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❝ 𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗬 𝗕𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗛𝗗𝗔𝗬, 𝗞𝗘𝗡𝗡𝗬 ! ~ ❞

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❝ 𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖨'𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇. ❞

‘ Hm? ‘

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Burrowing his blade in the mud, parked against a tree, head descended into his lap.

And as he goes to scream her name at the sky, and forsake it, the darkness in his mind materializes a voice. The same voice he heard in Muken. . . +

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Why is his pillow so wet in the dark when he thinks about her? Or his chest so tight? Even now, he feels lost, aimlessly wandering in the rain with faith she’ll be there, crawling about waiting for him to pick her up so she can swing from his back and return home.

“Yachiru. Where are you?”+

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When it was all over, he hoped she’d return and no such luxury came to pass and he was alone for the meantime.

What words could possibly articulate how much she is missed? Kenpachi’s only feel the rhythm of battle in their veins, not emotion. Why now? +

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A voice in the dark sang to him, and when he went to fight, she was nowhere as if she never even existed. A figment of his imagination.

She appeared again when he battled that colossal douche, Gerard. She whispered something and vanished into gold dust once more. +

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Time progresses and once and awhile, Zaraki would crack a little smile at her antics and indulge in the festivities to please her. No one, just them, as it’s always been.

When he left his eyepatch to her, who would’ve thought it would all cease to exist —— alternatively becoming recollections. +

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A toy. Candy. A cake. Some expensive gift that she made their subordinates or co-workers purchase with their hard earned yen.

He’s never understood exactly why, who cares about birthdays? Holidays? Anything that isn’t war. +

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Every eventuality onwards involved her and Zaraki together as one, including her shenanigans, whether it be her sweet tooth adventures or miscellaneous trouble making.

Oddly enough, on the nineteenth of November, year after year, she’d present him with something. +

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——— until he and the child grew a bond underneath a dead tree. Him, bathed in blood and her, playing in it. When he stood up, she followed him, and when she couldn’t walk anymore, he carried her until she fell asleep on his back. Together, they walked. Zaraki, now had a friend. +

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Child murder is a crime that is likely certain to go unpunished. Zaraki was a murderous criminal as a child, the opposite wouldn’t be in stark contrast

He struck these men down, saved the kid, and seemingly committed an act of justice for the first time. That void was there, still. +

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A toddler, about trampled. The culprits, a bunch of low rent mercenaries, or hoods, or an organized unit of disarrays all having a bad day at the same time and needed someone to blame. The districts, at least the one where he resided and their neighbors, are impoverished hellscapes. +

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The Captain Commander, strict geezer that he was, elated him with promises of strength unrecovered, until that whole operation was disbanded and Seireitei didn’t seem interesting anymore.

Nameless, outlawed, and lonely —— he discovered something . . . Someone. +

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Unohana brought him joy momentarily, and disappointed him when she abandoned their unspoken covenant to practice medicine — to aid then men and women whom, if she had been acquainted with at her pinnacle of monstrosity, would’ve seen as mercy killings. +

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With each step, comes a memory. He blinked phantom sketches into reality, of dead men or men gasping for breath as their lives recede into nothingness . . . Their last sight —— the maddened face of a child who knows only chaos.

Merciless murder of weaklings depressed him. +

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+ Oddly enough, contrary to his proneness to folly, he descends — stretching out across the couch and wrapping his arms around her waist, head on her lap, face nuzzled into her stomach.

Zaraki wouldn’t voice his opinion, but he was sad.

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