Chapter Seven: Slings and Arrows
Panting, gasping breaths fill his ears. It's all he hears. From himself. From her.
"Was it good for you?" she asks, rolling her head to look at him, a wry gleam in her eye. A half-grin sets the line of her mouth crooked.
Sometimes, Byakuya wants to strangle Hisana. He wants to take his hands, put them around her thin column of a neck, feel the beat of her pulse, and—
He stops himself before the next thought changes the color of this feeling from agitation to… want.
It's too late.
Wanting like this is untoward. It is unseemly. It is weakness. He thought physicality might help him master himself.
Alas, it has not.
In fact, physicality has worsened these terrible urges.
It doesn't help that they are sweaty, splayed out on the ground, and disheveled. It also doesn't help that his eyes land on the shelf of her clavicle. An intrusive image enters his head as he watches the beads of sweat begin to pool in the hollow above it. He imagines kissing her there, tasting her, chasing the trails of wetness with his tongue.
He squeezes his eyes shut, inhales a deep breath, and tries as hard as he can to shove this thought down. Desire, like fire, he finds, worsens with air. Now, the sting of want is everywhere, all at once.
He hates her.
If he could, he would sever this feeling. He would cut this weakness out of him with a dull blade, if that's what it took. But, he can't.
He has tried to bloodlessly exile her numerous times. Father will not have it. He suspects neither will Seike.
Father's reasoning is all logic and compassion: She's done nothing wrong. It is shameful to terminate a maid who has, by all accounts, integrated well into the fabric of the staff and would be bad for morale. Letting her go would be especially silly since it has taken so long to find someone suitable for the job, which is also bad for morale.
The implication, then, is that Byakuya is the one at fault. This is a truth that Byakuya can't deny no matter how hard he tries. He is at fault. He's unable to master his feelings, conflicting and terrible as they are whenever his thoughts drift to her.
It didn't start out like this, he thinks. When they met on that autumn day in that sun-drenched room, he thought nothing of her. He should have dismissed her like the others, but he could sense that both Father and Seike had been taken in by her sob story. Father, especially, was always keen on rushing to save others from the slings and arrows of their own making.
It was the poetry, Byakuya thinks. If only she were as daft as she is impertinent, then he would have never requested that she remain his maid.
The day she stopped corresponding with him vexed him. Especially, after she reproduced the missing page from his mother's favorite book of poetry. Foolishly, he thought it was a sign. Even more foolishly, he bestowed upon her a gift. Her reply? Callous rejection.
He should have let it go, then. His arrogance and pride, however, forced him to investigate why she pulled away where others would've sought to reel him closer.
Then, there were the seals that reflected his own knotted reservations better than he could have imagined. She undid them all, no matter how tangled he made them.
Her thoughts that she shared with him on the servant's porch, though, he liked best of all. There was a normalcy to their interactions. She saw him as a peer. Perhaps a dreadful peer, but he wasn't a means to an end or a thing for her to use to curry favor from others. She's also perceptive in a way that he isn't. She understands people and systems. He respects that. He respects it because the irrationality of people deeply confounds him.
If only there was some sense to be found here. He hates this, too. The absence of logic grates on him. She's a mere maid with no connections, no influence, and who has earned no honor or valor for the only name she has.
She is nothing.
So, why does her absence torture him?
"Hey," she says, tapping his chest with the end of her bokken, "you beat me."
Not by a mile, he thinks.
"Shouldn't you be gloating or something?"
Loosening the breath building in his chest, Byakuya stares at the ceiling. "I'm on the floor with you," he reminds her.
"Yeah, but your hit would've been fatal if these weren't—" She pauses, lifting the wooden sword up to her face and flourishing it. "-you know, fake."
"You've landed some fatal blows as well."
"Yeah." She grunts as she sits up. Her legs are stretched in front of her, setting her kosode even more askew. The pale skin of her calves and ankles peeks out, further tempting him to thoughts he wishes weren't there. "But, the only match that ever matters is the last one, right?" she says.
Byakuya rips his attention away from her legs and their shape, thinking it better to focus on her face. This, too, is a mistake, because all he can see is how the collar of her kosode deepens. His gaze traces the outline of one of her breasts through the gap.
Arousal burns him, and he closes his eyes.
"Are you alright?" She leans over him, close enough that he can feel the tide of her breath ghost across his neck. "You look like you're in pain."
That's because he is in pain. Psychic pain. "I'm well enough," he manages.
"You know, you're the one who came here. To the women's dojo."
Of course, she would remind him of this. Not that he blames her. He would crow, too, if she thought to bother him in his training room. She would never do such a thing because she's indifferent to him. This, too, bothers him endlessly.
"You said I was too technical," he reasons.
This is all her fault, isn't it?
"You are too technical," she scoffs. "But, I am failing to see how you thought I'd be able to help you."
"You've been in active combat."
"You assume."
"I know." Yes, he pulled extra files on her at the Academy. She was involved in a skirmish during a purification in the World of the Living. Two of her classmates perished in the attack. By all accounts, she maintained her ground well for her level.
She heaves a heavy breath. "Of course."
"A girl does not make it from Inuzuri to Seireitei without a fight." It's a feign. He doesn't want her to think he actually cared enough to research her Academy days.
Hisana's shadow flickers over him, betraying her unease at this observation. "True." Her tone is somber. "But, you have two family members who are high-ranking officers in the Gotei 13."
He ignores this observation. "Did you leave the manor with Shiba the night of the storm because of your sister?"
This is the question that needled him the night they were trapped in the greenhouse and for the weeks since. Part of him suspects that she might like Shiba. This suspicion is one he finds strangely offensive. It would be unprofessional and wrong for Kaien and her to have a tryst, but Kaien's branch family of the Shiba is… positively barbaric.
"You noticed that?"
"Everyone noticed," he counters a little too quickly. He knows she's smirking at him, but he can't be shamed into retracting the question.
"I doubt anyone but you noticed—"
"Captain Ukitake was the one who mentioned it."
She shifts her weight between her arms keeping her propped up. "Yes. I left with Kaien to tend to a matter involving my sister." Irritation braids her voice. It's the kind of irritation that Byakuya associates more closely with prevarication than that of a complete lie.
"He's practically married, you know."
"Of course, I know." She sighs.
It doesn't sound like she knows about Miyako, specifically; however, she probably suspects a highborn lord like Kaien is promised to someone.
"How is your marriage going?" she digresses abruptly.
"I am not married."
"You know what I mean."
He says nothing. She was right. Partly right. He does not like the process of the omiai. It's artificial. It's uncomfortable. It's… awful.
She's also correct that he does want peace. He also wants someone with whom to build that peace. None of the current candidates, however, inspire anything approaching peace in him. He doesn't understand them. Their language is oily silks, fluttery glances, and well-timed smiles, and he isn't practiced in the dialect of feminine treachery, even if he senses that they wield their beauty with as much skill as he lifts a sword. The sinking feeling of trickery without understanding the mechanics of the trick exhausts him.
Glancing up at Hisana, his heart gives a hard squeeze.
As much as this woman tortures him, he finds comfort in her presence. He doesn't know why. Perhaps it's the impossibility of them as anything more than this, whatever this is. There is safety in impossibility, and safety is as close a substitute to peace as he's been able to find so far.
"Do you have a zanpakutō?" he asks, forcing himself up. His body feels heavy and slow, just like his thoughts.
She shakes her head.
"They didn't give you one at the Academy?"
"I sold it."
There is a tinniness to her voice that strikes Byakuya as hollow. It sounds like a lie. His brows pull together.
Why would she lie about such a thing?
"Figures you wouldn't understand." Her voice drops, sounding bladed, and she gets up.
He suspects that she's misinterpreted his confusion for censure. She's not the only one inclined to such interpretations, either. But, he doesn't know what to do, even as he watches her shoulders rise defensively.
The twilight filtering through the door haloes her in gold, and she stands there, watching him for a long moment. He knows he should say something, but he doesn't know what. He's never been good with words, especially not words that he can't pin down and analyze off a page.
"Good evening, milord."
Then, she is gone.
Her absence is already ringing loudly in his head.