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Byakuya heads to his sister’s family home to offer the most expensive, monopolizing market deal of its kind —not drugs— in the history of Seireitei. They, the Kuchiki siblings, even with no blood relations, share the same regard and talent for high art. Naturally, when he saw unassuming pieces of paper drawn with lines and circles meeting in inexplicable patterns created by his very young niece, Airi, he knew that Rukia saw in her daughter the same potential, and evidently, nurtured her talent for such endeavors. Byakuya is pleased with this; he means to purchase his little niece’s earliest, unrealized works handsomely and preserve them for generations to take inspiration from.
But Kurosaki Ichigo — pauses — wouldn't sell him even the smallest of his daughter's doodles on a kitchen paper towel.
The primroses are of the spring to be sure, blooming brightly in the quiet of late, faded-blue afternoons. “I’m slowly understanding this, it’s a good idea to get drunk on flower beds during daylight —or better, under the moonlight early in the morning, really,” says Renji, who hears it from the captain commander, to Rukia sitting in front of him in her office, “it is meditative, brings perspective, fuck, I could even write some beautiful poetry out of this shit.”
“Doubt it,” answers Ichigo, who just arrived alone, about to pick his wife up, and walk home with her and their daughter, “you just sound drunk and confused, Renji.”
“Shut up,” Renji snaps, but nods at him, and continues, “I think the commander asks the captain to make it look like hanami at least once a week so he could write poetry, those are blades. They’re all disturbed.”
“Ichigo,” Rukia acknowledges, but her eyes are behind him, on the freshly-cut grass and slowly receding sunlight outside. Their daughter is playing with Sentarou and Kiyone, then she looks at Ichigo, settled and heart at ease.
“Hey,” Ichigo tries to say, strained.
Renji is delivering papers to Rukia from his captain, “anyway, he’s coming to your house after, okay? I’m tired of hearing this in the past weeks, seriously, just give him what he wants.”
“Byakuya’s errand boy,” Ichigo snickers at him, too many times. He stands behind Rukia, who’s swaddled in her layers of hakama and haori, and folds his arms over his chest.
Renji glares at him severely, “you’re an errand boy for Rukia.”
“Proudly.”
“—did my brother say anything else?” Rukia breaks them coolly, lifting a paper from the heap of folders and staring at a request to block their schedule for a week. She puts it aside, and signs a specific requisition from his division then hands everything to Renji, “here.”
“Nah, just be there I guess,” he shrugs, “and maybe just to see your daughter, too. Where is she anyway?”
“Outside, she doesn’t want to see you, your scary ugly face,” Ichigo says hurriedly, meaning for him to go, so he can talk to his wife, “oi, don’t you have more papers to deliver?”
“Fuck you,” retorts Renji but without real heat, but likewise gets the message, his shoulders are slumping a bit anyway, “it’s been a long day and I hate you all.”
The shoji closes. Immediately, Ichigo turns to Rukia, and says, "if Airi vandalized a wall with crayons, Byakuya will have the portion removed and then encased the next hour," he warns grimly, he knows Byakuya is interested in his wife and daughter’s random sketches, "he'll do it even if it's someone's house, he’ll forcibly buy the entire goddamn house!"
Rukia looks up at her husband, amused, “wouldn't you do the same?”
“I, well…” Ichigo plops down in front of her, pouting angrily.
“I know my brother doesn’t mean anything bad,” Rukia insists, not entirely dismissive, but still amused.
“Ahh…” she nods approvingly at her desk, while rearranging the last of her signed paperwork today, her vice-captain is exceedingly efficient. She peers at him, eyes twinkling, “Ichigo, I can ask him to bring you chocolate mochi or tea…?”
“A bribe, is what,” he rolls his eyes. She is annoyingly calm, he thinks.
Together, his wife and daughter make a collection of drawings plastered in one of the rooms in their house, the largest one. Some of the drawings date back years and years ago, he knows because he’s diligent in adding all the dates to all their drawings and resupplying them with all the crayons (every color he can get!) and pro-grade pencils and leaves them scattered around the house wherever the sunshade is good. Rukia and their daughter are surprisingly nonchalant about their doodles and leave them lying around everywhere. Even when he is away, he would come home to weeks' worth of piling sketches and spend an afternoon filing them, oftentimes staring at the drawings and just, just marvel at the fact that his daughter made them. Rukia, before, would whack him for insulting her illustrations, but the less said about it, the better —and definitely not when their daughter is developing the same hobby. Airi is also starting to draw a consistently indeterminate sort-of animal everywhere, like what Chappy is for Rukia. Ichigo doesn’t know what his daughter draws yet, but it has four uneven stick legs and a head at least.
“Come,” Rukia says, ready to go home, standing up and laughing, melodious like tiny bells. She goes outside to greet her daughter.
Airi certainly thinks her mother’s drawing ability isn’t that of a bad hobbyist, it is something professional in her eyes. Apparently, in Byakuya's as well.
Ichigo doesn’t like the idea of Byakuya visiting his home, that room in particular as if it’s an art gallery. He’s always eyed Rukia and Airi’s drawing-room. Maybe he would attempt to steal a crumpled paper and frame it, or not, or he’ll most definitely offer to buy their doodles. It’s invasive —it’s just… no, it’s— he looks at his wife, unbothered and beaming even, and shouts after her:
“I’m not giving him anything, Rukia!”
Byakuya easily receives eight drawings from his niece that afternoon.
“The physics of light,” Byakuya says, expertly, like a discerning art connoisseur, “is subtle.” He’s holding an anthropomorphic drawing of a potted cactus, or a pickle sticking out of a flower pot.
Ichigo is also not sure what his daughter drew.
(in truth, he would rather cut his tongue first, eat it raw, then die by literally burning slowly than comment negatively on his daughter’s creations.
As for Byakuya: “in the 6th? Oh hell no, we never dare say anything against it!” Renji said sometime before, “let’s put it this way. Kuchikis, I mean captain, and Rukia and your daughter, they’re —they’re really good at drawing sticks and circles, but it stops at that. And you don’t really want to go against two captains, one of them your wife…”)
Byakuya visits their home with a different kind of force this time. He comes impressive, and pristine, and Airi is happy to see him. He is no longer in his shinigami uniform, but in navy blue and elegant black —something he thought appropriate for negotiation and eventual coercion. But it turned out, Rukia, respectfully, and Airi, cheerfully, said yes, the moment he said his intention to purchase, without batting an eye.
Ichigo shuts his eyes for a few seconds, a vein pops, he’s going to need more than tea tonight to calm down, “there’s no way…”
All four are inside their makeshift-gallery art room, looking at the prints plastered on the walls that Ichigo painstakingly put together. Byakuya is sitting in front of a desk where he examines the drawings, Rukia and their daughter hang on to his expert opinion.
“They are both free-spirited artists,” comments Byakuya evenly from the table, looking at Ichigo, “I commend you for at least not hampering their potential, even if you do not understand the nature of high art yourself.”
Ichigo shuts his eyes again and rubs his temples: Byakuya’s most celebrated art is a sand sculpture of a talking seaweed.
Ichigo is sulking, leaning at the shoji door frame, whispers, "goddamn." But he doesn't say anything else. Everyday, he is learning patience.
“...and Rukia, I expected nothing less from you and my niece.” Byakuya's eyes turn kinder when he looks at them, he gives away a bit of his fondness.
Rukia is probably holding back a gleeful scream, “thank you, nii-sama.”
After that, Byakuya is persuaded to stay for dinner.
Byakuya pities Ichigo, he is not sure if he realizes the potential of his daughter’s gift for the art world in the afterlife, and that of his wife as well.
“As a father, clearly, you do not appreciate Rukia and your child’s…immense talent.”
Ichigo, still very miffed, from his place in front of the kitchen sink, turns around, and makes an effort to glare at Byakuya squarely in the face, “are you saying I am not my wife and daughter’s biggest fan?”
“Hn,” Byakuya stands unmoving on their home’s engawa which opens to the garden, he spares Ichigo a look then looks back at the well-maintained lawn, “I will keep everything safe and…preserved.”
It is after dinner, Byakuya's supposed deal-making visit turned into a family inquiry visit. Ichigo cooked spicy curry for them, while Rukia toured her brother.
Ichigo is already drying the dishes, his sleeves are tied and there's a wet dishtowel slung over his shoulder, and his hair, long, is tied messily. He is wary of Byakuya, who, is still every bit as immaculate, even after getting what he wants without resistance.
“Your child will grow up surrounded by the strongest shinigami to ever walk on Soul Society, and yet, you and Rukia chose to raise her…” Byakuya says, watching Rukia and Airi out on the lawn in their light yukata, cheerful, barefoot, chasing glowing beetles into the tall bushes and trees, “...without complications.”
“Ahh,” Ichigo recognizes a compliment when he sees one. He calms down a bit but he won’t forget the eight drawings his daughter gave him.
There are a lot of nobility conventions Ichigo and Rukia outright ignored: no etiquette lessons, no elaborate clothes, no one talks about how powerful their family is, she can play with anyone, and on weekends, their daughter is free to stay with any of her relatives. Byakuya almost gives away his fondness.
“She thinks I make tea for her mother for a job,” Ichigo says, joining him on the engawa. They are as tall as each other, “which isn’t…exactly wrong.”
“Your work never ends,” Byakuya observes, and thinks of their home. Small as it is compared to his manor and even with the absence of servants, is clean, modest, and very readily loved. He seems to do all the housework, dedicated and untroubled, while Rukia takes over for the night, welcoming and ready to love; they are doing well.
“At some point, she will need to learn about you, her mother, and then she will know her potential—”
“If you send tutors here, I’ll send them back to you amnesiac as hell, and you’re gonna have to deal with that,” Ichigo warns.
Rukia is settling into motherhood naturally more and more, and thought endlessly about imagination and exploration and empathy (and good nutrition which he’s mostly responsible for) for their daughter. Ichigo suspects, at first, it’s probably the nerves to do well —expectations she made on her own and didn’t understand.
“We just…well, we just want to raise a good kid,” Ichigo sighs, very honestly, and laughs a little stiltedly, all the markers of a bleeding heart.
“You are both doing well,” Byakuya agrees.
A few meters away, Rukia’s chin is resting on her daughter’s head while they point to the sky, tracing starlight and constellation patterns they read in astronomy books — but all constellations are made-up anyway — totally engrossed.
A little later, Ichigo joins Rukia and their daughter out on the lawn, still stargazing. He brings them stoles; the wind is cool and they could do a few minutes more outside. Airi yawns a little, and Ichigo reaches out to pat her head.
“That’s you,” Rukia points out to the sky, when he settles beside her, “it’s very ugly.”
“I don’t see anything,” Ichigo says, staring at his wife.
“There,” she pushes his head upward, and points at the indeterminate bright little dots, nothing obvious, “there, there, see?”
“Huh?”
“Daddy, there, and that one little one is your nose,” says their daughter quietly, starting to become sleepy.
“My nose, huh?” he says kindly, reaching out and bringing their daughter to his arms.
“We think you’re surrounded by mosquitoes, too,” Rukia adds, tightening Airi’s small stole around her, and repositioning his arms around their daughter —something he thought her how to do before. He stares at her in quiet admiration.
Rukia, with a knowing glint in her eyes, “are you still mad about her drawings?”
Ichigo quickly rolls his eyes, “...and what if I am?”
Rukia, whose mood did not change much for the whole day, tells him quietly, “thank you for arranging and filing all her drawings.”
“Ahh…” Ichigo says, looking away, but still so very miffed.
“It’s not like you are giving away pieces of her, Ichigo,” Rukia reminds him, and immediately cuts to the heart of the matter, “her drawings, they’re material. We are spending time with her, that counts more.”
“I know that…it's just...she's growing up fast," Ichigo says finally, ''I just want to remember everything."
Rukia's heart clenches at that, "Ichigo..."
They watch their daughter for a while, noticing the rise and fall of her chest.
A little earlier, Byakuya opts to leave without disturbing Rukia and Airi.
“Please, you thought preserving their drawings was your idea,” Ichigo says to Byakuya at the gate, and then he whips out a silver key from his sleeve, “I got there first, I have their earliest drawings under lock and key —even those Rukia made of me when we first met which really sucked.”
Byakuya looks at the key, his expression unreadable.
Ichigo sneers, “you’ll have to say please like a polite little boy if you want more of her drawings, Byakuya.”