To Love Vicariously
Two figures reached out for each other, breaking an expanse of whiteness, or maybe blackness. In reality, if Los Noches could be called a reality, they reached to touch hands. But, metaphorically, one could say that their hearts were trying to meet: one heart, newly found, and the other about to lose something very precious. They touched only nothingness.
She could not truthfully say she hadn't fallen in love just a little bit. A depraved and lonely soul was calling for someone and crying for warmth, even if the owner did not realize it at first. And so she had answered, even if she did not realize it either. The whiteness grew stiller and the blackness grew silent so that her hungry ears began to buzz. For a moment, in his eyes, she thought she saw a stir of remorse; it was then that she knew she had succeeded. When asked if she was afraid, she could say with no more conviction, that the answer was no. No, she was not afraid of him, and no, she was not afraid to lose. Her hand moved toward his.
Slowly.
Thump.
Slowly.
As she clasped dust she felt a small emptiness grew in her chest: a tingle of coldness edging her heartbeat, a lump in her throat where his did not exist. Soon, his heart, which she knew he had finally found and had just yet learned to use, would be lost to the ever-cycling winds of renewal. When he was gone, he would be nothing as he never and always was, and she finally realized why the world meant so little to him. She would cry. She would cry for him. It would do no good, but she would cry until she understood his pain.
He certainly did not think it was fair. It was not fair that his own heart would disobey him. It was not fair that the first and last thing his heart would give him was pain. And it was certainly not fair that when he finally felt he was no longer alone, he would have to leave his company as if they had never existed. But he was never one to believe in gifts and fairness anyway. At the least he had found goodness. When the answer had come back as "no," he realized where innocence was found, even in himself. It was some place weak and shivering, but it was there, functioning involuntarily.
It was a ticklish feeling, his heartbeat, and he was a little bit afraid it might knock him off his balance or stop his breath. Maybe its energy would trickle out and he would find himself heartless again. Anyway, his pain was gone, and he wanted something to hold on to before he faded away, so he extended his arm.
Slowly.
Thump.
Slowly.
His hand disintegrated before him, but he knew that inside his palm, she had given him a piece of her heart to fill his empty one before he joined the nothingness. At least for one moment he could experience a small taste of warmth, however meaningless.
AN: WROTE THIS A YEAR AGO AND JUST SPIFFED IT UP WITH EXISTENTIALISM! BLEACH IS NOT MINE! THE WORLD IS MEANINGLESS!
Edit: Looked at it again with slightly more but still very little sanity, and fixed a few things to make it flow a bit better.