Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or any of the characters thereof, but I do claim the creative liberties to this story.
He was drowning.
No, literally, he was drowning. The head of the noble Kuchiki clan didn't know how to swim and was now drowning. One of the very few days he sloughed off his work to enjoy such a beautiful day and had decided to spend the majority of it by his favorite pond, fully intent to waste the day in a relaxed haze and let his division and household tend to themselves. If anyone ever found out, they would have surely thought that Captain Workaholic was ill. Truth be told, though he took great satisfaction from his work and even enjoyed the inane paper work that came with running his division, there were just some days like today that even he and his since of duty could not deny.
And so it was, he was lounging by the bank, a mock semblance of Captain Kyoraku (minus the sake of course), relaxing as a delicate breeze caressed his cheek and fluttering the scarf secured at his neck and shoulders. As he shifted to a more comfortable position, his scarf must have untangled itself from him enough for the breeze to take purchase and carry it across the pond. As a chill crept about him, his hand went to tug the scarf around him more fully only to realize it was gone.
An eye cracked open in a feeble attempt to locate it, just in time to watch it flutter to the water's surface. His brow knit together in irritation, as he was forced to abandon his position to retrieve the heirloom from the water. Striding across a small bridge, he came to the edge nearest his scarf, however, as he made to reach for it, all the generations of Kuchiki grace and poise dissipated as his footing was lost and he was sent to topple into the water.
So as you can see be now, it's not as though he threw himself in, it's not as though he intended to immerse himself in the beautiful scenery quite to this degree. It was purely an accident, but in the back of his head and should anyone bother to ask, he wouldn't hesitate to inform them (with a dignified screech) that he was pushed.
So now as he flailed his arms and choked on water, a small part of him idly thought that if the situation were not as dire and if he were not gasping for air, he may have pondered what his grandfather would say. As his corpse washed to the pond's shore, his scarf clutched in his cold dead hands, no doubt the old man would say that Byakuya had shamed the family name to die in such a pathetic manner. In his mind, his lifeless body would reply that he was indeed pushed, that it wasn't his fault that swimming wasn't a required skill to be a soul reaper or a member of the Kuchiki clan, that the bridge was slick with water, or whatever other reason he could come up with only to be replied with a disappointed sigh and a muttered "child" in a tone that was sure bring some unwanted punishment. Honestly, it's as though the imagined old man knew.
However, the situation was dire and his lungs burned for air, but as he continued to choke and sputter, he barely noticed the thin arms wrap around him and drag him to shore. He was laid on his side as he spit the unwelcomed water from his mouth and gasped on air before collapsing onto his back. The sun shone brightly in his eyes and his savior leaned over him. She was lovely, truly his savior was a merciful angel sent from grace itself.
"Oi, dumbass, what the hell were you doing!"
His angel of grace and mercy had a mouth.
That was how Byakuya Kuchiki first met Hisana. She had saved his life…well, he supposed they had saved each other. She may have saved him from drowning, but he had rescued her from her meager existence in the slums of Rukongai. Five blissful years later and she was gone.
He sometimes wondered if he wasn't daydreaming still by the side of that pond. Though he doubted that if he were his grief would pain him so, and if he were still daydreaming, why would he deny himself of his angel?
No, this was no enchanted daydream gone awry, it was simply life in all its cruelty. And as he sits in front of Hisana's portrait again, he can feel himself drowning, his chest tightening to the point where breathing was a desperate luxury. But if he closed his eyes tight enough and if his memory was strong enough, he could almost feel those thin arms again wrapping around him and the smell of her hair and the sound of her voice.
Over fifty years of drowning in this pitiful grief and he couldn't help but wait for her to save him again, if only in his mind, but as his memory fades his sorrow only grows.
He wonders through his estate still in his grieved haze towards their bedroom, and still fully clothed, plummets to the futon. Always hopeful that those thin arms would be awaiting him, always denied. He buries his face into what used to be her pillow in hopes of finding some hint of her scent sill lingering in its depths, but he knows that his tears have long since washed that trace of her away.