Cross my heart n' hope to die, Bleachie-Weachie is not mine.
Neither had a childhood to speak of, him with his lessons in fighting and tea ceremonies, preened to be a perfect noble, and her, struggling to survive in the streets of Rukongai, where death could be waiting behind every corner. They were young, but carried themselves as if they were old, forced to mature beyond their years.
And then they met, her while searching for food, him while chasing Yoruichi. She was beautiful in rags, and he was handsome in silks.
And then they loved.
They let themselves play, and laugh, and smile.
Together, they were allowed to be young.
I.
LOVE.
YOU.
ALL.
LESS THAN THREE.