Character(s): Kira Izuru, Madarame Ikkaku, tiny mentions of Renji, Matsumoto, Hinamori, Shuuhei, Aizen, Gin, and Yachiru, and Yumichika referenced to as "Feather-Face."
Warning(s): Spoiler-y up until the end of the SS arc, and a bit language 'cause of, you know, the 11th division.
Disclaimer: I do not own the amazing-ness that is Bleach.
A/N: Hi! Welcome to—drumroll—my first posted fiction! Please be nice . . . flames will be reflected with Ikkaku's scalp.
Also, here's a big, extra shiny plaque to my wonderful beta, AnimePenguin (Monica), stating "Thank you for helping to save the readers from having the words "bold," "turn," and "lieutenant" forced down their throats repeatedly. We express utmost gratitude and urge all readers to shower you with warm fuzzies that have not gone cold over the internet."
If there are any errors left, don't hesitate to note them.
B O L D
Kira Izuru let out a quiet sigh of relief: finally, the 3rd division lieutenant had time to rest from the Gotei 13's hectic schedule of filling out preparation forms and training for the Winter War.
Kira knew that all these activites were highly necessary, yet he couldn't help but feel the need for a quick break from the constant pressure, the ever-building tension of Sereitei.
This was the reason for the blond's current expedition to an old woodland clearing he knew of. In a canvas bag he carried his preferred method of stress-relief—a small set of oil pastels, sketchbook, and easel—down a beaten dirt path.
This forest used to be property of the Shinigami Academy in Kira's youth, though if it was still part of the grounds, he wasn't sure. Kira neared the gap of trees that led into the clearing and thought that it would be a shame if students were unable to enjoy the beauty of this wilderness anymore.
Just before the vice-captain crossed into the open area, he saw someone else through the branches of the trees. That's my luck, isn't it? he thought sarcastically. The one afternoon that I have time off, and someone's already here.
Kira had planned on having the space all to himself, desiring to be alone while he sketched. He considered going back and finding a different, more secluded spot, but right as he'd turned around, a voice called from behind.
"Someone there?" The sound was gruff, and Kira felt like he recognized the tone. "Oi, Blondie, where ya headin'?"
Pivoting again, Kira saw the man who had trained his friend Renji, 11th division's third seat Madarame Ikkaku. The bald death god was sweating slightly, and panted as if he had been exercising.
Irked at being dubbed "Blondie," the lieutenant nervously replied, "I—I was just about to go find a place to draw, since you appear to be training here, and I wouldn't want to disturb your concen—"
"Ah, bull, you were comin' here, weren't ya?" Ikkaku dropped his sword on the ground, which he had apparently only grabbed when the new arrival had shown up. "S'fine, I wouldn't mind some company, if ya want. Or is it because I called ya Blondie? Okay, won't happen again. Kira it is."
The blond death god didn't want to say outright that he'd rather be alone, so instead insisted, "Really, I appreciate the offer, Madarme-san, b—"
"It's all good, then! And call me Ikkaku, it's not like this's the first time we met, right?"
Kira nodded, thinking of the numerous drinking outings his redheaded or strawberry-blonde friends had dragged him to . . . the ones where he couldn't ever quite remember what happened between his first sip of sake and the time he woke up in one place or another.
Still, there was always a moment before the drinks were passed around when the lieutenant was able to greet the other death gods around him. It figured that the 11th division, along with the 8th division, was unfailingly represented at such gatherings, and thus Kira had come to interact with the disconcerted souls seeking comfort immediately after the Betrayal.
Blinking himself back into the present, Kira followed Ikkaku into the open ring of trees, and then found a log to sit on. As he unloaded his art materials from the canvas bag, the blond lieutenant watched Ikkaku pace back into the center of the clearing, where he proceeded to close his eyes and assume a firm stance.
Kira was slowly distracted while he curiously observed the 3rd seat. Ikkaku had started a series of flowing movements, a sequence of accurately placed kicks and punches and blocks, a swirl of chops and grabs and strikes that seemed to fend off an invisible enemy.
Still, Kira dared not ask what Ikkaku practiced, for fear of interrupting the stimulating display. Instead, the easel was set up and a blank page ripped from the sketchbook, and Kira gently opened the box of pastels. He was content to leave Ikkaku to his own relaxation as long as he could once again lose himself in the soothing strokes of his art.
Ikkaku finished with a front kick and then drew himself up to a stance of formal attention. He opened his eyes as he bowed, which is when he noticed someone sitting at the edge of the clearing. He saw blond hair peeking over the top of an easel.
Oh right . . . Kira's still here. He opened his mouth to call out to his companion, but stopped when he saw how absorbed the lieutenant appeared. I shouldn't disturb 'im . . . But I wonder what he's doin'?
Ikkaku made his way toward Kira, but when he tried to view what his friend was drawing, the blond hunched over so that the subject of the piece was hidden.
"Fine, then . . ." he muttered to himself. Deciding not to disrupt Kira's muse just yet, Ikkaku instead spied the sketchbook lying on the log. The 3rd seat stole a glance at the still-immersed blond, and, deeming the coast clear, snatched up the sketchbook.
The first page had a little label, Kira's neat script giving the information necessary to return it to him should the book be found somewhere. Ikkaku flipped to the next page.
Blank.
As was the one after that. Ikkaku flipped through the entire book, finding each page as unmarked as the last.
Finally, thinking that maybe Kira had just started his relaxing hobby, Ikkaku reached the back of the sketchbook.
Here was a pocket stuffed with ripped-out, drawn-on pages. Ikkaku grinned at discovering the stack of pictures. He drew them out of the pocket and viewed the first one.
The 3rd seat was looking at a single grave marker, one tranquil beam of light shining onto the carved face. Not quite understanding the sketch, Ikkaku set it down on the log.
The next page showed Renji, and the puny 5th division lieutenant . . . Hinamori? Yeah, that was her name. The Hinamori that Ikkaku had heard of was currently being treated in 4th division, apparently still jarred by her captain's actions.
However, the two youths in this picture looked carefree, the redhead grinning good-naturedly while the brunet smiled, her eyes pushed up at the corners in mirth. The two wore the garb of students at the shinigami academy, and sat under a tree similar to the ones growing around Ikkaku at that very moment. Renji conspicuously lacked his tattoos.
The 3rd seat moved on. Now, the face of a man Ikkaku recognized as the 9th division lieutenant, Hisagi Shuuhei, stared confidently up at him. Yet, there was something different about it.
Oh, wait . . . Ikkaku realized that this was Shuuhei from what must have been his days as a student, for his hair had a longer fringe, while the bandage and scar that toughened his face today had yet to be added.
The bald death god wondered for a moment; why would Kira take the time to draw such a close up of the young Shuuhei?
Then Ikkaku figured it must have been sketched out of an underclassman's admiration for a role model, since the picture seemed to convey a sense of pride, not . . . well . . . affection.
Still, Ikkaku hurried on to the next pastel. Up until now, the lines of the drawings had been smooth, a bit plain, but masterful. The colors were all pale, calm, nothing too harsh but not anything too eye-catching, either.
At the moment, though, a stark picture of black and white loomed at him, a horde of menacing hollows leering at Ikkaku with lowered eyelids and shining teeth.
At center were who else, but Aizen Sousuke and Ichimaru Gin. They were different from their present selves: Aizen still wore his glasses, and the 5th division's captain haori. Gin was wearing the standard shingami robe, along with the lieutenant insignia on his arm.
As the subject of the drawing, the two seemed more lightly tinted than the rest of the page; as if they were a sign of . . . hope. Nah . . . This is just from a long time ago, I can tell.
Ikkaku turned to the next page, and realized he was approaching the bottom of the stack. He was looking at the small, hunched form of Hinamori again. Now she wore her lieutenant outfit, complete with the armband.
Behind her shape was one much larger, a menacing shadow that wore a captain's haori and what Ikkaku thought were glasses. 'Thought,' because by now the lines of the drawing seemed very sketchy, giving off an uncertain vibe that Ikkaku frowned at.
He began to hope that the next picture might be a little brighter, the strokes surer than the ones making up this sad piece of work.
"W-wait! Ikkaku! What are you . . . ?"
Ikkaku gazed up, just now noting Kira's mortified face.
"Have you . . . Have you been looking through my drawings?" His blue eyes were wide, and Ikkaku wondered why his expression looked so violated.
"Che, yeah. And you're pretty good, 'cept . . ." The bald death flipped to the following picture—"Wh—Ikkaku—No, wait, don't look at that!"—and trailed off.
Before him sat Ichimaru Gin, splayed across the page in a brilliant yukata of maroon cotton with green serpents twisting around the sleeves and collar. That perpetual, deceitful grin was fixed on his face, his eyes barely open to reveal a sliver of striking crimson. One hand seemed to reach out of the page, drawing the onlooker in with one raised finger. It was a small gesture, yet the manner in which it was drawn, the detail paid to every crevice in the beckoning skin, showed that the artist had studied that hand. Not only that, but the artist admired and worshiped those fingers, followed them unerringly.
Something about the drawing, the total effort and devotion it must of required, made Ikkaku want to rip it apart and stomp it into the ground. However, he set it down on top of the pile he'd been making and quickly flipped through the rest of the pictures.
He scowled to see that they all went downhill from there. The only things discernable among the masses of tangled lines were a few miserable shapes—a burnt out candle, a figure crouched in a corner, a sword covered in blood. He slapped the pages down on the log rather forcefully, and then looked up to see the artist before him.
Kira stared back, eyes wide with some type of anxious fear.
The first words that came out of Ikkaku's mouth were, "Che. Wimp." He moved to sit by Kira's easel and current pastel, which he was now able to see.
It was a picture of the clearing they were in. The center of the page was still blank, so the 3rd seat wondered what Kira planned to draw there. Still, he continued to say, "Here, lemme' show ya how it's done."
The blond death god hesitantly stepped next to Ikkaku and took a seat on the log. Ikkaku wasted no time in passing his companion the pastel set, ordering him, "Okay, now keep drawing."
Kira just gazed at him. "But . . . I . . ."
Ikkaku snorted. "I don't care if yer uncomfortable drawing in front of me or whatever, there's something I gotta' see." Again, the pastel set was pushed in Kira's face, so he sighed and picked out a soft shade of green.
He began to color some of the leaves with quick, gentle strokes, which caused Ikkaku to slap a hand to his forehead.
"No wonder, yer doin' it all wrong!"
"E-excuse me?"
"Look," the bald death god grabbed a vivid, glowing green pastel. "First of all, yer colors're all wrong. Ya gotta put in something bright, not just all these pansy-ass pale things ya got here."
Kira blinked. Then shook his head. "Why . . . why do you say that?"
Ikkaku let out a breath, betting that Kira would think it was an exasperated sigh. "Now, don't tell 'er this, but Yachiru's crayon drawings ain't exactly . . . masterpieces. But there's one thing I always like about 'em, and that's how bold they are. She always uses the bloodiest red she can find, and presses down so hard the wax breaks, and she knows when she's done that . . . that's just the way she wanted her picture."
Kira's eyes widened a bit, before promting Ikkaku to continue, "So I'm wrong because . . .?"
Ikkaku grimaced. "And then she goes runnin' around the whole division, makin' everyone look at it, goin, 'Lookit, Baldy! Lookit, Feather-Face! It's you two beating some sorry hollow's butt!' And then we stop her. But, uh, before that, she's proud as can be of her drawing, 'cause it's just as loud as she is. Get it?"
Kira didn't say anything for a moment, then slowly . . . "Yes. I think."
Ikkaku smirked. "Ya think? Well, okay . . ." He looked up at the sky, hands behind his head.
Then he cursed. The sun was dipping below the horizon of trees, and he had to get back to his division in case Yachiru decided to play tag. After all, everyone knew that if you walked in while the game was going on, you were a prime target. Ikkaku shuddered. He would not be "it" this time.
"Well, s'been nice seeing ya, Kira. But I really gotta head back." He gestured at the sinking rays of the sun. "Still, we oughtta do this again some time, huh?"
He murmured, "Yeah," and gave Ikkaku the first smile he'd seen from Kira . . . since they'd met. And the bald death god decided that someday, maybe that smile'd be pretty bold, too. Then he hopped up from the log, grabbed Hozukimaru, and started jogging toward the exit of the clearing.
"See ya, Kir'!"
"See you, Ikkaku!"
Hours after Ikkaku had left the clearing, using the clear full moon as his light, Kira set down his pastel and looked at his finished picture. He tried to grin at it, but something just didn't seem complete. He scrutinized his sketched-out scene until the problem was obvious.
Sighing a bit, Kira gripped the most luminous, alive hue of red he could find, and pressed down hard. He made two splashes of crimson, right on the corners of the eyes of a man crouching in the center of a clearing, reaching out with one hand and grinning happily.
It was just a small touch, a tiny hint of something intense. However, as he carefully placed the work of art in the back pocket of his sketchbook, Kira hoped that someday he might be as bold as Ikkaku thought he could be.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope the ending wasn't too utterly predictable . . .
Hypothetical cookies to anyone who expresses what they think Ikkaku was practicing in the clearing!
Once again, thanks to my companion, Moni-chan. It's really nice to hear other opinions on your work, you know?