Fic: Works of Art
Title: Works of Art
Author: Silawen
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Urahara Kisuke and Kurotsuchi Mayuri. Could be seen as Urahara/Kurotsuchi.
Words: 1803 Words.
Warnings: None.
Summary: As he catches sight of a white coat, billowing smoothly in the wind, and sand-coloured hair, he turns away and sighs. Life always has its fiends.
Author's Note: Written for cruelest_month. Also, I realized writing Urahara is a pain and I can't do it. So, yeah...
It’s usually remarkably early when he wakes. In the silence of a slumbering Soul Society, he dresses quickly and sits down to start his daily ritual. Under the watchful eye of a slowly brightening dawn, agile fingers paint his features white. With a deft swish of a pencil he adds more darkness to the façade, circling around his eyes as he tries not to look at his reflection for too long. Without his protective shell, he feels naked.
Behind him a window clatters, torn at by the wind, as he puts the finishing touches to one of his favourite creations. Being able to decide what people see when they look at him has always been something he very much enjoyed. Power over others made him strong.
Righting his clothes - pale hands tugging them into place, layer over neat layer - he ducks through the door and down the dusty road running parallel to his small abode. It’s not far to the laboratory, he would never allow such a thing, but the daily trek still unnerves him regardless. The sun is too bright, even partly tucked away behind the horizon as it still is at this time, and the people too numerous. Though he only encounters two sleepy sentries and a frantic looking 9th Division member, their entire existence bothers him.
It hasn’t been long since he left his private cell, stowed away in the infamous prison of Soul Society - not that many people know - and chained tightly to a brick wall. He can still feel the scratching of cloth around his ankle and hear the rattle of iron every time he moves. It’s so unlike his life now.
“Morning, Kurotsuchi-san,” a fellow Division member mumbles, his eyes betraying unease. Mayuri’s eyes flicker towards the waste of a man for just a second, but he never even slows. Instead he enters the laboratory, inhaling deeply when he’s surrounded by nothing but cold machines and the comforting hug of shadow. A single light, hovering high above him, flickers unsteadily and reminds him of home. It’s enough to almost make him miss the bars he’d lived behind.
Relishing in the whispers around him - the humming of surging energy, the fan working on-and-on in an ardent attempt to keep the humid place cool, even the faint popping sound of a test-tube’s contents - steady hands pick up the chart he’d been working on the night before. For a second he finds amusement in the neat scrawls, glinting under the sparse light, for they almost look like they’re still wet. He knows they aren’t - his captain has given him a curfew, worried as he is about his subordinate spending too much time in the laboratory and not enough resting, something which said captain doesn’t seem to get much of either - but entertains the notion nonetheless.
More light glimmers through one of the windows, betraying the coming of morning. As he writes down a list of notes, complete with symbols undecipherable to anyone but him, he can almost hear everything around him come to life. His keen senses pick up on every insufferable sound, from the barking of orders coming from the nearby 11th, to the rhythmic patter of feet rushing past. It’s not enough to distract him, but he notices nonetheless. He’s learned to notice every small detail, though perhaps insignificant, for he knows one day it may save his life.
Holding up one of the tubes he’d left to simmer, he angles it towards the light and squints in annoyance when it doesn’t yield the results he’d been hoping for. He’s tempted to crush the thing between his fingers and watch the liquid trickle to the floor through bloodied fingers, glass embedded in pale flesh. Failure goads him, reminding him of how powerless he really was. Though he misses the quiet calm of his cell, the feeling of being useless he did not miss, nor the ideas tumbling around in his head like a banner folding in a strong breeze. He can’t fail, for it would mean returning to the torturous life of being alone with his unsolved mysteries.
He carefully places it back instead, not giving in to his urges. Heat behind his eyes, then, for just a second, but even the increasing temperature in the laboratory - it’s still morning, it’ll get worse - can’t perturb him as he dutifully prepares the very same test. This time it will work.
A scuffle behind him as doors are pushed open, scratching over worn stone and filtering through the laboratory’s beat. Yellow eyes turn towards it, flicking away from the paper just long enough to identify the intruder. As he catches sight of a white coat, billowing smoothly in the wind, and sand-coloured hair, he turns away and sighs. Life always has its fiends.
“Morning, Mayuri-san!” a voice hollers, one edged with so much ease and confidence that Mayuri envies him for half a second until he catches the distinctive worry accompanying it. It makes him uncomfortable as well, for whenever his captain is worried trouble is afoot.
“You’re up bright and early,” Urahara comments, leaning down to look at the vial Mayuri is holding. The tilt of his head appears inquisitive, causing a faint fit of annoyance to rise in Mayuri’s stomach, but he just puts it back down again.
“I’m always up at this time,” he comments, walking away with his notepad in hand. “It’s easier to get work done when you’re alone.”
Urahara Kisuke follows him, insufferable to the letter, with his hands resting lightly on the crisp white of his captain’s haori. How he keeps it so neat, Mayuri will never know.
“Aw, Mayuri-san, that almost sounded like a complaint. Don’t you like my presence?” the man whines, the high-pitched tone sending shivers down the scientist’s back. Damn him.
“I do not,” is the clipped response, but Urahara doesn’t seem to hear.
“I think it’s good you have someone to spend time with, even this early in the morning. We can’t have you becoming anti-social, can we?” A pause. “Well, more so than usual, anyway. Shall I ask Hiyori-san to come give you a hand? I saw her beating up on some Division members earlier under the guise of training, so she can’t be too busy.”
If Mayuri had ever felt true terror, then it was nothing like what he felt now. The mere thought of Hiyori being forced to help him - with all the subsequent hollering, ruining of equipment and shattering of glass - causes his hands to tremble. It would be torture. He glares viciously at the man behind him, but can’t meet his eye. Urahara is once again staring off somewhere, this time at the sun’s glow glinting against glass.
“Please do not bother Sarugaki-fukutaichou,” he manages, voice a low wheeze. “I am sure she has more pressing matters to attend to.”
A comfortable smile does nothing to alleviate his unease. Instead a hand gestures emptily in the air. Urahara clucks softly, the sound grating, as he steps closer.
“No, I’m sure she’d love to help.”
Mayuri stifles a groan. His dealings with his vice-captain have always been strained, both because she doesn’t want to be there and he doesn’t want her around. Her brain isn’t as attuned to reality as his is, nor does she possess the wisdom that a true scientist requires. She’s crude, boorish, and a threat to everything he holds dear. He cannot understand how a brilliant man such as Urahara Kisuke can stand being around her and narrow-minded views.
And Urahara knows this.
“You are an incredibly cruel man,” he finally speaks, causing a chortle of laughter to leave his captain. They don’t speak for a short while, enjoying the calming peace of mind only they can give each other. They do not have to worry about conflicting interests when only true scientists are near.
However, silence never survives long when the captain of the 12th is around. His mind doesn’t suffer it well.
“It is terribly hot in here, isn’t it?”
An insignificant comment, so Mayuri doesn’t reply. He doesn’t like to do half a job, so focuses on the intricate details he has to scribble down. Long fingers hurry down the page, leaving in their wake a neat trail of information he treasures. Every miniscule number means the world.
His pen jumps when cold, clammy fingers run down his neck. Urahara stands behind him, ever so close, and the heat of the laboratory suddenly becomes stifling. It flickers under his skin, like that flicker of utter joy when he’d been led out of the dark confines of his own torturous prison.
“You never sweat, do you, Mayuri-san?” his captain drawls.
Mayuri swipes at the hand brushing his neck, but it is already gone. Turning his head ever so slightly, he catches the way Urahara studies the white now staining his fingers. He wonders if he’ll have to redo his morning-ritual, itching to grab his things and stalk off. Work doesn’t get done when Urahara Kisuke is messing with his head.
“But then sweating would ruin your…art,” Urahara continues, brushing the pale expanse of Mayuri’s neck once more. Mayuri moves away, yellow eyes flashing. Urahara just grins. “And we can’t have that, can we?”
Mayuri almost snarls, then. “My, but you’re an insufferable man.”
“Maybe I am,” Urahara muses, “but that’s truly not the worst you’ve called me, now is it? Pray tell, why do you stay?”
The soft growl of a machine nearby cuts through the resulting silence. They stand staring at each other, one curious and amused, the other thinking of ways to torture the man who torments him every day. For Urahara Kisuke has brought him both exquisite delights and never-ending pain. His words both cut and soothe, his laugh rumbles through him like a river and sinks in the pit of his stomach. He is neither friend nor foe, always both. The only puzzle Mayuri has yet to unravel, but the one he wants to figure out most of all.
“I would go,” he lies, “if I thought I could. I only stick with you because there are no others.”
Utter brilliances hides behind dark blue eyes. Mayuri had realized this the moment they met. Such brilliance that it blinds him every single day, to the point where he wants to consume the knowledge Urahara holds, but fears breaking him. Like a delicate potion, requiring the gentlest of touches, it could blow up in his face if he ever did.
Those eyes turn serious suddenly, straining on his and threatening to look into his very soul. A tremor takes hold of him at the sudden chill in the air. All seems to go quiet.
Urahara smiles, a sad tilt to his lips. “And I stick with you, Kurotsuchi Mayuri, because you are the only one.”
Author: Silawen
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Urahara Kisuke and Kurotsuchi Mayuri. Could be seen as Urahara/Kurotsuchi.
Words: 1803 Words.
Warnings: None.
Summary: As he catches sight of a white coat, billowing smoothly in the wind, and sand-coloured hair, he turns away and sighs. Life always has its fiends.
Author's Note: Written for cruelest_month. Also, I realized writing Urahara is a pain and I can't do it. So, yeah...
It’s usually remarkably early when he wakes. In the silence of a slumbering Soul Society, he dresses quickly and sits down to start his daily ritual. Under the watchful eye of a slowly brightening dawn, agile fingers paint his features white. With a deft swish of a pencil he adds more darkness to the façade, circling around his eyes as he tries not to look at his reflection for too long. Without his protective shell, he feels naked.
Behind him a window clatters, torn at by the wind, as he puts the finishing touches to one of his favourite creations. Being able to decide what people see when they look at him has always been something he very much enjoyed. Power over others made him strong.
Righting his clothes - pale hands tugging them into place, layer over neat layer - he ducks through the door and down the dusty road running parallel to his small abode. It’s not far to the laboratory, he would never allow such a thing, but the daily trek still unnerves him regardless. The sun is too bright, even partly tucked away behind the horizon as it still is at this time, and the people too numerous. Though he only encounters two sleepy sentries and a frantic looking 9th Division member, their entire existence bothers him.
It hasn’t been long since he left his private cell, stowed away in the infamous prison of Soul Society - not that many people know - and chained tightly to a brick wall. He can still feel the scratching of cloth around his ankle and hear the rattle of iron every time he moves. It’s so unlike his life now.
“Morning, Kurotsuchi-san,” a fellow Division member mumbles, his eyes betraying unease. Mayuri’s eyes flicker towards the waste of a man for just a second, but he never even slows. Instead he enters the laboratory, inhaling deeply when he’s surrounded by nothing but cold machines and the comforting hug of shadow. A single light, hovering high above him, flickers unsteadily and reminds him of home. It’s enough to almost make him miss the bars he’d lived behind.
Relishing in the whispers around him - the humming of surging energy, the fan working on-and-on in an ardent attempt to keep the humid place cool, even the faint popping sound of a test-tube’s contents - steady hands pick up the chart he’d been working on the night before. For a second he finds amusement in the neat scrawls, glinting under the sparse light, for they almost look like they’re still wet. He knows they aren’t - his captain has given him a curfew, worried as he is about his subordinate spending too much time in the laboratory and not enough resting, something which said captain doesn’t seem to get much of either - but entertains the notion nonetheless.
More light glimmers through one of the windows, betraying the coming of morning. As he writes down a list of notes, complete with symbols undecipherable to anyone but him, he can almost hear everything around him come to life. His keen senses pick up on every insufferable sound, from the barking of orders coming from the nearby 11th, to the rhythmic patter of feet rushing past. It’s not enough to distract him, but he notices nonetheless. He’s learned to notice every small detail, though perhaps insignificant, for he knows one day it may save his life.
Holding up one of the tubes he’d left to simmer, he angles it towards the light and squints in annoyance when it doesn’t yield the results he’d been hoping for. He’s tempted to crush the thing between his fingers and watch the liquid trickle to the floor through bloodied fingers, glass embedded in pale flesh. Failure goads him, reminding him of how powerless he really was. Though he misses the quiet calm of his cell, the feeling of being useless he did not miss, nor the ideas tumbling around in his head like a banner folding in a strong breeze. He can’t fail, for it would mean returning to the torturous life of being alone with his unsolved mysteries.
He carefully places it back instead, not giving in to his urges. Heat behind his eyes, then, for just a second, but even the increasing temperature in the laboratory - it’s still morning, it’ll get worse - can’t perturb him as he dutifully prepares the very same test. This time it will work.
A scuffle behind him as doors are pushed open, scratching over worn stone and filtering through the laboratory’s beat. Yellow eyes turn towards it, flicking away from the paper just long enough to identify the intruder. As he catches sight of a white coat, billowing smoothly in the wind, and sand-coloured hair, he turns away and sighs. Life always has its fiends.
“Morning, Mayuri-san!” a voice hollers, one edged with so much ease and confidence that Mayuri envies him for half a second until he catches the distinctive worry accompanying it. It makes him uncomfortable as well, for whenever his captain is worried trouble is afoot.
“You’re up bright and early,” Urahara comments, leaning down to look at the vial Mayuri is holding. The tilt of his head appears inquisitive, causing a faint fit of annoyance to rise in Mayuri’s stomach, but he just puts it back down again.
“I’m always up at this time,” he comments, walking away with his notepad in hand. “It’s easier to get work done when you’re alone.”
Urahara Kisuke follows him, insufferable to the letter, with his hands resting lightly on the crisp white of his captain’s haori. How he keeps it so neat, Mayuri will never know.
“Aw, Mayuri-san, that almost sounded like a complaint. Don’t you like my presence?” the man whines, the high-pitched tone sending shivers down the scientist’s back. Damn him.
“I do not,” is the clipped response, but Urahara doesn’t seem to hear.
“I think it’s good you have someone to spend time with, even this early in the morning. We can’t have you becoming anti-social, can we?” A pause. “Well, more so than usual, anyway. Shall I ask Hiyori-san to come give you a hand? I saw her beating up on some Division members earlier under the guise of training, so she can’t be too busy.”
If Mayuri had ever felt true terror, then it was nothing like what he felt now. The mere thought of Hiyori being forced to help him - with all the subsequent hollering, ruining of equipment and shattering of glass - causes his hands to tremble. It would be torture. He glares viciously at the man behind him, but can’t meet his eye. Urahara is once again staring off somewhere, this time at the sun’s glow glinting against glass.
“Please do not bother Sarugaki-fukutaichou,” he manages, voice a low wheeze. “I am sure she has more pressing matters to attend to.”
A comfortable smile does nothing to alleviate his unease. Instead a hand gestures emptily in the air. Urahara clucks softly, the sound grating, as he steps closer.
“No, I’m sure she’d love to help.”
Mayuri stifles a groan. His dealings with his vice-captain have always been strained, both because she doesn’t want to be there and he doesn’t want her around. Her brain isn’t as attuned to reality as his is, nor does she possess the wisdom that a true scientist requires. She’s crude, boorish, and a threat to everything he holds dear. He cannot understand how a brilliant man such as Urahara Kisuke can stand being around her and narrow-minded views.
And Urahara knows this.
“You are an incredibly cruel man,” he finally speaks, causing a chortle of laughter to leave his captain. They don’t speak for a short while, enjoying the calming peace of mind only they can give each other. They do not have to worry about conflicting interests when only true scientists are near.
However, silence never survives long when the captain of the 12th is around. His mind doesn’t suffer it well.
“It is terribly hot in here, isn’t it?”
An insignificant comment, so Mayuri doesn’t reply. He doesn’t like to do half a job, so focuses on the intricate details he has to scribble down. Long fingers hurry down the page, leaving in their wake a neat trail of information he treasures. Every miniscule number means the world.
His pen jumps when cold, clammy fingers run down his neck. Urahara stands behind him, ever so close, and the heat of the laboratory suddenly becomes stifling. It flickers under his skin, like that flicker of utter joy when he’d been led out of the dark confines of his own torturous prison.
“You never sweat, do you, Mayuri-san?” his captain drawls.
Mayuri swipes at the hand brushing his neck, but it is already gone. Turning his head ever so slightly, he catches the way Urahara studies the white now staining his fingers. He wonders if he’ll have to redo his morning-ritual, itching to grab his things and stalk off. Work doesn’t get done when Urahara Kisuke is messing with his head.
“But then sweating would ruin your…art,” Urahara continues, brushing the pale expanse of Mayuri’s neck once more. Mayuri moves away, yellow eyes flashing. Urahara just grins. “And we can’t have that, can we?”
Mayuri almost snarls, then. “My, but you’re an insufferable man.”
“Maybe I am,” Urahara muses, “but that’s truly not the worst you’ve called me, now is it? Pray tell, why do you stay?”
The soft growl of a machine nearby cuts through the resulting silence. They stand staring at each other, one curious and amused, the other thinking of ways to torture the man who torments him every day. For Urahara Kisuke has brought him both exquisite delights and never-ending pain. His words both cut and soothe, his laugh rumbles through him like a river and sinks in the pit of his stomach. He is neither friend nor foe, always both. The only puzzle Mayuri has yet to unravel, but the one he wants to figure out most of all.
“I would go,” he lies, “if I thought I could. I only stick with you because there are no others.”
Utter brilliances hides behind dark blue eyes. Mayuri had realized this the moment they met. Such brilliance that it blinds him every single day, to the point where he wants to consume the knowledge Urahara holds, but fears breaking him. Like a delicate potion, requiring the gentlest of touches, it could blow up in his face if he ever did.
Those eyes turn serious suddenly, straining on his and threatening to look into his very soul. A tremor takes hold of him at the sudden chill in the air. All seems to go quiet.
Urahara smiles, a sad tilt to his lips. “And I stick with you, Kurotsuchi Mayuri, because you are the only one.”