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The argument starts over something small.
It always does.
Henry doesn’t even remember what set Lord Capon off this time, something about a saddle left in the wrong place, or a horse brushed improperly, or maybe just the way Henry had spoken without thinking. Capon had a way of making even the smallest misstep feel like a deliberate insult.
They’re in the yard when it begins, late afternoon sun slanting low, the air still warm but fading. A few stable hands linger at first, pretending not to listen.
“You’ve no sense of order,” Capon says, not loud, but sharp enough to cut. “Is this how you were raised? Or did no one bother?”
Henry stiffens immediately. “I did what I was told.”
“Poorly.”
That lands harder than it should. Henry feels it in his chest, like a shove “I did it right,” he insists, heat creeping up his neck. “You just…”
“I just what?” Capon steps closer, boots crunching on gravel. There’s a faint, amused curl to his mouth that makes it worse. “Expect competence?”
Henry clenches his jaw. He hates that look, like Capon already knows how this will end, like he’s already won.
“It’s not my fault you’re never satisfied,” Henry snaps.
That earns him a pause. Not silence, never that, but a shift. Capon tilts his head slightly, studying him now instead of dismissing him.
“Oh?” he says. “Now you’re answering back.”
Henry should stop. He knows he should. But something’s already wound tight in his chest, coiled and pulling “You treat me like I’m stupid,” he says, voice lower now. “Like I can’t do anything right.”
“If you’d stop proving it so consistently…”
Henry laughs, sharp and humourless. “There. That. That’s what I mean.”
They’re closer now. Neither of them seems to have noticed when that happened.
Capon’s expression hardens, the amusement thinning into something colder. “You’re here to work, not to be coddled.”
“And you’re here to what?” Henry shoots back. “Stand around and sneer?”
That does it. The yard goes quieter. One of the stable hands drifts away entirely. Capon steps in again, close enough now that Henry can see the fine detail of his clothes, the dust on his boots, the tension in his jaw “you forget yourself,” Capon says softly.
Henry doesn’t back down. He can feel his pulse in his throat, in his hands. “No. I remember just fine.”
For a moment, neither of them moves. It stretches, too long, too tight.
Capon exhales through his nose, a quiet, controlled sound. “You’re insolent.”
“And you’re…” Henry cuts himself off, but it’s too late. The words hang there anyway, unsaid but obvious.
Capon’s gaze flicks over his face, searching, measuring. Something in it shifts again, less detached now, more… intent, “finish that,” Capon says.
Henry swallows. His mouth feels dry all of a sudden “I said enough.”
“Did you?” Capon leans in just a fraction more. “Because it sounded like you had more to say.”
There’s a strange energy to it now, still anger, but something else threaded through it, something neither of them names. It prickles along Henry’s skin, sharp and confusing.
“I don’t need to,” Henry mutters.
Capon’s eyes narrow slightly. “Afraid?”
Henry huffs a breath, stepping forward instead of back. “Of you? Hardly.”
That puts them chest to chest. Too close. Henry realises it at the same moment Capon does, there’s a brief, flickering hesitation, but neither of them moves away. They’re both breathing a little harder now. Not from exertion.
“Careful,” Capon murmurs. “You’re overstepping.”
Henry’s hands curl at his sides. “Or maybe you just don’t like being challenged.”
Capon lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Challenged? By you?”
That stings.
Worse than before. Henry shoves him. It’s not hard, not really, but it’s enough.
Capon rocks back half a step, more surprised than hurt. His eyes flash, and whatever restraint he had snaps “right,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “That’s enough.”
He grabs Henry by the front of his shirt and shoves him back. This time it’s not restrained. Henry stumbles, catches himself, and then it’s on. They collide again, rougher, hands gripping, pushing, trying to overpower rather than just prove a point. Boots scrape against the dirt, shoulders slam together. Henry swings, clumsy but forceful, and Capon blocks it, catching his wrist.
“Is this how you solve everything?” Capon snaps, breath hot, close.
“Better than talking to you,” Henry shoots back.
Capon twists his arm just enough to make him wince, not enough to injure, just enough to assert control. “You think this proves something?”
Henry jerks free, shoving him again, harder this time. “I think you need knocking down a peg.”
Capon’s expression goes sharp, almost feral “Oh, I’d like to see you try.”
They grapple again, closer than before, hands tangling in fabric, pulling, pushing, neither clean, neither controlled. And somewhere in the middle of it, too close, too heated, something shifts again. It’s not immediate. It creeps in. A strange awareness. The press of bodies. The heat. The breath shared between them. Henry feels it first, a flicker of something unfamiliar that makes him falter just slightly.
Capon notices. His grip tightens, but his expression changes, just for a second. A flicker of realisation, sharp and assessing.
Henry tries to push him off, but the motion is uneven now, distracted.
“Something wrong?” Capon murmurs, quieter now.
Henry shakes his head, too quickly. “No.”
Capon doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in just enough that it’s unmistakable, deliberate.
Henry’s breath catches. For a moment, neither of them speaks.
The fight hasn’t ended but it’s changed.
Not calmer. Not better. Just… different.
Capon’s voice drops, almost thoughtful now. “You’re not as unaffected as you pretend.”
Henry’s face burns. “Shut up.”
Capon huffs a quiet, knowing sound “interesting.”
That word lands heavier than any insult. Henry shoves him again, harder, angrier, but it’s no longer just about the argument. And Capon doesn’t let him go. The first sign of interruption is the sound of boots, measured, deliberate, and far too authoritative to ignore.
“Enough.”
The word cuts clean through the scuffle. Both of them freeze, not willingly, but instinctively.
Captain Bernard stands a few paces away, arms folded behind his back, posture straight as a blade. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. Henry is still gripping Capon’s sleeve. Capon still has a fistful of Henry’s shirt.
“Let go,” Bernard says.
They do, but not quickly. Not cleanly. There’s a final moment of resistance in both of them before they separate, stepping back like opposing dogs reluctantly pulled off a fight. Henry’s chest rises and falls hard. Capon looks far more composed, but his hair is slightly out of place, and there’s a sharpness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Bernard’s gaze moves between them, assessing, unimpressed “well,” he says dryly. “This is a fine display.”
No one answers. Henry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at the ground. Capon straightens his sleeves as though nothing of note has happened.
Bernard lets the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable “care to explain,” he says, “why two grown men are behaving like kennel dogs in the yard?”
Capon speaks first, smooth as ever. “A matter of discipline, Captain. The boy lacks it.”
Henry’s head snaps up. “I do not…!”
Bernard raises a hand. That’s enough to stop him “Oh, I’ve no doubt discipline is lacking,” Bernard says. “I’m simply determining where.”
There’s the faintest flicker of something in Capon’s expression, annoyance, maybe, at not being immediately sided with. Henry seizes the moment anyway, still flushed with anger. “He started it.”
Capon scoffs lightly. “Of course I did.”
Bernard exhales slowly, as though this is all deeply predictable “and your proposed solutions?” he asks, tone almost conversational now. “Since you both seem quite certain of your positions.”
Capon tilts his head, considering Henry like he’s something mildly distasteful “the stocks,” he says. “A day or two might improve his attitude.”
Henry lets out a disbelieving laugh, still breathless. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Capon’s mouth curves faintly. “Immensely.”
Henry steps forward again before he can stop himself. “Then maybe you should be sent to a monastery.”
That lands. Capon blinks once, slow, deliberate, then lets out a short, incredulous breath. “A monastery?”
“Yes,” Henry snaps. “Since you clearly enjoy hearing yourself talk so much.”
For a split second, it looks like Capon might actually laugh. Instead, his eyes narrow slightly, something sharper slipping back into place. “Careful.”
Bernard steps between them, not forcefully, but decisively enough that neither can ignore it “that will do,” he says. The tone settles it. Silence falls again, heavier this time.
Bernard looks to Capon first. “You will return to your duties.”
Capon hesitates, not openly defiant, but reluctant in a way that’s almost petulant. His gaze flicks once more to Henry, lingering for just a fraction too long. There’s something in it, something assessing, something not entirely finished.
Then he inclines his head, just barely. “As you wish, Captain.”
He turns and walks off, composed once more, though his stride is a touch sharper than before.
Henry watches him go, jaw tight. Only when Capon is out of earshot does Bernard speak again.
“You,” he says, not unkindly.
Henry straightens automatically, though his shoulders are still tense. “Sir.”
Bernard studies him for a moment, really studies him, not just the scuffed clothes or the flushed face, but the agitation underneath it. Then his expression softens, just slightly “don’t let him get to you.”
Henry frowns. “He started it.”
“I’m aware.” There’s a hint of dry amusement in Bernard’s voice now “He’s known for it,” he continues. “Pushing people. Testing them.”
Henry glances in the direction Capon went. “Why?”
Bernard shrugs one shoulder. “Boredom, mostly. Entertainment.” A pause. “You’re new. That makes you interesting.”
Henry exhales, still keyed up, still irritated. “So I’m just supposed to let him talk to me like that?”
“No,” Bernard says calmly. “But you’d do well to choose your battles.”
Henry shifts his weight, unsettled. The fight still hums under his skin, unresolved.
“He wants a reaction,” Bernard adds. “The more you give him, the more he’ll press.”
Henry lets that sit for a moment. It doesn’t make the anger go away. If anything, it complicates it.
“…He’s insufferable,” Henry mutters.
Bernard huffs a quiet, knowing sound. “Yes. He is.” A beat. Then, more quietly: “And clever enough to make it your problem if you rise to it.”
Henry rubs the back of his neck, still warm, still off-balance in a way he can’t quite name “That was more than just an argument,” Bernard says, not accusing, just observant.
Henry stiffens slightly. “It was just a fight.”
“Mm…” Bernard doesn’t press further, but the look he gives Henry suggests he’s not entirely convinced. After a moment, he nods toward the stables. “Get yourself sorted. And try to keep your hands to yourself, unless you mean to finish what you start.”
Henry flushes at that, whether from embarrassment or lingering adrenaline, even he isn’t sure “Yes, sir.”
Bernard gives a final nod and turns away, leaving Henry alone in the yard.
The quiet feels strange after all that noise. Henry exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair “It’s just him,” he mutters to himself. “Just… him being an arsehole.”
But even as he says it, his thoughts snag, not on the insults, not on the argument, but on that moment, right in the middle of it, when everything shifted.
He scowls, shakes his head, and heads for the stables. Still irritated. Still unsettled.
And very much not done with Capon.
Henry doesn’t go back to the yard. He goes to his room.
It’s barely a room, really, just a narrow space tucked beside the stables, with rough wooden walls and a low ceiling that seems to hold onto every smell the place has ever known. Hay, leather, horse, damp earth, it clings to everything, even the thin blanket folded at the end of his bed.
The door doesn’t quite shut properly. It never has. There’s always noise, too. Boots passing by. Voices drifting in and out. The occasional snort or shift from the horses just beyond the wall. It’s never quiet. Never private.
Henry sits down heavily on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, dragging both hands over his face “Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
He’s still wound tight from the fight, anger sitting hot in his chest, refusing to settle. Every time he thinks he’s starting to calm down, something from it comes back sharp and fresh: the way Capon had looked at him, the smugness, the push, the way he’d wanted a reaction. And got one.
Henry exhales hard, scrubbing at his face again. For a fleeting moment, he considers trying to work the tension out of his system, anything to get rid of that restless, coiled feeling under his skin. But the thought dies almost as soon as it comes.
There’s no real privacy here. There never is.
Henry shifts on the bed, glancing toward the door as if to prove the point. Yeah. No chance. He lets out a frustrated breath instead and leans back, staring up at the ceiling.
Would Lord Capon really have him put in the stocks? The thought sits heavy. It had sounded like a joke, no, not a joke. Something worse. The kind of thing said lightly because it could be done.
Henry frowns, jaw tightening “Bloody noble cunts,” he mutters.
He shifts again, lying back properly now, one arm thrown over his eyes. The anger starts to ebb, little by little, leaving something quieter behind. Not better. Just… emptier.
His thoughts drift, unbidden.
To Skalitz.
To the forge.
To his father.
Martin would’ve had something to say about this. Probably something blunt, practical, keep your nose clean, don’t go picking fights with men above your station. Or maybe he’d just cuff Henry lightly on the back of the head and tell him to use his sense.
Henry huffs faintly at the thought “yeah,” he murmurs. “That’d help.”
And his mother… She’d have been gentler. Sat him down, maybe, told him not to let pride get the better of him. Told him to be careful. Told him… Henry’s throat tightens slightly. Told him he was better than that. The room feels smaller all of a sudden. Quieter, even with the noise outside. Henry lowers his arm, staring at the wall instead. There’s no one here to ask now.
No one to tell him what to do, or what any of this means, or how he’s supposed to deal with a man like Lord Capon, someone who seems to take pleasure in pushing him, prodding at him, like it’s all some kind of game. Henry exhales slowly, staring at nothing “…It’s just him,” he says again, softer this time.
But it doesn’t quite land the same. Because it’s not just him. It’s the difference between them. The way Capon can say things like that, stocks, punishment, consequences, and not have to think twice about it.
And Henry… Henry just has to hope he doesn’t push too far. He rolls onto his side, curling slightly in on himself without quite meaning to. For a long moment, he just lies there. Listening to footsteps outside. To voices that don’t belong to him to a place that still doesn’t feel like home. And Henry is left alone in a room that smells like horses, with no answers, just the echo of an argument, and the uneasy sense that it’s not finished yet.
Henry doesn’t stay in the room. If he does, he’ll just keep thinking, and that’s worse.
So he pushes himself up, grabs his worn purse from the table, and steps back out into the fading light. The air outside feels different, even with the stable smell clinging to him, cooler, looser, like he can finally breathe properly.
The thought crosses his mind as he walks: the baths.
Hot water, steam, quiet, release and privacy. Maybe even hiring a girl, just to take the edge off the restless frustration still sitting under his skin. Henry slows, already reaching for his purse. He opens it.
Three groschen.
He stares at them for a moment.
“…Right,” he mutters, snapping it shut again.
Not the baths, then. That leaves one option “The tavern it is.”
The road there is familiar enough by now, and the rhythm of walking helps, boots against packed dirt, the low hum of evening settling in around him. People pass by, minding their own business. No one looking at him like they expect something. It’s… better.
Still, his thoughts won’t sit still. They circle back, again and again. Lord Capon. Henry scowls slightly as he walks, kicking a small stone out of his path. Would he really have him put in the stocks?
The answer comes too easily: yes.
Not even out of anger, maybe. Just because he could. Henry exhales sharply through his nose “arsehole,” he mutters.
And then, because his mind won’t behave, it veers somewhere else entirely. What if he turned the tables? Not a fight, not again. Bernard would have his hide for that. But something… smaller.
Petty. Annoying.
Henry’s lips twitch despite himself. Breaking into Capon’s room, for instance. The idea is ridiculous. Completely stupid. Which is exactly why it’s appealing.
He imagines it, quietly slipping in, rifling through all those fine things Capon probably barely notices. Stealing something important? No, that’s too far. That would bring real trouble. Real consequences that could have him on the gallows…
But something irritating…
Henry snorts under his breath “Steal all his hose,” he murmurs. “Every last pair.”
The image sharpens, Capon discovering it, all offended dignity and confusion, forced to go about his day improperly dressed.
Or better...“One of each shoe,” Henry adds, grin tugging briefly at his mouth. “That’d sort him.”
It’s childish. Pointless. But it eases something, just a little.
By the time the tavern comes into view, the edge of his mood has dulled. Not gone, but manageable.
He steps inside, the familiar noise wrapping around him, voices, laughter, the clatter of cups. Warmth, too. The kind that doesn’t ask questions. Henry goes straight to the counter “ale,” he says, setting down one of his precious coins.
It’s not good ale. But it’s ale.
He takes it outside rather than staying in the press of people, settling onto a bench where the last of the sunlight still stretches across the ground. It’s quieter here, just a few others lingering, the low murmur of conversation drifting in and out.
Henry leans back slightly, lifting the cup. For a moment, he just looks at it. Then he takes a long drink. It’s cheap, a little sour, but it does the job. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a fraction. He exhales slowly, staring out at nothing in particular, letting the warmth of the ale settle in his chest.
No shouting. No pushing. No sharp eyes watching him, waiting for him to slip. Just the sun, the air, and a moment where he doesn’t have to think quite so hard.
Henry takes another drink.
Maybe it’ll be enough to help him sleep. Maybe it’ll keep the nightmares away. Or at least dull them.
He rests his elbows on his knees, cup hanging loosely in his hands “…Bloody noble,” he mutters again, but there’s less heat in it now.
Henry’s halfway through his second pint when he hears it. That laugh. Light, easy, just a touch too pleased with itself. Henry stills for half a second, cup hovering near his mouth. His stomach drops in a way that feels entirely unfair, like his body has decided something before he has.
“…No,” he mutters under his breath.
Maybe it’s someone else.
It isn’t. He doesn’t turn right away, just shifts slightly, enough to glance without making it obvious.
Lord Capon stands near the doorway, already holding court like he belongs there more than anyone else. One of the ale-maids is trapped in front of him, tray balanced on her hip, while he leans in just enough to be charming without quite crossing the line.
He’s talking. Not as though he ever stops that… Henry can’t hear the words from here, but he can see the shape of them. The gestures. The practised ease of it.
The girl rolls her eyes when Capon looks away, just for a second. Used to it, then. Henry huffs quietly into his cup “poor thing,” he murmurs, though there’s no real sympathy in it, just a dull sort of recognition.
He takes another drink, longer this time.
Tries not to look again. Fails. Because Capon is… noticeable.
It’s irritating. The man carries himself like he expects to be watched, and worse, like he’s right to expect it. There’s something almost effortless about him: the way he moves, the way he tilts his head when he speaks, the way people, willingly or not, give him space.
Fine-boned, Henry thinks, frowning slightly. Almost delicate, in a way that shouldn’t work on someone so thoroughly insufferable.
Graceful. Like a bird, maybe. One of those sharp-eyed ones that look like they’d peck your hand bloody if you got too close. Henry snorts faintly at the thought and takes another drink.
“Still an arse,” he mutters.
That part hasn’t changed.
Capon says something else, something clearly meant to impress, and the ale-maid gives him a look that’s half amusement, half long-suffering tolerance.
Henry looks away quickly this time, focusing on his cup. Not his business. Doesn’t matter. He’s just here to drink, keep his head down, and forget the rest of it for a while. That’s all.
He lifts the cup again and feels it before he sees it.
That shift. That prickling awareness along the back of his neck.
Henry looks up. Their eyes meet.
And he knows, instantly, that it’s over.
Capon has spotted him.
_______________________________________
There’s a brief pause, just a heartbeat, but it stretches long enough to feel deliberate.
Capon’s expression doesn’t change much. Not at first.
Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts.
Not quite a smile. Something sharper. Something knowing.
Henry’s grip tightens slightly around his cup “…Fucks sake,” he mutters.
He looks back down, too late to pretend he hadn’t been watching.
Too late to be invisible. Capon doesn’t hesitate.
Henry hears the shift in the room before he even looks up again, the subtle change in voices, the way attention tilts, just slightly, as Capon peels himself away from the doorway and makes his way over like he’s been expected all along.
Boots deliberate. Posture easy. That same infuriating confidence. Henry keeps his eyes on his cup. It doesn’t stop him.
“Well,” Capon says, coming to a stop at the table, voice bright with amusement, “if it isn’t my favourite stable boy.”
Henry exhales slowly through his nose.
“What’s a turnip-picker like you doing in a place like this?” Capon continues, glancing around as if the very idea offends him. “Bit above your station, isn’t it?”
Henry doesn’t rise to it, not immediately. He takes another drink instead, slower this time, buying himself a moment “I’m not here to socialise,” he says at last, setting the cup down with a quiet thud. “Just having a drink. Then I’ll go.”
Capon tilts his head, studying him. There’s a pause. Then, disappointment.
“How dull,” he says lightly.
Henry’s jaw tightens. “Good.”
That should be the end of it. It isn’t. Capon turns slightly, raising a hand toward the tavern keeper without even looking. “Three drinks,” he calls. “Two good ales, and a decent wine, if you have one that hasn’t turned.”
Henry frowns, glancing up despite himself. “I didn’t ask for…”
“I know,” Capon cuts in smoothly. “I did.”
Henry’s expression hardens “I don’t want it.”
Capon looks back at him, one brow lifting. “No? I thought you might enjoy something that doesn’t taste like it was strained through a boot.”
“It’s fine.”
“Mm.”
The drinks arrive quickly, better ale than Henry’s, darker, richer. Capon takes one for himself, the wine set aside with casual entitlement, and then, without ceremony, slides the second ale across the table.
It stops just within Henry’s reach. Henry looks at it. Doesn’t touch it. Silence stretches between them for a moment. Capon notices.
Of course he notices.
“…Not thirsty?” he asks, tone mild, but there’s something under it, something probing.
Henry leans back slightly instead, folding his arms “I’ve got mine.”
Capon’s gaze flicks to the cheaper drink, then back to Henry “That’s hardly the same thing.”
“It’s enough.”
Another pause. Capon’s fingers tap lightly against his own cup, once, twice. “You’re refusing a gift?”
Henry’s eyes narrow slightly. “I didn’t ask for it.”
“No,” Capon agrees. “But it’s there.”
Henry doesn’t move. “I’m not taking anything from you,” he says, blunt.
That lands. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But it lands. Capon stills, just slightly.
The faint amusement in his expression shifts, not gone, but sharpened, edges showing now.
“Anything?” he echoes.
Henry holds his gaze. “Anything.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Capon lets out a quiet, breathy sort of laugh, shaking his head once as if to himself “how cautious,” he murmurs.
Henry doesn’t respond. Doesn’t reach for the drink. Doesn’t look away, either.
For a moment, it feels like the yard again, that same tight, charged space, just quieter now. No shouting. No shoving.
Just… this.
Capon leans back slightly in his seat, studying Henry with renewed interest “you think I’d use it against you?” he asks, almost idly.
Henry doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Another small pause. And then, unexpectedly, Capon smiles. Not mocking. Not quite. Something else “…Good,” he says softly.
Henry frowns, thrown off by that.
Capon lifts his own cup, taking a slow drink, eyes never leaving Henry over the rim “wouldn’t want you getting comfortable,” he adds.
Henry scoffs, looking away at last. “Don’t worry. That’s not a risk.”
The untouched ale sits between them. Neither of them reaches for it. And somehow, that feels more like a challenge than anything that’s been said so far.
Capon doesn’t leave. That, more than anything, is the problem. Henry had half expected it, hoped for it, even, that Capon would lose interest once he realised there was no easy reaction to be had. No shouting, no shoving, no spectacle.
Instead, Capon stays. Worse, he settles.
Like this is something worth his time. Henry keeps his focus on his drink, shoulders tight, trying to make himself as uninteresting as possible.
“So,” Capon says after a moment, tone almost casual. “Do you always sit alone and glower at your ale, or is this a special occasion?”
“…No.”
Capon blinks once. That’s it. No elaboration. No bite. Just…
No.
He shifts slightly in his seat, studying Henry again, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle that won’t quite fit “I see,” he says slowly. “And here I thought taverns were for conversation.”
Henry shrugs faintly. “Not for me.”
Another dead end.
Capon’s fingers drum lightly against the table again. He’s not used to this, Henry can see it, even without looking directly at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows now, something almost thoughtful creeping in where smugness usually sits.
Most people, Henry guesses, either rise to it, or leave. He’s doing neither.
“…Right,” Capon says after a pause. “Well. This is thrilling.”
Henry doesn’t respond. Takes another drink instead. The silence stretches. For once, it’s Capon who seems uncertain. He leans back slightly, tilting his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studies Henry more openly now. Not just provoking, assessing.
Trying something different. Henry can feel it, like a shift in the air. And then… “have you ever read a book?”
It lands harder than anything else he’s said. Henry stills. Just for a second. But it’s enough.
Capon sees it immediately.
Henry’s grip tightens slightly around his cup. He stares down into it, like the answer might be somewhere in the dregs “…No,” he says.
Same as before. One word. But this time it’s different. There’s something under it, something tighter, less steady. Capon leans forward just a fraction, interest sharpening “no?” he repeats, softer now.
Henry shakes his head once, quick and dismissive, like it doesn’t matter. “No need.”
That’s worse. They both know it.
Capon’s gaze flicks over his face, catching every little thing Henry tries to hide, the stiffness, the way his shoulders have gone rigid, the way he won’t quite look up.
And then, slowly…Capon smiles.
Not wide. Not mocking in the obvious way. But precise. Targeted. He’s found it.
“Well,” he says lightly, leaning back again, “that explains a great deal.”
Henry’s jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Capon lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Only that it’s difficult to broaden one’s mind without the ability to read.”
There it is. Clean. Polished. Cutting.
Henry exhales sharply through his nose, looking away. “I get on fine.”
“I’m sure you do.”
That tone, smooth, agreeable, and entirely condescending, lands worse than if he’d just laughed.
Henry sets his cup down a little harder than he means to “not everyone’s got time to sit around with books,” he mutters.
“No,” Capon agrees. “Some are far too occupied with… turnips.”
Henry shoots him a look. Capon holds it, calm and composed, like he hasn’t just pressed exactly where it hurts. There’s a pause.
Then, almost idly...“I could teach you.”
Henry blinks. That… wasn’t expected.
He frowns slightly, suspicious. “Why would you do that?”
Capon’s expression doesn’t change much, but there’s something curious in it now, genuine, or close enough to pass for it “because,” he says, “you’re the first person who hasn’t either tried to impress me or hit me in the face.”A beat. “And I find that… interesting.”
Henry stares at him, uncertain what to do with that. It doesn’t feel like a trick. Which somehow makes it worse “…I’m not interested,” Henry says after a moment, looking back down at his drink.
Too quick. Too defensive. Capon notices.
“Pity,” he murmurs, almost to himself, lifting his cup again. “You might surprise yourself.”
Henry doesn’t answer. But the words stick. Worse than the insult did. And Capon knows it.
Capon doesn’t let the moment settle. He drains his wine like it’s nothing, barely tasting it, and lifts a hand again for another before the cup’s even properly empty.
“Another,” he calls, easy as breathing.
The ale-maid passes close, and as she does, his hand comes down, quick, casual, entirely deliberate.
The sharp smack against her arse cuts through the low hum of the tavern. She rolls her eyes again, muttering something under her breath as she moves on. Henry stiffens. It’s immediate. A flare of irritation, hot and instinctive. Across from him, Capon sees it. That same smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, faint but unmistakable. Another button pressed. Another reaction earned.
Henry looks away sharply, jaw tightening. “You’re a twat”
“Mm,” Capon hums, entirely unbothered. “I’ve been called worse.”
The new wine arrives. Capon takes it without thanks, settling back into his seat like he’s just getting comfortable.
Then, as if nothing of note has happened “So,” he says, tilting his head. “What’s your taste in women?”
Henry doesn’t even look at him. “None of your business.”
Capon ignores that. “Blonde? Dark? Quiet? Or do you prefer them with a bit of spirit?”
Henry exhales through his nose, slow and controlled “I said, it’s none of your business.”
Capon takes a sip of wine, watching him over the rim. “You must have a preference.”
Silence. Henry sets his empty cup down and signals for another, his last coin sliding across the table without ceremony. He pointedly ignores the untouched ale Capon had bought.
That, too, doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Stubborn,” Capon murmurs, almost approving.
Henry doesn’t respond.
The cheap ale arrives. He picks it up immediately and takes a long drink, like it’s the only thing anchoring him there.
Capon leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table “when was the last time, then?” he asks, tone light, too light. “You laid with a woman?”
Henry lowers the cup slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand “…Why do you care?”
Capon shrugs, taking another sip of wine. “Passing interest.”
Henry lets out a short, humourless breath. “Right.”
Capon watches him for a moment, then adds, almost lazily “I’ve managed twice today.”
Henry doesn’t react. Or tries not to.
Capon continues anyway, voice smooth, careless. “Could probably make it a third before bed, if I can be arsed.”
Henry lifts his cup again, forcing himself to stay steady “good for you.”
Flat. Dismissive. It should end there. It doesn’t.
Capon tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he studies Henry’s reaction, or lack of one “tell me,” he says, quieter now, “have you been able to hire any of the bath-maids yet?”
That one lands. Henry’s grip tightens around the cup. His jaw clenches. He doesn’t answer.
Capon leans in just a little, voice dropping further. “Or is that beyond your means as well?”
Henry exhales sharply through his nose, setting the cup down harder than he means to “drop it.”
There’s no heat in the words. Not loud. But tight. Controlled.
Capon pauses. Just for a second. Watching him. Measuring. And then, slowly, that same, infuriating half-smile returns.
Not loud mockery. Not open cruelty. Something quieter. More deliberate “Oh,” he murmurs. “That’s interesting.”
Henry doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t look at him. But the tension is back now, wound tighter than before, sitting heavy in his chest.
And Capon… Capon knows exactly where to press next.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Capon doesn’t let it go.
If anything, Henry’s silence seems to encourage him. He leans back in his chair, wine in hand, entirely at ease, like this is just another idle amusement to pass the evening “You really ought to try the baths,” he says, tone drifting into something almost conversational. “Some of those girls are quite…dedicated. To their craft I mean…”
Henry says nothing. Just drinks. Capon continues anyway “soft, too,” he adds, gesturing vaguely with his cup. “And eager to please, if you’ve the coin for it.”
Henry keeps his gaze fixed on the table, jaw tight, trying to let the words slide past him without sticking. It doesn’t work. Capon shifts slightly, studying him again, and there’s a flicker of something sharper in his eyes, he can see it’s getting through. So he presses “Though I suppose you’ve your preferences,” he goes on. “Some men are particular. Breasts, legs…” A small pause, just enough to be deliberate. “Feet, even.”
Henry rolls his eyes “God’s sake…” he mutters under his breath.
Capon’s smile widens, just slightly. There it is. Reaction.
“And what about you?” he asks, leaning forward now, voice lowering like he’s sharing something private instead of making a spectacle. “Had much chance to indulge since you got here?”
Henry doesn’t answer. Capon glances vaguely toward the direction of the stables. “Not much privacy there, I imagine. People coming and going, guards at the door…”
Henry’s shoulders go rigid.
Capon continues, almost lazily. “Nothing like a proper room in the keep. I could host a Roman orgy in mine and no one would be the wiser.”
Henry exhales slowly through his nose, staring down into his drink.
Capon waits. Watches. Lets the silence stretch until it starts to feel intentional.
Henry takes another drink. Then another.
The cheap ale is doing its job now, taking the edge off, loosening something that should probably stay tight. He sets the cup down, staring at it for a long moment.
Capon is still watching him. Waiting.
Expecting another reaction, anger, maybe. Embarrassment. Something easy to play with.
Henry swallows. Then, without looking up, “…Tell me, do you think about other men wanking that often?”
Capon blinks.
Henry lifts his gaze now, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since he sat down “while they’re alone,” he adds, voice steady despite the heat still rising in his face. “In their rooms. Their hands wrapped around themselves? Wondering what they sound like? How they move?”
A beat.
“Or is it just me?”
Silence. It hits clean. Not loud. Not dramatic. But it lands harder than anything else Henry’s said tonight.
Capon just… stares at him. For once, there’s no immediate answer. No clever remark waiting at the ready. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. The usual ease is gone, replaced by something rarer. Caught.
Henry feels it, something shift, subtle but real. The balance tilts, just a fraction.
For the first time since this started, Capon doesn’t seem entirely sure what to say. Capon does recover. Eventually. But it takes a second too long, and that’s all Henry needs to see.
The pause lingers just enough to be real. Just enough to crack that polished ease Capon wears like armour. When he finally speaks, it’s a touch sharper than before “I assure you,” Capon says, straightening slightly, “I’ve no interest in the evening habits of dung-flinging peasants.”
It should land. It’s the kind of insult that usually does. But this time… It doesn’t quite.
There’s something thin about it. Rushed. Henry sees it. And for the first time since Capon sat down, he smiles. Not wide. Not friendly. But real.
“Yeah?” Henry says, leaning back slightly, voice calmer now, steadier “could’ve fooled me.”
Capon’s eyes narrow just a fraction. Henry leans forward then, elbows on the table, closing the space between them again, not aggressive this time, but deliberate.
Controlled
“If that’s what you think it’s about,” he goes on, quieter now, “coin and numbers.”
Capon doesn’t interrupt. He watches. There’s something different in his expression now, not just irritation. Attention.
Henry tilts his head slightly. “I might not have your coin. Or your fancy room…” A small shrug “But I don’t need a Roman orgy.”
Capon’s fingers still against his cup. Henry leans in just a little more “don’t need three women in a day,” he adds, voice low and even. “If I’m going to do it…” A brief pause. “…I’ll do it properly.”
That lands. Capon doesn’t move. But there’s a flicker, quick, sharp, something like uncertainty threading through his composure. Henry sees that too. And presses.
“I didn’t just spend my time in the village fixing posts,” he says, almost conversational now. “Or hammering iron.”
His gaze stays locked on Capon’s “I hammered plenty of other things.”
Capon’s throat moves, barely noticeable, but there. Henry’s voice doesn’t change “mostly women,” he adds. “Wherever there was space for it.” A faint tilt of his head, like he’s recalling it rather than boasting “beds. Haylofts. Against a barrel or a wall if that’s what there was.”
The tavern noise hums faintly around them, distant now. Henry leans back slightly again, just enough to break the closeness, but not the tension.
“I had a reputation for it,” he finishes, casual as anything. “If you wanted it done properly…” A small, sharp smirk “…you’d come find me.”
Silence. Capon doesn’t answer immediately. For once, the usual quick wit isn’t there waiting.
He’s watching Henry differently now. Not dismissive. Not amused. Something more… uncertain. Measured.
The balance has shifted again. And this time, Henry knows it.
Capon recovers again, but this time it’s sharper. Meaner.
He leans back, one brow lifting, that familiar edge slipping back into place like it never left.
“I can’t imagine there was much choice in Skalitz,” he says lightly. “What was it…old men with one tooth? Perhaps an imbecile who’d been kicked by a donkey?”
A small, dismissive wave of his hand “you were likely the best of a very poor selection.”
It’s cleaner than before. Better aimed.
Henry snorts, actually laughs this time, short and rough “yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Sure. If that helps you sleep at night.”
Capon watches him, expecting more. Waiting for the pushback, the irritation, but Henry’s already looking past him. Something else has caught his attention.
And then…An idea. It shows in the way Henry’s expression shifts, subtle, but there. A spark. Something a little reckless.
He stands. Capon’s gaze follows him immediately, narrowing slightly.
“What are you…?”
Henry doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts a hand, gesturing toward one of the workers moving along the edge of the tavern, one of the Skalitz refugees, carrying a cloth and a bucket, head down as she goes about her work.
“Marie!” Henry calls. “Here a second.”
She looks up. And the moment she sees him, everything changes. Her face lights up. Properly lights, like she’s just been handed something she didn’t expect but very much wanted. She hurries over, setting the bucket aside without a second thought.
“Henry,” she says, breath catching just slightly, already smiling.
Capon notices that. He leans back in his chair, watching closely now.
Henry doesn’t rush it. He just looks at her for a moment, steady, familiar “do you remember that day?” he asks.
Her reaction is immediate. She nods, quick, almost eager. “I do.”
There’s a flush creeping up her neck now, spreading downward, visible even in the low light. Her hands fidget slightly at her sides, like she’s not quite sure what to do with them.
Capon’s attention sharpens.
Henry tilts his head slightly, like he’s just making conversation “I was just telling my friend here… about the hayloft.”
Her face blazes red, she shuffles her feet.
“He doesn’t believe I’m as good with my tongue as I say I am… but you can vouch for me. Cant you?” Henry smiles, taking a deep drink and raising an eyebrow at her over the tankard.
“Y-Yes… Yes he’s erm – very good. Very – thorough.” Marie mutters, shifting her weight as though she’s embarrassed to be discussing this with the Lord of Rattay in attendance.
“If I remember right, I had to help you stand… Your legs wouldn’t work.”
That… changes things. Not completely. But enough.
The woman hesitates, just for a fraction of a second. Her smile brightens and she makes a huff from her nose. They can see the flush that’s trailing across her neck and down to her chest, up to her ears. It’s a flush of arousal. Of memory.
“You told my husband id fell off a horse...” she says.
Her posture shifts, closing in just slightly, but her eyes don’t leave Henry’s. If anything, they linger more now, like she’s trying to hold onto the moment before it slips away.
There’s something unfinished there. Something remembered. Something she’s not saying, but doesn’t quite manage to hide either. Capon sees all of it. The eagerness when she arrived. The way she’s looking at Henry now. The flush that hasn’t faded. The way she hasn’t stepped back.
And slowly, very slowly his expression changes.
The smugness doesn’t vanish. But it… adjusts. Less certain. More… thoughtful.
Henry glances back at him then, just briefly. Not gloating. Not openly. But there’s something there all the same. Proof. Not words. Not boasting.
Just…evidence.
And for once, Capon doesn’t have an immediate way to dismiss it.
Henry lets the moment linger just long enough. He and the woman talk, nothing urgent, nothing loud. Just quiet, familiar words, the kind that don’t need explaining. She laughs softly at something he says, her hand brushing his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Capon is still there.
Still watching.
But for once, he’s not part of it.
Henry barely looks at him. And that, more than anything, seems to grate. After a minute, Henry finishes his drink, setting the empty cup down with a dull tap.
“That’s me,” he says, glancing back to the woman. “Early start.”
She looks disappointed, but she smiles anyway. “Goodnight, Henry.”
“Night.”
He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t look back at Capon as he turns and heads for the road.
Behind him… “No.”
It’s quick. Too quick.
Henry stops. Turns, one brow lifting slightly.
Capon is already halfway to his feet, something uncharacteristically sharp in his expression “we haven’t finished our drinks,” he says.
Henry glances at the table. At the untouched ale. Then back at him “I have.”
A beat.
He doesn’t sit back down.
Doesn’t reach for the cup Capon bought. Just nods once to the woman, then turns and walks out.
The night air hits him cool and immediate. The last of the warmth from the tavern fades quickly, replaced by darkness broken only by scattered torchlight along the road. Henry doesn’t have one. Doesn’t bother slowing. Boots crunch against the dirt as he heads out into it, the sounds of the tavern falling behind him.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Then...Footsteps.
Fast. Closing. Henry exhales softly through his nose, not even turning before “You’ll get into trouble without a torch.”
Capon again. Of course.
Henry keeps walking. “I’ll manage.”
“You can’t see a thing.”
“I know the road.”
Capon falls into step beside him anyway, just a half pace off, like he’s not entirely sure where he’s meant to be. The torchlight catches him in pieces, sharp lines of his face, the edge of his coat, the glint of something thoughtful in his eyes. It’s quieter out here. No crowd. No audience. Capon seems to feel it too.
He glances at Henry, something less practised in his expression now.
“You’re…” he starts, then pauses, like he’s choosing the word carefully for once “…intriguing.” a small beat “For a peasant, of course.”
There it is. The qualifier. The shield. Henry stops. Turns. That simmering frustration, banked all evening, snaps clean.
“Don’t,” he says, sharp.
Capon stills.
Henry steps closer, not aggressive, not quite, but direct enough that it cuts through whatever distance Capon had been trying to keep “don’t do that,” he repeats, voice low. “Say something halfway decent and then spoil it like you can’t help yourself.”
Capon’s mouth opens slightly, caught again, just for a second.
Henry doesn’t give him time “I’m not a curiosity,” he adds. “And I’m not here to entertain you.”
The words hang there, heavier in the quiet dark than anything said in the tavern. For a moment, neither of them moves.
The torchlight flickers somewhere behind them, just enough to catch the tension in Capon’s posture, the way he’s looking at Henry now, not amused, not dismissive.
Something else.
Henry exhales, shaking his head once “go back to your wine,” he mutters, stepping past him.
Capon is still looking at him, but not like before. Not amused. Not dismissive. Something else. And Henry feels it, sharp and immediate, like a spark catching dry tinder.
Before he can think better of it, he grabs him. It’s sudden, decisive.
Henry shoves Capon sideways, off the road and into one of the narrow alleys between buildings. Capon stumbles, more from surprise than resistance, boots scraping against stone as he’s pushed back, until his shoulders hit the wall.
The space is tight. Enclosed. The smells hit all at once, warm bread from the baker’s, something sweet like honey, and the thick, yeasty air lingering between the close walls.
Henry is right there with him. Hand at his throat. Not choking, just holding, palm against Capon's throat, thumb pressing the flutter of his pulse Firm.
“You wanted my attention?” Henry asks, “You’ve got it...”
Capon’s breath catches, sharp and startled, hands coming up instinctively to Henry’s wrist “What the…”
“Stop,” Henry says, low.
Capon tries to twist out of it anyway, pride kicking in before sense, but Henry presses his thumb just enough against his throat to still him.
Not hurting. But unmistakable.
“Stop,” Henry repeats.
And this time, Capon does. He goes still.
His eyes are wide, not just with surprise now, but something else creeping in behind it. Something confused. Something heated.
Henry leans in slightly, close enough that there’s no space left between them. His hips shift forward, pinning Capon completely. The rough weave of his own breeches met the finer wool of Capon’s. The contact a lightning strike. A jolt of pure, undiluted heat that made Henry’s cock, already hard and straining, throb violently against its confines. He hears Capon’s breath catch, a wet, broken sound.
“Why do you do it?” he asks, voice quieter now, rough at the edges. “Why keep pushing?”
Capon swallows under Henry’s grip, breath uneven “I…” He stops. Tries again. “I don’t…”
“Yeah, you do,” Henry cuts in. “Every time.” a beat. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”
Capon doesn’t answer.
Henry grinds down. A slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The friction maddening through the layers of cloth. Insufficient. Perfect. Capon makes a noise, a choked-off croak. His head thumping back against the brick, his blond hair catching on the rough surface.
'You think it’s a game,' Henry whispers, his lips nearly brushing the shell of Capon’s ear. The scent of ink and parchment and clean sweat filling his senses, undercut by the damp mildew of the alley. 'You think winding me up is clever.'
'It is,' Capon gasps out, the defiance a thin, brittle shell. 'It’s… terribly clever.'
'Is it?' Henry’s voice like gravel. He moved, establishing a ruthless rhythm. His thigh shoved between Capon’s, the pressure undeniable. He could feel the answering hardness there, trapped in those fine breeches, leaking heat. 'You sound clever now. Go on. Say something witty.'
Capon can’t. His mouth worked, but only panting breaths came out. His fingers digging into Henry’s arms, nails biting through fabric. His hips move in tiny, aborted jerks, meeting Henry’s thrusts, chasing the friction.
'Look at you,' Henry breathes, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse under Capon’s jaw. 'All your words. Gone. Just this. Just the mess you made.'
He rutted against him, the drag of wool and linen a rough, desperate music. His own need was a white-hot brand in his gut, coiling tighter with every slide. Sweat beads at his temples, traced a path down his spine under his tunic. The scent of their exertion, salt and fabric and rising musk, filled the narrow space.
Capon was trembling. Full-body shivers that started in his trapped shoulders and raced down to his twitching thighs. A high, thin whine escapes his throat with every exhale. His eyes glazed, fixed on Henry’s face but seeing nothing, lost to the sensation.
'You’re going to spill,' Henry stated, the command absolute. He shifted his grip on Capon’s hip, his callused fingers pressing into the bone. 'Right here. In your pretty lord’s clothes. Against this wall.'
For once, there’s no quick remark. No clever turn. Just silence, and the sound of both of them breathing, too close, too loud in the narrow space.
Henry’s grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t loosen either.
Their bodies are pressed together now, properly. No room to pretend otherwise.
And there’s no missing it. That tension from before, back in the yard, at the table, it’s here again.
Stronger. Clearer.
Capon’s breath hitches slightly, his hands still resting against Henry’s arm, but not pushing any more.
Just… there.
Henry exhales slowly through his nose.
“We’re not doing this again,” he says. “Not another fight. Not another…” he gestures vaguely with his free hand “whatever that was back there.”
Capon’s gaze flicks over his face, searching. Unsteady. And then, he moves. Capon’s composure, usually so carefully held, is slipping, piece by piece. His eyes flick down, then back up again, like he doesn’t know where to look or what to do with himself.
Henry watches him. Really watches him.
And whatever he sees there, it’s enough to keep him from stepping back. For now.
'Do it.' Henry slams him back into the brick, never breaking the rhythm. His own control was fraying, the edges of his vision blurring with the intensity of the climb. 'Finish for me. Show me how clever you are now...'
Capon cried out. A ragged, broken sound that echoed off the wet stone. His body locked, every muscle seizing. His hips stuttered against Henry’s, a frantic, final chase. Henry watched his face, the way his lips parted in a silent scream, the flutter of his eyelids, the utter ruin of his composure.
A hot, wet bloom spread through the front of Capon’s light-coloured breeches. The stain darkened the wool, spreading rapidly. The smell of it, salt and spend and surrender, hit the air, pungent and intimate. Capon sagged, boneless, held up only by Henry’s hand on his throat and the press of his body.
The sight, the smell, the feel of Capon coming apart under his hands, it was the final pull on Henry’s leash. His own climax tore through him, brutal and consuming. He buried a groan against Capon’s shoulder, his hips jerking erratically as heat flooded his own breeches, a searing release that left him light-headed. The pleasure was sharp, almost painful, a direct counterpoint to the fury that had driven him here.
The moment hangs, tight, breathless, and then it breaks.
Not into another shove. Not into another insult.
Something else. Henry doesn’t let go, but his grip shifts, less about holding Capon still, more about keeping him there. Close. Exactly where he is.
“Listen to me,” Henry says, low, rough. “This…this nonsense…”
His words falter slightly as Capon moves again, a small, involuntary press forward, like he can’t quite help himself.
Henry exhales sharply.
“…this isn’t happening again,” he finishes, more forcefully, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Capon. “You hear me?”
Capon’s hands grip at his arms now, not to push him away, but to steady himself. To anchor.
His breath is uneven, catching in a way that doesn’t match his usual composure at all.
“You…” Capon starts, then stops, jaw tightening as he tries to regain some control. “You don’t get to…”
Henry cuts him off by stepping closer. There’s no space left now. None at all.
“Yeah, I do,” Henry mutters. “You can go be cruel to someone else. Not me.”
Capon lets out a shaky breath, half protest, half something else entirely. His head tips back slightly against the wall, eyes half-lidded, like he’s trying very hard not to react and failing.
Henry feels it too.
That same tension from before, but sharper now. Immediate. Impossible to ignore.
It builds quickly, too quickly, both of them caught in it before either can pull back or think better of it.
Capon’s grip tightens, a full, shuddering moan was punched from his lungs, fingers digging into Henry’s sleeves, his breath hitching again despite himself. There’s a faint, frustrated sound he tries to swallow down, like he’s determined not to give Henry the satisfaction of hearing it.
Henry’s jaw clenches.
“Keep quiet,” he mutters, though his voice isn’t steady any more either.
Capon lets out a strained breath, something dangerously close to a laugh, or a groan, or both.
“You started this…”
“You followed me,” Henry shoots back.
It’s not really an argument any more.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing mingling with the distant drip of the drainpipe. The heat between them was a living thing, steaming in the cool alley air.
Henry’s hand loosened from Capon’s throat. He stepped back. The movement was clean, decisive. The cold air rushed into the space where their bodies had been fused.
Capon slumped against the wall, his legs buckling. He caught himself on trembling arms, head hanging. The dark stain on his breeches was blatant. His fine tunic was rumpled, damp with sweat and grime from the stone. He was a portrait of ruin.
Henry adjusted his own clothing, a few practical tugs. He looked at Capon, at the mess he’d made of him. There were no words. No triumph, no apology. The hunger was spent, leaving a hollow, quiet clarity.
Silence follows.
Heavy.
Henry is the first to move.
He steps back abruptly, like the distance matters now, like he needs it.
The alley feels colder without the press of it.
For a moment, neither of them says anything.
Capon is still against the wall, chest rising and falling, expression… different. Disoriented, almost. Like he’s not entirely sure what just happened, or what to make of it.
Henry runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
“…That’s it,” he says, quieter now but firm. “Done.”
He doesn’t look at Capon as he says it.
“Goodnight, Lord Capon.” Henry says as he heads down the alley. He’s almost at the end when he hears it.
“Hans… Call me Hans.”