Chapter Text
Hans woke before dawn, which he considered an offense against every proper order of the world. It was not the first time. Since their return to Rattay, his sleep had been breaking into short, restless pieces, as if his body still could not decide whether it was safe now, or whether every distant sound meant he should reach for the knife he had grown used to keeping near the head of his bed. Some nights he woke with a sharp breath, convinced he could hear the screams of the Praguers from the last day of Suchdol. Other nights, he simply opened his eyes into the darkness and lay still for a long time, because he knew that if he moved, he would find out he was alone in his chamber.
But this night had not been alone.
And perhaps that was precisely why its ending annoyed him.
He lay on his side, facing the window, where the heavy fabric of the curtain had begun to pale only slightly. From outside, the usual bustle of the castle had not yet begun, no clattering of buckets, no footsteps, no soldiers’ voices in the courtyard. Only the distant scratching of something in the masonry, a muffled cough from the corridor, and the quiet crackle of the embers in the hearth, which had long since stopped giving off the warmth. Hans felt the morning chill against his back, but there was still warmth against his chest. Not from the blankets. He had kicked them off during the night, pulled them back, then dragged them over himself again, and eventually left them half-fallen onto the floor, because at one moment he had been too hot and the next he had been shivering.
That warmth belonged to Henry.
Henry was lying beside him with his back turned, too still for a man who ought to be asleep, and too calm for a man who had not yet left only because he did not want to. Hans knew it at once, even through the sleepiness weighing down his eyelids like lead. Henry was already awake. Perhaps he had been for a long time, perhaps only for a few moments. He lay the way he always was at this hour, when the night still belonged to them, but morning had already begun to drive them from Hans’s bed, from Hans’s chamber, from that absurdly small corner of the world where they were allowed to look at each other without pretending.
Hans squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, as if by doing so he could push the morning back beyond the castle walls. Or better yet, all the way to Hungary.
“Don’t even think about it,” he mumbled into Henry’s shoulder.
Henry moved slightly. Hans felt the muscles tense beneath his cheek, felt Henry’s breath catch for a moment, not in fright, more like a quiet laugh he had decided not to let out. “About what?”
“Anything that involves getting up.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“I know you,” Hans grumbled, opening one eye just enough to see the blurred outline of Henry’s neck, the darker strand of hair stuck to his skin, and the slanted line of an old scar he would never have allowed himself to look at for so long in daylight. “You have that disgusting morning resolve about you.”
“Someone has to.”
“No. They don’t. It’s an unnecessary quality and it should be outlawed.”
Henry finally turned around, slowly and carefully, so the mattress would not creak louder than necessary. In the dimness, his face was softer than it was by day. Hans sometimes felt that in the morning, some part of what Henry wore during the day fell away from him, not only real armor, but the invisible kind too, made of clenched jaws, cautious answers, and eyes that were always searching for danger. Here, in the last remnants of night, Henry’s eyes were tired, but open. His hair fell into his forehead, and there was a crease from the pillow on his cheek, which Hans considered deeply unfair, because even like that he looked better than anyone had any right to look at such an ungodly hour.
“If I stay any longer, someone will see me.”
Hans frowned, even though Henry could not properly see it in the dark. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
“And yet you still haven’t died.”
“That is not exactly the best measure of safety.”
Hans should have said something light. Or something biting. Or something about Henry turning an ordinary walk down the corridor into a mission behind enemy lines. But the answer caught in his throat, because he knew Henry was right. They both knew it. The truth was there with them in the chamber every time, even when they shut the door behind themselves and blew out the candle. It lay between them when they touched. It stood by the window when Hans whispered Henry’s name too quietly, because the walls of Rattay were old, and old walls had a strange fondness for listening. It sat on the edge of the bed every morning, when Henry gathered his things in the dark and Hans pretended it was not tearing him to pieces.
It was not that they had to speak of it constantly. Quite the opposite. Most of the time, they did not speak of it at all. They had learned to treat everything surrounding their secret like any other thing that might kill a man if he underestimated it. They knew which staircase remained empty until the kitchens had fully woken. They knew that the guard Matěj passed Hans’s door every morning later than he claimed, because first he stopped by the laundry girls for newest gossip. They knew that the guard at the northern corridor tended to be sleepy and less attentive after the second crow of the rooster, but only if Mikuláš had been on duty the previous evening, not Ondřej, because Ondřej was a suspicious bastard and bored enough to notice things that were none of his concern.
They knew when they could pass. When they could not. When Henry had to carry a rolled parchment in his hand so he looked like a messenger. When Hans had to leave a map open on the table in case someone came in unexpectedly, which did not happen often, but often enough that his back went rigid at every creak of the floor. They knew they could not look at each other too long in company, that Hans could not smile in that one way he was not quite able to hide, and that Henry could not call him by that little pet name unless there was certainty of silence behind the door.
And yet there was routine in it. Not peace, but something resembling peace, if one narrowed one’s eyes. Hans sometimes wondered whether a person could get used to anything, even to love having a precise time of departure and a safer staircase. He hated the word when it appeared in his mind.
Love.
Too soft. Too foolish. Too poetic. And yet he had no other word for Henry. Desire was too little. Fondness was ridiculous. Weakness was untrue, though perhaps the closest to the thing in himself he hated. Henry was his weakness in the worst and best possible sense. Someone against whom even the finest armor was useless.
“It’s still dark,” Hans said at last, and it came out more stubborn than he intended.
“Not for long.”
“Dark is dark. Don’t argue with me about darkness.”
“You argue even with morning.”
“Morning started it.”
Henry smiled. It was only a hint of one, barely a movement at the corner of his mouth, but Hans saw it, because in that bed he saw things he was not allowed to see anywhere else. “I noticed.”
“Then don’t provoke it. Perhaps it will leave.”
Henry drew breath to answer, but instead he only bent down and kissed Hans on the forehead. It was so tender that Hans fell completely silent for a moment.
He hated when Henry did that.
Well. Not truly.
He hated how quickly it disarmed him. A kiss on the mouth he could meet with hunger, with mockery, with hands in Henry’s hair and teeth against his lower lip, so he did not have to look too affected. A kiss on the forehead was treachery. There was calm in it, the kind Hans did not know how to ask for. There was care in it, the kind he did not know how to accept with dignity. There was something in it that said Henry saw even the part of him that squinted into the grey morning, hair disheveled, discarded shirt crumpled somewhere near the foot of the bed, and an unspoken plea caught in his throat.
“That's not fair,” Hans mumbled.
“What is?”
“Kissing me like that when you know I have no strength to defend myself.”
“And you want to defend yourself?”
Hans looked at him. Sleep still sat heavy in his eyes, but something alive and hot and painfully familiar moved in his chest. “No.”
Henry leaned down to him again, slower this time. The kiss on his mouth was brief, but Hans caught him by the nape and held him there for a moment longer. He felt Henry’s warmth on his lips, smelled the faint scent of sweat, smoke, and something he no longer associated with any place or thing, only with Henry. He should let him go, he knew that. He knew it as clearly as Henry did. Every additional moment was more dangerous than the last. But knowing something and doing it were two disgustingly different things.
When they drew apart, Henry stayed so close their noses touched. “My Hans.”
Hans closed his eyes. In that single word was everything Henry could not say any louder. Tenderness, warning, apology, patience, exhaustion. Hans loved that name from his mouth and hated it at the same time, because it existed only here. Beyond the door, he became Lord Capon again, young lord, noble nephew, duty, obligation, a fool with a cup of wine and a tongue too sharp for his own good. But in this bed, he was only Hans. Henry's Hans. And sometimes he feared that if Henry ever stopped saying his name, the part of him that answered to it would cease to exist as well.
“Just a little longer,” he said more quietly.
Henry looked at him in a way that told Hans it took effort. “I can’t.”
“You can. You just don’t want to.”
“I want to.”
That was worse than a refusal. Hans opened his eyes and found that Henry was not looking away, nor smiling, nor making fun of him. He had simply said it. I want to. Plainly and without defense. Hans suddenly had no idea what to do with his own hands. One was still on Henry’s nape, fingers tangled in warm hair, the other somewhere between them, clenched in the blanket as if he could hold on to it and not fall.
“Then please don’t go,” he breathed, and because the words came out far too sincere, he immediately tried to cover them with a frown. “Or at least don’t do it so dramatically. You look like going to execution, yet you're only crossing a corridor.”
“One where no one is allowed to see me.”
“You can say you were bringing me a message.”
“What message?”
Hans thought about it for half a heartbeat. “A very... important one.”
“Yeah, I'm sure that will convince everyone.”
“Of course it will! I am a very important man. I receive very important messages even at strange hours.”
“From half-naked men?”
“Shut up. If you got dressed, that problem would solve itself.”
Henry laughed quietly and truly this time, but immediately stopped and glanced toward the door. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, only a brief turn of his head, a quick stilling of his breath, but Hans saw it, and anger shot through him so sharply it almost surprised him. Not at Henry, never at Henry, but at the door, at the corridor, at the castle, at the world that would not even let them laugh and moan in bed as loudly as they wanted. And also at the year into which they had been born. At the names they bore. At their social standings. At fucking everything and everyone.
“There is no one there,” he said more sharply than he meant to.
Henry placed a hand on his chest. It was not a gesture meant to silence him by force. It was enough that the hand was there, warm, heavy, and real. Hans felt his own heart beating beneath it faster than it should. Henry must have felt it too, but he said nothing. He only stroked his thumb over Hans’s collarbone once, slowly, as if reminding him they were still here. Still not in the corridor and still not before anyone else’s eyes.
“I really have to go,” Henry said again, softer this time.
Hans could have nodded. He could have behaved like an adult, be reasonable. He knew what was at stakes. He was aware of all the dangers. But none of that came naturally to him at five in the morning, when the man he most wanted to tie with rope to his hips and claim he was there for security reasons was getting out of his bed. Instead, he sighed so theatrically that it would have inspired sympathy only in someone who did not know him at all.
“If you are abandoning me already, at least hand me that shirt.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”
“No, Hanush’s. Of course mine. You're gonna wear it.”
“Wha-”
“I want you not to look like evidence of sin when you walk out the door.”
“Evidence of sin?”
“Don’t frown, you know what I mean.”
Henry sat up, and the mattress creaked quietly beneath them. Hans hated that sound and loved it at once. It reminded him of every night Henry had come to him. Of every touch, gentle at first, rougher and more desperate after. Of every breath, hot on his skin. Now it reminded him differently. It felt like an ending. Like the last line of a goodbye letter.
Henry reached for the shirt thrown over the chest beside the bed. Hans had tossed it there the evening before, or maybe Henry had tossed it, or perhaps both of them had... it was hard to say, since the night had several places that had blurred together into one long touch. The fabric was wrinkled, and one of the ties at the neck had knotted itself. Henry pulled it over his head, and before he could begin struggling with the lacing, Hans sat up as well.
He regretted it immediately. The room swayed for a second, because he had slept too little, drunk more than he should have, and Henry’s warmth had vanished from his body so suddenly that it made him cold. Still, he reached out and pushed Henry’s fingers away.
“Show me.”
“I know how to tie my own shirt.” Henry rolled his eyes.
“That is a bold claim, considering what you are doing right now.”
“It’s dark.”
“It’s dim. And your hands are like a peasant’s after winter.”
“I'm just a blacksmith’s son so peasant is not wrong.”
“Shut up. You know you're more than that. Now, leave it to me.”
Henry let him and that was the worst part. If he had argued, if he had pushed him away, if he had told him they did not have time, Hans could have been angry. But Henry sat quietly, almost shyly, face turned slightly aside, and allowed Hans to adjust the laces at his throat. Hans’s fingers were clumsy at first. He was not entirely awake, and the cords tangled under his touch, but he approached it deliberately slowly. Or perhaps not entirely deliberately. Perhaps he was simply using every excuse to touch him a little longer in a way that could be called practical.
Henry was so close in front of him that Hans could see the tiny dark spot on his jaw, the place where he had probably cut himself shaving the evening before, if that quick scraping with a knife could even be called shaving. He could see the shadow under his eye that had not been there before, or that he had not noticed before. He could see the little but very angry red mark on Henry’s neck that he himself had left there, low near the collar, but still far too high for Hans’s liking. Well... don't get him wrong, he absolutely adored that he was the only one who could leave love marks and bites on Henry's body. Blacksmith's torso and inner thighs were the perfect witnesses of that. And Henry liked it too, Hans thought, at least based off his deep moans. But they were all hidden, not visible with clothes. Except for that one on the neck. What could he say? Yes, he got a little carried away, so what? He's just a man in love, sue him.
Henry noticed. Of course he noticed. “Is it visible?”
Hans tugged his collar higher and frowned at it as if it were Henry’s fault. “If you weren’t such a... beast, this would not have happened.”
“Oh so this is my fault? I did it to myself?”
“Does not matter. Now you need to wear something around your neck.”
“In this heat?”
“You have a better idea?”
Henry looked at him with such a dry expression that Hans almost forgot to be irritated. “Next time, you could bite less.”
Hans tightened the lace a little more sharply than necessary. Henry did not move, only that quiet laughter appeared in his eyes, the kind that always made Hans feel as though the ground had shifted beneath him. “Next time, you could sound less like you're complaining.”
“I'm not complaining.”
“Good.”
Hans leaned closer to smooth the fabric over Henry’s shoulders. It was a useless movement, because the shirt remained wrinkled anyway. Second later Hans’s fingers came to rest on his chest again. He felt the warmth of Henry’s body beneath the cloth, and for a moment allowed himself to imagine that it could be simple. That Henry would not have to leave before dawn. That they could fall asleep and wake whenever they pleased. That someone could knock on the door and Hans could call for them to go to hell, because he was with his man and did not wish to be disturbed.
The thought was so absurd, so distant, and so beautiful that it almost made his head ache.
“Hans,” Henry said quietly.
Hans pulled his hand away as though burned. “What?”
“You are thinking too loud.”
“I said nothing?”
“Exactly.”
Hans glared at him. “I hate it when you do… that.” He threw his hands out with a loud huff.
“What?”
“When you act as if you can see inside my head.”
Henry was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I can’t. I just know you.”
That was almost worse. Hans stared at him and had the urge to snap something back, something light and sharp, something that would push the sentence back to a safer distance. But Henry did know him. Not all of him, perhaps no one knew a person entirely, not even themselves. But he knew enough. He knew the Hans who laughed too loudly in company when he felt cornered. The Hans who was cruelest when he was afraid and most unbearable when he wanted someone to hold him. The Hans who could make an impertinent remark before an entire hall, but at night sometimes clenched Henry’s wrist only to make certain he was still there. And Hans did not know which was worse: to be known like that, or to know that he craved it.
From the wall beyond the door came the distant sound of footsteps. Both of them went still at once.
It was not close. Someone had merely passed through the corridor one floor below, or perhaps on the stairs around the corner. Rattay was waking, slowly but surely. Somewhere, a rooster made its first attempt at crowing, more offended than ceremonial. From the courtyard below came a muffled voice, too indistinct for words, but clear enough as a warning. The time that belonged to them was running out.
Henry stood.
Hans let him, which he considered proof of immense nobility and tragic self-denial, though no one would ever appreciate it properly. He watched as Henry gathered the rest of his clothing, pulled his outer tunic over his head, and adjusted his belt with quick movements. There was something painfully familiar in it. The same sequence of motions as always. Shirt, tunic, belt, boots, knife, a glance toward the door, listening, then one more look at Hans. They had practiced every step, and yet neither of them ever seemed entirely calm.
“Wait,” Hans said when Henry reached for his boot.
Henry straightened. “What?”
Hans climbed out of bed with as much dignity as a rumpled morning, bare feet, and hair likely sticking in every direction would allow. He crossed to the small table where a rolled parchment lay, left there deliberately the evening before and handed it to Henry. “In case someone stops you.”
Henry looked at the parchment, then at him. “And what's in it?”
“A very important message.”
“So it's empty.”
“It is not!”
And indeed, it was not. Hans had written it the evening before, shortly before the interrupted knock had come: twice with knuckles, three times with fingertips.
A letter folded beneath a seal
Henry,
Come tonight by the same way as last time. Not by the main staircase. If anyone from the household sees you leaving my door, you will say you are bringing me a message from Radzig.
And you will say it convincingly, because I will have to pretend I was expecting it. Which would be most inconvenient, as I am expecting no message.
I am expecting you.
And for the love of God, do not step on the third stone beneath the chapel again. It creaks so loudly it seems determined to betray every sin of ours.
And for the love of us both, burn these words as soon as they have been read by you.
Your Hans
p.s. I miss you already
Henry took the parchment and his face softened for a moment. It was not an amused expression. At least not only that. There was something tired in it, grateful and sad at the same time. Hans hated that look, because it reminded him that none of this was only a game. That the parchment in Henry’s hand was not a clever joke, but a shield. A poor, thin, ridiculous shield against people who would ask why a blacksmith’s son was leaving the room of a young nobleman at an hour when decent folk were only just turning over in bed.
“The northern staircase,” Hans said, because if he kept silent, he might say something else. “Not the main one. And if you see Ondřej, come back.”
“Back to you?”
“No, down to the cellars. Of course to me.” Hans rolled his eyes.
“That would be even worse.”
“Stop complaining all the time.”
“Someone has to.” Henry grinned at him.
Hans wanted to tell him that he did not. That he did not always have to be the sensible one, the careful one, the one who left first because Hans was incapable of it. That he was sorry, even though the word was so clumsy it would probably fall apart in his mouth. Instead, he reached up and smoothed Henry’s collar again, even though he had adjusted it moments ago. Henry said nothing. He only leaned into the touch a little, so slightly no one else would have noticed. Hans did.
“Tonight,” Hans said, and for some reason his voice came out quieter. “You will be in the hall with me.”
Henry looked at him more cautiously. “Why? I already promised-”
“Because it will be boring.”
“That's not a reason.”
“It is for me.”
“Hans.”
That name again. So quiet it almost vanished between them, but Hans heard it with his whole body.
“There will be nobles from all over the region,” he said at last, because practical reasons were easier than the real ones. “And Hanush will want me to pretend I care who owes silver to whom and who is marrying whose cousin. I will need someone there to remind me I have not died yet.”
“You can manage that without me.”
“Is that what you think of yourself? That you are replaceable?”
Henry went silent.
Hans realized what he had said only after it was already out. It was not an explosive sentence. It was not even particularly tender, at least not in its words. But it landed between them with a weight Hans had not expected. Henry was looking at him, and something moved in his face, something cautious and vulnerable that was usually hidden behind a firmer expression. Hans could have lightened it. He could have added that no one else knew how to annoy him properly, or that he needed at least one person by the wall who looked as if he knew how to use a sword. He could have fled. He was excellent at that.
This time, he did not.
“I want you there,” he said. “I want you there with me.”
They were simple sentences. Short, almost boring. And yet Hans felt his throat tighten around them, because in their world there were not many ways to say more. He could not say that he wanted Henry beside him at all times. He could not say that he wanted him to be in the hall, in the courtyard, in his bed, on horseback at his side, at the table, behind doors, in front of people, in the daylight, without fear. He could not say that he wanted him just as much as other men spoke of the women they would one day marry, of the houses they would build, of the children who would carry their name. He could say none of that. So he said at least this.
I want you there.
Henry did not answer for a long time. Then he asked, “Is that an order?”
Hans almost smiled, but did not. Not fully. “No.”
Henry lowered his eyes to the parchment in his hand. “No?”
“No,” Hans repeated, and this time it sounded steadier. “If it were an order, I would look much more insufferable while giving it.”
“Is that possible?” Said Henry with slight smile.
“Careful. I am still your lord.”
“At the moment, you look more like someone who cannot find a comb. My little ruffled chicken.” Henry said lightly, then leaned in and used his left hand to ruffle Hans’s blond hair even more.
Hans was only half-offended, because Henry finally fully smiled at him as he did it. Tiredly, but truly. And for a moment Hans felt the knot in his chest loosen, the one that had been there since he woke up and understood that morning had come for them again.
“You're a brat,” he said.
“I learn from the best.”
“Clearly not well enough. I would have said it better.”
Henry took a step closer. Hans thought that he probably shouldn't. That every step back toward him meant another delay, another risk, another thing he would remember once the door clicked shut behind him. But he did not retreat. Henry came to him, placed a warm palm against his cheek, and kissed him. There was nothing hurried in it, and that was precisely what made it dangerous. Kisses at the moment of departure were meant to be brief, stolen and practical, if such a word could even be applied to them. This one was not. This one said that Henry had heard what Hans had said. That he understood it, and that he did not take it lightly.
Hans leaned into him for a moment. His hands gripped the fabric of Henry’s tunic at his sides, hard enough to remind himself that he still had hold of him. When Henry drew away, Hans did not let him go at once. Their foreheads almost touched, and between them was a silence they could never have in daylight.
“Tonight, then,” Henry said.
“In the hall,” Hans added.
“I will come.”
Hans nodded. “Good.”
Henry looked at him a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something. Hans almost hoped he would not. Almost hoped he would. In the end, Henry only lifted the parchment. “A very important message.”
“Do not lose it.”
“That would be a tragedy, my lord,” Henry said with a generous amount of irony in his voice.
“Truly rude blacksmith’s boy.” Hans rolled his eyes. “Why I tolerate you here, I shall never know.”
Henry shook his head, but the smile stayed on his face a second longer. Then he turned toward the door, and this time Hans did not stop him. He stood in the middle of the chamber, barefoot on the cold stone floor, nightshirt unlaced, hands empty, and with such disgust for his own good sense that he wanted to break something. Henry put his ear to the door and listened for a moment. Then he slowly lifted the bar.
The door opened only into a narrow crack. The corridor beyond was grey, quiet, and familiar. Henry looked back.
Hans knew he should try to look calm. He should try to give one last instruction, nod, perhaps make some remark that would return the whole thing to a safer shape. But exhaustion sat in his bones, and Henry’s kiss still tingled on his lips. So he only said: “Be careful.”
Henry’s expression softened. “Always.”
“That's not true.”
“Almost always.”
“Liar.”
“My lord.”
This time, the word did not hurt. At least not entirely. There was teasing in it, still a piece of their room, still a trace of the fact that moments ago Hans had only been Hans. Even so, something trembled in the distance at the sound of it, perhaps only the shadow of the day that was just beginning. Hans ignored it. He did not want to notice, because morning had already taken enough from them.
Henry slipped into the corridor, and the door closed behind him so quietly that a man could almost pretend he had never been there. Hans remained standing and listened. One step. Another. A brief pause. Then more footsteps, muted, careful, moving away toward the northern staircase. He knew the sounds. He knew Henry’s steps almost as well as he knew his breathing in sleep. He knew when Henry moved quickly, when he froze, when he stopped to let someone pass before him. Now he walked calmly. Carefully, but calmly.
That's good. That's very good.
Hans waited until he could no longer hear him. Then he waited a little longer. And then just a little longer, to be sure.
Only when the corridor had gone entirely quiet did he return to the bed. The blankets were tangled, the pillow on Henry’s side indented, a little of his warmth still trapped in the fabric. Hans sat on the edge of the mattress and placed his palm on the place where Henry had been lying only moments ago. It felt ridiculous. Horribly and painfully ridiculous. Like something he ought to mock himself for.
So he did not.
Beyond the window, the light was slowly changing from black to blue-grey. The castle was waking up after another dark night. Soon, a servant would bring him fresh water. Soon, he would have to rise, dress, have his hair arranged, listen to Hanush, pretend he knew what the fuck he was doing, and become who he was meant to be. Sir Hans Capon. Son of his late father. Nephew of his uncle. Future husband of young Lady Jitka. A young lord with duties drawing nearer, slowly but surely.
Hans closed his eyes and, for a moment, breathed in the pillow that was not his.
Tonight Henry will be there with me, he thought. He will stand off to the side, with that calm expression of his, as if none of what is happening around him concerns him at all. Hans will look at him over the rim of his cup and know that he came because Hans asked him to. Not because he had to. Not because it was an order. Because Hans said he wanted him there.
The thought warmed him and frightened him at the same time.
He did not yet know how easily something like that could be destroyed by a single sentence.