Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
You walk through the district of Rukongai known as Inuzuri. To some, it is merely a blot on the Gotei 13's otherwise stainless reputation as lawmakers and peacekeepers. There is neither peace nor law here and none bold enough to enforce it. To most, it is an area to be avoided at any cost, a place where bandits abound and cut-throats wait at every street corner. To you, however, it is home.
The area you live in is a rough one, even by the Inuzuri's lax standards. The bright midday sun is shining brightly, yet no one is out without on the roads without a weapon. You clutch your own dagger nervously as you attempt to weave past the crowds, unnoticed by all. A tall, emancipated man sends you a weak leer, but his heart isn't it. You can see the faraway look in his eyes and know that his body will be found in a nearby sewer in a few weeks.
You turn right into a cloistered lane where mothers are chasing their children in an attempt to teach them the business this district runs on: beggary. You try not to look at them, not to see the maternal affection that shines even through their rough voices and dirty faces. It reminds you too much of a little bundled baby with violet eyes so similar to yours, whom you left behind. Whom you failed in more ways than you can bear to count.
You turn again, left this time, onto the main market. It is a shabby affair – patched tents that are nothing more than sticks propped up with bricks and covered with stolen quilts from the richer districts. Rivulets of mud run between them, remainders of the last night's furious storm. As always, you can spot more shoplifters than shoppers. You almost cry out as a child with long red hair tries to unobtrusively put an apple in his pocket and fails miserably. The fat owner of the fruit stall chases him away. While the shopkeeper is engaged, two other children creep up and pick up three oranges. The weight is almost too much for their spindly arms to bear but they run fast nevertheless. You laugh as the red haired boy greets them with an enthusiastic slap on the back, some way away from the shop and the three of them walk away eating their oranges.
Still smiling, you head towards a shop selling shawls. It is a luxury few can afford in this place but the Inuzuri is famous for its beautiful yet cheap shawls. You have even seen a minor noble by the name of Omaeda here in your time working there. Your shawls are exquisite and selling well. Your employer has promised an extra coin per month, if you manage to attract more customers with your work.
You enter the tent and sit down at your usual spot. The shawl you had almost finished the day before is still lying there and as you pick it up to complete the work, a soft wind blows. The tent's flap opens and your employer sighs in exasperation. You move forward to close it. Just as you catch the flap and are about to bring it down, you notice a tall, dark-haired man standing in the middle of the street, a scowl on his face. He is wearing a Shinigami's black uniform and his long hair is tied back in a ponytail. He is not precisely handsome but something in those grey eyes makes you want to look at him for just another second. He turns, shielding his eyes from the sun. It continues to shine behind him, marking his black silhouette out with its bright golden rays. His forehead is still furrowed and nose wrinkled due to the smell emanating from the mud all around him. The angry, almost menacing look in his eyes gets him an even wider circle of empty space around him than most Shinigami, as people scurry away. It is in that moment that you know, with absolute certainty, that he is yours.
You brush the thought aside and try not to feel hurt when his eyes meet yours for the briefest moment and then continue in their sweep, assessing the pathetic state of your home. You tell yourself firmly to stop daydreaming. Your employer sarcastically commands you to shut the flap after you are tanned to your satisfaction. You draw back obediently, telling your reluctant hands to move, when his gaze abruptly returns to you. You freeze, unsure of what to do and your suddenly clumsy fingers let go of the flap. Your employer lets out a bellow of rage for she is a short tempered woman but you scarcely notice. The lines of worry on your forehead have disappeared, your shoulders are thrown back and you're smiling the way you haven't since you abandoned your sister.
His eyes told you that you were his.
Your heart told you that he was yours.
AN: Short, fluffy Bya/Hisa :)
Amazing-est pairing. EVER!