#2 White; Byakuya/Hisana
Apr. 28th, 2010 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sinful_lynxTitle: White, Like Paper
Fandom: Bleach
Characters/Pairings: Byakuya/Hisana
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Author Note: Companion to Black, Like Ink
Summary: The fragile paper, tainted with the black of ink.
That table is here.
Her skin is white, like the rice paper that his brush dances across.
When the world has settled to sleep and her breaths have evened out, he sits quietly, beside her, and drags that brush across a sheet of paper.
He remembers the first time he'd seen her, the first time his eyes had the pleasure of soaking in her beauty in privacy. He remembers how delicate she looked, how paper-thin that skin appeared to be. He had been, almost, too afraid to touch her, too afraid to break her, to rip her. Such a beauty had to be admired. It could not be spoiled by human hands.
So fragile... he could not be sure, then, that even if he tried to reach out and paint on her skin, that it would hold.
He also remembers how childish and small and impotent he felt when he touched that skin for the first time. That paper, so thin, but so warm and soft. So truly beautiful.
He sets his winding-down work aside and leans closer. He remembers the flush of his body when he first let his sword-worn fingers touch her skin, so white like paper and feels it again, leaning so close he can feel her breath and nearly touch that warm paper.
He works up that courage again because he's no longer a boy and allows his fingers to trail up her bare arm, the image of paper quickly dispelled.
Black hair, like ink, falls over his shoulder and his eyes close to hold the image. She is paper, and he is the ink that taints her pristine form.
Fandom: Bleach
Characters/Pairings: Byakuya/Hisana
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Author Note: Companion to Black, Like Ink
Summary: The fragile paper, tainted with the black of ink.
That table is here.
Her skin is white, like the rice paper that his brush dances across.
When the world has settled to sleep and her breaths have evened out, he sits quietly, beside her, and drags that brush across a sheet of paper.
He remembers the first time he'd seen her, the first time his eyes had the pleasure of soaking in her beauty in privacy. He remembers how delicate she looked, how paper-thin that skin appeared to be. He had been, almost, too afraid to touch her, too afraid to break her, to rip her. Such a beauty had to be admired. It could not be spoiled by human hands.
So fragile... he could not be sure, then, that even if he tried to reach out and paint on her skin, that it would hold.
He also remembers how childish and small and impotent he felt when he touched that skin for the first time. That paper, so thin, but so warm and soft. So truly beautiful.
He sets his winding-down work aside and leans closer. He remembers the flush of his body when he first let his sword-worn fingers touch her skin, so white like paper and feels it again, leaning so close he can feel her breath and nearly touch that warm paper.
He works up that courage again because he's no longer a boy and allows his fingers to trail up her bare arm, the image of paper quickly dispelled.
Black hair, like ink, falls over his shoulder and his eyes close to hold the image. She is paper, and he is the ink that taints her pristine form.
