Resonance in Monotone
Frustration
VII
Written by Dragenruler
After You - Louise Dowd, Shelley Harland
"Shirogane-san," Hisana called out, her voice swallowed by the energetic buzz as she stepped into the atelier.
Her fingers clenched the fabric of her modest dress. The space pulsed with activity, rhythmic footsteps and the soft swish of backdrops unfurling. Hisana had braced herself for the bustle but stepping into the room felt like wading into a fast-flowing river; the current of people and noise pulled at her, challenging her to maintain her balance.
Yet, amidst the frenzy, she found unexpected solace. The silence that had once filled her days had become too familiar, too isolating.
As the room swirled in a blur of colours and sounds, Hisana retreated to a quiet corner, replaying the events of recent months that had brought her to this point. It was like watching a storm-tossed sea from the safety of the shore—removed yet still feeling the sting of the salt spray.
Shirogane approached, a calming force within the chaos. Her brown hair cascaded over her cream-colored blazer, framing a face softened by gentle eyes. "Marugo-san," she greeted, her steps measured as she closed the distance.
"You're early," Shirogane observed, glancing at the slender gold watch on her wrist. She tilted her head, her eyebrows arching. "We had agreed on ten, hadn't we?"
"I thought I might help set up, but it appears I'm not needed," Hisana replied, her eyes flickered toward her paintings, hidden under a cloth at the side of the room.
Shirogane's smile wasn't too wide; it was the kind that made Hisana feel seen. "No need to worry, Marugo-san. Ise-san and I have taken great care to ensure your collection is protected and undisturbed today, strictly adhering to Kuchiki-san's directives and considering your preferences."
His name unleashed a flurry of butterflies in her stomach. Hisana steadied them with a deep breath. After a moment, she looked up and offered a small, demure smile. "Thank you, Shirogane-san," she said softly.
Hisana watched Shirogane, noting her hazel eyes behind round-framed glasses and her crisp, tailored suit. Despite the simplicity and efficiency of her appearance, there was an unmistakable depth of kindness. In recent weeks, she'd had plenty of time to reflect on how Shirogane's warmth and sincerity contrasted with Tanaka's strict bluntness. She couldn't help but suspect that Byakuya had purposefully cast them into these roles.
With a furrowed brow, a question formed on Hisana's lips. Before she could voice it, a stern presence neared. The room's din parted—a woman whose precise commands to the crew cut sharply. Her silhouette was slender and impeccable in a dark navy dress, her long, dark hair restrained save for a few rebellious bangs that softened her features. Behind a set of glasses, her gaze swept across the room, assessing with military precision before fixing on Hisana.
Turning towards the stern-faced woman, Shirogane said, "Let me introduce you to Ise-san, Head of Promotions and Marketing at Lazy Ronin. She will be overseeing today's setup and activities."
"Ise Nanao," she introduced herself with a meticulous bow. Her shoulders were squared, and her chin high, exuding an unshakeable pertinacity.
Hisana's hands loosely intertwined as she returned the greeting. Once fully introduced, Ise Nanao gestured towards a corner of the atelier and led the way, pulling out an organised folder from her clipboard, revealing a series of storyboards and schedules.
"Our aim today," she began, "is to craft engaging content that captures the essence of your work without revealing it entirely. We'll focus on thematic elements—textures, colours, emotions—keeping the complete vision a secret. Through teasers, social media posts, and selective press releases, we'll build anticipation for the upcoming exhibition."
Hisana felt as if a spotlight were upon her, with both Ise's and Shirogane's observant eyes waiting for a response. The heat of their scrutiny flushed her cheeks. "I fully trust your expertise, Ise-san. It seems you've thought of everything."
A fleeting, mismatched smile crossed Ise Nanao's face, lingering just long enough for her to offer Hisana a curt nod before another agency member called her away.
Shirogane's hand brushed her shoulder, a gentle, reassuring touch that shifted her focus. "You are in excellent hands. Kuchiki-san only hires the best."
There it was again, that familiar flutter. Her heart stuttered, then quickened, thudding against her ribcage with an urgency that made her hands tremble. She tried to quell it, pressing her lips together and locking the feeling away.
Her gaze flitted over Shirogane, searching, before she averted her eyes and posed the question as if it were an afterthought, "And will Kuchiki-sama be joining us today?"
"Both Kuchiki-san and Kyōraku-san will be joining us after noon," Shirogane revealed, the corners of her mouth lifted; cradling secrets wrapped in silence.
A blush tinted Hisana's cheeks, delicate as the first light of dawn. Her fingertips brushed her lips, tracing the memory of an almost-kiss. It still lingered, a ghostly murmur against her skin. The world around her softened into a blur, leaving only the impression of his closeness, the warmth of his breath, and the tension of a broken moment, forever on the cusp of blooming.
In its memory, the reminder of his distance mocked her like a broken promise—his constant busyness, her new hairstyle, and seeing Nakamura...
No. This was beyond mere wishful thinking; from the very beginning, a connection had existed between them—an invisible force pulling them together with every glance.
So, she reminded herself that he was a busy man and that their interactions were not of indifference.
Hisana's thoughts were interrupted when Ise Nanao strode forward, the steady click of her footsteps merging with the rustle of the clipboard she carried. "Marugo-san, we're ready to start capturing some stills of you working," she declared with a polished ease. "We aim to document your process—how you interact with your canvas and tools. Ideally, it would be best to continue with a work in progress rather than start from a blank canvas."
"Of course, Ise-san," Hisana snapped, her spine straight.
She wasted no time, weaving through the scattered equipment and clustered personnel to find her apron. Tying it with deliberate motions, she patted the coarse fabric, then paused—turning to face the breadth of the room and the many eyes upon her. With a breath, she made her way toward the draped figures of her paintings, arrayed along the room's edge.
"I'm currently working on a piece that I wouldn't mind sharing," Hisana murmured more to herself. Shirogane stepped forward, her hands gently coaxing the cloths away from the canvases.
As Hisana sifted through her works, her fingers hesitated on one painting, the lines and strokes telling a narrative only she could truly decipher.
The canvas was heavy, and Hisana handled it with care as she positioned it on the easel. It held a whirlwind of thick, unrestrained strokes that closed in around a woman, the colours vivid and burning. Slowly, she reached out, her fingertips glided over the brushstrokes, the coarse texture pulled her deeper into the memories embedded in the artwork.
The sudden whir of a camera's shutter shattered the solitude surrounding her, snapping Hisana back. She whipped around, her eyes wide as they met the photographer's gaze through the lens. Her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice fluttering, "I may have ruined that shot."
"No, not at all, Marugo-san. Please, continue," Ise Nanao encouraged, gesturing for the videographer to draw nearer, and signalling the photographer to keep shooting. Hisana's smile faltered, but she found a quiet strength in Shirogane's gaze. Shaking her shoulders, she nodded, resuming the painting.
The photographer circled, the soft clicks of the camera blended with Ise's whispered directions and the scratch of bristles against canvas. Together, it created an immersive atmosphere, a hum that secluded her from the outside world, allowing her thoughts to dissolve into the art.
Despite this, the morning crept slowly, like a lazy cat stretching in the sun's warmth. Hours seemed to yawn wide, imbuing the air with a languid, maddening rhythm that stretched each minute to near eternity.
Ise Nanao orchestrated the day with seasoned expertise, guiding the flow of activities from Hisana painting and arranging her supplies to posing for simple portraits and standing shots. Each flash of the camera felt like a tiny explosion, the bursts of light intensifying the ache behind her forced smile.
Throughout the day, she found herself shifting from foot to foot, out of sync with the bustling energy around her.
Noon slipped by without Kuchiki Byakuya's arrival, leaving Hisana perched on a stool, her gaze drawn into the camera's void—a black hole pulling her in. Her initial responses were fumbling, requiring several retakes. With each slip, Ise would redirect her, her questions finely honed. The soft rustle of papers from her clipboard would amplify each error.
Somehow, throughout it all, Hisana found her rhythm within this disquieting setup. She began to lean into the camera, her natural warmth and softness surfacing, and her answers flowed more naturally, no longer constrained.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the faint blur of Shirogane exiting the room. Nonetheless, she kept her focus trained on Ise, her smile arriving perfectly timed.
"Marugo-san, how would you describe the overall mood or atmosphere of your paintings and this collection?" Ise inquired.
Hisana took a moment to gather her thoughts, her foot tapping against the stool as she tuned into the distant hum emanating from the gallery below. Her attention then refocused on the question at hand.
"My art seeks to capture the essence of humanity and its emotions," she began, her fingers intertwining then releasing as she searched for the right words. "It explores the complexities and the spectrum of life. I would say it reflects both the light and dark facets of it. Essentially, at its core, it is an expression of what it means to be human."
As footsteps approached, Hisana's heart quickened, matching their tempo. She drew a deep breath, striving for composure yet feeling like a tightrope walker, torn between professionalism and the urge to look towards the atelier's entrance.
Ise glanced down at her clipboard, the light reflecting off her glasses in a bright flash. Straightening, she posed another question, "Are there any specific pieces in this collection that hold personal significance for you? If so, could you share the story behind them?"
Hisana sensed his presence before he even entered the room—his energy filled the space like daylight spilling through an open window. But she dared not look. Not yet.
When she felt his gaze settle upon her, a radiant smile bloomed across her face, and her cheeks flushed with the soft pink of spring roses.
"Each work holds a special place in my heart. Sharing any painting feels like revealing a private piece of myself to the world. For an artist, that exposure is terrifying, but within that lies something freeing..." Hisana said; her eyes traced the familiar silhouette of his tall frame.
"You'll find acceptance," she continued smoothly. "The emotions displayed in this collection might be shocking, even when rooted in positivity, but at the heart of every emotion, at the core of being human, is self-acceptance. That is what this collection means to me."
His gaze wrapped her in an invisible embrace, causing her heart to swell and race. With a bright smile, she confessed, "I'm sorry, Ise-san, I don't know if that answers your question."
"Ah, such eloquent words could only emerge from the lips of a truly elegant lady. It seems I've been utterly enchanted by your beauty, leaving me quite dazzled, I must admit," said a voice, the tone flowing with rhythmic flair. Hisana noticed a twitch in Nanao's eyes, her hands tightening around the clipboard now clutched to her chest.
Turning to greet Byakuya, Hisana expected to welcome his familiar presence. Instead, her eyes widened as they settled on a different figure—a stranger who sparked a faint glimmer of recognition, a memory teasing at the edges of her mind.
She took in his appearance: a bright pink buttoned shirt that complimented his lengthy, loosely tied brown hair and the faint stubble shadowing his angular jaw and cheeks. Their eyes met, and he offered a playful wink. His grin started slow, then blossomed all at once.
"Marugo-san, allow me to introduce Kyōraku Shunsui," Nanao said, her voice clipped, "owner of Lazy Ronin. And please, try not to be swayed by his superficial flirtations."
"That hurts, Nanao-chan. I am always sincere," Kyōraku Shunsui replied, his face scrunching into an exaggerated wince as he clutched his side dramatically.
Hisana's hand rose to her neck, her fingers gently brushing the skin there as she searched for the right words. She turned to observe Byakuya, who stood with composed detachment, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his suit. Her gaze lingered on his high cheekbones and the cool, assessing grey of his eyes, their intensity softened only by the sweep of his long, dark lashes.
His glance swept over her without pause, prompting her to lower her head. A hint of moisture gathered on her lashes, but she blinked it away. It settled within her like a wilting flower, its petals dropping one by one until only the stem remained, buried deep in her heart.
However, feeling the prickling heat of many watching eyes, she imagined herself donning a porcelain mask; fragile, yet effective in shielding her emotions.
Her smile took on an almost theatrical air of perfection—carefully concealing the truth beneath its curve. Rising from the stool, she extended Kyōraku-san a polite bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Kyōraku-san. I am Marugo Hisana," she introduced herself. Turning towards Ise Nanao, she added warmly, "Working with Ise-san today has been an absolute delight."
Barely having regained her composure, Hisana stumbled backwards as Kyōraku Shunsui closed the distance between them. Before she could react to his proximity, he snatched her hand and pressed a firm, fervent kiss upon her knuckles.
Hisana froze, her eyebrows arching, her maintained façade cracking under the unexpected gesture. Her skin tingled where his lips had touched, the warmth transforming the moment into something akin to a scene from a romantic drama. His lips lingered, his eyes sparkling with a cheeky glint.
Immediately, she turned to Byakuya, her reaction sharp and sudden, reminiscent of a deer in harsh headlights. The room closed in around her like quicksand, every eye a grain of sand witnessing, weighing her down. The more she tried to exhibit composure, the deeper she sank under their collective gaze.
"Kyōraku, that is enough," Byakuya commanded, his voice sharp.
Still holding her hand, Kyōraku cast a knowing glance toward Byakuya, his smile bold and unapologetic. "I am merely greeting a lady as one ought," he said with a light-hearted ease.
Then, with a flourish of theatrical grandeur, he drew Hisana closer, unaffected by her stiff posture. His grin masked the strategical thought behind his actions. He tightened his grip on her shoulders and gave them a pat, teasing, "Besides, it was your idea to invite Hisana-chan to our lunch, was it not, Byakuya?"
"Thank you for the invitation, Kuchiki-sama," Hisana said as she stepped into a discreet restaurant hidden among the high street shops of Tokyo's Roppongi district. Its modest brass plaque was the only indication of its existence—a gem tucked away, one that Hisana had never known about and certainly could never afford.
As she crossed the threshold, the world seemed to skew, tilting like a painting hung at a crooked angle, never quite right no matter how she tried to adjust her perspective.
A heat rose from her heart, climbing up her neck and flushing her cheeks with a warmth so intense it made her clothes feel constricting. Accepting the invitation had been a nod to propriety rather than a gesture of courtesy, and now she was trapped.
Flanked by their imposing figures, her simple long dress and the cut of her hair—which she did like—suddenly seemed inadequate. 'Let it go,' she admonished herself, trying to shrug off the discomfort. Despite her best efforts, her fingers found their way to her hair. The new style, she now feared, did little to flatter her big eyes and round cheeks—perhaps that was why he hadn't acknowledged her.
Standing there with a smile that was too broad and too fixed, Hisana tried to gather her scattered thoughts, tucking them behind the taut corners of her lips. Her gaze flickered towards Byakuya, her stomach knotting, her hopes fraying and unravelling from her well-worn heart.
A hostess clad in a black kimono approached them, her attention fixed on the men, bypassing Hisana entirely. Glancing down at her own dress, Hisana adjusted a non-existent wrinkle in the fabric. Only when they followed the hostess through corridors adorned with traditional art did Hisana venture above a murmur, "I seem to be underdressed. I could change into something more appropriate if necessary."
"Oh, Hisana-chan," Kyōraku responded with his laid-back charm, as if lounging in an invisible hammock, "There's no need for that. You look as lovely as ever. Besides, aren't rules meant to be bent a little?"
Hisana blinked, her voice lost—a dilemma she was spared from addressing as Kyōraku clapped Byakuya on the shoulder, his broad smile wholehearted. "Back in the day, this one had quite the knack for bending rules, especially where matters of the heart were concerned."
Her gaze snapped towards Byakuya. His usual poise had hardened into a rigid line, clearly delineated down his spine.
"While I appreciate your nostalgic reflections on my younger days, you should refrain from indulging in gossip." Byakuya said, his words seeping through them like a winter wind, biting and brisk.
Kyōraku shook his head, his chuckle low and knowing. Hisana caught the sharp, fleeting glance he sent her way and recognised it for what it was.
She drew a deep breath, steeling herself to respond. However, just as she parted her lips to speak, they were ushered into a private dining room. At the entry, they paused, and Hisana took in the spotless rice straw tatami mats. In the centre of the room, a low wooden table gleamed under the soft lighting, surrounded by silk cushions. The table, with its reflective surface and elegant simplicity, seemed more a piece of decorative art than a surface for dining.
Beyond, sliding shoji doors framed a curated garden—where pebbled pathways meandered, and leaves speckled with autumn's warmth faded from their vibrant green. Stone lanterns cast a soft glow over patches of tended moss. Despite it being out of season, the air was perfumed with the scent of cherry blossoms, mingling with the earthier aromas of incense and polished wood.
A smile broke across Hisana's face despite the rising heat in her neck. The memory of past afternoons—golden sunlight filtering through bamboo shades; the delicate sound of wind chimes—was something she found herself welcoming. Though the room boasted a grandeur her parents' teahouse never had, it evoked a familiar sense of tranquillity.
The hostess attended to Byakuya and Kyōraku, taking their coats with a deep bow and presenting their slippers, while hers were left by the entryway. Hisana slipped off her shoes and donned her slippers before crossing the tatami mats to settle onto the silk cushions.
Once everyone was seated and comfortably adjusted, the hostess retreated, the sliding door whispering shut behind her. In the ensuing silence—punctuated only by the gentle trickle of water from the garden—Hisana's gaze drifted, appreciating each detail as if it were a verse in a song of stone, light, and leaf.
An ache throbbed in her chest, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Surrounded by the beauty of nature, which unlike anything else in her life, never failed to accept her presence, to welcome her as she was.
When her gaze returned to the room, it locked with his. The sight of his striking features—his black hair tousled, the aristocratic lines of his nose, and the firm set of his jaw—eased the ache, causing her smile to bloom like a flower basking in the glow of his presence. His eyes softened, shedding their usual indifference for a fleeting spark, vanishing as quickly as a shooting star.
Taking a soft breath, Hisana averted her eyes, only to meet Kyōraku's, which twinkled with a knowing glint. "Hisana-chan, my dear," Kyōraku began, his head tilting and his smile inviting, "forgive my forwardness, but you've piqued my curiosity."
"Unfortunately, Kyōraku-san, your curiosity may be misplaced. I am rather uninteresting." Hisana remarked. A server cradling a bottle of aged saké entered the room; she gave him a quick glance, then turned her attention back to Kyōraku.
"I don't believe that for a moment; otherwise, you wouldn't be doing a collection for Byakuya," he replied, a budding smirk appearing as he leaned forward to lift his cup of freshly poured saké.
Hisana sensed the server behind her, but Byakuya's signal stopped him from pouring her cup. Across the table, Kyōraku's smile magnified the room's confinement, the walls seeming to inch closer. A gnawing tension coiled tighter in her stomach, like a serpent ready to strike.
It was unclear whether Byakuya cared or simply chose to overlook the nuances of their exchange, but it stirred a dark, unsettling feeling within her—a longing to be noticed by him.
She could not help but interpret his indifference as a deliberate dismissal. Hisana's heart, parched and cracking, throbbed in the arid desert of his apathy, each beat a futile search for the rain of his attention, which never came.
Perhaps it was the push and pull, the interplay of distance and words between them, or maybe it was because the more Hisana observed Byakuya, the less she understood. What did he want? The question prickled up her neck, consuming her ears and wrapping tightly around her heart.
But she pushed it away, deep into the abyss of her thoughts.
With a graceful lift of her hands, Hisana adjusted a stray lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear. She turned, presenting Kyōraku with a smile that was perfect. "I shall indulge your curiosity, Kyōraku-san, but please forgive me if I prove less than fascinating."
"I spend much of my time on my art, expressing myself through my paintings," she explained, her gaze lending warmth to her words, a soft light flickering within her irises. "Beyond that, I enjoy simplicity, which often leads me back to art, nature, or time with my sister." After a pause, during which she glanced towards Byakuya, she added, "and photography."
"Ah, a true artist, and rather humble," Kyōraku observed, his chuckle light but resonant. He glanced at Byakuya with mock seriousness. "A woman after my own heart, wouldn't you agree, Byakuya?"
Choosing to avoid Kyōraku's gaze, Hisana focused instead on the deep, calming timbre of Byakuya's voice as he responded, "Kyōraku, your jests are growing somewhat exaggerated, wouldn't you say?"
Her hand pressed against her stomach, where the feeling originated and tightened. As the coil within snapped, a jolt coursed through her body, tensing her shoulders, and clenching her jaw shut—but she could only maintain it for a heartbeat or two.
"See, Kyōraku-san," Hisana begun, her voice flowing like honey, sweet and rich, "even Kuchiki-sama agrees with the sentiment that I am far too uninteresting."
"Marugo-san, I have never suggested such a thing," Byakuya snapped, closing his eyes. When he reopened them, they held an icy detachment, freezing out Hisana for fanning flames he had been trying to smother.
Soft chuckles emerged from Kyōraku, his eyes twinkling as they danced between the two. He lifted his saké cup, took a deliberate sip, and shook his head with a wry smile. "You know, Byakuya, Hisana-chan reminds me of someone—kind, gentle, and eloquent."
"Kyōraku, this isn't appropriate," Byakuya interjected curtly.
Without needing to look, Hisana felt each subtle shift of his body—the pause, the clink of his saké cup and his soft sip. With each movement, she sensed the static shock of his presence, the brewing storm within him, dark and ominous, looming unseen but poised to burst.
"So, you've noticed it too, then? Interesting," Kyōraku mused, his gaze intense, his fingers tapping on his stubbled chin.
Hisana's smile faltered, more a reflex than a genuine response. The air crackled, causing the hairs on her neck to bristle with a feral energy. On instinct, she reached for the bottle of aged saké, pouring herself a cup before taking a sip.
While the alcohol left a trail of warmth inside her, a sudden cold draped itself over the table. Byakuya's grip tightened around his own cup. Feeling the palpable shift, Hisana couldn't suppress the question that slipped out: "Who do I remind you of, Kyōraku-san?"
Kyōraku's flamboyance fell away, replaced by a serious, soulful expression.
"You remind me of Sōjun, an old and dear friend," Kyōraku revealed, his gaze shifted from a rather stiff Byakuya to meet Hisana. "Byakuya's father. You two share a resemblance."
Suddenly, it all clicked into place—his behaviour, his actions, and his words, all landing crushing blows to her heart. Hisana sat bolt upright, her posture rigid. The events of the past few months reassembled into a clear picture, one that she found unpalatable and unwelcome.
A bitter taste crept into her mouth, erasing the sweetness of what had almost been a kiss—another moment tainted by her fanciful naivety.
Now, everything made sense, casting their time together in a hue of blue that only Hisana could perceive—his constant busyness, his supportive gestures, and, of course, his choice to not acknowledge her. Hisana traced the unfamiliar contours of her shortened hair, each stroke spiralling into thoughts more painful than the last.
There was a smile on Hisana's face, but it carried a shadow, as if it couldn't quite escape the darkness that clung to her. The oppressive silence, weighted down by Kyōraku's gaze, was interrupted by the arrival of the servers and the chef, who presented a stunning array of sashimi and a mound of wasabi on frosted glass plates.
The chef began to speak, offering a detailed explanation of the dishes. However, Hisana scarcely registered his words; they were drowned out by the clamour of her own racing heart.
After a respectful bow, the chef and servers exited. Hisana took this moment to pause, allowing her gaze to, once again, soak in the beauty of the garden—from the lush green moss to the solemn grey of the stone lanterns.
With the breeze that caressed the leaves, a gust stirred within her, unsettling the ache in her heart. It crept up her neck, stoking a fire that began to mend the broken fragments within her, growing hotter and more intense. This flame transformed into a blaze she made no effort to subdue.
Hisana clenched her fingers into the fabric of her dress. However, with every look she cast his way, the tight contours of her face eased. Instead of the usual bright flower of her smile, a quieter, deeper blossom emerged.
While his expression remained frozen, like a lake iced over in the dead of winter, beneath the still surface, Hisana could discern the undercurrents—the dark churn threatening to crack the ice from within. Yes, he was far from indifferent. Only at that thought did Hisana reach for her chopsticks, idly picking at her food. Each bite she took was tasteless, reflecting the numbness that mirrored his icy exterior.
Breaking the stifling silence, Kyōraku leaned forward, saké cup in hand, his demeanour relaxed yet his eyes intent, as he took leisurely sips. "Byakuya, remind me, when is the gallery opening and exhibition?"
"December seventeenth," Byakuya replied, leaning back with his words measured, revealing no more than necessary.
Kyōraku stroked his stubble, his brows knitting together. "And Hisana-chan is the star of the show? She's the only artist being featured?"
"That is correct," Byakuya paused—a chess player contemplating his next move, until he continued, "Kyōraku, what are you implying? I believe you've shared enough opinions for today."
Kyōraku's gaze snapped towards Hisana with the swiftness of a camera shutter—piercing, and brief, as if attempting to decipher everything about her in that moment.
"Hisana-chan," Kyōraku began, exhaling a sigh before gesturing towards her. "While you are undoubtedly kind, gentle, and eloquent, you are what many would call a simple and unknowing woman. You possess great artistic talent, yet Byakuya may have, perhaps selfishly, thrust you into a spotlight for which you are unprepared and uninformed."
Shadows drew back into the recesses of her expression, a slight flinch tightening around Hisana's eyes. It was a quiet freezing over, where her smile stiffened and faded, leaving her face smoothed into a polite, blank mask. She set down her chopsticks.
However, Byakuya's stoic facade began to crack, not outwardly, but in a cold expansion that she felt more than saw. Silent and barely visible, it filled the space like a dense fog rolling off the sea. It enveloped her, seeping into her bones. Compelled by the rising force, she lifted her eyes towards him, blinking beneath her lashes.
"Kyōraku," Byakuya said, his eyes narrowing to slits. His voice was sharp and carried the steely edge of his words. "You present your opinions as wisdom, yet they are as empty as the shells left behind on the shores of your ignorance."
His composure remained flawless, marred only by the controlled breaths he took. His imposing gaze then shifted to her. "Do not heed such remarks, Marugo-san. You are my guest, and I must apologise for any offense caused by the ramblings of an old friend."
Just as quickly as it sparked, he doused it, retreating beneath a calm so practiced it almost seemed innate. This left Hisana wondering—if he allowed the storm to rage, if he let the thunder in his stormy gaze break free and tear down his facade of indifference, would it be otherworldly?
Kyōraku swirled his saké in the cup, watching the liquid dance before raising it towards Byakuya in a half salute. "Ah, you might be right, Byakuya, but even a hollow shell can sing if held to the ear. I wonder what you might hear if you listened to it."
His cheeks dimpled with the effort of holding back laughter, a spark of wit gleaming in his eyes as he leaned back. "Better prepare Hisana-chan well for the vultures."
"Kyōraku-san, while I may be considered simple," she began, avoiding his gaze, "I'd rather focus on enjoying our lunch than let this conversation overshadow the success of the day any longer."
Hisana straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, sealing away the sharp sting that nestled in her stomach. Each breath pressed it deeper, burying it beneath layers of friendly perfection.
The remainder of their lunch had continued as a tedious affair, each bite an effort, every smile a chore. Hisana had watched the minutes crawl by, willing them to hasten so she could escape the suffocating atmosphere of forced civility. However, her relief at the conclusion of their meal was fleeting.
Rather than the freedom she craved, Hisana found herself ensconced in the plush confines of a car. Beside her sat Kuchiki Byakuya, his presence as commanding as it had been across the lunch table. Courtesy had dictated his offer of a ride home, and propriety had prevented her from declining it. Or perhaps, if she admitted the truth to herself, it was more than mere propriety that held her there.
Interacting with Byakuya was akin to whispering to the ocean. She sensed the life teeming beneath his reserved surface—hidden currents of thoughts and feelings—but all that met her eyes were the shimmering reflections on the surface, the depths concealing the voices she yearned to hear.
Oh, how she longed to hear him, to truly see him. Her heart ached with the voids left behind—raw, hollow spaces carved out by her parents' deaths and the sacrifices she had made for her sister.
Now, Byakuya was there, piecing together the scattered fragments of her into something resembling wholeness—and it stung. Hisana couldn't identify the source of the ache; perhaps it stemmed from her weariness of living as a shadow. Emerging from one shadow, she found herself engulfed by another, cast by Byakuya—she was nothing more than a reflection mirroring his father.
Though the sting of this resemblance wounded her, it was merely a scratch compared to the deep cut of his disregard. With every instance he overlooked her, a pendulum swung wildly in her chest, oscillating between the impulses to cast him out and to draw him close.
However, this impulse had her fingers itching to reach out, to shake him until the very glass of his impassive façade shattered into a thousand reflective shards.
Inside the car beside him, she found herself unable to act; his presence enveloped her, blending with the rich scent of his cologne and the leather interior. The murmuring of the wheels against the road whispered a ceaseless, calming mantra, smoothing the wrinkles of her thoughts. Her eyes grew heavy, each blink longer and heavier, until Hisana drifted into slumber.
It felt as though only a heartbeat had passed when her eyes fluttered open, the world blurring into focus like sunlight filtering through thin curtains. The hum of the car engine was replaced by a new rhythm—the cascade of keyboard clicks, like pebbles tumbling down a stream. Her first conscious breath was filled with his scent—smoky cigarettes, spice, and a trace of flowers.
Squinting through drowsiness, she noticed the gentle glow of a laptop screen, casting his refined features in strokes of light and shadow. He was typing, his fingers deft and quick, oblivious to her watchful gaze.
Her smile surfaced quietly. Inside, her heart hummed with warmth, pulsing with a longing as undeniable as the beat itself. Enchanted, she watched through half-closed lashes, the light dancing across his face.
Then she yawned—a deep, expansive yawn that made her stretch backward into the seat. Once it subsided, she quickly brought a hand to her mouth, smoothing over her lapse with a light touch. "Did I fall asleep?"
"Yes, we're at your home" Byakuya answered, his voice low. A soft click echoed as he shut his laptop and slid it into its case. Even without the glow of the screen, a faint light from the streetlamps outside touched the corners of his eyes and mouth, softening his expression.
Rubbing her temples, Hisana sighed, "I must have been more tired than I thought," her fingers then working to smooth out her dress.
"It had been rather eventful," he stated, the warmth of his demeanour spread toward her, gently dissolving the barriers of indifference he had erected. "I feel the need to apologise again for Kyōraku's words. I assure you they were the ramblings of an old man who should know better."
Hisana paused, his warmth morphing their image into a bizarre mosaic, each piece reflecting absurdity that nearly made her burst with laughter. "Byakuya-sama, are you suggesting that I neither resemble your father nor am I a simple, naive woman?"
"Hisana—" He slipped; his stoic exterior chipped away under the question. What emerged was him, so intense and unexpected, she found herself unable to look away.
As the air between them thickened, Hisana pressed him further. "Do you disagree, Byakuya-sama?" she urged, leaning in, her eyes wide.
He shifted back, the leather of the seat creaking under him. Resting his head against the headrest, his hand covered his forehead. In that moment, he appeared strikingly human to Hisana, and she felt a flutter so powerful she could have sworn if he asked for her heart, she would tear it out without a second thought.
The pause stretched between them, charged, and waiting.
Finally, he spoke, his voice regaining its deep, contained timbre. "I do," he said, his eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "You remind me of my father in some ways—there's a kindness in you, a strength that he possessed. But that is where the similarity ends. Anyone who views you as an unknowing and simple woman hasn't seen the depth you possess."
As subtly as it appeared, his light dimmed to its usual reserved grey—like the sun slipping behind a cloud. The air snapped cold, leaving sharp, distinct shards of pain in her heart. His gaze swept over her, lingering on the cropped strands of her hair. With trembling fingers, Hisana reached up to tuck them behind her ear.
"There is merit in one aspect of what Kyōraku mentioned. Networking is essential for the success of your collection and the gallery. It's important to be prepared, not just for the launch, but for everything that follows," Byakuya said, his head tilting. A few tresses of his neatly styled black hair escaped, brushing against his crisp white shirt.
"And what will follow?" Hisana's lips parted, her voice barely a whisper as she moistened them. His stormy gaze landed on her lips, stirring a fluttery sensation that, despite its lightness, carried a heat spreading quickly.
She watched him, heart pounding as gravity shifted inside the car, centring between them. He tensed his jaw and briefly shut his eyes, then leaned closer, their individual atmospheres overlapping, merging into a blazing sphere that neither could escape.
"Hisana," he murmured, and the sound of her name felt like a call she had waited for all her life.
They were nearing, he was but a small pull away from her. "Yes," she responded, her gaze capturing the hues of his eyes, then tracing down his refined nose, and finally settling on his lips.
"I would like you to accompany me to a gallery exhibition in Hayama," Byakuya said, his voice hushed by the pressure between them. As he drew close, his presence intensified. All Hisana could focus on was the soft sound of his inhale and the sight of tiny flecks in his grey eyes.
"This will be a valuable opportunity for you to establish important connections. And I expect you to use it wisely." He continued, his breath coming in short, eager bursts that mirrored her own.
"Of course, Byakuya," her reply was so faint, it seemed to be absorbed, lost in the space of the car.
She could almost feel the echo of his heartbeat, a throbbing pulse that matched her own. The closeness between them became gravitational, pulling them past the boundaries where Hisana knew he ended, and she began. Except that their lips faintly touched, the contact a soft echo that resonated through their joined breaths.
It was less a kiss and more a sigh shared between them. However, she couldn't move. Her eyes fluttered closed, waiting for him to pull him in. Hisana lingered there, in their breathless limbo, her world reduced to the heat radiating from his lips. But then, she felt him pull away, his gaze cooling into a distant frost that settled like an unwelcome shadow.
Lifting her lids, Hisana hoped to disguise the sting with a mask of indifference, but the effort cracked when she saw his face—eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
A knot tightened in her stomach, mirroring the pinch of his features, each tense muscle in his face pulling at her heart with silent, cold precision. "You drank saké," he noted, his tone pricking at her, tiny stings that almost dragged tears.
"I did…" Hisana admitted, blinking slowly. Her heart pounded as she withstood the coldness of his gaze, her own expression contorting. His withdrawal left her exposed in the harsh light of reality. Her lips trembled—not from the cool September night, but from another kiss withheld. Hisana inhaled sharply, the ache raw and intense in her stomach, her fingers seeking to soothe the tender spot where it rooted itself on her chest.
Her expression shifted in an instant, her eyes dimming like stars fading at dawn. "I wasn't allowed."
He didn't respond; the leather of the seat creaked as he settled back, his gaze fixed stoically forward. Her breath caught; a storm of unspoken retorts gathered behind her set jaw, the pressure building inside her. It felt like a provocation, and if she had been anyone else, she might have slapped it right off his face.
However, he seemed to overlook it, his voice tight. "Shirogane will send over the details. I expect you to exceed my expectations, Marugo-san."
Despite the roiling in her stomach, Hisana's response was controlled. Her nod was impeccable, her smile masterful, but it was a façade that barely contained the simmering beneath, threatening not just to overwhelm her, but to burst forth and confront him.
Instead, she flung the door open, the force causing the entire car to shudder. Night wrapped her building in deep shadows, its outline traced by the soft, intermittent light of windows and movement. "Of course, Byakuya-sama, thank you ever so much for the ride home," her words dripped with sugary sweetness.
She stepped out, her movements crisp, gathering her belongings without sparing him a glance. With a fury that matched the gathering storm in his eyes, Hisana slammed the car door with a thunderous clap that echoed down the street. She stalked away, each stride a blow to the calm of the night.
In the waning days of September, the air was kissed with a hint of coolness, presaging change. As October arrived, this gentle caress deepened into a crisp bite of frost that clung to leaves and grass each morning.
Hisana moved through her days encased in invisible barriers, trapped by a clear, hard distance. Each attempt to reach out was like pushing against spring-loaded walls that snapped back with greater force. The constant effort strained her, and she struggled to pretend everything was normal. It left her feeling more isolated, especially when Kuchiki Byakuya maintained a careful distance.
Since the car ride, all their interactions and meetings were facilitated through Shirogane, who remained strictly professional.
Indeed, her life had turned into a carousel ride—round and round in endless circles, each rotation blurring into the next with monotonous regularity. The scenery never changed; each day was painted with the same hues, filled with the same sounds, and each endless loop stretched the days longer.
The nights followed suit, unforgiving, brewing a concoction of dreams that scorched her flesh, steeped in the remnants of another almost-kiss—his face close to hers, almost close enough. The effects of her dreams often left her eyes drifting to nothing, her gaze distant as if searching for something just beyond reach.
Just like now, Hisana stared off into space, her wide eyes capturing both nothing and everything. She sighed, the echo of words floating like whispers lost in the wind.
"There ya go, Hisana. This should be all of it," those words said with a confident drawl.
"Thank you, Renji-san," her response was mechanical, her movements and words pulled by unseen strings in a performance devoid of thought.
Out of nowhere, a hand fluttered like a startled bird in front of her face, its whistle piercing the silence. Hisana took a deep breath, briefly pressing her fingers against her eyelids. With her attention refocused, she settled on the man in front of her. The tailored jacket did little to conceal the breadth of his shoulders, and his unruly red hair, though tamed, still lent him a roguish air. The tattoos on his neck stood out against the white collar of his shirt.
"Yes," Hisana answered, her hands patting down her hair and smoothing her skirt.
A brief glance over his shoulder offered her a view of the day winding down. Men, who had been shuffling in and out with boxes and furniture, now paused to bow towards them before disappearing down the hallway, leaving the gallery an unorganised cluttered mess.
"Hey," his firm brown eyes caught hers again, his expression serious. "You seem distracted. You hitting the—" with a quick two-fingered jab towards his mouth, he mimed tossing back a shot.
"No," she interrupted him, shaking her head, "I am fine, and that was situational..."
Renji studied Hisana, his eyes tracing the lines and curves that defined her before he concluded with a nod, "Alright."
Then she observed the casual ease with which he shifted his weight against the reception desk, his elbows resting on the cool marble surface. His expression gentled, brows lifting, a cocky smile playing on his lips. "You've ditched that gloomy, timid vibe. And look at you—not looking like a skeleton anymore."
"Excuse me?" Hisana's eyes fluttered, her hand flying to her chest.
"Nah, excuse you…" Renji retorted, his tone unreadable. Then, the corners of his mouth began to twitch further upwards as he tilted his head, revealing the boyishness in his smirk. "You owe me for having me and the guys do your labour. We're not just here for you, ya know. We've got other stuff to do too for the boss."
Hisana found herself responding with a spontaneous smile. "If I remember correctly, Renji-san, your price is taiyaki."
He shook his head, his eyes alight, as he held up three fingers. "For me alone," he clarified, then thumbed over his shoulder toward the hallway. "Theirs is separate. One each."
"Of course," Hisana replied, her nod barely concealing the giggle that teetered on the edge of her lips. "I'll pick up some in the afternoon."
While his bartering was a playful formality, it was also redundant. As her days at the gallery and atelier melded into an unending cycle of work with her exhibition approaching, Renji and the others became more frequent fixtures. They interacted almost daily, and it had become somewhat customary for her to bring in treats.
Besides, she owed him far more than treats for his part in pulling her out of that pub.
Hisana turned her attention to the gallery. The once-empty space was now a landscape of clutter—boxes piled high, opulent benches, and lush plants filled the area. Each item, grand in both appearance and cost, demanded attention, waiting to be strategically placed.
Drawing in a deep breath, she set her focus, singling out the first box. As she peeled back the flaps, the scent of paper and ink rose to greet her, sparking a sudden thought. Her fingers stalled amidst the contents of the box. With a tentative twist, she stole a glance at Renji.
He seemed lost in thought, leaning against the reception desk, his gaze wandering along the contours of the ceiling while his fingers idly tapped a rhythm on the cool marble, disconnected from his distant stare.
The thought of how to frame her question caused Hisana to pause, her eyes darting back to the box. "Renji-san," she began, her voice tense, her shoulders taut.
"Ah, do you need help with—" Renji snapped to attention, materialising by her side. His presence was immediate, his eyes narrowing with a razor-sharp focus as he peered into the box, "pens?"
The word 'no' escaped her lips faster than intended, a reflex that prompted her to close the box. Straightening up, she clasped her hands behind her back, her smile searching the room, "This concerns Kuchiki-sama. You have been in his service for several years now, haven't you?"
His response seemed to teeter on the edge, held back by a facial expression that divulged nothing. "Yeah," he finally replied, his brow arching in a smooth, questioning curve, "Why? What's the deal?"
"I wondered—if this isn't too personal," her words stumbled, tripping over each other. "I completely understand, but..." she trailed off, her hands fluttering as if trying to pluck the right words from the air. Squinting, she continued, "your experience with his social circle."
Renji's response was quick and blunt, "What are you even asking?" His arms folded across his chest.
Her soft exclamation, "Oh," reverberated through the gallery, her stomach plummeting. "I apologise, that was too forward of me, wasn't it?"
Renji's gaze looked through her, settling on some distant point. "The boss isn't much for socialising," he explained. "He keeps to himself. If he's introducing you to someone, it's not for him and not for casual chats. It's business, trust me."
Biting her lower lip, Hisana held back further questions, weighing his blunt words. After a moment of contemplation, she opted for silence, acknowledging his answer with a subdued nod.
"Listen," Renji began, his hand sweeping in a gesture that encompassed her entire form, from head to toe, "you'll be fine. You've got a knack for putting on a show, playing nice and all. Don't stress about it too much. While we might not play the same game as them, they love a good charity project."
The term 'charity project' echoed oddly in her ears. She paused, blinking—not just to dismiss the quirk of his words but also to clear her thoughts. That wasn't the question she had meant to ask. With her fingers twirling, Hisana pressed further, "And what about his family?"
His hands came up in a decisive gesture, shutting down any further probing, "That's not my place to discuss." Renji stated, his palms out.
After a moment, his expression contorted, his hand ruffling through his hair. He drew in a short breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. Locking his gaze onto hers, his demeanour softened.
This time, his words were smoother, more considered, "I suppose it's natural you're curious. Those folks aren't ones to mess with, you know? The Kuchiki's have been around since the Azuchi-Momoyama period—they are established. Personally, you're better off facing the socialites. Consider yourself lucky."
"Why then would someone like Nakamura choose to betray Kuchiki-sama?" The words slipped out before Hisana could stop them. Her hand clapped over her mouth, her fingertips pressing against her lips as if trying to stuff the words back inside.
The impact of her question struck him, making his head snap back as if slapped. A flush of colour swept across his cheeks, and his deep brown eyes flared. "How do you know about Nakamura?" he demanded, his voice slicing through the smooth atmosphere like a crack Hisana didn't know how to mend.
"I really don't know anything. It was months ago," she stammered, her breath hitched, caught in her throat. "My question wasn't related to him—"
"Hisana, you gotta quit poking your nose where it doesn't belong," Renji barked, his voice rough-edged with streetwise inflection. He reached out, gripping Hisana's shoulders with a firmness that bordered on shaking her.
There was a tremble in his grip. "The boss doesn't mess around when it comes to life, but others in his family sure do, and they are playing a dangerous game. Nakamura won't last long—he's just a pawn."
Hisana's body snapped taut, her eyes widening. She scrutinised his face, seeking signs of deception or exaggeration, but instead, she met a disquieting sincerity.
"Tell me everything," he urged, his fingers tightening around the fabric of her shoulders, digging into her skin almost to the point of bruising. "What else have you seen?"
Hisana's lips parted, ready to recount, but she halted, catching the warning flickering through his intense brown eyes—one he wouldn't voice. Her heart pounded, thudding so loud in her ears she feared she might go deaf.
Briefly closing her eyes, she shut out the present, delving into the past few weeks since she saw Nakamura. Her life had progressed in a series of mundane routines, without any further sign of him since that singular sighting. Her encounters with Kōga, always just outside the gallery, were the only disruptions. Each meeting, while fleeting, left a bitter aftertaste, akin to a rich wine that turned sour on the tongue.
She couldn't place it. It was almost as if his façade concealed minute fractures—imperceptible yet unsettling—where something darker, something decaying peered out. But, she could not grasp it. Nothing logical dictated the primitive chill that crept into her bones at the thought of him.
Determined to shake off the unnerving sensation, Hisana shrugged off Renji's hands. Once free, she stepped backward, cautious of the boxes strewn by her feet. She met his narrowed gaze, her chin rising as she admitted, "A few weeks ago, I saw Nakamura outside the gallery. He appeared to be staring directly at me through the window. But it was just for a brief moment before he disappeared."
"Okay," his gaze drilled into her, probing for any hint of deceit. Momentarily satisfied, he exhaled a quiet "good," accepting her words. He turned away, his eyes scanning the distance as he sifted through the pieces of the puzzle she had presented. Then, with the suddenness of a falcon swooping on its prey, he spun back to face her, "Did you see anything or anyone else? It's important."
The words nearly slipped out—the old man. They pressed against her clenched teeth, but she sealed her lips, locking them inside. Perhaps, she reasoned, it wasn't Kōga. Perhaps her reaction was not to the man himself but to the shadow of Nakamura, distorting her perception.
Kōga might just be a perfectly ordinary, affluent older man. And she needed to network for what would follow after.
A cool whisper traced down her spine like the brush of a breeze across sun-warmed skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Hisana rubbed her arms, striving to shake it off again, her words tight against her tongue, "No, that was all. There wasn't anyone else."
In her small apartment, the unending hum of the city below merged with the nipping October air, wafting through the ajar window. The scent of rain on concrete rose from the streets, blending with the faint aroma of her soap. Nestled in the thick folds of her futon, Hisana felt the day's exertions pull at her muscles, each ache pronounced against the coolness seeping in. However, wrapped in her heavy sheets, she found a cozy refuge, burrowing deeper until her laptop screen burst into light with an incoming video call.
Hisana quickly adjusted her position against the pillows, her movements causing a faint squeak of the aged floorboards beneath. Dragging the laptop onto her lap, she fumbled as she tilted the camera to frame her face just right. She accepted the call, revealing Rukia's face, surrounded by a halo of short, tousled black hair that glowed with its own impish charm. Dressed in a nightgown adorned with cheerful, Chappy-themed motifs, Rukia's eyes twinkled.
With a lively wave and a quick adjustment of her camera, Rukia leaned closer. "Are you ready, sis?" she beamed, her face illuminated by the soft glow of her own screen. "I've found just the place, and the dress. It's a bit pricey, but it's worth it."
"I'm sorry. I've kind of dropped this onto you, Rukia—I just haven't had the time, and the event is next week. At this rate, I fear I might end up going in a black bag." Hisana's voice wavered, her gaze wandering over the familiar backdrop of the living room in Karakura Town—the neatly arranged books, the slight flutter of the curtains from a night breeze.
Keyboard taps filtered through the laptop's speakers. "If that's what we're dealing with, why not slap some Chappy stickers on there? We'll just call it a piece of avant-garde art. That should do the trick unless he's too stuck up to appreciate creativity."
Hisana's laughter, soft and melodic, danced through the air. "We'll call it a collaboration then." Her eyes crinkled at the corners, cheeks flushed with a rosy hue from the laughter, even though she knew Byakuya wouldn't appreciate such a statement at a formal, high society event.
"Let me share my screen," Rukia mumbled, her face a concentrated furrow of narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Moments later, Hisana's screen was flooded with a dazzling array of dresses, each arranging like a deck of cards. Rukia's cursor hovered over a burgundy dress with a swaying skirt and fluttering sleeves—the sight of it stirred a sudden tightness in Hisana's chest.
The high neckline, though elegant, felt like a beautiful cage. Imagining herself beside Byakuya in it, she felt the urge to claw at her throat, the imagined constraint making her skin crawl.
But, from the corner of her screen, she saw Rukia's eyes sparkle with approval, her nod gentle, grin wide. It was clear, this was Rukia's favourite. Her hands, as expressive as her voice, fluttered. "What do you think of this dress? It's ideal for the evening, and the colour really brings out your eyes. Plus, the details are stunning."
"It's beautiful, and I do like it. But... I want something that feels a bit less confining," Hisana murmured, squinting as she leaned closer to the laptop screen, her breath fogging the glass.
"Confining?" Rukia's eyes widened, her expression flickering as her hand drifted to her chin. After a moment, her brow narrowed in concentration, and she resumed scrolling through the digital catalogue with a focused murmur. "He's taking you somewhere fancy, right?"
"Yes," Hisana replied, her gaze tracing the silhouettes of each dress Rukia scrolled past. "It's an exhibition in Hayama."
"What about this one?" Rukia paused, the screen stopping on a garnet red dress that framed the model's shoulders and hugged her figure tightly.
Hisana's hand rose to her chest, fingers splayed as if to steady the warmth from her erratically beating heart. "Rukia!" she gasped, "I couldn't possibly wear that!"
"Why not? You said you wanted something less confining, and it's perfectly suitable for a date," Rukia retorted bluntly.
"Date?" Hisana blanched, instantly shaking her head. She burrowed deeper into the warmth of her sheets, the ache in her muscles intensifying into a throbbing headache. "This is a networking event with my boss."
As she looked at the dress, its tight fabric and daring cut embraced every curve of the model. Hisana's mind raced, trying to imagine herself in it, but she recoiled; it was too bold, too daring. She could almost feel the coldness of Byakuya's gaze, the flicker of disapproval etching itself into her skin like icy fingers.
"Wait, this isn't for a date?" Rukia's voice sliced through Hisana's thoughts, her lips pursing.
Hisana opened her mouth to respond, but a thought halted her words. She pressed her lips together, her hands clammy against the laptop. For a moment, it took all her will not to avert her gaze. Only when Rukia tilted her head, a slow grin spreading across her face, did Hisana's gaze shy away.
"Didn't you draw some... rather smutty sketches of him? And now you're going out with him, at night, to some fancy place in Hayama?" Rukia's probing words were barely out when a face briefly bobbed into the video frame, dark amber eyes wide as they tried to grasp what had just been said.
"Hisana did what?" came Ichigo's rough voice from the speaker, breaking into the conversation.
With a laugh that sounded more like a choke, Hisana pulled the sheet up to her chin, her eyes clamping shut as a nauseating lurch twisted her stomach, akin to stepping off a precipice into an abyss.
"Rukia!" Hisana exclaimed, the twisting sensation in her gut subsiding into a persistent ache that throbbed dully in her chest. The bitter taste of her words—and the truth in them—made her tongue tingle; her usually demure voice struck a harsh note, "This is purely professional. There's nothing between my boss and me."
Mostly because the distance he imposed felt like shears snipping through the wings that had only just begun to sprout—and she knew she wasn't alone in feeling this way. He was not indifferent to it. Yet, with every backward glance he offered, another feather drifted to the ground, their potential ascent into what could be growing heavier, anchored by his dictates.
Hisana quickly smoothed her expression into one of practiced neutrality. This frustration wasn't meant for her sister, nor would she let Rukia bear the brunt of her issues again—not now, not after everything they had been through.
Hisana sighed, the sound a soft surrender, "The day's been long and busy. I'm just tired," she said, forcing a smile and waving away the heavier thoughts. "I should have been clearer about what help I needed. The dresses are beautiful, though. What do you think about that plum-coloured dress with embroidery?"
She noted a brief shadow pass over Rukia's face, a question forming then dissolving before it could even be voiced. Ichigo reluctantly receded into the background; his presence barely perceptible. "It's beautiful, floral, and will suit you, sis."
A tight knot formed in Hisana's throat, squeezing the air from her lungs. "I'm just frustrated, Rukia. I'm sorry," she murmured, determined not to hurt her sister again.
Rukia's smile was small, her eyes soft. In that moment, Hisana's love for her swelled, a warmth spreading through the coldness of her apartment. "It's okay. We'll get this one for you. Date or work, you'll look stunning." Rukia hesitated, biting her lip before adding, "Should I send it to yours or ours?"
Taking a deep breath, Hisana felt the expanse of her dimly lit space around her. Lately, everything seemed just out of reach, as if she were perpetually straining for something elusive—or rather, someone.
She could feel them at the edges of her consciousness—dark shapes gathered just beyond the light cast by the distance he imposed, the monotony of her life, and the simmering reaction to it all, boiling just beneath her skin. They crept closer, silent, and patient, seeping into her bones like the dread of a familiar, but unwelcome visitor poised to return.
With a sigh that carried the weight of her fatigue, Hisana replied, the tiredness of it all evident in her eyes, "Yours. I'm free this weekend, so a visit would be nice, if it's convenient for you and Ichigo."
Rukia's voice had a soft lilt, every word carefully chosen, but fully meant. "Absolutely. This house belongs to you just as much as it does to me, Hisana."
The rest of the night passed fleetingly, but naturally, as instinctive for Hisana as it was for Rukia. Their conversation flowed like a warm current through the cold, vast sea of Hisana's day. Rukia shared snippets of her university life. Hisana listened, her own updates cautious and measured, always filtering her words.
But as all things must, their conversation dwindled too soon, and they exchanged final smiles and goodbyes. Hisana's screen flickered to black, draining the life from the room as if it were pulling the colour from the walls themselves.
Hisana peered out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks that danced like fireflies caught in a breeze. Her fingers clenched the edges of her sheet, clinging to the room's dwindling warmth. Setting her laptop aside, she switched off the bedside lamp, surrendering the room to the creeping shadows that seemed to grow from the corners and stretch across.
Hisana laid in bed, her gaze fixed on the unseen ceiling. The night stretched ominously long; every moment heavy with the memory of Byakuya Kuchiki.
Her heart thudded, however, weariness weighed down her eyelids. Sleep, when it finally claimed her, did so with cool indifference, barely muffling the persistent rush in her veins. In the realm of dreams, his kisses posed questions and whispered answers—intensely real and haunting, leaving a scorching trail on her memory and skin.
Afterward, she would lay awake, the impressions of her dreams throbbing under her eyelids, her body aflame with an urgent longing. The remembered touch pooled a heat within her core that her fingers alone could not satisfy, leaving her yearning for a closeness that the morning could not bring.
HOLY SH**
I had this chapter all written out about 20 days ago… You want to know what look me so long to update it? I just couldn't stop nitpicking and editing it, over and over again. I am at this point, mostly happy with it, but I cannot continue editing the same thing endlessly.
It will be published as is.
Even with all that frustration, I am happy with how this story is turning out. Next chapter has a lot of things happening, and I am looking forward to finalising it. Just like I know everyone will love reading it Chapter 8.
And, I honestly can't even say this enough, and I will say this at the end of every chapter, thank you to everyone who is reading this, enjoying my story and my writing. It means the world to me.
As always, I do appreciate comments, likes & follows as well as hearing what you've thought about my story so far.
But honestly, the fact that you are reading makes me happy!