Piano Black

She twirls her glass without thinking. Gin swirls into a miniature whirlpool and stops when she pauses to raise her cigarette holder to her lips. She looks at the stage, shifts restlessly and changes her position so that her left leg is now crossing over her right. She sets her glass down to smooth down the beaded fringe of her skirt, her fingers follow the path of the elaborate coils and beads which ends just inches above her small, protruding knees.

Breath on the back of her neck, and she smiles. Raises her cigarette holder and takes another long, delicate puff. "Aren't you going up?"

"Soon." He sits behind her, traces a delicate finger from the line of her neck down her spine until it meets with the fabric of her dress. "You're too fucking skinny."

"Ichigo's scowling," she murmurs as she sips her drink.

"He always is." He sighs and gets up, snatching her glass to down the rest of the gin. "Tastes like someone made it in a tub," he mutters, grinning at the look on her face.

She tosses her head, signals for another drink, and then turns her gaze back to him and says, "It probably is. And you're paying for this."

"Like hell. It's Ichigo's turn." He sets his hand on top of her head. She can feel its warmth seeping through her slick tendrils, and she kicks him lightly in the shins.

"He's going to kill you if you don't go up soon," she warns, bending her head and shaking off his touch. He says something under his breath and disappears. From the corner of her eye she can see him assemble his trumpet, his long fingers fiddling with the keys as he warms up the instrument with soft little breaths into the mouthpiece. Her gaze shifts to the saxophone player. Very tall, warm brown skin and dark hair. He wets his reed, presses the buttons experimentally. Ichigo does not do anything, just sits at the piano and waits. There is no introduction.

Ichigo is no Duke Ellington, but he is pleasant enough to listen to. She watches his fingers creep across the piano keys, eerily lithe. She sneaks a glance at his face, and her lips curve upwards when she sees his expression: bored, lackadasial and completely separate. A trumpet crencendoes and the saxophone goes into its solo as she downs the rest of her gin.

"They're good," the bartender remarks, smiling crookedly at her as he takes the glass. "Another one, little lady?"

"Why not? Put it on Renji's tab," she says with a hint of mischief. He looks at her, smirks and slides the glass back to her. The alcohol moves but doesn't spill over the edge as she catches it with a breathless laugh.

"Alone tonight? Such a shame," the bartender says, a spill of blonde hair falling into his eyes. She gives him a sharp look, and he grins. "Never mind. Should've known better. You're looking lovely tonight. Chiaroscuro. If I were an artist, I'd ask to paint your picture. Your brother would appreciate another protraiture, wouldn't he?" She sets her glass down with deliberate care and digs into her beaded purse. He declines to accept the bills when she shoves it towards him. "Never from you." He flashes a smile at her. "Never say that Kisuke let a little lady like you go thirsty during the Prohibition."

"I never thought I'd see you refuse money," she murmurs as she puts it away.

"I put it on Renji's tab," he replies.

She sips her gin (it's making her a little lightheaded) and takes slow, cautious puffs from her cigarette holder. There are bottles lining up against the wall. They are all almost entirely gin, but she knows that there are a few rarities among them (whiskey, brandy, perhaps a whiff of the elusive green fairy), and that they have all been watered down. Behind them, a poster has the letters "Down with Prohibition!" etched upon the image of a girl in a black dress similar to hers. She is sipping from a martini glass, cigarette smoke framing the slim length of her arms and legs. Her eyes travel across the length of the bar, pauses for a moment on the image of an old anti-war poster, and barely registers Louis Armstrong's scrawl behind a small, cheap frame. She absently brings her cigarette holder up to her lips, pauses when she realizes that she has let it rest too long and that it has gone out. She strikes a match and cups the flame with her hand, which looks like it is glowing orange and ember red. It stands out against the starkness of her pale skin, dark, expressive eyes and blue dress with its glittering beads and long fringe. She puts the match out, takes a couple of puffs and is silent for the rest of the night. Ichigo has started to get into his music, she notices; his fingers move in quick, even steps across the keys and even the music sounds more forceful. Renji, she notices, has switched to a low harmony.

When they finally finish for the night, she has drunk far too much gin and is on her second-last cigarette. Her eyes have begun to droop with exhaustion and when the bartender tells her that she owes him for the last drink, she rolls her eyes and tells him that it's on Ichigo.

"Like hell it is."

"You never pay," she pouts, takes a long, deep drag of smoke and exhales in Ichigo's face. He sputters and waves a hand in the air and says something uncomplimentary. She does it again.

"Will you stop that?" he asks, plucking her holder from her hand and removing the cigarette. She tries to take her holder back from him, and he holds it out of her reach, swiping her last cigarette from her fingers and flicking it over the bar. The bartender makes a clucking noise as Ichigo pockets the holder.

"I want a big tip for this," Kisuke says, picking up the offending object and tossing it. When Ichigo turns away, Kisuke taps the side of his nose with a long finger, disturbing the strands of hair brushing against his cheekbones, and reaches under the bar to hand her a new pack. She slips it into her purse and slides a bill over the counter, which disappears quickly into a hidden pocket. An arm reaches over her shoulder, snatches her purse and takes out the new pack of cigarettes before dumping the purse back into her lap. She looks behind her, and Renji smirks before sticking one in his mouth and striking a match against the scarred and worn bar.

"C'mon," he said. "We'll see you back."

"I'm fine," she says, sliding off her seat. Her dress brushes the tops of her knees now and the beads catch the dim lights from behind the bar, glittering darkly against her flushed neck and face, the white V of her chest. "It doesn't matter. You don't have to. I'm not going home tonight."

"Your brother will have our heads if you don't go back," warns Renji, putting a hand on the small of her back when she trips even as Ichigo throws an arm out to steady her. She takes a deep breath, clutches silent Ichigo's arm and closes her eyes. She shakes her head again and feels the world tilt strangely and stops.

"It doesn't matter. Hisana won't care. She never does. Neither will my brother. I'm just a nuisance, a bourgeois philanthropist's project." She loosens her grip on Ichigo's sleeve and takes his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. She holds it up against the dim bar light. "You've such long fingers," she murmurs, brushing her cheek lightly against his palm and then dropping it. Her eyes are half-lidded and she stumbles over to the bar and puts her head on her arms.

Renji exchanges glances with Ichigo. Ichigo rubs his hands through his hair, scowls and shrugs and Renji sighs before stubbing out his cigarette. "Come on," he says, wrapping an arm around Rukia's thin waist and coaxing her away from the bar. She leans heavily against him and closes her eyes.

Ichigo takes Renji's trumpet case and Rukia's purse. Accepts a drink from Kisuke and downs it before finding a taxi to take them home.

end