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Aug. 20th, 2005 05:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenFirst fic done for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
14_lyrics (everyone join, like, now. There is Ted Leo and Ben Folds in the challenges. How can you lose.) It is, predictably, Bleach. Pre-series. Shameless 'how they met' speculation. Answer: Not so cute.
Near the eve of her graduation, the young student picked up her letter and walked out the door. It was night and the lanterns flickered through the haze humidity. She forged out from the dorms, and out from the paths, and out into the warm darkness.
The young student was well away from the grounds when it began to rain; first softly, then not so softly. It came in thick heavy drops, unrelenting as a summer’s first storm was wont to be. She walked faster in her wet uniform, holding her letter near. Water pattered her cheeks, pressed on the cloth over her shoulders like a pair of cold hands. She walked and walked until she was running. She tore through the puddles in the streets, a slick world slid past her.
Skidding once, she caught her balance. She always caught her balance. She was quite good at it. She was quite convinced of that. She was, also, quite alive. Absolutely alive; the rain told her, the letter told her, the clothes hanging off her body told her--
On a bridge built over a small branch of the river, the student threw her arm across the carved railing, caught her breath, and unfurled her letter. The seal was already broken, it had already been read once, but now she read it again.
It was a painstaking effort, grasping for the kanji she barely understood. There were four lanterns hanging from the ends of the bridge. Light was caught oddly in the creases of the paper. Rain was making the ink run in some places. It hurt to squint so hard. It hurt to dig her hand into wood. Finally, frustrated, the student let the arm holding it drop to her side. She gritted her teeth and--with passion she hadn’t given herself the luxury of feeling for many, many years—braced her palm against the rail, let her arm go taut, raised her heels from the ground…
“A scene most overdone,” observed a voice behind her. “How boring.”
The sick feeling fled in an instant. The student fell back, startled. “What?”
The man--for that was what the apparition passing her on the bridge was-- seemed uninterested in clarification. He did not glance at her once, moving on. The student, feeling rather cheated by this, hurriedly began to follow.
“Sir,” she said. “Sir, what did you--”
“This river feeds directly into the garden.” Again, the stranger felt no need to explain. He was between the lanterns now, stepping off. Rain pattered his umbrella. He seemed, for the most part, untouched. “I have no interest in having to have corpse dredged from it. It would be most--”
“The deepest apologizes offered for your mistake.”
The man was also unaccustomed to interruptions, it seemed. He stopped, tipping his umbrella slightly to look back at her. His features were smooth and contemptuous. His stare was utterly dark. A noble, the student realized. Her heart stopped in her chest. Still, her muscles bunched readily in her spine as she bowed. Her hair slid heavily across her cheeks.
“Deepest, deepest apologies, sir. The intention, however...”
A brow rose, ever so slightly. “Ho?”
“The intention was not--”
“Standing on a bridge, in the rain, at night, in an Academy uniform near the end of the term, with no umbrella, and an apparent fascination with leaning one’s self over the railing.” He turned to her. “…with absolutely no intention for dramatics. How remarkable.”
She bit her lip as she stood back up, staring at the fine embroidery of his sleeve. “Should this mere student have danced for her sorrows, sir?”
A few drops of rain hit the side of the man’s nose. He’d tipped umbrella too far back; and his nose made a rather ready target anyway. He had a hawk-like quality to him, really. “…it was already quite overplayed,” he said at last.
“Your interest in something as common as theatre conventions is most flattering, sir.”
“And your interest in abusing them is most perplexing,” he said with a slight toss of his head, shaking away the dark hair that fell in his way. “Considering what you are holding in your hand is a rather impressive acceptance letter.”
For the first time, the student noticed the sword at his side. “Ah…”
“The Demon Arts Brigade.”
“Ah. Yes. Sir.” She nearly dropped the letter in question. Swallowing hard, feeling her pulse return: “Hisana is--”
“Oh. Is that your name,” said the noble, already turned again, already walking away into the night.
The rain had not lightened a bit, so he was lost quickly from sight. It didn’t stop the student from watching his departure very carefully or, once he was gone, from tucking the letter into the front of her uniform. She breathed in. She smoothed out her hair. She made her damp way back towards school grounds; sure of nothing except that she would likely never see him again.
14_lyrics (everyone join, like, now. There is Ted Leo and Ben Folds in the challenges. How can you lose.) It is, predictably, Bleach. Pre-series. Shameless 'how they met' speculation. Answer: Not so cute. Near the eve of her graduation, the young student picked up her letter and walked out the door. It was night and the lanterns flickered through the haze humidity. She forged out from the dorms, and out from the paths, and out into the warm darkness.
The young student was well away from the grounds when it began to rain; first softly, then not so softly. It came in thick heavy drops, unrelenting as a summer’s first storm was wont to be. She walked faster in her wet uniform, holding her letter near. Water pattered her cheeks, pressed on the cloth over her shoulders like a pair of cold hands. She walked and walked until she was running. She tore through the puddles in the streets, a slick world slid past her.
Skidding once, she caught her balance. She always caught her balance. She was quite good at it. She was quite convinced of that. She was, also, quite alive. Absolutely alive; the rain told her, the letter told her, the clothes hanging off her body told her--
On a bridge built over a small branch of the river, the student threw her arm across the carved railing, caught her breath, and unfurled her letter. The seal was already broken, it had already been read once, but now she read it again.
It was a painstaking effort, grasping for the kanji she barely understood. There were four lanterns hanging from the ends of the bridge. Light was caught oddly in the creases of the paper. Rain was making the ink run in some places. It hurt to squint so hard. It hurt to dig her hand into wood. Finally, frustrated, the student let the arm holding it drop to her side. She gritted her teeth and--with passion she hadn’t given herself the luxury of feeling for many, many years—braced her palm against the rail, let her arm go taut, raised her heels from the ground…
“A scene most overdone,” observed a voice behind her. “How boring.”
The sick feeling fled in an instant. The student fell back, startled. “What?”
The man--for that was what the apparition passing her on the bridge was-- seemed uninterested in clarification. He did not glance at her once, moving on. The student, feeling rather cheated by this, hurriedly began to follow.
“Sir,” she said. “Sir, what did you--”
“This river feeds directly into the garden.” Again, the stranger felt no need to explain. He was between the lanterns now, stepping off. Rain pattered his umbrella. He seemed, for the most part, untouched. “I have no interest in having to have corpse dredged from it. It would be most--”
“The deepest apologizes offered for your mistake.”
The man was also unaccustomed to interruptions, it seemed. He stopped, tipping his umbrella slightly to look back at her. His features were smooth and contemptuous. His stare was utterly dark. A noble, the student realized. Her heart stopped in her chest. Still, her muscles bunched readily in her spine as she bowed. Her hair slid heavily across her cheeks.
“Deepest, deepest apologies, sir. The intention, however...”
A brow rose, ever so slightly. “Ho?”
“The intention was not--”
“Standing on a bridge, in the rain, at night, in an Academy uniform near the end of the term, with no umbrella, and an apparent fascination with leaning one’s self over the railing.” He turned to her. “…with absolutely no intention for dramatics. How remarkable.”
She bit her lip as she stood back up, staring at the fine embroidery of his sleeve. “Should this mere student have danced for her sorrows, sir?”
A few drops of rain hit the side of the man’s nose. He’d tipped umbrella too far back; and his nose made a rather ready target anyway. He had a hawk-like quality to him, really. “…it was already quite overplayed,” he said at last.
“Your interest in something as common as theatre conventions is most flattering, sir.”
“And your interest in abusing them is most perplexing,” he said with a slight toss of his head, shaking away the dark hair that fell in his way. “Considering what you are holding in your hand is a rather impressive acceptance letter.”
For the first time, the student noticed the sword at his side. “Ah…”
“The Demon Arts Brigade.”
“Ah. Yes. Sir.” She nearly dropped the letter in question. Swallowing hard, feeling her pulse return: “Hisana is--”
“Oh. Is that your name,” said the noble, already turned again, already walking away into the night.
The rain had not lightened a bit, so he was lost quickly from sight. It didn’t stop the student from watching his departure very carefully or, once he was gone, from tucking the letter into the front of her uniform. She breathed in. She smoothed out her hair. She made her damp way back towards school grounds; sure of nothing except that she would likely never see him again.
