Beneath the Lid

I'm ridiculously happy with this piece. I have a serious soft spot for Yumichika. And I wanted to write something that shows his deeper side.

Bleach is the brain child of Tite Kubo. I own nothing except the laptop I typed this on.

Rating: T for mentioned themes and language (because I said so)

Beneath the Lid

Yumichika has, carefully hidden amongst the smooth silks, the painted screens, the polished woods and gleaming lacquers of the one space in the division compounds that is uniquely his, a small wooden box. It's remarkable, in this space of artful elegance, for its plainness. The wood is neither polished nor rare. There is no lacquered design, no jade or mother of pearl inlay. It has no carved decoration, no fanciful legs to rest on, no intricate hinges or lock. It's simply a plain but well crafted wooden box, each part fitting perfectly against the other, durable and functional. It contains Yumichika's most precious possessions.

Ikkaku knows about it, he'd constructed it in the first place, back in the early days of their partnership when he'd first discovered his aptitude for wood work. Even so, he's never seen what's inside. He isn't interested anyway. Though if asked he'd probably say that it's where Yumichika keeps all the pretty little gifts he's gotten from past admirers.

Yachiru's made it her mission in life (along with eating enough candy to make her sick, something she's heard of but has yet to experience) to find it and bust it open. Her reasoning being: Funny-brows likes pretty things, many pretty things are also shiny, whatever's in the box must be very pretty, and therefore also very shiny. Yachiru likes shiny. This is all the reason she needs.

Zaraki makes a point of not speculating about the poof's personal life. EVER.

Given that, he'd probably be just as surprised as the other two if they were ever to discover what was really inside Yumichika's plain wooden box. The contents aren't all that shiny or expensive and none of it was given in an attempt to win his affections. Most of it isn't even all that pretty. They might remember some of what they would see, though it's more likely they wouldn't as none of it was very important at the time.

Zaraki might remember a scrap of cloth, carefully rolled to prevent wrinkles, brightly colored and just a little gaudy. He might remember the day a bald stranger, high on blood lust, challenged him and on being defeated demanded to die (and the companion who watched, seemingly calm and indifferent but with eyes too intent).

Ikkaku might remember the crude wooden comb propped up in the back, carved after weeks of listening to his friend complain about how his long hair would tangle and get in his eyes during a fight. Its shape is rough and undecorated except for a crudely carved flower (really only lines dug into the wood), a response to Yumichika's request for something prettier. If Ikkaku remembered it at all he might notice that the wood is a good deal smoother than it was after he finished the last cut on the fucking flower, as if polished by soft hands after many years of handling.

Yachiru might remember a brittle twig of small brown flowers, once a brilliant red, tucked against a seem in the lid. She might see in her mind's eye an expansive field with plants matted down by blood and gore. She might recall the feel of their soft peddles as she ripped them from the ground so that Yumichika's hair would match the shiny, sticky red across his face and kimono which didn't show up against his dark strands.

Zaraki might remember the little brass bell, bent and twisted, no longer able to ring. He might recall his daily struggle to affix it on his topmost spike interrupted as Soul Society's youngest shinigami, hyper from too many candies, stole it from his grasp. He might remember chasing his top officers, unwilling participants in Yachiru's game of keep-away, through buildings and streets and quite a few walls. Laughing maniacally all the way, only to find once he'd caught them that their combined reiatsu had crushed it beyond repair.

Yachiru might remember a bit of rag unraveling near the bottom (perhaps if she held it to her cheek and closed her eyes), stained by travel and dirt, all that's left of a warm blanket. She might remember the smell of wood and smoke, the feel of dirt beneath her bare feet. She might recall her first glimpse of Seireitei's walls, white as the snow nearly melted clean away, from beneath its coarse cloth.

Ikkaku might very well remember the most recent addition, an onigiri wrapper from the living world. The events that followed the rooftop meal of which only the wrapper remains are certainly vivid in his memory. The high of the fight, the thrill of using his Bankai, of finally fighting to his very limit, of looking death in the face are all easily recalled and savored. And one hazy memory resting gently below, of a smile and lavender eyes, quiet relief.

Yumichika remembers it all very well. And so, every so often he opens the box. Running his fingers over these items and others he reminisces and smiles softly. He might take that carefully rolled scrap of kimono and, laying it out flat, think on all those moments his life changed before his eyes. He might run the wooden comb through his hair, now short, and remember Ikkaku's eyes, fierce and full of fire. He might hold the flowers carefully, far too fragile to weave into his hair now, or the twisted bell which sounds so flat and ugly with the metal bent and laugh quietly to himself. He might hold the rag to his face, breathing deeply, and hum old lullabies stained with blood.

But now he holds the onigiri wrapper tight and trembles where no one can see him.

End.

I hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)