Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach nor do I profit from my work.
Charcoal Hearts
It is a bad idea in its nascence. It becomes a worse idea in its execution. The burden of his offer and the quickness of her acceptance weigh on him until they threaten to crush him.
He lifts his head and inhales a deep sharp breath. An escape—any—will do. Furtively, his eyes dart up to the sky; it is all velvety moonlight and twinkling stars, shining bright against the cloudless firmament. The air is cool and biting. The autumn breeze chills him through his suit jacket.
He glances down at her. It is brief. She does not notice it, too consumed in the moment. He considers how exposed her shoulders are in the gown. Smoothly, he shrugs out of his jacket, and he places it tenderly over her.
She is absorbed, looking on with eyes as wide as saucers. She does not notice his actions until he has taken a step forward. She starts. His name is ready on her tongue, but she swallows it whole and blushes.
Knowingly, he continues, never stopping to confirm his suspicion. She always blushes. He wonders, briefly, what this says about their relationship. What does that say about how she views him? For her, even the most menial of gestures carries the weight of a grand sacrifice. Does she find him so heartless? Does she think his heart is so frozen, so encased in black ice, that it no longer beats, bleeds, or feels?
He pauses to consider such an assessment. If she does think those things, perhaps she isn't so wrong. He certainly has taken what was left of his heart and buried it. Pieces of it already had broken off before they met, and he buried whatever remnants along with the ashes of those he loved. The last soul had torn off the largest piece, and he decided to keep what was left under lock and key until recently.
He inhales a deep breath. Inviting her to the ballet was a bad idea. His generosity was misplaced then. His infatuation was too new, too intoxicating. He had lost himself somewhere. Where, exactly? It was up for debate.
Panic begins to set in. Then regret. Then frustration.
"It is so lovely, Brother!" her voice reaches him through his cloud of doubt. Her gentle exuberance pierces it, and her bright eyes shreds what remains.
"Come," he sighs, hoping to maintain the gravity of the affair deep in his voice. They are to collect information. This diversion serves a purpose, he tells himself over and over in his head.
A cold thud in his chest, however, reveals that he is merely lying to himself.
He has become increasingly adept at lying to himself. Denial is a closer friend than anyone else he knows.
"Thank you for inviting me, Brother," she murmurs from behind him.
He wants to tell her to be quiet. They are in France—Paris to be exact. If she continues to speak, it will draw attention to them. They already look different from the Parisians. No need to call more attention to their distinct lack of Frenchness by speaking in a foreign tongue. He doesn't say the words; although, they are burning in his mouth and setting the cells in his brain aflame. He merely shoots her a bored sidelong gaze. She understands and quickly presses her petal pink lips together.
"Sorry," she murmurs and bows her head low.
Rukia has never been to the ballet. It seems natural, logically. She grew up in Inuzuri. There is no culture in those lands; the souls are too occupied with surviving to study art. Then, she studied at the Academy. There is no ballet in Seireitei. Likely, there is no ballet anywhere in Soul Society. The souls often don't live long enough to remember their art, let alone learn such a technique.
But, Byakuya enjoys the ballet. He has always enjoyed the ballet since he entered the ranks of the Sixth. France, Paris in particular, remains under the protection and auspices of the Sixth. He knows the wandering roads of Paris as well as he knows the terrain of the Rukon Districts of which his division patrols.
We are on a mission, he reminds himself.
It is the same mission that has stolen his time and thoughts for years. It feels more like a project at this point. He comes to investigate Paris when all of the pressing matters at the Sixth have been squelched. This is one of those rare still moments in his life.
They enter the auditorium; the slick glossy programs press against their hands. Rukia peels back the cover. Her eyes are wide and eager to read the words, but the excitement quickly bleeds from her face. Her eyes dim. Her lips slope into a frown. He can almost feel her heart deflate as she lets out a small huff.
She can't read anything. The program is in French, and the French letters do not remotely resemble the characters used in Japanese.
Her lips pull the side, and her gaze lifts to her brother. "Brother, do you understand this?" She leans closer to him. Her elbow is almost against his as she shows him the paragraph.
Byakuya understands French, having had it beaten into him since he was a child. He is likely the only Captain who is fluent in the language. Perhaps, he is the only member of the Gotei 13 who has had the pleasure of feeling the weight of French words against his tongue.
He obliges Rukia's implicit request, dipping his head down to read the paragraph that stumps her. "It describes the ballet," he says softly.
"What is it about?" she asks, shifting closer to him like one moves to a hearth in winter. They are, after all, in a foreign land with a foreign language, and he is the only thing that seems remotely familiar to her. Ordinarily, she would never regard him so familiarly, press so close. But, there, in that strange place, it seems perfectly natural—a survival instinct.
Again, her wide-eyed eagerness returns. The dim overhead lighting catches in her gaze and illuminates her face as she peers up at him. Her looks are always fleeting, as if she is too embarrassed to hold his stare for more than a few seconds.
"Serenade is just 'a dance in the moonlight,'" he says, recalling the words Balanchine had used to describe his work.
This does not seem to go over well. Rukia tucks her chin to her neck, an action that she does when she is not quite satisfied with a response. She thinks about it. Her gaze trails down and to the left, and he sees that she is mulling over the meaning of his words.
He closes his eyes and exhales a light sigh. No, he has not set careful traps for her to stumble into unawares. Yet, she seems to scrutinize every syllable, searching for hidden meanings. So, he eases her mind with a simple recapitulation, "It is dance, pure and simple." It is actually more than that, Byakuya knows. But, Rukia has never experienced another ballet. She knows nothing of Giselle, Swan Lake, or The Sleeping Beauty, and expounding on the playful homages to the classics would be too laborious, too uninteresting to either of them.
Rukia's brows furrow. "I see," she says, leafing through the pages of the program. Again, there is not a single word to which she can cling. She knows some basic English from her time spent at Ichigo's school, but not even that knowledge proves particularly insightful. A stray word here and there catches her attention, but it is just different enough to make her question her translation.
He watches her in the corner of his eye. He sees the darkness hanging over her brow. He sees how the foreign land seems to pull at the threads of her uncertainty. Rukia has never had a strong sense of confidence about herself or her abilities, and this experience seems to be unearthing some of her well-practiced doubt.
He places a tentative hand against hers. "You will understand the dance," he reassures her.
She smiles at him. "Yes, Brother." Trust lingers in her look. She trusts him blindly, he is all too aware. This has always unsettled him. Still unsettles him. He feels that he must never lead her astray. He feels that he has to be certain when it comes to all things involving Rukia because she trusts him, and she unquestioningly follows his recommendations and takes his judgments to heart. He is infallible in her eyes.
He is not infallible. Not in the least. And, he is perfectly aware of his own limitations as he begins to question whether this foray is in her best interest. He feels that it may not be in his best interest, strictly speaking. He wonders what draws him to this particular ballet group. He already knows the answer, having found it in the pages of the program long before Rukia began to worry over her lack of knowledge on France, French, and ballet.
There is the picture. Its haunting clarity in black and white taunts him. There is life in those eyes and in that face. A life that he would give a great deal to know, but he cannot. He will not. The rules and boundaries prevent him.
Rukia flips back the page to reveal the dancers' portraits and biographies. She marvels at how lovely and fair-faced the men and women are. Small photographs of the troupe performing various numbers capture her attention and ease her mind. She finds relief in their poses, in the movements alluded to but stifled by the camera's lens. For a moment, she understands the emotions and intent painted in black and white. Her heart swells as she inspects the images. Finally, something with which she has familiarity.
He glimpses the picture that stabs his cold, cold heart. Its impact causes him to forget how to breathe. It steals the breath and conquers the imagination. Yet, he continues to stare at it. His expression is impassive, but his gaze is hard. His eyes betray him for they are too set, too focused, and too hungry. He can only see the black and white photograph gleaming in the light. Everything else—the noise, the commotion of people filing into the auditorium, and even Rukia—fade into the background.
Rukia glances up, and she smiles demurely at him. "She is beautiful," she says after discerning where her brother's attention lays. "Helene Beauchene," she says with a clumsy tongue and a heavy reliance on her English lessons.
He corrects her gently, but he makes no indication whether he agrees or disagrees with her assessment. He merely glances away to the stage. His muscles engage, locked and restrained. His breath catches in his chest, blowing a wintry gust across his heart.
It is difficult, he admits. Yet, he comes when he can to watch, to see her. Her lines, her grace, and the way she flutters through time and space elicit both joy and pain. She is a marvel to view, restored and vibrant. Yet, he watches through a veil of lingering sadness. The grief has never left his heart, not in all of these years. He still mourns her at his alters. He still speaks to her picture, knowing that she will never respond. But, here, he can watch. Here, he can enjoy some semblance of what it was like to feel enamored with another. He can torture himself, cutting himself on thoughts too private and too sharp to admit fully to himself. He can experience the exquisite agony of longing, while knowing that everything is as it should be.
"She looks like…" Rukia begins to speak. Her brows knit together, and she is clearly taken aback. It is on the tip of her tongue, but her heart starts, coldly refusing her brain. "She looks like," she repeats again, but, the instant the realization hits her, she regrets hearing the sound of her voice in her ears. She does not complete the observation. She doesn't have to. He already knows, and she is beginning to suspect that is the reason he attends the ballet.
Choking on her words and thoughts, Rukia closes the program and turns her attention to the stage. Denial begins to envelop her, shrouding her mind in an inky darkness. Her heart, once so swollen with happiness, deflates and sinks to the pit of her stomach.
Helene doesn't really look like Sister, she tells herself.
There are subtle differences. Helene is decidedly French, and her frame, while delicate, is lithe and sinewy unlike Hisana's more fragile physique.
However, Rukia cannot shake the thought. The resemblance is uncanny—the gentle gaze, the soft lines of her face, the darkness of her hair, the pallor of her skin. If Hisana has been reincarnated, then Rukia has no doubt that this is her new incarnation. Fate has recast her into the role of a dancer.
Rukia wonders which part she will play tonight, and she shivers slightly, hoping against hope but knowing nonetheless, that her honorable brother does not know, does not suspect. Perhaps this is just kismet? Perhaps this is just a comedy of misinterpretation? Perhaps this is yet another tragedy?
She glances down at the photograph again.
Maybe, just maybe, she is wrong.
When the lights dim and the stage brighten, Rukia holds her breath and makes a silent wish.
It is beautiful, unexpectedly so. The women enter in a lovely diagonal, like rows of trees in an orchard. They wear a simple light seafoam-blue costume, which contrasts nicely against the dark blue background. They look like stars twinkling in the twilight. They remind Rukia of her release, of snow glistening in the moonlight, and of tranquil walks in the tenebrous shades of nightfall. As they cross the stage, they enter with their right arms stretched out; their palms up. A bright, unseen light blinds the lovely women, but they try to maintain their gaze.
Suddenly, a fluttering movement—tulle and graceful legs—grabs Rukia's attention. A latecomer emerges, taking her place in the front. Rukia doesn't need to look twice to know it is Helene. She feels it—a strange prickle straightens her back until she is sitting ramrod straight. There is something familiar, something that she cannot quite remember. A sense of déjà vu overwhelms her.
She doesn't look up at her brother. She doesn't have to. She hears him rustle as he shifts in his seat. The movement would be imperceptible to most, but not to her. She can almost feel the intensity of his gaze as he watches the opening movement in its entire elegant splendor as graceful bodies peel away into the wings.
Helene is the Waltz Girl.
Appropriate, Byakuya muses.
She is featured in all sections of the piece. In the second movement, the Waltz Boy walks through the group of dancers, as if navigating a forest, aware of only her. He reaches out and rests his hand on her shoulder. The touch is gentle, bringing her to life. They dance, quick crisp movements but there is always the elegant lethargy of grace behind every turn, undulating in every step.
She returns in the third movement, where she gracefully collapses on cue. In the fourth and final movement, the Elegy, she collapses again. Her hair is unfettered, inky tresses pool around her head. Six ballerinas come to her, arms reached out. She stands, sees a familiar face among the sea of graceful limbs and motion, and she runs to the woman, throws her arms around her, pulling her into a tender embrace before falling to her knees. During the ballet's final moments, she is whisked away on the shoulders of four men. As she is taken into the infinite—the unknown—she lifts her chest, raises her arms over her head, and she arches back as if she embraces her destiny with the same loving arms and heart that she embraced her sister only moments prior.
Byakuya and Rukia leave at the intermission, between Serenade and the next ballet, Mozartiana. The cold crisp winter air does him some good, helps clear his mind, and reminds him why they are there in the first place—to find an elusive hollow that has been stalking around Paris and wreaking havoc for the last few decades. It is powerful and cunning, likely an experiment gone awry. It targets souls and humans, but it wisely avoids Shinigami with enough spiritual power. Pure, unbridled instinct does not drive this creature, which is highly unusual.
Rukia and Byakuya prove to be ineffectual bait, and, after a few hours, he relieves Rukia of her duty. He tells her that he will join her at the manor in a while, but he knows it is a lie as he traces his steps back to the theater. Back to where he knows she will be.
He has become increasingly adept at lying to everyone.
And, as they cross paths, unexpectedly but not alarmingly so, he is not expecting her. Only a few stragglers remain at the theater, but there she is, tucked into an oversized heavy black coat. She stands looking wistfully at the moon, likely recounting every bobble or near slip during her routine.
But when she senses him, she smiles faintly. Recognition lights her eyes. Likely, her soul remembers the heat and flicker of his essence. Her smile widens. "Hello, Stranger," her voice is soft and breathy. Just as he remembers. The heat of her breath creates a small white wisp, which trails from her lips before scattering against the wind. A devious look catches in her bright blue eyes as she turns to him.
He lifts his head, but his lips are quiet.
Wordlessly, she raises her hand with the quiet, self-assured elegance of a dancer. Without hesitation, he accepts her offer. Her hand is small and delicate against his palm. "Come," she whispers, leading him wherever she wishes. He follows, silent and obedient.
She takes him to a small café. It is quaint and quiet. She orders coffee for herself, but, instinctively, she orders him tea. They speak as if they have known each other for ages. She is his wife almost unchanged. She is warm and soft-spoken like Hisana, but she is more commanding and emboldened without the albatross of grief and tragedy. Her smile is less tortured and more infectious. Her spirit is less cautious, but she is still careful with her words, pausing to edit herself to ensure the proper effect.
They speak of everything and nothing breathlessly and all at once until they are forced to leave the small establishment. She kisses him sweetly on the cheek before they part, and she invites him to return, nearly drawing out a promise on his part.
He does not promise her, however. He cannot. It is inappropriate. Against every rule. Against anyone's better judgment. He will not return, he tells himself. It is forbidden.
Yet, as they part ways in that cold Parisian night, he turns to look back, and she holds his gaze. For the first time in what feels like decades, his heart strangles in his chest.
It has been so long.
Author's Notes: Thank you for reading. If you review, I totally appreciate your time and consideration! I am a bit on the fence on whether or not I want to make this story into a multi-chapter piece so I will leave it open for the time being.