Archive of Our Own

Evening was leisurely blanketing Rattay; her streets finally winding down as the sun began to slowly creep away behind the rolling hillsides. Worn boots shuffled along her dusty roads, carrying weary workers back to their homes to rest up for the rinse and repeat. A general sense of doziness hung in the air, melding with the smoke wafting up from the torches, creating an atmosphere of all-encompassing calm beneath the sweet amber sky.

Sir Hans Capon, however, was decidedly not sleepy in the slightest.

“Come along, Henry!” The young lord trilled, voice echoing louder than any other, a songbird amidst the silence. “Swiftness is an important asset, you know. I cannot have a bodyguard that struggles to keep up with me!”

Behind him, Henry was trudging along obediently, his back hunched over beneath the weight of the day. The boy had been out of Rattay since dawn, his armour dirty and battered, and consequentially his entire being seemed to be sagging like the dour branches of a drooping willow tree.

Hans was aware Henry was far busier than he was these days.

He told himself that he didn’t mind.

“Sir,” a haggard burst of breath accompanied Henry’s voice, “are you going to tell me what we’re actually doing-“

“Henry, Henry, my poor little lamb,” he teased, a smirk dancing on his lips as Henry’s ears burnt a dim pink, “surprises only work when you don’t know what’s coming!”

“But,” a huff, followed by a predictable puff, “but why am I getting a surprise anyway?”

Hans spun to the side and plastered his lordliest expression onto his face, deepening his voice before gesturing to Henry with an emphatic flick of the wrist, “because, my good fellow, I wanted to reward you for your valiant efforts in serving my future fiefdom as of late! That… and I’ve been hideously bored today.”

Henry sighed, shaking his scruffy mop of hair as his eyes rolled with poorly concealed amusement. “How gracious of you, Sir Hans.”

“It is rather gracious, isn’t it?” Hans agreed, pep in his step as he turned back around. “I am a very gracious lord, after all. You should feel honoured to have me.”

“Oh, ‘course, Sir. Always am.”

Despite the familiar sarcasm, Hans felt a faint tug in his chest at the words, which he promptly ignored; speeding his walk up to a skip-and-hop, much to Henry’s dismay.

“Keep up, then!”

The pair of them trotted up towards the training grounds, now only sparsely populated with a few stray guards getting in some last minute practice before sundown. Hans usually liked the bustle of the arena, particularly if Henry happened to be practising during the day. There was something addictive in knowing the lad was improving himself, in a roundabout way, to be better for Hans; to be a better shield, a better page, a better man at Hans’ side.

It… Well. It made him feel-

“So, what now?” Henry’s voice flew through his thoughts.

Hans took a moment to blink back to the present.

He coughed, put a finger to his lips, and gestured loosely at the bench behind them. Without word, Henry plonked himself down, eyebrows raised with bleary expectation.

“Now, don’t you move an inch. I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, gladly.” Henry said, sinking into the seat as if his bones had melted to soup within his skin; just a sleepy puddle of a boy, encased within a secondhand suit of rusty armour.

No matter how bemusing the sight, Hans still sped away inside to retrieve what he had been so careful in hiding all this time. He wasn’t sure why this gift had him so giddy, a warmth like bubbling beer washing him over with a hazy glow.

Perhaps because he assumed Henry would like it. He hoped.

He’d like to think he knew.

He took a breath before he returned, his own armour clicking and clanking away, arms now shielded behind his back. He was unable to stop himself from snorting at Henry’s slumped visage atop the wooden seat; dopey eyes drifting closed, tranquility glazing over his soft features for just a moment, mouth ajar enough for flies to sail on in. An open cavern rife for exploration - in a manner of speaking.

It felt almost cruel to wake him.

Almost.

“Blacksmith!” He grinned when Henry jolted, his hands launching up, eyes bursting wide. “You weren’t dozing on the job were you? Tut tut tut.”

“No, no, I was just, er,” Hans liked the way Henry would scuff his boots whenever he felt sheepish; ruining the material so casually, like messiness was welcomed to him rather than shunned, “resting my eyes?”

“Mhm, how diligent.”

“Oh, shush. Show me what you brought.”

Hans squinted at him. “A little more reverence, Henry.”

“Please show me what you brought, oh wonderful and benevolent Sir Hans.”

“Better.”

Though a sudden shyness washed over him as Hans swung his gift into view.

The need to justify what may just be a frivolous item pushed at his teeth and burst out, “right, so, it took me a moment to find both bits, and I had to commission someone to sew them together, but, you know, I thought it’d suit y- I mean, I think it will work? For you?“

Henry hadn’t looked down at the fabric quite yet, his gaze settled on Hans with soft amusement. Ease, one could say. As if he did it all the time.

It was only when he deigned to glance at his prize that those easy eyes finally widened.

“Oh.”

“I just thought, you know, you’re here now but clearly still very attached to where you came from, of course. So!”

Henry took the waffenrock gingerly between his fingers, thumbing along the seam where the yellow Leipa section was sewn taught beside a deep Skalitz red. Both crests, both colours; a checkerboard of Henry’s history from past to present, woven gently together. Or so Hans had described to the tailor.

It was quiet as Henry took it in. Head down, floppy ears tinging a subtle red at their tips. Heavy breaths turning to mist as the nighttime chill swam around them both.

But he had the softest smile when he peeked back up, their gazes meeting without so much as a blink.

“Thank you, Hans.”

And the sheer sincerity with which he spoke was enough to shoot Hans completely blank; rendered wide-eyed and wordless as he stared into clear blue and saw nothing but the hues of total appreciation, easy as raindrops within the waterscape of his eyes.

It made Hans flap, flounder, cock out a hip and jut out his chin, “heh, yes, well, of course I knew you’d like it,” rambling out of him as he tried to regain his composure, “because, you know, your battered old armour isn’t very becoming of a page. Really, Hal, you were in dire need of some proper colour! As your lord and friend, I had to help you out.”

But Henry wasn’t listening, instead raising the garment high to slip it primly over his head, flattening it down against his chest with a content little grin.

The red brought out the gentle flush atop his cheekbones. The yellow contrasted boldly with his eyes. Poppies and marigolds, bright beneath the moon.

“Good?”

It took a moment for Henry’s question to register, for Hans to take in his pleased expression and the sweet way his fingers were playing with the ends of the cloth in twirling loops. Brown hair messy, lines creasing into the corners of his eyes. Boyish and scruffy, as he always was.

“Looking practically regal, Hal.”

Henry beamed and Hans felt his hands turn clammy, swallowing down whatever spittle had suddenly coated the insides of his mouth. Having a friend was equally as thrilling as it was vexing; he was learning to roll with each unexpected punch Henry seemed to send flying to his gut.

He fired into his next proposal to shake himself back to normalcy.

“Now, I do believe a duel is in order! To celebrate and honour this generous donation to you.”

Unsurprisingly, Henry’s expression faltered, a familiar grumble pulling his features down into a frown. “A duel? Now?”

“Yes, now, you lazy lug. A guard must be ready for battle at any hour! We’re both already in our proper plating anyhow.”

“But-!”

Without any contest, he grabbed Henry’s arm and began to lug him towards the far gate. Despite the fatigue practically dripping from the boy’s bones, Henry didn’t refuse. His boots were caked in mud as he slid his feet through the dirt, slowing his pace to force Hans to yank him like a carthorse unwilling to walk. But, as always, he still came along, a faint aura of mirth dancing around the edges of his grumpy exterior.

They made their way across the bridge, towards the isolated training paddock far from the prying eyes of Rattay.

“Remember when I thoroughly walloped you here after we first met?” Hans jeered lowly, nudging the side of his temple into Henry’s head, a pup to an open palm.

Henry kicked him lightly in response, the clink of their armour singing through the quiet, “I think you’re remembering wrong.”

“No, no,” Hans let his face linger close, able to feel the warmth of Henry’s heavy breath against the hairs on his cheeks, “I definitely won that bout; really put you through the wringer, my friend-“

“Oh, aye, aye, whatever you say, Sir.” Henry was smiling, though. It never took long for sunlight to return to his face, at least whenever Hans seemed to be with him. “Thankfully, that fight was during the day.”

Hans sometimes felt the inexplicable desire to whirl Henry around as they walked, to pull him from side to side and show him off to the world like a prize he had won. Childish, perhaps, but his fingers were itching for it where they clung to Henry’s arm, solid against his bracers.

“I cannot believe that you’re this offended by a mere nighttime duel, Hal,” Hans teased, only releasing Henry to clamber over the fence and into the arena, “one would think you’re scared.”

Henry held back to retrieve their wooden swords, but didn’t hesitate to shoot a frown over at the other. “What, of the dark?”

“No, that I’ll give you a proper good thrashing again.”

“Ah, right… Definitely more scared of the dark.”

Hans wanted to chide him, the smile on his face starting to strain with its intensity, but Henry silenced him by throwing him his weapon, a matching smirk dusting his lips.

Above their heads, black was beating down in full force, shadows engulfing the greenery, accompanied by a crisp chill that had Hans’ nose peaching at the tip. Everything was always bigger, bolder, badder at night; Hans held old wood beneath his palms but felt the rush of solid steel, heavy and firm and hot against his skin.

Henry was watching him in wait, new attire still blazing bright even as darkness swallowed their surroundings.

Somehow, not for the first time, Hans was struck with a vision of Henry opposite him on a battlefield; piercing chicory bright through the battered metal of a visor, pure concentrated action held in stasis within the frost of Henry’s eyes - a look of wild intent piercing into Hans across the distance. It was a concept that caused his neck to grow warm beneath the weight of the fiction, enough that Hans had to rub meekly at his nape.

He enjoyed the intensity that could burn out of Henry when the situation called for it. He found himself hoping to fan those flames tonight; desperate for the innate adrenaline that swordplay could bring to them both.

It had just been so long since he’d had any fun.

“Ready, blacksmith’s boy?”

With no helmet to hide his eyes, nor the sparks that were steadily igniting within them, Henry nodded open and easy.

Hans offered him one penultimate grin, before closing swiftly in.

It began lightly, as a duel so often did; they walked in a delicate circle around each other, swords holding a firm line across their chests in guard. The air was muted, the only sound that of their chains and plates rattling with the sure little steps they took.

“Sizing me up?” Hans broke the silence, raising an eyebrow as he pulled his sword outwards, brandishing it. Henry shot him an answering eye roll.

“Oh, I’ve sized you plenty,” opening up his own stance, energy surging into both of them as the true bout appeared moments from commencing, “I’m just waiting for you to actually move-“

In response, Hans darted forwards, jabbing his sword in a sharp line straight into Henry’s stomach, letting out a delighted bark of a laugh that burst through the quiet like canon fire through a wall.

Henry blinked.

“Ah, fuck it.”

And suddenly, delicacy was forgotten entirely.

Henry rushed in, swinging wide and heavy straight into Hans’ side, thundering and powerful to which Hans answered with a sharp strike to the shoulder; the pair of them now engulfed within a wild push and pull of swing and hit, smiling like madmen as wooden swords crashed into their armour like war drums in booming chorus. Their movements were devoid of elegance, no technique nor ruleset; just the visceral thrill of thrusting a weapon and feeling it shake within the hand upon impact.

They mapped the arena as they turned in every direction, swords clashing with every step they took; sharp eyes remaining staunchly interlocked throughout the frenzied dance they found themselves caught in.

“Hanush would have a fit if he saw this,” Hans laughed, his breath stuttering out of him as he stared into Henry’s focus, “what absolute fucking madness, Hal!”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be if you’d stop aiming for my bloody ribs-“

Thwack. Sweat starting to drip, smile pulling harsh at his cheeks. “It’s not my fault you’re leaving yourself wide open!”

At that, the air burned heady when Henry suddenly charged forwards, ramming his blade against Hans’ own, careening them both backwards further and further whilst the lad grinned something wild.

“Can’t have that, can I?”

Hans’ back came to crash against the fence, but Henry didn’t relent; caging him in until their swords pressed firm between their chests.

He could feel Henry’s breath beating against his lashes, could see the energy thrumming through him as he held Hans captive behind the wooden bars of their blades.

“Trapping your lord, are we?” Hans panted, shaking the sweat from his hair and watching where it hit Henry’s throat. “They’ll have you hung for such treachery.”

“‘Fraid he left me no choice.” Henry smiled, somehow pushing closer still, enough that Hans could trace the smattering of freckles that lined Henry’s nose. Stars dotting his skin.

“What’s your plan now then, eh?” Hans felt hot, something burning within his core. “What are you going to do with me now that I’m at your mercy?”

Henry’s pupils bloomed a little. A trick of the light, perhaps.

“Surely you yield, Sir?”

Hans simply smirked.

Slipped his leg out, hooked it around Henry’s to slot in just behind the knee, and watched with unhidden delight as Henry realised exactly what he was about to do.

“Henry, Henry, Henry. A noble never yields.”

With a swift tug, he knocked him off-balance, sending the lad buckling to the side enough for Hans to slip free of their standoff and finish him with a decisive smack to his lower back.

Henry groaned, low and rumbling like thunder through the clouds, frustration visible in the lines of his face as he spun back around and shot Hans a glare.

“Aww, now don’t be upset,” Hans cooed, twirling his sword about in triumph, “it’s not your fault you’re up against a master.”

Henry’s ears and nose were tinged with sweaty pink, and he spat to the ground before raising his weapon once more, always the dog that never stopped chasing.

“Again.”

Bright flames of immense satisfaction began to burn Hans’ body as he let out a surprised laugh. “And here I thought you didn’t even want to-!”

“Again.” Henry declared, before swinging without warning, Hans only just managing to block the attack with his blade lest his sides bruise blue.

“Oh, you absolute beast!” But he was grinning, so much it twinged and ached at his cheeks. “It’s honourable to give a warning first-“

“I suppose it’s also honourable to trip your opponents, eh?” Henry’s voice was laden with snark and exertion as they exchanged blows, swords thudding together in rhythm as the moon watched on tiredly up above. “I must’ve missed that part of training, Sir.”

Hans turned in a close dodge as Henry chased him across the paddock, “and that’s why you’ll never best me! Learn to take every opportunity that appears, my friend!”

It was, ultimately, an unreasonably juvenile occasion on the whole, but that didn’t slow the pair in the slightest; if anything, a blaze had ignited beneath Henry’s hose that had him set on Hans like the hungriest of hounds, attention spiked to a crazed degree.

Exactly how Hans liked him.

“You’ll tire soon,” the blacksmith declared headily after another series of attacks, no less aggressive in his reckless technique, “I’ve seen the state of your stamina.”

Hans was light on his feet as he parried, though he was panting like a dog beneath the sunshine, “Henry, really, I beg you ask the bathmaids about my stamina before you make such accusations.”

And, funnily enough, a splash of red dusted its way onto Henry’s neck at that; a flash in the pan of colour, vanishing with the sweat that was dripping beneath his armour despite the dissatisfied look on his face.

“That’s different.”

His voice had the slightest waver to it, though; an innocent lilt of uncertainty that Hans wanted grip onto and meld into the shape he wanted. He felt himself smirk.

“Oh, no, it’s wonderfully similar,” their movements slowed for a beat, “I’m shocked you don’t think so, too.”

Henry’s grip tightened around his blade, readied to block whatever physical or verbal attack the young lord was preparing to send his way. Something akin to glee was crawling up Hans’ spine; a monster with laughter pooling in its guts, and jeers sharp on its twisting tongue.

“Come off it.”

“No, no, think about it, Henry; the throes of passion, the intoxicating thrashes of a lady in pleasure, her flushed legs constricting tight like a vice around your waist,” Hans spotted the way Henry inhaled, his chest hitching up and down, “they evoke a feeling of excitement in us, no?”

Henry stepped forward, attempting a slash, “well, ‘course, but-“

Blocked, with a playful grin. “And the vigour and intensity of the battlefield, swords and bodies clashing close with force… Makes you just burn, doesn’t it? All hot and bothered, like bloodlust could devour you whole?”

The other swallowed.

Hans traced the motion with his eyes.

“Christ,” Henry’s eyes rolled though his breath was staggered as he spoke, “you’re insatiable.”

Hans laughed, watching the way the wheels turned in Henry’s head as he reluctantly mulled his words over. “Indeed I am. It makes me a more poetic soul.”

“I’d say it makes you a fool.”

“Hardly. Hit me again.”

“Only to shut you up!”

Swords raised and collided once more, though something around them was headier, and Hans felt his statement weighing on his shoulders as he continued to parry Henry’s strikes.

Sometimes, Hans would watch him and feel raw, like a beast stalking a hunt that it knew it could never strike down. Henry was breathing like an animal behind his armour, doing nothing to dull the adrenaline pumping around Hans like a rushing current.

Such insatiable fun.

Enough that, for reasons beyond his comprehension, Hans wanted to make things harder. He clashed his wooden blade against Henry’s but held them interlocked in a shaking impasse, staring through the cross into Henry’s eyes.

Shot him a wink, wrenched their hold to the side, and let his blade slip free of his fingers.

Henry’s expression morphed into resounding confusion as Hans’ weapon thudded meekly to the ground, and Hans took that opportunity to promptly charge him.

“Oh, fucking Hell-!”

The grass was thin and sodden as the pair of them crashed down onto it; Hans’ shoulder rammed into Henry’s stomach where he had tackled him gracelessly, bruises undoubtedly starting to pop into place along their flesh, trophies for such an ignoble bout.

Hans sat up on his knees, staring down at Henry’s fallen form strewn between his thighs; arms above his head, hands open and empty, the boy’s sword now also lost to the floor and forgotten entirely.

Caged like a beast beneath his lord.

“Yield.”

Henry didn’t speak, breath too taken; the stuttered rise and fall of his chest all the more apparent from their sudden proximity.

The lad groaned instead, arching his back up slightly to stretch out the throb of the impact, causing his waffenrock to ride upwards with the angle and dip into the mud beneath him. Blades of damp grass slid against the fabric to wet it to his armoured shell, sticking to the outline of him like a bathmaiden’s soaken shawl.

Ruinous.

Hans found himself gripped by something innate, reaching down mindlessly to take the ends swiftly between his fingers.

“Wait. Don’t move.”

“Wh-?”

But explanations were lost as he began to push the cloth further up Henry’s body.

Up to the curve of his chest, revealing hues of shining silver, an iron torso brought out beneath the night. He knew Henry could feel the weight of his hands as he slid them up his breastplate, wasn’t sure why the thought came to him at all.

“You’re getting it dirty.” He whispered lowly, watching with a muted hum as Henry blinked in hazy understanding. “Up.”

The boy hitched, moving into Hans’ space, his core no doubt aching as he held himself up with his hands suspended between their chests. Rapt as Hans’ fingers skimmed the width of him.

He could taste their breath in the air. “Raise your arms.”

Obedient, anchored only by Hans’ thighs around his hips, Henry allowed his lord to pull the item from his body with a languid tug. Hans’ ears felt hot with the movements, so familiar to settings so different; ones better reserved for fairer maidens than the boy wedged between his knees. He was searing where Hans saddled him, despite the metallic barriers blocking the source.

With a swallow, he threw the cloth to the nearest fence, huffing as it landed dutifully over the beam.

Henry’s eyes were dark when Hans turned back, lying flat against the ground.

The lad’s maw was open with residual exertion, a sheen of spittle skimming his lips, visible even in the night. Red was painting itself across him like fire through ashen fields; mouth, cheeks and all.

As if he were...

“Right.” Hans coughed, attempting to shatter whatever ordeal had come to melt his bones to the marrow, sitting back on his heels to clear the heat that was clogging their air. “Now that that’s sorted… We should resume where we left off.”

Henry swallowed before speaking again, tone warped, “…without our swords?”

“Don’t try and tell me you’ve never wrestled, Hal.”

“You know I have, but,” blue eyes darted to the side, glancing at his weapon abandoned a distance away, “but I thought you hated-“

“Henry.” Hans leant down, and felt something within him jolt as the other’s eyes widened once again. “You could just yield.”

A passerby might have wondered what the Lord of Pirkstein was doing ironed against his page in the dirt, but the external world had long since shrunk away from Hans’ considerations. With palms either side of Henry’s head like pillars to a shrine, his attention was entirely honed on the centrepiece; Henry simply huffed, the hint of a smile worming onto his lips like a parasite impossible to deter.

“Think you already know the answer to that.”

Hans’ grin stretched wide.

“Stubborn as a damn ox, you are.”

Henry’s hands came up to grip Hans’ forearms, preparation for whatever fight was to come. “Takes one to know one, Sir.”

“Brute.” The buzz of life thrummed into his bones as he locked himself into place above Henry, armoured knees skidding into the dirt.

But, in doing so, he slipped forwards slightly.

Only a fraction, the barest pressure against Henry’s front, but enough to align them in such a way that Hans suddenly felt the shivers of an entirely new sensation burn into him from below.

His legs were spread against his page’s own, thighs plastered into thighs, metallic coverings scraping whenever they so much as shivered, aside from in one crucial place.

It was then that Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein found himself wholly at the mercy of the thin sheet of chainmail that hung loosely between his legs.

Henry had no protection there at all.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Hans could hardly think save for the visions that began to sneak through his skull with addictive intensity.

Thoughts of how, if he’d just inch closer, then they would be-

“Hans?”

He flinched.

Stuttered, slipping down.

Felt himself burn beneath the chill of the chains that pressed against him as he nudged, so very faintly, straight into the heat of his friend.

Watched, breath held like a vice, as Henry felt it too.

Silence.

The air very, very still.

Henry’s eyes were clear, framed by those impossibly long lashes as he stared up into his lord’s gaze and held it with a look so difficult to parse.

His fingers tightened a fraction around Hans’ arms, nails digging in, the only movement he made.

It was quiet enough to hear the distant rustling of Rattay’s trees, the scampering paws of creatures moving through the bushes, the wind shooting so gently past.

Until Henry spoke.

“…You g’nna move, Sir?”

His voice was low as the night, punctuated by a hefty swallow as he broke their sightline to stare into the nothingness at his side.

Hans could trace the pulse that slipped under Henry’s collar.

“I… Yeah.” He tried for surety, for unaffected confidence, but it just came out weak and breathy. Telling. “I will.”

And he did.

He slid backwards, only, this time, allowing himself the idiotic press of more.

He sank his weight a fraction lower onto his squire and shuddered as Henry’s eyes scrunched shut with it.

No excuses now.

He should lift off of him, separate them, move on from whatever standstill was taunting them beneath the moonlight. No matter how pink Henry’s face was turning. It was the wise thing to do.

But wise never paired well with impulse, and Hans sported impulsivity in droves.

So instead, he sank down again.

And again.

And again.

And Henry’s head fell back, one of his hands flying up to cover his face, to shield the tiny gasp that tittered out of him as Hans began to press himself onto Henry’s crotch with growing strength; his eyes honed on the reactions dripping from Henry’s frame, the bliss pushing at the corners of his features and painting him in vermillion.

The chainmail pressed against them both with a coldness that shocked them through the thin barrier of their braies, heightening the sensation tenfold as it clashed with the heat that was beginning to burn between their legs.

“Henry,” Hans mumbled, mindlessly, starting to rock back and forth with steadying rhythm, timing his movements to the rise and fall of Henry’s staccato chest, “Henry.”

“Wh-what?” And, Christ, he sounded hazy.

Hans breathed, “nothing, just...”

“You,” stuttered, flushed, “this is...”

“I know.” Hans whispered, not slowing in the slightest, arguably egged on by the wobbly tones melting from his friend and the deep plunge of his pupils.

Their armour became makeshift percussion as their bodies continued to collide, thudding and scraping discordantly beneath the stuttered movements of lord and page. Hans couldn’t find it within himself to care; he was more taken by the spectacle shivering between his legs, growing hotter by the second.

He’d never seen Henry so red.

“Henry,” he grinned suddenly, hissing through his teeth with sudden mirth, “Henry you look like you’ve fallen over in a damn poppy field.”

If anything, it only served to make the boy flush deeper, huffing as he shot Hans a glower, “least I don’t look like I’ve almost bloody drowned.”

Hans chuckled, watching as droplets of sweat fell from his hair as if to prove Henry’s point, splattering onto the metal below him and dribbling down the side. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, for reasons he couldn’t entirely understand.

He ground down harder instead of thinking about it, warmed when it made Henry squirm against the grass, a groan escaping him that had Hans panting heavier. The chainmail was harsh yet so addictive between them, firm and icy and the only thing holding them back from crossing a line they could never come back from.

Henry let out a particularly high whine, and Hans couldn’t help but mutter in disbelief, “God, you sound pretty, Hal-“

His page hid his face with his arm, shaking his head despite nudging Hans closer with his legs, “shut it, ‘m not a maid.”

“I’m serious,” and Hans was leaning closer, wanting to look, wanting to hear, feeling entirely insane, “Henry, let me see you.”

“Christ, this is madness.” But he sounded so gone, blissed and heady as it trickled out of him. “You’re mad.”

“I can stop-“

Henry’s arm slid down a fraction, blue eyes suddenly piercing into him with an intensity that shot straight to Hans’ crotch, an arrow bathed in unholy flame.

“…No,” Henry whispered, hips bucking up into the other with intoxicating shakiness, “don’t you dare.”

“Fuck, alright,” chuckling dazedly as he stared down at him, mind reeling for an answer as to why he felt like he could never look away, “Christ.”

Hans was closer to his face now; their bodies practically plastered together, hips pushing, breastplates scraping, Henry’s eyes so bright and so near.

Their gasps began to mix as Henry let his arm fall completely.

“You like this?” Hans asked, arms twinging as he held himself inches above Henry’s face. “Hah, this what does it for you?”

“Well, it certainly is for you.” His page retorted, laboured but obstinate, just like always. Charming smirk wobbly on those pink lips. “Sweating like a damn pig, Sir.”

God’s wounds, it really was Henry beneath him.

It hit him over and over once it locked into his mind; Henry gasping as his fingers tightened, Henry’s heat pressing hot and heavy into his own, Henry’s face and hair and hands and mouth and-

The chainmail slid upwards.

Hans felt it before he registered what had occurred; hot, firm, coated by thin fabric and pressing into him.

“Oh God-“

Henry had every star above their heads dancing through his eyes as he peered up at Hans, fingers slipping up to grasp the rim of Hans’ breastplate and hang on as if he were falling.

“Sir, it’s…”

“D-don’t say it.”

They were shaking yet frozen, though Hans knew what desire was furiously pumping through his veins as he held himself stiff against Henry’s heat, certain he could feel Henry’s pulse as they waited, and waited, and waited.

Hans had never felt this explosive in his life, on the brink of breaking down a wall he never knew he wanted to climb.

But it was Henry who eventually mumbled, meeker than a mouse, what they both needed to hear.

“…Move.”

Hans felt raw. “What did you-?”

“Christ.” Henry looked so flushed but so determined. “You heard me.”

“I,” and pleasure surely had made Hans its prisoner, because a boldness hit him harder than any sword ever had, pushing him down into Henry’s space to speak lowly, “I think you should say it again. Just to be clear.”

“Oh, you bastard.” But Henry couldn’t hide the start of a grin, even through the sweat and the blush and the craziness that seemed to be eating them both whole. “You bastard.”

Hans laughed, entirely maddened by him, sitting up a little to leave himself saddled against Henry in tease, “go on, tell your lord what you want.”

Fire in his eyes, beneath his armour, beneath his goddamn braies as Henry breathed out, “I want him to keep bloody going-“

Hans promptly ground into him and felt power beyond words as Henry arched into the dirt in response.

“More?”

“Christ, yeah,” and so he was given more, Hans watching as his closest friend, his only friend, started to come apart beneath him as he rode, “shit.”

“Such a way with words,” Hans huffed, suddenly envisioning their damned armour was gone, that they were able to see more, hear more, touch more, “how verbose you are, Hal.”

“Mmph,” was Henry’s wisened reply, lip caught between his teeth as Hans pushed down indulgently slowly, feeling every inch of him lined up with his own. Each languid thrust pulled a sweeter sound, Hans found his mouth was falling open, his tongue heavy with desire to taste.

The sensations were so heightened, the noises Henry was making, the feel of their bodies pressed against their respective plating, everything mixing together in Hans’ head as he moved. Henry was reduced to a muted man, muffled pants and groans seeping from him rather than any of their usual banter; he was melting.

Hans was so charmed he could hardly stop himself from playing with it.

“God, look at you. Lost your words, have you, Henry? We simply can’t have that.”

He felt positively devillish as he then chose to hover; holding himself mere inches away and watching with glee as Henry groaned in open annoyance.

“Come on, Sir-“

“I told you to tell me what you want, Henry.”

Miraculously, that still drove a shiver from the boy, his chest hitching at the words.

Unbelievable.

“I…”

“Come on, I know you can.”

Breathless, boyish, the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him. “God’s damned wounds, more. I want more.”

Hans didn’t move, no matter how much he ached to, “mm, what do you want more of? Specificity is an important trait-“

“A damn prick against me, that what you want to hear?”

Hans wasn’t prepared for how the words would shoot down him like a rushing current, how hearing it fall from Henry’s lips would sweeten the feeling. This game had him growing hotter by the second.

“Good, Hal,” he breathed, ready to push it just one more time, “and whose damn prick is it you want?”

Henry blinked. No doubt fully understanding what was running through Hans’ mind, seeing his lord in clear detail as all the power transferred into his rough palms. He chuckled with it, a shaky yet delighted thing.

“You really want me to say that?”

Hans’ knees were starting to shake as he held himself up, though heat was pooling within him at a rate he’d never felt before, somehow on the brink despite all sensation being quite absent at that moment. Trembling with how much he wanted it.

“I think you want to say it,” Hans tried, eyeing the sweat sticking to Henry’s hair, “as much as I need to hear it.”

It was another standoff, another competition even now; the pair of them so entirely aligned that their duels could extend into something as forbidden as this. Kindred spirits, panting and shuddering against each other as Henry let out a placating chuckle, with Hans so damn close to the breaking point, faster than he’d ever thought possible.

Henry’s eyes were sharper than any blade as he finally leant himself up and spoke, pitched yet impossibly clear.

“Yours. I bloody want yours, Hans, Sir Hans, please-“

It served to push him completely over the edge.

Hans had no chance to try and stop it, the words alone shooting sparks down his spine that had his legs buckling, slipping down onto Henry as he shivered like a Spring fawn. Henry’s armour was chilled where Hans’ forehead knocked against it, the boy’s heartbeat booming through the casing like drumbeats for war. The mere sensation of his prick colliding with Henry’s solid form after hearing him whimper those words had Hans spilling over shockingly fast, dirtying his braies as Henry’s fingers tightened around him tenfold, iron in their grip yet shaking in their hold.

Henry sounded as if he were witnessing a miracle, caught between disbelief and shocked wonder. “Hell, that much?”

“Shut it,” but Hans was still panting, still stuttering, still writhing, “shut it, Henry!”

“My word,” Henry’s palm came to the back of his head, carding through his hair with shaky fingers, as if after everything he had the audacity to be shy, “I had no idea you’d-“

“Neither did I, so shush!” Hans groaned, his release sticking to his braies and staining them through.

“God, I can feel it.” Henry murmured, gulping a little from beneath him, their cocks still lined up neatly even after Hans had spent himself silly at such a small utterance. “I can feel you-“

He turned beet red, “don’t think about it.”

“Hard not to.”

“Henry.”

“Sir Hans.”

And, despite it all, despite the mortification and the desperation, all the sin and all the sweetness, Hans let out a snort, an ugly thing that burst out of him where he lay.

He lifted his head to see the most satisfied little grin on Henry’s flushed face, the brightest blue in his eyes.

The lust that was still glazed across his features; panting, sweating, flushed and oh-so close.

Rapturous.

It had Hans speaking before he’d even registered the words.

“I think it’s your turn now.”

He watched Henry’s eyes blow wide as responsibility settled itself onto Hans’ shoulders like spaulders of noble principle, even for ventures as salacious as this.

“I, but you’ve already-“

“And you haven’t,” Hans breathed, boldly slipping a hand down to the open parting in Henry’s pourpoint, fingers brushing so lightly against the fabric of his braies, “and I shan’t be the only man sullying his armour tonight, so…?”

He had no clue what he was doing, his mind melted to mush and his body utterly spent, spurred on only by the feeling of Henry’s fingernails pressing into his scalp, pinpricks of contact that never let go.

He felt drunk off it.

“…Alright,” was all Henry had to whisper before Hans yanked the cloth down and took ahold of him in his palm, unable to stop himself from shuddering as Henry immediately bucked into his lord’s grip.

“Oho, eager.”

Henry huffed, laden with rejuvenated pleasure, pitch already tweaking as he spoke, “says you.”

Hans tugged at him in retaliation, marvelled by the visceral feedback Henry was giving him so readily; head falling back, throat bobbing as he swallowed, sweat trickling down the curves.

Hans wondered if he’d ever taste it.

“Feeling good?”

But Henry was wordless as Hans continued to stroke him, moving on pure instinct as he watched for what made Henry shake and sigh, pausing only to spit into his palm to ease his movements. It was a game he never wanted to stop playing, his mind emptying of everything save for the sweet sounds of Henry’s broken whines.

They were gone. Hopelessly and utterly gone, the pair of them; inebriated animals high on one another, and nothing to stop them from swallowing down more and more.

“Hans,” Henry hummed, breaths starting to increase in frequency, his legs jolting with it as Hans managed to guide him nearer and nearer to the edge, “‘s good.”

Their bodies were bound together like a metallic lock and key, rattling unceremoniously as Hans worked Henry with more silent ardour than he’d ever offered his previous bedfellows; it was a notion that made him shudder, forced his heart to thud one feeble, magnificent time, before he snapped back to the blacksmith close to quivering apart in his hold.

His ears were ringing with only one word, swooping in and out and in and out.

More.

“Shit, that’s-“ Henry gripped him tight as Hans started to move faster, fingers damp with slick and fiery with desire. “that’s really-“

More.

“Yeah? Faster?” Eyes honed on Henry’s features as his mouth opened further, as his eyes rolled back, as his shoulders inched up and up as Hans pushed and pushed and pushed. “Tell me, Henry, let me hear you.”

I need-

“More,“ Henry’s voice a mere burst of breath that soon broke and melted into the holiest whine Hans had ever heard in his life, “God.”

“Fuck,” he grinned into Henry’s space, enjoying every freckle, every spot, every hair, working him harder than he’d ever worked himself, “you’re close already, aren’t you? Christ, I’ve got you bloody close-“

“I’m, I,” Hans wasn’t sure he’d be able to look at another again, not with Henry practically glowing as his words got scrambled on his tongue, “shit, Hans, this is-“

“Go on, blacksmith, there’s no shame in it,” and he leant down, brain a messy fog of chestnut brown and the heady scent of iron, his lips slipping against the delicate skin of Henry’s cheek as he ordered, finally, finally, “do it for me, Hal.”

Kings could envy the veneration that pulsed through Hans as he watched Henry come apart from it.

It was poetic seeing him spill himself so dutifully; command barely out of his lord’s lips before the lad was biting into his own palm as he emptied himself in earnest onto Hans’ fingers, whimpers fresh on his tongue as if he’d only been waiting for permission all this time.

The sensation was worthy of prose, Hans thought, watching every shake, hearing every gasp as his page melted against the ground beneath him; lips so red, so bitten, so distracting that Hans could hardly hold himself upright.

That is, until the fog subsided, and the quiet humbly rolled in.

The wind was their only companion thereafter, silence echoing off of the scrapes on their breastplates as they stared into matching blue and struggled to find a word to say, impossible after having gasped so many so freely. Panting steadily into the air.

Hans’ hand was sticky, Henry’s braies were stained. Their armour was speckled with flecks of dirt and blades of grass; Henry’s back was practically painted with it, Hans’ knees not faring much better.

It was all so blatant.

“Henry.” Hans suddenly whispered, his page only managing a swallow of acknowledgement. “Henry, we’re in the middle of a fucking field.”

Nary a beat before a snort burst out of the boy below him, eyes curling to crescent moons above his cheeks as Henry started to laugh, the light of the moon and the depth of the sky in the sound.

It was impossible not to smile in return.

“Oh Christ,” Henry giggled, rolling out from beneath Hans and ignoring his lord teetering towards the ground, “we’re in a bloody field!”

“We need to leave,” Hans declared, lazy grin bizarrely comfortable on his lips, catching himself on his knees and grimacing at the sodden state of his braies as they settled back against him, “God, I need to have a bath.”

“There’s a trough over there, Sir.” Henry ribbed, splayed out on the ground like a satisfied star, charm potent in the boyish lines of his lips. “Fine place for a wash.”

Hans stood and shot his page an eye-roll, ignoring the way his chest seemed to tighten at their easy camaraderie after all that had just transpired.

He dunked his head into the icy waters of the trough, breathing bubbles as he tried to categorise what he was feeling, what they were doing, what they had done. He drew up for breath entirely blank, no less mindless than before.

Perhaps some occasions just… occur. No logic behind them. There couldn’t be any reasoning for why his body suddenly yearned so staunchly for something so false. Perhaps, if anything, it was testament to the strength of his and Henry’s friendship.

That must be all it was. That’s all it could possible be.

“I’m going to the bathhouse,” he stated, shaking his hair and allowing himself a final glance down at Henry, “you can join me, if you want.”

Because they were friends.

“…You’d want me there?”

Henry’s eyes were so big from down by the floor, deep enough to swim in, to fall in, to lose oneself in.

Hans shook himself at the thought, at all the thoughts he was having that were far beyond his realm of understanding. He grabbed Henry’s waffenrock from the fence and chucked it over to him with finality, before turning on his heel to begin to march towards the gates.

“Chop chop if you’re coming along, Henry! I can’t wait around all night!”

He couldn’t look back, his neck burning as he moved away.

But, of course, sure as brittle leaves tumble down to the pile, he heard the clumsy clanks and scruffy scrambles of Henry getting to his feet, and Hans couldn’t hide his relief as those footsteps echoed closer and closer and closer.

He decided it was simpler not to ponder anything at all.

And, judging by the bright hue of Henry’s ears and the matching state of his smile, he didn’t seem to care much either.

Just a mere one-off bout of madness already to be forgotten; nothing more to ever come of it.

Surely.

…Surely.