Written for the Bleach Romances Fanfiction Contest
Vibrant
"I still don't understand," Ikkaku grunted, but with a touch of curiosity as he stared over Izuru's shoulder.
"That makes two of us. I, on the other hand, don't understand your squad's ideals in the least," the blond shot back with a slight grin.
"Hmph. Whatever."
Briefly, Ikkaku wondered why Izuru was always carrying paper; it was as if his most important possession was his Zanpakuto, and next came paper. His long, seemingly delicate fingers bore faint inkstains, despite the vigorous washings they went through daily.
Such a strange friendship, Shuuhei had commented humorously of the pair. Ikkaku ran a hand through non-existent hair out of habit—after all, a long time ago he did have hair—and stood up abruptly. It was getting rather boring, no matter how peaceful the glade and running brook were.
"I'm going. Gotta train up some new recruits, they're way too soft. See ya later." He raised a hand and left without further ado, as was typical of him.
Izuru watched him stride off, Zanpakuto on shoulder, and smiled ruefully. For some reason, though they never really understood each other, they remained friends nevertheless. He turned back to the stack of blank paper resting safe from grass and dirt stains on the little portable wooden table Momo had thoughtfully bought for his most recent birthday.
A simple glass paperweight rested on the top, an oak leaf embedded inside. He dipped his quill into ink and continued writing his haiku.
Crimson leaf departs,
Floats on crystal reflections,
Where are you going?
"Damn!" Izuru uncharacteristically swore and shoved yet another failed painting into his growing folder.
"Damn!" Ikkaku echoed seconds later, roughly throwing a crumpled piece of paper to the ground and nearly collapsing the wooden stool he sat on, graciously provided by Izuru.
"This is stupid. I give up!"
"Come on, try once more," the lieutenant-cum-writer coaxed. "It's not that hard. Remember, five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and-"
"I bloody know already, I just can't think of anything to write," Ikkaku said and viciously kicked the crumpled ball of paper, where it bounced off a tree and sadly lay on the grass. He frowned at it.
It looks...lonely... "What the hell?" He said out loud and rubbed at his eyes. I must be gettin' tired of staring at black and white all day...shit.
"What's the matter? You feeling all right?" Izuru asked in concern and stuck his quill above his ear, perching on top of his own chair like a giant, skinny bird.
"Nah, it's nothing, I just...wait, I got an idea!" he fairly shouted and grabbed another sheet of paper, wrinkling it in the process. Izuru couldn't help grinning at his sudden enthusiasm and turned back to his palette, carefully mixing two colors together. Perfect. Now, if only he could do this right for once...
His eyebrows drew together into a frown of concentration and he lay down the first stroke, then the next, and suddenly everything was flowing.
"Lemme see what you've got!"
Izuru held the painting out of reach. "No way, you show me yours first!"
They glared at each other for a full minute. "Fine, here!" They simultaneously extended their arms and snatched each other's creations, directing their gazes towards the paper in their hands.
The silence was broken first by Izuru.
"Wow, Ikkaku, this is really good! I mean it!" He smiled genuinely, and Ikkaku looked away with an embarrassed frown.
"Same here. I'm not an art critic or anythin' like that, you know, I specialize in fighting and stuff. But—it's the best art I've ever seen. Though it's totally ridiculous that you still remember."
Izuru blushed despite Ikkaku's last comment. "Thanks. But it's nowhere near as good as-"
"I don't care, it's beautiful to me, not the idiot's face, the painting, now just shut up," Ikkaku grumbled out all at once. "I've gotta go. Don't show that to anyone, or I'll chop off your head," he warned and literally ran off.
Izuru chuckled and looked down at his own painting. Almost wild and free strokes formed a portrait; the image of his former mentor, Ichimaru Gin. The colors were bright and brilliant, vibrancy echoing from every corner of the painting. A pure feeling of life emitted from the painting, reminding Izuru with a bitter pang that Gin was no more. He blinked hard, then carefully rolled up the painting into a scroll and hugged it to him.
After a while, he pressed his right cheek to the cool table, staring sideways at Ikkaku's writing. The imperfect content was surprisingly delicate.
Let go, the wind whispered to him, and a feeling of calm acceptance overcame him.
Ikkaku was not a replacement, but a chance. A way to start anew...
He picked up both pieces of paper and slid them into his innermost clothing, next to his heart, and lay down on the grass, arms spread out.
He slipped into a deep sleep, lulled by the quiet surroundings, and smiled even as a single teardrop slid down his cheek. The setting sun's light shone across his golden hair, illuminating it with a glow.
The brook calmly ran by, flowing continuously, as if it would until the end of time. A leaf silently detached itself and flew down on the wind, swaying from side to side as if dancing, and landed on the brook's surface, alone no more.
Loneliness is not
Something never felt, for all
Meet it someday; but
We will meet someone
Who shall take it all away
In a mere heartbeat