Gyomei looked down at you disaprovingly, my lips torn between a frown or the usual quiet place they take on his face. He murmured his prayers, and as much as he disapproved of your lustful an silly spouting, it was amusing.

You were a relatively new hashira, and so was Gyomei. He was roughly 20. The most recent meeting had dispersed into missions or something else the other hashira had to take care of.

Your endless yakking about how you couldn't wait to have a break and to get drunk or something amused him, but also stirred something he'd learned to stifle long ago.