D is for dance. Just so you know, the white haired boy is Toushiro and the dark haired girl is Hinata. I didn't use any names in this because this was actually something that I used for a school project. either way I hope you enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Bleach Or Naruto
A young man kneels in front of a grave. If you were to catch a glimpse of him you would notice right away his blue-green eyes and hair so blonde that most considered it white, and the cold mature air he held, despite his height, or lack you would wonder why he is out on such a cold, windy winter day. And last you would wonder why he had a lavender ribbon (that's obviously not his) and a bright sunflower clutched in his hands.
You would walk away, your day would be unchanged, you would never think of him again. You would never put a thought into wondering who he was, or what he was would never know they call him calm and collected. Unwavering in morals and always quick to the right answers. You would never know that he tried to be perfect
He wondered whether he should keep it up. Keep up his cold and uncaring façade day after day, the façade that's only become more of an act since she wondered if he had to endure the hated snickers behind his back, whether he had to endure the bets on when the ' kid' was finally going to lose it.
The white haired child is not of noble birth. He is a commoner. He hails from a common place with common trees interspersed between common houses. He was the only uncommon thing there. Uncommon in build, uncommon in looks, and most of all uncommon in strength.
His pallid skin and his hair contrast with the black of his uniform The black and white both bring out his unreal eyes, that have inherited the color of the all the world's seas. Blue and green mixed the girl compared his eyes to tea with honey in it. Though the boy couldn't see the connection no matter how many times the girl explained it to boy hates honey, hates that she isn't with him anymore. She loved honey, loved him. Despite his strangeness, despite anything and everything.
He lights a stick of incense as he clasps his hands in a short prayer, as the thick tendrils of jasmine scent reaches his nose he lets out a weak humorless chuckle. Or perhaps it was a cough.
"Only now do I remember you hated incense "His normally clear voice is muddled.
"You always said that it was just stinky smoke, but it is traditional to light some when you pray for the deceased. You always liked traditions" He trails off. As if finally it is dawning on him that she is not beside him any is remembering the girl whose name is on the tombstone, the dark haired, pale-eyed woman who holds his heart quite irrevocably in her cold dead fingers.
"Are you going to watch?" a small girl questions. She is petite in build, and her hair is the shade of the midnight sky, her eyes are the palest of pearly lavenders.
"I will! How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?" The boy replies taking a bite of his lunch.
"I-I just wanted to make sure" her smile is nervous. Her hands are knotted in her lap.
"You nervous?" the dark haired girl nods, little white teeth biting her pink lips, the white haired boy smiles.
"You're going to be fine, I've seen you dance. Anyone who thinks you're anything but perfect hit their head" the girl smiled back.
A particularly strong gust of wind causes the incense to stop burning. The boy sighs. His face looks drawn and tired, blue eyes, normally bright and intelligent, but now tired and sorrowful drawn closed under furrowed eyebrows.
"How long has it been?" The boy takes a shuddering sigh as the memory continues.
The white haired boy pushes his way to the front of a crowd. It's a festival tonight and he promised the dark haired girl that he'd watch her perform. The boy hates the warmth the tightly packed bodies create. He hates the thick unrelenting heat that forces down his throat. But he's willing to endure. If only to see the dark haired girl smile.
As he breaks from the crowd he breathes in the cool end of winter air. He is just in time. The other children distance themselves from him, this is routine for him, he can hear their whispers
"What is he doing here?" The white haired child doesn't even turn his head. These whispered taunts are routine for him. Honestly, he wishes they'd come up with better insults
"That girl who hangs out with him is performing tonight."
"Her! Why would-"
"Because she's small enough to play baby spring. I doubt she can even dance" now the white haired boy glares, But his glare goes unnoticed as the stage brightens with weak gray light. The crowd is hushed and silent.
The small dark haired girl is in a green costume that is most likely older than she is. She is in a small ball in the center of the stage. The light focuses on her. Other girls in deep purple and gray costumes flow onstage. The older girls begin to throw chunks of ice at the small girl. Though the adults don't mind, that is what they did in the old times after all. The older girls who play the winter throw chunks of ice at the baby spring. But until this year they threw balls of cloth that only resembled ice.
The white haired boy suspects it's because of who's playing the baby spring this year. He knows they are not supposed to throw with strength, but they do anyway. A chunk of ice skitters and jumps like a top off the stage striking the white haired boy in the forehead. He doesn't miss the smirk that crosses the girl whose chunk of ice had hit him. But he's seen this dance many times. He knows it is about time for the small shabby baby spring to rise from the oppression of the old winter.
The dark haired girl always drags him to see it. The first time their parents had taken them. In fact, this is where they met. He sees nothing special about the dance, and argues this point every year with the dark haired girl. But he always complies in the end, just because he knows how important dancing is to her. He's never really understood her. But he made it his mission to get the little things she does. When she bights her lips she's nervous, when she holds his hand she overheard someone insulting her.
The dark haired girl rises. The girls stop throwing ice. She smiles; going through movements she's known for years. But only now has she gotten to play the role she so desired. And she dances the part beautifully. In the boys eyes her movements are graceful and precise, yet so free at the same time. Moves she's sacrificed so many afternoons perfecting. He remembers many cold nights spent waiting outside the dance studio, long after the other girls have left. He'd always complain that she took too long, but that never stopped her from taking even more time the next day. She'd always just say
"If you're too cold, then go home. You don't have to walk me if you don't want to" but the boy wants to walk her home. To get her home safe he endures the freezing cold.
He clutches the sunflower he brought for her. Sunflowers are her favorite. He knew roses were more traditional, but he knows that she'll appreciate the yellow flower. The performance ends. The girls bow. The dark haired girl is smiling brightly at the cheers of the crowd. She looks for the lone white head in the crowd. As she finds the boys admiring blue eye's she gives a slight wave and her smile grows even larger, her smile bright large and unhindered, some of the gaps where her adult teeth had yet to grow in.
'Thank you' her lips spell out the words
They were seven then.
"You loved to dance. Sometimes you were so in touch with it you forgot about everything else" tear's come to the boy's eyes. But they do not fall. They are fought back.
"Even a man with a gun". He clutches the sunflower he brought her branches of the tree's around him smacked against each other, creating a sound, not quite unlike knuckles knocking against a play over in his head, Moment to moment,
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." A pastor drones through a sermon about life and death and grief, but the normally attentive young man cannot focus. He does not notice the tears that flow down his cheeks. All he can focus is the body in the coffin. The girl seems too small in it, like a child swathed in far too many winter layers.All he can remember is her warm blood, like the honey she liked to put in her tea, sometimes she put in his tea just to laugh when he tasted it. Apparently his dislike of honey was funny to her.
"You're coming back," he whispers.
But she is not coming back.
He picks up the telephone, than puts it down again. His hand twitches to pick it up again. Every part of him itches to tell her. Every fiber of his heart yearns to hear her voice say I love you too. I love you too, it wants to hear. He wants her to be his in a more valid form. He wants her to have a date to the dances she always skips even though it's an excuse to laugh and dance; her favorite things in the world.
Could he really tell her? Was it worth the risk? When did this feeling of more than a friend even begin? Was it that first time she complimented his eyes? Was it when she danced the part of baby spring when they were seven? How did this even happen? The boy asks himself. He can no longer watch her short hair bounce and flutter with the wind, taunting him. Saying he isn't brave enough to reach out and touch those dark locks. That he isn't brave enough to breech the subject.
Well now I am brave enough, the boy reasons. This time I'm not wussing out before I even begin to speak, this time I'm going in and not looking back.
A knock sounds at the door. The knocks are soft. Unsure perhaps, just like she is or rather; was. Soft spoken, always ready to surrender a contradicting opinion, ready to give up what she held close to make others more comfortable. He walked to the door. Trying to quell the nervousness that is filling his stomach.
"H-hey. C-could I… uh…t-t-talk to you?" her voice is soft today, even for her. He blinks; he always does when he's confused.
He's been blinking a lot as of late, to the point where sometimes it will prompt a waitress will ask if there is something in his eye. He is confused constantly now. Sometimes even simple things like the obvious answer to a crossword puzzle will escape remembers clearly when she first pointed it out, she laughed so hard, and he laughed right along with her.
The white haired boy nodded, not trusting his voice not to waver at the moment . He sits cross-legged on his bed. His covers are non-descript and his pillow white. They are both silent, stones are shoving themselves down the two nervous teen's throats.
"So… what did you want to talk to me about?" the boy starts quietly. He blinked rapidly, confusion building inside of him. Just how was he supposed to say this?
"I…I uh… "She bit her lip, her hands scrunching in her lap. She was nervous, the boy can see this. For he has memorized her small behaviors that clue him in to her feelings.
"Yes?" the boy interjects; he knows the best was to get her going is ask a simple question.
"N-never mind, it doesn't matter" she muttered. Averting her eyes,
"I"
"I uh, I have something…to… say" the boy trailed off. The girl looked up, her eyes curious and questioning, the boy's cheeks are heating up, turning a pale pink.
"What is it? You know you can tell me anything right?"
Oh really? The boy thinks wryly.
"I'm not sure" his speaks slowly, trying to figure out how to voice his feelings. His eyelids are getting a workout from blinking a mile a minute.
"N-not sure about what?"
"I'm not sure we're friends anymore!" the words burst from his mouth, the only words he can think of. In his mind they are no longer friends. He sees her as something more. But as her eyes fill with tears he wonders if that was the right thing to say.
He constantly wonders what the right thing to say is. The girl used to help him word more delicate things. The boy's words in his own opinion lack nuance, delicate matters just aren't his thing.
"Oh" she says shortly.
"I see… this was all an act then?" Her fists clench.
"You've hated me all this time?" the boy's eyes widened. Of course she'd take that the wrong way. He curses mentally, his large vocabulary become quite useful in berating himself.
"No! That's not-"
"No! I don't want to hear any technicalities. I don't want to hear it!" the girl begins her journey to the door, and away from her first and closest friend.
She squeezes her eyes shut against the tears that bang against her eyelids. Shutting out her reality.
"I don't hate you!" He grabs her wrist.
"I love you!"
"Why didn't I walk you home that night?" he has questioned himself on the topic, hell he's questioned God on the topic. It was his life's riddle. A riddle he had yet to solve.
"Please!" The dark haired girl pouts up at him. Her bottom lip, pink in childhood but now a rosier shade pushed out.
"You should go home. I don't want you to get hurt."
"One more dance" she pleads
"No" the boy states firmly. She places her feet on top of his.
"Ow!" the boy tries to move his foot out from under hers but to no avail.
"Get off my feet"
"One more dance and I will" she smiled a mischievous smile. The boy sighs.
"You'll be the death of me" oh how he will regret those words later.
"But only one more got it?" the boy mutters severely. Salvaging his pride. She smiles
"Of course," she says in a polite and coy voice. The boy is momentarily confused, he knows it isn't like her to be coy, she prefers to say things honestly and not hide behind fake tones or fancy words.
"Do you know why I wanted only one more dance?"
"No, I don't know. But I will listen if you're going to tell"
"W-well uh…" a crimson blush creeps across the girl's face.
"Well what?"
"It's my birthday…" He rolls his piercing eyes.
"Did you forget or something?"
"No! If you keep interrupting I won't tell you!" the dark haired girl huffs, her lower lip once again pushing out.
"Fine I won't interrupt I promise, go on" the boy relents.
"We've had twenty dances tonight" the boy's eyebrows raise. He hadn't been counting; he didn't been savor each dance's individual flavor. He didn't taste the flavor of each of her hugs, he hadn't been savoring the feel of her warm body and warm arms wrapped around him when they hugged, and he hadn't been savoring the eventual fading away of her perfume that left the scent of only her skin.
Each day after he will wish he had. Each day he will wonder about the details of that last night, that he so wishes to forget but will always remember.Each night he will wish he had a more complete picture of those happy moments. He wished the happiest moments of his life were as detailed as the worst moment.
"I wanted one for good luck"
"Like the extra birthday candle" the girl smiled, and he swears at that moment that her smile is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Rosy lips like flowers, soft sheen of electric light casting a dull glow as silk fires curl beneath her skin, shadows laughing across her face, kissing her long fingers, fingers that he always thought were the fingers of a well practiced guitarist.
"I wanted twenty for all the years that I have"
"And one more for the year to come"
That night she was shot and killed at exactly twelve o'clock midnight, according to the police report she was shot only once, right through the left atrium and she died instantly. boy doubts this. He doubts many things really. He is naturally curious, most call it an 'inquisitive mind', the girl called it the curiosity that killed the cat. He calls it paranoia. He coughs again.
"She didn't feel pain. I can assure it was instant" the `doctor tries futilely to console the boy. He just shakes his head and strokes her cheek. Her eyes are wide open, blank and shocked, blood drained lips frozen slightly open.He wonders just what 'instantly' means. Does it mean one second? Does it mean five? He looked up the dictionary definition, (Instantly: adverb: immediately; at once) but like many definitions it is too vague for him. It doesn't fully satisfy his curiosity.
"She's dead," he whispers. He grips her hand; it is equally as cold and pale as her cheek. He drops to his knees. Soft sobs can be heard, and if you listened one would hear the words
"She's dead" over and over, like a broken record
The boy heard the gunshot. He ran along the route she took home, cursing the whole way.
"God damn it all!" he runs as fast he can. His legs burn, he doesn't care. He cannot be too late. He simply cannot.
His bare feet came to her body at twelve oh five AM. The assailant had already left, leaving him to a body that used to be her. A motionless body that had lost its warmth; whose singular flavor was that of blood, it's only perfume death.
"Why didn't I walk you home that night?"
But as soon as he asks, he remembers.
There is nothing he can do. She is dead, such is the irrevocable truth, and there is nothing one can do to change the past. He didn't walk her home that night, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
He'd waited long enough; he let a gust of wind carry away her hair ribbon, A curling lavender shadow in a vast gray sky.
There was no reason to hold on to her.