Inspired by 12 Years a Slave and Django.
Not actually completely sure where I'm going with this, but inspiration struck so I had to write it.
His chains jingle loudly as he shifts uncomfortably, blowing a stubborn strand of cerulean hair out of his eyes subtly. It is late morning, the sun is sweltering. The carriage carrying him and the 10 other slaves had arrived at the Kuchiki estate barely an hour ago; their chains had not yet even been taken off. They stand in an orderly row, facing the estate and backs to the field, sweating and listening to the man in front of them, and he attempts to take in the beautiful grounds surrounding him.
Kuchiki Byakuya is the master of the estate (now also the master of them); a beautiful mansion surrounded with gardens and abundant fields, all inherited from his late father. He sits up on the balcony of the mansion at a small table across from his wife Lady Hisana, who fans herself lightly against the hot summer sun. There is another at the table, whom Grimmjow and the other slaves had been informed is the other Lady of the house; Hisana's younger sister, Lady Rukia.
The tall red-headed man pacing back and forth along the line of slaves is the petite Lady Rukia's fiancee, Master Abarai Renji. The soon-to-be wed couple were both living in the Kuchiki estate alongside the Master and Lady as well as one other; Abarai was adept at working in fields and with slaves thanks to his upbringing and family, and so once his engagement to Lady Rukia was confirmed, he was put in charge of everything that Master Byakuya was clearly not willing to do. Namely, work outside.
Master Abarai drills them on their duties forcefully as he paces to and fro, and the slaves eye him warily, chains jingling loudly as Grimmjow adjusts his weight onto his other bare foot. They eye Renji warily not because his features incite fear; no, not at all. The whip he is holding, fingering absentmindedly as he speaks, makes all slaves restless and wary.
Grimmjow feels a bead of sweat run from his temple to his jaw, the thin collared shirt he is wearing sticking to his back. His hair feels grimy, his shirt is mud-stained and his bare feet are covered in dirt; mud and sweat coating his skin. He hasn't bathed in days, not since he left the prison to be taken here.
The sun is sweltering, beating down on the line of slaves mercilessly. None will complain though, they will not say a word; any fight they once had in them beaten down over the time they had spent in slavery. The whip in their new Master's hands was enough to keep them silent.
"You will address us as 'Master', and Lady Hisana and Lady Rukia as 'Ma'am'. 'S that clear?" Renji stills in front of a tall slave, planting his boot-clad feet into the ground and sliding his hand along his whip, his gaze travelling down the row of slaves.
A collective voice of yes, master is heard from all 11 slaves, with Grimmjow's deep voice blending amongst the rest. He adjusts his weight again, sharp eyes cutting to the side as he mumbles his obedience to one of his new Masters. They haven't yet seen their final Master; the young adopted brother of the Kuchiki family. Probably too perfect to grace us lowly ones with his presence, Grimmjow thought sarcastically. He would never say it out loud; his bite had been beaten out of him since his teenage years, having been a slave all his life, and as he approached 25 he had matured to the point where he could remain cold and detached to what went on around him. Emotion would earn him pain. He would no longer lash out like he once did, no longer talked back; the scars on his back were enough to convince him to hold his tongue.
"Good. Now go wash or somethin', you all smell like shit. The trough is there. Sixty-nine, show 'em. Then it's straight to work."
"Yes, master," a dark-haired slave with tattoos adorning his face comes forward from where he was attending to the gardens, and Renji turns as he passes, returning towards the estate, probably for shade and a rest before he is to attend to the slaves once again.
The dark-haired slave, nicknamed Sixty-nine, gives them a curt nod of follow me and leads them towards the water troughs and pump, keys to their chains in hand. They are lining up orderly without being told, eager to finally have their hands and feet free and to wash themselves. Grimmjow makes it to the front, placing his hands in Sixty-nine's and hears the familiar click of the lock, chains falling away as Sixty-nine kneels to do the same to his feet. Grimmjow rubs his wrists, scars from cnstant chains adorning them permanently and as he steps out of the ones at his feet he heads towards the troughs as he hears Sixty-nine call for next!
He feels light, painfully so, and immediately dips his hands inside the water trough filled with water, splashing it on his face and through his hair gratefully. He feels like he is in heaven, there is even soap, for gods sake. He mirrors what his fellow slaves are doing, stripping himself of his shirt as he is passed one of those heavenly bars of soap, scrubbing himself down thoroughly then rinsing. He returns to just splashing his face when he is satisfied with his cleanliness, feeling the rivulets run down his face and arms, the lightness of his limbs from lack of chains. He had heard in rumor that Master Kuchiki treated his slaves fairly, and despite not starting physical work yet, Grimmjow was inclined to agree. Soap and freedom from chains was enough for him at this point.
The clamor of his fellow slaves alerts him, and he wipes his wet face with his equally wet forearm, then again with his hand, as he glances towards the mansion. He hears the older slaves' greetings, curtsies and bowing, and the new slaves like Grimmjow are all turning towards the noise and adjusting their posture by reflex. Grimmjow remains bent over the trough, running his hands through his drenched hair as it falls stubbornly in his eyes, and makes out the new figure accompanying Master Abarai.
He is beautiful.
That is the only word Grimmjow can think to describe the youth approaching. He is young; late teens perhaps, hair a beautiful tangerine and skin lightly tanned. His pants are tucked into boots, embroided shirt fitted in all the right places on his frame. He is lithe, in an almost thin, effeminate way.
He is beautiful.
Master Ichigo was adopted into the Kuchiki house from a young age, and so was treated as nobility all his life alongside his adopted sisters. He is smiling lightly at his future-brother-in-law's words, and Renji laughs along with him. They both divert their attention to the group in front of them, Ichigo's expression reverting to normal, and Grimmjow straightens, wiping his face again.
Renji addresses them again, you will refer to him as Master, and drills them on their duties which they are to begin immediately. Ichigo nudges his friend, whispering something in his ear, his body language showing his intent to leave. Grimmjow watches the sensual movement of his lips against the other's ear, despite the act itself being anything but. Renji nods, returning to what he was saying and Ichigo's gaze runs down the line once more.
They each have their eyes trained on Renji, listening in fear of the whip he fingers at his side, except for one. Ichigo's gaze pauses on Grimmjow's and time seems to stop. Grimmjow's sky blue irises locked with Ichigo's chocolate hue, and Grimmjow holds his gaze, staring back into beauty.
And then it is over. Time resumes it's ticking, and Grimmjow lets out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as Ichigo turns swiftly, heading back to the estate with not a single glance back.
Grimmjow's sharp gaze remains on his retreating back, even as Renji quips for them to set to work; even as the other slaves reach for the tools set up next to them to take.
The tall slave next to him gives him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder, and only then does Grimmjow's gaze fall to the ground, a single nod of acknowledgement as he finally reaches for the plow leaning against the trough. The slave - Starrk - heads off after the others towards the field near the estate, and Grimmjow follows, eyes returning to the balcony of the house where a tuft of sunset-colored hair can just be seen.
He is beautiful.