A/N: Much like haiku, there's just something about fixed-length pieces that helps clear out the cobwebs. The grouping below is unusual for me, in that I composed it in one sitting, didn't edit, and am posting it the same day. In the event that you're curious, I have made a bit of progress on Compression, but needed a bit of plot-free fluff to get me started writing again.
No real spoilers here, though some make more sense if you're up to date with the manga. There was a cohesive theme…in my head, anyway…
Burning the Midnight Oil: Bleach Drabble Quartet
I.
Sake, sweat and dust saturate the air, the gentler scent of ink and fresh parchment lost in the miasma of an inebriated Eleventh.
Unohana's serene smile and steady hand hold forth amidst the squalor, her eyes briefly alighting on each intoxicated, injured soldier as she notes their condition. The desk is cramped, the lamp dim, though the house call necessary, lest Zaraki's charges overwhelm the Fourth's barracks, too.
A bold, timber-rattling snore suddenly cuts through the mess hall-turned infirmary as the Kenpachi rolls on to his back. Retsu smirks, and not one of her drunken charges is the wiser.
II.
Shunsui squints at Nanao's impeccable draft, her tidy, tiny kanji seeming to protest his sprawling signature smudging the bottom of the page.
Her reiatsu lingers, smoky and thick in the overlarge office; his thoughts, meanwhile, touch on her where she's fallen asleep at her desk. He swirls his cooling tea rather than sip it and looks away, the twinkling lamps of Seireitei blinking back at him in the still of a humid night.
Shunsui considers the concise, respectful elegy again before setting it aside. Brush in hand he pauses, words that cannot be delegated sitting heavily in his heart.
III.
The pencil lead breaks. Ichigo picks it up, scowling as it smudges his fingers.
The nearby streetlight begins to hum and flicker, drawing his attention away from the errant graphite and the noisily pinging plumbing within the walls. He turns to looks out his bedroom window, trying very hard not to recall the last person to rap on it or leap through uninvited.
Ichigo returns his gaze to his desk, pointedly not looking at his closet door or the stuffed lion that has sat motionless on his desk these many months.
His homework, reliable, ever present, awaits his attention.
IV.
Characters merge into one long, chaotic smear as the headache finally forces his eyes shut.
Byakuya's grip on the brush tightens before giving way completely when, moments later, fingers descend on his hair. He holds his breath as the roughened digits unhook the kenseikan and set it aside; that breath escapes as a gasp when the digits return and start tracing circles in his tender, still-throbbing scalp.
"Better?"
He nods, slightly, so as not to interrupt.
"What would you do without me, Taichou?" A knowing laugh tickles his ear.
He leans back, sighing. "I hope never to find out."