A Grudge's Decision
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Bleach › General
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Adult +
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Category:
Bleach › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
9
Views:
6,177
Reviews:
17
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Bleach, its fandom, or any of its characters. I make no profit from writing this story.
Getting the Short End of the Stick
A/N: 'Pologies. I suck horse balls at updating. Really. My RL owns me. I attempt to subjugate it but fail.
For instance: I caught the flu when I resolved to update this. Unlikely, but true. /failexample
Well… Chapter warnings, more-or-less like those before… Should be obvious by now that I can't really do fluff. This chapter has the potential to return to physical explicitness, though. May or may not—we'll see. Not beta'd. Might pull a Godfather and write some dialogue in Japanese without translation for aesthetic effect. (I might actually be better at Ichigo-isms in Japanese, because it's harder for me to "hear" Morita speaking in English. Same with Shinichiro Miki.)
(If I do, I would recommend not feeding the dialogue into an online translator—I use somewhat vernacular Japanese.)
On another note, I've opened up a place in the AFF forum for further annotations. And also for discussion, if any a' y'all feel so inclined.
(04) 「貧乏くじを引き」Getting the Short End of the Stick
.
.
.
.
(late november.) :: better than
Leaning against the wall, Ryuuken lets out an indolent puff of smoke. Windless, the white trail lingers.
"Who would have thought I'd be a better father than that buffoon?"
Urahara gives him a dark look and tucks his arms into the sleeves of his green haori.
Room's chilly, somehow.
He usually entertains that kind of morbid humor, but it hits a little too close to home.
(Managing Ichigo's recovery isn't funny at all.)
"It's certainly surprising. You're not exactly up there in the charts."
Ryuuken is unmoved by the comment, and he takes another drag on his cigarette. Eyes stone cold, like usual.
"Uryuu turned out fine. Needed a backbone, and he got one."
Urahara sighs. He can't figure out what to say to that, so the conversation dead ends.
(They've always been good at occupying the same room.)
.
"Your break's up, Ryuuken-san."
Urahara gets up to leave, takes his cane from its place against the copier—not a graceful movement, but a deft one. Ryuuken forfeits a glance at his watch, and when he looks up, he sees Urahara, paused, still standing there in the middle of the room. The man seems out of place—traditional clothing under the halogen lights, geta on the linoleum.
(Smell of disinfectant.)
Urahara looks tired.
"What is it, Urahara?"
He is able to have Ryuuken make eye contact with him for the first time that day. (Or for the first time in several years, for that matter.)
"I'm not a 'father.' "
It's not remarkable—just a statement of fact—but, effectively, it warrants a small interval of silence.
"I can't claim to know what it's like. I'm… at most, a 'de facto' father, but…"
Urahara looks visibly out of his element—almost deferential. And Ryuuken, by default, will not betray his surprise at seeing the poorly veiled weakness.
(Isshin had always been the most expressive of them.)
"I don't think it would hurt to spare a kind word for your son."
Urahara leaves first, not unceremoniously.
Ryuuken leaves three seconds late.
.
.
.
.
(4:00) :: i'm still here
When Ishida and Chad drop by the Shouten after school, they bring Ichigo a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare.
And a calendar.
(Ichigo is swamped by his borrowed sleeping yukata.)
Ichigo remembers to thank them after a gentle but pointed look from Urahara.
They leave, and Ichigo attempts to read the first act of Hamlet.
He ends up only looking at the words.
.
.
.
.
(into the second day.) :: underwater
"—wearing any contraceptives?"
He shifts, and the paper under his back crinkles.
(This is crazy.)
"You'll be covered with a sheet… When you're ready, I'll need you to bend your knees and spread your legs a little—"
"—inspect the site of damage—"
The woman scribbles on a piece of paper—diagram of a body on it. It's hanging partway off the counter.
(Near the sink.)
Fear rising in the back of his throat, pounding in his chest;
(there's not enough room—holy shit, someone needs to open the door, someone)
two gloved fingers on the inside of his knee, traveling slowly—
"—so you know where I am…"
Blue glow. Through the sheet. On her face.
"Was he wearing any contraceptives?"
"Uh…"
She's between his legs.
"—tton swabs."
"I'm going to take a few pictures now, but don't feel uncomfortable."
(A little late for that.)
"I'm not going to hurt you."
The woman has a little bit of a speech impediment. Not a big one.
(Distended reality—like everything's drowning quietly.)
"Don't you worry, Kurosaki-san… This'll be over with before you know it."
His cheeks are wet, but it's not that he's sad. He's not.
He just doesn't get it.
.
.
.
.
:: this is not productive, ichigo
"…maybe ten minutes?"
Kon usually isn't afraid of Ichigo's temper, but this is different.
(This isn't about Ichigo's personality at all.)
For a few seconds, Ichigo doesn't say anything.
When Ichigo turns toward him, Kon sees a look of thorough disgust on his face—the kind of disgust that Ichigo never would have directed at a friend—
(Well, Kon supposes that's fair. He doesn't have the right to call himself Ichigo's friend anymore.)
"So it was that hard to get off your ass, huh?"
Ichigo's voice cracks. He walks closer and stares downward at Kon. (A dangerous stare.)
"You didn't even… You didn't even think to…"
Ichigo squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head—looks like he's struggling with himself until he opens his eyes, blazing with unapologetic fury—
"I FUCKING CALLED FOR HELP!"
Wildly, he swings out an arm in a wide motion, clipping the empty glass on the nightstand.
(It shatters loudly on the floor. Kon winces.)
Ichigo holds his head for a moment, hands over his ears as if the room were too loud. Pacing. He's breathing hard—the anger is making it difficult to get air into his lungs. His blood is boiling, rendering his muscles gelatinous with the pure, anticipatory need to do—to destroy—something.
Though it takes every ounce of willpower he has, he tries to calm himself down, talk rationally.
"I'm… I'm not saying–" Still comes out in a snarl. "–that I expected help. I didn't expect anything! But… but if you were awake…"
He can't keep it in.
"God– DAMMIT, KON! IT WOULD'VE BEEN COMMON DECENCY— WHAT–… What the fuck is WRONG with you?"
"Ichigo…" Kon whispers, now. "I'm so sorry—I froze up; I didn't know if you—"
"DON'T– defend yourself! DON'T APOLOGIZE TO ME!"
Ichigo refrains from simply screaming.
"YOU–… You KNEW what he was doing—WHY… Why didn't you get someone? Call the police? ANYTHING?"
"…I wasn't sure if I—"
"WHAT WAS THERE TO NOT BE SURE ABOUT? PLEASE! 'Cause it's not like Dad didn't already fucking know what a mod soul was!"
"He told me—"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT HE SAID!"
The unmitigated ire draws wordless howls out of Ichigo, and Kon has never felt guiltier in his life.
"I don't—CARE what you think! I don't care anymore—I DON'T CARE!"
Throws the nearest object—an alarm clock, snapping the cord—against the back wall.
It explodes with a frightening amount of force.
"You… You… You're the reason why I'm like this! You let him do it! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"
(Gasps for breath.)
Isshin's not around to take responsibility. Kon looks like he wants to disappear.
"It's all your fault!"
.
.
.
.
(il n'y a pas d'horlage.) :: i'm still here, II
「一護．．．今日は何曜日スか、教えられてくれます〜？ 」
Ichigo squints.
Urahara (unknowingly) holds his breath.
「何．．．だって？ ゆっくり．．． 」
(Ichigo doesn't know how slowly he's speaking.)
「今日は 何の曜日ですか？ 」
Urahara paraphrases himself, patiently.
「ソリャ．．．」
(He's starting to forget the question.)
「．．．」
Urahara tries not to look frustrated.
Ichigo manages to stay awake.
「．．．わかってねぇよ」
「もう一度考えてみたらどう―ス？ 」
There's kindness in his voice.
Ichigo grumbles, irritated.
(The exhaustion takes the bite out of his words.)
「わかってねぇって．．．言つただろ．．．」
「．．．」
Urahara closes his eyes, composing himself.
Ichigo rolls onto his side, dismissively.
「．．．」
「．．．今月はどう？ 」
Urahara exhales quietly, looks away.
「．．．」
(Hoping.)
「．．．」
「すィません」
Facing the wall, Ichigo hides his discomfiture.
.
.
.
.
:: rinse and repeat
It's DARKDARKDARK—
Soft sound when his thighs hit the wood.
The floor's wet, grimy—a little gritty. (Just his imagination? What self-respecting Japanese person would walk in here with shoes?) Fucking hell, it feels he shit himself.
(That's not true. That's not true at all.)
(Ichigo. Ichigo, something really bad happened to you, understand?)
Isshin still has his dick out—blood on his pants. (Where the hell is he looking?)
His body isn't working anymore. It's like he lost the remote control.
(Ichigo, you gotta get out of here.)
His own breath feels too loud in his ears. Lungs inside his skull. He's fading, getting the black spots, but he can't! His dad's still awake—
(You can't let him do this again.)
Hands.
"Isschigooo…"
Hands on both sides of his face. What?
(You have to run right now.)
There's pressure. Thumbs—the jaw, the hollow under his cheekbones, toward the ears. It's going to bruise.
(Hurts… Hurts everywhere.)
It's in front of his face. Hard. Musky, sour smell, the smell of blood. Hands trying to open his mouth.
(Oh god, that was just inside– FIGHT HIM! YOU STUPID—)
Tries to clench his jaw shut but he can't—Isshin's brutal hold presses the inner meat of his cheeks between his molars—
When he wakes up, he bolts to the bathroom and throws up, hugging the toilet. Cleans out his mouth, shivering, and then sits at the bottom of the empty furo for a while, head between his knees.
He doesn't leave the bathroom until six.
.
.
.
.
(early march-ish.) :: could have
"He could've told me."
Arms in his lap, he looks down—experimentally pulls back his middle and ring finger, skin of his palm taut over bone. Trying to combat the hand tremors.
(The room feels too large and too small at the same time.)
"We, uh…"
Ichigo purses his lips briefly. Narrows his eyes, furrows his brows—not exactly out of anger or out of concentration.
It's just hard to talk about.
With a small movement, he directs a hardened gaze up at Urahara.
"—We could've… talked… y'know?"
Urahara holds a full cup of cold tea, feeling uncomfortable.
Receiving the full brunt of Ichigo's Thousand Yard Stare makes him feel defenseless—he's restraining himself from whipping out his trusty fan to shield his face—but he still listens, over-attentive despite himself. (Unconsciously, he's mimicking Ichigo's tightened facial expression, bringing on the beginnings of a headache.)
He tries not to appear visibly relieved when Ichigo shifts his stare momentarily in the direction of a sound outside. (Jinta, probably.)
"I wouldn't 've minded—I mean, I WOULD have, but not– well, you know—"
Twists the fabric of his sweatshirt.
"If he'd just… told me that he… hated me. That he… missed her, and that it's my fault—"
"Ichigo."
(Urahara tries not to sound reproachful.)
"—I mean, that he thought it was my fault."
(Ichigo looks like a shamed dog.)
"…Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. You're not doing it for me, remember?"
"Right. So…"
Ichigo inclines his head slightly, and his eyes are entirely covered with his bangs. (Urahara makes a note to ask Yuzu to cut his hair sometime this week.)
"So… I wouldn't 've minded if… he wanted to talk to me. He could've yelled at me—or even fought with me—that'd be fine, but… What he did… It just doesn't make sense, 'cause… 'Cause…"
He makes a soft, aggravated noise. Leans back, extends his legs—his right foot is tingling. Sits on his hands, looking a bit sour and a bit vulnerable.
"He… ruined his own life."
(If it were any other situation, Urahara would say Ichigo was wearing a moue.)
"Not that ruining yours made any more sense."
The dryness is almost reflexive. The lapse in restraint, although unusual, wouldn't have normally been a problem, but Urahara realizes how inappropriate it was when he sees Ichigo make that look—like he's been slapped.
It's not like what he said was news to Ichigo; Ichigo knows he's suffering—he just doesn't usually take a step back and regard himself in a "victim role."
(A victim of an aggressor. That's really unfair, isn't it?)
Ichigo looks for all the world somber, and Urahara sucks in a breath.
(Waits.)
"…Don't say that."
.
.
.
.
:: i'm still here, III
"I'm not that stupid."
Ishida averts his eyes.
"What're you still standing there for? Get the fuck out."
Ishida closes the bathroom door behind him.
.
.
.
.
(that night.) :: no
"People are coming, Ichi-nii."
He says no.
(He doesn't know anything he's saying.)
Karin feels wary of Isshin's unmoving form. She obsessively monitors him from the corner of her eye and keeps her hand on the chair.
(She never thought the size of her father's penis would ever be a part of her active knowledge.)
Ichigo's body is like a car crash, but it's a little better now that he's covered by something.
His face is purple, puffy, swelling.
(It's not visibly discernable how many times Isshin had hit him.)
He's stopped crying, but his eyes are still red.
"It's cold."
It's not.
(The room feels like it is a million degrees.)
"Yeah."
The most uncomfortable small talk she has ever had, if it could be considered that.
It smells like vomit. And blood. And something else. (She assumes it's from the sex, and she comes to the passive realization that this would be her first memory of that smell.)
(Sex isn't a remote concept anymore.)
Her stomach feels weak staying inside the room but she can't leave.
How many times? How many times had it happened before she got there?
Unthinkingly, she asks him if he's okay. (The second she says it, she feels like kicking herself.)
Minute or so later, he says something that sounds like 'I don't know.'
Having nothing else to do and nothing else to think about, she goes to fix the blanket (it's not covering his neck or his ankles), but he says no.
"Sit down…!"
The demand is breathy and un-Ichigo.
(Her footsteps feel like earthquakes, and she's too fucking tall, standing like that.)
.
.
.
.
(around april.) :: spring cleaning
Ichigo picks the table closest to the door. Sits closest to the wall—the booth seat.
Orders something easy on the stomach. The waitress takes his order from across the table. (Over Ishida.)
Chad sits on the outside, orders a salad. Mizuiro, too.
(Keigo always seems to order a burger at this place. Ishida always seems to order something fancy that no one can pronounce.)
Waitress leaves—nice ass. They wait for drinks.
His friends look… proud. Ichigo feels embarrassed and looks at the table.
He jolts a little when the door opens—loud bells. Customer with the awkwardly loud loafers.
Ishida gives him a quarter frown, and then gives Keigo a half frown.
Ichigo feels accomplished, but doesn't show it.
He wants to go home.
.
.
.
.
(september after next.) :: omake
He looks up from his soba and realizes that everyone at the table has stopped eating.
They were all staring at him.
"Jesus Christ."
He mutters and brings his chopsticks down none-too-gently—sound of colliding porcelain.
"What is it, now?" Annoyed, he leans back and crosses his arms. "Who thought what was gonna 'set me off'? Talking about sex? Jail? …Rape? …Guys, really—what is this?"
Dead silence. Yoruichi kind of moves her mouth, but stops.
Ichigo sighs, exasperated. "I wasn't even listening! Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but you really gotta stop putting your lives on hold for me just because—"
"No, Ichigo… Your, ah… 'hollow is showing.' "
"Shit."
Please shoot me and my lack of humor.
For instance: I caught the flu when I resolved to update this. Unlikely, but true. /failexample
Well… Chapter warnings, more-or-less like those before… Should be obvious by now that I can't really do fluff. This chapter has the potential to return to physical explicitness, though. May or may not—we'll see. Not beta'd. Might pull a Godfather and write some dialogue in Japanese without translation for aesthetic effect. (I might actually be better at Ichigo-isms in Japanese, because it's harder for me to "hear" Morita speaking in English. Same with Shinichiro Miki.)
(If I do, I would recommend not feeding the dialogue into an online translator—I use somewhat vernacular Japanese.)
On another note, I've opened up a place in the AFF forum for further annotations. And also for discussion, if any a' y'all feel so inclined.
(04) 「貧乏くじを引き」Getting the Short End of the Stick
.
.
.
.
Leaning against the wall, Ryuuken lets out an indolent puff of smoke. Windless, the white trail lingers.
"Who would have thought I'd be a better father than that buffoon?"
Urahara gives him a dark look and tucks his arms into the sleeves of his green haori.
Room's chilly, somehow.
He usually entertains that kind of morbid humor, but it hits a little too close to home.
(Managing Ichigo's recovery isn't funny at all.)
"It's certainly surprising. You're not exactly up there in the charts."
Ryuuken is unmoved by the comment, and he takes another drag on his cigarette. Eyes stone cold, like usual.
"Uryuu turned out fine. Needed a backbone, and he got one."
Urahara sighs. He can't figure out what to say to that, so the conversation dead ends.
(They've always been good at occupying the same room.)
.
"Your break's up, Ryuuken-san."
Urahara gets up to leave, takes his cane from its place against the copier—not a graceful movement, but a deft one. Ryuuken forfeits a glance at his watch, and when he looks up, he sees Urahara, paused, still standing there in the middle of the room. The man seems out of place—traditional clothing under the halogen lights, geta on the linoleum.
(Smell of disinfectant.)
Urahara looks tired.
"What is it, Urahara?"
He is able to have Ryuuken make eye contact with him for the first time that day. (Or for the first time in several years, for that matter.)
"I'm not a 'father.' "
It's not remarkable—just a statement of fact—but, effectively, it warrants a small interval of silence.
"I can't claim to know what it's like. I'm… at most, a 'de facto' father, but…"
Urahara looks visibly out of his element—almost deferential. And Ryuuken, by default, will not betray his surprise at seeing the poorly veiled weakness.
(Isshin had always been the most expressive of them.)
"I don't think it would hurt to spare a kind word for your son."
Urahara leaves first, not unceremoniously.
Ryuuken leaves three seconds late.
.
.
.
.
When Ishida and Chad drop by the Shouten after school, they bring Ichigo a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare.
And a calendar.
(Ichigo is swamped by his borrowed sleeping yukata.)
Ichigo remembers to thank them after a gentle but pointed look from Urahara.
They leave, and Ichigo attempts to read the first act of Hamlet.
He ends up only looking at the words.
.
.
.
.
"—wearing any contraceptives?"
He shifts, and the paper under his back crinkles.
(This is crazy.)
"You'll be covered with a sheet… When you're ready, I'll need you to bend your knees and spread your legs a little—"
"—inspect the site of damage—"
The woman scribbles on a piece of paper—diagram of a body on it. It's hanging partway off the counter.
(Near the sink.)
Fear rising in the back of his throat, pounding in his chest;
two gloved fingers on the inside of his knee, traveling slowly—
"—so you know where I am…"
Blue glow. Through the sheet. On her face.
"Was he wearing any contraceptives?"
"Uh…"
She's between his legs.
"—tton swabs."
"I'm going to take a few pictures now, but don't feel uncomfortable."
(A little late for that.)
"I'm not going to hurt you."
The woman has a little bit of a speech impediment. Not a big one.
(Distended reality—like everything's drowning quietly.)
"Don't you worry, Kurosaki-san… This'll be over with before you know it."
His cheeks are wet, but it's not that he's sad. He's not.
He just doesn't get it.
.
.
.
.
"…maybe ten minutes?"
Kon usually isn't afraid of Ichigo's temper, but this is different.
(This isn't about Ichigo's personality at all.)
When Ichigo turns toward him, Kon sees a look of thorough disgust on his face—the kind of disgust that Ichigo never would have directed at a friend—
(Well, Kon supposes that's fair. He doesn't have the right to call himself Ichigo's friend anymore.)
"So it was that hard to get off your ass, huh?"
Ichigo's voice cracks. He walks closer and stares downward at Kon. (A dangerous stare.)
"You didn't even… You didn't even think to…"
Ichigo squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head—looks like he's struggling with himself until he opens his eyes, blazing with unapologetic fury—
"I FUCKING CALLED FOR HELP!"
Wildly, he swings out an arm in a wide motion, clipping the empty glass on the nightstand.
(It shatters loudly on the floor. Kon winces.)
Ichigo holds his head for a moment, hands over his ears as if the room were too loud. Pacing. He's breathing hard—the anger is making it difficult to get air into his lungs. His blood is boiling, rendering his muscles gelatinous with the pure, anticipatory need to do—to destroy—something.
Though it takes every ounce of willpower he has, he tries to calm himself down, talk rationally.
"I'm… I'm not saying–" Still comes out in a snarl. "–that I expected help. I didn't expect anything! But… but if you were awake…"
He can't keep it in.
"God– DAMMIT, KON! IT WOULD'VE BEEN COMMON DECENCY— WHAT–… What the fuck is WRONG with you?"
"Ichigo…" Kon whispers, now. "I'm so sorry—I froze up; I didn't know if you—"
"DON'T– defend yourself! DON'T APOLOGIZE TO ME!"
Ichigo refrains from simply screaming.
"YOU–… You KNEW what he was doing—WHY… Why didn't you get someone? Call the police? ANYTHING?"
"…I wasn't sure if I—"
"WHAT WAS THERE TO NOT BE SURE ABOUT? PLEASE! 'Cause it's not like Dad didn't already fucking know what a mod soul was!"
"He told me—"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT HE SAID!"
The unmitigated ire draws wordless howls out of Ichigo, and Kon has never felt guiltier in his life.
"I don't—CARE what you think! I don't care anymore—I DON'T CARE!"
Throws the nearest object—an alarm clock, snapping the cord—against the back wall.
It explodes with a frightening amount of force.
"You… You… You're the reason why I'm like this! You let him do it! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!"
(Gasps for breath.)
Isshin's not around to take responsibility. Kon looks like he wants to disappear.
"It's all your fault!"
.
.
.
.
「一護．．．今日は何曜日スか、教えられてくれます〜？ 」
Urahara (unknowingly) holds his breath.
「今日は 何の曜日ですか？ 」
Urahara paraphrases himself, patiently.
「．．．」
Urahara tries not to look frustrated.
「もう一度考えてみたらどう―ス？ 」
There's kindness in his voice.
「．．．」
Urahara closes his eyes, composing himself.
「．．．今月はどう？ 」
Urahara exhales quietly, looks away.
(Hoping.)
「．．．」
.
.
.
.
It's DARKDARKDARK—
Soft sound when his thighs hit the wood.
The floor's wet, grimy—a little gritty. (Just his imagination? What self-respecting Japanese person would walk in here with shoes?) Fucking hell, it feels he shit himself.
(That's not true. That's not true at all.)
(Ichigo. Ichigo, something really bad happened to you, understand?)
Isshin still has his dick out—blood on his pants. (Where the hell is he looking?)
His body isn't working anymore. It's like he lost the remote control.
(Ichigo, you gotta get out of here.)
His own breath feels too loud in his ears. Lungs inside his skull. He's fading, getting the black spots, but he can't! His dad's still awake—
(You can't let him do this again.)
Hands.
"Isschigooo…"
Hands on both sides of his face. What?
(You have to run right now.)
There's pressure. Thumbs—the jaw, the hollow under his cheekbones, toward the ears. It's going to bruise.
(Hurts… Hurts everywhere.)
It's in front of his face. Hard. Musky, sour smell, the smell of blood. Hands trying to open his mouth.
(Oh god, that was just inside– FIGHT HIM! YOU STUPID—)
Tries to clench his jaw shut but he can't—Isshin's brutal hold presses the inner meat of his cheeks between his molars—
When he wakes up, he bolts to the bathroom and throws up, hugging the toilet. Cleans out his mouth, shivering, and then sits at the bottom of the empty furo for a while, head between his knees.
He doesn't leave the bathroom until six.
.
.
.
.
"He could've told me."
Arms in his lap, he looks down—experimentally pulls back his middle and ring finger, skin of his palm taut over bone. Trying to combat the hand tremors.
(The room feels too large and too small at the same time.)
"We, uh…"
Ichigo purses his lips briefly. Narrows his eyes, furrows his brows—not exactly out of anger or out of concentration.
It's just hard to talk about.
With a small movement, he directs a hardened gaze up at Urahara.
"—We could've… talked… y'know?"
Urahara holds a full cup of cold tea, feeling uncomfortable.
Receiving the full brunt of Ichigo's Thousand Yard Stare makes him feel defenseless—he's restraining himself from whipping out his trusty fan to shield his face—but he still listens, over-attentive despite himself. (Unconsciously, he's mimicking Ichigo's tightened facial expression, bringing on the beginnings of a headache.)
He tries not to appear visibly relieved when Ichigo shifts his stare momentarily in the direction of a sound outside. (Jinta, probably.)
"I wouldn't 've minded—I mean, I WOULD have, but not– well, you know—"
Twists the fabric of his sweatshirt.
"If he'd just… told me that he… hated me. That he… missed her, and that it's my fault—"
"Ichigo."
(Urahara tries not to sound reproachful.)
"—I mean, that he thought it was my fault."
(Ichigo looks like a shamed dog.)
"…Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. You're not doing it for me, remember?"
"Right. So…"
Ichigo inclines his head slightly, and his eyes are entirely covered with his bangs. (Urahara makes a note to ask Yuzu to cut his hair sometime this week.)
"So… I wouldn't 've minded if… he wanted to talk to me. He could've yelled at me—or even fought with me—that'd be fine, but… What he did… It just doesn't make sense, 'cause… 'Cause…"
He makes a soft, aggravated noise. Leans back, extends his legs—his right foot is tingling. Sits on his hands, looking a bit sour and a bit vulnerable.
"He… ruined his own life."
(If it were any other situation, Urahara would say Ichigo was wearing a moue.)
"Not that ruining yours made any more sense."
The dryness is almost reflexive. The lapse in restraint, although unusual, wouldn't have normally been a problem, but Urahara realizes how inappropriate it was when he sees Ichigo make that look—like he's been slapped.
It's not like what he said was news to Ichigo; Ichigo knows he's suffering—he just doesn't usually take a step back and regard himself in a "victim role."
(A victim of an aggressor. That's really unfair, isn't it?)
Ichigo looks for all the world somber, and Urahara sucks in a breath.
(Waits.)
"…Don't say that."
.
.
.
.
"I'm not that stupid."
Ishida averts his eyes.
"What're you still standing there for? Get the fuck out."
Ishida closes the bathroom door behind him.
.
.
.
.
"People are coming, Ichi-nii."
He says no.
(He doesn't know anything he's saying.)
Karin feels wary of Isshin's unmoving form. She obsessively monitors him from the corner of her eye and keeps her hand on the chair.
(She never thought the size of her father's penis would ever be a part of her active knowledge.)
Ichigo's body is like a car crash, but it's a little better now that he's covered by something.
His face is purple, puffy, swelling.
(It's not visibly discernable how many times Isshin had hit him.)
He's stopped crying, but his eyes are still red.
"It's cold."
It's not.
(The room feels like it is a million degrees.)
"Yeah."
The most uncomfortable small talk she has ever had, if it could be considered that.
It smells like vomit. And blood. And something else. (She assumes it's from the sex, and she comes to the passive realization that this would be her first memory of that smell.)
(Sex isn't a remote concept anymore.)
Her stomach feels weak staying inside the room but she can't leave.
How many times? How many times had it happened before she got there?
Unthinkingly, she asks him if he's okay. (The second she says it, she feels like kicking herself.)
Minute or so later, he says something that sounds like 'I don't know.'
Having nothing else to do and nothing else to think about, she goes to fix the blanket (it's not covering his neck or his ankles), but he says no.
"Sit down…!"
The demand is breathy and un-Ichigo.
(Her footsteps feel like earthquakes, and she's too fucking tall, standing like that.)
.
.
.
.
Ichigo picks the table closest to the door. Sits closest to the wall—the booth seat.
Orders something easy on the stomach. The waitress takes his order from across the table. (Over Ishida.)
Chad sits on the outside, orders a salad. Mizuiro, too.
(Keigo always seems to order a burger at this place. Ishida always seems to order something fancy that no one can pronounce.)
Waitress leaves—nice ass. They wait for drinks.
His friends look… proud. Ichigo feels embarrassed and looks at the table.
He jolts a little when the door opens—loud bells. Customer with the awkwardly loud loafers.
Ishida gives him a quarter frown, and then gives Keigo a half frown.
Ichigo feels accomplished, but doesn't show it.
He wants to go home.
.
.
.
.
(september after next.) :: omake
He looks up from his soba and realizes that everyone at the table has stopped eating.
They were all staring at him.
"Jesus Christ."
He mutters and brings his chopsticks down none-too-gently—sound of colliding porcelain.
"What is it, now?" Annoyed, he leans back and crosses his arms. "Who thought what was gonna 'set me off'? Talking about sex? Jail? …Rape? …Guys, really—what is this?"
Dead silence. Yoruichi kind of moves her mouth, but stops.
Ichigo sighs, exasperated. "I wasn't even listening! Not that I don't appreciate the thought, but you really gotta stop putting your lives on hold for me just because—"
"No, Ichigo… Your, ah… 'hollow is showing.' "
"Shit."
Please shoot me and my lack of humor.