Fic
This is a Bleach fic I wrote under my other LJ name. It is posted in hanatarou_fans.
Title: Chasing Comets
Summary: Hanatarou reflects
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Hanatarou is glad that all this is happening. Oh, he’s not glad that Rukia-san is in danger, or that he and his new companions can’t ever relax for fear of discovery, or that they are all headed straight into a warren of tricks and traps that will most likely prove deadly. He could live without that part.
But even as they race through Soul Society, he feels an urge, quickly suppressed, to laugh out loud. Some not-so-small part of him is bubbling over with delight at this adventure, shouting at him to prove his mettle, prove to everyone who ever laughed at him, ignored him, that he is more than a simple janitor, more than a punching bag or the butt of their cruel jokes. He can feel the power that he has course through his system, and revels in it.
He wonders for a moment where this odd confidence comes from, but a stumble and whispered curse from Ganju-san beside him reveals the answer. It’s obvious upon a moment’s reflection that this assurance must be some sort of by-product of his association with these ryoka. Perhaps he’s been absorbing it through his skin, in some kind of mental osmosis. They seem to have confidence in spades, and he can see why; even a few moments spent in Ichigo-san’s company make him a bit dizzy with all of the residual spirit-power he gives off. Someone as strong as him makes anything seem possible, even a scheme as half-baked as an attempt to break into the Tower of Penitence.
Although, when he remembers the fight with Renji-sama, he thinks it might not be entirely half-baked. Even if he did end up spending that night patching Ichigo together again.
He contemplates his companions for a moment. They are, he must admit, another reason why he is glad of this adventure. They are colorful in a way that his monochrome existence has never seen before, with Ganju-san’s odd clothing and Ichigo-san’s head of orange hair. They are loud, tacky, low-class, obnoxious, but underneath their shouting and posturing, they treat him with a sort of brusque kindness, the same kindness that made Rukia-san, all unknowing, win his loyalty. He wonders if his response to their kindness is a sign of weakness; he is, after all 4th squad, and it is the right of every other squad to pick on him. It’s tradition for the strong to scorn the weak, and it isn’t the place of the weak to wish for more. He should not need kindness. Brief questions about his well-being should not affect him. The gentleness in their hands as they help him over walls and down holes and over cliffs should not inspire such pathetic gratitude, but it does, and they do, and Hanatarou can’t quite find the resolve to wish it otherwise.
They run, getting closer and closer to the tower, to Rukia-san’s freedom, and Hanatarou is glad. Ichigo-san’s hair blazes in front of him like some sort of guiding comet, and he is happy to follow in its tail. He knows, with the same part of him that laughs at adventure, that he will follow this light forever, to whatever end.
Title: Chasing Comets
Summary: Hanatarou reflects
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Hanatarou is glad that all this is happening. Oh, he’s not glad that Rukia-san is in danger, or that he and his new companions can’t ever relax for fear of discovery, or that they are all headed straight into a warren of tricks and traps that will most likely prove deadly. He could live without that part.
But even as they race through Soul Society, he feels an urge, quickly suppressed, to laugh out loud. Some not-so-small part of him is bubbling over with delight at this adventure, shouting at him to prove his mettle, prove to everyone who ever laughed at him, ignored him, that he is more than a simple janitor, more than a punching bag or the butt of their cruel jokes. He can feel the power that he has course through his system, and revels in it.
He wonders for a moment where this odd confidence comes from, but a stumble and whispered curse from Ganju-san beside him reveals the answer. It’s obvious upon a moment’s reflection that this assurance must be some sort of by-product of his association with these ryoka. Perhaps he’s been absorbing it through his skin, in some kind of mental osmosis. They seem to have confidence in spades, and he can see why; even a few moments spent in Ichigo-san’s company make him a bit dizzy with all of the residual spirit-power he gives off. Someone as strong as him makes anything seem possible, even a scheme as half-baked as an attempt to break into the Tower of Penitence.
Although, when he remembers the fight with Renji-sama, he thinks it might not be entirely half-baked. Even if he did end up spending that night patching Ichigo together again.
He contemplates his companions for a moment. They are, he must admit, another reason why he is glad of this adventure. They are colorful in a way that his monochrome existence has never seen before, with Ganju-san’s odd clothing and Ichigo-san’s head of orange hair. They are loud, tacky, low-class, obnoxious, but underneath their shouting and posturing, they treat him with a sort of brusque kindness, the same kindness that made Rukia-san, all unknowing, win his loyalty. He wonders if his response to their kindness is a sign of weakness; he is, after all 4th squad, and it is the right of every other squad to pick on him. It’s tradition for the strong to scorn the weak, and it isn’t the place of the weak to wish for more. He should not need kindness. Brief questions about his well-being should not affect him. The gentleness in their hands as they help him over walls and down holes and over cliffs should not inspire such pathetic gratitude, but it does, and they do, and Hanatarou can’t quite find the resolve to wish it otherwise.
They run, getting closer and closer to the tower, to Rukia-san’s freedom, and Hanatarou is glad. Ichigo-san’s hair blazes in front of him like some sort of guiding comet, and he is happy to follow in its tail. He knows, with the same part of him that laughs at adventure, that he will follow this light forever, to whatever end.