Work Text:
Philtatos
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A sigh escapes from Hans’ parted lips as he leans back against the tub. Relaxed as he is, he lets his body melt away into a kykeon of sensations. Slowly, he opens his eyes, his vision obscured by the thick cloud of fragrant fumes that billow about the room. The whole scene feels sort of dream-like, alive but numbed thanks to the heat and the lingering pleasure of the flesh. Hans smiles with self-contentment as he recounts the evening’s prior activities; with fondness, he recalls the head full of ashen locks bobbing between his legs, warm lips on his cock. Of course, like always, the young lord has found something to slightly sour the taste of his pleasure. In this case, it’s the unutterable wish that those curls were perhaps coarser and darker, that the bobbing and sucking had also been accompanied by the scratchy feeling of stubble against the inside of his thighs.
Instantly, his gaze is drawn to the other end of the tub, where Henry is. The young man appears to be in a drowsy, semi-awake state. His eyes are open but he’s looking at nothing in particular, once again preoccupied by the turmoil inside his head and ignoring the demands of his body, the calling song of pleasure and relaxation. Annoyed by the silence, Hans splashes some water on his companion and Henry jolts, awake. A shadow of displeasure passes over his face but it quickly goes away when he remembers who he’s frowning at; his lord and most importantly, his friend.
“What weighs so heavily on your mind, soldier?” Hans asks playfully. His tone is perhaps forcefully jovial but he learned not to dig too deeply when it comes to Henry, not yet anyway. From what little he knows about practical agriculture, his friend feels to him like a garden, once blooming and brimming with life and now deserted, all the flowers having been dug up. Only the fragile soil remains, bearing in its guts the secret seed of life, too secret to be spoken of, yet appearing in the young man’s bright eyes like a glimmer. The twin stars of hope and vengeance in the lonesome, velvet night.
“Oh, it’s just…” Henry begins with that familiar, at times annoying but always so endearing shyness in his voice. He shrugs his shoulders and Hans can’t help but admire how much broader they appear. “This feels nice.”
The young lord hums. “You don’t indulge yourself often, I take it.”
Henry nods. “That’s right.”
A stupid question and an answer out of pity’s sake. Hans bites his tongue, always with a mind of its own, moving faster than his brain exactly when it shouldn’t. Of course he doesn’t indulge himself, he’s a bloody peasant! Although, to Henry’s defense, peasants are of course not barred from the bathhouses. Anyone with a bit of coin can order their more renowned and even lesser-known services. Would Henry…? The thought goes as quickly as it came. Somehow, the image of his friend stumbling into a bathhouse and demanding a wench feels wrong. The evening’s events and their conversations by the campfire have dissipated any doubts regarding Henry’s virtue, but still. He doesn’t feel like that kind of man. Hans can easily picture him in his usual sweetness, resilient despite all the pain and despite all of Henry’s personal efforts, playing around with his words and staring down at his feet instead of the bathhouse’s proprietor, muttering euphemism after euphemism to simply ask for the most common thing on Earth.
Hans clears his throat. His cheeks feel hot and for that, he blames the bath. “By all means, enjoy yourself. My treat.”
“You are too kind, my lord.”
“I am, indeed.”
A splash of water comes his way and Hans gasps in fake shock. Henry smiles at him coyly. “Braggart.”
“How dare you!”
“I’m only performing my Christian duty,” Henry states. “You’re always going about the annoying sermons you receive, but it seems the lesson of humility hasn’t stuck.”
“Oh, the cheek of you,” Hans mumbles, smiling. In the short time they’ve known each other, Henry has unfurled before his eyes. Always mindful of convention, propriety and tradition yet he engages with Hans in this lazy game of tug, slowly developing, a dance where there used to be fight, the unexpected burst of sweetness in an unripe plum.
Hans watches him as he gets out of the tub, the water running in rivulets down his naked form. He goes to the side by the fire and sits by a stool to pat himself dry. Hans watches him still through heavily-lidded eyes, humming softly. This isn’t the first time he’s seen Henry naked, but it seems like every time, his friend looks better. The word that comes to mind is oreos, the word Modern Greeks use for beauty, whose original meaning speaks of him who is right on time. On time for what, though? Perhaps, to breathe fresh air to a painfully stagnant life.
Henry is all long, strong limbs of muscle carved in sun-kissed skin. All the hours of painstaking training out in the field have scorched his skin delightfully. But unlike the angry red sunburns Hans gets, Henry appears golden like rich honey. He cleans himself diligently, his eyes downcast in concentration, their blue almost entirely obscured by those long, dark eyelashes.
Is he a delight for the wenches? He, the soft-spoken lad with those eyes full of woe. Perhaps he’s not so rare a treat and the land is brimming with the likes of him, and the girls find his sadness and sweetness as tiresome as the crude jokes of some pot-bellied barley merchant. But Hans cares little for that, for anything that is out of his field of vision, which nowadays seems to only ever be Henry.
“You’re a proper Adonis, aren’t you…” Hans remarks.
Henry pauses. “A what?”
“Adonis. A figure from Greek mythology. He was the lover of the goddesses Aphrodite and Persephone but he was gored to death by a boar at the height of his youth and beauty.” Henry blinks at him, stunned into silence, and Hans quickly continues. “I don’t mean that you’ll share his fate! It’s just… Adonis was praised as the ideal for male beauty, and his death forever sealed that fate, that title.”
“Most beautiful corpse?”
“Most beautiful man to have ever lived.”
Henry huffs a little laugh. “That seems a bit too much to describe just me.”
Just me. He speaks of himself the way he’s learned to, certain in his peasant pride but never going beyond that. Humble and close to the ground, the way God intended for him, and all like him to be. In the deepest crevices of his mind, Hans recognizes that his gallant young man who fights for what the little lord found laid on his table might be his better. Hans of course would never admit this and Henry simply cannot, since the Fates happened to pick different lots for them. How would Henry be if he’d also been born a nobleman’s son? Would he still be the man Hans has grown so fond of? Would they be having this conversation? Perhaps in another life, they might have even been friends as they are now, but Hans is content with the reality that allows him to so shamelessly stare at Henry.
“Who would you be?”
“Sorry?”
“If I’m this Adonis as you said, who would you be?”
Hans falls silent for a moment as he thinks. “Apollo.” He swirls his fingers around the water lazily. Everything feels sluggish and thick, dragging him down into sleep. He’s vaguely aware of himself as he speaks, not entirely sure if his words are the result of conscious efforts or simply sleep-talking. “God of the sun, protector of music and prophecy and archery. The golden son of Zeus, his favorite one, though capricious and terribly indulgent, especially when it came to lovers, male and female. But I suppose that’s why his father liked him so much. Because they were so alike.”
“That last bit sounds like you,” Henry comments, which earns him more water down his back. “I jest!”
“Didn’t seem like it!”
“Did he actually do all that? This pagan God you speak of?”
“Well, he didn’t actually exist to make it all happen but yet, in the minds of the Greek he did.” Henry falls silent, his brows knit as he thinks. “What?”
“I thought the Greeks were wise and knowledgeable. Why would they worship a god such as that? Isn’t God supposed to be a guiding light? A beacon of hope and goodness?”
Hans hums. He lets his head rest back, staring at the ceiling as he tries to think of an answer. “The Greeks fashioned their gods after their own image. While they possessed abilities beyond human understanding, they also had human qualities. They were prone to sin but even they faced the consequences of their actions. They experienced grief, joy, anger, anything a mortal can feel in their own life, if lived well.”
“What pieces we have inside of us of God are supposed to make us better, are they not? What’s the point in a god that has the same weaknesses as you?”
“Hope,” Hans answers simply. “At least you wouldn’t feel so alone in your sins.”
“That can be right, I guess.”
“Any particular sins you’d like to commit, blacksmith? Aside from the sins of the flesh we both partook in today.” Henry’s cheeks heat up at the sound of that and Hans laughs. “Don’t look so bashful, now! Shall I tell you some of mine to make you feel better?”
“I cannot absolve you. I’m no priest.”
Hans rolls his eyes. Henry is prone to these bursts of devoutness at the worst possible times. And while Hans himself is always mindful of his solemn duty as a good Christian lord, he is sharp to understand the folly in some of the teachings. “We’re only talking, Henry.”
Rules upon rules upon rules, written and served by men that partake in none of the life they so eagerly constrict and condemn. All for the sake of righteousness, for the promise of Heaven. During his angriest moments, Hans would often be overcome with the urge to spit at those words. What is prayer compared to a look of love? Heaven compared to the bliss of touch and feel and kiss? Henry looks at him, his whole face serious but curious.
“I am Adonis, this beautiful dead man for whom goddesses wept.”
“You are.”
“And you are Apollo. The god of light and music.”
“And archery! Don’t tell me you require a rematch to remember how good I am.”
Henry nods. “Anything else you share with him, my lord? Say…his preference for lovers?”
Hans feels little sparks all across his spine and his skin, down to the tips of his fingers. It’s a quick yet intense shudder and now it’s his turn to feel his cheek go aflame. Be it the wine and the overall euphoria, but he spoke too much. Yes, even he, Sir Hans Capon, who can only ever stop talking if there’s a cork shoved in his mouth, can tell when he’s said too much. Was he too forward? His young friend doesn’t seem offended, just stern and perhaps a bit apprehensive, which is even worse. See, the disgust is common to him and he can easily play it off as a jest caused by drunkenness or a moment’s foolishness. But Henry stares at him with those eyes - those damn eyes! - and Hans knows he can’t play around this. Henry knows him too well, now, and he knows when Hans is serious, or at least his version of it. The frustrating part is that Hans cannot say the same.
He shrugs, deliberately slowly to earn himself some time. “Could be. Would that offend you?”
“Not really,” Henry responds after a heartbeat, the duration of which has stopped Hans’ own.
Hans smiles mirthlessly and tears his gaze away. Outside, life is going on exactly as they left it. But in here… In here, he can pretend. What he wants from this moment and this conversation is a mystery to him, above all, but he knows that he wants. This desire that has been growing inside him ever since this insufferable peasant beat him in archery and told him to respect the curfew has often been indistinguishable from frustration. But now that the bond between them has become more mellow, he knows that it is desire after all. Not necessarily for something true, though, so for now, he’s fine with pretending that he’s a capricious Olympian and Henry is a mortal, lost in the woods, trapped in this spoiled god’s arms.
“The truth is out,” Hans says, raising his arms in a grandiose and dramatic manner. “I like the lads as much as I like the wenches. Will you tell my uncle? Not that he doesn’t suspect already, but I fear the truth will crush him. Or worse, he won’t care. There have been other lords with my, ahem, inclination but they were still made to marry and perform their solemn duty. Perhaps even my father was like that. That would explain why I am the way I am!”
“Sir-”
“Or perhaps you’ll tell the priest? Not that he hasn’t been known to fondle young men whenever he can get them, oh, but I’m sure he’d be more than happy to have me flogged for being a dirty sinner.” He feels his smile turn canine. “Oh my, I’ve given you quite the leverage against me, dear blacksmith.”
“Hans.” The sound of his own name, firm and serious as it comes out of Henry’s lips, makes him stop abruptly. He realizes that he’s panting and that his whole body feels flushed despite the cooling water.
“I’m not offended.”
Hans blinks. A thousand quips come to his mind but his tongue speaks none. “That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
The young lord scoffs. “Peasants often have a hard time wrapping their heads around such…complicated ideas.” Instantly, he’s appalled by the boldness of this lie and insult. As if the men of his rank are more accepting… He’s dished it out now, though, and it would be unseemly for a lord to apologize for something that is, well, partially true. He waits for Henry’s response, more anxiously than he’d like to admit.
Henry reacts little to the insult. He even smirks slightly. He rises and Hans follows the arch of his body as it stretches and stands tall. Lean muscle, lovely round bum, rough hands. “I’ll have you know,” Henry says as he begins dressing himself, “peasants have naught but little to do, sometimes.”
“And what does that mean?”
“The days are long, longer yet when you’re young and have no appetite for chores or prayer.” He shrugs. “Our minds were always on the lasses but we had to practice before.”
“Practice?”
“Aye. Can’t very well scare a wench by being too rough or disappoint her with a, um, lacking performance, most of all because she’d tell the others and forever ruin your reputation. So, us lads needed to practice. And for that, we only had each other.”
Hans sits frozen, his mouth slack, his eyes narrowing as Henry's words finally sink in. There he goes again, dishing out the most outrageous things and leaving Hans to cope. Somehow, upon further consideration, the thought doesn’t seem inconceivable at all. He pictures Henry and his friends, younger and buzzing with the sort of clumsy, all-consuming lust and energy that wrecks all young boys, huddling together in some barn outside of Skalitz. Uncertain hands seeking to learn in the dark, quivering lips kissing too sloppily, too eagerly. How fortunate, Hans thinks. He often mused about how certain aspects of a peasant’s life were better than his own, or freer at the very least. His mind goes back to his own youth, where he used to look down at groups of boys running towards fun and mischief, while he stayed high up in his castle, learning how to be a lord.
“And what skills did you hone, exactly?”
The young man shrugs. “Kissing, touching…endurance.”
Hans hums, impressed. “A full curriculum! You don’t suppose we could practice together, do you?
Henry gives out an awkward little laugh. He turns his gaze away, bashful again. “We’ve hardly the need for it, I’d say. And besides, we couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Proper,” Hans scoffs, parroting the word with venomous mockery. “Fuck propriety!”
“Sir-”
“Your lord demands it!” Henry frowns. “Come now,” Hans starts again, his tone sweeter. “I only meant to jest. You know that, don’t you? Here, we’re just friends talking. Although it is very much well within my rights to demand what I want from you.”
“It is. Though I wouldn’t like you very much if you did. If that matters.”
“It does matter.” He says those words before comprehending them. When he finally realizes what he said, his own candor shocks him. Yes, it does matter. But why? Why does the opinion of this dog-eyed mutt of a peasant matter to him so?
“I want you to have a high opinion of me,” he confesses, guilty and ashamed of his own insecurity.
“I do, sir.”
“But not high enough to divulge this secret?” Henry sighs, looking around him helplessly. “We are friends, Henry.”
“But we’re not children anymore.”
Hans falls silent. “I have made you uncomfortable.”
“It’s not that. It’s just…” He groans, running a hand over his face. “You’re much, much lovelier than all my friends and maybe half the wenches out there. But you’re my lord! I couldn’t possibly even think about being so familiar with you.”
“What if I was someone else?”
“You’re not.”
Hans shrugs. Slowly, he rises, the satisfaction within him swelling as he watches Henry’s gaze travel across his naked body.
“I could be. When we’re together like that, I could be…Apollo.” He steps out of the tub, a small puddle forming where he comes to stand before Henry. He wants to touch the other man; his whole body convulses with the need to move. Then again, it could be the chill caused by the sudden change in temperature. He shivers and his smile shakes along with the rest of him. “And you could be Adonis.”
Henry looks at him intently, his gaze flickering from Hans’ lips back to his eyes. “What's the point in that?”
“The point is that as others, we could do what Henry, the blacksmith’s son, and Sir Hans Capon, the handsome and intelligent-”
“And humble, most of all.”
“Obviously…The handsome and intelligent and humble heir to Rattay, as I said, cannot do.”
What a simple, beautiful world he’s woven out of thin air, purely out of the fabric of his fantasies. Unseen, the time passes and neither of them moves nor speaks. Hans realizes suddenly how close they stand. The warmth from Henry’s body seeps into his own, melting down the ice in his cold limbs until he’s burning up. He swallows thickly.
“I’d still be beneath you.”
Hans grins. “Indeed.” Again, he wants to touch Henry, his fingers itching to feel that sun-kissed skin. Instead, he reaches up, toying with one of the ties of the other man’s shirt. “What will it be, Adonis?”
More silence. Endless, murky, insufferable. It lasts only seconds and it locks the air into Hans’ lungs. With one swift move, Henry removes his shirt, tossing it to the side. Hans feels his smile grow wider.
“I am your servant, my lord. Whether you’re a lord or a god, I’ll serve you.”
Henry drops to his knees, his big, blue eyes locked with Hans’ own. Hans revels in the sight, running his hand through Henry’s damp hair and tugging softly. “Did you and your lads do any of this?”
“Sometimes,” Henry says. “Only when we knew no wench would like it as rough.”
Hans kneels in front of him, his eyes eagerly searching the other man’s face. His whole body is buzzing with excitement. “Show me.”
Henry brings one rough yet surprisingly tender hand up to Hans’ face and brushes a wet lock of sandy hair behind his ear. Hans bursts into a fit of giggles while Henry blushes, trying to appear serious.
“I’m trying to be serious, here!”
“Too bloody serious! Relax, will you? We’re only playing.”
It seems nearly cruel to say this word to someone as wrecked by tragedy as Henry, especially when it’s said by someone as burdened by duty and expectations as Hans himself. Hans was only half-joking when he suggested that they shed their identities, but this exercise could prove to be a boon, indeed. Not an heir and a heart-broken peasant, but somebody else. Anybody else, at this point.
Henry clears his throat. He’s still serious but from this close, Hans can see that his face is beet red and warm, his youthful cheeks appearing like two ripe apples. Slowly, he brings a hand up to Hans’ face, trailing his fingers along the curve of his ear and tucking a damp lock of sandy hair behind Hans’ ear.
“Aye, playing,” murmurs Henry. “Well, we used to do some of this.”
“Uh-huh.”
His hand drops to Hans’ shoulder. The feeling of the rough skin trailing down his arm and chest makes him shiver. It’s all so stupid, how excited he is. He can’t remember the last time - if ever! - he was ever this excited about a lover, or even sober when dealing with one. Not that he needs the confidence boost supplied by the Devil’s Juice, but he always enjoyed the numbing effects of alcohol, its ability to perhaps blur the intimacy, make it less…personal, less real and even devastating. Never awake to the crushing loneliness that led him to the arms of another, his whole body buzzing with lust, instead. As Henry’s touch grows bolder - though always flavored by his signature coyness - Hans’ first instinct is to flee. But for so long he’s wanted this, his loins filling with more and more desire with every glance stolen at those pretty eyes, the pouting lips, the young body that so beautifully grows into manhood. This is good, he reasons with himself. In this room, he is an Olympian and the man before him is only a mortal, the prized mortal he stole from his sister-goddesses, not a young knight so foolishly, completely, obsessively enamored by his squire.
“Adonis,” he mumbles.
“You insist on this?” Henry questions.
“Yes, damn you. It’s my wish.”
The peasant smiles. “My command, then.”
Henry brings both his hands up to cup Hans’ face. Slowly, he inches closer, his breath tinged with wine like Hans’ own. This is good, Hans reasons again, as the Triumph of finally knowing what kissing Henry feels like rises over the horizon.
“Apollo,” Henry murmurs before their lips lock.
Ah, but he had to go ahead and say that, didn’t he?
The fake name, soft like a prayer, like life’s first and last breath, floating until it roots itself in Hans’ heart. There’s no time to react but only to feel; Henry’s hands on his face, holding him tenderly, his lips on Hans’ own, his kiss, testing and careful. Hans’ lack of response makes him stop and pull back, his half-closed eyes full of confusion. Before he can pull away completely, Hans grabs him by the face and locks their lips together with newfound hunger. Henry makes a little surprised sound at the suddenness and fervor but quickly recovers, reciprocating tenfold. They kiss fervently, their mouths open against each other, the maws of two howling, starving dogs that just caught the first whiff of meat. They kiss like they’ve been wanting to for a long time. When they part, their eyes are glassy, their lips joined by a string of spit.
And then, they kiss again. Once the initial hunger and excitement have dissipated, their kiss turns more mellow, though still sloppy and eager. No wench would ever enjoy a kiss like that, surely, but the personal experience of these two practicing men clouds their judgement. Hans licks across Henry’s lips before shoving his tongue in the peasant’s mouth. His hands seek the other’s face and they remain locked in that hold for the entire duration of their slow, wet exchange.
They’re giggling when they part, unashamed of their giddiness. Hans blames it on the wine but he knows this sudden burst of euphoria has its roots elsewhere, somewhere in the residue of Henry’s spit on his lips and the lingering touch of his arms to his face.
There’s a knock on the door, causing some ripples in the harmony of the perfect scene. “Lord Capon?” calls the bathhouse proprietor. “Will you be needing anything else? Shall I send in the wenches?”
“There’s no need!” Hans responds. His smile grows wider, his eyes unmoving from Henry’s own. “You can keep them for yourself tonight.” There’s some faint “awws” of disappointment as a number of feet trot away from the unwelcoming lord and his not-so-bad-looking-if-he-washes squire. “Hear that, mortal? You should be honored I turned them down for you. Better make it worth my time.”
Henry scoffs. “You always have a word to address me by; peasant, blacksmith, mortal… What should I call you? Your…godship?”
Hans bursts into laughter. He drags his fingers across Henry’s torso, feeling the newly-built muscle under the coarse dark hair of his chest. Henry is unbelievably hot to the touch. Hans splays his fingers open, as if to hold the other’s thunderous heartbeat in his palm. No one up until that moment has been so alive, so real.
“Absolutely not! You may call me…Your Grace or…Your Divinity!” The more he explores it, the more Hans comes to find that Henry’s body is filled with scars and bruises. He looks like a tapestry of all the battles he has fought, all the pain that brought him here and all the joy that made him stay. Thin scars from sudden scrapes, bruises from the harsh blow of a practice sword, burn-marks from the forge. Hans reaches and grabs one of Henry’s hands, studying each finger closely.
“You can also call me Phoebus.” He leans in, kissing the small finger. “Or Pythius.” Another kiss, ring finger. “Hekebolos.” Middle finger. “Lyceus.” Pointer. Hans grins, a giggle bubbling in his voice. “Mus-age-tes.” His lips open around Henry’s thumb and he sucks on it slowly.
Henry inhales a sharp breath. “What is your wish, then, o mighty…Footus?” Hans bites down on his thumb and Henry pulls back, laughing. “Phoebus!”
“Touch me,” Hans growls.
Whenever the two of them are parading around bathhouses and taverns, with the occasional pretty thing within reach, Henry is often reserved, leaving the show for Hans. Timid, almost, making the girls coo and giggle as his blue eyes remain pinned to the ground. Experientially, Hans would have expected Henry to be a coy lover. Imagine his surprise when the blacksmith proves to be anything but, as he reaches behind and firmly grabs fistfuls of Hans’ arse while rolling his own hips forward and making their cocks touch.
“Fuck!” Hans yelps, half-aroused and half-surprised.
Henry’s lips curl with an all-too-pleased grin. Not willing to give him the satisfaction of being smug, Hans quickly reaches for Henry’s cock, leaving out a gasping little laugh when Henry shivers. That cock of his is as pretty to touch as it is to look. Hans adds a squeeze in between his strokes, reveling at the feeling of that full, fleshy weight in his palm. Henry’s mouth is open with a moan, his eyes glassy and Hans can’t help but giggle at how silly he looks. He leans in, giving his manhood another squeeze and kissing the corner of his mouth.
“Touch me, mortal. Do not fear that your hand shall burn.”
Henry swallows thickly and quickly moves his hand around Hans’ own cock. His movements lack the finesse Hans has been born with but also spent a lifetime polishing - courtesy of his loneliness and ever-flowering curiosity for the male form - but he makes up for it in eagerness. His strokes are fast, desperate almost. Even when making love, he’s eager to please, to serve, to deliver. Hans gasps, falling forward until their foreheads touch. On their knees before the fire, one hand on each other’s shoulder while the other strokes and squeezes diligently, they might look as if they’re dancing or engaged in a long-lost form of worship. Through his foggy vision, Hans looks down, seeing the two of them lined next to one another. His own prick is a bit taller but Henry’s is thicker. It’s as pretty to touch as it is to look and a primal sort of urge bubbles inside of the young lord. Oh, to feel this gorgeous thing as it was meant to, have it inside-
“Your Grace,” Henry groans, rubbing his face against Hans’ cheek.
“Yes, my Adonis?” Hans all but purrs, planting kisses on every bit of honey-tinted skin he can find.
“How may I worship you, sun-god? What sacrifice does Your Divinity require?”
Hans shivers. He was only half-joking when he suggested this game, clearly not expecting Henry to take it on with such aptitude. But why not? Since their first encounter, this otherwise completely unremarkable peasant has exceeded all his expectations. Odd as it may sound, Henry has spoiled Hans more than a life of comfort and luxury did, for he has shown his lord that he can always deliver what was promised and more, more, more.
“All of you,” Hans moans, loudly and wantonly, his eyes screwing shut. “Give me your seed, worshipper, and I’ll give you my blessing.”
Henry lets go momentarily, just long enough to wrap that deliciously rough palm around both their lengths. They both moan together, wet breaths mixing, foreheads touching. Hans rests both his hands on either side of Henry’s face and begins rolling his hips along to the rhythmical pull and push against one another. The friction is subline, the pleasure builds like fire in his loins. All his senses are heightened, open not only to the touch but to the heat and scent emanating from the other man; despite all the earlier scrubbing, Henry smells like something borne from the earth, deep and dark and absolute like the forest around them. His body burns hot like forge fire and for all his assumed divinity, Hans feels himself melt under this mortal’s touch.
“Yes,” he hisses, his fingers curling cruelly into Henry’s dark locks. “Oh, yes!”
Henry grunts and growls, his face an odd mix of concentration and mad desire. Hans clings to him desperately and he throws one arm around the lord’s waist, pulling them even closer together. They climax almost simultaneously, gasping and heaving inches away from the other’s face, their cocks spurting over Henry’s hand and both their thighs. Henry only stops stroking until the last drop has been milked from them both, and after that they collapse on their boneless legs, panting, looking at the mess they made and then at each other.
Hans smiles. He feels drowsy, utterly exhausted but also filled with euphoria. It’s a queer feeling. If he tries to place it, he fails, but he also knows it’s not entirely unfamiliar. A long-lost or long-wished-for feeling, surfacing from the murky waters of his distant memories and desires.
“Well done,” he praises. Henry gives a huff and a smile, before falling backwards on the soft pelt laid before the hearth. Hans spends a moment just staring at him shamelessly, wishing to forever engrave the image of those thick, hairy thighs and Henry’s spent cock - so mouth-wateringly delicious even when it’s soft - forever in his memory.
“Oh, thank you, Apollo.”
Hans snorts. He gets on his knees, crawling towards Henry and hovering above him. The urge to touch him overtakes him and he draws his fingers along the lines and shapes of Henry’s youthful face. In all his years of merry abandon and downright debauchery, Hans has come to know all sorts of peasants, yet none have ever been like Henry. He studies him intently, like he’s not a familiar face but a page from a previously indecipherable book, now finally revealing its secrets. Henry is more beautiful than the rest, his eyes shine brighter, more clearly, not dulled by the countless little struggles of peasant life but filled with a desire for glory. Yes, he’s pretty like a prince from a story, a young knight at the Round Table that does not yet realize his worth. Again, Hans wishes his friend, who so looks like a noble, could also be the son of one, then perhaps they could seek each other more freely. But then he quickly reminds himself that the Fates perhaps wouldn’t have thrust this princeling into Hans’ hands and even if they had, Hans is certain he wouldn’t be able to boss him around so easily, if ever at all.
He’s still petting Henry when the other man speaks. “My Lord?”
“We’re still Apollo and Adonis, Henry.”
“O-Oh. Right.”
Hans smiles fondly. He cocks his head to the side. “Do tell me, though.”
Henry sighs. He closes his eyes, as if trying to put his thoughts together in the darkness. Hans watches this sudden burst of seriousness, waiting for what his friend has to say.
“My Lord,” he says suddenly, a bit too loudly, those starry eyes of his fixing Hans exactly where he is. “Forgive me. I…I’m not quite sure I understand this arrangement.”
Hans narrows his eyes. “There’s not much to understand. We just had a bit of fun, is all.”
“Then why the need to pretend we’re somebody else? I would have gone to bed with you, had you only asked me.”
Hans scoffs. His hand drops. “Didn’t seem that way when you practically made me beg you to tell me!”
“I was only testing you!”
“You? Testing me?”
“Sir Hans, please. I-I had to make sure!”
Hans sits frozen, his mouth agape. The pleasure, still warm in the pits of his belly, is not nearly enough to keep away the cold sting of his hurt pride. Henry is sitting up now, face to face with him, silently expecting the lashing. No, more than that. His expression gives away no fear, only pain. Agony.
And then it dawns on him. How many times had this scene played out before? Not with the bathhouse wenches or the alehouse maids or even the pretty young knights that flock to the tournaments. No, those are shrewd characters, treating love like a transaction, knowing better than to believe the words of every drunk fool that promises them the moon and the stars. Hans thinks of the squires and young noblemen that used to accompany his uncle’s guests on their visits. Fleeting touches in the empty halls, words whispered in the night, kisses lasting for a breath. Promises on top of promises, leaving Hans with the secret knowledge that he meant none of it, that he’s only a maw on legs, seeking only to devour. Henry, knowing him as annoyingly well as he does, sees right through this deception so what he says makes sense. He was only trying to make sure Hans wasn’t using him.
“I ask you to forgive me,” Hans whispers. “I…I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t. It’s not my intention to toy with your affections, believe me. I apologize.”
Henry stares at him in bewilderment. His cheeks are pink up to the ears. How sweet he looks, sweet and ripe for the taking. “My Lord, there’s nothing to forgive.”
Hans pinches him. “Forgive me.”
“Ow! Alright, Jesus! I forgive you.” He runs a hand over the pained flesh, glancing down at the pink spot that has begun to bloom. “Will you please answer my question now?”
Hans hums. “W-Well.” It’s unlike him to be coy and dull-tongued. With a heavy heart, he realizes that the best way for him to get through this is with honesty, something he knows he’ll regret. He consoles himself with the knowledge that he’ll regret not having Henry to himself even more.
“It could be a long-term arrangement. I do not wish to turn you into a concubine,” he rushes to say, feeling the embarrassment weigh heavily on his tongue. Liking a peasant is one thing but trying to impress him is another form of humiliation entirely. He closes his eyes, inhaling sharply. “What I mean to say is that while your youth is filled with stories of friendship and companionship, I have never known a friend or a companion until I met you. And…I want all of you, Henry. As much as a man can have another.” There. Once dished and served, the truth of his feelings is less embarrassing and more…absurd. He, one of the most celebrated heirs of the entire empire, confessing his affection for the no-name son of a blacksmith. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or be angry at himself, and anyway, he cares so little for either of those things, especially when Henry is smiling at him so warmly.
“I’d like that,” Henry concedes, his voice soft. He looks away shyly, tangling his fingers with Hans’ own. He brings the hand up to his mouth and kisses it reverently. “And the names?”
Hans shivers. “The names stay. When we’re alone, I am your god, Apollo, and you are Adonis.”
“No title for me?”
Hans laughs. He pushes Henry down and climbs on top of him. “Are you not content with being the most beautiful man in the world?” He tilts his head to the side, drinking in the work of art that lays below him.
“You said all those fancy epithets for yourself, but what about me?”
“There is a word that comes to mind,” he teases. “But I shan’t tell you. Not yet.”
Henry makes a move to sit up but Hans shoves him back down. “And why is that?”
Hans rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Because! I don’t want to crowd your little peasant head when we have so many more important matters to attend to.” He wraps his hand around Henry’s half-hard cock, giving it a squeeze and grinning as the other man cries out. “Yes, urgent and pressing.”
When he leans down to lock their lips together, he blesses their youth for keeping their loins aflame and allowing them to have their fill of one another for the entire night. Still, no matter how they kissed and touched and tasted, it wouldn’t nearly be enough.
When daybreak’s grayish light found them lying on the same bed, their limbs intertwined, Hans was the first to wake. Drowsily, he looked upon his sleeping friend and knew that his hunger for Henry had been far from satisfied. In fact, it had grown ravenous.
...
Fondness. That is the word that comes to Hans’ mind as he watches Henry and a sensation of warmth fills his heart, his stomach, every bit of his insatiable, hollow self, down to the tips of his toes. He hums to himself, perfectly content with watching his friend as he studies the book laid out in front of him. His brows are scrunched from the effort, his lips moving softly as he murmurs the different words. By all means, Hans should have left the poor man to study as this is what Hans is supposed to be helping him with, but see, he can’t. He can’t keep his hands to himself when Henry is near, and so he has to touch; his jaw, his soft brown hair, even the shell of his ear. He simply cannot sit still, motivated by this strange, buzzing energy that lights him up from within. Fondness, overflowing, profound, sheer adoration for this bull-headed, starry-eyed lad.
Is it love?
Hans has asked himself that question nearly every waking moment since their little adventure at the bathhouse. He’d wonder about it in his sleep if he could, but he’s been sleeping so soundly, eager to go back to the memories of Henry’s lips against his own, his rugged breath, the touch of his rough hands.
If it is love, he cannot say, having never felt it for another person. Sure, he cares about his relations and there are things he loves, like wine and ale and an evening well-spent. But does he love Henry the same way he loves these things? Rather, it is the simple act of this comparison that doesn’t sit well with him. Comparing Henry to his mother who only exists in letters or a night of whoring feels cheap and wrong, almost cruel.
Henry squints. “The motion must be quick and…throughout.”
Hans chuckles softly, that warmth bubbling inside of him. “Thorough.”
“Thorough,” Henry repeats defeatedly.
Hans nudges him. His hand slips around Henry’s waist, his chin resting on his shoulder. “Don’t lose heart. You are doing very well!”
Is it simply pride and joy at Henry’s accomplishments? Hans has to admit that while being the victim of Henry’s unlikely victories against him has been endlessly frustrating, watching the young blacksmith work his way into knighthood - paved with nothing but his blood, sweat and tears - has been one of the most exhilarating experiences of Hans’ life. He doesn’t remember ever rooting for someone like that before, which once again brings him to the point of questioning the nature of his feelings. Oh, his feelings, so many of them that they have to spill out in words and touches! If only there was a way to know what sort of feelings they are.
He looks around the library, wondering if the word he’s looking for is contained in any of those tomes or if it has even been invented at all.
“Listen, once you’re done reading this…” Hans leans in to peek at the cover. “Father Jonah’s Guide to Shearing Sheep, I’ll show you the Iliad!”
“The what?”
Once again, Hans is shocked by the lack of context. Honestly, what do the peasants do all day? “The Iliad, my dear Adonis. An epic tale of the war between the Greeks and the Trojans, all for the sake of Helen of Troy, Queen of Sparta and most beautiful woman in the world.” Henry pulls away from his book, clearly finding this more interesting than hundreds of pages on how to shear sheep. “She was spirited away by Paris, a Trojan prince and the Greek city-states all formed an alliance under the mighty Mycenean King - as well as her brother-in-law - to go and get her back. Of course, many would argue that the ever-ambitious Agamemnon was only looking for an excuse to attack Troy in order to conquer her lines of commerce. Now, I think there’s some merit to this theory; no way Agamemnon would call for war in order to save a family member! Not with how he sacrificed his own daughter for favorable wind!”
Henry, who has been closely listening to Hans’ ramblings, as all their time together has taught him to do, nods along, making realizations of his own. “I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t willing to let go of the slight. I mean…You said he was ambitious. What sort of king can command respect over his subjects if he allows such things to stain the reputation of his family?”
Hans hums. He tucks a lock behind Henry’s ear, smiling. “Very sharp. It’s settled! Once you’ve read the Iliad, we shall discuss it together. Oh, I am certain you will love it! It’s filled with characters like Odysseus, the resourceful and cunning prince of Ithaca, Ajax the mighty warrior and of course, Achilles.”
“Achilles?”
“Aristos Achaion, best of all the Greeks! Son of the king of Phthia and the Nereid, Thetis, swift and sharp and deadly. But glorious and beautiful all the same, loved and fought and raged with the power of a thousand suns.”
“Whom did he love so fiercely?”
“Patroclus, his better half, his friend, his companion in his youth and in all his life.” He stops before giving more away.
“Was he the only one capable of soothing his golden prince’s temper?”
Hans snorts, eyeing Henry curiously. “How did you know he was a golden prince?”
Henry only shrugs. He turns to look at Hans, smiling that boyish smile, full lashes fluttering. “I just had the feeling that he’d look like you. That the pair of them would look like us.”
There he goes again, saying the simplest things that get right under Hans’ skin. The young nobleman feels his mouth quiver uselessly, noiselessly, as his lips curl into a satisfied smile, the expression that’s become constant when he’s around Henry. He feels his chest swell with pride and joy, as he’s reminded once again of Henry’s sharpness, his sweetness, and all those surprising qualities that have revealed themselves first as light drizzle and then as whipping, pouring rain, engulfing Hans completely. Still, he feels a pang of bitterness. Since he’s arrived here, Henry has become this town’s beloved lad, always running around to help when he can, not begrudged even by those he ends up having to fight with. Like a gemstone found in the mud, his brilliance shines the more polished he becomes. But when those sapphire eyes fix themselves upon Hans, he can pretend that all of Henry is for him alone.
“History is filled with all kinds of pairs like us.” Morning light pours through the open windows, painting Henry’s brown locks golden where it catches them. “Achilles and Patroclus, Alexander and Hephaestion.”
“Who are they?”
“Alexander was a general, a conqueror, a figure unlike any other. He was also an ardent admirer of the Iliad. Some say he kept a copy of it under his pillow when he slept! As for Hephaestion, he was his…”
He can’t bring himself to finish his sentence. He can only paw at Henry’s face, run his hand along the side of his face until he rests it on Henry’s chest, feeling more of that warmth seep in through his skin.
“His.”
They haven’t exactly discussed the nature or even the limits of their arrangement, beyond the peculiarity of their assumed identities as god and mortal. All that Hans knows is that he feels alive when he showers Henry with affection and Henry reciprocates. It did keep him up at night, thinking about how his station was perhaps coercing his friend into returning the touches - for he certainly wouldn’t return Hans’ feelings! - but Henry seems as eager as a puppy, if a little hesitant. Which is why Hans has to once again congratulate himself for his genius at having come up with this little game of make-believe. Hans and Henry may have their doubts about the nature of this relationship and its mysterious future, but Apollo and Adonis live in the present. It’s a very specific present, too; when they don the cloaks of the capricious god and the divinely beautiful mortal, time and space is contorted into here, whichever here that may be - the bed, the bathhouse, even this dusty old library, the central stage of Hans’ lonely childhood. The here of Apollo and Adonis is different than that of Hans and Henry, reality itself feels as though shrouded in a golden cloth, bathed in the hazy light of a perpetual summer afternoon, when they pretend to be somebody else. Somebody freer, bolder, guilt-less.
“You’re certainly interested in the Greeks.”
Henry drums his finger against the book impatiently. “From what you’ve told me, they seem far more entertaining. than whatever the fuck Father Jonah was on about!”
Hans laughs. It’s better when they’re talking. At least then, Hans doesn’t have to think about all the things he wants to say but can’t, and all that Henry means to him. It’s better yet when they’re doing.
With that thought in mind, Hans sneaks his hand between Henry’s thighs, delightedly watching as a look of surprise dawns on the other’s face. “If reading has become so easy to you, we should perhaps make a challenge of it.”
“Sir-”
“Hush,” Hans hisses. Again, he blesses their youth. Even the faintest touch can be a spark that sets their eager loins ablaze. Under the layer of his hose and braies, Hans can feel Henry’s cock twitch with interest, like some curious animal awakened from its light nap, forever perking its head at the world around it. He palms at the member gently, smiling when Henry gasps.
“You gods are cruel,” Henry murmurs, giving himself to Hans’ ministrations. “Or is it just you, Apollo?”
“What you call cruelty others would see as a blessing,” Hans tuts. He grins as he feels Henry’s member grow firmer in his grasp. “This one certainly does.”
Henry’s panting, his lashes fluttering, his pretty mouth open to let all those lovely sounds out. He looks around worriedly, his gaze fixed to the open door. “Someone could walk it,” he tries to warn though he sounds anything but convincing with the way he’s impatiently bucking his hips upward, thrusting into Hans’ palm.
“Better take cover then.”
Hans removes his hands and slips under the desk, settling between Henry’s legs. The other man simply gawks at him, any sound of surprise or protest dying in his throat when Hans puts his hands on him again. The touch is torturous, teasing, a feathery circling of his palm over Henry’s thighs and clothed cock.
“I want to taste you.”
Any further comments Henry has against this are quickly drowned when Hans rubs his cheek over his groin, feeling the hardness and heat both grow with each rough touch. “Oh, dear God,” Henry gasps.
“I hear you. You clearly want this,” Hans says, emphasizing his words with a gentle squeeze. “Shall I?”
Henry continues to just stare at him and for a moment, Hans feels the ice-cold grip of fear around his throat. He’s taken this too far and Henry will push him away, will flee in terror and disgust, ask for the punishment, for the death of this vile degenerate. But he doesn’t. No terror and certainly no disgust color his features. His pupils are blown wide and his cheeks are red, chest heaving with the unmistakable weight of desire. He nods and Hans smiles, relieved.
His fingers make quick work of the laces keeping Henry’s hose and braies up. When his cock springs free, hard and aching, Hans hums, pleased. It’s even prettier up close, prettier than he remembers. It bounces eagerly from within a thicket of curly dark hair, its mere girth making Hans’ mouth water. He wraps his hand around it, giving it a few experimental pumps, absolutely mesmerized by the way the head emerges from within the folds pinker and larger with each stroke, demanding his attention more urgently.
“Apollo,” Henry groans, low and gruff.
“Good boy.”
Hans opens his mouth and slowly brings it down on Henry’s cock, closing it around the base. It’s been a while since he’s done this and perhaps he shouldn’t have dived in head-first, but his hunger and excitement for the other man simply took over. When he pulls away he’s panting, his eyes filled with tears and his throat objecting to the intrusion. He gasps a few greedy gulps of air and goes right back in, taking the whole of it in his mouth.
“Oh, fuck!” Henry hisses. He’s doubled over on the desk, his studies long forgotten. One hand flies down to Hans’ hair, not yanking but simply touching, as if to make sure he’s there.
“Quiet,” Hans warns, or at least as well and as articulately as he can with a prick in his mouth.
Henry takes to orders with perfect obedience, keeping all those sounds as quiet as possible. After overcoming the initial discomfort and finding a way to breathe through his nose without panicking, Hans establishes a quick pace by bobbing his head up and down on the length, all the while his tongue and lips work on every bit of skin he can find. He keeps a hand on the base of Henry’s cock, pumping what he can’t fit in his mouth, while the other fondles Henry’s sack, feeling every tremor as his seed squirms restlessly inside him. He swallows earnestly, like the hungriest, most desperate back-alley whore money can buy. He moans around that perfect thickness, pulling back just to give the head a hard suckle, tasting the slight sourness of those milky beads weeping from Henry’s cock. It’s good. God knows there are no words to describe how good this feels but Hans would rather not involve Him in his conversation. Under the table, their eyes meet, the bright blue of the sky at noon and its paler sister of the dawn. Henry keens, his mouth open and his brows scrunched. Hans can feel it buzzing inside his mouth, the impending burst of Henry’s release in his mouth, down his throat. Henry’s breath quickens, tinged with a hint of despair at how little time it took to make such a miserable wreck out of him but Hans doesn’t care. They’re young men, they can recover their energy in mere minutes. Greedily, almost cruelly, he puts his hand and mouth to work, feeling Henry come closer and closer and closer-
“Henry!”
The sound of Radzig’s voice booming around the quiet library startles Hans so, that he jumps and slams his head on the desk. He falls back down, hissing as he reaches for his aching skull. The two young men look at each other as the panic and fear, the reality of the scene, set in. Henry sits as properly as he can, shoving Hans under the desk.
“You-!”
“Shh!”
Hans has no time to protest this insolence because Radzig marches in. He freezes under the desk, curling away from the other man’s approaching feet.
“There you are! The scribe told me I’d find you here- Are you alright?”
“Y-Yes, sir,” Henry stammers unconvincingly and Hans rolls his eyes.
Radzig pauses for an awfully long second. “...right. I see you’ve taken to reading.”
“Yes, sir. Lord Capon has been helping me but I’m not sure where he is right now.”
The older man chuckles. “Ah, well. That one has his own priorities.” Hans furrows his brows. “I shall leave you to it, then.”
“Was there something you wanted, sir?”
Another pause. “No, I just wanted to see your progress for myself. What you’re doing is admirable, Henry, but don’t neglect your arms training. You are a member of my guard, after all.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Radzig lingers for what feels like ages. When he’s gone, Hans waits until the sound of his footsteps can no longer be heard before emerging from underneath the desk, red-faced and puffing.
“I thought I was a dead man,” Henry mutters and as much as he doesn’t want to, Hans has to agree.
Hans gets up on his shaky legs, numb from the kneeling and crouching, and walks over to the window, thankful at the cool air on his burning face. Below him, the courtyard of Pirkstein buzzes with life and activity as voices emerge from every corner of the castle. Beyond that, the refugee camp is awake with its usual murmur of wailing and moaning, as the beggars get to work. A cacophony of voices and life, too much of it, rises like a dark cloud. The place is too damn crowded.
“I think we should go on a hunt,” Hans decides. He turns around to look at Henry, who has redressed himself haphazardly, his cheeks still pink with arousal and shame.
Henry nods. “I think this is the first good idea you’ve had today, sir.”
Hans groans. He reaches for the fruit platter and flings an apple at Henry, who blocks it with his book. They both watch as the rock-hard fruit flies into an arch and out the window. A muffled pang reaches them, along with a gruff shout. Hanush’s voice. The young pair quickly flees the library, not bothering to hide their laughter.
...
Philtatos.
There’s the word. It reveals itself suddenly, like sunlight pouring endlessly, blindingly after the dark clouds have come and gone. It paints everything golden and bright, making it clearer. It appears into Hans’ head not as a thought but as a reaction, a manifestation of all he feels; he’s sitting on the floor of their hunting camp beside Henry, both of them in their braies as their clothes dry in the sun, watching as his companion patches up the cuts on his fingers. He’s entirely focused on the task, only opening his mouth to murmur words of soft admonishment. Hans watches him in bewilderment, as if seeing him for the first time. By now, he’s come to know every line and dip of the other’s body twice as well as he does his own, and yet he feels as though he truly sees Henry for the first time. In this new light, Hans finally understands who he is, or rather, what Henry is to him.
Unable to stop himself, Hans leans over to touch him. He masks the touch by pretending it’s to keep himself stable, hissing from fake pain and giving Henry’s muscular bicep a squeeze. He observes the side of the other man’s face as he works with perfect concentration, entirely immune to Hans’ attempts to distract him. Early evening light, abundant and pure, pours in through the gaps between the leaves and paints Henry with a golden quality. His dark curls shine with strands of gold woven in between and his blue eyes glimmer like the timid waters of a placid lake. The sun has made him warm, irresistibly so, and Hans feels the need to just curl up at his side and let that life-giving heat make a new man out of him. All around them the forest is alive with noise and music. Unlike Rattay’s infuriating hustle and bustle - the infernal rooster at first light, the blacksmith dumping water where he shouldn’t, the last few drunks of the night picking fights with the patrol - the forest’s loudness is entirely harmonious.
“There,” Henry says, bringing Hans’ bandaged hand to his lips, to seal the healing with a kiss.
Hans observes his injured appendage closely, finding the work to be impeccable. “You’ve gotten better at this.”
“I’ve gotten better at a lot of things.”
The words aren’t meant to be a jab and they definitely don’t sound like one, yet instinctively, Hans’ gaze is drawn to the pile of game by the fire; seven hares for Henry and an injured hand for Hans.
“Don’t gloat, peasant,” Hans admonishes, tossing a discarded shirt at him. It’s so easy to be cruel to Henry when his emotions are overflowing. What in his heart is sweet, in his mouth turns bitter. He wishes he could do what he wants to, instead, throw himself at Henry’s feet and beg for his love, but that would simply be too unseemly for a lord and it would make things too real, besides.
Henry bows deeply, a comical gesture made funnier by his too-wide stance and attire. “My deepest, most sincere apologies, my good lord. It wasn’t my intention to mgive you incentive to project your insecurity upon my humble achievements.”
Hans stares at him, his jaw slack, amusement rising in his throat. He bursts into laughter and Henry soon follows. “Alright, that’s it! You have been spending way too much time in the library.”
“Only because you make it so hard for me to leave.”
Hans smiles. He falls back on one elbow, watching as Henry goes about his business, taking care of their camp. “Can’t believe we were almost caught.” Henry only huffs a little laugh, the memory clearly not even half as entertaining for him as it is for Hans. “Not that anything would have come out of it, of course. Sir Radzig is so awfully fond of you.” Now, that’s a thought Hans often finds himself plagued by. From that very first moment when Henry just barged into the dining hall at Rattay, Hans has been quietly - and not-so-quietly - taking note of Radzig’s allowances for the boy. Even before that, Hans remembers one night not so long ago, almost immediately after Radzig and his people had sought refuge in Rattay, when he heard a hushed conversation between Radzig and Hanush.
“The messenger said that he fled Talmberg with the intention of going back to Skalitz,” Hanush had said.
“That damned fool,” Radzig had hissed, his voice trying to be angry but only ever sounding sad. “If anything happens to him, Hanush, I will never forgive myself…”
Hans had wanted to believe that Radzig’s intentions were always pure, the boy had grown up in the shadow of his castle, after all. But as time went on, and as jealousy and possessiveness bloomed their foul-smelling flowers in Hans’ heart, he could only be disgusted and alarmed by that old fool’s obvious affection for his Henry. More than that, it infuriated him how Radzig could be openly caring towards Henry, whereas Hans had to come up with entire new worlds where he could have the other man as he pleased.
“Sir Radzig has been good to me,” says Henry and his naivete makes Hans roll his eyes. “But he would never have let such indecency go unpunished.” He rises, staring at the fire forlornly as he prepares his tools. “He’s my liege, not my father.”
Hans rolls on his front. He glances over to his hounds and Mutt and it doesn’t escape him how all four of them are staring at Henry in the exact same way. “Was your father…kind?” he asks. He’s learned not to ask about Skalitz or Henry’s parents but sometimes his curiosity gets the better of him.
Henry lets a few seconds of silence pass. “He was,” he says finally. “He forgave my trespasses far more than he should have, my laziness, my damn hot head.” He grabs one of the hares and gets to work gutting and skinning. Every motion is precise and brutal but the good thing about the dead is that they feel no pain. All pity to the living. “God, I’ll never forget the day Bianca’s father came to the forge, screaming loud enough for even Sir Radzig to hear him, when he found out I’d defiled his daughter.” Henry’s mouth twists with a sad little smile. “Of course, what he referred to had happened years ago, he just happened to discover us because I’d forgotten my hose in their barn where we met. Pa calmed him down with some ale and made me promise I’d wed her after Easter, make an honorable woman out of her and put this ugliness behind us.”
Hans’ gaze finds the ring on Henry’s finger, now stained with hare blood and entrails. An ugly creature of a thought rears its sneering head within him and Hans feels the poison of its forked tongue seep into his blood.
Thank God for the fire and brimstone that killed your intended and brought you to me.
He turns his face away, the strain from his inward evil making him wince and grimace in pain. He looks instead to the pond beside their camp, its inviting waters shimmering like crystals under the sun.
Once their dinner has been cleaned and left to roast, Hans stands up. He grabs one of Henry’s bloodstained hands and pulls him up, dragging him towards the pond. Henry voices his protests but Hans insists. He makes Henry sit by the small stream and uses the water to clean his hands, rubbing the grime off of his skin and from underneath his nails.
Henry observes him quietly, his gaze fixed on the crown of Hans’ golden head. “Who are you right now?” he asks.
Hans sighs. “I am Apollo Phoebus,” he says as he cleans Henry up. Satisfied with his work, he holds the clean hands in his own. “And you are Adonis Philtatos.”
Hans furrows his brows. “What does that mean?”
Hans inhales sharply. “I shan’t tell you.”
Henry’s jaw falls a little. He quickly scrunches his face into a grimace of mischievous determination and splashes Hans with all his might. The young lord slips backwards with a yelp, falling on his bum in the shallow water. Soaked to the bone, he gasps for air, glaring at Henry through his tufts of wet hair. Henry’s eyes go wide and he bursts into laughter.
“You insolent rat!” cries Hans and hooks a long leg behind Henry’s knee and pulls him down, laughing at the undignified sound he makes. “That will teach you to mock your god!”
“My god is a cruel one!” Henry retaliates by getting on his shaky knees and splashing Hans again and again, as the blonde scurries away from the onslaught. “He doesn’t divulge his secrets to me!”
“They are divine secrets, mortal!” Hans shouts. He crawls on top of a boulder, soaking in the glorious sunlight. Henry stares at him in bewilderment, his gaze roaming over Hans’ lithe body. For a scrawny young thing in nothing but a pair of wet underclothes, he must paint quite the godly picture, or at least the sheer admiration in Henry’s eyes makes him believe so.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Your lips open so easily after a sip of wine, Apollo. Your secrets will not remain secret for long once…”
Hans quirks a brow. “Once?”
Henry grins. “Once I’ve caught you!”
Hans leaps off of his pedestal with a squeal, running through the camp with Henry in hot pursuit, as the dogs bark from the sudden activity. The two men run in a flurry of laughter, howling like beasts as their feet bring them to a clearing a bit farther from their camp. They run like nymphs through the woods, their laughter and shouting shattering the near-sacred harmony of nature. They come to stop around a tree, circling its massive trunk while facing each other.
“Do you yield?” Henry asks. His gorgeous broad chest is rising and falling with his quick breaths, the dark hair on it glistening with moisture and sweat.
“Never!”
Hans attempts to do a double step, dashing to the left and quickly escaping to the right, but Henry catches him without much struggle, much to the nobleman’s annoyance. The blacksmith holds him in a vice-like embrace. He’s strong as an ox, all nervy, tight muscle and sweat, and there’s little Hans can do but squirm and laugh like an idiot, in a half-assed attempt to escape the place where he’s always wanted to be. All his futile resistance makes them topple over onto the grass, Henry on top of him. It strikes him suddenly, how big and heavy the other man is. The quivering little orphan he met not-too-long ago seems like from another reality entirely, a figment of his imagination, unlike this man that weighs down on him, grinning like a mad wolf.
“Now? Do you yield?”
Hans struggles still, with even less heart than before. “Let go of me, you brute! Your god demands it!”
“I will if you tell me.”
Henry still hovers above him, all dark curls and bright eyes, a smile that could bring the dead back up dancing. The sun, half-hidden behind his head, frames his face like a halo. To make such a man a peasant seems like a joke, when all of divinity seems to bless him with both hands. But wasn’t that also the fate of Adonis? To be blessed, to be loved, to die young?
Hans groans as he accepts his fate. He reaches up, wrapping his arms around Henry’s shoulders. His hands are shaking, his head buzzes with fear and desire. Any second could be their last, for as long as Henry insists upon his fool’s errand of chasing his honor and knighthood and vengeance. But when he smiles like that, with those eyes full of stars, Hans can’t begrudge him. It’s that bull-headedness that makes him so sweet.
“It means dearest, most beloved of all.”
Henry leans down, nuzzling him with his nose. It doesn’t escape Hans how dog-like his manner is and he snorts at the overly-eager show of affection.
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you! Why does a man as confident as you need constant reassurance when it comes to me?”
Henry falls silent. His cheeks turn the color of peonies and Hans thinks the thrill of their chase has nothing to do with it. “Because,” he shrugs, avoiding Hans’ gaze. He traces his fingers down Hans’ collarbone, testing the depth of the little dip under his throat. “Seems…unlikely that someone like you would glance twice at someone like me.”
He speaks so softly yet the words punch Hans in the heart. Yes, yes, he’s a main contributor in the very system that keeps good lads like Henry down to the mud, but to hear that after knowing him seems absurd. Sweet, sweet Henry, never able to shake the burden off of his pretty head.
“Someone like you…do you think there are many out there even with even half your worth?”
“You’ve twice my worth and more.”
“Obviously. Since I’m holding you in my arms right now.”
Hans thinks he could live and die like this, too, caged under those burly arms, pressed down by that broad chest, Henry’s breath tickling his face, his starry eyes the only sky he’ll ever need.
Their faces inch towards one another, lips open slightly with an ever-present question. They inhale the same air, perfumed with the other’s scent and taste, hovering above each other like curious animals.
“May I?” Henry asks in a small, quivering voice and Hans nods eagerly.
They’re smiling giddily as they kiss, breaking apart to giggle, then kissing again. Hans can’t remember if it’s the best kiss he ever had, but it’s good and real enough to wipe all others from his memory. Henry kisses him deeply, with the same passion he applies to everything. Their open mouths slot against one another, their tongues moving together as if to dance. It’s a sloppy and loud kiss, filling the tranquil clearing with lewd, suckling sounds. Henry kisses like a ravished man, as if wishing to kiss the very breath out of him and taste all of his gilded, pretense godliness. Hans lets his hands wander, cradling his dear blacksmith’s face lovingly. Without realizing it, he’s opened his thighs wide enough to accommodate Henry, hugging him with his entire body. He needs to have this man, all his sweetness and brutish strength, needs him like dry land needs water.
They’re panting when they part, flushed and red-hot, up to the tips of their ears. Pressed against and into each other, Hans can feel the arousal in their loins, hard and demanding, desperate for contact through the thin layers of wet cloth.
What Hans wants is unspeakable and he knows that if he voices this desire - the one that burns him and keeps him up at night with thoughts of Henry, Henry, Henry - there’s no going back. His mind fills with all kinds of horror; Henry recoiling in disgust, fleeing from Hans’ sickness lest it also soil him. It’s one thing to touch and tousle about in the grass and another to-
“I want,” he mumbles drunkenly. But the desire is simply too strong and for all his feigned divinity, Hans is only a man, frail and weak when it comes to God’s sick jokes, the sickest of all being making him the way he is. The need to have rushes through his bloodstream and right into his heart and mind, clouded and dizzy from Henry’s fervent kissing.
“I want,” he keens needily, bucking his hips up into Henry’s. He gasps when their clothed cocks rub together and Henry quickly kisses the air from him.
“Always wanting something,” his Adonis chuckles. His lips move lower, his teeth grazing Hans’ jaw. He kisses the spot where his heartbeat pulses like a small, fretting bird, and where his throat bobs with the effort of his breaths. “So, so needy, my god.” He sucks on the pale skin, his lips parting with a pop. Hans knows that this is the sound of annoying marks being planted on his skin but he can’t bring himself to mind, not when Henry’s delicious weight engulfs him thoroughly.
Hans only realizes Henry’s intention when the latter’s mouth has moved even lower, his tongue crossing daring paths across his chest, teasing his nipples and tasting his sweat. His curious muzzle ends up on Hans’ armpit and he inhales greedily. Hans blushes even hotter, hiding his embarrassed face with a clammy hand.
“I want to know what you smell and taste like,” Henry pants. His voice is thick and dark, stirring some dormant hysteria within Hans. “I want to never forget.”
The deep, sucking kisses continue all over Hans’ abdomen and belly. Hans wants to speak but any attempt at speech is entirely futile; all that comes out of him are moans and desperate gasps for as long as Henry kisses and licks him, the pleasure inside of him coiling and gathering tension.
Henry’s stubbly cheeks leave the most delicious scratching sensation as they rub against the supple flesh of the inside of Hans’ thighs. His wet braies unceremoniously discarded, any defense he had against Henry is now gone, his desire laid bare. Gingerly, he casts a glance downwards and the sight is enough to bring him to a quick and shameful climax; there Henry is, right between Hans’ thighs, his mouth hovering above Hans’ aching, leaking cock, those sky-blue eyes shining with mischief and hunger. Without giving Hans a second to catch his breath, Henry takes his cock into his mouth in one swift motion. Hans groans loudly, his body tensing into an arch, hips bucking into Henry’s eager mouth.
“Fuck,” Hans keens. Fever makes his body burn and the cool grass on his back does little to quell it. He twists his neck to the side, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of Henry’s pretty mouth wrapped around his cock.
Was this also part of the curriculum for a Skalitz boy with too much free time? Hans barely has time to think as Henry takes him into his mouth until the tip rests against the back of his throat, then pulls back, releasing him with a wet pop. He grins, far too satisfied with himself.
What he lacks in technique, Henry makes up for in enthusiasm. He’s by no means a disappointing lover, it’s just that Hans feels more like he’s being eaten alive. Henry’s head bobs up and down along the length of him. His tongue works furiously, swirling around Hans’ cock and he hollows his cheeks, the stimulation making Hans tremble.
“Wh-Where did you learn that?!” Hans gasps.
Henry chuckles, his throat vibrating around the sensitive member. He pulls away and licks the entire length of it, stopping at the head and giving it a hard suck.
“Your Divinity likes this,” Henry muses, gloating again.
Hans opens his mouth to scold the infernal peasant, but all that comes out is a desperate howl. He sounds like the most fucked-out bathhouse wench at the end of her shift, and he feels like it, too. Ravished, taken to the point where pain and satisfaction merge. It’s a good thing they’re doing this in the forest. No other place would suit their primal coupling half as good.
The familiar tidal pull of pleasure stirs within his belly and he knows that the more the waves draw back, the stronger they’ll be when they come crashing down on the shores. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, he takes to the downright Herculean task of not crying out Henry’s name. Not the identity he has so selfishly bestowed upon him, but his real name. As he comes closer and closer to the very edge, he feels his mind buzz with Henry, Henry, Henry.
With his fist buried in those damp, chestnut curls, Hans comes with a growl, spilling his seed down Henry’s throat until all that’s left of him is a limp, quivering mess. His senses buzz like spring’s fat bees, drunk with pollen. Everything around him melts into nothing and everything at the same time. He feels like he’s floating, somewhere far above the forest’s canopy.
He sighs when Henry pulls back, his spent cock twitching pitifully from the lack of contact. Through his heavy lids, Hans sees the other man on his knees, towering over him, smiling with far too much satisfaction as he wipes the seed that spills off of the corner of his mouth.
With a pointedly loud sound, Henry swallows.
Gently, Henry comes down to lay beside him, his body partially over Hans’. It seems like all of the setting sun’s light has warmed his body and he lays there, as hot and alive as a beating heart.
“Do I have some godliness in me, now?”
Hans snorts. He brings a lazy hand up into Henry’s hair, caressing his locks with overflowing affection. The quietness of dusk settles its periwinkle peplum over them. Among the trees and tall grass, the quick-footed rabbits and deer give their place to the owls and fireflies. With night comes peace in the woods and so it does in Hans’ heart, or at least an illusion of it.
Late at night, where the world around them has sunk into velvet darkness, Hans is woken by an urge, a growling need that demands for his immediate attention. He crawls onto his elbow, looking drowsily into the weak little fire that trembles in the middle of their camp. Henry is sleeping close to him, but never close enough. Hans stares hungrily and guiltily at his sleeping form. His face is a mark of perfect beauty, his freckled cheeks warm and rosy, his lashes casting shadows over them. Hans lets his eyes wander over the curve of Henry’s lips and the slope of his nose, memorizing every detail of the face that makes him ache so.
“Henry,” he whispers fretfully.
When Henry stirs softly, Hans feels fear climb to his throat. Henry isn’t yet awake and so the nobleman scoots over to him, nudging him carefully. He says nothing, his throat closed up with the breaths he fears to draw.
“What is it?” Henry asks him sleepily.
Hans swallows. He straddles Henry’s hips, caressing the side of his face, bathed in the soft orange light of the dying fire. “I need you,” he mumbles.
Henry positions himself so that he’s sitting upright, Hans in his arms, sitting across his hips. What little they wore to bed is easy to untie and be pushed aside and it’s only seconds later that they’re skin-to-skin. Henry jumps to the task of pleasing his spoiled lord silently but certainly, with the obedience of a worshipper or a dog. He wraps his hand around both of them and begins to pump, as Hans steadies himself by holding onto his shoulders while bouncing on his lap. Hans leans in, his forehead pressed against Henry’s, their hot breaths mixing. The clearing once again fills with the sounds of their lovemaking, their quiet gasps and the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a pleasure-chasing frenzy.
Hans feels his lips tremble, the words begging to be released from his mouth. He holds onto the other man for dear life, his quivering thighs straining as they move erratically. He clings onto Henry, his face buried in the crook of his neck, where he inhales deeply; burning wood, sweat and blood. All of it so familiar, so dear to him.
He opens his mouth but quickly swallows what he meant to cry out, instead burying his teeth into Henry’s neck, eliciting a sharp hiss from him. In response, Henry gives his cock a squeeze and stops, the sudden loss of contact making Hans gasp.
“Please,” he mumbles, his eyes screwed shut as tears threaten to spill down the sides.
The touch continues, maddening, making Hans’ loins bubble white-hot. But it’s not enough. It pains him to realize it, how the delicious friction isn’t enough. Henry’s quiet grunting, heavy and deep in his ear, isn’t enough. He yearns to hear his name from those lips and to be taken, claimed, ravished by him, by those rough hands, by that thick cock, until what remains of him is less than the embers in their campfire.
They climax together, moaning as their hips tremble, their cocks spilling over Henry’s closed fist and both their thighs. Hans holds Henry even tighter as he comes, the blacksmith’s name buzzing in his brain like a prayer.
Slowly, Hans brings his face back against Henry’s, his thumb running over the stubbly cheek. They gasp into the kiss, their tongues melting together slowly, sleepily. An eternity spent like this would still not be enough, not until Hans gets what he wants, which is only a wishful, sinful thought, perched upon the cloud-covered top of Mount Olympus itself.
When they part, Henry smiles fondly, wiping Hans’ glossy mouth with his thumb. “Better?” he asks.
Hans nods, lying.
Tonight, they sleep on the same straw bed, their chests rising and falling to the same steady rhythm. But Hans knows that this harmony can only ever be temporary. Tomorrow, when they ride back to Rattay, back to Sir Hans Capon and Henry of Skalitz, he knows his heart will be torn open by loneliness anew.
...
Hans knows that what he’s doing is shameful, but the hunger that has been consuming him for weeks now will not be quelled in any other way.
It’s been days since they came back from their hunt, immediately received by a disapproving Hanush and Radzig, sternly reminding them that while hunting is a natural pursuit, the two of them have duties. To the castle with Hans and to the training grounds with Henry was the ruling of the rather brief court. And all this time that Hans has been keeping up with his lord-under-training duties, listening to the peasants’ squabbles about tree branches crossing some arbitrary border of land and of dishonored daughters, there has been no sight, sound or taste of Henry. Needless to say, there’s been nothing of Adonis, either.
So, he makes do with what he has. Late at night, alone in his lonely room, Hans is laying on his bed, stripped naked and with one hand wrapped around his cock, the other pumping in and out of his arsehole. The intrusion, at first searingly painful, has been dulled into an almost pleasing sort of ache by the use of some Buck’s Blood, borrowed indefinitely from right under the apothecary’s nose.
Being alone is not something new for Hans. Finding himself alone on the winding path back to Pirkstein after an evening of merriment at the bathhouse, with the moon as his only company, was something Hans had gotten used to a long time ago. Yes, with some bitterness, but never with a fight. Henry’s sudden appearance into his life had shattered that fragile peace to a thousand pieces and for the first time in years, Hans finds himself suffocating among the walls of his room.
At least his solitude has allowed him to have more time to perfect his technique. For the - what? - fourth night in a row, Hans is lying down with his legs spread, trying to fuck the yearning out of himself. It took him some trial and error - the first few rounds of this experiment ending far sooner than he’d expected - but he managed to find a tempo, a steady rhythm to pump his cock while moving his fingers in and out of himself. It’s good. It’s better than anything he’s left in a while, good enough to make him squirm and sob.
“Henry,” he moans into the emptiness around him.
The forbidden name flies into the room and into the fire, Hans’ only witness.
“Henry,” he calls again, thrashing against the pillow.
He tries to find that sweet spot inside of him again and when he does, his whole body tenses into an arch, his cock twitching into his grasp. The sensation is simply divine, a pleasure so raw and absolute that it makes him question anything he ever considered a pleasure up until that point. His heels dig into the linens and a howl is ripped from his throat. The feeling, the sheer power of it, is downright aggressive and yet he finds himself seeking it again.
“Henry,” he sobs, his fingers pressed firmly against that spot and rubbing it almost punishingly. He adds another finger, trying to emulate even a bit from the thickness of Henry’s cock. “Henry, oh! Henry!”
He comes hard and fast, his cock spurting over his fingers. Still, Rattay’s future continues to flow as he keeps on rubbing that sensitive bud inside of him until all that’s left is a pale, watery fluid. The pleasure burns as it courses through him, lighting sparks from the top of his head to the very tips of his toes. As Hans persists, chasing what even his young body can’t give him in such a short time, the pleasure turns to pain. He keens and mewls, his stained hand grabbing a fistful of his sheets and shoving it in his mouth, trying to muffle his moaning. His wrist feels sore from the repetitive motion but his behind is now overly fond of the intrusion, so much so that emptiness feels to him like a new kind of hell.
Finally, he stops. He removes his fingers slowly, cringing at the absolutely filthy sound they make as they leave his abused hole. He just lies on his bed, covered in sweat and come and tears he didn’t realize he’d shed.
As the numbing effects of his climax begin to weaken, reality loses its dream-like quality. Everything is as clear and cold as he’d left it and Henry isn’t by his side. With a deep sigh, Hans gets up. He walks over to his jug and basin and absentmindedly washes his hands. As he does so, he catches his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. The sight elicits no emotion or reaction from him, other than mild, removed disdain. He observes himself the way a washerwoman regards a tricky stain, though one she’s removed countless times before. He takes note of his pale skin and of the blue lines under his eyes. He’s been eating and sleeping well, he’s even been keeping up with his archery. And yet he looks as good as dead. Is the yearning eating him from the inside? The more he watches himself, the more he realizes that it’s not his appearance that bothers him but the fact that Henry isn’t there to tease him about it, or knowing him, to fuss him about not eating enough.
Knowing him. Yes, Hans knows Henry. His sweetness, his valor, his annoying but endearing thick-headedness. Henry knows of Hans, knows only the things Hans puts out for him to see. This lonesome, disgusting sinner of a creature, who not-so-long ago thanked God for the death of Henry’s beloved is a stranger to him. And so he shall remain.
Hans slips his shirt over his head and climbs back into bed. There are some semen stains on his bedding but he can’t bring himself to care. The maids will probably gossip but he’s long past caring that, either. He lays down on his side, watching the fire dance in the hearth, hoping that the soft crackling of the wood will lull him to sleep.
A scratching noise makes him sit up, all previous thoughts of sleep now gone. He listens for a moment longer, realizing that someone is trying to pick his lock. The muffled curse that comes after a loud snap only confirms it. A spy? A father, brother or lover of someone he shouldn’t have looked at? He could shout for the guards but his hands are faster than his brain. He quickly reaches for his dagger and bolts up from the bed, treading carefully towards the door, his heart beating loudly inside his chest.
He unlocks the door quickly and yanks it open suddenly, the dagger raised high above his head.
Having lost his balance, Henry tumbles face-first and lands on the floor with a pained groan. Hans is frozen in his stance and quickly lowers the dagger when he realizes who it is. New fear strikes him when Henry, rubbing his injured nose, sits up on his knees and stares at his half-naked lord. The two men just stare at each other, saying nothing.
“My lord,” Henry greets.
Hans pulls him into the room roughly by the collar and quickly closes and locks the door. Henry gets on his feet clumsily under Hans’ stunned gaze. He looks clean but scruffy, the pungent scent of alcohol hitting Hans’ nose.
“What the fuck are you doing? Were you trying to break into my room?”
Henry nods. It’s on instances like this when he most reminds Hans of a dog. “Aye, my lord.”
The candor of his response shocks Hans so much that he huffs a little laugh. He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to appear dignified despite his nakedness. “You do realize that I can get the guards on you.”
“Will you?”
Henry looks up at him, his big, round eyes full of light. Hans looks away, feeling his cheeks heat up. In the short time he hasn’t seen Henry, it seems the other man has grown even more beautiful. His hands drop to the side, defeated.
“What do you want?”
Henry swallows, smiling cheekily but somehow still innocently, realizing that grace has been granted. The way his eyes drag a long and slow look over Hans’ bare legs doesn’t escape the young lord. He blushes even harder, suddenly realizing that the room reeks worse than a whorehouse after Easter.
The blacksmith stumbles again as he gets on his feet. “Could you just…” Awkwardly, he pushes Hans to sit down on the bed and smiles. “Right. Yeah.”
Hans blinks, confused as all hell, watching the blacksmith pace up and down in front of the fireplace. “Are you…are you drunk?”
Henry stops. “A little bit.” He continues. Up and down he goes, filling Hans’ room with his presence. Hans sits frozen, not knowing what to expect. His usually fretful heart does not fear the worst for once when it comes to Henry, even beating with some hesitant joy at seeing him again.
“My lord,” Henry begins, his voice suddenly very serious. “My lord, I…” He stops again, as if at all unable to put his thoughts into words.
Suddenly, he drops to his knees in front of Hans. “I want you,” he declares. “I want us to drop these pretenses, these games.” His eyes seem impossibly big and bright, two twin lakes shivering under the moonlight. “I want us to be who we are. Not Apollo and Adonis, but Hans and Henry.”
Hans wonders if it’s the witching hour. He’s a good Christian, as good a Christian as a man like him can be. But he remembers the stories his old nurse used to tell him, and part of him believes them, too. Stories of how in times of old, before the cross came to this ancient land, fairies and witches and powers rooted as deep as the trees themselves used to roam the woods and towns, free and beautiful like air and water. Beautiful, yes, but unfathomably evil and with an appetite for human misery, coming up with all sorts of ways to trap and hurt them. In one of these stories, the old nurse used to speak of fairies taking the form of someone’s wildest desire and dancing with them to a cliff, to a grave.
Hans looks at Henry frantically, counting his teeth and fingers. All is as it should be. This is Henry, his Henry, and what he’s saying is true.
“But,” he continues. His tone is pleading despite the brave front he’s putting up, trembling with something Hans has never heard before. “If you don’t want me, then I’ll go. I will forget this ever happened and I will beg you to do the same. I will go, my lord, as far…as far as my worthless feet can carry me. Away from you…always your servant, but away from you.”
“Why?” is all Hans can say. His voice sounds distant, his lips numb.
“To spare you the shame of my affection, my lord.”
All the times Hans has imagined the scene of someone - anyone - confessing their love for him, he thought of indescribable, uncontainable joy, of laughter and kisses. Instead, he sits there, not sure what to feel. Is this how it feels to be born? This is the only thought that crosses his mind. Have I been dead this whole time? His own heart beats into his ears. Everything is alive with color, but none more than his darling blacksmith’s eyes.
Henry loves him.
Not the blacksmith’s boy, the audacious Skalitz lad, or even the mortal Adonis. But Henry. Sweet, bull-headed, quick-footed, always-hungry Henry.
A small flame flickers inside of him. Hans feels its warmth spill from his heart down to his fingers and toes, into his bones and through his skin. His lips quiver but he doesn’t yet dare smile at his luck.
Once the initial joy has dissipated, another feeling takes its place: outrage.
“Where is all this coming from?” Hans demands. He scoffs. Henry’s face drops, even those big ears of his seem suddenly forlorn. “You never made your feelings known to me, not once!”
“My lord, you didn’t ask me.”
“Ask you?”
“Yes, ask me! I’m a peasant, for God’s sake! How could I ever dare to…profess my love for a nobleman and still hope to keep my head afterwards?”
He makes a good point, one that Hans simply cannot accept. Like everything about them, this too needs a fight. “What the hell am I supposed to ask? Yes, you’re a peasant and how exactly do you think that makes me look?”
Henry gets up, his face flushed with annoyance and excitement. “Didn’t seem to care about that when you asked me to put on a whole production because you needed your cock touched!”
Hans gasps. “You…insolent yokel! Did you really expect me - me! - to sink to the level of asking a…what the fuck even are you? A page? A squire? To be my mistress?”
Henry groans, sitting beside him in exasperation. He puts his arms on his knees and leans in, shaking his head as he smiles. He looks at Hans through his thick lashes, smiling wryly. Slowly, he reaches for one of Hans’ hands, holding it gently, as if for the first time. “You’re an absolute headache of a man, do you know that?”
Hans snorts. He looks at their linked hands. This quiet, peaceful moment, devoid of all pretense, allows him to notice for the first time how good they look together. “And yet you’re the one who came here and professed your love for me.”
All this time, his feelings have felt like a knot inside Hans, tight and impossible to even cut through. It never once occurred to him that Henry had been holding the other end of this tangle this whole time.
Hans leans down and kisses it.
“Call me a fool, then.”
Henry hooks his fingers under Hans’ chin and pushes his head up. He catches his lips in a slow, deep kiss, one that makes Hans feel his entire body sigh. He melts into the gentleness of it all, Henry’s touch and the softness of his lips against Hans’ own.
“A damned fool you are, Henry of Skalitz,” he grins, giving Henry’s bottom lip a bite and tugging on it harshly. His pink tongue darts out and collects the scarlet drops that well there. The kiss is deep, free and wild unlike anything they’ve shared before. It’s as if suddenly, a curtain has been lifted. Hans feels all of Henry’s softness and savors his taste, sharper than ever; the strong and fruity taste of the schnapps he had, along with something deeper, the taste of Henry himself.
“Your fool,” Henry groans. He wraps his arms around Hans’ waist, hoisting him up effortlessly so that he’s sitting on his lap. He kisses his neck and ears, his cheeks and his jutting collarbones. His fingers make quick work of the ties holding Hans’ shirt together. He kisses and bites Hans’ chest, wrapping his lips around one of those pink nipples and giving it a hard suck.
“H-Henry,” Hans stammers out, his face glowing red before the word has even come out.
“Yes,” Henry hisses, licking all the spots he bit. “Fuck - I love to hear you say my name.”
Hans smiles indulgently in his hair as he lets Henry’s mouth ravish him. He buries his fingers in the chestnut locks and inhales deeply. Alcohol, firewood and soap. The thought of Henry making himself presentable for him warms his heart.
“Henry,” he calls again. Henry only makes a small hum of recognition, still licking and kissing Hans’ neck like an overexcited puppy. Hans pulls him back gently, looking into his eager eyes. His lips are glossy, his cheeks are tinted pink and his pupils are wide with hunger. Hans swallows. “I want…I want us to make love tonight. Properly.”
For a few seconds, Henry looks confused, failing to grasp the concept and terror seizes Hans, who thinks he will have to explain. Or worse, be shunned and ridiculed for suggesting sodomy.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I’ve…I’ve never done that.”
Hans sighs with relief. “I should hope so. But…would you like to?”
Henry draws a deep breath. He hums as he thinks, kissing Hans on his arms and chest, stopping to admire his work. “I’d like to,” he says. He runs his knuckles across Hans’ skin and the blonde shivers. “Will you show me what I need to do?”
Naturally, instead of taking this as a sign to put his fears aside, Hans feels the need to question. “But aren’t you concerned?”
“About hurting you?”
Hans can’t help but smile at Henry’s sweetness. “No, you dolt. About…going to hell.”
Once voiced, it feels silly. Though he’d never admit it, he’s lately been in the habit of questioning religion, the doctrine and in particular, the specifics of sin. Henry himself is an orphaned refugee of a war and in a single day has seen more death and pain than any priest, yammering about on Sunday morning. Everything is a sin nowadays but surely, the tenderness shared between two young men cannot land someone in the same circle of hell as a cold-blooded killer.
“Hell is every moment I spend away from you.”
Hans draws a shuddering breath. Fondness makes his chest swell, his heart growing big enough to swallow him. The feeling pours out of his eyes and mouth, all the affection he feels for Henry. His dearest, most beloved. His philtatos.
They kiss again, slowly and sweetly, stopping only to get rid of their clothes. Henry pulls back, drawing a little whine from Hans, and stands. Hans scoots farther inside his bed, propped up on his elbows and watching the other man attentively. He’s as naked as the day he was born, his thighs spread and his half-hard cock twitching with renewed interest. A little voice inside of him reminds him how bare he is, how exposed, now that all pretense has been dropped. At the same time, the volume of his desire for Henry wipes out any shred of doubt. And how could Hans not go mad with want at the sight of the other man; when Henry rids himself of the last layer, what stands before Hans is more god than man, tall, broad and muscular, with thick, coarse hair covering nearly every inch of him. The sight of him is simply mesmerizing, as is the beauty of his perfect cock, hard and attentive between his strong thighs.
“How do we go about this?” he asks, his voice soft enough to make Hans’ heart bleed.
“Come,” Hans instructs softly, “Get in bed with me. Now, I’d say it’s easier if I’m on my hands and knees-”
“I want to look at you.” Hans freezes, staring at Henry blankly. “Unless it’s too much of a strain on your back or-”
“It’s…more than fine.” Memories of his first encounters flood inside his head, back from what seems like centuries ago. His face pressed against some cold, hard wall, taken in the dark, in the faceless silence, only caring about scratching an itch.
“I want to look at you, too.”
Henry smiles. He leans in for another kiss, claiming Hans’ lips as he lays him down on the pillow gently. Their bodies slot against each other, their cocks rubbing as their hips rock together.
“This is different from laying with a wench,” Hans whispers. “We have to…prepare ourselves a bit, otherwise it’s too painful.” He blushes. Henry is listening closely, his face serious. Hans blushes even harder. He can’t ever think of another time when someone - let alone himself - thought of sleeping with him as a serious business. Come to think, he can’t think of another case where affection was part of the equation, either.
“I worked on myself for a bit before you came,” he says coyly.
Henry’s hips give a small buck. “You touched yourself?” Hans nods. “I’d love to have seen that.”
Hans nudges him roughly. “Focus! And don’t think this means you won’t have to put in any work yourself.”
“Never would dream you’d be easy work, my lord.” He kisses Hans again and again, smiling.
“That’s Buck’s Blood on the table there,” Hans tells him. Henry reaches for the bottle and eyes it curiously, wiping some of the oily excess on his fingers. “It’s a lubricant. To make - ahem - the penetration easier.”
“I see,” Henry says and his genuine interest is as endearing as it is infuriating. “Should I use my fingers first?”
Hans nods. He watches as Henry coats his fingers with the oily substance and brings them down between Hans’ parted thighs. Unable to stay away from each other for a second longer, they kiss gently as Henry, awkwardly searches for Hans’ entrance. It takes some poking and prodding but his fingers finally make contact with the puckered hole. Hans shudders, moaning into the kiss.
“Here?” Henry asks, his voice hot and heavy against Hans’ face. The nobleman nods eagerly.
Slowly, Henry inserts one finger. Hans feels his insides cave much more easily, all thanks to his earlier. There’s no pain, only the unbelievable relief of being filled again, and more importantly, by Henry. Hans holds his face in both his hands, staring at the blacksmith to make sure he’s there, that he’s real.
“Henry,” he gasps.
Henry adds another finger, thrusting them both in and out of Hans in tandem with their quiet moans. His digits brush against that sweet spot and Hans cries out loud, his body bending into a tight arch.
“D-Did I hurt you?” Henry stammers in a panic.
“No!” Hans swallows. He grins shakily. “But I might hurt you if you don’t hurry up and fuck me.”
Henry picks up the pace, thrusting his fingers while using his other hand to pump Hans’ cock. Hans’ moans, loud and devoid of shame, bounce around the walls of his room. The stimulation is simply divine, all his senses going pale before the roaring fire of his desire. It’s fast and rough, lacking any finesse but giving him all he wants, exactly where he wants it.
“There,” he whines, his eyes falling shut as he throws his head against the pillow. Henry’s press against his sweet spot is firm and downright vicious. He keeps his fingers pressed down against it, all the while jerking his cock with quick, rough motions. Pleasure builds inside him as quick as a summer storm and it shocks him to his very core, his limbs tensing and twisting as it spreads over his body in numbing waves.
Henry’s laughter echoes as if from somewhere far. He leans down, kissing the corner of Hans’ mouth. “My lord is enjoying himself too much, I think.”
“Shut up,” Hans growls. His throat is dry, growing drier with every heaving breath he draws. “And would you please call me Hans? Seems a bit on the nose to keep up with the rules of propriety when we’re like this.”
Now, it’s Henry’s turn to blush. Fucking Hans is one thing, but calling him by his name another one entirely. “Hans,” he says, his tone far too dignified for the occasion.
“Good boy.”
Henry gets on his knees between Hans, stroking his perfect, oiled cock while staring down at the nobleman with a feverish sort of hunger. “Kinda wish you were on your knees, though. You’ve got such a lovely round bum, y’know. Makes training with you so, so hard.”
“You absolute pile of slime!”
Henry grins, far too happy with himself. He guides his cock towards Hans’ entrance, prodding against it. “We’ll save that for another time.”
As he’s entered, Hans briefly thinks if this is how Henry is with the wenches. Probably not, he looks every bit like a hot-headed lover, quick and rough and sloppy, far too excited. But he’s gentle and careful with Hans, scared almost. Hans whines at the slow intrusion, grabbing the other man in his arms and breathing hotly in his ear.
“Move,” he gasps. “Move, Henry.”
Hans feels every inch of that gorgeous cock slip inside of him, his entrance stretching uncomfortably to accommodate the girth of it. The burn is divine, the pain just perfect enough to make the pleasure feel overwhelming. It’s everything Hans imagined and more. He feels all of it, thick and heavy, owning him from the inside. His jaw drops with a silent scream, tears forming on the corners of his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. Even so soon after his previous climax, he can feel his loins stir with the need to be claimed, almost like an animal whose sole purpose is to be bred.
“Fuck,” he mewls. “Fuck, oh fuck!”
His fingers curl into Henry’s back, his blunt nails digging into the sun-kissed flesh. The blacksmith’s voice is like a siren’s song in his ear, his breath heavy and dark. Henry pulls his hips back and rolls them forward again, slamming his cock into that darling spot.
“Here?” he mumbles.
“Mm-yes!”
He pulls back again and slams back in, setting a slow and steady rhythm, each thrust firm and impossibly deep. “Fucking hell, Hans,” he gasps. “You’re tighter than any cunt.”
The words stir something inside Hans, some lurking beast that coils around his stomach. He can’t stop himself from letting all those undignified sounds spill out of his mouth. Henry fucks him deep and fast, and he moans like an overused whore. The sweat slicks and glues their bodies, the heat between them growing to be unbearable. Hans’ cock twitches and throbs, caged between them and neglected painfully. Any demand to be touched is turned into another moan, as Henry fucks whole songs out of him.
The walls of his room disappear, as does Pirkstein and Rattay and even the whole damn country. All around them is the dark night sky, shining with a myriad silver stars and they float amongst them, their bodies as tight as one, the lewd, wet, filthy sounds of their frenzied coupling rising through the darkness. The scenery changes, and suddenly they’re back in the garden of Eden their ancestors left behind.
“Hans.”
Henry’s voice pulls him back to reality. Hans’ eyes flutter open and Henry appears before him as if from a dream. But he’s not a dream, he’s as real as anything. Hans squeezes him in his arms, burying his face into his neck.
“Henry.”
He comes untouched, with Henry’s name like a prayer on his lips. Perhaps he would have felt completely emasculated, had it not been for the sublime feeling of Henry’s seed flowing inside of him, enough to fill the gaping hole a life of loneliness has left behind. As Henry’s cock pulsates and throbs inside him, Hans feels like his ravenous hunger, the one that was awakened from the very first moment he laid eyes on Henry, is finally quelled.
They lay motionless and quiet in each other’s arms, Hans’ seed cooling down between them. The fire, now weaker, casts long shadows on the wall.
“Hans?”
The young lord blinks. He must have fallen asleep, even for a few seconds. Henry is still inside him, the fullness so good that it makes him want to cry.
“Hm?”
Slowly, regrettably, Henry pulls away. His cock makes the filthiest sound as he pulls out, Hans’ face burning hot at the feeling of the blacksmith’s seed spilling out of him. Henry lays down beside him, idly caressing the slope of his hips and the dip of his waist.
“Shall we do this again?”
Hans grins. He presses his thumb on Henry’s chin, forcing his face low enough to kiss it. “We shall.”
Henry kisses his shoulder, tucking a blonde lock behind his ear. They say nothing, only touching and looking at one another. Hans feels contentment settle over him, nestling inside his chest. It’s a sort of happiness unlike the wild joy of a victory at a tourney or the mischievous glee of a secret little rump. This is peaceful, calm. Euphoria.
Outside, Dawn wakes and sleepily stretches her pink fingers over the dark forests and hills. The night’s inky blue turns into soft lilac and azure, the color of Henry’s eyes.
“I have to go,” he says forlornly. “But I will be back. I promise.”
“I have no doubt you will be,” Hans says with a smile. He reaches up, tracing the side of Henry’s face. Henry grabs his hand and kisses it. “Henry.”
“What is it?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
Hans swallows. “For your bravery. For daring to ask what I wanted but could not even think of.”
Henry sighs. He looks towards the door. “Out there, we will be Sir Hans Capon and Henry of Skalitz, but in here… When we’re alone, we can still be ourselves. Simpler versions of ourselves, but ourselves nonetheless.”
Hans snorts. “Nonetheless. What books have you been reading?”
“Mainly guides on how to shear your sheep, but my tutor-”
“Brilliant and handsome, I imagine.”
“-has promised to show me the Iliad. And yes, he is brilliant and handsome.”
“Should I be afraid of my competition?”
Henry laughs as he gets dressed. His face emerges from beneath the layers, flushed and happy. “Dear God! What a world would that be, one with two of you in it?”
Hans nudges him with his foot. He lays in bed, the perfect picture of hēdonē among the crumbled sheets, watching Henry as he gets ready to leave, go back to the ordinary life that would keep them apart. Would, but couldn’t. When Henry goes, Hans doesn’t feel his crushing loneliness return like a flood. For the first time in days, he falls asleep quietly and peacefully.
As Henry makes his swift exit from the castle, he doesn’t realize that his flight is observed by two pairs of eyes from Pirkstein’s walls. Hanush and Radzig stand side by side, watching as the boy and his dog become mere dots upon the road, heading back towards the mill.
“Well,” starts Hanush, “do you remember how we always used to say how nice it’d be if you had a daughter that could marry Hans?”
“Fuck off, Hanush.”
“Okay.”