A/N: Uh…
Be warned for…
Low Blows, generally
Sensitive Subject Matter, (non-age-discriminate)
Immaturity, the
Lack of Beta’ing, and, specifically, the drabble
force.
Urahara makes many appearances in this chapter, because…
he does? Come to think of it, I think this story (as a whole) can be best understood on an “is” basis. Because there is no plot, I have no message to communicate, and this story has no purpose other than being a thing with words. Things just… happen, and the only thing I feel I truly assert author-ly control over is the, uh… “cropping” and (strangely enough) the randomness.
A Grudge’s Decision is
kind of like… a collage of (not entirely descriptive, but) candid photographs that, in places, looks
coincidentally like a larger image. But it’s really up to reader interpretation.
Not unlike cloud shapes.
(Or at least, this is the impression I get.)
(08)「言わぬが花」Better Left Unsaid
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:: sex is when
Yuzu gets the “Birds and Bees” talk at eleven years old.
(It’s the only way Karin can explain to her why their father is in jail and their brother is in the hospital.)
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:: advocate, I
“This is
bullshit…” she mutters, pushing open doors she hasn’t touched in a hundred or so years—
“You
RIDICULOUS old coot!”
The guards standing outside Yamamoto’s office turn around.
“Shihouin Yoruichi—” “Don’t get me started on manners!
What–… What in the
world possessed you to send—”
(Gnarled hand grips a gnarled stick.)
“The shinigami-daikou is entrusted with the affairs of Karakura-chou—”
“There are more than enough people in Karakura-chou who can handle its affairs!” Yoruichi booms. “—
Kisuke, for one, if you
remember him—”
“This kind of disrespect will
not be tolerated—”
“Kurosaki Ichigo does
not need ‘friendly reminders’ to do his job! You can
gather up your
lapdogs—”
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:: force
[READER ADVISORY] Eyes bloodshot, his vision is pulsating, bits and pieces drawing into and out of focus like the Magic Eye—
There's an ache under his ribcage—his stomach is being towed away and Urahara is too close; he shakes his head desperately
no, his brain, his thoughts a wet metal slinky—
"—been weeks. You need to eat—"
He shuffles back, stumbles over dirty clothes—
"
No! I won't, I
won't—"
(He doesn't see soup in that bowl. He sees what would be his own vomit.)
"Ichigo, please—part of the reason you're feeling so badly—"
His back hits the wall. He feels sick—the sheer aversion metastasizes within him—but there's nothing to throw up. Crosses his arms over his stomach, so much pressure in his head that it's forcing out tears that don't even feel like "tears"; just bodily fluid, oil, hot—
"No… no… You can't make me eat…"
—he moans (feels like he’s dying).
Urahara sorries at him with weighted eyes, braces a hand on Ichigo’s chin—his shaking "no" face—trying to gently leverage open the mumbling mouth—
Ichigo's empty stomach contracts, eyes gush at his own vulnerability, his fear, his nausea. He's holding up his hunger-weak arms to not much effect, now, and his mind screams when he sees the spoon getting closer. He tries to grab it, yank it from his hand, but Urahara pulls it out of his reach—
Knees—
—buckling, he sinks down the wall. He turns his head to the side, cheek pressing against the sheetrock, numb lips pressing together in evasion.
He feels the cold tip of spoon trace the skin by the corner of his mouth.
Ichigo wants to stay
‘stop,’ but he doesn’t want to risk opening his mouth. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine himself in a different place.
Doesn’t work—the second he feels the metal, the food works its way between his lips, between his tongue and the hard ceiling of his palate, he gags. He bites down reflexively, teeth clacking bluntly against the utensil neck, surge of bile in his mouth. He spits onto the floor, dislodges the spoon. Summoning the last of his strength, he drills the heel of his palm under Urahara’s jaw.
The man bites through his own lip.
—tries to slow the bleeding with his wrist, and Ichigo tries to move to the side, away.
Staggering. Ichigo can’t stay on his feet; he’s on the edge of consciousness. He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten—can’t really tell whether he’s walking or crawling. He’s just trying to get to the door.
A meter and his muscles seem to seize. It’s sudden—he doesn’t know why it’s happening, but then he sees that light—
A binding kidou? A fucking binding kidou? “You’re killing yourself.” He looks at Urahara (who’s nursing his lip, green hand)—
horrified. Drained.
Livid.
“…Son of a
bitch!” he keens.
(Urahara averts his eyes.)
“YOU MISERABLE SON OF A BITCH!”
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:: retribution
“
Oh? Remember when he
covered yer mouth? Who’s t’say he deserves screamin’?”
Amused warble—a tired, illustrative cut with the white blade.
Shirosaki laughs shallowly, and the bandages around his midsection redden.
Ichigo narrows his eyes (tries not to remember).
(Tries to make his body not remember.)
“It’s not funny.”
“Yeah, it’s
not,” his hollow shoots back, face twisting with anger. “Y’didn’t run, y’didn’t fuckin’
fight—guess who took tha’ in yer head?”
He gestures savagely at his wounds. But, losing energy, he sighs—slumps and sinks against the concrete wall.
Rain falls in a deluge outside the dank enclosure.
“You an’ that… that
conscience of yers…” he sneers. “Maybe if ya’d listen to yer instincts fer once, we wouldn’t a’ ended up bein’
fucked by yer
daddy.”
Ichigo draws his legs a little closer, looping his arms around his knees. Feeling
guilty, of all things.
“…Sorry,” he mumbles into the fabric of his hakama.
Shirosaki looks at him, deadpan.
“Tha’s
pathetic. Don’t ‘sorry’ me.” There’s an odd sympathy about his voice, with all the deprecation.
He hugs his knees a little tighter, even as he feels Shirosaki scowl.
(He’s inside his fucking
head—he can do whatever he wants.)
“If yer feelin’ so friggin’
guilty, why don’t ya
do somethin’ about it?”
“…I’m not gonna do that.” It’s not really a yawn—more like his face stretching in some places. He gets that dull avalanche sound by his ears, blinks hot water from his eyes.
“But it’d feel
good,” Shirosaki murmurs. “After what he did ta us… You know
tha’.”
“I’m not going to go to jail for something so stupid.”
Gathered water funneling off a lip in the stone, smacking the right-sided asphalt—
“ ‘Stupid’?” (Hiss in his ear.)
“Don’t
insult me. Maybe y’still have
holes in yer mem’ry ‘r somethin’, but ‘member how
hard ya cried when y’were in the hospital? Tha’ was when things started
burnin’. And y’know that
fear ya—”
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:: trust (force, II)
Thumb, fore, middle finger over his lips as if to hold in the food, he sits quiet on the floor.
(Against the wall, Urahara waits for the approval he knows he won't get.)
Ichigo shudders latently. Looks up at him with an anger-curled mouth, glittering eyes.
"You had no right…" His tone is brutal and hurt.
"You… You could have done
anything else. You didn't have to do that."
Ashamed, Urahara holds an elbow, looks down and rests his face on a knuckle.
"I thought you were smarter than that. That…"
Ichigo’s voice breaks.
"…That was Dad
all over again—"
He covers his eyes with a hand. Gasps once, tear skating off his chin.
"Is it too much…? Is it too much for
you people to give me a damn
choice?"
Urahara starts to leave the wall, go toward him in a strange placative instinct—
"—
Don't fucking come
NEAR me after what you did," he seethes disbelievingly.
Urahara backs up, subdued. (He had long lost his right to control in this situation.)
But something drives him—maybe it's that last vestige of self-righteousness—
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry; I became impatient, but you
needed to eat—"
"I WOULD HAVE RATHER
STARVED!"
The guilt begins to blur the room around him. Urahara bites the inside of his lip, feeling like he's back in Shinou.
"…I fucking KNOW I needed to eat! But that doesn't—"
Crinkled skin around his eyes, nose, Ichigo tilts his head derisively. (The fact that he's crying doesn't soften the look at all.)
"You're no different from him, are you?" Urahara looks stung.
"Always looking out for number one. You don't give a
shit about me—it probably just made your
ego feel better to—"
Ichigo isn't completely wrong, but Urahara can't help himself—
"
That's untrue," he growls, voice rising. "Don't you
dare put me on the same level as him! I'm not perfect—I might not have done things the right way, but ALL I HAVE
EVER DONE IS TRY MY GODDAMNED HARDEST TO—"
"I DON'T CARE!" Ichigo fumes. "I don't
trust you! I'll never trust you after this; I don't know why I ever fucking did!"
Urahara slams the top of Ichigo's bureau with an open hand.
"
Do you think I signed UP FOR THIS? NO! But guess what, Ichigo? You don't
have parents now!
I'M ALL YOU HAVE LEFT!"
There's silence.
(Clenched fists.)
"…Get out." Urahara can't see his eyes.
"GET OUT!" .
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(around two years later.) :: sublimate, II
Small party, Keigo’s.
It’s all seniors—just the close ones, though.
(The ones who have known each other forever.)
The place looks fantastic (Mizuho’s nosiness actually paid off; on the condition that she could join the party, she somehow acquired a smoke machine and strobe within the last day) and people are draped over the couches. It’s lazy and comfortable—there’s a fake bloody hand reaching out of the chips and the ruddy-orange of jack-o-lanterns making flickering faces on the walls.
Tatsuki is a female reinterpretation of Frankenstein, looking especially threatening as she tries to pry the Playboy—“Play
girl,” Chizuru says—Bunny off a fairly busty Mother Teresa. Mizuiro is in no costume at all, holding a wine glass of possibly wine, and Keigo looks alarmed about something (but it’s hard to take seriously, as he’s in a mascot getup).
Chad’s "hm"-ing at something in his three-piece business suit—no one really knows what his costume is, and it feels a little awkward to ask—and Ishida’s on the wall, pretending like he’s not having fun.
(The elongated vampire canines add something to his Criticism Face).
There’s a door knock, the lightly irritated husk of Ichigo’s voice as he “
ojama shimasu”-es and enters the room.
He’d dyed his hair black (spiked it in the front), and the white coat he grabbed from the clinic (which actually fits now) swings from his shoulders. He’s wearing a stethoscope and Hawaiian shirt, but the biggest draw of attention is the
fake beard—
Oh, good fucking lord, he’s the splitting image of his father.
Nobody. Says. Anything.
Ichigo smiles uneasily, feeling insecure—slightly limelighted. (He had no idea what the reaction would be, but he thought he would at least get
A reaction.) He’s about to turn and leave out of nerves—the whole thing was starting to look like a bad idea—when Keigo (bless his soul)
breaks down into anxious laughter. Suddenly, Ichigo finds himself being met with a growing mini-applause—a wolf-whistle from Mizuiro—and many receptive grins (if incredulous at the blackness of the humor).
Confidence strengthening, he grins a wavering grin back, does his best impersonation of Isshin (incorporating the didactic finger and campy thumbs up), and the party continues.
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:: a father, II
Medicine cabinet’s open—just noticed it.
(He thought Urahara would be pissed.)
No. No, he wasn’t.
It was fear.
Ridiculously fluffy towels.
Tessai’d practically dumped a basket of dried laundry on him.
(Should he move? Ask Urahara to move?)
It’s uncomfortable—Urahara’s hands on his shoulders. But he feels apathetic. Cold. Too tired to do anything about it.
Too tired to be afraid.
—The guy’s shaking, even his back. Head bowed—no hat. (It’s weird, thinking of him actually having a hair color.)
“Don’t do that again. Don’t you ever do that to me again.” Urahara’s choked up, and Ichigo doesn’t know how to respond.
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:: remorse
Shifts his weight to one foot, the starchy-soft of bills in his left hand—red bean rolls in his right—he's waiting.
The guy in front of him has that confusing combination of grey hair and young skin. (He has a somewhat ratty brown messenger bag that looks too heavy for its size.)
(His face—gaijin?)
Ichigo leans a little—stretches an arm, reaches for a pack of gum on the rack.
He doesn't really want gum. It's more that it's
there and he needs something to do.
The starchy-soft of bills in his left hand—gum and red bean rolls in his right—he's waiting. It seems like the longer he stands still, the guilt he feels grows a little more poisonous.
Because he doesn't like red bean rolls. Yuzu likes red bean rolls, and he's buying an apology.
It makes him feel rusty in a way—like his people-skills have degenerated. But he doesn't know how else to make it better.
He's never made her cry before.
(Standing in line behind the old-young (foreign?) guy with the heavy-small bag) he doesn't feel self-righteous at all.
He twirls the pack of gum around in his hand.
(He just feels mean.)
"—have a nice day. I’m sorry about your wife."
He pays about two minutes later.
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:: spring, II
Ichigo looks up to the left, as if finding the solution in the third story windows of the apartment housing.
He stops walking for a second. Ishida stops after a few steps, and makes the ungainly half-turn.
“—Yeah, but I think I gotta run home first. Is it okay if I meet you there? The library.”
Ishida says ‘yes’ and begins to nod ‘yes,’ when he realizes something.
The realization must have halted his functionality, because Ichigo is giving him a dubious look.
“What?
Not the library?”
“No,” he reaffirms. “The library.”
He opens his mouth to point it out, but decides to say nothing else.
Ichigo pauses, raises an eyebrow at him, byes, and leaves in a different direction.
He smiles weakly to himself.
Ichigo might not have noticed it, but he called the Shouten
‘home.’ .
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A/N: (What is this? Fifteen days? I got a chapter out in fifteen days? Blasphemy! (Granted, it’s not über-long, but) there was a hundred-nine-day gap between two of my earlier chapters.)
…So things do get better, huh. I might have to fetch a scene or two from a couple years down the road, BUT THEY’RE THERE, what the hell!
Sorry about
force, by the way. Y’know… Urahara
did kind of work in the (spoiler!) Maggot’s Nest. He’s trained to… er… deal with Class-Superbad prisoners, and the closest he’s come to
really taking care of kids is… mod souls. And Jinta and Ururu, in comparison, aren’t as inclined to distrust him as Ichigo (the fucking
incest-rape victim) right now.
And while he’s really good at
reading people,
guiding people, and
having discretion with people, I’ve never really pictured Urahara being good at things that actually require his
emotional involvement. (To guess, I’d say he might have started to avoid emotional involvement after he was wrongly exiled.)
(Not to excuse him.)
(And why Ichigo wasn’t put on IV might come up later.)
[ETA:] OH—THIS IS A LITTLE LATE, BUT: I drew Ichigo in the vignette
trust (if you have a difficult time picturing it.) It's on
ttenandayo . livejournal . com. .
