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The first time she saw him, it was like a dream. She had often dreamed of men looming in front of her, imposing, ready to slice her open for stealing a loaf of bread (like something from fiction, but this was close enough to her reality that it scared her). Yet this was unlike every other dream, for he did not speak in ragged tones from a mouth with jagged teeth. He was muted, faded, strikingly pallid and fragile. She wanted to hold him, to make him whole, this man who was collapsing in on himself from the strain of something.
His dreams, perhaps, or maybe another's. She knew all too well what that felt like. Yet perhaps this was just an aristocratic affectation, a front for something else. A Kuchiki was rich enough for a facade. Even she put up a shoddy one herself.
Yet he wanted her, for some strange reason, to join his family. It was just intriguing enough and hopeful enough for her to say yes without really hesitating.
That was years and years ago, wars and wars ago. It is funny, she decides, how memories came back. No, not funny. Ironic? That isn't the right word either. She sighs and tries to go back to her book. Before she can fully engross herself, the very man she has been thinking about enters the room.
"Rukia."
"Nii-sama."
He sits down across from her. "Have you had a good day?"
She nods. "Yes, thank you. Have you?"
He returns the gesture. It really is funny the way their little tacit gestures tell more than their idle small talk.
Dinner is served momentarily, rice with beef and steamed vegetables. It is delicious as usual. Their silence is comfortable and peaceful. The two methodically work through the meal, and place their chopsticks back on their plates at nearly the same time.
"Rukia."
"Hm?" She looks up, catching a ray of the setting sun on her cheek. His ghostlike hand is reaching out, and it brushes a grain of rice from the corner of her mouth gently.
It still tingles when she lies in bed that night struggling in her attempts to sleep.
In her dreams, there are memories, memories of even more distant dreams. That day, not quite so distant, Ichigo and Orihime's wedding in the human world, so long ago...she knew she could not miss it, and she made sure her brother came, too.
"I don't care if you have work; Ichigo wants you there." She had been far more strident than usual because this was important. Byakuya had, apparently, taken notice.
"Well, then..." he had replied, finally just nodding before he went off to do who-knew-what.
They had made gigai and brought gifts, and Rukia had almost cried at the ceremony. Things passed so quickly in the human world; she did not look a day older than when she had first met the now-28-year-old couple. Instead, she leaned into Byakuya's chest, and he squeezed her reassuringly. He understood being left behind.
They danced together gracefully. His tuxedo felt rough under her fingers, and his hands were warm on her waist.
It's a rare day off for both of them. They are sitting in the garden. Rukia is drawing in her sketchpad; Byakuya sits beside her, lost in thought and looking quite picturesque. They are both in their own worlds, yet partially connected. It's funny, really, how quickly a day can pass when you're with someone you care for, Rukia thinks. The sunshine and shadows move about, and she finds herself studying the way the light plays off of her brother's left ear. It's mesmerizing.
And soon, there is only moonlight and starlight. Strange how different everything looks, from the sketchpad on her knee to the trees, now phantoms slowly shedding blossoms and a few odd leaves, swaying in the breeze. He gives her a look that says, shall we go in? She responds by getting up, slowly, and her head brushes against a low-hanging branch. She ducks forward, accidentally hitting him as he, too, rises.
He captures her hand in his; she can feel the calluses in all their sandpaper-ish glory faintly rubbing against her smooth palm. And then bends down and touches her lips to his.
...oh. She's not sure whether she should intensify it or run away, so she just stands there. It feels so good, so right, so...everything.
They had to go into the human world for an assignment once, together. It was odd to combine squads like that, but they were both experienced enough with the oddities of the place and this needed to be subtle. As they walked down the street together, having resolved the delicate incident, he smiled at her. She gave him a grin in return. Even though they had so much work, and they needed to report back, they could spare a little bit of time.
They had passed a little old woman, who had laughed and sighed, "ah, young love."
The resulting silence was awkward as both specifically tried not to think about it.
And so she does deepen the kiss, moves her body closer to his, touches his hair with her free hand. Maybe it, this feeling, has been there all along, and she was so focused, had put her blinders up so rigorously, that she just never saw it. This has nothing to do with her resemblance to her sister, or with propriety, or with anything, anything other than her and him in this moment, and in time itself. She feels suspended, like the world has stopped around her; she feels no breeze and no temperature.
I love you.
It's funny, how one moment can provide sudden clarity.