Here be drabbleage.
Oct. 27th, 2004 06:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenBleach ficbit. Academy era and I'm blaming Pei Yi for that.
Hinamori Momo character sketch. Because Momo is awesome and deserves love.
She always gripped the sword too hard.
Her instructors would bark in school: Look at how you hold it! Your hands are white! And from there sometimes they would talk about birds. About captured birds: hold them too loosely and they will fly away, hold them too tightly—
“You, Hinamori, would crush its head,” one once told her, with a certain measure of glee. It was really a horrible analogy, but as a lesson she couldn’t deny its effectiveness. She was just sorry it never seemed to stick with her.
Another instructor—one who had enough of watching her wring out her hands or just was in particularly foul spirits that day once asked, loudly, towards the end of class: “Hinamori, are you so afraid of your opponents?”
And she tried to explain. No. It’s not that—but the instructor would not be satisfied until she was grabbed by the shoulders and dragged out of the line. Set in front of Abarai, who was in fact the largest in their class that year. She hadn’t realized this till then. She tried to say: It’s not that she’s afraid of --
“Good,” said the instructor, taking this as the beginning of an excuse and having none of it. “You shouldn’t be. Your form is better than his. You’re awake. He’s not. He should be easy.” And Abarai, who’d been in the middle of a yawn, snapped his head up, bristling. The wolfish look in his eyes said it simply enough: Oh, like hell.
“Begin,” said the instructor. Shaking, she felt her fingers lock so tightly that later they would be difficult to uncurl.
She threw her classmate into the wall.
“See,” more than one triumphant teacher told her. “What is there to fear?”
Nothing. That was what she always said. (Just this. That was what she always thought.)
After classes she found a warm towel to press over her knuckles to chase away the stiffness. It helped, some.
Hinamori Momo character sketch. Because Momo is awesome and deserves love.
She always gripped the sword too hard.
Her instructors would bark in school: Look at how you hold it! Your hands are white! And from there sometimes they would talk about birds. About captured birds: hold them too loosely and they will fly away, hold them too tightly—
“You, Hinamori, would crush its head,” one once told her, with a certain measure of glee. It was really a horrible analogy, but as a lesson she couldn’t deny its effectiveness. She was just sorry it never seemed to stick with her.
Another instructor—one who had enough of watching her wring out her hands or just was in particularly foul spirits that day once asked, loudly, towards the end of class: “Hinamori, are you so afraid of your opponents?”
And she tried to explain. No. It’s not that—but the instructor would not be satisfied until she was grabbed by the shoulders and dragged out of the line. Set in front of Abarai, who was in fact the largest in their class that year. She hadn’t realized this till then. She tried to say: It’s not that she’s afraid of --
“Good,” said the instructor, taking this as the beginning of an excuse and having none of it. “You shouldn’t be. Your form is better than his. You’re awake. He’s not. He should be easy.” And Abarai, who’d been in the middle of a yawn, snapped his head up, bristling. The wolfish look in his eyes said it simply enough: Oh, like hell.
“Begin,” said the instructor. Shaking, she felt her fingers lock so tightly that later they would be difficult to uncurl.
She threw her classmate into the wall.
“See,” more than one triumphant teacher told her. “What is there to fear?”
Nothing. That was what she always said. (Just this. That was what she always thought.)
After classes she found a warm towel to press over her knuckles to chase away the stiffness. It helped, some.