Word Count: 1,128

Characters/Pairings: Byakuya; ByaHisa

Timeline/Spoilers: pre-series through post-Winter War; spoilers for the end of that arc

Summary: Pt. 1 – all the living are dead, and the dead are all living

Notes: Heavily based off of the song of the same title by Stars. Please tell me if my ByaHisa fics are starting to get repetitive…

all the living are dead, and the dead are all living

.

The first day isn't the hardest. Neither is the second. It's every waking moment after that is steeped in the immeasurable pain of her loss.

The nights are the worst. In daylight, he can bury himself in his work, make believe that she's off wandering the Rukongai again. But in the silence of the night, there's an ache deep in his bones and a longing throbbing through his veins. Every instance is like the slice of a blade to his skin, yet no battle wound can compare to this. Every moment evokes painful memory. A slight rustle of the bedsheets, a flash of white in his peripheral, and he starts. He turns his head fast enough to give himself whiplash. (Maybe a crick in his neck will be enough to distract from his relentless thoughts in the moonlight. He doubts it.)

The movements were caused by white curtains and wisps of wind. The servants had opened the windows to allow some fresh air into his dreary chambers. But, if only for a second, he had thought—

Nothing more than a product of his insomniac-induced madness, of course.

He slides back down until he's lying flat on his back again, sluggish and unrefined – two words one would never imagine could be used to describe Kuchiki Byakuya. But he's been this way ever since. Not to the public eye of course. He can't appear as if he is unfit to command, as if the silent revelry of his clan affects him in the slightest, as if his grief is in any way real. And it drains him so, but he is a Kuchiki, and so none will ever be privy to his deepest thoughts. But in the recesses of his mind, he is coming apart, thread by thread.

He turns on his side, facing what was once (what still is) her end of the futon. Spreading his hand across the cushion, he can almost pretend it's her. But the sheets are too cool and crisp, lacking in her warmth and softness. She would have shuddered at his touch, and bowed her head to hide the blush staining her cheeks. Even after five years of marriage, and twice that time spent courting, she was like a bashful maiden still.

Nights spent with her soft skin caressing his own wash over him. The proximity of her person and the absolutely adoration in her eyes never failed to light a fire within the normally passive noble lord. His stoic character gave way to passionate embraces and heated lovemaking, but only ever for her. Even the rush of battle couldn't compare to the feel of her bare skin pressed tight against him, every dip and curve complementing perfectly with his own lean form. Truly, she supplied a piece that had been missing from him. A small, starving girl from Inuzuri with sunken eyes that had seen too much was the one who completed him and brought fulfillment to his life. His younger self, who exuded superiority and arrogance, would have balked at the notion that he would never need someone to stand at his side. And he can hardly claim surprise at his clan's reaction to the peasant woman he brought home. But the vehemence of their unmasked hatred and venomous displays towards her kindled a white, hot fury within him. How could his own blood encourage such vile treatment upon one so undeserving? How could they so detest one whose very presence was calming for him, whose mere glance conveyed her love for him, whose lightest touch set him ablaze?

Her searing kisses conveyed the words she didn't think herself worthy enough to speak aloud.

He tries to imprint every memory of her into his soul, fearing that one day he will no longer be able to conjure up the exact cadence of her voice or recall just what shade of indigo her eyes were. Even the memory of her touch is waning. The feeling of being within her, that pinnacle of pleasure and sense of wholeness, he would have sworn was impossible to forget. But their bed has long since grown cold, and she took any inklings of warmth with her to her grave. In fact, her hand had been chilled when he held it last. It was spring the day she died, but she had never quite escaped the grasp of winter. And winter held her still; as it did Byakuya.

Can the dead haunt the dead? If so, she's doing a rather fine job of it, he thinks. His expanse of his grief has not diminished, even after half a century and more. His life is measured in when there was Hisana, and when there wasn't. The latter far outspans the former, and some nights, he wishes he could just shoo her spirit away, but the truth is that he'd much rather have her submerge him in misery than go on happily without her. Because happiness was Hisana, and that part of his life is over now. He doesn't think that it will ever come again. Masochism never appealed to him before, but now it is his closest confidante. His only one, in fact.

But at least the war is over. Aizen has been put away, and his co-conspirators vanquished. There may not be a loving wife, but there is a sister to come home alive to. He owes her that much at least.

There was a Before Hisana and After Hisana, and now there was an After the War. It's the same, yet different. Different enough that it warrants something new, even if the bare facts remain unchanged. She is dead, and he is alone. But Rukia is the key element. She is his pride.

Tomorrow, he will take his first steps toward after. But in this moment, for the first time, bitter tears stream down his cheeks, cheeks she once loved to hold and pepper kisses on in the secrecy of their bedroom.

Tonight, he will welcome her phantom with open arms and pretend it's the heat of her body and not the chill of her absence pressed tight against his chest, leaving no room to draw a breath. In the morning, he'll wake but keep his eyes shut for a moment longer, if only to savour that short instance where he can never be sure. Sure if she is truly gone or if it's all in his head. Before his eyelids flutter open, and he becomes cognizant of the fact that in place of his beloved still slumbering is an empty space in the futon beside him. Inevitably, he will rouse from that place in between dreams and awake and face the reality of her demise. But for now, he will linger, just five minutes more, please.

.

All the living are dead, and the dead are all living

The war is over and we are beginning...

Here it comes; here comes the first day!

Here it comes; here comes the first day!

It starts up in our bedroom after the war

A/N: I usually associate this song with ichiruki, but listening to it the other day inspired this piece. So I suggest you play it through while reading! With that being said, I will probably follow this up with an ichiruki companion piece with similar themes. Don't ever expect anything happy from me tbh. I already have an idea in the works, so it shouldn't be long coming.

Also, Byakuya crying may have seemed a bit out of character, but it something I can picture happening. Not heart wracking sobs, mind you, but a few stray tears. I tried to paint it in a way that was realistic, and I hope I accomplished that. Please review, and let me know your thoughts! Every little word matters to me, whether it's just "good job" or what your favourite part was or what you didn't like. Thanks so much!