Byakuya remembers how his hands are when they're dirty with blood. He remembers that damp, sticky sensation on his palms and that evanescent warmt. He remembers that colour so bright, which contrast so much with his pale complexion and seems impossible to remove. He remembers the unpleasantness of that sight, how slowly it drips into the disgust. The repulsion.
But now his hands are stained with another kind of red; a soft, silky, warm and fluent red, that leaks through his fingerstips in a rain of thin hair; a red so intense and arrogant, impetuous like an arson. He dips his hands in it and he hopes he could stay soiled forever.
It's a nice sensation.