TwT

[mistkitt]

Originally posted 4/26/2015

My internet is down, so it’s time for a challenge! Dryad AU, Rukia style.

~

“Good morning, Rukia!” Miyako Shiba had a splotch of orange on her right cheek. Her hair was pinned up away from her face, and a shabby, stained white apron was secured to her front. But even so, she was still beautiful, Rukia thought. She was always beautiful. “Come in! Kaien left early this morning, so it’s just us girls today.” A white canvas had been set up in front of her. Music from the nearby record player filled the sitting room with a man’s crooning.

Rukia had never spent much time alone with Miyako. Usually it was the three of them together; sharing meals, lounging by the mansion’s outdoor pool, playing board games into the late night hours. She approached shyly, stepping around a table where a bowl of oranges had been placed. “What are you doing?” she asked Miyako as she came to stand behind her.

“Painting. It’s a hobby of mine, but I’m afraid I haven’t had much time for it lately.” Miyako moved over to allow Rukia to admire her work. The oranges had been perfectly replicated; they looked good enough to eat. “Not too shabby, huh?”

“It’s breathtaking!” Rukia agreed, and Miyako beamed at her.

“If you’d like, I could paint a portrait of you one of these days. Which is more boring than it sounds. You’d have to sit very still for a long time.” They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing. Asking a wood nymph to sit perfectly still was like asking a cat to be lazy: no trouble at all.

“Rukia?”

She blinked, coming back to her senses. Night had fallen around her, and the sitting room, though still the same size and shape, was filled with different furniture. All that remained of the past was the record player, the man’s crackling voice echoing off the high ceiling.

Ichigo stood in the doorway looking in on her, where once she had stood looking in on Miyako. “Thought you wanted to watch a movie.”

Rukia stared at him. “I do.”

His frown was a questioning one, but after holding her haunted gaze a few seconds, he decided to keep the questions to himself. “Come on,” he said, “popcorn’s in the microwave.”

Rukia nodded. When he’d disappeared into the hall, she reached forward and lifted the needle from the record, cutting off the music. If fifteen years had done so little for her broken heart, she began to fear that it would never mend.