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A Grudge's Decision	By : toujourseveille Category: Bleach > General Views: 6010 -:- Recommendations : 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.

Chapter List
- 5
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- 7
A/N: I have had a… uh… not-so-good start to this year. My immune system crapped out on me, and before I knew it, my state of sickness (upper respiratory infection, apparently) saw its third week, and I ended up on antibiotics for the last few…

God, that was a shitfest.

I'm really sorry. In trying to keep my head above water with my workload, I couldn't really invest the time requisite for an update… But you, dear reader, have every right to be cross with me, circumstances notwithstanding. (If you are, that is. But I'm pretty sure I'd be cross with me.)

Same warnings as always. Not beta'd, either. Well, without further ado.

(06) ｢関係ない｣ Has Nothing To Do With

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:: unspeakable

They say he needs to take a blood test for STDs.

He almost says, 'But my dad hasn't been with anyone since my mom.'

He doesn't.

He doesn't, because the thought he has him feeling sick.

"This test isn't related to the assault—you'll have to come back in six months."

(He had sex with someone who'd had sex with his mother…)

Subdued (distrait), he lets them take his blood—rubber tight around his bicep, puffy veins.

He doesn't talk to anyone for the next few days.

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:: comeuppance for dummies

"…Let me reword. This is an extremely different… 'brand' of hardship than you're used to, but I don't think it's immune to your ability to adapt. It's still a matter of creating a new 'norm'—well, what I mean to say is…"

"…"

"Getting better is going to take a different kind of training. Different katas. You'll have to practice trusting. You'll have to practice acknowledging and being patient with your own limits. Taking caring of yourself, interacting with other people, managing your fears—they're all exercises to master, and I'm confident that it's something you can tackle. It's… okay if it's messy, and it's—"

"Yeah."

"…"

"Yeah, I know…"

"…"

"But I asked you 'How.' "

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:: listen, III (the office, II)

"He started to…"

"."

"He started… touching me. I didn't know what to do—I didn't think he'd do that. It's…"

"…"

"It's sort of stupid, but the first thing I did was tell him he couldn't do what he was doing. Then he was all like, 'And why not?' and he…"

"…"

"…Said that I—owed him."

"…"

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(mid to late may.) :: (un)reason

Shinji knows better than to break the hold.

He could.

Granted, the kid has an iron grip, but…

Without too much difficulty, he could overpower Ichigo and free himself—Ichigo knows this, too.

But he lets his arms go lax.

(Ichigo doesn't need training right now—he needs control.)

"Let go, Ichigo."

(A choice.)

Shinji looks him dead in the eye, willing Ichigo to compose himself.

Ichigo acknowledges him but doesn't respond. He has a hardened, inappropriately indignant look. His hands tighten around Shinji's wrists, and his mouth tightens into a straight line. It's an odd sight; he's shaking with effort—with the irrational belief that he still doesn't have the upper hand—while Shinji is completely passive.

"Ichigo."

Fear permeates Ichigo's reiatsu—undue terror. But he seems to realize that it is "undue"; somehow, through the trepidation, there is a jadedness about him.

(Calm, in a way. Detachedly self-critical. A little embarrassed.)

The cognition alone, however, does not subdue the already rising panic. It doesn't matter that the logical part of his brain knows it's ridiculous; he feels—his body feels—that moving out of his current position would compromise his personal safety.

(He's trapped. His instincts trap him.)

Shinji starts to grit his teeth. It's certainly not an inescapable hold, but that doesn't mean it's painless.

"Ichigo, you have to let go."

Lips beginning to tremble from the feeling (of constriction), Ichigo tries to hide his face. He brings his head closer to his body, shoulders pitched protectively, but he maintains the grip—strengthens it, even.

Shinji winces.

(Ichigo's sclerae are blackening.)

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:: mom

"No."

"Ichigo—"

"No, I'm not talking about this. I'm not gonna talk about this. It's been six years—it doesn't have anything to do with—"

"Did you get help?"

"…"

"Grief counseling? Trauma counseling? …Anything?"

"Yeah, well, Dad— …Dad had me see someone, but it wasn't…"

"…"

"…"

"So you stopped going, then."

"…"

"How many sessions did—"

"What does it matter? Can we stop talking about this?"

"No. Tell me."

"Urahara—"

"Tell me."

"…Three or four—but I don't see how this..."

"Ichigo."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you're having such a hard time right now is that—on top of everything—you're still recovering from her death?"

"…"

"…"

"…Oh no, I'm not gonna go see a shrink about that, if that's what you're saying."

"It wouldn't hurt. There are good professionals out there—"

"Urahara. Therapy— doesn't do shit. And what good would that do? Why—why dig up that stuff? I don't want to just… give myself stuff to mope about."

"…You need to talk. If not to me, to someone else."

"…"

"It wouldn't be 'moping.' Closure—it'd be closure."

"I don't need it. I'm over it—I've been over it for a long time."

"…"

"…"

"…'Over it'?"

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:: what one has

Hands behind his head, shifting, screech of cot springs, dampened concrete in the corner (the hollow reverb of waxing, waning footsteps)—he hadn't been Masaki.

It's a thought that had recurred to him since he pulled out of Ichigo's body. Initially, though, it had been clouded by the fuzzy, intoxicated giddiness of retribution indulged. But now… Now that the heat of that moment had long cooled, the thought, originally kept at bay on the outskirts of his consciousness, whittles heavy-handed at his heart.

He feels lonelier than he did before.

(He hadn't solved a fucking thing.)

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:: afloat

"…This sucks."

"You're doing fine."

"I'm not a math person. I hate this."

"How could you possibly hate this? I'm~ your teacher!"

"Shut it. I just do."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…I feel stupid."

"Ichigo. You're not stupid—you know that. Twenty-third in your class, remember?"

"…"

"It's just a matter of… being able to concentrate… —You're not that far behind in the curriculum, anyway."

"…I'm not?"

"Ye of little faith. I wouldn't be Tutor Extraordinaire, otherwise!"

"…"

"…"

"You're so queer."

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(two-ish months.) :: orihime (sorry, III)

This is not the way she had wanted to hold him.

His head is on her shoulder, hands clutching at her sleeves in pursuit of purchase. (She can feel him breathing.)

(He's not looking at her.)

She wraps her arms around his upper back, giving him a mother's embrace (because she knows that's what he needs from her).

It's strange—the large hands, broad back, and she still gets the overwhelming sense that he is a child.

(Her longing is out of place right now.)

(She wants him; he wants his mom.)

A tiny part of her is bitter about the unrequitedness—she tries to keep the selfishness to herself, and it's hard—but the better part of her feels empathy.

Because she gets it.

She probably gets it more than most of the others. She and her brother had run away from an angry home. Abusive parents, fear, betrayal—she gets it.

(They'd never hurt her like that, though. She wouldn't understand that, and she's not going to pretend she does.)

He's anchorless right now, she knows (can feel it coming off him in waves). She doesn't have the strength of cold logic like Uryuu; she can't keep herself separate from his feelings—from taking them on, from reacting to them as if they were her own.

Ichigo in her arms, she begins to cry vicariously, and she hates herself a little for it.

(She can feel how insulted—ashamed—he's growing, her tears in his hair.)

"I'm sorry, Kurosaki-kun."

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('when the living's easy.') :: small reflections

"HOW?"

Ichigo and Ishida roll their eyes at Keigo's lamenting tone.

Sagely, Mizuiro sips his coffee.

"It takes patience, Asano-san. Patience."

(They're in some hole-in-the-wall downtown. Mizuiro's idea.)

"That doesn't explain anything—and, and 'Asano-san'? You're so COLD to me! Cold…"

Keigo's eyes widen momentarily.

"—Or wait. Wait. Is that it? Is that the attraction factor? Is that what makes them go for you? TELL ME HOW IT WORKS, MIZUIROOO!"

"It might be the acting like a buffoon that's throwing them off."

"Shut up! Go—go sew… or something!"

(Ishida pushes up his glasses.)

(Histrionics.)

"But he may have just found your answer, Grasshopper…" A facetious, entreating tone—Mizuiro sets his cup down on its saucer, pats Keigo on the head.

(Probably good for an anecdote.)

Chad spares a small laugh. Not jeering, though.

Ichigo just sniggers.

(A few methodically torn paper napkins on the table. Sixteenths.)

(They wait for the check.)

"You guys are ganging up on me…!"

Keigo makes a broad, accusatory gesture, mock distress on his face.

"Mou! I swear, I'm not gonna get any till I'm forty, and it'll be ALL YOUR FAULT, 'cause you won't let me share in on the wealth, you LUCKY—OW! What was—"

Mizuiro retracts his foot (quite gracefully) from Keigo's shin. Chad sends Ichigo a look.

"—that… for…"

(Ishida, a glance.)

Ichigo stares at Mizuiro's saucer for a second.

"I'll be back in a bit."

He pushes in his chair and leaves.

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:: listen, II (the office, I)

"I think I woke up when I hit the floor. I don't really remember."

"…"

"Dad was… kneeling over me. I could tell he was drunk—I mean, I've never really seen him drunk before, but I've seen drunk people, so…"

"…"

"He was… saying something about Mom. He was mad. He… backhanded me. Told me I was, um…"

"."

"—'Stupid.' That it was my fault."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"He… grabbed my collar. I couldn't breathe, and I…"

"."

"I don't know. He said I… took her away, and I guess that's why I didn't really… try to run. Some fucked up reason—I don't know."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"I almost blacked out, I think—lack of air. I didn't, but…"

"…"

"Well… Anyways…"

"…"

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:: a father

His fingers are numb, tingling, hot; opening that door, the handle, the click—it's all electric to him, now—

But there's a chill (A CHILL) finding a home in his chest.

The tub—an empty tub is never that full. People just don't fill it that full; it'd overflow the second someone stepped in—

There aren't any bubbles. There are no bubbles. (The water is that deserted grayish color, but it's not… It's not—)

He runs.

HE RUNS.

—nearly slipping (geta don't have the greatest traction on bath rugs), he finds his way to the side of the furo, breath clogging in his chest like clay rather than a gas—

Oh god. Oh god.

Orange hair, floating in front of his (ashen) face—it's Ichigo. That's Ichigo; that's Ichigo not breathing.

His first reaction isn't a reaction at all—it's not a battlefield; it's a bathtub in his own home—just a litany of NO! in a screaming marquee rippling through his head, dripping out his mouth:

"No, no, no, no, no…"

Then it hits. He acts.

Frenzied, he plunges his arms into the water (gurgling splash), yanks the body—Ichigo—out of the tub in a manner that probably defies any sort of procedural rescue—

It feels like—ICHIGO feels like—a sack of potatoes—

With shaking hands, he lays Ichigo flat on the tile.

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:: sorry, I

"I'm sorry, Ichigo."

('I'm sorry I wasn't there for you.')

He knows that Chad means it.

He doesn't know what makes him respond the way he does.

"Well, it's a little late for that," he snaps.

It's not the remorse on Chad's face that deepens so much as the understanding.

It makes Ichigo feel angrier.

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:: shame

This is not sex.

The natural rasp of Ichigo's voice is gone.

(Kon can't move.)

It's sharp, now. Awkward. Watery—watered-down gasps, clipped with hiccups.

"Dad… Dad, please… Please…"

Sudden dull thud of joints on the floor—a mortifying, wet smacking sound. Groans of a grown, sexually tenured man. (Low rumbling baritone.)

But Ichigo—Ichigo sounds distinctly fifteen.

The plaintive, withering "oh" he makes, reactive in the way characteristic of sex… It's not pleasure, though—pleasure doesn't sound like that.

Sounds like someone on their last limb.

(Kon can't move.)

"F-fuck… Fuck, you fucking—"

There's another harsh movement, harsh rustle, harsh moan. Ichigo is—Kon doesn't want to even think the word "whimpering," because it's Ichigo. Ichigo doesn't whimper.

But he is.

It's humiliating. Humiliating to listen to it, humiliating to think about it.

"Masaki!"

Ichigo sobs. Ruefully, like he's done something wrong.

(Kon can't move.)

"I'm s–… I'm so sorry… I'm sorry…"

Ichigo—prideful Ichigo—is bargaining, because this is not sex.

Ichigo bargains. Isshin hums, gratified—he's not there anymore.

(Neither of them is there anymore.)

(Kon can't move.)

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:: tolerance

Sneering, Ichigo goes for the kill.

"I'm not gonna be some point of interest for you."

Urahara stiffens, insulted.

Insulted in the way Ichigo had intended him to feel.

Maybe it was the last day. The last week, the last month—the "when" and "why" doesn't matter so much. But Urahara is provoked. Patience worn threadbare, he reacts with an efficacy typical of him, yet not typical at all.

(He usually uses 'cutting truth' for the sake of truth, not for the sake of cutting.)

"Listen," he says, coldly. "I'm just trying to help you. If you want to close up and point fingers—like you have with all your friends—fine. Let this destroy you more than it already has."

Ichigo hasn't answered his question, but pride makes Urahara get up to leave the room.

Ichigo shoots a weak glare at his back, yells after him.

"If you want to help, how 'bout you get the fuck out of my face!"

The door slides shut, cutting off his half-hearted attempt to have the last word.

(He gets up, too, trying to feel a little less like the guilty party.)

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:: sorry, II (be honest with yourself, II)

He's huffing. Eyes wide and aggressive, almost as if in a fight. The sight is familiar to her.

"…"

(At least something is.)

It floods his veins—the rage, the relief, the freedom—

The fatigue.

(The high is going away. It's visible in his shoulders.)

He looks at his feet.

"I couldn't fight back… "

"…"

"Rukia… I couldn't fight back…"

(She's sorry.)

"For what?"

"…"

"…"

"I don't know."

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(february 2nd.) ::

It's a small glow, at first.

Faint light in pinstripes, crawling over the contours of his dirty clothes.

"Fuck."

(Somebody's going to yell at him today.)

He can hear it now. It's a mixture of voices, a composite—

'You're not taking care of yourself.'

He hasn't gone to sleep yet.

The crawling stripes, the wormlike stripes are gaining contrast, looking more and more alive as they become almost phosphorescent—

Hand groggy and blind and clumsy—he fumbles for the thing that adjusts the blinds. Finds it (it's almost unwieldy because it's so fucking skinny and his hands are prickling with exhaustion) and twists it the wrong way.

Ichigo winces when sparsely obstructed sunlight floods his eyes, and he quickly twists it in the reverse direction.

The room becomes a little darker, but the light has only been redirected toward the ceiling.

…Piece of shit blinds.

(It's a little before seven.)

He hasn't gone to sleep yet.

When he gets up at ten, he prepares to lie.

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:: justification

"I don't think Kuchiki-san or Arisawa-san would be keen on hearing you say that."

"But it's different with me—"

"What is different about it? Rape is rape."

"."

"It's not exclusive to women, nor is it exclusive to the weak—you should know this."

"…"

"You're not as much of an exception as you think you are, Ichigo."

"Yeah, tell that to all the other guys with fighting experience who were fucked by their dead fathers. Oh, and make sure they have orange hair and a hollow in their soul."

"Ichigo, you're not helping yourself."

"…"

"There are other people out there who are like you. Men. People who aren't 'weak.' They… probably don't have the exact same background as you—nobody has the same background—but they'd understand the experience. The specifics aren't necessary. Ichigo, abusive…"

"."

"Abusive fathers have existed long before—"

"I know that!"

"…"

"But…"

" 'But' what?"

"…"

"…"

"But… those… 'guys like me,' they…"

"…"

"They probably hadn't…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…That wasn't your fault. You were nine—you didn't know any better."

"That doesn't change the fact that she died because of me."

"…"

"…"

"Ichigo, he raped you. There is nothing—nothing justifies that."

"."

"It doesn't matter what you did or what you think you did; it doesn't make him right. It doesn't make what he did any more acceptable."

"…"

"…Ichigo. Ichigo, look at me—your father was being selfish. He took advantage of your guilt—"

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(eight-ish days.) :: because

"You can stop pretending to be asleep, now."

He's lying on his side, careful of his wrists, the scabbing on his back. (Very, very white covers pulled up over his head.) He's trying to breathe softly, trying to make her give up and go away. He doesn't want to talk to her.

He doesn't want to talk to anyone.

"…Do you think you could show your face for me? I'm not going to bite."

He lets the blankets slide a little. Meets her eyes a little too hard.

She laughs lightly. "It's nice to meet you, Kurosaki-san."

It's not personal, but he wants to throw up. Then sleep. Forever.

"I heard the LCSW didn't take to you very well. Sorry about that."

He blinks.

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:: triumph

"You're just bitter about air hockey."

Ichigo leans back with a wicked grin.

"No, it's just—…okay, fine. Fine! It's about the air hockey!"

"HA! SEE?"

"You pulled a cheap trick, Kurosaki!"

"What're you talking about? I won fair and square!"

Ichigo looks slightly insulted, but for the most part, smug.

Asshole.

Ishida hmphs and pushes up his glasses.

"Cheap."

(He's actually more heartened than he is mad.)

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:: what I mean

Ichigo just stands there, not exactly waiting.

Just not moving.

Urahara comes back with a full mug in hand.

He sets another not-so-discreetly by Ichigo, and Ichigo says, quietly—

"…It's relevant to me."

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A/N: uhhhhhhhh…

urrrhhhh…

'mma zombie…
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A Grudge's Decision