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he doesn't come back because long separations are common for him.
because fate dictates in his soul: to remain where paper rustles endlessly and wax melts on prescriptions, dripping scarlet drops onto the cold surface of his hand. to remain where subordinates bustled around busily, hiding their hands under cloaks, not daring to look him in the eye. this monotonous routine became something more familiar, something almost family-like, pulling the net of tight bonds over his head. and he was powerless to resist — for this was what the will of the city commanded him, spreading its long roots beneath the living, vulnerable, and restless warmth, weighed down by the uncertainty of the future. this is what his own heart commanded him, following the echo of bright stars in the dark sky.
rien's life resembled a kaleidoscope in which he, merely another link in the chain, slowly shimmered with bright rays; and he was not concerned with the world, forever moving and never ceasing to make noise, nor with the quiet creaking of threads entangling the body with threads, moving almost mechanically around his cold body. he was a tiny grain of sand in the sea, where thousands of identical, indistinguishable tiny particles of crumbling sand scurried about, immediately dissolving into the cold foam of the receding waves; In this endless cycle of the ouroboros, ceaselessly devouring itself, he was a scale in a long body, destined to be swallowed up.
and he was greedy — greedy like callisto, whom he had not seen for a long time; and yet, the ring nursefather had never dared to change since their last meeting. he was still as graceful and beautiful, as snow-white and porcelain-like, enchanting with his shine in every tiny movement: the rustle of his palms, and the barely discernible beating of his heart against the iron contour of his chest.
“you know,” callisto's fingers glide over the white keys — sharp ribs — of piano with a special sense of elegance, touching the sensitive strings of the instrument. the vocal cords, woven like a thin thread in the body of this musical masterpiece stretch with new strength. he begins to casually talk, as if he were about to talk about the warm sun or the weather outside.
white walls of callisto's gallery welcomed rien with numerous creations: long paintings capturing the tenderness of naked flesh and muscles under transparent, glistening glass that showed where thin nerve vessels and veins were hidden, involuntarily attracting special attention. to rien, it all seemed ephemeral, almost unreal. because all of this, still alive, breathing, and moaning from pain, should not have existed; because all of this should have been hidden by a thick layer of muscles, bones, and flesh, concealing the graceful gifts of nature. an oppressive discomfort suddenly blossoms in the sinking stomachs of the heart, and the index nursefather involuntarily feels involved in everything: to this motif of quiet sobs, to the heart-wrenching sighs and trembling veins, breaking off with a noisy screech in the light music that filled the space.
rien carefully examines the deformed human bones that serve as legs for the heavy piano: callisto did not often initiate anyone into his small but beloved hobby, which was witnessed only by a few people whose eyes had long been accustomed to his sophisticated methods in art. he loved classical music played on disfigured, creaking, groaning, and eternally warm instruments, pulsing along with the sighs that tactfully emerged from broken, gnarled ribs, now turned inside out and covered with small scratches. callisto was careful, touching the keys with measured precision, as if knowing that the precious instrument could still live, feel, breathe, and see how this gentle melody flowed, curling in the air with new inspirations. each tiny chord, sounding like a sweet sigh or a noisy cry, barely vibrated under the steel of his long fingers as callisto carefully moved his hand; and odes to creativity rang out, silently creating the delicate outline of the muse that had tormented him for eternity. and he himself, thin, long, and somewhat resembling a cello, worn out by long years, covered with scratches and porcelain chips, always sounded like ringing music: whether it was the delicate tapping of cold heels on the hard floor, while he hummed the light melodies under his nose or the cold clanking of metal prosthetics hiding a living heart that never dared to stop singing about the eternal beauty of soft flesh.
the dry lungs swell, barely visible beneath the hard lid of the piano, emitting a dull sound, and rien involuntarily furrows his brows, feeling the weight of this deadly beauty on his shoulders. the disfigured, ugly appearance of the bodies, now the main framework of the instrument, was somehow repulsive and incomprehensible to him.
but it was an honor to witness the miracle of human nature blossom in the distorted prism of callisto’s gaze.
perhaps he understood nothing at all about the gracefulness of performances, and perhaps there really was something unique hidden in all of this, tormenting the heart with the unattainable beauty of ugly nature, but rien's lips instinctively curl from disgust and looks away, no matter how hard his heart tries to bring him back to this space of the white room. It was difficult not to look at what attracted with its appearance, stunning those who were far from the ideal of carnal warmth, incomparable in its originality. no, he wasn't disgusted — he had seen ugliness worse than this: slowly burning flesh, smelling of burnt meat and cheap tobacco, skin torn to shreds, wide-opened wounds with visible muscles and veins, bleeding with hot blood; he had seen everything and more, but for some reason this art form failed to touch the strings of his sensitive soul. he didn't like it. It did not evoke any of his feelings. and in general, this pathos, reaching for what was hidden behind a layer of tough skin and pulsating, exposing sweet fruits in the depths of bodies, involuntarily repelled him — he was out of place here; it sounded awkward and struck completely different notes, distancing itself from harmony and growing into the screeches of squeaky notes.
In fact, rien preferred to listen. he knew how to notice beauty in small things — and even if that beauty seemed grotesque, artificial, and overly languid to him, he loved it with all his modest heart. It was much easier for him to be just a witness and performer, not interfering with the secret depths of meanings and subtexts hidden in the curves of quartz openwork and torn flesh. but he found amusing the slight tremor that never left his cold fingers as soon as he found himself standing next to the ring nursefather and his creations: so unsightly, awkward, tormented by hot steel and the heavy burden of hot flesh. rien couldn't understand his mania, just as callisto could not understand rien's penchant for fine and delicate art, far from the beauty of living flesh and soul. rien was as pure as a white sheet, despite how often dark ink seemed to linger in his palms. and because of that, he loved everything too superficially, dividing art into bright black and white colors.
“I am so glad that you decided to pay me a surprise visit. I was beginning to think that you would never show up at my gallery, despite all those invitations I sent day and night, longing to see your beloved face once again. but apparently, seems like you received a prescription that forced you to come here?”
ghostly lines flash before rien's eyes, immediately blurring and disappearing into the dark abyss of his mind:
“within 72 hours, rien must meet with callisto and play a duet with him on musical instruments.”
of course, a prescription. how gracious the will of the city can be sometimes, throwing one new twist of fate after another; how it sometimes torments the strings of the heart with trials, forcing it to meet again with faces that never dared to leave his dreams.
he remembers those invitations wrapped in envelopes that callisto so carefully decorated with bloody patterns on the sides. It was an honor, because callisto was, in truth, a sinner — he singled out rien as his main favorite, approaching the sending of letters with a new sense of tender effort. the curls at the end of the patterned handwriting, the extra drops of warm red paint in the corners, the cherry hues decorating every inch of the tempting words — rien could even imagine the painstaking care and caution with which callisto approached this task, trying to draw patterns of long words and sentences filled with horribly detailed paragraphs in which he described his sophisticated desires and fantasies. this was, in fact, in his particular spirit: to hide a deep intention in the art, concealed behind the shell of cutted limbs and melted flesh. and in his spirit, too, was a thirst for blood, flashing in every tiny paragraph. rien didn't opened them — just one glance at the wax seal was enough to immediately put the letter aside until “better times”. unfortunately, those better times never came: extra work immediately appeared before his eyes, and completely different stream of thoughta swirled in his head, whenever he wanted to think about those letters. rien really tried to read them, but those hungry words and bright colors ate into his soft brain; unread letters left in the desk drawer were still covered with a thick layer of dust and, just like the first time, giving off a faint scent of paint and iron.
however, if callisto had wanted to, he would have visited him himself. neither stubborn refusals nor other circumstances could have completely stopped him from achieving his desire. rien knows very well how obsessed the ring nursefather can be at times — and only the glow of bright stars, living out their brief moment, shining with an azure, almost marine and fresh brilliance, could divert him from his true path.
however, there was no point in blaming him for this.
rien didn’t wanted to “pursue” callisto or try to cling to him, cooing tenderly over the cold plates of prostheses on his face; it was not in his nature to stoop to sincere care and deliberate affection. no matter how strongly the blood-red patterns of thin threads drew them closer, no matter how tightly they were tied in strong knots and intertwined his warm limbs with cold steel, rien involuntarily distanced himself, persistently striving to attend to his affairs — there was no time for unnecessary concern and other prejudices that weighed down his honest love. but he loved callisto, loved him more than anything else in the world — and his love was filled with a feeling of admiration, a sweet, bright and desirable feeling; especially when Callisto radiated a bright light, obscuring the former gray world with his pearly nature. he wouldn’t have come here if it were not for the thread of fate that bound them together in a tight circle. perhaps he would not even have remembered all of this: the invitations forgotten in the desk drawer, how amazingly callisto could play the delicate keys of the piano, allowing the music to flow in a hoarse note between them; or how neatly callisto's jaw plates opened. his voice, exuding musical resonance, sounded pleasant, and rien found himself an involuntary listener to these soft hums in this white room.
he thinks that hearing callisto's words is a hundred times more pleasant than reading them. even if there was no difference at all.
that's why, for some reason, he didn't want to answer callisto. he wanted to indulge his pride in the oppressive sounds of the instruments’ bitter sighs, the howling and unrecognizable, but soft and simple melody, childishly ringing and naive. he wanted to tease him, listening to how each time the ring nursefather’s words took on a broader meaning.
“nevertheless, that doesn't change the fact that I'm glad to see you again.” rien slowly plays a simple melody with his violin, leaning his cold cheek against the cold material — this instrument was the only thing in this gallery that still resembles a real musical instrument. the dark wood glows softly in the light of the shining lamps above his head, while his hands move carelessly to the rhythm of their playing, producing one note after another. “It's nice to hear that you haven't lost your skill.”
he gently and happily loses himself in his playing, oblivious to the world around him. for the first time, rien looks so calm: even more moved by this sweet moment of classical symphony. his long eyelashes flutter every time he chooses a higher chord.
"oh, if only you knew how few connoisseurs of fine art remain in our age. not to mention those who are still worthy of competing with my skill. every day, fewer and fewer people come to my gallery, which, no matter what, disappoints me. If only she were here…”
the mere mention of her barely shakes rien's perfect figure. he freezes, slowing the soft melody, only to continue his quiet playing after a moment, without showing any sign of it: he feels the old scar beneath his snow-white mask, which digs into his skin, begin to bleed, his fingers almost numb, wanting to dig into the soft face and at least for a second to relieve the hellish torment that goes trough the shell of his body.
to some extent, he did cherish a dream similar to callisto's: to see yoshihide, dressed in cold black and white mourning clothes, playing a requiem for each of nursefathers. this performance would probably be his last — and he wasn't afraid at all. everything looked brighter in his mind, as if he were looking through a kaleidoscope, a shimmering seven-colored miracle that could have illuminated him if it weren't for the thread of fate that decided to weave itself into a tangle and delay the long-awaited arrival of the beautiful and delightful miracle. closing his bright eyes, he imagined with pleasure: a wide hall, the warm velvet of numerous seats, and several figures pressed against the backs of their chairs in anticipation. a creaky major key of sad notes, hot heat floating before his blurred gaze, and a single star twinkling with bright lights — the last star in the kaleidoscope he always sees before the end of his dreams.
a star worthy of death.
“you're right. If she had been here, she would have played a worthy part for us.”
he is gentle, and terribly simple; callisto, on the other hand, is pretentious, shimmering with the bright prism of a delicate kaleidoscope. he is a pearl, a fragment of numerous diamonds, gathered into a single gem. this thought pleases his mind like nothing else; like the main light of life, making him burn persistently. callisto's soul blossoms when he, enjoying music, fills the room with tragic notes and joy, weaving numerous branches of emotions into a colorful tree; rien fades away, becoming more monotonous with each painful minute, completely unaware of how his dull chords are dwindling.
when their game comes to an end and they finish, callisto lingers — he rises from his seat with particular grace, towering over rien with his long shadow. he slowly and unhurriedly approaches him, and he has to bend down to look into rien's face, which embodies the ideal of hot flesh: pale, disfigured, grotesquely attempting to form a “smile” — a miserable semblance. the right corner of his lips, over which the golden outline of the mask hangs, does not respond at all; however, the lack of symmetry did not spoil rien’s face — on the contrary, it pleasantly excited maestro. excessive emotionality was unnecessary, seemed artificial, and the cold discontent, forever imprinted in the porcelain features on the thin flesh, seemed more pleasant to his blurred eyes. his potential, hidden behind cold marble mask, was important to callisto. there was no need for even the slightest intervention, which could, on the contrary, spoil his former harmonious charm.
“what a beautiful melody, rien. If only I could find you a decent instrument, you would play even more melodiously and harmoniously.” the brim of his hat hid most of his face. but even so, unable to express his emotions, he sounded delighted. almost lovingly. “you and I know very well how skillfully you can handle my instruments. It's a pity that none of my students have yet been able to achieve even a fraction of that ideal.”
“I'm doing quite well with this violin too.”
“oh, you are undoubtedly talented in everything... I even envy your ability to succeed so brilliantly in everything. but if only I could replace the strings with vocal cords and the wood with fresh bone from the ribs-…”
“thank you so much for having me today,” he interrupts callisto insistently, placing the instrument against the wall. he doesn't want to know how far callisto's imagination can go. a slight smile slips across his lips as soon as gentle compliments squeeze through the tense coldness between them. rien deliberately tries to brush invisible dust off his gloves, slowly making his way to the door, “It was a pleasant evening, callisto. It's time for me to go.”
“won't you even stay to look at my new work?”
rien finds a small part of longing in callisto's words. he has to turn slightly to see his face that never changed: tightly pressed lips, prosthetic palms carefully smoothing the folds of the silk covering his body. everything about his figure radiated an uncharacteristic melancholy and even sadness at their separation. It was as if he was embarrassed that it had all ended so quickly, cut short at the unfulfilled climax of their duet.
but it is not in rien’s nature to stay anywhere for long. his heart, yearning for the sky, calls him to another place: not as beloved as this one, not as familiar as this one. completely different.
“with pleasure, but maybe another time, callisto. fate will surely bring us together again.”