Work Text:
Click.
Snick.
Clack.
The lock surrendered. Henry withdrew his pick, the brass tumblers’ song still humming. A better language than politics. After a day of arranging Rattay's great hall for Lady Jitka's arrival, the work of lockpicking soothed him—a problem with a solution, unlike the fact that had settled in his chest since Sir Hanush announced the betrothal.
Three chalices stood in a row on Henry's workbench, polished to mirror brightness. He'd been tasked with their security until the ceremony. The smallest one caught lamplight like captured stars, its silver belly etched with the intertwined crests of Pirkstein and Kunstadt.
Click.
He re-engaged the lock. Again.
Snick--
The door creaked open without a knock—only one person in Rattay would enter the knight's quarters unannounced. Hans Capon sauntered in, his doublet half-unlaced, hair tousled as though he'd been riding. The wine flush on his cheeks suggested poor company in cups tonight.
"You've been avoiding me," Henry said quietly, placing the lockpick on the table. It gleamed briefly, a thin sliver of silver.
"I've been occupied," Hans closed the door, sliding the bolt home with deliberate care. "Preparing to safeguard my treasures?"
"Someone must." Henry's voice remained neutral, but he made no move to rise.
Hans approached, footsteps uneven on the rushes. " You've been scarce since the announcement."
"I've been fulfilling my duties." Henry gestured toward the chalices. "As ordered."
"As ordered." Hans laughed, the sound sharp as a snapped bowstring. "Henry of Skalitz. Tell me, was it duty that ordered you to my bed during the siege? What order was it that made you gasp my name when I—"
"Enough." Henry stood abruptly, knocking the lockpick to the floor between them.
Hans stared at it, then slowly knelt to retrieve it. His fingers closed around the slender metal. "I remember when I found you picking the steward's chest," he said, his voice softening. " You told a guard you noticed that the lock was covered in a layer of dirt, so you decided to clean it off."
Henry swallowed. "That’s an awful excuse."
“And yet in the siege,” Hans straightened, the lockpick balanced between his fingers. "You used these fingers to unlock something else."
Heat crept up Henry's neck. "We were desperate. Afraid."
"Were we?" Hans stepped closer, close enough that Henry could smell the wine on his breath, see the slight tremor in his hand. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
"What would you have me say?" Henry's voice tightened. "That I lie awake remembering? “That I polish your wedding cups while imagining her lips where mine?
The lockpick pressed into Henry's palm as Hans returned it, his fingers lingering. His free hand rose to trace the line of Henry's jaw—a touch they hadn't shared since the siege lifted. "What choice have I?" he murmured, not meeting Henry's eyes at first. "I am to fulfill obligations to my house. You know this better than most."
Henry regarded him quietly. "Aye. I know it well. "
Hans laughed. " You always seem to know how to find the hidden spot that opens things. What makes you a master of these?"
I understand locks better than humans.
Henry reached out unconsciously, his fingertips brushing lightly against Hans' wrist, feeling the pulse leap beneath his touch. A lock subtle enough to evade others—yet he had opened it. "Every lock has that golden spot," he murmured. "You find it, hold steady, drag gently until it yields."
Something altered in Hans' expression, as though a shadow crossed his face beneath the torchlight's trembling gilt. "Then find mine again," he said, voice rough. "One last time."
Their lips met with the remembered urgency of that first desperate night during the siege. The kiss deepened, tasting of wine and the bitterness of farewell. They worked at lacings and buckles, garments shed with the precise haste of who know they steal time from fate.
Henry's hands moved roughly over Hans' body. No longer the skeletal frame from the siege when every rib stood stark against skin. No longer the hollow cheeks of hunger. Now muscle had returned, flesh covering bone, strength restored. Henry's anger came from nowhere. Hans had recovered his lordly strength only to surrender.
Henry pushed Hans against the wall before shoving him toward the bed, forcing him face-down into the mattress with one hand pressing between his shoulder blades. The nobleman made no protest. Henry's teeth found the back of Hans' neck, biting until he tasted copper. Hans gasped but did not pull away. Henry's hand tangled in Hans' hair, pulling his head back sharply.
"Henry—" Hans began, but Henry silenced him with another bite, this time on the shoulder, harder than before. A thin stream of blood appeared, darkening in the candlelight.
Henry turned Hans over, expecting refusal but finding none. Instead, Hans reached for him, drawing him down. Henry pressed bruising kisses along his chest. His fingers left red welts on Hans' sides as they moved together. When Henry forced himself inside without preparation, he felt a moment of guilty at this deliberate cruelty. Hans' body tensed beneath him, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth—yet his arousal remained, hardening further with each rough thrust. Henry's grip tightened on Hans' thighs, spreading them wider than necessary, surprised at the nobleman's capacity to find pleasure in pain.
When Hans neared his release, Henry's thumb pressed firmly at the crown's eye, denying him. "Not yet," he commanded, voice rough with emotion. Hans' eyes widened, sweat beading across his forehead and upper lip. His fingers clawed at the linen sheets, twisting them into knots as a shiver ran through his body. Something like a sob caught in his throat—not of sorrow but of desperate need. His face turned away, the flush of pleasure now mingled with shame at being so thoroughly mastered, yet his body betrayed him still, pressing upward against Henry's restraining hand.
What stopped Henry's rage was not Hans' resistance but its absence. The young lord who had once killed enemies now slid before him without prompting. With uncertain hands but determined eyes, Hans reached for him. He hesitated briefly before taking Henry into his mouth. His movements were unpracticed, a man who had never served now serving. He gripped Henry's thighs for balance, concentration furrowing his brow.
"My lord," Henry said, fingers threading through Hans' hair.
Hans looked up; eyes steady despite his position. "Not here," he whispered.
The sight of Hans on his knees—Hans who had been born to command, Hans who would soon stand beside a noble bride—drained the anger from Henry like blood from a severed vein. He drew Hans up, suddenly gentle, suddenly ashamed.
"I'm sorry," Henry said, touching the bite mark that still wept a thin line of blood.
Hans shook his head. "I deserve worse."
"No," Henry said, guiding him now to the bed with careful hands. "You deserve better than either of us has received." his fingers traced paths along Hans' body, seeking again that place he'd discovered during the siege. He worked with the patience of a master locksmith, listening for the telltale catch of breath that signaled success.
"Here?" Henry whispered, pressing gently.
Click.
Hans nodded, eyes closed tight. "Yes," he breathed. "There."
Henry lowered himself, replacing fingers with tongue. He worked his mouth against Hans intimately. The nobleman gasped, shocked then yielding to the strange new pleasure as Henry's tongue circled that entrance.
Snick.
Hans' body opened gradually, tension falling away with skilled strokes. Henry prepared him with spit and patience, working as one who had picked a hundred locks in darkness, listening for each telltale catch of breath that signaled success.
Clack.
Henry positioned himself, watching Hans' face as he pressed forward slowly. Hans welcomed him with a heat that made his breath catch. Their bodies joined fully, fitting together as though designed by the same craftsman. Hans reached for him, legs wrapping around Henry's waist, pulling him deeper.
Henry's earlier fury transformed into deep, steady thrusts. His hand found Hans between them, thumb circling the eye while fingers stroked beneath. Hans arched beneath him, crying out as release claimed him. Henry followed moments later, burying his face against Hans' neck, tasting again the salt of sweat and copper where his teeth had broken skin.
They lay tangled in each other's arms, speaking little afterward. Henry's fingers traced the marks he'd left. Hans caught his hand, pressing it flat against his chest.
"I would bear worse to keep you," Hans said quietly.
"I know," Henry answered. "That's why I could not continue."
The church bells of Rattay tolled beyond the shutters, measuring their time as the heat where their bodies touched slowly faded with dawn went into the eastern sky. When morning came, Henry rose first. He gathered his garments with hands that had prepared a hundred saddles and would soon arrange a hundred wedding flowers.
He moved to his chest, withdrawing a wineskin unlike the others. This one had been rubbed with beeswax, its seams stitched double to hold marigold decoction within.
"Take this," Henry said, pressing the wineskin into Hans' hands. "For the marks. They'll be gone by tomorrow."
Hans stared at the skin, his fingers running over the waxed leather. "Your aim extends beyond the battlefield, it seems."
"Better than a night's sleep or a sack of apples," Henry said, the familiar jest back in the air. He looked at Hans, still naked, the sheet drawn halfway across his body, the marks of Henry's teeth visible above the linen. " If they haven't faded by the day after tomorrow, seek me out for more."
"Perhaps I wish to keep some," Hans said, but he unstoppered the skin and drank, the golden liquid catching the morning light.
Henry watched as the potion passed through those lips. He knew with certainty this would not be their last time. An opened lock no longer needed picks to grant entry, and the right key will turn in welcome.