White Sugar

That infernal noise again.

Hans Capon wasn't used to being woken up abruptly, especially not on an ordinary weekday, so early that the sun hadn't even risen yet. Still half asleep, he grabbed his pillow and placed it over his head, trying to block out the noise. But it was getting louder and louder.

Then he opened his eyes.

It had been getting worse over the last few days. He had already grown accustomed to Henry's annoying routine, showering every day before leaving for work very early in the morning. He had never told him what he did for a living or where he worked, simply that he “had to go to work”. At first, Hans hadn't minded, especially since he himself had established that social distance he wasn't willing to back down from.

But after so many days, living together like this had started to feel lonely and boring. And above all, cold.

He got out of bed, his eye bags still puffy. He headed to the kitchen and opened the cupboard door from which that horrible racket was coming. The water heater. Again.

Henry still hadn't turned off the shower tap, and the boiler was suffering as though there were a dying animal trapped inside it. Hans tried hitting it on the side, but it did no good. A few seconds during which the noise seemed to fade... only for it to start up again. Just imagine having to explain to his uncle that Hans had died in a gas boiler explosion.

At last, the hot water was turned off, and the boiler slowly began to settle down. Hans breathed a sigh of relief, although he was in a foul mood after being woken up. But now he was far too awake to go back to sleep.

Damn Henry.

He took a mug from the cupboard next to it and heated up some milk. The instant coffee tasted so awful that he had to add twice or even three times as much sugar, and he was dismayed to see that there was hardly any left.

He searched through the other cupboards, but couldn't find anything else. He would have to go out and buy some...

While he was in the middle of his existential crisis over having to set foot in the kind of place ordinary people went to, Henry came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

And nothing else.

Henry's body was broad and muscular, far too impressive to go unnoticed. Drops of condensation still trickled from his neck down to his chest, and his soaked hair curled into impossibly tight ringlets.

Hans buried his face in his mug of milk to hide his surprise. Henry came over to put some water on to boil, and Hans tried to conceal his irritation at being woken up so abruptly behind a mask of indifference.

“The boiler made that noise again.”

Henry frowned but said nothing. He took a saucepan, filled it with tap water and placed it on the stove without a word.

“It's going to break down any day now. We need to tell the landlord.”

“No... don't worry about that. I'll take care of it,” he replied almost immediately.

“You? You don't have to take care of it. We're paying rent, and the landlord is supposed to deal with these things.”

Henry, visibly more annoyed now, kept his attention on the saucepan.

“Just because you've paid your share of the rent for the whole year doesn't mean everyone else...”

He paused. Hans noticed that he was clenching his fists. “Never mind. Just don't do anything.”

The silence that followed was almost worse than the noise of the boiler.

Henry finished making his tea without saying another word, and Hans didn't insist either. He sat at the table with his cup of disgusting instant coffee, pretending to read a magazine, while watching Henry out of the corner of his eye as he got dressed in his room, the door slightly ajar. When he came out, he picked up his keys and backpack without even looking at Hans.

Not even a goodbye. The door slammed shut with a sharp bang that echoed throughout the apartment, and Hans was left alone with the sound of the boiler still ringing in his ears.

Well, that was what he wanted. Although with each passing day, a frustration whose origins he couldn't quite understand became increasingly obvious. A self-imposed loneliness, sustained by a pride that was becoming harder to maintain.

He spent the morning pacing around. He tried reading one of the hundreds of books Henry seemed to collect, but the words simply wouldn't stick in his head. He was far too bored, trapped in a space far too small for what he was used to. His uncle had advised him to go out as little as possible, but he felt that if he spent another minute within those four walls, he would throw himself out of the window.

He put on his running shoes almost out of spite, as though physical exertion could sweat the thoughts out of his head. He ran down the stairs two at a time and stepped outside, where the morning chill was still lingering in the air. He ran without any particular destination, letting the streets pass by one after another until his legs began to burn and his lungs started to ache. Only then did he feel better.

When he returned, almost an hour later, he was drenched in sweat and his head felt a little clearer.

He climbed the stairs at a more leisurely pace, took off his shoes at the entrance and headed straight for the bathroom.

The water was lukewarm at first, promising. Hans closed his eyes beneath the stream, letting the warmth relax his shoulders. It was a mere couple of minutes of bliss.

Then the water started getting colder. And colder still. And then, as if wanting to go out with a bang, the boiler let out a sharp crack, a metallic groan, and shut down completely.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me!”

Hans stumbled out of the shower, shivering and wrapped in a towel, and yanked open the cupboard door where the damn contraption lived. No lights, no noise, nothing. Dead.

He stood there for a moment, dripping water onto the kitchen floor, weighing his options.

He could wait for Henry to come back and tell him he would take care of it, just as he had promised that very morning. He could enjoy the small personal satisfaction of being able to say “I told you so”... or he could complain directly to the person responsible.

He got dressed reluctantly, his hair still wet, and climbed the stairs to the landlord's apartment. He lived two floors above them, in an apartment Hans had never set foot in and probably wouldn't ever visit again after this. He rang the doorbell harder than necessary.

The landlord, an elderly man with thick glasses and the face of someone who had been interrupted in the middle of an afternoon nap, opened the door and looked Hans up and down. A young man with wet hair whom he had never seen before.

“Yes...?”

“The boiler on the third floor. It's broken, completely.”

The man blinked, visibly surprised. It wasn't usual for one of the tenants from that apartment to show up at his door, much less like this, but he said nothing about it. He simply nodded slowly, jotting something down in a notebook he kept by the entrance.

“Anything else?”

“Anything...?” Hans felt indignation rising in his throat. “We've been putting up with that noise for days. And now we don't have hot water. Someone needs to fix it urgently.”

“I'll come down when I can,” the landlord declared, this time in a tone that left no room for argument, before shutting the door in his face.

Hans stood there for a second, staring at the closed door, trying to make sense of an attitude he had never encountered before, then went back downstairs in an even worse mood than when he had gone up.

Hicks... Commoners... I can't believe they live like this.

By the time Henry returned, night had already fallen. He found the apartment dark except for the kitchen light, and a man with a flashlight inspecting the boiler. Hans was sitting on the sofa, watching, clearly pleased to see things being done his way.

Henry stopped in the doorway, his backpack still over his shoulder, staring at the scene.

“What happened here?”

“Can't you see?” Hans replied with a hint of sarcasm. “The bloody boiler. It finally broke down.”

Henry dropped his backpack on the floor and was left speechless when he saw his landlord with a flashlight strapped to his head. All his usual boldness seemed to vanish completely, and Hans watched him turn into a puppy with its tail between its legs.

“Peshek... I'm really sorry that...” he said in a barely audible voice, almost whispering.

“Don't say anything, Henry. Your new friend has already said it all.”

Henry shot Hans a murderous glare.

“Well, it looks like we're all done here,” Peshek continued. “Let's have a word outside.”

A bead of sweat began to trickle down Henry's forehead. Not from the heat, but from a clear nervousness that soon began to spread to Hans. Hadn't he done the right thing? What was wrong with demanding that the landlord fix the appliances in his own property?

Little by little, that satisfied smile faded from his face.

He looked at Mutt, who had been demanding Hans's attention all day, but was now nothing more than a ball of fur curled up, trying not to draw attention to himself. Even the dog could sense that something was wrong.

On the other side of the door, in the hallway, there wasn't much to be heard. At least, not at first.

After a few minutes, the voices began to rise, eventually ending in one or two shouts.

Without realising it, Hans's fingers began to tremble. Mutt let out a sort of pitiful whimper.

Finally, Henry came back into the apartment, his face flushed and his fists clenched. Hans didn't dare say anything. He didn't even dare move from the sofa and hide in his room, afraid of drawing attention to himself. Needless to say, it made no difference.

“I told you... I'd take care of it myself,” he muttered, barely containing his anger.

Any rational excuse seemed ridiculous in the face of that murderous expression. Even so, Hans tried.

“Yes, but... it finally broke down while I was taking a shower. You weren't here. It was only logical to notify the landlord.”

“Goddammit, Hans!” he shouted, then clenched his fists to keep himself under control. “You have no idea what Peshek has done for me. How many months of rent he's let me off paying. How much money I still owe him.”

Hans swallowed, but said nothing.

“Not everyone has the same easy time making ends meet as you do! And you're the only one who would think of asking him, no, DEMANDING that he come down and fix the boiler!” Hans opened his mouth to defend himself, but Henry kept shouting. “Spoiled rich brat! Do you think the world revolves around you? Look, I don't know where you've come from, but things work differently here.”

“Hey!” Hans jumped to his feet, offended by the insults. “If this is about money, I'll pay for it. But don't you ever speak to me like that again!”

“Ohhh... you'll pay for it?” Henry scoffed. “I'll say it again. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into. Maybe you should go back to that golden cage of yours, the one they should never have opened the door to.”

They both fell silent, panting, as though that outburst had completely drained them. They didn't know each other, but they weren't strangers either. They were roommates, and they were expected to find a way to get along.

But neither of them would apologise.

“It's my responsibility,” Henry finally said. “I'll pay for it, and you... God. Just don't cause me any more trouble.”

The words hung between them, as heavy as the silence that followed. Hans wanted to argue, wanted to say that he didn't need anyone to pay for anything on his behalf, that he had only tried to do the right thing, but something in Henry's expression made him swallow his reply.

“Whatever you say,” he finally muttered.

Henry said nothing more. He bent down to pick up the backpack he had dropped when he came in and disappeared into his room, with Mutt close on his heels. The door closed, this time without slamming, which, strangely enough, hurt even more.

The following days passed in an oddly peaceful and surprisingly lonely manner. He only saw Henry at lunchtime, when he remained silent and deliberately ignored Hans. Everything he did seemed to annoy him. If he left a mug in the sink, Henry would grumble; if he left a jacket lying around the apartment, Henry would frown... It was a constant, wordless argument that only made Hans increasingly frustrated. Henry simply made short, sharp remarks before retreating into his silence, as though Hans wasn't even worth the effort of a proper argument.

He hated Henry. He hated the way he looked at him, the way he spoke to him... nobody had ever treated him like that before. It irritated him to see how Henry thought he was king of the universe, how everything revolved around him and how Hans's problems seemed to be reduced to absolutely nothing.

And the final straw... on Friday, they finally ran out of sugar. Hans couldn't put it off any longer. He had to go to the supermarket and buy what he needed. Like an ordinary person.

Mutt looked at him from his corner of the sofa, head lowered and tail wagging. Just what I needed.

I'm not taking your mutt for a walk. Henry spent so much time away from home that the dog was beginning to get bored, but taking him out was a line Hans wasn't willing to cross.

Before the dog could convince him with that pitiful look, he grabbed his wallet, the house keys and walked out the door. He remembered seeing a small supermarket a few streets away while running, with a half-faded sign and a little bell on the door. Better than nothing.

He walked leisurely, still dwelling on the previous week. Henry's grumbling, his reproachful looks over such insignificant things as a jacket left in the wrong place. The more he thought about it, the more his stomach churned with anger. Who did he think he was, treating him like that? As though Hans were a child who constantly needed correcting.

He was so absorbed in his own resentment that he almost walked right past it when he spotted him.

Across the street, in front of a small shop with a window full of tools and coils of cable, an unmistakable figure emerged carrying a rubbish bag. Hans stopped dead.

Henry.

He was wearing a dark green apron with the faded logo of a shop Hans didn't recognise, and his hair was roughly slicked back. He watched him leave the bag next to a rubbish bin, stretch his back with a tired gesture and head inside again, completely unaware that he was being watched.

So this was it. The mysterious job he never talked about, the reason behind those early mornings that woke Hans up with the noise of the boiler. A hardware store.

A simple, ordinary, common hardware store.

Hans felt a treacherous smile slowly spread across his face, full of malicious intent.

After days of putting up with his sharp remarks and that superior look with which Henry seemed to judge everything he did, he finally had something to play with.

He didn't know exactly what he was going to say. He wasn't even sure it was worth the effort. But the idea of standing in front of Henry on his own turf, in that little kingdom where he probably felt comfortable and safe from Hans, was far too tempting to pass up.

Besides, the sugar could wait another ten minutes.

He crossed the street with a determined, almost amused stride and pushed open the hardware store door. The little bell rang, announcing his arrival, and Hans couldn't help letting his smile grow even wider.

Shelves packed with screws, cables and tools lined the shop all the way to the back, where an old wooden counter served as the checkout. Behind it, a man who wasn't particularly old but had an air of authority about him seemed to be checking some kind of inventory.

Henry came out of the back room just then, holding a box of nails in his hands, and froze when he saw Hans standing in the middle of the shop with that smile that could only mean trouble.

“What... what are you doing here?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“Shopping,” Hans replied, with such exaggerated innocence that it was almost insulting. “Isn't this a shop?”

Henry clenched his jaw, shot a quick glance towards the man behind the counter and forced something resembling a professional smile.

“Of course. Tell me what you need.”

“Well, I'm not sure.” Hans strolled between the shelves, running a finger along the packets of screws with complete disinterest. “Do you have anything for hanging pictures?”

“Left aisle,” Henry said, pointing with the box of nails still in his hands.

“And what about hanging heavy pictures? Mine is quite large.”

“Same place, sir.”

“Sir?” Hans couldn't help chuckling, and for a moment he almost forgot to keep up the act. “How formal.”

“I'm working,” Henry muttered through gritted teeth, wearing a smile that no longer even pretended to be friendly.

Henry took a deep breath, placed the box on the counter with more care than necessary and accompanied Hans to the aisle, wearing a smile that he was visibly struggling to maintain.

Hooks, wall plugs, a bit of everything.

Hans picked up a packet, turned it over in his hands, examined it as if it were an object from another galaxy, and put it back exactly where it hadn't been.

“Hmm, I don't know. Don't you have anything sturdier? In the stockroom, I mean.”

A vein began to throb in Henry's temple.

“I'll go and have a look.”

He disappeared into the back room, and Hans took the opportunity to glance at the owner of the hardware store, who was still absorbed in his notebook, completely oblivious to the little performance unfolding just a few metres away from him. Perfect.

Henry returned with a different box, opened it on the counter with a helpful gesture, and began explaining the differences between the wall plugs with a patience Hans found almost admirable, considering the murderous look he was giving him from beneath his brows.

“This one can hold up to fifteen kilos, this one up to twenty-five…”

“I don't know...” Hans rested a finger against his chin. “I'll have to think about it. Oh! I also wanted to ask about light bulbs. The long-lasting kind. Do you have any?”

Henry closed his eyes for a second, not knowing whether he was praying for patience or begging for a lightning bolt to strike Hans down, then disappeared into the stockroom again. This time, he took longer. When he returned, he was carrying three different boxes of light bulbs, which he placed on the counter one by one.

“LED, halogen, or energy-saving,” he recited in a flat voice, like someone who had already lost all hope. “Do you have a preference, sir?”

The owner finally looked up, curious about the coming and going of boxes, and Henry hurried to straighten up and compose his expression before his boss could suspect anything.

“Everything all right over here, Henry?”

“Everything's perfect,” he replied with a strained smile, without looking at Hans. “The customer is deciding.”

The customer, meanwhile, picked up one of the boxes of light bulbs, weighed it in his hand, put it back down, and slowly shook his head.

“You know what? I don't think I need any of this after all.”

Silence fell. Henry stared at him, trying to keep his temper in check beneath the mask of politeness he was required to wear at work.

“What did you say?”

“I said I'm not taking anything.” Hans shrugged, with an innocence so feigned it bordered on a masterpiece. “Thanks for your help anyway. Very professional.”

That tone broke something inside Henry. As though Hans were patting them on the back for a job well done. A dangerous idea began to take shape in his head.

And just like that, Hans turned around and walked towards the door, leaving Henry standing in the middle of the aisle, surrounded by hooks, wall plugs, and three boxes of light bulbs that he would now have to put back on their respective shelves one by one, all under the watchful eye of his boss.

The bell rang again as Hans left, and for a second, before the door closed completely, he managed to hear a long, resigned sigh.

Hans couldn't help bursting out laughing on his way to the supermarket.

The shop turned out to be bigger than it looked from the outside. He had never been anywhere like it, so cramped and full of things... that he inevitably found himself fascinated. He practically wanted to take everything home, try everything without limits... though then he remembered that he couldn't use his credit card and that cash didn't grow on trees.

He, Hans Capon, limited by how much money he could spend. Could this be a scandal?

He decided to ask the girl at the checkout for help finding the sugar, before the shelves tempted him into buying something he shouldn't. The young woman was very pleasant, agreeing to help him in a sweet voice and with a charming smile.

She took him straight to the aisle he needed, pointed out the product, and then smiled at him.

“Can I help you with anything else?” Hans shook his head. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. Don't be afraid to ask!”

The young woman slowly walked away, wearing that look of exhaustion that was sometimes impossible to hide. Working in the shop every day must have been exhausting, a thought that stirred something inside Hans.

Guilt.

He picked up the sugar, but couldn't help feeling bad about what he had done. Henry got up early every day and came home late at night, which made Hans think he must have a second job. Taking out the rubbish, getting up and bending down all day... he had to be exhausted. And not just physically. Exhausted from forcing a strained smile for impossible customers like Hans himself, only to come home in the early hours of the following morning.

And he had spent his time bothering him in front of his boss. Making him run back and forth to the stockroom like a puppet, just for fun, just because he'd been building up anger for days and needed somewhere to take it out.

He felt his face burning, and it wasn't because of the midday sun that was beginning to warm the streets.

He leaned against the wall of a nearby building for a moment, the supermarket bag hanging from his hand, and allowed himself to feel truly bad for the first time in a long while.

Not because Henry was angry with him, which, yes, still seemed unfair to him in many ways. But because of this. Because he had been playing games with someone who was clearly already carrying more than enough weight on his shoulders.

He checked his watch. It was just past one. If Henry's routine was the same as always, he would be leaving the hardware store around that time to grab a quick lunch at the flat before carrying on with whatever else he did for the rest of the day. Hans wasn't quite sure what to do with that information, but his feet had already made the decision before his head could catch up.

He walked back towards the hardware store, more slowly this time, without the mischievous smile he'd worn earlier or any desire to provoke. He stopped on the other side of the street, at the same corner from which he had first seen Henry that morning, and waited.

He didn't know exactly what he was going to say to him. “I'm sorry” seemed insufficient, almost ridiculous after the scene he'd caused. But he had to say something. Anything.

The doorbell rang in the distance, barely audible from where he was standing. Hans straightened up, the packet of sugar still in his bag and his heart beating with a force he couldn't remember ever feeling before over something as simple as waiting for someone on a street corner.

Henry saw him as soon as he came out.

Hans's heart began racing even faster when he saw Henry approaching him.

Good. What can I say to him? Maybe I should start with an “I'm sorry”...

They were only a few steps apart now. Hans was already preparing to speak, standing upright and friendly, but without losing his usual touch of pride. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to apologise.

And then came the blow.

A very solid punch struck his nose, sending Hans sprawling to the ground, confused by what had just happened. His face hurt. He had dropped the shopping bag without even realising it, and the sugar was spilling across the ground.

“How dare you come back here?”

A second punch landed in the same spot, sending a stream of blood gushing from Hans's nose.

Henry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him into the air, leaving him barely able to touch the ground with the tips of his toes.

Hans had never felt so afraid in his life.

“You little bastard, you're not worth it.” He let him drop, and Hans's backside hit the ground hard. “I don't want to see you around here again. Do you understand?”

Henry raised his fist in the air, threatening him once more, and Hans instinctively lifted his arm to protect himself.

“Y... yes,” he managed to say, his voice barely more than a whisper.

At last, Henry stepped back, adopting a more relaxed stance. He looked both ways to make sure nobody had witnessed the assault, then shot Hans one final defiant look. The kind of look that needs no words to make its meaning clear.

“Good. I hope that's clear.”

And then he left, leaving Hans alone, sprawled on that street corner. Still disoriented, everything hurt more than it should have. He brought a hand to his nose, and when he pulled it away, he saw a huge smear of blood on his palm. It was the first time he'd ever had a nosebleed.

He struggled to his feet, blood spattering his clothes, and leaned against the nearby building. There was nobody in the street who could help him... or see him in such a pathetic state. Perhaps that was for the best. Nobody had ever seen Hans Capon get beaten up.

He took a step forward and stepped on the sugar that had spilled across the ground. The pure white grains had taken on the colour of the blood Hans had shed, and it seemed like a perfect allegory for how he felt at that moment.

Something pure at heart, its facade scattered across the ground.

And in a pool of blood, no less.