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"Henry, stop," Hans says, and Henry immediately retracts his hand from the man's cock.
He sits back and presses his palms to his thighs. They're both kneeling on the forest ground, bare-chested, loose-stringed, flushed. Hans is still grasping Henry's undaunted prick in his right hand. "No?" Henry asks, letting the word carry all possible interpretations: Not now? Not anymore, ever?
Hans shakes his head. Leans forward, eyes gleaming. "I want to try something else."
"Erm," is Henry's attempt at a protest, as the more vulnerable party in this configuration. Hans's hand feels warm around him. Sturdy. "Alright?"
"You see, I've been thinking," Hans says, starting to pump again, slow and confident, "and I realised we're both hamstringing ourselves by going at it at the same time. How is a man supposed to focus under these circumstances?" He squeezes the cockhead—too hard, the bastard. Some semen drips out. "I'd rather prefer to enjoy my pleasure to its fullest, not to mention take my time. Surely that's a better way of doing things."
Henry shivers; the breeze raises goosebumps on his nape, his arms. "So you want to take turns?" He takes care to keep his breathing even, ordering his hips to stay still. "Isn't that more boring for the one who has to wait?"
"Is it?" Hans asks philosophically. He's looking steadily down, his mouth slightly open in concentration. He's running his thumb over the glans, rubbing the foreskin, the throbbing vein. He traces its path down the side with a single finger like he's exploring a map.
Henry is too exposed, his prick too naked without a palm to hide it. "Come on," he grunts, and his hips buck up after all. "You've seen it a million times already."
"So impatient," Hans says with a click of his tongue. "Are you incapable of sitting back and enjoying a good thing?"
"Let's see how you'll enjoy being scrutinised so when it's your turn. My lord."
Hans laughs, his white teeth flashing in a sharp, delighted grin. "You may grumble all you like, but your beastie here tells the truth." So it does; Henry's cock is red and thick, curving quiveringly up to the heavens. Hans finally wraps it in his grip—then brings his other hand around as well, a two-fisted, exaggerated hold. "Look at this fat fellow. This goddamn titan. There's no hiding from his might."
"Shut up," Henry laughs breathlessly, feeling it rattle through his body, stretch his cheeks with his grin. He bucks into Hans's hands again, chasing the warmth. "How do you even come up with these things? There's something wrong with your wits, Capon, I swear to God."
Hans hums, but doesn't bother replying. He's staring down again, focused on his labours as he starts to pump. To his credit he's putting an honest effort into it, with fast and powerful strokes, a heavy downswing that makes Henry gasp each time. Pleasure coils up slyly through his core, the base of his spine. Hans's mouth has dropped open again. His lip looks soft. Wet. Henry watches the slight glimpse of teeth appear and disappear, the tip of a pink tongue pressing against them.
He makes a sound he has no control over, has no awareness he's even made until its out, a half-strangled, too-needy moan.
Hans's gaze snaps up. His hands keep working but his gaze is steady, unblinking. Intense and blue. Henry somehow has enough blood flow in his body to spare some for his face; he feels the blush warm him up from the inside out, tightening his skin.
"Are you going to stare the whole time?"
Hans's grin turns foxlike. "Getting shy, my poor lamb? You can always close your eyes."
"Fuck off," Henry grits out. It's entirely too unfair: he should be jerking Hans off too right now, hard and fast enough to make him gasp, to bring out that blotchy pink flush that spreads from his cheeks up to his forehead. Henry's empty hands clench into fists. He presses them against his thighs, presses down, down. "I could, but then how would I aim the finishing shot? I've got a target in mind already—your pointy, lordly chin."
"Ha! You can't hit the broad side of a barn even with bow and arrow," Hans crows, unbothered by everything—the sweat, the exertion, his own breathlessness. "Your blow won't even reach past my chest. You're going to splatter all over yourself—messy as always, every single time."
"I'm gonna mess you up." The words rush out of Henry's mouth without touching his brain, a drunken mumble. He's going insane. Hans is turning him insane. "I'm gonna spill on your face till you can't blink past the spunk."
"You will spill in my palm and you will like it," Hans says, authoritative like the noble he is. Fucker. He squeezes the cockhead as if in demonstration—or a threat, painful enough to make Henry's nerves light up. "And I'm going to wipe it off on your hose—no, your hair, so it can seep in."
"I'll smear it on your cheek—after I grind it into the dirt."
"You can try."
"I will. I am." Henry can't even breathe. He's right on the edge, he has to be, his abs clenching as the rest of his body tenses up. "I'd shove it down your throat, if you weren't a coward."
Hans stops.
Henry snaps to attention, horror displacing his lust. He looks up to see a Hans equally frozen in his tracks, staring back with shock slackening his features. They gaze at each other. Nothing moves.
"Um—I'm not—" Henry stammers, his blush reaching near brain-melting levels of heat, "that's not what I—"
"Wait!" Hans suddenly grabs both of Henry's hips to stop him from scooching back, his fingers digging in urgently. For all of that he's still eerily calm as he searches Henry's face, his brow wrinkling in earnest curiosity. "Can I do that?"
"What?" Henry is going to strangle him. And then himself. "What do you mean—why are you asking me this?!"
"Who else am I going to ask, the fucking pope?!" Hans shifts forward on his knees, and dons a look of—oh God—intent. "Henry. Do you want me to do it?"
Henry presses his lips very, very tightly together. His prick is still throbbing. "Do you?"
"I asked first."
"And I asked second."
But Hans's grin only turns sharper, damn him. "Well! As a matter of fact—yes, I do. So sit back"—he pushes at Henry's chest with nimble fingers until Henry has no choice but to drop back on his bum—"and let me do this."
Like a prey animal caught in a trap of its own creation, Henry stays as rigidly unmoving as possible. He doesn't even know what to do with his legs. Keep them straight? Bend them? In the end he keeps them in an awkward mixture of both while Hans crawls comfortably between them, belly to the ground, elbows carrying his weight. His ribs graze Henry's shins. They feel warm.
"This isn't fair," Henry says, except it comes out as a whine—a truly pathetic one, worse than anything he'd uttered in his pissed-away youth. His traitorous cock twitches at Hans's approach.
Hans is equally unfazed. "Oh, relax." He takes Henry's manhood in hand like they're old buddies, a loose-gripped, careless hold. "You can take your own turn later, if it will make you feel better."
It will, Henry realises. He secures the thought tight in a vault of his mind, determined to enact his revenge when the right time comes. The promise of it sharpens his gaze, makes him pay more attention to the details of Hans's face, his brow furrowed in concentration, his sharp cheekbones. His ears look dainty, reddened at the top. His shoulders seem broader from this vantage point. His bowed neck is graceful.
Even though he's in position, Hans doesn't move. Henry wishes he could see through that blond head and read the thoughts no doubt swirling inside. Unless, of course, the man truly does go through life without a hint of self-reflection. Hans keeps silently observing his quarry, his hand stroking up and down in an almost thoughtful manner, and then—God have mercy; he descends.
Henry gasps. Hans's mouth is—too hot, too wet, too much. Blinding. Overwhelming. Henry has no defences against it, hadn't even known he'd need to steel himself like this. He braces his weight on his hands, palms pressed down on the dirt by his sides, fingers scrambling on the grass. He rips some blades out when he clenches too hard. He must not—must not—thrust up.
Hans barely seems to notice Henry's struggle. He's focused on his task, sucking gently. He hasn't gone further down than the cockhead, keeping it in his mouth and—and—suckling at it, like it's a delicacy, like it's a goddamn piece of ice melting between his lips for his aristocratic enjoyment. Like he could do this forever. His tongue darts out in blind exploration. Its tip tangles with the foreskin, delves shockingly under the folds. It flicks over the slit.
Fucking Christ. "Hans."
Hans looks up. Hard to read his expression when only his blue eyes are visible, so mildly and meekly blinking. His lips are pink. Stretched out. It's a trap, all of it. Hans strokes his thumb on the underside—so much underside left still!—and traces a vein, back and forth, back and forth. He presses down. Henry means to grunt but moans instead, more wanton than a whore.
"Fuck—can you just—" Henry bites back the words, tries to focus his whirling mind. He's so hot he could explode. "Is that the best you can do?"
Hans's laugh is a quiet huff. He shifts his weight and actually does go lower, bowing his head and taking Henry's cock halfway. His tongue is pressed in its full length against the flesh, no more flitting about. His teeth are a soft, gentle pressure, one that turns dangerous when Henry mindlessly ruts up. He keeps himself still, panting like a wild animal. Hans is still as well, not moving his mouth but sucking in place, drooling spit and swallowing it and doing it over and over again. His cheeks hollow out with the act. He hums; it reverberates.
Henry has never, ever, not in his entire life, been this aroused. He will die from it. He will die if there's no release. He abandons any semblance of discipline and grabs his cock, crushing Hans's fingers with his own. The only free space is at the base so he jerks himself with impatient tiny strokes—makes Hans jerk him off—holds his hand and uses it, furiously, desperately, sloppy with spit. Their fingers intermingle in an awkward angle and still Henry grips them, forces them down to his sac and up to Hans's lips. It's barely a pump. It's barely friction. More a rub, and it's making him crazy, and Hans with one final upwards glance slackens his mouth and Henry comes, with a shout, a full-body shake.
He's still coming. His seed pushed out with such force that Hans had to yelp and unlatch—but Henry is still holding on, and he aims with both their hands on the stick, spilling on Hans's lips to the rhythm of his throbbing balls, groaning through the pleasure. Hans laughs and tries to catch the spunk on his tongue, laughs when that fails and just makes a mess of him. He's hit on the cheek, the chin. He wipes it off with his free hand and squeezes Henry with the other, wringing out the final last drops that land, wearily, on their fingers.
Henry is breathing so heavily he's starting to feel dizzy. He stares dumbly at Hans, and Hans grins back at him, buoyant like he's just won the world's weirdest contest. He pushes Henry's chest; Henry follows the motion and drops on his back, falling heavy and lumbering like a giant. He spreads his arms wide. He stares up at the sky. Total defeat.
Hans cackles like an imp, wiping at his face. He smacks Henry's belly with the same filthy hand—Henry slaps it away, too weak-limbed for a proper hit but making the effort—and smears the remnants of seed on Henry's skin and body hair, the rest on the grass. Then he flops down to lie on the dirt, easy as you please, and stretches out with a sigh. "Much better than a bathwench, ey?"
"Hrmpf," Henry garbles. His brain sways in his skull. His heartbeat thuds in his throat, vibrates through his body. He feels reborn. He's never experienced such a potent climax before, not from this act and certainly not from a bath maid—not that he'd ever admit that out loud to Hans. So he keeps quiet and waits for his breathing to calm down, enjoying the pleasant tingles on his skin.
Once he's stable enough he rolls to his side, propping up to an elbow. Hans is still stretched out on the grass, bare-chested and loose, smiling with his eyes closed and the serenity of a man satisfied with the trajectory his life has taken. His stomach is leaner than Henry's. His pecs are small and compact, all his strength lying in his well-formed arms and shoulders.
Maybe there's something crazy still swimming in Henry's brain, because he feels the need to use his mouth on—places. Like Hans's collarbone. Or his pink, small nipple. Or even his bellybutton, Christ. Henry shakes his head and trails a hand over Hans's stomach instead, brushing lightly at the blond body hair like it's fur.
Hans's smile quirks up when Henry's hand delves lower, but he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't protest when Henry climbs on top and slinks downwards, moving on hands and knees. It's only when Henry's head reaches crotch level that Hans stirs.
"Um."
"Hm?" Henry gives in and presses a kiss to Hans's belly—a quick one, barely there—then starts to work in earnest, unlacing the strings. Hans's cock is on the slimmer side, long and pink and pretty, leaning eagerly against Henry's palm. Henry gives it an unneeded stroke to perk it up. He lowers his head. He breathes in.
Hans sits up so abruptly he almost knees Henry in the head. "Henry!"
"Wha—what?" Henry exclaims, alarmed by his alarm. "Is there a bug on my back?"
"A bug? No, you idiot, it's—"
Hans snaps his mouth closed. Keeps it pressed tight together. He looks wild-eyed, and vaguely harassed.
Henry frowns. "What's wrong?"
"Henry. What do you think you're doing down there?"
"What do you mean, what am I doing? You said I'd get my turn next."
Hans opens his mouth. Closes it. "That's"—he clears his throat—"on second thought, that's quite alright. You, um, you don't have to."
Henry frowns harder. "I don't have to?"
Hans fidgets with his fingers on the grass. "Well—that is to say—I think we should end the activities here for today," he says, sounding polite and dignified and absolutely nothing like himself. "We can continue this another time."
"What!" The injustice of it all chokes up Henry. He's almost speechless. "You literally said!"
"So what if I said!" Hans squeaks defensively, squirming backwards on his ass. "I meant you could—do it in general. In the future. Some day."
Oh, the audacity of this fucker. "Fuck right off. That is not what you meant." Henry grabs Hans's hips and pulls him towards him, keeps him immobilised with a tight grip and his weight pressing down on his legs. Hans yelps again, looking up with a strange expression on his face, wide-eyed and blushing, so guiltily awkward that Henry eventually hesitates. "Why don't you want to?" he asks, in calmer, more sincere tones.
A long pause while they stare at each other, Hans's colour steadily and encroachingly rising. Then, finally, the mumbled admission: "Because it… feels embarrassing."
Henry is caught between a sigh and a snort, his lips curling up even as he tries to force a stern look. The fondness he feels. He really is too nice for his own good sometimes. "Embarrassing, is it, my lord?" he asks archly, even as he kneads Hans's thighs reassuringly. "Well. There's something to be said here about reaping what you've sowed, and getting your just desserts—but I won't say any of that. Because I'm a kind, generous soul." He takes hold of hose and braies and carefully lowers them, letting Hans's prick spring free. "So how about you do the honourable thing and finish what you started?"
No response, other than some squirming—then Hans drops to his back with a sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Fine. Fine!" He gestures wide and dramatic. "Do your worst."
Henry's eye-roll is his reply—gone unacknowledged, of course. With a sigh of his own he refocuses on the real matter at hand: the cock currently staring him back in the eyes. Eye. Its cockhead is top-heavy, fat with foreskin. Henry drags it down with a long pull. The head that emerges is bulbous and red as sin, aggressively wet. It glistens in the sunlight.
This is, perhaps, more daunting than he'd expected. Hans's bravery made it look easy, but Henry is a cautious soul, and fear is never far from his heart no matter how desperately he blusters, even to himself. In a compromise that Henry deems acceptable he aims lower instead, licks one wide and clumsy line up the shaft. It feels… surprisingly normal, like he's licking an arm or a neck. It's just a body part. Maybe a little warmer. A little salty.
Hans huffs a laugh overhead, but otherwise doesn't needle. When Henry glances up he discovers a brand new vantage point, Hans's torso seeming endless, his chin sharper from this angle. Hans is flushed but quiet, observing with his glittering blue eyes.
"You've had this done before?" It's not a question.
A pause. "Yes," Hans says simply.
"Hm." Henry bows his head back down. He flexes his shoulders. "So show me how you like it."
Another pause, this one longer, before Hans's hand comes up to cup Henry's head. It's a good fit, right at the base of the skull. His thumb ruffles into Henry's hair. "More lips than tongue, please," Hans says, so very dainty, so polite, with his palm is a heavy weight that neither pushes nor allows escape. A benign cage. "And go slow."
Time enough for one last inhale, then Henry takes the plunge. He doesn't let himself think about it as he descents—in fact he screws his eyes shut, just for a second, just for strength—and then all at once his mouth is full. Flooded with saliva. He swallows and Hans convulses around him, gasps and jerks up so sharply that Henry has to push his thighs down. He keeps pressing down afterwards, to keep him well-behaved and still. He likes how that feels.
He likes how everything feels, Henry is shocked to discover, from the hot obstruction in his mouth to Hans's fingers gripping his hair. He pulls back and bobs back down—isn't that how it's supposed to go?—trying to use his lips and mostly succeeding. He doesn't know what to do with his tongue. He takes Hans deeper until the cockhead scrapes the roof of his mouth, then goes experimentally lower. His throat undergoes its own surprise—a new sensation, a tingling that feels threatening. A gasp to disengage, to gather his wits while Hans's prick jumps and quivers in his stroking palm, and then a second go. It goes smoother this time.
Hans moans low and long, his hand spasming then grabbing Henry's hair even more desperately, clutching at too-short tufts then letting go only to grab again, a crazed man's petting. His breathing is sharp and quick, and maybe Hans's idea had merit after all because Henry is hearing sounds he's never noticed before. Quiet gasps. Soft, needy, hiccuping yelps. A constant high-pitched whining. It goes straight to Henry's tired cock, and when he looks up to see Hans with his head thrown back and his abs clenching he feels arousal permeate him from head to toe, headier than the richest wine.
Still. Slow it is. Henry shifts his grip so he's holding onto Hans's buttocks instead, still firmly enough to discourage sudden movements, and resumes his work. The steady rhythm lulls him. It's almost mindless, the same calming trance he falls into when he's picking herbs or brewing potions. Except he's more aware—of the breeze on his skin, his own breathing, the stretch and rub of his lips. Hans's body under him, over him. Hans is fully stroking Henry's hair by this point, all slow, carding motions. He probably pets his dogs the same way. Too fond.
"That's so good, Henry." A dreamy murmur from high above. A tingling pull to Henry's skull. "You're so good at this."
The praise sinks into Henry's belly, makes him feel weightless. Slow pace be damned—he redoubles his efforts with a moan, having to suck in air through his nose. Hans's hips jerk up but this time Henry let's them, let's the rutting motion guide him. Fuck him. His jaw aches. He frees a hand to grope at Hans's balls, pressing a thumb at the velvety space below.
"Henry," Hans chokes out. It's not even a warning. His grip on Henry's hair grows so tight it hurts in earnest, a white flash of pain, and then he's just squirming in Henry's mouth, in his hands, a blabbering stuttery mess of, "fuck, oh f—fuck, Henry, I'm going—I'm going to—"
Henry prepares to swallow—he will swallow!—except something must go down the wrong pipe cause next thing he knows he's choking, then backing up to cough and hack like he's got phlegm stuck in his throat. Supremely unflattering. But Hans isn't paying attention. He's still spilling and moaning, holding his own cock and snapping his hips like he's fucking the air, his heels digging into the dirt. His seeds flies upwards with impressive velocity, landing on God knows where. Not on Hans's chest, at least. Henry watches the full trembling of his lean stomach, spunk-free and blotchy pink.
The aftermath always feels quieter. Hans gasps like a beached fish, weakly lowering his bent legs so he can stretch out fully on the grass. He's still visibly trembling. Henry watches, and feels a charge on his skin, a strange alertness that turns his senses crisp. There's birdsong, somewhere in the distance. Hans's breathing is loud. The forest exists around them, its own contained entity.
"Still with me?" Henry asks, and when the moment drags without a response he shifts closer to Hans, patting his ribs with the back of his hand. "Hey."
Hans's gaze is unfocused, aimed up at the sky. "I may have—" He swallows. Clears his throat. "I may have underestimated the intensity."
Henry snorts, tries to stop his smile from growing too wide. "You always do this," he mock-scolds, making his tone didactic and shaking his head to boot. "You jump in head-first into whatever mad plan you've concocted for the day, and then get shocked when the consequences blow up in your face."
"Yes. Well." Hans's face scrunches up into a familiar pout, but he's too lethargic to keep it up. He makes a vague shooing gesture. "Whatever. Leave me alone."
Henry allows himself a soft laugh. He's feeling—inordinately affectionate, is the thing, just fully and stupidly fond. He wants to ruffle Hans's hair, or maybe pinch his armpit, or cover his entire pink-and-pale body with his own and hug him till they're one messed-up, messy being. He wrestles some sense into his noggin and lies down on the dirt instead, pressed up shoulder-to-shoulder with Hans. Rib to rib. He feels each inhale he takes.
Henry's sweat cools on his skin as he lies there, keeping time by Hans's breathing. He bumps a foot against Hans's ankle, a simple greeting. Hans bumps back.
"So," Hans breaks the silence, sounding more like his usual self. "Who do you think won this particular bout?"
Henry pretends to think about it. "How about we say we both won?"
It surprises a laugh out of Hans, even though to Henry it seemed self-evident. In an excess of good cheer he wraps an arm around Henry's nape and pulls him close, close enough for their foreheads to brush together. His eyelashes look soft from this vantage point, blond and delicate as they touch his cheeks. His lips curl up in the corners almost absentmindedly. He's smiling. "I wish," he says abruptly, and then stops himself, equally abruptly.
Henry waits. Slowly counts their breaths. "What do you wish?" he prompts.
Hans shakes his head, a tiny negation—then at the same time starts talking, as if he can't keep the torrent of words locked up inside. "I wish you were a noble's son, and that I knew you earlier, and we were friends from the start, together, always together—that we could have shared moments and hunts and lessons, and shared this—this friendship that we have, for even longer. For all our lives."
Henry's heart squeezes in his chest, leaking out a warm, tremulous feeling. He's smiling too. "Or you could have been a peasant boy. And we'd have grown up skinning our knees, and running wild, and wrestling into the mud."
"We already do that," Hans laughs, squeezing his arm so his nose digs into Henry's cheek. "Besides, let's keep things realistic. You would have made an excellent nobleman, were you trained up from birth, but I'd be an awful peasant. Who wants to toil all day? I'd have drank myself to death, just like those bitter wretches you see at taverns at times."
"I don't know about that. I think it would have suited you. A simpler kind of life."
"Suited me! Don't insult me, you rube."
"It would have," Henry insists, stubborn for some unknown reason. "You would have been happier. You'd have had parents, and friends, a whole bunch of them to run around with. Christ, I bet you would have been our ringleader too," he chuckles, letting the image sink into his mind: a tiny Hans, blond and grinning, fast as the devil, loud in his laughter. A good-natured little bully of a leader. "You and your mad ideas. You'd have us running the craziest games, I just know it."
Hans doesn't share in the mirth. He looks shocked, staring back at Henry with wide eyes, so wide the blue of them seems sky-bright, glass-like, shimmering. His mouth is open. He swallows, works his lips around stalled words, then he—he sits upright with a whirl, keeping his face away. Keeping his distance.
"Hans?" Henry says, immediately regretful. At Hans's sharp head-shake he stops, and simply rests his palm low on Hans's back.
The leaves rustle overhead, and Hans keeps being still, saying nothing. His shoulders are drawn tight up to his ears. His inhales are quiet but—sharp. Syncopated. Like he's holding them in, keeping them tight and secret in his lungs until he has no choice but to exhale. The motion makes his body tremble.
Henry's heart sinks. He's intimately familiar with all the rhythms of Hans's breathing—knows what he sounds like when he's in pain, limping on his good leg—when he's fighting, puffing strained exhales against Henry's cheek as their swords struggle in a clinch—when he's feeling pleasure, the quick jack-rabbit gasps before he lets go and spills.
The sounds he makes now are both foreign and familiar. He's crying.
"Fuck." Henry sits up and throws his arms around Hans, knocking bodily into him in his great rush. "Hans—I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," he babbles nonsensically, even though he did mean it, and it wasn't even supposed to hurt. But how could it not? Henry had accidentally pressed into a bruise that never healed, a constant bleeding wound of catastrophic, soul-annihilating loneliness. He knows exactly how it feels to cut a solitary figure on the horizon, to have no one in life to care for and no one taking care of you.
He knows it well; he's been living it since Skalitz.
Next to him Hans breathes in sharply one last time, exhales, and rubs his nose. "Christ," he says hoarsely. Despite everything, his eyes are completely dry. "I'm sorry, Henry. I don't know what the hell came over me just then."
"It's alright. Happens to the best of us." Henry squeezes Hans's nape once, then does it again, a rhythmic substitute for something more affectionate. "Blame it on my prodigious skills."
Hans laughs, a weak, wobbly sound that nonetheless rings true. "I think our experiment turned out a bit dangerous."
Henry hums. "Wanna stop doing it? Be more well-behaved from now on, like the good, god-fearing fellows that we are?"
"Absolutely not!" Hans laughs, and it sounds stronger this time, louder and pealing. His mouth keeps smiling afterwards, a coy little curve. "You're not getting out from my mad schemes that easily," he says, a fake threat and a proclamation both, his lordly confidence belying something more vulnerable. Something that doesn't need to be acknowledged.
Henry grins back. He wants, madly, to kiss him. And maybe Hans can read his mind after all, or has a crazed affliction of his own, because he leans forward and pecks Henry on the lips, quick and swift and friendly, a sweet burst that has them both laughing.
"Well!" Hans exclaims, and hops up to his feet in one agile motion. He stretches his long arms to the heavens, his loose hose drooping just enough to reveal the round curve of his buttocks, the idiot. The buffoon. "I think it's time we practised some actual swordfighting now, if we don't want Bernard to tan our hides."
Henry groans. "Wasn't this exercise enough?"
"Hardly! And don't even think of pulling a fast one over the old bear—he'll know if we've skipped training, trust me."
Hans waves an imperious hand in front of Henry's face for him to grab. Henry does so, then pulls Hans downwards just for a second, just to make him stumble. Hans's revenge comes in the form of a kick to the part of Henry's arse that isn't pressed against the ground, which isn't a particularly large part. It's a bad angle. The hit barely registers.
Through it all their hands remain clasped, and when Hans pulls him up again, Henry follows.