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Renji only felt a little guilty using the lieutenant’s office for the personal work of replying to the engagement gift. The Third Seat, Imai Nanako, stopped to read over his shoulder when she brought him a bowl of tea.
Thunder rolled outside the window. The storm only held off an hour or so after the lunch he and Byakuya shared on the estate’s veranda. Renji’s shihakushō was still damp from his dash across the courtyard. He glanced up at her, at first concerned that she was lingering at his elbow because she didn’t know how to inform her commanding officer that he stank of… well, wet dog. Not that any of Renji’s subordinates were stupid enough to say that to him, at least not the dog part.
Instead, Nanako squinted at his writing. “You’re writing a thank you note to Bushigato Tsubume?”
“You know him?” Renji set his brush down on its holder.
“Only by reputation,” she said, her eyebrows going up, like maybe she was impressed that Renji was writing to someone so cool. “Wakayama got invited to some big archery contest in the kizokugai. Bushigato ran the thing.”
Wakayama Rin was the Division’s Seventh Seat. Renji had a vague sense that Wakayama had some kind of archery-related shikai. He’d been embarrassed to show it off because archery was so strongly connected to Quincy. It didn’t help matters that Wakayama dripped with the arrogance of nobility. Even his release was even something highfalutin like ‘Mushin,’ the Zen empty-mind state. “Huh. Figures.”
Nanako gave Renji a curious little grimace. “I mean, it sounded cool, honestly? Shooting arrows from a charging horse. I’ve never seen a war horse, have you?”
Renji shook his head. He’d never really seen any horse until recently. They’d have been eaten for their meat in Inuzuri.
“It must have been cool to watch.” Nanako settled into the Western style chair behind the Third Seat desk. It creaked a bit on its springs as she sat forward to pull a big stack of paperwork towards herself. “So how do you know Bushigato?”
The thunder did a slow roll overhead as the rain battered at the window’s shutters.
“He’s Bya--er, the Captain’s first cousin, once removed,” Renji explained. Pitching his voice low, he added, “Um… gifts have started to arrive.”
Nanako knew about the engagement, of course. The rest of the Division would learn soon enough, he supposed. He was still unsure how to feel about the whole thing. It felt weird enough to be sending off thank-yous, but at least that was within the realms of his duties as an adjutant.
Nanako had either not heard the bit about the gifts or was too excited about the first part to absorb it. “A cousin! That’s so legendary!” she said. “The Kuchiki are fucking legendary!”
Renji nodded absently, returning his attention to the note--a note in which he was thanking the apparently ‘legendary’ fuckwad who’d called his very own cousin and the head of his entire clan ‘pale lightning shit.’ The Kuchiki were certainly something all right.
#
Just as Renji put the finishing touches on the thank-you note, a breathless Muira, their Fourth Seat, stuck his head in the door to the lieutenant’s office. He clutched the wooden frame with whitened knuckles. “Help? The Captain is in the practice yard smashing dishes.”
Already on his feet, Renji started for the door. “What?”
#
Renji could see what had made the Fourth Seat so frantic. Flashing into the portico beside the courtyard, porcelain crunched under Renji’s tabi. The rain, at least, had lessened to a drizzle.
Byakuya had lined a whole bunch of what could only be priceless, one-of-a-kind sake bowls, plates, saucers, and gods knew what all else along the railing. He seemed to be using small, concentrated clusters of Senbonzakura’s petals in a new way--the blades shot out at near shunpo speed and shattered the pottery with a precision strike and an ear-splitting crack.
A crowd had gathered to watch the display of power.
In the overcast light, Senbonzakura was majestic. What the Captain might not realize, but which was visible to everyone watching, was that the rest of the pink petal-blades arched around him in the shimmering shape of a phoenix. Its wings outspread, looking not unlike the fire-bird of the Sokyoku. In the muted light, it was more obvious that Senbonzakura was composed of tiny blades as their edges glittered and flashed, sparkling like diamonds.
Even though he risked breaking Byakuya’s concentration, Renji cleared his throat. “You developing a new shikai technique there, Taicho?”
Renji’s breath caught when Byakuya turned to answer and Senbonzakura rearranged itself to become the shape of a giant snake, a perfect mimic of Hihiō Zabimaru. Byakuya, still unaware of the pink, undulating shape behind him, said, “Indeed. Tell me why I should not use it to murder Aunt Masama.”
The clipped, careful words were 100% Byakuya, but his expression was open, raw. He looked… upset, hurt. Oh, Renji thought that might explain Senbonzakura’s air art. Something about this new shikai technique must be causing them both to have to be… expressive, open, unmasked.
Conscious of the fact that half the Division seemed to be watching them, Renji tried to think. He needed a way to reset Byakuya. The captain might hate himself for being this vulnerable in front of everyon else. So, Renji sketched a formal bow. “It’s your family’s business, Taicho. It ain’t for me to say, sir.”
It worked. Byakuya blinked as though suddenly awaking from a dream. Senbonzakura collapsed back into their katana shape as Byakuya dropped out of shikai. As he became aware of the gathered soldiers, the indifferent, aloof mask fell back into place, his expression blanking. He turned his back on Renji, “Gather up what remains of these abominations and meet me in my quarters, Lieutenant."
Renji snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”
Turning to Muira who’d followed on Renji’s heels, Renji barked out his own set of orders. “Fourth, you organize a cleaning crew, stat. The rest of you lot,” Renji said, raising his voice to be heard by the gathered throng, “aren’t paid to stand around and gawk. Anyone not assigned to clearing up this mess who is still loitering around here in twenty seconds gets double KP duty. You understand me?”
The chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ was almost deafening as the crowd quickly dispersed.
#
Renji stood in the hallway just beyond the rice paper door. He’d gotten caught up admiring the light pink saucer that had been hand-painted with a cherry orchard in full bloom, its petals scattered across the glaze in a wave, so he jumped when Byakuya’s deep voice boomed out, irritably, “Come in, Lieutenant. We are long past this kind of ceremony.”
“I just don’t get it,” Renji said, holding up the pink plate for Byakuya to see. There had only been about five plates left on the railing. All of them had a unique design, though Renji felt this one was by far the prettiest. Setting Zabimaru to one side and the plates carefully down on the other, Renji settled across from Byakuya in the little conversation nook in the corner of the Captain’s Quarters. Tea and snacks were already set out on a low table, probably brought by Aio from the estate.
Renji decided to get right to it. “Why are you breaking plates, babe? What did Masama do this time?”
Byakuya relaxed a little at the use of the term of endearment, but he still sounded quietly furious as he said: “I am profoundly tired of the casual cruelty of my extended family. The anniversary of Hisana’s death was mere days ago and yet they are relentless.”
Renji looked again at the pink plate at the top of his little pile. “Oh, so more engagement gifts?”
“So-called. In sets of four or nine only.” Byakuya’s lips were thin, but his voice remained steady, emotionless. “If it had been feasible to send forty-nine of something, they would have found a way.”
Forty-nine was the most unlucky number because it combined the number four, which was a homophone for death, and nine for suffering. Together they made something akin to ‘agonizing death.’
Renji didn’t always know what to say when Hisana was thrown into the mix of their relationship, but it wasn’t difficult to understand the problem here. It was one thing to send symbolic hate gifts as a gesture of disapproval. It was quite another to do it again, particularly since the ill-wishes towards the intended couple had come true. Hisana had suffered and died. Byakuya’s first marriage had actually been destroyed by pain, anguish, and death just like these bastards wished it to be.
And now they were wishing him to go through all that again? Fucking fuckers
Renji picked up the delicate pink saucer and, with a burst of reiatsu, crushed it in his fist. “So which one do we kill first?”
This seemed to crack Byakuya’s stiff posture even further. He let out a shaky breath, but then steadied himself. He put his hands on his thighs and lifted his chin. “The main villain is, as always, Aunt Masama. I heard from Hirako that she received notification of our engagement at Academy. You were simply referred to as yet another Inuzuri puppy.”
Renji knew he was supposed to be insulted by that, but he found himself smirking, “So, wait, they don’t even know that I’m a guy?”
“Apparently not.”
Perhaps it was Renji’s dark chuckle in response, but seemed to finally, fully relax. Or at least become as relaxed as Byakuya ever could. He lifted a cover off of a tray to reveal several types of manju. Picking up an empty bowl, Byakuya poured tea into it and handed it to Renji.
“She got out in front of me,” Byakuya said with a little frustrated grunt, replenishing the tea in his own bowl. “I’d planned on sending the formal announcement just ahead of the Hanami. In fact, if I am honest with myself, my plan was to delay long enough so that it might be too soon for gifts to be commissioned or bought and, with luck, even for some travel plans to be made.”
“Heh. Surprise! Engagement!” Renji said, helping himself to what he hoped was a manju filled with sweet bean paste.
“Just so,” Byakuya agreed.
Renji smiled inwardly at the discovery that he’d lucked out and guessed right on the manju. Gobbling it up quickly, he reached for another. “But, without your family at the Hanami, that would just leave the Eleventh and all my other degenerate friends.”
“Your family,” Byakuya corrected with a little admonishing gesture with his half-nibbled sweet. “Let us not besmirch my soon-to-be in-laws.”
“You know what I’m saying, though,” Renji insisted. “I thought you wanted a formal thing. I love them, but you and I both know that my buddies are a bunch of thugs. They have no idea what to do with all that formality.”
“Rukia does,” Byakuya countered. “As do many of our other colleagues.”
Byakuya had him there.
After all, if Byakuya had his way, the entire Gotei would be invited to this shindig and half the captains were of some nobility--or at least not born in the Rukongai.
“Not that it matters now, at any rate.” Byakuya frowned at the half-eaten manju in his hand and then popped the whole thing in his mouth. Renji watched as he chewed and swallowed the large piece. He was clearly really horny, because watching Byakuya’s sculpted mouth work and the way the food moved down that long elegant neck nearly got a rise out of him. He tried to focus, because Byakuya was still clearly upset about this whole thing.
“Alas,” Byakuya said with a little lick of his lips that, in fact, drew a shiver from Renji. That little bit of tongue? Holy shit. Renji had to struggle to hear what Byakuya said next: “We will be inundated once again. I only just cleared them all out after my birthday.”
Except there were still a lot of Kuchiki scions running around at the moment thanks to all the hostages they currently hosted. Renji shifted his legs trying to calm down his over enthusiastic, and inappropriately timed body. “I mean, I guess that’s okay, right? It’s a chance for some of the families to be together for the holiday.”
Byakuya raised a sculpted eyebrow. “It is a kindness they would never afford me.”
“Clearly,” Renji agreed with a glance at the remaining plates at his side. “Yeah, but, see. That’s why you’re the better man.”
Byakuya seemed to receive the compliment grimly, but he consented to a little nod of acknowledgement. “Not that it gets me much,” he muttered. Byakuya’s eyelids fluttered downward and he stared for a long moment at his tea. Then, his head snapped up. His grey eyes flashed like this morning’s storm as he captured Renji’s gaze. “Things are even more dire, Renji. I may need to ask dear old Aunt Masama for a… favor.”
Byakuya spat the last word out.
Renji, who had been reaching for his third treat, froze. His growing arousal died.
“I told you about the problem with the Second Division’s tenshintai and Senbonzakura,” Byakuya continued, his gaze slipping to the side almost guiltily. “I can not even fathom the amount of trouble I’ll be in for having spoken of any of this to anyone. However, I fear that Aunt Masama might be the only person alive who knows who to contact to replace the seal that protects me from…” Byakuya hesitated for a split second, but then said, “my uncle’s zanpakutō, Muramasa.”
Renji did not have a single clue what Byakuya was talking about, though he did remember the conversation from a few nights ago. Byakuya had mentioned something about how that creepy zanpakutō-pulling device at the Second replicated ‘outlawed abilities.’ Did that mean that there was a shikai or bankai out there that could separate a shinigami from their zanpakutō? And that technique had belonged to Byakuya’s own uncle? “I thought… I mean, I guess I thought your aunt was a widow. Did I know she wasn’t?”
“It is easy to forget. She plays the part of a dowager aunt very well.” Byakuya turned his head to the side and rubbed his ear like a little boy. If the conversation wasn’t so serious, Renji would have died from the cuteness of the gesture. “Masama retains much of her status in our family’s hierarchy in part to make up for the fact that she has been forced to remain forever separated from her beloved husband, my uncle.”
Given how Byakuya forced each word of this story out of his mouth,in a way that made it clear that breaking the family’s restriction on whatever this secret was, was killing him. Even though Renji had a thousand more questions about what the fuck happened to this uncle, he set them aside. At least for now. “Okay, so, let’s see. The last time we interacted with Masama I took a kick aimed at Aio and then you went and bowed your head to the servants.”
Byakuya let out a little helpless sound, halfway between a cough and a sob. “She may never speak to me again.”
“Nah,” Renji said, popping the manju in his mouth and standing up. “I got you.”
#
Renji found Masama in the garden of the south-east wing. She’d mostly claimed this entire section of the Kuchiki estate as her own, even though the occasional moist breeze brought with it the distinctive scent of the nearby stables.
Swallowing a cough at the pungent stink of horse shit, Renji figured that was probably why Byakuya let her have it.
She glanced up at Renji’s arrival. She put a finger in the slim volume she was reading, a collection of poems that Renji immediately recognized as written by Byakuya’s father Sōjun. His calligraphy was distinctive, having been written carefully with his non-dominant hand. It always had the look, Renji thought, of someone writing while hurt or injured. The careful, painful shape of each character added an unconscious depth to many of his koan, haiku, and poems.
The Kuchiki fuck up all their kids, Renji mused grimly.
His irritation at that thought must have brought a scowl to his face or an unconscious growl to his throat, because Masama was on her feet, backing away from him. “Have you come to assault me, Lieutenant?”
As if.
Though the thought always sort of amused him in a fantasy-sort of way. However, none of this was a great start to what he needed to do. “The opposite, Kuchiki-sama,” he managed and then dropped to the still slightly damp grass. Stifling Zabimaru’s hiss that rattled through every fiber of his being, Renji prostrated himself. Flat. “I have come to apologize.”
“What, of the many possible options, are you apologizing for, Abarai Renji?”
Renji grimaced at the grass. “Not my existence, if that’s what you’re hoping. Nor my love for your nephew.”
“Alas,” she said lightly, though clearly disappointed. “If not that, then what?”
This was the hard part. “Uh… you know, our last interaction.”
“You’re apologizing for coming between me and my justified punishment of a serving girl?”
The snarl he made accidently came with noise.
“Exactly,” she snapped. “This wretched display is completely insincere. Get up and get out of here, you filthy baboon. Stop insulting me with this hollow gesture.”
We could give her a Hollow Gesture, grunted the Baboon King.
Yes, hissed the Snake Tail, Hikotsu Taihō.
We ain't smacking the Captain’s auntie with Baboon Bone Cannon, Renji hushed. I’m trying to help Byakuya out here.
Feeling Zabimaru reluctantly retract back into place, Renji pushed himself to his feet. “Yeah, you got me. I regret nothing. I’d do it again so fast heads would spin. So, tell me. What’s it gonna take for you to come to dinner with Byakuya tonight?”
#
Byakuya gave his aunt a long, dubious stare. Apparently, the price Renji had had to pay for her to consent to talk to him was to simply not be present. A much more onerous price than Byakuya would have ever agreed to, but here they were.
He did not waste the sacrifice, however.
Byakuya had ordered Eishirō and the rest of the staff to treat tonight’s dinner as though they hosted a visiting dignitary. The finest china was on full display. Miki had stepped aside to allow a chef from the noble enclave renowned for his seasonal delicacies to take over the kitchen. They had even set up a formal table in the Cherry Room, a room whose singular purpose was to afford the diners in it a spectacular and unobstructed view over the Kuchiki cherry orchard during Hanami.
The trees of course were still barren but for the tiniest shoots of blossom bud growth. The plum trees scattered throughout, however, still had a few purplish flowers on display. The rain had stopped a few hours ago, rendering a sunset that raged pink, purple, and rose. The barest hint of a rainbow arched over the estate grounds.
Even without the cherry blossoms, it was an exquisite view and, more importantly Byakuya imagined for Masama, allowed only to family.
With a flush of self-recrimination, Byakuya realized that even Rukia had never been invited to this space. As he contemplated how to rectify that, Byakuya nibbled on the delicately tempura-fried butterbur buds in silence.
Having attempted a few pleasantries at the start only to be rebuffed by cold, short answers, Byakuya determined that the best course of action was to allow Aunt Masama to open further negotiations.
There had been nothing but silence for several, very long minutes.
“You’re awfully contrite, Bya-chan,” she purred, clearly clever enough to have sussed out her position of power. “What you want from me must be truly massive.”
“More than that,” he acknowledged, setting his chopsticks down in their matching jade holder. “It may be personally painful for you to perform.”
“Surely, you're joking.” Her laugh was cold. “Am I supposed to believe that you care about hurting my feelings?”
“In this matter, I do.”
That stopped her.
Eishirō who would normally leave serving to a servant of a lesser stature chose that moment to bring out the second course. As his son, Yuu, almost invisibly whisked away the previous set of plates, Eishirō set down platters of artfully arranged zenmai, royal fern shoots, in front of each of them. The tender stems had been flash boiled in salted water and were now being served with a simple seasoning of soy sauce.
Supposedly, the simplicity made them more elegant. Byakuya had always preferred his zenmai stir-fried with vinegar, sugar, and sesame oil to better disguise their bitterness. However, he was aware that Masama preferred hers prepared this way.
She gave him a surprised look over her plate. “But you hate zenmai like this!”
Hate was a little strong, but he conceded the point. “It is a small gesture. This favor I am asking has to do with my uncle, your husband.”
Masama had been greedily picking up her chopsticks to take a first bite, but paused. Her face paled. “Has the time come? Are they executing Kōga?”
Byakuya wondered who had the authority to do such a thing to a Kuchiki--Central 46, perhaps? Someone from the Royal Realm? He set that mystery aside with a little shake of his head. He touched the spot on his heart where the seal had been placed. “Senbonzakura and I came in contact with a device created by a former member of the Second Division that mimics Kōga-dono’s zanpakutō’s shikai. Despite this machine’s imperfections, my defensive seal activated and, thus, may have broken. You are the only person alive who knows the person who set those seals in place.”
Tears sparkled in Masama’s eyes. Had he said something offensive?
“Dono. You called him Kōga-dono.”
Damnation! He had misstepped! Byakuya quickly added, “My apologies, honored aunt. Of course, my esteemed uncle should be referred to as Kōga-sam--”
She cut him off. “No, you misunderstand. No one ever gave Kōga an honorific of any kind.”
That didn’t seem right. Kōga had married in as a head of household and taken the name Kuchiki. Masama was the eldest of Gensei’s children. In the Kuchiki patrilineal tradition, Kōga had all but become heir apparent. He wore the kenseikan. He would have deserved a -dono, possibly even more. “I don’t understand.”
Her face closed off. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”