Hello again! Currently I'm working on a Shuuhei x Kensei fic which is very dark, and very angsty, so I decided to take a break and write something a little more light-hearted.
Unfortunately, as I think you'll find, I failed at that. Clearly, I'm in a 'let's do dark' writing mood at the moment, and this one is full of angst. Still it's also pretty short - so at least it's over quickly.
Warnings: M for some language, and angst (lots and lots and lots of angst).
Disclaimer: all characters belong to Tite Kubo and ...blah blah blah... you've heard it all before. I just like messing around with them.
Enjoy!
- Takeshi
And this, he realised, was what it felt like. It was loneliness and disappointment and hate and pain and relief and regret and helplessness. It was the knowledge that his friends had fallen too, one by one. And he relived with sickening clarity the terrible dread that had coursed through him when he had felt Rukia's reiatsu vanish. And the impossible pain that had torn his heart apart when he realised that he would not be there to stop her falling. And the resigned hatred of himself, and his weakness that it had not been him in the way of that blade, that it had been her that had died, and he was helpless to stop it. And he lay crippled, his organs crushed, muscles torn, tendons and ligaments ripped apart by mere trickery and witchcraft, he was humiliated. And he realised, that he was dying. He saw it and acknowledged it with an uncharacteristic calmness.
There would be no funeral for him, he realised. There was no one who had started out on their ill-fated rescue mission left alive. There would be no one to bring them back, no one to lay their broken bodies to rest, no one to close their eyes to the eternal black night that would be forever reflected in unseeing pupils, forever emblazoned in an empty mind. There would be no peace for them, only eternal wandering, as they drifted aimlessly between worlds, lost. And he thought that it was a fitting end, a fitting punishment for him. He had accepted it, understood that it was his fate. He had fallen, his body unable to continue though his mind still tried to fight, his zanpakuto lying, sealed, on the white sand, so close to him and yet still so impossibly far. But for her, to suffer the same, was unthinkable. To see her bright eyes turned dull with loneliness and her honest smile vanish into the darkest reaches of time, was so impossibly wrong. It should not, could not be her fate. She was undeserving of such punishment.
And it would be him that rescued her, if there was to be anyone saving her. Him, who she smiled at and laughed with, as she had once done with him. After all, it had been him that had saved her, when he himself had been too weak to protect her then. It had all been for nothing. He had tried. He had fucking tried to get stronger. He had trained every fucking day for months, but found it in the end reduced to this - nothing. He was undeserving of a swift death, undeserving of a warrior's end, of a noble battle. He had entered this fight without a hope of winning and fought onwards, without knowing why. And he had tried to run, tried to flee like the coward he was. He was despicable, unworthy of her friendship, unworthy of loving her.
And he realised, that despite all the pretences, regardless of the well-woven black robe that clothed him, and the black jagged markers inked onto his skin in remembrance of his achievements and failings, and the proud ferocity of Zabimaru, he was nothing. He was still the child that hid in the filthy backstreets of Rukongai, helpless and pitiful. He had not changed, despite years and years of training, his nature was no different. He was never meant to live, he should have died long ago. He should have starved in the streets that he was born into, instead of relying on her. And then, this would not have happened, none of this would have happened. This was all his fault. And he would pay this time, with his life. And he raised his head once more to take one last look at the bleakness of the surrounding world.
And he saw the same as always: a black starless sky, decorated only by the crescent moon. Eternal and unchanging, it would remain here long after he was buried by the changing sands, long after what was left of him was white white bones, worn smooth and bleached over time, his life force fading into the spirit particles of which the air was filled. And so he would continue, drifting in this empty unchanging world. And he saw endless heaps of rubble, and with a distant observation, almost scientific in nature, his own blood colouring the bleak whiteness that covered this hellish land. Crimson, like his hair, crawling agonisingly away from him, creating his own red silhouette. And his hands, rendered pale and immobile, of no use to him, his lips numb with an unearthly cold as he waited for the final blow, his final humiliation. This torture which had driven him to almost-madness, had pushed him past even the sensation of pain, for pain was a human concept, not known to one hovering so perilously between life and death, should not end, he realised. Should not end, because he deserved it, he should have every bone in his body broken, individually, for letting her be touched by such a blade. Should not end, because he had not yet paid for his crimes. Should not end, because he was little more than an animal and should be treated as such. Should not end, because he so desperately wanted to live, no matter how much he tried to accept that he should die. Because he was weak and cowardly, andhe would rather live than die with honour. Because he was not as brave as the others. Because he was afraid of death.
To die when it is unnecessary is cowardly. Rather, one should strive to live at all costs, to set right the wrongs that have happened, to realise that life is fragile, and can be swept away from us against our will, no matter how strong that will may be. To live, even in the face of adversity and sorrow, even when those you love and have fought beside are dead or dying, even when all hope is lost and there is nothing you can do to change the course of fate, is strong. To live, when everything you know is being swept from under your feet, is strong. To live, when every part of your body, and every part of the world is screaming for you to die, is strong. For living, regardless of its nature, is brave. Simply to live is an act of courage. Few comprehend its immensity, because living is something they have done every day. Few can comprehend the reality of death, save those at its door.
But Abarai Renji, you will live, for I will not permit you to die. By the blood that runs through these veins, I command you to be strong, for weakness is not your nature. I command you to live, for dying is not your fate.
And he saw black. Black against the white, never-ending sands of hell. Black of a shinigami's robes, white of an untouched, perfect haori. Black of the night sky that stretched eternal away from him, and white of that priceless scarf and kenseikan. It was the black of Byakuya's silken hair, and the white of his unblemished, unscarred skin. And he realised that this apparition was not as unpleasant as the ones he had seen before, and that the gradually increasing pain of ever more injuries inflicted had ceased, and only the burning of things broken beyond all hope of repair remained. And that was fine, because he was deserving of that.
And dimly he realised that words were being spoken to him, although he did not understand them. They sounded distant, as if underwater, and gradually traveling further away. And he did not worry that the owner of the voice was leaving him behind, because to be alone was his fate. For he had failed, again. And this time, he would not go unpunished.
Abarai Renji. I find your death unacceptable. I will not allow you to die.
And the voice was familiar, laced with concern despite the harsh, commanding words, and demanded him to obey. He tried desperately to cling to the remaining threads of life that streamed through his fingers, but they were thin and silky and slipped away easily. And he felt an unnatural cold spread through him, travelling up his arms, and his legs to settle in his chest, to make his breathing laboured as the rise and fall of his chest slowed, and eventually stilled. And his unseeing eyes stared up at the timeless night sky, black reflected in glassy brown, as the first whispers of sand rested in the folds of his blood-soaked shihakusho.
And there was pain. More pain than he had ever felt in his troubled life. Pain so great he could not suppress the low cry that left his mouth, despite his humiliation and sinking to such a level. Was death supposed to be so painful? He opened impossibly heavy eyelids to golden light. Was death supposed to be so bright? And felt the another wave of pain course through him, and he was unable to stop it, unable to fight against it. He was forced to lie here, and accept it. But eventually, after an eternity it subsided. And he could feel again.
He felt a gentle breeze on his face, and the coarseness of sand as it trailed reluctantly across exposed skin, he felt the comforting warmth of this soothing golden glow and the existence of the shifting ground beneath his back. He was not falling, as you were supposed to in death?
And he heard voices. Voices that spoke in tongues he could not comprehend, a gentle conversation to each other, one reassuring the other. The other trying not to acknowledge, or betray, their concern though it was easily detected by the one.
And the pain resurfaced, leaving him trembling with bitter exhaustion as he remained pitifully helpless on the ground. And he was aware of a small, warm hand entwining itself with his. It applied a gentle pressure, enough to let them know that someone was there, and that he was not to go, not to drift off into the dark abyss of nothingness that he had reluctantly been dragged to once before. And when the pain sharpened again, its thumb traced patterns that could have meant everything or nothing, on the sensitive skin of his inner arm. And he focused on that feather-light touch instead of the pain, and relaxed as he opened his eyes once again, fully able to take in the world around him.
And it was him, Byakuya, who was there. Who was sitting at his side, something akin to fear and grief, unnoticeable to all but those who knew him, evident in the grim line of his mouth and the slight narrowing of his eyes, in the forced straightness of his back and the weight that seemed to have collapsed onto his shoulders. And Renji wanted to know what had caused him such grief, before realising that it must be the loss of his sister, who he had only started to know, and guilt and self-hatred washed over him once again.
"Kuchiki-san?" asked a slightly fearful voice. "He's in a stable condition now, I've got to go and help the others." there was a slight pause. "You should stay here, and make sure he doesn't injure himself trying to get up or-"
"It is enough." said Byakuya simply, and then they were alone. And the silence reigned heavy, pressing down painfully on Renji's chest, making his throat hurt. And they sat like that for what felt like an eternity, but could not have been for longer than the space of a few breaths, such was the power of this white and black world. And Renji read the sorrow and hurt in Byakuya's gaze, understanding that it was there because of him, because he had let Rukia die. And he knew that he could not ease Byakuya's suffering, not this him, and he knew that Byakuya had finally seen what he really was: worthless and cowardly and weak, and he knew that there would be no more contact between them. He knew that the other man was gone, forever, whipped away with the wind, leaving him behind. And he accepted his punishment, despite the pain caused by nothing physical in his chest, a pain so real that a few tears escaped his dull, brown eyes to drop soundlessly onto the white sand.
"I'm sorry, Byakuya, that I could not protect her." he croaked, his voice sore and hoarse. He knew that the words could mean nothing. Nothing compared to the loss that Byakuya had suffered, not after this. He had lost Hisana, and now, due to Renji's own failings, Byakuya had lost Rukia. And Renji would not allow himself to be forgiven.
"Rukia is not dead, nor dying, Abarai Renji. And her death would not be your fault if she had fallen. It was her decision to come here, it was her decision to fight, and it was her decision to do so alone. You are entirely blameless." Byakuya's calm tone of conviction washed over Renji, and he felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders.
Rukia was alive. Byakuya didn't blame him. He was alive. There was hope for another day. And he wept silent tears as relief swept over him, helpless to control them. He felt Byakuya pull his hand away then, only to feel his torso being lifted into those warm arms, his head resting against Byakuya's strong chest. He felt the comforting rise and fall of Byakuya's steady breathing, and the slow, calm noise of his heartbeat, and he realised now how close he had come to defeat, only to be rescued at the last possible moment.
"You will not die before me, Abarai Renji." said Byakuya, his voice pitched low enough that only Renji could hear. "I will not permit it." And Renji found himself immensely grateful for those words, spoken only to him, and returned the embrace as best he could, wrapping his trembling arms around Byakuya's slim waist.
Byakuya would not let him die. Byakuya needed him alive, someone wanted him here. And the thought gave him desire to live, to see the world at least once before he faded into obscurity, to truly appreciate the life that had been given to him, and the life that he had worked so hard to create for himself. "Byakuya-" he began, not knowing how to continue, not knowing how to put the things he felt into words. I don't know how to tell you how I feel, I want to-
"I know, Renji." replied Byakuya softly, brushing a strand of crimson hair back from his face. "I know."
And this time, when their lips met, it was somehow different. Their feelings amplified with how close they had come to breaking, to losing each other. And the kiss was tender and lingering and loving, conveying the feelings that each of them shared but were unable to speak. And right now, it meant they were alive.
They rested their foreheads against each other, taking comfort from their closeness and revelling in their shared breaths. "Don't go." whispered Renji, his voice barely audible. "Please."
"I will always be by your side, Renji." said Byakuya, equally softly. "Even when I do not appear to be there." I carry you in my heart always, and I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me.
Renji nodded wearily, relaxing into the smooth folds of Byakuya's shihakusho, and closed his eyes to the world, wanting only to know Byakuya. To feel those lean arms around him, supporting him, to smell the sweet aroma that meant him, to hear the gentle sounds of his breathing and the strong heart beneath him. He realised then, that even if Rukia did leave him, even if she no longer wished to see him, he need not be entirely alone.
In his sleep, he half-smiled, but he was not awake to see the expression reflected on Byakuya's composed features. Not awake to see the relief that the man he loved fiercely and desperately had been returned from the door's of death to him, and ruination it seemed, would be staved off a little while longer.