Year One: Winter
Byakuya sits at his writing desk. His back is ramrod straight. His eyes are rooted to the book of poetry sitting open on his desk. His mind, however, is anywhere but in that room.
Worries soar through his head like a swarm of bees. Then, this figurative swarm rushes into his chest, invading every chamber, before stinging him everywhere, all at once, heart included. He hates this.
He hates waiting.
Winter's snow and ice have gripped the city for nearly two months straight, trapping him inside and under a mountain of silks. When he is feeling particularly on edge, he will force himself to go to one of the dojos and practice kidou. Fire kidou. Even then…. He doesn't last long. The cold's teeth gnaw at his flesh before ripping into his bones in no time flat.
The Sixth's dojos are better suited for winter practice, having been outfitted with modern heating systems. Those dojos are full of officers during the day since the wintry conditions have made the outdoor training areas impractical. Byakuya, however, is not an official member of the division yet and cannot claim priority over a working officer.
So, he studies.
Or, rather, he pretends to study.
Byakuya glances over his shoulder, lips pressed together. The mail should be here any moment, now. He can feel it in his heart.
He heard several servants stirring outside his door. Their socked feet padding through one of the servants' passages is what initially urged him to go still. Then, there was the swooshing sound of a wintry gust blasting through one of the exterior doors as it slid open. This sent another round of servants scurrying through the halls. Lastly, he thinks he heard the warm tones of the courier announcing his bounty.
Surely, there must be something for him, he thinks, his focus narrowing to the gap between the door leading into the main hall and its wooden casing.
His lips pull to the side, and his stare deepens.
If only he could manifest his desire into being through sheer willpower alone, he would.
"My lord," calls Maejima, his bowed silhouette darkening the silk inserts of the door's latticework.
"Yes," answers Byakuya, turning his gaze to his desk. "Speak your purpose."
"Correspondence, milord."
"Enter."
Maejima movements are surprisingly spry for a man in his later years. He crosses the threshold with practiced proficiency. The servant is careful not to loom too large and to approach with as much silence as he can muster.
Byakuya extends his arm, his eyes trained on the attendant's shadow flickering across the wall. Once he feels the weight of paper against his palm, his hand closes.
"Good evening, milord," Maejima murmurs before departing as efficiently as he entered.
Byakuya cards through the envelopes. Trapped between an invitation to a play debuting this spring and an official transmittal from his cousin, the head of one of the major Kuchiki branch families, is the letter, the one that he has been waiting three days to read.
The paper of the envelope is a ghastly hue of yellow, and its stock is far too thick to be considered fine. The envelope's flap does not possess an official seal or a family sigil; instead, it is secured with glue. The handwriting on the front is choppy but neat, which is probably a feat given the poor quality of the ink.
And, yet, as soon as he plucks the letter from the envelope, all these faults—the poor quality stock, the thickness of the dried ink, the hasty penmanship—pull away like a tide dragging wilted seaweed into the ocean. His heart swells. His mind fills with words.
Her words.
There are two pages. A rare treat, indeed. He considers himself fortunate to receive thoughts that span half the page. Sometimes all she manages is a line of poetry.
His eyes narrow at the second page. Its weight and color are… appropriate… comely even. He's tempted to read the letter out of sequence, but he stays himself. Perhaps Hisana has learned to appreciate the fine art of preamble? Oh, how he does enjoy a good overture.
Dear Lord Byakuya,
Today, I am almost 2,061 days from graduating. All of the kidou classes were suspended last week when the generators broke from the cold and could no longer heat the training rooms. The masters gave us the time that would have been spent in class to study and work on our other assignments.
You probably don't know this (because I never bothered to tell you), but my elective this year is Calligraphy 101, which is taught by Captain Aizen. Our final project is to produce a meaningful verse for the captain's critique. I spent all last week during the outage trying to perfect this piece.
Enclosed is the best version that I could manage for your amusement and your amusement alone.
With the deepest affection,
H
Byakuya turns to the next sheet, and his heart rankles at what he finds.
Hisana.
She reproduced the linked verses from the missing page in his mother's book of poetry. She had given him this gift once before, when she was in service to his house as a maid. It had meant so much to him then.
Too much.
It meant the world.
Then, her gift went missing after he….
Pain smokes through him as he recalls the misdeed that drove Hisana to take the gift back. At least, he assumes that is what happened. She probably destroyed it. Shredded it. Burned it. Buried it among the blossoms. He never inquired. He had enough shame not to demand her kindness after that night in the women's training dojo, where he had nearly assaulted her and then lashed out at her, insulting her in every way that he could fathom.
His conduct had been deplorable. He had been deplorable. Worst of all, there is nothing that can undo the damage. The rift that he caused between them feels as wide and as permanent as the islands that have decoupled from their continents.
Byakuya stares into the gift now held between his hands. It is beautiful. She captures the ephemeral essence of those springtime poems with deftness. Her calligraphy has improved greatly from the prior efforts that she shared with him earlier this winter. Hisana has even drawn and painted a lovely branch of wisteria at the corner of the page.
Byakuya sets the letter down and closes his eyes.
The beauty of her gift pales in his grief, torturing him.
He wishes he could explain himself to her. He wishes he could tell her that he hadn't meant what he did, that he was afraid, that he was stupid, that she was right, that he wanted her that night.
He wants her still.
This fact frightened him then, and it continues to frighten him. Wanting is weakness. Infatuation is weakness. Love is weakness.
These are the lessons that his family has paid a king's ransom to impart to him. Family, duty, law, rules, principles—these are the only true things. These are his bonds, his anchors, his foundation. Love is fickle. Love is quicksand. Love is nothing. Empires are not built upon love. They are built upon the strong fortifications of ruthless discipline, domination, and exploitation.
And yet….
These things leave him cold and alone when what he wants is to reach out and have someone reach back.
She has reached for him, and she has reached him. Not with swords. Not through violence. Not with the spilling of blood. She might as well, though, for he lies defeated at her feet.
He wishes he possessed the easiness to tell her this directly. He wishes he could be open. He thinks that she would appreciate such directness.
If he could, he would tell her that he would never ask for her forgiveness because he cannot forgive himself. He would tell her that he wants her. He wants her terribly. He thinks he wants her in a way that she may not want him, and that he does not mean to sway her from her indifference.
He loves her.
Perhaps he had not loved her then, in the dojo, but he loves her now. He loves her with his whole heart. He wishes he could tell her this, too. Just so that she knows that she's loved.
All of this, however, is too much. He's too much. Has always been too much. He can't express himself in this way. It is unseemly. He doesn't wish to burden her under the weight of perceived expectation.
He has no such expectation. If anything, he expects her to flee from such confessions. He surely has in the past, when the women thrust upon him by his family confessed feelings that he couldn't fathom in his wildest dreams reciprocating.
He doesn't want her to flee. He doesn't want to lose her. He can't lose her.
She feels like a thread in the dark, a thread to his humanity. It's a delicate and fragile thing that he does not wish to break. So, he will hold his tongue and swallow his wants with the hope that he does not further damage the connection between them.
Byakuya separates two blank sheets of paper and sets them in front of him, side by side. On one sheet of paper, he will write out all the confessions that he feels most passionately with the hope that, once digested, these passions will no longer hound him. He will then burn this evidence of his heart.
On the other blank page, he will respond to her letter. He will comment on her improvement, and he will tell her about the banal happenings in his life, and he will leave her with a poem that he hopes can better convey his heart than plain-speaking ever could. It will all be very formal, very dignified, very restrained.
She will know his heart only if she parses the words very carefully. And even then, she will be able to convince herself that she is merely chasing ghosts.
Byakuya starts with honesty. Every single horrible thought that he has ever held toward her fills the page. He writes of the selfishness of his struggle to accept his attraction and how the agony of such a feeling felled him. He writes of his desire, both spiritual and carnal. He tells her that he loves her and that he would do anything for her, anything at all, and that he must make amends for his past offenses, this letter included.
The second letter is laconic, almost academic. The language is nearly impenetrable in its pretentiousness, which mutes the limited praise that he offers for her art. He does not mention his admiration, his passion, or his love for her. He does not reveal a single intimacy, including his thoughts that wander to baser urges, like wanting to feel her skin, to feel her body caged beneath his, to hear her cry out his name, to unite with her in every possible way.
He ends the letter with a poem by Saigyo:
The spring wind
Scattering blossoms
I saw it in a dream
But when I awoke the sound
Was still rustling in my breast.
"My lord," calls Maejima from behind the door, "your presence is requested in the Wavering Willow room."
Byakuya tenses. "I will be there in a moment."
With a heavy heart, he folds both letters on his desk and gathers himself. Once he opens the door, Maejima stands to greet him.
"Is the lady's retinue here?" asks Byakuya drily.
"Yes, milord. Do you wish—"
Byakuya raises a hand. "No."
What he wishes is that Lady Shimazu had enough sense not to impose on his family in this way, especially since this is their fifth meeting. Then, he frowns at the realization that tonight marks the fifth time that his family has forced her company upon him.
His family is fixated on her. His aunties have sung about the auspiciousness of her family line to Grandfather and Father. They have tried to do the same for his benefit, but he always turns them away.
Lady Shimazu's uncle, as his aunts would have them believe, is supposedly among one of the greatest swordsmen to still draw breath. This fact appeals to Grandfather's desire to strengthen the family's bloodline, which, in turn, appeals to Father's desire to end all discourse relating to marriage.
None of this bodes well for Byakuya, of which he is acutely aware. His usual indifference has not deterred the lady's ambitions in the slightest, and his family has never been sympathetic to his wishes or his disdain.
A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him that the families will propose a trial marriage soon, where the lady will live at the estate for a period until she comes to the conclusion that being his wife is the worst fate that could ever befall her or until he storms into a family meeting and threatens violence or separation or both.
He will not consent to such a marriage. Not now. Maybe not ever. Accordingly, he must prepare himself for the consequences of refusal. He thinks it unlikely that the family will exile him given his talents in the spiritual arts, but they can and will make his life a living hell, a fate that he finds preferable to that of having his inner sanctum permanently invaded by someone he loathes.
Rounding the corner, he catches a rare glimpse of the lady leaning into the whispered confidence of one of her handmaidens.
Upon seeing him, the handmaiden pulls away and returns to the sea of attendants waiting near the door. The lady, however, keeps her focus trained on the handmaiden and nods as if to signal her intention.
A chill snakes up Byakuya's spine at the sight of this display. He slows in his paces, his gaze drifting to Maejima.
Maejima immediately responds with a soft, "Yes, milord?"
"Who is she?" Byakuya's gaze narrows to the handmaiden, a slender woman with dark, cold eyes.
"Akemi Hishiro, the lady's closest confidant. Is milord interested in calling upon her tonight? I can request that a room be set," Maejima states in a tone so dispassionate that Byakuya could have mistaken his offer as one for tea.
Maejima, however, isn't offering to send for tea. He is offering to arrange a dalliance, a fact that disquiets Byakuya. How many times must Maejima have been asked to do this very thing by members of the Kuchiki family, no less?
Maejima is quick to respond with a smirk. "Such is a common request, milord," he murmurs, voice placating as if perhaps he is taking pity on Byakuya's naivete.
"With handmaidens?" whispers Byakuya, sounding just about as scandalized as he feels.
Maejima grins. "With anyone, milord."
Oh… no….
Byakuya swallows thickly at the realization that Maejima must believe him to be besotted with another. But how?
The letters….
His eyes widen, panic swooping in his chest. Frantically, his brain runs through every letter he has written to or received from Hisana. She never signs them with her full name. The stationary that she uses are plain, ugly things, but perhaps that is what marks the letters as unique. There is never a seal or a return address.
What about his letters? He never uses his family kamon so as to spare Hisana from her classmates' idle prattle. Nor does he use a return address. He does refer to her by her given name; however, he never sends his letters through the House. No, Byakuya is wise enough not to underestimate his aunts and their penchant for interfering in his personal affairs.
"Is milord tempted to inquire?" asks Maejima.
"Let us discuss after," Byakuya's voice trails as he looks down the hall, "this."
Maejima nods approvingly. "Good."
"Lord Byakuya," chirps the lady as he nears. Once he is a stone's throw away, she gives him a deep, submissive bow.
Byakuya frowns then acknowledges her with a pointed, "Lady Shimazu."
She pales a little at his formality and glances back at her retinue for comfort. "I am endlessly grateful for your invitation tonight."
"My family would extend similar well-wishes if they were here."
With a sly look, Maejima slides open the door to the room and bows. "Milord."
Byakuya crosses over the threshold first.
He hates this room. The fusuma is hideous. Its colors are watery and muted. They remind him of mud. Then, there is the subject of the lighting. The harsh overhead lamps turn the tatami an unfortunate shade of light green, which calls to mind the night that one of his potential suitresses became violently ill.
At this thought, his gaze flits to the servant's door. A small grin thins his lips. After the suitress had excused herself that night, Hisana had emerged from the servants' passage with cleaning supplies in hand and with a wry gleam in her eye. She had shown him how to escape the room shortly after.
How he wishes he could escape now.
What was the poison that Hisana had mentioned? The one used to induce vomiting? Was it ipecac? He thinks it was ipecac.
"What thought possesses my lord so thoroughly?" asks the lady, voice light and tittering.
"Nothing," he replies cooly and drops his gaze to the tea bowl set in front of him.
It's empty.
With a sigh, he leans forward and takes the teapot by the handle. It is custom for the lady to fill his cup then hers. He guesses that Lady Shimazu has never occasioned to fill her own cup let alone the cup of another. Perhaps this is a trait shared among all young highborn women. Not that Byakuya can compare, as the servants typically have seen to the first pour, and he has never stayed in the Wavering Willow room long enough to have a need for a second.
Lady Shimazu flutters when she realizes the faux pas. Once he fills her cup, the fluttering ceases, and she smiles. "My father sometimes pours the tea for my mother. She said such acts demonstrate his admiration for her."
"I merely desired tea," says Byakuya, eager to correct her assumption.
"What tea cultivar, my lord?" she says, expression bright.
He stares at her for a long moment, annoyed that she expects him to respond to this trifling question. "I could call upon one of the servants if you require a recommendation."
"Oh." Her brows raise. "I take it that my lord is not a connoisseur of tea."
He sets his cup down and glances back at the door. Shadows flicker across the silk inlays, but the hallway is too dim for him to make out any particular attendant's figure. He assumes that her chief confidant is listening intently, ready to provide guidance should the lady require it.
"How was my lord's day?" the lady tries again.
"Well enough."
"My lord appears to be diverted. I hope the diversion is a happy one."
"It isn't," he says with a sigh and takes another sip.
"Would my lord prefer us to go elsewhere? Somewhere that may make him easier?"
Byakuya peers over his shoulder at the panel that hides the passage to the servant's porch. "No."
"I have it on good authority that my lord loves nightly walks."
"It is far too cold to enjoy the evening air tonight."
Ignoring his protest, the lady continues, "I, too, am fond of strolling under the cover of stars."
"I prefer to take my walks in solitude."
Lady Shimazu's smile stiffens. "It seems that my lord spends a great deal of time in his own company."
"If not in my own company, where else would I be?" he chides her.
Her head tucks down, and she exhales a heavy breath. "I mean to say that my lord appears to prefer his own company exclusively."
"Not at all. I prefer my own company only to that of certain others."
She nods, her smile lengthening. "My lord is selective, then."
Byakuya stifles the urge to grimace by gulping down the remainder of his tea, ignoring the bracing sting of its heat.
"How does one become a person with whom my lord happily associates?" she asks.
"Having use."
Her smile tightens into a rictus. "I have many good uses, my lord. I can sing, dance, and play the shamisen. I can paint and write poetry." Hope burns bright in her eyes that he will find one of these traits worthy of admiration.
"Your uncle is a swordsman of great renown. Did you also attend the Academy?"
Her face immediately shutters. "No, my lord. My father was very insistent that I keep my sweetness."
"I do not find use in sweet things, Lady Shimazu."
She swallows hard. "If not sweetness, then what things bring my lord pleasure?"
"Things that burn," he answers, voice bladed.
"I see," she says, smile fading once more.
Again, his attention shifts to the door, and he sighs.
"My lord's passions appear elsewhere engaged."
His jaw clenches, but he does not protest her observation. Perhaps he should.
"I have a lover as well," she confesses. Her tone pitches high, breathy.
It sounds like a lie. Like a trap. But, his gaze snaps to her all the same.
Lady Shimazu bites her lip. "I assume you do as well. I assume that he or she is the one who diverts your passions so forcefully from me."
He doesn't believe that she has a lover. This feels like a ploy. "If you have taken a lover, then why are sitting here with me?"
She shrugs. "I cannot marry him. He is of low birth, and my family has found an opportunity with yours. Also, becoming the Lady of a Great Noble House is far more than he could ever hope to offer."
"How callous you must be to regard a lover with such malignant indifference."
Lady Shimazu lifts a brow. "Lovers come and go. My lord isn't so inexperienced in such matters as to have come to a different conclusion."
"I don't take lovers," he says forcefully.
Her eyes widen, and the hollows of her neck deepen. "You've never—"
"No."
This is a lie, but only in part.
Byakuya was, perhaps, taken as a lover by one of his mentors decades ago. He had been a willing participant in the carnality that ensued, welcoming the experience and relishing its exploration. Such conduct, however, is typical among masters and students. Some consider it to be an essential part of one's training.
Either way, sex did little to change the fundamental nature of that relationship, and, even at the time, Byakuya would no sooner have called a raven a writing desk than he would have called his mentor his lover. Such recklessness probably would have earned him a blade to the gut or worse.
It is unlikely that Lady Shimazu knows of this history. His family probably assumes that he eventually succumbed to the charms of one of his many tutors. According to his family's canon, all of his predecessors had received similar educations.
"Am I left to assume that my lord has never enjoyed the tenderness of another?" she asks, her face softening, lips parting, gaze going liquid.
He thinks she means to seduce him with this look. He, however, is not so easily moved. "Your assumptions are your own to make. Far be it from me to deter you."
She stares at him, mouth agape, confusion wrinkling her brow. "Then, the story about the maid who served your family a few seasons ago was only conjecture?"
Byakuya's jaw locks. Of course, his family would find a way to weaponize this bond. How crass of them to divulge it to the lady so that she might raise it against him.
The desire to lash out at her possesses him, but he shoves it back. If he indulges this inclination, he knows that there will be consequences. And, while he would gladly suffer those consequences, he knows that his family will turn their fangs on Hisana as a means to affect him. This seems to be the gauntlet that they have thrown down.
Inhaling a deep breath, Byakuya lifts his head and steadies his heart. "The maid was a friend," he replies soberly. "A very good and dear friend." He then stands and begins his way to the door.
"Lord Kuchiki!" cries Lady Shimazu, tears wetting her eyes. "I didn't mean—"
"We are done here," he interrupts then leaves her without a word or parting gesture.
Maejima is quick to trail after him. It does not take the attendant long to match his stride. "You seem uneasy, milord," he whispers.
That's because Byakuya is uneasy. Thoughts blizzard in his head. What can he do? His family has revealed their hand so they know about his connection. And yet….
No one has thought to caution him against it.
"Milord seemed interested in the possibility of me arranging a call for him earlier tonight." Maejima shoots Byakuya an imploring look. "Perhaps such a thing would ease milord's spirits?"
Byakuya thinks Maejima is referring to a sexual liaison, which, at the present moment, is something that Byakuya is deeply uninterested in pursuing.
But, he does miss her.
And, he would like to see her again.
And, winter's wrath does not appear to be lessening its grip anytime soon, meaning that their nightly walks are unlikely to resume for many weeks.
And, his family already assumes….
And, his family has never objected….
"I will be discreet," whispers Maejima. "Nor will I reveal milord's personal attachments."
Byakuya wishes he could believe Maejima. While Maejima has not yet demonstrated himself to be of poor character, Byakuya has never directly armed the man with information with which he could use as leverage. Byakuya is also not so naïve to his family's scheming as to think that they wouldn't target his staff to gain the upper hand. It's entirely possible that Maejima is a plant for his aunts or another part of the family.
Maejima tilts his head to the side, his eyes probing and sympathetic. "You have my word, milord."
Perhaps there is something for Maejima to gain by proving himself trustworthy, Byakuya reasons. By every indication, Byakuya will take over the role of head of the family. There is power to be had in becoming a trusted servant to the leader.
Byakuya nods. "Tomorrow night," he says. "I would like to arrange for dinner with a friend."
Maejima's brows raise. "A friend?"
"A dear friend who the storms have been keeping me from seeing."
"Of course, milord. Where is this friend?"
"At the Academy."
"Oh," says Maejima through a grin. "I understand. The ban must be preventing milord from reaching this friend."
Byakuya stops in front of the door to his chambers. "I will provide you with the name and the address in the morning."
"Of course, milord." Maejima pauses to bow. When he straightens, he hesitates for a moment before asking, "What shall I say to Ms. Tsukioka should she inquire about this evening?"
Ms. Tsukioka is one of his aunts' handmaidens. Just as Byakuya assumed. His family has been harassing his attendants.
"I usually tell them all is as well as the lady's handmaidens report."
Byakuya approves of the noncommittal nature of this response, but, here, he fears his aunts may mistake his disinterest for interest. "Tell them that Lady Shimazu revealed herself to have taken a lover of low birth and that I find this to be a characterological defect."
Maejima's eyes widen. "The lady revealed… that… to you…."
Now, Byakuya doesn't actually think the lady has taken a lover. He thinks this was a plot either meant to trick him into admitting his own interests or to trick him into thinking that there is common ground between the lady and him and that they may strike an accord to allow the other to take lovers into the marriage. He's inclined to believe the latter, which bodes terribly for him because his family likely approved this tactic.
"At the risk of sounding forward, milord, but it brings me great happiness that you have trusted me to arrange that dinner for you," says Maejima with a pitying sort of look.
Byakuya lowers his head in acknowledgment and then enters his room.
The next evening, Byakuya waits in a private room at one of his family's restaurants. He sits quietly with a book on advanced kidou tactics open on the table in front of him. He is still on the first page. For the last fifteen minutes. The first page is only a paragraph long.
Checking the time, he straightens. She should be here any moment.
If she comes….
He deflates at this thought.
Hisana is very headstrong and stubborn. She is one of few women who does not submit to him on the basis of his title or his influence. This trait of hers infuriated him in the beginning. Now… it brings him desolation.
When the door to the room opens, he is on his feet, breath held, eyes hungrily taking in every detail. The hostess bows deeply upon seeing him. "Lord Kuchiki, your guest."
Over the hostess's bowed back, Byakuya finds Hisana. His heart swells, and the entire world narrows to her. She regards him with a warm look, lips thinning into a smile, and she bows her head.
As Byakuya watches her cross into the room, all of his thoughts rush from his head. In the absence of logic, he is left with great intensity of feeling. He feels… so much... and all at once.
To see her here, in a room, where they have privacy, after all these months….
It is surreal.
After a few long moments of staring ardently at her, Byakuya finally notices that she seems… anxious. Indeed, Hisana glances around the room with the same chastened hesitance of a schoolgirl preparing to be upbraided by a headmaster.
"It's just us," he says.
Relief immediately chases away her look of dread, and her smile lengthens. "Good," she replies with a little chuckle. "The invitation came from your family so I assumed something was awry."
He nods. "Yes. It is customary for private invitations to be sent in this way." It's to protect the identity of the sender, he thinks.
Hisana's arms are folded tightly to her chest, and her hands are rubbing warmth back into them. "It's been a while."
"Did you not wear a coat?" he asks, realizing that she is dressed in nothing but her Academy uniform.
Stiffly, she goes to the side of the table opposite him. "It isn't a long walk from the Academy."
An excuse, he thinks. She doesn't have a coat. "Here." Before she can protest, he wraps his haori over her shoulders. Indeed, she feels as cold as ice and….
His brows pinch together as he considers her. Her jawline is sharper than he remembers, and her skin is pale. Too pale. Hisana has always been small, but never this shrunken. "Do they not feed you at the Academy?"
She pulls away from him, shaking her head. "I eat, my lord."
Byakuya senses an unspoken, "but."
She eats but….
He guesses that the cost of the food at the Academy is prohibitive. She may eat, but she can't afford to eat enough, even with her job. His jaw tightens at this realization.
What to do?
He wants to reproach her for not taking care of herself, but he isn't foolish enough to think she does this to herself out of some misguided view of aesthetics. Also, yelling at her won't change the matter nor will it make either of them feel better.
He could yell at the administrators of the Academy for forcing the Rukon students to pay to eat when eating is essential to them doing well in their studies. To do so, however, would raise some very unpleasant questions regarding his sudden interest in the nutritional needs of impoverished Academy students.
If he offers his assistance to her directly, he doubts that she will accept. Humility requires her to reject him. But, it's pride that would likely keep this rejection firm.
"The restaurant is lovely," she says, taking to her sitting mat. She folds her hands neatly in her lap.
He looks away, feeling incredibly helpless. "It's my family's."
She probably already knows this, but she feigns interest well. "The fusuma are very vibrant." Her attention turns to the paintings behind him.
Byakuya doesn't follow her gaze. He counted nearly each cherry blossom petal depicted in the fusuma while waiting for her to arrive. He could probably paint the scene from memory.
Forcing himself to happier thoughts, he says, "Your calligraphy is beautiful. I liked the addition of the wisteria."
"It's how I remembered the page from my mother's book."
"Your mother, from the World of the Living, you mean?"
She nods.
"Do you remember much from that time, from before?"
Hisana gives a little shrug, her gaze settling on the table. "Some things more than others. It feels like grasping at sand in a way. The harder I try to hold onto those memories, the quicker they seem to slip."
Byakuya has never given much thought to the lives of the souls in the Rukon. He is cloistered in that regard. Very few of those with whom he associates are from that place. Nearly all of his teachers are nobles. All of his family and the major branch families are nobles. All of the seated officers in his family's division are nobles.
He doesn't think Hisana is the first person he has met from Rukongai, given his centuries of living. But, she is the only one from there with whom he closely regards.
As she pours him a cup of tea, he asks, "How do you perceive those memories?"
"The same as I perceive any other," she says, eyes flitting up to give him a teasing look. "But, they have become less detailed with time. More like fleeting images out of the corner of my eye or an internal resonance."
"Sounds like a haunting."
Laughing, she sets the teapot down. "Maybe." She pauses to give him an appraising look, her smile fading into something less joyous and more wistful. "Memories are a bit like ghosts, I suppose." She then takes a sip of tea. "This is very good."
"It's gyokuro using a Saemidori tea cultivar. It is exclusively harvested from the freshest leaves in spring. It is shaded for over a fortnight before being harvested."
She grins at him as if she isn't the least bit surprised that he knows this. "That sounds intensive."
"It is. We have a better version of this tea at the house. But, this is good."
Before Hisana can respond, one of the servants opens the door with food ready to serve. The dishes are mostly the same between them, with one very big difference.
One that Hisana spots in an instant.
"What is wrong with your food?" she teases.
"Nothing," he says, picking up his chopsticks. "You may try, but I don't think you'll like it."
The words are barely out of his mouth when she leans over and steals a portion of his fish.
One bite and her nose scrunches up, and she scrambles to locate her teacup. "What is your palette?" She says between sips and laughter. "Why would you eat something this spicy?"
He grins at her. "I warned you."
"You didn't warn me that you eat as though you long for death!" She gulps down more tea. "Do you hate your life? Why? Just why? You shouldn't. You're doing pretty well, strong, powerful, handsome, ri—"
"Handsome?" He stops her, brow arching and grin widening.
A flush turns her cheeks red, but it is mere seconds before she regains her composure, eyes narrowing, cheeks sucked in. "Don't you even dare, Byakuya Kuchiki. You know you're handsome."
He tilts his head to the side, amused at the confidence carrying in her voice.
Her brows pinch together. "I see you glance at yourself in every reflective surface we pass. I'm worried that I'm going to have to fish you out of the drink one day."
"I am not a narcissist."
"Maybe. But, you are vain."
"I am not. I resent that you think that," he chaffs.
"How many steps in that haircare routine of yours, again?"
He lifts his head. "I don't see how you manage with a two-in-one solution. It is savage."
"Case in point," she says, laughing.
He watches her for perhaps a little too long as she begins to eat. She catches him staring, and she blushes a little. "You brought books?" she asks, gaze landing on the reading materials that he keeps at his side.
"I wasn't certain you would come."
"May I?" she asks, taking the last bite of her fish.
He reaches to hand her the books, but, before he can, she is at his side, pressed close, already peeling back the cover of the book on kidou tactics.
"We have this one at the Academy," she says, paging through the chapters as if she is in search of something.
"Not surprising. It is considered to be among the best."
"It's pretty readable, too."
"Oh? You've read it already?"
"Some of it. During the freeze-out."
"But, not for class?" Color him surprised. The way she avoids any discussion about the Academy and her pointed rejection of his offers to train together, he assumed that she loathes the spiritual arts with a passion.
But, perhaps, he is wrong.
"You look shocked," she says, amusement gleaming in her eyes.
"I just thought you didn't particularly care for your studies."
"I don't." Her response comes out a little too glibly for him to take it at face value. "But, I do like kidou."
"Just not the other disciplines?"
She responds with a sly smirk before turning her attention back to the book. "Hush." When she finds the object of her search, she frowns. "It's never in color," she sighs.
Goryūtenmetsu.
"The dragons, you mean?" he asks.
She nods.
"They can't depict them in color."
She lifts a brow. "Why not?"
"The color changes based on the user's reiatsu."
Her eyes widen. "Have you—"
He laughs. "No. It's a forbidden spell." To further explain, he flips open the other book on kidou that he brought. "Here," he says, pointing to the description of Goryūtenmetsu.
"Wait!" she cries out, taking the book from his hand. "What is this?" She turns it around to see the cover. "We don't have this book at the Academy."
His brows rise. "You're that well acquainted with the books on kidou at the Academy library?"
"Acquainted enough," she says.
"You may keep it if you want."
As Hisana glances back at him, her expression softens. "That is too much, my lord."
Before he can counter, she nudges her way against his chest and opens the book wide enough for them both to read.
Every single nerve in his body rings out the moment her weight settles against him, and he panics, unsure of what to do with himself. Mostly, he doesn't know where to place his hands. They had been holding the book shortly before she inserted herself between his arms. Feeling suddenly very leaden and very aware of himself, Byakuya sets his hands on the floor slightly behind his back, which eases his posture into a comfortable, but unrefined slant.
This position also places precious distance between them. He inhales a deep breath. The scent of his haori wrapped around her dampens her usual fragrance of plum blossom. He is grateful for this since he doesn't think his poor nerves can take much more.
Hisana, however, appears very much unaware of his discomfort as she leafs through several chapters before finding one of interest to her. "We are still learning all about shakkahō," she says, flipping to the illustrated page detailing the mechanics of that spell.
"That must be very boring," he manages, voice ragged.
She tilts her head up to see him and grins. "You would think that, but, then, I don't believe you've ever been trapped in a dojo with forty inexperienced kidou users blundering their way through it."
He chuckles. "Is the dojo still standing?"
"Yes, but barely." A mischievous sparkle dances in her eyes. "It was very thrilling. Two students were sent to the Coordinated Relief Station when one of the boys tried to add a flourish to the spell. It backfired and turned shakkahō into a reiatsu-seeking orb of energy that proceeded to lock onto several other students' reiatsu to the horror of the masters."
"No casualties, I hope."
"No casualties, but a few worried parents sent strongly worded letters to the Academy, I hear."
"What were they expecting?"
"Private lessons, I suppose."
"Does the Academy offer private lessons?"
Hisana considers his question for a moment. "I would assume so, but I think most of the students whose parents can afford such things have independent tutors."
"Is that common?"
She nods. "From what I hear. One girl in the advanced class has a tutor for each subject."
That doesn't seem particularly fair, he thinks. "I could—"
Hisana shoots him a heated look. "No. We have conditions."
"That's why I am asking."
Pointedly, she tips her chin down and turns back to the book. "Which spell are you currently working through?"
"Working through? What an odd way to put it."
"The way that I see kidou is that you never quite master it. You either continue refining your ability with the spell or you get comfortable enough with your ability and abandon it."
"I see," he says before reaching around her and turning the page to sōren sōkatsui. "This one."
"Oh, hadō seventy-three. Impressive."
"If you see me attempt it you might feel differently."
This earns him a giggle.
"As much as hadō gets all the attention, I think I might prefer kaidou the most." When he doesn't immediately respond, Hisana tips her head back again to get a look at him. "Is my lord proficient in kaidou?"
He shakes his head. "No."
"And, why not?" she says with mock outrage.
"I'd need someone to practice with."
Kaidou is fairly ineffective when used on oneself. It is also intimate, which, given his status, puts him at a disadvantage when it comes to finding a partner. Then, there is the matter of his family, who does not believe it is the place of an heir to be sticking his fingers into others' wounds. Glory is found in battle, not in supporting others to do so.
"You could practice on me," she says, demurely batting her eyes at him. "I'm usually pretty banged up these days."
Before he can caution her, she has pulled herself up from against him and is lifting the hem of her sleeve back to reveal a large purple contusion wrapping around her wrist.
"I thought you abhorred the idea of training together," he remarks wryly.
"I abhor you pummeling me into the ground. Here, I'm helping you help me."
He stares at her, bemused.
"Think of it as payment for this fancy dinner."
"I don't ne—" he stops himself, realizing his error. She feels guilty for needing his help and is merely trying to find a means to reciprocate his charity. "Very well," he says instead.
Having some very basic practical understanding of kaidou is probably useful, he tells himself. So, he takes her offering. With featherlight touches, he places the back of her hand against his palm, and he begins.
One second in, and her arm reflexively jerks back, which… he doesn't believe is supposed to happen. At least, not according to the texts and personal experience.
Pain creases Hisana's face, and she winces a little. "So, you're not supposed to overcome the patient with your reiatsu," she hisses. "You're supposed to work with the patient's reiatsu." She opens her hand to demonstrate, and he sets his hand lightly against hers.
The sensation of her reiatsu threading through his will never get old, he thinks, the tension melting away from his hand. Next, she calls to him, and his reiatsu rushes forth to meet her. The collision, however, isn't aggressive. It feels like an embrace, warm and soothing, and a sense of calm infuses him.
"See, feel that?" she says, voice soft, quiet. "That's us working together."
Then, the tingling that he associates with the stitching together of flesh prickles him. He watches with some amusement as the green particles of kaidou dance around their hands. When she finishes, he flexes his hand, its muscles humming free of the strain and achiness from years of gripping the hilts of swords and the wood of writing brushes.
"Would my lord care to try again?" she asks, offering her battered wrist to him for a second time.
He reaches for an excuse, but one look into her eyes, and he relents.
This time, he starts first with gentleness, which feels wrong, almost foreign, when he calls upon his reiatsu. Tentatively, he probes the energy around her wrist, letting his reiatsu quietly seep into her to detect the damage. He feels her try to guide him. It's a subtle flicker, nudging him a little deeper.
"There," she says, eyes on the bruise. "Call to me."
The moment he attempts to ask for her reiatsu, his becomes punishing in response, as if it means to snatch her power up and force it to where it needs to go.
Hisana jerks a little at the force. "Gentle, my lord. This isn't a battle."
His grip on her reiatsu lessens, and he tries again, his call becoming less of an order and more of a demand. He can feel Hisana attempt to aid him in this effort, her spiritual energy tangling in his, urging his to ease, to allow itself to transfer a measure of its self to her, which he does.
"See?" Her voice sounds bright in his head, forcing his gaze to hers. "Good job, my lord."
He glances down to see the contusion has vanished. "Middling at best." The sting of failure needling him.
"The results say differently." Smiling sweetly, she lowers the hem of her sleeve, and her hand slips from his. "Practice, however, will make you more proficient."
Byakuya seizes this half-spoken invitation without hesitation, saying, "Next week, then? Here?"
Her smile widens. "Weather permitting."
He escorts her to the door of the restaurant and then steps into the suppliers' alleyway with her, where Hisana gives him a polite bow. He thinks she is about to say her goodbye when she snaps up, seemingly remembering something important.
"Your haori!" she cries and begins to shrug it off her shoulders.
"It's yours," he says.
"I can't—"
"Do you have any coat?"
She lifts her head, eyes hot on his face. "Yes."
"Then, why didn't you wear it?"
"It's not that cold—"
"It's freezing."
She holds her arm out, her hand dangling the haori by the back of its collar. "It's yours."
"It's a gift. It's now yours."
"You already gave me—"
"I don't pay for food at my family's restaurant so the food was nothing."
"It's not nothing, my lord. Not to me. And, the haori is too nice, and it's a man's garment. People will talk."
"It's not nice enough."
She starts at this, at him.
But, he does not retract the statement. She deserves something beautiful, not the old fraying coat that he reserves only for going out to train.
"And it's rude for you to reject a gift," he says. "It breaks decorum."
"Well, if it's only decorum—"
"And laws," he adds quickly, a corner of his mouth inching up.
"Oh." She arches a brow. "Well, if we are talking about laws," she says playfully.
"Yes. The laws of noblesse oblige also bind the peasantry."
"What's the penalty for breaking such a law?"
"Death."
"It's a capital offense?" Her brows rise slightly higher. "Tell me, is it death in the fighting pits or the Sōkyoku?"
"Exposure," he says, taking the coat and opening it for her.
"Exposure?" she says, feigning intrigue as her arms slide into the sleeves.
"To extremely cold temperatures." He pulls the coat over her shoulders.
"Terrible fate that." Flipping her hair out of the collar, she turns to him with a faint grin. "Thank you for telling me before I broke any laws. I'd hate to freeze to death after such a nice meal."
"Well, you did break several other laws by arguing with a highborn nobleman."
"I did?" she asks, batting her eyes in mock disbelief. "What is the punishment for arguing with a highborn?"
"You have to keep your promise to see him again."
"Oh, is that all?" she asks, head tipping back as she gazes up at him. "Nothing else?" She shoots him a suggestive glance before stepping away.
He watches her quietly. "Were you expecting something more involved?"
"Maybe," she says, voice going sing-song. "Maybe something more intimate."
Byakuya's heart slams to a halt. "Intimate?"
"But, I suppose seeing him again is punishment enough." Peering over her shoulder, she gives him a wry grin. "Good night, my lord."
"Good night, Hisana," he murmurs and pauses to watch as the smoke billowing from the outside vent swallows her whole.
He should go, but he waits. Just a while longer. Just until the increasingly distant sound of her footfalls echoing through the alley gives way to nothing. Just until the last remnant of her warmth leaves his hands.
Only then does he turn to leave.
Only then does he step into the pitch of the winter night.
Only then does the feeling of longing replace that of contentment.
When Byakuya returns to his rooms that night, Maejima is there to greet him. "How was the dinner, milord?" A suggestive note threads the question.
"Well."
Maejima grins. "Shall I arrange another?"
Byakuya nods. "Next week."
"There are apartments above the restaurant should milord like—"
"Only dinner," he says, perfectly aware of the apartments. Even if he was of a mind to entice her into one of those rooms, he would steal the key himself. If his family thinks all he wants is her friendship, then perhaps they will leave him alone.
Maejima smirks and draws back the door. "As milord wishes."
Byakuya pauses short of the threshold to his chambers. "I do have a request."
"Yes, milord?"
"Tomorrow morning, I will have prepared for you a list of provisions to send my friend at the Academy."
Maejima nods his head approvingly. "I will see it done per milord's instructions."
Byakuya gives a mild nod of his head and leaves.