After bantering about the everyday antics of Squad 11 and venting about Captain Zaraki’s unfathomable “training” methods, a brief silence settled over them, and the conversation subtly drifted back to that single name.
Yanagawa held his cup, eyes resting on the clear liquid swirling inside.
He asked casually, his tone level and devoid of any obvious prying:
“Come to think of it, Renji…
when Rukia decided to accept the Kuchiki clan’s offer, you were right beside her, weren’t you?”
Renji’s hand paused as he lifted his cup.
He threw back more than half of it in a heavy gulp, wiped his mouth, and grunted a vague, “Yeah.” His gaze fixed onto the wooden grain of the table.
“Back then,” Yanagawa shifted his eyes from his drink to his friend’s profile, continuing in that same even, matter-of-fact tone, “did you ever think about doing something?
Or looking back on it now, do you ever feel like…
maybe you should have tried to stop her from entering that world?”
*Thump.*
Renji brought his cup down onto the table with excessive force, creating a dull clatter.
He snapped his head up, crimson brows knitting tightly together.
The usual boisterous brashness on his face vanished completely.
In its place was the raw irritation of having an old wound poked, layered over a deep, turbulent surge of emotions ready to spill over.
“Stop her?
How the hell was I supposed to stop her?!” His voice rose sharply, but he didn’t care—or rather, he lacked the composure to care.
“That’s the Kuchiki clan!
The head of the Four Great Noble Clans!
Captain Kuchiki came out personally!
The things they offered, what they could give Rukia…
a guy like me rolling around in the mud of the Rukongai couldn’t even dream of that!”
“Safety, status, never having to starve again, never having to fear Hollow attacks…
What right did I have to stop her?!
What qualification did I have?!”
The words burst out of him like rapid gunfire, laden with fierce emotion—whether directed at Yanagawa’s inquiry or at the powerless, pathetic version of himself from back then, even he probably didn’t know.
Yet as quickly as the outburst had flared, his momentum collapsed.
Renji lowered his head, fingers unconsciously digging hard into the rough grooves of his ceramic cup.
The din of the tavern seemed momentarily walled off, leaving only a heavy, suffocating silence hanging over their table.
“Regret it…?” Renji’s voice dropped to a rasp, echoing the sharpest word hidden beneath Yanagawa’s question.
He twitched the corner of his mouth, trying to force an indifferent smirk, but failed utterly.
“If I said I never thought about it, I’d be full of shit.” He stared into the cup, as if catching a reflection of the past in the liquid.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his breath thick with alcohol.
“I regret…
I regret how damn weak I was.”
“At the Shin’ō Academy, my grades weren’t anywhere near yours.
I had zero talent for Kidō, just a bunch of brute strength.
After graduating, I was desperate to get stronger, so I joined Squad 11, thinking all that mattered was being able to fight.
But there are things you can’t solve just by swinging a sword.”
“I even…” His voice fell lower still, almost like a mutter to himself.
“I even regret…
back in the Rukongai, maybe I shouldn’t have dragged her all over the place, stirring up trouble.
What if I’d been more reliable?
What if I’d gotten stronger earlier?
Would I have been able to give her…
a peaceful place to live without having to rely on someone else’s charity?”
Yet there was no conviction behind his words.
Both of them knew the cruelty of the Rukongai better than anyone.
In a lawless wasteland where the strong preyed upon the weak, so-called “peace and stability” was an impossibly luxurious illusion.
“But…” Renji took another violent swig.
Drinking too fast this time, he choked and coughed twice, the corners of his eyes reddening—whether from the sting of alcohol or something else entirely.
“What could I have changed?
What was I supposed to say?
Was I supposed to cling to her leg and bawl, ‘Don’t go!’?
Now *that* would’ve made me a real piece of trash!”
Yanagawa listened in silence, neither interrupting nor judging.
He served merely as a listener, watching his friend pour out years of suppressed emotion under the influence of the liquor and the blunt question.
He understood Renji’s pain.
It didn’t stem from lack of care or indifference; rather, it was born from caring too deeply, caught in the agonizing chasm between love and the utter inability to provide a better alternative.
And the profound loneliness of watching someone precious walk down a path bound to create distance, completely powerless to walk beside her.
Finally, as if drained of all strength, Renji let his shoulders slump, his voice weary.
“So what good does regretting it do?
It was the path she chose.
And back then, it was the best path I could see for her.”
“All I can do now is keep getting stronger.
Strong enough that if she ever needs help, I’ll have the power to do something instead of just standing by and watching like I did back then.”
Yanagawa picked up his own barely touched cup and gently slid it across the table to Renji.
“You weren’t wrong, Renji,” Yanagawa finally said.
His voice was calm, yet carried an odd, reassuring weight.
“And neither was Rukia.
At that moment, both of you made the best possible choices within the limits of your understanding and ability.”
“Yeah…
maybe,” Renji muttered.
He emptied the cup in one swallow, his gulping much calmer this time.
“Thanks, Yanagawa.
Talking to you always clears my head a bit.” He tried to muster another grin, though it remained somewhat forced.
Yanagawa offered a faint smile, letting the heavy topic rest.
He knew some knots took time and had to be untangled by the person themselves.
All he could do was lend an ear and offer the perspective of an observant bystander.
“Boss!
Another bottle!” Renji bellowed toward the counter, his voice regaining some of its old vigor.