Title: Mad Dancing
Chapters: 1/1
Rating: M
Pairing: Rangiku x Momo
Summary: They both grieve for what is gone and come together as one.
Timeline: A 'what if' conclusion
Warning: Bear in mind that the characters will be ooc. Written under 10 minutes, un-betaed
-o-
Mad Dancing
The bell tolls for the dead.
The bell tolls mournfully for the gentle Captain Komamura, loyal Sentarou, young Hanatarou, pretty Nemu, fiery Renji, her Toushiro and countless others. But never does it once ring for her Captain Aizen.
Her blood slows, worming its way through her paper-thin veins like congealing tree sap. It flows into her atrophied muscles and the withered tissue revives over her frail bones. Vessels contract and expand reluctantly, unable to fathom why she is still living. Air circulates in her shriveled lungs, in and out, in and out, like the persistent buzz of a silent bell ringing in her ears.
Desolation embroils the joy of victory and is inundated by a tide of alcohol. Death gods alike scream and shout, their heartbeats are like war drums to her ears. A few greet her with sour breath on their tongues. More pull and push her away in an attempt to get in and get out. There are heavy smacks of flesh on flesh rather than steel on steel, this is another war altogether.
A firm hand grabs her slender wrists and lures her through branching others. She does not cry out, words—sounds—have been lost to her a long time before, when Captain Aizen first left and Hitsugaya said his goodbyes. The liquor burns a trail of blisters down her narrow throat. Her cheeks are wet, soaked in sake and splashed with tears. She blinks and braves another mouthful as someone pats her heartily on the back. It is enough to make her loose her nonexistent dinner.
She feels dizzy among the mazed shapes of black and white threads. Her neat bun comes undone, the silk cloth lost somewhere. Her face has become privy to more than one set of lips tonight, but she has no strength yet to graze her skin.
Her slim ankles weave punctiliously through a sea of others, dancing madly to a tempo only she can hear. There is a song of rapture and misery, of loss and victory. Her body moves to them all, fast and slow.
A husky rasp calls to her and holds her like a secret yet unknown. It is like the sudden crunch of sand and gravel beneath her feet, equally amazing as the whittling of a blade. Her pale obi becomes undone in the thick of the crowd, she is pushed up against something soft, something hard, something loose and something packed. Her whitewashed shoulders are bared, pinched and kissed at the same time. She unfurls her brittle fingers against the two fleshy globes and looks skyward.
Matsumoto's hair ripples from healing gold to luxurious chocolate in the scintillating fire.
Colors are slow to rise to her face. Her heart hums and strokes heat across her too-tight skin. Bereaved wails accelerate in a crescendo from the crowd. The wordless sentiments permeate through the air and linger over her head in a cloud of foggy snakes. She turns away and presses her temple against the supple curve of Matsumoto's breasts.
Chapped lips wrap around her thin mouth. A tongue contorts desperately against her unyielding ivory teeth. Matsumoto carries the flavor of the battle ground in between her jaws, hot and broken, bleeding and burnt. The tang of ashes lands heavily in her mouth as she tries to pull away.
A hand captures her, quick and seeking, but never cruel. They glide briefly over one salmon nipple before squeezing the other. She remains quiet, her mouth open in a soundless prayer. Matsumoto takes advantage of this and paints the tender walls with saliva, carrying away some of her taste in return. She can only pray that the blonde finds what she's looking for beneath the layer of salt and vomit.
Matsumoto's eyes are wide like hers, blank and desperate, just the right shade of grey to be mistaken for twin mirrors. She drowns in the russet waves. Both are carried away in a current of black fabric.
Calloused fingers feel for her again and slide lower and lower, nails scraping over her bony ribs. Gentle arms encircle her waist and a silken scarf settles over her neck, draping rivers of coral pink across cream torso.
An elbow jabs her side and feet constantly stamp over her own. Angular hips bump in to her spine, her hair gets caught in others' fingers, their velvety thighs lace together interlocked.
And they sink to their knees, leaning against one another.
The pad of a ruined thumb rests over her navel right below her bellybutton. Lips descend chastely over her forehead in an apology—not-apology—before swallowing her left ear. When the cacophony of the background noise slowly ebbs into a perfect hymn of grief, she can't bring herself to care.
And when the candle light hits Matsumoto's eyes just right and transmute them sky blue, that's when Hinamori finally breaks down.