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The days without Henry were intolerably slow. The Devil’s Den reeked of stale drink, smoke, and sweat. Men bellowing with laughter one moment, ready to slit a throat the next. Hans had always thought himself good company, able to talk or drink away his own solitude, but here he found no comfort. The noise of the tavern only made the hollow space inside him louder.
Henry had been called away, some errand for Zizka infiltrating Sigismund’s camp, gathering information no one else could. Hans hadn’t asked for the details but every hour and day stretched taut as a bowstring in his absence.
It was on one such evening, after the ale had lost its charm and the laughter at the card table had curdled into arguments, that Hans abandoned the noise. He slipped down the rickety balcony, boots scuffing along warped boards, until he reached the quiet of their shared quarters.
Stripping down to his tunic and braies should have been a relief, but his own bed felt cold, unwelcoming. He sat on the edge for a long moment, fingers knotting in the blanket, the emptiness of the other bed drawing his eyes again and again. A space that should not have mattered to him, yet now seemed to pull at him like a lodestone.
At last, Hans gave in. He rose, tentative, almost guilty, and crossed the empty space. The moment he sank onto Henry’s bed he knew it was a mistake, but he couldn’t make himself leave. The straw tick still held a faint warmth from the day’s sun, but it wasn’t the bedding that seized him. It was the faint, heady trace of Henry that clung to the cloth. Salted sweat, worn leather, that clean musk that lingered after a day in armor. The smell was sharp and went straight to Hans’ head like wine.
Hans sat first, then stretched out slowly, as though the act itself were illicit. The blanket gave a faint rustle. He pressed his face into the pillow, inhaling deep until his lungs ached. He could almost imagine Henry lying there, warm body beside him, that presence that steadied Hans when he didn’t know he needed it.
A sharp ache coiled low in his stomach, a pressure he could neither swallow down nor ignore. It sat there like a stone and yet flared like fire, pulsing hotter with every breath. His body stirred quick as kindling to a flame, straining against the confines of his hose until the tight fabric felt unbearable.
He cursed softly, fumbling with the knots, fingers clumsy from haste and trembling need. The laces resisted, catching once, twice, before finally giving way. Relief punched a groan out of him as his cock spilled free, thick and flushed, already slick at the tip. The cool air of the room kissed the heated skin, but it was his own hand closing around himself that truly made him shiver.
He wrapped himself clumsily at first, palm dragging hesitantly along the length, the skin slipping forward with the motion, then peeling back again with a wet catch as he drew upward. The touch smeared the bead of slick down his shaft, easing the drag until it glided more smoothly. The sudden friction made him hiss, hips jerking up into his own fist before he could stop himself.
He tried again, firmer this time, hand wrapping tight around the base and pulling slow to the tip, skin rolling back fully to bare the flushed crown. The sting of air against the exposed head sent a shudder up his spine. His breath broke, ragged and sharp, as he found a rhythm, testing pressure, seeking the place where the ache in his gut might finally break open.
Shivers broke across his skin, sweat prickling at his brow, dampening the hair at his temples. Each pass grew steadier, hungrier, his grip tightening until his knuckles ached. It still wasn’t enough. It would never be enough unless it was Henry’s hand. He squeezed harder, as if by sheer will he could force Henry’s broad, rough palm to take shape around his own.
Stroking in rhythm to the ghost of Henry in his mind, he pictured those calloused hands scarred from sword hilt and blackened from forge hammer closing over him without hesitation. A grip that could tether him in place, punish him for his whining, steady him when he fell apart. Hans’s fist moved faster, tighter, as though mimicking that imagined strength, as though Henry’s body had always been meant to fit here at Hans’s most desperate edge.
“Fuck, Hal-” The name slipped out hoarse and broken, a plea rather than a curse. Hans bit into the pillow, teeth scraping linen, trying to keep the sound buried. His chest heaved, ribs aching with the force of each breath dragged through his nose. He burrowed deeper into Henry’s scent, pressing his whole face into the cloth until it filled his head, his throat, his very bones.
The taste of it was bitter on his tongue, dust and old straw, but beneath that bitterness was Henry. Salt and musk, iron and sweat, that maddening trace of the man’s body clinging stubbornly to the fabric. Hans pressed harder, desperate, as though he could drown himself in it, drink Henry down through scent alone, finally quenching the ache clawing through him.
His hips rolled helplessly, rutting into his fist, the motion raw and frantic. The bed creaked beneath him, the old frame protesting each thrust, the sound swallowed by his strangled gasps. He imagined Henry braced over him, solid, immovable, breath hot against his ear, murmuring his name in that deep, steady voice. Just once, to hear that voice break on him.
His hips rose into the touch, chasing the phantom weight that wasn’t there. Instinct drove him, body seeking something to grind against, something firm to hold him steady. He pictured Henry’s thigh wedged between his own, muscle pressing him wide, hot and unyielding. He imagined rutting against it until he smeared himself shamelessly across coarse hose, panting like a starving beast. The image punched the air from his lungs, left his chest tight, a ragged gasp muffled as he buried his mouth harder into the pillow. The linen dampened the sound but not the raw need thrumming through his body.
His strokes quickened, desperation turning his arm into a blur. His fist slid slick along his cock, skin rolling rhythmically with the motion, catching and stretching with each upward drag before slipping back down. The noise of it was faint but obscene in the quiet room. Wet friction, skin dragging on skin, punctuated by his broken, uneven breaths. His cock pulsed in his grip, swollen and heavy, veins bulging as though each beat of his heart had lodged itself there. Every stroke sent sparks of need racing up his spine, sharp enough to make his thighs tremble, toes curling hard into the mattress. He punished himself with speed and pressure, as though he could wring Henry’s name again from his own throat by force.
Heat coiled sharp and unbearable in his belly, climbing higher with each imagined touch. He pictured Henry flipping him onto his stomach, one broad hand pressed firm to the small of his back, the other forcing his face down flat. The weight of a body pressing over him, grinding him into the straw, pinning him with relentless, brutal thrusts. The fantasy left him shaking, clenching around nothing, his cock straining thicker in his hand even as his muscles trembled from exhaustion.
A low, broken whine clawed its way from his throat, the sound pathetic, wrecked. His hand slowed to a torturous crawl, dragging out the tension until he ached from holding it back. He wanted to believe that the longer he suffered, the more real Henry would become. In his ear, in his body. He could almost hear Henry’s voice, steady, commanding.
Take it. You’re mine now.
The thought shattered him. His back arched violently, teeth sinking into the pillow as his climax ripped through him. Spilling hot into his hand. Seed spattered his belly and wrist, his body jolting with each sharp spasm. For a fleeting instant, the white-hot bliss blinded him, almost enough to convince him the phantom weight was real.
But as the pulses ebbed, the truth crashed back, leaving him hollow. There was no hand or deep voice, no warmth pressed against him. Only his own shuddering body, his hand slick, the stink of sweat and lust sharp in the air.
The smell of Henry clung to him, sweet and cruel, thick in his nose until he ached with it. Longing welled up raw and unbearable, lodging itself into his throat, sharper now for having been fed.
He wanted Henry. His steadiness, his warmth, the simple way he made Hans feel less alone, but all he had was Henry's soiled bed, his own hand, and the echo of a man who didn’t know how fiercely he was wanted.