Bleach Drabble (449)
ARGH AX.
449.
Title: A Clean Slate
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Character/s: Komamura, Iba, Kenpachi
Word Count: 997
Warning/s: Spoilers for the Soul Society arc.
Summary: Komamura wants to reform his vice-captain.
Dedication: Um, everyone who hounds me for not writing my Gan app like I should have. ^^;;
A/N: Oddly enough, I feel kind of really gen-ish lately. I am obviously ill.
He remembers when he first took Tetsuzaemon under his wing, looking down at the young man like a father does an unruly child, ready to fully bear the responsibility of fixing the boy’s coarser habits, of reforming him from his wild, uncivil ways.
Komamura remembers thinking, “this one can still be saved. Zaraki only had him for so long.”
It was his duty after all, to teach his new vice-captain the proper ways to behave, indeed, how to become honorable.
Iba had looked back up at him with something like trepidation maybe, though he hid it under furrowed brow and dark glasses.
“I will reform him,” Komamura had thought to himself. “It’s my duty.”
And so he’d begun, from under that heavy mask-a case perhaps, of him leading from the dark.
When Iba laughed, Komamura deemed it most times inappropriate, all times a rude noise.
“Curb your enthusiasm, please, Tetsuzaemon.”
“Er, yessir.”
When Iba fought he smiled, and Komamura felt the need to rectify that, because there should be no joy in bloodshed.
“Death isn’t something to revel in, Tetsuzaemon. Nor carnage. We fight and we sully ourselves. We dirty our hands for a greater purpose, so that those more deserving don’t have to. We are sacrifices made in the hopes of making a better world.”
“Er… yessir.”
When Iba spoke he slurred, and when he drank he slurred and fought, and when he fought, he still smiled and didn’t know he was doing it.
“You indulge yourself in too many vices, Tetsuzaemon. Our bodies are the means through which we work towards bettering this place-the only vehicles through which killers such as ourselves have to serve a greater purpose. If we give in to these hedonistic impulses all the time, we truly are worthless then, aren’t we? Imperfect offerings.”
“Er…yessir.”
And he can tell that Iba tries, that his vice-captain wants to abide by his taichou’s lessons as best he can because he respects Komamura, because Komamura is sure that there’s a part of Tetsuzaemon that wants to believe in something greater than the battle-lust Zaraki Kenpachi ruined him with.
So Komamura is patient if stern, and for many years he works to clean Iba’s mind of the less savory things he learned from the eleventh division.
And though Tetsuzaemon continues to interact with the eleventh division members, he also speaks to Hisagi-san more, and Komamura thinks that’s an improvement, that if Iba washes his hands of unsavory company it will be easier to break with the philosophies imparted upon him in the past.
Hisagi Shuuhei is a good man.
So Komamura waits, and thinks that with time, this responsibility of his, this vice-captain, will truly be a man seireitei can be proud of, as Kaname has shaped Hisagi-san into with much patience and vigilance.
But then Tousen leaves.
A traitor.
And Komamura finds that more than just his helmet shattered under Zaraki Kenpachi’s sword that day.
“So now you ain’t got nothin’ to hide behind,” Kenpachi had grunted, and was grinning but not smiling when he had, despite the fact that the eleventh division had lost two-thirds of its ranks.
Tetsuzaemon puts his hand on his captain’s shoulder sometime later, and offers him a drink. “Sir,” he says, slowly, “I don’t think I wanna be a sacrifice anymore.”
“Hm,” Komamura responds, and for the first time ever, allows himself to share a drink with Iba.
“Then what are we?” he finds himself asking later, when they’ve exhausted the supply of sake between them.
“Just us, I guess,” Tetsuzaemon grunts inarticulately, staring up at the stars from where he’s splayed out-drunk-- on his back.
“What does that mean?” Komamura asks, feeling vaguely dizzy himself.
“Dunno. I kinda like fightin’ though. And drinkin’. And playin’ cards with the boys, and chasin’ skirts, and talkin’ shit. Guess that’s what I am.”
“Hn,” Komamura echoes, and says nothing else. Tetsuzaemon is very drunk, and the large fox-captain wonders if this thing called “fun” his subordinate always seems intent on having will be an adequate replacement for his “sacrifice”, if it’s some untapped treasure he’s never let himself know because there were always other things that seemed more important.
The next morning he lets Iba sleep in-he’ll probably be hung-over anyway-and with a slight headache, Komamura Sajin treks to the eleventh division headquarters.
When he gets there he’s greeted by the sounds of raucous cheers and energetic shouts, the tall captain discovering that there is a standings brawl today, to replace seats lost in the earlier week.
No time to mourn-- or perhaps no will to. Maybe their comrades wouldn’t have wanted to be mourned.
He watches for a while, as violence and chaos erupts around him, eleventh division shinigami smiling as they battle, slurring as they talk, drinking as they wait.
Eventually Komamura catches Zaraki Kenpachi’s single eye, and they stare at each other for a long, wordless moment from across the grounds.
And then, “The hell do you want?”
Around them, the fighting rages on, and something in the atmosphere stirs in Komamura himself when he feels it-like the alcohol he’d had too much of last night. “Show me,” he says, and says nothing else.
Kenpachi bursts out laughing. “Show you, huh?”
Komamura doesn’t feel the need to repeat himself, and doesn’t.
Moments later, Zaraki Kenpachi stands, looking amused.
“Che. Show you. You got a lot to learn.”
Komamura thinks about the snoring vice-captain he left on his office floor this morning, the one who smiles when he fights and drinks like a fish and curses like a sailor and in the end, would never betray a friend.
“Then let’s begin,” he says.
And as he and Zaraki draw their weapons, Komamura lets himself look into a single, wild eye and wonders how the anticipation he sees in it feels, wonders if he’ll ever know himself, this thing called joy.
He supposes now is as good a time as any to start.
END
EDITS PLZ.
449.
Title: A Clean Slate
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Character/s: Komamura, Iba, Kenpachi
Word Count: 997
Warning/s: Spoilers for the Soul Society arc.
Summary: Komamura wants to reform his vice-captain.
Dedication: Um, everyone who hounds me for not writing my Gan app like I should have. ^^;;
A/N: Oddly enough, I feel kind of really gen-ish lately. I am obviously ill.
He remembers when he first took Tetsuzaemon under his wing, looking down at the young man like a father does an unruly child, ready to fully bear the responsibility of fixing the boy’s coarser habits, of reforming him from his wild, uncivil ways.
Komamura remembers thinking, “this one can still be saved. Zaraki only had him for so long.”
It was his duty after all, to teach his new vice-captain the proper ways to behave, indeed, how to become honorable.
Iba had looked back up at him with something like trepidation maybe, though he hid it under furrowed brow and dark glasses.
“I will reform him,” Komamura had thought to himself. “It’s my duty.”
And so he’d begun, from under that heavy mask-a case perhaps, of him leading from the dark.
When Iba laughed, Komamura deemed it most times inappropriate, all times a rude noise.
“Curb your enthusiasm, please, Tetsuzaemon.”
“Er, yessir.”
When Iba fought he smiled, and Komamura felt the need to rectify that, because there should be no joy in bloodshed.
“Death isn’t something to revel in, Tetsuzaemon. Nor carnage. We fight and we sully ourselves. We dirty our hands for a greater purpose, so that those more deserving don’t have to. We are sacrifices made in the hopes of making a better world.”
“Er… yessir.”
When Iba spoke he slurred, and when he drank he slurred and fought, and when he fought, he still smiled and didn’t know he was doing it.
“You indulge yourself in too many vices, Tetsuzaemon. Our bodies are the means through which we work towards bettering this place-the only vehicles through which killers such as ourselves have to serve a greater purpose. If we give in to these hedonistic impulses all the time, we truly are worthless then, aren’t we? Imperfect offerings.”
“Er…yessir.”
And he can tell that Iba tries, that his vice-captain wants to abide by his taichou’s lessons as best he can because he respects Komamura, because Komamura is sure that there’s a part of Tetsuzaemon that wants to believe in something greater than the battle-lust Zaraki Kenpachi ruined him with.
So Komamura is patient if stern, and for many years he works to clean Iba’s mind of the less savory things he learned from the eleventh division.
And though Tetsuzaemon continues to interact with the eleventh division members, he also speaks to Hisagi-san more, and Komamura thinks that’s an improvement, that if Iba washes his hands of unsavory company it will be easier to break with the philosophies imparted upon him in the past.
Hisagi Shuuhei is a good man.
So Komamura waits, and thinks that with time, this responsibility of his, this vice-captain, will truly be a man seireitei can be proud of, as Kaname has shaped Hisagi-san into with much patience and vigilance.
But then Tousen leaves.
A traitor.
And Komamura finds that more than just his helmet shattered under Zaraki Kenpachi’s sword that day.
“So now you ain’t got nothin’ to hide behind,” Kenpachi had grunted, and was grinning but not smiling when he had, despite the fact that the eleventh division had lost two-thirds of its ranks.
Tetsuzaemon puts his hand on his captain’s shoulder sometime later, and offers him a drink. “Sir,” he says, slowly, “I don’t think I wanna be a sacrifice anymore.”
“Hm,” Komamura responds, and for the first time ever, allows himself to share a drink with Iba.
“Then what are we?” he finds himself asking later, when they’ve exhausted the supply of sake between them.
“Just us, I guess,” Tetsuzaemon grunts inarticulately, staring up at the stars from where he’s splayed out-drunk-- on his back.
“What does that mean?” Komamura asks, feeling vaguely dizzy himself.
“Dunno. I kinda like fightin’ though. And drinkin’. And playin’ cards with the boys, and chasin’ skirts, and talkin’ shit. Guess that’s what I am.”
“Hn,” Komamura echoes, and says nothing else. Tetsuzaemon is very drunk, and the large fox-captain wonders if this thing called “fun” his subordinate always seems intent on having will be an adequate replacement for his “sacrifice”, if it’s some untapped treasure he’s never let himself know because there were always other things that seemed more important.
The next morning he lets Iba sleep in-he’ll probably be hung-over anyway-and with a slight headache, Komamura Sajin treks to the eleventh division headquarters.
When he gets there he’s greeted by the sounds of raucous cheers and energetic shouts, the tall captain discovering that there is a standings brawl today, to replace seats lost in the earlier week.
No time to mourn-- or perhaps no will to. Maybe their comrades wouldn’t have wanted to be mourned.
He watches for a while, as violence and chaos erupts around him, eleventh division shinigami smiling as they battle, slurring as they talk, drinking as they wait.
Eventually Komamura catches Zaraki Kenpachi’s single eye, and they stare at each other for a long, wordless moment from across the grounds.
And then, “The hell do you want?”
Around them, the fighting rages on, and something in the atmosphere stirs in Komamura himself when he feels it-like the alcohol he’d had too much of last night. “Show me,” he says, and says nothing else.
Kenpachi bursts out laughing. “Show you, huh?”
Komamura doesn’t feel the need to repeat himself, and doesn’t.
Moments later, Zaraki Kenpachi stands, looking amused.
“Che. Show you. You got a lot to learn.”
Komamura thinks about the snoring vice-captain he left on his office floor this morning, the one who smiles when he fights and drinks like a fish and curses like a sailor and in the end, would never betray a friend.
“Then let’s begin,” he says.
And as he and Zaraki draw their weapons, Komamura lets himself look into a single, wild eye and wonders how the anticipation he sees in it feels, wonders if he’ll ever know himself, this thing called joy.
He supposes now is as good a time as any to start.
END
EDITS PLZ.