A/N: My first full-length fanfic. I hope you guys enjoy it! I'm not very good at writing long stories :|
1
The air was insipid and hot. The sun smoldered and burned white-hot rings in a thin, watercolor sky. A dry wind rattled through the trees, stifling the air further with dust.
Inside Second Division, Rukia watched Soi Fon heat a vial of milky liquid, the smoke spiraling about in silver arabesques. Soi Fon scowled; the red eye of her cigar flaring as she took another hit.
The small woman leaned her face into the bitter fragrance and breathed deeply.
Rukia leaned away from the foul smoke. They were sitting cross-legged on a cobalt afghan blanket. Her mentor, in her restlessness, began flicking her lighter, making the flame appear and disappear, then reappear again. There was a silence filled by the clicking of the lighter and the quiet murmur of the boiling potion.
Soi Fon tilted her head to glare at the underside of the glass vial.
"Someone screwed with my nitrates again!"she declared hotly.
She jerked the vial, held precariously with the nails of her thumb and forefinger, toward Rukia.
"Look! The powder isn't even settling. We can't use this potion for shit!"
Soi Fon leaned past Rukia and pitched the vial's contents into a clay pot. The liquid sizzled and spat.
"Damn hot day, too!" she sighed in exasperation.
"Would you like some water?" Rukia asked quietly.
"It's fine." Soi Fon wiped her brow. Her grey eyes were dangerous. "Take a break. I'm going to go find out who messed around this shop."
She tucked her legs underneath her and stood up.
Her loose, black robe clung to her skin.
"Damn hot day," she muttered, pushing her way out of the door.
When she was gone, Rukia coughed and fanned the remaining cigar smoke away from her face.
She fed woodchips into the small fire and stood up. She could feel sweat trickling down her body. She hated hot days like this. These are the dog days, Ukitake had said when they sat on his porch, sweating even in the shade.
Further in the shop, past shelves of books and folders of curling parchment, Rukia located the cupboard.
She pulled out a chipped, porcelain bowl, the one with dancing elephants. On the bottom were scriptures. "Imported from Bala," Soi Fon answered when Rukia had asked her what it meant.
"Good luck and fortune. Believe it, if you want." Rukia filled it with water from the terracotta jug. She held the bowl with two hands, sipping slowly. Her motions were careful. Delicate. Trying to draw out the good luck.
Outside, the cobblestones of the streets were hot underneath her warajis*.
Street venders called to those passing by, clanging pots and pans and ringing bells. The cement walls, in all their falling glory and running tendrils of ivy, echoed with the sounds of children at play.
Rukia paused to buy a cheap fan, the kind that was imitation sandalwood and rice paper. The print was nice, Rukia admitted, looking at the staccato brushstrokes of bamboo leaves and primroses.
She clicked it open and fanned herself as she walked around stalls and people. Small children tugged at her sleeves, asking her if she would like some fruit they were selling.
She stopped by the blind mandolin player; dropped a few yen into his wrinkled palm and gave him some slices of mango. Told him what she dreamed about yesterday. He played her a song. Rukia listened.
Then she remembered Soi Fon and went back the way she came, weaving through the throngs of people.
She passed by Kyoraku, who was sitting drunk on the porch of his shop.
"Hello there!"
She bowed.
"Captain Kyoraku!"
"You lookin' good today! What you been up to?"
"Helping Captain Soi Fon with her work."
"Is it hard work?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
"That's mighty good! You run along and tell her she's doin' a fine job wit' ya."
"Sure thing,"
"A fine job, I say!"
He paused to sip at his flask. Then the man promptly slumped against the wooden slats, sound asleep. Rukia smiled softly and went along her way.
Soi Fon had a mortar and pestle out when Rukia returned.
It was a tortoise shell, painted with bright-eyed finches and blooming lotuses.
She handed it to her apprentice. Rukia looked at the rusty powder, wrinkling her nose.
"Do we really have to use cuprous nitrite?"
"Yeah. Suck it up."
"But it smells bad."
"So?" Soi Fon lit another cigar, holding it like a paintbrush and drawing silvery dragons in the air, "Nothing like a good smoke to cover up the scent."
Rukia rolled her eyes. She emptied the powder onto a small square of parchment. Folding and angling the paper, she tapped the mixture into a vial of water. She handed it to Soi Fon, then pulled her sleeve over her nose.
"Tch, pansy," Soi Fon scoffed, heating the vial with her right hand, taking a drag of the cigar with the other.
Her fingers were bright with thick, jeweled rings. People would glance at her jewelry; at the bronze hoops in her ears, the waterfall of silver chains around her neck. Her hair in wispy layers—the anarchy of her braids. The glint of her steel and blood eyes. Blood and thunder. They asked her if she came from the coast of Arrancar. "Fuck you," she always said to them.
"It's done."
"So soon?"
"Take a look."
The woman slipped the vial into a secure, iron ring-stand. With one of her long nails, she pointed at the tell-tale signs of completion.
"See that yellow precipitate? We're gonna take that out—it means the nitrogen and copper has combined perfectly. Then we're grinding it up and giving it to old man Yamamoto. He came around here talking 'bout backache."
"Shouldn't Captain Unohana take care of that?"
"She would normally, but he's a special case."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. Now stop yapping and help me clean up the shop. We spent almost all day trying to do this. I have other things to do, you know? Hell. Matsumoto wanted me to go drink with her today."
"Are you going to?"
"No. Too much paperwork to file. All the potions we've sold last month; something like that. You go! Have some fun."
"No, I don't really—"
"Loosen up, Kuchiki!" Soi Fon leaned in close to Rukia, blowing smoke in her face. Rukia turned away, coughing. "You should try this stuff more often! It's bloody awesome."
"But Nii-sam—I mean, Byakuya would kill me!"
"To hell with that noble! He's a dog, just like the rest of us. Society is shit. Hierarchy is shit. What your brother says is shit. I'm pretty sure he's full of shit. Now put out the fire, file some potions and then go enjoy yourself."
Soi Fon tucked her hands on her waist, sipping at her cigar like an aristocrat. Frills and revolution. She lit an oil lamp with the glowing, red tip.
A knock sounded on the solid oak door.
"Coming!" she called. She stepped over the afghan, bare feet elegant and dancer on the bamboo floor.
Rukia picked up a stack of creamy envelopes tied with a thin, crimson ribbon. She pulled out and sifted through receipts, scrutinizing the tiny print in the dwindling sunlight.
"Rukia, it's for you!"
That was a curious case.
No-one dropped by to see the young woman often.
On the rarest occasions, it was her brother. Rukia dropped the papers, stepping around books and pots and a manner of alchemy paraphernalia.
The man standing in the doorway exuded dark handsomeness and vitality. He wore a black kosode* dirty from miles spent on the road and hakamas* of likewise color and condition. When he spoke, it was wind and sky, taking flight from the earth.
"Rukia."
Her eyes widened, glittering like wet amethyst jewels. They were filled with electric hues of shock and excitement.
"Kaien!"
warajis* - straw sandals
kosode* - black robe that can be worn as an undergarment and an overgarment with a kimono. Think of the Shinigami uniform.