What's In A Name?
His world seems peaceful from outside, bathed in the soft light of cherry petal swirls which surround him, all smooth and deliberate gestures, fluid movements and icy-cold glances. A timeless world hidden in the rarest of smiles. He's not loved, not even liked much either. One must get close to him in order for that to happen, and he does not allow closeness. He moves in a world out of reach, unknown to most people – except her, she is allowed one step closer than the rest.
Sometimes she wishes he had not treated her differently, but forgets it as soon as he glances at her out of the corner of his eye and utters her name. They're not even acting like family, she thinks, and she cannot imagine what it would be like for him to smile broadly at her and exuberantly throw his arms around her small frame. He's not oblivious to the fascination she feels, but it's impossible to know what he thinks of it and all she can do is move closer, like a moth which flies right into the flame. At times he watches her intently, as if he sees something she is blind to and she wishes he were not so cold and inapproachable. Maybe it's a disease of the mind, she wonders innocently, but whom to ask? She desperately needs a name for it, and vaguely suspects he might have an answer.
There is a place in the garden her steps always take her to, without even realizing it – the lonely cherry tree near the pond. She sits down under it and lets the blossoms shower their sweet-scented petals over her. She loves to feel the cold and silky touch and brushes them off her hair and crushes them between her slender fingers to release the fragrance. By the time he comes out of the house to stroll into the garden, she is already intoxicated with the perfume. Cherry flowers… the form of his zanpakutou, the true form of his soul… the day she realized that being under that lonely cherry tree would be the closest she would get to him she was so sad she felt hollow. Somehow she knows the fascination she feels is misplaced and the respect he commands should not render her unable to breathe in his presence, but since it has no name it's easier to ignore. People think her devotion is endearing, and she comes to believe it too. Her brother seems to disagree though, as he grows colder and more distant, could it be she has made an offending mistake again? It's hard to keep up with his high standards, and it looks like he grows more and more dissatisfied with her, she must be so inadequate. The lump in her throat whenever he is near, it must be guilt, the burning blush in her cheeks, it must be shame for not rising up to his expectations. For some time now she feels unusually anxious, she wakes up in the morning alert and a bit feverish and goes to bed with the same gripping feeling in her stomach. Nights have lost all sense of repose, it's all tossing and turning without a reason. What is the answer to this? Maybe if she knew what question to ask...
She feels young and inexperienced, walking in the shade of a man who never bothers to take note of her presence. Insignificant. She struggles in vain to get his attention, and is afraid she will never gain his respect. She values that greatly, perhaps obsessively, but it's one of those things she hasn't come up with a name for, so it's safe not to question why. Sometimes she gives up and uncorks a bottle of sake – she has made quite a provision in her room, it helps her sleep soundly – and morning finds her lying on the floor, reeking of alcohol and extremely confused about the state of things. Servants wrinkle their noses and there is always one (perhaps all of them, sneaky bastards!) who slips a venomous hint to the master about how "the young mistress never fails her origins". He most likely hates such situations and sometimes walks by her room and stops at the door, she can hear him, she can hear the thoughts in his head, and there is silence between them, separated only by a thin frame of wood. The last time she did her sake "tasting" ritual she woke up vomiting, with a gentle hand keeping her head in place from falling into the pool of disgusting liquid, feeling refreshed at the touch of hesitant cold fingers over her forehead. Her hazy mind had foggily inquired after the identity of the servant performing the charitable act, her senses too dull to take note of the elegant shape of the hand placed over her feverish brow. That time she had certainly crossed the line, she still feels nauseous at recalling the long days spent in bed afterwards, wailing and emptying her stomach.
It's conflicting though, she thinks – on the one hand she would like to keep her affairs private (even when such affairs only mean heavy drinking all by herself), on the other she knows it's all to get his attention. Even now, coming back from the training grounds, her arms weary with swinging her zanpakuto at Renji and a rapidly coloring bruise on her left cheek, she feels a giddy urge to rush to his office and tell him how she finally managed to pin to the ground her tattooed friend (well, who was admittedly having a very bad day). With a swift turn on her heels she decides impulse is her best guide and sprints her way to the 6th Division quarters. It's rather quiet in the building, Captain Kuchiki has a well-known appreciation for privacy and all kinds of personal boundaries, so no one disturbs him. Even the knock on his door must be discreet, though there is no answer inside. She's a bit disappointed, the news of her victory is fresh and the triumph deserves at least an encouraging nod from her regal brother. Could it be she'll have to wait till dinner? Annoyed she pushes the door open, and to her great joy he's still there. Nii-?... The merry greeting stops in her throat. The window is open and a gentle September wind blows a golden leaf into the room. He's looking outside, head turned, cheek resting on his shoulder. Her eyes widen amazed, as she realizes he is actually asleep and makes sure she slides noiselessly near his chair. She's never seen him so relaxed, one gloved hand resting in his lap, while the other still loosely grips a sheet of paper, his expression so peaceful. It's the first time she has ever gotten so near, she marvels at the purity of his features, he has lost all appearance of grandeur and power, he certainly looks young, she thinks. There is no hostile, crushing, overpowering feeling about him, and there is something inviting about the open palm of the hand resting on the papers. She just stands there and wishes he would always have this gentle air about him, for it fills her with overflowing emotions to see him like that. Not pausing to rethink her impulse, she leans in and places a soft kiss on his forehead. He wakes up, naturally, and grey eyes watch her startled, not having the time to adjust to their usual detached coldness. She's still close to him and her own surprised gaze clings to his lips parted to admonish her for her foolishness. They look a bit dry, a fleeting thought passes through her mind, but there is no reasoning anymore when she leans in again to run the tip of her tongue over his lower lip, to soothe it.
There's silence now. The only thought his consternated mind can produce is that there is something familiar about this whole scene, but quite forgotten. The taste left on his lips certainly is something he's had before. She looks at him, not sure what to do with herself. If anything the fact that she's standing inches away from him is a serious offense to his privacy. The rest... oh, the rest is nothing her power of understanding can grasp. But it must be an insulting breach of conduct, for the eyes deeply gazing at her are no longer half-lidded as usual, but wider and their expression is as discomposed as she can imagine her brother to be. For a split second she considers running away, but then what? Better stay and deal with his wrath now. Time is dripping in slow, painful moments between them, and neither can seem to decide what to say.
"Is this all you came to tell me, Rukia?"