Disclaimer: Byakuya, Hisana and all other characters from Bleach belong to "Tite" Kubo and the other various entities involved with the production of the manga and anime. I do not profit from this piece, nor is any copyright infringement intended by it. Additionally, the song, "Whiskey Lullaby," was composed by Bill Anderson and John Randall and recorded by Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss. I do not own this either.
A/N: I think Byakuya is a little OOC in this one... sorry about that.
Normally, Byakuya did not drink. It dulled the senses, slowed reaction time and generally made one do things they would regret come morning.
This night was the one time he made an exception.
This night was the one time he needed to escape; the one time each year he needed to forget everything.
The one night he was able to feel . . .
This year, the anniversary of her death affected him more than ever before, nearly as much as the day she was taken from him. Though months had passed since the incident, the memory of her execution and the events leading to it still played vividly in his mind. She had not died that day—that ryoka boy, Ichigo Kurosaki, had seen to that.
The boy should not have had to intervene. Byakuya should have done more, petitioned Central 46 more vehemently, fought the verdict he knew in his heart to be unjust. He was the one who had sworn to protect the girl. Yet, he did not, bound by his own misguided sense of duty. Not until the plot to destroy the Soul Society from within was revealed.
That day, as he lay bleeding on the ground, he confessed everything to the girl that called him "brother." He had asked for her forgiveness. She had given it.
Somewhere, he knew the woman he loved, the one he lost to the ravages of time, forgave him as well.
He still could not forgive himself.
He did not bother with a dish, or even a flask. Tipping the bottle, he poured the dry sake into his mouth, ignoring the burning sensation he felt as the liquid fell down his throat like rain. He drank until the bottle was dry. Then, with unsteady legs, he staggered to the cabinet for another, collapsing to the floor once it was in his hands.
Sometime between the end of the second bottle and the beginning of the third, he managed to stumble over to the shrine he kept in his quarters and removed her picture. He cradled the visage of his late wife in his free hand, taking another swig between glances at the portrait.
"I failed you, my love," he whispered, his words jumbled and slurred. "I didn't protect her like I promised I would. And I told her about you."
The bottle found his lips again and he took another long drink. "It's not what you wanted. I'm sorry."
Deep violet eyes stared back at him from behind the glass. She would not say anything. She never did. All he would ever see was that smile; the soft, sad smile he knew better than his own reflection.
Suddenly, Byakuya felt terribly empty—cold, sick and alone. Falling onto his side, he fought the waves of nausea, knocking over the bottle and spilling what remained of the sake onto the tatami mats lining the floor. He drew the frame close to his chest as he sank in to the blackness.
He was still holding her picture when he awoke, dizzy and disoriented, the next morning—in a bed in the Squad Four medical center. Looking around, he saw Rukia curled in a chair in the corner of the room, sleeping soundly despite the bustle of the hospital.
He glanced down at the photo in his hand, stroking the pad of his thumb across the smooth grain of the wooden frame.
Funny . . . it was he who was supposed to protect her.
Thanks for reading!