Chapter Text
Hans was an expert at denial. It was perhaps the only true and consistent thing about himself, he felt. Of course, he would never say it out loud. But he knew, deep within his churning heart, that he was extremely good at ignoring things he did not want to acknowledge.
He had first noticed it in Nebakov. Well, no. That wasn’t true, but Hans wasn’t willing to admit that he’d actually observed the phenomenon happening not long after Henry had been assigned to serve him. But he had ignored it because Hans was, as previously stated, an expert in denial. Which was why he found himself watching in fascination as Henry ambled around the fort making himself useful, and that was probably the secret to it. Hans was decorative. Maybe that was the second true thing about Hans; his use was limited and everyone around him seemed to know it too. Except Henry, who seemed to value Hans higher than anything else.
Henry made friends everywhere. Even in places that, by all rights, should be extraordinarily hostile towards him. Hans didn’t make friends. But Henry did, and Hans had the feeling he didn’t actually know even half of the adventures and mischief he’d gotten up to while Hans was away. To begin with, Henry had very plainly already had an in with that herbalist, Klara. She had greeted him with relief, and they chatted like old friends as she listed all the many things she had to do. Henry had promptly offered to tend to some of the wounded for her, and Hans had wondered briefly when Henry had developed his medicinal skills. Then he had seen Henry speaking hesitantly with the blacksmith whose name Hans had never bothered to ask. The man had an aura of belligerent business that encompassed the entire smithy and Hans had reflected that actually, his armor didn’t really need those minor repairs right now. When he had wandered past barely an hour later, Henry was hammering away at something on the anvil as the smith sat at the grindwheel, the two of them shouting a conversation back and forth over the noise of their work.
It was like his special power or something. A blessing from God, maybe, to make up for his unfortunate beginnings in life. Henry could charm almost anyone simply by being himself, and those he couldn’t charm he managed to get around anyway somehow. Hans, on the other hand, barely seemed able to charm anyone as himself. Oh he charmed them, definitely. He was good at it, even. But he charmed people as Lord Capon, as the reasonably rich noble Lord of Pirkstein. No one was ever charmed by Hans.
Except Henry.
Henry, who laughed at Hans’ jokes, even the stupid ones. Who asked for his advice and seemed to actually place value in it, considering what Hans had to say before making a decision. Henry, who did small things to make Hans' already easy life even easier, just because he liked when Hans smiled. Henry, who genuinely seemed to actually see something worth caring about in Hans Capon. It was baffling. Henry could have had anyone in the world, gone and done anything he wanted on the power of his sincerity and smile alone, and he chose… to stay. With Hans. A useless, stupid, spoiled brat of a man. He just didn’t get it.
Hans was no stranger to feeling inadequate. It was one of the things he was the best at ignoring. He had grown up spoiled, sheltered, held apart, never given anything of substance on which to value himself. Oh, he believed Hanush had his best interests at heart, but Hans also believed that Hanush had his own interests even deeper at heart, and Hanush’s interests didn’t involve Hans actually growing into a person worthy of taking charge of Pirkstein and Rattay. And so Hans had been raised into a somewhat indolent, idle prick of a man, and it wasn’t until Henry appeared in his life that Hans began to truly see what he was becoming.
Because he knew. Hans knew exactly what was happening to him, but he had also never been taught to care. Then some impertinent peasant boy had stood in front of him, unwilling to be cowed by the title or threats of violence. Hans had been confronted by a mirror, a reflection of himself in Henry’s angry eyes. And it was terrible, waking up from that warm slow existence to the cold truth of his own insufficiency.
And he ignored it. He went on as he had been, treating Henry more or less poorly, even after he had saved his life more than once. Because he was still in denial. Hans had been in denial about his situation all the way to the moment at the Semine wedding when he found himself launching a punch at a man approaching Henry from behind. Found himself thinking that was his bodyguard, damn it, how dare they try and hurt him.
Then they’d come to in the Trosky dungeon and Hans was staring down his own inadequacy again, seeing his own pathetic reflection in Henry’s eyes. His apology had been poorly executed and Henry had accepted it anyway, forgiven him for everything at the drop of a hat, and that was also the moment when Hans realized he was well and truly fucked because he hadn’t planned on this. Hadn’t planned on falling in love with the god damn impertinent peasant boy who looked at him like he was worth something.
When he had been younger Hans had heard a visiting lord say that a man’s worth could be measured in blood, and Hans had assumed he’d meant the strength of the noble blood. Or that perhaps it was meant to describe soldiers, and the amount of blood a man shed from his enemies. But now? God in heaven, now Hans knew. He knew that he could measure the worth of a man by how much blood he would shed to keep Henry safe by his side, forever.
Because God have mercy on his sinning soul, Hans was in love with Henry, and he had spent all the rest of his time since that moment trying to become the sort of man Henry deserved by his side.