Home/Where The Heart Is
folder
Bleach › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,053
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Bleach › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,053
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Bleach, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
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Author’s Notes: A pretty depressing drabble, I apologise in advance XD
Thanks and love to Anise for reviewing the last fic I posted, and to everyone who took the time to read. I have a pretty varied style so hopefully you will stick with me ♥
Comments and/or constructive criticism very much appreciated.
Written from Shuuhei's POV.
*****
He sat on the narrow wooden porch and watched as one of Soul Society’s rare summer storms wash over the grassy plans. They needed the rain, gods how they need the rain. The streets of Rukongai were still stained red with the blood of those that Seireitei had been too slow to save, with those that had been cut off and discarded like an untreatable wound on the battlefield, while the shinigami had fought to save The Court of Pure Souls. It had been too little to late of course. Seireitei might still be standing, but there were no pure souls–they were all bathed in the blood that now ran down the gutters, washing through ruined houses, taking with it broken hopes and torn dreams.
Thousands had died, their bodies buried with the groups with which they had been found, but no one had time to clean blood and destruction that remained. The numbers lost might have been enough to collapse the whole of Soul Society, and maybe that had been Aizen’s plan when he had sent the Menos foot soldiers into the unprotected streets by the hundred, but the thousands that had died in the Real World had soon repopulated the dusty shacks and tumble down houses, restoring the balance. Everywhere except for the 69th district of course, nobody would live here again for a long while to come.
He had come back to this house on the outskirts, the house were he had grown up, protected by the family who had taken him in, to remember. He had to remember because there was no one else left that could. He had been the first from 69th to make it to the Academy in two hundred years. For some reason the district had never seemed to attract those with high spirit energy, just those who were willing to work hard to drag themselves out of the depths of poverty. Now he would be the last. Yes the town would be rebuilt and the houses repaired, Soul Society would need it to be so, but it wouldn’t be the 69th anymore, not the one that had still called to him after years of his life in Seireitei.
The wind had changed, the rain whipping in to dampen the worn planking of the porch floor. Reaching out he lifted his zanpakutou from in front of him, laying it to rest across his knees. The rain licked his skin, cold and pure. His hand danced along the blade tracing the hamon*. A twist of his fingers brought the blade edge upwards, his hand danced again, the sting of its bite a counterpoint to the pain of the memories. He watched the trickle of blood as it ran from his palm, down his fingertips, to drip onto the sodden wood, the rain washing it away to join the blood with which he belonged.
---------------
*the wavy pattern that runs down the length of a Japanese sword.
Thanks and love to Anise for reviewing the last fic I posted, and to everyone who took the time to read. I have a pretty varied style so hopefully you will stick with me ♥
Comments and/or constructive criticism very much appreciated.
Written from Shuuhei's POV.
*****
He sat on the narrow wooden porch and watched as one of Soul Society’s rare summer storms wash over the grassy plans. They needed the rain, gods how they need the rain. The streets of Rukongai were still stained red with the blood of those that Seireitei had been too slow to save, with those that had been cut off and discarded like an untreatable wound on the battlefield, while the shinigami had fought to save The Court of Pure Souls. It had been too little to late of course. Seireitei might still be standing, but there were no pure souls–they were all bathed in the blood that now ran down the gutters, washing through ruined houses, taking with it broken hopes and torn dreams.
Thousands had died, their bodies buried with the groups with which they had been found, but no one had time to clean blood and destruction that remained. The numbers lost might have been enough to collapse the whole of Soul Society, and maybe that had been Aizen’s plan when he had sent the Menos foot soldiers into the unprotected streets by the hundred, but the thousands that had died in the Real World had soon repopulated the dusty shacks and tumble down houses, restoring the balance. Everywhere except for the 69th district of course, nobody would live here again for a long while to come.
He had come back to this house on the outskirts, the house were he had grown up, protected by the family who had taken him in, to remember. He had to remember because there was no one else left that could. He had been the first from 69th to make it to the Academy in two hundred years. For some reason the district had never seemed to attract those with high spirit energy, just those who were willing to work hard to drag themselves out of the depths of poverty. Now he would be the last. Yes the town would be rebuilt and the houses repaired, Soul Society would need it to be so, but it wouldn’t be the 69th anymore, not the one that had still called to him after years of his life in Seireitei.
The wind had changed, the rain whipping in to dampen the worn planking of the porch floor. Reaching out he lifted his zanpakutou from in front of him, laying it to rest across his knees. The rain licked his skin, cold and pure. His hand danced along the blade tracing the hamon*. A twist of his fingers brought the blade edge upwards, his hand danced again, the sting of its bite a counterpoint to the pain of the memories. He watched the trickle of blood as it ran from his palm, down his fingertips, to drip onto the sodden wood, the rain washing it away to join the blood with which he belonged.
---------------
*the wavy pattern that runs down the length of a Japanese sword.