Everithing is the same
The Art of Disappearing
– The sun, a brazen eye in the azure sky, beat down on the Henituse estate, but Cale felt only the familiar chill of indifference. He was eighteen now, his ‘trash’ persona polished to a gleaming, repulsive sheen. The latest incident involved a particularly expensive vintage wine, accidentally-on-purpose spilled over a visiting dignitary’s pristine white robes. The ensuing scandal, the frantic apologies from Deruth, the hushed condemnation from Violan – it was all background noise to Cale, a dull drone against the sharper, more insistent clamor of his own memories.
– He sat on a secluded bench in the sprawling gardens, a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor clutched in his hand. The scent of roses, usually a pleasant aroma, now struck him as cloyingly sweet, a mockery of the fleeting beauty of life. He watched a butterfly flit from blossom to blossom, its fragile wings a kaleidoscope of color. Such innocence, such freedom. A stark contrast to the intricate, suffocating web he found himself in.
– His life as Kim Rok Soo, the stoic team leader, felt like a distant dream, a whisper from another lifetime. The memories were there, sharp and clear, but they were coated in a layer of Dazai Osamu’s cynical detachment. He remembered the desperate struggle for survival, the quiet camaraderie with Choi Han, the unexpected warmth of his makeshift family. But even those precious recollections were tainted by the underlying dread that had always shadowed Dazai – the knowledge that everything, eventually, falls apart.
– And then there was Dazai. The memories of the Port Mafia, the Armed Detective Agency, the endless dance between light and shadow, were vivid, almost suffocating in their intensity. He could still feel the weight of a trench coat on his shoulders, smell the faint metallic tang of blood and gunpowder, hear the sardonic lilt of his own voice as he teased Kunikida or parried Chuuya’s insults. He saw Oda’s calm, kind eyes, Ango’s perpetually worried frown, and the ever-present, bone-deep longing for an escape that never came.
– He took a long swig from the bottle, the burning liquid doing little to quell the restless churn in his mind. He was good at this, he realized. Being Cale Henituse, the trash. It was almost too easy. People expected nothing from him, and he delivered exactly that – nothing of worth, nothing of substance. He was a void, a black hole of expectations.
– But even a void has its limits. The constant performance, the meticulous maintenance of his despicable image, was draining. He yearned for a moment of genuine quiet, a space where he didn’t have to be anyone. Just Cale. Or Rok Soo. Or even Dazai, without the crushing weight of his past.
– A rustle in the bushes broke his reverie. Basen, his half-brother, emerged, looking uncomfortable. He clutched a book to his chest, his gaze darting nervously between Cale and the ground.
– Ah, Basen-dongsaeng, – Cale slurred, a practiced, drunken smile stretching his lips. – Come to lecture your good-for-nothing hyung again? Or perhaps you’ve come to admire my exquisite taste in cheap spirits?
– Basen flushed, adjusting his spectacles. – Hyung-nim, you shouldn’t be drinking so much. Father will be… displeased.
– Displeased? – Cale chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. – He’s always displeased, Basen. It’s his natural state when it comes to me. Besides, what does it matter? I’m already the trash of the county. What more can I do to tarnish the Henituse name?
– Basen hesitated, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and frustration. – It’s just… you used to be different. Before… before Mother Jour passed.
– Cale’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, an almost imperceptible tremor. He recovered quickly, though, raising the bottle in a mock toast. – Ah, the good old days. When I was a picture of filial piety and angelic innocence. Alas, dear brother, those days are long gone. The world, you see, has a way of stripping away such pretty illusions.
– He took another swig, his eyes, momentarily devoid of their usual drunken glaze, fixed on Basen. He saw the genuine worry in the younger boy’s gaze, the quiet longing for the brother he remembered. It was a familiar look, one he had seen on Kunikida’s face countless times, a futile attempt to pull him back from the precipice.
– So, Basen-dongsaeng, – Cale continued, his voice laced with a theatrical sigh, – what brings you to this humble corner of depravity? Are you perhaps seeking some wisdom from your degenerate elder? I assure you, I am a connoisseur of all things regrettable.
– Basen wrung his hands. – I… I just wanted to ask if you were coming to dinner tonight. Lady Violan has prepared your favorite dish.
– Cale scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. – My favorite dish? How thoughtful. Tell her I’m indisposed. Perhaps I’ll be out carousing with some unsavory characters, or perhaps I’ll simply be too drunk to find my way to the dining room. Either way, my absence will be a blessing to all involved.
– Basen’s shoulders slumped. – Hyung-nim, please. It’s important. Father wants us all to be there.
– And I, dear Basen, – Cale said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerously calm tone, – want to be left alone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with this lovely lady, – he gestured to the bottle, – who, unlike some people, never judges.
– Basen, defeated, mumbled a quick apology and retreated, leaving Cale once again to his solitude. Cale watched him go, a flicker of something akin to regret passing through his eyes before being swiftly extinguished. It was for the best. The further he pushed them away, the safer they would be.
– He remembered a conversation with Oda, a quiet evening under the Yokohama stars. Oda had spoken of wanting to write, of finding a path that didn’t involve violence. Dazai, in his characteristic way, had scoffed, but a part of him had envied that simple desire for a normal life. Now, as Cale Henituse, he had that opportunity, this mundane, peaceful existence, and he was actively sabotaging it. The irony was not lost on him.
– The sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. Cale remained on the bench, the bottle now empty, the silence of the garden slowly enveloping him. He closed his eyes, and the faces of his past lives flickered behind his eyelids.
– Jour, her gentle smile, her loving gaze.
– Oda, his quiet strength, his unwavering loyalty.
– Ango, his intelligent eyes, his burdened shoulders.
– Even Chuuya, with his fiery temper and surprising moments of vulnerability.
– All gone. Or, in Ango’s case, irrevocably changed, separated by the chasm of their choices.
– He opened his eyes, a profound weariness settling deep in his bones. He was tired. Tired of the charade, tired of the memories, tired of the endless cycle of loss. He had tried, in this life, to be different. To be Cale. To embrace the simple joys, to let himself be loved. But Jour’s death had ripped open the old wounds, confirming his deepest, most cynical fear: that he was cursed to watch everyone he cared for disappear.
– So he had retreated, built his walls higher than ever before. The ‘trash’ persona was not just a shield; it was a weapon, designed to drive away anyone who dared to get too close. He would be so unlikable, so utterly useless, that no one would ever invest enough in him to feel his loss. It was a twisted form of self-preservation, a desperate attempt to avoid the pain of another goodbye.
– He stood up, his movements surprisingly steady despite the alcohol. The mansion, bathed in the soft glow of twilight, looked both grand and utterly empty. He was an anomaly within its walls, a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious symphony.
– He began to walk, not towards the mansion, but towards the stables. He needed to clear his head, to feel the bite of the night air on his skin. He passed by the training grounds, where Lily would often practice her sword fighting. He paused for a moment, remembering her fierce determination, her innocent courage. He had seen that same spark in himself, once, in his youth as Kim Rok Soo, before the world had dulled it with its harsh realities.
– He sighed, a sound heavy with unspoken burdens. He was trapped in a self-made prison, a masterpiece of self-sabotage. But what was the alternative? To open himself up again? To risk another heartbreak, another devastating loss? He couldn't. He wouldn't.
– No, the trash of the county was a safe role. An easy role. It required no effort, no genuine emotion, only a consistent performance of depravity. And he was, if nothing else, a master performer.
– As he reached the stables, he heard a faint whimper. He paused, his Dazai-esque instincts for observation kicking in. It wasn't the sound of an animal. It was human.
– He followed the sound, his steps silent, his drunken facade momentarily forgotten. He found Lily, his half-sister, huddled in a corner of one of the stalls, her face buried in her knees, soft sobs shaking her small frame.
– Cale’s carefully constructed indifference wavered. Lily, the spirited, brave Lily, crying? This was unexpected. His first instinct was to retreat, to maintain his distance, to avoid any emotional entanglement. But something held him back. Perhaps it was the faint echo of Oda’s kindness, or the distant memory of his own younger self, lost and afraid.
– He cleared his throat, a deliberately loud, gruff sound. – What in the world is all this racket? Can’t a man enjoy his drunken stupor in peace?
– Lily gasped, looking up, her eyes red and swollen. – Hyung-nim!
– She quickly wiped her tears, trying to compose herself, but her efforts were futile. The sight of her raw vulnerability was a punch to Cale’s gut. He hated seeing people cry. It reminded him too much of the tears he could never shed, the grief he had buried so deep within himself.
– What’s wrong? – he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. He immediately regretted the question, the sudden breach in his carefully maintained persona. He should have just turned around, scoffed, and walked away.
– It’s… it’s nothing, Hyung-nim, – Lily stammered, avoiding his gaze.
– Nothing? – Cale snorted, a flicker of his Dazai-like sarcasm returning. – You’re crying your eyes out in a horse stable, and it’s ‘nothing’? Are you perhaps allergic to horses, and this is your dramatic way of expressing it?
– Lily’s lip trembled. – I… I failed my sword practice today. Grandfather Deruth said I wasn’t trying hard enough. He said… he said I was clumsy.
– Cale stared at her, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. He remembered the sting of his own father’s disappointment, the pressure to be perfect, to live up to expectations. He also remembered the frustration of his own perceived failures, the moments when even Dazai Osamu, the genius, the strategist, felt utterly useless.
– So what? – he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. – You failed. So what?
– But… but I want to be a strong knight, like Father! – Lily cried, her voice cracking. – I want to protect everyone!
– Cale’s gaze sharpened. Protect everyone. The words resonated with a painful familiarity. It was the same desire that had driven Kim Rok Soo, the same impossible burden Dazai had seen Oda carry, the same naive idealism that had always been crushed by the harsh realities of the world.
– He walked closer, crouching down so he was at eye level with her. The scent of hay and horse mingled with the faint sweetness of her tears.
– Listen, Lily, – he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. – Everyone fails. Everyone stumbles. It’s not about how many times you fall, but how many times you get back up. And as for protecting everyone… – he paused, a cynical smile touching his lips, – that’s a fool’s errand. You can’t protect everyone. You can only do your best. And sometimes, even your best isn’t enough.
– Lily looked at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and a strange, hesitant hope. – But… you always seem so… so uncaring.
– Cale chuckled, a genuine, albeit weary, sound. – That, dear sister, is the greatest act of all. It’s the art of disappearing. Of making yourself so unnoticeable, so inconsequential, that no one expects anything from you. No one relies on you. And therefore, no one gets hurt when you inevitably fail.
– He stood up, the mask of the trashy noble settling back onto his face. – Now, stop your blubbering. Go wash your face. And if you want to be a knight, then get back out there tomorrow and practice until your arms fall off. Don't let anyone tell you what you can or can't do. Especially not an old man who probably can't even lift a sword anymore.
– He turned to leave, but Lily’s voice stopped him.
– Hyung-nim?
– Cale paused, his back to her.
– Thank you, – she whispered, her voice still shaky, but with a hint of renewed resolve.
– Cale merely grunted in response, a noncommittal sound. He didn’t look back. He couldn't. He had already broken his own rule, allowed a crack in his armor. He needed to reinforce it, to retreat further into the comforting void of his persona.
– As he walked away from the stables, the night air felt colder, the stars seemed further away. He had given Lily a piece of advice, a fragment of his own bitter wisdom. He had offered a moment of unexpected solace. And in doing so, he had felt a faint, unwelcome tremor in his own carefully guarded heart.
– He was Dazai Osamu. He was Kim Rok Soo. He was Cale Henituse. And he was, irrevocably, caught in the endless, agonizing dance between wanting to disappear and, against all odds, still clinging to the faintest glimmer of connection. The game, he realized with a profound weariness, was indeed far from over. And perhaps, just perhaps, he was not as good at disappearing as he once thought.