Year Three: Winter

Father's condition is worsening. Until recently, the illness seemingly took by seconds and minutes. Now, it takes by days, months, likely whole years consumed and swallowed. Its effects are apparent. Father's lithe frame shrinks. His coughing spells become more frequent by the day and less easy for him to conquer.

Accordingly, Byakuya's family, in the only way they know how to cope, has approved and instituted "countermeasures." Byakuya supposes his entire existence could be reduced to that of a countermeasure. He certainly feels that way now as he stands dutifully at Father's side, his eyes tracing the lines and shape of the understated black cane that Father now uses to brace against when the weight of living becomes unbearable.

Grief steals the wind to Byakuya's thoughts, and they fall, still and leaden, until there is nothing. The world and its colors drain away into the abyss of his mind. This call to oblivion, however, is interrupted by Father's quiet tenor.

"Yes, Byakuya, played an instrumental role in coming up with the idea." These silvery notes return Byakuya to the surface, reminding him that he exists in a world outside his own head.

Oh, yes, the event.

The glossy hall with its burnished floors and gleaming windows blinks into view. The ambient sounds of feet traveling across wooden boards and a thousand chattering voices find Byakuya next. He likes the sounds least; it's too easy to find distractions in conversations that surround him like an enemy force.

Byakuya nods politely. His gaze briefly skims the Academy Headmaster, Toshiyuki Ito, before returning to the floor.

"Really?" Headmaster Ito sounds surprised. "Well, perhaps we should reconsider that ban." He claps Father on the shoulder and loosens a hearty chortle.

Father chuckles full-throatedly at first then his illness tears the breath from his lungs. "I don't know about that," he replies between wet coughs.

"Well, thank you, Lord Kuchiki," says Headmaster Ito. Byakuya can tell by the tip of the headmaster's head that he is the "Lord Kuchiki" in question. "Harnessing the natural competitiveness of the Seireitei's most esteemed families for charitable aims is clever, indeed."

"Yes, the silent auction does seem perfectly tailored to the natural proclivities of the Academy's supporters," agrees Father.

"We are very fortunate to have the support of your family, Lieutenant Kuchiki."

"Of course, my family has always been firm advocates of the Academy's mission and endeavors."

Byakuya is careful not to flinch at Father's lie. The impetus of his family's involvement in the annual Academy fundraiser was his bad acts. After he decimated a good portion of the Academy's training dojos, his family felt compelled to undo this wrong by becoming vocal donors. Had he not done what he did, Byakuya has no doubt that his family would continue to view the Academy with indifference bordering on disdain.

Headmaster Ito smiles warmly, but Byakuya thinks he, too, is eager to sidestep this obvious lie. "Yes, we are very fortunate to have your support. The funds that we generate tonight will go to aid our least fortunate students."

"How?" asks Byakuya pointedly.

Father cuts him a stern glance. "Byakuya."

"That's a fair question, Lieutenant Kuchiki. The Board of Trustees and I have considered your proposals, Lord Kuchiki, and we think you make some good recommendations," says Headmaster Ito.

"Byakuya?" The end of Father's cane thumps quietly against the floor as he turns to glare at Byakuya.

"The young lord's recommendations were all above board, Lieutenant. I assure you. Some were insightful, even."

"May I inquire as to what those recommendations were?"

"Affordability as to the staples for our Rukon students. Many of these students come to the Academy without any family support and with limited financial means. It's easy to lose sight of that."

"Which recommendations were taken under advisement by the Board?" presses Byakuya.

Father's eyes narrow, but before he can say a word, the headmaster answers, "The Board was partial to the idea of providing need-based meal planning and a winter-clothing drive. We will need to balance these proposals, however, against the Academy's general programmatic needs, as well. But, based on the excitement generated thus far tonight, we are hopeful."

Byakuya glances away. He knows that "hopeful" in these circles is politesse for "no."

Perhaps reading Byakuya's disappointment, the headmaster quickly adds, "The need-based meal plan will likely go through. The Board was sympathetic to the arguments advanced by the young lord. You can't expect top performance from students who are starving."

Father becomes easy at this, his expression softening. "Well done, Byakuya," he murmurs.

"Indeed. A considerable demonstration of compassion and maturity from Lord Kuchiki." The headmaster bows politely. "Our gratitude is boundless, Lieutenant."

Father bows his head and waits until the headmaster is out of earshot to ask, "When did you submit that proposal?"

"A few months ago," replies Byakuya.

"You didn't seek family support?"

"No." It wouldn't have happened had he done so. At the very least, his proposals would have been buried under layers of Kuchiki vanity courtesy of his aunts and cousins. "I didn't think offending the Academy's Board was an effective strategy."

"Fair enough." Father laughs. "No eyebrows were raised?"

Father is asking because of the rumors. Generally, Byakuya could give a rat's ass about rumors, but, if Father is concerned, then perhaps he should be as well. His family has been shockingly restrained after the termination of the Shimazu marriage contract. Perhaps they are plotting; although, Byakuya thinks he would have caught wind by now if something was in the air.

Byakuya inhales a sharp breath. "None that I noticed."

"Surely, they must wonder. It's been how many years of prostrating ourselves, and you've never—"

"Don't fret, Father. The proposal contained enough performative impertinence to divert them." Byakuya admits to this fact with no love in his heart.

It feels like a betrayal in miniature.

Father opens his mouth to speak, but a coughing fit steals his words.

Byakuya places a hand on Father's shoulder, but Father shakes his head and signals that he will take a moment outside to collect himself. Byakuya understands this unspoken sentiment. Even in his obvious state of ailing, Kuchiki comportment means gesturing at strength and indefatigableness even as death approaches.

And, so, Byakuya looks on as his father excuses himself to the courtyard for fresh air. It is at this moment that Byakuya realizes defending someone is not an act that demands swords. Sometimes it only requires a shield.

"Lord Kuchiki," calls a voice that Byakuya knows but does not instantly place until he turns to find the Captain of the Fifth standing an arm's length away. "What a pleasure finding you here." Captain Aizen's attention drifts to the parties crowded near them.

"My father was called away," provides Byakuya helpfully, "if—"

"I see," says Captain Aizen. If the captain is disappointed by this news, he makes no indication. Instead, he focuses his attention on Byakuya. His eyes are keen, but there is not a sign of sharpness or falsity on his face. "I hear that the silent auction was your idea."

Byakuya lowers his head in assent.

"Using our worst instincts against us for such a noble reason. Delightful." The captain's eyes gleam.

"Please accept our gratitude, Captain Aizen, for donating a piece of your calligraphy to the auction."

"Oh?" says the captain, brows raised. "The work is not mine. It's one of my student's pieces. Apologies if that was somehow miscommunicated."

Byakuya blinks. That's not what he was told, but, to be fair, his family only half-hears things from individuals whom they consider beneath them. The captain for all his accolades, both on the battlefield and for his scholarly pursuits, is not a highborn, and Byakuya's family scoffs at the notion that a self-made man could ever level them.

"The mistake is all mine, Captain," Byakuya says quietly. "I must have misremembered."

The captain nods and offers a kind smile. "Very talented student. Her calligraphy reminds me of yours."

Byakuya's spine straightens. "You'll have to tell me her name. Perhaps I know her." Byakuya doubts this last part, but it sounds like the benign sort of pleasantry that Father might say.

"Hisana," answers Captain Aizen, holding Byakuya's gaze. "She's a third-year student, now."

"Surname?"

The captain shakes his head. "From the Rukon."

Byakuya manages to keep still and not avert his gaze to the floor. "Oh, I don't often have occasion to associate with the rabble."

Captain Aizen's smile shortens. "I suspected as much." His gaze then darts to the side, likely to his subordinate, who Byakuya can sense nearby. "Hopefully, her heritage won't affect your judgment of the piece. The work is exemplary."

Byakuya swallows hard. "On the captain's word then." He nods politely.

"Send your father my warmest regards," says Captain Aizen before giving Byakuya a parting bow.

Immediately, Byakuya crosses the floor to observe the items and "experiences" on display for auction. He has a general sense of where the captain's tribute is located, but restraint demands that he at least pretend to care about the other offerings for bid. He also needs a moment not to feel so cold about what he has said, who he said it to, and who he said it about.

Another betrayal, he thinks. This one, though, is not in miniature, but in full.

It pains him deeply to deny knowing Hisana. And, perhaps he shouldn't have said that she was part of "the rabble" to a man who has authority over her. Father and Grandfather continually caution him to remember that his judgments hold power, and, therefore, he cannot be careless with them.

That was careless, he thinks.

For what it's worth, Captain Aizen doesn't appear to be a man whose opinion, once made, is easily swayed.

Miserably, Byakuya mentally logs the items for auction as he passes the displays. He doesn't particularly care for any of the gilded treasures, rare trinkets, first editions, or the excursions to various vacation homes being offered. It's fortunate that his family has decided to make a donation in lieu of partaking in this charade because he would be hard-pressed to find any item of value here.

When he winds his way to Hisana's calligraphy, however, he stops. His thoughts, once a swirl, also grind to a halt. He inhales a shaky breath as he examines the work.

'Being buried in blossoms, I should like to pass away in a dream.'

He squints, not believing his eyes. It takes him a moment to realize what she has done. Then, he grins.

Hisana.

He cannot believe her audacity. Yet, there it is. On full display.

Byakuya chuckles as he scrutinizes every word, every line, the quality and color of the ink, and the sureness of the brush strokes. No matter his efforts, he cannot escape the obvious conclusion that this isn't her work at all. It's his.

How? he marvels.

He remembers giving her this poem when she was in service to his house years ago. The paper that he had used, though, was not this paper. So, she has done something to create this forgery. What precisely? He knows not. He suspects she employed a type of kidou, but, since the art is shielded behind a thick layer of glass, he cannot examine the piece thoroughly enough to decipher her methods.

From what he can observe, it's as if she has found a way to pull the very words—ink, line, and brush strokes—from the page and transpose them onto this sheet and into this configuration. How does one do that? His brows knit together. None of the spells that he knows can compel words to march off one page and onto another.

Byakuya shakes his head, unsure of what draws his amusement more, her skill at forgery or the fact that she chooses to be as unknowable to her Academy masters as she is to him.

"You're gawking," murmurs Captain Kyōraku who feels the need to make his presence felt as well as known when he elbows Byakuya in the arm.

"Captain," greets Byakuya, stiffly. "And, I was doing no such thing."

The captain hums his response. "Of course, how could I have mistaken?" He then tilts his head back to gaze upon the calligraphy. "Looks like one of your pieces. I can see why you're so enamored."

Byakuya scoffs. "A pale imitation," he replies brusquely, wondering if the captain has reached a similar conclusion.

"She's clever." Kyōraku smirks and takes a sip of what Byakuya presumes is whisky since it smells smokey like a bonfire. "Stay away from clever women, Byakuya. They're terrible, godless creatures."

For all of Kyōraku's bombast on romance, Byakuya cannot think of a single tale of Kyōraku ever having been in love. Byakuya assumes any such love affair would have gone south in some extravagantly horrendous fashion so as to have prompted extensive discourse in the annals of history. To Byakuya's knowledge, however, the captain has never been seriously involved with anyone.

"You speak authoritatively for a man who has never been married."

Kyōraku lifts a brow. "Who brought marriage into the conversation? I was merely speaking in generalities."

"So, avoid all clever women in daily life?" Byakuya asks, incredulous.

"That's the spirit!"

Byakuya glares at Kyōraku. "You can't possibly believe that. Suffering fools is a hellish experience."

"I didn't say avoid intelligence. I said cleverness."

Byakuya's shoulders slope down, and he inhales a fortifying breath. "You're giving me a headache."

Kyōraku grins. "Good. You deserve it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Byakuya eyes him, crossly.

"I had to evaluate for your exam," he mutters. "The ensuing migraine from that experience lasted ten days."

"You're being excessive." Byakuya frowns. "And I passed."

"Because I wasn't your only evaluator."

Byakuya turns his head, indignant. "You would've judged my exam a failure?"

"Yes," says Kyōraku swiftly. "Failure is assured in this life and the next. I was going to offer you the opportunity."

"What opportunity?"

"The opportunity to fail."

"That's an opportunity?" Byakuya's eyes widen at this logic.

"It is." Kyōraku nods thoughtfully. "Your response was impractical."

"The simulation was impractical. It was a no-win situation on its terms."

"And that's the lesson," says Kyōraku. "Or, rather, that used to be the lesson. All the candidates were supposed to fail on their first attempt. It allows failure to occur in a controlled environment so that we may better observe how the candidate behaves."

Byakuya folds his arms in front of his chest. Pensively, he considers the wisdom of this lesson. He would have been devastated, true, but he would've worked harder for the second portion of the exam. Perhaps too hard. He has a tendency to veer toward obsessiveness. His family has tried to beat this tendency out of him for over a century. Would it have manifested in full force at the sight of failure? Perhaps.

"Why was this lesson abandoned?" he asks.

"They allow Jūshirō to evaluate exams, now, for one," says Kyōraku, drily. The captain then shrugs. "Times change. The old man has eased up."

"Is that why the lieutenant's exam has two phases?"

Kyōraku nods and stares distantly into the calligraphy. "You should've failed. It would have done you some good." He then taps Byakuya on the head with something hard.

When Byakuya reaches to snatch the object from the captain's grasp, Kyōraku hands it to him. Byakuya glances down to find a book. It looks ancient. The leather binding is tattered at the edges and seams, and the lettering of the covering and spine has mostly flaked away. The pages are stained an unsightly shade of brown and are oily to the touch.

Byakuya frowns at the first page when he realizes that the font is minuscule. The prose, too, is nigh impenetrable to read.

What sadist put this together? he wonders, flipping to the title page. 'A Fighting Mind and Spirit: A Study on Success Among Men of the Senior Ranks and How to Succeed as a Lieutenant,' he reads. The author is none other than Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto.

"Everything you need to know to pass the next examination," says Kyōraku.

Byakuya bows his head politely. "Thank you, Captain."

"It isn't a gift," Kyōraku corrects before turning to leave. "You just won the bid for it."

"What?" Byakuya gapes. "I made no such—"

"You owe 3.3 million kan to the Academy." The captain continues further into his strides, his back to Byakuya. "My advice to avoid clever people is free, though."

"You said clever women."

"Women, men, people, avoid them all just the same," says the captain with a wave of his hand.

Byakuya glances down at the book and sighs. "Bastard."

It's later than usual when Byakuya arrives at the restaurant. He sent a note to inform Hisana of his delay, but there had been more delay still. When the hostess opens the door, he's fully prepared to find an empty room and remnants. What he sees instead wards back the cloud of dread clinging to him.

He steps over the threshold to the room and pauses. He glimpses her in snatches of moments. Her head tilting to the side. Her hand moving steadily across a sheet of crisp paper. Her eyes traveling the page of a book. Her neck and its pale white slope, however, is what keeps his attention far longer than intended.

"You came," she says and looks up at him. There is a warmth in her stare that makes the winter's chill feel colder somehow.

"You're here," he replies before remembering that he is still standing near the door and that his hand is still wrapped around the book that he "won" at auction.

She smiles wanly. "You said you'd be late."

Byakuya crosses the floor to his usual place in front of her. "Have you eaten?" he asks quietly.

Hisana nods. "But, I could use some more tea."

"Good." He sets the book down in front of him. Before he can react, she slides the book to her.

"What's this?" she asks, rotating it from cover to cover.

"My prize," he sighs.

"It's a million years old," she says upon opening the book. "And this font!" She turns to another page. "The dialect, too. It's hard to read."

"Impossible to read," he agrees.

"What sort of contest did you win if this is the prize?"

"Not a true contest," he begins, trying his best to stave back the fog of irritation for her sake, "an auction."

Hisana's brows rise. "An auction?"

"A silent auction." This means that Kyōraku had somehow stolen his bidder's number to commit this particular crime.

"So, you wanted this book?" She grins at him, eyes twinkling.

He returns her grin with a half-hearted one of his own. "Want would be too strong a word."

"Propriety, then?" She cuts him a knowing glance.

"In a sense." It was propriety that kept him from making a scene and refusing to abide by the terms of the fraudulent bid.

"What was the silent auction for?"

"The Academy." He isn't surprised to see the light in her eyes die at this response. "My family has become quite the supporter of the Academy's endeavors ever since the ban."

She chuckles. "I see. So, it's penance."

He nods.

"What is the Academy raising funds for?" Her brows draw together, and a little wrinkle runs across her forehead. "Their tuition is outrageous. And, last summer, they hosted an event with an ice room."

"An ice room?"

"Yes. Where they had ice sculptures."

"In summer?"

"The dead of summer." She lifts a shoulder. "It was so hot outside. It must have cost a fortune."

"Was it for a fundraising event?"

"No. It was to honor students who had scored well the prior semester."

Byakuya supposes that could count as a fundraising event since top students have a higher likelihood of success and may remember their time at the Academy fondly if their efforts are acknowledged with ice sculptures. Hisana, however, is too practical to see the benefit in plans with such remote chances of success.

"I believe tonight they were looking to fund programs for students." Byakuya chooses vagueness because he doesn't want to tell her the truth. Judging by the heavy sinking sensation in his chest, he knows she won't take this news as intended, that she'll draw a conclusion that will hurt.

"What sort of programs for students?"

Byakuya averts his attention to the fusuma. The painting is of a blue river cutting through snowy banks. The trees are barren. Not even a bird dares to perch on their skeletal branches.

Exhaling a breath, he answers with a soft, "Programs for needy Rukon students."

He glimpses Hisana from the corner of his eye. Her spine straightens. Her shoulders pull back stiffly. Her hands fall to her lap, and she stares at the door behind him. The distance between them increases only by inches, but it feels like miles.

Miles and miles of yawning distance.

This betrayal of his comes as a surprise. To him, at least. When he advocated on behalf of the Rukon students, he only thought of her, true. But, he hadn't considered the consequences of her learning of this deed.

Perhaps he should have known better. Hisana has never liked being an object of charity. She's accepted it begrudgingly and because her circumstances require practicality to survive it.

"What items were served up at auction?" she digresses, voice low and ragged.

"Books." He gestures to the book open before her. "Excursions. Art." He pauses at the last word and smirks to himself.

"What kind of art?"

"One very handsome piece of calligraphy from Captain Aizen."

"The captain participated?"

"Most of the captains. Although, this work was from one of his students." He gives her a careful onceover.

Hisana presses her lips together. "Oh?" her voice pitches high.

"It was a little derivative," he teases her.

"Derivation is expected from students." She grins.

"It did well at auction."

"You must be pleased."

He looks away. "Did you keep—"

"I still have the original," she answers before he can finish.

He wants to ask her how, but part of him doesn't want to know. He thinks he might understand her better if he unravels this particular mystery for himself. There's also the inconvenient fact that she's an unreliable source of information when it comes to herself.

"I take it Captain Aizen did not tell you beforehand," he says.

She raises her chin. "No. I suppose he technically owns all our works to do with them as he pleases."

"Why didn't you produce your own piece? Your calligraphy is handsome."

She laughs, and her eyes dart to the snowy river painting. "My arm was broken." Her jaw tightens, and he senses there are words that she wants to say but cannot.

"Do you continue with the calligraphy classes?"

"No." Her gaze returns to him. "Swimming, now."

"Swimming?" He nearly chokes.

In winter?

"There's an indoor pool." She laughs at him. "I thought it might be good for me. Given…." She draws out the last word, and it sounds like she's told him everything and nothing in the silence that follows.

She doesn't need to say it. He is well aware of her fear of drowning. He swallows thickly and lowers his head.

"They say learning control is all about small steps with the expectation of non-linear progress," she says quietly. "I suppose this is one of those steps." She then smirks at him. "I must resolve to improve myself alone since you took my ball."

He laughs. "You gave me that ball."

Her lips lengthen into a smile, and the warmth returns to her face. "Why did you bid on that book?"

"It was at Captain Kyōraku's suggestion."

"Suggestion?" she echoes. "What was he suggesting?"

Byakuya shifts uncomfortably in his silks. He hasn't told her. All she knows is that he took an examination a few months ago. She was too ill at the time to inquire as to the why and what and how and where and who, and they never spoke about it again. Even after he passed the test. He had barely stopped to celebrate it given the circumstances.

Circumstances that he will be forced to confront if he tells her.

"He was suggesting that I read it," he says, wavering on whether to confide this to her, "for my next exam."

Hisana tips her chin down. "Oh, yes. You mentioned taking an exam. I don't think you ever told me the reason."

His jaw clenches. He wants to keep this from her, but he knows that lies of omission are lies all the same, and she will be hurt when she finds out later. "The lieutenant's exam."

Her blue eyes widen, and her lips part. He sees the hollow at the base of her throat deepen, but he doesn't hear the breath.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't realize your father…." She reaches across the table and takes his hand. "Is there anything I can do?"

Of course, Hisana would be the first person to hear this news and think to offer her assistance rather than congratulations.

His gaze trails to their hands. Both of hers hold onto his. Her heat pricks him, but it does not thaw the endless cold that he feels. Byakuya is beginning to think this cold is one of his own making, created to distract him from thoughts that he wishes weren't there.

It's true, though.

He doesn't want to think too deeply about his father's illness. To do so feels akin to drinking a bottle of poison in one gulp. He'd rather confront this terrible inevitability in measured doses to build up a tolerance. When he was a boy, he convinced himself that, given enough time, he would be ready. Now, he knows that there is no such thing as "ready." He can only distract himself from the thoughts, sharp and cutting, and hope that the scar tissue made from micro-dosing this agony since boyhood will grant him some comfort.

He knows this, however, is a fantasy. Nothing will prepare him for what comes next.

"There's nothing you can do." Just as there is nothing he can do.

Hisana offers him a smile. "I can make you something."

He snorts. "Cookies?"

"No. I'm not much of a baker," she replies wryly, "and, you don't like sweets."

"I don't need anything from you." The words come out harsher than intended.

Hisana tenses. Then, the warmth and softness of her hands recede from his as she pulls back and away from him. The distance returns. The miles are more numerous than before.

Byakuya's gaze skitters back to the fusuma, back to the snow, the cold, the frozen river, and the lifeless trees and their black skeletons.

"Why do you do that?" she asks, voice whispery and paper-thin.

"Do what?"

He catches her fluttering. She appears lost in thought as if she is chasing words that cut once within reach. "Look at me like that," she murmurs.

"Like what?"

"Like it hurts."

His thoughts go still when he meets her gaze. Icy numbness blunts the words that fall like weights from his lips, "Because it hurts."

She winces at this confession. The lines of her face deepen into those of sorrow and pain.

"Do you ever admit to knowing me at the Academy?" he asks.

Hisana shakes her head. "Do you ever admit…." she whispers.

"No," he replies, curtly. "Tonight, when asked if I knew you, I said that I—" He catches himself, the numb cruelty that once gripped him breaking. Once shattered, a swarm of a thousand horrible emotions swallows him whole, and his words fail him.

"You said what?" she asks.

Byakuya shakes his head. He was mistaken. He shouldn't have.

"Tell me." The lantern light burns fiercely in her eyes.

"No."

"No? No. You wanted to tell me. Now, tell me. What did you say?"

He closes his eyes, lets a long breath filter into his lungs, and answers as mildly as he can, "I said I don't associate with the rabble." He hears silence.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Hisana gazing distantly at the table. Her face is as smooth and as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. The light that once flashed in her eyes, however, has been staunched.

"It hurts," he admits.

He hates that their relationship is relegated to backrooms and secrecy. He loathes having to deny knowing her. He abhors performing the version of himself reflected to him by others when he does so.

"What hurts?" Her eyes squeeze closed as if this question tastes like bitter medicine.

"It hurts to pretend like this," he says, taking great care to not let his own bitterness carry in his voice. "It's a death by a thousand cuts."

"Something you would know about." She regards him with an icy look. "Is that why Senbonzakura is the way it is? Is it just a manifestation of all the bladed thoughts swirling in your head? 'A death by a thousand cuts,' as you put it." Venom coats her words and stops his heart.

"I don't think releases work that way." Anger enters him next. He isn't sure of its source, but it renders what little caution he once possessed to ash, and he continues, "If they did, then your release would surely be overriding the judgment of your betters, bewitching them to do things they otherwise ought not to do."

He hears her breath this time as it chases down her throat and deepens the hollows of her neck. "You're not too far off there," she murmurs. "But, if you believe I've bewitched you against your better judgment, I'm happy to break that spell." Her lips quiver as she speaks the words, and, as soon as he hears them, she is on her feet and on the way to the door.

He catches her by the wrist. His grasp is loose, a plea, not a demand. His head is bent. His heart aches at what he has done and to whom he has done it.

Hisana stops.

"Please, don't," he whispers, his gaze rooted to his lap. "Forgive me." He expects her to slip her wrist from his hold and to leave him alone with the thoughts that shred him just as deep as Senbonzakura's petals.

Instead, her shadow flickers over him, and he hears the rustling of cloth against wood as she sinks to her knees. Her hand cups the side of his face, and she nudges him to look at her. "I know you're in pain," she says and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear.

His brows pull together, and his eyes slip shut. He feels like he's failed. Failed her. Failed himself. Failed his father. His family. Everyone.

"I know about grief, too, my lord, and its many edges," she says kindly and presses her forehead to his. "I don't remember much, but I had an ill father and remember grieving him." She threads her fingers through his hair. "I wish I could spare you that pain."

His heart slams to a halt at her confession. His eyes blink open, and he searches her face. All he finds is a tenderness that he doesn't deserve.

"Why?"

"Why what?" she asks, a furrow appearing between her brows.

"Why are you being kind to me?"

Hisana pulls back. A sliver of golden light separates them, but he's never felt closer to her. His hands grip her at the waist. It would be easy to bring her closer still, but he resists.

She considers him for a long while before answering, "Because I love you," as if it had been obvious all along.

Byakuya stares at her, heart in his throat, breath as thick as smoke. He is leveled, and she has leveled him. He has no words with which to express the way he feels about her and what she means to him. And, so, he kisses her with his whole heart, hoping that she will understand better with action than words the extent to which he loves her.