she
i.
"I'm not a child, treat me like a man."
"Say that to me when I'm not bathing you."
Ichigo pauses, appears to think, then says objectively, "I kissed you last night."
Rukia trails her hands up his chest and encircles her arms around his neck. She lets him hold her tight and welcomes his warm lips. In her arms, he's not a prince. In his arms, she's not his maid.
"I kissed you last night," he repeats, more objectively. Like it will strengthen his choice of argument for the day.
Rukia barely glances at him and says nothing.
He has his arm and hand extended to where she is. Rukia holds it, carefully lathering it with soap. His long fingers curl and uncurl in her touch. His is large, calloused, uneven and scarred. This is not a pampered prince's hand.
Then he catches hers, caressing it in pressed touch, mutely telling her things.
She glances back at him, as if reprimanding him, he holds her stare and wordlessly pleads with her, 'let me, please.' She lets him.
He insists on calling for her during morning baths -many times- incorrigible like a child. This action incites a castle-wide albeit hushed rumor about her and him; that the ambitious maid is whoring herself to the prince.
He is immersed in a gold and white bath tub. There are sheets drawn all around them, trying to block the all-too bright sunshine and others.
It's a private matter, he says.
She sits on a stool beside him, her clothes are drenched and she acts as his bath attendant, despite all the other fitting servants meant for the job. He said it's the only time he can talk to her in private, just don't think, just don't think about the nasty rumors –he reassures her.
She faces him, he tells her to. He said he likes looking at her. She complies because she said it's to get the work done easier.
She could burn fairy tales. She could burn tales about fairies and princesses and godmothers and evil witches because they make things look easy. She could burn fairy tales. Because if there is a single wish she's free to make, it's not this.
Both of them settle for silence this time. He leans back and closes his eyes, still holding her hand tight.
Rukia sits there and listens to his breathing. Tomorrow, he'll go back to the frontlines.
ii.
The first time his hair –bright as the sun, orange-y like the freshest orange juice- blinded her irises was when he decided that the storage cabin where they keep their week's supply of fresh fruits was better, as in better, more comfortable than his bedroom.
before.
Rukia is uncomplaining and reliable and honest. So the task of collecting breakfast fruits falls as one of her duties. She collects everything; pineapples and coconut butter and strawberry jams. The head maid –which is rude, ruder, rudest- trusts no one but her, because the other castle urchins dressed as maids will simply go: let's steal all these! but not her.
This particular early morning, when no birds fly, and the sun is barely out, and the rain from last night turned the soil into mud overnight, she descends from the white marbles steps of the castle into the inch-deep mud towards the farm patch, and to the storage, carrying her basket.
The place is well-stocked for the whole week –farmers harvest and their wives stack. So as expected, the rows of basketful fruits are there ready for her and the scents, honeyed, sometimes sour because of the pickled fruits, and a fresh tang reach her nose, and she wonders, what would she get?
She begins to move around. She thinks peaches and mangoes and dried melons-
Not oranges.
His hair –bright as the sun, orange-y like the freshest orange juice- blinds her irises, and stops her on track.
A man. She stammers, "a man!" unthinkably.
Rukia quickly recovers from her shock and hides behind a shelf of baskets. Is her voice too loud? What if he wakes up?
One peek, another peek. A man. Sprawled in between shelves of basket, his head sticking out, with his limbs and clothes in whirlwind disarray, and naked chest –she suppose she should blush, but she doesn't -can't blush at the situation.
What is he? A thieving bastard?
The kitchen knife! –she thinks frantically- good thing she has it with her.
iii.
The first time her short stature stunned him –oh? So being that short was indeed possible?- was when she thought it was a nice idea to wander around early in the morning stealing fruits from the castle storage room.
before.
Before, his eight-year old self said, looking at the knights leaving the castle gates to defend against the decades-old siege their enemies have been laying, "I'll die bravely, I'll be like a blaze of bloody glory."
Now he says, "I'll die bravely, I'll be a blaze of bloody glory." Nothing changed except for a small detail. There's a hard certainty there; he's a man now, big and strong and powerful –there is now truth in his words.
These days, he tells his dream with a little more conviction and a little less boyhood undertone. He recites, no longer in front of his mother or father or court people, to please, that he has this obligatory drive to win, he recites, in front of his men, less prince-ly, more warrior, a little bit king-ly because that's what their current foes expect and he knows they meant blood.
The prince has a single goal in his mind: always always always fight for his people.
So the prince has no commitment; no parades, only the sun or moon reflecting his blade. No court parties, only the mud in his horse's hooves. No women, only the screams of his enemies before decapitation.
So he trains. He trains because he wants to go out with a bang, a sword piercing his heart, wild like a whirlwind, limbs flailing, blood spraying, victory light in his shoulders and he thinks that's glory.
The rain is heavy and the soil is beginning to soften. The prince still stands –trains- outside, farther in the courtyard, where the castle storage is, concealed by trees, where music does not reach him and silk bedding doesn't matter.
The rain is heavy and it's midnight and he still trains, not tired, not exhausted. The rain is heavy and he enters the fruit storage because he suddenly wants to consume something. The rain is heavy and he thinks of resting for a bit because a good warrior understands balance, so he sits beside baskets of peaches, mangoes and melons.
He hears the fading sound of the rain, and then he hears nothing.