Bleach ain't mine.
Kira knows about weight, about bearing heaviness. His sword taught him how he can use the burden of a body as a weapon-he supposes it's right that even his soul knows how uneasily he carries himself, like his own load. He thinks he's gotten better at it, that carrying, than anyone else.
And his hair is another thing. Pressed into his eyes, it hasn't much flair, and it's kind of a weight as well, unmoved by most stimuli: it's rigid, like him, and acts as a shade between himself and the world outside. You can't blame him, really, for wanting that-not after all that's happened, anyway.
But the clip catches him off guard, shatters that paradigm of his completely. Well, it's not really the clip that does it, but in a way it is the catalyst: the clip is brown, with a curved maw, and great carved teeth coated in plastic, and hinged at the back: made cheaply by human standards, a sort of relic here. It's a simple object, utilitarian, and it holds no fascination on its own. But the clip is significant—call it a symbol, call it the kind of hidden observer that reports on dreams and fantasies, hypnosis in the mind—and it's really just a clip at the root of all of it, the continued brownness of it like a reminder and the press of its clenched teeth against Kira's scalp is still seared into his mind.
It's important because it's not just an object. It moves, at a pace you'd think unknowable, and he doesn't expect it at all—he's on hyperalert all the time, he jumps at the sounds of leaves rustling, and of raucous wind, but he doesn't see the person coming at him, holding it: he only sees the clip, spiraling down from an outstretched arm. And the clip is like lightning: it sweeps up, and grasps the edges of his bangs and curls them under and holds them fiercely with the bite of a plastic mouth. The return of depth perception almost gives him double vision, and for yet another second, he doesn't see anything but a bright light and interplays of shadows over it.
When Kira's vision clears, there's no vista, because it's a second too late, and his eyes are exposed to skin against the pressure of a soft face, and his lips are occupied by the push of a soft mouth. The holder of the hair clip still has his arm arched forward and upward and is holding the object in place and jamming it against his forehead, and Kira notices that most of all—and that causes him to notice all the separate forces acting upon him, and for the first time he notices that to be pressed upon, and to bear weight in this way, is not something he doesn't enjoy. Perhaps this heaviness is not a weapon, is not the burden of sadness, but rather an inverted lightness, a warm bodily weight, the communing of skin.
"You have nice eyes," he says to Kira, and withdraws his mouth and undoes the tangle of the clip of the bangs in a single motion. "Let me see them more often." And he is gone in a space of a second that is less than a flash, leaving behind a feeling like a loosening of tendons after putting down a substantial burden, like Atlas breaking free.