Duet
by Ileadreike

Written for BlackVelvetBand's Kyouraku-Nanao fanfiction contest.
The Prompt: red lipstick, ponytail, and the quote "Play it again, Nanao."
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: T
Summary: (Postwar. ShunsuiNanao. Much angst and a little fluffiness.) The ease with which the notes came to her was surprising; she would have expected that instinct, like everything else in her world, to have deserted her.

Notes: Just in case any of you don't know, there's some very basic Japanese in here... though I imagine most of you Bleach fans will know it already:
"Hai"-- "Yes."
"-taichou"--"Captain," added as a suffix to the Captain's name.
"-san--"a suffix added to the end of a name, used to show respect. Ranges from formal to not-so-formal, depending on the context.
"-chan"--a suffix added to the end of a name, similar to "-san," but less formal. Often translated as "little." Gets on Nanao's nerves.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. If I did, believe me, things would have turned out a little differently. Well... actually, they'd be pretty much the same. Poor little Kira might get some love (Don't worry, Izuru, I think you're adorable :3), but that's about it. And this pair, one of my favorites, would get a lot more screen time. And Orihime would drown herself. Or something. This started out as a disclaimer, I think. A long time ago. Maybe I should stop now before I get any more off-topic. (Is that possible? )

Ah, well. Enjoy.

In the end, when it was over, she was left with a vague feeling of loneliness and a piano.

It had belonged to one of the seated division members before, when war was nothing more than a distant possibility and life was still peaceful. Life was peaceful now, but war was a very real memory. And it seemed to Nanao to be a terrible shame, leaving such a beautiful instrument to gather dust simply because its owner was no longer here to play it. So, in her usual manner-- that is, it had been her usual manner before, so she supposed it might as well be so now-- she spent a good hour going over it with a damp cloth, meticulously removing every speck of dust from each gap and crevice in its surface.

It was a pleasant return to routine and a little comforting, almost as if by removing a film of dust from a piano she could remove the film of dust from the surface of her old life. Sometimes she wished...

But wishing had never been Nanao's way, and things could not return to the way they'd been before. That coating of dust would remain no matter how she wiped at it. It would grow thicker, dulling her memories of the carefree days, the constant laughter in the Eighth Division's courtyard, the endless sea of paperwork that had been her only real cause for complaint. No: from now on, those things and this piano would only sit in the dark corners of minds and offices and wait to be remembered.

There were some memories, she knew, which would never dull-- and that was, perhaps, the worst part.

After folding the cloth with unnecessary precision and placing it neatly on the corner of a nearby desk, Nanao returned to the piano and trailed one slender finger over its surface. It was cold to the touch, but not unpleasant, and it had been buffed and polished to a high shine. The cover's hinges did not creak when she lifted it to expose the ivory beneath. Someone had loved this instrument very much. She tentatively reached out to press one of the keys. The note, high and clear, warbled for one drawn-out moment in the still darkness and then faded away until it was only the memory of an echo. Another key, another sound... and it was strange, the way everything had changed except for this. The ease with which the notes came to her was surprising; she would have expected that instinct, like everything else in her world, to have deserted her.

Almost everything, she corrected herself. He was still here, and for that she was grateful. He, with his kindness and his selfless compassion, had been her sole source of strength in the past weeks. His smile, so warm and somehow sad, was there to replace the one that she could never seem to muster these days.

The notes continued to flow from her fingers. She slowly sat down on the simple wooden bench, not missing a beat, and brought her left hand up to join her right. The low, deep notes combined with the high, sweet ones to create a sound that seemed both to clash with and compliment itself. The music from one hand intertwined with the music from the other, and it was tremendous... but it wasn't enough.

The tears came at last.

She'd been holding back for so long, so it was only natural that the flood was heavier when she finally broke. But that was all right: the war was over now. There was time to let the tears fall, and nobody here to see them. The melody she played, so familiar and once so comforting, only served to coax the sobs faster from her weary body. She felt water splattering on her fingers as she bent, shaking, over the keys, but the music did not slow. The music never slowed, she had learned, even when you were mourning... so you had to keep up. Nanao had always been able to keep up.

This time, there was so much to mourn.

Red-gold hair was splayed out on the pillow around that friendly, beautiful face stained horribly with blood-- or perhaps some of it was only the remnants of the red lipstick she'd been wearing the evening before; there hadn't been time to remove it. Nanao reached forward to adjust the top of the rumpled and blood-soaked uniform, which was showing rather more than even her friend would probably have been comfortable with, had she been alive to notice. There were no tears, only a hollow sort of acceptance as Unohana-taichou ushered her out of the room and away from the body.

She hadn't thought Ichimaru would bring himself to do it. She really hadn't. And she couldn't help but think, somehow, that this was all wrong. She'd been so sure, before, that Aizen had to be defeated, no matter what the cost.

She hadn't expected the cost to be so high.

Nanao was distantly aware that this was supposed to be good for her. It didn't feel that way. It felt as though she was losing Rangiku and so many of her loyal, devoted division members all over again. The tears were just another reminder that there were so many offices left empty, like this one. And how many of them had already begun to gather dust?

Her fingers had been moving of their own accord through the course of her thoughts and her tears. Only now, after the song had ended, did she realize that she'd been playing the whole time. She sat that way for a long moment, her hands resting lightly on the keys while her heart sat heavily in her chest. The last echoes of the notes had faded. There was silence. She noted with a clinical detachment that she was trembling.

Then the faint sound of rustling fabric reached her ears. And before she could wipe her eyes or even turn around to face this intruder, she felt a gentle hand come to rest on her shoulder. The gesture was such a familiar one in these changed times, such a relic of a life long gone, that it brought a fresh wave of tears, though she tried valiantly to hold them back.

Kyouraku-taichou...

There was another long moment of silence. Then, softly: "Play it again, Nanao."

Play it again, Nanao.

"Sir?"

"Play it again."

She paused, half-embarrassed at being caught at something so unproductive as the piano, and half-confused at his sudden seriousness. "Kyouraku-taichou, I was only passing the time while you and Rangiku-san..." What? Got drunk together? Went to bed together? Nanao had to forcibly remove her thoughts from this train. "...talked."

Any semblance of seriousness faded from his eyes as he pressed one hand to his heart. "You wound me, my Nanao-chan! You would rather spend your last quiet evening with this fortunate instrument than with your poor, lovesick Taichou?"

She stood, straightening her uniform briskly. "If you," she said mildly, pushing her glasses back into place, "would rather spend it with Rangiku-san." He was always doing this, seeking her out when there were clearly other things he would be happy to amuse himself with. She supposed he felt bad for her; unlike him, she had a very limited social life and rarely 'let her hair down,' literally or otherwise. Still, she wished he wouldn't pity her that way. His constant declarations of love over the past few centuries had become less and less amusing as she had realized that they would never be more than playful. "Please, Taichou, don't worry about me. There's plenty of paperwork that will have to be completed after the next few days. It would be best to get a head start on it."

Shunsui made a loud, dramatic groaning noise. "Second to paperwork!" he lamented, dropping into a chair by the door, running one hand through his hair, which was in its usual messy ponytail. A sake bottle was held firmly in his other hand. "Sweet Nanao-chan, how can you reject me so?"

She sighed, and sat back down.

Shunsui, taking this as a concession, immediately perked back up. "Aha! I knew you would change your mind!" He swooped down on her, lips puckered in that ridiculous manner of his. She blocked them automatically with a fan, which had been tucked into her waistband as usual, and shoved him away. He landed beside her on the bench. "Ah, well-- you'll soon realize how deeply you love me, Nanao-chan. I'm certain of it."

Funny, she thought, how he didn't understand that she'd realized it a rather long time ago.

"Where is Rangiku-san?" She was attempting to wriggle away from him, but he was making it difficult. It was a small bench, and he was not a particularly small man.

"Oh, she left. She said she wanted to go find some fun, since she'll probably be too busy fighting tomorrow. Come to think of it, that's not a bad idea, is it, my lovely, lovely Nanao-chan?" He half-glanced at her as he said this, the faintest gleam of hope in his eyes.

"Hm," came her noncommittal reply.

Nanao wasn't really that surprised; the only thing that came as a shock was that Kyouraku-taichou had not provided the fun Rangiku seemed to want so badly. Neither one of her friends, after all, was known for their chastity. So when Rangiku had come in earlier in the evening, dressed in a revealing yukata and wearing a rather seductive shade of crimson-colored lipstick, Nanao had simply... assumed. And she was mostly okay with it, really. She'd long ago accepted that, as much admiration and affection as she felt for her Taichou, he was not the type to love one woman. His advances toward her, she knew, were nothing more than his way of maintaining what he thought was an interesting and enjoyable working environment. A disappointment, to be sure, but how could she expect anything else?

Her anguish-- jealousy? bitterness?-- over this, she was certain, would eventually cause her heart to shatter into a million tortured, bleeding remnants. But for the moment, it was in one piece, and there was little she could do about the future.

"Nanao-chan?"

"Yes, Taichou?" she asked, without looking up at him.

"Play it again."

She blushed, not entirely certain that she could. Not with him sitting there beside her and watching her every move, anyway. She was about to open her mouth to protest when he placed an arm around her shoulder, effectively rendering her speechless. She could only turn redder as he turned her gently back toward the keys.

He removed his arm, looking at her with a strange expression in his eyes. She didn't know quite what it was, and it scared her. "Play it again," he repeated, his voice lower this time and slightly husky, and Nanao could only be grateful that she was sitting down, because otherwise who knew what sort of ridiculous swooning she might do?

"Sir," she replied quietly, evading his gaze and trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, "it's been decades since I've actually played."

"Sweet Nanao," he said, and his voice was a strange combination of affection and weariness. His chocolate eyes met hers again; the odd expression had been replaced by something disturbingly close to sadness. "Tomorrow we go to war."

"Sir," she said, because she didn't know what else to say.

He sighed deeply, without his usual melodrama. "Beauty is a rare delight, Nanao-chan. When one finds it, one must spend as much time admiring it as possible."

"Hai," she said cautiously, not sure why he was telling her this. He waxed poetic often enough, but he didn't appear to be drunk.

"This instrument is beautiful, no?" He smiled, a hint of his usual silliness shining through-- but only a hint. "Beauty, more than anything, makes the heart break, my beautiful Nanao-chan. It's a powerful thing." There was a pause before he continued. "That's why I sent Matsumoto-san away tonight. To let a radiant, stunning perfection like yours sit all alone in a dark room would be a sin, my love, and I'm sure I'll be committing more than my share of sins come tomorrow."

"Hai," she said, more out of habit than agreement. Her blush had begun to deepen, she was sure. Her face felt very warm. Nevermind that he said things like this all the time; now, for some reason, she could not bring herself to merely hit him with a book.

"Nanao-chan... play it again."

So she did.

Her fingers moved clumsily over the keys at first, and a few of the notes came out sounding painfully off. But Kyouraku-taichou was patient, and guided her hands to the right places until she was relaxed enough to do it on her own. And then he began to play as well, his large, calloused fingers moving over the lower keys with a surprising deftness. It was an odd duet: both parts sounded incomplete on their own, but together they made a strange sort of music that was both blatantly dissonant and perfectly harmonic.

"Beautiful," he murmured, grinning his lazy grin, and for once she could not disagree.

They spent the evening like that, playing their impromptu duet. In the morning, they would go to war-- which made the few moments that much more beautiful. Nanao found herself becoming lost in the music, and for the first time, she didn't mind the lack of control. As time wore on, her eyes began to droop, her fingers slowed, and Kyouraku-taichou brought the song to its bittersweet close. "My Nanao-chan," he whispered, gathering her in his arms as she drifted into sleep. "My beautiful Nanao-chan." She thought she felt his lips pressed for one lingering moment against her forehead, as light and as gentle as a flower petal floating on the spring breeze.

"Play it again, Nanao."

She brought one sleeve up to wipe at the tears that continued to leak from the corners of her eyes. "I can't," she whispered, head still bowed over the keys.

The hand removed itself from her shoulder, and he sat down on the bench beside her. It was a long time before he spoke, but when he did, she could tell that he, too, was broken. "You play that instrument beautifully."

She shook her head, sniffling back what threatened to be another full-blown sob.

As if knowing, on some level, that she needed this breakdown, Jyuushiro said nothing. He only placed one arm around her shoulders, drawing her nearer to him, and she went, exhausted, powerless to resist. His arm was thinner than Kyouraku-taichou's, his hand more slender. He probably couldn't play a duet.

She sobbed into his chest for a long time. They stayed that way, two heartbroken friends, and neither of them said a word. Nanao felt his arms wrapped securely around her body and thought ruefully through her grief that she had nothing to offer him in return. She had seen the closeness that he and her Captain had shared, and she knew on some level that it was selfish of her to take comfort without giving any back.

But she had none to give.

Kyouraku-taichou...

He had ruined more than he would ever know by leaving them, she thought bitterly.

Before, she had been forced to listen as he daily proclaimed his love for her, knowing all the while that it was no more to him than a joke. She had been forced to watch as he seduced countless women into his bed, hating herself every moment for the way she envied each one of them. She had been forced, by propriety, logic, and all things reasonable, to deny the way her heart sped up when he tried to inch close to her, the way her hands retained his tingling warmth each time he managed to press his lips to them. She had been forced, she realized, by no one but herself.

For a long time, she'd been convinced that it was for the best. His antics, she had told herself, were childish and embarrassing, and it wasn't as though he was being serious. He could have all the women he wanted; new recruits were falling over each other trying to get to his bedroom. Why would he take any interest in his plain, too-serious Nanao-chan? No, of course he was only joking. And yet--

She would never be able to escape the memory of his face, pained and bloodied, as he whispered one word so softly that she might have missed it had her face not been so close to his:

"Beautiful."

And as he lay there on the battlefield, his ponytail matted with blood, his eyes meeting hers with all the sadness in the world... she hadn't had the heart to contradict him.

And he had been right, she thought, as she shook like an autumn leaf in Jyuushiro's arms, caught up completely in the depths of her grief. Kyouraku-taichou had been right the whole time. For all her bitterness, her jealousy and her insecurities...

Beauty, more than anything, makes the heart break, my beautiful Nanao-chan.

She knew so well that it could not be repaired. It was shattered, as she had predicted, into a million tiny shards. She was somehow aware that no obscuring film of dust would ever dim that pain. A duet was not a duet when there was only one player. Half-beauty was not beauty, and she was no longer his Nanao-chan.

As her fingers found their way back to the keys, she thought that the regret, in all its heartbreaking beauty, would haunt her for the rest of her years.

Weeping, Nanao played it again.

.

A/N: Again, written for BlackVelvetBand's recently-posted challenge. Since this is one of my favorite pairings in the entire series, I figured I'd take a shot at it. I appreciate your taking the time to read this, and any reviews would be even more appreciated. (Please don't flame me for killing him! I have a morbid fascination with the tragic...)

"Beauty, more than bitterness, makes the heart break."
-Sarah Teasdale