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[nineteentwelve]

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[bonecannon]

[ It only occurred to Renji then, as the umbrella snapped shut and he felt those striking eyes fully level their gaze on him, that he hadn't thought about how this encounter would go. He'd been so focused on just rooting out whatever human had the audacity to pierce the veil dividing the world of the living and the dead that what happened afterwards had never crossed his mind. Like a dog chasing a rickshaw, now feeling the wheels heave and shudder as his jaws clamped on the back of carriage, he was at a loss for what to do next.

Even if he had put one single, solitary second of thought towards the outcome of this meeting, Renji would never have guessed at this reaction. A stripling like the human before him standing face to face with a spirit and not even mustering a flinch, his handsome features not twisted by fear or shock or disbelief but instead slightly wrinkled with indignation. Not to mention that Renji was more used to humans trying to run from him more than approaching like they were about to shoo away an uninvited guest.

Still, Renji wasn't going to cede any ground to the young man's advance. His spine drew military-straight and his arms kept firmly crossed, feet planted and chin thrust out in defiant pride. He would not allow this young man--this pretty boy--the illusion that he felt anything close to intimidation. His indifferent expression seemed like a challenge, a declaration of his untouchability, goading him to come as close as he dared. ]

Most humans are.

[ Wary of dying in a general sense, at least. That's why that line sounded so cool in Renji's head at the time. Then again, most humans don't get to converse with shinigami while they still drew breath, so maybe he should just assume that this one was extraordinarily peculiar by default. ]

It ain't your time yet, though.

[ So the answer was, in fact, a very definite no. Renji's eyes flickered down briefly, to the young man's wet collar and the rivulets of rain streaking his cheeks and his dark hair stirred by the wind and sticking to his brow. ]

Not unless you catch a pretty bad cold.

[oldwarsfinished]

( Nothing happened. Nothing of the sort, at least, that would make him feel vindicated and his pride soothed. The spirit collector didn't let himself be intimated, instead straightened up to his full height in his black uniform that only made his hair stand out more, like it was fighting the restraints of militarism, both in colour and in length. For some reason, all Kiyoaki could think, stopping right before the man, only a fully extended arm's length separating their bodies, was that he found that rebellion refreshing. Himself, he hated anything that smelled like military anything, like Peers' school, like the customs of a nation that used to survive on waging war. His father's father had been a samurai, in his village of origin, he was still revered as a demi-god for his standing and his sword. As if Kiyoaki didn't know that Iinuma destested him for how soft he was in comparison.

He looked up at the other man, a wry laugh at his final comment. It wasn't a warm sound, it wasn't friendly in any way, but the way it broke the mood, piecing through the wind and rain, somehow took the sting out of it, too. It sounded solitary. Alone. When you could sense death and when people could tell, something about you invited a murky moon at the divination rituals, when you didn't belong to nobility, but you were not a soldier, either, it quickly proved a lonely path to go. This was the first time anyone had broken into that monotony, that melancholy.

And they were telling the truth like a bad joke. The smile didn't fade from his lips. ]

That would be regrettable, but mainly it would be unsophisticated. Not much of a heroic death.

( His expression changed, then. He drew in a deep breath, hands curling into fists at his sides. His fingers itched, not from the water dripping from the hems of his school uniform sleeves, but from a sudden inclination to touch. He didn't know why, perhaps because he had dreamt of himself dying many times and in his dreams, death came in a very physical form, he always felt the sword piece his gut. Then, he woke up.

This time, he didn't want to wake.

So, he straightened up to match the other man, though the other was taller, his whole stance harder, firmer, unyielding. In comparison, Kiyoaki was a reed in the wind, stubborn, but the wind would still make him waver. He looked at this nameless stranger and asked a completely ridiculous thing, but if he had to blame something for giving, it was the sword, right? The sword at that man's side.

Kiyoaki could almost feel it penetrating him. )

If you don't mind - ( Shifting to polite address, the way it would be expected of him in the house where he'd grown up, he offered a light bow. Since you won't give me your name, it meant. ) - would it be possible for me to touch you?

( Since that night at the vigil for the dead soldiers, he had wondered if it could be done, or if this man would be yet another impactless thing in his life. )

[bonecannon]

[ The laughter, like everything else, wasn't quite what Renji would have expected. It was too dry, too bruised. But it made the young man smile, enough that Renji relaxed and felt the shift away from this altogether too contentious mood. The tense atmosphere was his own fault (sort of, kind of, for being all too eager to stake his pride against a human's over something completely petty), so he might as well take some responsibility to ease it too. His crossed arms loosened from tight against his chest, his fists unclenching as they seemed to come to even ground in this exchange.

Renji snorted under his breath at the reply. He would have said something about how if a pretty boy like him was so worried about dying a heroic death, maybe he should start by living somewhere that wasn't in the lap of a luxurious estate. The sudden shift to respectful speech and the slight bow dulled his tongue, and the question stopped it entirely.

Renji's ink black eyebrows rose, nearly disappearing beneath his bandana. His stance rolled back on his heels, as if he meant to recoil but could not allow himself to relinquish what territory he'd claimed in their standoff. ]

Would-- [ Caught between raising his voice to the pouring skies, loud enough to crack the clouds apart, and clutching tight to what little dignity that he still had, Renji couldn't manage to force another sound out. ]

You want to-- [ The words died in his throat again.

Never mind. It was too ludicrous to repeat. Renji inhaled, a sharp, short sound to dismiss that second attempt to speak and usher in a new one. ]

The hell kind of question is that?!

[ His voice rose an octave, the sheer disbelief straining him like a string on a shamisen stretched and stretched until it was one peg-turn from snapping. Renji threw his hands out in a sweeping arc, all pretense of nonchalance shattered in an instant. ] You know I'm a shinigami, right?!

[ A flush coloured his cheeks, bafflement mixing with an irrational anger. This absolute deviant must know what he is. It would be impossible to not know. Or at least have a general idea! And yet, since he obviously did, Renji could not think of any reason that he would ask such a thing. He was a ghost, a harbinger of death, wielding power akin to a god. And yet the first things this human has asked him for was his name and to cop a feel. It's no wonder that he's on the back foot, flustered and stuttering in the rain. ]

[oldwarsfinished]

( Shinigami. That was the correct word, then, for this man in front of him, it covered his powers, the extent of his work and it explained why Kiyoaki could see him, when no one else could. Because he brought death about and ushered the dead onwards. His reaction, on the other hand, betrayed his unfamiliarity with close contact interaction with humans. Perhaps it spoke as to his unfamiliarity with Kiyoaki in particular as well. Kiyoaki who, in turn, wasn't fazed by the surprise or the resultant attitude at all. He had struck the man right at the centre of his pride and as such a fight was surely to be expected. No one, shinigami or human, probably liked to find themselves embarrassed, he knew this. He knew Satoko, after all, so he knew intimately.

Pursing his lips slightly, he just looked the shinigami up and down, not an appraising look, merely observant, taking him in. He was striking beyond what any human Kiyoaki had ever met could match. It wasn't just the hair, it was the built, the way he held himself - most likely the standards he held himself up against. They showed. At his sides, Kiyoaki's hands hung loose, rain dripping from his fingers and at this point, he was certainly going to get sick. Would the man let him touch him, were he dying? The thought shouldn't amuse him, but for some reason it did and the corner of his mouth curved, twisting. His eyes were bright in the sea of greyness they were bathed in. The garden was a display of muteness all around. )

So? That only means you will eventually be touching me, isn't that true? ( A slight shrug and he bit his lower lip, looking off to the side. He was touched by death in dreams often enough, he thought the only justice he'd see in this world would be if he got to touch death back.

It might not have been that he ever thought he'd get the chance, but the shinigami followed him, not the other way around. If Kiyoaki didn't take the chance when it presented itself, what kind of death-seeing man would he be? No, he didn't carry a sword, but this might be the kind of heroism he could brandish.

Turning his eyes, blinking droplets out of his eyelashes, back on the man with his red hair and bandana and all the things that made him a foreign element here, where Kiyoki, looking like just about everyone, albeit more attractive, was already a stranger among his family, his peers... Kiyoaki took a long, deep breath and gestured with one hand, like a wave or a beckon. Or a way to bridge something that was only there between them by name anyway.

After all, Kiyoaki saw him. ) Doesn't it only seem fair that I get to pay back that kindness?