Credit to @playpausephoto — who keeps capturing images that feel like chapters I haven’t written yet, but should have.
Weight of a Name Part VII
Fairy Tale
Once upon a morning, a blacksmith and a nobleman rode into the woods.
Mature content, but it’s the quiet kind.
—
Hans blinked awake and stayed still, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, warming the room with a softness more suited to the height of summer than its slow descent into autumn.
He stretched slightly, then turned his head.
Henry lay on his stomach, arms tucked beneath the pillow. The blanket had slipped down to the foot of the bed, leaving him entirely uncovered.
Hans let his gaze wander over him— broad shoulders, the quiet rise of his spine, the curve of his arse. Then down to the firm lines of his thighs, the sculpted shape of his calves.
He knew that body. Knew what it had endured. He could name every scar carved into its surface. There wasn’t a part of it he hadn’t traced. Every contour, every muscle, every taut line beneath the skin.
He reached out.
Let his fingertips trail slowly across Henry’s lower back, then down to the soft hair at the base of his spine, pausing at the curve of his thigh. Not as an invitation. But like one might touch a sculpture—carefully, reverently—trying to feel it with more than just their eyes.
Henry stirred.
A slight shift, a breath of movement as he nestled against Hans’s chest, not yet fully awake. Then turned further, drawn to his warmth like something instinctive. Their bodies aligned, thigh to shoulder.
Hans slid his hand into his hair. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss against Henry’s shoulder.
Let his lips linger there and breathed him in. The scent of Henry’s skin was so familiar by now, he might’ve stopped noticing it—but it still sent the faintest shiver through him.
Henry stirred, turned his head slightly, and met Hans’s gaze. For a heartbeat, he just looked at him—thoughtfully, as if he were studying something precious.
Then his lips curved into a fond smile. “How d’you manage to look this good every bloody morning, Hans?”
Hans smirked. “Blue blood. Can’t help what runs in the family.”
He took in Henry’s body—deliberate, but not a hint of vulgarity in it. “Besides—you’re such a bloody distraction, I barely sleep next to you. Face it, love—you’ve got it in your veins too.”
Henry laughed—quietly, and a little self-conscious. He shook his head and buried his face back into the pillow. “Oh, come on, Hans. You’re making me blush… and horny,” he mumbled.
Hans chuckled low in his throat. “Well, good. That makes two of us.”
Henry turned his head just enough to glance at him out of the corner of his eye.
Hans ran his fingers through Henry’s hair.
“But it’s shaping up to be a beautiful day,” he murmured—then leaned in closer, “—and not everything worth doing needs a bed,” he whispered into his ear. Then kissed the side of his neck.
Henry blinked. Then grinned. “Well then—what the hell are we waiting for? Let’s get up.” The main room was quiet, a window left ajar to welcome the soft breath of morning. Somewhere beneath the table, Mutt lay snoring contentedly, already fed and at peace with the world.
A jug of cool water stood on the table, fresh mint leaves floating lazily on the surface. Beside it, a bowl of soft curd mixed with honey and raisins — a simple, hearty breakfast with the scent of summer in it.
“I’m not sure what’s better,” Henry said as he sat down, “the food—or the fact that you made it.”
Hans raised an eyebrow. “Is that praise for my culinary skill—or are you still reeling from the sight of a broad-shouldered man stirring curd… stark naked?”
Henry burst out laughing. “Oh, the latter. Definitely the latter.”
“Don’t you get used to it love,” Hans said with mock drama. “Once we’re back in Rattay, I’m giving the kitchen back to the servants and never touching curd again.”
Henry grinned, shooting him a wink. “All the more reason to appreciate the breakfast—and the view.”
They ate in a comfortable silence. Birdsong drifted in from the trees.
Then Hans looked up.
“Want to see the strangest place around here?”
Henry glanced at him. “Strange how?”
“Near Hryzely. There’s an old earthwork in the forest—long, winding. Feels like it goes on forever. When I was little, I used to call it the Fairy Castle.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I spent hours out there. Used to imagine some forest folk lived there… fairies, elves, all the things a boy dreams up when he spends too much time alone.”
Henry leaned his elbow on the table and gave him a warm, amused look. “Ever meet any?”
“No,” Hans said, wrinkling his nose, “but there’s something about it. That ridge looks like it’s been there since the time of Christ.” He paused, then added quietly, “And you know what? Maybe something really was there. Or still is.”
Henry smiled at him. “Then I want to see it.”
Hans’s smile deepened. “Then we’ll ride out. It’s not far—just a bit of a ride. Part of the trail you already know. Same one where I went arse over tit into the stream.”
Henry hesitated, his brow drawing slightly. “I’d rather not think about that day, Hans… not what came after.”
Hans reached across the table and ran his fingers along the back of Henry’s hand.
“Today’ll be different,” he said softly. They set off mid-morning. The sun was already climbing, and the air was warm—rich with the scent of pine needles and sunbaked earth. They rode at a slow, easy pace along a forest path winding through the trees. Mutt trotted along beside them, sometimes stopping now and then to investigate a scent, before bounding ahead again to catch up.
Hans rode in front.
“Haaaans?” Henry called from behind.
He turned in the saddle. “What?”
“Are we there yet?” Henry said, grinning.
Hans rolled his eyes and snorted. “We’ll be there when we’re there, Master Henry.”
A beat of silence.
“Haaaaans?”
Turn, glance.
“Yes, Henry?”
That same wide grin. “Are we at least more there than we were before?”
Hans covered his face with a groan. “Lord in Heaven, what did I do to deserve this impossible man?”
Henry’s laugh rang through the trees behind him.
A few more minutes of quiet riding.
“Haaaaans?”
Hans reined in and waited for Henry to catch up. Henry wore that look—the one Hans had learned to dread — and love at the same time.
“No, we’re still not there,” Hans said flatly.
“But that’s not what I was going to ask.”
Hans let out a sigh of resignation. “Then what?”
“Well,” Henry began, “since we’re headed to the Fairy Castle… isn’t it technically my castle? Seeing as I’m a fairy?”
Hans closed his eyes and rubbed them slowly. “I’m sorry—what?”
That grin spread across Henry’s face like mischief made flesh. “You know. Back in our ravine — the one near Devil’s Den. The blacksmith fairy.”
Hans stared at him — then cracked up. It took him a moment to stop laughing. “Get off the damn horse.”
Henry hesitated for a second, then swung down from his horse. Hans followed, coming to a stop just a breath away.
“I think I know how to shut you up,” he said dryly—then pulled Henry in and kissed him, all heat and no warning.
When they broke apart, Henry was slightly breathless. “Fair enough,” he muttered. “That does work.”
Hans nodded. “And also, I’ve been dying to kiss you—” his hands slid down, “—and to get my hands on this perfect backside.”
He gave him a wink, turned on his heel, and sauntered back toward his horse.
“Hans,” Henry called after him, “you’re just going to leave me here? Hard?”
“Ay,” Hans replied without looking back. Then threw a smirk over his shoulder. “Serves you right for the fairy questions, love.”
Henry grumbled something under his breath. Adjusted his trousers. Then climbed back into the saddle to catch up—Hans was already vanishing around the bend.
It wasn’t long before the stream came into sight.
On that freezing day, it had been deep and swift—muddy and dangerous, when Hans’s horse had thrown him off in the middle of it. Now it was a gentle, cheerful thing, tumbling over stones and pebbles in a soft, steady rhythm.
Hans looked down at it and smiled. “Barely ankle-deep today.”
They dismounted, tugged off their boots, and rolled up their trousers. Then, barefoot, they stepped into the water, leading their horses by the reins.
The stones underfoot were smooth and slick, but the current was shallow and warm—more soothing than treacherous. Sunlight sparkled on the rippling surface, and the water murmured around them in soft, playful sounds as they moved.
“Not bad,” Hans said, glancing down. “Almost feels good in this heat.”
Henry cast him a look, a spark of mischief catching hold. Then he stopped.
“Wait,” he said.
Hans turned. “What is it?”
“I think I still owe you something.”
Before Hans could say a word, Henry grabbed him by the neck, yanked him close, and kissed him—deep and sudden, with enough force to make Hans nearly lose his footing on the slick stones. Water leapt up around their thighs.
When Henry finally drew back, they were both breathing a little harder.
Henry grinned. “Now we’re even.”
Hans just looked at him—then huffed a laugh and shook his head.
“There’s no winning with you, is there?”
He reached for Henry’s hand, and they made their way through the rest of the stream. Water dripped from their legs, but the sun was strong, drying it almost as fast.
Behind them, the stream kept murmuring between the stones, as if humming to itself in the quiet warmth of the day. When they reached the ridge, Henry barely noticed it at first.
Overgrown with moss and young trees along its crest, it stretched farther than anyone would expect—long, nearly straight, and quiet. The path atop it muffled every footfall.
Henry dismounted and stood still, taking in the sight in silence.
“…It’s bigger than I thought,” he said at last, his voice low.
Hans nodded. “I know.”
He walked ahead, slowly, leading the way, to a place where the trees thinned, and a broad oak cast a quiet shade over the softened ground.
“I used to sit here,” Hans said. “When I was a boy, I imagined that beyond this ridge was another world. And this tree”—he gestured gently—“was the gate that led to it.”
Henry looked at him, but said nothing. He only smiled—quietly, as if not to disturb the place, or the memory.
Hans settled against the tree, arms folded over his knees. Henry sat between his legs, leaning back against his chest and letting his head tip onto Hans’s shoulder. Mutt curled up nearby beneath a dense bush, dozing on the cool earth.
For a while, they just sat. The air was warm, and the leaves whispered gently all around them.
“I spent a night here once,” Hans said, after a moment.
Henry lifted his head. “You did?”
“Ay. Ran away from Foxburrow… Well, not ran, exactly. Hanush left me here, and Havel didn’t stay at the lodge overnight. So I just walked off. No one really cared.”
He paused for a moment.
“How old were you?” Henry asked.
“Nine? Maybe ten. Thought maybe I’d stay out here forever. That the fairies might let me in,” he said and gave a small smile. A little bitter at the edges.
“Did anything… strange happen?” Henry asked. “I mean, that night?”
Hans looked away for a moment, his eyes distant.
“When night fell, everything went still. And then—these little lights started to appear in the air.”
“Fireflies,” Henry nodded.
“Ay. Fireflies,” Hans echoed. “But there were… so many of them. Thousands. All I could see were those greenish dots swirling in the dark. And then suddenly—” he paused, “—it was like the whole forest vanished. There was nothing left but the lights. And the silence. The kind that presses in, like the world stopped breathing.”
He fell quiet again. Then gave a faint smile and shrugged.
“Maybe it just felt that way because I was a little boy.”
Henry shifted a little, then turned to face him.
He knelt on the soft ground, leaned in, and slipped his arms around Hans’s neck. His thumbs brushed gently through his hair at the nape.
For a moment, he just looked into his eyes.
“Hans?” he whispered.
“Yes?” came the quiet reply.
“Every time I get to know you a little more,” Henry said softly, “I find myself loving you more than I did before.”
Hans’s expression softened. Something settled in the corners of his eyes—gratitude, maybe. Or wonder. Like he still couldn’t quite believe it was real.
“When I was a boy,” Hans said slowly, “I used to come here hoping to meet fairies.”
He paused.
“But I never imagined—never even dreamed—I’d one day sit here with the love of my life.”
His eyes stayed locked on Henry’s. He didn’t move, just let out a slow breath.
“I love you so damn much, Jindro,” he whispered.
Henry’s throat tightened. He smiled, arms tightening just slightly.
“I love you too, Jendo.”
Their lips met—slowly, without haste. The kiss was full of everything they’d become to each other.
There were no fireflies swirling through the air this time.
But for a moment, the world around them went still— and vanished.
For a while, they simply looked at each other in silence. Soft smiles. Eyes lit with quiet knowing.
Then Henry shifted, settling once more between Hans’s knees. Hans slid his fingers into his hair.
They stayed like that a while longer—quiet, close, in a stillness that belonged only to them.
“What’s out that way?” Henry asked after a while, nodding toward a gap in the trees where a strip of sky was visible.
Hans glanced in the direction. “That’s where the forest ends. Then there’s a slope. And below that… Hryzely.”
Henry nodded but said nothing. He rose slowly, then held out his hand.
“Shall we take a look?”
Hans smiled and took it.
It was only a short walk through the thinning trees. And then the hill opened up before them—broad, sun-drenched, sloping gently down toward the distant village. The houses of Hryzely were just small specks below, nestled among fields and trees.
The grass was tall and soft, heavy with the scent of late summer. In the warm breeze, insects drifted lazily through the air.
Henry stretched out and lay back, hands behind his head. Hans joined him a moment later, settling close.
Henry reached out, found his hand, and laced their fingers together.
Above them stretched the sky— the quiet, deep sky of late summer. Deeper than usual. Almost indigo. The kind of color only the clearest days of this season can carry.
They lay side by side, shoulder to shoulder, eyes turned upward.
“Do you think,” Henry said after a while, “we’ll ever see the sea?”
Hans smiled. “What makes you think of that now?”
“I don’t know,“ Henry shrugged. „I just thought… maybe that’s what it looks like.”
Hans was quiet for a moment, then placed his palm on Henry’s chest. “You know what, love? Maybe we will. Maybe one day we’ll even go as far as the Holy Land,” he said with a smile.
Henry rolled onto his side, leaned in so their faces were close.
“But I’ll be perfectly happy,” he said softly, “even if this hill above Hryzely is all I ever see… as long as you’re here with me.”
He bent down and kissed him, slowly, deeply—like the rest of the world had never mattered.
When they pulled apart, just for a breath, their foreheads remained pressed together. Their breaths mingled, slow and steady. Henry held his gaze, still so close, and kissed him again—deeper this time, more intent. His tongue traced Hans’s lips before slipping between them— each motion a quiet vow, affirming what words had dared to say.
Hans brought one hand to Henry’s cheek. The other slid down the curve of his back, over the shirt, to the hem— then slipped beneath it, palm meeting warm skin. Henry shivered softly… but didn’t stop kissing him.
They moved together in the grass with the ease of lovers who knew each other to the bone. Henry's kisses wandered down to Hans’s neck. He loosened the ties of Hans’s shirt and pulled it off over his head. For a moment, he paused — taking in the sight of him, golden in the sunlight. Then he bent and pressed a kiss between his collarbones.
His mouth drifted lower, soft against skin. One hand followed — slow, certain — sliding down until it met the waistband of Hans’s trousers. And the heat beneath.
Hans propped himself on his elbows, breath catching.
“What if someone sees us, Henry?” he whispered.
Henry met his eyes — that glint of mischief already dancing.
“Then you’d better keep watch,” he grinned. “And leave the rest to me.”
He moved lower, slowly. His lips glided across Hans’s chest, kissing the space between his ribs, brushing the skin with the tip of his nose as if he wanted to feel it with every sense he had.
Hans lay with his eyes closed, head tilted back. He felt the heat of Henry’s breath, the softness of his lips moving down his body. When Henry kissed the lower edge of his belly, a quiet breath escaped him.
Then Henry loosened the ties of his trousers and eased them down over his hips—unhurried, tender—freeing Hans, hard and ready. For a moment, he looked up at him with a soft smile, then wrapped his hand around him. Hans shifted slightly, a tremor running through him. His lips parted, his brow creased in a silent exhale.
And then Henry bent down and ran his mouth over him—lightly, slowly, as if touching something sacred. Hans let out a low, muffled moan and clenched his fingers in the grass at his sides.
His hips lifted—just a little, almost involuntarily—as if every part of him ached to be closer.
Henry moved with calm certainty, each stroke and press of his mouth carrying more of himself into Hans. And Hans felt it all. In his gut, in his chest, in his throat where every breath caught and broke on the edge of silence.
After a while, he reached out, threaded his fingers through Henry’s hair, and gently took hold of his shoulder—guiding him back up, back to his face.
Henry looked up. His eyes held want, trust—and love.
Hans kissed him, deep and sure. And while their lips stayed locked, his hands moved down to the edge of Henry’s trousers.
He eased them down, slowly, one hand resting at Henry’s side, the other on his chest. When the fabric slipped away, Henry let out a quiet laugh and shifted closer—turning onto his side, facing him. Their bodies touched again, from shoulder to knee.
They lay together, limbs loosely tangled, hands wandering across skin—mapping familiar ground that felt new again. Henry’s hand slid back to Hans’s arousal. A heartbeat later, Hans’s fingers found him in turn.
They stayed like that, so close their breath mingled. Eyes locked.
Then came another kiss—slow and deep. As it deepened, their hands moved again. Steady. Focused. Every stroke, a message. A memory. A vow. Not just pleasure— but proof: We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.
Hans had his forehead pressed to Henry’s. His breath was hot and uneven. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and vanished into his hair. Henry felt it—felt the scent of him, wild and warm and utterly real. He held him with a quiet tenderness, precise and steady. Hans trembled, like the breath had caught on the edge of his lips.
Their bodies were damp, slick with sweat. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed. And in the tension between them—in each movement, each touch, that unbearable closeness—there was everything.
Their breathing quickened. Moans tangled with the scent of earth and open summer sky. And then, almost together, they brought each other over—sharp, unstoppable, their mouths gasping against each other’s in a kiss that didn’t break, not even as they came apart.
They lay side by side, eyes closed, lips barely apart, panting, sweat cooling on their skin. In their fingers, the last echoes of release still lingered.
As their heartbeats slowed and breath settled, they stayed there. Close. Forehead to temple. A hand resting over a hip.
Then Henry let out a quiet laugh. “So?” he murmured. “Were you keeping watch?”
Hans didn’t even blink. “No.”
Henry laughed again and pressed his cheek against him.
After a while, they got up, cleaned themselves off, pulled their shirts and trousers back on. They stayed there a little longer, sitting side by side with their legs in the grass, gazing out across the valley. The wind rustled the dry stalks. The air smelled of sweat, earth, and sun.
Henry gave a whistle.
It took only half a minute before Mutt burst out of the underbrush—ecstatic, with a leaf stuck to his head and his tongue lolling halfway down his chest. He made a beeline for them, flopped down beside Henry, and stayed there, sprawled out with his nose buried in the grass.
“Looks like he had a good time,” Hans remarked.
“So did we all,” Henry grinned.
Then they rose, brushing grass and earth from their clothes, and made their way back to where they’d left the horses. The meadow rippled in the breeze behind them, and the sky above remained high and deep blue. They took the long way back to Foxburrow. As if neither of them wanted the day to end too soon. So they followed a barely-there trail through the forest—a forgotten thread winding between trees, half-lost to time.
Mutt ran ahead, then behind, then vanished into the underbrush—only to reappear with the expression of someone who clearly knew more than anyone else, but wasn’t about to explain a thing.
And then, as the forest began to slope gently downward and the branches opened to one side, Hans raised a hand and slowed his horse.
“Look over there.”
Beyond the thinning trees lay a quiet glade—not large, but well-sheltered. At its far end, the ground dipped suddenly, as if the earth had once given way. Just below the drop, a low rock ledge jutted out, moss-covered and half-hidden. Brambles below. A few broken branches above. The kind of place no one stumbled upon by accident.
“You know this place?” Henry asked quietly.
Hans nodded. “Ay. Got caught in a downpour here once,” he said with a small smile. “This spot saved me that day.”
They dismounted, leaving the horses a little higher up the slope among young pines.
Mutt instantly claimed the place as his own—rolled in the grass, sniffed every stone, then flopped into the warm dust like a dog who’d seen enough of the world and earned a well-deserved rest.
Hans glanced at him. “Mutt’s decided we’re staying for a bit,” he chuckled.
“Fine by me,” Henry nodded. “I’m starving.” The fire crackled softly.
They sat side by side by the low hearth, backs against a stone. The air had cooled, but warmth still radiated from their bodies—and from the glowing embers in front of them. They’d finished eating a little while ago. The last of the bread had gone to Mutt, who took great care of the crumbs and anything else that had dared fall out of reach.
Hans stared into the flames. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known you forever, Henry,” he said thoughtfully. “Like you were always somewhere in my mind, and I just needed to finally meet you.”
Henry pulled him close, wrapped an arm around him, and pressed a kiss into his hair. “Maybe we both felt that. And just needed to find each other,” he said with a soft smile.
“Luckily,” Hans murmured, smiling back—then something flickered behind his eyes, and he let out a sudden laugh.
“What?” Henry asked.
“Do you remember,” Hans said between chuckles, “the first time we met?”
“You mean when I beat you up at the tavern in Rattay?” Henry grinned.
“Excuse me? Beat me up? Pretty sure it was the other way around!”
“All right, all right—maybe we both beat each other up,” Henry conceded. “If I recall correctly, by the time Hanush showed up, we were locked in a grapple and neither one of us could take the other down.”
Hans raised an eyebrow. “Please. I was barely trying. I just wanted to keep touching you.”
“Oh, of course,” Henry snorted. “That was definitely the reason.”
Hans gave him a look. “Well then—shall we test that? See who’s stronger now?”
“Right now?”
“Afraid you’ll end up flat on your back, love?” Hans teased, smirking.
“Get up,” Henry replied.
They stepped a few paces away, deeper into the glade. The fire crackled behind them—soft now, as if even it knew a different kind of challenge was about to begin.
They squared off. Hans rolled up his sleeves and rolled his shoulders.
“No groping,” he warned, mock-serious.
Henry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s what you’re worried about?”
Hans snorted—and then bumped into him with his shoulder, grinning.
They locked together—hands gripping arms, shoulders pressing close, feet braced wide in the grass. Their foreheads nearly touched. They shoved, strained—neither yielding an inch. Tension thrummed between them, laughter on their lips, stubbornness burning in their eyes. Shoulder to shoulder, muscles shifting beneath fabric, their breath coming faster.
Then Henry’s footing slipped.
His boot skidded on the damp grass, and he lurched—still clinging tight. Hans went down with him, and before either of them could catch themselves, they tumbled together down the slope at the edge of the glade.
They landed in a heap at the forest’s fringe. Flushed. Breathless. Laughing like fools.
Hans propped himself up on one elbow and gave Henry a smug grin. “Told you I’d win.”
Henry smirked but didn’t move. “Not sure you get to call it winning—when we’re both lying in—”
He trailed off.
Frowned. Lifted himself slightly on one elbow. Then looked down again.
“Hans… this is… soft.”
Hans shifted, warily. “And squishy,” he added.
Henry reached out and touched the ground beside him. Carefully.
He lifted his hand. Slowly. It stuck. It stretched. It reeked.
“I hope this is just mud,” he muttered, though the dread in his voice betrayed the truth he already suspected.
Hans sniffed his own sleeve. Then let his head fall back with a sigh of utter defeat.
“No, Henry. Mud—plus all the other things you'd find in a boar’s wallow.”
Silence.
And then— they both burst into helpless, wheezing laughter.
They spent a good while catching their breath between fits of laughter.
“Henry?” Hans said eventually.
“Ay?”
“You smell like a fucking boar.”
Henry took a beat.
“…And does that please you, my lord?”
They both broke down again, laughing even harder.
“Get up, love,” Hans managed after a moment, “we’ve got to get this shit off us.”
They made their way back into the glade and looked each other over—hips, hands, legs.
“This isn’t coming off on its own,” Henry observed grimly.
“It’s not,” Hans agreed.
He fell quiet for a moment, thinking. Then lifted his head.
“Wait… There used to be a pond out here. Just a small one. The water was clear. Might still be.”
“Isn’t it a bit cold for a swim?” Henry raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe a bit,” Hans admitted. “But we’re not far from Foxburrow. And this—” he nodded to his sleeve, “—isn’t coming off in a trough.”
Henry chuckled. “All right then. Lead the way, you stinky little piglet.”
“Oink oink,” Hans shot back over his shoulder and marched off into the trees. After a few minutes of pushing through undergrowth, the pond finally came into view—shaded, still, nearly hidden among grass and reeds. A small body of water, overgrown at the edges, but its surface was so calm it seemed to radiate peace.
“Here it is,” Hans nodded. “It’s shallow. Don’t worry.”
He stripped off his clothes, stepped barefoot into the water— and hissed through his teeth. “Fuuuck me, that’s cold!”
Henry sighed and began undressing. “Let’s get this over with.”
The water was, in fact, freezing. With every step, a sharp wave of cold shot through them—but once they finally dunked under and began scrubbing the grime away, the gasps gave way to sighs of relief.
“I… I think I’ve lost the family jewels,” Henry declared as he splashed icy water across his chest. “Permanently.”
Hans put on a look of mock horror. “No! Not those! They were the whole reason I chose you!”
They both burst out laughing. Henry flung a wave of cold water at him. Hans tilted his head back, laughing, and splashed him right back.
“Enough!” Henry hissed. “Or your smug little grin’s going to freeze right off your face.”
Hans kept laughing—but then gave a full-body shudder. “Come on. Fire. Now.”
The flames were still burning. Low, but enough.
Mutt lifted his head, gave them a quick look of disinterested approval, then set it back on his paws.
They stepped closer to the fire. Hands out. Breathing easier.
Hans turned his back to the flames.
“This isn’t doing much,” Henry said after a moment. “Let’s ride. We’ll be home in no time—and we’ll light the place up like a bloody forge. When they returned to Foxburrow, they didn’t bother with anything else.
The air inside still carried the faint warmth. Henry went straight to the hearth, lit the fire, and fed it until the flames caught—quick and grateful, hungry for every scrap of kindling. Heat began to pour gently into the room.
Mutt curled up in his bed and was asleep within seconds.
Hans, meanwhile, spread a few furs in front of the hearth. They settled onto them side by side, pressed close, still damp, still a little breathless—but warm now. The fire cast a soft orange glow over their bare skin, flickering gently in the quiet.
After a moment, Hans rose, walked to the shelf, and returned with a wineskin.
“This should warm us up from the inside,” he said with a smile, handing it to Henry before flopping back down beside him.
They lay facing each other, propped on their elbows, firelight on their backs, their heads resting in their palms. Two mirrored bodies, sharing one pool of warmth in the world.
The wineskin passed between them. A sip. A pause. A lazy hand trailing over a chest, a side, a thigh— no urgency. Just closeness. Familiar. Certain.
Hans looked at Henry, eyes half-lidded, lips curled into a soft smile.
“This,” he said quietly, “was exactly what I needed.”
Henry tilted his head, questioning.
“This day,” Hans added, brushing his hand along Henry’s cheek. “Just like it was. With you.”
Henry leaned in and kissed him gently. Then he looked into his eyes, close enough to see every shade in them.
“I know I’ve probably said this before, Hans,” he murmured with a soft smile, “but I really, really love you.”
“That,” Hans replied, “is something I’ll never get tired of hearing.”
He lay back, resting his head on his hand. Henry stayed facing him, close, their knees almost touching.
“No, wait,” Henry said quietly. “I mean it. I know I’m not always easy. I can be stubborn as hell. I mess around like a fool. I get quiet when I shouldn’t. I snore. I—” “You’re mine,” Hans said, not missing a beat.
Henry blinked. His breath caught just a little — then he gave a soft, helpless grin. “Ay,” he said. “I am.”
He tilted his head, still smiling. “And you must be properly in love with me to survive all that.”
Hans’s smile widened. “That I am.”
He leaned in and kissed him — slow and warm, with all the affection words couldn’t carry.
Henry moved closer, pressed his body to his. His hand drifted down along Hans’s side, paused at his waist, then slid back up. Hans threaded his fingers into Henry’s hair—and let them stay there.
They lay like that for a long while, body to body. Their touches softened, slowed, deepened. Everything between them quieted. Stilled. And in that stillness, they felt nothing but ease.
Henry’s hand moved along Hans’s side, thumb brushing the curve beneath his ribs. Hans’s eyes were half-closed. His breathing, deep and steady.
Their lips met again.
Not just once— but a second time, a third. Each kiss slower. Deeper. Lingering close.
Their bodies pressed together, legs tangled, breath drawing out—slower now, fuller, as if their lungs were trying to hold this moment in place.
Henry slid a hand down Hans’s back, all the way to his lower spine, gently pulling him closer. Hans let his palm drift across Henry’s chest, then lower, down his stomach…
He paused. Then stayed.
Hans grinned. “Henry… I believe I’ve just found your family jewels.”
Henry burst out laughing—loud, helpless. He dropped his forehead to Hans’s shoulder, unable to speak for a few seconds.
“You did, huh?” he managed at last, breathless. “And are they… in good condition?”
Hans kept a perfectly serious face, though his hand remained exactly where it was. “Aye. Pride of the realm,” he said.
And then he laughed too.
The laughter slowly faded, leaving only warmth—soft in their eyes, softer still in their touch. There was no need to speak. They both knew where they were going.
Henry answered every touch with his own. He guided Hans gently onto his back and let his hand wander—over his chest, his stomach, his hips. He didn’t rush. His palm and mouth moved with the ease of deep familiarity, with a tenderness that asked only for presence.
Hans pulled him back in. They wrapped around each other—body to body, hand at the nape, thighs intertwined.
Every motion came from the one before it. As if they’d memorized each other’s bodies.
Henry stayed above him, but not a weight—more like a promise. He leaned on one forearm, tracing Hans’s side, then his ribs and stomach, hand gliding with quiet precision.
When their hips brushed again, Henry shifted slightly. Not much. Just enough to say—this wasn’t chance.
Their eyes met. And held.
Hans’s expression didn’t shift—but his eyes widened, just a little. His fingers traced down the length of Henry’s spine, slow and deliberate, until they reached the base.
Henry lifted himself slightly—then pressed in again, differently this time. A subtle shift. Forward, and lower. His hand rested on Hans’s hip. His breathing stayed steady. Their foreheads hovered close, almost touching.
Their eyes never left each other. Not even for a heartbeat.
Hans lifted a hand and brushed his thumb across Henry’s cheek. He nodded. Barely. Just enough to be felt more than seen—like breath.
Then he rose and kissed him. Slowly. Lingering. A kiss that didn’t want to end.
His hand slid down Henry’s side, gently guiding him onto his hip.
He never stopped touching him—never broke contact. He moved behind him, close, his front to Henry’s back. One arm wrapped around his chest. The other settled softly on his side. His breath was deep. Grounded.
And then— he entered him. Slowly. Fully.
Henry tensed—just for a second. Then he exhaled, laid his head back against Hans’s shoulder, and tilted it slightly to kiss him again. Hans leaned in, their lips meeting once more—trembling, open, quiet.
Every movement was slow. Deep. Gentle.
Hans kept one hand steady on his hip, his breath warm against Henry’s neck, his mouth tracing along the curve of his throat. His free hand slid down Henry’s stomach and took him in his palm.
Henry moved with him—answered every shift, every press of skin against skin. The way he placed his hand over Hans’s, the way his body arched back to meet him—it all said the same thing. No rush. No need for more than this. Every touch had its place. Every breath, every stroke, every heartbeat.
It was focused. Quiet. Slick with sweat. And beautiful.
Henry bit his lip, eyes shut tight, but never turned away. He felt his heart pounding under Hans’s arm. Felt the grip on him grow firmer. Faster. And when release came—deep, wrenching, consuming—Hans didn’t pull away. He stayed with him. And when he followed, their mouths met again—fierce and full and quiet.
They stayed like that— body on body, breath on skin, fingers still laced together.
Hans held him gently, his thumb tracing slow circles along Henry’s forearm. The room was quiet—only the faint crackle of the fire, burning low, as if even it didn’t dare disturb the peace.
After a while, Henry’s breath began to slow beneath his arm. His head rested on Hans’s shoulder. His body softened. His eyelids grew heavy.
Hans smiled to himself. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to his neck.
“Henry…” he whispered. “Come to bed. It’ll be better there.”
Henry mumbled something, eyes still shut. “Can’t you just carry me, love?” he murmured groggily.
Hans chuckled under his breath. “You really are impossibly spoiled.”
“That’s just good upbringing,” Henry muttered, nestling in even closer.
Hans shook his head—but there was so much tenderness in it, he might have actually carried him, if he’d needed to.
“…Fine,” Henry muttered. “But remember this position, ay? I want to keep it exactly like this in bed.”
Hans laughed softly. “Left leg over mine, your hand right here…” he brushed a hand across Henry’s stomach, “and your head tucked right there.” He kissed his forehead. “Got it carved into memory.”
Henry slowly sat up, stretching like a drowsy cat, and let Hans take his hand. Hans led him to their bedroom. They slipped under the blankets, not bothering to shift or adjust—just fell back into place. Exactly as before.
Hans kissed the back of his neck and whispered, almost too soft to hear. “Sleep well. And don’t let the fairies steal you away.”
Henry gave a soft, sleepy huff of a laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m in good Hans.”
