Also, my little sister turned eighteen today! お誕生日おめでとう、妹ちゃん!
Title: Rolling Star
Disclaimer: Bleach belongs to Kubo, ultimate troll that he is.
Warnings: not many. Drabble.
Author's note: I love Shinji enough to write gen fic! I swear, Bleach does crazy things to me.
Tanabata comes and goes without fanfare for the cluster of former shinigami living in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Karakura-shi. The festivities go on around them, drawing the awe and excitement of the rest of the world, but the eight people-- beings-- who have remained, unchanged, in this place for the past century or so simply go about their daily lives as if nothing is out of the ordinary. It's not out of boredom, not because they've been here one hundred times before; they've never had any interest since their very first summer on earth. It's a little strange, to be sure, but no one takes notice, because no one ever takes notice of them, and so they bow their heads and take their own paths through the bustle of the afternoons until the festivities are done.
And in the evenings, as the paper lanterns light the streets below and laugher echoes even in their secluded alleyway, Shinji sits on the roof and gazes at the night sky. The stars seem particularly dull compared to the brightly colored lanterns below, though they never seem especially dazzling in competition with the electricity of the city. He doesn't compare to Soul Society; he never has, because what would be the point? There's no way to turn back the pendulum, and even if he had the choice, Shinji knows better than to move backwards. They're here now, in this little city under this dull sky, and neither bitterness nor tears nor memories are going undo the mutation that has brought them to where they are today.
Below him, even this far out of the way, the streets are busy, and he hears children (in their teens, twenties, they're all children to Shinji) giggle and speak of wishes. Romance, good grades, money- they're for things humans want, naturally, but the taste is a little acidic in the back of his throat. Wishes are for the silly and the irresponsible, and Shinji is neither of these, nor is he jealous of the naiveté of the teeming masses around him, and yet something about this holiday is nauseating.
Sighing, he rises, pulling his cap lower on his brow. Beneath him, the streets come to life with hot, breathy human voices as, above him, the stars roll by.
Lowering his head, Shinji turns his back and goes inside.