His: A Stroll

Darkness crept across the manor, claiming its gardens before streaking the burnished hardwood floors. Tension, too, crawled across the floors and climbed up the walls. Byakuya kept the tension and night at bay with a lamp and a writing brush.

It was no use.

The flickering fire only made the shadows dance across the desk and paper; it did not conquer the shade completely. The brush and ink were even more useless for his purposes. If possible, the tightening of the musculature in his writing hand spread like a wildfire across his whole body until every fiber locked.

Byakuya inhaled a deep breath, hoping the night's chill could relieve the pressure building in his chest and head. It did not. If only, it made the aching worse, piercing his lungs.

He leaned back slightly to glimpse the night through the open door. He kept door to the garden slightly ajar. The thick air proved difficult to breathe. A storm? he wondered. The firmament was cloudy. The silvery light of moonbeams and starlight could not pierce the velvety blanket.

Without thought or reason, he stood and drew the door back. Every joint and ligament cried out as he moved. He had grown stiff sitting at his writing desk. He had grown stiff because he could not bring himself to practice his calligraphy. Not a single line marked his fresh paper. Only a blank white page stared back at him from across the room.

The expectation was oppressive.

He crossed the threshold and stepped into the night. The walkway felt damp from the humidity lingering in the breeze. He could almost smell the dew on the grass as his feet traced an unfamiliar path to a never before visited space in the manor.

"Miss Hisana," he murmured, knocking lightly at her door. The faint noise of papers rustling answered his call. Likely, she was reading a textbook, one of the thick strangely made tomes from the World of the Living.

In due course, she slid back the door. "Sir Kuchiki?" she called. Her wide eyes gleamed up at him. She wore her surprise well, quickly channeling it into a sweet smile. "Is all well?"

"Will you join me for a stroll?" The offer was unplanned. The words just sort of tumbled out of his mouth, but he did not waver in his delivery. It sounded perfectly intentional to his ears.

Her smile widened, and she bowed gracefully. "My honor," she said before standing.

Silence filled the spaces between them as they wandered the winding paths of the Kuchiki estate. Byakuya found it difficult to begin. Words, elusive and fluttering, beat across his tongue and filled his mouth, but he swallowed them with equal measure. Finely spun phrases eluded him, and the thought of breaking the serenity of the night with inconsequential banter proved unpleasant in his mind.

She seemed perfectly contented to travel under the shade of darkness and silence. Her eyes brightly caught any stray light, and they lit as she changed her gaze, which was frequent. The flora and wildness of woods enchanted her more so than all the comforts and finery of the manor.

In a graceful arch, she turned her head, and she fixed him in her gaze. A look of unrestrained happiness smoothed the lines of her face. She bowed her head in thanks for allowing her such a lovely pleasure.

Reflexively, he brushed his hand against hers. Her skin was so soft, like a finely spun silk, and she responded by curling her fingers around his warm hand. His breath hitched at the quick pressure, and he reciprocated until his hand had captured hers. She was so small and delicate, and he wondered if it was wrong to touch her without purpose. It did not feel particularly wrong; although, Byakuya was rather hard pressed to determine what emotion he felt.

She smiled at him, a tender close-lipped smile. And they paused. He had not realized it at first. The world seemed to move around him, but they were stationary.

He turned and clasped both of her hands in his. He wanted so badly to say or do something, something worthy of breaking the night's tranquil spell. But he came up empty at every turn.

"It is raining, Sir Kuchiki," she murmured softly. Her bright eyes lifted to the inky sky. Drops fell against her pale cheeks.

It began slowly and innocently enough—one drop, two drops, three drops—before the torrent bore down upon them. When the heavens finally opened, the water fell in violent sheets, drenching them.

He grabbed her, pulling her tightly against him. She submitted willingly, eagerly, lifting her head and holding his stare. Her lips parted, airing a silent expectation, and he obliged.

Her mouth tasted bitter and sweet, and it was so warm. His kisses were fluttering, soft starts and stops, and she would tease him when he pulled away. When he caught her lips again, he deepened the kiss. His urgency, primal and instinctual, pulled at the chains of his propriety, the locks of which were beginning to warp and bend.

His hands gripped her shoulders tightly, and he knew her pale milky skin would mark against his pressure. Gracelessly, he yanked the collar of her yukata down. The fabric, heavy from the rain, gave way with little effort, and his lips pressed against her sensitive neck, tracing the contour of an elegant slope.

She moaned softly, and her fingers caught in his damp hair. "Sir Byakuya," she cried against his ear when his hands slid down to her slim waist.

He closed his eyes at the sound of her voice calling his name. Every nerve in his body fired, he was sure. He felt electric—a ball of humming noise and clicks. His blood pounded in his veins, and his heart rattled free and caught in his teeth. All he could feel was her warmth burning against his skin. All he could smell was her jasmine perfume. All he wanted was for them to become seamless. Their reiatsu were already uniting, blending and infusing until their auras had created a new color. It was no longer white and red; it was the color of cherry blossoms in spring; it was the color of his release.

"Sir Byakuya," she mewled as his fingers fisted against her obi.

Propriety froze his muscles. He knew the knots and how to untie them. He knew every knot that kept her confined in that thin robe, but he could not complete the act.

He pulled away and studied her through the veil of rain. Her skin was slick, and her hair splayed across her shoulders, clinging to her robes. Her countenance was pale save for her flushed cheeks.

"Sir Byakuya," she said. This time his name met him as a plea. Her hands reached up and cupped the sides of his face. Large dark eyes locked his, and her brows furrowed. Grief darkened her features, but, before he could register the pain coloring her visage, she buried her head in his chest.

"Hisana," he murmured against her wet tresses as he pulled her into a tight embrace.

The hunger pained him physically more than he could have imagined possible, and it grew with each passing moment. He wondered if it could ever be sated. Even if he had her, he was certain he would require more. He was certain there was no bottom to his desperate need to keep her bound to him.

"Forgive me."

He returned her to the manor, and he crossed over the threshold to her room, where he undressed her. He had promised himself to help her find a suitable house gown and leave. But, drying her in that intimate space had proven to be his downfall. He could not choke back his desire any longer.

He had been right before. Once was not enough. It wasn't just the act that he craved, it was the desire to unite. It was the need and want to bask in her essence. It was consuming and overpowering, and he wondered if it was endless.

When the morning broke, he crawled back to his chambers. He did not have the time to set his futon before his personal attendant called him. A meek, "Your presence is requested in the counsel hall."

Compliantly, Byakuya changed and marched toward the specified location. When he entered the room, he started at the sight of his father, his grandfather, and a young noblewoman standing in the middle of the floor.

"Lady Fujibayashi, please meet Byakuya." His father's voice betrayed his identity, loud and vibrant.

Byakuya closed his eyes and turned his head in disgust.

No, his father did not know of Byakuya's sudden and deep infatuation. Sōjun could not have. Byakuya was sure. Otherwise, to pull him from his chambers and to expose him would have been cruel, and his father was not a cruel man. Not in the slightest.

"Lord Kuchiki," she called and bowed.