Chapter Text
The terms of his new job were a little vague. Literally, ‘Help wanted to clean wealthy individual's domicile; 1,700CZK/h. Contact Dżesika for inquiries or interviews.’ Followed by a phone number. The application process was your typical résumé submission; questions about citizenship, active military or veteran status and his experience with cleaning specifically. It seemed on the up and up so far.
So while maybe it shouldn't have been, it came as a surprise that the job began with an NDA that clearly named his employer: Hans Capon.
Even his friend, Žižka, who had sent the listing his way, simply said he knew some idiot who needed help around the house, though there was an implication that there was… more to it than that. And then much less of an implication when they got drunk and Henry had him loose-lipped enough to divulge that this potential employer was not only an idiot, but a pervert to boot.
Which was fine. Probably. It was worth a shot, at any rate. Getting ogled by some rich guy for eighty dollars an hour is insane, and if it isn't comfortable or feasible for him, he can always quit. No harm, no foul.
Signing the thing was the first time he ever heard a peep of who he would be working for because up to that point, they'd been discreet about whose house he would be cleaning. Not that it mattered. As far as Henry was concerned, he could fund himself a fraction of the way through a bachelor's degree, but it was good information to have so that he could run a quick Google search on the guy.
Their internet is shit because they have O2 but it only takes a pregnant pause before the search loads and it displays a collage of photos under the name Hans Capon, who's apparently a model and an actor. Nephew of Hanush Leipa, Czech CEO and businessman of Rattay Industries, a company known for its international shipping and trading. There isn't much about Hans beyond a small excerpt on his early years, with prestigious education to start and leading up to admission at University of New York in Prague, where he's set to get his education in business and one day take over for his uncle, who gained control of the shares and company after the unfortunate passing of his parents.
It rubs him the wrong way to know that so much of Hans’ personal life is easily accessible like this, but at least Henry knows what topics to avoid or where he could potentially phish to stroke his employer’s ego. Still, it even goes as far as to inform readers of his known promiscuity, sexual orientation, various scandals and a dismissed legal charge. For once, he's almost thankful to be poor.
Almost.
Dżesika assures him he only needs to bring himself to his first day of work, what the address is, the rate of pay and when he should arrive.
And just like that, Henry has a second job.
———
Pulling up to the apartment complex, it’s probably the gaudiest building that Henry has ever seen. He rarely travels into the city centre, so he’d never really paid much attention to what they look like, but this one is practically gilded, with its tinted windows and shiny gold frames. There’s filigree around the entrance door for Christ’s sake. The valet looks at him confused when Henry asks where he can lock his bike up, and just points him to a nearby tree. Do rich people really not have bikes? Henry gives him a tip anyway.
He checks the screenshot on his phone to make sure he has the right building, and reminds himself of the floor number. But when he gets to the elevator, it turns out that the 60th floor is the top floor, which he supposes shouldn’t surprise him, but a penthouse suite? This is insane. The ride up takes fucking forever, and Henry hopes this place has a back-up generator for emergencies because the stairs in here must be a nightmare.
But then the final ding sounds, and the doors open to what looks like a walk-in closet. There’s no one here, but there’s a main door ahead with a coat rack full of rumpled outerwear, everything from woolen peacoats to windbreakers, and some haphazardly tossed wingtips and loafers. If this is the calm before the storm, Henry wonders how bad it could possibly be inside, and crosses his fingers for the better. He steps into the room and starts to take off his own coat, and that’s when he sees the small table next to the door, with some silky fabric and a note on top. He walks over and picks up the little card, flipping it over to see some pretty script that says,
‘Here is your new uniform ;) Wear it proudly.’
Okay. Was the winky face really necessary? Henry sighs and puts the card in his pocket, and looks at the fabric thinking, ‘this better not be what I think it is.’
But it is, in fact, what he thinks it is. The fabric in his hands unfurls into a skimpy little maid outfit, and he barks a laugh at it. While it looks like it was indeed made for men to wear, there’s no way in hell that Henry’s shoulders are fitting into this thing.
It’s interesting though, because the outfit itself is clearly made with quality. The silk feels real, not like viscose or nylon. The lace is hand-stitched, the ties aren’t flimsy, and the bustier is actually well crafted. The apron even has pockets, for Christ’s sake! But this must be a joke, right? An expensive joke, sure, but even if he’s a pervert, Hans couldn’t possibly expect him to wear this.
The amusement dies quick, and he just sighs before he puts the outfit back onto the table, and brushes himself down, shaking his hands to get the nerves out, and knocks on the door.
The door to the landing opens to a now-familiar face, blonde hair slicked back, clean shaven, though Henry can tell he's capable of growing a beard if he wanted to. He's wearing the remnants of a three piece suit, having shed his jacket for a classy but less formal look, leaving him in a maroon dress shirt, charcoal vest and matching slacks. Smiling blue eyes dim when he looks Henry up and down and sees that despite his very simple and hard to miss instructions, his new maid is out of uniform.
“Is there a problem? Dżesika should have made sure the dress was the correct size.”
Henry balks at the question, brow furrowed. “Wh…? You can’t mean I’m actually supposed to wear that,” he deadpans, looking at the crumpled dress on the table. “There’s no way that’s fitting me.”
Hans frowns and looks at the dress as well, no longer neatly folded where it'd been left. “I don't know what size she bought for you. Be a dear and at least try it on for me.” He smirks like every bit the heathen Henry has come to expect and starts to close the door again. Henry opens his mouth to call after him, challenge him somehow, and promptly gets a face full of door instead, leaving Henry once again on his own in the landing with the maid dress.
He grumbles under his breath as he picks the dress back up, pinching the soft fabric delicately at the shoulders and holding it up against his chest. He turns to the full-length mirror on the wall by the elevator to see how it looks held up against himself, and his face flushes deep red as he looks at his reflection. The hem doesn’t even reach his mid-thigh, and the bust is even lower than it might be for a woman.
He considers leaving right then and there. This is ridiculous, and he doesn’t know how to cope with how it makes him feel. But the dress.. is pretty, and Hans had been right, that he hadn’t even attempted to try it on. And 1,700Kč an hour.
He takes a deep breath and pulls his t-shirt off, then wriggling out of his jeans to be left in a pile by his shoes. He feels stupid for wearing briefs, then feels stupid for thinking that. What was he supposed to have worn? It’s not like he’d been given a heads up here. There was no ‘BYOT’ (bring your own thong) policy. He shudders to think it. What kind of underwear is he supposed to wear with this? A jock-strap? Nothing?
Thankfully though, where Henry had worried about how to fit into the dress as it was, there’s a carefully concealed zipper in the side that helps a lot. He steps into the skirt, and it just barely makes it past his hips. He has to wrestle his arms into the puffed sleeves, and the cuffs are uncomfortably tight around his biceps. When he moves his arms, he hears stitches pop. The scoop neckline is filled out.. quite nicely by his pecs, he has to admit. But when he tries to do up the zipper, it only makes it halfway before the breadth of his chest and shoulders make it impossible to get it any higher. He’s managed to get himself even more worked up in this whole process, cheeks ruddy at this point and his fingers trembling a little.
He’d been avoiding looking at himself in the mirror while getting into the damn thing, but now that it’s as good as it’s going to get, he hazards a glance. It’s clearly ill-fitting, but the cut is.. Surprisingly flattering regardless. He turns to his side, and bites his lip at the way his ass makes the back of the skirt even shorter, the bottoms of his briefs sticking out from underneath, the only thing that keeps his cheeks from being on almost-full display.
Henry doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s almost afraid to move for fear of ripping or tearing something, but he carefully walks back to the door to knock again, and wait for Hans’ appraisal. He tries to force his expression into something disgruntled and indignant, with an ‘I told you so’ on the tip of his tongue, but with how warm his face still feels, he’s not sure how successful he is.
The door swings open quickly and Henry watches as Hans goes from quickly assessing that he's actually in the stupid thing to laser-focused on him. His eyes impolitely drag down Henry's form from his neck to his shoulders, to the swell of his tits and the cinched waist of the dress, to the frilly hem that shows the peek of his briefs down to his thighs.
His eyes rove back up appreciatively and Hans licks his lips, grip tightening on the frame where one slender, porcelain hand rests. “Hm. Right you were. Well, no matter,” though the hunger in his gaze tells a different story. “I won't have you doing much today. Then we’ll see if I can’t get you to my tailor to see about getting your measurements for the uniform.”
He gestures Henry inside and the lobby gives way to a foyer. Hans informs him there's a powder room to his left, which Henry doesn't even know the use for other than that it has a toilet, and from there it's a straight shot into the dining room area. From what he can tell, this, the living room and the kitchen are the most open the floorplan gets, with the rooms making a U-shape that has a door separating it from the ‘service’ room—a fancy way of saying ‘laundry’. Everything else is divided by doors and walls, which all-in-all amounts to three bedrooms, three bathrooms and a large terrace area with a heated plunge pool.
Henry assumes there won't be much for him to do with regard to that. Pools need treatment and Henry doesn't know fuckall about chlorine levels—he’s an art major, for Christ's sake—but there's a second where he wonders if Hans would ever… No. He couldn't. Would he? Would Henry let him? He takes a breath when Hans mentions offhandedly that the pool won’t be open until the summer anyways, which means Henry doesn’t have to think about it right now.
Which only leaves him with less cognitive load and more time to keep dragging his eyes away from Hans’ perky ass in those perfectly tailored slacks. The tour is impressive, if you're into all the gaudiness that wealth has to offer, but even for all the scenery that should leave him in awe, he always finds himself looking at Hans. He never comments on it, but every time they make eye contact, it’s obvious that Hans enjoys the way that Henry struggles against his gravity.
“And this is my bedroom!” The tour has circled its way around the apartment to back near the foyer, with Hans opening up the last door and notably not stepping inside. “This will be your trial run. I don't like my housekeeper and I'm planning on firing her, but I thought I could have a bit more fun with it than simply hiring another housekeeper. And that's where you come in, my dear Henry.” Hans’ smile lingers in Henry's direction, an air of genuine excitement to him and interest still flickering in his eyes.
There's certainly a lot more than meets the eye to this man, but even for the few times he's been hit on, Henry has never seen the appeal of himself. He thinks he looks rather plain really, especially compared to someone like Hans, who is literally a model. But Hans clearly sees something he seems to like, and he's unabashed about drinking Henry in, eyes trailing hungrily over all the things Henry thinks are mediocre about himself. Christ, he’s never felt so seen. On display. Objectified. He suppresses a shiver as goosebumps break out across his arms. Why the hell would that thought be arousing?
Hans throws his hands on his hips and snaps Henry out of his reverie. “Well? Think you can manage it?”
Henry tries to distract himself from the enticing way Hans cocks his hip out by looking somewhat warily into the bedroom, flicking the switch to assess it in the light. On first glance, it’s really not so bad. There’s cups of varying sizes and shapes littering the bedside table and desk, multiple piles of clothes, the most prominent of which is of course next to yet another full length mirror near the closet, where Hans clearly goes through outfit after outfit before deciding on the one he wants for any given day. Apparently today took about six tries. The bed looks as though it hasn’t been made in a week, the sheets rumpled and askew. But other than that, it mostly looks like an average young man might live there, setting aside the designer labels.
He takes a breath, nodding his head as he surveys the main room again. “Yeah, I can work with this.” He gives his best attempt at a grin, though it’s still a little tight around the edges, just like this stupid outfit. Oh well. First impressions, right? He’s being paid far too much to criticize his employer to his face. “Anywhere specific you want me to get started?”
Hans hums thoughtfully and looks around. “The bathroom, if you don't mind.”
Stupid thing to say, but sure.
Henry pads over to the ensuite bathroom, which is another beast entirely, with toothpaste spittle all over the lower half of the mirror, miscellaneous bottles and vials of skincare on the counter, the razor he shaved with this morning and the remnants of the facial hair in the sink basin, and Christ, seven different bottles of cologne. What, one for each day of the week? Henry’s been wearing the same cologne that he got from Sam for his twentieth birthday, and even then he saves it for special occasions. Hans does actually smell ridiculously good though, contrary to the relative mess he lives in, so Henry shouldn’t complain.
There’s more clothes here too, overflowing the hamper next to the largest shower Henry has ever seen, next to an equally large soaking tub. For God’s sake, this bathroom alone looks as though it’s the size of Henry’s kitchen. Which means there’s plenty of room for Hans to be in here with him. He meanders past Henry to sit himself down on the edge of the tub, crossing one long leg over the other and taking out his phone to start scrolling on. Henry’s brow furrows. So is he a pervert or just a control freak? This man already confuses him in so many ways.
He has to lean down to rummage through the cabinets under the sink in search of some cleaning supplies (of which there are few), and he becomes intimately aware of the way his pecs squeeze together, the neckline making it look like actual cleavage in the dress. He has to suppress the urge to cover himself modestly, but there’s absolutely nothing about this outfit that inspires modesty, so this line of thinking is something Henry is going to have to do away with, and quickly.
Armed only with a microfibre cloth and ‘all-purpose’ cleaning spray, Henry gets to work. He starts with the sink, putting away all the miscellaneous crap in cupboards and drawers, wiping the counters and rinsing the sink. He has to lean over the countertop to reach the mirrors, and his face heats up in embarrassment as he can only imagine what it looks like from behind. He can tell that the hem of the dress is hardly covering his ass at all, and he knows these briefs are tight enough to leave very little to the imagination back there, making him hyperaware of the way his balls sit in them. He bites his lip as he looks at Hans through the mirror, and while his thumb is still moving over the screen of his phone, his eyes are glued to Henry’s ass, making him flush even harder.
Jesus, when he’d answered the listing, he assumed that ‘wealthy individual’ meant some wrinkled prick who couldn’t get it up for anything anymore, and this was a last resort. But Hans can’t be much older than Henry, beautiful, sophisticated, flirtatious. Henry never thought of himself as having a ‘type’, but Hans is definitely checking a lot of boxes for him. And the way he looks at him… It’s getting Henry a little hot under the lacey collar. He feels it in the way his hips move as he wipes the mirror off, a precarious half-chub pressing into the marble of the countertop. Shit. Isn’t Hans supposed to be the pervert out of the two of them?
He leans back and tries to subtly tug the front hem down over his crotch to make sure it doesn’t ride up and expose his arousal, and he quickly makes his way to the shower to continue his work.
Unfortunately, pulling the dress down in the front means his ass is even more exposed than before. He’s hyperaware of the frills only just brushing the curve of his cheeks and it leaves his face burning hot as he sprays the product at the walls, the spritz, spritz not doing anything to calm his nerves. Is this too much? Not enough? How much does he really need to do to satisfy Hans? What is he even looking for here? Besides Henry’s unmentionables, of course.
It’s also a mystery as to why he would want to fire his housekeeper. The stall is damn near pristine other than the obvious signs that he’s taken a shower recently; water droplets leaking down the tiled walls because of the condensation from the heat of the water. There’s not much for Henry to really be cleaning here, but it’s worth making the effort anyways, if only to show Hans he cares about his job. Even if that means running a microfibre cloth over a damn near clean shower wall. The silver of the faucet is a different story, with dried water droplets staining the surface, so he swipes the cloth over it and clears it away, leaving only the beautiful shine behind.
He eyes the tile to assess the quality of his work and satisfied that at the very least it’s better than it was before, he turns around and gets a view of Hans unabashedly ogling him once again.
“Good job,” he praises, not bothering to look too hard at how well Henry actually did. And for some reason that rubs him the wrong way, but Hans gestures to the main room and Henry takes the hint to exit the bathroom so he can get started on the mess of clothing and cans that litter his bedroom.
In the bathroom he could get away with—for the most part—facing away from Hans. In the bedroom, however, Hans struts over to a conveniently empty chair by the bed and plops himself down, once again crossing one leg over his knee. He again plays it as though he's only passively paying attention, but by now, Henry knows better. It makes it that much more embarrassing to bend down and pick up the scattered array of garments. He bends with his knees, as he's supposed to, and it keeps his cock hidden under the frill of the skirt, but it's yet another instance of reaching for something pressing the swell of his pecs together over the collar of the dress. It catches him in a dilemma. If he reaches for everything one at a time with one arm, there's less of a squish, but it also means it's going to take twice as long to clean up Hans’ mess.
He flicks his gaze towards Hans who catches it and immediately ignores him, more interested in whatever is on his screen. Henry doesn't buy it, but he's also frozen in place, crouched down by the pile as he tries to figure out the best course of action.
He shoves his face into his hand, cheeks superheated under his palm. This is what he's being paid for. To crouch down and pick up another man's trash, ogled like a treasure as he does. There's an edge of flattery to it but for as much as he knows the position he's put himself in and that he's reluctant to leave it, adjusting to the idea is a hurdle made with horses in mind.
He startles when Hans’ calm, even voice sounds out across the room. “Do you have any hobbies?”
Henry balks. What the hell kind of question is that? In a situation like this?
He's hesitant to answer, worried that the extent of Hans’ interest in Henry is as a piece of meat and not as a person. Not much has happened to dissuade him from the idea, so this is properly out of left field.
“... Art.”
Hans hums. “What kind?”
Henry flounders for a moment on how to talk about his craft, because frankly people usually make fun of him for it, or think it’s not all that special. But maybe when you’re rich and can afford the worst Rothko’s to put on your living room walls, you at least attempt to appreciate the arts a little more.
“I draw mostly. I’m s’posed to be an architect, but I prefer drawing people ‘n landscapes to buildings ‘n floor plans.”
Hans nods with a grin. “I don’t blame you. I tried to design the floor plan for this place, but it was far more complicated than it seemed. So I did in fact hire an architect to do it for me.”
“Good thing it wasn’t me. Though if you ever want a portrait to hang over your mantle, give me a call.” He says it as a joke, but Hans hilariously looks like he might consider it. Vain fucker.
He's not quite cognizant of it, but as he talks, he starts to relax, gathering up the clothing in his arms so that he can make a dent in the mess. He hangs the garments up one at a time, easing out any wrinkles and making sure they're as neatly put away as he would do for himself—moreso, even. Perhaps closer to Sam’s standards, not that Sam often trusts him with his laundry. He's a bit of a control freak, and his roommate's disposition is part of what throws him about Hans. Aren't rich people known for being picky and having high standards? Impossibly so, even?
What the fuck is this guy's deal?
“... What about you?”
Hans chuckles. “Archery, if you can believe it,” he answers, eyes flicking back to his phone screen and his fingers flying as he types. He inhales like he's going to continue but he hesitates for a moment. There's a sigh, and Henry pointedly looks away. “Did you Google me?”
Henry bites his lip, afraid to tell the truth in case this a question with a wrong answer. Instead, he shrugs and mumbles, “Looked into you a bit. Tha's all.”
“Then I suppose you know everything you need to.”
Henry frowns, confused by that answer. In part because he sounds almost genuine—so much so that Henry second-guesses the sardonic edge to his voice. Archery was barely a blip on Hans’ bio. It earned maybe a single line, something akin to, Bohemian and national archery champion six years running. An impressive feat, but a factoid that was overshadowed by his deviancy and professional life. Archery is indeed a hobby, albeit one Hans is more than good at if he’s turned it into something competitive.
“Even on horseback?” Henry asks, mostly to have something to say that doesn't sound dumbfounded or at a loss.
Silence hangs between them and he glances up again, catching the confused but intrigued look on Hans’ face.
“If you shoot enough arrows on foot, it seems natural to grow curious about maneuvers and moving targets."
Henry tilts his head as he considers this, nearly done with his first bedroom task. “Aye. Suppose it does.” The most he can liken it to is becoming comfortable with a medium and then expanding his skills as an artist. “Horses are a bit out of my wheelhouse.”
Which is the polite way of saying that sans a farm, ranch or novelty riding experience, horses seem like rich people shit. His daily life doesn't put him in their path, and he's hard-pressed to find the time and motivation to jerk off, much less have anything to do with a horse.
Hans laughs almost to himself, phone screen darkened and the device reduced to a prop that he presses to his chest. “Horseback artistry. Now there's an idea!”
Henry can only imagine what a nightmare that would be. A worthy challenge to be sure, but infuriating solely because the bounce of his steed would make it hard to steady his sketchbook. Then again, that seems more feasible to him than a bullseye with a bow.
He huffs a laugh. “Don't reckon it's a new one either.”
And talking really does make it easier. He's still embarrassed by the swell of his chest pressing together, concerned about the bulge of his arm muscles flexing with each dexterous movement necessary to get the clean clothes hung and put away, but their conversation is surprisingly easy, even for strangers from different worlds.
Or at least he was more relaxed. That is until a melodic chime rings out and Hans perks up immediately.
“Someone’s at the door,” he says simply, eyes locked on Henry.
He flushes and squirms anew, unable to keep himself from looking down. He can't answer the door like this. He silently pleads with Hans to not make him do this, and Hans grins wide and mischievous at his hesitancy, leaning forward to get up.
“I'll take care of it. Just keep going. I'll be back in a moment.” Hans exits the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and when a second chime sounds, Henry can hear him gripe, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm coming.”
In his absence, the room is silent and imposing, save for cans and bottles landing in the trash and bumping together to a unique but ultimately familiar sound. You work at a bar for long enough, you hear a lot of trash bags rattle on their way to the dumpster, and the landing is only that much more cacophonous.
When he pauses to try and listen for any snippets of conversation, there isn't even the hum of a heater to provide white noise. It's just quiet. Lifeless.
He quickly cleans up the last of the mess, takes the trash bag out, replaces it and makes his way to the door to assess who or what could have occupied Hans when he's missing out on the view he's paying out the ass for.
As he gets closer to the foyer, he can hear two voices speaking quite animatedly, clearly friendly. Peeking around the corner, he sees Hans standing with another man, tall and lean with long black hair, and a large tote bag. Henry unabashedly eavesdrops on their conversation, which he quickly comes to regret.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Nic. Truly, you’re a life saver,” says Hans. “Dżesika, bless her, went a tad too generic on the sizing. This guy is in a league of his own.”
“Darling, it’s certainly not the first time you’ve called me for a wardrobe malfunction. If anyone can make an emergency out of fashion, it’s you,” Nic replies cheekily, tossing his long hair over his shoulder. “Now, why don’t you show me what all the fuss is about. Where is this hunk? I’ll get him measured and have the new dress for you by Saturday.”
Wait, he actually called a tailor? Who makes house calls? This is too much.
“You’re the greatest. I’ll send you an edible arrangement or something,” Hans effuses, and then, “Hen-ryyy!” He calls out in a sing-song.
Henry flushes in slight panic, looking down at himself. He really is going to have to be seen by someone who isn’t Hans, like this, on his first day. Christ, what on earth has he gotten himself into. At least his weird anxiety hard-on is gone now after some surprisingly pleasant conversation about hobbies, so being prodded at by a tailor isn’t quite as daunting as it might’ve been half an hour ago.
He takes a deep breath, and strides into the living room with as much confidence as he can muster. Which unfortunately isn’t much right now, but with the way Nic’s eyes light up at the sight of him, maybe he ought to have more.
“I mean... Wow,” he says with a deeply appreciative once, twice over, looking Henry up and down. His gaze isn’t heated like Hans’ has been though, more like he’s studying him, already seeing numbers in the margins of his mind just by sizing Henry up. Henry has no experience with tailoring besides sewing patches into his own clothes every now and again, but even he can tell this guy is a professional.
“Someone get Alexander McQueen on the phone,” he muses as Henry comes to stand in front of the two of them.
“Alexander McQueen is dead,” Hans supplies helpfully, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the arm of the couch, a faint smile on his lips as he watches Nic’s reaction to Henry, as if it’s something he’s taking pride in.
“He’ll come back for this,” Nic retorts, smirking. That smirk softens into something sweeter when he looks at Henry though, which helps put his nerves at ease. He comes closer to circle him, looking at the dress carefully to see the damage Henry has already done to it. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Well, unfortunately it looks as though it’ll be better to just make a custom one. This dress is something else for someone else, so there’s no point in forcing it to be something it’s not, hm?”
It takes Henry a moment to realize he’s talking to him and not Hans, so he just nods dumbly in response. When he woke up this morning, Henry would never have thought he’d be wearing a dress at all, and now here he is getting fitted for a custom one.
“Then let’s make something that’s just for you, Henry. You deserve that.”
Henry doesn’t want to unpack why that statement makes him uncomfortable, but Nic strides over to his tote bag on the couch and rifles through it for a few moments before reemerging with a tape measure, a notebook, and a pencil.
“Now. Would you take it off for me please darling? It would be silly to measure you in something that doesn’t fit.”
That makes sense, but Henry still looks a little warily at the dress. “I had a hard enough time gettin’ into the damn thing, I dunno if I can get out of it,” he mumbles.
Nic pouts. “What a shame. I suppose I’ll just have to cut you out of it,” he laments dramatically and goes back to his tote, taking out a seam ripper instead and coming back to stand in front of Henry with an eager look in his eye.
“Can I touch?” he asks politely, hands raised in a non-threatening way, and as soon as Henry nods, Nic descends upon him. Henry lifts his arms to give him access to the side seams and zipper to be—hilariously—cut out of this dress. He still nearly rips the cuffs on the sleeves trying to get out of them, and Nic gives him a sympathetic smile and whispers that he’ll get some elastic in the next one.
One more stitch pops, and the fabric falls away to the floor, pooling at his ankles. He thinks he should feel even more exposed somehow, now standing in the middle of the living room in just his underwear, but Nic’s professional air makes it feel like it’s quite normal actually, to be fitted for a maid dress for your employer.
Despite his flirtatious nature before, Nic is quiet while working, deft hands measuring Henry every which way, pausing to write measurements down in his notebook every once in a while. There are a few moments where he gives an appreciative hum at a particular number, like the length of his legs or the width of his shoulders, but otherwise he’s thorough and quick.
When he’s finished, he snaps the notebook shut and goes back to his tote to put everything away, and rummages in the depths of it a little more before he takes out Henry’s rumpled clothes. “I found these in the hall, and they’re certainly not Hans’,” he teases with a wink, and Henry takes them gratefully to start getting dressed, reveling in the familiar comfort of cotton and denim.
Hans frowns at the change of attire, but there’s no helping it now that the dress is completely unwearable. Frankly it always was, but now more so than before. He then waves his hand in a dainty, dismissive way. “Alright then, out with you. Your work here is finished, and I’ve got emails to answer.”
If he’s still got emails to answer, what the hell was he doing on his phone this entire time?! It seems like the only thing he actually used it for was to text Nic about his new maid’s dress. Henry has never thought of himself as being so distracting, but the idea of it makes him feel flushed all over again. He’s really not used to this kind of attention at all, but it seems Hans is more than willing to give it to him, so he’ll apparently have to get used to it.
Nic gathers up what little he had taken out for the measuring and Henry makes to follow him, assuming Hans had used the royal you, but he's quickly proven wrong when Hans calls out, “Oh no, not you, Henry. I need a word with you.”
Well, that's not a terrifying thing to hear from your boss at all.
Nic bids his farewell and dips out the door, leaving Henry alone with Hans yet again. Though the circumstances of his state of dress may be more favorable, the dread hanging over his head isn't.
When it clicks shut, Henry swallows and turns. “What is it?”
Anything could come out of this man's mouth and everything that comes to mind is fucking devastating. He shoots a quick prayer to God as Hans rubs his chin, looking thoughtful.
Hans leans against the edge of the couch, still immaculately dressed with his long, long legs and beautiful hair. “Today was only a precursor to what the job truly entails, and if you have any questions or concerns, I'd appreciate you being up front with me about them rather than circumventing me in favor of Dżesika.”
Henry has to resist the urge to shuffle in place, eyes fixed on the floor. “Ehm.. What… exactly is my job?”
“Just as you've done today. Make a show of yourself while you clean the house. It—” Hans clears his throat, sounding hesitant to broach his next statement. “It can go further, but it doesn't have to. Your comfort matters to me, no matter what the lavish lifestyle and perverse nature of your position might suggest. You could quit right now and I'd simply call Nic and tell him to cancel the order.”
Henry frowns. Quitting had crossed his mind as a knee-jerk reaction with regard to his ‘uniform’, but since officially stepping inside and going about his first day, the thought has retreated to the back of his mind. It's a possibility. A last resort. His time here hasn't been so bad that he would tell Hans to shove it and go home 3,400 crowns richer than before. It's a neat sum, but it's nothing in comparison to what he could be making, and if the dress is going to fit better next time…
“I don’t plan on quitting.” Not yet, at any rate. He blinks, trying to find the best way to ask the question that's pounding at his brain for release. “When you say further…?”
Hans shrugs, looking at a loss for words. “Er, up to you, really. Whatever it is you're willing to consent to.”
Ah, there we go. Specific word choice that says exactly what he means without too much detail. Henry opens his mouth to reply but he's cut off by Hans anxiously continuing. Or, it seems like anxiety.
“We can make the effort to negotiate limits with each other. What's unacceptable and what you'll permit. I just—Christ, I'm not going to be some rich cunt who gives you an exorbitant amount of money and expects you to stay quiet while I'm fondling you without your permission or coercing you into fellatio.” And then, haughtily, “I don't need to pay someone for sex.” Finally being explicit in his meaning. “I can easily find someone willing and free. You would just be more convenient.”
Convenience. Like a pizza delivery boy from a porno.
But he can’t help but see the appeal. Hans is ridiculously handsome, charming, and has an air of experience about him. Something Henry doesn’t have much of, admittedly, but enough to know that it’s something his life currently lacks. There’s only so many hours in a day, and Henry rarely uses them even to just jerk off. But to be here, with Hans touching him, wanting him… That’s more enticing than Henry is currently willing to admit out loud. And more than he could bargain for in his regular life.
He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to make a genuine effort to meet Hans half-way. “Is this going to be some kind of 50 Shades of Grey sort of thing?”
Hans looks aghast. “Good heavens! Absolutely not! Is that the impression you've gotten?!”
“Not the unhealthy parts,” he rushes to clarify, “Just… the kinky stuff. ‘Cause of the dress ‘n all.”
The look that earns him makes him feel like he's said far too much somehow.
A small grin tugs at Hans’ lips. “You don't know what that even entails, do you?” He tries to respond, but he flounders around nothing. He hadn't anticipated liking what he'd done today, but he did. He's not sure anymore, and Hans grins even wider, stepping closer and coming to stand side-by-side with his right arm slowly snaking around Henry's waist. “Oh, Henry. Sweet, sweet Henry. How about this, then: I’ll do or suggest things and all you have to do is say yes or no, hm?”
This conversation is even more embarrassing when Hans is in his personal space.
And yet he doesn't want him to back away.
He shoves his face into one palm, cheeks hot once more. “‘s that all?”
Hans laughs lightly. “‘Is that all’, he says.” The hand around his waist pulls away and comes to rest on his lower back, Hans now gently leading him towards the door, and he can feel his pinky just barely dipping under the waistband of his jeans, the cheeky fucker. “Nothing crazy to start. Maybe a bit of dirty talk to see what gets you worked up next time. How does that sound?”
He may go a bit insane. The promise of more and the untapped potential of it all has him wishing it wasn't ending here, or that he could fast-forward just to see what that's like without enduring the agony of waiting. He nods dumbly as they pass the door to the powder room and step out into the elevator lobby. “Sounds good.”
“Wonderful. You just keep doing whatever it is that makes your arms this impressive,” Hans orders with an appreciative squeeze, “And I'll see you on Saturday at three p.m.”
“Saturday at three p.m,” he repeats, making sure it sticks and that Hans knows he was listening. “Alright. Have a blessed one.”
Hans closes the door with an odd expression, not returning the sentiment but not unkind about closing the door either. He raises a hand in goodbye and then it clicks shut, leaving Henry alone and with an afternoon full of homework to get through.