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“Henry!”
A fullness gathers in Hans’ core, slowly spreading its warmth throughout his whole body. He forgets how to breathe.
Henry is here.
He's still in full armor, minus the helmet, suggesting that he did not make any stops after arriving in Rattay. The light of the surrounding torches create a soft halo from the outlines of Henry's hair, while the dark metal of his armor swallows the light completely. To Hans, he looks like a fallen saint.
Henry's eyes find Hans from the crowd almost instantly, and he smiles that wonderful smile that reaches his eyes and wrinkles the thin skin at their corners. He strides to Hans with haste, much too eagerly than he should, elbowing a guard and a nobleman as he paves his way through the banquet hall.
Hans takes a few steps forward, there's no need for more, not while Henry has already closed the distance. They both stop before they touch, standing just a bit closer together than a normal pair of friends would.
“My lord,” Henry breathes, agitated.
He offers his hand, which Hans takes. The gauntlet covering Henry's hand is cool to the touch, and there's residue of dried dirt and blood on the inner cloth. Hans seals their handshake with his free hand, and a silent understanding passes between them.
“Henry, my… my friend.”
The word is inadequate, downright wrong. But he can’t say anything else, not here.
Hans nods to the side.
“Come.”
Unwillingly, their hands unjoin, and Hans walks to the upper part of the castle while Henry trails behind him.
Hans commands the guard in front of his chambers to leave, and Henry's the one who opens the heavy door, bowing as his lord steps in first.
Henry follows.
The door slams closed as Henry's full weight is pushed against it. Hans kisses him with parted lips, all tongue and teeth and pent up emotion, and Henry groans into his mouth as he accepts and accepts it all.
Henry tastes of smoke and sweat, of home. Hans hasn't felt like home in a long time, not when he's a prisoner in his own castle, chained to a woman he never wanted. He laps and sucks Henry's tongue until that familiar, comforting taste has coated every crevice inside his mouth.
It's warm… so warm.
Hans breaks their contact to breathe, and to simply look at his Henry, the most beautiful and welcome sight to behold. Hans touches the side of Henry's face, mapping the shape of it under the rough stubble. His jaw is strong, and it clenches under Hans’ fingertips.
Their eyes meet, and Hans feels another swell in his chest.
“Henry… my sweet, sweet Henry,” he whispers, then kisses Henry again, but softly this time.
“I'm here, my lord,” Henry answers the call. “I'm here.”
Pieces of Henry's armor slip off one by one as Hans helps Henry out of it, their mouths briefly parting when they pull their tunics over their heads. Hans guides Henry to bed with uneven steps, stumbling down together as the bed frame hits the back of Henry's knees.
There's reverence in Hans’ gaze as he looks down at his lover. Henry looks so very irresistible when his usually neatly combed hair gets tussled and some of it falls over his eyes; those wonderfully bright eyes that flare black when they see Hans, blending together with the long lashes above them.
Henry frowns, not understanding why the world is suddenly still, and Hans smiles. The frown deepens the crevice in the middle of Henry's forehead, which Hans has always thought resembled a cross.
His black knight, his fallen saint.
“My Henry…” Hans leans down to kiss the middle of Henry's chest, the hair of it tickling the tip of Hans’ nose in a pleasant way. “My heart.”
“I'm here,” is all Henry can say, but Hans understands what it means.
Hans inhales, deep, breathing in the musky scent. Henry’s heart is pounding, quick and strong, Hans can feel it. It’s a sign that he's really here, that he's well and alive.
Opening his mouth wide, Hans drags his tongue up, following the prominent line in the middle of Henry’s breast. At the same time, he slides his hand down, and plays with the strings of Henry's breeches.
Henry gasps, and grabs hold of Hans’ wrist.
“M-My lord… I should bathe first–”
“Later, Henry,” Hans says. “Not now.”
Regardless, he allows Henry to guide his hand back up. It's a slow, gentle movement. Hans presses their palms together, and their fingers intertwine.
“Are you alright, my lord?” Henry then asks cautiously. “You're acting unlike yourself.”
A certain kind of sadness spreads on Hans’ face. It is very unlike him to lay down his feelings like he's doing now, but there's a sense of urgency inside him.
Who knows how long Henry will be gone the next time? And what if he doesn't come back at all?
Henry's the one who showed him adventure, who challenged him both in battle and with his views. Henry has taught him so much about how to live, and everything about how to love.
When Henry leaves, only duty remains. Endless, suffocating duty, inside a castle where all color turns gray.
“Sometimes I feel like I'm losing pieces of myself, like I'm forgetting who I was, who I am,” Hans whispers. He brushes his lips over Henry's knuckles, and they're dry and cracked. Real.
“When you return, I remember.”
He knows that Henry's struggling to say something that would make Hans’ words untrue. That Hans is exactly where he's meant to be, in this castle, with his wife, fulfilling a role that he was born to do.
But Henry can't do it. Between the two of them, lying is a useless thing.
Hans lets go of Henry’s hand.
“For tonight… just let me love you. With all that I am.”
And Hans retreats, drops to his knees on the floor, and Henry sits up in horror, trying to stop his lord from doing something so filthy, but he fails. Hans watches him with such longing, such need, that instead of stopping Hans from opening his breeches, he places his hand on Hans’ head and entangles his fingers in his hair.
Hans smiles, and loosens the ties. Henry's still just as hard as he was when Hans pressed him against the door and felt him against his thigh. Carefully wrapping his fingers around Henry's cock, Hans leans in and kisses the base of it, while Henry's covering his mouth, trying to be silent.
The smell of Henry is the strongest here. Musky, sweaty, acidic. Probably unappealing for most, but oddly arousing for Hans. He buries his nose into the dark, curly hair as he sucks on the area beneath Henry's balls, and he's overwhelmed by Henry's scent and his taste. It surrounds him like a thick, intoxicating mist, and Hans touches himself with his free hand, and sighs in bliss.
He traces the length with a flattened tongue, all the way up, before his mouth encircles the head. The tip of his tongue strokes the slit of it, and the bitter taste tells of Henry's excitement. There's a pull at Hans’ hair, and it sends a jolt down his spine, drawing an involuntary 'ah' out of him. So strange-sounding, in fact, that it surprises even Hans himself. Who would have thought that the Lord of Pirkstein would be this thrilled about having his hair tugged while his mouth is full of cock?
With Henry, Hans discards his title and dignity alike.
Hans descends. Henry's girth stretches the sides of his mouth, and he knows he needs to struggle to completely swallow the whole thing. The bulging tip hits the back of his throat, and his throat is already constricting, eyes watering.
It feels great. Henry’s trying so hard not to buck his hips, so hard not to make unnecessary noise, but Hans notices, feels him respond. And it fills him with pride.
Slowly, he bobs his head up and down, every ridge and vein recognizable on his tongue. He remembers how it feels when the same girth stretches him from behind and buries in deep, how Henry’s calloused, battleworn hands find his hips and grip them with such strength that he can’t move, that he can only receive. A surge of saliva dribbles down Henry’s cock.
Hans steals a glance at Henry, and the sight of him goes straight into his heart and his loins. Those beautiful, downturned eyes are completely focused on him, like Hans is the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters. There’s only a slight tint of red on Henry’s cheekbones, while his ears have completely changed colors, as well as his neck, which is full of red blotches, coated with a sheen of sweat. He’s breathing heavily, hand still loosely covering his mouth, but Hans can see a glimpse of Henry’s parted lips between his fingers. They’re slightly swollen, color uneven. Bitten.
Henry rocks into Hans’ mouth, as gently as he can. Hans appreciates the thought behind it, but it’s wasted on him; he wants to feel Henry within every inch of him. And so Hans takes more of him in, with more fervor, teeth grazing the smooth skin below. Henry fists his hair, unintended, pulls it so tightly that Hans’ scalp might separate from his skull, and it stings in just the right way.
Hans closes his eyes, just for a moment, and savors the sweet ache.
And when he opens them again, Henry’s captivating eyes are still on him, half-lidded and darkened, wanting.
Hans can't avert his gaze, not when Henry's looking back at him like that. He’s undeniably handsome, with a youthful face, and with those lovely pair of eyes that some would even call womanly. It has happened, Hans remembers how some lads at the camp were making jabs at Henry, someone even going as far as saying they could fuck Henry if he was willing to wear a veil.
And Hans had laughed at first, until he didn’t. When Henry had looked at him then, an entertained smile creasing his eyes… That was most likely the first time Hans had thought about Henry in a way he shouldn't.
Hans pulls back, but not completely. Henry's cock rests heavily on his tongue and he breathes with a slackened jaw, eyes locked with Henry's.
“Chr– fuck…” Henry slams his hand on Hans’ forehead and pushes him further away. He tries to wriggle out of Hans’ hold.
“Henry–”
“I'm, I was going to–” Henry stutters, and he visibly shivers. “I want to… with you…”
Henry has always been a selfless and sentimental lover; not with his words, but with his actions.
And Hans loves that about him, loves the softness that resides under his stoicism.
Hans adjusts himself as arousal curls itself inside him, and he pulls himself up, leaning on Henry’s thighs. There’s a tremble in his knees and he practically falls on Henry, and they're right back where they started, with Henry on his back.
Hans hesitates, but not for long as Henry's the one to kiss him again, fervently and anxiously. He doesn't mind his own taste.
“I'm afraid I won't last, not after you've been gone so long,” Hans manages between the hastened kisses. He doesn't need to untie his breeches; Henry's already on it, and when his warm fingers wrap around Hans, his breath hitches.
“I still want you, all of you. Later,” Henry rasps.
“Later,” Hans nods, lightheaded.
Placing a cupped hand under his chin, Hans gathers his saliva, and spits. Henry does the same, all the while watching Hans.
They join their wetted hands below, wrapping around their cocks, squeezing them together. An incoherent sound escapes Hans as he looks down, as he sees and feels himself touch his lovely Henry.
“Tighter,” Hans says, and Henry obliges.
Their hands move in unison, faster than Hans would like, but he can't stop himself, not when he's so close to the edge and pressed against Henry, whose hand is so wonderfully hot and firm.
A hot flush spreads itself from Hans’ neck all the way down his back as Henry pants and grunts in that rich, deep voice of his, right into Hans’ ear. It's a voice like no other, and Hans could recognize it anywhere. Especially when he talks, and says his R’s in that peculiar way that always seems to scratch an unknown itch for Hans.
But there's no talking now, not anymore. Only the sounds of their breathing and the silent squelching of their joining. Hans thrusts harder onto Henry, who does the same, and the desire to be as close to each other as possible builds up to be nearly unbearable.
More, more.
He needs more of Henry. He needs all of him, to open up his skin and step inside him, to consume him until they've become irreversibly one and no one can pull them apart.
Dread visits Hans briefly, the dread of sharing a bed with someone else when his heart is a million miles away.
“Henry,” Hans gasps, and he plants his forehead against Henry's, beads of sweat falling down his brow.
“I'm here,” Henry says, almost out of habit, his eyes squeezed shut and each muscle of his face tense, so focused on their shared pleasure.
“I've missed you.” Hans kisses him, or more the corner of his mouth, but he kisses him all the same. “Terribly.”
“As have I… you…” Henry struggles to get the words out. He's so close, Hans can feel it by the way he grows impossibly hard under his touch, and Hans is the same.
“I love you,” Hans nearly chokes as he says it, and Henry throws an arm around him and pulls him flush against him, kissing him messily, kissing him senseless.
A white-hot pleasure tears through Hans like a tornado, his body convulsing, toes curling as it wrecks his core in waves, pouring out of him in spurts that soil their hands and abdomen.
Hans pulls away from Henry just slightly, just enough to watch him become completely undone by Hans’ hand alone, slickened by his release. He watches as Henry throws his head back and his neck stretches, how the swell of his throat bobs as he silently praises Hans and promises him things that he shouldn't.
Hot, sticky release covers Hans’ hand. Both his and Henry's.
These are the moments that Hans always looks forward to, when Henry completely surrenders himself to Hans and willingly breaks under his touch, and he can't control himself, can't swallow the words that he shouldn't say.
Hans presses his lips against Henry's forehead, and he lingers there for a moment longer than he perhaps meant to.
Henry doesn't move apart from his chest heaving. His back is still arched, neck long and tense. Like a beautiful statue carved by the Lord, a gift for his children to get a glimpse of Heaven.
Settling himself next to Henry, head resting on the crook of his neck, Hans sighs.
It’s bliss. Pure, unparalleled bliss.
Sleep tries to overtake him, but he doesn't want to surrender to its lull just yet. Just a bit more time with his Henry, just a moment longer.
Henry relaxes under him, and his breathing steadies. Hans lifts his head just slightly, and notes that Henry's already dreaming.
Hans leans on his propped arm, noticing Henry’s hand resting on his chest. Hans places his own over it and laces their fingers, carefully bringing them to his mouth, just to hold them against his lips. They're still slightly sticky, tangy. Hans doesn't mind.
Despite Henry being a young man, he sometimes looks much beyond his years, with heavy brows and darkened under-eyes. Now that he rests, he very much looks his age. All of his usual tension is gone, lines smoothened. Expression calm, innocent.
If only Hans could see this version of Henry every dusk and dawn. If marrying Henry was a possibility, Hans would never grant him his own room. They would share Hans’ bed, as they would share everything else.
Lady Capon has been given her own bedroom at the other side of the castle. Hans visits her sometimes out of courtesy, out of duty. Their time together isn’t unpleasurable, but there’s a sense of wrongness in it that Hans can’t shake, that he can’t ignore. She’s soft in every way that Henry isn’t. She’s compliant, refined, wise. Very unlike the unruly Henry who always acts first and laughs at the consequences. Water under the bridge.
Hans isn’t proud of his infidelity, but he also can’t truthfully say that he feels guilty about it.
After all, his only crime was falling in love.
His grip on Henry’s hand tightens, and Henry stirs.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Hans whispers, and strokes Henry’s hair. “Go back to sleep.”
Henry cracks one eye open, the line of his mouth stretching into a lazy smile.
“The night is still young, my lord.”
Hans laughs, lightly, briefly. “You truly are a man after my own heart.”
“Always.”
Henry slips an arm around Hans’ waist and hoists him over, tossing him on the other side of the bed, and Hans laughs, properly now, and Henry leans down to shower him with kisses that tickle terribly because of the prickle of his stubble.
Color has returned to Hans’ small world, and in the middle of it is Henry, in his wonderful brilliance, and he has chosen Hans to be allowed to bask in his light.
Hans forgets Jitka, and Pirkstein and his heritage.
Henry is here, and Hans remembers everything that matters.