Work Text:
Oh baby, don't you notice me, notice me?
So ready to lose everything,
Everything for your love
The Devil’s Den was full of firelight and noise, mugs clattered against the tables and laughter slipped from every corner, air thick with smoke, sweat and spilled ale.
Hans sat at the farthest table, half hidden in the shadows, nursing his cup.
The gang he had found himself involuntary joining were the loudest and sketchiest bunch he had ever seen - save for Zizka, who was probably the sanest person present right now. They were in good spirits tonight, faces flushed, talking and laughing loudly, as if they weren’t hiding, as if none of them could die at any given moment, as if the war wasn’t happening.
And Henry—
Hans drank from his tankard, ignoring how his breath came labored and heavy, or how his hands started trembling.
Henry could have died just days ago, be it Raborsch when he came to their aid, emerging from the darkness like a true knight, or in Kuttenberg when the Jewish Quarter was set ablaze, and Henry, once again, rushed into the fires to save everyone.
Upon his return, Hans told Henry that he prayed for his safety and was glad that someone heard him.
What he didn’t tell, and never will, is that he hadn’t had even a wink of sleep that night, pacing his room like a caged animal, hands pressed together tightly as he half-muttered the prayer he was barely remembering in panic, half-cursed Henry for being so stupidly brave and selfless, so endlessly reckless, so ready to throw himself into the fires as if he had nothing to lose. Hans will never tell how he knees nearly gave out when he finally saw Henry arrive, covered in soot and blood, limping slightly, brows furrowed, and how he felt faint at the mere thought of losing him.
The laughter erupted, loud like thunder, rattling off the walls, pulling Hans from his thoughts, his drink long since forgotten and gone warm in his hands. He didn’t care for any of it.
Henry was in the middle of it all, laughing at something either Janosh or Kubyenka said, head tipped back slightly, and Hans watched him as if afraid that the moment he blinks Henry would disappear again, riding off God knows where. Hans traced his every movement, every breath Henry took, every laugh, snort or grin – Hans drank it all in like he was a man dying of thirst.
He watched the way Henry leaned forward over the table, foolish grin plastered on his face, chin lifted slightly as he said something that made the others roar. His cheeks were red with drink and joy, eyes sparkling with light; there was a bruise on his cheekbone, the cuff of his tunic was slightly torn, and Hans clenched his tankard so tightly his fingers ached.
He told himself that he just wanted to be sure, was simply cautious. But it was more than that.
This sight of Henry — so present, so unaware — made Hans’ chest tighten.
And, God above, how he wanted Henry to look at him.
Just once. Just for a heartbeat.
He sat there for what felt like hours — watching, hurting, hoping. He wanted to do something, stand up and walk over to him, reach for him, and say—
Hans shook his head. Say what, exactly?
He couldn’t beg, he couldn’t fall apart, right here and now. He was a lord, for fuck’s sake, and he had standards.
Still, the thought was burning somewhere at the back of his skull like an open wound, and Hans realized he was holding his breath.
Look at me.
God, how he wanted to beg.
Hans swallowed hard, jaw clenched.
Notice me.
But Henry didn’t look. He laughed and drank, never once turning his head toward Hans.
And Hans continued to watch him, feeling like he was losing at something he didn’t dare to name.
***
The sun was low when Henry found him.
Hans was checking his saddle-bags idly - he planned to go hunting at tomorrow’s first light, as being cooped up in the Den for several days now was making him too bored and uneasy. He longed for fresh air and greenery surrounding him, and as he saw Henry approach him, he opened his mouth to eagerly invite his squire to come along, but Henry spoke first.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Hans felt himself tense, jaw tightening.
“Where to this time?”
“The Praguers’ camp. I’m to pretend to join them and find out everything I can about that bombard.”
Hans exhaled, slow, calculated. The wind rustled the trees above them as he felt the heat rising in his chest, heart beating painfully against his ribs.
“Sounds… charming.”
Henry huffed a small laugh. “More like insane.”
For some reason, Henry didn’t look him in the eye even once; leaning on the wall of the stables, he stared somewhere above Hans' shoulder, and Hans felt himself begin to tremble.
“You said it, not I,” it came out harsher than he intended to.
The silence fell between them, pressing heavily on every inch of Hans’ body. He looked at the tree line as if it could aid him in what he was to say, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
He knew Henry was going to leave sooner or later. He always did. Always threw himself into whatever was asked of him, never looking back. He was the same restless soul as Hans has always been; yet, unlike Hans, Henry could actually leave. And Hans could do nothing but stay behind - watching, waiting, aching in a way he was afraid to name.
Henry stood beside him close enough to reach out and touch; his hair was rumpled after a day’s work, probably helping the local blacksmith or gathering herbs for the bath wenches, a smudge of dirt near his collar.
Hans took a breath, turning to him. “Just be careful.”
Henry glanced at him, still refusing to look at him properly, as if expecting Hans to continue, as if he knew Hans had more to say.
He wasn’t wrong.
Hans forced a smile. “What? If I told you not to go, you’d still go. You always do.”
Henry didn’t say anything, just watched him thoughtfully out of the corner of his eyes for a moment longer.
He watched him, but he didn’t see him, and Hans wanted to scream.
Notice me.
See me.
Just once, look at me and see me.
But the words didn’t come. They never did.
Instead, Hans smiled as lightly as he could. “Don’t get yourself killed. I need my bodyguard strong and in all of his glory.”
Henry laughed, the sound warm like a blanket in the coldest night.
“I’ll do my best.”
And then he turned and walked away, his figure soon hiding away in the Den, and Hans felt his ears burn.
He stayed there for a little longer until his horse’s annoyed snorting pulled him out of his thoughts, and he continued to prepare her for tomorrow’s journey. The ache in his chest pulsed dully, every other heartbeat felt like a stab wound being scratched and poked.
Every day he felt like he was getting closer, closer to whatever he couldn’t quite reach, couldn't name. Yet, Henry felt as far as he has ever been, never hearing, never seeing.
***
Hans looked forward to this particular hunt more than he cared to admit.
Not for the game, not even for freedom that being in the woods brought him since childhood - but for peace. It was just the two of them this time, finally away from the missions, attacks and threats of burning villages and towers.
Maleshov was a disaster, but at least all of them were still alive, with von Bergow captured and young Lady Ruthard safe and sound. Henry finally relaxed for the first time in what felt like forever, and Hans felt as if his very bones were buzzing.
Just like old times.
They left early, the air still soft with mist, the sky painted in peach and dusty gold. Their horses’ hooves crunched the leaves quietly, and Henry rode with his hood up, smiling softly, face half-hidden and still sleepy.
Hans tried his best to ignore how much that face made the ache in his chest almost suffocating.
They didn’t speak much, nor did they need to. The birdsongs scattered through the woods, the rustling of branches in the wind soothing everything around them; as if the whole world was still fast asleep.
Hans grinned and gestured in the direction of his camp, Henry following him obediently, without hesitation.
The late afternoon sun was warm and bright, spilling gold across the clearing when they brought a couple of hares to their camp for dinner. They actually managed to bag a stag by midday, setting it aside to bring back to the Devil’s Den tomorrow.
Henry cooked the hares, whistling some tavern tune, face relaxed and content, and Hans watched him, elbow propped against his knee, chin in his hand, mind drowning itself in fondness.
It truly was just the two of them. Finally.
Henry talked as he stirred the pot, telling him about everything that happened between the disaster at Nebakov and Hans’ rescue from Maleshov, not shying away from details - some serious, some humorous, some absurd. Hans didn’t realize before that ever since Henry had come for him to Maleshov they haven’t talked properly even once; they exchanged some reassurances at Raborsch, but then were separated once again. They talked more as they ate, Henry’s voice warm and lively, and Hans answered with his own stories of his captivity.
But as the evening came, and firelight settled on Henry’s face as if kissing and caressing his features, Hans felt the dull, burning ache return.
It was a wound that will never heal.
Hans knew he was starring, cheeks flaring up as shame and desire clawed at his skin, and he hated himself for it. Hated how his thoughts betrayed him, how he clung to every glance and every word.
He should have been content. That’s what he wanted - just the two of them, just like old times.
He hated how nothing was enough anymore.
Hated how once Henry looked up at the stars, Hans’ mind was reduced to silent begging. How his eyes traced the curve of Henry’s neck, his collar untied and loose, shadows licking at his collarbones.
He was ready to lose everything, those words once again burning through his skull; everything, as long as it meant Henry never leaving him again, as long as Henry noticed him, only him.
“Something on your mind?”
Hans felt himself almost jump out of his skin; Henry was looking at him, brow lifted, and Hans’ whole body set ablaze.
“No… just tired,” he tried to cover up his embarrassment by shifting his shoulders, eyes darting everywhere.
Hear me. Notice me. See me.
Henry smiled, easy and content, and turned away toward the fire.
Hans swallowed hard.
And said nothing.
***
Suchdol was silent in the dead of night, asleep – with what little sleep can men get when besieged. Somewhere, soldiers moved about the ramparts like ghosts, and here, in the cold, dark corridors, the world and the war felt forgotten, suspended in the air.
The chapel was just a small room, tucked away into the stone belly of the keep, half-hidden near the stairs, easy to overlook – perfect for private, vulnerable moments.
Hans didn’t mean to stop. He didn’t even know why he was there, his room was on the other side of the hall, and he wasn’t in the right mind for praying, too tired, too scared to even think of what’s to come. He wanted to continue on his way, but as he passed the slightly open door, he caught a glimpse of movement within, just a shift, just a shape of the shadow, and he stilled.
Henry was kneeling before the small altar, head bowed, hands clenched, the lines of his shoulders worn and visibly heavy with exhaustion. He looked softer, quieter; fragile and delicate.
Hans stood in front of the door, frozen in the shadows, peering in through the narrow crack; he felt like a sinner afraid to step into a confessional, he felt like he was committing a mortal sin right this moment just by allowing himself to watch.
Henry's mouth moved silently with prayer, candlelights brushing his profile with gold, making the curve of his lips and nose impossibly gentle. And Hans stood there, clinging to the sight like a drowning man to driftwood, as each breath Henry drew stole air from Hans’ lungs.
He couldn’t look away, no matter how shameful he felt – this wasn’t suitable for a place of God. Watching. Wanting. Aching with the maddening need that had grown within him, twisting his insides like wild ivy, tightening every time Hans caught even a glimpse of Henry’s silhouette, every time Henry smiled, every time Henry met his gaze.
He pressed his fingers against the wooden panels of the wall to keep himself from trembling and tumbling over. He wanted to step forward, to throw himself to his knees beside Henry, shoulder to shoulder; he wanted to whisper his name like an invocation, to beg and plead and bury his hands in Henry’s hair – just for Henry to finally see him.
Hans wanted to cross himself as he shuddered from these thoughts. He wanted to be good, he thought himself a good Christian – but how could he stay pious, when his faith laid elsewhere, devotion and prayer burning his tongue for another.
He wanted to feel guilty as bile rose to his throat, as Henry’s presence filled the space here and in his heart like something forbidden, pulling him closer despite the warnings; he felt hungry, - no, he was starved, emptiness inside whispering how it would take everything, and he was ready to give, to fill the aching void.
Henry didn’t look up. Didn’t turn.
Hans didn’t dare to enter.
He stepped back from the door after what felt like eternity, heart rattling, threatening to break his ribs. He wanted to kneel before his true deity, or tear something apart till his hands bled. Instead, he forced himself to walk away, and, for the first time, wished that God didn’t hear his prayers.
***
The cold of the keep crawled deeper into his bones with each passing moment. Hans sat on the edge of his bed, watching the fire dancing in the hearth, flickering and casting shadows on the walls as the weighty silence pierced through his skin like needles. His stomach empty, his head foggy, but it was nothing compared to the raw fear tearing at his chest, gnawing at his soul, as though the walls were slowly closing in.
It’s been days since they’d retaken the tower, days since the Praguers closed in on them, days since their resources dwindled so much they were reduced to wailing ghosts, to beggars ready to chew on grass and leather, lost in the thin line between clarity and starving delirium.
Henry came in and sat beside him so silently Hans wasn’t sure he would have noticed if his eyes were closed.
Henry was being sent out on a suicide mission, and Hans was being left behind.
He couldn’t shake the guilt and fear, twisting his insides with bitterness that tasted like smoke and ash. His noble title deemed him useless, keeping him locked up here while the man he was afraid of losing and couldn’t live without willingly walked into the pits of Hell.
“I’ve come to say goodbye,” Henry said, voice so steady and sure it could have fooled Hans, had he been a lesser man.
“Already?” Hans prayed his voice wasn’t trembling as much as his hands did.
“Aye, we have to leave at night.”
The room felt small all of a sudden, and Hans knew he had to say something, anything, to stall him for as much as he could, to feel Henry’s warmth radiating from his body just a little longer, to make Henry finally see him since it could be the last time he would be able to.
Hans cleared his throat.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the two of us,” the words tasted foreign in his mouth, but he pushed himself to talk, trying to remain calm. “And about what you said at Maleshov.”
'I won’t allow anything to happen to you.'
Notice me.
“You see, once I heard a French minstrel tell a tale about two knights…”
Hear me.
Please, just hear me.
Hans told a tale of two knights, Galehaut and Lancelot, his throat tightening around every other word, hoping, begging that Henry understands why he was telling him this. The truth of it all was too close to the surface, too real.
“Lancelot was eventually captured, and everyone thought he was dead.”
Henry didn’t move, his eyes fixed on Hans, and Hans looked at him with a silent plea.
“When Galehaut found out, he was distraught. He felt life was meaningless all of a sudden. In the end, he dies too. Of grief and sorrow.”
Hear me. See me.
I can’t lose you.
“Henry, if anything happens to you, then…” Hans felt himself breaking, voice cracking, despair choking him. “Why the hell can’t I save you once for a change?!”
He tried to force himself to breath, panic bubbling at the edges, and he was ready to reduce himself to open begging.
Henry’s hand rested gently over Hans’, grounding him suddenly, making Hans’ breath hitch, a mix of dread and relief washing over him.
“I’ll be back”, Henry promised gently, softly holding Hans’ hand.
Then, he suddenly rose and turned toward the door, and Hans felt his whole body twitch with panic – he couldn’t leave, not yet, please, God, not yet; not when he was finally so close, not when Hans could finally voice his feelings without guilt.
He grabbed Henry’s hand, standing up on his feet, turned Henry around, pulled him close and kissed him.
At first, Henry responded, his chapped lips scalding hot against Hans’, but it was only for a moment – a breath, a heartbeat, a fleeting, desperate connection – before Henry stumbled back, pulling away. The confusion was clear on his face, and for a horrible moment Hans thought there was also something vile that made his stomach twist.
He spent weeks silently begging Henry to see him, and Henry finally did.
And what he saw disgusted him.
The world tilted. Panic surged through Hans, his hands trembled as he reached for anything to distract him. He grabbed the logs, fumbling with his movements and words, anything to fill the space and dreadful silence.
“I’m– I’m sorry, I– “ he whispered, voice raw and wet. He could feel tears starting to burn his eyes. “I, uh, I just–“
Before he could finish, the latch on the door was slid shut, and Henry was back beside him in two fast strides, grabbing Hans’ elbow and spinning him around; their lips met again, this time with fierceness that stole what little breath was left in Hans’ chest. Henry was kissing him hard, desperate, as if he was chasing something that Hans hadn’t known he was running toward too.
Henry led him toward the bed, gently lowering him, cradling his neck and never breaking away from his lips. And Hans, trembling and burning, hollowed out by hunger and love left unspoken for too long kissed him back with everything he had left.
They clung to each other, hands roaming over clothes and sliding under it, fumbling with laces and fastenings – not out of lust, but from the scorching need to be as close as possible, to feel each other, warm and alive. Pieces of armor clattered on the floor, tunics were pulled over heads with shaking fingers, and soon there was nothing between them but the burning heat of skin on skin, of trembling breaths tangling with kisses.
It wasn’t about the pleasure – they were too tired, too hungry for that.
It was about what little comfort and soothing they could bring each other, about holding and being held, about heartbeats of someone they were afraid to lose.
Henry kissed and touched him like he was trying to memorize him, Hans clung to his sides afraid to let go even for a moment. Henry found the hollow beneath Hans’ ear and pressed a kiss there, then another, moving along the line of his jaw, his temple, his brow. His hands wandered over ribs, made to sharp and visible with hunger, while Hans traced the dip of Henry’s waist, the curve of his spine.
They didn’t ask for more. This closeness, this breathing together in the dim light, this pressing and movement of bodies against each other, desperate to blend and become whole – it was enough for now.
Hans’ held him, lips brushing against Henry’s collarbone, and tried not to cry. Henry said nothing, just pressed him closer.
They stayed like that for a while, legs tangled, skin heated.
The fire cracked low and quiet, the wind outside distantly groaning in the dead of night. Somewhere, a door creaked, footsteps passed, and then everything fell silent again.
Hans breathed in the scent of Henry’s skin, face buried in his shoulder. Henry’s hand rested on Hans’ hip, fingers twitching with each breath like he couldn’t bear to let go.
Eventually, Henry was the first to stir, and Hans’ grabbed his wrist, holding tight, looking at him with wide eyes.
“I have to go,” Henry’s voice was barely a whisper.
Hans watched him for a moment more, committing to his memory every crook and curve of his features, every speck of color in his eyes. He couldn’t answer, just nodded, throat dry, and let go.
Henry sat up, and Hans’ skin felt ice cold at once.
He sat up too as Henry started to dress himself, putting on his braies, black padded hose and boots, and grabbing his black gambeson, each of his motions tight and methodical, and the color of his clothes reminded Hans of the dangers Henry was about to throw himself into. Hans put on his own braies and hose, standing up before Henry and steadying his hands.
“Let me,” Hans whispered, and Henry hesitated.
“You don’t have to–“
But Hans was already moving, already sliding the gambeson over Henry’s shoulders in paced movement. He was carefully fastening the buttons, forcing his trembling fingers to obey, and as the fear and sense of doom slowly creeped inside his mind, he found himself silently starting to pray.
Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name...
Hans eased Henry into a dark, light brigandine, cinched the ties along Henry’s ribs, slow and firm.
Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
He stepped behind Henry to fasten the ties on his back, and Henry breathed in sharply as Hans slightly pressed himself close again.
Give us this day our daily bread;
The dark leather vambraces followed, Hans clinging to the feeling of his fingers brushing against Henry’s wrist.
and forgive us our trespasses…
Hans took light leg brigandines, and, without thinking, kneeled.
as we forgive those who trespass against us;
He dropped to one knee, distantly aware of Henry’s stuttered, surprised breathing, but he didn’t care; didn’t care what it meant for him as a man with a noble title, not when the one he loved was about to disappear into the night, not when this might be the first and the last time he feels Henry finally watching him, seeing him.
and lead us not into temptation,
The final knot pulled and secured, Hans lingered there for a moment, daring to look up and meet Henry’s gaze. Henry was still watching him – close, attentive, searching for something. Hans exhaled shakily, and Henry reached down, one hand brushing lightly against his cheek, the other guiding him to stand up. He let himself lean into the touch, and Henry rested his forehead against his, closing his eyes.
but deliver us from evil.
When they pulled apart, it was still quiet. Henry took his gloves and slid them onto his hands, Hans watching unblinking.
Henry looked him in the eyes, the air around him final and determined, and Hans felt himself treading on the edge of losing and bursting into tears like a child.
“Come back to me,” he whispered, voice wet, laced with despair.
Henry nodded and smiled softly, “I will.”
Hans watched him turn around and step away; the door creaked open on its hinges, cold night air spilled into the room, and Henry’s back disappeared into the shadows.
***
The walls of the Devil’s Den have probably seen everything possible and impossible, but it has definitely never seen such revelry and festivity.
Fiddles screamed and flutes trilled, mugs clanked spilling ale everywhere, boots pounded the floor as everyone danced around. Tables nearly broke under the weight of bread, meats and drinks; villagers and passing travelers mingled and moved around with the Pack and locals, drowning in songs and laughter.
Godwin and Dry Devil had their arms thrown around each other, swaying drunkenly to the rhythm and drinking as if the world was ending – which it finally stopped doing as the enemy finally fled, and life went on just as it previously did. Janosh was dancing with one of the bath wenches, Samuel was standing near musicians, either singing along or snorting at Kubyenka who was drunkenly mocking their movements. Even Zizka danced, half-shouting a song, cheeks red with ale, one hand gripping the tankard, the other spinning Katherine who couldn’t stop laughing.
Hans’ face was aching from grinning and smiling non-stop, his voice raw from singing, soles of his feet sore from endless dancing, but he didn’t care. The world narrowed down to this tavern, to the music and the heat of the crowd – to Henry.
Hans didn’t remember how it happened. One moment he was spinning through the wild lines of dancers, twirling with other men and women from partner to partner, and the next Henry was in front of him, face flushed, laughing, sweat making his shirt cling to his skin. Their hands met, calloused, littered with scars, warm, and Hans spun him around.
They moved together like they had danced with each other their whole lives, boots kicking up the dust, tripping, spinning and turning in a chaotic unison that was so perfectly theirs. People pushed, shoved and jabbed them, someone passed between them – a milkmaid with flushed cheeks, an ale maid with tousled hair – but Hans hardly paid attention to them as Henry always found him, again and again.
The song changed once more, the tune wilder and sweeter. Henry held his hand and waist firmly, a promise to never let go again, and Hans didn’t care if someone saw them as he drew Henry closer.
Henry’s mouth moved, saying something Hans couldn’t hear over the racket, but he knew what it was, felt it in the way Henry’s fingers laced with his, in the way his smile curved to the side, in the way he wouldn’t stop looking at Hans.
And then Henry tugged him to the side, movement simple and silent, asking – inviting.
Hans followed, filled with breathless joy.
They slipped outside through the side door, past the stables and a storage shed, into the night, into the hush of nearby woods, far away from the ruckus that reached them now like a distant memory, a golden echo.
The clearing was quiet, stars glistened above like specks of silver.
Hans turned to Henry, and Henry was already looking at him. They laughed, softly, breathlessly, blissfully.
And then Henry kissed him.
It was a delicious contrast to the desperate, hungry kisses they shared at Suchdol – this one was slower, deeper, sweet and sticky like spilled honey. Fingers tugged at laces, clasps and belts; stumbling touches mixed with soft and giddy laughter, drunk on ale and each other and the feeling of being alive. There was no rush as they undressed each other, hands reaching, touching everywhere, every inch, fingers caressing skin in feather-like touches, lips brushing, teeth biting. They held each other, basked in moonlight, moss and wet grass clinging to their knees. Each kiss was a breathless confession; each touch was a devoted promise.
It didn’t matter to Hans that, despite everything, they were not sure what tomorrow will bring; it didn’t matter that he was a lord, promised to another, bound by title and duty. He didn’t care about any of this.
All Hans cared about was how Henry’s skin felt under his fingers as he traced every line earnestly. How Henry’s lips glided across his chest, down his stomach and between his thighs, all soft, all sacred. How his breath hitched and Henry’s hands held him in a tight grip as they finally melted into each other, skin sliding against skin, lips and hips meeting in a delirious, revered desire.
How Henry’s gaze never once left Hans as Hans came undone beneath him, whispering Henry’s name like a fevered prayer.
They stayed in the hush of the clearing, bodies half-covered by their discarded clothes, the scent of the late summer thick around them; in the distance, the music in the Devil’s Den still played loudly in a ghost of rhythm.
Hans laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other softly caressing Henry’s cheek.
All that mattered was here, hidden between the rustling trees in the softest light of the moon – the quiet, slow rising of Henry’s chest, his hands continuing to trace the curve of Hans’ waist, their lips still meeting, spreading silky warmth through his body; the way Henry was still looking at him, seeing him now, showing that he’s been feeling and wishing for the same all this time.
It was all Hans was begging for, silently, shamelessly – to be seen and to be loved by Henry, and in that stillness, his prayers were heard and answered.