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Henry finds Hans within the gardens of the upper castle, in the shade of the walls. The view from here is one of the most beautiful from Rattay, a wide vista over the landscape. A fine place to while away an afternoon, for those people afforded to do so.
People like bored young lords, for example. Just off the top of his head!
But Henry does not have the wherewithal to appreciate the view, nor the scathing critique of noble leisure. Not when he is worried about what pointless whim he has been summoned for this time. And not when he worries about the item that hangs from his hip. Waiting.
Hans greets him with a raise of his hand as he idles on a bench. Behind him the garden wall is starting to creep with plants, a mesh of many green and tender stems, dotted with buds. In a few months they will no doubt bloom into multitudes of many colours of petals and fruits.
"Hal! I have something for you."
This is not what Henry had been expecting.
He hovers uncertainly, staring at the package being offered to him. Not the first gift he’s received from Hans, but they had always been earnt. Rewards, might be the better word for them. He casts his mind back, can’t think of what he might have done recently to deserve this. Therefore he is suspicious.
Very suspicious.
"What’s the occasion?"
"Does a lord need an occasion to thank their most faithful attendant?"
"A lord like you does, Sir Hans," Henry replies in that indolent tone that Hans seems to appreciate.
From his responses, the opposite would appear to be true, his words always so reprimanding. But Henry knows from the playful glint to his eyes. That he is happy to be playing the game with someone who also realised that the rules were stupid.
"Oh, I see. I’ll just keep it for myself then, shall I?"
Henry laughs, dipping his head in a half serious, half mocking bow at the waist.
"Apologies for my insolence, my lord. Your generosity is unparalleled and I am not worthy."
There is the glint, as expected, and Henry feels a surge of delight to know that he has acted out the part well.
Hans offers the gift to him again with a smirk.
"Correct on both accounts, but you need to work on your tone, Hal. Anyway, stop gawping at me like the village idiot and sit down already!"
Henry plops his arse down onto the bench beside him and takes the gift, wrapped in parchment paper and string. It is hard on the bottom, but the top is soft and malleable beneath the paper. Henry smiles, amused as he presses down with his fingertips, letting the contents squash to and fro. Just a few moments too long for a grown man to be entertained.
Then he places the gift in his lap, ready to draw out his own surprise from where it rests at his hip. But Hans continues in that instructive waffle he often adopts.
"And if you must know, this is a ceremony that is the latest fashion from the French Royal Court!"
Henry’s fingers dance on the bundle of fabric at his side. Restraining a grin.
"Oh aye?"
"Indeed! It is a feast in honour of Saint Valentine! A day for good food and good company!"
"And you chose to spend it with me?"
"Watch it, peasant. Who’s to say I don’t have far more interesting company than you awaiting me later?"
How unfortunate for Hans that Skalitz was not the inbred backwater town he supposed it was. That Henry too has enjoyed a few crisp February morns celebrating this very same feast. A day when they would push together the tables outside the tavern, set it with boughs of newly budding oak and elm, and lay out a spread for all to enjoy. The last of the winter supplies, the first early year bounties, alongside free flowing ale and beer straight from the keg. And then later delighting with dancing, and drinking, and singing, and - eventually - kissing.
"So what’s this then?" Henry gestures to the gift waiting in his lap, affecting ignorance.
"Well, from what I’ve heard, as part of the feast you are supposed to give a gift. To…" Hans pauses, his lips twisting as he finds the words. "To someone meaningful to you."
Henry has heard something different about who you are supposed to bequeath a gift to.
"I am honoured, Sir Hans. That you would think of me." Again his tone is slipping towards irreverent, despite the gratitude he feels.
Hans leans to slap him on the upper arm.
"Stop acting a fool and open it!"
And so Henry dutifully takes the package. The folds are haphazard, not neatly wrapped at all; perhaps Hans did it himself, struggled with it by the looks of things! And he feels a warmth in his chest, at the thought of the brash young lord swearing over such a simple task. The worthy knight bested by mere paper and string.
He unties the string, opens up the paper and peers within. His brows raise.
Inside is a honeycomb. Fresh, with neat hexagonal shapes. Unfortunately crushed in some places by what look like fingerprints, however that could have happened? The contents ooze with luscious honey; over the paper, over the plate beneath, now over his fingers - and over some strange brown lumps also nestled within.
"What are these? Turds?" Henry asks, holding one of the brown lumps up to inspect it. Some kind of mushroom? Or an old rotten turnip? Maybe it is a turd and he has drastically misunderstood the intention behind this gesture.
"It’s a fig, Hal. Have you never seen one before?"
Henry glances to him, his brows knit.
"Like with Adam and Eve?" he asks, bewildered, vaguely recalls something about it from church. This shrivelled little ballsack would definitely not be large enough for his modesty…
"Don’t be silly, they wore the leaves. That is the fruit," Hans explains with that same scholarly tone. Like Henry lives under a rock.
To illustrate his point, he takes the dried fig from Henry’s fingers. He scoffs as the honey continues to drip everywhere, spinning like a spider’s web between the two of them, connecting their hands with a dozen shining threads. And he takes a confident bite. So confident into such a disgusting looking thing that Henry winces.
But no, he is telling the truth. He reveals where he has bitten: strange pips and brown mush. It somehow looks even less appetising.
"I’m not so sure, Sir Hans…"
"You have to try one! It’s a gift! I would be most offended if you didn’t!" Hans holds out the half eaten fruit towards Henry’s mouth; he grimaces and tries to turn away.
"But it looks-"
"I won’t take no for an answer, blacksmith’s boy. Eat it, before I shove it down your gob!"
Henry pouts, resists even as Hans thrusts the fig in his face, smears his cheek with honey. Their hands uselessly flapping.
Until Henry relents and takes a bite. Eats right from Hans’ grasp. Like some kind of braindead but gentle horse. Absurd.
It’s sweet. Fuck, it’s sweet! Really sweet! Even without the honey, it would be sweet! Like the summer berry jam Ma used to make, like the schnapps Bianca would pilfer for him. Like the first taste of wine in the new year, like a drink from the cool stream on a hot summer’s day.
"Vratz ghud!" Henry exclaims through a mouthful. Again, like some kind of braindead but gentle horse.
Hans only laughs, takes back what remains of the fig and finishes it in a single bite.
"Ah toll yu so!" he replies, also through a mouthful. And they chuckle at the sight of the other.
Together they eat the rest of the figs and the honeycomb, battling against the pervasive syrup. What a feast in so small a gift! The soft flesh of the fruit, the crunch of the honeycomb, the sticky accompaniment.
They chat between bites, of French court fashions and tales of saints, more stories Hans has heard along the grapevine from faraway lands. Then they talk of spring and summer, of dancing and wenches and wine, all that there is to love in life. As the honey dribbles down their chins and sleeves, and yet they do not care.
When the food is finished, the conversation finishes as well. Not for a lack of things to say, but out of contentedness. Comforted by each other’s company, a full belly, the lingering taste of sweet on their tongues and the promise of spring ready to break at any moment.
Henry does not want to leave, but he must. Knows that even on this special day, there is work to be done for those like him. Those not afforded the luxury of wasting time in gardens. Places to go to, people to speak with. People he does not want to speak with, when he would rather speak with Hans.
He stands from the bench and goes to take the item from his hip. But again he pauses. All of a sudden his gift seems so daft, so trite. He had only pursued the idea on the presumption that it would have been a one way exchange. A small token of gratitude from a squire to his lord. Perfectly reasonable.
But now it is a reciprocation. Now it has meaning.
He jerks a hand towards the gift. Thinks better of it. Goes to bow and leave. Thinks better of it. Hesitates, uncertain.
"I…" he starts strongly, but falters when Hans glances to him. The young lord is busy sucking the last motes of honey from his fingers. "Thank you, Sir Hans, for the gift. I should…"
A better gift would be to let Hans think he has educated him. Shared an insight into his world. Henry has nothing to offer that he would want.
But Hans looks to him - with such an expectant expression, such a curious smile - that Henry feels compelled to do it anyway.
He almost tears the gift from his side. It is wrapped in an offcut of coarse cloth. How he wishes it could have been something nicer; it is clean at least, not a soiled old rag. But still.
"I, er… Something for you. It’s not anything really. I was just…" His mouth is rambling without his permission; he can’t seem to control his lips. "Just messing around in the forge and-"
Hans snatches the gift from him before he can hide it away again.
"Henry, you fox! You let me spout on about all of that nonsense when you had something for me!"
"Sir Hans, it’s-"
Both of them fall silent as Hans unwraps the fabric and what is within is revealed. Every inch of Henry tenses.
"Henry…" Hans mutters, taking up the item from within, holding it carefully between his fingertips, like a precious item. Like an heirloom.
Before him he holds a single arrow. Henry has not carved the wood, nor attached the fletching of neatly cut goose feathers. But he has made the arrowhead. Hammered it painstakingly from iron. He made several in fact; this was the best of the bunch. And then he had taken the time to etch it afterwards, with a pattern of layered knots and loops. Intended to be symmetrical, but it has not ended up that way, the shapes off-kilter and amateurish. Embodied all that he felt, all that was tangled within him, into that intricate pattern.
An arrow with no purpose, no function. More than useless for any archer, especially one as talented as Hans. No worth, but for its quaint beauty. An arrow that would never be fired, was only meant to express.
Henry feels a sudden compulsion to escape. Food, that was one thing. Hans probably spent all of two seconds thinking about that. He probably spent longer wrapping the damn thing. This arrow however? Hours of work by his hand. Crafted and considered. Henry has no doubt overstepped a line, presumed too much. Misinterpreted how to bend the rules.
"Thank you for the figs. I’ll see you soon-" Henry mutters as he takes the first step towards the exit of the garden. A doorway to safety and salvation. Keen to be anywhere but here!
He halts abruptly as a palm wraps around his forearm. Not forceful, but a tight grip. And he knows that he would not be allowed to slip free, even if he did wrest his arm away.
Their eyes lock together. For one eternal moment as Hans places the arrow carefully onto the bench beside him, still warm with Henry’s heat.
For one further endless moment as he stands to bring himself face to face with Henry.
And one final heart stopping moment as he leans closer, tugs Henry to meet him halfway, that locked gaze breaking only because he is too close to follow.
The moments so slow that Henry can appreciate each and every one, and yet they happen in such quick succession that he cannot react. Only be drawn off balance towards Hans.
But Hans is there to catch him, steadies him with a meeting of their lips. Soft and gentle, but it strikes through Henry like a bell resounding. A clang in his chest that almost is shocking enough to cause him to pull away. Confused, bewildered, surprised. And beneath all of that, relieved. Glad. Excited.
But his lips are sweet. Really sweet. Henry is shocked by how sweet he tastes. Sweet like fruit and honey and-
Ah, there might be a reason for that, now that Henry thinks about it. As though his fingers aren’t still sticky for the same reason.
So he stops thinking. Just kisses and tastes and lets his heart dance the dance his feet wishes they could partake in.
A palm slips upwards to rest behind Hans’ neck to help keep him close, a place Henry has never touched before. Smooth and soft.
There is so much of Hans that he has never touched before. Only shoulders and wrists: grabbed in drunken angry wrestles, carrying him back to Rattay, the infrequent reassuring gesture here and there when he felt brave. Christ, even in that bathtub they had fought to keep a sensible distance from each other, stopping their legs from stroking beneath the waters.
So each new inch of him touched is like a map being unfurled.
And Hans also is tentatively exploring new places. Palms that worry at Henry’s waist, so he leans into them, reassuring. The brush of the tip of his nose against his cheek, accidental in his enthusiasm. Knees that brush together as they close that gap between them, inch by nervous inch.
And Henry is struck by the abrupt thought that he wonders how the rest of him must taste. Surely not sweet? That was the honey, right?
Only one way to find out!
He feels his cheeks blush hotly at the thought.
When their lips part, reluctantly, there is a stick there. The remnants of the honey that connects them, invisible indivisible threads.
"The Cupid’s arrow was a clever touch," Hans murmurs against his lips.
Henry frowns. What is he talking about?
"A what arrow?"
Hans pulls back further to stare at him with incredulity. Blue eyes widening. And Henry stares back, blankly. Not a single thought.
"You made an arrow because…?"
"Because you’re good with a bow?"
Again a stare. Henry can’t understand the problem here. Was the correlation not obvious enough?
Hans opens his mouth, with a look that he’s about to launch into another ramble.
But the rules are different now.
He shuts it again, shakes his head. Leans close again as he speaks, with an irresistible smile gracing over his lips.
"Just kiss me again, you oaf."
