Chapter Text
Their routine these days consists of cataloguing and archiving in the mornings, then Henry joins his father in the forge while Hans continues on his own. Sometimes he sinks into his work so deep the hours rush by and Henry comes to get him for dinner.
As the weeks go by, Hans starts a tentative correspondence with the lead conservationist of the Sasau monastery and tells everything they discuss to Henry. The email thread carries a polite tone, the conservationist understands Henry's reluctance to part from these priceless documents and offers to help preserving and possibly restoring the most fragile pieces of the collection. Hans receives a forwarded contact, a PhD intern's by the name Mathias and they schedule an appointment with him. It feels promising to Hans even though Henry insists on seeing the exact location of the conservationist team's offices and write a contract about the upcoming project.
Still, he is grateful for Hans's help.
They drive to Sasau on a soft morning that looks powdered with golden sunshine. The monastery rises out of the riverbend with a quiet gravity, the kind of place that has held people’s prayers and secrets for centuries. Henry is excited, eager to see what the day holds and Hans is enthusiastic to be his guide. Since the forecast promised a pleasant day, Henry is in a simple black tee with jeans shorts while Hans opted for a white tank top underneath a beige shirt, with the buttons left open and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He also brought his DSLR camera for pictures and it doesn't take long for him to notice Henry curiously eyeballing the device and its case. Later. Hans will give it to him later when they are done with the official business.
Mathias, although Hans couldn't decipher this from his emails, turns out to be a young man their age. Messenger bag on his shoulder, he waits for them in front of the monastery and of course, Hans should have known, Henry's face lights up in recognition as Mathias's jaw drops and he yells out, "Henry?!"
"Mathias!"
Of course Henry has friends here too. Because Henry is Henry, humble in a way that never asks for applause, kind in a way that makes people feel seen and remember him.
Eagerly, the friends meet in a hug like they haven't seen each other in a long time and as Hans comes to know, they indeed haven't. Mathias's laughter echoes off century-old walls, then he shakes hands with Hans and he squints, tilting his head as the gears in his head begin to work.
"Wait a minute…" He glances between them, then smirks like a naughty cat and gently shoves at Henry. "You should've told me you're bringing Hans Capon, you bastard!"
"Ah, well," red dusting his cheeks, Henry nervously scratches at his nape with a bashful look at Hans who just grins, listening to the friends banter.
"Ah, well? I need to call Johanka, give me a moment!" Mathias is quick to dig around his phone, while Henry's eyes widen in surprise.
"Johanka? She's here too?"
It's Mathias's turn to look sheepish, he nods as his smile turns soft, "yeah, and we have a surprise for you, man. Been a long time since we talked…"
Inwardly, Hans hopes this won't turn into a spectacle and they won't ask for pictures. He is here on holiday, conducting private business he really doesn't want the world to know about. Mathias quickly types out a few messages while Henry tells Hans,
"He's also from Skalitz, as is Johanka. We grew up together."
"Yeah, she too is a fan of yours." Mathias adds, grumbling with put-on jealousy, "I had to start going to the gym because of you, thirst-trap in medieval armor…"
Naturally, Hans flashes a charming smile and runs his fingers through his hair, "I would say I'm sorry but that would be a lie!"
"Gym?" Henry teases Mathias with a poke into his side, "where? When?"
"Oh, fuck off—!" He puts the phone away and catches Henry's hand, all amusement draining from his expression as he genuinely asks, "how've you been?"
It doesn't escape Hans's attention how Henry detaches his hand from Mathias's hold right away and absent-mindedly swipes it a few times in a careful, soothing manner with his other one. He also just shrugs, like it's not important.
"Getting there," is what he settles on.
"I won't drill you about it, just wait until Johanka gets here, eh?"
She must be a formidable woman, Hans thinks, judging by Henry's wide-eyed nods like he is already mentally bracing himself.
Together they move the most fragile pieces of the archive — Henry’s family’s oldest surviving documents — into a stuffy office by the monastery. Hans watches the way Henry cradles every box as though it contains bones from a long-dead saint and stiffly looks around the space like he is looking for danger. It's endearing, Hans knows from experience that the parchments couldn't be safer anywhere else than in professional conservationist care but Henry's fierce attachment to them…
"Incredible," Mathias grumpily tells Hans in a low voice during their walk back to the car, for another round of boxes. "I begged him for years to let me see these and he just shows them to you like this." He snaps his fingers.
A wave of blush rushes down Hans's back. He knows his ears are getting red but inwardly he is balking at the revelation. Naturally, he plays it off with a wave of his hand and a witty remark about playing his irresistible face-card but Mathias sees right through him and shakes his head with a knowing, amused smirk.
In his mind, Hans scrambles to hold this new information. Apparently Mathias is an old-time friend of Henry's and he studies to become an archivist, actively works on his PhD dissertation on the topic and Henry still hasn't…? Allowed him into the loft?
What is so special about Hans that he would make an exception?
In the back of his mind, a tiny voice suggests Henry trusts him like none other, then goes on to say, maybe he is serious about you. Maybe that was his way of showing Hans his most precious treasures, like a possessive dragon letting a potential partner to see his hoard.
Hans bats it away like a bothersome fly. He can't let himself be distracted now when Henry's friend is talking about Johanka coming to have lunch with them and Henry is delighted by the news.
Next, Mathias tells Henry about the upcoming procedures the old documents will go through, emphasizes how careful they will be with each piece. He also adds, that he will have the lead conservationist assess them as well, just to be on the safe side. Being shown around, seeing the equipment and hearing professional dedication lace Mathias's every word somewhat calms Henry's nerves. His shoulders don't seem so tense anymore and the stern, guarded look in his eyes lessen somewhat.
Then they all sit in Hans's car to meet Johanka in the town's center. Hans can't shake off the feeling that this is turning into a double-date, especially when Mathias starts egging Henry about the circumstances of his and Hans's first meeting, if they knew each other before Kutná Hora (of course he heard about the debacle), if Hans has met Matthew and Fritz (he hasn't)—
Fortunately the drive into town doesn't last long and immediately, upon spotting Johanka in front of the restaurant, Henry bolts from the car to see her. Behind Hans, Mathias laughs on the backseat as they get out too, telling Hans, "I knew it, he's gonna be so happy, just watch."
Johanka turns out to be a tiny yet very elegant young lady with her hair in a tight bun, wearing denim overalls with a visible bump in the front — oh.
"Baby!" Henry smiles so happily, it's infectious, Hans is grinning ear to ear too.
Johanka's bubbling laughter could banish evil from the surface of the earth, Hans is sure of it. She opens her arms to receive Henry's gentle, cautious hug around her front and echoes with equal joy,
"Baby!"
"I can't believe it! You're having a baby!"
Hans has never heard Henry overflow with glee like this. Johanka barely reaches up to his shoulders and she is pregnant so Henry needs to hold himself back from embracing her too tightly with that incredible strength of his. It's truly heartwarming to see them reunite after, what Hans assumes, must be a long time. What happened, that they haven't kept in touch?
Her short stature is enveloped by Henry's figure but she pats him on the shoulders and extracts herself to greet Hans too, "oh my, welcome to Sasau! I'm Johanka, and you've already met my fiancé, Mathias."
"A pleasure," Hans accepts her wordless request to give him friendly kisses on the cheeks, and bends down to her level.
"I hope you're hungry, this place is legendary," Mathias ushers them towards the entrance while Johanka falls in step beside Hans and Henry.
"How have you been?" She asks Henry with a happy, yet pointed look.
"Good, good," he answers, humble as ever— but Hans can't miss the way he glances his way with affection dancing in his gaze.
"It's been so long Henry, I expect you to tell us everything!"
"I'll do my best, let's find a table first."
Turns out, Hans was correct. It is a double-date.
Hans sits in a rustic restaurant with these three gentle souls, all warmth and the ease of familiarity, and realizes how simple all of this really is. To belong here, to belong with them— Johanka and Mathias don't expect him to perform. They call him Hans, no put-on airs, no needling about his work, they are simply happy to see Henry and him, together. No expectations.
It's odd. Delightful but odd, to be faced with such easy acceptance and not being expected to give anything back. He is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to ask for a picture together or ask about when is he returning to streaming or video-making—but it just doesn't happen. Johanka's sharp gaze carries such inherent understanding it also inwardly pins Hans to his spot. She watches Henry lean back in the booth and wrap an arm around Hans's waist, out of sight for anyone outside their booth but cozy and warm just among friends. Instinctively, Hans relaxes into Henry's touch before realizing what this means, but when he shoots an alarmed glance at Johanka, she just smiles and carries on with the conversation, intertwining her fingers with Mathias's on the table.
The glint in her eyes is clear. She sees him, sees them and she is more than happy to encourage Hans to lean into it.
They seem so lovely. A young couple, just like them. Hans imagines long afternoons in their company, just hanging out. Sundays, trying out restaurants like this and catching up, Henry's knee brushing against his under the table, Johanka's gentle laugh and Mathias's stories about—apparently, starting a woodworking hobby.
He imagines it so vividly he can almost fool himself into believing it could happen. Which is precisely why his heart squeezes, hard and warning. Nothing could be this simple.
So he smooths the edges of his expression, turns the ache into charm, the longing into easy banter. Hans Capon, the expert of pleasant façades. No one sees the quiet fracture running through the middle of his ribs.
Their lunch arrives. Steaming hot, delicious and fragrance full of promise. Hans doesn't pay any mind to Henry holding the spoon the way he does, his grip either on the very end of the utensil for improved balance or with a slightly more force than necessary but Johanka notices. She doesn't stare, no, but her eyes keep wandering to the taut, scarred skin covering Henry's fingers and the stumps too. Credit where it's due, Mathias notes the disfigurement as well but resolutely avoids looking in order to keep his attention on Henry and their conversation instead.
Still, Hans can't help shifting a little closer to Henry when he begins putting the spoon down between mouthfuls and hiding his hand in his lap. To his relief, Henry's eyes maintain their delighted sparkle, he smiles but Hans has learned to find the glimmer of bashful, reclusive notes in the smallest shift of his eyebrows and an unspoken nervousness lingering under the surface.
Before Hans would examine this staunch, stubborn feeling of protectiveness swelling in his chest, he gathers Henry's hand into his and swipes a reassuring thumb over the rough texture of the graft on his wrist. The gesture takes Henry out of his thoughts and from his turn in the discussion to look at Hans instead —and it's like Hans is pulling him back into the present, back to himself.
Those eyes, captivating like the ocean deep, fill with understanding. Tension, like soft vapors, waft off from Henry's shoulders and the crinkle in the corners of his eyes smooths out, even once more.
The moment between them couldn't have been longer than a few seconds, but for Hans… he tucks it away into the most sheltered corner of his heart. He vows to capture his devotion later by kissing Henry's hands, his knuckles, his scars with the reverence they are due.
Soon, Johanka's lunch-break is up and they walk her back to her workplace. While Mathias and Henry are having fun, lagging behind, Johanka and Hans exchange amused comments in the front.
It goes like this.
"Congratulations man," with friendly pats on Mathias's shoulder, Henry gives his buddy a second-or-two to think he lets him off the hook, only to follow with, "you homewrecker!"
"Wha—!" Mathias snorts a wheeze, punching him in the bicep, "what the fuck, why?!"
"Why would she settle for you, eh? Poor kid's gonna look like an egg with caterpillars for eyebrows!"
Mathias whines, "Johankaa, Henry is bullying me!"
She is too busy laughing and leaning on to Hans for support in the front.
Hans has never heard Henry roast someone like that before.
"It's so nice to see him smile again," Johanka softly tells him, just between them.
Once again, Hans finds himself filing this information away for later inspection. By his side, Johanka mischievously winks at him and drops another bombshell that threatens to block out the sun and turn every sound around them into white noise—
"It's like he is glowing. Never seen him happy like this."
For a few seconds Hans focuses on keeping her pace and asserting vicelike control over his expression. Just the slightest pinch of his eyebrows betray how he finds her comments intriguing (a gigantic understatement). He keeps his tone light yet quiet, so the men in the back wouldn't overhear.
"How come?"
"Ah… you see… " It takes a moment for Johanka to compose her reply. Her gaze trails off in the distance and she pouts a little before settling on, "he changed a lot after Theresa. That… and his injury hit him hard. We weren't even allowed to visit more than once. And when we did, well."
It's rather telling, how her eyes drop to the pavement and her lips press into a thin line. It didn't go well.
From the back, Hans hears Henry honest-to-God giggle at Mathias nearly faceplanting into a lamppost.
Theresa…? Searching his memory, Hans comes up empty handed. He's never heard of this person. Surely by now he would've spotted her on the dozens of photographs on the walls in Henry's parents' home? She wasn't in the photo albums Anna showed him either. Curious. Henry would've mentioned her if she was around, no?
Chancing a glance back, he confirms neither Henry or Mathias pay them any mind when he murmurs to Johanka, "forgive me for being blunt, but who is Theresa? An ex of his?"
"The only ex of his," she corrects him, not firmly just quick-witted. They are short on time, after all.
Hans's heart constricts, hoping this isn't about Henry having to go through someone cheating on him. Fortunately he doesn't have to dwell on it long because Johanka quietly mumbles to him,
"Henry went to study metallurgy, got apprenticeships elsewhere. He loved traveling," she pauses for a moment then confirms Mathias hasn't called out to her, just mimicked something silly Henry said. To keep her pace and hear her better, Hans acts like he is clearing his throat to bend down a little. "Then he came back, said he wants to go on Masters, see the world, she told him she won't wait. Essentially, demoted him to FWB until he would decide to settle down. No compromises."
It takes significant self-control for Hans not to whip around to stare at Henry. Poor Henry. Attentive, caring, loving Henry—who just wanted to follow his dreams.
He fakes a chuckle, acting like he is laughing at something Johanka told him but she sees the pained, stunned rise of his eyebrows and knows that's not the case.
"That's…"
"We were…" she balks at the memory too, shaking her head. "I follow Mathias anywhere his studies take him. I'm a nurse with specializations, it's easier for me to get a job but…"
She needn't continue. Hans understands. She wouldn't force Mathias in front of such an ultimatum.
Just like Hans wouldn't make Henry choose between him or his passion. Wouldn't force him to move to Prague or to come along to events and trips around Europe if he didn't want to. It would never come down to an either-or scenario, Hans is sure of it. Come to think of it, they began their relationship entirely online, separated by circumstance and weighed down by the unknown. It was Hans who put his foot down and decided to come to Skalitz. He chose Henry.
In the same instant, he knows he wouldn't force Henry to abandon his life for his sake. After all, Hans is one of those lucky few, who can take their work stations anywhere in the world. Accommodating his life to Henry's craft is deceptively easy for him to do, therefore he is in no position to judge Theresa's decision, even if it must have wounded Henry.
"So he went to study, right?" Hans prods a little further.
He fully expects Johanka to nod and confirm, yes, Henry made his dreams come true.
But that's not what happens. Her eyes remain resolutely on the path in front, lips in a tense line. Silence is his only answer. Ice-cold disappointment forms in his guts as realization seeps deep, he needs to focus on keeping an amicable expression so Henry won't spot something is amiss.
Hans has no time to dwell on it. Purpose clear in her gesture, Johanka takes his hand into hers and squeezes it.
"That's in the past now," her voice is placating. Almost like an apology, saccharine by the edges but every word lands heavy with meaning. "Like I said earlier… it's really nice to see him smile again. He looks happy, like he is glowing."
For the rest of the walk, she holds his hand. To outsiders it might even look like Hans is her significant other, instead of Mathias but Hans doesn't mind her touch. Her hand is soft and warm, wordlessly reassuring him of her support. The conversation between them stirs to lighter topics, often interrupted by the two silly geese following them.
Like rambunctious puppies, Henry and Mathias discuss everything and anything that comes to their minds, from ice hockey to Formula 1, organizing a board game evening in the near future with the four of them— at which, Johanka voices her enthusiastic agreement.
Hans keeps at his nonchalant charm act with natural ease. Even though this new revelation has brought so many of Henry's quirks into new light. As Hans's mind begin connecting the dots, the more this insistent urge grows inside his chest to tell Henry everything he should know.
Better rip the band-aid off now, Hans reasons… and at the same time, the intent to invite Henry along for an upcoming medieval event in Poland solidifies with previously unseen fervor.
After they take Mathias back to the monastery, Hans gets the DSLR camera from the backseat and with a put-on defeated sigh, immediately gives in to the starry sparkles of Henry's puppy eyes and hands it over to him. Right away, like a child who received the best gift for Christmas, Henry excitedly holds the camera while Hans gives him a speedrun in handling it. Just the very basics, then with a deadpan expression, he lets Henry take a few photos of his face from a few inches away.
"Perfection," Henry exclaims with a confident grin. He shows the picture to Hans but seeing his own face in HD from ten centimeters away makes him burst out laughing, he needs to hold onto the car to steady himself.
"No Henry! Oh my god! Delete that!"
"No! Let me take more!"
"Wait, wait— you can take more but not here, okay? We could take some by the church and then by the river?"
Henry, who apparently became an expert in photoshooting under five minutes, sagely nods. "Oh, I see the vision! Let's go!"
This is how Hans becomes the center-piece of Henry's new hobby. It takes a bit of getting used to for Henry to balance the camera with only seven fingers and a sensitive right wrist, but the neck-strap certainly helps. He starts experimenting with different angles and lighting and before Hans realizes what's happening, Henry is telling him to stand like this, look that way, stop fidgeting, there is an eyelash on your cheek—
Seeing him so enthralled by taking pictures of Hans is as heartwarming as it is adorable. A new hobby, a new way for him to show his appreciation for Hans and it doesn't take long for Hans to realize, Henry genuinely enjoys this. It isn't just curiosity and the marvel of learning something new. He doesn't expect Hans to do anything extraordinary, just to be himself and adjust his pose every now and then for Henry to take the shot.
So, it's by Henry's insistence that they walk down to the Sasau river's bank, near the monastery.
The grass by the river is soft from the early summer heat, carrying that warm green smell that belongs to childhood afternoons and lazy days with no responsibilities. Hans settles into it with a content sigh, knees bent, hands braced behind him, the breeze teasing the open hem of his beige shirt. The sunlight hits him like it’s been waiting all day for the chance — gilding the edge of his jaw, catching strands of his golden hair and turning them into a halo.
“Just sit like that,” Henry says, lowering himself into the grass a few steps away, camera already raised. “Don’t move.”
Hans lets out a small laugh, tilts his head just slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You sound very sure of yourself all of a sudden, Mr. Cameraman.”
“I am,” Henry answers without thinking, eyes glued to the viewfinder. “That’s perfect. Hold still.”
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each shutter feels like the beat of a heart.
Hans watches him between shots — the way Henry bites the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating, how he braces the camera against his palm carefully to avoid strain, how his whole expression goes soft but focused when he looks at Hans through the lens.
The breeze brushes Hans’s shirt back, revealing the white tank top underneath. Warm, pale sunlight trails down his collarbones, over the open buttons, over skin the color of old novels. He lies back in the grass with a sigh. For a few seconds Hans allows himself to sink into the serenity of this moment, eyes fluttering shut.
It's so rare that he catches a break… this feels nice.
Suddenly, click.
Hans laughs, low and breathy, turning to face Henry, “what was that for?”
“You,” Henry murmurs. “Just… you.”
He doesn’t elaborate. Can’t. The words in his chest are seemingly too big, too tight, too much all at once. It's all in his serene, deep blue eyes.
After a few moments, Hans pushes himself up on his elbows to sit and extends a hand. “Let me see.”
Henry hesitates, gaze dropping to the camera. It's only a tiny, nervous pause but Hans already knows this means a lot to him, before passing the device over.
Hans scrolls. And his breath catches.
The photos are… alive. Candid, not staged. Nothing like his reenactment work or streaming thumbnails or carefully planned content. These are warm, impossibly tender. Henry caught the way the sun touched his cheekbones. The softness around his smile. The brightness in his eyes. The way the sun turned his hair into light.
Hans’s throat tightens. His lashes flutter once, twice, like he’s trying to blink something back into place but all he can think is… these are all great, exactly because they weren't made with professional calculations in mind. These exude a kind of reverence that sits thick as honey on his throat and settle into a pool of affection for Henry, who slots himself by Hans's side and patiently waits for the verdict.
“This is…” Hans's voice cracks, embarrassingly quiet. “Henry. These are—”
Henry shrugs like it’s nothing, but his ears flush pink. He likes these pictures.
“Just took what I saw,” he mumbles, off-handed on the surface but the deep, quiet rumble of his voice tells otherwise.
Hans looks up, searching his gaze.
What he saw. This is how he sees Hans?
He presses a palm over his sternum for a second, as if trying to steady a sudden ache. No one’s ever looked at him like this — not through a camera, not in a moment, not in a lifetime. No one’s ever bothered to capture him with this kind of affection, this shameless admiration. Henry immortalized these moments each like he intends them to be framed and cherished.
How could Hans feel anything but love coursing through his veins, for this man?
And Henry, bless him, is probably unaware of how devastatingly loving these photos are.
Caution thrown to the wind, Hans reaches out, curling a hand into Henry’s shirt and tugging him forward. Their mouths meet with the kind of ease that comes from months slipping into each other as naturally as breathing. Hans leans back into the grass, pulling Henry over him, fingers sliding into Henry’s hair, holding him close like he’ll fall apart without the contact.
Henry kisses him slow, steady, smiling. Whatever Hans was worried about this morning dissolves under the press of Henry’s lips, the weight of his body, the soft huff of breath against his cheek.
Henry exhales into the kiss, a soft sound, almost a hum.
“You're beautiful,” he whispers against Hans's mouth, tugging him closer, arms around his shoulders as if he could anchor the sun itself.
He kisses Henry again, and again, until the world narrows to the grass beneath them, the tranquil flow of the river nearby, and the feeling of being seen by someone who believes he’s worth every frame.
The little voice in the back of his mind suggests, Henry wouldn't just up and leave.
And this time, Hans lets the thought stay.
Hans has never been a morning-person.
He has multiple reasons for this.
For one, growing up in Hanush's cold, pristine household Hans had learned to keep out of his uncle's sight if he wished for an illusion of peace. On weekends even after his eyes opened, Hans would lie still under the covers and listen, let the silence grow in the halls and swallow the sounds of his breath as if in a vacuum. He would listen to Hanush speaking to the staff and decipher from his tone what sort of mood his uncle woke up with, on that particular morning.
He would keep his movements quiet and methodical as he would dress, clean himself up and join him in the dining room for breakfast, knowing full well even if he presented himself perfectly groomed, Hanush would find something to needle him about regardless.
Hans never liked Hanush. The sentiment was mutual. His uncle could never turn a blind eye to Hans's failings. They were different in every way it mattered. Temper, ambitions, interests.
Over time, Hans grew resentful yet accepted the fact that he could never live up to Hanush's expectations. Moving out, renting a small apartment in Prague near to the university helped sorting his thoughts about the matter but his scorn for mornings never abated.
He would wake up, and his mind would begin flooding with tasks. Everything that gave him comfort would fade away; the steady beat of his own heart, the soft warmth of his bed. Similar to being suspended in air, Hans felt like he was held in place by strings ready to yank him in the nearest task's direction. Even if he had yet to move, his focus would harden. He could never truly rest.
University, then streaming from his tiny rented flat had transformed what he hoped to call 'home' into a workplace. His bedroom/living room is his office.
Hans hated waking up.
These days, the sudden, bright emotion in the mornings surprises him. His senses stir and Hans feels a solid, anchoring presence by his side. He stays in place and picks up Henry's sweet, masculine scent, listens to his slow breathing and waits.
He feels Henry inches away from him. Sometimes he is awake already, Hans feels his gaze on himself like a soothing palm on his scalp, lulling him back to rest. Sometimes when he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Henry's sleepy, dark blue gaze looking through the windows of his soul.
He lies still. Henry wraps his fingers into a warm, steady hold and keeps looking at him like Hans is a hidden-away treasure only for Henry to admire. In this moment, Hans aches for him.
Henry sees him for who he is. He sees the ambition in Hans's soul, he sees the desperation to excel, to prove his worth and his place in the world. He sees every bargain Hans had made over the years, every scrap and dignity he traded away for the one thing he yearned for the most.
Hans wishes, most fervently, ardently, that he could tell Henry why. Even though he knows Henry would understand, Hans is not sure he can bare the darkest, coldest corners of his soul to him just yet. Soon. Sometimes the words are on the tip of his tongue but he worries.
It hasn't escaped his notice that Henry never asks for more than what he is willing to give but now that he knows Henry has been burned in the past (literally and figuratively too), there is a persistent urge in Hans to clear things up. To avoid misunderstandings. To bare all cards on the table and reassure Henry, it isn't him who needs to strive to stay in Hans's life. Quite the opposite. It is Hans, who needs to keep up.
Whatever the future holds, Hans wants to figure it out by Henry by his side. The blank journal is the physical form of his ardent wish.
As such, this overwhelming affection finds Hans in the silence of these calm summer mornings, answering and pleading his self-flagellating restraint in equal parts.
Over the last months, Hans has come to learn that Henry truly wants him here. Needs him here. It has nothing to do with Hans's fame or performance and more with this implicit trust they have come to nurture. He has come to know much more about Henry, the same way Henry has learned so much about him. By now, Hans knows Henry sees him so clearly and himself dimly at times.
He looks so young in the morning light. Mesmerizing. Hans lets his gaze linger on the handsome curve of Henry's jawline, the stubble peppering his chin. He shifts, lets Henry card three scarred fingers through his hair and cradle his scalp as he scoots closer.
The silence hanging in the room follows their first kiss of the day. Just like the very first one two months ago, it lands in Hans's core with an electric jolt of heat and want. Here in the sanctuary of this little cottage, hidden from the world, he turns on his back to let Henry cover his body with his own.
Hans knows Henry weaves his soft nibbling and loving kisses on the scars on his neck into reassurance. Half turning his head, his quiet gasp is swallowed by the solitude of their company but it feels exotic, a reward on its own for Hans to be allowed to run his fingers along the muscular, board span of Henry's back and slip them under the band of his briefs.
Henry runs hot. After having awoken from sleep, his skin is burning.
Hans worships him like he is the sun. It makes sense that Hans is always in his orbit. Sometimes the anticipation to have Henry all to himself is killing him. Henry smells divine in the mornings and a different kind of ungodly temptation after a day of work.
Skin to skin on top of Hans, Henry is all solid, his hard-earned bulk covering him entirely. His breath picks up, already pushing his groin into Hans and pressing their chests together. The dusting of hair on his pecs scratches just right against Hans's own, causes him to fill out quickly in his underwear too. His hands grip into Hans's shoulder then shift, one arm wounding tight under his waist to line their hardening cocks together while he holds himself up by his elbow beside Hans's head.
They have barely started and Henry's eyes droop, ocean-blue swallowing Hans in need so Hans takes a moment to look at him, to reach down and grab Henry by the arse to grind them together. He adjusts his thighs, opening them while his lips part too and instantly catches Henry's gaze dropping down to them, biting down on his own with need bordering on obsession.
The deep blush on Henry's cheeks always takes Hans by surprise. It is usually Henry who initiates, he is the one arching his back into Hans's touch and diving down to suck on the softest nook in the dip of his neck. It is strange to think Hans is the first man he has taken to his bed but it is also a privilege like none other.
When Henry lifts himself back up to look at Hans again, he's got that smoky, gone look in his eyes that makes Hans rest his head back in the pillow, baring his throat and going pliant under his hands. He would allow Henry to do anything to him. There's hardly an inch between them but it is under Henry's all-knowing, all-consuming gaze that Hans feels naked and bare in a way he has never been before.
Usually, this is the part when Henry would decide where this goes. He would sit back on his heels, nudge Hans's thighs further apart or lift them, his quiet authority making Hans want so badly his self-control would be in shambles. Henry's strength, arranging Hans into whatever position he deems fit is the hottest thing, it crosses the wires in Hans's brain like nothing else. He's never gotten so hard in his life before like the first time Henry lifted both his legs and held them together in a vice-like grip so the gap between Hans's thighs would be as tight as he wanted.
It's overwhelming. Henry doesn't tease, he is a man of strong will and he knows what he wants, stirred on by Hans letting him take freely. Hans is transfixed by the sight of him, the dampness gathering on his temples, his deep blue eyes roaming over Hans like he is the most beautiful man he's ever seen.
To be subjected to the lust brewing under Henry's calm demeanor is intoxicating.
Hans wants to offer him everything. His dreams, his longing, his life. He wants Henry to take him apart and put him back together the way he sees fit.
As such, it surprises him when Henry's palm stroke his thighs and follow the trail of blond hair up his abdomen, one cupping his pec and the other sliding under his shoulder to cradle Hans into an embrace.
"Tell me what you want," Henry whispers under his chin, then presses a closed-mouth kiss on his lips. Hans's eyes flutter shut when Henry swipes a thumb across his nipple then digs the digit in, rolling the nub in the way he knows will wreck shudders down Hans's whole body. He plays him like an instrument.
They grind together lazily while Hans chases after a functioning brain-cell. Through the thick fog of pleasure in his mind, Hans raises his knees and attempts to cross his ankles around Henry's waist but the change in the angle causes Henry to rock his hips into him with a deep groan. Holding onto Henry's bicep and his side, for a moment Hans thinks he has ascended to a higher plane too.
During that moment, Hans realizes what he truly wants.
He wants Henry in every possible way. He wants Henry, smelling like sweat and sleep in the mornings, like metal and soot in the evenings. He wants every inch of his scarred skin, every swell of muscle and dotting of freckles. He wants Henry's control shattered and his desire unleashed.
How did he not do this with Henry before…? They've been having sex almost daily for two whole months and it never came up. Henry has been adamant to learn how to give him head so good Hans's soul would threaten to leave his body—and found out early on he loves having Hans's cock down his throat, loves the smell of his musk and the way he sounds, whimpering and nearly crying when he comes. In return, Hans showers him with praises and teases Henry about getting nipple piercings because he is just so sensitive there (and adores the way Henry blushes at the mere mention of piercings, the prude). One time Hans had him in his lap, spread open and vulnerable in a way Henry would never allow anyone else to see, but with Hans's touch on his chest and his own hand he looked utterly gone, gaze locked on Hans's and arching his back, keening until he fell apart.
He has given himself over to Hans, insecurities and inexperience be damned. And Hans committed every ounce of his control to pace himself and take only what he's given while also stoking Henry's enthusiastic curiosity. It is a carefully monitored balance. Hans holds him, Henry trusts him to do so and discovers his own limits by using Hans's body in any way he sees fit but there is always that line in the sand he just wouldn't cross. At times, when they are lying forehead to forehead and Hans sinks in the bottomless lakes of Henry's eyes, he sees a need so ardent, so primal and wild he wants to shake those bindings of restraint off Henry's heart and set him free.
So when the revelation hits, Hans's mouth falls open a fraction and his head tips back. Like a punch in his diaphragm, he finally gets it. Despite the impressive, hot and sexy displays of strength Henry blesses him with sometimes, it is crystal clear now that he's been holding back.
Maybe a minute has passed, and Hans is still lying underneath him, throbbing hard and wet, chills running down his arms but he finally gets it.
Time has slowed to a crawl, in the meantime. Henry has settled on top of Hans like a heated blanket of his wildest dreams come true, gently and slowly raking the blunts of his nails over the line of Hans's jawline and just watching him. With a dreamy look in his eyes, breaths so small, he seems to be just savoring this rare moment of Hans Capon finally rendered speechless.
"Well?"
"Wait. Let me—"
Hans scrambles into action, hands pushing Henry off to get to his duffel bag as quick as possible. Head spinning, he tears the zipper open and digs in until he finds the bottle and the condom packs, then without further preamble he straddles Henry's waist and puts them on his delicious, meaty chest. By instinct, Henry's hands are instantly on him, palming at his thighs and raking his fingers up his sides until his gaze lands on the objects Hans placed on his sternum.
Abruptly, Henry short-circuits. His eyes widen, brows rise to his forehead. Full deer-in-the-headlights look.
He seems genuinely shocked, a fierce blush spreading on his cheeks and ears until Hans cups his chin and leads his attention back to him.
"I'll do the prep. Then, I want you. I want you so deep, so good I won't remember my own name."
Hans can feel Henry's body going weak, melting into a puddle. In stark contrast to that, his cock eagerly jumps against the crease between Hans's cheeks—and tension coils his limbs tight, as if Henry simply needed his imagination to catch up with him. His fingers dig forcefully into the muscle on Hans's thighs, hopefully leaving marks there and he moans, a throaty, scratchy sound as his eyes flutter closed.
Wholly satisfied with the effect, Hans smirks and leans down to kiss his forehead and whispers in a voice that's utterly wrecked by single-minded need, "if you'd like to help, I can show you how."
"Oh fuck—" Eyes screwed shut, Henry grunts, half-choked, bucking his hips and his painfully hard cock into Hans's ass. "Fuck, yes, yes, please."
Sometimes Hans is taken by surprise by Henry's eagerness—and also the brief moments when Henry tries to reel himself back under control but it's a fragmented attempt, so he grips the globes of Hans's ass fiercely to grind them together for friction.
"Henry," Hans starts, but his own voice is deep and breathy so Henry doesn't listen at first. Instead, he bites his lower lip, looking the spitting image of disheveled, mind-numbing, irresistible sex appeal. Seeing him like this, powerful broad chest heaving for air, hips mindlessly rolling against him with his abdomen pulled taut, Hans breathlessly sinks onto his elbows to kiss him, morning breath be damned, he needs to taste him, needs his tongue in his mouth.
A few seconds later he straightens up, having sated Henry's overflowing desires enough for him to listen, "Henry. I need a moment in the bathroom. Don't you dare come before I'm back, understand?"
"Yes," Henry croaks out with fervent nods and after Hans's mocking squint, checking in, he says it again, "yes, I understand."
At the time, Hans doesn't even register his own words as they tumble from his lips,
"It won't take a minute love, just stay here."
"Okay, okay."
He knows Henry has titanic levels of self-control and this is surely going to put him to the test. One time he was lying on his back with his head at the edge of the bed, slurping Hans's cock down his throat and playing with his own, and came just from Hans reaching his own completion while buried deep. Safe to say, Henry's biggest turn-on has been, in all capital letters, Hans Capon and giving him pleasure.
And while Hans enjoys the attention, he revels in it like the hedonist he is, this time it's him who pulls away and rushes to the bathroom. It's the fastest cleanup and tooth-brushing he has ever done, probably broke a record there too—but Hans is impatient, he is desperate and honestly, his heart is hammering itself out of his ribcage to run back to Henry.
As such, Hans rushes back to the bed like his arse is on fire and when he sees Henry, naked, legs open and patiently waiting while palming at his cock, it takes everything from him not to combust on the spot. He wants Henry, he wants what he's dubbed his in the most selfish corners of his mind.
Henry barely lets out a deep keen, Hans is on top of him and kisses him like he needs it to survive, takes Henry's face into his palms to drink his moans from the source and groans back at him when Henry wraps him into a forceful embrace. He melts into it, chills thunder down his spine when he nudges a knee between Henry's legs and feels him equally as hard as he was before. Insatiable, patient, obedient, Henry is perfect in every way.
He will also never get tired of kissing Henry, feeling their bodies pressed close like this.
"Mh, you meant it?" Henry asks, words slurred together and coming out quick between kisses, palming Hans's ass and swiping a thumb between.
In response, Hans leans down to plaster his whole body into Henry, hooks an arm under his neck and waits for Henry to tuck his right hand safe between them before turning them over. Right away, Henry yanks his thighs up his waist and latches his lips onto a nipple, pulling a gasp out of Hans. It's liquid fire, Henry can be downright filthy when it comes to kissing Hans but now he is ravenous.
"How," Henry rasps into his bites, his tongue immediately soothing the pain. "How, Hans, tell me, what do I do?"
"Lube," he threads his fingers into Henry's hair, just enjoying the brush of silky soft yet dense touch. He doesn't mean to push but his heart is beating a feverish rhythm under his ribs and Henry seems equally hurried, so he adds, "lube and.."
He is cut off by Henry kissing him on the mouth, licking his tongue—and he hears the cap opening.
"Can I…" Henry dives into his neck, nipping at the bottom of his ear, then nuzzling into him, pleading, "can I taste you…? down there?"
Breath caught, Hans feels such an intense wave of heat rush down his whole body like he's caught on fire. Arching his back, hips bucking yet pinned into place under Henry's weight he keens and moans high-pitched like a needy harlot, grabbing and pulling at Henry everywhere he can reach—a very clear yes, by all accounts. "Yes, yes, and don't hold back—"
For Hans, how Henry has lived a mostly-straight love life until now will forever remain the biggest mystery in the whole wide world.
One moment Hans is losing himself in Henry sucking his soul out of his body through his nipples, the next Henry's elbows hook under his knees and he is yanked, folded in half and he might have just astral projected from the sensation of Henry's hot, nimble tongue skirting around his tip then slipping his length into his mouth.
Hans doesn't mean to cry out but it sure sounds like that, one hand desperately gripping into Henry's hair while the other pawing at his arm, touching, always touching, it's never enough.
"You okay?" Henry lifts his head but insatiable as he is, he is lifting Hans's lower half even higher like it's nothing, the only visible sign of him using his strength is his biceps bulging and the veins of his muscled forearms showing. "I uh…"
"Yes, fuck, don't stop!"
"We gonna do it like this?"
He sounds… unsure.
Unscrewing his eyes, through the haze of want Hans lets the moment between them settle. He reaches up, warmly slots Henry's chin into his palms and swipes a thumb across his cheek with a reassuring, soft smile. He has never seen anyone looking with such burning adoration at him, like Henry does.
"I thought…" Hans has to swallow the lump of overwhelming affection in his throat. "It would be familiar territory, for you."
"I don't care about that," Henry mutters, and it is so sickeningly sweet how innocent he looks, sheepish even with his own wobbly smile as he pecks an innocent little kiss into the corner of the innermost part on Hans's thigh, right next to his sack. "Just tell me what you like?"
Seeing that, Hans is not sure his heart can handle much more. His mind sears this image, Henry cradling his thighs and nuzzling into his knee, into the deepest corners of his memory. The words tumble out faster than he can stop them, "ohh, fuck me, your mouth—," head falling back into the pillow and maybe he should have thought about his choice of words because next thing he knows, Henry dives back down.
As humble and bashful he is, Henry is not a virgin and it's easy for Hans to forget that but being pinned into place with his knees on Henry's shoulders certainly points that way. What follows next knocks Hans square in the chest and leaves him holding on to Henry's biceps, knuckles white and moaning, because Henry, sweet, inexperienced Henry starts making out with his rim in a way that feels all too familiar.
At the back of his mind Hans wants to ask, what are you doing but it feels too good to interrupt. As instructed, Henry uses lube and soon his fingers too, and seeing him so focused, tonguefucking Hans like his life depends on it, makes Hans lose control over his sounds and his squirming. Henry is slow, careful but there is an innate certainty in his moves that betrays his intent, he is already two-fingers deep in Hans when he switches the angle and presses in, fingertips rubbing over a spot that has Hans keening, drooling and arching his back from pleasure blooming behind his eyelids.
His dictionary is reduced to mindless pleading. Toes curling, Hans opens his eyes a fraction and nearly comes on the spot from the heated, dark look of primal hunger Henry is giving him. A zing of electric, all-consuming want like a whiplash, thunders down Hans's spine and he knows, deep in his bones that his patience has run out and so is Henry's. The sound of a package of condom being ripped open might as well been coming from loudspeakers, it sends Hans into another fit of want, mumbling, yes, yes, yes.
"You ready?" It seems Henry isn't doing much better in regards to speaking. Still better than Hans, who just nods, reaching for him, pawing at him until Henry acquiesces and crawls up to kiss him deep, long and full of promises.
"So fucking good, fuck yes, please, Henry, please, I need it—"
"I got you," is all Henry mumbles back into their kiss. "Like this?"
"Any way you want, I don't care," Hans pants, heaving for air. "Just don't hold back."
It's been a hot minute for Hans since the last time he bottomed. Hot minute, as in years. Hasn't been his preference but Henry flipped a switch in him and here they are now, a sense of urgency pumping in Hans's veins he's never felt before. It's a rush like none other, and Henry stares right back at him with the same undeniable impatience, holding him by the waist and bringing them closer than ever. He whispers filthy promises to Hans, his voice low and gravelly from barely contained want, settles just for a moment to mouth at Hans's jaw, the pulse point on his neck and swipes his callused, rough hands reverently down his sides, leaving white marks.
While Hans is busy sinking into the mind-numbing pleasure of Henry's tongue making out with his chest, Henry grabs a pillow and manhandles Hans by lifting his lower half, and puts the pillow under him— to be arranged so freely is intoxicating. No one touched Hans with such natural ease before, Henry oozes a kind of mature grit and confidence like he is entitled to monopolize Hans to his whims and nothing has ever made Hans harder in his life. His blood is boiling under his skin, he is taken to new heights when Henry begins to press in.
It's been so long but now feels like the first time ever. It is, the first time they are venturing this far together. Henry lathers himself in lube once more and he keeps his sharp, ocean-blue eyes pinned on Hans, every trembling breath that escapes his parted lips, the way goosebumps rush down his arms and he clutches at Henry's arms like lifelines.
Then, it hurts. A sting, Hans gasps and throws his head back with the pinch of his eyebrows but brokenly mumbles, "it's okay—it's okay. Just been a while."
Gently, soothingly Henry kisses the inside of his knee, diverts his attention by tugging insistently on his cock—and it works. Hans tenses up, arching his chest but it's from pleasure-pain and Henry sinks deeper, deeper, Hans gasps again as he can feel him so deep, whimpering then sighing as the sensation turns to utter bliss. The fullness is all-encompassing, Hans swears, he can feel Henry along his spine, in his lungs, everywhere.
Eyes smoky, chest rising fast with hot breaths escaping from his lips, Hans sneaks a peek at Henry only to be met with the most reverent, fuck-drunk, almost pained expression he's ever seen on him.
"You okay?" He whispers, and Henry can only drop his chin in a weak mimicry of a nod.
A groan is punched out of his chest, hands sinking down to hold Hans by his waist, gripping into the meat of his muscle there.
"Yes… fuck, it's so good," Henry heaves between breaths. "So good, oh my god—"
And he is still holding back. Hans can see the last tethers of his control, fraying by the seconds, one more push, just one more—
So Hans does the final leap for him. He lifts himself up enough to grip Henry by his nape to pull him down, forehead to forehead to lock eyes with him, ankles pressing on the back of his thighs to keep him inside. Molten hot pleasure shoots up Hans's spine, he can feel Henry in his core, he is so painfully full it's everything he ever wanted. He would rather go to war and fight a crusade to keep this.
Above him, Henry groans like he is being tortured, a sharp whiplash of please causes him to jerk his hips into Hans, and then he whimpers.
"Henry, you're not gonna break me," Hans keeps him pinned against himself, the urge to put weight behind his words brings him to hook an arm around Henry's shoulder and grab onto his arse with a steely grip. "Let go. I want you, I want you to let go."
If Hans can rely of something, it's that Henry will listen to him. The angle causes him to fully cover Hans's body and press into him balls deep so when he gives an experimental, forceful but slow grind into Hans, it shoots bolts of lightning and unbridled heat all over him.
Hans can barely breath. Henry is so deep, he splays a palm on the center of Hans's chest to pin him in place, throbbing as he thrusts into him with a wrecked look on his face that makes Hans's feel hotter, sexier than ever. Henry looks at him like this, dark with a hunger only he can sate—it's a power trip like none other, he needs to grit his teeth and hold on, hold on to Henry for dear life to chase the high together.
Politely spoken on average, Henry's mouth apparently turns downright filthy as he folds Hans in half like a sheet of paper and grunts into his ear, "fuck, you're—so good, unbelievable—like fucking vice."
Reaching down, Hans touches himself in time with Henry's pace building up. He can feel the pressure building in his core. His scent, his thickness, his strength, Hans feels an addiction taking shape in his body while can't help his own blissed out babbling to keep him going.
His mind sinks somewhere so deep, Hans doesn't bother to grasp at his perception of space and time any longer. There's only Henry, there's only the blazing passion between them and the scorching hot, electric pulses of his pleasure climbing higher and higher until Henry bites down on his neck and hisses, "mine, mine, you're mine, let me hear you, baby—"
Hans's brain short circuits. His cock jumps in his fist and he is coming, he is coming so hard his mind goes blank, thoughts gone, just pure white noise and Henry's breaths.
How long Henry uses him to chase his own edge will forever remain a mystery. Hans is floating, clutching at Henry's shoulders and gasping with each thrust, whimpering and pleading him with his eyes—for what, he doesn't know but Henry indulges him with a wet kiss, groaning as Hans goes tight around his length.
He jolts, crushing Hans under his weight and his arms going taut with the sheer intensity of his own pleasure cresting. Recklessly, mindlessly he keeps pumping into him, pushing him down yet clinging to him all the same like he still can't get enough, tries to climb into Hans and presses his forehead into his temple as a violent shudder wrecks through his body.
"Henry—" Hans breaths, arms wound around his lover's back and nuzzling into his hair.
Henry all but collapses into him, winded and heaving. His heart beats a mile a minute against Hans's own.
It takes a moment for him to gather enough mental presence to pull out, earning a soft grunt and a wince from Hans at the feeling, then without any further intent to move, he lets his weight down on Hans again, face buried in his neck.
Silence sits between them. The air stills. Hans's gaze lingers in the distance while he traces gentle paths on Henry's back with this fingertips, up and down, up and down, humming a sound deep from his chest in a manner strangely similar to a large feline's purr.
If he didn't know better, Hans would ask if Henry meant what he said.
But having him spread out on top, utterly spent and still seeking his touch, hugging him flush and tight by his shoulder and waist, Henry begins pressing soft, innocent pecks into his skin and Hans's anxious, worn-out heart settles.
Finally. His emotions ride the tide of their lovemaking and he lurches, unable to control this bone-deep need to wrap himself entirely into Henry, and sniffs a hiccup from the man's sweaty, damp hair by his nose.
"Henry…"
Instead of answering him, Henry sighs. Long and deep, like he releases mountainous burdens from his shoulders. They might be sweaty, sticky and running too hot but it's clear he has no intention of separating himself from Hans anytime soon.
Before he met Henry, Hans never considered himself a cuddler. Provided, he never had anyone he would allow to hold him longer than necessary to take his pleasure from, and be done with it. Thank you, next.
Now, he is listening to Henry's heart gradually slowing its feverish drumming. Eyes shut, he rests and sinks in the haze of Henry holding him tight, kissing him stupid and caressing his chin. Now, Hans understands the true meaning of the word 'afterglow'. He feels like glowing too. Like something precious, held dear—but only because it's Henry doing so.
Eventually Henry rolls off onto his back and Hans turns to slot himself into him, thigh saddled across his waist and resting his head on the pillow of Henry's pectoral. He can only breathe from Henry's skin so the calm and sweet, sated smell of their lovemaking fills his lungs so deep, Hans hopes it will make a permanent home for itself.
At first, he barely catches what Henry is mumbling until he consciously focuses his hearing.
"I'm not letting you go back to Prague."
A vow, unlike Hans ever heard… but Henry is not done yet. His rough brogue wedges itself stubbornly between Hans's ribs as he promises,
"I don't want you to go. If you must, I'm going with you."
Hans is silent. The mist of heavenly peace dissipates from his mind and as if he is frozen in place, he just stills. He doesn't know what to say, what to do… but it hurts, hearing him speak like this. As if Hans would suddenly stop loving him if there's a little distance?
With Henry's arms wrapped around him, he lets himself be smothered again, lets the insistent, loving kisses in his hair land and stay even though if his knees functioned, Hans would either bolt or go down and swear eternal loyalty. It isn't Henry's affectionate touches but what he murmurs to him, that throw Hans into a whirlwind of emotions.
"I don't want to waste a single day without you."
Could it just be the sex talking? It was incredible. Life changing for Henry, perhaps.
But he can't possibly mean it, can he? They've known each other for less than half a year even if it feels like they have their entire lives. Maybe in a previous one.
This is when Hans's mind enters a battle with itself. He wants to believe this is real, he wants to sink back in the pink cloud of this mirage and never wake. Every fiber in his being begs for him to stay put, to let Henry lull him back to this illusion of bliss but how can he?
Everyone Hans loves will leave him behind. Everyone. No matter how hard he tries to keep them.
Why would Henry be any different?
Is it because he has been hurt, cast aside before?
It's too much to process. Although his heart aches, the corners of his eyes grow wet, Hans just sighs and buries his face back in Henry's chest as if burrowing himself away from reality. He doesn't want to face it right now, not yet, wordlessly begs fate to allow him just a little more respite. Quietly, he noses at the soft hairs on Henry's sternum and tries to keep the searing pain unseen, even if it cleaves his heart open, this fierce knot of desire to belong to Henry too large for him to hold.
Above, Henry scoffs a quiet laugh and swipes a palm down his face, "what have you done to me…? Factory-reset my brain…"
Just like that, his anguish is nearly forgotten. Henry has this effect on him.
Smirking, Hans remains stuck to his side and begins another idle drawing on Henry's chest with his knuckles. Just a little more…
Henry moves a hand down to get the rubber off, then groans in exasperation. He got it, he just can't tie it off with one hand and as it stands, his other hand is busy embracing Hans's shoulder. Oh, how difficult his life has become.
"I don't want to move," he whines.
"Henry, we have to," Hans clears a lump from his throat to get his voice back. "We are nasty."
He only gets a decisive, calm-as-ever, one word answer.
"No."
"Yes, we need a shower," Hans insists, no room for argument there. "We are sticky, we stink and we need to clean up."
"No. Don't move," comes the almost petulant demand. Hans's eyebrows fly high on his forehead in surprise. It's not like Henry to be insolent like this! "This isn't nearly as dirty as I can be after a long workday."
Now that is… Hans grimaces and attempts the detach himself from this filthy blacksmith but he is held firmly by said blacksmith's steely hold.
"My, you are…" Hans huffs a disbelieving chuckle. "you're… a nasty..."
The word lands with something unsaid between them. A nasty… what?
"Say it," Henry grins, mischief dripping from his voice. Suddenly, he tickles Hans's side and when he jolts away like a spooked rabbit, Henry laughs, "say it, Lord Capon!"
"Peasant, you dirty, nasty peasant!"
Never let it be said that Hans Capon runs away from an enemy. No, this is him booking it on wobbly legs and Henry's unabashed, barking laughter as his background track to the bathroom to lure a naughty, smelly, stinky blacksmith after him and trick him into showering. There, he will reward this pesky peasant with kisses and checking the state of his recovering hands.
And like clockwork, Henry follows him.
They step into the small bathroom, skin still flushed, laughter still clinging to them like the humidity curling at the mirror’s edges when Hans reaches in to start the water. Henry wraps his arms around him from behind without hesitation, chin tucked over Hans’s shoulder as though he belongs there. palming Hans's pectoral and nuzzling into his neck. The warmth of it lands deep in Hans's core, he lets himself lean back for a moment, eyes closing as Henry sways them both in a lazy, content rhythm.
The shower warms. Hans nudges Henry in with him and takes the soap first. He is careful, methodical, brushing a lather across Henry’s chest and shoulders, sweeping slow circles over the curve of muscle and the old burn scars he now knows by heart. Henry melts under every touch, starstruck as he watches Hans, eyes half-lidded. When Hans lifts his wrist—checking the healing hand— he lets Hans do so without a flinch. Following a tug in his heart, Hans kisses the inside of Henry’s palm before letting go.
“My turn,” Henry murmurs against his hair.
Hans shifts under the streaming water. He’s loose-limbed, boneless from pleasure and warmth, and for a moment it truly feels like the world outside this shower doesn’t exist. Henry lathers his hands, slides them over Hans’s shoulders, down his chest, slow and reverent. His touch is thorough but gentle, mapping him like he’s memorizing something precious. Hans tries not to think too much about how good it feels. About how close it drags him to wanting too much.
Henry nudges him lightly, asking him to turn so he can rinse his back.
Hans does so without thinking.
Unabashedly, Hans relishes the confident motions of Henry's touch over his skin. His eyes flutter shut, just letting time slow for their sake when Henry’s hand stills on his shoulder for a heartbeat, then drifts lower, tracing a puckered line just above Hans’s ribs.
“What’s this?”
Hans inhales, tensing at the recognition. The question is innocent, offered with nothing but curiosity, but something inside him flinches. The scar is small, pale, old… yet it feels like a trapdoor opening beneath him. He manages a convincing, nonchalant shrug and dismissively says,
“Oh… I fell from a second-story window."
The room is quiet but for the steady hiss of the shower. Henry’s fingers flatten, covering the mark as though he can shield it from the world.
“What? How? What were you doing?”
“Running away from home.” Still facing away from him, Hans shapes a bitter, almost fond smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “As you do when you’re seventeen, I guess.”
A heartbeat passes between them. Cold creeps up Hans's fingers, spreads like paralyzing vines over his limbs when Henry doesn’t laugh. Hans doesn't need to look to know, his eyes lose all trace of earlier mischief. The silence that fills the stall is heavier now, weighted by Henry's hand sliding over the scar again. His touch is grounding in its kindness, his voice softer than Hans deems worthy for a matter he's buried and dusted, never to be mentioned again.
“What happened?”
Already, Henry knows he's approached something Hans has deliberately kept from him. To comfort him, Henry presses his chest against Hans's back and wraps his arms around him, palms warmly smoothing over his skin. When his chin comes to rest on his shoulder, Hans presses his lips together, tension creeping into the set of his shoulders. He feels exposed, as if turning around handed Henry more than his back. Like he stepped somewhere he can’t quite pull himself from now.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t—”
Before he can stop it, Hans holds onto Henry's hands on his torso.
“But I do.”
The words cut through without hesitation, delivered with purpose. The steam hangs thick around them, rivulets of water sliding down their bodies, yet none of it washes away the feeling rising in his chest.
Now. Now or never.
“I want to. Nobody… nobody knows what really happened.” He steadies himself by leaning back against Henry. His voice softens to a quiet whisper. “I want you to know.”
The air stills. The water keeps falling, too loud for a moment like this, yet it is the only witness to the quiet shift taking place in Hans’s chest.
He turns his head just enough to look at Henry over his shoulder, to make sure this is real, that Henry is here, solid and warm and unyielding.
Hans breathes once, bracing.
This is it.
It is clear from the pensive line of Henry’s lips and the quiet weight in his eyes that he does not want this to wait. Hans sees it and feels it too. The shower becomes something they move through on instinct alone. Warm water, shared touches, the soft slide of their hands as they rinse off. To soothe the quake in his chest, Hans cradles Henry's face to press one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before they reach for towels.
They dress without speaking. The silence is not cold, despite Hans's mind initially believing it so. Henry is patient, his moves unhurried by his side. Once they are dressed, they strip the bedsheets and put on clean ones together, working in an unspoken rhythm. Immediately after, when they sit on the bed Hans seeks Henry’s hands, pulling them into his lap. He toys with his fingers, touches them one by one, as if the motion keeps him steady.
A breath leaves him. He does not look up. The words spill past his numb lips, his voice strangely steady despite the trembling in his heart.
“I was a late child. The apple of my father’s eye. I suppose you could say I had a happy childhood.”
The space between them grows quieter, and Hans’s voice softens as if he is walking deeper into himself.
“And suddenly... he started having seizures. Became weaker and weaker. And then... when he was gone, everything fell apart. Everything. "A miniscule shake of his head. The memory lingers, oppressive, threatening to numb his senses again. Colors fading out, sounds growing redundant. "And I felt like the world stopped. Everything went silent. Like the world stopped moving. And I was falling. And he was not there to catch me anymore.”
He rubs Henry’s knuckles with his thumb. His stare is distant, fixed somewhere far beyond the bedroom walls. His voice thins, less controlled now, like a latch has finally slipped.
“And all around me... I saw that... everyone had a father. Even if, you know, the parents were divorced or something, they... they were alive, you know. But knowing that even if I called, he wouldn’t answer the phone... and I would never see him again…”
He swallows. The numbness creeps in, the kind that keeps tears locked somewhere behind his eyes.
Henry stays silent, but his grip tightens.
Hans keeps talking, quieter still.
“Soon, my mom got a job in Polna. She didn’t want me to change towns and schools, said I had enough to deal with as is. So she left me with my uncle. Hanush, you met him," he tips his head towards Henry, explaining. "But he was never... he never pretended to be my father. I was just his nephew. He expected me to know things without ever telling me how. So we drifted apart even more. I didn’t follow the path he wanted me to. Went to study history, Latin. I was a complete, utter disaster during university. A fuckboy. I didn’t care. I had no direction, no ambition, I didn’t care what would happen after I graduate.”
He shifts on the bed, sitting a little smaller without realizing it. His fingers slow against Henry’s. There is a blankness around his eyes. He is speaking, but emotion barely reaches his voice. Like the sun has gone out from his gaze, and a frostcovered landscape is revealed beneath the surface.
“It was Radzig who got me into reenacting. I started doing that too because... I don’t know. I was bored," he shrugs. "Had nothing to chase. And streaming came soon after. Hanush saw money in that, so he helped me get my rig and connected me to a talent agency. But, truth is, I wanted to travel. I couldn’t stand living at Hanush’s place but I also couldn’t go knocking on my Mom’s door when she has boyfriends basically my age. So... so this is what happened. I just... I suppose, I never... well. It’s been like that ever since.”
His voice has become nearly a whisper. The numbness deepens. He stares at Henry’s hands as if the shape of them is the only thing tethering him.
He breathes in. Out. Slow, confessing without sins.
“And to answer your question... I ran away multiple times from Hanush. He said things I would never say to my own child. I would never tell them they are a disgrace or they are worthless. He ran me into the ground to be perfect at everything, and I had enough more than once. But I had nowhere else to go, but back to him.”
The words linger. Hans finally lifts his head.
The sight cuts into him, a knife to the chest. Gutting, visceral, immediate pain and desperation pouring out as Henry’s eyes shine with tears he cannot blink away. His mouth trembles. All that tenderness he tries to hold steady is breaking open.
Hans’s numbness cracks, not with tears but with the instinct to comfort. He lets go of Henry’s fingers only to pull him in by wrapping his arms around his neck. Henry comes willingly, matching his despair, folding into him. His arms wound around Hans with fierce, protective force, holding him as if to fill every empty space left in the wake of those years.
Hans lets him. He closes his eyes and leans into the warmth pressed against his chest.
They hold each other the same way they did in the shower, but the meaning has shifted. Henry clings to him like he wants to undo every cold night, every cruel word, every lonely fall. Hans holds him back like Henry is the first place he has ever been allowed to land.
The room stays still around them. The world moves again, slowly, because Henry is here.
He brings them together in a kiss, breathing in relief when Henry leans them back into the pillows and softly cards his fingers through his hair. Again, there is only the solitude of the little cottage settling like a serene, sheltering blanket over their figures. Tucking his face into Henry's neck, Hans sinks deep in the comfort of Henry's solid hold around him, his warm weight settling in familiar patterns over him.
Hans should feel exposed, vulnerable… and yet, he has never felt safer.
Time loses its significance. There is only their hearts beating in a joined rhythm.
For the first time since forever, Hans dozes and doesn't resent waking up again.