Chapter Ten: Breathing Lessons
Visceral. Hisana feels visceral. Her heart hammers in her chest, so fast, so hard, so heavy. Then, it stops. Breath evaporates from her lungs. Air becomes water, and she sinks, drowning.
Eyes wide, but she sees nothing, only endless blackness. For a moment, she thinks she might be dead. Again.
Then, the tongues of dancing flames puncture the darkness. The fire's warmth beckons her, like an outstretched hand, but, when she reaches out-heart barely beating-the hand retracts, and the memories yank her back.
Back to inky swift water.
Back to the bleakness of a starless sky.
Back to the sensation of water filling her mouth—tasting of salt and decay—before finding her lungs.
She feels weightless. Then heavy. Then weightless.
Then….
Raw panic.
The snapping of embers gnawing through wood sets fire to the veil of memories, and color floods into the room. Soft reds, yellows, and oranges limn the edges of the tables and chairs in the study. Next comes the sensation of her fingernails digging into the flesh of her thighs. Hisana can feel their bite, and she knows she has drawn blood, but it keeps her mind there, in the room, and not spiraling.
A shiver spider-walks down her spine. Then, she feels the wetness of her kimono and the weight of the blanket pulled around her shoulders. Finally, she blinks, a sensation that feels like rubbing sandpaper over her eyes.
Vaguely, she hears two male voices. It sounds like a row, but she can't make out the words. Their tones are too low. They are too far away.
Mostly, her brain doesn't have enough fucks to give.
Then, there is the clicking sound that finished wood makes when it shuts against itself.
"Drink."
Magically, a small cup appears in front of her. It's tea. Green tea. The trail of steam smoking up from the tea feels soothing against her face, and she inhales. Deep breaths. The smell is acidic and pungent, like freshly trimmed grass. She presses her lips to the rim, but she doesn't take a sip. Instead, she stares, seeing but with hazy focus.
Silence, thick and expectant, settles over her. She should drink, the pliant child in her urges. But, she can't. Won't. Maybe isn't even capable. A thick swallow confirms that her throat is cut up, likely from screaming. Long, howling screams. Screams that she does not recall.
So, Hisana sits, thoughts narrowing to the sensation of the cup's heat against her hands. The ceramic burns her palms just enough. Not too much. It's a better tether than cutting her legs with her nails.
"Hisana." It is the Lord Lieutenant's voice that fills her ears. Soft, sweet, and low.
She takes a sip. The tea goes down like shards of glass. She winces, eyes squeezing shut as her throat closes against itself. She tastes blood. Her blood.
"Drink," he says again, clearly reading the pain off her face. "It will get better with each sip."
Her gaze finds his. The fire's light flickers in his gray eyes. There is an intensity to his stare, but it's concern, she thinks, not censure. His brows pull together. Lines crease his forehead, and he kneels at her side.
The weight of his hand on her shoulder is light but comforting, and, it is at this moment, she remembers that the Lord Lieutenant is a father. He is practiced at defusing emotional meltdowns.
A darker part of her, however, cautions her to wait, reminding her that he is the one who fathered the careless boy who nearly ended her life. This part steels her, prepares her for what she imagines comes next: A plea for absolution.
"Words cannot undo the harm," says the Lord Lieutenant.
No, they cannot.
"Actions, however, may ease the wound," he continues.
She can't wait to hear the proposal.
"I promise that you will never have to cross paths with my son." He searches her face.
She stares, unmoved. Part of her wondering if this means she will be stationed elsewhere in the manor. Somewhere farther from her goal.
"There will be no changes to your appointment in the main house, if that's your concern."
The tension in her brows eases, and she exhales a small breath.
"What else?" he asks, hand tightening against her shoulder.
She blinks.
"What am I missing, Hisana? Is there anything else you wish?"
Her gaze drags back to the fire. Even though she is emotionally and physically spent, even though she wants nothing more than to cry and cry and cry until she drowns in a sea of her own tears, even though nothing this man could offer would right the horror that will find her at night now and after, Hisana is not a dumb woman. There is only one thing that she wants right now and that is to end this nightmare of a job.
"I want the keys to the main library and to make use of it as I wish," she rasps through gritted teeth.
"It is yours. I will have a servant make a copy of the keys tonight to be delivered to your room tomorrow morning."
Hisana watches as the Lord Lieutenant leaves her. She watches as the door closes behind him. She watches the door for what feels like a small eternity.
Then, she breaks.
As promised, keys to the library magically appear the next day.
Also, as promised, all traces of Byakuya have practically vanished from her routine. She cannot even feel his reiatsu, which leads her to believe that he has been sent elsewhere for the time being.
Part of her feels relief, sweet and full, like a deep breath of spring air.
Another part of her can only nurse a quiet rage at the thought of what he did.
If he had done this to her in the Rukon, this infraction would have been settled in blood.
But, she has no power here, and, whether she wants to admit it or not, she knows that she is no match. Rukon or no.
For a few quiet weeks, her routine is simple: work then library. When the library is empty, she spends hours searching the indexes of the vast Kuchiki holdings to determine what this infernal painting might look like. Otherwise, she pages through books that catch her interest. Mostly on art. Some on poetry. One on folktales.
When the young lord returns, Hisana is caught unaware. Stupidly, she agreed to take on Shimo's duties when the girl took ill with the flu.
Hisana didn't push back on the task since, well, Byakuya had not been in residence for almost a month. And, they always set his bed at night and store it in the morning regardless of whether he had slept at the manor. So, she accepted, thinking tonight would be more of the same.
Wrong.
Dead wrong.
This realization comes too late. Her arms are full of clean sheets, and she is about to emerge from the servant's passage when her body slams to a stop. She isn't sure what, exactly, set off her internal survival alarms. Maybe it was the scent of cherry blossoms? Or was it the buzzing hum of his reiatsu?
Either way, she is now trapped in the passage, left with only a sliver of space between the door and frame to peer out from. She sees him sitting at his writing desk, wearing a sky-blue kimono.
Almost as instantly as her eyes find him, his right hand, which had been moving down the page in front of him at a quick clip, stops. His back straightens, and his shoulders shift, as if he can feel the burn of her stare.
Maybe he can?
He then glances sidelong at the hidden door to the servant's passage.
He knows she is there, and she rolls her eyes.
The very last thing she wants is to play a round of "wait five hours in a hall the size of a matchbox" for him to leave.
Part of her wants to say 'fuck it,' and crash into his room, complete this task, and leave. What's he going to do? Kill her?
Although….
A pang of worry pelts her heart.
He might be blindingly mad at her. In his overly privileged mind, he might think her the source of his exile, that if not for her, he would not have been censored and inconvenienced.
But, maybe she's getting ahead of herself. Who is to say that he was sent away as punishment? Maybe they enrolled him in some lavish activity just to keep him occupied for a few weeks while she licked her wounds in peace.
Hisana glances through the crack in the door again to find, much to her surprise, that Byakuya has stored his items in his desk, and appears to be leaving the room.
What is this?
She waits a few moments longer just in case. But, when the lordling does not immediately return, she sets to work.
The next week proceeds similarly. Whenever Byakuya senses her, he leaves. There is no game to be played as there once had been in days past.
Hisana appreciates his attempts to adhere to whatever unspoken edict has been handed down from on high, but she isn't sure that becoming anathema to one of the most influential men in Soul Society is particularly great for her longevity. At some point, the leash will slip from his father's hand, and then what? Will time heal whatever damage has been dealt to his ego? Or will she have to look over her shoulder, waiting with bated breath, until the end of her days for him to enact his petty revenge on her?
Just complete the job and get the fuck out of here, she tells herself. Over and over and over again.
Hisana, however, takes solace that Byakuya's adherence isn't malicious. Nor is it particularly cold. Indeed, at times she thinks she sees a somberness that borders on contrition cross his face whenever he leaves.
Maybe that is just wishful thinking on her part.
Probably.
Hisana has never known a noble capable of contrition. Only violence to enact their desires. There is nothing to indicate that Byakuya is any different.
Hisana only hopes the spell holds.
But, she isn't surprised the day it finally gives way.
When it does, the hour is late. Hisana is exhausted and trying her best to balance her weight to the right on a small stepping stool as she wrenches toward a book on temple art depicting hell.
"So close," she mutters under her breath. Her fingertips graze the rough and fraying binding. The book jumps in her hand before crashing to the floor.
Or, so it seems.
When she doesn't hear the clacking of leather skating across floorboards, her breath catches in her throat, and she turns with a jerk, hesitance stiffening her muscles.
"Lord Kuchiki," she greets mildly, watching him with the wide-eyed wariness ordinarily reserved for confrontations with wild animals.
Wordless, Byakuya hands her the book.
Their hands touch for a brief moment, but it is enough to make Hisana jerk away. The skin of her hand feels like it has been soaked in oil before being set aflame.
When his gray stare finds hers, he lifts his chin. Buttery lantern light flickers across his face, but his expression is perfectly smooth and perfectly unreadable.
She searches him, just as intently as he searches her. His eyes glisten, and his lips part.
She braces, heart roaring in her chest. There are so many terrible things that she wants to say to him. So many things that she hadn't the chance to say at the time. All he needs to do is say a word. Her tongue presses to the roof of her mouth, as taut as a strung arrow.
Byakuya closes his eyes and bows his head. His lips press together, and he turns to the door. The door clacks back, and he stops short of the threshold to the room. With a sidelong gaze, his mask breaks, and a furrow appears between his brows. His head dips down as if to wish her a solemn good night, and he disappears.
Hisana collects her books and leaves through the opposite door.
She does not see Byakuya again for the next few days, but, their silent meeting in the library convinced her that he has no interest in taking action against her.
So, she continues undeterred. Each night her search feels more futile than the night before. Despite her best efforts at efficiency, none of the hundreds of indexes has yielded fruitful information.
If only she had a damned informant.
Trudging back to her room, she stops at her door to find a book the size of a cinder block in front of it. Technically, this book could be for one of the other four maids who share the room. It's not, though. The hour is too late. They're all in bed, and Scenes of Hell isn't really something any of the girls would be interested in reading. Truth be told, not even Hisana wants to read this tome, not for pleasure at least. She might have taken the title of the book as a threat had the lordling not seen what book she had struggled mightily to reach before.
And, so begins a strange course of dialogue without either of them actually talking to each other.
Each night, Byakuya selects a book depicting or describing art about the underworld and sets it at her door. She, in turn, selects a book on poetry, marking a specific poem each time, and sets it on his desk whenever she puts out his futon. The acts themselves are safe in their distance, but there is a strange intimacy in trying to find something to communicate just how much he has harmed her without actually telling him in her own words.
Maybe it is for the best.
Especially since the best that she can muster with her own thoughts-whenever they turned to what, exactly, she would tell him if given the chance-is a string of incoherently angry explicatives. The poets put the depths of her anger, her rage, and her disquiet to words far better than she can manage in her fury.
Slowly, the books on hell and the underworld morph into books of folklore, with stories marked for her. All the stories are somber affairs, with themes of contrition and grief. So, she returns the favor by marking stories about retribution and bastards receiving their just deserts.
The circle that they walk by curating their thoughts through the words of others comes to an abrupt end when Yona asks Hisana to fetch the water for the undergardener weeks later. Hisana wants to tell the woman to go fuck herself, but she doesn't. She can't. She knows that she will not find respite if she does not try to work on this fear.
So, she goes. The wooden bucket hangs from the bend in her arm. She knows she needs to start slow. Maybe at an inlet that isn't too deep, where the sounds of rushing water aren't as noticeable.
None exist.
"Hisana."
Never has the sound of her own name inspired the dread and panic that comes from hearing it from Byakuya Kuchiki.
Perhaps it is the task at hand. She was already rankled by confronting the river for a second time. His proximity is only enhancing what she naturally fears.
Perhaps it is the fact that the last time she tried to fetch water, he nearly drowned her. She cannot deny how fresh, how potent her fear becomes when she turns to find him standing only two paces away, dressed in a worn kimono, hair pulled back.
With a flick of the wrist, his zanpakutō slips into its sheath.
Perhaps it is bad timing.
He extends his hand. "I can fetch the water," he says.
Fear grips her, holds her in place, shackled and gagged. All she can do is stare as she fights back the bubble of horror that threatens to break over her.
Without a word from her, Byakuya takes the bucket from her arm. His touch is so light that she barely feels its weight, and he begins in the direction of the river.
"Wait," she says, realizing that avoidance here isn't going to help her in the long run.
He stops in his paces and waits for her. "I can—"
She cuts him off with a shake of her head. "I need to be able to do this."
Byakuya nods his understanding, and they set off toward the river.
Hisana is careful to keep her eyes on him, wary. And, he is careful to keep in step with her, offering her assuaging glances.
She feels like this is a pretext, a feeling that swells the closer they get to the river.
"Somewhere shallow," she says.
He nods again and sets off in the direction of an inlet. "Would you like—" He doesn't finish the question when she nods her head. He hands her the bucket and takes a few steps back.
Hisana kneels at the bank and dips the bucket into the cool water. Deep, even breaths center her. And, when the feeling of wanting to die becomes too great, she pulls back and stops.
In. Out. In. Out.
She leans forward, placing her left hand into the grass and using her arm as leverage when she dips the bucket into the river. It all seems to be going well until crippling panic sets in. Her heart stops, and her lungs freeze, forgetting how to breathe.
Blackness interspersed with flashes of memories overtakes her. She feels the river's cold current. She feels the water as it floods into her mouth. She feels her lungs squeezing violently to pull air, not fluid. She feels her body sinking. Down. Down. Down. The flickering of light at the surface dims until there is only darkness. One memory—stark and horrible—stops her heart. It's the weight of another in her arms. A baby. Only a few months old. It's her sister. Hisana sees the babe's fluff of dark hair, how she peers out from her swaddle, not aware of the danger that finds them. The baby is so light, so gentle, so innocent. But, Hisana cannot hold her when the flood hits them. She cannot keep her. She cannot….
"Hisana."
Breaths finally come. Short and gasping. And, she turns to the sound of her name, blinking, hoping it will clear her vision.
"Hisana!"
The heat of a hand pressing her palm to the prickles of bark gives her a line in the dark.
"Breathe," he says, and she feels him squeeze her other hand, as if he thinks he can yank her mind back through sheer force of will.
Whatever he is doing, seems to work. The haze of memories abates to reveal the verdant greens of trees and grass.
"Deep breaths," he continues. "Do you feel that?" he asks, pressing her hand to his chest, fast against where his heart beats.
Syncopation.
She feels time grow ordered, marching with each of his heartbeats, and her heart follows suit, keeping time with his.
He leans close to her. She can smell the sweetness of his skin, the scent of cherry blossoms and tea and musk. She can feel the heat of his body and the flex of muscles in his shoulder. She can taste the tin of blood. She can hear the faint sounds of birdsong mixing with the draw of hard breaths.
When the horror loosens its grip, what comes next is immense sorrow and shame. A sob builds in her chest, but she shoves it back.
Her eyes search Byakuya. She is expecting impassivity, or worse, a rictus of cruelty. What she finds is concern. His brows are knit together, and he braces her with one hand against her shoulder, and, with his other hand, he keeps her hand pressed to his chest.
The steady beat of his heart helps her keep time, keeps her there, keeps the memories away.
Wearily, she presses her forehead to his and closes her eyes.
He shifts against her, taking her in his arms, and pulls her close.
The heat of him quiets the jangling of her nerves. Tears sting her eyes. Pushing it back this time isn't enough, but she keeps the sob off her lips.
"I hate you Byakuya Kuchiki," she says, voice a tangled mess, the words breathy and hollow.
His grip on her tightens. "I know." But, he does not let go. He stays with her in the thicket, kneeling at her side, until everything stills.
The sun has fallen to the horizon line, when she trudges back to the manor, alone.
Yona waits for her near the entrance closest to the west wing. "Where have you been?"
Hisana does not flinch, does not even slow in her paces. "The young lord has your water."
"What?"
"Tell the undergardener to get his own fucking water next time." With that, Hisana fills her arms with clean covers and sheets, and is off to the young lord's room.
The act of stripping the futon and setting it has become so perfunctory, so engrained in the muscle memory of her body, that she loses all sense of time. When the last cover is on the bed, the haze melts away and she stands, unable to remember how any of it happened.
With a heavy sigh, Hisana piles the old covers and sheets in her arms and turns to the small writing desk. She hasn't the book nor the passage that she chose earlier in the day to set down in her usual place. Which, maybe, is all well and good given the course of the day's events. She thinks she would probably want to select another story, one a little less violent, a little less horrible, where no one's family is murdered and skinned and fed to them in retribution.
Her eyes skim the desktop to find a scattering of papers. Letters, to be exact. She bends down to see which noblewoman has occupied his family's attention today.
What she finds turns her blood to slush.
It's a letter to her. Letters to her. Drafts, actually, judging by the edits and margin notes that state his intent more plainly than the formality of the body of the letter would suggest him capable of.
Hisana shifts the weight of the bedding to one arm, and, like a moth to a flame, her fingertips find the paper. Lightly, they graze the edits that betray a tangling of thoughts.
He is contrite, but every attempt at an apology is scribbled out. There are numerous attempts, all such pretty words with such handsome penmanship, a whole sheet's worth. Yet, he knows an apology could only assuage his guilt while burdening her with the expectation of accepting this act as a gift.
It is no gift, and she would not hesitate to deny him the privilege of selfish comfort.
But, she's not completely heartless, even as much as she would like to tear that organ out of her chest and bury it in the ground.
Hisana flips one of the drafts over, and, with hasty strokes far less handsome than his, she proposes a midnight meeting at the lavender wall in the garden.
She does not actually expect him to come. She has no idea what his schedule for the evening entails, but she is usually pretty tired by midnight, and maybe a walk through the garden would put her in better spirits before bed.
And, so, she finishes her duties and then retires to the library for more aimless searching. At the stroke of midnight, she wanders to the lavender wall, so named because of the sprawling lavender that wreathes the area.
She sits on a long two-sided bench and stares back at the manor, beautifully lit with lanterns. The garden wall glows golden, and, when one of the attendants slides back the storm shutters, Hisana can see inside one of the large entertaining rooms, where a large party is gathered inside. Faint sounds of drunken tongues and laughter reach her in the garden, and she grins.
Nobles aren't so different, at least when they are full of drink and food.
Then, she feels a light tug at her back. The skin on her shoulders prickles, and she gazes sidelong to find that she is not alone.
Hisana wonders how long he has been there, sitting on the opposite side of the bench. Surely, the brush of his sleeve against hers was intentional. But, the moment she smells the sweetness of cherry blossoms, she knows he just arrived.
"You came," she says, voice low, soft.
Silence is quick to fill the space between them.
Her gaze flicks back to the merrymaking at the manor. "Shouldn't you be at the party?"
The rustle of silk against the weathered back of the bench sounds sweet. "No," he says.
"Aren't your father and grandfather there?"
"Grandfather left after the introductions, and Father is at the division."
She glances over her shoulder, but it is of no use. All she can see is his shoulder and the fall of his raven hair. "I didn't mean to—"
"You didn't."
Hisana shifts uncomfortably, not quite sure what to make of his response as she wasn't even sure where she was going with her thought. After a long moment, she tries again. "So, it's a rescue mission, then?"
A small snort sounds behind her, and she smiles. Probably, her first real smile in weeks.
"What lady are we avoiding tonight?" she teases.
"Nobuko."
"Oh, Lady Nobuko from the esteemed Nobuko family."
"Nobuko is her first name."
"Oh." Hisana chuckles, tension eeking from her chest. A sideways glance reveals that he, too, is grinning and looking back at her. "And, what is the lady's fatal flaw tonight?"
"She seems more taken with Haru."
"The attendant?" Hisana twists in her seat, eyes wide, breath stuck in her lungs. "Stop."
He gives a small nod.
"Stop."
"It's true."
"No."
His shoulders lift in the barest of shrugs.
"What did you do to her?"
"Me?" He gapes.
"Yeah. A woman doesn't come to Kuchiki manor with hopes of marrying the future heir only to settle for the help."
"You sound like Auntie."
"Maybe Auntie has some points. Driving proper young women into the arms of the help… tsk, tsk." She clucks her tongue at him.
He chuckles under his breath. "I'm pretty sure they've known each other for a while."
"What?" Hisana's breath leaks from her like air escaping a deflating balloon. "No."
He nods, eyes averting to the lavender, as if to say, 'it can't be helped.'
"What a choice," she says, flabbergasted.
"You sound scandalized."
"I am. Wasting time with the help. Tsk. Tsk."
He cuts her a pointed look, but he doesn't say it. He would've said it before, she thinks. He would've said in his haughtiest of tones that she's the help and he's here with her. Which is sort of her point.
He shouldn't be wasting time with her, either. And, maybe if he hadn't wasted so much time bothering her, she wouldn't want to strangle him so badly.
But, he doesn't tease her.
And, for some strange reason, this rare demonstration of restraint irritates her more than him calling her 'the help' ever would have. It shows growth. Which is scary. Because it means something between them has changed. And, she doesn't like it.
Not one bit.
His impertinence held her at a distance, as if he said the obvious often and loud enough—that she was his lesser in every way—maybe it made it so. Or, at least they could pretend it made it so. It was a barrier, and she likes her barriers. They keep her protected.
However, without the stinging lash of elitism between them, there is nothing fixed and terrible keeping them at a distance. And, that nothingness suddenly feels perilous. It suddenly feels a whole lot like intimacy.
Hisana hates intimacy. Hates it on a molecular level. Intimacy is the gateway drug to creating bonds, and there is nothing she wants less than to be bonded with or to someone or something. It is a weight she refuses to bear.
So, she reaches for her rage, her hatred of what he did, what he is capable of doing. But, this fire, once so boiling and consuming, has simmered to a guttering flame.
Yes, she is still angry at him. No, she will not forgive him nor will she forget. But…. She's worked through worse betrayals and survived. A hard life necessitates a degree of emotional forgetfulness, and survival requires a ruthless and fixed gaze on the horizon, on What Comes Next. Such a life doesn't grant you the privilege of glancing backward at the monsters snapping at your heels, or, worse yet, stopping to contemplate your damage too deeply.
"You're supposed to say I'm the help and make some terribly cutting jibe about that fact," she says finally, hoping these words will burn her as much as they do him.
He turns away from her.
She does the same, gaze flying to the party still lighting up the manor's halls.
Silence snakes around them. It is heavy, but not bitter. There is a loneliness to the quietness that comes. It is a stinging sort of sadness that not even the chirps and croaks of crickets and frogs can turn pleasant.
"I don't hate you," she admits, quietly.
"You don't?" he says, voice oddly brighter than she is anticipating.
Fucking hope.
She sighs, defeated. "No."
"I would," he says.
"Well, that makes me a better person." She glances over her shoulder. "No surprises there."
His head hangs far lower than it should. "I want to apologize, but-"
"I won't accept it."
"I know."
Hisana rolls a loose thread between her index finger and thumb, eyes glued to the stones making up the pathway.
"I didn't—" he begins, but stops short. "I wouldn't have—" he tries again, but loses heart. "I care for you."
This isn't making her feel any better. In fact, she kind of wants to punch him in that noble face of his.
"I like you," he adds, head still hung low, as if he has just waved the white flag of defeat.
She really wants to tell him that she doesn't like him. The words are there, burning hot and venomous on her tongue. But, she holds them back because they aren't true. She likes him, too. In a weird and completely platonic way. Like an annoyingly handsome and arrogant and terrible… something…. Not brother. That would be weird. But like… friend.
Yeah, friend.
Oh, gods, she doesn't want friends.
One look at Byakuya tells her that he, too, does not particularly like this development, either. Common ground, at least, she thinks.
They can both be not-friends friends together. Like begrudgingly friendly. But, no strings. No attachments. Not-friends friends.
Ugh.
She heaves a sigh and sinks into the back of the wooden bench.
This, too, is a mistake. The moment her spine presses into the coarse wooden planks, she also feels flesh and heat, and it feels warm and nice and comforting. And….
She hates him, she decides.
Like lightly hates him. In a way that she can't describe without risking that he takes it the wrong way.
"I understand if—"
Before he can finish, she stops him with a, "I like you, too. Sort of. With conditions. Many conditions."
She catches him glancing back at her, a small grin tugging a corner of his mouth up. His gray eyes are calm, tranquil, almost. There is a glimmer of hope in them, and she really wants to pluck it out and beat him with it.
"What are those conditions?"
"Well, first, don't look at me in that dumb way."
"Got it," he says, averting his gaze to the lavender.
"And, no touching."
"Understood."
"No trying to attack me in the dojo or the garden or wherever."
"Obviously."
"No shoving me into rivers."
The good humor drains from his face at this request, and he lowers his head. "Yes."
"And no kissing."
His brows lift, and his gaze slides back to her. "Presumptuous."
"Oh, you know you've thought about it," she teases, fully expecting him to jab back at her silliness.
Silence.
She stares at him.
Waiting.
Fully expecting him to tease her back.
When he doesn't, mortification fills her, like she might have just stepped on a landmine.
"No kissing," he says finally.
She releases a heavy breath. "And you have to fetch the water for the undergardener for me."
He grins at this. "Naturally."
"And you?" she asks.
"Me?"
"Do you have conditions?"
He stops to think, then shakes his head.
She chuckles at him, happy to have the weight of spite off her. At least, for a minute.
Byakuya opens his mouth to say something but is swiftly interrupted by the sound of two people crashing through the garden.
In an instant, both he and she hide behind a small retaining wall and peer out to see who has stumbled upon them.
"Is that Haru?" whispers Hisana, struggling to make out the man a little distance away through the foliage.
"And Lady Nobuko," he whispers back.
Hisana's eyes widen as she trades stares with Byakuya. Neither of them moves as they look on to see the two lovers drunkenly traipsing through the camellias. Her hands are twined in his short hair. His mouth is angled over hers. They kiss. Messy, quick kisses, the kind that looks to be more saliva than lips.
Hisana puts a hand to her mouth, and, shocked, stares back at Byakuya, who is clearly plotting a path out of the garden without the lovers seeing them.
Not that it matters, Hisana thinks. They are too deep in the thick of slurping down each other's faces to notice her or Byakuya.
"Come," whispers Byakuya. He reaches to take her hand but stops short.
No touching.
His fingers then lightly tug at her sleeve, and they are off.
Once they are inside the manor, they both burst into laughter. Gasping, breathless laugher. Like children.
"I can't believe it," says Hisana, trying her hardest to shove down the chuckle bubbling in her chest.
"I told you," he says, angling his head to peek out from the drawn door and into the garden.
Hisana traces the line of his gaze. "Oh, goodness!" The couple's passionate display can be seen from the engawa. "What bad positioning."
"Byakuya."
Both Hisana and Byakuya jerk toward the sound of a woman's voice. A stern woman's voice.
Standing outside one of the doors to the festivities is a middle age woman. She is thin, with threads of gray running through her raven hair, and she wears the patented Kuchiki stare, frosty, determined, and capable of leveling lesser men.
"Who is she?" The woman examines Hisana with an exacting look.
"A friend, Auntie," says Byakuya, straightening, almost defensively.
"A friend." The woman frowns. "And where is Lady Nobuko?"
Byakuya presses his lips together in a vain attempt at smothering a grin. "The lady has been detained in the garden." His head lists in the direction of the open door.
Auntie straightens before sweeping over to the door. One quick look is all it takes for her already cold demeanor to turn to permafrost. "I see. Well, that is unfortunate." She draws the door shut. "That is all, Byakuya. I hope you and your friend have an evening."
An evening. No adjective.
Hisana wants to laugh.
What a bitch.
"Good night, Auntie."
