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Hans hates this fucking place.
Every stone of it. Even though he’s now high above the putrid dungeons that he’d been held in for so long, the pungent stink of that cursed place seems to bleed up through the floors and find him regardless. Hans swears he can still smell the stink of stale piss and rotting straw with every breath. It makes him want to fucking gag.
Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. Once he and Henry ride out together, Hans has no intention of ever coming back to Trosky Castle. The thought of having to spend another night here, in the place he almost swung from the gallows, is enough to make his blood run cold. Hans pushes off the wooden railing of the ramparts with clammy hands and decides very suddenly that he doesn’t care much for sulking on his own. He’d much prefer to sulk with company.
Knowing Henry, he’d have run off to the smithy, or maybe in the training yard to get battered around a bit. After a short walk, Hans discovers it to be the latter.
His loyal page, Henry of Skalitz, who’s once again in desperate need of a wash, is in the ring with the so-called master swordsman. Black something-or-other. And the pair of them have causes enough of a ruckus that they’ve garnered a decent sized crowd. Neither man is clad in armour—in fact, they’re not in much of anything at all. They look like they might’ve been wrestling before dueling, given their state of undress, along with cuts and bruises that litter their exposed torsos.
Any excuse to roll in the mud, Hans swears to Christ.
The sound of wooden training swords clacking together and cheers from onlookers lining the side of the pen when someone lands a hit fills the courtyard. No one takes notice when Sir Hans Capon, Lord of Pierstein and heir to Rattay joins their ranks. He leans his elbows against the wooden rail and watches the show.
“You should take more care to guard your left, Hal,” Henry’s opponent tells him with a smirk, sounding only slightly winded, “you leave yourself too open, especially without a shield.”
Something about it bristles Hans. They’ve only been here a night, how in the hell is Henry so familiar with folk here already? With the same guards that nearly dragged his master to an early grave, no less! Christ…
It seems presumptuous as hell, if anyone were to ask Hans. But so far Hans has gone completely unnoticed, and Henry seems unbothered by the diminutive name. In fact, he just nods, returns a good-natured smile, and covers his left during the next parry.
The two of them smack their swords against one another for a time, grunting and huffing and sweating like animals. It’s entertaining, at least, and soon Hans is cheering and shouting along with the common rabble.
Henry’s opponent is skilled. Annoyingly so. While Henry gets the better of him a few times here and there, it’s clear Hans’ man is on the back foot.
This isn’t any more evident than when Sir Black-whatever-the-hell-his-name-is feigns right only to side-step left, causing Henry to stumble forward and past him. Then, quick as a lightning strike, the other man spins on his heel and swings the flat of his blade straight on Henry’s buttocks. The sharp sound of hard wood hitting the soft flesh of Henry’s arse is so loud it seems to echo off the stone walls surrounding them, though the crowds hooping and hollering quickly drowns it out. Hans feels his face flood with heat at the indignity of it.
But Henry, good-natured and gracious to a fault Henry, simply chuckles through a wince, his hips thrust forward ever so slightly with a hand pressed to his no doubt stinging cheek. “Ow, dammit—I’ve got to ride out on this tomorrow, you bastard.”
Black… Bartok? No, Bartosch. Black fucking Bartosch is smiling ear to ear, a laugh caught in his throat as he speaks. “Do you yield, my friend?”
Now this does bristle Hans. He feels the corners of his mouth pull down in a disapproving frown as he straightens his back. My friend? He’s got a nerve…
“Not yet,” Henry replies with a quick shake of his head, already getting into position to go again. He widens his stance, takes a breath and, like a glutton for punishment, begins the dance once again.
This round though, Henry’s got some fire in him, Hans is pleased to see. He gives as good as he gets, even with his newly acquired limp. He does that fancy move he always leans on—the one the Nomad’s taught him—and by God, it works. Henry lands a few solid jabs against the so-called master swordsman before he’s got a chance to do much more than try and block against it. It’s an impressive show, and Hans isn’t immune to the crowd's rising enthusiasm. On the contrary; he’s shouting louder than most of them.
Maybe Henry had a point about blowing off some steam. This is really fucking fun.
Bartosch’s back hits the wooden fence. Hard enough that it gives a good crack. For a moment Hans wonders if it might shatter altogether, but it holds. Henry’s got his sword crossed with the knight’s, and he’s pushing what looks like his full weight against him.
They’re of a similar build so it’s anyone’s game. There’s a tense few moments where no one moves—the two men are chest to chest, their well-muscles arms are tense, shaking with effort, both determined to win out in the end. They remain locked in place for several breathless seconds before a blade finally slips. It happens fast—so fast that Hans’ eyes can’t seem to keep up with it–but while Henry’s wooden blade comes smacking down into the meat of Bartosch’s shoulder, Bartosch’s wooden edge slides directly into Henry’s face.
The gathered crowd jeers and gasps as Henry’s head bounces back from the impact. He drops his sword and instinctively brings a hand to the affected area, blood already running down past his eye.
Hans is up and over the fence before he can stop himself, his heart caught in his throat. He jogs across the well-beaten ground, but Black fucking Bartosch is already by Henry’s side, guiding him to a small bench near the wall.
“Now do you yield?” Hans hears Bartosch ask in an oddly playful tone. Familiar, like they really are friends. Hans tightens his hands into fists. This fucking whoreson…
But Henry doesn’t seem bothered by the taunting. Instead, he’s smiling behind a bloodied hand and a dirt-smudged face. “Aye, I yield,” Henry answers.
“Smart boy,” Sir Bartosch grins as he leans forward to assess the damage he’d so carelessly inflicted on Hans’ right hand man. “That’ll need cleaning. Maybe even some sutures. Fortunately, I’m handy with a needle.”
Fantastic, Hans thinks bitterly. That’s the last thing he bloody well needs; a one-eyed body-guard who can’t ride on account of a sore arse.
“Do you think? It doesn’t feel that deep…” Henry murmurs in that distinctive accent of his. It always seems to come out a little thicker when he’s tired or injured. Like he can’t be bothered trying to polish it up for anyone.
“Let me get a better look,” Bartosch takes a knee in front of Henry, slotted right between his laxed thighs while he reaches up and takes Henry’s face in his hands. He hums contemplatively. “Head wounds tend to bleed a lot. But if it slows within the next hour, you might avoid the need for stitches.”
Familiar isn’t the word for this, Hans thinks. This is… more. Much more. It’s tender. Intimate. Like…
Hans feels his face fill with heat while the rest of him goes cold. His feet suddenly feel as though they’re buried in the earth, unable to lift them up—it’s the same sort of trapped, panicked feeling he gets when he’s in small, cramped spaces.
What the fuck is going on here?
“Come Henry, I’ll escort you to the baths. We can get you cleaned up and stitched back together there, eh?” Bartosch says, his voice strangely soft, as if Henry was a child or… or a woman. He’s got his bare hands over Henry’s cheeks, unbothered by the flood of red still flowing from the open wound.
Henry’s got one eye sealed shut to keep the blood out, but the other eye isn’t too far behind. He’s heavy lidded, as if the exhaustion from his fight is hitting him all at once. Henry nods, agreeing wordlessly, and something snaps for Hans. His legs are moving of their own accord, carrying him forward.
“Get the fuck off of him,” Hans snaps as he shoves a certain unsuspecting knight away from his page, “haven’t you done enough? Just look at him! He’s to ride into battle on the morrow and you’ve all but maimed him, you beast!”
Black Bartosch doesn’t stay down for long. He rises to his feet, and Hans is unreasonably pleased when he doesn’t reach Hans’ height. “Who the hell are you?” The slightly shorter man asks.
“Sir Hans—“ Henry tries to interject, but Hans rushes past.
“I am Sir Hans Capon, Lord of Pierkstein, heir to Rattay,” he says in a rush of well-rehearsed words, “and this is my personal body guard that you’ve beaten to a bloody pulp!”
“I don’t think I did that poorly—“ Henry grumbles from his bench.
“What’s more,” Hans continues in a raised voice, “after leaving him bleeding and limping for Christ's sake, you now want to drag him to some seedy bathhouse where you’ll no doubt get him drunk and keep him awake until the early hours of the morning.”
“I assure you, Lord Capon,” Sir Bartosch replies slowly, with a tilt of his head, behind eyes so dark there was no telling where his irises began and his pupils ended, “that I had no intention of dragging our Henry here anywhere he did not wish to go.”
Hans gives an exaggerated guffaw in disbelief. Our Henry? This conniving, puffed up, weasel-faced—
“It’s alright, my Lord,” Henry pipes up, ever the self-styled diplomat, “I’ll be ready to do battle by morning. I just need—“
“I know what you need,” Hans points to his own chest, not breaking eye contact with Black Bartosch, “so if you don’t mind, Sir, I’ll be taking my body guard with me to ensure he gets the proper care he needs. Good night.”
With that, Black Bartosch raises his hands in defeat, though not without an annoying smirk that Hans would very much like to knock off his face. But he’s already occupied his hands with helping Henry to his feet, so it would have to wait.
“Come on, Henry. Up you get,” Hans commands, and Henry obeys. He’s got a hold of Henry’s elbow and shoulder and soon they’re both up and moving towards the tower.
“We’re not going to the baths?” Henry asks, as they pass through the inner courtyard.
Hans gives a shake of his head, “There’s a wash basin in my room.”
“But—Jesus, Hans, look at me,” Henry makes a motion towards his mud and sweat and blood covered body, “I need a proper bath. I reek.”
Hans rolls his eyes, “Henry, don’t take this the wrong way, but you always reek.”
Henry scoffs, “Well aren’t you in a mood.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Hans snaps, voice edging into shrillness, “I very nearly died less than 24 hours ago, and I’ve been trapped here with my would-be murderers ever since, and the one person who’s supposed to be keeping me safe is playing gladiator in the courtyard! With deranged mad men who look like they want to eat him alive, no less.”
Henry snorts, “don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? I was only sparring with the man. I’ll have you know that I paid good coin to get that lesson.”
“A waste of perfectly good groschen,” Hans mutters as he leads them through the heavy wooden door and into his chambers. It’s a decently sized room with a decent view of the countryside, though being enclosed in any sort of stone structure still tends to set his nerves on edge. After spending so many nights sleeping outdoors, returning to civilized sleeping arrangements remains oddly foreign.
But the recently stoked fireplace, freshly laundered clothing and filled water basin that awaited him every morning and evening was something he had a newfound appreciation for.
“Sit.” Hans says as he all but drops Henry down onto the stool near the hung linen towels. He does Henry a favour and wets one of the strips of cloth and tosses it Henry’s way. And with only the one eye uncovered, his perception is all off so it just lands with a splat! against his bare chest. “Wash.”
Dutifully, Henry complies. He starts with his face, avoiding the open wound, before moving onto his sweat-soaked hair, then his torso. He’s splashing palm-fulls of water up onto his armpits when Hans notices the water inside the basin is already a murky gray-brown colour. But it will have to do, Hans thinks.
“You’ll feel better once we’re back on the road, Sir Hans,” Henry says, seemingly unprompted.
“You think I’m being paranoid?” Hans crosses his arms across his chest as he leans against the wall closest to the window. He’s got a decent view of the setting sun. All pinks and oranges against a splattering of clouds.
Henry twists at his waist in order to cast a glance over his shoulder. “I think you’ve had a rough couple of days, and you’ve not had a chance to get a proper night's rest. Perhaps it’s possible you’re seeing demons in the corner when there’s only shadows.”
“Henry, we’re in a den of vipers here. These are powerful players. Who knows what their true motives are? And I can’t have you in any sort of diminished state. My very life depends on it! What if you’d gotten a harder knock to the head and suffered a concussion, eh? Or fallen wrong and sprained your ankle? I’d be completely alone!” Hans says defensively, and with a note of panic he can’t seem to rid himself of lately, “and don’t say demons. You know how I feel about that word.”
Summoning devils is the last thing they need…
Henry chuckles and Hans swears he can see the man physically bite down on his tongue in order to keep from repeating the word. His hands busy themselves with pulling the ties loose from his hose while toeing off his leather shoes. “You’re right, my Lord. I should‘ve kept focused on the task.”
“Bloody right you should be,” Hans murmurs as he turns his attention back to the fading daylight. The wind on his face didn’t exactly calm him, but it was easier to get a lung-full of air when it was fresh. “And I don’t trust that rogue you were dueling against. Watch out for him.”
“Sir Bartosch?” Henry barks out a laugh, “But he’s a nobleman, like you—“
“He is not like me,” Hans cuts back, turning his attention back to Henry to deliver a scathing look. He’s not sure if he succeeds, however, seeing as when his eyes return to Henry, the man is stark naked and dripping wet. He’s got his wash-rag above the cold water basin, wringing it out, before getting to work on the long leg he's got propped up on the seat of the bench.
“He didn’t seem all that bad to me,” Henry goes on, casual as an afternoon breeze. And why wouldn’t he? They’ve seen one another naked before. Hell, they’ve been in the same tub a time or two, though those times were always clothed. Something about the way Black Bartosch was touching Henry, though—like he was something precious—it seems to have bled into how Hans looks at him as well. Like he’s something others might try and take for themselves. The greedy bastards. Henry continues, “And I think I’m a fair judge of character. Meaning no offense, of course.”
“Says the man still bleeding from a head wound inflicted on him by the very character in question,” Hans retorts grumpily.
Henry scoffs, “That was an accident.”
“So he says.”
“So I say as well.”
“Why are you defending him? You barely know the man from Adam!”
“Aye, but neither do you, only you seem intent on hating him. Why?”
Hans lets out a frustrated groan, hating the way his back feels as though it’s pressed to a corner. “Didn’t you see the way he was treating you?”
Now Henry truly does look lost. He frowns, and his eyes trail across the room, as if in search of some hidden clue he must have missed. “How he was treating me?” Henry repeats, as if perhaps he misheard.
“Yes,” Hans says, stubborn to a fault, “he was treating you like… Like—Christ wounds, Henry—the man was treating you like he would a woman.”
“A woman?” Henry echoes once again, disbelief clear in his tone. He huffs out a laugh, though there’s no humour behind it. “We fought. In what way is that treating me like a woman?”
“Afterward,” Hans clarifies, though now that the words have left him, he can’t seem to find the reasoning behind them. Only the feeling that came with it. “The way he… touched you.”
A beat passes between them where neither man speaks. Henry shifts on his bare feet, and Hans feels a brush of wind rush past him through the window, no doubt hitting Henry. If Hans looks closely enough, he might even take note of the goose-bumps that form along his torso, or the stiffening of his nipples.
But Hans wasn’t looking, of course. Why would he look? He keeps his eyes firmly on Henry’s fair face.
“How did he touch me?” Henry asks in a hushed voice. Such things were forbidden, after all. It feels dangerous just dancing around it.
Hans swallows past the newly developed lump in his throat, mulling the question over in his head. Finally, he shrugs, shakes his head, and decides to turn his attention back to the horizon outside. He wishes for what feels like the hundredth time that day that he could be anywhere but here.
The conversation dies, and the pair of them are left in an awkward silence, with nothing but the splashing of water to fill the void.
Finally, Henry breaks the tense silence when he clears his throat. “I’ll need a change of clothes.”
Hans waves a hand behind him, “The drawers are full, take what you need.”
Though it was true that Hans was slimmer than Henry, the two of them were of similar enough build that sharing clothing wasn’t much of an issue. It would just be a little tight across Henry’s broader chest. Maybe his thicker thighs as well.
Hans worries the edge of his thumb anxiously.
Henry rummages around in Hans’ dressing drawers, before sighing in defeat. “They’re too fine for me, my Lord. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Oh come off it, Henry. It’s just for tonight.” Hans growls dismissively. “Besides, they’re not even mine. They’re just clothes for guests—which you are.”
“They gave me a straw mattress next to the smithy, Hans.” Henry says flatly. “These aren’t—“
“It’s something from the drawers or it’s staying in just your skin. Your choice,” Hans says, trying to remain annoyed despite the tension draining from him like a tipped over wineskin. “Either way you've got to hurry and get over here so I can patch that cut of yours up. We’re losing the light.”
Despite his belly-aching, Henry does manage to find himself in some rather stately looking clothes. He’s pulled on a dark blue pourpoint and some tight fitting hose.
“There now, see? You could almost pass for a nobleman,” Hans teases, though his usual bite seems to have retired for the evening.
”Aye, almost,” Henry chuckles as he pulls down at the front of his shirt in an effort to straighten it out.
He cuts quite a dashing figure. For a peasant, anyway. Hans stares for a beat too long, wondering how borrowed, un-tailored clothes could look so good on a man. He clears his throat and forces himself to refocus.
“Your battle wound has stopped bleeding too, I see.” Hans remarks, eyes flicking up to the angry red lesion sitting just above Henry’s brow, colouring the light brown hair there a rusty shade of copper.
Henry raises his fingers to it, touching it gingerly. “I reckon it’ll just need cleaning. I can do that much if you have some spirits tucked away somewhere.”
Thankfully the room is stocked with not only clothes, but booze as well. Hans retrieves a jug of Schnapps and a clean bundle of bandages.
“Will this work?” Hans asks, holding the jug up by its handle, and Henry nods. He reaches to accept it, but Hans pulls it away before he can take it.
“I said I’d take care of it, didn’t I?” Hans narrows his eyes.
Henry’s hand falls. “Aye, but—”
“No buts. Just try and sit still for once in your life.” Hans gives the command, and Henry has enough sense to simply obey. And with minimal grumbling too. He’s a slow learner, but he’s not a total lost cause, Hans thinks with a shifting sort of fondness.
Without further preparation he soaks the bandage in the Schnapps and presses it to Henry’s wound.
It must sting, judging by the way he sucks in a breath through his clenched, still slightly bloody, teeth. It’s a miracle he still has them all, come to think of it. Especially with how much Henry fancies wrestling.
“Is there something I should look for?” Hans asks, realizing only now how limited his knowledge of healing truly is. “Something that would be concerning?”
“Brain matter, definitely.” Henry chuckles.
“Ha ha,” Hans says, straight-faced, “you’re hilarious.”
Henry all but preens at his own joke. No one can make Henry laugh like Henry himself, Hans swears to God almighty…
“Seriously though… just—my eyes,” Henry motions with a free hand towards his face, “you just need to make sure they’re not doing something strange.”
Hans frowns, confused. “Something strange?”
“Make sure my pupils aren’t too big, and that they match. It could mean a concussion.” Henry explains. And as a man that’s had a lot of experience getting knocked on his head, Hans would be a fool not to take his advice.
He keeps one hand pressed to the cloth at Henry’s forehead, and before he can think to stop himself, his other hand is already on the underside of Henry’s chin, fingers light as he tilts his head up.
And Henry just… stills. He goes stone-still, like a statue. Hans isn’t even sure the man is still breathing—but then Henry blinks with eyes as clear and blue as the cloudless sky. Eyes that so closely match his own.
It makes sense, of course. He and Henry are cut from the same cloth. That’s why they understand each other so well. It’s why they keep finding their way back to one another. As if they were meant to remain by the others’ side.
Animae Dimidium Meae.
Half of my soul.
It’s only now as they’re seated opposite to one another, bathed in the diminishing daylight that Hans realizes he’s set himself up to almost perfectly mirror Black Bartosch’s position from earlier. Only now it’s Hans’ hands that are holding Henry. The lump in his throat that’s never left now seems to double in size. He doesn’t think he can swallow if he tried.
“Well?” Henry asks in a hushed, low rumble. The softer he speaks, the deeper his voice becomes.
Hans’ eyebrow twitches. “Well what?”
A smile pulls itself across Henry’s face, still framed in Hans’ hold. “My pupils?”
A twinge of embarrassment ripples through Hans’ guts at having so thoroughly lost his line of thinking, and so quickly. He clears his throat and gets to the task. The black of Henry’s eyes are normal, God be praised, and he tells Henry as much.
And with that out of the way, he lets his hands fall, taking the damp rag with him. He rubs the tips of his fingers together, savouring the fading warmth he’d drawn from Henry. The blacksmith’s boy always seems to run hot—perhaps having grown up around a forge would do that.
“And your ass?” Hans asks with a barely contained smirk, because Jesus Christ he can’t seem to help himself. “What concerning thing should I look for when I examine that particular wound?”
A laugh bursts from Henry—the contagious, you-must-laugh-along kind he does every so often. So, laugh along Hans does, until they’ve both got red faces and less worries.
“That hit left a hell of a welt,” Henry shakes his head, a chuckle still in his words, “but it’s nothing that’ll keep me from my dear Pebbles come tomorrow.”
“They didn’t offer you a new horse?” Hans asks, offended on Henry’s behalf.
But it’s Henry who looks as though he’s taken offence. “And replace my Pebbles? Never.”
Hans rolls his eyes, “you know, Hanush never—“
The bell tolls, ringing out its deafening call throughout Trosky castle and the surrounding lands.
Hans’ laughter immediately curls up and dies in his chest, and it’s replaced with the unmistakable feeling of cold dread once more. He feels his chest get tight, shoulders drawing in on themselves in response, and his mouth going sickeningly dry, like he’s going to be sick.
Christ’s bloody wounds, Hans hates this fucking place. It’s beginning to feel like a mausoleum rather than a castle…
”It’s alright.” Henry says, his voice low and rough again. Hans swears he can feel it reverberating through his chest. “It’s just for another night, and then we’ll never come back here again, eh? We’ll leave it all in the past.”
Hans doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Henry takes them in his. Warm, calloused, and strong. It stills his wild, runaway heart.
It’s not enough, God dammit. He wants…
He wants so fiercely that it feels as though he’s burning up from the inside out, hollowing him until there’s nothing under his skin that isn’t flame-licked and scorched-marked.
Jesus fucking Christ, he wants.
Hans wants things he doesn’t even have the words for…
It’s not enough, not nearly, but it’s all he’s got for now. Hans looks long and hard at Henry’s comforting touch and does what little he can; he squeezes back.