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"Where did that boy get off to?" Janosh asked. He's impatient, sounding far more on edge than he had any right to be, Hans thought. Though, admittedly, Hans also rather wanted to know where Henry had wandered off to. It had been a long time since he'd announced he was going to survey the camp perimeter, and in the growing dark as the sun sank low over the horizon and a late summer chill set in, Hans thought Henry would be more comfortable in camp next to the fire, with warm soup in his belly.
"I'll go find him," Hans announces.
Another man stands to protest, arguing, "Lord Capon, you shouldn't go wandering in the trees after dark, what if-"
"Nonsense," Hans answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Need I remind you which of us is the lord here? I am perfectly capable of looking for my own page. Now, keep the stew warm. I expect a hot bowl when I return."
"I-"
Hans cut the man off with a sharp look, an eyebrow angling up towards his hairline; a challenge to the other man, daring him to go against Hans' word.
The man floundered. He's young; he's never worked with Hans before. One of the men that Hanush had brought along with him from Rattay when they'd joined the fight in Suchdol. He'd been ordered to stay with some others by Hans' side until they returned safely to the Devils' Den, where the retinue would depart to return to Rattay.
Now, standing before the lord he'd been too young to serve just a month earlier when Hans had set out, he's too nervous to argue about something Hans should not be doing. He's correct—but he's afraid. He sputters, wrings his hands together, and then bows low. "Yes, sir."
Janosh raises a brow at the pair, amusement slowly finding its way back to his features. It's rare these days that he smiles, but when Hans asserts himself to the younger men it always manages at least a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He speaks up, too, telling Hans, "Yes sir. I have bowl of stew waiting for your return."
"Good," Hans answered. Back straight, shoulders squared, chest puffed; the very image of a proper nobleman, whether he really felt deserving of the title or not after all they'd gone through.
He treks away from the fire, feet falling in the overgrown grass, turning from the orange hue from the firelight to the pale-blue light of the moon as he stepped out of the camp.
While he walks, Hans' mind turns back to Henry—often his singular focus since the pair had come to blows on the tavern green in Rattay. More so since their shared night in Suchdol before Henry had left, and Hans was certain he'd never see him again. Everything was tainted, then, by the fear that the small taste of Henry that lingered on Hans' lips and the scent of him in Hans' bedsheets would be all the more he'd ever experience of him.
Now he's within reach. Alive, well, and hiding off in the woods somewhere instead of eating stew at the fire with the others.
It's dark, and it's not an area Hans is very familiar with, but he thought he'd seen Henry disappear under the branches of an old oak tree earlier, so he turned himself that way and let his feet carry him. On and on, over roots sticking out of the dirt, under branches low enough that leaves still brushed his face when he bent over, until he finds himself in a small clearing.
Moonlight flooded in where the leaves parted, and he could see the pale green of the grass under the blue-ish light, and there, near the far end and sat on a fallen log, is Henry.
Henry, staring off into the woods behind a wall of darkness that he surely can't see anything through. Hans very nearly calls out to him that he'd never guard against anything sitting there in the open and staring into the dark, but something stops him.
The way Henry is bent over himself is odd, almost like he's in pain… His shoulders are shaking, the way a man's do when they're wracked with tears and Hans thinks that, over the sound of crickets and cicadas, he can hear Henry speaking. Praying, maybe?
He should turn back and grant the man privacy, but he's never really been one to do what he should. He steps forward, landing on his toes in the grass. Step after step as silent as the one before, masked by insects and the cool wind through the branches around the clearing, hissing through the long grass.
Then he hears it, louder, a whisper over whistling of the wind, "Hans."
Hans freezes, a deer caught in a hunter's gaze. Was he caught?
"Christ," Henry whispers again, "Hans."
No, not caught. That tone is all wrong. Hans had heard it before. Too soft and quiet, shielded but vulnerable, pouring out of lips that are parted in ecstasy as Hans' hand moved…
Realization hits him all at once and Hans straightens up, arms coming to rest across his chest and brow lifting towards his hairline in a look that's no less than amused. He knows what this is. "I thought I'd get an invite, at least."
Henry nearly jumps out of his skin. He shoots up from the log he's sat on, hand flailing for the sword he'd left leaning against the decaying wood and his cock, hard and leaking, hangs heavy between his legs where it's been pulled from his braies.
His grip on the sword adjusts as his eyes sweep the clearing and then land on Hans, and realization sinks in, followed shortly by confusion, and then horror, which registers just as his hand darts to his groin to cover the sight.
Hans huffs out amused laughter and Henry, who is delightfully red-cheeked (though Hans can hardly make it out in the dark), hisses, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"It's time for supper," Hans answers with a shrug. "I was sent to fetch you."
"Well, I-" He's embarrassed, Hans can tell that much. He would be too, presumably, having been caught with his hand on his cock by the very same man whose name he's breathing out.
"Put the sword down."
"Right." Henry does. The sword rests back against the log, and both of Henry's hands find themselves clasped in front of his groin.
Hans' eyes linger there too long before they find their way back to Henry's face. Henry, who is pointedly not looking at Hans, eyes instead focused on the trees at the edges of the clearing.
Hans closes the distance between them teasingly, like a cat who has cornered its pray, amusement clear in his eyes. Henry seems to shrink under his gaze. His uncertainty is plain, and Hans, for the first time in a very long time, feels on sure footing.
Whatever boldness it had been that seized him in that dim, fire-lit room in Suchdol took hold once again as Hans closed the remaining distance between them. His hand led him, reaching out until he could grip Henry's hip. Just that touch alone was enough to draw a soft gasp from Henry.
"You didn't think to invite me."
"Er- No."
"Why not?" Hans' hand followed the line of the bottom hem of Henry's gambeson, tracing along the curve of his thigh and in, pressing ever closer to his groin.
"I- It would be suspicious."
"Hardly."
"Well- I wasn't sure you would…"
If Henry hadn't said his name when he thought he was there alone, Hans wouldn't have the confidence he has right now. He knows that for certain. As much as he'd like to pretend that he's always a well-spoken, suave lord of the people, he isn't. He's got fears, doubts, and… it's all lessened, when his fingers find the low-hanging waistband of Henry's braies.
"Hal," he starts, his voice sounding more like scolding than anything else. "After Suchdol?"
"I- Ah!" Henry is cut shorts when Hans' fingers find the his balls through the fabric of his braies, his breath catching even at Hans' lightest touch. Henry swallows hard, and he mumbles out, "I thought- Well, I thought maybe that was just because you thought we were dying…?"
Hans' own surprise stills his hand, and he can feel the weight of those words dragging down his expression right along with that longing feeling in his chest. But he jokes. Of course he jokes. "You thought I'd seek you out for a quick lay instead of some bathhouse wench?"
Henry blinks.
Hans shakes his head, as if disapproving. "We didn't even properly fuck."
Henry is confused. So is Hans. What the fuck is he saying?
"We were hungry and afraid…" Henry mutters.
"Henry, it wasn't just-" Christ. Finding the words proves impossible; Hans is stumbling around in the dark with his hands out, searching desperately for some way to voice what he's thinking but there's nothing within reach.
So, Hans does what he always does when words won't come to him; he acts.
He leans in, catching Henry's lips in a kiss for the first time since Henry had set him down in his room in Suchdol to look at the wound on his shoulder. They'd spent the night together, bathed in moonlight and wrapped in each other's arms, one more respite before they got back on the road.
There's less fear, here. Almost no urgency at all. They aren't weak with hunger. Henry's skin is warm, his lips are firm, and there's more solidness in his body when Hans presses closer.
And, better than all of that, Henry doesn't break away, this time. There's no turn of the head, no hiss of disapproval, not even for a moment. He leans in, pressing his face into Hans' with entirely too much force.
Immediately, there's too much hunger, too much desperation. All spit and teeth and the uncontrolled force of two horny young men parted for too long.
"Hans," Henry whispers. It's such a unique sound, the way he says Hans' name. Pronounced in a way that can only be done with Henry's voice, with the weight of his accent and mannerisms; it's wholly and completely Henry.
"Hans…" He whispers again, more urgent this time. Pleading, almost, and Hans, for as much as he wants to hear those pleading, desperate sounds falling from Henry's mouth for as long as possible, he knows they don't have much time; someone will follow after Hans if he's not back soon enough.
So, he moves his hand, taking Henry's cock in his grip. It's warm and heavy, firmer now that Henry has enough food in his belly to keep him healthy.
There's life in him again. In Hans. In the kiss, the touch, in the heat of Henry's cock in Hans' grip.
Hans sighs into Henry's mouth, a low, quiet sound of contentment followed by an echo from Henry—louder, a groan issuing from his throat. It's beautiful. Henry always had been beautiful, from the first moment Hans saw his big doe eyes.
And now, listening to him moaning, feeling the drag of the skin on his cock—Hans wants more. More of this time alone, more of Henry in any and every way he can possibly have him, for as long as he can have him.
It was sweeter than anything else he'd had in his life. Henry tasted, looked, smelled, sweeter.
Unafraid—or maybe just bolder than Henry, this time—Hans tilted his head, parted his lips, and his tongue trailed the length of Henry's lower lip. He twisted his wrist as he dragged his hand down the length of Henry's cock. Teasing more out of him.
Hans felt Henry's knees buckle; his body fell forward into Hans, his hands blindly grabbing at Hans' pourpoint for purchse.
"Hans…"
"Hal."
Hans' voice is steadier than Henry's; stronger. He snakes an arm around Henry's waist, holding him strong against his chest while he walks him backwards. Slowly, carefully, feet feeling their way through the long grass without letting their lips part even an inch.
Hans remembers this from the other side; when Henry had been holding onto him, stepping him back, back, back towards the bed.
Here, it's Hans. He leads Henry towards the treeline until his back lands solid against a trunk. He nudges a knee between Henry's thighs and Henry gives, parting his legs until Hans' knee rests agaainst the bark between them and his hand, now with the steadiness of the tree behind them, can work Henry's cock properly, leaving Henry helpless to do anything but whine out at the feeling of it all.
"Henry."
Henry responds with a quiet, "Hmm?"
"I don't know just what the hell is wrong with you."
"What? I-"
Hans squeezed Henry's cock a bit harder—the same way wenches had done to him a time or two in the baths to shut him up when he rambled on too long with too much uncertainty—and it worked. All Henry could manage was a strangled gasp as Hans carried on.
"The audacity of you," Hans started, leaning in between sentences to kiss along Henry's jawline. So different to a woman's. The strength of it, the scratch of his stubble; it's intoxicating. It sends Hans' head spinning, rife with fantasies about more of Henry, doing things with him that he'd only heard tales of from the braver bath wenches—and he has to force those images from his head and pull himself back down to Earth to finish speaking. "To think I'd only wax poetic about my feelings because I thought I was going to die and I wanted a quick fuck."
"I didn't! Ah-!" Henry's cock jumps in Hans' hand while he speaks. "I just- I'm-"
Hans shuts him up with a kiss, and Henry melts into it. It stretches on until Hans can bear to pull back. Quietly, he says, "I care about you, Henry. I meant that."
"I know."
Hans has to believe him; he says it with such certainty that Hans knows he made no mistake in making his feelings clear. Henry knows Hans cares about him. But that's not the end of it; it never was. There was always something deeper than simple care between them.
More than care in lingering touches, in fears when Henry went off to work, in prayers uttered not to God, but to Henry, knowing that it was Henry who would help Hans when he found himself in trouble.
Hans pulls back, further than he should have dared when Henry was so close with those lips begging to be kissed.
He looks Henry in the eyes, more grey than blue in the light of the moon, and shining up at him like he's the sun in the sky; full of an awe that Hans can only place because he feels it too, when he sees the moon in Henry's eyes.
"But I'm just a peasant. A bastard," Henry continues, voice softer, now, with some sort of shame in it that hurts Hans to the core. He is a peasant, a bastard, a fool—but he's not just that. Not to Hans. Not to anyone, really, but especially not to Hans.
What Hans wants to say is risky, he knows that. It would be safer—wiser—to let this be what it is; sweet stolen moments, knowing glances, kisses that make him feel drunker than any wine… a beautiful what if, because Henry's right. He is just a peasant. A bastard. A man. Nothing real could come of this, but it doesn't lessen the feeling of it all. Not a bit.
And Henry blinks his wide eyes, and the whole world sitting just behind them pulls Hans in with all the force of a rushing river, and just like that, words come easily.
"Henry."
"Hmm?" He sounds half dazed. His pupils are blown wide with lust and something deeper, and Hans leans in to kiss him again. A gentler press of lips that's eagerly returned, but with no rush.
Hans kisses along Henry's jaw, up and up towards his ear, and when his lips land at the base of it, he breathes out a sigh that's met by a quiet noise from Henry's throat, and a slight jump of his cock in Hans' hand.
Hans leans back again, eyes meeting the ocean-deep of Henry's gaze, and he just says words he thought might never come to him; "I love you. Truly, as deeply as I'm capable. I- I don't just care about you. It's- You're more important than you know, Henry."
Henry blinks.
Silence.
Only the drum of insects and the whistling of wind through the leaves.
And Hans' heart, pounding so loudly in his ears that he thinks it might deafen him.
"It's foolish," he continues, simply because he can't let that silence stretch on. "I know that likely nothing can come of it. It's dangerous and I am to be married, but-"
"I love you," Henry says suddenly. Simply.
Silence again.
Then Hans' face breaks, and he grins, and Henry grins back, and for a moment, nothing else matters. There's a world out there around them, still marching on towards war and death and marriage, and there's nothing certain, no words that will make this alright, but it doesn't matter.
Because they're grinning. Because Henry loves Hans, too. Because they're alone under the open sky, healthy and alive and in love.
And Henry must feel it, too, that they have this moment that is entirely theirs and it would be wasted with stares that could come at any time. So he grabs Hans by his pourpoint and kisses him hard, a bruising thing that will be all too obvious later if anyone knows what they're looking for, but it doesn't matter, because no one else exists.
Henry's hand tracks down the length of Hans' body, fumbling around for the hem of his pourpoint and then under until he finds the ties of his braies and tugs them open.
As soon as Henry's hand finds Hans' cock he lets out a groan that is entirely too obscene, and likely too loud, but Henry makes no effort to quiet him. He works Hans' length out of his braies and then when he's finally freed, Henry jerks his own hips forward, and his cock drags along Hans'.
Henry's cock is hot and fully hard against Hans'; it's already more than they could manage in their hunger at Suchdol, and all the better for their shared health.
Lips crash together, fingers intertwine where both of their hands are wrapped around their cocks, and they move as one; desperate, seeking more, Hans' hips rutting into Henry's, pressing him further against the rough bark of the tree behind him.
It's quick, and dirty, and there's no fear at all. Lips bruise with the force of the kiss, their hips thrust in turn seeking friction against their cocks, and then—they cum together, sighing out quiet, "I love you"s as they do.
And then, breathless, pressed tightly against each other, cocks still aching and squeezing out their release, Hans is the first to laugh.
Henry's head falls into Hans' neck where he inhales the scent of him deeply—sweat, days on the road, dirt, all of it, like it's the sweetest scent in the world—and he joins Hans in his quiet laughter. "I'm glad it was you that caught me out here," he says.
Hans slowly—reluctantly—releases his grip around their softening cocks, and lifts his arm to wrap around Henry's neck. His weight settles all too easily on Henry's shoulders and he falls forward, pressing the pair of them harder against the tree. Henry's arms snake around Hans' waist, pulling him closer, still, while Hans sighs out a delighted sound, and says, "It was very nearly Janosh. He badly wants you back for supper."
"I guess I could have picked a better time."
"I'll say. I'm starving!"
"I'm deeply sorry, my Lord," Henry replies, a laugh in his tone that reaches his eyes, and leaves them a gorgeous sparkling blue. "I also appear to have made a mess of your clothes."
"Indeed. Good thing I have a page to do my laundry." Henry rolls his eyes and starts to quip back, but Hans interrupts; "He'd never complain, either. He loves me."
And Henry rolls his eyes again in a manner that should have annoyed his lord, but it only leaves Hans smiling and leaning back in to steal another kiss; another moment of shared joy, privacy and love before the world closes back in around them.