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@hansryweek day 6, hunting trips

The cheerfully yellow garters on Hans's legs are mocking Henry.

It's a love-hate relationship he has with them. Not that there was a relationship, back at the beginning, when they'd been nothing more than part of Lord Capon's ensemble and Henry had been too much of a peasant to notice details. All he'd known then were the colours Sir Hans favours—the red hood bright and eye-catching like a finch's crest, the saffron pourpoint so emblematic that to this day Henry's heart skips a beat when he spies someone wearing yellow—and that expensive clothes are on a league of their own. The fabrics alone are soft enough to make a man weep: velvet, neat wool, linen so airy and light it feels like a different species to Henry's own. And the craftsmanship, the embroidery—each stitch is made with care, the labour of someone's lifelong talent. Henry used to be envious, then giddy at being allowed to borrow them, and finally proud to witness his lord being so handsome and so noble, wearing all manner of beautiful things. Of course Hans should have the best the world has to offer. It's only proper.

Now, though. Now Henry knows what it feels like to touch the body underneath, and those garters are conspiring to make him lose his mind. The way they make the hose cling just so, showcasing calves that are slim and shapely and perfect, just perfect, lovelier than any maid's could ever hope to be—good God above! If there is a Devil in truth then he's surely skulking inside Henry's thoughts, turning him mad with overflowing yearning. Henry feels a dutiful pang of guilt—then keeps his gaze set unapologetically downwards, watching every second of those legs' flowing motion. Hypnotic, the way one step leads to the next. The strength and elegance of well-formed muscles. The rest of the forest is a blur at the edge of Henry's vision; his empty hands twitch.

"Henry!"

Henry jumps. A few steps ahead stands Hans, looking over his shoulder, with his eyes bright blue and one eyebrow regally raised.

"Jesus Christ, Henry, focus," Hans scolds him. "Where's your mind at?"

"Sorry," Henry calls out. He makes a half-hearted attempt at catching up, settling into step by Hans's side. "Spot anything yet?"

"Absolutely nothing." Hans turns his gaze back to the forest, his blue eyes sharp as he scans the trees. His mouth curves down into a displeased little moue. Henry, familiar with all the minutiae of his lord's moods and expressions, categorises this one as not very serious—and more than a little cute. "I swear, the way things are going we'll be returning with empty hands. Not that we need the meat—but still! What's the point of a hunting trip if you don't at least earn one measly trophy?"

Henry hums in mild agreement. "Well, let's give it some more time," he says, not really caring about the outcome of the hunt one way or the other. "Maybe the rabbits are feeling shy today."

His joke lands to complete silence—really? Not even a pity smile? Hans has laughed at worse—so Henry sighs, and mentally bids goodbye to the idea of more fun pursuits. Hans is clearly in a restless mood, and Henry, as always, will follow his lead on this. Searching for game it is.

He scans the trees. It's true that Bohunowitz is a less impressive land than the forests of Rattay, scraggly instead of lush, with a dry and poorly soil. Henry remembers the mighty oaks of Hans's favourite hunting spot, their shade and earthly scent when they rested under them. Hans's skin had looked cool whenever Henry glimpsed at it, peeking out like pale glaze from his wrists, his ankles, his neck. Now the sun pieced through scarce foliage and lit it up instead, turning it golden, warm to the touch. It must be warm.

Henry has fallen behind once again, without exactly meaning to. His gaze seeks out its usual resting place: the back of Hans's head. The closely shorn hair at the base of his skull, specifically, its skillfully done gradient. Henry's palm knows the texture of that spot, from even—from even before he had reason to hold it. He was the one to give Hans a haircut after Maleshov, both of them down to their braies and sitting cross-legged by a stream. Henry had to use his sharpest dagger, and still the blade made a goosebump-raising, tactile sound, a rough and scratchy snick. Hans shivered with each pass, grabbing Henry's knee and squeezing. His back had looked too delicate as he bowed forward, too thin, too frail. The knobs of each of his vertebrae stood out in a receding line. Henry wanted to count them on his thumb.

At least he's got his weight back now, Henry thinks with more than a little gratefulness. With more than a little protective fury. Hans's pourpoint adds to the length of his shoulders, and his waist is slim but sturdy. Henry's eyes follow the path of his spine, lower, then even lower—

Hans stops in his tracks.

Henry's gaze snaps up, caution tempering his interest. There are always more troublesome things than animals lurking in a forest. "What is it?" he asks, hurrying forward until he's reached Hans's side. "Did you see something?"

Hans is still and focused, peering into the thicket. "I thought…" He trails off, then slumps with a sigh. "I thought I saw a doe, but no luck. Christ's wounds, this forest is goddamn empty! This is a waste of time," he mutters darkly, but to Henry's ear it doesn't sound too worrying.

"Come on, don't get in a mood. And with the day so bright and lovely." Henry elbows him on the side, then again when it earns him a reluctant smile. "Do you want to go back?"

"Oh, no, I'm not going back to that den of booze and vomit. It may have grown on with time, but I've spent enough time being cooped up in taverns and besieged fortresses. I need some fresh air. I need to move my body—in ways that don't result in maimed soldiers and torn-out limbs."

"Fair enough," Henry says easily, sliding a careful glance to Hans's profile. "Let's just keep walking, then. You never know, we might get lucky."

Hans nods, starts walking. His blue eyes look calm, if distracted. The sounds of the forest rush in to fill the comfortable silence.unseen birds flitting and tweeting from the branches, the foliage gently swaying. Henry keeps proper pace this time, his shoulder brushing Hans's. The backs of their hands touch; Henry knocks them together on purpose, their own secret, intimate code, and is rewarded when Hans's lips curl up.

Henry's usual patience abandons him. "You're quiet today," he breaks the silence.

"You're the one who's been quiet! I swear you've been more woolly-brained than a sheep today. Something on your mind?"

"Dunno," Henry says, suddenly a little shy. His shrug makes their clothes whisper against each other; Hans's body heat seeps through. "Just thinking, I guess."

"Thinking about what?"

"Your arse," Henry quips, to make him laugh.

It works. Hans gives a surprised bark of a laugh, white teeth gleaming in his grin as he turns to look at Henry. "Fuck off," he says, shoving Henry hard enough to bodily move him. At the same time he shoots a fleeting glance at their surroundings, a quick and cautious motion to see if anyone is looking; necessary habit turned into ingrained instinct. But of course, there's no one there. In the wild purity of nature, they can be free. "And they call me the lout. You're giving my reputation quite a run for its money."

"The famed lord of Pirkstein? With all his pretty conquests? Nah," Henry grins, "you've got me beat fair and square."

"Well, naturally. Don't feel bad," Hans says, all genteel and generous tones—as if Henry doesn't know exactly how those famed conquests actually ended. Silly man. "It's not a competition."

"No, of course not."

"Right."

"Hmm." Henry fights back his smile, looks at sun-dappled trees ahead. "We could always compete over something else, you know. If you're so eager to taste defeat."

"Ha! You're cheeky!" Hans's grin is bright, easily given. "And what do you suggest? There's no rabbits around to count kills."

"We could race."

"Our horses are tied up all the way back," Hans says, gaze turning thoughtful as he calculates distances. "But I suppose we could go out on the road…"

"Or we could race right here. Using our God-given legs." Henry taps on his thigh as if to demonstrate, then raises an eyebrow to Hans. He nods at the distance—but only for a second, eyes back on Hans's face to see each interplay of his expressions. His own fight with his smile has been completely lost. "What say you, my lord?"

Hans looks ahead; he looks back. Light dances in his eyes. "I say—you're on!" he shouts, and sets off on the spot.

"Wha—hey!"

Henry has to admit he had a more playful chase in mind, something better suited to bucolic vistas and giggling maidens who don't wander too far before they willingly fall. The actual reality has Hans sprinting, launching his full body forward with a speed and surefootedness that rivals a deer's. Henry jerks to attention—then he scrambles after him before his mind has time to catch up, pumping his legs as his innate competitiveness raises its head. His heartbeat spikes, drums loudly in his chest; his cheeks are flushed. You fucker, he thinks, because he's too breathless to yell it out loud, and runs hard enough to make his muscles burn.

Trees pass by in flashes. The forest floor is floor is hard on Henry's joints, uneven and treacherous, but Hans is flitting ahead so swiftly that Henry pushes himself to the edge, panting to fill his lungs. It's all so ridiculous, but also—exhilarating, a simple and pure exertion that reminds him of being a kid, running just for the joy of it. He grins despite the breathlessness. Hans's body is both close and maddeningly far—they didn't even appoint a finish line, Henry realises belatedly—and when his hand fails to grab onto Hans by mere inches, Henry settles for the one sure-way act to finish this: he leaps.

They collide roughly, too roughly, their speed sending them both careening until they drop face-first on the ground. Kind of an ugly landing, Henry has to admit, and some of his cheer recedes to be replaced with niggling worry. He turns Hans around and clumsily checks him for injuries, brushing his hair back to check for head lumps. "Shit, hey, are you alright?"

"Why, of course I'm alright. I won!"

"What?" Henry is aghast at the injustice. "What do you mean you won? I caught you!"

"Which means I was always ahead of you," Hans explains with a raised finger, sounding didactic and unbearably smug. "You never overtook me. Hence: I won."

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Henry says, except he's laughing as he's saying it, and roughhousing Hans into the dirt until his perfect, golden hair is tousled beyond repair. "I swear to God, Hans, I'm gonna strangle you."

"Hey! This was all your idea! How dare you—" But Hans is laughing too hard to continue, breathless and wriggling under Henry's weight. He slaps at Henry's hands, pushes at his chest, and it's all so ridiculous and playful that Henry feels half-crazed by it, all contradictory impulses stuck inside a body that's too wild, too eager. His grin hurts his cheeks. His fingers dig in too deep.

In the end one impulse emerges victorious, and Henry feels not an ounce of regret at following it: he abandons the scuffle and captures Hans's face, palms on both his cheeks, and finally claims his kiss. They both smile through it, Hans letting out laughing little huffs that Henry chases after; a continuous brushing of lips. As if to compensate for being freed Hans wraps a leg around Henry's back, then the other, locking him snug and tight in place. Just where he needs to be. Henry growls around the heat that drips molten-thick in his belly, and deepens the kiss.

He grabs Hans's hip to encourage it higher, securing its grip. His hand glides up with a mind of its own, and the slide is so smooth—soft hose hiding softer skin, slim but strong muscles flexing and trembling in his path—that he ends up cupping that glorious apex, the firm muscle filling his grip. "Fruit sweeter than a maid's," he murmurs against Hans's lips, pinching him just to be a tease.

Hans chokes on a laughing huff. "I beg your bloody pardon!" he cries out in played-up indignation he doesn't feel one bit. "Is that how you think of me, you bastard? Like I'm some a common tavern wench?"

"Not common," Henry corrects. He jerks his hips just hard enough to grind their manhoods together—then does it again, chasing after the sweet thrill. "And definitely not a wench," he adds with a cheeky grin.

Hans snorts, even as his ears redden. "Good thing too. Imagine if I were a woman! You'd have gotten me pregnant twice over."

That shocks Henry enough to stop him in his tracks. "Now, hold on—no I wouldn't have!" he protests, entirely serious, and actually a little offended, now that he thinks about it. "I wouldn't just get a girl pregnant out of wedlock like a cad. I'd be careful."

"Oh, please. You'd say that at first, and even believe it—but I know you, Hal. You lose all your stamina and patience when you scent the kill. Both in battle…" He rocks his hips upwards, making his sharp, pleasurable point. "…and in fucking. You'd spill first and ask for forgiveness later."

Henry's cheeks burn so hot they probably glow, and there's truth to Hans's words that Henry must begrudgingly admit to—but he refuses to concede the point out loud. "I'd pull out," he mumbles, mulish.

Hans's laugh bursts out of his whole chest, making them both shake. He laughs, and laughs, in his bright and lilting bird-voice, loud and free and happy. He looks so sweet lying there—gold hair contrasting with the grass's vivid green, joy dancing in his eyes and wild wide grin—that Henry has no choice but to shut him up with a kiss, and another, and one more. "I would," he insists, not even caring about what point he was trying to make. "I would, I would."

"You wouldn't. You lech. You scoundrel." Hans slips a sly hand around Henry's neck to clutch at his nape, pulling at his hair just enough to make Henry shiver. His whole body arches up, greedy for Henry's heat. "Hanush would have had me locked up because of you. He'd have sent me to a goddamn monastery."

"Then I'd kidnap you." Henry noses at the hollow of Hans's throat, rubs at the sapling stubble of his jaw. He palms Hans's slim, wonderful hips. "I'd rescue you. I'll still rescue you."

Hans stills. "What?"

Henry pulls back just enough to look him in the face, their chests still touching as they breathed. "I'll rescue you," he repeats, and suddenly they're not playing around anymore. "If this wedding gets to be too much—if you start feeling the walls closing in—" Henry swallows past the feeling lodged in his throat, worry and anger and fear all in one. "I'll put you on a horse and ride away with you as far as the horizon. If you want me to."

Hans's smile a different creature altogether now, bittersweet, and a little distant ."Rescuing is for damsels, not for lords."

"Fine. A daring escape, then. Both of us on an adventure." Henry nudges at Hans's cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth until he feels it reluctantly curl up. "Come on. What do you think? Prague, this time?" Italy?"

"Oh, Henry," Hans sighs—but the playfulness has returned to his gaze despite himself, his expression youthful and impish. "You're thinking too small. It's got to be Jerusalem—no, even farther. The edge of the known world, obviously."

"Obviously," Henry agrees. He bends down to seal the deal with a kiss. "Agreed."

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