Disclaimer: Bleach is in no way mine.
— operatic skeletons —
He wonders what it is about her.
She's ivory in bone and butterfly in skin, moths fluttering up his veins where her hands touch him, staying only a moment, yet the feeling lingers on. She's got daylight for eyes and midnight for hair, and if he inhales her he thinks he might find the sickle moon that won't sparkle like the stars should in her eyes.
He doesn't think she's special, blue eyed and smiling at him, her body sweaty and small – and he matches her in that respect, because no one special these days, since they're burnt out rebels, wasting away until the world will end.
Or will it begin again? The music drums inside his mind, drowning his thoughts, but it can't be that which sends his heart racing, her waist pressed against him, hips tilting teasingly. Hot breath against his ear, he crooks a broken smile and maybe, if he's willing to give enough of his heart to her, she might be able to feel that pulse and sense the warmth that skitters up into their spines. Maybe he should. Fall for a stranger he's barely even met, and memorize the way she laughs against his skin, and presses a smile into his collarbone.
He could do it if he wanted to. He's done it before. A face that drew him like no other, and there's something about her that compels him to remember her, remember this, their dance, even though it might soon be forgotten in douses of wine and other girls who tempt him with sad eyes and lithe details that sing in her gravestone.
She's just one face that meets him in the eye; and maybe this is it, the reason they're still dancing, the world is still revolving in deadbeat cycles, but time has chosen to stand still if only, if only for them to be star-crossed lovers for this decadent second and then never again.
Neon strobe lights illuminate her, make her soft, make her glow, and she's an angelic marionette that's ready to tumble from her grace — now he knows. He's ready too. Her mouth opens soundlessly, and he'd like to lie and think that her words are a murmured I love you because lies are beautiful fools and that sustains the world to turn round.
So with a grin, a flash of dead eyes and dead smiles, tainted blue with glitter-balls and a carnival of shadows and a expression that mirrors the ghost of this quiet, quiet world that decays beneath her fraying fingertips the second he lets go; he disengages from her, and traps his heart inside her ribs, wondering if it'll still beat a thousand of miles away when he's in another town with despondent people that no one gives a damn about.
He takes a step.
Then another.
And another.