Seven years ago, Hisana moved into the manor, causing the seemingly rock-solid foundation of the Kuchiki Clan tremble in her wake. The silence, then, had been in motion, tittering precatiously between the past and the future. Two years ago, the oscillations came to a stop. One year ago, the girl moved in.
And now, the Sixth has a new captain. The silence around him seems deeper somehow, more encompassing, from how the members of his division go quiet, proper and restrained whenever he's near to the way the emptiness of the hallways, in the barracks or here in the manor, echoes from the sounds of his own footsteps. It's never-ending. Even now, as Byakuya works his way through yet another set of kata with Senbonzakura, each movement automatized and fluent from decades of repetition, he senses it. How the world around him remains steadfastly unmoved by everything he does, every movement, every flicker of his blade.
Indeed, the silence, such as it is now, the thing it has become - it has taken root in this new reality where he's the head of his clan, the leader of his division and the brother of a living ghost, a walking and talking echo of the life that has passed into stillness.
So he trains, his bangs clinging to his forehead and the side of his face, his hands damp, the thick calluses of his palms vital at this point in securing Senbonzakura in his grip. It's something he needs to grow past. He reaches his physical limitations much too easily still.
If nothing else, his harsh breathing certainly disturbs the quiet ]
[ He measures the silence of this house, as he has measured the silence of everything since Natsu's death, in weeks. Isamu counts them, six weeks ago he returned from the far corners of Soul Society without her and was, understandably, let go from his position, working for the Hayashi family which his family has done for generations. You served us well, Natsu's father said to him, Isamu lying face down in front of his feet, expecting to be cut, until you didn't. Take this, a piece of paper was thrown before his head, and go to the Kuchiki Manor, they'll make sure you don't die of hunger. That was how his life ended, six weeks ago.
Now, he works at the Kuchiki Manor, he does laundry for the guest houses, working under the supervision of a man who corrects his grip constantly. Wrong, Isamu. Not like that. He has learned how to lift kimono more expensive than his entire existence, and Isamu does it automatically now, trying not to think of last time he lifted a kimono as valuable as these. And what he did with it.
Usually he works at the steam tubs, his face an ugly red after a full day in the heat, but today is tub cleaning day and they've run out of lye. Isamu, being the most recent transfer, has been sent to fetch more. He does so gladly, work is his only distraction, but the hallways all look alike, as do the doors, and he quickly loses his way, ending in a part of the house he isn't even certain he's allowed to enter.
Still, although the doors are slid shut and someone's in there, the sound of feet againt mats, clothes rustling, Isamu halts by the entrance to the next room, thinking that in this household, at least, they will cut him as a consequence, and slides one door slightly open. It is a sign of resignation, the way he bows low, then kneeling to emphasise his rank, trying not to look too obviously, to stare. The Kuchiki family is a family of soldiers. This could be anyone. And no one. He minds his manners regardless. Keeps his eyes on the floor. ]
My apologies. I'm new. [ Nothing connects the two sentences. He is not making excuses. This is unforgivable, yet... ] Forgive me for disturbing you.
[ Whether it is some Kuchiki cousin or his supervisor who sees him failing like this, it will undoubtedly come to the same. ]
[ Naturally, he hears the approaching footsteps from outside the dojo, though he pays them no need, expecting whomever's disturbing him not to prolong the issue unnecessarily. In this house, sound travels. The stillness flickers, vibrates - and then -
His skin prickles at the sound of the door, sliding open. The sudden, very unexpected sense of company, of another body sharing his space when he'd expected nothing of the kind, is almost startling. Forcing himself to ignore the intruder and complete his set, he lets the sounds of the man's words - quiet, relatively unobtrusive - fade into the air. He doesn't even allow himself to consider his existence for the next twenty-two seconds as he goes through the motions, finishing by sheathing Senbonzakura nearly soundlessly. Keeping his back to the other man, he allows the silence to stretch on for another thirty seconds, giving him the chance to back away and leave. Seike, he knows, is not near. The servant will suffer no consequences.
Then, when nothing else happens, Byakuya allows his fingers to slide over the hilt of his sword, not as a threat but as a gesture of idleness, one he immediately regrets. He says, voice low and completely devoid of any signs of exertion: ]
You could have remained silent.
[ Even as he says it, a part of him - something internal and raw - shudders. What, then, would he do? With more silence? With more of the same?
Frowning to himself, he glances over his shoulder. The servant is a nameless man, features blurred by his angle of sight as well as how he keeps his gaze firmly rooted to the mat. ]
[ For a long while, there is no response beyond the sound of the other man's movements, the way his sword cuts the air, his feet touch the floors, his clothes touch his body. Isamu waits and it is a stubborn kind of waiting, the kind that acknowledges that he is being given every available opportunity to save his dignity and his position, disappear not unseen, but unknown back into the hallways, but he remains where he is. He does not flee, because Isamu has lost his dignity many times over already and in the end, being unknown saved him nothing before.
Never let the Master see you unless invited, Isamu's father used to tell him, when he was little and he played noisily, so he would disturb the whole household and the Hayashi head would stick an arm out the window, waving it annoyed. For we are not worth more than the air we breathe. Back then, Isamu had thought it was a stupid way to look at it, no one was worth more than the air they breathed, were they, but as he grew up, he understood why men like Natsu's father needed to put price tags on people. After all, he had the likes of Natsu. Who was precious.
Before this unnamed member of the Kuchiki Clan, Isamu thinks even the air he breathes is too valuable for him, the sounds he makes as he talks are wasted, but none of that has to do with one man carrying a sword and the other a wash brush. People are always more alike than different from one another, Natsu would say. It is only things that set them apart. Swords. Brushes.
Underneath...
The man moves, making Isamu glance up at him, meeting his eyes. He does not hurriedly look away, even if he does avert his gaze. They are just people, marked by things. The both of them. Keeping his voice pleasant, low, he murmurs: ]
I've lost my way. The worst reason to be anywhere.
[ While he is definitely talking about the western storage rooms, Isamu is also talking about more than the western storage rooms. About what you might lose or could possibly have gained beyond the intricate design of any household.
[ On the surface of things, it's a useless answer - after all, the only correct response would be an apology, followed by the man's swift departure. For a long moment, Byakuya's at war with himself which is, admittedly, nothing particularly novel or interesting. On the one hand, he should go back to ignoring the man, rather than waste anymore words on a servant who doesn't even know where he is. Conceivably, he doesn't know Byakuya either which speaks volumes as to how far down the ranks he must be in the household. On the other... on the other...
He glances down at his feet. In the very periphery of his vision, Senbonzakura sits in its scabbard, quieter these days than it ever was before. In that way, the silence of the house, of the world, seems to have seeped into the metal as well, as easily as if it were skin and bone. I've lost my way, says the nameless man.
In this house, he thinks, thoroughly uncharitably, that is not an impressive feat.
Ask someone else to show you the way, he doesn't say, because just thinking it makes his skin crawl. There's always someone who knows the way back to the sameness of any moment. It's such an exhausting truth. Hisana used to ask him how do I do this or what would they say if I... and he never liked to indulge her, though he did of course, time and again.
She, too, didn't want to be lost in his house, though she was, very often. Perhaps all the way until the end, even. ]
I am not the person to ask.
[ He turns towards the long row of shoji flanking the side of the dojo, sliding one open to let in the light from outside. It's late in afternoon and the air - cool and crisp, a touch of iciness creeping into the autumn breeze - immediately settles against his skin, chasing away the heat of his training regime. He breathes easier and wonders briefly whether the other man feels similar. Though he doesn't know much of a servant's life, becoming the head of the clan has definitely made him more aware of how hard they work, how diligently. He doesn't take it lightly. He trains to protect the house - they, in turn, keep it running.
And presumably, no matter what certain clan members would prefer to believe, everybody sweats the same. ]
[ I am not the person to ask, the man tells him and that much is obvious, because he is a part of the family and Isamu is the man they hired off the streets, because the situation in the Kuchiki Manor is shifting swiftly and noticeably, calling for more hands, more backs to carry the weight of the house as a whole. Isamu should ask this man nothing, he should do what he would have done ten years ago and stammer an apology, hoping not to get beaten for his efforts, scurrying off like a rat along the walls. Nevertheless, he senses in the unknown Kuchiki member's comment an underlying truth that goes beyond rank and placement within the canopy of the household. They are both men who do not know where they have suddenly found themselves. Between them, they may even hold a sense of not having a clear view of where to go from here.
Isamu raises his head as the other man walks over and opens the nearest shoji, letting the afternoon light in and fresh air, too, hearing himself breathe in deeply, long and hard, like he'd spent a long winter cooped up inside. It is not at all proper, but it feels nice and he hasn't felt nice about anything for six weeks and several months before that, walking the trails back to Seireitei alone. If it costs him his job, it will be a feeling that was worth it, as long as it lasted. A haiku is only seventeen on long, by comparison, and it can hold a life. Sometimes a short while will have to be enough. It will be all that you get and all that you need, truly.
If you do right by it.
As the man proceeds to share with him their location, Isamu sighs and rolls onto his feet, keeping his head bowed, though not as deeply as before. Opposite wing. Far from the guest houses that he serves. If he returns to a job, it will be a blessing - or what anyone might call the Kuchiki Manor, it is a constant in the landscape and a stronghold among the nobility, but a blessing might be giving it too much credit. It is what it is. The same way that they are what they are, the stranger and him.
They are, not only, but inevitably, set apart by the things that define their lives. Swords. Wash brushes. Names and titles. He bows, deep, slow. ]
Far away from where I was supposed to go, then. Thank you very much for your time. [ And finally, slowly, he begins backing away, upper body still slightly tilted at the hips, gaze stealing a glance rather than a stare from below lowered lashes. The man's hair, another thing that sets him apart, is sticking in strands to his forehead, temple, cheek.
He doesn't look like a man who is allowed to feel tired, but no one is beneath tiredness, Isamu thinks. ] I know it is precious.
[ The servant thanks him for his time, like it was a gift bestowed upon him when in actuality, they both know - oh, he senses that they both understand just fine - that it was merely a matter of convenience. Of grasping for something in this moment with unbecoming desperation. Really, to thank him is an insult - or it would be, at least, from another person. This man, in contrast, bows deeply and backs away, his posture betraying the ingrained humility of a man who's done nothing but serve for years and years, perhaps even his whole life. Had he been born into this house, he would have been someone with a point and purpose. I have lost my way, he said.
How, he could ask, would you know anything about what's precious - that would be sufficiently arrogant for Byakuya's reputation, at least. Instead, he notes the way the other man breathes in the freshness of the air, the balm that it grants them both for different (or perhaps, similar) reasons and realises that for the past many minutes, there's been a change to the room.
A change, when he'd thought there couldn't be any.
Then again, not many servants would dare to keep speaking, to keep intruding upon his personal space. Even if the man truly doesn't know who he is - and with how experienced he seems, it must be true that he doesn't, he'd never act this way otherwise - the fact that he is intruding is blatantly obvious. Perhaps this man is that one anomaly, the slight break in the waves before the surface returns to its familiar streams and currents. Perhaps that's all there is to it.
All the same, he turns away fully and says, clearly, commanding now: ]
[ And there, the change back into recognisable manner. The Kuchiki cousin, or whoever he is, an esteemed guest, a loyal guard from the Gotei 13, takes on a commanding air with him, clearly marking the difference between a sword and whatever tool that signifies servitude, today the wash brush, tomorrow the lack of either that or a sword. Empty hands. On his travels, he carried a staff for protection, isn't that so? Thus, Isamu should, from experience, know the position of a guard, too, but he doesn't feel he can claim that title aside from the loyal part, perhaps, if his reputation is that lucky. In the end, he didn't manage to guard much, after all.
She lies buried, and that, even sloppily, he was just one man to do the job, in the farthest corner of Soul Society.
His face betrays none of these feelings as he bows, again, with all the bowing his back will give out in ten years time, like his father's began to do, licking his lips and clearing his voice. Yes, Master, it means. Still, he doesn't speak those words exactly. It might be that he got too used to not only being a servant to her in all that time. It might be that he never thought it was right that he should be. Whatever the reason, Isamu just replies, curtly and to the point.
Knowing he might as well be asked, because even the Kuchiki Clan is no longer a fitting home to him. Home, right? A place of work, at least. Isamu never had a home aside from the road, and his father prided himself of them not being travelling servants... The irony stings. ]
Isamu.
[ Like all servants and most people from the Rukongai, there's only that. A given name. Nothing to denote family. He has his father, he had a mother once, too, but unlike the man before him, no doubt, they were not given a shared name to denote that they were family at all. They were individuals, haphazardly bound together.
[ Isamu. Courageous. Heroic. Byakuya doesn't respond or give him any further engagement, gaze gliding over the outside surroundings instead, the walled-in gardens deserted and the small pond still and undisturbed. He should get back to work. In a few hours, he has a meeting with Ginjiro concerning the guard schedules for next week because apparently, there are un-formalized ranks within the Sixth, not encouraged by his grandfather but ignored, rather (which amounts to about the same). Consequently, some people are used to certain privileges, privileges that they won't retain anymore. It will cause clan-wide disruption, Seike has warned him. Certain Kuchikis in the Sixth have been granted preferential treatment.
He detests the mere idea of it.
No, he has little time for idleness. Isamu leaves his presence, presumably aware of his location now and capable of finding his way back. Forward. Whatever he's supposed to be doing. Byakuya, on his part, knows exactly how to walk the path in front of him. It's not a matter of finding the way, it's the fact that becoming lost whilst doing so has become patently impossible. Getting lost, it appears, means having stakes in your life, a goal that matters enough that straying from your path becomes a disadvantage.
He's a captain now. A clan leader. He has Bankai.
And that's that.
Thoroughly uncomplicated, straightforward.
Courageous. If nothing else, Isamu the Servant must have a heart that knows where it needs to go, even if only to finish whatever lowly tasks he's been set by the house. Byakuya's own is a sharp edge now, something meant for war, to protect and maintain order. There's no other use for it. He sighs and runs his fingers across Senbonzakura's scabbard again, mindlessly, gaze tracking the shadows outside and seeing very little else. ]
[ Fumihisa was the one to pass on the order from Isamu's supervisor in the man's absence, curious as it was, because Isamu has not come to know him to skip even a single chance of souring his life. Your messes won't be allowed to tarnish this household, he has told Isamu more than once by now, looking at his steam-reddened face and open, unintimidated eyes. One mistake and you will be dismissed. The others have heard it, too, of course, they all know. No one gets close for that same reason, not that Isamu is particularly inclined to get close to anyone anymore. Least of all the overly zealous servants of the Kuchiki Manor. While he works as one of them, he isn't like them. Undoubtedly, that's the part they detest. They think he sees himself as above them.
They couldn't be more wrong.
So, as Fumihisa had said, go to the 88th garden, that's near the farthest servants' quarters, just so you don't get lost, Harunobu will be waiting for you there, Isamu is hurrying down the hallways of the far-end servant dormitories, he sleeps at the other end of this wing as well, he knows the way, the 88th garden is a nice open spot with fewer trees and more stonebeds, there's a nice view of the moon at night. Not that anyone cares. The servants of the Kuchiki Manor take pride in not using their own gardens for leisure. Less time wasted that way.
Still, Isamu uses it sometimes. At night. To be truly alone, the only opportunity he really has.
Whatever Harunobu wants from him here, he shan't be able to say, but he doesn't question it. What's the point? Questioning things will inevitably get you fired. Or it will get someone killed. No need to do that twice over. Briefly, before stepping outside, he pauses and curls his hands into fists at his sides, then he breathes deeply and slides the door open, quietly stepping out into the brightest late-autumnal afternoon he has ever seen, the light is blinding, he has to blink against it...
As such, it takes him a moment to realize something, something in the plural, is hanging - whirring like a bird's wings - in the air all around him, still and eerily silent.
Isamu doesn't move. He doesn't speak either, he barely breathes. What in the world -- ]
[ Releasing shikai is, of course, not allowed within the Sereitei - at least, it's not typically allowed. In Byakuya's case, there are exceptions as is true for the Kuchiki Clan in many aspects of life. Within the confines of the manor and outside striking distance of any passerby, no one would presume to impinge upon his training opportunities. The garden furthest from the main streets near the servant's quarters is usually abandoned. He's used these particular grounds more than once to get a feel for Senbonzakura and the way it spreads out when released; even now, decades and decades into their partnership, its range continues to surprise him.
If he can be surprised, he can make mistakes.
If war ever comes, he must be better prepared.
Currently deep in concentration, he doesn't notice the door sliding open before the action is nearly completed. Breath catching in his throat, he freezes on the spot, muscle memory taking over though it isn't strictly necessary - Senbonzakura responds to his will, first - the petals shimmering in the air around Isamu the Servant as he steps outside, directly into the storm of blades. He keeps them still, forcing himself to breathe evenly and ignoring the slight sheen of sweat on his brow. In the back of his mind, Senbonzakura trembles, tethered and distinctively unhappy as a consequence.
Slowly, with infinite care, he turns his palm around and recalls the blades, intent on avoiding any and all contact with Isamu's body as well as anything else in their immediate surroundings. They rush past Isamu, a whisper of metal and spiritual pressure, before settling back against the hilt. He swallows, gaze flicking to Isamu, perhaps a bit too fast.
His voice, when he speaks, is even. Outwardly untouched. Against the scabbard, however, his fingertips are trembling. ]
[ Although he was away from Seireitei for years, travelling the rest of Soul Society with Natsu, it's not that Isamu doesn't know about spiritual pressure and about the immense abilities afforded some people, though as with all things in life, not all. Never all. Even before he left originally, there was the Gotei 13 and its captains, its lieutenants, their swords. Again, the sword imagery, huh? As such, it takes him the time to connect what he's seeing with what he knows that it would take him to connect a bird he hasn't seen before with its most likely name. It's the same idea. Meanwhile, the little silvery glimpses of sun and sky whirl around him, careful - it would seem - not to make impact, as they soar through the air and reassemble into the same sword of the same man he encountered a few days ago. Practicing. For this?
A guard of the Gotei 13, in that case. Isamu knows little about the inner workings of the military, servants have no opinions on such matters, after all, why should they? They will never serve any more than they will ever be served in return.
The man's voice is unaffected by the rush of the blades, the single blade but in pieces, his tone is curt and direct, it demands, commands, perhaps. Yet, his hand is also shaking, isn't it? Is he used to leading with that sword? The sword of a thousand swords. Isamu's eyes slowly return to a fairly normal shape, his chest having stopped heaving quite so visibly. He straightens up, then immediately realizes his mistake, bowing low, quickly. ]
I was -- [ Sent here, he would carry on, but Isamu recognises the trouble he would be in, if he discloses how Fumihisa had him go here on purpose. Obviously, a suicide mission. Those, at least, Isamu recognises now, he's had enough experience.
Obviously, he also knows how to survive them all. Somehow. ] -- supposed to meet someone here. I came to find him. [ A pause. He finishes in a soft, low tone. ] And found you.
[ As he speaks those last few words, Isamu slowly looks up, eyes running down over the other man, appearance-wise similar in age, too, his hair tied up across his head with... Oh. Kenseikan.
Know these, Harunobu had said on the first day, showing Isamu the lifelike drawing someone had made for the sake of ease and clarity, if you see them, run. The Master of the House is coming your way, and we don't want him to see you, he shouldn't even be aware you exist.
Opening his mouth, then closing it again, he finally just straightens up. Whether he bows or not to this man, what difference does it make? They don't exist on the same plane of existence anyway. The sun shines differently on them both.
One has a sword that catches the light, after all. ]
[ Though Isamu doesn't say as much, he says exactly enough to make it clear that someone tried to kill him tonight. Not just kill him, no, but to somehow use Byakuya's weapon to manage it, whether by accident or because they believe he'd get angry enough to do it on purpose. To some, a servant as low as Isamu is barely even a soul. Barely even worth the physical space he inhabits. The servants in the Kuchiki house usually have better priorities, however. Someone must be feeling threatened.
It's neither here nor there.
He sees, of course, the way Isamu's gaze lands on his kenseikan and the moment realisation strikes. Well. Perhaps he ought to be wearing a name tag if his people won't inform the newcomers by their own accords. Seike will have to fire a good few of them, so much is obvious. Shaking his head, his nerves settled once again, Byakuya sheathes Senbonzakura, feeling its familiar weight by his hip. He looks the other man over now - there is a problem and the problem must be fixed - his gaze sharp. ]
Unacceptable. You were instructed to keep away.
[ He doesn't raise his voice in any way. Instead, he steps a little closer, enough for the sound to travel easily across the distance between them. It's not Isamu's presence in itself, per say, that he's talking about. Rather, he much prefers not to be used to settle other people's petty squabbles. ]
Tell me the name of the person who sent you.
[ Under normal circumstances, Seike would have taken over this conversation five minutes ago. Unfortunately for Seike and the unwritten laws of propriety, Byakuya has managed to lose him for the afternoon. Ever since Hisana's death and the girl's adoption into the family, he's been craving his space whenever it won't interfere with his duties. It's a phase, of course. Childish.
He'll grow beyond it.
For now, he'll take a name and leave it to the old man to rid his house of the rotten things that hide within it. ]
[ Belatedly, and this shows just how unfamiliar exactly he is with the ways of the military, Isamu realizes that the extension of any working sword is an arm and if Fumihisa tried getting him killed today on Kuchiki Byakuya's sword, by extension he tried killing Isamu on his arm, too. Frowning at the man's question, not because he won't answer it, he was asked, so he will, but because Isamu can't really tell how the path winds from here, he allows himself to stall for a moment, two.
Obviously, in the very second he speaks Fumihisa's name, the other servant's time here is over, maybe even long before Isamu's, and that is the question that remains unanswered and which he could never demand to have answered by the Clan Head himself: what of me, Master? Even if it weren't unimportant, inherently, it's an impossibility by design. Isamu is empty-handed. Byakuya-sama holds his sword.
He never asked Natsu, either, when they'd made love, which bed she'd sleep in next, her own or his, or someone else's...
Not that the two scenarios can truly be compared, the natures of each relation completely different, but in both cases, Isamu shouldn't care what happens to him and in lack of better alternatives, does something completely unheard of to make up for it.
He repeats his offense twice over. ]
I will tell you. [ It is an assurance. He is not withholding the answer from Byakuya-sama, he is not playing him for a fool, because it's clear to him, the Kuchiki Head isn't one. You don't play a flute like a koto either. Or a koto like a shamisen. You treat people for what they are, which is why he never stopped calling Natsu -sama in public. It didn't change that as time went by, he would start to call her simply Natsu in private either.
He's curious how Byakuya-sama will play him in turn. ] But no matter what you do with the information, you will cost me my place in the servant quarters.
[ Being dismissed second to Fumihisa is the shameful part, of course. For however long bureaucracy takes to work in the Kuchiki Manor, Isamu might as well stay out here, sleep under the stars. ]
[ Isamu's answer surprises him enough to make him pause. If worded just the smallest bit more assertedly, it would have sounded like the man was making conditions - of course, Byakuya would be absurd for assuming as much. There is nothing to bargain with here, perhaps aside from Isamu's life and even that should mean nothing between them. You will cost me my place, he says. It's the kind of talk he'd have from his grandfather as a child, doing things he shouldn't be doing and costing the servants efforts when they'd already had enough to do. Of course, he's aware of the consequences for the other man.
The fact that he hadn't fully considered them, however, makes his words feel just a tad bit sharper than they sound.
Turning away, Byakuya walks to the pond nearby, putting some distance between them once again. He doesn't raise his voice, leaving Isamu to shift a little closer instead to preserve the clarity of the conversation. He looks into the water and sighs, wondering whether his parents ever dealt with disputes amongst the staff. His father, surely not. Such a thing would have ruined his day. His mother, possibly. The women have a very different mandate in the house. It would have been beneath his grandfather and Byakuya ought to follow his lead.
Then again, some would say that he should have done so many years ago. It's a little late, starting now with the earth scorched and his world narrowed down to duty, reputation. To the Clan and to Soul Society.
So he asks, though he really shouldn't: ]
I wonder whether you are the kind of man who'd prefer to stay.
[ Even with the threat of death looming over his head, even with how sloppily his servitude has been handled. Even then, would he rather be here than out on the streets? It's the Kuchiki house, by any normal standards, everyone would choose to stay. But then again, it's the Kuchiki house. It's a double-edged sword and he knows it better than most. ]
[ Something shifts between them, back and forth, though Isamu can't pinpoint what exactly it is. Something that makes Byakuya-sama accept his words when nothing in the regulations or either man's grasp of protocol forces such a choice in the matter. He could have him thrown out. He could have him killed, it would be his prerogative. Instead the other man turns away and moves over towards a nearby pond, leaving Isamu to stand his ground or be pulled along with him. His choice, meanwhile, is the latter. He takes a deep breath and steps closer, close enough that when the Clan Head asks without asking, there's no tell-tale lilt to the ending of his sentence, it could be an observation, except Isamu feels it isn't. Or if it is, it's of them both at once. Well, it sounds like a conversation between people on the same side of the gulf.
I wonder whether you are the kind of man who'd prefer to stay, he says. Kuchiki Byakuya.
Isamu's hands hang loosely at his sides and his shoulders are deceptively relaxed, as he stays poised, stays upright next to this man who can unleash not one weapon, but a thousand. In Fumihisa's voice, he hears it said that he should be fearful, rightfully. It's just, Isamu thinks, glancing up at the back of the other man's head, the way his harpieces are tied into place, like his own topknot hairstyle, just... More hair. When you have seen the woman you love dying, merely because you were incapable of saving her, what else is there to be afraid of? You're your own worst nightmare.
Clearing his throat, he takes a long moment to answer, knowing he'll be giving away too much, in any case more than Byakuya-sama asked for or may care to know. But he asked, even when he didn't. It means, they're both wondering the same thing, because Isamu has asking himself this question many times, with a knife in his hand.
Not a sword, but smaller can do the trick, too. People bleed the same. ]
I owe my last Master to stay on his recommendation, if I could do nothing else for him.
[ This is his offering to the Hayashi family whose oldest daughter, the most beautiful of her neighbourhood, the most vibrant and the cleverest, he let die with his own empty hands. ]
[ It takes the other man a moment to answer, time spent in Byakuya's presence that he oughtn't waste - and contrary to some people he knows, Byakuya understands the value of silence when it hasn't buried you from your hair to your feet, inside and out. In situations like these - in the context of conversation - silence is as important as the words you choose to speak when you've made your reflections with enough care. For a servant to take such measures rather than to simply apologise for his own presumptions is rare. It's the kind of thing most wouldn't ever do around Byakuya whose time is always deemed to valuable, to rare.
A ridiculous notion, surely, concerning someone who might very live for several thousands years. Then again, it's the way of things. There must be one - one way - or people run astray to the detriment of everyone else. He's well aware. He's learned more than one lesson on the subject of loss over the past years.
When Isamu finally speaks, he tells him the bare bones of a longer story. For his Master to recommend him to the Kuchiki family is one thing - to recommend him for such a low, unimportant position and for Isamu to accept it as a given, as his duty, means that the man must have committed the kind of crime that doesn't measure up against any juridicial system. It's a matter of honour, then. Or lack of same.
Byakuya frowns. Glances at him over his shoulder. ]
Your master thought it prudent to place you in our house but neglected to tell us how to utilize your skills.
[ Surely, if they'd been told, they wouldn't have let this man - who is clearly a servant of experience and rank - languish in the bowels of the household. No, Byakuya ought not to care about these things. He ought to put his duty first and everything else second.
He never talks to people anymore. It's how things are, how they should be. No one is worthy of his time.
He stares at his own, lone reflection in the pond and catches a glimpse of Isamu's blurred outline in the background. For a moment, he can't look away from it. He doesn't pause the conversation or conclude it as he should. Instead, he stays as he is, blinking against the afternoon breeze. ]
[ It's not that he's making excuses for Natsu's father, that man doesn't need someone of Isamu's standing to make excuses for him, he can speak for himself, certainly, but he's pointing out that in this moment, as Isamu is telling the Head of the Kuchiki Clan that he is here for his failings, not his accomplishments, they both know that the reasons of other people are sometimes enough reason and all the reason you get. He remembers Natsu's determination to leave Seireitei due to her love for a girl who married someone else, a man, and concludes this is a rooted knowledge in people on every walk of life.
Watching the back of Byakuya-sama's head for another long, loaded moment of silence, he finally carries on, his stance rigid and his shoulders tight, the muscles in his arms trembling underneath the fabric of his yukata as his fingers flex, as if to curl up, yet don't. He controls himself. And them. ]
First and foremost, my skills are at best questionable and I haven't earned a chance to improve upon them.
[ He wonders if this man in front of him, with a weapon holding a thousand weapons and the control, surpassing whatever Isamu can even think to manage, to control every single one of them, so that although an unsuspecting stranger steps out into the storm, it doesn't blow him to bits, can tell that he isn't saying so out of any faked deference and self-deprecation, but rather because that is his true opinion on the matter. If he had managed to save Natsu, maybe he'd have deserved any recognition or raising of his skill set, if nothing else then if he had been able to bring her home to her family, but he did neither thing and for that alone, all Isamu deserves is to be cut down.
Fumihisa almost granted him that end, today.
Yet, Byakuya-sama is the extension of his sword and obviously, he didn't want Isamu cut down at another's scheeming, what is no doubt the sign of decent judgement. You have to wonder if this is how things play out where fate is involved. Not without reason, but for incomprehensible reasons. It is beyond your grasp.
Isamu takes a deep breath and bows his head. Once, he would have liked to be better for her. Now, he isn't sure what 'better' would even imply. He beats wet kimonos all day, every day. ]
[ No, he didn't need to tell him but did it anyway, as one does regarding certain truths that want out in any shape or form because they take too much effort to keep entirely contained. He's had many years to practice, Byakuya, and then, he's been alone (excepting, of course, that intolerable cat demon Shihouin Yoruichi who's always best left disregarded), meaning that the chances of anything spilling over are low. Isamu, of course, is around people constantly. His carefulness, then, must be greater yet.
I haven't earned the chance, he adds, because adding something must have seemed imperative to him, even though Byakuya hasn't asked nor required him to elaborate. He turns the man's words over in his mind, adding them to what he already knows - that he's a skillful man, a servant who dares to speak when others would've wisely kept their silence. He has very clearly accepted the circumstances of his demotion, as he understands the system and the rules. Like that, he's honest as well.
Byakuya's lips tighten briefly, his hand brushing over Senbonzakura's hilt. Just as his blade won't be used to cut a man down on someone else's bidding, his household won't be used to punish him for crimes of honour committed against another family, a petty family who wouldn't even grant the man the mercy of death, rather than to be handed off to others like trash. It's an irritating situation and he will have it rectified.
He straightens, then keeps still, allowing the silence to dismiss Isamu on its own accord. ]
[ I see, Byakuya-sama says and unlike most people, because Isamu is always less likely to give others the benefit of the doubt than to give them anything else, Isamu actually believes him. He believes that this man with his sword and his kenseikan and his Clan Head position, despite being close to Isamu himself in age, does indeed see - that they have both been treated like garbage, disregarded and dishonoured as a result. Whether the Kuchiki Head also sees that only one of them deserved that treatment, Isamu can't say for sure - no clues are left him, because rather than commenting further on the matter, Byakuya-sama falls silent and returns to staring at the pond, his hand on the hilt of his weapon, as if always a little too close to drawing it. A man who has learned to control himself so much must have had good reason to learn or there is simply much to control. Or both.
It could be both. Isamu doesn't know and it's not in his place to guess about his Master's personal affairs. ]
His name is Fumihisa.
[ Isamu says the name calmly, bowing deeply to the man whom he promised he would tell. Who precisely sent Isamu out to be killed by his sword. And so, Isamu will go back now to the servant quarters, wait until Fumihisa finds him, no doubt surprised or disappointed - or both - that he is still alive and he will say nothing as the man recounts the tale of stupid Isamu to the others, he will say nothing as they laugh, because he got this moment of truth and nothing can take that from him. That is how truth works.
No matter what it's going to take from him, going forward. Or what it will undoubtedly take from Fumihisa. It's only a question of which one of them bears the brunt of punishment first.
After all, for everything Byakuya-sama strikes him as, a man who doesn't believe in consequences and retribution is far from the top of the list. It's not satisfaction, what he feels, he isn't that petty and no one is saying, what will happen to him from here, but this small scene of connection is, if nothing else, something to gain some gratification from, isn't it? Isamu blinks, once, twice, saying nothing more. Either way, it's what he gets.
He bows again, deeply, then turns and lets himself be dismissed. ]
[ What happened to him is this: a day after his second encounter with the master of the house, Isamu was sent for, transferred from laundry duty in the western wing to Byakuya-sama's own quarters, joining a team of three elderly gentlemen who have been waiting on the Kuchiki Head for years, also long before he became clan head and before him, on his father, one of them even on his grandfather, in his time. Isamu is the youngest in the line-up and thus, delegated to the least prestigious tasks, like tidying, changing flower decorations before they can die and mar the quiet aesthetic of the place, change bed linen and similar tasks. Scrub the floors. The Master is... more disorderly in his private affairs than in his professional undertakings, his new supervisor, Tori, explained when he started. Meaning, the Master is messy, but no one could pin such a descrption to Byakuya-sama, of course. Isamu had just nodded and folded haoris, so many haoris.
In the western quarters, Fumihisa was taken outside and beaten to a pulp. Isamu has no qualms about it, but neither does he take pleasure in the knowledge. No one deserves such dishonour. Wouldn't he know this, first-hand?
Two weeks have passed, in which time Byakuya-sama has not shown himself at his own quarters at all, held up at the barracks, fulfilling his duties as a captain of the Gotei 13. Isamu thinks of the whirring blades in the air sometimes, then shakes his head and focuses on the next job at hand. The three other servants to his wing aren't gossipers and he's thankfully free from the constant chatter about what's going on in the household, since all four of them know - their work is here, they have the information they need in order to fulfill their function. That's as it should be. This is like before, at Natsu's house, before Natsu left it.
He collects the elegantly arranged bouquet of spider lilies that someone has left in a tall vase in the corner with calm movements, looking at nothing in particular while his hands work with habitual ease, noting the usual things, the bouquet is crisp-looking still, but the petals feel fragile, it would wither within the next two days and this is the right time to have it replaced. One of the maids is in charge of the decorations, he'll send for her.
Byakuya-sama could have cut him, instead he cut him loose from where he's been tied up and given him a chance to improve on his skills. Given him something to work for. Someone.
Isamu will make sure, that man shan't regret his decision. ]
[ He's made his way back from the far outskirts of Rukongai in a hurry. Out there, amidst abandoned, desolate areas housing a great many more bodies than souls are some of a few, practical places to train with Bankai undisturbed. Unfortunately, the way back to the Sereitei is long and he'd been notified only very late in the day that certain Kuchiki elders have called a meeting on an internal skirmish that must be resolved with haste. Apparently, doing so also requires his presence - which, in somewhat unkind terms implies that someone must be around to put their foot down and that someone is, by virtue of his position, Byakuya.
He's followed his grandfather enough to understand the basics of his responsibilities as Clan head. One of those responsibilities include keeping his temper in check in the face of what amounts to childish tantrums by grown-ups which is certainly also a challenge, if not a very interesting kind.
He makes his way to his quarters, dismissing Seike on the way with a curt nod. The man has, of course, enough self-control not to gawk at the kenseikan currently hanging limply down the side of his neck, the porcelain piece clinging on with what little's left of its structure. His hair's in a massive disarray. Apropos interesting challenges and such, Senbonzakura had been in a mood and his body bears the brunt of it in the shapes of cuts and bruises underneath his uniform, particularly to his right side. They are getting closer to perfecting the zone of proximity that he needs for battle - closer, he thinks uncharitably, meaning not as far from a solution as when they began. That's all it means.
Entering his quarters, he shrugs out of his haori with no second thought and heads directly for his dressing room. He notices the presence of Isamu the Servant - happily, that debacle became Seike's headache in the end, not his - and pauses briefly with his back to him, turning his head slightly. ]
I require assistance. Now.
[ He doesn't, normally. He handles his hairpieces by himself, as he was taught. But today, he has no time to struggle with it and struggle he will, inevitably, if he tries. By his hip, Senbonzakura hums, not quite content with their resolution. They both understand.
It's never good enough.
He leaves his sword in its stand and heads towards his dressing room, listening only for Isamu's footsteps as an afterthought, expecting him to either find someone suitable for the task or join him on his own. It matters little. It's a hair piece - though the one on the top of his head is quite intricate, the one on the side is an easy fix. The only thing he can't tolerate right now is slowness. He sits carefully in seiza in the middle of the room, hands on his thighs, gaze gliding over the tapestry without truly seeing it. ]
[ The floors of the Kuchiki house are made to emit as little sound as possible when you move across them, the mats in the main rooms make one's steps almost soundless, completely so if you move about with a little care. As such, Isamu only hears - as he moves very close - the footfalls of someone approaching, the strength and determination of the stride making it most likely to be one particular person. He reacts promptly, shoving the halfway dead flowers away in a basket he uses to collect all sorts of trash that finds its way into Byakuya-sama's quarters, managing to have it hidden away near the corner of the room, close to the entrance, when Byakuya-sama himsef arrives, bursting into the room in a flurry of white, billowing fabric and loose hair dancing around his head. Isamu doesn't stare, one simply does not, but he catches little glances out the corner of his eye in quick succession, making an instant assessment of the situation.
The other man looks like he has been in a fight, the kenseikan on the side of his head clinging to loose strands of hair, broken into pieces, some missing, some just a pitiful display of - if not defeat, then stalemate. Frowning, Isamu collects the haori that the Kuchiki Clan Head discards, the white fabric ending up on top of the flowers and some tidbits that it was also time to exchange for other tidbits. The household has a whole system of circulating decorations, based on season and celebratory events specific to the Kuchiki family's internal clock. Isamu doesn't understand it, but he respects it nonetheless. The system doesn't require his understanding, only his undertaking.
I require assistance, says Byakuya-sama, barely looking at him and Isamu follows him into his dressing room, hidden away by a couple of folding screens for discretion without a second thought, because he is the one there and calling for someone would take time that it's obvious the other man doesn't have at his disposal or he wouldn't ask such a sensitive, vulnerable thing in the first place. Needing help is the first step towards getting disappointed, Natsu would say. And getting disappointed is the first step to getting hurt.
Why he thinks of that now, when it has nothing to do with this moment, Isamu doesn't know and he doesn't linger on it, instead stepping closer as Byakuya-sama seats himself in seiza on the floor, waiting without moving, without speaking, without looking, yes, almost without breathing, like a porcelain statue placed there. Kneeling once he's within a distance where he would tower over the other man unacceptably, Isamu kneels too and crawls the rest of the way, collecting the comb off the nearby stand and a new set of kenseikan on the way, all things he's been shown within the past two weeks where to find, and bowing his head as he moves in closer to the man's right side. You'll never need these, the master always fixes his own hair, Tori had said, which seems a grand joke now, but this is where we keep them, should he ask for a refill or similarly.
The small piece of porcelain feels chilly between his fingers and delicate. Heavy. His fingers feel coarse in comparison. He places it on the floor next to his knees, likewise the comb. Hearing himself breathe with a forcible calm, he speaks in a low voice, this close to Byakuya-sama's ear. ]
Let me relieve you of this.
[ The delay after he's said those words is minimal. His assistance was required, if the other man doesn't wish for him to touch him, he must stop Isamu himself. As such, he reaches for the small remains of hairpiece in Byakuya-sama's hair, because it truly looks rather pitiful. Not that Isamu has an opinion on that. ]
[ Growing up the way he has, Byakuya is quite used to other people in his personal space, particularly with regards to the practical realities of his daily life. His hair, he usually handles himself and it's a balm to his senses, this small pocket of calm, alone with himself and his own choices. The last person to help him with his hair was Hisana and only because she truly wanted to. The thought makes his chest feel impossibly heavy. Gaze hardening a fraction as Isamu draws closer on his knees, he resigns himself to the fact that just today, he will have to break this tiny, precious routine in favour of taking care of his duties. He was late even before he came back, after all. He has no time to be particular.
Isamu, meanwhile, slips into his personal space with calming familiarity. He doesn't ask, merely observes and acts accordingly to what he sees, reaching for the ruined hairpiece. As he begins to disentangle it from Byakuya's hair, he's very aware of the other man's proximity - the slight heat of his body, the rustling of his clothes as he moves. It ought to irritate him but instead, somehow, his aching shoulder relaxes a fraction and his hands uncurl against his thighs. It's fine. It must be done.
Of course, the thing that bothers him the most is being pulled from engaging with Senbonzakura in such an untimely, awkward fashion, just for the sake of solving some petty crisis. One ought to trump the other, surely - protection and strength over unimportant grievances that could as well be resolved with appropriate humility. But of course, that's why the military makes sense and politics don't. He shifts a little as the weight of the broken hairpiece disappears, his hair tumbling down past his face as a consequence, loose and nowhere near as clean as when he left the barracks this morning.
In the background, his clothes are being brought in, one layer after the other. His next challenge, once Isamu is done with his hair, will be getting out of his uniform. He'd prefer to do so himself with how bruised he must be underneath - such physical damage feels like a personal affair. Instead, he will content himself with his servants, with Isamu and his gentle approach. Not for the first time, he appreciates the outcome of the other man's conflict within his house; it seems as if he fits in perfectly.
One wonders, perhaps, what he's done for his previous master. Byakuya hasn't taken any interest in it, as he doesn't want to make anyone think he's overly engaged with the affairs of a merchant family. He's thought about it, though, now and then. As he's doing now. Gaze gliding sideways, he observes the other man's movements, his posture. ]
[ It's a delicate matter, removing anything from a person's hair. He remembers from the few times, Natsu had to get dressed up in the one good kimono they had brought along for the journey, helping her style her hair and slip in the matching hairpieces. Your hands are shaking, Isamu, she'd said, amused, the first time he had to do it, but that was after getting her out of her yukata and into the kimono in the first place, she was unfair in blaming him for his nerves. Byakuya-sama isn't Natsu, no one is Natsu any longer, but there is something about the whole situation that reminds him of that first night between Seireitei and their first major stop on the route where she was not a traveller, but her father's daughter again. His mistress, not his travel companion.
Once the hairpiece comes off, he has to yank a tiny bit and apologizes in a mutter, Byakuya-sama's hair tumbles all over the place on that side of his head, long (long, long) strands of inky black and Isamu puts the broken kenseikan down next to the unbroken one, as a reminder to toss it away later, then reaches for the comb and starts, still gently, but efficiently, to comb through the man's strands in long, even movements. It takes only a moment, then the worst tangles are out and he can begin to rearrange the long strands back into place with the new kenseikan, fastening it with a minimal amount of fumbling.
It really is like a woman's kanzashi, isn't it?
While he works on fastening the thing, though, Tori arrives with Byakuya-sama's clothes, layer upon layer of it, and Isamu can feel the older man wordlessly watching him out the corner of his eye, making assessment of his progress, his speed, things to indicate he is struggling with his task. He isn't, though. Frowning slightly, he considers Byakuya'sama's uniform that, even without his sword, is an impressive show of intricate knotting and folds to confuse his movements, no doubts, and make it more difficult to cut or strike him directly.
Just as that night with Natsu, Isamu is left with the stark knowledge, that he has never opened that kind of uniform before. He knows how they look, hakama, how they are crafted, he's worn one on occasion, too, but the practical assembling - or, as here, disassembling - of one is new. Especially on... the man's... person.
Although Tori is present, Isamu leans in with a low murmur, hands finding the hakama-himo, beginning, slower, more carefully, to undo the knotting which is intricate. You are not meant to leave this uniform except when dead, it seems. ]
Forgive my fumbling. I'm new to this.
[ The slight pause in Tori's step behind him is his only indicator that the older man has heard, taken notice and probably feeling shocked to his core. Then again, Tori doesn't know the story of how Isamu first met Byakuya-sama, does he?
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Seven years ago, Hisana moved into the manor, causing the seemingly rock-solid foundation of the Kuchiki Clan tremble in her wake. The silence, then, had been in motion, tittering precatiously between the past and the future. Two years ago, the oscillations came to a stop. One year ago, the girl moved in.
And now, the Sixth has a new captain. The silence around him seems deeper somehow, more encompassing, from how the members of his division go quiet, proper and restrained whenever he's near to the way the emptiness of the hallways, in the barracks or here in the manor, echoes from the sounds of his own footsteps. It's never-ending. Even now, as Byakuya works his way through yet another set of kata with Senbonzakura, each movement automatized and fluent from decades of repetition, he senses it. How the world around him remains steadfastly unmoved by everything he does, every movement, every flicker of his blade.
Indeed, the silence, such as it is now, the thing it has become - it has taken root in this new reality where he's the head of his clan, the leader of his division and the brother of a living ghost, a walking and talking echo of the life that has passed into stillness.
So he trains, his bangs clinging to his forehead and the side of his face, his hands damp, the thick calluses of his palms vital at this point in securing Senbonzakura in his grip. It's something he needs to grow past. He reaches his physical limitations much too easily still.
If nothing else, his harsh breathing certainly disturbs the quiet ]
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Now, he works at the Kuchiki Manor, he does laundry for the guest houses, working under the supervision of a man who corrects his grip constantly. Wrong, Isamu. Not like that. He has learned how to lift kimono more expensive than his entire existence, and Isamu does it automatically now, trying not to think of last time he lifted a kimono as valuable as these. And what he did with it.
Usually he works at the steam tubs, his face an ugly red after a full day in the heat, but today is tub cleaning day and they've run out of lye. Isamu, being the most recent transfer, has been sent to fetch more. He does so gladly, work is his only distraction, but the hallways all look alike, as do the doors, and he quickly loses his way, ending in a part of the house he isn't even certain he's allowed to enter.
Still, although the doors are slid shut and someone's in there, the sound of feet againt mats, clothes rustling, Isamu halts by the entrance to the next room, thinking that in this household, at least, they will cut him as a consequence, and slides one door slightly open. It is a sign of resignation, the way he bows low, then kneeling to emphasise his rank, trying not to look too obviously, to stare. The Kuchiki family is a family of soldiers. This could be anyone. And no one. He minds his manners regardless. Keeps his eyes on the floor. ]
My apologies. I'm new. [ Nothing connects the two sentences. He is not making excuses. This is unforgivable, yet... ] Forgive me for disturbing you.
[ Whether it is some Kuchiki cousin or his supervisor who sees him failing like this, it will undoubtedly come to the same. ]
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His skin prickles at the sound of the door, sliding open. The sudden, very unexpected sense of company, of another body sharing his space when he'd expected nothing of the kind, is almost startling. Forcing himself to ignore the intruder and complete his set, he lets the sounds of the man's words - quiet, relatively unobtrusive - fade into the air. He doesn't even allow himself to consider his existence for the next twenty-two seconds as he goes through the motions, finishing by sheathing Senbonzakura nearly soundlessly. Keeping his back to the other man, he allows the silence to stretch on for another thirty seconds, giving him the chance to back away and leave. Seike, he knows, is not near. The servant will suffer no consequences.
Then, when nothing else happens, Byakuya allows his fingers to slide over the hilt of his sword, not as a threat but as a gesture of idleness, one he immediately regrets. He says, voice low and completely devoid of any signs of exertion: ]
You could have remained silent.
[ Even as he says it, a part of him - something internal and raw - shudders. What, then, would he do? With more silence? With more of the same?
Frowning to himself, he glances over his shoulder. The servant is a nameless man, features blurred by his angle of sight as well as how he keeps his gaze firmly rooted to the mat. ]
Why are you here?
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Never let the Master see you unless invited, Isamu's father used to tell him, when he was little and he played noisily, so he would disturb the whole household and the Hayashi head would stick an arm out the window, waving it annoyed. For we are not worth more than the air we breathe. Back then, Isamu had thought it was a stupid way to look at it, no one was worth more than the air they breathed, were they, but as he grew up, he understood why men like Natsu's father needed to put price tags on people. After all, he had the likes of Natsu. Who was precious.
Before this unnamed member of the Kuchiki Clan, Isamu thinks even the air he breathes is too valuable for him, the sounds he makes as he talks are wasted, but none of that has to do with one man carrying a sword and the other a wash brush. People are always more alike than different from one another, Natsu would say. It is only things that set them apart. Swords. Brushes.
Underneath...
The man moves, making Isamu glance up at him, meeting his eyes. He does not hurriedly look away, even if he does avert his gaze. They are just people, marked by things. The both of them. Keeping his voice pleasant, low, he murmurs: ]
I've lost my way. The worst reason to be anywhere.
[ While he is definitely talking about the western storage rooms, Isamu is also talking about more than the western storage rooms. About what you might lose or could possibly have gained beyond the intricate design of any household.
Walls can hold only so much, after all. ]
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He glances down at his feet. In the very periphery of his vision, Senbonzakura sits in its scabbard, quieter these days than it ever was before. In that way, the silence of the house, of the world, seems to have seeped into the metal as well, as easily as if it were skin and bone. I've lost my way, says the nameless man.
In this house, he thinks, thoroughly uncharitably, that is not an impressive feat.
Ask someone else to show you the way, he doesn't say, because just thinking it makes his skin crawl. There's always someone who knows the way back to the sameness of any moment. It's such an exhausting truth. Hisana used to ask him how do I do this or what would they say if I... and he never liked to indulge her, though he did of course, time and again.
She, too, didn't want to be lost in his house, though she was, very often. Perhaps all the way until the end, even. ]
I am not the person to ask.
[ He turns towards the long row of shoji flanking the side of the dojo, sliding one open to let in the light from outside. It's late in afternoon and the air - cool and crisp, a touch of iciness creeping into the autumn breeze - immediately settles against his skin, chasing away the heat of his training regime. He breathes easier and wonders briefly whether the other man feels similar. Though he doesn't know much of a servant's life, becoming the head of the clan has definitely made him more aware of how hard they work, how diligently. He doesn't take it lightly. He trains to protect the house - they, in turn, keep it running.
And presumably, no matter what certain clan members would prefer to believe, everybody sweats the same. ]
This is the eastern wing.
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Isamu raises his head as the other man walks over and opens the nearest shoji, letting the afternoon light in and fresh air, too, hearing himself breathe in deeply, long and hard, like he'd spent a long winter cooped up inside. It is not at all proper, but it feels nice and he hasn't felt nice about anything for six weeks and several months before that, walking the trails back to Seireitei alone. If it costs him his job, it will be a feeling that was worth it, as long as it lasted. A haiku is only seventeen on long, by comparison, and it can hold a life. Sometimes a short while will have to be enough. It will be all that you get and all that you need, truly.
If you do right by it.
As the man proceeds to share with him their location, Isamu sighs and rolls onto his feet, keeping his head bowed, though not as deeply as before. Opposite wing. Far from the guest houses that he serves. If he returns to a job, it will be a blessing - or what anyone might call the Kuchiki Manor, it is a constant in the landscape and a stronghold among the nobility, but a blessing might be giving it too much credit. It is what it is. The same way that they are what they are, the stranger and him.
They are, not only, but inevitably, set apart by the things that define their lives. Swords. Wash brushes. Names and titles. He bows, deep, slow. ]
Far away from where I was supposed to go, then. Thank you very much for your time. [ And finally, slowly, he begins backing away, upper body still slightly tilted at the hips, gaze stealing a glance rather than a stare from below lowered lashes. The man's hair, another thing that sets him apart, is sticking in strands to his forehead, temple, cheek.
He doesn't look like a man who is allowed to feel tired, but no one is beneath tiredness, Isamu thinks. ] I know it is precious.
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How, he could ask, would you know anything about what's precious - that would be sufficiently arrogant for Byakuya's reputation, at least. Instead, he notes the way the other man breathes in the freshness of the air, the balm that it grants them both for different (or perhaps, similar) reasons and realises that for the past many minutes, there's been a change to the room.
A change, when he'd thought there couldn't be any.
Then again, not many servants would dare to keep speaking, to keep intruding upon his personal space. Even if the man truly doesn't know who he is - and with how experienced he seems, it must be true that he doesn't, he'd never act this way otherwise - the fact that he is intruding is blatantly obvious. Perhaps this man is that one anomaly, the slight break in the waves before the surface returns to its familiar streams and currents. Perhaps that's all there is to it.
All the same, he turns away fully and says, clearly, commanding now: ]
Tell me your name.
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She lies buried, and that, even sloppily, he was just one man to do the job, in the farthest corner of Soul Society.
His face betrays none of these feelings as he bows, again, with all the bowing his back will give out in ten years time, like his father's began to do, licking his lips and clearing his voice. Yes, Master, it means. Still, he doesn't speak those words exactly. It might be that he got too used to not only being a servant to her in all that time. It might be that he never thought it was right that he should be. Whatever the reason, Isamu just replies, curtly and to the point.
Knowing he might as well be asked, because even the Kuchiki Clan is no longer a fitting home to him. Home, right? A place of work, at least. Isamu never had a home aside from the road, and his father prided himself of them not being travelling servants... The irony stings. ]
Isamu.
[ Like all servants and most people from the Rukongai, there's only that. A given name. Nothing to denote family. He has his father, he had a mother once, too, but unlike the man before him, no doubt, they were not given a shared name to denote that they were family at all. They were individuals, haphazardly bound together.
Yet, isn't everyone? ]
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He detests the mere idea of it.
No, he has little time for idleness. Isamu leaves his presence, presumably aware of his location now and capable of finding his way back. Forward. Whatever he's supposed to be doing. Byakuya, on his part, knows exactly how to walk the path in front of him. It's not a matter of finding the way, it's the fact that becoming lost whilst doing so has become patently impossible. Getting lost, it appears, means having stakes in your life, a goal that matters enough that straying from your path becomes a disadvantage.
He's a captain now. A clan leader. He has Bankai.
And that's that.
Thoroughly uncomplicated, straightforward.
Courageous. If nothing else, Isamu the Servant must have a heart that knows where it needs to go, even if only to finish whatever lowly tasks he's been set by the house. Byakuya's own is a sharp edge now, something meant for war, to protect and maintain order. There's no other use for it. He sighs and runs his fingers across Senbonzakura's scabbard again, mindlessly, gaze tracking the shadows outside and seeing very little else. ]
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They couldn't be more wrong.
So, as Fumihisa had said, go to the 88th garden, that's near the farthest servants' quarters, just so you don't get lost, Harunobu will be waiting for you there, Isamu is hurrying down the hallways of the far-end servant dormitories, he sleeps at the other end of this wing as well, he knows the way, the 88th garden is a nice open spot with fewer trees and more stonebeds, there's a nice view of the moon at night. Not that anyone cares. The servants of the Kuchiki Manor take pride in not using their own gardens for leisure. Less time wasted that way.
Still, Isamu uses it sometimes. At night. To be truly alone, the only opportunity he really has.
Whatever Harunobu wants from him here, he shan't be able to say, but he doesn't question it. What's the point? Questioning things will inevitably get you fired. Or it will get someone killed. No need to do that twice over. Briefly, before stepping outside, he pauses and curls his hands into fists at his sides, then he breathes deeply and slides the door open, quietly stepping out into the brightest late-autumnal afternoon he has ever seen, the light is blinding, he has to blink against it...
As such, it takes him a moment to realize something, something in the plural, is hanging - whirring like a bird's wings - in the air all around him, still and eerily silent.
Isamu doesn't move. He doesn't speak either, he barely breathes. What in the world -- ]
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If he can be surprised, he can make mistakes.
If war ever comes, he must be better prepared.
Currently deep in concentration, he doesn't notice the door sliding open before the action is nearly completed. Breath catching in his throat, he freezes on the spot, muscle memory taking over though it isn't strictly necessary - Senbonzakura responds to his will, first - the petals shimmering in the air around Isamu the Servant as he steps outside, directly into the storm of blades. He keeps them still, forcing himself to breathe evenly and ignoring the slight sheen of sweat on his brow. In the back of his mind, Senbonzakura trembles, tethered and distinctively unhappy as a consequence.
Slowly, with infinite care, he turns his palm around and recalls the blades, intent on avoiding any and all contact with Isamu's body as well as anything else in their immediate surroundings. They rush past Isamu, a whisper of metal and spiritual pressure, before settling back against the hilt. He swallows, gaze flicking to Isamu, perhaps a bit too fast.
His voice, when he speaks, is even. Outwardly untouched. Against the scabbard, however, his fingertips are trembling. ]
You. What do you think you're doing?
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A guard of the Gotei 13, in that case. Isamu knows little about the inner workings of the military, servants have no opinions on such matters, after all, why should they? They will never serve any more than they will ever be served in return.
The man's voice is unaffected by the rush of the blades, the single blade but in pieces, his tone is curt and direct, it demands, commands, perhaps. Yet, his hand is also shaking, isn't it? Is he used to leading with that sword? The sword of a thousand swords. Isamu's eyes slowly return to a fairly normal shape, his chest having stopped heaving quite so visibly. He straightens up, then immediately realizes his mistake, bowing low, quickly. ]
I was -- [ Sent here, he would carry on, but Isamu recognises the trouble he would be in, if he discloses how Fumihisa had him go here on purpose. Obviously, a suicide mission. Those, at least, Isamu recognises now, he's had enough experience.
Obviously, he also knows how to survive them all. Somehow. ] -- supposed to meet someone here. I came to find him. [ A pause. He finishes in a soft, low tone. ] And found you.
[ As he speaks those last few words, Isamu slowly looks up, eyes running down over the other man, appearance-wise similar in age, too, his hair tied up across his head with... Oh. Kenseikan.
Know these, Harunobu had said on the first day, showing Isamu the lifelike drawing someone had made for the sake of ease and clarity, if you see them, run. The Master of the House is coming your way, and we don't want him to see you, he shouldn't even be aware you exist.
Opening his mouth, then closing it again, he finally just straightens up. Whether he bows or not to this man, what difference does it make? They don't exist on the same plane of existence anyway. The sun shines differently on them both.
One has a sword that catches the light, after all. ]
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It's neither here nor there.
He sees, of course, the way Isamu's gaze lands on his kenseikan and the moment realisation strikes. Well. Perhaps he ought to be wearing a name tag if his people won't inform the newcomers by their own accords. Seike will have to fire a good few of them, so much is obvious. Shaking his head, his nerves settled once again, Byakuya sheathes Senbonzakura, feeling its familiar weight by his hip. He looks the other man over now - there is a problem and the problem must be fixed - his gaze sharp. ]
Unacceptable. You were instructed to keep away.
[ He doesn't raise his voice in any way. Instead, he steps a little closer, enough for the sound to travel easily across the distance between them. It's not Isamu's presence in itself, per say, that he's talking about. Rather, he much prefers not to be used to settle other people's petty squabbles. ]
Tell me the name of the person who sent you.
[ Under normal circumstances, Seike would have taken over this conversation five minutes ago. Unfortunately for Seike and the unwritten laws of propriety, Byakuya has managed to lose him for the afternoon. Ever since Hisana's death and the girl's adoption into the family, he's been craving his space whenever it won't interfere with his duties. It's a phase, of course. Childish.
He'll grow beyond it.
For now, he'll take a name and leave it to the old man to rid his house of the rotten things that hide within it. ]
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Obviously, in the very second he speaks Fumihisa's name, the other servant's time here is over, maybe even long before Isamu's, and that is the question that remains unanswered and which he could never demand to have answered by the Clan Head himself: what of me, Master? Even if it weren't unimportant, inherently, it's an impossibility by design. Isamu is empty-handed. Byakuya-sama holds his sword.
He never asked Natsu, either, when they'd made love, which bed she'd sleep in next, her own or his, or someone else's...
Not that the two scenarios can truly be compared, the natures of each relation completely different, but in both cases, Isamu shouldn't care what happens to him and in lack of better alternatives, does something completely unheard of to make up for it.
He repeats his offense twice over. ]
I will tell you. [ It is an assurance. He is not withholding the answer from Byakuya-sama, he is not playing him for a fool, because it's clear to him, the Kuchiki Head isn't one. You don't play a flute like a koto either. Or a koto like a shamisen. You treat people for what they are, which is why he never stopped calling Natsu -sama in public. It didn't change that as time went by, he would start to call her simply Natsu in private either.
He's curious how Byakuya-sama will play him in turn. ] But no matter what you do with the information, you will cost me my place in the servant quarters.
[ Being dismissed second to Fumihisa is the shameful part, of course. For however long bureaucracy takes to work in the Kuchiki Manor, Isamu might as well stay out here, sleep under the stars. ]
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The fact that he hadn't fully considered them, however, makes his words feel just a tad bit sharper than they sound.
Turning away, Byakuya walks to the pond nearby, putting some distance between them once again. He doesn't raise his voice, leaving Isamu to shift a little closer instead to preserve the clarity of the conversation. He looks into the water and sighs, wondering whether his parents ever dealt with disputes amongst the staff. His father, surely not. Such a thing would have ruined his day. His mother, possibly. The women have a very different mandate in the house. It would have been beneath his grandfather and Byakuya ought to follow his lead.
Then again, some would say that he should have done so many years ago. It's a little late, starting now with the earth scorched and his world narrowed down to duty, reputation. To the Clan and to Soul Society.
So he asks, though he really shouldn't: ]
I wonder whether you are the kind of man who'd prefer to stay.
[ Even with the threat of death looming over his head, even with how sloppily his servitude has been handled. Even then, would he rather be here than out on the streets? It's the Kuchiki house, by any normal standards, everyone would choose to stay. But then again, it's the Kuchiki house. It's a double-edged sword and he knows it better than most. ]
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I wonder whether you are the kind of man who'd prefer to stay, he says. Kuchiki Byakuya.
Isamu's hands hang loosely at his sides and his shoulders are deceptively relaxed, as he stays poised, stays upright next to this man who can unleash not one weapon, but a thousand. In Fumihisa's voice, he hears it said that he should be fearful, rightfully. It's just, Isamu thinks, glancing up at the back of the other man's head, the way his harpieces are tied into place, like his own topknot hairstyle, just... More hair. When you have seen the woman you love dying, merely because you were incapable of saving her, what else is there to be afraid of? You're your own worst nightmare.
Clearing his throat, he takes a long moment to answer, knowing he'll be giving away too much, in any case more than Byakuya-sama asked for or may care to know. But he asked, even when he didn't. It means, they're both wondering the same thing, because Isamu has asking himself this question many times, with a knife in his hand.
Not a sword, but smaller can do the trick, too. People bleed the same. ]
I owe my last Master to stay on his recommendation, if I could do nothing else for him.
[ This is his offering to the Hayashi family whose oldest daughter, the most beautiful of her neighbourhood, the most vibrant and the cleverest, he let die with his own empty hands. ]
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A ridiculous notion, surely, concerning someone who might very live for several thousands years. Then again, it's the way of things. There must be one - one way - or people run astray to the detriment of everyone else. He's well aware. He's learned more than one lesson on the subject of loss over the past years.
When Isamu finally speaks, he tells him the bare bones of a longer story. For his Master to recommend him to the Kuchiki family is one thing - to recommend him for such a low, unimportant position and for Isamu to accept it as a given, as his duty, means that the man must have committed the kind of crime that doesn't measure up against any juridicial system. It's a matter of honour, then. Or lack of same.
Byakuya frowns. Glances at him over his shoulder. ]
Your master thought it prudent to place you in our house but neglected to tell us how to utilize your skills.
[ Surely, if they'd been told, they wouldn't have let this man - who is clearly a servant of experience and rank - languish in the bowels of the household. No, Byakuya ought not to care about these things. He ought to put his duty first and everything else second.
He never talks to people anymore. It's how things are, how they should be. No one is worthy of his time.
He stares at his own, lone reflection in the pond and catches a glimpse of Isamu's blurred outline in the background. For a moment, he can't look away from it. He doesn't pause the conversation or conclude it as he should. Instead, he stays as he is, blinking against the afternoon breeze. ]
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[ It's not that he's making excuses for Natsu's father, that man doesn't need someone of Isamu's standing to make excuses for him, he can speak for himself, certainly, but he's pointing out that in this moment, as Isamu is telling the Head of the Kuchiki Clan that he is here for his failings, not his accomplishments, they both know that the reasons of other people are sometimes enough reason and all the reason you get. He remembers Natsu's determination to leave Seireitei due to her love for a girl who married someone else, a man, and concludes this is a rooted knowledge in people on every walk of life.
Watching the back of Byakuya-sama's head for another long, loaded moment of silence, he finally carries on, his stance rigid and his shoulders tight, the muscles in his arms trembling underneath the fabric of his yukata as his fingers flex, as if to curl up, yet don't. He controls himself. And them. ]
First and foremost, my skills are at best questionable and I haven't earned a chance to improve upon them.
[ He wonders if this man in front of him, with a weapon holding a thousand weapons and the control, surpassing whatever Isamu can even think to manage, to control every single one of them, so that although an unsuspecting stranger steps out into the storm, it doesn't blow him to bits, can tell that he isn't saying so out of any faked deference and self-deprecation, but rather because that is his true opinion on the matter. If he had managed to save Natsu, maybe he'd have deserved any recognition or raising of his skill set, if nothing else then if he had been able to bring her home to her family, but he did neither thing and for that alone, all Isamu deserves is to be cut down.
Fumihisa almost granted him that end, today.
Yet, Byakuya-sama is the extension of his sword and obviously, he didn't want Isamu cut down at another's scheeming, what is no doubt the sign of decent judgement. You have to wonder if this is how things play out where fate is involved. Not without reason, but for incomprehensible reasons. It is beyond your grasp.
Isamu takes a deep breath and bows his head. Once, he would have liked to be better for her. Now, he isn't sure what 'better' would even imply. He beats wet kimonos all day, every day. ]
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I see.
[ No, he didn't need to tell him but did it anyway, as one does regarding certain truths that want out in any shape or form because they take too much effort to keep entirely contained. He's had many years to practice, Byakuya, and then, he's been alone (excepting, of course, that intolerable cat demon Shihouin Yoruichi who's always best left disregarded), meaning that the chances of anything spilling over are low. Isamu, of course, is around people constantly. His carefulness, then, must be greater yet.
I haven't earned the chance, he adds, because adding something must have seemed imperative to him, even though Byakuya hasn't asked nor required him to elaborate. He turns the man's words over in his mind, adding them to what he already knows - that he's a skillful man, a servant who dares to speak when others would've wisely kept their silence. He has very clearly accepted the circumstances of his demotion, as he understands the system and the rules. Like that, he's honest as well.
Byakuya's lips tighten briefly, his hand brushing over Senbonzakura's hilt. Just as his blade won't be used to cut a man down on someone else's bidding, his household won't be used to punish him for crimes of honour committed against another family, a petty family who wouldn't even grant the man the mercy of death, rather than to be handed off to others like trash. It's an irritating situation and he will have it rectified.
He straightens, then keeps still, allowing the silence to dismiss Isamu on its own accord. ]
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It could be both. Isamu doesn't know and it's not in his place to guess about his Master's personal affairs. ]
His name is Fumihisa.
[ Isamu says the name calmly, bowing deeply to the man whom he promised he would tell. Who precisely sent Isamu out to be killed by his sword. And so, Isamu will go back now to the servant quarters, wait until Fumihisa finds him, no doubt surprised or disappointed - or both - that he is still alive and he will say nothing as the man recounts the tale of stupid Isamu to the others, he will say nothing as they laugh, because he got this moment of truth and nothing can take that from him. That is how truth works.
No matter what it's going to take from him, going forward. Or what it will undoubtedly take from Fumihisa. It's only a question of which one of them bears the brunt of punishment first.
After all, for everything Byakuya-sama strikes him as, a man who doesn't believe in consequences and retribution is far from the top of the list. It's not satisfaction, what he feels, he isn't that petty and no one is saying, what will happen to him from here, but this small scene of connection is, if nothing else, something to gain some gratification from, isn't it? Isamu blinks, once, twice, saying nothing more. Either way, it's what he gets.
He bows again, deeply, then turns and lets himself be dismissed. ]
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In the western quarters, Fumihisa was taken outside and beaten to a pulp. Isamu has no qualms about it, but neither does he take pleasure in the knowledge. No one deserves such dishonour. Wouldn't he know this, first-hand?
Two weeks have passed, in which time Byakuya-sama has not shown himself at his own quarters at all, held up at the barracks, fulfilling his duties as a captain of the Gotei 13. Isamu thinks of the whirring blades in the air sometimes, then shakes his head and focuses on the next job at hand. The three other servants to his wing aren't gossipers and he's thankfully free from the constant chatter about what's going on in the household, since all four of them know - their work is here, they have the information they need in order to fulfill their function. That's as it should be. This is like before, at Natsu's house, before Natsu left it.
He collects the elegantly arranged bouquet of spider lilies that someone has left in a tall vase in the corner with calm movements, looking at nothing in particular while his hands work with habitual ease, noting the usual things, the bouquet is crisp-looking still, but the petals feel fragile, it would wither within the next two days and this is the right time to have it replaced. One of the maids is in charge of the decorations, he'll send for her.
Byakuya-sama could have cut him, instead he cut him loose from where he's been tied up and given him a chance to improve on his skills. Given him something to work for. Someone.
Isamu will make sure, that man shan't regret his decision. ]
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He's followed his grandfather enough to understand the basics of his responsibilities as Clan head. One of those responsibilities include keeping his temper in check in the face of what amounts to childish tantrums by grown-ups which is certainly also a challenge, if not a very interesting kind.
He makes his way to his quarters, dismissing Seike on the way with a curt nod. The man has, of course, enough self-control not to gawk at the kenseikan currently hanging limply down the side of his neck, the porcelain piece clinging on with what little's left of its structure. His hair's in a massive disarray. Apropos interesting challenges and such, Senbonzakura had been in a mood and his body bears the brunt of it in the shapes of cuts and bruises underneath his uniform, particularly to his right side. They are getting closer to perfecting the zone of proximity that he needs for battle - closer, he thinks uncharitably, meaning not as far from a solution as when they began. That's all it means.
Entering his quarters, he shrugs out of his haori with no second thought and heads directly for his dressing room. He notices the presence of Isamu the Servant - happily, that debacle became Seike's headache in the end, not his - and pauses briefly with his back to him, turning his head slightly. ]
I require assistance. Now.
[ He doesn't, normally. He handles his hairpieces by himself, as he was taught. But today, he has no time to struggle with it and struggle he will, inevitably, if he tries. By his hip, Senbonzakura hums, not quite content with their resolution. They both understand.
It's never good enough.
He leaves his sword in its stand and heads towards his dressing room, listening only for Isamu's footsteps as an afterthought, expecting him to either find someone suitable for the task or join him on his own. It matters little. It's a hair piece - though the one on the top of his head is quite intricate, the one on the side is an easy fix. The only thing he can't tolerate right now is slowness. He sits carefully in seiza in the middle of the room, hands on his thighs, gaze gliding over the tapestry without truly seeing it. ]
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The other man looks like he has been in a fight, the kenseikan on the side of his head clinging to loose strands of hair, broken into pieces, some missing, some just a pitiful display of - if not defeat, then stalemate. Frowning, Isamu collects the haori that the Kuchiki Clan Head discards, the white fabric ending up on top of the flowers and some tidbits that it was also time to exchange for other tidbits. The household has a whole system of circulating decorations, based on season and celebratory events specific to the Kuchiki family's internal clock. Isamu doesn't understand it, but he respects it nonetheless. The system doesn't require his understanding, only his undertaking.
I require assistance, says Byakuya-sama, barely looking at him and Isamu follows him into his dressing room, hidden away by a couple of folding screens for discretion without a second thought, because he is the one there and calling for someone would take time that it's obvious the other man doesn't have at his disposal or he wouldn't ask such a sensitive, vulnerable thing in the first place. Needing help is the first step towards getting disappointed, Natsu would say. And getting disappointed is the first step to getting hurt.
Why he thinks of that now, when it has nothing to do with this moment, Isamu doesn't know and he doesn't linger on it, instead stepping closer as Byakuya-sama seats himself in seiza on the floor, waiting without moving, without speaking, without looking, yes, almost without breathing, like a porcelain statue placed there. Kneeling once he's within a distance where he would tower over the other man unacceptably, Isamu kneels too and crawls the rest of the way, collecting the comb off the nearby stand and a new set of kenseikan on the way, all things he's been shown within the past two weeks where to find, and bowing his head as he moves in closer to the man's right side. You'll never need these, the master always fixes his own hair, Tori had said, which seems a grand joke now, but this is where we keep them, should he ask for a refill or similarly.
The small piece of porcelain feels chilly between his fingers and delicate. Heavy. His fingers feel coarse in comparison. He places it on the floor next to his knees, likewise the comb. Hearing himself breathe with a forcible calm, he speaks in a low voice, this close to Byakuya-sama's ear. ]
Let me relieve you of this.
[ The delay after he's said those words is minimal. His assistance was required, if the other man doesn't wish for him to touch him, he must stop Isamu himself. As such, he reaches for the small remains of hairpiece in Byakuya-sama's hair, because it truly looks rather pitiful. Not that Isamu has an opinion on that. ]
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Isamu, meanwhile, slips into his personal space with calming familiarity. He doesn't ask, merely observes and acts accordingly to what he sees, reaching for the ruined hairpiece. As he begins to disentangle it from Byakuya's hair, he's very aware of the other man's proximity - the slight heat of his body, the rustling of his clothes as he moves. It ought to irritate him but instead, somehow, his aching shoulder relaxes a fraction and his hands uncurl against his thighs. It's fine. It must be done.
Of course, the thing that bothers him the most is being pulled from engaging with Senbonzakura in such an untimely, awkward fashion, just for the sake of solving some petty crisis. One ought to trump the other, surely - protection and strength over unimportant grievances that could as well be resolved with appropriate humility. But of course, that's why the military makes sense and politics don't. He shifts a little as the weight of the broken hairpiece disappears, his hair tumbling down past his face as a consequence, loose and nowhere near as clean as when he left the barracks this morning.
In the background, his clothes are being brought in, one layer after the other. His next challenge, once Isamu is done with his hair, will be getting out of his uniform. He'd prefer to do so himself with how bruised he must be underneath - such physical damage feels like a personal affair. Instead, he will content himself with his servants, with Isamu and his gentle approach. Not for the first time, he appreciates the outcome of the other man's conflict within his house; it seems as if he fits in perfectly.
One wonders, perhaps, what he's done for his previous master. Byakuya hasn't taken any interest in it, as he doesn't want to make anyone think he's overly engaged with the affairs of a merchant family. He's thought about it, though, now and then. As he's doing now. Gaze gliding sideways, he observes the other man's movements, his posture. ]
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Once the hairpiece comes off, he has to yank a tiny bit and apologizes in a mutter, Byakuya-sama's hair tumbles all over the place on that side of his head, long (long, long) strands of inky black and Isamu puts the broken kenseikan down next to the unbroken one, as a reminder to toss it away later, then reaches for the comb and starts, still gently, but efficiently, to comb through the man's strands in long, even movements. It takes only a moment, then the worst tangles are out and he can begin to rearrange the long strands back into place with the new kenseikan, fastening it with a minimal amount of fumbling.
It really is like a woman's kanzashi, isn't it?
While he works on fastening the thing, though, Tori arrives with Byakuya-sama's clothes, layer upon layer of it, and Isamu can feel the older man wordlessly watching him out the corner of his eye, making assessment of his progress, his speed, things to indicate he is struggling with his task. He isn't, though. Frowning slightly, he considers Byakuya'sama's uniform that, even without his sword, is an impressive show of intricate knotting and folds to confuse his movements, no doubts, and make it more difficult to cut or strike him directly.
Just as that night with Natsu, Isamu is left with the stark knowledge, that he has never opened that kind of uniform before. He knows how they look, hakama, how they are crafted, he's worn one on occasion, too, but the practical assembling - or, as here, disassembling - of one is new. Especially on... the man's... person.
Although Tori is present, Isamu leans in with a low murmur, hands finding the hakama-himo, beginning, slower, more carefully, to undo the knotting which is intricate. You are not meant to leave this uniform except when dead, it seems. ]
Forgive my fumbling. I'm new to this.
[ The slight pause in Tori's step behind him is his only indicator that the older man has heard, taken notice and probably feeling shocked to his core. Then again, Tori doesn't know the story of how Isamu first met Byakuya-sama, does he?
Neither will he ever. ]