Chapter Text
Henry curses under his breath as he hurries to the huge wooden door of the Pirkstein Castle—freezing, annoyed, and very definitely late.
It’s not even his fault. Well, not completely. He was ready.
He did get out on time—
…He just didn’t expect his car to give him the middle finger and refuse to start.
The blasted weather was to blame—it got really cold literally overnight. Yesterday, he could wear a jacket; today he regrets not bringing some gloves. It’s like Nature took a look at the calendar and remembered that winter was supposed to start. So here he is, on the 22nd of December, rubbing warmth into his fingers because the temperatures dropped so low his old Škoda Octavia decided it just wasn’t for her.
He had to take a taxi.
What an act of utter betrayal.
And what an encounter that was. He stared death in the face: his name was Marek and he drove a fucking Ford Fiesta. Only evil people drive Fiestas.
That driver had opinions about black ice too. Mainly that it didn’t warrant slowing down for.
At all.
Henry is still full of adrenaline from that little stunt.
His feet slide on the frozen ground—these fucking shoes! They’re dress shoes made of polished brown leather broken in half by a teal mid-section that shine like silk. It’s the fanciest pair that has ever graced his feet and, as with everything made mainly for looks: the soles are bloody useless.
They are surprisingly comfortable, though. He almost doesn’t mind gliding all over the place in them.
He reaches the door without his arse meeting the ground, so that’s one point for him against Life.
The old building towers over him with its three floors and the various add-ons it has amassed over the years. Henry has been here before. He knows there is an inner courtyard after one of Hans’ ancestors decided to ‘tie the left and right wing together already—fuck you, great-grandfather, for putting the baths and the kitchen on opposite ends!’ That’s a real quote from some old document, and Henry remembers how Hans cackled when he read it out loud to him. That same side—the southern one—later saw the addition of a small conservatory that eventually evolved into an entire orangery. It was a controversial decision, as Hans had him believe, because the Pirkstein records mention a duel over ‘a useless glass monstrosity with no real purpose.’ Someone lost an ear over it, apparently.
Hans’ entire bloodline is a right mess—
…And he’s about to step into the place that has housed them for generations.
He looks down at the mask in his hand—an ornate piece in the shape of a rabbit’s head with two giant ears that somehow have no problem staying upright. He sighs at the ridiculous thing—he will be very surprised if it doesn’t come flying off at some point during the night; those ears on top are simply too big.
Still, he presses it to his face—sitting nicely atop his nose and cheeks—and ties it with cold-stiff fingers around his head. He is pretty sure he messed up the knot, but he is too nervous to care about that at the moment.
He takes a deep breath.
And with some trepidation, he turns the handle.
“Evening, sir!” someone dressed in a simple black suit greets him instantly. “May I have your name?”
“Henry Kobyla,” he says simply as he approaches. He looks around as the man searches for his name in the guest book—not even an online one, a real, physical book!
The entrance hall isn’t big and it’s been a little while since he has last seen it, but he can tell that the walls have been repainted because he remembers clearly that Hans had once spotted some mold in a corner and had a fight with Hanush over it.
Which is most likely why he is now in this damned place.
Hanush has organised a fundraising ball for the further renovation because ‘God forbid he uses his own funds for it, the old scrooge.’
Hans’ words, not his.
“May I have your signature, sir?” he hears and it snaps him out of his musings.
At least the pen is a normal pen. He was scared he would have to use a quill for a second.
“The cloakroom is to the right and the entrance is through the curtains just there. Have an excellent evening, sir.”
He thanks the man and passes through an arch—this place has so many arches—and to the right where there is another room not far away, already full of jackets with a lone person standing guard over the entirety of it.
The woman looks up when he enters and something sparks in her eyes when they land on his form, something that makes him queasy.
He really isn’t in the mood for that today.
“Your name, sir?” she asks with a rather peculiar curve to her lips he vehemently chooses to ignore.
“Henry Kobyla,” he answers, trying to stifle the sigh. So he doesn’t get a number tag or anything?
He hates rich pricks and their stupid parties.
He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t fond of one particular rich prick.
He takes off the borrowed woolen coat—one that Radzig insisted he take after seeing his winter clothes—and hands it to the lady, but not before he takes his phone out of the pocket.
She writes down a number next to his name and eyes him from head to toe.
Henry stiffly grimaces out something that he hopes resembles a smile, mumbles out a quiet ‘thank you,’ and looks at his notifications as an excuse to get away. He is actually surprised to see four new messages waiting for him. Small mercies—now he won’t have to pretend he is busy on his phone.
He taps the bar titled ‘birdie,’ feeling an urge to rename it to something far less endearing, like ‘little golden turd’ or ‘I want to go home, you cabbage.’
birdie: Are you here yet?
It’s from some time ago, maybe minutes after he was supposed to have arrived. Henry was probably busy praying for survival in the damn taxi when he received it.
birdie: Henry, you didn’t ditch me, right?
He has a faint memory of a buzz in his pocket just as the driver from hell took a turn a little too enthusiastically. Must have been this one.
birdie: Did you lose your phone?
Fair question, Henry muses, for he was close to losing both the phone and his life. He takes a moment to curse Marek’s entire lineage. And especially the fucking Ford Fiesta.
birdie: Oh fuck, did that old car of yours finally rebel and kill you?
You could say that, he thinks. It sent an assassin.
And just as he taps the answer box, Hans sends him another.
birdie: Tell me you are alive or I swear, I will leave this cursed event and go look for your body just so I can murder you again!
Grinning, he starts to type but his phone vibrates again.
birdie: I’M WORRIED!!!
Henry smiles widely, erases everything he has written so far and sends back a single dot.
Henry: .
He gets an answer almost instantly.
birdie: I don’t know if it’s you or your murderer, you massive sack of shit!!!
He stifles a laugh but is unsuccessful, and a quiet giggle breaks out to ring in the empty corridor. He writes:
Henry: I’m here
Then pauses to think. He winces at how obvious he is, and adds:
Henry: And I’m not telling you when I got here
Hans sends him a chain of replies:
birdie: Please, you oaf, I know you’re late. You never ignore my texts otherwise.
birdie: Except when you’re mad.
birdie: And even then, not for long.
He huffs in part amusement and part exasperation. What a cheeky little bugger. One that knows him far too well at this point.
He is tempted to mention his life-or-death taxi situation, and the driver from hell, and that damned Ford Fiesta—Hans hates that car as much as he does—but decides against it. He will fight tooth and nail not to make it an easier guess for Hans.
So he sends:
Henry: I’m not admitting to anything
… And realises that battle is lost already.
birdie: Don’t worry, I haven’t started looking yet.
birdie: I was waiting for you 😘
It makes his fingers twitch. He should be used to those by now.
He bloody isn’t.
birdie: You have ten minutes and then I’m hunting you!
That is the last message he gets before the dot next to Hans’ name goes from green to grey.
Henry groans to himself and slides the phone into the right front trouser pocket—its outline is painfully visible under the brown fabric, but he makes a decision not to think about it. Like hell is he going inside without it; he won’t survive this damn ball without being able to text Hans.
Yellow and black curtains shield the front door from view and even from behind them, he can hear the loud chatter of the hundred ball attendants that are already here. All rich, all insufferable and impossible to talk to.
All ready to throw money at Hanush and his renovation effort in return for being able to come to this ridiculous masquerade ball and mingle.
Save for one.
Henry hasn’t walked in yet and he already wants to go home.
Slowly, he makes his way back through the hall. With each step, the air grows warmer and the voices grow louder.
And the stone in his stomach drops a little lower.
With a stabilising breath, he reaches the lush fabric and parts it with his hand just a smidge, just enough to take a peek.
A sea of people, all dressed in ridiculous masks, wearing clothes worth more than his yearly pay, sipping wine that’s probably older than him.
A hundred posh bastards and one poor him.
And he’s doing all this for the one and only Hans Capon—his best friend and hopeless crush.
He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs.
The bane of his fucking existence.
Henry can’t believe Hans has managed to talk him into this.