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Hans doesn't remember who threw the first punch.
He does, however, remember all too sharply the moment Henry spat in his face.
"… you know what, your uncle's right. You are spoiled." There's an edge to Henry's tone that, on a better day, would have been a clear enough warning.
Except, Hans feels too tired already, too much like a thinly-stretched piece of rope just waiting to break after the long hours spent in the castle's great hall, listening to men twice his age droning on about things none of them could change — yet still making him feel so small in comparison. And Henry, as always oh, so deeply righteous to the point of selflessness, hasn't helped at all with his incessant comments about reason, promises, duty, and…
"Fuck you," Hans spits out in response. Sharp. Poisonous. Almost a hiss, and he knows he should stop there, be reasonable before it all becomes too much, because it's not really Henry's fault at all, but he can't help himself. He needs something to give, and this, at least, is easy enough, even if it means goading Henry one too many times. "You know nothing about what that's like! You're just a simple—"
A drop of spit hits him square in the face.
It's hot. Nearly burning like a flick of coal from a fireplace, and for a moment, Hans can only blink, too stunned by it to notice the same kind of surprise slowly taking root in the other man's expression as the world stops moving around the two of them, not even a deeper breath to break through it all.
Hans's hand twitches at his side.
Henry's eyes narrow.
Outside, a pigeon flutters lazily from the rooftop.
Something —finally— snaps. Before he knows it, Hans's fingers are all up in Henry's shirt, his cheek stings like he's been punched hard, and there's a smattering of red on the side of Henry's jaw, right where he stubbornly grows that stupid-sparse stubble that looks like wilted dill scattered over a bowl of stew. They're close. Too close, and it's too much and too fast, yet it's also exactly what Hans wanted — he's angry. So is Henry, now. Narrowed eyes, tight jaw, soot-covered hand gripping Hans by the wrist as he aims for another punch, quick and mean and full of heavy, inelegant breaths to distract Henry from the way he tries to kick at his shin, trip him up. Hurt him. Anything.
Anything but the earlier impassive righteousness, the kind that made both fair maidens and bathwenches alike trail their gazes after his page, which just really wasn't…
"…fair," the word slips out through Hans's gritted teeth. Something about it makes Henry see red, it seems, because he only grunts and tightens his grip on Hans's arm, pulling at it roughly until Hans loses his balance and crashes right into Henry's broad chest.
"I can't believe…" The words brush right past Hans's ear, half-lost between Henry's hot breath and the smell of nettles clinging to him like it always does. "…you could be so far up your own arse that…"
Hans doesn't bother listening. He stomps on Henry's foot instead, drawing a stunned grunt out of him, and grabs a fistful of his tunic again, tugging on it hard enough to make the lacings at the front come undone. His nails scrape across Henry's chest, deep and with an intent to hurt—
Something changes then.
Another pause. Another look, a shred of acknowledgement in it.
Hans gets to watch from up close how Henry's nostrils flare on a heavy exhale, jaw working as if he was chewing on some unuttered words. It's almost enough to make him hesitate, even backtrack to an apology, but before the doubt can settle in too deeply, Henry moves again. His lips clash against Hans's, impatient and full of teeth tugging on Hans's bottom lip — biting hard enough to draw blood like it's yet another attack, and there's a strange kind of relief in being able to respond in kind. Hans's tongue pushes into Henry's mouth, tasting his own blood there. He's just as stubborn about it as his page is unyielding — at least until Hans's hand sneaks under Henry's tunic to pinch his nipple, meanly enough to draw a gasp out of him.
It doesn't stop; cannot stop, because Henry takes a swing at him in response. His fist collides with Hans's jaw so strongly that he staggers a few steps back. It stings. This time, doubt doesn't even have time to take on a name either, as Henry is on him in an instant, fingers tugging at Hans's own tunic as if he couldn't decide between tearing it off and punching him again, teeth grazing his jaw and tongue licking away the blood on his lips until Hans doesn't even know where he is anymore, eyes half-closed and the linen of his shirt tugged off in one, simple motion, and…
"Bastard," he just about manages when Henry spins him around like its nothing and pushes him against the door, one calloused hand at the nape of Hans's neck. The wood is rough against his cheek, all splinters and stubble fighting against each other. It knocks the breath out of him as he kicks back blindly, clinging onto the other man's pained grunt with satisfaction. "How dare you—" Another attempt to break free, cut short when Henry latches onto the back of his shoulder, mouthing at the newly exposed skin. "It's my responsibility to—"
"You know fuck all about responsibility," comes an answer grunted against the back of his neck, bitten into the shell of his ear. "You keep shying away from it so much that—"
Hans only grunts in response, muscles tensing in a half-hearted attempt to throw Henry off, but the blacksmith slams his arm back against the wall, nosing into his armpit with heavy breaths like the day's worth of sweat caught there is the best thing he's ever smelled. The realisation —some kind of soft earnestness of it— shoots straight to Hans's cock, which is perhaps the most humiliating part of it all.
"You're just a brute," he snaps, arm still working against Henry's grasp, though he doesn't protest against the thigh pushing between his own.
"Aye—" He knows that particular timbre of Henry's voice; the way it grows a little thicker when he's angry. Aroused. "But 'least I own up to it, not…"
There's more words after, like hot puffs of air against his skin, but Hans isn't listening. He can't. If he pauses to do so, this will turn into yet another lecture, and he doesn't want that. He wants… his hands moving on their own accord, tugging at the lacings of his hose and then braies, until the fabrics pool loosely around his hips. An invitation.
It's not the first time.
It probably won't be the last, either. The frustration, the anger, the simplicity of his page's hands on him, his solid body to wrestle against — it's so easy to fall into, and today is no different. It cannot be, because…
Mercifully, the thought scatters when cold air hits his thighs and arse, Henry's breaths warm against his shoulder and palms sliding up Hans's stomach to pinch his nipples. For a moment, Hans doesn't fight back. It's easy enough to tell himself there's no point in doing so when his page's hand closes around his cock —Henry is always so disarmingly tender about it, despite the innate roughness of his palms— and it's so much easier to let his eyes fall shut, forehead pressed against the doorframe as the tight strokes twisting at the top just right and caressing his balls on the way down send shivers up his spine, tension pooling until he can't help a moan escaping him.
Almost like a response, Henry's cock slides between his thighs, brushing below Hans's balls in a way that only makes him gasp again.
"Fuck you," he spits out to bring some kind of an edge back, squeezing his thighs tighter together.
Maybe too tightly, judging by the grunt it awards him — except Henry never stops thrusting, his teeth worrying the muscles of Hans's shoulder like he's just barely stopping himself from gnawing on it like a dog on a bone, and he doesn't even bother to respond; an insult of its own kind. There's only the steady movement of his hand, the blunt head of his cock bumping against Hans's shaft and smearing precum all over his skin —already— like he needs this as much as Hans does. Perhaps he really does. Perhaps there's more to it, because Henry doesn't stop there. He whines, licking Hans's armpit and mouthing at his underarm, right above where his fingers dig bruises into Hans's skin, and Hans can't deny the way it makes his cock twitch in response — he's never felt as wanted, and as terrified by it, as he does with Henry.
Henry, who might be strong, all wide shoulders and arms sculpted by the forge and the sword, but Hans has been learning how to fight since he was old enough to stand steadily on his own two feet — he doesn't hold back, either. Not when it feels like everything is spinning out of control, some kind of unsteadiness threatening to cut through the pleasant haze of anger-desire. No. He drives his elbow into Henry's ribs; grins at the way his page grunts in response and finally —finally— loses his rhythm just enough that Hans can spin them around, pushing till they're both stumbling to the ground, legs caught up in half-torn off hose.
It's wild. It's free, so wonderfully and desperately free that Hans almost laughs when he lands on top of Henry, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip like they're back in that tavern's muddy front yard, grappling for pride and not—
—not with Henry's cock brushing against his own, slick and hot where they're trapped between their stomachs.
Hans gasps at the sensation, momentarily caught off-guard, and nearly loses his balance when Henry bucks his hips, trying to throw him off.
It almost works.
Almost, because Hans's reflexes work for him before he can even think, one hand catching Henry's as he shifts his weight with a movement that lets their cocks slide together again, smearing drops of white over the dark hair covering Henry's stomach. It's filthy. Beautiful. It nearly has Hans leaning down to drag his tongue through the mess, learn how it would taste when mixed with blood in his mouth, but Henry is still twisting underneath him, trying to roll them over, and there's some prideful part of him that doesn't want to allow it.
So Hans grunts again, catches Henry's hand in his own and twists until the blacksmith has to follow the movement, landing on his front between Hans's legs.
"I cannot believe you—" There's no spite in his page's words this time. Something angry still, thick at the back of his throat the way it always seems in moments like these, but it's not nearly as biting. Frustrated, perhaps, though even that begins to feel like an act when he stops fighting against Hans's hold with full-blown determination, his shoulders flexing through the half-hearted attempts. "You'd really rather not talk than—"
"Yes," Hans breathes back; fixes his grip so that he can shuffle back until his thighs are bracketing Henry's hips, still half-covered by his braies, "no talking."
Nothing, except chasing that earlier intensity again. It's right there within reach when Hans tears off the rest of Henry's undergarments and when he grasps at his cock roughly, with a few too-quick strokes that leave Henry gasping — almost sighing at the loss when Hans moves his hand back again, thumbing at the scar on his thigh and following the thickening hair up to the cleft of his arse, where he digs his fingers in again, spreading him wide enough for Hans to see that he's still a little loose from their morning tumble, traces of oil caught around his rim, as if he had been expecting this. As if Henry knew, all along.
To be known that much only makes the anger flare up again, so wonderfully bright in Hans's chest when he tightens his grip on Henry's arm, twists it even more to force his face closer to the ground.
"Well," Henry's voice is like a whip across his back, "if you're not going to—"
Hans spits right at his hole in response, watching with fascination how it twitches reflexively. It's nearly satisfying enough, to know he can still have this at least, but he doesn't let himself linger on that thought for too long, doesn't let the anger die down again — he snaps his hips forward instead, the head of his cock only catching on Henry's rim before he draws back again, lines himself up properly and bottoms out in one thrust, breath caught between his teeth.
Henry's tight around him, almost painfully so when he clenches at the sudden intrusion, but that's exactly what Hans wants. What Henry wants too, because he doesn't even try to throw him off, or mock him with any of the phrases that fell off his tongue so easily before. No. He pushes right back against Hans with an efforted grunt, as if goading him on, demanding — provoking, even with Hans already balls deep inside of him.
It's infuriating. It's perfect. It leaves Hans unable to do anything other than fall right for it, jaw clenched tight as he grabs the other man's hip with his free hand and pulls out almost all the way before thrusting back into him as hard as he can. Hard enough to earn him another gasp, those downturned blue eyes falling half-shut, and the satisfaction of it shoots through him like lighting. Demands more.
"Insolent peasant," Hans pants out on another thrust, fingers digging into his page's hips. Hard. Hard enough to bruise, which only adds to the satisfaction of it, regardless of how brief it proves to be, because Henry…
…Henry just grins over his shoulder. Of course he does. With wolfish teeth glinting in the half-darkness and a clump of dried blood flaking off under his nose, he looks entirely too happy about it all — so Hans twists his arm further, scrapes his nails over the scar-ridden skin and pushes himself into a punishing rhythm, all hard and fast with no finesse to it, but this has never been about subtlety. Only need, and that something choking him underneath it all, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.
It's there as his thrusts build up into an unrelenting rhythm, with the filthy —thrilling— slap of skin against skin whenever his hips meet Henry's arse, sweat pouring down his brows and slicking his palms where they dig into his page's hip, his upper thigh, cheeks, stomach — anything he can reach, clawing at the hair-covered skin and wrapping his fingers around Henry's cock until they're both gasping, tension building and pooling low in Hans's belly as he fucks into the tight warmth of his page's arse, spit and his own seed slicking the way.
And Henry? Henry just lets him, which is perhaps what infuriates Hans the most. So he snaps his hips even faster, leans over the other man until he can properly sink his teeth into the tanned skin on his shoulder, nearly growling at the taste of his sweat. Blood, too, when he squeezes his jaw even more, nigh chewing on the labour-hardened muscle.
Someone moans, loud and unabashed — it might be him, it might be Henry. It doesn't matter. There's only the ruthless chase and the need to take until it all becomes too much and too fast all of a sudden; until there's no stopping it and Hans can only try to hold on as everything crashes around him and he buries himself as deep as he can in Henry's arse, spilling into him with a whine muffled by chewed-raw skin.
Sunset pours into the bedchambers, setting the linen bedsheets ablaze with gold and crimson as if no other colours had ever existed in the world — none, except the blue of Henry's eyes when he blinks up at Hans, stretching idly across the mattress before, inevitably, he rolls closer again, settling with his head on Hans's chest.
"You got me real good there," Henry mutters a moment later, craning his neck to inspect the skin atop his shoulder. Drops of dried blood still cling to the little hairs there, the skin itself an angry shade of red bound to stick around for days.
"Looks like I did." The admission comes to Hans strangely easily, voice devoid of the earlier bitterness. He sighs deeply, pressing his nose into the sweaty strands of hair above Henry's forehead, "I'm sorry, Hal."
There's a hint of a smile, something almost like a kiss pressed above Hans's heart, which flutters treacherously in response, and calloused fingers brushing over the bruise forming around his split lip.
"Reckon I deserved it for this one," Henry muses, though he doesn't sound particularly sorry at all. "Though I don't know how we'll explain those in the bathhouse."
"Oh, that's easy." For the first time in days, Hans finds himself laughing. "I'll rent out the whole place."