16A/N: When a prostitute finds a fallen Death God on her doorstep, she does what anyone would never do- she takes him in. AU. Living World centric.
She found him in the snow. Black against white. Death against life.
Hesitantly the young woman took another step towards the entrance of her home, her thick boots crunching against the dense layer of snow, and paused. Loose strands of her dark hair whipped at her heart-shaped face, and she flinched at the relentless cold air attacking her vulnerable skin. The weather was freezing and so very unforgiving, she noted tiredly. It was not wise to stay outdoors for too long during the current winter season. It was, after all, at its fiercest.
The last thing she – or anyone else, for the matter - had ever expected to see was a tall stranger sitting on her doorstep with his back against her closed timber door, unmoving. He was dressed decidedly inadequately to combat against the winter; a striking, flowing raven-black shihakusho, and a lengthy, thick light green scarf made intricately of windflower silk that, even against all the elements, maintained its regal splendor. It drifted in the harsh wind, spiraling almost protectively around its owner.
Hisana did not scream. She bit her lip, and quietly - ever so quietly - made her way towards the motionless man, rubber boots moving with some difficulty in the snow. It was bizarre to witness someone dressed so distinctly like this - he would stand out a mile within the heart of the city. Even without knowing his identity she knew he didn't belong here. She finally stumbled to a stop, her mitten-clad hands shivering slightly from the cold and the tip of her nose pink as she peered timidly down at the fallen creature right in front of her.
His eyes were closed serenely, and for someone who was calmly sitting out in the terrible, bleak winter he appeared stunningly tranquil. Gathering her courage, she peered even closer, trying to take in more of the features partially concealed by his loose, long black tresses. His eyelashes were so long, so very smoky against the pale skin. A long trail of mist escaped her lips as she exhaled, and she numbly watched it float over to his visage.
She was this near to him.
A part of her wondered if this was safe. She barely knew the being sitting on her doorstep. She didn't even know what he was doing at her residence. Had he simply been roaming around, before deciding to settle outside her place to rest? Or worse, had he collapsed from the cold?
Who was he?
Softly, Hisana looked down, large disbelieving doe eyes taking in a long sheathed sword resting by his waist and at the black robes he donned, which were now spotted slightly with dots of pure white snow. She bit her lip when she noticed a darkened, dry crimson coating the torn cloth around his abdomen. Faintly Hisana could see a hint of a dark slash of red along his slightly exposed midriff. It was not obvious, but it was there.
He was injured.
Panicking somewhat now, Hisana straightened up - and uttered a soft cry when she unexpectedly came face-to-face with open slate grey eyes. He was looking at her, but unlike Hisana, he did not appear to be alarmed. Still looking just as serene, the stranger gazed quietly at her now as she clutched her mouth with mitten-clad fingers. How long had he been awake?
Or had he been awake all along? She would not be surprised if it were so.
For a long moment, no one spoke. And then -
"You are injured," Hisana said gently, her throat dry. "Do you need help?"
He continued looking at her in response, but said nothing. Neither, however, did he give any gesture to indicate his reply. Undeterred, Hisana smiled what she hoped to be a reassuring smile, and lowered herself once more beside him, her windbreaker crinkling at the motion. "Can you walk?" She asked softly. "I can help you."
For a few heartbeats he did not move, and they simply watched each other, her face gentle; his expression unreadable. She wondered what was going through his mind; did he not trust her? Was he measuring her up, contemplating if she carried any potential signs of danger? It was then that realization came strongly upon her like a shadow that had finally been brought to light - she was a stranger to him just as much as he was a stranger to her.
He rose.
Shocked, Hisana stumbled back as the male abruptly stood from the doorstep within a single, fluid motion, long scarf flickering gracefully in the frosty air. Snow drifted from his robes. He was so very regal; she found her eyes widening at his unexpectedly elegant movement. She could still make out the length of his sword, quietly lethal, beside him. For someone who was injured, he did not appear to let it affect him - his demeanor was unchanging.
That, however, did not change the fact that he was still hurt.
"Come," she urged recklessly, brushing past him and pulling out her keys from the tight nylon pockets of her windbreaker. Unlocking the door with a click, the woman moved to one side. She didn't dare to touch him - something, only she didn't know exactly what, told her that this proud creature, even while dressed in his torn clothes and with his injuries, was not someone who would let her touch him at her will.
If she ever touched him, it would be because he let her, and nothing else. He was a man; but he was a man she understood and at the same time, did not understand.
Silently, the stranger glided into the now open entrance of her little cabin. The way he entered her home made her feel as if it was the other way round; as if he owned the place instead. Soundlessly his sandaled feet stepped onto the smooth mahogany floor, his dark eyes scanning his surroundings. It was not an impressive place, Hisana knew. Her home was a rented cabin, and it was small. It was solitary.
Very much like her.
And, she thought faintly, very much like him.
"Don't move around too much," Hisana cautioned gently.
She walked into the sanitary space of her bathroom, a fresh set of clean robes on one arm. It was fortunate, she supposed as she looked down at the cloth, that her late father had been a fan of wearing the kinagashi. Few people ever dressed in their traditional clothes anymore, not even in the New Year. Or anytime at all. The fact that she still owned a set of such robes was astonishing in its own right.
But then again, her father had been very traditional. It seemed, however, that his tradition had not fully died with him.
"This is for you," Hisana said softly, draping the pale blue robes over the wooden stand. "I know it's rather old, but I think it's quite comfortable." Smiling, she turned, and looked at her impromptu visitor.
He sat noiselessly beside her bathtub, with his long legs tucked at his knees, while gazing at the taps situated on the opposite side by the white ceramic wall. The sheathed sword lay silently against his knee. He was still dressed in his torn, blood-stained robes, and she swallowed when she noticed the hard wall of taut, pale marble muscles beneath the loose opening of the front of the black cloth. His expensive scarf remained wrapped securely around his neck, falling around his tall build in light green waves.
When was the last time Hisana had seen a man who looked even remotely attractive? Her clients made that word very non-existent.
Quickly brushing aside her trail of thought, Hisana approached the male carefully. "Do you know how to work the taps?" She asked. "You need to wash your wounds, you know."
He finally looked up at her, long strands of his dark hair falling over his face.
When no response came her way, Hisana reached over and pointed at one of the taps. "Red is for hot water," she explained, "and cold is for blue. It's very simple." Not expecting a reply this time, she simply headed over to the cabinet above her mirror and pulled out her first aid box.
"Everything you need here is inside," she continued, gesturing at the red-and-white box. "I would help you administer your wounds, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be very appropriate…" She trailed off, her fingers tightening over the handle of that box, suddenly feeling disgusted at the hypocrisy of her words. Who was she, with her occupation, to say those things?
Not knowing what to do with the unexpected maelstrom of emotions rising in her chest, the woman lowered the box beside the wooden stand and moved to the door, feeling the man's gaze burning into her back. "Excuse me," she said quietly. "Please take your time."
He remained silent.
Now outside, Hisana pressed her back against the closed bathroom door, her eyes staring hollowly at the dark ceiling. What was she doing, she ruminated, inviting an unknown man into her home? A man who obviously did not belong to the city, who belonged to god-knows-where, with a sword? Injured or not, he could kill her, and they both knew it.
Had she really let him in because she wanted to help him? Or was it because she was lonely, because she had craved company so much that she would let even him in? She was, in truth, tired of being an outlet for men neglected by their wives; she was tired of being thrown aside once her usefulness had run its course; she was tired of staring at her father's memorial.
She was tired of being alone.
Sighing, Hisana approached her dining table, and poured a cup of tea for herself. Her discarded windbreaker lay draped over a nearby chair, leaving her in just her turtleneck sweater and long white skirt. It was cold. The teapot weighed heavily in her hand, and she set it down, staring absently at the flowery prints on its surface while tasting the bitter musk of her tea. She could hear the sound of water running inside the bathroom; hopefully the man had figured out how to use the taps. The mental imagery of him staring confusedly at them and scratching his head made her giggle.
Why, though, was the male so quiet? Did he dislike her? Or perhaps… he was mute?
Sighing at the thoughts in her head, Hisana took another swallow of cold tea.
Almost an hour later, which felt like several days to her, he appeared.
He wore her father's kinagashi well. He was clearly experienced in donning traditional wear – perhaps that was all he ever wore? - for the obi was expertly and artfully tied around his waist, and the simple blue silk delineated his sleek, toned build gorgeously. He was no longer wearing his scarf. With it, he looked elegant. Without it, he looked elegant. It was almost unjust.
And yet she doubted that anything would ever look poorly on him, be it modern wear or otherwise. The man calmly met her gaze, his lengthy, silky wet dark hair cascading over his powerful shoulders, and his slanted eyes tacit.
He was so aristocratic.
"Hello," Hisana said timidly. She wondered if his torn robes and his sword were still lying in the bathroom. "Are the clothes comfortable?"
He regarded her for a short while, before closing his eyes, thick lashes falling across his smooth complexion. And then, he spoke. "It will do."
His voice. It was deep, eloquent, and quiet.
"How are your wounds?" Hisana ploughed on. Now that he was willing to speak, she was desperate to get answers from him while she could. "Did you manage to treat them?"
"Yes." His answer was blunt, and simple.
Relieved, Hisana beckoned him to the seat opposite her by the dining table. After a long pause, he finally moved towards the offered chair with unhurried footsteps and gracefully seated himself, dark eyes raking the tissue box and the flowery teapot on the table. It was difficult for her to read what he was thinking.
"Would you like some tea?" Hisana asked softly, pointing at her cup. His stare flickered impassively to her. "It's a little cold, though."
At the word cold, a disinterested look immediately crossed his angular features. It was evident that, even without speaking, he did not want it. With no puns intended, cold tea was clearly not his cup of tea, Hisana thought dryly.
"Alright then," she said, lowering a resigned hand onto her teacup, and smiling politely up at him instead. "Well, in any case, here's to a better start. My name is Tamiko Hisana, by the way. It's very nice to meet you."
He gazed at her.
"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Hisana prompted gently. When no response came forth, she let out a little sigh, knowing it was futile to push further. Instead, she continued. "Well, I may not know who you are, but I know what you are."
Slate grey eyes narrowed, but she didn't allow his expression to faze her.
"You're a shinigami," she murmured frankly. The word fell from her lips simply as if it was something anyone would say nonchalantly; as if it was not a word that was completely terrifying to the world. Death, after all, was never warmly welcomed, much less its paradigm. "Aren't you? I'm the only person I know who is able to see your kind- other than my father, of course, but he's gone. So… did you get yourself hurt against a Hollow?"
He did not answer.
Smiling ruefully, Hisana picked up her teacup again. "Imagine me, talking to a shinigami," she mused, almost to herself. "I've never talked to your kind before. I've seen glimpses, of course, but I've never spoken to any of you. And here I am, with one in my house."
"How long have you had this ability?" His quiet question nearly took her off guard.
"You mean the ability to see shinigami?" Hisana asked lightly, trying not to sound too eager that the male had finally spoken. "Since I was born."
"That is a short time." He observed.
Hisana's smile broadened wistfully. "Are you complimenting me by saying I'm young?"
"You are young," he acknowledged coolly. "But all humans are young, even those who have lived to the end of their time."
She paused over her cup. "And here I was, thinking that humans live a pretty long life. Some of us can live up to a century, you know?"
"A century ago," he murmured, "I was an adolescent."
She didn't know what shocked her more; the fact that he was old, or to imagine this aristocratic male before her as a teenager. "Shinigami years are different from human years, I see."
He made no comment.
"So, Shinigami-san," Hisana said, now peering with undisguised awe at him. "Are you staying the night?"
"Yes."
His reply was almost arrogantly straightforward, she thought. There was no "Oh yes, if you'll have me" or "I apologize for intruding upon your hospitality." He was blunt, and judging from the self-assured, unruffled rich tones of his baritone, rather a haughty being too.
"Well," she said, feeling abruptly bold and wanting to test the waters, "Would you be fine with sleeping on the couch?"
"Yes," he said plaintively.
She blinked, surprised. "I was just joking, you know. You can sleep in my room, if you want. I've got a spare mattress to lend you."
"It is inappropriate for a man and a woman to share a room." There was an odd flatness to his voice.
Hisana looked at him, letting him see all too well the bitterness and skeptical amusement in her pale face. "You don't know anything about me, do you?" She asked flatly, her demure tones for once devoid of gentleness. "I'm a prostitute. Nothing is inappropriate for me."
His expression did not change at her statement. "You are wrong, then."
She looked at him, and unconsciously bit her lip again. "A man telling me to be appropriate," she whispered. "That's a first."
He, characteristically, gave no response.
She wasn't surprised. Silence, she realized, was something that she was often going to associate with him, whether she liked it or not. Hisana was not an individual who constantly required conversation for entertainment, but that didn't mean being absolutely mum was enjoyable for her either. Stifling a sigh the petite woman stood up from her dining chair with a clunk and went over to the vinyl sofa not far away within the little cabin. It didn't take long for her to set out a few long blankets and a pillow on it; the arrangement was so rather pitiful that she felt as if she was insulting someone as regal as her guest.
She wasn't sure if shinigami needed sleep. Did they need food? Did they need the exact things a human needed?
If so, her visitor did not seem anxious to reveal the information to her. Having not moved from his seat since she had started preparing the sofa for him to spend the night on (nor had he offered his help), he had merely watched her with an impassiveness that faintly irked her.
"Well?" Hisana questioned lightly. She gestured at the couch, now adorned with the pillow and blanket. "Does this look alright to you?"
The man soundlessly rose from the chair and padded towards her, the hems of his pale kinagashi flickering. She tensed and backed a step away, only to have him brush past her with barely a glance in her direction. Without a word, he had lowered himself onto the sofa, before gracefully tucking his calves beneath his robed knees once more.
"So…" She murmured, not knowing what to say. "Are you fine with it?"
"The lights."
"I'm… sorry?" Hisana blinked.
"The lights." He looked at her as if she was mentally retarded. "Switch them off."
"You're going to sleep now?" She asked in disbelief.
He lowered his eyelids, unmoved. "One normally does so at nightfall."
She wasn't sure if he was mocking her, or simply stating a fact. Perhaps even both, she concluded. Deciding that it was better not to argue with him any further (he was injured, after all, despite how well he hid it, and needed to recuperate), the young woman walked over to the switch located by the hallway, and flicked the knob off.
Darkness flooded the cabin at once, just like the blackness of his bloodstained robes in her bathroom. She couldn't see him anymore save for the tall silhouette outlined by the moonlight, and pondered vaguely if she was glad or disappointed at that.
"Goodnight," Hisana whispered.
He did not reply, but the dark silver eyes gleaming sedately at her in the dark were enough to let her know he had heard. Tugging mindlessly at the sides of her sweater, she turned and left the silent, unrevealing living room and headed for her own quarters.
The next morning was colder than ever. She woke up half-asleep, desperate to snuggle her disheveled head back under her thick covers. The sun was barely peeking through the icy clouds in the darkened sky; a quick glance at the digital clock on her bed stand told her that it was only seven a.m. She was about to fall back asleep once more when the worst thing that could happen, well, happened: Mother Nature called. Unable to disobey, Hisana reluctantly left the warm heaven of her bed, her little pale feet sliding quickly into her thin slippers as she grabbed her cloak.
She was shivering as she made her way into the dim corridors. At the very least the vague sunlight peeking through the fluttering curtains of her windows guided her along without having to switch on her lights, for it saved electricity this way. Perhaps one day she would be able to save up for a heater.
Hisana came to a stop.
He was awake. In fact, he was seated in the exact same position where she had last left him, almost as if he had never gone to sleep at all. One difference, though, was that the blankets she had given him last night were now folded neatly in a tidy pile beside him, tucked securely underneath the pillow, while his sheathed katana sat casually by the foot of the couch. The second difference was that he was calmly reading a book, one large slender hand holding it above his lap.
It wasn't, however, the fact that he was reading that snapped her fully awake in horror. It was what he was reading that was the shocking bit.
Moving with a stunning speed that would've made a cheetah envious, Hisana dashed right up to the seated shinigami and hastily ripped Fifty Shades of Grey out of his grasp. His dark head turned slowly towards her, all in all looking utterly undisturbed by the fact that she had just very rudely interrupted his reading session. Her sudden presence didn't seem to startle him, either.
"Did you go searching through my belongings?" Hisana snapped, her soft cheeks pink, and not just from the cold. She had no idea how he had even managed to find her well-hidden collection of erotic literature; they had always been safely kept behind an innocent set of heavy dictionaries on her shelf. "Isn't that a little rude?"
"I apologize," was all he said. He didn't sound very contrite.
Primly she snapped the blue book shut, before promptly shoving it into a nearby drawer as if it was made of fire, and closed the little wooden drawer door with a slam. He observed her actions with a hint of visible amusement in his silent scrutiny.
Gathering her nerves, Hisana steeled herself and spun around to look at him. It annoyed her slightly that he appeared so unruffled; even with the harsh cold of morning winter he remained solely dressed in the thin blue robes while looking so very serene. His long raven tresses were gathered lusciously around one side of his slender neck, though whether by accident or with deliberation she did not know. He was the kind of person, after all, that had every elaborate detail of his appearance falling into place perfectly, without his even trying. She tried not to picture what her bedhead must look like to him.
"How are your wounds?" She said, half in an attempt to change the subject.
A short pause followed.
"They are fine," he replied quietly.
"That's good to hear," Hisana said softly, tugging at the sleeve of her cloak. "You should go back to rest. It's still very early in the morning. You wouldn't want to hurt yourself again, would you?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"I'm going out in a bit," she continued, anticipating the silence this time, "to buy some brunch. You… eat human food, yes?" Her last statement ended off awkwardly, but she asked it all the same. He obviously wasn't going to take the initiative to divulge the knowledge.
The exotic dark eyebrow arched higher.
"Food," he murmured thoughtfully. "Why classify them as human food? It is consumed by all creatures alike."
"Animals and humans eat different things."
"Do they?" He inquired.
She frowned. Was he playing mind games with her? Or was he being serious? She didn't know. He was absolutely confusing to her. "Of course they do. Our diet may not be their diet. For example, dogs can't eat chocolate."
"Indeed," he stated slowly, closing his thick-lashed eyes. "They cannot."
She spoke again. "What is your name?"
He said nothing.
"I'm going out to buy brunch," she repeated. "I'll be back in a while."
Without waiting for a reply this time, the diminutive female walked away, her slippers slapping audibly against the mahogany floor as she headed to the bathroom. She'd held her bladder for long enough. A quick trip to the loo, she decided, and then she would drop by to the nearby 7-Eleven and purchase a bento or two for takeaway. If her companion didn't want to eat, then so be it. She would have, at least, fulfilled her duty as a host.
He spoke suddenly, halting her in her tracks. "It is interesting."
Hisana turned her head despite herself, lavender eyes curious. "What is?"
The male was gazing, not at her, but at the drawer at which she had slammed the book into just now. "A lady of the evening, too," he said finally, "can have her fantasies."
"Hisana-san?"
Her head jerked up hastily, and she forced a guilty smile on her lips. "I'm really sorry. What did you say?"
The cashier of the 7-Eleven peered back at her, her brown eyes filled with concern. She was a young girl around the same age as Hisana, but unlike the latter, actually had an education in university. Her job in 7-Eleven was merely a part-time shift, although Hisana had still been seeing her rather frequently there for over a year - just enough to strike up a brief friendship.
Few people made friends with someone of Hisana's occupation, after all.
"Are you alright?" Yuki asked. The cash register beeped. "You seem rather… dazed today."
"I'm fine," Hisana smiled gently, pocketing her wallet. "It's just that something came up at my place yesterday." More like someone, she thought.
The red plastic bags crinkled as the cashier slid them across the counter into Hisana's waiting hands, before looking up inquisitively at her. "What kind of something?"
Hisana's smile turned pensive. "Hmm. Something very enigmatic. Something I can't figure out."
Yuki leaned back against her leather seat, letting the black wheels of the old chair squeak in protest at her weight. Her expression was a mirror of Hisana's - just as thoughtful. "Well, do you know enough about it?"
Hisana sighed lightly, feeling the weight of the bento – the food - on her thin arm. "I've tried, trust me."
"Have you?" Yuki eyed her blandly. "Sometimes a lot of things in life are like a book, you know? You can open it and look at the first page, but that's not enough. And yet you can't just speed through the pages either. It takes time to read throughout the whole book." She sent a smile at Hisana, although her attention was now on another customer approaching the counter. "Think about it."
"I will," Hisana promised.
Adjusting her windbreaker, she left the store and into the icy winds outside, the automatic glass doors buzzing quietly as she did so.
She'd panicked when she had arrived to an empty living room, the sofa as impeccable and immaculate as if no one had ever touched it. Dropping the plastic takeaway quickly onto the dining table with a noisy crinkle, she went and ran into every room within the small cabin, not even bothering to take her windbreaker off. Had he gone already? It was true that he wasn't exactly talkative company, but she really, really didn't want to sit alone in an empty cabin again. Naturally he had to go at one point, and she knew that fact deep inside. But not yet. Not yet.
She'd barely even gotten to know him yet.
The relief was thus overwhelming when she came to a stop by the open door of her tiny storeroom, and found the familiar tall regal figure standing visibly inside. She wondered why he was even in there, her heart thumping. It was a storeroom that she rarely entered; it was a place that contained more memories than she liked to remember. After all, she had chosen to keep almost all her father's belongings there - a room to substitute herself by letting it bear her memories of him instead.
She walked in.
He didn't move, even when it was obvious that Hisana had entered the room, her bulky windbreaker brushing the silent walls in a whisper. She moved carefully, not wanting to jostle objects placed all around. A stack of her father's favorite history books lay in a dusty pile on the floor. Despite that, the male's attention was fixed solely on the few calligraphy paintings hanging by one side of the storeroom, the ink old and faded, but nevertheless - it was there.
"My father did them," Hisana murmured, following the direction of his scrutiny. "He liked calligraphy very much."
A pause.
"Your father," her companion said quietly, still gazing at the paintings, "was a man of thought."
"Yes, he was." Hisana smiled benignly. "Let's go eat, shall we?"
He finally glanced at her. She half-expected him to make a comment about her rather obvious change of subject, but the silence remained unbroken.
Without further hesitation, Hisana briskly walked out of the storeroom, before pausing at the door and looking back expectantly at him. Slate grey calmly met violet hues. She was pleading with him, and something about his presence made her almost want to cry from all the vulnerability he had awakened within her.
Wordlessly, he followed her out, pale blue robes rustling softly.
They left the storeroom, she shutting the door firmly behind them, and moved to the dining table. The young woman removed her windbreaker, tossed it over her chair, grabbed the plastic bag and began to open it, pulling out two plastic containers of food. Yuki had kindly heated them up using the microwave back at 7-Eleven, and she could still feel the warmth of the bento spreading to the palms of her small hands as she lowered them onto the table.
"Which would you like?" She asked, pushing both nearer to the male. "There's curry, and there's also salmon with sushi."
He stared unfathomably at the two options available, and after a few heightened seconds, reached out a large, long-fingered pale hand and rested it lightly on the plastic edge of one of the bento. It took her considerable effort not to gape too openly at the adroit, masculine appendage. His hand, she reflected faintly to herself, was a hand that had wielded a katana. It was a hand that had killed before, and she used that to remind herself and compose herself.
"Curry?" Hisana smiled. "Of course."
The next few minutes were spent in a mute hush save for the crackle of plastic utensils and the sharp resonation of containers' lids being lifted away. And then- it was simply soothing peace as they ate.
She watched him with fascination from beneath her dark bangs. She had never, after all, seen a man who ate with such graceful delicacy, much less when it came to eating curry. Men generally gobbled their meals like slobs, shoveling mouthfuls like ravenous dogs. Her guest, however, was turning out to be quite exceptional. He ate with a dexterous precision that awed her; there was not a drop spilled, not even a speck of curry fell out of place. He took little bites, and held his spoon and fork nimbly.
Not even royalty dined like that. Was that how every shinigami ate?
In any case, if the man was aware that she was staring at him, he didn't seem too concerned. She had to give it to him: few things fazed him. Even the curry, which she personally had eaten a few occasions before and knew just how horribly spicy it could be, didn't cause him to so much as bat an eyelid.
"Do you like spicy food?" She inquired.
His rich silver eyes flickered to her.
"I, for one, dislike spicy food," she went on. "It always feels as if it's burning my throat."
He lowered his utensils languidly and regarded her, mien unreadable. "If that is the case," he said evenly, "Then why are some people able to consume it?"
Hisana shrugged softly. "I suppose they practice until they get used to the spiciness."
"Indeed." He said simply. "They practice."
She propped her chin up, her fork prodding at a slice of her fried salmon. "Practice, huh," she echoed. The word was familiar in her throat, and in her ears. She didn't like it. "Well, that's not the most important thing out there, is it? A little rest here and there wouldn't harm anyone."
He made no comment.
"Practice makes perfect," Hisana quoted pensively. "Well, I don't need perfect. If life revolved around it all the time, then it would be a really tiring life, wouldn't it?"
She smiled at him gently. He met her gaze steadily, and a part of her wondered what he was thinking behind those beautiful, hooded dark eyes.
"Are you often away from your family?" She had no idea why she had even asked that. Perhaps it was because the image of her father's paintings was now fresh in her mind - too fresh, almost. Only in her head, the ink on the paper was not faded, but as vivid a black as when her father had first painted it, his hand wrinkled but strong.
He studied her soundlessly, his profile intent. She wondered if he was reading her mind the way she was unable to read his.
"Yes." His answer was revealing and unrevealing.
"Do you miss them?"
He considered her question for a while. "No."
She blinked. "Then… do they miss you?"
"They do as I say," he replied candidly.
She laughed. "Just what exactly is your family like?"
"Nobility, Tamiko Hisana." It was the first time he had ever addressed her directly, and she abruptly sobered, not expecting him to have even remembered her full name after only telling it to him once. "Do you know what that means?'
She said softly, "Yes, and… no."
"It means perfection."
She flinched visibly, and almost at once she regretted saying those things so carelessly just now. She barely knew him, and that also meant she knew nothing of his life, of his experiences that vastly outweighed hers. He was old, and she was young.
"I'm sorry," Hisana apologized sincerely. And yet, she added gently, as an afterthought, "You must be very tired."
He said nothing - not a word of agreement, and not a word of disagreement. He looked so frightfully neutral then that she feared she had crossed the line.
Several minutes passed. That was around all it took before she gathered enough bravery to speak again, her fork scraping tentatively against plastic. "I didn't know there was nobility amongst shinigami."
She didn't, however, say that she was surprised he was of noble blood. She was not.
The sculpted lips quirked. "Do humans not have a hierarchy?"
"We do, actually," she agreed. A delighted smile graced her delicate, china features. "Who knows? It looks like humans and shinigami are more similar than we thought, isn't it?"
He didn't agree, but he didn't disagree either. And Hisana knew that that was enough for her to understand his tacit response. She smiled again.
When Hisana came out of the kitchen after throwing the now empty plastic bento containers into the rubbish chute located beneath her basin and then rinsing her hands, she found both the living room and dining room deserted. This time, though, she didn't panic. She simply headed to the storeroom, her footsteps reserved but leisurely, feeling the sunlight of the afternoon wash over her small face.
He was there, as she expected.
"Why do you like my father's calligraphy so much?" Hisana questioned, half in exasperation, and half in genuine curiosity.
He didn't speak. She wasn't sure if it was because he was simply ignoring her as usual, or if he was too absorbed by the swirls of faded ink on her father's painting. But then again, she wasn't sure about anything concerning him. He was completely unpredictable.
She took the chance then to timidly observe him.
He really was beautiful, Hisana thought. Her large Bambi eyes slid meekly over his pleasing angular features, over his slanted eyes – framed by long, thick smoky lashes - and over his proud, straight nose, all the way to his sensuous, pale lips. His silken dark mane was let loose across his powerful shoulders, and she had to admit inwardly that the disarray of his ebony locks only made him look more haunting and ethereal. Perfection, he had said. Well, physically he was certainly not failing in that aspect.
She contemplated just what he thought of her. She wasn't ugly, and she knew that. People of her profession couldn't afford to be ugly. Yet it didn't change things that her companion – a shinigami - was this ethereal… She vaguely pondered if the female shinigami where he came from were just as beautiful… Tall, like him, and willowy…
A harsh discord rang within her abdomen. She took a step back.
The male turned his head then, and examined her with expressionless eyes. She held her breath, knowing he was going to reprimand her for staring so openly at him-
"The calligraphy tools."
She swallowed. "I'm sorry?"
His level, calm tone didn't change. "Are they still in your possession?"
She gave a shaky smile. She was so relieved that she didn't even question his request. "Yes. Yes, I have them. Hold on for a minute."
The petite woman crouched over to the drawers located by one corner of the storeroom, and suddenly paused, lips pursed in thought. The timber was covered by a thin layer of dust, and she stared at it, wondering whether she dared to breach that veil and reach back to the past, just like that. From somewhere in the back of her head, she knew that her visitor was watching her. Was he waiting? Or was he simply testing her - daring her to do it, to take back the pieces of her father's memory that she had discarded long ago?
She didn't know. She didn't care anymore. She was too tired to care.
Hisana pulled the drawer open.
Twenty minutes later, the pair sat in the living room, a long piece of slightly yellowed paper stretched out on the floor, with a black ink container resting beside it. Her companion was seated on the floor, in front of the couch and beside his resting sword, in his customary position: legs tucked gracefully at his knees in the form of seiza. She had followed suit beside him, feeling the foreign stiffness in her limbs.
He held the long, slender brush in his hand, long pale artistic fingers lightly cradling its well-crafted length. Something about the way he held it reminded her chillingly of her father's own hand. The slate grey eyes roved the sides of the long tool and at the animal fibers on the end, expression unfathomable.
"It is of mediocre quality," he said finally, "but it will do."
And then he adjusted the brush by the container, dipping the thin, sleek hairs into the black liquid before pulling the brush back out. He was experienced, skilled even, and it was evident from the nimble, deft way he moved. Then - he was painting.
Stroke, stroke… With the very hand that had often wielded the sword resting next to him, with the very hand that had killed before, he worked quietly, the brush firmly but delicately sweeping across the sallow paper, ink flowing artfully across the aged surface. Hisana's palms were clasped at her knees. Her guest, dressed in her father's robes, painting with her father's tools, was not her father. His style was slightly different - but no less proficient than her father's had been.
She continued watching as the exquisite kanji characters began to materialize on the sheet of paper, sable ink soaring unhesitatingly with graceful precision against yellow.
He was not her father.
She looked.
Kuchiki Byakuya.
It was a beautiful name, she realized. It was every bit as regal and exotic as he was.
Hisana smiled warmly at her companion. "Thank you."
He gazed at her intently for a while, then closed his eyes, lowering the brush above the paper.
"Remember it well," was all he said.
She sat in the bathtub, her bare fingers idly skimming the soapy surface of bubbles adorning her skin. Her dark hair fell across her small, heart-shaped face, plastering wetly to her white cheeks. She chuckled ruefully to herself, feeling the weight of her father's memory on her breast.
Her pink lips blew absently at a bubble, watching it take flight in the air.
Her father had been so strict with tradition. He had bought a pretty kimono for her, made of flowing silk, even though their savings had been dwindling rapidly in the bank. He had bought it for her, and now it lay somewhere within the storeroom, unused and unforgotten. Since she was young, he had persisted that she wear it during her school ceremonies and to learn to sing there - to sing the old songs of Japanese folklore.
Hisana switched on the shower, letting the warm water rush noisily into the bath, and opened her mouth amidst the sounds of liquid gushing.
She sang, her vocals slightly rusty from lack of use, and as the lyrics of the song fell melodiously from her lips, the weight on her breast lessened. It took flight, just like a bubble.
And then it popped, and it was gone.
Days passed. He didn't leave. Byakuya Kuchiki remained in her home, and Hisana was only too happy for him to stay. She passed him newspapers and books – but not Fifty Shades of Grey - to read, and to serve as entertainment to pass the time. He liked reading newspapers the most, she noticed. It seemed that articles concerning the news of humans intrigued him. Indifferent façade or not, humans most certainly interested him. He never voiced it, but she noticed. She also noticed that he did, indeed, like calligraphy. He wasn't just very skilled at it. Occasionally she would quietly take out her father's tools once more, even without his asking, and watch as he haughtily accepted them.
His works were breathtakingly beautiful.
He disliked sweet foods. She had brought a few sticks of dango home once, and he didn't so much as touch them despite her persistence. One notable thing about him was that he would never verbally point out what he wanted, but would simply take whatever that interested him amongst her offerings, ignoring the rest that did not. It exasperated her and fascinated her.
He was reticent. He didn't believe in idle talk, and Hisana knew that. It was true that Kuchiki Byakuya still often ignored her when she spoke to him. But, there was no doubt that he was beginning to respond more and more to her, and she was beginning to be able to see through the little cracks in his well-honed mien. Or perhaps, she thought, it was only because he let her.
She had wondered, though, why he stayed. These thoughts would inevitably come nagging at the back of her mind during sleepless nights, where she lay in her bed, thinking of him. He had been injured, yes, but it had never been an extremely grievous injury in the first place. She was sure that he was reasonably healed by now, and he seemed rather capable of taking care of it himself. The first aid box had lightened in weight, that was true, but the rest of its contents had remained intact ever since.
There was no reason for him to stay any further since the first day.
She wanted to ask him. She wanted to ask him, but she didn't dare to. The words were caught in her lips, unable to escape. She was afraid that should she ask, should she confront him about it, he would leave. She didn't want him to leave. And so, every day, she held her breath as she sat in his company, waiting for the moment where he would flatly inform her that he was done, and that he was leaving. She dreaded the moment.
Hisana dreaded it so much that it scared her.
She hadn't met any of her clients since his arrival in her life. Looking at Byakuya, smiling at Byakuya, and being with Byakuya were consuming her thoughts; consuming her heart. She didn't want to face any of her clients, see the cruelty and ugliness of the world in their features, after she had seen so much of the serene calmness in Byakuya's countenance.
She wondered if he knew that she was avoiding her clients and their persistent calls on her cell. She wondered if he cared.
Why should he?
Still, Hisana knew all too well that she couldn't avoid her clients forever. And one day, she found out just why.
The morning had started off reasonably peaceful. Having just finished breakfast, she sat curled comfortably on the couch, dressed in thick sweats, while watching her guest with sleepy eyes. He was seated on the hard floor, languorously poring through the morning newspaper by the coffee table. His long dark hair was tied carelessly in a low ponytail against the nape of his slender neck, and she couldn't help but notice that his sooty lashes cast pools of shadows across his ivory skin as he studied the greying pages before him.
"Byakuya-sama," she spoke softly.
Her guest, after all, was an aristocratic figure, and Hisana was nothing if not polite and in awe by him. She had been calling him in that form of address for a while now, and he had neither reproached her nor commended her for it. It was almost intimate, even, having his first name roll in her mouth. After how he had refused to tell her his name for so long, it now felt like a precious jewel - sacred and wonderful.
His large hand stilled on the newspaper, and he glanced at her inquiringly.
She smiled brightly at him. "It's nothing." Her voice was a cheerful tinkle. "I just like calling your name."
Grey eyes narrowed suddenly.
Hisana giggled. "Don't be angry. You know I'm only-"
"Something is approaching," he said levelly.
She paused.
It didn't take too long before she heard it as well. The rumble of a car as its tires screeched over relenting snow. The sounds was getting louder and louder, indicating that its source – the vehicle - was coming this way, to the cabin. There was no way that it was merely passing by. Hisana's home was far too isolated- it was located a significant distance away from the main city, save for the 7-Eleven nearby.
She bit her lip, a habit that she was still unable to kick, and looked nervously at Byakuya. He inscrutably met her look, and suddenly, she wished that he wasn't here. Not at the current moment.
Her good mood died.
The car was, judging by the volume of the loud noise, right outside the cabin now. She could distinctly hear the growl of the reverberating engine and the sloshing of snow as it came to a halt, tires rolling boisterously in the cold weather. And then- abruptly, the engine stopped, the cacophony of noises fading.
She heard the slam of the car door, and her slight frame tensed.
The door is locked, she told herself. The door is locked.
"Hisana!" A man's voice bellowed. She bit her lip harder, recognizing the hoarse, tobacco-roughened voice. Her hands tightened on the surface of the couch. "I know you're in there! You've been hiding around long enough! Come out!"
Hisana stole a glance at Byakuya. His eyes were now closed; his tall form unmoving from his seated position. It was impossible, she thought uneasily, to tell what he was thinking. If anything, he resembled almost like the first time she had met him- serene, immobile and unfathomable.
"Hisana!" The man was pounding violently on her door now. "You've ignored my calls for ages! What's wrong with you? Don't I pay you enough? Do you want more money now, you bitch? Is that what you want?"
She was clutching her couch so tightly now that her knuckles were white.
"You think you're the best pussy in town, is that it? Is that it? Don't get conceited, bitch!" She wondered detachedly if her door was going to give way from all the pounding. "Face it, woman - the only thing valuable about you is that you give good head! So don't you go around thinking you're all that! Now come out! Don't you fucking dare ignore me!"
Ignore him. Ignore him.
"I'm not going anywhere, woman, until you come out! You want more pay? Fine, I'll give it to you! Now come out already! Do you know how long it's been since I've had a good fuck?"
There was a soft rustle. Hisana looked up, shocked, as Byakuya rose unexpectedly to his feet, his features impassive. The robes he was wearing – another set of her father's kinagashi - fluttered noiselessly as he padded unhurriedly towards the door, footfalls cat-like and lofty.
"Byakuya-sama," she whispered fiercely, but not daring to move. What was he doing? Was he going to let the man in?
He made no reply to her. Instead, he simply approached the door, and within a fluid movement, opened it. She hastily darted to a corner of her cabin where her ex-client could not see her, her pulse racing in fear and her lips swollen from biting it so much.
"About time-" The man outside stopped mid-sentence, recoiling in shock when he came face-to-face with Kuchiki Byakuya. It didn't, however, take long for him to regain his composure once again.
"Who are you?" he demanded suspiciously, tucking manicured hands into the pockets of his fur jacket. Mist escaped his mouth in a rush. "Are you one of her clients?"
Byakuya did not respond.
"Is that why she's been ignoring me lately? How much are you paying her?" He continued vociferously. "Because I'll pay double the amount! So get lost alrea-"
"My stay here," Byakuya spoke evenly, "is free of charge. What would you call someone like myself, I wonder?"
From where Hisana sat crouched on the floor, her thin back pressed to a wall, she stiffened. The tall male's deep voice was low, calm and every bit as measured as she knew it to always be. However, there was no denying the frightening coldness lacing his smooth, dry tones - it sounded like contemptuous, crushed velvet. A shiver ran down her spine. It was then that the woman realized that despite how aloofly Byakuya had behaved with her, he had at least never once addressed her that way.
Would it still be so though, she thought faintly, once this fiasco was over?
Her ex-client suddenly burst out into coarse laughter, his disposition sardonic and cruel. "So that's how it is, huh?" He said. Byakuya calmly met his gaze. "You're her lover! That's what you're trying to tell me, ain't it? Well, good luck with that!" His laughter rose in volume. "She's a hoe! This relationship is never goin' to last. Tell her to call me once you guys are over!"
With that, he was sauntering away, still laughing to himself. Before long, she heard the car door open, slam shut, followed by the sound of engine igniting. Wheels ground against softened snow as the car finally set off.
And then... silence.
She hadn't left her bedroom since.
Hisana stared numbly at the blankets pooling her slender legs, feeling an iciness grow within her chest that had nothing to do with the winter. Darkness shrouded her room, frosty moonlight gleaming through her slightly open windows. She wanted to hide under her sheets forever, and pretend that everything that had happened this morning had never happened. She had, unfortunately, been trying to do that for seven hours. Her bedroom was her refuge - a refuge of lies and untruths.
Why was wrong with her anyway? It wasn't as if the shinigami in her house didn't know what she did for a living - she had baldly pointed it out to him the first day they met, and he hadn't even seemed to care. She had brought it up to let him know, and then had never mentioned it again. What she was not expecting, however, was for an ex-client to turn up, and to throw this side of her so openly in front of Byakuya, in all its ugliness and crudeness. It was indeed ugly and crude, but she had always thought that as long as they left it alone they could simply - ignore it.
She was a fool.
She feared that should she come out of her room now, she would find an empty living room. An empty dining room, empty storeroom, an empty cabin- surely, he would not stay anymore in the home of someone like her? He was a dignified creature - nobility, he had told her. What was nobility doing, staying with a prostitute?
Did she repulse him now?
Hisana sighed, straightening reluctantly from her bed. In any case, it was already the evening, and she needed to heat up dinner. She had thought she was incapable of feeling hunger anymore, but clearly she was wrong. It gnawed at her insides, making her nauseous.
Pushing the door open, she walked out indolently into the hallway, her legs slightly stiff. She could feel the persistent cold tentacles of fear sliding even more tautly around her heart. The woman almost wanted to close her eyes, so afraid was she to see what she might see. He was gone, he was gone-…
He was there.
She froze.
Byakuya sat gracefully by the dining table, unperturbed and poised, with the morning newspaper still laid out in front of him. What shocked her even more, though, was the sight of a bowl of warm rice mixed with miso soup sitting expectantly on the table opposite him. It was so warm that she could actually see tendrils of steam curling from the porcelain rim of the bowl.
It was almost funny that the first thing that flew out of her mouth after seven hours was, "Did you heat that up?"
He turned at last to look at her, revealing impenetrable dark eyes.
"Yes," he said, with his usual candor. He did not, she noted, however, comment on her sudden entrance after her seven whole hours of absence.
"You know how to use the microwave oven?" She blurted.
He did not reply her for a while. Then-
"Eat." The single word was uttered plainly.
Trying not to let her eagerness show, Hisana slid into the chair opposite him, picking up the spoon lying next to the bowl. She didn't know what to make of it - it seemed he had heated up yesterday's leftovers for her, and had even laid out the utensils for her to use. This wasn't the sort of thing one would do for someone that repulsed oneself… right?
What, specifically, was going through his mind right then?
"Aren't you hungry?" Hisana asked kindly, taking a mouthful of rice. It was so very warm, and in that moment, a tiny bit of the iciness in her chest seemed to subside.
He did not answer. Instead, he was studying the newspaper before him.
She sighed at his usual reticence, propping the side of her head against her palm. "Doesn't that bore you? Don't tell me you've been looking at it the whole day."
Wordlessly, Byakuya took out a single page from the newspaper, and slid it smoothly across the table to her with an adroit, slender hand. Not expecting that, she peered tentatively down at the slightly wrinkled piece of black-and-grey paper.
Her grip on her spoon tightened.
Job offers.
"What," she said, trying to sound casual, "exactly are you trying to show me?"
"A career," he said frankly, meeting her stare steadily. "A proper career."
With a long dexterous finger, he pointed calmly at a particular offer on the paper. Despite herself, despite suddenly hating him, she found herself looking - her heart in her mouth and her throat so dry she suddenly thought she would never be able to swallow again. That would at least explain why her tongue seemed to have frozen, like the icicles in her chest.
The Fuller Hotel, a four-star hotel, which happened to be looking for new songstresses to perform for their nightly shows at eight p.m. Salary offered each month was mediocre, but sufficient. Auditions were to be held the next day, in the morning. The main requirement was a music background, and a decent voice.
Hisana knew of the hotel. It wasn't near her home, but it wasn't far either.
"I don't know why you're showing me this," she said at last, putting down her spoon. Her voice was slightly choked, and she hated herself for not being able to appear so unaffected like he could every day. "I can't sing."
He quirked a dark brow. "Oh?"
She tensed. The knowing inflection in his tranquil, mild baritone was enough for her to come to a horrid realization. She didn't need to look into the exotic dark silver eyes, and the knowledge hidden in its unfathomable depths, to see what he had seen. To hear what he had heard.
"You could hear me back then, in the bathroom," she forced out, voice thick with unshed tears. "Even though I had the shower running."
He made no comment. He didn't have to.
"That was a part of me," Hisana said bitterly, large lavender eyes shimmering wetly, "that I should have discarded long ago."
He spoke then. "But you did not."
It was not a question.
"No, I didn't," Hisana agreed softly. She wiped her eyes, feeling the angry tears on the back of her hand. The bowl of rice he had heated for her was growing colder, and she was hazily aware of that. "But I should have."
A lengthy lull followed. She wondered if he was feeling disgusted with her now, even if he might not have before. Or perhaps, his disgust with her had only deepened. She wouldn't be surprised if it were so. The thought depressed her more than it should.
"You sing very well," he suddenly said. She blinked in surprise, daring herself to peer up at him.
"However," Byakuya continued sedately, still in the same insouciant tone of voice, "it was not perfect. Therefore, all there is left now is practice, is it not?" Slowly, he released his hold on the paper, and she followed the movement of his pale, regal hands, feeling mesmerized. "Life should not revolve around it all the time, indeed -" Her breath hitched as he coolly quoted her words. "- but one should not discard it completely either, no?"
It was the most he had ever spoken to her.
He was also moving away, she discovered. He had risen from his seat by the dining table, and was heading back to the couch, robes flickering. Distinctly she could make out the glint of the sheathed katana lying against the front of the sofa's vinyl surface.
He was a shinigami, and she a human. Suddenly, she felt very far away from Kuchiki Byakuya.
"I'm afraid," she burst out in an uncontrolled rush, not looking at him, clutching her rising chest with shaky fingers. "I'm afraid."
A long, drawn-out pause.
"True fear does not come from nothing," he said quietly. "What are you so afraid of... Hisana?"
A Mercedes came to a stop before the hotel, sunlight shining down on its lavish, black hood. Flecks of ice drifted from the cold sky, and frost was beginning to gather in the cracks of the pavement. Wealthy patrons appeared from the vehicle, the neatly-uniformed concierge holding the car door open for them. Their branded shoes slid across the smooth marble floor, and into the entrance of the colossal, tall building. Behind the black car came more cars, and they pulled to a stop as the Mercedes proceeded to drive away, tires rolling over snowy gravel.
A few girls, pretty and adorned with seashell hairclips, stepped out of their vehicles, donning dresses. Jewelry hung from their wrists and necks, and they spoke together in tinkling, lilting voices as they moved towards the looming doors of the grand hotel, heels clicking. The staff smiled politely at them.
Not far away, a tiny, elfin woman dressed in a thick windbreaker, jeans, and a light green scarf made of expensive windflower silk, appeared, boots crunching the hard ground. She appeared to have had walked here, having alighted the bus from the nearest bus stop. No jewelry was visible on her petite frame, her delicate face make-up free, and it seemed the only expensive thing she wore was her scarf. Nervously the woman tugged at it, as if seeking comfort from its presence, glad that it helped immensely in protecting her from the cold.
Hesitantly she approached the doorway of the towering hotel.
A concierge peered down at her beneath his golden cap, smiling sympathetically down at her thickly bundled form. Underneath her layers of clothes she appeared even smaller than ever.
"Are you here for the audition too?" He asked politely.
Hisana looked up at him. A small smile lifted her pale lips as she touched, once again, the silk around her neck.
"Yes."
It was late afternoon by the time she returned home.
She unlocked the door, plastic bag wrinkling in her hand as she carried the takeaway for lunch, and walked in. Kicking off her snow-covered boots, she turned and scanned her living room, feeling sore in the legs and tired in her bones. Flecks of pale snow had drifted to her black locks.
He sat on the floor in front of the couch, his favorite place as it seemed to be, legs tucked elegantly once more beneath his robed knees. It was a sight that she was growing very accustomed to in her home, and she rapidly tried not to think of the day one day where she would never see it again. It wouldn't do herself any good to think of it. He held a book above his lap, and upon a closer look she saw that it was one of her thick dictionaries.
"Why are you reading that?" Hisana laughed, making her way to him and setting down the takeaway on the coffee table.
He didn't bother to make a remark, but simply just lowered the heavy tome onto the floor, and looked at her.
She removed the long scarf around her neck, and gently placed the soft, whispery verdant silk onto the table, beside the takeaway. It brushed against the air in musical cadence.
"Thank you for lending this to me," she said gently. "It must be very important to you."
Grey eyes slid thoughtfully in response to the glass window opposite, and at the snow falling furiously outside.
"The weather is cold," he observed.
"It is," she agreed. "So thank you."
He said nothing, and she was not surprised. It wouldn't be like him to ask her for details about her audition unless she herself initiated the subject. He was the kind who waited in silence, never prompting her until she was ready to say what she wanted to say. It exasperated her and gladdened her simultaneously.
"So," Hisana began, lowering herself on the couch. He did not move from his position. "About the audition today."
"Indeed," he said quietly.
"How do you think I did?" She asked seriously. "There were about fourteen other girls there, you know. What makes you think I could beat them?"
"I never said I thought that."
Feeling a little miffed, she snorted, "Thanks a lot."
Amusement glimmered in his visage. "It is unlike you to take offense."
"You don't know anything about me," she retorted. "I'm capable of anything."
He turned, and she tensed slightly at how close he suddenly was.
"Such as, for example," he said, "taking in any stranger you find into your home. A stranger with a sword; a stranger who could easily kill you."
She hadn't in the least anticipated the sudden change in atmosphere. It had gone from pleasantly teasing to heavy and cold. A prickle crept up along her nerves, and her pulse, which had been steady for a while, had begun to race once more. Hisana swallowed.
"Don't you want to know about my audition?" She asked quickly.
"Why would I?" His deep voice was apathetic. She tried not to look at the perfect line of his jaw, at the pale, sculpted lips. "I am but a mere stranger in your home."
"No, you're not," Hisana said delicately. "You are not a stranger. You're Byakuya-sama. You're my… friend," she finished off lamely.
He looked at her intently, and did not reply.
The petite female slid down the couch, until she was seated right beside him, on the mahogany floor. Cautiously, oh so cautiously, she shakily reached out her small hand, before meekly touching his shoulder for the first time. It was hard, and she could lightly feel the toned muscles beneath the soft silk of his robe. It was warm. It was Byakuya.
She remembered when she had first met him. She had thought to herself back then, that should she ever get to touch him, it would be because he let her, and only because of that. He was proud, and he was regal. He was above her, and she knew it. For a long time now she had been desperate to know what he truly thought of her- whether in his eyes, she was simply the lowly prostitute everyone thought her to be. She had been desperate to know, but at the same time, didn't want to know.
She would be able to endure it if the world looked down on her, but him - if he detested her, she would not be able to take it.
"I passed the audition," she whispered, gazing into smothering silver grey. "Work begins next week."
She leaned nearer towards him, even when he still refused to say anything. "Aren't you going to congratulate me?"
"How do you want me to congratulate you?" He murmured.
Her tiny fingers brushed boldly against the smooth, pale expanse of his jawline. "I think you know."
It took place in less than a second, in less than half a heartbeat. It was surreal.
Byakuya's lips came down upon hers, his large hands wrapping around her tiny body and bringing her even closer towards his larger one. She was now securely in his arms; she could feel the hard, sleek muscles of his flat abdomen against hers, sending lava pooling in her womb at the sinfully wonderful sensation, and she kissed him back even more fervently.
He was kissing her hard, hungrily, intently - there was absolutely nothing gentle in the kiss. His lips were sensually soft, and tasted like simmering rain along her open mouth.
She remembered him talking about spiciness. Practice, he had said. Well, she didn't need practice to get used to the remnants of fiery heat along his perfect lips. He liked spiciness, and it was evident from the delectable taste of his velvety tongue as he licked languidly at the inside of her swollen lips, almost like a cat lapping milk. Electricity buzzed in her veins.
"My room," she whispered.
His only response was to scoop her up in his arms, and together, they left the living room.
Hisana regained consciousness in the middle of the night, nude body snugly entwined against his beneath the long sheets in her bed. Idly she wondered why she had even bothered to think of saving up for a heater, when her partner's beautiful body was so very warm. She could feel his spiritual pressure, comforting and soothing, cloaking her little frame protectively.
She felt very - content.
Her body was not exactly in tip-top shape, though. She had a feeling she would not be able to walk properly for the next few days, what with all the hard, earth-shattering climaxes he had given her throughout the course of the day. They had made love twice, before she had, most embarrassingly, passed out. She had always thought herself to be sexually experienced, but it was amazing how he had effortlessly turned her body into mush with his skilled hands and lips.
God, was there nothing he couldn't do with those hands?
She shifted slightly, glancing down at her physique beneath her blanket, and moaned slightly. Dark love bites decorated almost every inch of her once creamy skin, from her neck to her small breasts and to her toned abdomen. It thrilled her and alarmed her at the same time.
There was no way she was going to leave the house tomorrow.
Softly Hisana turned her head, careful not to awake her lover, only to realize it was too late. Slate grey eyes met lavender, and she flushed at the open amusement in his exquisite eyes.
"What's so funny?" She questioned defensively, her hand absently tracing his pale abs. His wound had completely healed, alright. There was not so much as a scar on his bare skin.
"What makes you think that I find anything funny?" He inquired quietly. She shivered at the deep, alluring reverberation of his baritone running up her shoulder.
"You're laughing," she retorted. "With your eyes."
He did not reply, but simply lowered his dark head and kissed the side of her vulnerable neck, strands of his mane brushing her clavicle. She immediately shivered as his thin lips easily explored the weak spot there, her annoyance and composure falling apart at the sensation. It was just incredible, how he had found every weak spot on her body from merely one night together.
He was so… skilled sexually…
It scared her. She was a hypocrite for feeling that way, being who she once was, but dark jealousy stirred in her belly at the thought of him with other women.
Trying not to let the despondence show through her voice, she drew away from him with some difficulty and murmured, "Is this your first time?"
There was a short silence, before he answered calmly.
"No."
She didn't look at him. "Who was she?" Who were they?
Again, he didn't answer straight away, and when he did, she couldn't read his voice at all.
"She was a fleeting fancy during my adolescence."
"Fleeting?" She echoed.
"Yes." This time, he sounded amused. She was sure of it. "Fleeting."
Hisana turned slightly, her hand tenderly stroking his pale cheek. "I see… Well, are you sure you're fine with… everything that man said that day at the door?"
She didn't need to emphasize who that man was. They both knew.
He didn't say anything for a long while. As the seconds trickled by, she feared he wasn't going to reply at all; his beautiful countenance utterly indecipherable. In fact, she was beginning to regret bringing the whole matter up entirely, and was about to change the subject when he finally spoke.
"An assignment."
She lifted her hand from his face, not knowing whether to be relieved or bewildered. "I'm sorry?"
"I was given an assignment," he continued levelly. "An assignment to keep watch over a human who had spiritual awareness."
Something dark was beginning to build within Hisana's body- the cold iciness, which had thawed at last during the night, was gathering back again in her chest at alarming speed, like a morbid storm. Her body was stiff, her lips numb, and she prayed desperately for something that could keep her from the impending truth that she knew would destroy her. Destroy her, until there was nothing left of her.
"A lot of humans have spiritual awareness," she forced out through unwilling lips. "I'm sure. Couldn't the man see you yesterday?"
"That was only because I let him," he said simply.
She hated his voice then. It was so impassive, so unreadable, so emotionless.
"I'm your assignment, aren't I?" She finally whispered.
He was quieter than he had ever been before. "Yes."
She hated him. God, she hated him. She had never hated anyone before, not even her clients who constantly abused her as if she was a rag doll, not even the people who had looked down on her all the time, but there was a first for everything, she bitterly supposed. For none of her clients had ever played with her emotionally- they treated her terribly, the way a prostitute was to be treated, and they never, ever, gave her love before taking it back again from her cruelly.
She hated Byakuya. She wanted, so very much, to hate him.
She couldn't.
A tear trickled down her china, pale skin, before dripping down onto her breast. "Was this part of your assignment, too?" She asked coldly. Why was she still lying in her bed with him? Why wasn't she pushing him away? "To sleep with me?"
"No."
She paused. "What?"
"No." He replied, dark eyes intently raking every feature in her face. "It is not a part of my assignment."
Ever so slightly, a tiny, tiny ray of warmth began to penetrate the iciness in her chest.
"And is it in your nature," she asked slowly, "to do things outside of your assignment?"
"No." His hand reached steadily towards her, and she did nothing to stop him as his slender fingertips gently brushed away the teardrop on the mound of her left breast, near her dark nipple. "It is not in my nature at all."
He kissed her.
She let him.
And as they kissed, the images of his glinting blade rushed through her mind, the wooden sheath cold and warm at the same time, with his raven shihakusho billowing against the snow. Black against white. Death against life. The windflower silk of his scarf, comforting and regal against her neck. The dark blood seeping through the shadows of his robes.
He was a shinigami, and she a human. And yet, at that moment, she did not feel far away from Kuchiki Byakuya at all.
"You have to go back soon," she spoke, panting slightly as they withdrew from the kiss.
"Yes," he acknowledged, unmoved.
"But you'll come back." It wasn't a question.
His large, graceful hands – hands that wielded a katana, hands that had killed before - slid possessively around her tiny waist, his baritone serene and cool.
"Always."