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Although the bathwater has started to cool, Hans can't bring himself to stand just yet. He's scrubbed himself as clean he can manage with his chest and shoulder wrapped, though he'd enlisted the help of a bathmaid for much of his back. It seems she's since gone to bed like most of the others, with the unspoken agreement that he can stay—a recent development, since they'd all returned so battered. Hans takes whatever comforts he can get: a long bath, a good cut of roasted beef, a crisp apple or pear. Like every man who'd been besieged at Suchdol, he's still building back the strength he'd lost to hunger. It's a slow process, but every small pleasure is sweeter now.
The Devil's Den is far from actually comfortable, but it serves its purpose well enough. At least here Hans is breathing fresh air as a free man. That fresh air smells quite strongly of piss and beer, but he has little room to complain. Somehow, it spreads all the way to the makeshift baththouse, mingling with lye soap and perfume. He would have lived happily for the rest of his life without smelling the combination.
The bruise on the left side of his ribcage—a bitter reminder of Nebakov, and of every hit he's taken since—has continued to turn. It's faded quite a bit, the deep purple slowly speckling into various shades of yellow and green. It proved a decent way of telling time while he'd been locked up: how long he'd spent at Maleshov waiting for something, anything. Life as a noble hostage was, among other things, painfully boring.
On particularly cold mornings, Hans liked to stick his hand out of the window and let the air batter him for as long as he could stand it. And then a bit longer still.
He presses down on the bruise, watching the skin blanch and darken. The low ache of it became comforting while he waited. How long has he prevented it from fully healing like this? More than a month, but the days blur together.
How long could he prevent a wedding?
"You're up late." Henry stands at the opening of the tent, looking him up and down. "Oh. You've got your shoulder wet again."
Hans only now realizes that he's let it sink beneath the water. "I don't think it's going to kill me."
"Alright. If it festers, don't come crying to me," Henry replies, stepping up to stand next to him. "Or you can give me your arm and let me fix it, if you're ready to get out."
"Or you could join me. You could certainly use it," he pokes him swiftly in the chest, "you smell like a wild boar."
Henry dips a few fingers in the water, letting out a disappointed sigh. He flicks a few drops into Hans's face. "It's gone cold, you ass."
"You know, you have impressively terrible bedside manner for someone who claims any interest in my health," Hans says. "I should have had the bathmaid look at it. She was much nicer. Even offered to suck me off."
This is enough to make Henry visibly bristle, maybe with annoyance. "Do you want my help or not?"
Hans scratches a hand through his hair with a sigh, and agrees. The air is chilly on his skin as he reaches for the blanket that the bathmaid left behind. He lets it rest on his shoulders, taking a seat on a low bench while Henry rummages through the trunk.
"Nice of them to let you stay again," he says, brushing his hands across his gambeson as he stands, successful in his search.
"I pay well and I'm good company," Hans replies. "Back in Rattay I once had a bathmaid return my money. Can you believe that?"
Henry ignores his question, instead crouching to get a closer look and carefully snipping the bandage free. The part resting against the arrow wound is slightly stuck, tearing at the skin as it comes off. Hans sucks a hissing breath in through his teeth, but doesn't look away.
"Ow. Christ." The cotton rag Henry holds against the puncture point feels like sackcloth against his skin. "Don't get me wrong, Henry, I'm glad to be alive, but this is getting old. I thought it'd be better by now."
"It's healing," Henry tells him. "I should clean it again to be safe, though. Have you got any schnapps with you?"
"There." Hans nods to the bottle he'd nicked from the kitchen on the way here. "Better than drinking it. It's terrible."
"You should tell them." Henry grabs it anyway, popping out the cork. "I'm sure the innkeeper would love to hear that."
"Why not? It's been some time since we started a good tavern brawl. It might be fun."
"Hold still." A trickle of clear liquor hits the wound. It stings something awful, but it's far from as bad as it was.
"Were there many dances in Skalitz?"
Henry looks up just as he secures the bandage, his eyes scanning across Hans's face, the bruising on his ribcage, the dimly lit tent. Although the bathwater is tepid at best by now, its steam warmed the air enough to produce tiny beads of sweat on Henry's forehead.
"I'll remind you that I was a peasant. Laborawhateveritwas."
"Laboratores."
"And now I'm what, exactly? Did you ever decide?" There's an earnestness in his voice.
He doesn't have an answer. It's becoming tedious, the uncertainty. Not knowing when he—they, Hans tries to remind himself that he will not be going alone—will be called back to face his future. Not knowing where either of them will be in a year, a decade. Not knowing what will become of this strange thing has grown between them, and within them, binding them together. Whatever it is, it's staring him in the face. It's a thing with teeth.
Hans finds the will to smile back at it, and at Henry. "Something else," he says, then loudly adding, "I don't know. Annoying."
"Sometimes I wonder if you can hear yourself when you talk."
Through the slim crack in the tent's curtain, Hans can barely make out the warm light from the tavern. The small stretch of forest separating them from the Devil's Den is enough to make it feel world's away, though he can hear the buzz of laughter and music coming from inside. Here, the lamplight doesn't quite reach the corners, but still manages to illuminate Henry's face in orange and yellow. Almost golden, like a painting of a saint.
A slight chill in the breeze reminds Hans that he is still stripped down to his braies. He recalls leaving his clothes in a pile, but finds them folded neatly on the bench.
"We had plenty of dances and festivals, by the way," Henry says finally. "They just looked different from what you're used to."
"You'd have had me fooled." His voice is slightly muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head. "At Semine, those girls were tailing like they'd caught a scent, and you didn't seem to notice."
"Sure I noticed. I danced with some of them."
"You flailed around, I'll give you that."
"Oh, come off it. I was fine."
"You were passable. I guess." It's true enough. Barely. "What exactly were you doing before you came out here?"
"I was about to go to bed," he replies, kicking up a bit of dirt with the heel of his boot. "I wanted to come find you. Make sure you weren't captured again."
Hans gestures widely, arms outstretched. "You found me."
The look he gets in return is a long one.
"It's true, you know," Hans continues, his mouth suddenly dry. "She really did return my money."
"God, give me strength."
"Help me up, will you?" he asks, and Henry is already pulling him to his feet. Their hands meet at the palm rather clumsily, fingers knitting together.
He'd tried to memorize him that night at Suchdol, but they'd both been bordering on delirious. It had been too difficult to pinpoint anything other than feelings. Soft touches, breath on skin. He'd missed a great deal, and is just now beginning to uncover all of the details: how the front part of Henry's hair curls and falls into his face when he sweats. How his nose flushes alongside his cheeks when he's embarrassed or excited. How his shoulders slope inward just slightly—more evidence of years spent hunched over, hammering at the forge. Something Bernard has tried to correct at least a dozen times in the training yard.
"Here," Hans presses his free hand against Henry's upper back, gently adjusting his posture. "Practice for the next wedding you attend. Keep your back straight. That is, if you want to impress a lady."
"If I want to impress a lady," Henry parrots him. They're nearly nose to nose; if his squire were a few hairs taller, they'd be perfectly at eye level. Hans can feel his breathing. His rapid heartbeat, too, thrumming just beneath his thumb. "Alright, Sir Hans. How do I impress a lady?"
Kissing Henry is an instinct he's had, unknown and unnamed, for some time. The actual feeling—the way Henry's mouth opens a little to the side, the warmth of his tongue, the rough patches on both of their faces—is still quite new. The first time they fought, Henry had punched him square in the mouth. Hans's lip bled for hours after, and he couldn't escape the taste of iron for the next two days. It's a similar kind of warmth. They fall into each other the way they did then, but this time the ground greets them like a friend.
"Shouldn't we go back?" Henry asks, weaving his hand into Hans's hair, his mouth at his neck. He lowers both of them even more, straddling him gently, and again Hans thinks of fighting and falling, of the moment of impact.
"No." He decides it in the moment as he breathes in the smell of him. "No, let's stay."
"What, would His Lordship would prefer to roll around in the dirt?"
"Don't act so shocked. You saw my camp."
"Suit yourself." Henry's already flushed face cracks into a wide grin, and this time he kisses Hans, like he did at Suchdol, like he's done since then as often as they can allow. The time is not theirs, not really, but they take it anyway.
Whatever lines divide them bend and fray and blur in the moment. Hans's fingers find the buttons on Henry's gambeson, and he is left wondering about the knight and his squire in the poem. He presses his hand against his chest as Henry slides out of the sleeves, feeling for his heartbeat. It's steadier now than it was the first time, though still quick; Henry has recovered from the siege quite a bit faster, building back fat and muscle and softer edges. He shifts his weight a bit, accidentally pressing his knee into the bruise on Hans's side. There's that comforting ache again, pressure against tender skin. Hans winces more out of surprise than anything else, but Henry still goes to pull his leg away.
"Don't." His face goes hot as he feels his blood run faster, rushing to his cheeks, between his legs. "It's… nice."
A string of apologies seem to die on his lips. "Oh." Henry presses a little harder against the bruise, and Hans feels the fabric of his braies tighten even more. "That?"
He shudders, barely managing a breathy "Yes."
"…Do you want another?"
"Yes." It sounds so much more stupid than he'd hoped. The words hang between them in the air, in what little space they can find. He pulls himself back onto the bench, and Henry's hands follow, resting on his knees.
"Where?"
Hans grins, despite himself, and Henry is already tugging up his shirt, dragging his mouth down his chest and stomach.
"You're thinking about something," Henry mumbles, finally settling his head against his thigh. "What is it?"
"I'm taking back what I said about the bathmaid."
Henry pinches him above the hip. "That's not all."
"What?" He swats his hand away. "It was a compliment."
"Sure it was. And you're dodging the question."
"It's nothing new." Hans feels as if his heart has lodged itself somewhere in his throat. "I'm getting married."
He's tested the words before, quietly, trying to make them taste sweeter. In the quiet of their room, while Henry snores next to him. In the forest when he takes a walk. In the quiet of a bath. It hasn't worked yet.
Henry pulls himself up slightly so he can reach his face again. He coils a lock of Hans's still-damp hair around his finger.
"I love your hair like this." Almost a whisper. Hans tries not to hang on the way Henry's mouth moves around the first two syllables.
"Henry…" He tests this word, too, each time he says it. Henry settles himself back to where he was, his head resting on Hans's leg. His chin digs slightly into his thigh.
"Did you hear any news?"
"No," Hans tells him, a sigh escaping his lips. "But it's coming. I finally have my freedom in hand, and it flies away again."
"It could still fall through. Maybe she'll think you're ugly."
He laughs louder than he should. "I doubt that. Just my luck. But maybe I'll fuck it up enough to delay it—that would be something."
"We could go to Kuttenberg, then. Play at being burghers."
Hans groans at the thought. "Half the nobility already know about it. More by now. If I embarrass myself that badly, Kuttenberg won't be far enough."
"Where, then?"
A pang of grief ripples through his chest. There's an unspoken rule amongst hunters against prolonging the suffering of an animal. It's an act of mercy to kill downed prey, even if it tries to fight or flee. He thinks of the first stag he felled in Trosky. It must have felt like this, in the seconds before he'd put it out of its misery.
Hans swallows the feeling as best he can. "Let's say we run away."
"Where to?" Henry asks, pressing a kiss against the inside of his thigh. He opens his mouth just enough to suck a bit of skin against his tongue. The sharp points of his teeth dig into already sore muscle; Hans quickly bites down on the knuckle of his thumb, burying a cry, the rest of his body seizing up. Henry continues upward, leaving a deep red spot in his wake.
"I don't know," Hans replies, trying to gather his wits again, but there's no room for them. "Constantinople. Or Florence. Though you were shit at Italian, so—"
"You do the talking, and we can go to Florence."
"That would require you to keep your mouth shut. Not a talent of yours." Hans feels his hand slide beneath his braies, pulling them lower, grazing against him.
"I don't think you'd enjoy that much," Henry says. "Me keeping my mouth shut."
There are some barriers between them that they've crossed before, and some they haven't. Sometimes they blur together until they're fuzzy at the edges, forgetting where one ends and the other begins. Soft lines. Hard lines. Henry holds the length of him in his hand, and Hans melts beneath him, his skin burning hot. The new spot on his thigh, where Henry's mouth had been, is cool against the summer air. The only place on his body that isn't on fire.
Hans's hand finds the back of Henry's shoulder and the scar the arrow left. The tissue is softer than the rest, slightly raised. He'll have the mark forever.
He thinks of his shoulder, too.
Henry shivers, gooseflesh trailing beneath the soft movement of Hans's hand.
"Does that hurt?" Hans asks.
Henry pauses, looking up at him. "No," he says. "It just feels different. The skin is thinner. Like I can feel more."
"What does it feel like?"
"It's warmer." His hand works upward again in strokes, and Hans's body reacts on instinct, pressing against him. "What does this feel like?"
Another rush runs through him. "Perfect."
"And this?"
He tries to breathe, but that shakes as much as the rest of him. Henry's lips part as he takes him into his mouth, and Hans fails to hold back a gasp.
"Fuck. Henry," he moans. "I'm not going to last."
Henry hums against him, pulling him deeper as Hans grips at his hair to steady himself. The summer heat has brought out the texture, so it curls delicately around his fingers, softer than expected. He leans his head back, sucking a breath in as quietly as he can manage. There's a headiness to the air now, buzzing like the energy at a tavern. Henry's tongue presses against and around him, and the rest of his body is on fire again, tired muscles pulled taut to the point of straining.
"Your hand," he manages. "Give me your hand."
Henry offers one while the other roams across Hans's hips. His skin prickles everywhere that his hands go, and he thinks he might turn into clay. Another new feeling. He's been collecting every kind of touch from Henry that he can, even before he understood why. Helping, hurting, a friendly greeting, a balled fist. The feelings overwhelm him, stinging the places he's touched before. The bruise on his thigh, fresh and bright, glistening from spit and sweat. The memory of hurt at the corner of his mouth. A collection of fleeting moments that he'd like to keep forever.
The shock travels through him in a wave and back out his mouth. He can feel his body unfurling, spinning out of control, his breath disjointed and strained. He pushes himself out of Henry's mouth, finishing across his thigh, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.
When the air floods back into his lungs, and Hans is overcome with the urge to laugh. They could go anywhere, he thinks. They could just go. When Henry looks up at him, his mouth redder than before, it looks like he might ask him if he would.
Instead, he smiles, not quite smug. "Sorry. I'm no bathmaid."
"My God, you're unbelievable." Hans laughs, again, finally, and it feels like the sun is filling his chest, like he must be glowing. "Was that what brought this on? Jealousy?"
"Don't be daft." Henry leans into him, pressing his forehead to his chest, avoiding his bruised ribs. The shadows dance across the flushed skin of his back, and Hans can hardly pull his move his gaze away, his eyes heavy with a new wave of exhaustion.
"You keep changing me," Hans says, his voice less steady than he'd like. "Everything keeps changing."
Henry motions for a space on the bench and join him, their knees touching.
"I know."
"I wasn't ready," he admits. "I don't think I was. And now it's all different again."
"Not all of it." Henry brushes a strand of hair from Hans's face, but his hand lingers for a moment. Another new kind of touch. "I still go where you go."
When Hans thinks of his wedding, he can picture everything but the bride. She is formless, a glaring absence, as unknowable as the life he will live after. But he can picture Henry there, too. He can see him clearly, standing in a meadow, the castle green, the smithy. Sitting beside him, here, now. Clearer than ever.
"I think I'll turn in." Hans stretches his arms above his head. "You'll come with me, then?"
"I said I would. Anywhere," Henry replies. "Anywhere."
He's going to keep this moment, too.