The sound of stone on metal, scraping and rhythmic. Calloused hands, tanned and scarred by years upon years of work moved over the blade with the whetstone in a mindless pattern. Endlessly repeating, stroke after stroke, honing the edge of the blade to the point of being able to split hairs. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, clear and bright, interrupting the rhythm as those fingers gripped the stone just a bit tighter. As the echoes of the bell ended, the scraping began again.

He knew it was going to turn out like this. Going into it he'd known what was expected of him. It didn't matter. None of it did. He supposed that maybe they'd have had a chance. They could've fought. Could've demanded that their bond be acknowledged, but he should have remembered that it never turns out the way it is in fantasy.

Setting the stone down, he looked out across the training grounds, daring the sun to drive him inside like everyone else. He didn't sheathe his sword, leaving the gleaming metal out to enjoy the breeze. The spirit appreciated it. At the subtle pressure of the spirit he swiped his now empty hand across it, drawing the black and silver fangs out. The spirit made another noise of appreciation. He turned his eyes to it and ran his thumb along the largest fang. A small slice appeared in the pad, and he nodded.

He stood, taking a deep breath, and let his feet settle him into the first of a series of violent, yet graceful, katas. One set in the demanding sun forced him to stop and remove his kosode. He never wore the white shitagi if he could get away with it. This left him bare from the waist up, which, truly, was more comfortable to him than practicing in all of those layers. Probably some edge left over from his time in the Eleventh. He set the black over shirt off to the side, folded neatly because this wasn't the Eleventh, this was the Sixth, and the rules were different here.

Suddenly he glared at the neatly folded fabric, and pulled an extremely Eleventh-style move. He tossed the offensive over shirt up into the air and growled as loud as he could, "Howl, Zabimaru!" With a quick flick of his wrist the fangs of the blade reached out to shred the garment before it could land in the dirt.

The tatters fell, listing on the breeze from his swing when the blade retracted. One piece in particular caught his eye, a rounded former pocket, where, he knew, within was a small box. In that box was a trinket, a single gleaming blade in the shape of a sakura petal. It was strung on a cord as black as the lines that decorated his torso, and his eyes tracked the box as it hit the dirt, bounced out of the pocket and sprung open to reveal its treasure.

His ebony adored eyebrows drew together, darkening an already dark face. Without thought he brought the whip-like blade around again, this time aiming for the box itself. The metal no longer shimmered pink in the sunshine, and that was all the proof he needed. It was over, and he'd been left behind. Again. So when the fang of his soul slayer caught the cord, flinging the petal into the air again, he snarled at the glint of sunlight on it. He swung to slice the offensive trinket but in doing so caught it between fangs, where one was missing—the tip deliberately broken off.

The deepest level of commitment a Shinigami could make, a piece of one's zanpakuto, and he'd done it gladly. The sight made his resolve and anger burn away. Zabimaru dissolved into its sealed katana and Renji hit his knees one hand out to grasp the precious petal. The razor sharp edge dug into his palm but he didn't care.

He sat back onto his heels and tried to reign in the war of emotion threatening to steal the last of his pride. In doing so he clenched his fist around the petal, vaguely aware of the beginnings of blood dripping into the dirt between his fingers. The physical pain brought a rock in the hurricane, and he tightened his hand to make it more obvious.

His blood ran in streams down the cracks of his fist and that pain, added to the chaos in his head, broke the last thread of his pride. He fell forward onto his free hand, clutching his bleeding fist to his bare chest without bothering about the blood or removing the deadly charm dug into his palm. He hung his head, tears joining the blood on the ground. His teeth bare, and his shoulders shaking, he poured everything he had into that silently growing pool.

The nue was somewhere off to the side, but for once he didn't care. There could have been thousands of the tiny, deadly petals for all that he felt. There should have been. There had been once, and now, more than he ever had for as long as he could remember, he wished there were.

Somewhere in the distance people laughed. Somewhere they held each other and danced, happily to the sound of some talented musician. People ate and drank and made merry. There was a blushing, beautiful woman, her kimono just too loose to be traditional, the obi just wide enough to cover her entire midsection. Next to her was a tall, stoic, composed, beautiful man. His hair styled just so. His attire immaculate and complimentary to his coloration. His pale skin almost translucent in the midday sun. His dark, stormy eyes flecked with silver, and looking out over the gathering with—would be enjoyment? Would there be pain? Would he regret rolling over?

No, he wouldn't. He would have his customary mask in place. Possibly even pretending to smile every so often so as not to draw attention to his true feelings, and no one among the gathering would know what went on behind his façade.

Renji doubted any of them were even aware that the man's eyes were the window to his soul. That when he was in the throes of passion they clouded over with silver. That when someone he loved more than anything else was wronged the precious orbs darkened to the shade of a summer thunderstorm. And that when he was completely content, secluded away in the privacy of his quarters, the mask dropped completely. Did they even know how complicated that man was? No. All they saw was their Clan Leader.

But, for all their misunderstanding, he had chosen to agree. He had decided to go ahead with it. He'd rolled over like a trained performance animal. Renji wouldn't think of him as a dog, because he was the dog; the stray, barking at the mood; the monkey trying to catch the moon's reflection without ever truly seeing it. Never before had Renji believed that more than he did now.

Let the perfect man, with his perfect world, and his perfect life live that way. Renji didn't need wealth or fine things. He'd grown up with little more than the clothes on his back. As long as he had enough food in his belly, he was good.

He was lying.

He didn't know how long he lay there, in the dirt, blood and tears where he'd collapsed when his strength gave out. It must have been a while because the sun had cooled. The breeze had picked up. Somewhere at the far end of the field the trees rustled. He snorted, because those trees reminded him of everything he didn't want to remember right now.

As such, he didn't hear the footsteps in the dirt until the voice spoke above him. "Abarai-fukutaicho." His voice was so soft it was painful, and Renji winced as though the figure above him had cut him. This pillar of nobility that never repeated himself, did so. "Abarai-fukutaicho."

Others may have interpreted the repetition to be colored with irritation, annoyance, perhaps concern, as having been ignored the first time, but Renji heard none of it. The speaker was just as unemotional the second time as he had been the first time. It cut into the vice-captain deeper than the petal blade still clutched in his hand. He had lost feeling in the first two fingers and his thumb. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he realized that this was a bad sign, but frankly he just couldn't bring himself to care.

A delicate ebony eyebrow twitched as the only outward sign that he noticed something was decidedly wrong with his vibrant second-in-command. Absently the thumb of his left hand adjusted the ring on the third finger there; he was not used to it. It had been almost 60 years since he'd worn one. He contemplated speaking a third time. Perhaps his vice-captain hadn't heard him, perhaps he was sleeping, but no, his reiatsu was not relaxed and there was something—a scent—on the air.

Never before had he ever seen the energetic fighter from the Rukongai in such a state, even after the horrible battles preceding and during the Winter War and the events that followed after in cleaning up Aizen's mess. If his second was a weaker man he would have considered the possibility of someone from another division being too zealous in sparring, but there were very few who could even keep up with the man on the ground in front of him, let alone surpass him in such a manner.

Stepping carefully around the prone form in the middle of his training ground, Byakuya frowned ever so slightly. Zabimaru was sealed and off to the side, and Renji's left hand was clutched to his chest underneath him. Somehow his signature crimson ponytail was loose, the band long forgotten, and as such the strands stuck to his face, whether from sweat or something else, Byakuya didn't know. As he moved around so that his shadow no longer fell on his vice-captain he identified the smell in the air—blood.

Now he spoke again, "You are bleeding." And he caught the way the object of his attention flinched at the sound of his voice. Somewhere, under the mask a coil of pain and guilt made itself known. He absently fiddled with the ring on his finger again, and he began to see what was truly wrong with his second-in-command. On his chest, buried under the layers of clothing almost as deep as his invisible mask, a slightly curved sliver of metal began to burn, heavy and cold against his breast bone.

Suddenly he wished they were inside, behind closed doors, with the rest of the division gone for the weekend. The coil of pain writhed against his mask, and he tasted bile on the back of his tongue. The charm he still hung around his neck grew heavier and the nue made its presence known in cold swift judgement.

He closed his eyes, lest the pain within break through his façade, and unwrapped the almost-white scarf from around his neck. I gave this to you once, Renji, when your fang reached me. Please, take it again, now, when I have maimed you so horribly. He laid the cloth over the form on the ground, as equally cut down now as the last time he had performed the motion. Then he was gone, the weight of the interaction too much for his walls to withstand. As such he didn't see Renji reach out and grasp the cloth, dirtying it with the blood and soil caked into his left hand.

In that moment Renji made a decision. His eyes, hidden behind his hair, alighted on the naked steel of Zabimaru. Dragging himself to his feet proved to tear open the cuts on his hand again, adding bright red to the stain of brown on the scarf. He took himself off in the opposite direction as his taicho.

It was much, much later when he returned, dressed in his favorite yukata and a pair of non-descript hakama. He carried a bundle of neatly folded black and white clothing; missing one kurosode. He delivered it to its appropriate destination, and disappeared into the darkness of Seireitei at night.

The next morning when Kuchiki-taicho, sans scarf, stepped into the office building of his division he found the pile of clothing, a small stack of paperwork, a sealed envelope with his name on it, and the vice-captain's badge. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch the badge. No matter the strength of his mask, it was nothing compared to the stab of agony he felt when he recognized the resignation papers, filled out with the neatest handwriting he'd ever received from his—now ex—vice-captain.

Fearing that he would lose all of his composure standing in the hallway, he quickly gathered the pile into his arms and actually used Shunpo to get behind his door and lock it. Once there he left the clothing and badge on the desk he couldn't bear seeing, and took the paperwork and envelope to his own workstation. The paperwork he set in the middle of his well-organized desk, and took the somewhat oversized envelope in trembling hands.

He broke the seal, and pulled his scarf from the confines. It was stained, deep brown from blood, and cut in half, the precious silk ragged and torn. From the pattern of blood, he could tell what Renji had done with it. Through all of this he maintained his mask, at least insofar as to not outwardly loose the hissing, spitting, mocking pain that put pressure on the back of his eyes. Then he heard a tinkle, and he could do nothing as the tears spilled from his eyes mimicking the falling of a single, shimmering, charm in the shape of a sakura petal. It flashed pink very briefly, and disappeared into nothing before hitting the desk.

Around his neck, where it always sat no matter what, even yesterday through the circus act in which he had participated, the silver and black fang hung heavy and so cold it burned. It hadn't disappeared. The owner was nowhere nearby, but he knew that over time, it would stop reacting to his reiatsu. It didn't matter where Renji went, the further he got from Byakuya the less connection the fang around his neck would have, until eventually, it would simply be a silver charm on a cord the color of a vibrant young fighter's tattoos.