Post by Knowledge on Mar 8, 2014 12:22:41 GMT -5
Participants
+ Kyousuke Tsukimiya
+ Jasper Aizawa
It had been just over sixty-five years since Kyousuke had last lived in Rukongai, and he could recall that time of his life rather well: he had floated from occupation to occupation, searching for his calling as he waited for his soul to reincarnate. Eventually, he had found it—the Academy had beckoned and he had completed it in just two years, earning himself a spot in the Second immediately after graduating.
At the time, he had found it convenient—the division suited him, and he suited it, but one thing had led to another and eventually he had transferred to the Fourth, unwilling to subject himself to—
Well, needless to say, he hadn’t wanted to live with a daily reminder of what would never be his. Looking back at it now, he supposed he could have stuck to it, shown some ambition, and taken a leaf out of a certain man’s book, but then his situation had never been exactly the same, had it? The minor things, they were what counted, and it was the minor things that had been different enough to permit an entirely different life for his counterpart.
He put down the plate he had been holding and sighed, wiping his soapy hands on the front of his apron. There was something about washing dishes that seemed to encourage thinking about the past, and while he had gotten—for the most part, anyway—over the initial shock and abject horror of his actions, he still wore the ring.
He suspected that he would always wear the ring, no matter what happened. It was his way of grounding himself, of making sure he kept to his decision. A constant reminder of the price he had paid, of the life he had extinguished—the only one that mattered. Perhaps, Kyousuke thought to himself, as he looked up at the sword mounted on the wall behind him, the only one that didn’t deserve it. A devoted husband, a loving father, a responsible officer—these were all things Kyousuke was not, and would probably never be.
And still they made me their Commander. He couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself, as he had done with Mitsutaka. He had wielded ultimate military authority in Seireitei for all of five minutes, then he had quite casually thrown the job at the next poor sap in line. He wondered briefly if Ine and the Gotei would be alright, and then realized he didn’t really care. Kiriko had her captaincy at last, and he had put in a good word for Aizawa. That was it, really: an insufficient reward for a brilliant lieutenant and an insufficient apology for a man who had been dealt the worst hand at life he had ever seen. But it was also the best Kyousuke had been able to muster. Now he was simply... Waiting.
The Eighth District of North Rukongai wasn’t so bad, all things considered—he knew it well and the people were friendly. It lacked the immediate proximity to Seireitei that Kyousuke had been avoiding and it wasn’t so far from Mitsutaka’s garden (or was it? It was always very difficult to tell with that garden), but above all, it was peaceful. There were no murders, no violence—just people living their lives, and like Kyousuke, they too were waiting. For something else.
It was early afternoon and the handful of people who had dropped by for lunch had already left, so now there were a few hours to kill before he needed to open the place up again for the evening. It was unusual, however, for the place to be completely empty—typically there’d be at least one or two guests at all times, but for once, Kyousuke had the entire venue to himself. He liked that.
He dug back into the little pile of dishes and soon enough he was finished. Satisfied with his handiwork, he rinsed his hands clean and dried them off, then set to work straightening the chairs and tables.
He flitted around, making sure everything looked presentable, and after deciding to give all the surfaces a thorough wipe, he finally untied the apron and hung it on the peg behind the counter. Just as Tova and Mitsutaka had done, Kyousuke had adopted western clothing, but he wore it much in the same way he had worn his uniform: with care and dignity. Mitsutaka was happy to root around in the dirt and far be it from Kyousuke to tell him how to spend his time, and Tova—well, Tova had his own sense of taste to grapple with—but Kyousuke’s hobby at least had the benefit of being relatively clean, as long as he took the proper precautions. It was difficult to spill tomato sauce on your shirt and pants if you were wearing an apron, wasn’t it?
Besides, Kyousuke had always enjoyed surrounding himself with beauty. What better way than to dress well, even if it was a little on the casual side? He had taken extreme care to make sure the Second’s compound had always been nothing short of breathtakingly beautiful, and this as much as that was simply his way of contributing to the world around him.
But it wasn’t as though this entire—well, thing—he was doing was out of some selfless magnanimity. On the contrary, there had been a reason for everything. The restaurant itself had been a stroke of genius, he felt: here he was free to do what he enjoyed most, and it was simultaneously all that was expected of him. He cooked, and he listened. Not in the same way Mitsutaka did—the very personal, the very intimate delving-into-your-soul sort of listening—no, there was a word for what Kyousuke did: eavesdropping.
People talked when they ate, and Kyousuke couldn’t help but overhear. He himself didn’t talk much, because being friendly was exhausting and he didn’t really see the point anymore, but still people were prepared to consider him a good man, albeit with an odd choice of wardrobe. He hadn’t been around for very long—just over a week, but that was just a guess, he hadn’t been keeping track—but people didn’t seem to mind him or his presence. Kyousuke did what he had always done. He simply blended in.
Outside, the sun was shining brightly, and it looked like a fairly hot day, but in here, in the shade, it was cool and comfortable. He considered taking a stroll—maybe he’d visit Mitsutaka again—but he decided against it. Instead, he poured himself a glass of chilled barley tea and sat down, letting his consciousness wander. It was something he had taken to doing lately, just to see how far he could probe, but he didn’t expect much to come of it. Most of the people in the Eighth District were spiritually unremarkable.
Of course, that just made it easier to pick out when someone was remarkable, and as it happened, there was someone who Kyousuke instantly recognized heading in his direction right now. He took another sip, then rose from his seat.
He supposed he would have to fire up the grill and offer the man something to eat.
°1,224
+ Kyousuke Tsukimiya
+ Jasper Aizawa
It had been just over sixty-five years since Kyousuke had last lived in Rukongai, and he could recall that time of his life rather well: he had floated from occupation to occupation, searching for his calling as he waited for his soul to reincarnate. Eventually, he had found it—the Academy had beckoned and he had completed it in just two years, earning himself a spot in the Second immediately after graduating.
At the time, he had found it convenient—the division suited him, and he suited it, but one thing had led to another and eventually he had transferred to the Fourth, unwilling to subject himself to—
Well, needless to say, he hadn’t wanted to live with a daily reminder of what would never be his. Looking back at it now, he supposed he could have stuck to it, shown some ambition, and taken a leaf out of a certain man’s book, but then his situation had never been exactly the same, had it? The minor things, they were what counted, and it was the minor things that had been different enough to permit an entirely different life for his counterpart.
He put down the plate he had been holding and sighed, wiping his soapy hands on the front of his apron. There was something about washing dishes that seemed to encourage thinking about the past, and while he had gotten—for the most part, anyway—over the initial shock and abject horror of his actions, he still wore the ring.
He suspected that he would always wear the ring, no matter what happened. It was his way of grounding himself, of making sure he kept to his decision. A constant reminder of the price he had paid, of the life he had extinguished—the only one that mattered. Perhaps, Kyousuke thought to himself, as he looked up at the sword mounted on the wall behind him, the only one that didn’t deserve it. A devoted husband, a loving father, a responsible officer—these were all things Kyousuke was not, and would probably never be.
And still they made me their Commander. He couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself, as he had done with Mitsutaka. He had wielded ultimate military authority in Seireitei for all of five minutes, then he had quite casually thrown the job at the next poor sap in line. He wondered briefly if Ine and the Gotei would be alright, and then realized he didn’t really care. Kiriko had her captaincy at last, and he had put in a good word for Aizawa. That was it, really: an insufficient reward for a brilliant lieutenant and an insufficient apology for a man who had been dealt the worst hand at life he had ever seen. But it was also the best Kyousuke had been able to muster. Now he was simply... Waiting.
The Eighth District of North Rukongai wasn’t so bad, all things considered—he knew it well and the people were friendly. It lacked the immediate proximity to Seireitei that Kyousuke had been avoiding and it wasn’t so far from Mitsutaka’s garden (or was it? It was always very difficult to tell with that garden), but above all, it was peaceful. There were no murders, no violence—just people living their lives, and like Kyousuke, they too were waiting. For something else.
It was early afternoon and the handful of people who had dropped by for lunch had already left, so now there were a few hours to kill before he needed to open the place up again for the evening. It was unusual, however, for the place to be completely empty—typically there’d be at least one or two guests at all times, but for once, Kyousuke had the entire venue to himself. He liked that.
He dug back into the little pile of dishes and soon enough he was finished. Satisfied with his handiwork, he rinsed his hands clean and dried them off, then set to work straightening the chairs and tables.
He flitted around, making sure everything looked presentable, and after deciding to give all the surfaces a thorough wipe, he finally untied the apron and hung it on the peg behind the counter. Just as Tova and Mitsutaka had done, Kyousuke had adopted western clothing, but he wore it much in the same way he had worn his uniform: with care and dignity. Mitsutaka was happy to root around in the dirt and far be it from Kyousuke to tell him how to spend his time, and Tova—well, Tova had his own sense of taste to grapple with—but Kyousuke’s hobby at least had the benefit of being relatively clean, as long as he took the proper precautions. It was difficult to spill tomato sauce on your shirt and pants if you were wearing an apron, wasn’t it?
Besides, Kyousuke had always enjoyed surrounding himself with beauty. What better way than to dress well, even if it was a little on the casual side? He had taken extreme care to make sure the Second’s compound had always been nothing short of breathtakingly beautiful, and this as much as that was simply his way of contributing to the world around him.
But it wasn’t as though this entire—well, thing—he was doing was out of some selfless magnanimity. On the contrary, there had been a reason for everything. The restaurant itself had been a stroke of genius, he felt: here he was free to do what he enjoyed most, and it was simultaneously all that was expected of him. He cooked, and he listened. Not in the same way Mitsutaka did—the very personal, the very intimate delving-into-your-soul sort of listening—no, there was a word for what Kyousuke did: eavesdropping.
People talked when they ate, and Kyousuke couldn’t help but overhear. He himself didn’t talk much, because being friendly was exhausting and he didn’t really see the point anymore, but still people were prepared to consider him a good man, albeit with an odd choice of wardrobe. He hadn’t been around for very long—just over a week, but that was just a guess, he hadn’t been keeping track—but people didn’t seem to mind him or his presence. Kyousuke did what he had always done. He simply blended in.
Outside, the sun was shining brightly, and it looked like a fairly hot day, but in here, in the shade, it was cool and comfortable. He considered taking a stroll—maybe he’d visit Mitsutaka again—but he decided against it. Instead, he poured himself a glass of chilled barley tea and sat down, letting his consciousness wander. It was something he had taken to doing lately, just to see how far he could probe, but he didn’t expect much to come of it. Most of the people in the Eighth District were spiritually unremarkable.
Of course, that just made it easier to pick out when someone was remarkable, and as it happened, there was someone who Kyousuke instantly recognized heading in his direction right now. He took another sip, then rose from his seat.
He supposed he would have to fire up the grill and offer the man something to eat.
°1,224