Title: Like the Perfect Bottle of Koshu
Genre: semi-angst, reflective, gen
Rating: PG
Warning: Ikkaku and Yumichika aren't exactly spring chickens in here….
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My deepest gratitude to assassin of the saviour for their honest review and thoughtful support when this was first published. Thank you! I couldn't have pulled off the rewriting without you. :')
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Your soulful, velvety eyes; accentuated by well-placed accessories. Your painstakingly maintained snowy skin. The artful lines on your clean, lithe body; with the graceful movements that befit. Your neat nails and hands; so unlike most men's rough, leathery dorsums. Your lips that, when wrapped around a juicy dango, even stoic Iba's blush cannot resist.
How unfortunate that the object of your fixation should be the only one not swayed by them.
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In the end, it takes you far too late to notice.
Of course you had anticipated wrinkles. No one was immortal; not even shinigami. Being at the height of spiritual power only served to slow down the inevitable; the late soutaichou was proof (unless one was Unohana Retsu; but legendary kaidou users didn't count).
But had you? You don't feel as dismayed as you might be if you were surprised; you don't feel as detached as you should be if you weren't. You are simply numb.
Maybe you're still shocked to have lived through all the thousands of ways available to a shinigami to die young and pretty.
Pretty, you mused. Ruri'iro Kujaku murmurs in the back of your head; uncharacteristically silent. You've never really been that vain. There are a large bevy of female beauties in the ranks after all, and many found Kira or Kuchiki-taichou just as appealing. To you, your appearance was simply there, an everyday reality; though perhaps that in itself was already presumptuous.
Now you linger a touch longer on your pretty eyes, pretty jawline and pretty skin. And you sense through paranoia's filters even more lines waiting to sprout from the unmarred dips and contours.
Your hand rakes the comb through your abundant hair a tad more gingerly.
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In the end (most ironically), this is what drives him to notice.
The fact that you're not dressing for comfort or practicality anymore; in exchange for revealing more curves. The extended hours before your mirror on free days; even though you were only supposed to be brushing your hair and clipping on the feathers. You'd also begun painting your lips. Balm, you said; to his twitched eyebrows. Medicinal balm from the human world. For moisturising. Balm that layered your already sensual cupid's bow in a shimmer. Certainly more men and women at the bars have picked up on it.
[And yet, you are still hoping; still waiting (but haven't you always?).]
In the end, it comes to this.
So which one is it? You wonder, while discretely studying the reliable, solid planes of his arms.
Which of it finally caught up to him? You are careful to transmit nothing as you return his gaze. Despite his short temper and loud, distasteful quirks, your long-time friend had always had a sharpness about him. Something you should never have overlooked; as age does not necessarily dull an old sword.
"Why." He merely asks; states. He has built too much of his memories with you not to know what has happened, or how. As for the reason, well; that's what he's asking you, with a stance that demands no bullshit.
An impulsive smirk jerks the side of your mouth. How crude.
You relax muscles that don't wish to comply, and put on an appearance of lackadaisical regret. "Why not? Best to enjoy as much of these carnal pleasures while we can, yes?" As if you really care that you will soon be beyond admirers' letters, or offers to buy you sake and requests for nights in your bed. Little promises and meetings that might become more; if you hadn't pushed it all away for the impossible dream that's currently standing in front of you.
And the damndest part of this? That the naïve ability to wish would be the only part of your youthful beauty that you'll truly miss. Even when the fear of losing his friendship had paralysed you, having a future ahead meant the comfort of possibilities to look forward to.
But here you are; nowhere near your secret fairy tale endings. And you've learned to appreciate the difference between you and his ever-changing women. The sincere, no-holds-barred approach he has with you. The entire library in your heart of the little things about him that you alone are privileged enough to own. And the way you can decode the tiniest shifts of his body, and he yours; from the countless times you've relied on each other in combat. It's not everything you want from him, and it will probably never be; but it's a lot nevertheless. More than you could ever hope for.
Although, you would be willing to have less of his ability to read your body language at the moment. Because his patience has just been replaced by a warning glare. You estimate five seconds before he opens his gob.
Just enough for your shoulders to slump.
"A stage of foolishness," Your visage sinks out of sight; shamed further into avoiding his by the lack of judgement in his eyes. "The panic and desperation of a man who should know better."
You don't need to see the aggression soften to be convinced that it has; like the thousands of times before. It should be so fruitless or bizarre to discuss this with him, when he has never actually understood or liked your sense of aesthetics; except that it's always been in his nature to pull through. That's just how he is.
(And that was, after all, how you became so hung up on him.)
"One," he coughs, curiously awkward. Attempts again. "Only one person has to matter; see? And make it count. The rest," he snorts; back to his usual self, "Can go screw themselves."
You don't know how to respond to that. Just what the fuck was this? To dish out that kind of shitty advice, when he'd been through more women than you have clothes? He'd just turned himself into the worst sort of hypocrite! Perhaps that's what finally unhinges you: the impression he's giving that he's lived by those words; even though he's always been temptingly available to you yet forever out of reach. A little uncharacteristically rash; but you've been frustrated, depressed, and just too plain tired to keep up the pretence anymore. Like the self-destructive gambler past caring about his losing streak, you place your dangerous bet.
"That still depends," You dare; flat, direct stare leaving no doubt concerning the identity of your subject, "on whether he would accept."
Were you a few centuries older, the distressing pause and sobering panic that followed after would have given you a heart attack. Then the urgent lips crashing onto yours nearly did.
("Should've," "much earlier, dammit!" After which there was no further participation from either party in more complex conversation.)
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It is approaching sunset when he asks, "How long have, uhhhh….you….?" and he doesn't even bother to look at you; the unromantic bastard.
"Tea," you grumbled, unmotivated to move from under the covers. Two could play at this game.
He frowns at you again (or whatever he can of you); there is no mistaking the embarrassment now. "How long?"
"Tea," You repeat; pulling the fabric off your head to show an exasperated fondness. "Bokken. Salve."
"Oh." The flush turns truly resplendent.
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"O-oi!"
The thinner boy ceases swinging his old wooden sword. "What?! Back to have yer ass kicked already?!"
His bald addressee scowled. "Hell no! Like you really could anyway! I was only taken by surprise!" And with that, he dropped his package down the wall before manhandling a wooden flask more carefully while descending.
"Yeah, riggghht," the other drawls, in a purposely irritating manner. "We could have a rematch if you want."
"We will," His challenger growled, then grimaced. "But not before you get healed. Here," he thrusted the parcel under a purpling nose. "Salve. 'S only thing I got. Bastards got ya good, didn't they?"
The would-be recipient jumped at the sudden movement, startled. "Why would you care? It's none of your business!"
"Because it ain't fair!" The hairless kid yelled. "It ain't fair that they ganged up on you. A real man fights fair and square. So I ain't taking ya on till ya heal; or I'd be winning only 'cause them shits got ye first. So yer gonna heal up real fast-like; ya hear?!"
The lengthiest quiet ensued. Then a burst dam of laughter.
Another snarl. "What the fuck's so funny?!"
"S-sorry!" The apology sounded suspiciously insincere amidst the gasps and chuckles. "I-i-it's just; I've never heard someone demand something like that before. You sure are interesting," The doe-eyed one grinned, revealing teeth bloodied from his split lip. The viewer winced.
"Whatever." He groused; flopping down against the wall. "When you're done slathering that on, drink this." This time, a readier hand grabbed the flask that was passed over. "Herbal tea. 'S gonna stink, but it'll help with the pain." Fuck; if he started guffawing again…..
"….okay." The weapons-wielder uttered; eyeing him suspiciously. "You're not, not…..a younger version of those creepy perverts are you?" They preferred to entice him with sweets and nice clothes, but it paid to be cautious.
"WHAT?!"
"I mean; not that I think you act like one, obviously; but –"
"Urrgggh! Fuck, no!" It was oddly relieving to receive his revolted denial. "…do you meet a lot of those?"
The questioned child's smile was instantly brittle. "What do you expect? When I look like this," he gestured, at his decidedly feminine countenance and slender torso.
"…..And?"
"You know; like a girl?" He sighed irritably, rolling his eyes at his companion. Apparently, he was conversing with an idiot. "Why else do you think the lowlifes like to attack me?"
"'cause you're a half-decent fighter?" The other boy posed. "Well, I ain't caring what ya look like. So long as you're strong and fight fair; yer a man! More than all these scums anyhow." He beamed; glancing to his…his…rival?
That sounds about right.
Who was currently studying him with this weird face, and only blinked after he fidgeted uncomfortably. "…If you say so." That's when the dazzling teeth re-emerge, full-blast. "By the way, I'm Yumichika! And you?"
"Ikkaku," the other responds, taken aback. Had this guy's smile always been so bright?
"Ikkaku," Yumichika enunciates. The sound of it somehow completed this warmth in his chest; that he would have no suitable name for years yet.
Which was ruined by their stomachs' rumbles.
There was that effusive laughter threatening to bubble up again. When was the last time he'd allowed himself such unguarded displays of emotion? This Ikakku was really something else. Shaking his head in lingering mirth, he clapped on a shoulder. "Come then, Ikakku," he smirked. "Let's get some meat on those bones."
"Speak for yourself," came the retort. "How the hell do you fend off the bigger thugs with those twig arms anyway?"
"Pure talent, my friend; pure talent."
And so on as the pair walked off; absolutely unaware of what had just transpired.
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"Age is opportunity no less,
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Morituri Salutamus"
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(Owari)
Notes:
Koshu- deliberately matured sake, also known as "choki jukusei-shu".
Generally, sake is unsuitable for aging; and best drunk fresh. However, higher grade sake is said to age gracefully. Koshu can also taste entirely different from ordinary sake; to the extent it becomes a class of its own, unless aged in colder temperatures and smaller vessels. It is considered a rare eccentricity among sake enthusiasts; with price tags to match.
Title -reference to a Chinese saying that people are like wine: aging only increases their value.
Kaido- healing kidou. (Source: bleach wikia)
Bokken- a Japanese wooden sword used in training
Ever since encountering a KaiJou (Yu-Gi-Oh yaoi pairing) ficlet depicting them as an elderly couple in an old folks' home; I've been fascinated with the idea of old, lasting love. So how was it? Was the title original and appropriate? Were the adapted quotes relevant? How about the flashback scene at the end? Writing it had been painfully awkward….
Comments, comments; please!