt’s eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed in suspicion. He took in Hans’s fine suit, his neat Italian leather shoes, dollar bills racking up behind his small eyes. He made a little lurch forward, as if to suggest a number, and then reconsidered it.

“Well, a custom piece in such good condition…” Runt said. “It’s priceless, really. I couldn’t think about giving it up for less than ten… fifteen thousand—”

“I’ll give you twenty thousand,” Hans said, pulling out his cheque-book and writing out the amount.

Runt was initially pleased, and then his suspicion took over again. He was clearly wondering if he had somehow been cheated out of a truly priceless piece. He gave the gun a longing look.

“Twenty thousand for the gun and an extra five thousand for the holster?” Hans asked, wondering if the guard’s greed was truly bottomless. He finished writing the cheque and signed it.

Runt eagerly undid his holster and passed it over. Hans slipped it over his own waist, under his blazer, and fastened it tight. He folded the cheque up and surrendered it.

“Thank you, sir,” Runt said, tucking the cheque neatly away. “I’ll keep an eye out for other such pieces that might be of your interest. I’ll put together a list for you—I know of some truly special weapons, just tell me what might suit your fancy?”

“I’ll let you know,” Hans said, sliding the colt into his holster and closing his blazer. He went back down the corridor in the direction he’d come from.

It felt good to have a gun against his side again. The colt was truly beautiful, the pearl was moonlight bright and the barrel so perfectly weighted. Bless, for to this, you were called. Hans slipped his fingers under his blazer to touch the grip. The pearl was as sleek as polished silver.

Someone fell into step with him, tailing his shadow. Hans didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know it was Erik.

“You don’t have to hide the gun,” Erik said.

Hans had no idea where Erik could have been watching from, to see that whole exchange without Hans noticing him. Hans glanced back at him. “It’s mine.”

“I know. Ištván would have understood,” Erik said. “He can be sentimental, too.”

Hans crossed through the threshold, back into the courtyard. “Sentimental? Sentimental is a stretch… but I can believe Ištván keeps trophies of his victims.”

Erik frowned. “You don’t have to talk about him like that. He’s not an unfeeling monster.”

Hans came to an abrupt halt.

Erik stopped, too, just a step behind him.

Above them, the wind caught the trees and sent a ripple through the dark leaves. The sky was piercingly blue and scrubbed clean of clouds, bright enough to burn through the gaps in the canopy. Gravel crunched under their dress shoes.

“He’s just a man,” Erik said. “He has a heart, you know.”

“You see what you need to see,” Hans said. He looked back. “If I had spent ten years with an Iron Maiden in my bed, I would probably start thinking it loved me, too.”

Erik considered those words at length. He nodded slightly. “That’s an inventive metaphor. You have a real way with words, Capon.”

Hans frowned. He wasn’t quite sure—but he had the odd sense that Erik was amused. It was difficult to tell with a man who didn’t smile. Could Erik Tóth have a sense of humour? Were such things possible? Hans should ring his Father and ask if Hell was starting to freeze over.

 

*

 

They sat at opposite ends of a long, polished red cedar table with a line of four heavy, silver candelabras down the centre. Hans glanced over the black charger plates, the flanking lines of silver cutlery, and the three empty, crystalline red wine, white wine and water glasses at his two o’Clock. There was even a large, boisterous centrepiece bouquet of orange roses, gladioli, and sprays of lavender, which partially blocked Erik, who sat at the table’s centre, from view. Someone who hadn’t grown up with a butler would probably be impressed.

Ištván smiled at him from all the way down the table. He leaned back against the ornate, dark wood Georgian-style dining chair—probably actually 19th century, although a good reproduction—and nodded his head politely. “Are the guest rooms to your liking?”

“They’re great,” Hans said. “Much better than sleeping on the street.”

Ištván beckoned with a delicate hand.

Servants brought in plates, which they set in front of Ištván and Hans. One of the well-dressed waiters bent at the hip to fill Hans’s wine glass. The servant accidentally filled Capon’s white-wine glass with an aromatic red, and while Hans didn’t comment on it, annoyance flickered across Ištván’s countenance.

Steam rolled off the meal. It was a generous cut of Wagyu stake, framed by baked, crushed new potatoes with pesto and an asparagus garnish. Hans’s gaze drifted from his plate, along the empty table, to Ištván’s meal laid out before the older man.

“Erik doesn’t get a plate?” Hans observed. “Or is he not allowed to eat at the table?”

Erik lifted his head up.

Ištván smiled tightly. “You have… such a unique sense of humour, Hans. But let me worry about Erik.”

Hans cut up his meat. He ate a sliver of Wagyu.

“I can’t believe how much work I came back to,” Ištván said. “But it’s good to be back in the city. It really is beautiful this time of year, wouldn’t you agree?”

Why do I feel like I’m on a very bad first date…? Hans wondered. He sipped his wine.

“The only issue is the constant buzzing of the Cicadas,” Ištván said. “You can’t escape them. It’s a constant whine, especially on hot night. It drives me crazy when I’m here, but when I’m gone, I find I miss it.”

The steak was very nice. Hans liked the potatoes, too.

“Is something the matter?” Ištván asked. “I’ve never known you to be shy, Hans.”

“Why was Jan Žižka trying to kill you?” Hans asked, sipping his wine.

Ištván chuckled. “It’s a little late to be asking that, wouldn’t you say?”

“Really? I think it’s the perfect time to do a little retrospective,” Hans said. “Especially if our… business relationship seems to be continuing, it seems like a prudent question to answer.”

“Someone could take offence,” Ištván said, lightly. “I don’t know for sure why a man like that fixated on me. Perhaps I didn’t share my knowledge because it’s a private matter.”

“I rather think you’ve made it my business,” Hans said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ištván paused, his wine glass in his hand. His eyes looked very dark. He still had a slight smile, but it looked less like amusement and more like something he’d forgotten to take off.

Hans tilted his head to one side, refusing to withdraw the question.

“I think the truth is, until Jan Žižka and his team have been through several rounds of interrogations, it will be difficult to tell. Perhaps they aren’t working independently. It could be that Žižka thinks he’s waging a Holy war, but actually he’s being puppeted by one of my business competitors.”

“So you really have no idea,” Hans said. “You knew an attempt was coming, you’ve had him try to kill you before, you’ve even caught him before… and all that led to absolutely nothing but baseless conjecture. You didn’t learn a thing.”

The comment hit its mark, ruffling Ištván’s professional pride. Hans watched him shift about slightly. Playing dumb was very uncomfortable for a man like Ištván; his pride wouldn’t allow the comment to settle unchallenged. He had to push back on it.

“It’s a delicate matter,” Ištván said, finally. “It concerns you.”

“Me?” Hans asked.

“There’s a reason they were trying the Honey-Trap you,” Ištván said. “They hoped to secure a relationship with you for your money—but they knew I’d taken out Hanush for you, so they had to deal with me first. After I was dead, they’d trick you into a marriage, put you under a conservatorship again, and steal every red cent of the Capon legacy.”

Hans blinked.

For a moment—he believed it. Henry was clearly not the one pulling the strings. Henry could easily be the patsy for Jan Žižka, lined up to kill Ištván for some other reason, while Žižka and his team ate well on the winnings. All that struggle and Hans would’ve let his foolish heart take him right back to the beginning again.

Hans shook his head, sharply. He leaned over his dinner. “Wow. So you’re telling me—that you approached me in that drug den to offer not just to deal with my Uncle, but also to tie up all the loose ends with other competitors to my fortune? Žižka would be after you for no other reason – so you expect me to believe didn’t benefit from our deal at all, in fact you put yourself at great personal risk? For a stranger? Are you going for sainthood, Ištván?”

There was a quiet tap and Hans glanced down. He realised Erik had tapped the table to get his attention and was now staring at him, blue eyes wide and concerned. Erik shook his head sharply. It was a look Uncle Hanush had given him, often, and it meant shut the fuck up before you get yourself in trouble. Erik looked panicked and Hanush had looked pissed, but all attempts were hopeless, because Hans had never been able to control himself.

“Not just that,” Hans continued, a little louder. “But apparently you could predict Jan Žižka’s entire plan that night, from our one conversation. You must have seen it in your crystal ball, I suppose. And all the other times you’ve caught Žižka—I’m to assume you have a long history of helping out young, wealthy heirs and heiresses, completely selflessly, not earning a single penny for yourself. Is that it?”

Silence descended.

Hans straightened up in his chair, heart thumping wildly. It was like the moment after he’d been pulled over for DUI, sitting in the driver’s seat with his head swimming with whiskey, waiting for the Officer to exit his vehicle and come around to the window.

Ištván set his cutlery down. He looked at his meal to hide his expression for a moment.

Then Ištván laughed. It a was a fully-bodied, confident laugh, a rich man’s laugh. “Quick as a fox, aren’t we? I’m impressed.”

Hans narrowed his eyes. He didn’t smile.

“You remind me of myself, when I was your age,” Ištván said. There was an appreciative rumble to his voice. “I didn’t let anyone lead me around by the nose. I respect it. You’re your own man, you want to make your own decisions.”

Patronising asshole, Hans thought to himself. He said, woodenly, “Thank you.”

Ištván had a mayoral smile, teeth white and straight. “I apologise for the mystery, Hans. I would’ve told you the truth from the beginning, but it’s not my story to tell. You see, my employer is a man who values discretion.”

“I already know you’re part of the mob,” Hans said, flatly. “There’s no need to be coy.”

Erik shot him another warning look, which Hans ignored. He knew his tone was far too aggressive and dangerously flippant, but he also couldn’t stop himself. Fear made him act out and strict command made him erratic, like a badly trained dog.

“Well, okay. I will say, I don’t like that term,” Ištván said. “All business operates within a spectrum of acceptability. Do banks never break the law? We hear every day about the Police being thugs, about Casinos draining life savings, and don’t get me started on the medical system in this country… and what is the law, anyway? Who decides it? Because, increasingly, it seems to me that the only real problem me and my associates present is that the money we earn, we keep. If we gave the government a slice of the pie, we’d be celebrated as entrepreneurs, the men who make this city what it is.”

Hans sipped his wine.

“You can think of me… as a marketing executive,” Ištván said. “I make sure our business ventures are portrayed in the best possible light. I smooth out wrinkles. I network. I know people in the right places… and I think, by now, you know you’re one of those people, in one of those right places.”

“And what place is that?” Hans asked.

Ištván steepled his fingers together and leaned forward. “You know, there’s one thing money can’t buy. It’s reputation. I’m talking about your surname, Capon.”

“I was under the impression that the new money-old money divide wasn’t what it once was,” Hans said. “Aren’t we past that?”

“Humankind will never let go of the fascination with legacy,” Ištván sighed. “I’ve built myself up from nothing – truly nothing – but, because my name’s not chiselled into the foundations of this country, there are doors that won’t ever open to me. No matter how much I accomplish, a single generation isn’t enough to capitalise on it.”

“Hmm. Blood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Hans said.

Ištván smiled, closed-mouthed. He beckoned with two fingers, and a servant stepped towards Hans, sliding a Manila folder onto the table next to his elbow. Hans set his cutlery down and flipped the folder open. Inside there was only one Polaroid photograph.

It was a sepia-toned photograph a man, maybe thirty or forty, with the kind of classic, Clark Kent, Hollywood good looks that would made a housewife swoon. His hair was receding, but it held a strong, dark teak brown, there were wrinkles around his blue eyes but he wore them well. He wore a thick autumnal sweater rolled up to the elbow, and he held a sleeping baby in his arms, tucked into his broad chest.

“Who’s this?” Hans asked, frowning at the photograph.

“You know him,” Ištván said. “Look again.”

Hans picked the photograph up and studied it. There was definitely something familiar about the air of quiet dignity around the man, the earnestness of his smile. The man smiled as through the photographer was an old friend. The baby slept so deeply in his arms, chubby little hand resting against its round cheek.

“Oh shit,” Hans said, shaking the photograph. “This is Divish of Talmberg! Before his hair went white. But who’s baby is this? I thought Divish never had children…”

“The child is you,” Ištván said.

Hans’s stomach dropped. He glanced back at the photograph. There was indeed a small blonde curl against Divish’s sweater. Hans had never seen his own baby photos—the earliest he’d seen had been him at five or six, in a tiny, stiff suit, holding his Father’s hand.

“Before your parents divorced, when you were still very small, your Father and Divish worked together on several wide-spread projects,” Ištván said. “At this point in time, Divish was between wives, so he was a single man. For three years in a row during this time period, he summered with your parents and assisted with childcare.”

Hans stared into the photo. Of course he didn’t remember. How could he? Hans had forgotten he had once been very small.

“How do you know that?” Hans asked, seriously. “And where did you get this photograph?”

Ištván said: “My employer works in logistics, and the Talmberg company has several lucrative government deals that make breaking into certain areas of the market very difficult. Now, our aim is not to oust Talmberg—we don’t have the capital to replace him. We’re only interested in a collaboration.”

“And ‘logistics’ is a euphemism for…?” Hans flipped the photo over and saw date written in faded blue ballpoint pen. It dated the photo as six weeks before Hans’s second birthday. He wasn’t familiar enough with either of his parent’s handwriting to know if one of them had written the numbers.

Ištván clearly didn’t like speaking plainly. “For the drug trade. My employer owns a very large share in the city’s supply.” Ištván smiled to himself. “Funny to think that the Heroin you were killing yourself with was probably supplied by one of my associates.”

“What a relief to learn I was supporting local businesses,” Hans said, dryly. He set the photograph down. The morsel of information Ištván had given him didn’t actually change a thing, and yet it felt like it had. “You want me to help get Divish on your side?”

“We can’t work with him without an introduction,” Ištván said. “When Talmberg’s with us, we’ll be able to expand. Right now, it’s a limiting factor, but with his ships and lorries, we’ll be able to transport a much greater quantity of product into the country.”

Hans leaned on his wrist. At this rate, Ištván and his associates would be able to sell crack at every corner store in the city.

“All you need to do is get us an initial meeting,” Ištván said. “I can pitch to him. It’ll be like any other business deal, and if he doesn’t like it, he’s free to walk away.”

Briefly, Hans considered denying him. He imagined living in a world where he could just tell Ištván to piss off and go die.

“Alright,” Hans said, reluctantly.

Ištván smiled. He pushed his unfinished plate back and stood. “That’s great news. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to make… That’s one of the downsides of an international organisation, time zones make for awkward meeting times.” He nodded to Hans and left the dining room.

Hans watched him go.

Slowly, Erik dragged his chair over, so he could lean towards Hans. He looked stricken, pale brow knitted together, working on a thought that troubled him.

“You can eat my leftovers if you really want, I won’t tell,” Hans whispered. “Why not take a break from dog food, just for tonight?”

Erik grimaced, as if the joke had a bad smell. “You should watch your tone when you speak to Ištván.”

“What? Didn’t you just get done telling me he was actually a super sweet lovely guy?” Hans asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You need to talk to him with respect.”

“I’ll be respectful when he treats me with respect—but not before,” Hans said. “I don’t find it respectful to give me lie after lie and expect me to obey him mindlessly. It’s not escaped my notice that he never actually answered my question. I’m not his ward, I’m not his employee and I’m certainly not his fucking house pet.”

Erik’s gaze darted about Hans’s face. He looked troubled and tried to say a few things but nothing came out of his mouth. He swallowed. “Just be careful.”

Chapter 9: Discipline

Notes:

Chapter Specific Triggers

someone gets peed on (not sexual)

The car came to a gentle stop, gravel crunching under the wheels. Hans rolled down his window and pressed the intercom, holding for the call to connect.

“Allô! Is this a delivery? You can just leave it in the box there! You see, by the post?”

The voice was sweet, high and feminine, with a lingering French accent which sparkled through her words like champagne bubbles. Hans cleared his throat. “Hi! No, this is Ha—this is Johannes Capon?”

“Ah, Yoann.” There was a loud electronic buzz. “I’ve opened the gate! Just drive up and see us.”

“Thank you,” Hans said, and pulled his arm back inside the car. He rolled up his window and glanced across to the passenger seat. “I know Ištván’s plan, but don’t say you’re my bodyguard. It’ll look weird that I felt the need to bring a guard with me.”

“There’s nothing strange about having a bodyguard,” Erik said. “You’re a wealthy young individual with many enemies.”

As the towering mansion gates opened, Hans nosed the car through the widening gap. “Just say you’re my journalist friend who wants the chance to interview Stephanie. She’s got a hair-care brand you can ask her about. That’s much more normal.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” Erik said.

“I know you’ve never had a friend before, Erik,” Hans said. “But it’s really not that complicated.”

Hans parked the car.

The mansion was massive, circling the large, teardrop-shaped drive with half a dozen conjoined pink-brick buildings. Pillars supposed sloping, pale grey rooftops that all rose into sharp points. White capped and framed the doorways, windows, and the edge of the roof tile like frosting on a pink wedding cake.

Erik was already looming over the driver’s side door by the time Hans had switched the engine off and exited. Hans waved him back to get a little space.

“Yoann!” Stephanie called, with a wave. The grand expansive of space was impressive, but it had a practical drawback, and it took the young woman almost a minute to cross from the front door to where Hans had parked.

“Stephanie?” Hans smiled. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Please, call me Hans.”

Stephanie kissed him on both cheeks, her statement earrings flashing brightly, and hugged him. She smelled like flowers and spice. “Oh, Hans. Divish has told me so much about you. He’s very excited to catch up with you, thank you for coming.”

“Ah, yeah,” Hans said. He patted her back. “It’s not really a social call…”

“I know, I know,” Stephanie said. “He mentioned you’re making some introduction, but I’m sure there’s enough time for a little bit of both.” She pulled away and glanced over to Erik. “And who’s your friend?”

When Stephanie glanced over, a note of concern tightened her well-plucked brow. Hans started to notice how Erik must look to other people—Erik was the definition of imposing. When he walked into a room, conversation stopped, and everyone avoided his eyes.

“I’m Erik,” Erik said. “I’m Capon’s Chauffeur.”

“Chauffeur?” Stephanie asked. She giggled. “But Yoann rang the intercom…? Are you a backseat Chauffeur?”

Erik went stiff and tight, his blue eyes wide. He said nothing.

“Well, no,” Hans said. He cleared his throat. “Sorry for the lie. The walking refrigerator is actually my partner—we just don’t want the press to know yet.”

“Oh!” Stephanie beamed. “Of course. Sorry for prying—your secret’s safe with me. Anyway, come in, let’s be sociable.”

“That sounds great,” Hans said.

Hans could feel Erik’s intense eyes on the back of his head, and moment Stephanie was turned, Erik leaned over his shoulder. Erik was very close at his heels, almost tripping him up, like an overeager hound.

“You should not have said that,” Erik murmured. “Ištván will not be happy with a lie like that.”

“Then don’t tell him?” Hans snapped back in an undertone. “God, you are so whipped.”

Hans sped up. He climbed up the stairs to the stoop and slipped in the front door which Stephanie held open. A large, vibrant rug covered the floor in the large foyer. A thick-furred Maine Coon sat on the cabinet by the bowl of keys and a neglected coffee mug.

Stephanie led them to the kitchen. She wore an ankle-length, multicoloured dress that would only look so beautiful on a woman of Stephanie’s generous, statuesque figure. The walls were decorated with several canvases of bright but somewhat incoherent modern art.

“Your place is beautiful,” Hans said.

“I’m glad you think so,” Stephanie said. “I redecorate it from top to bottom every eight months or so. Div jokes that we just get finished putting the last tile of the new patio down—before I start from scratch in the attic again.”

Stephanie stopped at the black-marble kitchen island. “Do you want something to drink? I have just about everything you can think of: coffee, tea, juice, kombucha, matcha...”

“Oh. Erik’s a big fan of kombucha,” Hans said.

Stephanie beamed. “Well, you’re in luck, I make my own.”

When Stephanie’s back was turned, Erik shot Hans a very hateful look. It vanished when Stephanie looked to him and held out a glass bottle of fermented berry kombucha.

Erik accepted the drink as if it might bite him. He said, unconvincingly: “Thank you.”

“And for you, Hans?” Stephanie asked, offering another bottle of kombucha.

“Thank you,” Hans said, taking it and snapping the screw-top cap off. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

Stephanie paused in the middle of closing the fridge. She flushed. “Well I… it’s early days, but… I’m actually pregnant.”

“You are?” Hans beamed.

Stephanie nodded, almost shyly.

Hans sipped his kombucha. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you… We’ve been trying for so long… I’m wary of hoping, but it’s been about four months since the IVF was successful, so I’ve started to tell people about it,” Stephanie said. “I’m working on designing the nursery, but narrowing it down to just one type of interior design is so hard. Which do you think is better environment for a newborn, Old French Country, or something inspired by Mezcala sculptural style?”

Hans shook his head. “I don’t even know how to answer that. Perhaps you could decorate two nurseries and alternate between them.”

“Now that’s a winning idea,” Stephanie said, thoughtfully.

Erik finally worked up the nerve to break the seal on his kombucha. He gave it a worrisome sniff.

“So, your husband,” Hans prompted.

“Oh, yes,” Stephanie said. “He had to attend a quick virtual meeting, but he should be finished with that soon. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

Erik set the kombucha down untouched. “May I make some coffee, Miss?”

Stephanie blinked at him. Erik had a way of melting into the background, despite his imposing build. “Of course. There’s a jar of grounds are in the cabinet.” She turned her attention back to Hans. “You know, when I told him I was pregnant, he mentioned you.”

“Me?” Hans asked.

“He said he remembered caring for you when you were just a few years old, and he’d decided to become a Father the first day he’d met you,” Stephanie said. “Of course, it took him a long time to bring it about. This was years before I met him, but I would’ve loved to see it, though.”

Hans didn’t point out the obvious—that if Stephanie had been there to see Hans as a baby, she would have only been nine or ten herself.

Erik seemed more comfortable now he had something to do with his hands—he filled a cafetière with coffee grounds and poured near-boiling water over them, releasing a plume of delicious-smelling steam.

The door to the kitchen pushed open, and Divish entered. He was just as Hans remembered—a proud, white lion of a man, with his hair neatly combed back from his high, regal forehead. His chest was broad and his gait still held a power, despite his age.

When he laid eyes on Hans, his face broke into a smile. “Johannes! Good God, boy, you’ve grown. I think I last saw you at Ješek’s funeral.”

“Well, it has been almost a decade,” Hans said.

“How time flies,” Divish said. “It feels like only yesterday, you were as small as the palms of my two hands.”

Erik poured out a cup of coffee and offered it to Hans.

Hans accepted the mug, barely glancing at him, “Thanks, Hen—” Hans floundered for a moment. “Uh, Honey.”

Erik’s gaze had a tangible weight.

“How now, who’s this daunting fellow?” Divish asked, frowning at Erik.

“That’s Hans’s boyfriend, Erik,” Stephanie said, apparently very pleased to share the news.

Divish raised his eyebrows and glanced between the two young men. “Oh, I see. You’re gay now?”

“Well, bisexual,” Hans said. He sipped his coffee.

“Oh, yes. Bi-Sexual,” Divish said. He nodded to himself and smoothed his beard. “That’s very clever. I like it.”

Hans glanced at the ceiling. “Thank you? I think.”

“Ok, sweetie,” Stephanie kissed her husband’s cheek. “I think I should head to my spin class now. But Hans, if end up staying, we’ll have salmon for dinner. They’ll be enough for you, and for Erik, of course.”

“Maybe. I’d like that,” Hans said. Erik inclined his head.

Stephanie left in a swirl of flowery perfume, her earring winking brightly. Divish watched her go.

Divish accepted the cup of coffee Erik offered to him, and took a sip. “Shall we head to my office, Johannes?”

Erik made a move to follow, and Divish put a hand out to block him. “Alone?”

Hans and Erik shared a look. “Of course,” Hans said.

The pair of them left Erik in the kitchen. He followed them with his eyes, sipping his coffee. The office door swung shut, with a noise-proof seal around the frame.

Divish sat down by his impressive desk, and gestured for the seat opposite. Hans took it, setting his coffee down on the arm. It was like being called in to see the principle or an expensive therapist, both scenarios Hans had a lot of experience with.

“You can start whenever you’re ready,” Divish said.

“Right,” Hans said. He pulled the slightly-squashed folder out from his jacket and passed it over. “I can’t give you the full pitch. Ištván Tóth approached me with the proposal, but I don’t have full control over my company’s operations yet, so I wanted to highlight it to you in case you were interested. It’s something that’s time-sensitive.”

“And how did you meet Tóth?” Divish asked. He finished his coffee and set the empty mug down so he could flip through the folder.

Hans hesitated. “At a gala.”

“He must have been a very impressive speaker,” Divish said. “You’ve never taken any interest in company matters before, isn’t that right? That’s what I hear down the grapevine.”

Hans’s mouth was dry. “He’s… a very passionate public speaker. He’s convincing.”

Divish met his eye. Hans’s heart beat hard.

“I’m sure he is, Johannes,” Divish said, a note of sorrow in his voice. He closed the folder. “I’ll tell you, I have no interest in the proposal. It’s the same old crap he sends me twice a year. I wanted to meet with you… because I’m concerned about your connection with Tóth.”

Hans stared.

“Do I have reason to be concerned?” Divish asked.

“No,” Hans said. “There’s nothing unpleasant about my connection with—I don’t have a connection with Tóth. There’s no reason to be concerned about me.”

Divish tilted his head. “Johannes… I know you’ve had a hard life. It must be difficult to trust people. You’ve been let down by your parents, you’ve been let down by your guardian, and now you’re without any family at all.” He wiped his face. “God knows if I had any legal right to you…”

Hans shifted about in his seat. “I’m not asking for you to get involved.”

“And I don’t remember asking permission, young man,” Divish said, sternly. “I don’t know what Tóth has on you, but regardless, I’d like to hear the truth.”

Hans looked at the floor. Divish and Hanush had been close friends. There was really no way of telling how he might respond to finding out Hanush’s fate.

“There’s no rush,” Divish said.

Hans’s eyes skated about the roof. He took in the large monstera plant that hung over the rug. The bookshelf was filled with books on business and the memoirs of various notable politicians and figures. On Divish’s desk was a framed photograph of his wife at the beach, her hair tangled in the wind.

Hans had never told anybody the truth before—nobody except Henry. Everyone else had heard lie after lie. Henry was an exception, to everything, and it had been easy to tell him about Hanush’s behaviour, about his mother’s breakdown. He had sensed that Henry would be delicate with it, and so the truth just slipped out of him, like fish escaping a net. When he reached for it now, he felt a hot, painful nest of nerves, too sensitive to even touch.

“I…” Hans hesitated. “You know, I… had a problem with…”

Divish coughed, suddenly and loudly.

With a terrible, rattling wheeze, Divish stood up, knocking his chair back. His face was tense, bright red, and a vein throbbed above his brow.

“Divish?” Hans stood up. “What’s wrong?”

Divish collapsed.

Hans leaped towards him. He pulled the old man up so he lay straight, and searched his face. Had he choked? He was still breathing, thinly and wheezily, but there was his horrible tension that tightened every part of him, like an electric current passing through him.

“Divish?” Hans lightly slapped his face. He pressed his ear to the old man’s chest. “Can you hear me?”

Divish’s skin had a greyish pallor and his brow had a high, glossy shine. Under his nails, the flesh was turning blue. Hans tore open his shirt to start chest compressions. Divish’s chest was soft and scraggly with white hair.

“The effects mimic a heart attack,” Erik said from the doorway. “But it’s untraceable.”

“Erik!” Hans cried. “Call 911! He’s—Divish is—”

Erik stood in the doorway, his eyes bright and empty.

“What—what did you say?” Hans asked, Erik’s words finally sinking in. Hans stopped the compressions, his eyes were hot and wet. His gaze dropped to the empty coffee cup, still on Divish’s desk.

“I have looped the CCTV,” Erik said. “I will edit it remotely. It will show us leaving a few minutes after Stephanie.”

Hans stared at him.

Erik looked down at him. “Please don’t try to fight me.”

Hans snatched a glass from the desk and threw it at Erik’s head. It shattered across his skull. Erik pounced on him, slamming him into the rug. Hans had forgotten how large and bearlike Erik truly was, how those powerful, dense muscles weren’t just for show.

Erik caught his wrists and dragged them up to his shoulder-blades, slapping cuffs around them. Hans couldn’t do more than struggle. When he was restrained, Erik picked him up by the ribs and threw him over his shoulder, carrying him off like a sack of flour.

 

*

 

“Oh, if looks could kill,” Ištván Tóth said when Hans stalked into the foyer. He looked unreasonably pleased, dressed in a housecoat and slacks. “Let me guess? No Deal.”

“You’re a rat bastard,” Hans snarled. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. “You never wanted a deal with Divish—that was an assassination. You’re determined to kill anyone I could go to for help. Just so you can keep me trapped here in your sick game.”

“All that barking, has it ever helped?” Ištván asked, with a grin. His eyes flitted to his ward. “And oh, aren’t you a feral creature. Look how you’ve mauled my poor Erik.” He addressed his ward in an undertone: “Why didn’t you use the sedative?”

Erik blinked. Blood dripped down from his lacerated forehead. “I forgot,” he said, woodenly.

“Probably for the best,” Ištván said. “We should only give our little addict opioids when he’s been good, hm?”

Hans spat at him.

Ištván’s mouth closed and formed a tight line. “Don’t take everything so personally, Hans. I needed Divish gone from the picture. We had other Talmberg shareholders on our side, and he was blocking their controlling stake. It wouldn’t have mattered to me if old Divish made tender love to you or treated you like a shoe rag.”

“Liar,” Hans snarled.

Ištván arched his neck slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You need me for the same reason you need Erik,” Hans snapped. “Because you’re insecure. You won’t feel safe unless someone’s under your heel—but you’ve stomped Erik so flat you forget he’s even there any more. That’s why I’m here. You’re a sick fuck.”

Ištván turned back towards him. “Naughty dog. Don’t you—”

“The only animal I see here is you!” Hans snarled. “Divish had a wife and a child. You destroyed it all because you’re nothing but an overgrown rat. You do nothing but build your little fetid den here and run errands for the real human people. Do you think your master sees you as man? Do you think anyone does?”

Ištván went still.

Hans was breathing hard. Despite himself, he shifted back, his wrists caught by the metal cuffs that still fastened them together. He was so scared he felt dizzy and strange.

“Hold him down,” Ištván said.

Hans wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. He looked around.

Ištván gritted his teeth. “Erik!”

Like a slow-moving golem, Erik finally lurched forward. He engulfed Hans from behind and lifted him off his feet before bringing him down to the floor. Hans tried to struggle, but it was fruitless. He was a fly stuck to paper. No kicking or writhing could get him free.

Erik slipped a hand over Hans’s mouth and nose, sealing them shut.

Hans bucked, throwing his shoulders back, but Erik absorbed the struggling. His shoes made dull thumps against the carpet when he kicked.

“The problem here is that nobody’s loved you enough to discipline you,” Ištván said, looming over him. “It feels like pain. It’s confusing.”

When Ištván started to fumble with his fly, Hans screamed behind Erik’s hand. He kicked desperately.

Ištván pissed on him.

Hans’s eyes shut immediately, but he felt the hot stream hit his chest and splatter across his shirt. The smell was damp and acidic, burning the back of Hans’s throat. It soaked through his shirt fabric and pool across his ribs. Droplets slid ticklishly around his side.

It was probably only a cup’s worth of urine, but Hans felt the violation in every inch of his skin, a putrid layer of grease that sunk into his flesh. He was fouled.

“I know, I know,” Ištván said, addressing Hans’s pitiful noises. He shook off the last few drops before he tucked his cock back into his trousers and zipped himself up. “But you must learn to obey. Obedience is like an atrophied muscle, Hans. It will feel good. But of course, it will hurt first.”

Ištván left the room. He was in no hurry.

It was only when the master was gone that Erik released him. Hans rolled over and retched, while Erik unlocked the handcuffs.

Everything reeked of piss. Released from the cuffs, Hans rose shakily to his hands and knees. His front was soaked and he could taste it, a thick scent, that washed against the back of his throat. He retched again. His stomach rebelled, spitting up acid.

“I didn’t want to,” Erik muttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”

Using a nearby chair-leg, Hans dragged himself upwards. He needed to rip his clothes off, but the idea of undressing anywhere except a locked room was intolerable. His knees shook. He staggered to his feet and limped off, a thoroughly thrashed animal.

Chapter 10: One Thing Left to Try!

Notes:

I'm dedicating this one to quantumpriest LOL

Water drummed against the side of the bronze bathtub, reverberating through the metal. The bathroom was filled with thick, rose-scented steam and there was condensation on Hans’s eyelids. He felt a dampness whenever he blinked.

Every inch of Hans’s skin had been scrubbed. He’d even shaved his chest, something he’d not bothered doing since his very brief and poorly-received attempt at becoming a drag queen. His body smelled of soap suds and chemical fragrance. His hair was slick to the back of his neck.

There was no point in hiding. He knew that. The bathroom formed part of his guest suite, which belonged to Ištván. In a very real way, Ištván was in this room with him. There was no point staying here, he wasn't safe anyway.

Only—Hans couldn’t get himself to leave the bathroom.

Hans raked his fingers through his wet hair, leaving deep golden corrugations. He leaned to one side and let the stream hit his left shoulder-blade, scattering hot water.

From the other room, the phone rang.

Hans opened his eyes, looking through his fingers. It took a moment for his mind to connect the sound to the meaning, the rusty gears in his mind turning slowly. He hadn’t slept and everything seemed to be made up of overlapping shadows.

“Fuck!” Hans snapped. He scrambled out of the bathtub. He almost slipped on the slick tiles and lurched, starkly naked, into his bedroom.

The ringing died, but seconds later, the phone lit up, again, with another call. He snatched it off the table and answered it.

“Mama?” Hans answered. “Mama, it’s me.”

“Hans, baby,” Hedvika’s voice was raw. “What have they done to you? Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

“I’m alright, I’m fine,” Hans said. “Nothing’s happened to me. I’m fine.”

“No, no, no,” Hedvika’s voice picked up, gaining a soprano pitch. “I know they’re hurting you. Please tell me, baby, I know they’re hurting you.”

“Mama, I’m fine,” Hans said. “I’m alright. You don’t have to worry.”

“You’ve not slept,” Hedvika’s voice shook. “I can tell. Someone’s doing something to you. Did you relapse?”

“No!” Hans insisted. “No, I was just—I was out late last night, with friends who kept an eye on me, and we were drinking responsibly. You know, normal college stuff.”

“Someone’s making you say this!” Hedvika wouldn’t be dissuaded. “When I woke up this morning, I could feel the bad omens in the sky. The deathfield is radiating over us, Hans. It’s bad. It corrupts all things. Tell me who’s hurting you, please, I have to know, you’ve got to tell me, please tell me.”

“I’m fine!” Hans snapped, and then tried to make his voice soothing, lowering his voice. He shifted his weight, dripping water onto the floor. His bare flanks shone, dully. “I’m fine, Mama. Thank you for calling me, but there’s nothing wrong. This is just your medication wearing off and making you paranoid, I promise everything’s fine.”

“Nononono,” Hedvika’s voice started to overlap his. “Nononono, come back to me, I can’t protect you when you’re there. Nobody’s looking out for you. It’s not fair—you’re all alone.”

“Mama, it’s fine, I'm not alone,” Hans said, and then: “Henry’s with me.”

Hedvika finally paused her tirade. “Who? Henry?”

“Yeah, you remember Henry,” Hans said, awkwardly. His hair dripped cold down onto his bare spine. “He answered the phone last time. You said you liked his voice. You said he sounded… kind.”

“Kind,” Hedvika repeated, as if dazed.

“Yeah,” Hans said. His heart sank. “He’s… You were right, he is kind. He’s looking after me. So you don’t have to worry, Mama, I’ll be alright.”

“Oh, okay,” Hedvika said. She breathed shakily. “Henry’s looking after you.”

“Yeah,” Hans said. He pressed his hand over his mouth.

“Please stick very close to him,” Hedvika advised. “There are so many people out to hurt you, Hans. You can’t trust just anyone.”

Hans leaned on the side table. The varnish was so shiny that he could see his own reflection in the black wood, his bare chest, still bearing red bumps from his haphazard shaving. He dripped onto the glossy surface. Hans sighed, hanging his head. “I know, Mama. I know.”

It took another twenty minutes of talking to wind Hedvika down. Hans asked about the other patients on the ward, her favourite doctors, the television shows she’d been keeping up with. Eventually, Hedvika was calm enough to hang up the phone.

Hans set the phone down on the counter. He breathed out.

On the dresser, the gun lay, the straps of its holster lying tangled like a sleeping snake. He approached it and slid the gun out from the leather pocket.

Most modern guns that Hans had handled were made of polymers, carbon-fibre and light-weight steel. Often, the cartridges were the heaviest part, followed by the chamber, while the rest weighed little and felt almost flimsy, despite its technical tactile strength.

Henry’s pearl-handled colt revolver was a real gun. It was heavy. It was a serious six-shooter, a pistol worthy of a mean-hearted cowboy, worthy of being a desperado’s shooting iron. He turned it over.

“Hal,” Hans read. “Do not repay evil for evil, or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary, bless, for to this you were called.”

Hans ran his thumb over the inscription. It might be a good sign, that someone felt the motto ought to be carried with Henry forever. Or a bad sign—that they thought Henry would need the constant reminder?

Either way, Hans could really use a blessing right now.

 

*

 

When Hans crossed the threshold, he forgot to breathe. He had put a lot of thought into how to slip past the guards undetected, and how to make a quick exit in the same fashion, but he had run out practical steps. He felt as if he had stepped onto a brightly lit stage and realised he had forgotten to learn any lines.

Henry’s hard eyes watched him through the glass.

The cell behind him was sparse and grey-green. A slim cot was bolted to the wall, a toilet was nailed to the opposite corner, and a single chair, presumably for an interrogator, completed the furniture. The white plastic linoleum flooring was marked by many hours spent pacing.

Hans stepped up to the glass, but didn’t touch it. He stared at Henry. It had only been a week, but it was strange to think he had been walled off here the whole time, like a museum specimen.

Henry said nothing. His stubble had grown back and his hair hung spiky and unwashed.

“Henry,” Hans said. He swallowed, thickly. “I came here to uh… apologise.”

Something flickered across Henry’s face, gone too fast to identify. “An apology?” Henry echoed, muffled by the glass that separated them. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Hans hadn’t prepared himself for the effect Henry’s voice would have on him. Something in his chest expanded, pressing on his lungs and closing off his throat. He approached the glass and looked through it. “I-I don’t know.”

Like a tiger in a cage, Henry arched his neck and paced a tight circle in across the linoleum. He pulled his lip back to bear his upper teeth. “You’re a joke.”

“Could you forgive me?” Hans asked. “I mean, hypothetically, what would I have to do in order to…?”

“Forgive you for what, Hans?” Henry asked. “Being the stronger dog?”

“Look, okay, I am sorry,” Hans snapped. “I didn't want you to end up like this. But one of us had to lose! That was just the situation we were in.”

“And you made sure that Ištván won. Does it feel good... knowing justice won't prevail?”

“Give me a break!” Hans took a step back, hackles raised. “Some of us have to think about self preservation before we can care about justice.”

Henry made another prowling loop of his small cell. “Are you feeling safer, having Ištván in your bed?”

“What was my alternative?”

“You could have helped us kill him.”

“Right!” Hans threw his hands up. “I should have – what? Trusted you?”

Henry shot him a glare through the glass.

“Let's face it,” Hans said. He folded his arms. “When you killed Ištván, you knew Erik would kill me, and you accepted that as a causality of war.”

“You?” Henry snapped back. “Why on earth would Erik kill you?”

“Because my dinner date would have killed his master, and while you and your team had vanished I was right on his doorstep.”

“Okay,” Henry said, hotly. “Even in this ridiculous hypothetical scenario where you weren’t already in cahoots with Ištván, Erik would known you had no hand in his lover's death.”

“Oh right because he is so well balanced and reasonable, I forgot.” Hans stamped his foot in frustration. “Christ, Henry! I'm not offended! When you decide to kill someone, bystanders get hurt. It's just what happens. I'm not naive enough to think you would protect me.”

“It wasn't like that,” Henry said, eyes darting about. “I didn't think about Erik, not like that.”

“Aren't you sick of lying?” Hans met him measure for measure. “There's no point to the game any more. I'm collateral.”

“You're not collateral.”

“How long are you going to keep this up?” Hans raised his voice. “You didn't care about me and you still don't, just admit that, and we can figure something out on even footing.”

Henry’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t it obvious that I wasn’t lying?”

Abruptly, Hans ran out of words. He stared through the glass.

Linoleum creaked under his boots. The overhead strip lighting buzzed constantly. Both rooms—the cell and the observation room—had been coated in plastic and bleached of colour, like hospital rooms.

Hans took a step back. “I... I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” Henry said. His voice was rough.

There was something very tired in Henry’s voice. Something that had been worn soft by time, something battered but strong, something that beat steadily. Hans couldn’t help the squeezing in his chest, the something that beat in there, too.

“You can't be serious,” Hans said, and it came out like a beg. “You mean to say that you actually… I mean, you really...”

“I am serious,” Henry said, simply.

Hans looked askance, as if searching for the trick. He took a step sideways, swaying slightly, and then approached the glass. He pressed his hands against the cold glass, leaning hard against it so he could stare straight through.

“But I'm not even like that, Henry,” said Hans. “I'm a bad person. I'm a brat. I assume the worst in everyone. The guy I was when I was with you, I-I don't know where he came from and I'm not sure he's coming back.”

Henry met his eye, before he glanced briefly around the cell. “It appears you've already been nasty to me. It didn't seem to make a difference.”

Hans’s forehead dropped against the glass. The thump reverberated dully.

There was almost no sound in the room, beyond the drone of the electronics. They were sealed inside, cut off from the sounds of the summertime outside.

“How can I believe you?” Hans muttered. His voice was ragged. “I’ve been tricked so many times, I stopped keeping track.”

Silently, Henry approached the glass. He pressed his hand next to Hans’s face, so hard that the palm went white. Hans couldn’t feel him there, but he felt something else—deep within him, far below, like a fast-moving current hidden under a river’s placid surface. He wondered if Henry could feel it too. He hoped that he could.

“Don’t believe me,” Henry said, voice low. “Don’t believe anything you can’t independently verify.”

Hans’s eyes flicked up.

Henry leaned closer, until his brow bumped against the hard glass. If they weren’t forcibly separated, they would be touching.

“You're close to Ištván,” Henry murmured. “Look up Skalitz on his files or on Erik’s files, find what they did to my home, to my family. Don't trust me, but trust my cause. You'll understand me. We're on the same side Hans, I know we are.”

Hans stared into his eyes. If not for the damned glass… Hans licked his lips. “I... I want to be, Hal. I want to be on your side.”

Henry’s eyes were half-closed. His dark eyelashes were long and thick, framing his handsome blue eyes. There had always been an openness to him, an earnest edge, a purity that could not be sullied. You could fall into eyes like that. “Come back to me when you know the truth. Come back to me.”

 

*

 

Hans had barely finished ringing the bell before Erik opened the door. The assassin looked down at him with an expression so mild—just the barest indent in his forehead—that it was hard to tell if it was confusion or annoyance.

“Can I help you?” Erik asked.

The professional neutrality in Erik’s voice had never been so disconcerting. Hans kept his voice steady. “May I come in? It’s private.”

Erik slipped back a step to allow him to pass. Erik’s lodgings were one of the larger set of chambers in Ištván’s sprawling manor. Polished dark wood gleamed underfoot. Everything was kept very clean, very neat.

Hans startled when Erik reached around him, but the other man was only pushing the door shut. Erik was so close that Hans could smell the day’s work on him, the gunpowder and musky sweat. He was warm, too.

“What is it?” Erik asked.

Hans’s heart was beating hard. He had the brief, dizzy realisation that it didn’t matter how wrong this went—he was well and truly screwed anyway. He was the frog in the quickly-boiling water who was considering a quick trip on a white-hot grill. What did it even matter, at this point?

With more confidence than he felt, Hans put a hand on Erik’s chest. When he wasn’t slapped away, he pressed in, feeling the warmth of Erik’s skin through his thin cotton shirt. With his other hand, he ran a hand up to the back of Erik’s neck, tugging him gently down.

In one fluid movement, when Erik leaned down, Hans kissed him. Hard.

Erik kissed him back, pushing his head back in a gesture that was almost a nuzzle.

When they broke apart, Erik’s eyes were hot and dark. He glanced across Hans’s face. “I’d been hoping… but I thought you wouldn’t forgive me for…?”

“Of course,” Hans lied, smoothly. “It was just discipline.”

Erik bowed to kiss him again, gently knocking their heads together. He unconsciously herded Hans back, until they bumped into a cabinet. Hans gripped the lip of the cabinet. Erik’s hands were on him—but they stayed firmly on his ribs, like a shy teenager.

“How do you like it?” Hans asked, voice like dark velvet.

Erik pause, awkward, as if he was afraid of saying the wrong answer.

Bottom, then. Hans didn’t usually top, although that was more laziness than a true preference. He’d deflowered enough straight girls in his youth that he could butch it up when the situation demanded it.

“Why don’t I show you something you’re sure to like?” Hans suggested. His tone implied the flick of a playful cat’s tail.

Erik nodded immediately, and followed Hans’s lead. Hans took him through to the bedroom, and when he pushed him onto the bed, Erik lay down obediently. Hans was satisfied that he’d read the situation correctly as he swung a leg over him, pressing their hips together.

As they kissed, Hans’s mind drifted away. He thought about his first girlfriend, Rosa Ruthard (who had also been, now to think of it, his third, fifth and sixth girlfriend, too), her wine-red hair, her round, freckled shoulders, and soft, cream-white breasts. She had been mean as a snake, and they brought out the worst in each other, but the sex had been electric.

Below him, Erik gave a choked groan. Hans realised he’d started to fondle Erik’s chest through his shirt. His nipples were hard between Hans’s fingers.

“Do you like that?” Hans purred.

Erik grimaced and turned his face away. His breathing was hard. His eyes fluttered shut when Hans squeezed his chest again. A lifetime of unchaste behaviour had left Hans with the ability to undo someone else’s fly without even looking down, a talent he demonstrated now. Hans hooked his fingers in the waistband of Erik’s jeans and pulled then off.

Stripped, Erik instinctively turned his hips away and Hans stopped him, pressing him back into the mattress. Already, Erik was painfully aroused.

“I already know you’re going to open up so nicely for me,” Hans said, which is one of the cornier lines he’d come up with.

Erik jolted underneath him. “—please.”

Hans pulled out the small bottle of lube from his back pocket. He had a handful of condoms in his back pocket too—and it was occurring to him, with a hint of annoyance, that he’d probably shaved and douched for nothing. In the lull, Erik pulled his own shirt off, tossing it away.

Hans tugged down Erik’s underwear. He had a nice, thick cock that gave off so much heat that Hans could feel the warmth against his cheek. He smelled good. When Hans touched him, Erik’s breathing picked up, almost to a whine.

With his teeth, Hans ripped open the condom wrapper. He had Erik wrapped in plastic in under a second and poured a healthy amount of lube over the fingers of his dominant hand. He pushed his ring finger inside at the same time that his lips wrapped around the head of Erik’s cock.

Erik hissed and shuddered as Hans took him into his mouth, inch by inch, as his fingers pushed in simultaneously. Erik shifted about, jolting the cock in Hans’s mouth. Cherry-flavoured condom lube whetted the back of Hans’s throat.

Erik gave a tight noise when Hans’s fingers brushed his prostate. Hans swallowed around him. There was a flicker of tension in Erik’s well-developed abdominal muscles. He twisted slightly.

Hans pulled his mouth off him, a long string of saliva still connecting them. His fingers stilled inside Erik. “Is it too much to do both at the same time?”

“It might be,” Erik admitted, breathlessly.

“No problem,” Hans said, straightening up. He wiped his mouth and swallowed the chemical taste back.

Hans fingers gently pressed and caressed Erik’s insides, using only the soft pads of his finger tips. Erik shuddered around them, his shoulder blades flexing. His spine curled.

“I had a girlfriend like that,” Hans murmured. “She didn’t want me touching her clit when I was inside her.”

Erik’s eyes widened. He reacted—but warily, like a dog trying to predict a kick in the ribs. “I’m not—I’m not your girlfriend.”

“I know, I know, you’re spoken for,” Hans purred. “I’m just hoping you’ll keep me on the side. Consider it. I can send you back to Ištván soaking wet and shaking, with that well-fucked glow about you.”

Erik let out a choked noise, high in his chest. He turned and this time, Hans let him roll over. He knelt pushed his hips back onto Hans’s fingers greedily, like a bitch in heat.

Without interrupting his own rhythm, Hans unbuttoned his fly with one hand, opened another condom wrapped with his teeth, and put it on. He took his fingers out and gripped Erik by the hips so he could slide inside.

Hans let out a satisfied noise. He couldn’t deny how good it felt to be inside someone, the snug, slick heat, feeling every flicker and tense around him. He rolled his hips gently.

Erik’s face was pressed into the mattress. His face burned red; from arousal or embarrassment, or perhaps both. Sweat beaded the base of his spine, gleaming like gems. He had a beautiful back, a smooth vista of developed muscles which rose and fell under his skin as he turned, the gentle valley of his spine, his shoulder-blades pushing together. Scars marked up his sides and his powerful flank had grown around a bullet hole.

“You’re so wet, Erik,” Hans murmured, rocking his hips. 

Erik reacted like Hans knew he would, eyes fluttering shut, pushing back against him. His breathing caught and the flush spread over his chest.

Hans leaned low over him, pumping inside him. His shirt tails tickled Erik’s bare ribs. Erik’s thick cock swung with every thrust, the condom catching the light. Hans avoided touching it, digging his fingers into Erik’s lower belly instead, leaving nail marks.

Erik pressed his face into the mattress. He bit the fabric and the cotton squeaked against his teeth. The noises that that came out of him were desperate sobs.

“You’re so good to me,” Hans muttered. “Letting me use your body like this.”

Erik’s groan was agonized. Just as Erik was getting the rhythm, Hans canted his hips to one side, picking up speed to fuck him mercilessly. Erik felt the thrusting in the back of his throat.

Hans tossed his head like a stallion, flicking sweaty hair from his forehead before he rested his cheek between Erik’s damp shoulder-blades. Fucking someone he didn’t like was always a slightly surreal experience; his mind and body separated. His cock liked everyone, and liked them an awful lot, while Hans’s gaze wandered around the room, trying to read the titles of the books on the shelves despite the awkward angle.

Erik came a second later, his whole body tightening like a fist as he emptied into the condom, cock twitching eagerly. He made a strangled, rough noise. Hans stopped immediately, buried inside him, enjoying the spasm-clench around him.

Finally, Erik relaxed and he rolled over, Hans sliding out of him.

All was silent. The room smelled like sweat and sex. Erik wiped his damp face.

For a moment, Erik just breathed. He licked his lips, relaxing into himself, even as his heart still beat hard. His blinking was slow, like a lazy fox. After he stretched, body tight for a moment, he went limp again.

“You were right,” Erik croaked. “I did like that.”

Hans chuckled, breathlessly. He slipped off the bed and stood.

Erik’s eyes widened when he saw Hans’s obvious arousal, the plastic still shiny with lube. He frowned. “You didn’t come? Why did you stop?”

“Trust me, if you’re that sensitive it would feel horrible if I kept going,” Hans said. “Over-stimulation is definitely not for everyone.”

Erik struggled to get up, still breathing hard. “Let me…?”

“I prefer head from a guy who can see straight,” Hans said. “Enjoy your glow, Erik. I’d rather step out and have a smoke.”

Erik’s frown deepened. He was obviously conflicted. But in the end exhaustion won and flopped back onto the bed. “Don’t go. Not without saying goodbye.”

I can’t “go” anywhere. I’m practically a prisoner in your house, held hostage by your deranged father/lover, Hans didn’t say. He only smiled. He peeled his condom off and dropped it in the waste bin. Exposed to the air, the soft skin prickled. There was the familiar blue-ball prickly, unsatisfied pain. But Hans had done many stupid things to satisfy his cock—it was time his cock returned the favour.

Hans retrieved his underwear and jeans from the floor and dragged them on. He made a show of finding his cigarettes and lighter.

When he was out of Erik’s sight, Hans opened and shut the apartment door without actually leaving. Instead, he darted to Erik’s small office and switched the computer on.

Hans pulled a superfast flash drive and a pair of plastic gloves from his shirt pocket. He snapped the gloves on and attached the flash drive to the computer. He searched through the desk and found what he was looking for – a small leather bound notebook of passwords for encrypted files. He took a quick photo of everything he could while the computer booted up.

Stress quickly killed the erection in Hans’s pants, like a slug being salted. Once he was through the log in page, he quickly opened the file explorer and typed sᴋᴀʟɪᴛᴢ into the bar.

562 results popped up and Hans set them to copy to the flash drive as fast as possible. Even though Hans had brought the most expensive, fancy super-fast flash drive he could find, it would still take five full minutes for the files to copy.

Hans hit copy and watched the green bar fill up as the files were copied. He passed the time imagining Ištván painstakingly cutting every inch of his skin off with a potato-peeler.

As soon as the files were finished copying, Hans ejected the drive, pulled off his gloves and wrapped the drive in them, stuffing them back into his shirt pocket. He switched the computer off and got up from his chair so fast that he knocked it over—but managed to catch it before it fell, setting it back.

Breathing hard, Hans darted out of the office, opened and shut the apartment door again and pretended to be heading back to the bedroom.

He nearly ran into Erik when he turned the corner.

Erik’s expression was tight. He touched Hans’s jaw, tilted his head back, and kissed him deeply.

Hans ran a hand around Erik’s side, pulling him in. It was easier to disguise nervousness by pushing forward rather than hesitating and holding back. Better to be too eager. If only his erection hadn’t died a painful death, it would be a useful distraction.

Erik drew back. His eyes were bright, bright blue. He hesitated.

He doesn’t taste tobacco on my tongue, Hans realised with a horrible plunge of dread. He knows I lied. He knows. Fuck, fuck fuckfuckfuck

Erik’s snowy eyebrows drew together. “Hans… could you keep tonight between us?”

Hans took a moment to pull himself back from apocalyptic despair. “You mean… I-I shouldn’t tell Ištván I was here?”

“I’m sorry,” Erik said. “He just… he can get upset when I…”

“It makes sense,” Hans agreed, quickly. “I won’t say anything if you don’t.”

Erik smiled. It was the first time Hans had ever seen him smile.

Erik kissed him again. His head bumped against Hans’s ear, like an affectionate tomcat. “Come up and see me again. I won’t leave you unsatisfied next time.”

“Sure,” Hans said. His heart was still thundering, but he managed to smile back.

 

*

 

The guard slid the food tray through the hatch in Henry’s cell.

Henry was still agitated, pacing around and around in his cell. The brief visit from Hans had smashed him to bits. His ears were still rushing with blood and he felt like a prize-fighter waiting for the bell to ring, punching his gloves together, shaking his meaty head.

Finally, Henry made himself sit down and pull the tray towards him. He wasn’t hungry, but he would only get more agitated if he went without food.

It was when he picked up the dinner roll—that everything in his head went quiet.

He turned the bread roll over and felt it.

Someone had cut a slit into the bread roll and tucked inside… the keys to his cell, a slip of paper with an address on it, and $40 in four crumpled $10 notes.

Notes:

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<sub>Directors commentary on "One Thing Left to Try!"
I was working in the cutting room at Domoda Studios late last night, pinning strings to my scene board and having my interns fetch me coffee after coffee, trying to find a vision for this chapter that satisfied my high requirements.

Firstly, the Hanrik sex scene had to be distinctly different from the other sex scenes in the story. I can't tell you about these other scenes at this stage because your clearance isn't high enough.
Secondly and more difficult, I wanted to make the scene much more significant to Erik than to Hans, not just in an erotic sense but an emotional one too.


I want to draw the audience's attention again to the phrase "The stronger dog fucks the bitches". Notice anything odd about it? Well, it's not just sexually violent, it's also an explicitly heterosexual metaphor (although nobody is strict about it these days "dog" does specifically mean the male animal) coming from the most prominent gay character in the game. Comes across as a bit performative, doesn't it? Insecure about how (heterosexually) masculine we come across, are we, hmmmmmmm?

Now, you're going to have to forgive my unsophisticated binary "blue is for boys" framework of gender for a moment, but as in my fave song Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other "I believe to my soul that inside every man there's the feminine / And inside every lady there's a deep manly voice loud and clear."

Let's take the implication that Henry and Erik are at their core the same or similar people. Now, Henry isn't a feminine guy, but he's also quite comfortable in his own skin. He can be silly, he's confident with women, he's not afraid of being the butt of a joke, he can have (depending on how you play him) quite progressive views of homosexuality, sexuality, and gender.

In contrast, Erik is hyper-masculine, always shown in armour, shouting, always aggressive. In KCD2 I think you could make the case he's the most quintessentially masculine character, except for the fact that, well, he's gay! So it comes across as defensive, like he's overcompensating for the socially-coded "femininity" in his orientation.

And yet "inside every cowboy there's a lady that'd love to slip out" ;) and hence when Hans playfully teases him about the softer/feminine side of him (especially whilst being intimate) he's normalising and being accepting of a very atrophied and shunned part of Erik, a part Erik is used to trying to starve and kill. Erik is afraid of that part of himself. It scares him. Hans has already accepted the fact there's probably feminine facet to Erik, he doesn't see it as noteworthy, but the acknowledgement of it is very significant to Erik because it allows him to exist as a 3-Dimensional person and he doesn't have to police himself and butch it up quite as hard.

On the other side of things, Hans doesn't really care about it at all. He probably forgets he even said anything as soon as he's out of the room lol. Anyway, I'm going to go back to throwing things at my interns now... i am the big cheese Director, after all. They like it. They're improving their reflexes, which is a life skill.</sub>