Work Text:
|| Henitus Estate
| 1:03 AM
Age: 18
It was late into the night when Cale had finally decided to drag himself back to their family’s estate.
His face was flushed red but his mind was clear, his steps wobbly but his eyes sharp.
It was a deceptive sight really, alcohol never had that much of an effect on him. Perhaps his tolerance was simply higher than that of an average noble, but no matter how much liquor he’d try to drown himself in, Cale could never seem to get drunk.
Not even during the times where it mattered the most.
“Is it a blessing or a curse?” He muttered bitterly.
As Cale walked up the stairs to their estate, he bit the cork off his last bottle and took a swig.
Today marked the tenth year of his mother’s death anniversary. It had been a disgustingly clear day, warm and bright, a complete contrast to the weather when she had passed.
He walked up the stairs and slumped down their front door like the pathetic excuse of space he was. After a while a self decoratory laugh escapes him as he takes another sip.
The young redhead hates the fact that he can't remember her.
He hates the fact that she can't even exist anymore lest he tears at his mind for even the slightest glimpses of her blurry figure.
What did she even look like? His mother.
What did she sound like?
How did she act?
Was she kind? Was she angelic? Was she beautiful, was she smart, was she brave?
Cale had about a million questions regarding his mother each day. All of which, left unanswered.
However logically, the young noble did know a thing or two about Drew Thames. He knew that she had red hair, just like him; albeit a rustier shade compared to his, closer to that of blood on snow rather than to his bright crimson colouring.
There used to be portraits of her all around the estate. She was strikingly beautiful.
However all of those paintings have now been stored away in the deepest depths of her study. Collecting dust and feeding the moths as it painstakingly rotted away.
When Cale was young, he tried not to think too hard about her each time he went down for breakfast with his father.
It was simply easier that way.
Usually, when people are faced with death, they often pray and ask for mercy.
“Tch,” It made Cale want to scoff.
Death had no such mercy.
Death was cold, and death was cruel. Neither warmth nor kindness had ever been provided to those that mourn its victims, it left them hollow and showed no signs of regrets with whomever it took.
It had its favourites, he supposed.
Once you are born, the clock ticks and the sand trickles, it pools around you and every second that passes by takes you a step closer to its door.
But Cale didn’t particularly mind the thought of death, no, death wasn’t his issue, everything around him would die eventually, that much he knew.
It was the grief that he hated.
Why, you ask?
Well, if you let grief linger long enough around you then it would eventually get greedy for your despair, greedy for your sorrow, greedy for your pain, your regrets, your misery. It was bound to get greedy for just about anything you had left to offer and left you feeling numb.
Ron stepped up to the young master sitting drunk atop their Estate’s front stairs. The young noble reeked of booze and liquor. He had a few empty bottles lying around him and another half-empty in his hands.
As Cale moved to take a sip, Ron caught his arm and gently pried the young master’s fingers off. “That’s quite enough for today, young master-nim. You’ll get a headache tomorrow if you continue,”
“Fuck if I care. Give it back,” Cale slurred.
The young redhead reached for the bottle and Ron held the makeshift weapon up a little higher. “You aren’t thinking of throwing things again, are you, Sir?”
“Give it and you’ll find out,”
Ron chuckled, completely and wholly unaffected by the young redhead’s threat.
This puppy young master of his had a tendency to use his empty bottles as amo, his poor unsuspecting targets being them, the servants and maids, and often even the guards; luckily his aim was horrid enough that no one had ever been injured. Yet.
“I’d much rather not. Come along now, let's get you dressed and ready for bed,”
The old servant helped the wobbling noble up and dusted his knee.
However Cale pushed him off and walked on his own. He slammed the door to Ron’s face and left him outside the estate without so much as a thank you or a good night. But Ron was used to this type of behaviour, so he simply let out a small huff of amusement and bent over to pick the bottles up.
After slamming the door to Ron's face, Cale made a beeline for the nearest flight of stairs.
He was planning to go to bed, exhausted as he was, when he passed by an old family portrait. It was the first painting made after his mother's death. Seeing the old thing made anger boil anew.
"Haaaa." Irritation became clear in Cale's face as he turned around to head back down.
He needed another drink.
***
Age: 9
Cale raised his candle and stared long and hard at the portrait of his new family. He looks at each of their faces. He observes them and takes in all of their features; notes down with distaste how he is the only one with red hair.
He sticks out like a sore thumb. Like a puzzle piece forced in.
Cale hates it.
Hates it even more, now that a new member of their family has been added in; she looked small, she looked fragile . Unlike him at all in any aspects that he’s managed to think of.
“Lily Henituse,”
Cale turned to the direction of the voice.
“That is her name.”
The young redhead stares at his father’s wife, he looks at her and furrows his brows as he replies. “I don’t remember asking.”
Violan Henitus was indeed a woman of high prestige, though humble with her origins, the Countess had undoubtedly been a perfect fit for the position. She was elegant and smart, as well as passionate in her field and meticulous with work.
Cale couldn’t fault his father for falling for her.
“Do you dislike it?” She asked, a soft ghost of a smile resting on her lips.
Do you dislike us ?
The small candle encapsulated the two in a warm orange glow, a stark contrast to the cold blue shadows surrounding them.
Instead of giving Violan a response, Cale simply turned to look towards the painting again, he couldn’t quite stop the bitter resentment from welling up in his chest at how widely his father smiled.
“Father commissioned it.” He said.
Cale wasn’t stupid. He knew that Violan wasn’t asking about a mere painting and whether or not he was fond of how it looked.
He heard the unspoken question that lingered between them; paired up with the quiet of the night and the lonesome atmosphere of the empty hallway, those words almost seemed like a plea.
A plea for what exactly?
Acceptance?
Or mere forgiveness?
Cale knew that it wasn’t their fault. Logically he knew. But something deep within him couldn’t help the envy, it was an ugly little thing, hideous to look at and heinous to feel. The familiar ache made him frown.
“Cale,” Violan started. She didn't want the child to think his father was abandoning him, or worse yet, replacing him. "Your father and I… we–"
“Good night, Lady Violan." Cale said. "I'll see you in the morning,"
Sighing, Violan took the dismissal for what it was and took a step back to give the boy his space. She watched him pass her as he left for his room, the warmth and light of the candle leaving with him.
***
The young chef was sharpening up his knives as he waited for his father to return, they had had the agreement of waiting up for the boy if he ever stayed out past his curfew. Not for care of his safety, but rather their obligations as his assigned servants.
Ron, his father and head servant, was tasked with getting the young master's ass back into the estate. While he, Cale's personal chef, was obliged to serve the bastard whatever he wanted. Be it steak or pork ribs, Beacrox was expected to cook at the godly hour of three in the morning.
Quite lovely, wasn’t it?
BAM!
Cale slammed the door open.
Beacrox eyes the wobbling noble with distaste. He reeked. The bitter scent of alcohol filled the room, and like moths to a flame, the fucking drunk gravitated towards the cellar.
Despite being heavily intoxicated, the young redhead still felt the need to drown himself in more wine, he grasped the two closest bottles to him and pulled them out their holder, a few others rolled off the shelf and shattered on the floor.
Its contents spilled over and covered nearly half the kitchen's entire floor.
Beacrox withheld the urge to click his tongue at the mess. Instead, he kept his hands clasped behind his back and asked.
"Is there anything you'd like me to cook for you, sir?" His tone was bland. He was used to this type of occurrence, Beacrox had gone through the motions almost as if on autopilot.
"Shut up," Cale didn’t spare him a glance as he drank straight from the bottle, passing the cook as if he were a mere stray blocking his path.
The young redhead walked out the door and headed back to his room. He cradled the unopened bottle in his arms and drank the other with reckless abandon, uncaring if the wine slipped past his lips left stains on the collar on his pristinely pressed shirt.
Taking a deep breath, Beacrox clenched his jaw, when Cale finally left his sight, he stabbed one of his knives onto his cutting board. It left a deep indent, deep enough that the tip of his knife had touched the counter underneath it.
"It doesn't excuse him." He said.
"It doesn't," His father agreed, slipping out of his hiding place. Ron gently placed the empty bottles in a crate and smiled at his son. "But what can we do when he himself isn't willing to change?"
"Tsk."
They both knew what day today was, they knew how sensitive Cale would get during this time of year, but grief shouldn't excuse the boy's ratcheted behaviour. Your emotions are valid, yes, but the actions you choose to take as a result of that shouldn't cause harm to those around you.
The young master lost his mother ten years ago, he had internalised his grief for such a long time that the only way he knew how to express himself was through alcoholism and rage. And though it was understandable – to a degree, his behaviour was something Beacrox could do without.
The young cook haphazardly grabbed his knives and proceeded to meticulously wipe each and every one, irritation clear in his features as he twisted them to the light and eyed their edge.
Ron frowned. It was a normal occurance for them, they were ready each year. It had recently gotten harder ever since the young master turned to alcohol but that didn't really matter to Ron.
The old servant felt for the boy, he really did, losing someone was never easy, especially if you had no one else beside you. He and his son may have been alone but at least they had had each other.
Who did Cale have?
"Loss isn't something to belittle, son," Ron warned.
Beacrox slowed in his ministrations. He paused for a bit before bitterly speaking up as he continued on with his work. "He isn't the only one that's experienced loss,"
Both he and his father had lost someone as well, they grieved together and mourned the death of their clan. They were alone, yet they had never given anyone shit for what they had felt at that time.
Ron gave a deep sigh. Leaving his son to his own devices, the old servant moved to gently sweep the broken shards and mop up the memaining wine. "He just needs time," he said.
"Time I am not willing to give," Beacrox gently pried the mop from his fathers hands and continued to soak up the residue. "He's self centred, the brat. He whines about my food being disgusting but he can't even bother to brush his own teeth."
The last comment edicted a small huff of laughter from Ron – the normalcy of it surprising him – effectively breaking the somber atmosphere.
"If that's the case then I should start adding mint to the boy's tea,"
"I look forward to not holding my breath father," Beacrox mused.
The two continued to tidy up the kitchen in comfortable silence. Each doing their own respective tasks before heading off to bed.
***
|| Henitus Estate
| 2:40 AM
Age: 18
Tick. Tick. Tick
When Cale got his drink, he plopped right down and bit the cork off his bottle. The floor he settled on was cold but he could hardly care, he swung his head back and proceeded to down half his bottle.
His throat burned at the bitter taste, and as pathetic as it may sound, the sting actually felt therapeutic, drinking was the only constant he had in his life apart from all the anger and stress. If he had to choose, then Cale would much rather have his throat hoarse from all the drinking than to feel his chest tighten up in bitter resentment.
“Haaaaa,” As he leaned back to rest his head on the desk, he nursed his drink and idly stared at the tips of his shoes. They were gold pleated, he belatedly realised.
Cale sat like that for what felt like an eternity, simply staring off at nothing while his thoughts kept him company.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"Are you proud?" He softly asked, not looking up from where he sat.
The heavy silence in return mocked him; though the young redhead simply huffed as if amused.
He then looked up at the painting and smiled. "I'm sorry if I didn't grow up to be the son you wanted me to be."
In front of the young man was a large painting that took up the entirety of the wall, it sat at the very centre and was framed with gold, beautifully carved and crafted. Painted within was a woman with deep red hair and beside her, sat a small boy with his face just as bright.
Though his lips were curved up, genuine envy welled up in Cale’s chest upon seeing his younger self so happy. He can't remember the last time he smiled like that, kind and without malice, it had been ages.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Cale doesn't have the slightest clue of when it had all started but it had become a habit of his to come here every time he felt shitty. Which was often. He doesn't remember the time he spent with her all that well either but he knows for a fact that she was his comfort.
When she died… well, things had only gone downhill from there.
It used to be hard to breathe too, when he was younger Cale used to grapple at the suffocating thought of living on without her, agonising if he should give in and let whatever god take his soul. In the end he was too much of a coward to actually follow through with the act.
After a few hours – when Cale finally felt grounded enough to continue on with life – the young redhead stood and walked over to the end of the room. He picked up the empty bottles and made sure to leave the room spotless, it was the least he could do to honour the only room his mother had left in the estate.
“I’ll take my leave, mother.”
After wishing his mother good night Cale left the room. Ready to start the vicious cycle of hate and regret all over again.
***
Epilogue
| 6:08 AM
Click .
Cale made sure to pocket the key before moving to his bedroom, it was almost dawn, the skies were growing purple. Ron and the others were sure to be up by now, it was only a matter of time before they started their day.
Cale didn't want to have to explain why he had spent the night in his mother’s old office. They might misunderstand and see it as grieving. He didn’t want that. It was tiring enough to keep up his image, what more if they somehow liked his bastard ass to something unnecessary.
As Cale made his way to his room, still smelling of booze and liquor, he passed by Basen’s Study, the door was opened ajar and Cale could see the boy softly resting his head on the table.
Basen was surrounded by books and his fingers had ink stains on them. Cale knew that his brother had put in another all nighter.
“Tsk.” The sight annoyed him.
Basen, his younger brother, had a tenandancy to do nothing but study and read through the night, it often ticked him off seeing the kid try so hard when he was allowed to fuck with whatever money his father gave him.
The young teen quietly moved to the table and looked over his brother’s set of books, then over to the curriculum his tutor had provided.
Seeing the list made the young redhead scowl.
No wonder the kid had to put in long hours, these books were shit.
They were basically force feeding his brother garbage.
History, Social sciences, and Diplomacy.
The books themselves weren’t the problem, it was the lessons they were associated to. Cale knew he had no right to speak, especially when he gave his studies up before he even reached the tender age of ten, but he knew well enough that Basen would need more specialised reading materials.
Private tutors were hailed as the best among all educators, they preached success and knowledge despite not having the slightest clue on how to pass down the information they’ve managed to gain into the heads of their students.
The topics were too broad. Basen was expected to solve real life issues with just these? The kid needed actual accounts and real life examples.
“You won't learn with these,” He muttered.
Cale grabbed a few reference materials and public estate records then scratched out the names of the ones in Basen’s guide. He then set the books down and quietly left before anyone could see him.
He didn’t care if Basen had a hard time, it didn’t affect him. He just wanted the kid to sleep in his room for a change so he had the corridor all to himself when he drank.
‘It was nothing special,’ He told himself.
***
Once he heard the door give a soft click, Basen deflated in relief, he then opened his eyes and slowly sat back up, a worried frown decorating his features as he did so.
He hadnt meant to leave the door open, he just felt suffocated by the constant smell of old paper surrounding him. He had been reviewing for an upcoming exam that week, his tutor was constantly giving him materials and he was exhausted. He was just about to turn in for the day when he heard footsteps out in the hallway.
Now normally, Basen wouldn't have paid it any mind, guards often passed by while on patrol. But these steps weren’t the rhythmic clinking of metal on marble, no, they were soft and sounded ... wobbly, for the lack of a better word. And Basen had caught a whiff of something bitter. Bitter alcohol that is.
His brother must have been out drinking again.
They never fought in the years that they've been brothers, Basen mostly kept to himself and Cale steered clear of him, but just because they didn't fight, didn't mean they were on friendly terms.
He acted almost as if on impulse, when Basen heard the steps coming closer he sat back down and pretended to sleep. He doesn't know why he did it but he was somewhat grateful for doing so.
The young boy traced the edge of the file with his finger. He never would have thought his hyung would help him out like this.
Everything was laid out for him, the curriculum had been adjusted, and additional references -- Real references -- have been provided. Basen could almost cry at how useful it all was.
He and his brother never talked, but Basen knew Cale didn't like him.
However this encounter made him doubt. Maybe his hyung was simply misunderstood? They don't talk after all, how was he supposed to know how Cale felt if they hadn't talked before?
With his mind made up, Basen decided to make an effort with his hyung, the same way he had done with him. But he'll do that after he takes a short nap, right now he was exhausted.
***
Cale scratched his ear, a confused scowl marring in his features.
"Did I get water in my ears?" He asked, more to himself than to anyone else. He grabbed a nearby towel and dried his hair off as he waited for the servants to help him get dressed.