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Henry probably should have knocked.
His hands are still smarting from sparring with Vanyek, the familiar sting of satisfactory pain. He misses fighting – he misses roughhousing with lads the same age as him, wants to sprawl in the dirt and bite and kick and then go to the ale house afterwards and laugh it all off. He hasn’t been a boy in so long. He craves it, like a kind of hunger.
The building that Erik has commandeered as his base isn't very imposing from the outside, but he seems to have filled it with fur rugs and expensive furniture – all stolen, nothing the man can rightfully call his own. The door isn't unlocked when Henry tries for the handle, so he shoulders it open, probably too rough, might be punished for it later, and clears his throat.
“I went to the Fight Master as you ordered-“ Henry starts, and then takes in the scene in front of him.
Erik is leaning back against the desk, and a man is pressed up against him, dressed in a dark pourpoint, and chaperon that's almost purple in the light. For a second, Henry thinks that Erik is being attacked, but then Erik sighs Ištván like a lover would, and Henry knows exactly who the stranger is.
Ištván Tóth is kissing Erik like they have all the time in the world.
Henry’s stomach rolls, unsure if its disgust at Tóth himself or disgust at two men together, and he staggers backwards, away from the two murderers. Neither of them take any notice, Ištván's hand rising to cup Erik's face, to kiss him ever so sweetly.
“Go away,” Ištván snaps, not bothering to look behind him. “I’m busy.”
Erik snorts, but trails off into a moan as Ištván kisses his throat, nuzzling against him like a lover. “It’s just – the new boy.”
“Fuck off new boy.” Ištván says, his hand working between his and Erik’s body, and Erik jerks forward like he’s had an axe to the back of the head. “Go polish something.”
“Ištván,” Erik says, voice cracking, “I need to speak to him.”
“You want me to leave you alone?” Ištván says, and Erik’s hips thrust forward on instinct. “You, looking like this? Behaving like this for me?”
“No,” Erik says with a whine, and Ištván laughs, the wet sound of them kissing again.
“I thought not,” He said, and waves his other hand towards Henry. “Now fuck off.”
Henry does what he’s told for once, and scrambles away, slamming the door shut behind him. He stands on the dirt path and tries to catch his breath, the images of the two men flashing behind his eyes. Kissing. Touching. Not caring. Tóth, with a lover. Erik, being that lover.
He must have a look of abject shock on his face because one of the other mercenaries walking past laughs upon seeing him.
“Don’t tell me,” He says. “The Chief and his favourite?”
Henry nods, feeling queasy. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He misses his sword. He wants to go back in there and run both of them through. He wants to watch them kiss. He wants to see how it works.
“You get used to it,” The mercenary says, and then taps the side of his nose. “They think they’re discreet.”
“It’s-“ Henry says, voice hoarse. “Against God.”
The mercenary snorts. “And everything we do here, and in the villages, is that in the name of the Lord?”
He crosses himself, and adjusts the bow slung over his shoulder. Henry’s mouth is very dry, he keeps having to swallow to wet his throat. Erik being kissed. Ištván being the kisser. Erik covered in blood, Ištván wiping him clean, like a father, like a wife.
“We’re all sinners here,” The mercenary says. “And I’m not going to get in a dick measuring contest with Tóth, understand? Better to leave him be, and let him fuck his boy over that nice desk of his.”
“They fuck?” Henry echoes, and the mercenary smacks him on the arm.
“They do more than fuck,” He says, and grins with blackened teeth. “We’ll teach you some time.”
Henry feels like he’s going to be sick. He shoves past the man and down towards the camp, towards – well, not safety. Not comrades. Not even anyone on the same side. He has nobody that he can trust, nobody to talk about this with, and work out his feelings.
He needs to go lay down, he decides.
The tent where he keeps his things is empty, luckily. He sprawls down onto the cot, rolling his shoulders to make them click, and stares up at the tent canopy. He clenches his fists, trying to distract himself, but he can still see them, Ištván-and-Erik, kissing, biting, licking, sucking. Erik, on his knees. Ištván, on his knees. Fucking, as lovers do. Fucking, as whores do.
His cock twitches. Fuck.
Henry closes his eyes, tries to think about Bianca, Theresa, women from the bath houses, pillowy tits and wet cunts. He thinks about Ištván and Erik in the bathtubs, Erik’s hand wrapped around Ištván’s cock, moaning like he had moaned before, kissing as they touched each other, wet and slick. Ištván, spilling over Erik’s fist. Erik, licking him clean.
Henry reaches down into his braies. His cock stirs in his hand, already leaking precum, making everything sticky and warm. He grinds up against the heel of his palm, giving up on the pretence of thinking about women, and pictures Ištván instead, what he would look like without clothes, hairy, prick fat between his thighs. Erik would be leaner, the stronger dog, but he would go on his back for Ištván, submissive to his Lord, knees hooked up to his chest to expose – his hole? A cunt?
Henry speeds up the pace of his thrusts, eyes squeezed tight to try and imagine them better. He tries to remember Erik’s whiny voice as Ištván kissed him, the way he would beg for Ištván’s cock, the way his mouth would tremble as Ištván pushed inside. Would he thank his Lord? For such a gift? No – they behaved differently than that, Erik would call Tóth by his first name, would beg him to fuck him harder, would give Ištván his body not just because he had to, but because he wanted to.
They wanted each other, Henry thinks dizzily, thrusting up into his hand. They thought themselves equals. Ištván could just as easily be on his back for Erik, gasping with his head thrown back as Erik fucked him, eyes watering, cock slapping against his hairy belly, that annoying voice of his going Erik-sweet thing-yes-thank you.
The pleasure is almost too much. Henry groans, before he can stop himself he's placing his own image alongside them. Henry fucking Erik. Henry fucking Ištván. Henry taking both their cocks at once, panting into Ištván’s mouth as Erik’s hips snap against him, Ištván teasing him with gloved fingers, passing Henry back and forth between them, kissing and biting at him, touching him until Henry begs to cum.
“Please,” Henry gasps out to nobody. “Please – Please, I want-“
He rolls over to his side, shoves the pillow between his legs to hump it. He imagines Ištván underneath him, Erik behind, and rocks his hips, chasing down his orgasm with a determination he has never given anything else in his life. He can hear Erik’s voice in his ear, the harsh bark of it egging Henry on, and then Ištván’s answer, slick and smug. Would they talk to each other, as they fucked him? Pretend he wasn’t there, whisper loving sentiments to each other, ignore Henry’s moans? Or would they indulge him, tell him what a sweet stupid boy he was, out of his depth, speared on both their cocks.
Ištván still has his father's sword. Would he hold it against Henry's throat? Would he make him beg? Henry would beg, he realises, for the sword. He would go on his knees and he would offer anything to have it back, the last happy memory he holds. He would call - fuck, he would call Ištván father, if the man asked for it.
Henry cums before he can tease himself further, spurting white against his hand and pillow. It takes his breath away, lights dancing behind his closed eyes, and he can almost hear the men laughing at him, at how easy he is, how pathetic he is. Henry whines, unable to stop himself, and ruts miserably into the pillow, but the images of them are fading, like smoke between his fist.
“Fuck,” he moans out, rolling onto his back. He wipes his sticky hand on his belly and pants up at the canopy, eyes watering. He feels – more pent up than before. More desperate. He wants to know everything about them, he wants them both dead. He wants his father’s sword, he wants to see Ištván fight with it.
“I am so fucked,” Henry says miserably to nobody in particular, and wonders if he should go get something to eat.