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As the last remains of daylight faded into darkness, Henry, Micheal and George swallowed up the last remains of moonshine that burned the throat. No closer to attending the wedding, finding Hans, or anything else that mattered, Henry was glad to drown some of his sorrows in ale, moonshine, mead, or anything else that he and the aspiring bards managed to scrounge up between them.
The alcohol numbed his mind, slowed down the constant stream of thoughts, and softened his senses. He only paid attention to the warm yellow glow of the torches hung on the walls of the barn he and his fellow mates drunk themselves silly in.
None of them, maybe except George, fulfilled the wishes they held that day. George and Micheal had not gotten their hands on any lute and their dream of making it in Kuttenberg was still out of reach. Henry has not made any progress towards any of his goals either. But at least, he has made some rather interesting friends.
And as the drink settled in his blood, spreading heat through his chest and loosening his shoulders, the snorty laughs of George and soft, slightly high pitched chuckles of Michael seemed like they made the efforts of the day worth it. The men, as naive as they may be, chasing a seemingly impossible dream, were fueling him with hope he so desperately needed these days. Hoping that he will make it to the wedding in time.
Hoping that Hans would be there.
Hoping that Hans would be alright.
Hans.
His lord—Hans.
No, Henry could not think of him. Not now. Not here. At least for a moment. The thought of Hans, wherever he may be, would drown him in guilt, in worry, in fear—every feeling he’d tried to burn out of himself with moonshine and mead. Just for tonight, he thought, he wanted to let go, at least for a moment. To lose himself in laughter, in drink, in foolish dreams.
As the edges of the word softened, his gaze unfocused, blurred by the alcohol and firelight, it lingered on the coppery red hue of Michael’s cheeks. The heat of the fire, the sharp burn of the ale—it had lit something warm and alive in Michael’s face. What a pretty red.
He tried to place it. Ran through the memories of berries, apples, even the painted lips of fair maidens. None of them fit. This red—it wasn’t like anything else. It was simply Michael’s red. Michael, who had spent most of the evening scolding his companion George—though never with any real bite—wore that familiar, mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his lips, ever-present. Like a signature.
Now Micheal was singing softly, some tune Henry recognized but was far too drunk to follow. The end of the tune was accentuated by George's first loud snore. Henry hadn’t noticed when George slumped forward on the table, or when he'd stopped singing—or even when he'd drifted off entirely. But he could not help but join Michaels infectious, hearty laughter—warm, rich, and earnest.
“And that , my dear Enrico,” Michael declared, dramatically, “is precisely why an artist must not give himself fully to debauchery, but rather sip delicately from the delights of the mortal realm.” He said smugly, with a playful smile, looking at Henry through half-lowered lashes. His posture was fully relaxed, almost loose, his face flushed. He was clearly just as drunk as Henry—though the flowery language and flair somehow made him look all the more charming for it.
“Excuse George, and pay him no mind,” he continued, lifting his cup. “I dare say, Enrico, that without him, the conversation is bound to get more ... enlightening. Don’t you think so?” Micheal punctuated the end of his sentence, drinking the last remnants of wine from his cup, swaying backwards slightly, caught off-balance. He recovered quickly, but Henry could tell, he was way drunker than he wanted to let on.
Not that Henry was in any position to judge. He could not even try and stop himself from fixating his gaze on the bit of wine that clung to Michael’s lower lip. As Micheal’s tongue darted out to lick away the last droplets of the rich liquid, Henry’s mind went momentarily blank. He looked away, fast, heart jumping. He shouldn’t be looking at Michael like that. Not like that . Not even drunk. It was... it was unacceptable. Instead he looked into his own, half empty cup.
“I am not sure, I may soon end up like George here.” Henry muttered, daring to lift his gaze back up—though his head stayed low, heavy. Michael was beaming. His smile was somehow wider and warmer than Henry remembered it, and it struck Henry like a blow. Sweeping all and any remaining thoughts of his previous improper behaviour. Just looking at him as he was—all flushed and radiant and so alive—felt almost sinful . Before he could properly scold himself, Michael spoke again, and Henry clung to his every word, never looking away from him.
“You won’t, Enrico . I simply won’t allow it. Who would keep me company?” Michael’s voice was husky, teasing, as his words slightly slurred. “It is a joyous night! One of fated meetings and divine timings. We have cause for celebration!” He grabbed George’s abandoned cup and then reached for Henry’s as well, lifting both.
“To men of words! To bountiful inspiration! To us , Enrico!” He drank deeply, and Henry followed without thinking. He probably shouldn’t have—he’d already had more than enough—but something about this moment felt... easy. Natural. Like it was leading him somewhere. Somewhere he wanted to go.
“Remember what I said about artists needing inspiration?” Michael leaned closer, his voice softer, quieter, eyes sparking. “Well you , noble and brave Enrico, will be mine.”
Henry’s breath caught.
You will be mine.
You will be mine.
You will be mine.
The words echoed in his head, relentless. It was a jest. Surely it was. Or Henry read too much into it. It must have been nothing but a drunken flourish.
And yet—his fingers tightened around his cup. Too tight. His palms were damp. Heat flushed through him like fire, like from good schnapps, but deeper, hotter, spreading beneath his skin, melting into his flesh, down to the bones. All of him suddenly felt too warm. Yet he couldn’t look away. Not from Michael’s flushed cheeks glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, his half-lidded gaze, the way the torchlight danced in his eyes. Sin.
His drunken mind went into overdrive, thoughts sparked and spun, drunk and guilty and unstoppable: What if he meant it? What if he really— No. Henry knew that he was not being reasonable. But he could not help himself. That wasn’t something he was allowed to think. At least not when he was sober. Not about a man. Not about Michael. Not ever. Not even ...
Michael leaned in a little. The movement caused Henry’s chest to tighten with relentless want he was powerless to stop. He was observing Henry with curiosity flickering behind an easy-going smile, yet his eyes seemed to hold a certain intent.
“Is that a frown, Enrico?” he asked, voice a little lower now, velvet-smooth. “What’s that look?” A pause, his eyes danced, searching. “Don’t tell me I’ve scandalised you.”
Henry didn’t answer. He couldn't. His tongue felt dry in his mouth. His chest too tight. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. Michael was looking at him intently. The longer they held their eyes, the hotter Henry got. He was going to catch fire, burn to ash under that look. He had to say something . Anything. Reaching blindly for a shield, a distraction—words. Clumsy, desperate ones.
“You made it sound like I’d be your muse,” he mumbled, barely louder than a breath. “Like one of the... wenches.” As soon as the words left him, he regretted them. His ears burned, chest impossibly tighter, he felt like he was suffocating.
God, he wished he hadn’t said anything. Maybe if he laughed, maybe if he brushed it off—Michael wouldn’t see the truth of what he was thinking when he was looking at him. Of what he saw on the back of his eyelids when he blinked.
Maybe Michael would still believe Henry was noble. Brave. Righteous. Good. Still Henry who prayed, who bled, fought and did everything for what was right . But despite it being forbidden, despite it being wrong, despite everything, despite trying his best to stop it—Henry wanted. He craved .
The fire kept burning as Michael tilted his head, smile softening, and said:
“Is it a sin,” he asked gently, “to be inspired by beauty?” His voice was still light—but underneath it, there was something else. Earnest. Unflinching. Pointed. Michael adjusted himself and leaned even closer, resting on his elbows. Just enough for the world to shrink to the small space between them. Just enough that Henry felt the ghost of his breath, warm and slow, smelling of wine. He could barely breathe, feeling like every inhale had Micheal in it. Like every inhale was intoxicating, disarming him and unraveling him further. Michael’s gaze didn’t waver. It was curious, gentle, yet unyielding. And somehow, all the more terrifying for it. Like he could see through him.
“I…” Henry started, and the breath shook on the way out. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” It was the truth. It slipped out before he could stop it. Before he could build the wall back up again. And at that moment, maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he was ready to burn. Would it be a final judgement or absolution? Henry’s hand trembled where it rested on the table. Heat kept rising in him, shifting, raging.
“Tell me, Enrico . What is it that you find beautiful?” Michael's voice was barely above a whisper. Henry could not think straight, the last remnants of his sanity slipping, thoughts scrambling. The last flickers of rationale slipped away as his gaze traced Michael’s face more carefully than ever before—he was so close—the golden hue of his thick eyelashes, the way the edges of his eyebrows faded into a light sandy shade. Light freckles dusted his cheeks so gently they seemed almost soft, like whispers on skin.
And still—what struck Henry most was the scarlet blooming across Michael’s cheeks, dusted on the tip of his nose—a sweet, garnet flush. Same shade of entrancing red as his lips, uncracked, plush, wet, smiling. Henry blinked. Beauty? He tried to breathe in calmly, regaining some resemblance of control. Words tangled in his tongue, matching the racing pace of his heart, but not quite catching up with his head.
“People,” he said, looking up into Micheal’s eyes. “The way some faces show the joy of life... laughter that reaches the eyes.” He swallowed and took a breath, gathering courage. “And the way hope keeps pushing us forward.” Michael’s smile deepened, slow and thoughtful, like he was savoring Henry’s words.
“That is an honourable and thoughtful view of beauty,” he said softly, eyes never leaving Henry’s. “One I find quite admirable.” His gaze dropped briefly somewhere below Henry’s eyes, his lips parting.
“Tell me, Henry,” Michael said, voice small, soft, and quiet, “do you find me beautiful?”
Time seemed to stop. Henry’s breath hitched, his heart pounding so loudly he feared Michael might hear it. His cheeks, ears, chest—his very core —felt impossibly hot. For a moment, words failed him altogether. How could he answer?
He wanted to say yes. The truth was, he had thought Michael beautiful from the moment he saw him. Beautiful in a soft, disarming way: with smooth skin, lips that always seemed to curl into an easy smile, hair that looked silk-soft to the touch. His hands weren’t large, nor worn by hard labour like Henry’s or any of the other men he’d met. Everything about him seemed soft —joyful and bright.
And it put Henry at ease in a way nothing else had, quieting down his constant stream of worries. Michael’s earnest belief in beauty, in art, in poetry—the ease of his being—drew Henry in, dangerously.
To say yes—to admit to all the beauty he saw in Michael—the mere idea of it felt like stepping off a cliff. To say no would feel like denying something true that had lived quietly in him for too long. Something he was not sure he could admit, even to himself.
He swallowed hard, mouth opening, mind unsure what he even wanted to say.
“...Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I do.” Henry felt the urge to apologise—to repent— immediately after the words left his mouth. As if the words he uttered damned him. His hands trembled, shame and fire raging inside him. He wanted to draw them closer to his body, shield himself, keep himself from unravelling completely. Escape somehow. But the movement was stopped by Michael, who slowly gathered Henry’s hand in his.
“Come with me, Henry, will you?” he whispered. Carefully. There was something in his words. A promise. A pull. An offer . Something Henry was terrified of.
His mind tried to list all the reasons why he shouldn’t—but his body had already moved. He rose up, slowly, steadying himself. He rose with a sense of devotion and surrender that he had only ever felt in service to Hans. It felt absolute . There would be no turning back. Anywhere Michael, with his rosy cheeks and wine stained lips lead him, Henry would follow. The fire inside Henry took over.
Michael led him toward the barn door, his hand never leaving Henry’s, warm and sure, gently guiding him. He swayed slightly with each step. God knows how much they both drank throughout the night.
As they walked out of the barn, cool air hit their flushed skin. The night smelled of summer, fresh hay, and remnants of wine they drank. Michael paused, eyes fluttering closed, inhaling deeply, as if grounding himself. When he opened them again, he smiled—small, almost shy—and continued walking, guiding them behind the barn.
Michael led them behind the barn, away from the road, into a shack used for storing firewood. The building wasn’t lit up, but a light from the nearby street reached there slightly, shrouding them in comforting shadow. Michael leaned against the wall inside of the shack, tilting his back, exposing his pale, smooth, slender neck, drawing another deep breath. It was slow, deliberate, and promising. Then he looked down at Henry through his eyelashes, eyes half-lidded. His hand still held Henry’s, and it was impossibly warm—warmer than Henry’s body, which kept on burning since they left the barn, the cool night air not dousing the flames at all.
“Remember what I said about an artist,” he spoke slowly and quietly, his voice seemed less sure than Henry ever remembered hearing it, trembling ever so slightly. “that ... he shouldn’t fall into sin easily.” He licked his lips. “Instead he should ... search for beauty and inspiration elsewhere, only allowing himself to taste the pleasures of the world sparingly?” He laughed—a soft, breathless sound. “Or ... something like that.” He added quickly, uncertain, his smile faltering slightly as his intense gaze pierced Henry, waiting for an answer. His eyes were not leaving Henry, lips parted slightly. There was no teasing, playful edge to him now, only something bare, searching.
“I remember.” Henry said, involuntarily stepping in closer. His step was steady, even though he was not sure what his next move would be. He wasn’t thinking. He didn’t know where he was headed. Where Michael was headed. It might be the fiery pits of hell for all he cared. The only thing he knew was that the fire in him wanted . The alcohol in his veins fueled the fire, and he let himself be consumed by it. He took another step towards Michael and noticed the slight tremble of his lower lip. The uncertainty in his gaze which darted lower than Henry’s eyes and back up again. But he didn’t step back. He stood still, watching Henry come closer, as if welcoming something inevitable.
“Will you let me taste it?” A mere whisper. “Plea-?” He didn’t get the chance to finish. Henry swiftly stepped forward and closed the remaining distance between them, pressing Michael flat against the wooden wall. Henry was pressed flush against him, strongly, without any space for doubt. Their lips met. No hesitation, no calculation. Just heat. The drunken urgency of it. They kissed like men starved. The warmth of Michael’s mouth, the softness, the eager reciprocation, and the faint taste of wine ... it unleashed something within Henry, that he wasn’t sure he could ever tame again.
Michael gasped, his hands flying up into Henry’s hair, fingers curling tight. Desperate. Needing. Henry pushed harder, pinning him fully, their bodies flush against each other, lips meeting again and again, frantic. A low moan escaped Michael’s throat and the sound fueled something raw and feral inside Henry. It shattered the last of his control.
It was all too much— his lips, his skin, his body, all under Henry’s hands. All that restraint Henry had clung to, all the guilt, the fear, the denial —it all fell apart. All that remained was Michael under his hands: warm, willing, wanting, kissing him back with deep urgency.
His fingers found the edge of Michael’s tunic and shoved it upward, feeling hot, soft skin beneath. He roamed, flesh so soft to the touch, pliant, but hard underneath. Henry felt like he could not get his hands on enough of Michael, exploring the shape of him, dragging his palms across his hips, chest, back.
Michael gasped, high-pitched and breathless, breaking their kiss, tugging Henry’s shirt up and over his head, hurried. Henry groaned, the sound torn from deep in his throat as he peeled Michael’s tunic fully off of him in turn. Their lips only breaking for a moment before crashing together again, even hungrier than before. Henry ground himself against Michael who shuddered and cursed under his breath, pushing his hips forward—offering, accepting, chasing. Henry latched onto Michael’s neck to silence himself. Biting, kissing, devouring.
It was too much. Not enough.
Their hips met, grinding without grace or rhythm, no finesse, just a need . Through the desperate rocking, Michael’s hand slipped between them, and Henry’s breath hitched when he palmed him over his breeches—firm and sure. Like a man who wanted this more than anything. Henry’s hands trembled as he opened the laces of Michael’s trousers. Then, as if it hurt him, Henry groaned, detaching his lips from devouring Michaels throat, neck, and shoulders, and he stepped away from Michael.
He took a deep breath in, rolling his shoulders, chest heaving, his eyes devouring Michael. What he saw ignited something within him even further. Michael was breathing hard, panting. His eyes were glazed over. Drunk on lust. Blown wide. Fixated only on Henry whose gaze dropped—his eyes drinking him in. All the kisses, bites and licks ignited patches of Michael’s skin that beautiful shade of scarlet. His body was lean and not very muscular, slightly soft yet manly. Henry already knew how pliant it felt under his touch, the memory of it making him shudder. Lower, the trail of fine hair led him to the most sinful sight of all. Michael was seemingly painfully hard, flushed that irresistible shade of red, curving upwards, tip glistening. All because of Henry. All for Henry . He opened his own breeches.
As Henry freed himself, gaze never leaving Michael’s body, Michael groaned and dragged Henry by the back of the head into another frantic kiss.
Briefly parting, Michael spit into his hand and reached between them, wrapping his fingers around both of them, messy and urgent. Henry’s knees nearly buckled. It was frantic. No rhythm. No technique. Just need .
They rocked together, moaning into each other’s mouths, drunk on the moment, on each other. Michael broke the kiss with a shaky breath, biting his lip, a flush riding high on his cheeks. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the side of Henry’s face, just below his ear and whimpered something Henry couldn’t understand—trembling in Henry’s tight embrace he came undone. He grunted, gasped, thrashed in Henry’s arms and spilled between them, hand gripping Henry’s shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Henry felt the power of Michael’s climax—the way his body strained against his own, barely able to contain the pleasure. He felt Michael’s heart racing, heard his ragged breaths, watched sweat run down his temples, felt his hand barely managing to keep its faltering rhythm around them. It overwhelmed him. He covered Michael’s hand with his own and resumed the dance, not giving Michael a moment of respite. He didn’t let him stop. He wouldn’t let either of them stop.
Michael gasped, choked, and strained against Henry. Whining against the overstimulation. But it only made Henry burn hotter—his grip tightened, pace quickened. Michael’s eyes stayed locked to his, dazed, surrendering as he shook through the waves of overwhelming pleasure. One hand twisted painfully in Henry’s hair, the other clinging to his waist. His mouth hung open, lips red and bitten. And Henry felt it—he was his. That broke him. He spilled between them, hot and sudden, with a guttural groan.
Henry’s thoughts tried to catch up, but couldn’t—his body was too full of pleasure, too spent, too warm, shaken. All he knew was that, for a moment, the raging fire inside him had quieted. And Michael was still there. Clinging to him, holding on.
Undone.
Eyes teary.
Flushed.
Bitten.
Ruined.
Beautiful.
Henry realized the fire was still there. It never went out. It has only just been unleashed and threatened to consume him again. He let it.
He surged forward again, claiming Michael’s mouth, devouring. It was deeper— need . Less frantic now, but just as hungry.
Michael moaned weakly into Henry’s mouth, but met every kiss with fervour. His fingers slid up Henry’s spine, tracing along bare skin. Mapping out the width of Henry’s shoulders. Henry kept kissing Michael, using one hand to tilt his head backwards to get a better angle, while his other hand travelled across Michael’s hip to the back of his thigh, dragging it up towards Henry’s hip, pressing them impossibly closer. Michael gasped at the sudden shift in balance—but Henry held him. Solid, despite the wine. As their hips met again, they both groaned. Still wanting .
As he slowly started rutting against Michael, Henry’s hands roamed freely. Slower, but more possessive—exploring the softness of Michael’s sides, the dip of his lower back, the supple flesh of his backside, the twitch of muscle beneath the skin. Groping, gripping, claiming. Reveling in the sounds Michael made with every press of his fingers, every push of his hips. Each one like kindling.
Michael hummed into the kiss, pliant and wrecked, rocking himself with Henry and kissing him with blind devotion. His hand curled at the back of Henry’s neck, keeping him close, chest to chest. At a particularly delicious snap of Henry’s hips, another moan escaped his throat—and Henry chuckled, low.
“So much for sipping,” he muttered hoarsely against Michael’s cheek. He dragged his lips down the curve of Michael’s neck, then bit into Michael’s shoulder—not to hurt. To hold .
Michael huffed a breathless, shaky laugh, forehead resting against Henry’s temple. “We drank deep.” He whispered.
“We still are.” Henry replied, pulling Michael into another deep kiss. His body ached, his heart burned, and he knew it— he would not stop wanting . Not after this. Not after tasting him.
Henry’s lips trailed from Michael’s mouth down to the curve of his jaw, tasting wine and sweat. Then lower—his neck, warm and flushed. Henry bit, anchoring himself, rocking into Michael faster. Michael gasped, arching into it.
“Henry—”
Henry didn’t stop. Some foggy part of him noticed— Michael had said his name. Not Enrico. Just Henry . He didn’t know why that mattered so much. But it did. Pleased, he dragged Michael’s thigh higher. His hand travelled between them and gripped them both, slick from their previous release. His lips moved along the dip of Michael’s shoulder, biting, sucking, kissing. Again and again. Working them faster, drowning in the sounds Michael made, letting himself be marked by how hard Michael was holding onto him.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” Henry whispered into his skin. He felt another release building up. He felt tremors in Michaels thigh, he was close too.
When he looked up to see his face, so close to completion—sweat clinging to his skin, eyes glassy, lips swollen, flushed beyond belief, all that lovely shade of red. Still trembling. Still gasping. But he was smiling . Even through the aftershocks, the moans he couldn’t hold back, he looked at Henry with a soft smile tugging the corners of his parted lips, with something that undid him completely— willing, trusting surrender .
He was Henry’s.
That shattered something in him all over again. Henry kissed him—slow, deep, devouring. Possessive. He didn’t know if it was love, or lust, madness or just the moment. But he wanted Michael. All of him.
Every kiss was a feast.
Every sound, a prize.
Every tremor, a victory.
Every moment, theirs.
The beast was out. Henry let it roam .