#syncopation

[Minnie]

summary:

[Post-SS] Him and her, they hardly have anything in common. But they'll make this off-beat rhythm their own.

You’re intentionally forgetting two words, Lisa points out. He starts at that. Short and angry, she says succinct before pointedly ignoring him and going back to her magazine. He groans. He almost wishes she’d just said the other thing instead.

drabble series about the fifth. things they know and learn about each other.

[read on ao3]

Rose tells him, completely at random, that he sounds like an erratic jazz quartet. Meanwhile, she sounds like a kagura dance. The ringing of the suzu was most prominent, he says. The taiko started weak, while the flutes were merely a breath in the wind. Eventually the beat builds to a crescendo, mixed with the cacophony of cymbals. It should sound discordant but the chime of the bells threaded it all together with an unexpected sweetness.

Shinji waits for Rose to get to the point. He eventually did if you let him. Anyway, he was careful not to interrupt in case he ended up on a tangent about his lieutenant, which happened more often than not.

That is, he says as he finally gets to it, the two of you should sound like a disaster and make my ears bleed.

Shinji nods, even as he frowns. He understands, but, I don’t know how I feel about you comparing her to a dance meant as entertainment for the gods.

Rose smiles in a way that he thinks makes him look profound, but really Shinji thinks it just makes him look like a jackass. Kagura was not just a ceremonial dance for the imperial palace. It started in the rural areas, in the local shrines. It could have nothing at all to do with gods. They could dance for something as simple as celebrating a good harvest.

They simply danced to celebrate life.

Rose and Kensei, in a way, it might have been easier for them. Kensei came back to someone who already worshipped the ground he walked on, enough to tattoo the proof of it onto his face. Rose had no point of comparison, having never had one to begin with. It might have been tough for his new lieutenant, but a relief too that his new captain resembled his old one as much as a crane resembled a fox. There was no chance to reopen old wounds by accident, and a poet and musician fit together perfectly (even as the poet in question vehemently begged to disagree). 

But for him and her who were tied together by a twisted bond, a shadow would always be hanging off their backs. Before, he thought he’d rather Hiyori shave him bald than ever admit to his lieutenant that sometimes when she walked behind him, he’d forget himself and the time, feeling ancient and new all at once. He’d turn and see a flash of brown hair, that straight posture, and a wrong syllable would almost make its escape out of his mouth (wrong not just because of who, but because of how, once, he used to call him, ‘assist’ instead of ‘dye’).

They notice things, the both of them. That frightening perception hidden behind an unassuming appearance. But where he could always tell somehow with him, in a way, perhaps she could be more dangerous because Shinji can’t help but let down his guard around her.

But perhaps that’s all there is to it. The symbol on his back, on her arm, danger yes, but also sacrifice, humility. Perhaps it’s all just a leap of faith, and knowing that there's still so much he doesn't know, where he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, but jumping anyway (again) because he knows that she with her trusty kido net is waiting to catch him at the bottom.

Because while Aizen might have tucked that moment of weakness into his sleeve like a secret knife just waiting to stab him as soon as he turns around, Momo just smiles, sad and sweet, and keeps on talking about more paperwork. He sighs mightily. Bless her but why did his lieutenant have to torture him so?

No glasses shield his gaze from her, refracting light and hiding what’s beneath. Her gaze is open, still open after everything, and perhaps a bit angry as he makes excuses to avoid being chained to his desk. Seriously, how did the captain of the tenth do it?

Again, maybe that’s all there is to it. He entrusts his back to her, even as, or maybe because she’s entrusting her front to him. He doesn’t know what reflections she sees in him. They’re all liars - him, his sword, and him. He sincerely admires her, her capacity to reach out that calloused hand, despite that.

(Eventually, he tells her about everything he first wanted to hide. He’s trying not to be a lie, you see, to reverse his nature. Or maybe, it was because he was more attached to his hair than he thought. Momo tells him, he used to pat my hair too, when I did a good job.

Incredulously, despite everything, that makes him laugh.

Syncopation: A Novel in Verse