Chapter Text
The tavern was loud enough to shake dust from the rafters.
It was the sort of noise that felt alive, tankards slamming against scarred oak, dice clattering over tabletops, a fiddler sawing away in the corner while someone off-key tried to sing along. The air smelled of yeast and sweat and roasted onions, and the fire in the hearth snapped bright against the February chill creeping in through the shutters.
Sir Hans Capon was exactly where he liked to be, at the centre of it.
He had one boot propped up on the bench, his sleeve rolled carelessly to the elbow, hair already falling loose. He laughed too loudly at his own joke, one hand wrapped around a brimming tankard, the other thumping Henry square in the shoulder hard enough to make the bench creak.
Henry only grinned and shoved him back.
“Careful,” Henry said, voice low and amused. “You’ll bruise me.”
Hans snorted. “You? Bruise? I’ve seen oxen with more delicacy.”
Henry hooked his foot around Hans’ ankle and yanked.
Hans yelped, not dignified, not even slightly, and went half-sprawling across the table, sloshing ale over both their hands. Henry roared with laughter as Hans righted himself, sputtering.
“You great lout!”
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
They glared at one another for all of three heartbeats before dissolving into grins again. Henry wiped his hand on his hose. Hans flicked ale back at him in retaliation.
Across the room, a pair of merchants shook their heads.
“Children,” one muttered.
And they were, in that moment. Boys with too much coin and too little sense, alive and unburdened by anything heavier than a hangover waiting in the wings.
Another round arrived, courtesy of Hans, who made a show of tossing a coin far more generously than necessary. The alehouse maid who delivered it lingered a heartbeat too long beside him.
She was young. Brown hair tucked under a kerchief. A shy smile that bloomed pink at the edges when Hans thanked her.
She glanced up at him through her lashes.
Hans flashed her a grin in return, easy, bright, the sort that had likely caused trouble since he first grew into his teeth.
Henry noticed.
Of course he did.
He leaned an elbow on the table and watched as she retreated, glancing once over her shoulder before disappearing into the press of bodies.
“…What was that?” Henry asked mildly.
Hans blinked, following Henry’s gaze belatedly. “What was what?”
“That.”
Hans’ grin sharpened.
“Oh,” he said, with exaggerated casualness. “That.”
Henry raised a brow.
Hans took a long swallow of ale, as if fortifying himself for importance. “I may have… kept her company. A week past.”
Henry stared at him.
“You what?”
Hans shrugged, pleased with himself. “Don’t look so scandalised. She seemed quite grateful for the attention.”
Henry leaned back, folding his arms. “Grateful.”
“Very.”
“How charitable of you.”
Hans scoffed. “I am a giver.”
Henry shook his head, half amused, half disbelieving. “Does she know you’ll forget her name by harvest?”
Hans pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “I’ll have you know I remember her name perfectly well.”
Henry waited.
Hans hesitated.
“…Marta,” he said, with more confidence than certainty.
Henry burst out laughing.
“God save her,” Henry managed. “She hasn’t a chance.”
Hans kicked him under the table. “You wound me.”
“I doubt it.”
“I am an excellent lover, I’ll have you know,” Hans declared loftily, straightening as if announcing a military victory. “Attentive. Skilled. Thorough.”
Henry made a face. “Do you rehearse that speech?”
Hans ignored him. “I’ve been told as much. Repeatedly.”
“By whom? Yourself?”
“By ladies who know quality when they see it.”
“I’m sure the coin that exchanges hands has nothing to do with the feedback…” Henry snorted.
“I don’t need to pay for women. My prowess speaks for itself. The whole of Rattay knows about the cock and tongue of Sir Hans Capon.”
Henry lifted his tankard and took a slow drink, eyes never leaving Hans over the rim. “Funny thing.”
“What?”
“People who are good at something rarely need to say they are.”
Hans froze mid-swagger.
“…What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Henry said pleasantly, “that if you were half as impressive as you claim, you wouldn’t need to give a sermon about it every time someone smiles your way.”
Hans stared at him in outrage.
“I do not give sermons.”
“You absolutely do.”
Hans pointed accusingly. “How would you know?”
Henry choked on a laugh.
“I’m not a monk, Hans.”
The words slipped out easily, carelessly. But Hans went very still.
“Oh?” he said, leaning forward. “Is that so?”
Henry’s smile turned sly.
Hans narrowed his eyes. “Oh no. No, no, you don’t get to say something like that and then just,...” He waved his hand vaguely. “… sit there.”
Henry shrugged. “Sit where?”
“There. Smirking.”
“I’m not smirking.”
“You are absolutely smirking.”
Henry’s grin only widened.
Hans leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice as though they were plotting treason. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well,” Hans hissed. “Since you’re apparently so experienced...”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied.”
“I implied nothing.”
“You absolutely implied.”
Henry laughed again, bright and easy, and leaned back just out of Hans’ reach. “You’re imagining things.”
Hans lunged for him.
The bench tipped.
Tankards rattled.
Someone shouted as Henry caught Hans around the waist and hauled him sideways, both of them crashing against the table in a mess of limbs and laughter.
“Get off...!”
“You started it!”
“You asked...!”
Henry managed to hook his arm around Hans’ neck and drag him into a mock headlock. Hans sputtered, kicking uselessly at Henry’s shin while trying, and failing, to look dignified.
They tumbled off the bench entirely, landing in a heap on the tavern floor.
The fiddler never stopped playing.
Someone stepped over them.
Hans managed to flip them so he was on top, triumphant for all of two seconds before Henry bucked and sent them rolling again.
“You’re drunk,” Henry accused, breathless.
“So are you.”
“Less so.”
“Debatable.”
They finally disentangled enough to sit upright against the side of the table, shoulders pressed together, both flushed and laughing too hard to breathe properly.
Hans wiped at his eyes.
“You’re avoiding the question,” he said eventually.
Henry leaned his head back against the wood, staring up at the beams. “What question?”
Hans nudged him with his knee. “Don’t pretend innocence. It doesn’t suit you.”
Henry glanced sideways at him, still smiling. “You’re insufferable when you’re curious.”
“And you’re insufferable always.”
They regarded one another in mock offence.
Then Henry lifted his tankard again. “Drink.”
Hans hesitated, clearly itching to press further, but the lure of ale won out.
“For now,” he muttered.
“For now,” Henry agreed.
They drank.
They argued about dice. They accused one another of cheating. Hans tried to teach Henry a bawdy song and forgot half the words midway through. Henry improvised worse ones. Someone bought them another round. Then another.
At some point Henry’s arm slung loosely around Hans’ shoulders. At some point Hans leaned into it without thinking.
The room blurred pleasantly at the edges.
The fire burned low.
The fiddler packed up.
The tavern quieted, one table at a time.
Hans was in the middle of explaining, very seriously, why he would make an excellent king if given the opportunity when his words trailed off mid-sentence.
Henry blinked slowly at him.
“…Hans?”
Hans made a soft snoring noise.
Henry stared.
Then, as if in solidarity, Henry’s head tipped back against the table leg and he was gone too.
_______________________________________________________________________
Morning came cruelly.
It arrived in the form of cold floorboards beneath Henry’s cheek and sunlight spearing through the shutters straight into his skull.
He groaned.
His mouth tasted like old copper and regret.
Something heavy lay across his legs.
He squinted downward.
Hans was face-down beside him, one arm flung dramatically over Henry’s shins, hair a complete disaster. There was a smear of dried ale across his sleeve and an expression of profound suffering etched into his features.
Henry shifted.
Hans groaned in response.
“Don’t,” Hans muttered thickly. “The world is spinning.”
“That’s because you’re on the floor.”
A pause.
“…Why are we on the floor?”
Henry considered this carefully.
“You tackled me.”
“You tackled me first.”
“Did not.”
“Did.”
Henry closed his eyes again. “We’re never drinking again.”
Hans made a strangled noise of protest. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
A long silence stretched between them.
The tavern was quiet now, only the crackle of the hearth and the distant clatter of someone beginning the day’s chores.
Henry shifted carefully, easing his legs free.
Hans flopped onto his back and squinted at the ceiling.
“You never answered me,” he mumbled.
Henry smiled faintly despite the pounding in his head.
“About what?”
Hans turned his face toward him, one eye barely open. “Monks.”
Henry pushed himself upright with effort and offered a hand down.
Hans stared at it like it was an enemy.
Then he took it.
“Buy me breakfast,” Henry said, hauling him up.
Hans winced. “You have coin.”
“Your idea to drink.”
Hans sighed dramatically as they staggered toward the door, leaning heavily on one another for balance.
“You are the worst friend a man could have.”
Henry smiled. “And yet here I am.”
Hans huffed, but he didn’t let go.
The morning air outside the tavern felt like a punishment handed down personally by God.
Hans hissed as the light hit his eyes. “Why is the sun so loud?”
“It’s not loud,” Henry muttered, one hand pressed to his temple. “You’re loud.”
“I am suffering.”
“You’re dramatic.”
They staggered down the street shoulder to shoulder, boots scraping over frost-stiff earth. The smell reached them before the door did, fat sputtering in a pan, bread warming on stone, onions and cured meat and something blessedly salty.
Hans inhaled sharply. “If I die, bury me here.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I might.”
They pushed into the small cook shop near the square and collapsed onto a bench. The woman behind the hearth took one look at them and snorted.
“Rough night?”
Hans raised a weak hand. “Bring breakfast. All of it.”
Moments later, plates landed in front of them, thick slices of fried pork, eggs with crisped edges, potatoes browned in dripping, coarse bread still warm from the oven. A crock of mustard. A little dish of pickled cabbage sharp enough to sting the nose.
Henry stared at it like it was salvation.
They ate without speaking at first, quick, desperate bites, the kind that only the truly hungover appreciate. Salt hit Henry’s tongue and he closed his eyes in relief.
Hans made a low, grateful sound that might have been indecent under other circumstances.
Halfway through, Henry flagged down the cook and asked for two hair-of-the-dog tonics. She rolled her eyes but obliged, setting two small brown bottles on the table with a thud.
The liquid inside looked medicinal at best. Suspicious at worst.
Hans eyed it. “If this kills me...”
“It won’t.”
“It might.”
Henry picked his up and held it out.
Hans blinked at him.
Henry arched a brow.
Hans sighed and clinked his bottle lightly against Henry’s. “To poor decisions.”
“To surviving them,” Henry replied.
They tipped the bottles back.
The taste was vicious, herbal and bitter and sharp enough to burn down Henry’s throat. Hans gagged openly, slamming the empty bottle back onto the table.
“That is foul.”
“You’ll thank me.”
“I will not.”
They sat for a while after that, shoulders nearly touching, plates slowly emptying. The din of the morning crowd filled the space around them, merchants haggling, someone arguing over flour prices, a child laughing somewhere near the door.
Henry wiped his fingers on a scrap of bread and stared down at what remained of his potatoes. He looked around to ensure nobody was nearby to hear their conversation.
“I know you know,” he said quietly, “that I prefer the company of men.”
Hans hummed, not looking up immediately. He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully, and shrugged one shoulder.
“Yes.”
That was all.
No tension. No shift in his posture. No judgment.
Just yes.
Henry felt something in his chest ease.
Hans glanced sideways at him, expression open and unconcerned. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“I know.”
Henry hesitated, then continued, voice lower.
“I don’t really like one-evening encounters.”
Hans leaned back slightly, giving him his attention now.
“But,” Henry went on, “given the sins of it all, of… men like me, there’s not much choice. It’s not as though I can court someone openly. Or promise anything lasting. So it ends up being…” He shrugged. “Brief.”
Hans’ mouth twitched, though not unkindly. “That sounds dreadfully unsatisfying.”
“It is.”
A quiet settled between them again, not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.
Hans picked at his bread. “How many?”
Henry blinked. “What?”
“How many men?”
Henry nearly choked on air. “Hans.”
“What?” Hans lifted both hands defensively. “You brought it up.”
“I did not bring up numbers.”
“Well, now I am.”
Henry’s ears went pink. He stared stubbornly at his plate.
Hans leaned closer. “Twenty?”
Henry shot him a look.
“Thirty?”
“God above.”
Hans’ eyes widened theatrically. “Forty? Fifty?”
Henry barked a laugh despite himself. “Fifty?”
Hans shrugged. “That seems reasonable.”
“For you, perhaps.”
Hans pressed a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know I am selective.”
Henry just stared at him.
“…Selective-ish,” Hans amended with a wobble of his hand.
Henry shook his head, still smiling faintly. “Four.”
Hans blinked.
“Four?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
Hans leaned back, clearly recalculating something. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Less if we’re talking – full. Not just hands and mouths.”
“Huh.”
Henry crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Hans said, pointing a bit with his crust of bread, “that explains a great deal.”
Henry narrowed his eyes. “Explains what?”
“Why I am better in bed.”
Henry stared at him in disbelief.
“You are impossible.”
Hans grinned, pleased. “Experience, Henry. Practice. Refinement.”
Henry laughed, low and incredulous. “That’s not how it works.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not about numbers.”
Hans arched a brow. “No?”
“It’s about connection,” Henry said firmly. “Trust. Knowing someone. Listening.”
Hans waved that off. “You can listen in an evening.”
“You cannot build trust in an evening.”
Hans scoffed. “You don’t need trust for...”
He stopped himself, gesturing vaguely.
Henry smirked. “Exactly.”
Hans leaned forward, competitive spark lighting in his eyes. “So you’re saying you’d outperform me?”
“I’m saying you talk too much.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Henry tilted his head. “I don’t need to answer.”
Hans slapped the table lightly. “Coward.”
Henry’s smile sharpened. “Prove it.”
A pause.
Hans’ grin spread slowly. Dangerously.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll have a contest.”
Henry blinked. “A contest.”
“Yes.”
“That’s your solution to everything.”
“And it works.”
Henry shook his head, but he was already laughing. “What would we even be measuring? Applause?”
Hans leaned back, crossing his arms with mock dignity. “Performance. Skill. Satisfaction.”
“You plan to ask for written testimonials?”
“If necessary.”
Henry groaned. “You are ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Hans said smoothly, “you’re intrigued.”
Henry hesitated.
That was all the confirmation Hans needed.
Hans extended his hand across the table.
“To settle it,” he said.
Henry looked at his hand. Then at his face.
“You are never going to let this go, are you?”
“Never.”
Henry huffed out a breath, but he reached forward and clasped Hans’ hand anyway.
Hans squeezed once, firm and triumphant.
“Very well,” Henry said. “We’ll see whose theory holds.”
Hans grinned like a man who had just declared war over breakfast.
Outside, the morning carried on as usual.
Inside, two stubborn fools sealed a wager neither of them fully understood the cost of, still tasting salt and bitterness on their tongues, still leaning just a little closer than necessary.
Henry excused himself under the pretence of finding air.
The cook shop’s back room was colder, quieter. He relieved himself, splashed water over his hands and face from the basin, and took a long breath while staring at his reflection in the small, warped bit of metal that passed for a mirror.
Contest.
God help him.
He dried his hands on his tunic and returned to the table.
Hans was hunched over it like a scholar in deep concentration.
Henry stopped short.
“Where,” he asked slowly, “did you get that?”
Hans didn’t look up. “Resourcefulness.”
On the table lay a sheet of parchment that definitely had not been there moments ago. A quill scratched busily in Hans’ hand, tongue caught between his teeth in focus.
Henry stepped closer and peered over his shoulder.
At the top of the page, in sweeping, unnecessarily decorative script, Hans had written:
Criteria of Evaluation
Below that:
-
Foreplay
-
Strength of climax
-
Variety of positions
-
Stamina
-
Overall satisfaction
Henry stared.
Hans added one more with flourish:
-
Creativity
Henry burst out laughing.
“Hans.”
“What?” Hans said defensively, still writing.
“I am not filling out a performance ledger.”
“It’s not a ledger. It’s a rubric.”
“You made a rubric.”
“Well how else are we to judge fairly?”
Henry reached over and plucked the parchment from under his hand. Hans made a small indignant sound.
“I am not,” Henry said, still laughing, “being scored on ‘strength of climax.’”
Hans’ eyes widened. “Why not? It’s important.”
Henry shook his head. “You are impossible.”
Hans’ expression fell a little, offended pride creeping in. “You agreed to a contest.”
“I agreed to settle an argument,” Henry corrected. “Not draft a treaty.”
Hans folded his arms. “You’re backing out.”
“I’m not backing out.”
“You are absolutely backing out.”
Henry sighed, then leaned his hip against the table, tone softening. “Hans.”
Hans looked up at him, stubborn and expectant.
“I don’t lay with women,” Henry said plainly. “You know that. I never have...”
Hans blinked.
“So if we’re measuring… whatever madness this is,” Henry continued, gesturing at the parchment, “it would be unfair.”
Hans’ brow furrowed as he considered that.
Henry watched the thought move across his face, annoyance, calculation, then reluctant acknowledgment.
“Hm,” Hans hummed.
“Yes. Hm.”
Hans tapped the quill against his lip.
“Alright,” he said after a moment.
Henry eyed him warily. “Alright?”
Hans nodded slowly. “One male. One female.”
Henry stared.
“One of our preferred gender each,” Hans elaborated, as though explaining something very sensible. “And one we’re less familiar with.”
Henry blinked again, certain he’d misheard.
“That’d work,” Hans finished, satisfied.
Henry just gaped at him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Why not?”
Henry lowered his voice. “Because you’re not...”
He stopped himself, glancing around before continuing more quietly.
“You’re not interested in men.”
Hans rolled his eyes.
“I prefer women,” he corrected.
“That is not the same thing.”
“I never said I hadn’t been with a man.”
Henry’s mouth fell open slightly.
Hans shrugged one shoulder, casual as ever. “It happens.”
“It happens??”
“Yes.”
Henry stared at him as though seeing him anew. “Hans.”
“What?”
“You would be putting yourself in danger.”
Hans snorted softly. “From whom? The Church?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Half the nobles in Bohemia would be in chains if they actually enforced that consistently.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Henry leaned closer, voice tight with something that wasn’t quite anger. “You have a name. A title. An uncle who would skin you alive.”
At the mention of Sir Hanush, Hans grimaced faintly.
“Hanush has more pressing concerns than where I put myself in a lover.”
“You don’t know that.”
Hans’ gaze sharpened, just slightly. “And you do?”
Henry hesitated.
The cook shop noise filled the silence for a moment, the scrape of bowls, someone laughing by the door.
Hans leaned back again, softer now.
“You think I don’t understand the risk?” he asked quietly.
Henry didn’t answer.
Hans twirled the quill between his fingers. “I prefer women,” he repeated. “That’s true. But that doesn’t mean I’m blind. Or inexperienced.”
Henry searched his face for mockery and found none.
“You’ve…” Henry began carefully.
Hans smirked faintly. “I told you. Experience.”
Henry huffed out a disbelieving breath.
“And,” Hans added lightly, “if we’re to make this fair, I hardly expect you to suddenly court a woman to balance the scales.”
Henry gave him a flat look. “I would not.”
“Precisely.”
Henry rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying not to smile. “You are mad.”
“Visionary.”
“Mad.”
Hans tilted his head. “Are you frightened?”
Henry scoffed. “Of you?”
“Of losing.”
Henry barked a laugh despite himself. “You truly believe more practice makes you superior.”
“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”
Henry shook his head slowly. “You think it’s skill. I think it’s connection.”
Hans leaned forward, eyes bright again. “Then we test it.”
Henry studied him for a long moment.
“You would really do this.”
“Yes.”
“For pride.”
“Yes.”
Henry let out a long breath through his nose.
“You are going to regret this.”
Hans grinned. “Only if I lose.”
Henry folded the parchment in half and set it back on the table.
“No scoring sheets,” he said firmly.
Hans sighed dramatically. “Fine. Verbal report.”
Henry groaned. “Hans.”
“Kidding,” Hans said, though his grin suggested he was only half so.
They sat in silence a moment longer, the weight of what they’d agreed to hovering between them.
Then Hans tilted his head slightly.
“So.”
Henry narrowed his eyes. “So.”
“When do we begin?”
Henry couldn’t help it, he laughed again, shaking his head.
“Finish your breakfast first,” he said.
Hans smirked.
And somehow, impossibly, this had gone from a joke over ale to something far more dangerous, and far more interesting.