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When they arrive, the wooden tub is already prepared, filled to the brim and steaming softly. Sir Hans had insisted on arranging a relaxing day at the baths, and Henry, who had traveled halfway across Bohemia, saw no reason to refuse. Not that he really could have refused anyway. Hans was a stubborn man, and Henry had trouble saying no to him.
They take off their clothes and submerge in the water. The heat of it feels pleasant in the evening. Klara, as pretty and sweet as always, grabs the rosemary oil and the herbs Lord Capon prefers for his bath. It’s not something Henry particularly cares for, but he doesn’t mind.
Alcohol is brought to them and they waste no time filling their bellies with it. Quickly, they are drunk and warm and placid, resting against the edge of the tub. The tub steams softly, shrouding Hans’ pink and drunken face. He has a pleased, relaxed smile plastered on him as Klara washes his hair.
Something wet touches the back of his head. Henry is startled and turns, and Zdena takes off her hands. She sits silently on the edge of the tub, hands raised and glistening with soap or some kind of oil.
“Sorry,” Henry says apologetically. “I can wash myself. Thank you.”
“God, Henry,” Hans laughs. “One would think she was trying to cut your throat the way you jumped. Can’t you just not enjoy the gentle touch of a woman?”
“Maybe he's shy, Sir Hans,” Zdena says with patience, but a teasing tone colors her words. “And he's the kind to prefer the keyhole room.”
“Keyhole room?” Henry frowns.
“It’s called like that because you can only take a peek,” Zdena jokes.
She laughs, and Hans quickly follows her. They laugh almost complicity, and Henry purses his lips together. He feels like he's being part of a joke he doesn't know of, or doesn't understand.
“I'm no pipping Tom,” Henry complains.
“That's not what the keyhole room is, my friend,” Hans says with an amused smile, holding a tankard in his hand and giving it a gulp.
“Then what the hell is the keyhole room?”
“It's a room divided in two by a wall. That room is for those who wish anonymity and discretion. The thing is that the wall has a small hole in it,” Zdena raises her hands and makes a circle the size of an apple with them, then drops her hand and smiles. “I think you can guess perfectly what the hole is for,” The bathmaid laughs. “They pay for the room instead of our company.”
“Wait,” Henry said, the water on his mind moving. “Does that mean…the people in both sides are clients?”
“Exactly. We have nothing to do with it. We just offer the place for the meeting to happen.”
Henry tries to imagine himself walking inside that room, unaware of whoever might be on the other side of the wall. He likes to see, to hold a woman while he lies with her, to hear her noises and feel her hands. How would it be like, just to fuck through a hole? Half the sensations would be gone. Would he have to imagine the figure of her body and the curve of her breasts? He thinks that drunkenly, and it is then realizes he wouldn't even know who would walk in from the other side of the wall, that he wouldn’t even know if the person would be a woman.
“Have you used it, Sir Hans?” Henry's tongue asks without thinking.
The alcohol had muddled his mind and his senses. The words burn his tongue the moment he says them, but to his surprise, Hans laughs.
“No offense to those who prefer it,” he says, amusement coloring his words, “but if gonna sin, I won’t do it halfway. I would rather know who I fuck.”
*
The next time they visit the baths, Hans insists on getting him laid. The Lord manifests it is for Henry’s own benefit, that a man must be under the attentions and in the company of a beautiful woman once in a while. He presents the idea as a gift, although Henry believes it is simply a way to keep Henry occupied as he fucks another bathmaid in the adjacent room.
He tells Hans that he does not feel like it, but the young Lord is stubborn.
“God! Are you a monk, by any chance?” Hans complains as they walk inside the establishment. “It’s already paid for, so go in there, take a bath, and see if you want to stick it or not later!”
He grabs Henry’s shoulder as drags him towards a bathmaid standing in front of one of the entrances. She seems to have been waiting patiently on their arrival.
“Here,” Hans tells her, handing Henry to her. “Make sure he doesn’t run away.”
Henry huffs and the bathmaid laughs as she grabs his arm.
“Don’t worry, Lord Capon,” she has an amused glint in her eyes. “I’ll take good care of him.”
Hans gives a nod and simply turns to leave. As he walks away, the bathmaid guides him inside by the arm. Henry slips away as he steps through the door and she turns to close it.
“Your Lord seems very adamant on pleasing you,” she points out with a smile as she closes the door with the weight of her body.
“Only if it benefits him,” Henry grumbles.
She raises a curious eyebrow, but says nothing. Instead, she holds her arms behind her back and takes a careful step forward. Henry expects the playful bathmaid act and the flirting that comes with it, but the girl stops just in front of him, smile wide and friendly.
“The bath is ready. You can tell me if there is something that you want,” she announces, then turns on her heels and leaves Henry alone to undress.
He takes off the clothes and gets inside the tub. The bathmaid doesn’t try to get close. She refills the tub with hot water when it begins to cool off, and she hands Henry soaps or new pieces of cloth to wash himself with.
“Can you bring me a towel?” he asks her. “I’m getting out.”
She nods and spins to go and grab one of the towels hanging from a chair. She hands it over, and Henry grabs it and gets out of the tub. Once he's out, she sits on the edge of the now empty tub. Henry ignores the way he knows she is looking at him as he dries himself.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” she asks. “Not that I don’t think a nice bath is enough…”
Henry shakes his head as he finishes drying his hair. As he walks up to the unlocked chest in which he left his clothes, a bad idea makes way inside his head.
“Actually,” he hesitates, and the bathmaid tilts her head.
“Yes?” Her smile is patient. “You don’t have to be shy here.”
“Would…would the payment cover the, um, the keyhole room?”
Her eyebrows rise on her face slowly, then he face breaks into a smile. “Oh, yes. Of course. Put your clothes on. I'll look for the key.”
The bathmaid leaves with a quick, energetic pace. When she returns holding the key, Henry is clean, dry and clothed.
“Follow me,” she beckons him.
She guides him through the back door, passing an empty bathing room, and they finally stop in front of what would be an inconspicuous door if it weren't for the red ribbon wrapped around its handle.
“It's there so you're not bothered. Make sure to untie it and leave it in the table when you’re done,” she explains.
She opens the door for him. From what he can see, the room isn't big, but it looks bigger due to its emptiness. He walks in. The furniture inside the room is practical and simple. In the corner, there is a small and square wooden table, with a piece of cloth and basin full of water on it. And the front wall is complete empty, the only thing differentiating it from the other three being the circular-shaped hole cut in the general height of his hips.
“Someone will be here soon,” she tells him, and then closes the door gently behind her.
The sound reverberates. He finds himself alone in a strange, empty room. What had he been thinking? Inadequate and awkward, he shifts the weight of his body. Should he just…?
His shoulders straighten when he hears the muffled click of a door. There, on the other side of the keyhole, someone walks in. Henry stiffens. As the person gets closer to the wall between them, so do the steps. The soft thud of them gets louder, and the wood creaks under the weight. There's a slowness, a certain drag to them, an intent. The sound of them is heavy. His mind tells him then. This is not a woman.
His blood rushes hot under his skin with anticipation. This is what he had been hoping for, secretly. The buzzing in his head is louder. Movement gets him out of his head.
Yeah, it's definitely a man. Henry can tell now by the cock that just made its way through the keyhole. Henry stares at it, surprised. It's not ugly looking. A more than decent length, slightly curved and with a red tip.
It's strange that he does not know who the person behind the wall is. He hasn't decided if that is a good or a bad thing yet. There could be no person, only a body, if that is what he preferred. Or it could be anyone. It could be anyone Henry could imagine behind that wall.
He tries to picture someone. It would be easier, he tells himself, if the person were a woman. But his mind quickly paints a picture for him; one of lips in the shape of a curving bow and hair that shines like steel under the sun.
You're supposed to do something besides staring at it, he tells himself.
He wraps his hand around the girth. It’s awkward. The angle is wrong. It’s nothing like holding himself in his hand. It’s too strange—too new—but that only makes him want to keep going. He frowns with determination and finally drags his hand across the length experimentally, testing his grip. He feels hot all over, suddenly. The cock twitches in his hand.
It's the idea, the unlikely chance of it, that makes him continue. He quickens the pace of his hand, and notices that the man on the other side is leaning against his touch, thrusting gently against his hand through the hole. A rush of something that he won't call pride runs through him.
His grip tightens, no longer doubting himself. He thinks he hears a sound coming from the other side, a muffled, bitten down sound of pleasure. It makes the situation—the fantasy of it—more real.
Then Henry hears a soft thud from the other side of the wall at the same level as his head. If that is anything to go with, the man is as tall as Henry himself—or maybe even a bit taller, like Hans. He presses his forehead against the wooden plank, mirroring the man on the other side.
Henry has his own problem between his legs, so his free hand wanders off to his own braies. He's aching, but he only touches himself over his clothes. A breathy sound of relief leaves his mouth, and Henry hopes it wasn't too loud.
He moves his wrist faster. The sound of it it’s vulgar and loud in the silence of the room. The man thrusts against his hand faster, and Henry quickens his pace to match him. Nevertheless, the climax surprises him. It spurs without much warning than the erratic movement of the man’s hips. Henry was lucky to avoid it. He wouldn’t want to explain that stain on his hose, or have to pay extra for cleaning.
Despite the surprise, Henry doesn’t stop, and he strokes him slowly through it, matching the rhythm with his other hand. A couple of sounds may have escaped his lips, maybe a sigh, but the ache in his groin was too distracting to bite his tongue.
As the final drops drip out of him and into the wooden planks below, Henry finally lets go. The man behind the wall lingers just a moment—maybe catching his breath—and finally, satisfied, pulls out. Meanwhile, Henry is still hard under his hose and braies, and he's too far gone to feel shame. He pulls them down, letting them hang from his thighs, and places himself through the keyhole.
For a moment, there's nothing. Just the cool air against his warm, exposed skin, and in a moment of clarity, he wonders if it was a good idea. If the person behind the wall is as much of a sodomite as he is.
He doesn’t get to think about it much longer. He closes his eyes tightly when he feels the fingers wrap around the base of his length. A hiss escapes between his teeth. He grip is firm, but careful. He expects movement, to feel the drag of a hand. What he feels instead is a wet, warm touch. Henry gasps. The man had taken him into his mouth.
It is then, when he rests on the wall again, already lost in the pleasure, that he notices. He puts his right arm across the wall and rests his forehead against it. Now, with his face close to the wall and his right hand, he catches a different smell under the smell of sweat; a tinge of rosemary.
The man smells like rosemary. It's just one of the herbs and oils to chose from in the baths. Many men must leave the baths smelling like it. But Henry’s mind does not care. The smell overwhelms him. It sparks something in him, and it catches flames.
It’s sloppy, uncoordinated, but it grows eager in a way that makes Henry’s head spin. He can’t help but thrust. His hips meet the wall, unable to push himself further. He presses his forehead harder against his wrist, feeling his own hot breath, and then he buries his nose on the back of his hand where the smell still lingers. The man on the other side hums, pleased, and Henry feels it all the way through his back.
A sound climbs through his throat and he doesn’t stop it. He gets lost on the warm of the mouth and the idea of who it might belong to. It’s madness. It’s improper. His mind doesn’t care, and instead paints a picture of a proud nose and golden eyelashes, and rosy cheeks dusted in moles.
It doesn’t take him long to finish, lost in the eager warmth and the encouraging smell. It hits him full-body, like lightning and flames, and it leaves him breathless. As he inhales through his mouth, the warmth leaves him. He laments it. He wishes he could say something, or do anything, but this is how it was meant to go.
He finds the basin with shaking hands and cleans himself before putting his clothes back on properly. Heat clings to his cheeks still, but is not because of the shame that it is present as much as it is because of the guilty elation that spreads through his chest.
Afterwards, he meets Hans outside the baths. He's not wearing his gold pourpoint, but a clean white shirt, and the golden piece instead hangs from his arm. His skin is flushed by the heat of the baths, and when his eyes meet Henry's, he sees them shine. His hair is still wet and a bit messy, and he pushes it back with his hand.
“Good bath, aye?”
His lips, a dark shade of pink, stretch as he smiles. He looks like a young man full of energy.
“Aye,” Is all he manages to say, an easy smile tugging at his lips.
*
He visits the keyhole room again next time Hans drags him to the baths. The bathmaid doesn’t even ask, just gives him a knowing smile and guides him again to the door. He tells himself he hopes to find the soft hands and lips of a woman in the other side, but sighs in relief when he feels the stubble of a upper lip brush against his cock. When he comes, it makes his whole body tremble and his mind catch flames. It's then, with his head on fire and blood still rushing through his veins, when he finally gives out and drops to his knees to take the other man's cock into his mouth. He is not gentle when he drops to his knees. They complain under him, but he doesn’t care. He drops to his knees and wraps his hands around the base and it all comes too real, and he pauses.
It's stupid. He has never taken a cock into his mouth. And his has only been sucked twice just now. But he's incapable of doing things halfway, and he's proud, competitive and drunk with sex.
The familiar smell of soap and rosemary reaches him like an invitation, and it all it takes for him to wrap his lips around it. He's only mouthing it, barely surrounding the head and pressing his tongue against it without shoving it inside his mouth. The taste of it surprises him, but he doesn't dislike it. Spit pools quickly on his mouth and he starts circling the head with his tongue, hesitation forgotten. He learns quickly, and he finds himself eagerly trying to take more into his mouth. He doesn't get too far, but what he lacks in depth he decides to make up for by using his hand.
The room is silent except for the wet noises coming from Henry’s mouth.
The erratic, aborted thrusts are all the warnings he gets. The orgasm takes him by surprise, and Henry tries to swallow and he chokes. He pulls away and coughs into his hand. It doesn’t taste good, but despite the graceless and quick end, he feels somehow content in his ability.
He raises with wobbly legs and washes his mouth. When he finds Hans outside the baths, he’s sporting a big smile and he hooks one arm around his shoulders. The smell of rosemary still clinging to him almost makes him dizzy, and he barely hears when Hans asks him if he enjoyed his time with Adriana. Henry realizes that was the name of the pretty bathmaid Hans had picked for him. He simply nods.
*
He was wearing Hans’ clothes when Hanush summoned them. Hans had insisted on it. Henry had pulled the clothes out of the chest, and when he had put them on, he found the smell of what he guessed was Hans’ perfume all over them. It was something sweet and fresh that he hadn't recognized.
“You can dress here,” Hans had told him.
No sooner had they arrived than Hanush started berating them both, although Hans carried the heavier part of it. Hans lowered his head like a dog and took it, and Henry kept quiet with him, no matter how unjust he thought the situation. The punishment was what Henry found quite strange. Hanush tasked them with stopping a robber knight called Wolflin of Kamberg. He tells Hans that as they make their way out of the castle.
“Is not much of a punishment, you’re right. It’s just a way for me to finally take on my duties, as he says,” Hans answers, then suddenly stops Henry in the middle of the stairs. “Speaking of that,” Hans begins, stretching the words. “Hanush told me some time ago that I must train a squire. And I have to say—I couldn’t think of anyone worth the effort until you showed up.”
“Uh, really, Sir? Me?”
“Of course!” Hans answers with a smile. “You’ve shown great promise. You’re brave and skilled. Who else if not you?”
Henry doesn’t know what to say. “That’s—a great honor, Sir. But I’m not sure what Sir Radzig would have to say about that.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. For now, take this as just me being a charitable Lord.”
Henry finds out just moments later that part of the great honor of being a page is donning Hans with his knightly armor.
He curses his name and goes to fetch Hans’ armor. When he returns, Hans is waiting for him, his back straight and facing the window in the middle of the room. He turns around as Henry makes his way inside carrying the heavy armor with him. It hangs from his arms in perfect condition and polished to a shine. He leaves them atop the bed.
Hans stands before him, and Henry can see the eagerness in his posture. He expects to find a big smile on his face, full of excitement, and instead he finds an almost anxious demeanor. Anticipation oozes off of him. He can tell by the way he keeps fidgeting with his fingers and then stopping himself.
Henry gets to work. First, he reaches for the breastplate, drops it over Hans’ shoulders and positions it to hold it against Hans’ chest. He circles him, like dancing, and stands behind him to adjust it properly. He makes sure the straps on his shoulders are correct and even. This close, illuminated by the sun coming through window, Henry spots a little scar on his chin, placed almost under it.
He takes his hands and his eyes away.
Henry fetches the leg plate, holds it in his hand, and freezes in front of Hans for a fraction of a second. There is just no away around it, he realizes, so he just steps up in front of Hans and, as gently as he possibly can, he drops in one knee. It serves not. There’s no way to avoid the weight of his body pressing down on his bruised knee. As soon as it touches the wooden ground, he lets out a hiss. So close to him, he can smell his perfume, the same he found on his clothes. He's not sure if it disappoints him or not that he doesn't find rosemary.
He presses the armor against Hans’ leg, and he circles it with his arm to make sure both sides are correct. His arms hover, trying not to touch—not to indulge in it—as he makes sure it is properly attached.
Once he's done, he moves up. He feels his own breath hot in his mouth. He grabs the other metal piece belonging to his leg, and he presses the cold cuisse against Hans’ thigh. He reaches behind Hans to adjust the straps. Henry shifts uncomfortably. The pain on his knee doesn’t subside. The floor digs into the bruise. Sir Hans notices.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” Henry says quickly. “Just bruised knees.”
“And how exactly did you bruise your knees?”
His hands find the leather strap. “Praying, Sir.”
Hans’ tone is teasing, unserious. “You have a lot of things to ask forgiveness for?”
He fixes the cuisse, palming Hans’ thigh, and his hand lingers just a bit.
“A few.”
*
Sweaty strands of dark hair cling to his brow. Henry inhales through his mouth, trying to breathe cool air into his burning lungs. His helmet hangs from his hand uselessly now, having done its job moments ago. Around him there is clamor, and yellow banners waving, and the people of Rattay cheer for his victory.
“A reward proper of a hero like you!” Sir Hans announces with flourish, his smile bright and too joyful on his face, as he hands Henry his prize.
The spurs shine a deep gold, reflecting the sun above their heads.
Hans’ expression shines with gratitude and happiness. Henry had enrolled, not only because he wished to test his mettle, but because he wanted to save Hans of his Uncle’s fury. His eyes are wide and bluer than ever. It’s a much more genuine smile that those that cling to his lips when he’s trying to amuse himself with women and wine. It suits him, Henry thinks distantly.
“I watched you. You were amazing,” Hans praises him almost breathlessly, like he had fought by his side. “You know what you deserve? What would be another fitting reward? A good, relaxing bath.”
Heat still clings to his face and his lungs, and now it spreads dangerously, excitement still running through his veins.
He nods with a smile tugging at his lips. “That seems like a proper reward.”
His muscles relax when they touch the water and he lets out a sigh of relief. Still, he is restless. He washes away the sweat of his skin. Despite the relaxing bath, his heart still beats in anticipation. He doesn't even bother with putting on his shirt.
He's back in the keyhole room, and the rush returns to him tenfold, the elation of having won the tourney against skilled foes and the excitement of victory. Hans’ wide, sun-like smile directed at him. Desire burns and scratches at his belly and he drops his hose and braies without a second thought, letting them pool at his feet, and he gets his aching length through the keyhole.
Lips and a warm tongue find his cock in a second and he gasps. It’s different this time. There is a deeper eagerness and desperation in the way he is swallowed whole. He grunts and digs his brow against the wooden wall without care, trying to ground himself to reality, trying not to come just now and ruin it all. He wants to savor this victory.
It’s hot, and wet, and encompassing, and Henry has to bite his lip to keep himself quiet but a grunt still escapes him. His fingers dig uselessly against the hard wood, trying to find any kind of anchoring. He thrusts his hips, chasing the sensation. His mind’s eye paints the picture of rosy cheeks and tousled, sun-kissed hair. A fitting reward, Hans had told him.
The orgasm ripples through him violently. He swallowed, he thinks feverishly. He burns hotter than flames.
His knees hit the floor, and the second he finds himself with the hardened length, he hopes to bask on the the smell of rosemary. Instead, there's a sweeter smell this time—stronger. One that isn't the flowers bathmaids throw in the tub or the oils they rub on people’s backs. He can’t pinpoint exactly what the smell is, but it's sweet and fresh. He does realize quickly that it is a perfume, because he recognizes it. He recognizes it because he felt it in his fancy, newly given clothes. It's Han’s perfume.
He gets him into his mouth. He circles the girth with his tongue and sucks on the skin with eagerness. The picture is so clear in his mind that it overwhelms him. He would devour him, if he could. Swallow him whole. It's unwise, but Henry isn't known for his well throughout decisions—Hans had said so himself—so he takes him deeper into his mouth.
A loud thud comes from across the wall—like a hand or an arm hitting the wood, then a loud moan. It's a sound loud enough to make it through the wall. It rings like a familiar bell on Henry’s mind, he recognizes the pitch of it, like recognizing a bird by the sound of its chirping in the morning. It consumes him entirely.
He takes him deeper and sucks him harder. He wishes he could dig his fingers in the muscles of his thighs, golden and muscular for hours of training all his youth, as he fucks his throat. He wants to see his legs tremble. He wants Hans’ fingers on his hair and his mouth moaning his name.
His jaw tires quickly. He's sure he must be a mess. The heat on his face, his messed up hair, the saliva dropping down his chin. The sounds from the other side have become quieter, muffled, as if he were holding back. And Henry can't allow that. Never mind that his jaw aches and his knees burn—he wants to hear him and he wants to hear him come.
Another moan, whiny and stifled. The sound of it climbs Henry like fire. He has never heard him like this before, not even when Henry hit a tender spot during their practice together. It's all the encouragement he needs, and his efforts quickly have Hans thrusting into his mouth desperately. More moans. Loud. Raspy. Needy. Yes, yes, Henry thinks feverishly, wishing to swallow him whole. This is how much he wants it. He wants to hear him sing.
A groan too loud and spent is what gives him away. He swallows. He doesn't choke and he doesn’t pull away, and he keeps licking at it gently, circling the head with his tongue as the orgasm fades, ripping some sweet little whines out of him.
When he does pull away, Henry is still hot all over and surprisingly half-hard on his braies, despite coming not long ago. He tries to catch his breath. His knees hurt but he can't bring himself to stand up just yet. His legs don’t feel real despite the pain on his knees.
Hans’ cock still hangs through the keyhole in the wall with a pearl of come clinging to its tip and shining wet with Henry's spit. The image is sinful, and Henry's dazed mind thinks about cleaning it with his tongue.
Before he can even move, it disappears in the other side of the wall. After a few seconds, Henry thinks he hears hurried steps fading away from the other side. He tries to blink away from his haze and stands up.
He steps out of the baths into open air feeling breathless still. A gentle wind rustles his wet hair pleasantly and makes the red of his cheeks ache. He looks around, hoping to find Hans walking to meet him or stepping out of one of the doors to return back to Pirkstein together. He doesn't.
A bathmaid—Zdena, he realizes—passes right in front of him. She looks busy, carrying a basket full of clothes, but Henry calls her anyway.
“Have you seen Sir Hans?” he asks her. If someone knows, it must be her.
She turns around to look at him. Her face and her brown eyes are unreadable.
“He must have left,” she tells him simply. “His horse is gone.”
*
Hans doesn't invite him to the baths again, no matter how many times Henry arrives to Rattay or from where, or how dirty and covered in blood he returns. Hans does not invite him again to join him in the baths. Henry doesn't bring it up. Why would he? Whatever it was, it was over. They act like nothing had happened. Nothing had happened. Yet Hans barely talks to him now. He feels like that wall in the baths still sits between them.
*
Vranik changes everything.
Once he's back in Rattay, beaten but safe and cared for, he finds himself sitting on the edge of the infirmary bed, hurting and alone and feeling betrayed. Sir Radzig—his Father. Just how long had he planned to keep that from him? His head swarms with questions that lacked answers and the image of his pa's sword in the hands of that treacherous cunt.
The door of the infirmary opens. He should have known who it was by the way he barged in without a second thought. Sir Hans Capon steps inside the room and he's the last person Henry wants to see. He seems to notice the way he entered and halts. Despite his efforts to keep a straight face, the frown in his face betrays his nervousness.
“I heard what happened,” The young Lord says mildly.
Henry bites the inside of his cheek. He has nothing to say to that. He doesn’t really care what he has to say. His mind is filled with questions that gnaw at him. He takes a look at the expensive golden pourpoint Hans wears and he can’t help but think of Radzig. And his ma. What about his ma? Had she told his pa? Did he know? What kind of relationship had her ma had with Radzig? Had he loved her?
Hans must mistake his silence for invitation, because he walks further in, walking up to the bed Henry is sitting on. He gets close to Henry for the first time in what has been days or even weeks, and sits next to him.
“You've dealt with way too many things, friend.” The last word rings hollow to him. “You look as tense as a groom on his wedding day!” Hans tries to joke, but his tone doesn’t quite make it.
He must notice, because his smile falters on his face. His eyes skitter around Henry, as if trying to find something. They must land on something because the smile, although weak, returns to his face.
“After all you've been through these last few days, you deserve to rest. Stop going around doing some old lady’s errands all day. Stay here.” Hans words are almost gently, and then he raises his hand and it lands in a friendly pat over Henry’s knee. “A relaxing visit to the baths would do you a world of good.”
Henry stands up so abruptly that he almost trips over his own weight, but he manages to remain standing out of pure spite.
“Is that why you came here?” Henry snaps.
Confusion is written all over Hans’ face. It does nothing but to feed his anger.
“What are you talking about?”
“Last time we were there, you left me without a word. And then you pretended like I didn't exist.”
“It—that. Was wrong of me,” he stammers. “Unchivalrous—”
Had his ma heard something like that before? Had she been just quick fun? An adored nobleman's toy until he grew bored of her? Had Sir Radzig even cared for her at all?
“Leaving me after I’ve won a tourney for you then sucked you off? Yeah, one might say.”
For the face he makes, one might believe that Henry has just slapped him. Maybe he had simply forgotten that people can speak plainly, getting used to everybody’s muted blabbering and bootlicking.
“Henry, I—”
Henry’s rage fills the astonished silence. “So now that you know I’m a bastard—that some blue blood runs through my veins—now this is alright?” Henry’s temper flares. “Did you not want to sully your noble hands with dirt from the turnip picker?”
“Enough!” Hans exclaims, rising to his full height, almost butting his head with Henry’s. “Is that what you think of me?”
“What else is there to think?”
There is nothing but silence for a moment.
“Fuck you,” Hans finally tells him, his voice trembling with anger. “Fuck off. I don’t want to fucking see you.”
*
The night raid doesn’t go as planned. After successfully entering the castle, they discovered that Sir Radzig wasn’t between the rest of the hostages, and instead they found a group of dirty and scared castle staff holding onto sticks and their loved ones. Henry decided then that they’d keep looking for Sir Radzig.
“This is too risky!” Hans had told him, and Henry had not taken it well.
“I thought you of all people would be more eager to save Sir Radzig,” had replied, his words filled with venom and accusation.
It mattered not how angry Henry was it him, or how the situation had poked and pulled at his most raw, vulnerable parts. When the arrow hit Sir Hans and he dropped to his knees on the ground, it took only seconds for Henry to decide to abandon the mission and seize Hans by arms to throw him over his shoulder and carry him to safety.
They had escaped scratched but alive. As soon as they reached the camp, someone took Hans off his arms quickly to see to his wounds, and Henry did not hear from him after that. He returned to his small tent and slept the rest of the late hours until morning came.
He finds Hans’ tent up north. Is not easy to miss considering his horse, vested in bright Leipa yellow, is close by. He flips the tent open to find Hans’ sprawled on the ground over a nice set of furs with an annoyed twist on the curve of his lips. He grimaces as the yellow light of the sun reaches his face. It looks like he’s about to bark an insult or an order until he notices who just barged in, and his eyes open big and blue, like he can’t believe Henry has come to see him.
“How are you, my Lord?”Henry asks as he closes the flap behind him.
He’s wearing a dark shirt with a few buttons open—probably the one he used yesterday—revealing a patch of soft, golden hair as the collar falls slightly towards his left shoulder. Hans blinks and remembers himself. His expression shifts into something more neutral. The same way it’s been between them for days.
“I’m alright, Henry.” It feels weird to hear his name again. “Just a flesh wound. I’ve been tended to and all. I’ll be up and about in no time.”
Henry nods. “That’s good.”
Neither of them says anything else. They just stare at each other. An uncertain silence stretches between them until Hans finally opens his mouth to speak.
“Henry, I didn’t thank you for—”
The truth just slips out of his mouth. “I’m glad you’re alright.”
Hans blinks and his lips open slightly in surprise. “Yes,” he says quickly, then continues. “But it sucks that we weren’t able to get to Sir Radzig.”
Yeah, it does. Despite how the felt at first, he’s no longer mad at his Father—at least not enough to ignore the threat on his life. They still have much to talk about and Henry has many questions he wants answered. He finds the same feelings are true for Hans.
“What’s important now is that you’re alright,” Henry tells him.
Hans stares at him, eyes bright and incredulous, and—Henry is not sure—but he thinks he sees a bit of pink on his cheeks. Henry fidgets with the pommel of his sword nervously.
“I must leave now, Sir,” he announces.
“Yes. Yes,” Hans replies quickly with a nod. “You may go.”
*
He's relieved and alive, and so is Sir Radzig. Both the battle and the conversation he had with his father cling to his body still. His heart hasn't stopped hammering against his chest and the ride home sucked any energy he had left.
He climbs out of Pebbles ungraciously, and Hans does the same right behind him. Henry's legs feel heavy and clumsy under his weight, and all he can think about is sleeping the events of the day off, so he doesn't think about how that bastard Toth had gotten away with his sword.
“Where are you going?”
Henry stops in his tracks, his hand hoovering over the door handle of his lodging. Hans is staring at him with a inquiring—and disapproving—arched eyebrow.
“Going to my room?” Henry answers. “I need to take this armor off and sleep. I feel my body is gonna give up on me.”
“In there?” Hans asked with deprecatory tone. “Don't be stupid. That bed must smell like stables. Come upstairs. I’ll have a good bath arranged for us. And a bed.”
The young Lord just turns, not waiting for an answer, and just makes his way upstairs. Henry does as he says and follows.
The hearth warms the room. The bathing tub in Pirkstein castle is nothing like those in the baths. It looks expensive, new and well-built. Henry would wonder why Hans prefers the public baths compared to the luxury he has here if he didn’t already know the reason.
The servant drops one last bucket of warm water and he's gone. The door closes definitively after him. The room becomes silent until it is broken by the rustling of Hans taking off his clothes. A couple of servants had already helped them take off both of their armors as the bath was prepared. He had watched the servant peel off Hans’ armor without much practice, and Henry had wondered why hadn't he been tasked with it.
He starts taking off his remaining clothes too. He tries not to look at Hans on the other side of the tub and to simply undress. Hans takes off his hose then slips out of his braies. Henry tries not to look. Hans isn't facing him anyway—
Hans turns fully naked and walks to the edge of the tub. He dips one leg in the steaming water, then his whole body slides in.
Henry gets rid of the last piece of clothing and gets inside. The water is pleasant. He lowers himself into it, looking at the steaming water below and not towards Hans’ sitting figure or where his eyes lie.
There is a tray hanging in one of the edges of the tub filled with various washcloths and soaps. Hans reaches for some, the water rippling with his movement, and Henry does the same.
He washes himself. The piece of cloth drags away the sweat, blood and grime. His eyes wander away from himself and land on Hans. Finally, he looks, because if Hans is here with him sharing a bath it's because he must be allowed so. His stare drags over the droplets that cling to the faint golden hair of his chest. He's never been this naked around him.
“I didn't bring any clothes,” Henry says out loud.
Hans shakes his hand dismissively. “You can have some of mine.”
The conversation ends there, and Henry can't help but keep staring at the way the water slides down his chest, the way his muscles glisten. There are bruises of battle scattered across his skin along with the freckles, and he has faint stubble on his chin.
He's not the only one looking. Every time he pulls his eyes away, Henry feels Hans’ eyes lie over him. He can see the flickering of his gaze from the corner of his eye. Warmth blooms inside his chest and spreads through the rest of his body. He wonders how Hans sees him. Does he also see the new muscles and the stubble on his face? Or maybe he notices their differences; how Henry's hands are littered with scars from the sparks of the forge, or maybe how his hair is darker and how it grows and curls on his chest, traveling all the way down to his legs. He doesn't know, but Hans is looking, and when Henry finally looks back, he finds his cheeks are pink and bright.
“I found it strange you didn't stop by the baths,” Henry speaks, his tone betraying nothing.
Hans scrubs his shoulder, then answers. “As lovely as the girls can be,” he states, “I didn't feel like enjoying their company just now.”
The words just springs out of him. “But you do feel like enjoying my company?”
Hans’ eyes flicker back to him. His jaw tenses, but his gaze softens. “I do,” he mutters, then raises his voice. “I did. You have to know I did even before you knew you were Radzig’s.”
“Then why did you leave me at the baths?”
A vulnerable expression settles on Hans’ face, nervous like prey sensing danger.
“I…I thought I had screwed everything up.”
Henry laughs bitterly. “Hans, I thought I had screwed everything up with the way you ran.”
The fire crackles in the silence that settles.
“Take this gesture as me making it up to you,” Hans speaks, his voice soft.
“It's appreciated,” Henry smiles, and tries to light up the mood. “Although I understand why you like the baths. It’s hard to wash one's back.”
Hans voice surprises him. “Come here.”
It takes him a moment to process the words. Henry slides towards him, but Hans meets him at the middle. He grabs another piece of cloth and covers it with soap. Hans circles him to rub his back clean of sweat. They are close. They have only ever been this close when Henry was donning him with his armor, but the layers of protection and steel were not present now.
“Did you know,” Hans starts as he drags the cloth against Henry's back, “that a knight can be initiated through a bath?”
Henry shakes his head gently. “Am I a knight, then?”
“No,” Hans replies. “But one might think otherwise.”
Once he finishes rubbing his back, Hans moves back to face him. He begins cleaning the gap between his neck and his ear, then his hand wanders from his shoulder down to his front, and he rubs the skin there, where the soap clings to the hair on his chest. He has already cleaned the front of his torso, but he says nothing as Hans’ movements travel down to his stomach below the water. Heat pools in his belly.
Henry lifts his head up and their eyes meet, and Hans’ usual blue eyes shine like dark pearls. His stare is intense, and a speck of the fire of the hearth reflects on them.
He isn't startled by the kiss. His mouth is warm but the kiss is burning hot. There is no chastity or shyness in the way Hans attacks his mouth—just plain hunger that mirrors his own. Finally. There is no steel and no wall, and he rejoices in being able to touch Hans freely and without pretenses.
“Hen—” Hans calls him, but Henry doesn't stop kissing him. “Henry,” Hans insists, and Henry pulls back, a groan of complaint almost escaping him before Hans says, “the door isn’t locked.”
Henry curses. He steps out of the tub, wet and naked like the day he was born, and hastily walks towards the door and locks it firmly. He walks back with purpose, and he’s received with opens arms that drag him down to the water. Hans’ mouth finds him like a hunter hitting his mark.
He's back on Hans again, and they paw and grab at each other, wiggling, trying to find a way to slot their bodies together. It's a tangle of elbows and knees until they finally lock and sigh of relief leaves their mouth.
It's so much better than that stinking room in the baths. Every bit of body burns where it touches Hans. Every bit of him melts and shapes itself to him. He can feel him, hot and hard and pressed against his stomach. Henry pins him against the edge of the tub and Hans moans.
Henry can’t imagine or wait anymore, and his hand reaches below the water and between them to wrap around the young Lord’s dick. A small little gasp leaves Hans’ mouth and Henry doesn’t think twice about stroking him.
“Wait, Henry, wait—”
“What now?” Henry complains this time.
Hans doesn't answer. Instead, he moves Henry's hand away from his dick. And before Henry can protest, the young Lord lines their cocks together with his hand and strokes.
Henry grips the lip of the tub behind Hans’ shoulder. He bucks his hips against the hand. Such long, dexterous fingers. Henry should have known—he should have known it was Hans the moment those slender fingers wrapped around him.
They are alone, rutting against each other. He’s not in the keyhole room, and he doesn’t have to be quiet.
He pulls away, one hand clasping Hans’ cheek gently. With the way he talked about bathmaids and wrote of his conquests, Henry imagined him as an aloof, confident lover that flashed a disarming smile; the kind of look he gives Henry when he thinks he’s about to teach him a lesson on the training arena. What Henry finds instead is a flushed, dazed expression on his face. His blue eyes shiny lazily, pleasure painted on his face, and his lips are red and swollen. He looks lost. Henry did that.
“Fuck,” Henry hisses. “You look even prettier than I imagined.”
Hans lets out a little sound from the back of his throat, baring his neck slightly, showing gold skin scattered with moles. The view is all it takes for Henry to lean down and mouth his neck, pressing the mole with his tongue. Hans lets out a little sigh and lolls his head further. Henry sucks on his neck and traces the water droplets with his tongue. Arms wrap around his shoulder and Hans’ fingers dig into the muscle.
Hans angles his hips just right and it drags a moan out Henry that he doesn’t manage to muffle against Hans’ neck.
“That’s it, blacksmith’s boy,” Hans’ low whisper says next to his ear. “I want to hear you too.”
Henry’s hips buck involuntarily, and then they just don’t stop. He holds himself firmly, knuckles white while gripping the edge of the tub, and Hans is clinging to him, using his hand to keep their cocks together. The water splashes and ripples against the limits of the tub with every movement, and they do not relent. Hans follows him, trying to meet his thrusts, and the room is filled with the sound of splashing water and pleasure.
“I wanted this—” Hans babblers as if drunk. “…You. I wanted you since the beginning.”
Henry kisses him as if he could steal the words from his mouth and keep them forever to himself. He sucks on Hans’ bottom lip and then pants breathlessly against his mouth.
“I wanted it to be you,” Henry mutters.
“Huh?”
“On the other side of the wall,” he explains. “I wanted it to be you.”
“Fuck,” Hans groans.
They kiss, and Henry can tell Hans is about to come by the sounds that leave him, aborted and breathless, that he now hears closely and clearly. The knowledge alone is enough to get him closer to the edge. He keeps pulling away, not only to breath, but to look, and Hans always chases him back. They kiss until they can’t anymore, and Hans’ jaw goes slack, and he comes with eyes lidded and a sweet little sound that Henry is sure he won’t forget for the rest of his life. Just a few more thrusts is all it takes for Henry to follow with Hans’ name on his lips.
The room goes suddenly quiet. They stay like that for a moment, tangled together against the edge of the tub. Once he finds his breath, Henry nuzzles Hans’ neck, kissing gently at the patches of skin.
“We…we should get out,” Henry finally says.
Hans laughs softly. “Yeah. We should.”
Hans’ white shirt and green and yellow hose feel nice against his skin. The nobleman had stayed true to his promise and guided Henry back to his room to fetch him some clean clothes. Hans had dressed himself with a pale shirt and dark blue trousers. Henry looks around. His spare room is just as Henry remembers, with the big wardrobe that held more clothes that he had seen in a lifetime, the wooden desk for writing poetry, and the two beds.
Hans catches him staring at them.
“Ahem,” Hans clears his throat. “We can share.”
“There’s two beds,” Henry points out.
“And I’m telling you we can share.”
Henry blinks. “Ah.”
Hans talks to the bed and spares no time lying on it. Henry follows and sits on it to lie down next to him. Hans’ side presses against his. They quickly realize that the bed is small for the two of them. Henry shifts as Hans tries to move.
“Ow! You elbowed me!”
“Because you won’t stop moving!”
They finally settle into a comfortable position. They lie on their sides, almost in top of each other and their legs tangled under them. They are close, as close as they were in the tub, but the heat of passion is no longer present, and their closeness now feels like a soft, fragile thing.
There's a faded blush in Hans’ face, and his eyes are lowered, his eyelashes gold.
“It is redundant to say that I still want you by my side, right?” Hans speaks finally. “Maybe you could be something else instead of my squire. Maybe my bodyguard.”
“Hmm,” Henry hums, the gentle warmth of the bed and Hans’ body relaxing him. “I'll stay by your side. As long as you'll have me.”
Hans smiles. A hand touches Henry’s hair gently.
“Sleep, blacksmith’s boy. There is much we must do tomorrow.”