Do Words Make a Bit of Difference?

The red-haired Shinigami sighed heavily as he put down his brush and stubbed out a cigarette in an ashtray shaped like his sword in it’s bankai release form. Kanji scraped into the bottom proclaimed that it was “The Freeloader’s Ashtray”, but that was currently covered by a small mountain of butts. Ururu had made it for him many years ago for his birthday. The day he'd chosen as his birth date meant less than nothing to him, but he thought the gift was rather cleverly fashioned and he appreciated it nonetheless. As he sat there, he considered all that had led him to the path he now walked.

Yes, the unruly mass of paper currently sharing space on his desk with cigarette butts was the result of advice given by Unohana, but he'd never have considered bothering with it if it hadn't been for other circumstances.

About a year before, Ikkaku Madarame had stopped by out of the blue. It had been a long time since Renji had talked to anybody about anything not business related. He hadn't thought that he'd minded his self-imposed isolation all that much, and it hadn't taken that much to convince himself that he didn't have the time for friends anymore, anyway.

At first, having company of any sort, even a friend he'd liked as much as Ikkaku, had been kind of awkward for Renji. As if he was out of practice being social. It was weird, considering how much he'd liked having being around his friends and acquaintances just twenty years ago.

Ikkaku had offered him a swig of sake out of a dried gourd flask, and Renji had refused. The bald man who'd been his mentor, and more importantly, his friend, had simply shrugged and taken a few swigs himself. The silence stretched out, and Renji had really wanted to fill that sort of uneasy, awkward moment with a man he'd not only respected, but whose friendship really meant something to him. To that end, he'd blurted, "So, uh, what's up, my man?"

Ikkaku had grinned broadly, the familiar one that crinkled his eyes into slits and showed his molars. And just like that, Renji felt the long years of absence between them melt away.

It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to interact on a personal level with anybody, and at first, the conversation had been filled with pauses and interludes of quiet. Once they'd gotten back into their rhythm, there'd been more good, old-fashioned male bonding. For these two, that mostly consisted of shoving and punching, and a fair amount ribbing and teasing. The only difference was that Renji hadn't joined his friend in imbibing the potent liquor they'd both been so fond of.

For a while, it had been like old times. Then Ikkaku had gotten up, and after taking one last swig from his gourd-flask, he'd given Renji a look so filled with knowledge that it had chilled him to his bones.

"It's time to ease up, bro."

Renji had shaken his head, as if he totally didn't get where his long-time friend was going with that little comment.

"It's time to change. Ya know, to let the lost go, to set the past free. Feel me?" he'd said, with a long measuring stare. When Renji had finally nodded slowly, Ikkaku had given him a nod in return, like they'd been sealing a deal. After, he'd turned around and with a lift of his hand had said, "See ya, 'round."

Twenty years ago, after the final victory, Renji'd looked into the mirror and seen his familiar face. Nothing had changed for all he'd seen, after all he'd been through. At that moment, it'd felt as if something should have changed. The losses and experiences, the bone-deep sorrow he'd been surrounded with should have somehow been reflected on his exterior. As he'd stood in front of the mirror, he'd grabbed a fistful of the bright red hair that was synonymous with who he'd been at the start if the war. The image that had been reflected back, just didn't represent who he'd become.

As he'd stood there, staring at himself as he hadn't done in years, there'd been no hope, even with the so-called victory. Nothing had felt as it should have felt since he'd come back to the Soul Society after the war. There was none of the relief he'd expected. Only emptiness and endless loneliness and loss.

It had taken longer than he'd expected to shave his head. But when he'd finished, he'd looked into that mirror and he'd understood. He'd done it, had chopped off all his hair, not just for himself, but for everything and everyone that was no more. To honor and show, on the outside, the tremendous respect, he had for the lost.

He'd looked very different with skull trimmed hair. But then, he'd also felt very different when he'd done it.

All those years ago it had somehow felt right to show respect for those by getting rid of the completely frivolous hair-style.

And his squad had seemed to know without having been told what the point was. After he'd proved to them he, as their new leader, wasn't going to pull an Ichimaru, they'd all done it too. Even the women.

Besides, the Central Forty Six had thought he'd done it in deference for his new position, and had, at first, granted him and his squad a measure of leniency because of it. He hadn't wanted or need that, but it had certainly made life in his division a little easier during that first adjustment period.

Forming a cohesive squad was slow going, but eventually they learned to work together, running impossibly complex drills, combining kidou, hand-to-hand and zanjutsu. It took a lot of blood, sweat and tears till they were a force to be reckoned with. The endless training hadn't left room for much else, though.

But, after Ikkaku's visit, something had shifted inside his chest. He'd felt the need to change. And that was how Renji had started the often painful process of trying to let go of some of the guilt he carried around. He still couldn't fricken sleep, though. Too many memories rattling around that head of his. They naturally chose to rear their vicious, ugly little heads as soon as he lay down for the night.

That conversation had inspired him, in a way, to put down the hair clippers. To allow his hair to grow back, to try to regain that part of him he'd left behind in Hueco Mundo. Enduring the horribly awkward growing out phase his hair seemed stuck in for months was, well, slightly embarrassing, but finally a few weeks ago he'd managed to scrape it back into a stubby tail. In that moment he'd felt more like himself than he had in years.

Which brought him back to the present. A year ago, he'd figured part of letting go was letting his hair grow back, now he knew there was more to it than that.

As he sat at the desk, contemplating all that had happened in his often crappy life, some of his newly long bangs had slipped out of the tie and fallen into his face. It almost made him want to chop it all off again, but in the last year he'd realized that he’d missed the length and weight of it somehow. He impatiently blew the hair from his face and looked at the mess on his desk.

With carefully precise movements he arranged the loose papers in a stack, tapped them against the desk and tied a length of string around it. Once the bundle was secure he stashed it in one of the deep drawers that locked. It wasn’t a drawer he’d unlocked since he’d moved in, but as he saw the crumpled bag within he supposed the papers he'd slaved over belonged there for now. He took the bag out and put it on the leather blotter on the desk top.

As a lieutenant he hadn’t had much call for a desk in his quarters, but now he regularly took paperwork home with him. Then again, as a lieutenant he’d pretty much had a futon and some lumpy pillows to go along with a tiny, dinged up table. Something that would have surprised many was the sheer amount of books in his quarters. Reading was a hobby he’d taken up after the war, one he hadn’t particularly enjoyed at the time. In the beginning he'd only read because of the distraction it afforded, but now he relished it. Something about all the knowledge and ideas and possibilities appealed to him.

For all the things he’d accumulated over the years, for all his accomplishments, he'd felt like a gutter rat imposter for too long. Had felt like someone would come to their senses and kick him out.

Sometimes, as he'd stood in the quarters given to him upon accepting his post as Captain, he didn’t know quite what to do with all the space he had. He'd tried to fill it up the best he could, but it had still seemed empty. His life had felt empty.

It had been so long since he’d opened the bag in front of him. So long since he’d allowed himself to think of the memories contained within. A flute, a rock and two insignificant little scraps of fabric; all that remained of a life he’d once shared with his best friends. He’d neglected them for too long and he felt ashamed by that. Was it fear that made that made that avoidance acceptable?

The kimono he had been wearing while writing was wrinkled beyond belief and smelled like sweat and smoke, so he went to his bathroom for a shower. It was a tidy little outdoor room much like the one he’d once shared with the former Third Seat of the Sixth Squad, only this one was all his, and much more private. It was easier to heat in the chilly winter months, too, since it could be completely closed off from the outside.

As he stood in the doorway looking at the items on his desk, he considered everything he'd done and gone through. All in all, his life was pretty good. Perhaps it was time he lived it, instead of hiding from it, he thought as he dropped the stinky robe in the wash basket. It was time to see his friends, to pay his respects and let them know how he was. After he washed, of course.

~*~

The walk to the mountains wasn't as long as he remembered. He’d felt curious on the way there, sort of heavy, as if the mist that had settled over the ground was weighing his feet down. Still, once he’d gotten to the end of the path, to the house in the hills that held so many memories, it had felt good to tend the graves of his friends. It was obvious someone had taken care of them over the years and he supposed that it must have been Rukia. He was glad that she’d done that in his absence, although it seemed he had more to feel guilty about.

As soon as he was through the Seireitei gates, he shunpo’d back to his squad's barracks, promising himself and his friends he wouldn’t be so long in coming back next time.

~*~

Sake with the guys and Matsumoto had seemed like an excellent idea at the time, a great way to rejoin the world, or so the Renji had thought. Stumbling from the bar to the Third Division was proving him wrong. He was out of practice and drinking with Matsumoto had been like diving in the deep end after not swimming for centuries.

His front door seemed to hinder his best attempts to gain access and jumping up to the roof to get to the other side, just so he could jump back down to try the backdoor seemed as insurmountable a task as getting Shunsui Kyoraku to finally propose to Nanao Ise. He almost sniggered, but stopped himself just before the sound escaped his lips. He wouldn’t be setting a good example as the Captain of the “Despair” Squad if his new recruits caught him giggling his ass off.

He decided to try one more jiggle before he gave up and busted his door down. It would be a tad embarrassing to explain how it had happened, but he figured he could get one of his wee squaddies to take care of it in the morning. The jiggle did the trick, though, and he fell over when the door finally opened.

It took a few minutes to get his bearings and a few more to get his feet under him. He swayed for a moment trying to decide whether he’d be able to make it to the bedroom without damaging anything. He squinted a bit as the floor undulated strangely under his feet and decided the living room would be the wiser, closer, course of action.

Renji staggered into his living room and landed face first on a pile of softer-looking-than-they-really-were pillows. The wind was knocked out of him and he wondered in an off-hand, distant sort of way if he would need to clean up a pile of puke in the morning.

~*~

It was dark and something small and fragrant was carrying him to his room. He grunted and tried to shift, tried to break free, but he couldn’t quite manage to get his muscles to cooperate. When small fireflies attacked his eyes, all he could do was let himself slip back into the welcoming blackness.

~*~

Toldja there'd be more...

So, now that Renji's put down the pen it seemed sort of natural for the story to continue in third person POV. Hopefully y'all still like it. A lot of my own personal angst was tied up in the switch, because I wasn't at all sure how to continue the story when he wasn't the one actually doing the telling.

Thanks to Emcielle for giving me a germ of an idea about bromance, and the benefit talking shit out with friends. It helped when I was stuck on how to shake Renji out of his depressed isolated rut.

Another round of thanks to Bill, for another sweet review and more kind words.

Love to SexyBleach for the continual support. /highfive back at ya.

I truly think I'd have just given up if it wasn't for you all.

Chapter title is a song by Smashing Pumpkins. Oh, the nights I listened to Billy while falling asleep. (don't own, nor make money from)

Review, (or rate) my lovelies and make my day/week/month/year.