Bleach (?!) fic: Poetics
May. 18th, 2004 02:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenDear FMA,
...You've been taking your meds right? Right?
Dear Naruto,
I still love you baby, you know that, don't you?
Dear Prince of Tennis,
Stop eating people. You're not that cool. No, I don't want to touch your balls.
Dear Bleach,
FINE. FINE. I GIVE. You've made a fine fine three course dinner out of my brain. Here's your bloody Rukia introspective. Hope you're happy. Hmmph.
She could ask for paper and a brush and ink and it would quite possibly be given to her. She’s read the poetry of the condemned before, in classes and then later on rooftops at night, book and sword both in her lap. A last luxury, and she could ask but she doesn’t. She’s never been very good at poetry. It’s only a small failure, but an annoying one. Kuchiki Byakuya writes about red scarves and white snow and the trees in the courtyard of the house he heads. Kuchiki Rukia writes nothing. Her elegance-- a long-suffering thing she’s always liked to think she’s kept with her poise and her pride and the way she once murmured to a blade and held it up level with her eyes--is much like her name, she’s picked it up along the way.
It some ways she will always be filthy-kneed and lobbing stones at the back of bigger people’s heads. In some ways she will always be holding her elbow self consciously, in clothes cleaner than anything she’s ever worn before and feeling /different/, but accomplished, even if the first uniform she ever wore was two sizes too large for her, and even if they taught poetry the first week when she still barely knew how to read—she was good at faking it, and if Renji laughed at the way her sleeves hung too low she just crossed her arms and pointed out the fact his uniform was a size too /small/, and they taught each other, anyway. On the roof, looking out in the direction they came from, with books covertly borrowed until they realized they could just ask, and in some ways that will always be life, and in some ways that will never be life. Her past, much like her present, is not talked about very much. The Kuchiki do not keep dogs, the Kuchiki do not keep prisoners. It’s only her greater failure, and maybe it is lack breeding that keeps her from having good, proper shame in it. She traces out rabbits in the air with fingers she keeps hanging over her knees for lack of a brush or paper or ink. She waits, for death or for salvation or for her next lesson, and maybe there’s an art to be found in that, but she’s never been very good at poetry.
...You've been taking your meds right? Right?
Dear Naruto,
I still love you baby, you know that, don't you?
Dear Prince of Tennis,
Stop eating people. You're not that cool. No, I don't want to touch your balls.
Dear Bleach,
FINE. FINE. I GIVE. You've made a fine fine three course dinner out of my brain. Here's your bloody Rukia introspective. Hope you're happy. Hmmph.
She could ask for paper and a brush and ink and it would quite possibly be given to her. She’s read the poetry of the condemned before, in classes and then later on rooftops at night, book and sword both in her lap. A last luxury, and she could ask but she doesn’t. She’s never been very good at poetry. It’s only a small failure, but an annoying one. Kuchiki Byakuya writes about red scarves and white snow and the trees in the courtyard of the house he heads. Kuchiki Rukia writes nothing. Her elegance-- a long-suffering thing she’s always liked to think she’s kept with her poise and her pride and the way she once murmured to a blade and held it up level with her eyes--is much like her name, she’s picked it up along the way.
It some ways she will always be filthy-kneed and lobbing stones at the back of bigger people’s heads. In some ways she will always be holding her elbow self consciously, in clothes cleaner than anything she’s ever worn before and feeling /different/, but accomplished, even if the first uniform she ever wore was two sizes too large for her, and even if they taught poetry the first week when she still barely knew how to read—she was good at faking it, and if Renji laughed at the way her sleeves hung too low she just crossed her arms and pointed out the fact his uniform was a size too /small/, and they taught each other, anyway. On the roof, looking out in the direction they came from, with books covertly borrowed until they realized they could just ask, and in some ways that will always be life, and in some ways that will never be life. Her past, much like her present, is not talked about very much. The Kuchiki do not keep dogs, the Kuchiki do not keep prisoners. It’s only her greater failure, and maybe it is lack breeding that keeps her from having good, proper shame in it. She traces out rabbits in the air with fingers she keeps hanging over her knees for lack of a brush or paper or ink. She waits, for death or for salvation or for her next lesson, and maybe there’s an art to be found in that, but she’s never been very good at poetry.
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-17 11:59 pm (UTC)