“Sora,” Haru whispered, lifting herself up on her futon and folding her legs. She pulled her zanpakutō from her obi sash, placing it over her knees and settling her palms lightly across the tsuba. She closed her eyes, slowing her breathing, focusing on the sword in her lap and trying to ignore the memories that kept coming back to her whenever she was alone.
“Hey, Haru! So, what’s the name of your sword, huh? Mine’s name is Kurohyou! Pretty cool huh? Bet you’re jealous.” Sora swung his zanpakutō over his arm, resting it on his shoulder.
“I am not!” Haru protested, clutching her own sword close to her chest. “And for your information, my sword’s name is Omamori. It’s a much cooler name than yours!”
“Is not!”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
“Is too!”
“Oh yeah? Well how about we spar. Winner has the coolest sword name.” Sora eyed Haru closely, and she shrank back from his scrutiny. “Unless you’re scared. Don’t think you can beat me, Shorty?”
“Stop calling me ‘Shorty’! And I can beat you anytime, anywhere, you big dummy!”
“Ooooh, you’re so insulting,” Sora scoffed, before he grabbed her by the hand and began dragging her down the halls. “Come on, Shorty. Let’s get this show on the road. I’m gonna beat ya, and show ya how much cooler my zanpakutō is than yours!”
Despite his harsh words, and the fact that he was dragging her down the hall, Haru couldn’t help but stare at her hand in his, and feel the warmth of the reiatsu that seemed to pour off of him whenever she was near. She blushed darkly, and followed along behind him, too embarrassed and giddy to worry about a snappy comeback.