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20 June 2009 @ 05:41 am
Spiced Noodles and Dried Kindle [Zaraki/Ichigo]  
Title: Spiced Noodles and Dried Kindle
Pairing: Zaraki x Ichigo
Fandom: Bleach
Genre: General, Friendship, Romance
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,093

A/N: Not really a pairing I ever entertained, and I don't write yaoi to tell you the truth. But...this was a gift.


Spicy Noodles and Dried Kindle

Virginity is like a bubble, one prick all gone.

Ichigo roamed the stalwart streets of Rugonkai with ease, almost like he had been born, raised, and destined to die there—for all his life. He contently kicked up rocks (as he did picking up his life, “from where we left it since”) and aimed them directly at Kenpachi’s ass.

It was a game they played: how long does it take to make you mad? –It took very little to get Kenpachi mad (Ichigo discovered this the hard way).

And sometimes, when that game became too trite, like it’s been played for thousands of lifetimes—and neither one of them saw use in stopping, a moratorium (becoming morticians)—they switched places. And Ichigo became the bait. And this new, fine-finagled arrangement would work, until the inner sadist rose to resume its lordly regime (in Kenpachi’s heart).

They still struggled for dominance. And Kenpachi was still quick—persnickety but speedy—to anger. (Ichigo proved to be just a little too good at the game, a tad bit too infuriating.)

“I know why you wear bells in your hair,” he would comment, smug and complacent with the callowness (cowed shallowness) of vigorous youth, left unspent.

“You know why, eh? So you say,” Kenpachi had an answer for everything. He was infinitely prepared in being unprepared.

“Yeah. It’s ‘cause you’re some kind of fucking one-man symphony.”

(The latter burst into uproarious laughter. That was good, priceless. “Fucking one-man symphony.” Oh, how he regretted having to kill the prey—sometimes.)

“You’re a funny-guy, ain’t you? Well, I got news for you, funny-guy, if you’re no chicken-shit, no stupid harmonica-blowing chump, then come and fight me. C’mon, what’s a harmless sparring between old pals? Whadya say?”

“Nope. Sorry, I’m just not up to it. Unohana’s orders.”

“Hell, that’s just too bad. Because, frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Unohana’s ‘orders’. I said fight me!”

“And I said no. What, old man, too wiped out to hear properly anymore?”

And that was the trickle that erupted the dam. Kenpachi leapt to his feet, ginger like a cat (clear-eyed, green-eyed, and always perceptive to changing milliseconds). He dashed forward, a stampeding herd stomping across hardened safari grass (mixed in with pellets and manure for that exotic appeal).

That kid stood no chance. He was about to get pummeled. And badly (Kenpachi added with a wide, wide grin.)


Appearances were deceiving, don’t I know it.

He tried, futile and aggravated by the umpteenth attempt, to flatten his spiked-up, towering dreadlocks into something more manageable, more docile, and “less prone to aftershocks and electrical failures.” (The gracious Unohana-taichou had informed him earlier, all benevolent smiles and malevolent intents.)

Damn. No avail. Shit. He screwed it up even more.

Stupid kid was going to get a hoot out of that one (Stupid Kid was already waiting by the door, holding his insides, repressing surges and barrages of uncontrollable laughter). He liked to mock, an awful, awful lot. Just a horrid habit.

Stupid Kid was indeed a stupid kid with bright, flaming orange hair and a heart too big. And no foresight, that was vexing.


It had been on a whim, him asking him to “grab a bite to eat, hungry? I know you are”. And it was a mistake to choose a noodle shop (now, Kenpachi figured this out long ago but never had the gall, the fucking audacity, to heed his own advice). He was a hard man won.

“Try it; the spicy Chinese noodles are the best. If you’ve lived long enough in Sereitei, you’ll soon realize they like to gobble down bland shit. Now, here, this is true living, my friend.”

Ichigo nodded tentatively and gulped down some noodles. Surprise, surprise. They were amazing. He smirked. Old Man had good taste.

“I thought you were messing with me again.”

“You? Naw, you’re too young and dumb to screw around with. But if it’s a physical rumble you’re picking, I’m all up for it.”

“I think you need to take it easy before you rip out those bandages again.”

“I think you need to watch your mouth.”

“Shut up and eat.”

“Same goes for you.”

They devoured the food in three, vociferous slurps. In a flash (like shuunpo, dancing daggers streaming invisibly behind the dark lady’s feet) the fare had disappeared. They leaned back against wicker chairs, lounging with swollen, full stomachs, and sighed: ahh! That had been an excellent lunch.

“Ready for a quick battle?”

—No thanks, not in the mood—


Kenpachi stormed around for days (Stupid Kid had some crisis mission to attend to, what a load of bull). His division shivered, shuddered, and muttered vicious curses under their doggy breaths. Yachiru sighed but scampered up his leg (as usual).

He pushed her off. She became upset. He relented. She smiled.

I’m getting too soft, he thought (very true) and lulled his anxious musings into a disturbed dream.

Here was what it portrayed: He had challenged Ichigo to a contest (kid protested, nothing remarkable) and eventually relented (his dream, his rules). Gathering kindle and heating the behemoth-stove, dead center in Sereitei. More fire, more rage. Higher, higher, faster, faster. He screeched like a slave-driver cracking down the cat-o’-nine whip. Winner received all. As to the prize, he was still groggy.

He won. Ichigo, defeated and fatigued, hung his head in shame and donned The Bells. Jingle-a-ling-ling. They blew gaily against the wind.

Now that was a beautiful dream.


Yachiru arrived the next morning, a bun dangling in her mouth (Kenpachi made a mental note to have a “chat” with Kuchiki Byakuya). She waved past him, perched right onto his lap—more tossing, turning, and general fidgeting. And finally, settled down, munching on her soggy treat, presented him a letter.

For me, oh you shouldn’t have. Sarcastic and caustic. He grunted a greeting.

“What is this?” he asked, rough and snippy (the lack of sleep was accumulating to a debilitating degree).

“I don’t know. Something from Ichigo in the human world.”

Kenpachi was delighted, though pretended to be annoyed. Great, a total piece of trash to read. (Human world materials disintegrated within hours, unless bound with strange reiatsu.)

“Stupid Kid,” he grumbled before snapping open the flimsy paper.

Another round of spicy noodles, his treat, and a genuine contest this time. No kindle-splitting, no water-logging. A true—and fair—fight. He’s been itching for it all right. Ichigo was a virgin pugilist when it came to dealing without cumbersome swords.


YXsharikqah on June 21st, 2009 03:54 pm (UTC)
Finally I get to see some of your writing.

I like the style - it is very meme-ish, as if Kenpachi's short attention span is ruling the entire story with random snatches of thought. The language is pretty good too (sometimes a bit too good for a fic aligned to Kenpachi).

Most interesting, though, is your use of parentheses, some of them within each other. Not sure if they operate as afterthought, or they verbalize images/ concepts either Kenpachi or Ichigo cannot convey properly because of the jarring strangeness of their friendship. But nonetheless, this fic gets top marks for its originality.
Y U no auto-translate?lye_tea on June 28th, 2009 05:15 am (UTC)
Thank you so much. :)
seiryuuchan: Kenpachi loveseiryuuchan on August 24th, 2009 01:34 pm (UTC)