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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
- 8
- 9
A/N:
I'm switching things up for a bit. I'm writing a… three–chapter arc that is strictly chronological with very few omissions. The arc occurs post trust (in Ch.8), occupying a little over a two-day span.
This arc is very uncomfortable.
(Stupidity: Uh—11,000 words into the chapter, I realized I made a bigass research oversight (Lol, the last bigass research oversight was discovered at 5,000 WC). Let's just say that… the Karakura-chou educational board is really hardcore, and students start the third trimester DIRECTLY AFTER SANGANICHI ON THE 4th. Problem solved.)
(Tip to readers: "Make it past the morning," and you're mostly in the clear. And please ignore places where I mess up English idioms.)

(10) 「火曜日まで」Until Tuesday
1 of 3
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(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 09:05 JST)
Sunday morning—Karin sighs, flicks the end of her dormant soupspoon as if she could provoke it to jump alive and do something interesting (distracting). Jinta sits up for a moment, shifting his legs (his left foot is numb), and Ururu gives Tessai a fair dose of her perpetually pleading eyes.
Tessai shakes his head at her for some reason, and she inclines her head, understanding something.
(Yuzu hasn't touched her bowl.)
Ichigo walks by the kotatsu—fast; footfalls that don't linger long enough for them to sound like they have weight—both hands in the air as he says something fatalistic, sarcastic. (No destination.)
Urahara is close behind him, telling him to understand. When he reaches out to rest a hand on Ichigo's shoulder, Ichigo whirls around to face him, stepping back with a pinched face, saying something he half-means.
Something cruel. A distortion meant to hurt.
"I'm going outside. …Nice out," Jinta says. He excuses himself from the table and forgets to clear his dishes.
Tessai doesn't stop him today.
Urahara stands stunned, and Ichigo makes headway to his lack of destination. Hurt is written into Urahara's body—in his stiff arms and retracted head—at least for a few seconds, until there is a shift in his bearing.
(He's in offense mode, now. His feet are percussive.)
He walks purposefully, dangerously toward Ichigo and tells—warns him to listen up. Ichigo covers his ears, yelling something about betrayal.
Yuzu can only see Urahara from behind, the lifting-crinkling of his haori when he tries to grab Ichigo's hands and manually remove them from his ears.
"Gochisou-sama."
The door slides shut behind Jinta.
There's a moment when they both falter. Both Ichigo's hands are held by Urahara—free fingers curled loosely in the air, head bowed slightly to the side, pointedly looking away. Urahara's elbows and shoulders have dropped slightly. A little less threatening.
When Ichigo looks up at him—corner of his eye—he's in tears.
Presumably, they're having some sort of staring contest, because they're not moving.
"I have homework," Karin says, lips in a tight line.
(She follows Jinta's example and leaves her dishes.)
Ichigo suddenly starts to heave. Does that terrible laughing, humming sob and tries to talk through it. He searches for criticisms, choking out fragments of examples.
Examples alluding to his 'real' father.
Urahara lets go of him, hands sinking to his sides as he listens, quiet.
Ichigo yells at him. Yells at him to say something back, so he can have another reason to FUCKING HATE him. Urahara murmurs no, no he won't. He tells him that he's sorry, and Ichigo grits his teeth, punches him across the face—his weight, his hatred, his fear thrown into it.
(The force of it makes Ichigo skip a little on a foot, and he shakes out a reddened hand.)
Urahara loses his balance, catches himself with a hand and knee. Holding his face—it's bloody.
Ichigo sinks into something of a catcher's sit, leaning forward, keeping himself upright with a hanging (locked) arm, four fingers.
Then, inconsolably—at that point where words cease to be an option—he cries. Cries the way he did after his mother died. The way he did after he was raped.
It's a cry of loss.

(All while trying his best to maintain a steady glare at Urahara.)
Tessai places a large hand over Yuzu's.
Because—watching—she cries, too.
"Let's go clean up the kitchen, hmm?"
Tears still rolling, Yuzu nods, silent.
Tessai looks between Yuzu and Ururu, and they begin to pick up the plates.
As they carry the dishes out, table wiped down, Yuzu hears (behind her, buffered by a few walls) Ichigo screaming he hates everyone and everything.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 09:05 JST)
Ishida flips his pillow over and falls back asleep for the second time.
(He doesn't turn the heater down.)

(3rd Dist. 12-3-403, Sakurabashi, 7 Jan. 2007, 09:05 JST)
Facing southwest, Orihime cuts suzushiro on her cutting board.
"Before the birds of China fly to Japan, let's get nanakusa…"

(4th Dist. 11-8-201, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 09:05 JST)
Chad towel-dries his countertop.
He's not hungry yet.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 10:00 JST)
On his knees now (in an awkward, intermediate form of seiza), Ichigo feels vaguely sick. Feels weak—like the wind could blow him away—but at the same time, heavy.
He's getting tired—his stomach, lungs trying to chase breath. (The fatigue is beginning to deny him sound, but he wants to keep talking for some reason.)
"It's not—"
He lurches.
"–fair. It's not fair…"
Urahara sits cross-legged, trying to heal the swelling of his face.
Vision cast downward—voice laden with compassion—Urahara says gently, "No… No, it's not fair…"
Ichigo's shoulders tense slightly.
"Don't." He drags the word through his teeth.
(Unstable volume.)
Ichigo looks up at him, grimacing. Cranes his neck, eyes cloudy and red.
"Stop it—you don't… You don't get to do that."
Urahara is silent at that. He rests his hands in his lap, figure slackening.
"Can't you…"
His heart begs escape, pounding (its clenched hands) angrily against his ribcage.
He whispers, "Can't you just forgive me? Can you please forgive me?"
"NO!" Ichigo is quick to answer, making a baring-of-teeth motion. "No, because you're a— fucking terrible person, and I hate you."
(Closed-mouth, Ichigo makes a muffled, supplicant sound.)
"I hate you so much."
Urahara rubs his eyes. Wet fingertips.
(It's itchy.)
"…Will you give me a chance to make it up to you?"
"Stop crying," Ichigo snarls, eyes narrowed and streaming. "You don't get to cry—I'm not… I'm not the bad guy here; you're the bad guy. You don't–… You don't get to turn this on me. You don't get to turn this on me!"
Urahara covers his face.
"Stop…" Ichigo warns.
"Oh…"
(Involuntary sound.)
"Ichigo, please…"
It's muggy behind his hands. His cheeks hurt.
"…Is there really—nothing?" he chokes. "Is there really nothing I can do…?"
"Sure there is!"
There's an odd look of bitterness and panic and fury on Ichigo's face.
"You can fuck everything up, like you always fucking do…"
He has a full-blown crying face, now—Urahara.
(But only the bottom of his face shows.)

They pause.
"…I'm trying. Please… please just see that I'm trying…"
Ichigo looks away from him.
Urahara lowers his hands.
"I'm not good at this… I know that. I know I'm not—cut out to be a parent…"
Through the tears, Urahara squints and tilts his face. (Shoulders rolling forward in preparation for an eschewed sob.)
"I just… I just want you to get better, and—I don't know how to do it, so… I'm sorry…"
He breathes uneasily, waiting for Ichigo's response.
"I'm sorry," he repeats hoarsely, addressing Ichigo's back.
Then (not a lot of conviction and only a whisper, but)—

"That's not an excuse."
Urahara freezes in his own skin, mortified.
(He's mortified.)
Wobbling, Ichigo braces himself and gets to his feet.
He turns. Looks down at Urahara, and says—with the most volume, emotion, spite he can still manage—
"I need to get away from you."
He delivers it with an angry smile (waits to see the guilt on Urahara's face), turns again and walks away, feeling a tepid victory.
(Feeling nauseated.)
Hands curled into loose, tired fists, he heads gingerly but single-mindedly toward his room.
"I hate this shithole," Ichigo mutters under his breath, walking down the hall.
Yuzu's peeking outside the room that she and Karin share. He feels it, and their eyes meet briefly through a middling sliver of doorway.
She looks worse for the wear, and there's a slimy sense of guilt in his chest.
He averts his eyes and walks faster. She closes her door.
He reaches his room with the intent to change immediately out of his borrowed yukata—he doesn't want to be wearing anything of Urahara's. He roughly slides the fusuma shut behind him and hisses in soft irritation when it bounces back a couple centimeters or so. He closes it again—using his fingertips, feeling annoyed by the fine motor movement—and goes to his closet.
There are a few white plastic storage bins. One with books, one with his school uniform and clothes from his house (which he hasn't really touched, because he rarely leaves the Shouten).
One with other things from his old room that Urahara thought he might want to keep.
(Stupid Urahara.)
He lifts the tub with the books, wondering why one of the heaviest would be on top, and sets it on the floor outside the closet. He bends slightly—snaps open the second container, revealing the things he hasn't worn in a while. After he digs through the bin (throwing some things haphazardly on the floor), he finds jeans, a long-sleeved shirt.
Ichigo holds the bundle in his hands, idle, cringing at the idea of changing. But he'd be damned if he kept wearing this fucking green—
He gulps, and steels himself for The Feeling.
The air is cold. He tries to dress blindly, feel for buttons and seams with his eyes closed. But he's shaking pretty badly from earlier, fumbling. So he creaks open an eye, hoping that he'll only have to see his foot to do the first goddamn pant leg, but he misjudges and is blasted by a full view of both his bare legs. He jerks as if burned and instantly forces his eyes shut, ears ringing hot in horror. It's like looking at a half-week-old, brutally decapitated head or something—
He feels like a pussy. But, even as the shame wells inside him, the fear is stronger, searing him all the way down his spine to his toes. He feels ridiculously unsafe—exposed at gunpoint, sort of. He struggles to reanimate himself.
"It's okay… Don't be stupid—nothing's going to happen to you."
(He talks to himself in reprimand, trying to disenfranchise the sensation.)
"Just fucking dress… It'll be over once you're dressed."
So he dresses. Slowly, but he dresses, and The Feeling does pass.
(With a lag of about five minutes, but that's not all that surprising.)
He does have to regain his bearings though. He sits down on his bed—jeans feel odd on an unmade bed—clasping his hands so tightly that his hands hurt.
(The pain is somewhat reassuring, though—makes him feel like he's still in the room and not off on some mind trip.)
It takes everything he has to resist just—curling up under his covers and fucking hibernating and praying to… something.
It's not that anyone could see him right now, but… that would be just so pathetic.
"It's not the fucking first month, jibun… Pull yourself together. You can do this. You gotta do this."
There's a beat, and he laughs quietly, pulling a hand down his face.
"Look at me. Talking to myself like a crazy person…"
Then he stands up. Quickly, unthinkingly—body knowing that he has to use this brief moment of amusement (however feeble) as an impetus to move.
Mind blank, he starts for the front door.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 10:37 JST)
Karin has a science question that she needs to show Urahara. (She's always been pretty good at science, but she can't make heads or tails of it.)
She feels uncomfortable about the timing—she knows they're fighting, but the noise had died down a lot. Even so, she doesn't know how appropriate it would be to intrude at this point (Yuzu is better at sensing that, she thinks).
She'd waited around a half-hour to be safe. Notebook in hand, she edges out of her room, looking left and right as if she were crossing a street. It's a Sunday, so she figures her best bet for finding him would be in the sitting room with his coffee (of course, that's on a non-fight day). But as she heads there, she spots him semi-jogging toward the part that opens up to the actual store.
Ichigo's there. He's shrugging on a jacket he hasn't worn in a while, and he's half out the door.
By the time Urahara reaches the door—hand raised in the universal "let's negotiate first" fashion—the door slams, endangering his newly healed face.
Out of context, it might have been comical (as Urahara is inside the house rather than outside), but in context, it looks like it is devastating. Urahara more or less rips open the door and runs to the open store facade, only to find an empty courtyard.
He puts a hand over his eyes, face, something—Karin can't really see—taking a deep breath (stress stealing his air), and then he—
"JINTA! Jinta, did you–…"
The reply comes unambiguously from inside the house.
(A "What?")
"SHIT!" he yells, and, in a total loss of control, he kicks some merchandise.
He groans, aggravated, and pulls at the ends of his hair.
Feeling like she saw something personal and far too private—she has never seen him behave or talk like that when he's not around Ichigo; he usually acts so fruity, she thinks—she goes back to her room. She can afford to leave that question blank.

(Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 10:39 JST)
Ichigo runs. Hangs a knee-jerk right, rounding a tight corner (just shy of the concrete wall).
Outside—he escaped. He's outside, he escaped, and Urahara's not behind him.
Right?
Right.
(He's not going to risk looking behind.)
He's short of breath, sides cramping—been inside too long, muscles in atrophy—but there's an unshakeable grin on his face.
He hopes Urahara feels terrible, and there's something exhilarating about the possibility that Urahara could feel worse than he does—something nervous-happy-vindictive—
He sprints (all while attempting to trick his body into fitness by mind over matter)—
—wind in his ears, until his forward movement is broken by the intersection. His eyes register the red of the "DO NOT WALK" and he starts to slow, brittle pressure on his knees.
Small group of people waiting at the corner (six, seven maybe). But it seems crowded—small sidewalk. He stops, bending, hands on his thighs, arms trembling with cantilevered weight. He breathes heavily; a woman—both hands on her purse, sun hat, forties or fifties—turns to look at him briefly. Businessman in a three-piece suit sees her, also turns—furrows his eyebrows inscrutably at Ichigo; Ichigo looks at him as if to respond and he finds that he's too busy catching his breath to do so.
The man shrugs slightly and returns to watching the walk-light. Even with the attention diverted from him, Ichigo still tries to breathe through his nose, hold his breath (trying to make a show of stamina).
The world begins to refocus.
Distant drone of a public service announcement, a few street vendors, newspapers. Shallow crackle of car tires, pavement in residential zones.
「だめじゃないの？」
「だめじゃなくて… それよりっ」
Someone bumps into him—shoulder to shoulder. (He didn't notice the light changing.)
"Watch—"
Ichigo beats him to it.
"Watch it, asshole!"
He hopes the assertion will make his heart stop beating so hard—the unfamiliar contact had startled him, dunking him in a sudden awareness of his 360 degrees of vulnerability. There are no rooms here, no vantage point out in public.
(In open space.)
With spooked skin and a churning stomach, he crosses the street with the mushrooming realization that he doesn't have a plan.
He doesn't know where to go.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 10:53 JST)
At first, Urahara doesn't say anything to Tessai—just walks back into the sitting room, straight to the wall, tense.
"Tenchou..."
Urahara's back is to him, but Tessai knows. Urahara exhales, breath light and derailing. Trembling hands.
(And there's a poorly disguised sniff, but Tessai plans to not notice.)
"I am so stupid..."
Urahara laughs a non-laugh.
"What in the world convinced me that that would be a good idea...?"
Tessai waits.
Urahara starts to pace a little, slowly (hand over his mouth, somewhere between thoughtfulness and mute horror).
"Yoruichi will be furious with me... She will. I can practically hear her right now. 'Kisuke, this isn't the Maggot's Nest!'"
(An accurate impersonation.)
"Or... Or—'hare-brained.' Yes, those will be her exact words. Hare-brained. Or perhaps she'll just say I'm an idiot. It'll be one of those—"
"Tenchou..."
"I force-fed him!"
Urahara pivots, looking miserable.
"I've tortured people like that before! Literally tortured! He has—"
(He waves his arms, battling inarticulacy.)
"—every RIGHT to hate me and to, to—distrust me. What was I thinking? I... I don't even remember why I decided against intravenous; I just– I– AHH!"
His raised hands curl and uncurl, longing for something to throw.
"He is one-hundred percent correct—I am a terrible, terrible, selfish person, and this is all my fault, and now he's actually run away, and—"
"Kisuke."
Urahara pauses at hearing his given name, body half-tangled in the motions of a tirade.
"If you want to help Ichigo-kun, you must calm down."
His pacing resumes.
"You're telling me to calm DOWN? What– What– He's out there—Tessai! He can't tell me the day of the week! The WEEK! And, and—whenever he encounters something remotely threatening, he just shuts down! Tessai, he can't… He can't…"
"Tenchou… This is unlike you. I realize that he must have pressed a lot of nerves this morning, but you need to calm down. I don't believe the situation is as critical as you think, but even if it were, we both know you're fully capable of thinking this through…. Alright?"
Urahara tries to breathe slowly.
Tessai addresses him as if he were a child.
"Are we alright here?"
(Urahara finds it both patronizing and soothing—he could outthink everyone in the building several times over, yet Tessai is here, trying to make him see reason.)
He closes his eyes and nods several times, gulping a little.
"Yes. Yes we are… —Thank you."
Tessai puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Let's discuss this over lunch. If I remember correctly, you did not eat this morning… You being hungry will not help anyone at this point."
Urahara nods and swallows again.
"Sit down. I'll reheat some of the nanakusa-gayu."
"Nanakusa-gayu…?" he asks, looking at Tessai dumbly.
Tessai nods.
Then, comprehension strikes—nanakusa-gayu, 'Jinjitsu,' human festival.
They didn't get to the chant last night, and he completely forgot this morning.

And they were supposed to eat together.
The remembrance stings a little—everything has been absolutely antithetical to the holiday. He's been trying so hard to make things more normal for Ichigo and the girls, and all he's done is—
"Tenchou."
Tessai sees the obvious distress on his face.
"It will be okay," he says firmly.
Urahara just gives him a lost look.
"So, I'll go do that." Tessai points in the general direction of the kitchen. "And, in the meantime, you think about what you want to do."
He leaves.
"What I want to do…?" Urahara says to the room, voice half-projected as if he'd intended to say it to Tessai.
Pressure behind his eyes. A headache.
By the kotatsu, he lets his legs fold beneath him. He slides them under the blanket—leans over the table top, arms extended as if in a dive, reaching for the opposite edge. His nose presses uncomfortably against the wood—still feeling rubbery from healing—and, insulated by his hair, his own breath feels humid around his face.
His hat sits on the back of his head, almost in crude suggestion that his face had moved to the top of his scalp.
The heater feels nice.

(He needs to get himself together.)
"What are you doing?"
Oh. It's Karin.
Urahara squeezes his eyes shut, remaining in the same position as he tries to brainstorm something "knowing" and "adult-like" to say.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 10:53 JST)
Groggy, Ishida closes the cupboard. (Glass cold in his hand.)
He usually gets up at seven, even on Sundays. He's a little irritated that he slept in—a good part of the day's gone, and he doesn't feel rested.
Just more tired.
He watches himself pour orange juice. It looks strangely abstracted, and he realizes he really needs to find a way to wake up.
He walks into the bathroom and loses track of time when he sees his reflection in the mirror.

(3rd Dist. 12-3-403, Sakurabashi, 7 Jan. 2007, 10:53 JST)
Orihime holds the back of her pencil between her teeth, the grip between her forefinger and thumb.
She's sitting on the floor with her history textbook and notebook, and she can feel herself becoming distracted.
"Maybe I should call Tatsuki-chan," she says aloud.
She stands—her long skirt unfolds, smoothens—and she walks to the wall table.
Picks up the phone. Dials.

(4th Dist. 11-8-201, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 10:53 JST)
Chad reaches the last sentence of the paragraph, and puts down the book.
Hand over his face, he pulls his hair out of his eyes briefly. It falls back, like it usually does.
Masayoshi-san's speech against the counsel reminded him a bit too much of Ichigo in Soul Society—healthy Ichigo—and Chad had found he'd needed to stop reading.
Mentally, he tells himself that Masayoshi-san is a fictional character.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:10 JST)
"So… that would be… a… recessive…?"
Urahara eats the kayu in small bites, preoccupied with the wall.
Karin scowls.
"Urahara-san."
Urahara turns to Tessai as if he hadn't heard her. Finishes swallowing.
"He's not going to be coming back here." He sighs. "Or at least not today."
Tessai opens his eyes, returning to the room. "He is in Gakuenchou right now. Not much movement."
He sees Karin waiting.
"Tenchou," he prompts.
Urahara blinks, sees her too. "Oh."
He rewinds his aural memory and takes a sweeping glance at her notes.
"…Yes. That would be," he says absently, circling part of her makeshift diagram. "Gakuenchou…? So he hasn't gotten far… Not surprising, considering his energy…"
Karin looks worried, dissatisfied, and no more enlightened. Tessai frowns.
"Karin-dono, why don't you see if the others are hungry?"
"Yeah," she says dismissively, but not rudely. She hears the message—gathers her books, knowing that she's not going to get any sort of information right now.
She pads out of the room, and Urahara collapses himself onto the table again, resting his forehead on folded hands.
"I know retrieval is out. He won't want to see me, let alone listen…"
Tessai's frown deepens. Urahara speaks into his sleeves.
"—But I just have no idea… Sado-san would be… I don't know how… comfortable Ichigo would feel. His disorder. And Inoue-san… I don't think Ichigo would feel comfortable staying there either… And Ishida-san… He doesn't get along with him wonderfully—although, I can't say he gets along with anyone right now…"
Urahara picks himself up, and starts to poke the slowly coagulating porridge with his spoon.
"And his other school friends aren't in league with the spiritual world—or, at least, they can't fight hollows, which Ichigo is certainly not fit to do…"
(He's able to gather his thoughts, but they still vibrate and flutter nervously in place.)
He doesn't feel hungry.

(Yumisawa Children's Park, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:24 JST)
Park bench, cicada-like sound of a coasting bike.
It's one of those cloudless days. Cloudless, dry, 9°C.
(Not especially cold out, but his sweat is cold.)
The trees are bare.
—Burn of dyspepsia. It'd started mostly when he'd passed the high school.
(An image of his friends walking to school Monday had managed to penetrate the rush in his head.)
Ichigo sits stock-still, saying to himself that he's alleviating the stomachache, but really—
He's immobilized.
The fear isn't overt; to an outsider, he probably looks calm.
But it's not so much sharp as it is suffocating.

(He feels tightly wound—yet, at the same time, alarmingly absent.)
Being out under the sun feels strange. The breeze feels strange.
The sights are familiar—his memory stirs superficially—but it all feels foreign.
No. That's not right.
He feels foreign.
Like he has no claim to this place—that, if he moves, the people who belong here will notice how alien he is.
Notice, and say something he already knows.

An 'I'm tired' shoots uneventfully through his thoughts.
—Footsteps, and he gets a chill.
There's a kid. Six-something, holding onto his mother's pant leg. She scolds him weakly; he's on the side with all the shopping bags—he keeps knocking into them.
(One bag brown paper, heavy sound—books?)
They're passing by, and the kid turns to look back at him—at his hair, specifically.
Before he turns back, he meets Ichigo's eyes, small face curious.
Ichigo finds himself feeling like some kind of corruptive force, and he looks away first.
They're walking away, and he feels a dim sense of relief.
(But his heart still races.)
"Okaa-san, that boy has orange hair."
Ichigo hears him—now sees the side of his face from the back, the opening and closing mouth.
His mother doesn't. She's on her cell phone.
"I'll see you tonight," she says.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:24 JST)
Not even in a lather yet—just transferred the glob of shampoo from his hand to his hair—when Ishida hears the phone ring over the spray of the shower.
Undulating, robotic warble.
There's a negligible pang of regret, but he lets it go—probably a telemarketer. People don't often call him.
He closes his eyes so soap won't get in them.
He'll check the machine after he gets out of the shower, anyway.

(Bridge over Karasu-gawa, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:24 JST)
Orihime stops and stretches—turns to look down the river. It's glittering.
Such a nice day.
The sun feels good. It's been overcast for the past couple of days.
(Clammy kind of weather. Wet and cold.)
She resumes walking and pulls her hair out of her face—wind's blowing it.
"I wonder if she has natto…"
She looks up to the right.

(Super Hirohyaku, Kasazaki, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:24 JST)
The weight distribution in Chad's shopping basket is awkward—milk, oranges, chickweed.
(He's tempted to buy some of the pre-packaged katsudon just to even out the weight, but he decides not to.)
(A little late on the chickweed, but that's okay.)
—Japanese pop music, lyrics unintelligible as they echo in the market with all the other voices.
It's like white noise.
On the way to the registers, he walks by the designer rice (musing idly about what the differences might be from normal rice) and considers stopping at one of the end-aisles for hand-warmers.
Which reminds him—he needs to get more kerosene.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:29 JST)
Urahara puts the phone back on the receiver and closes his eyes.
Ishida, no. Orihime, no.
Tessai sits across from him.
"I know it's not optimal, but calling Sado-dono wouldn't hurt."
Urahara sighs.
"…I will."
He picks up the phone again.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:30 JST)
Ishida dries his hair as he checks his messages.
One—a missed call from Urahara Shouten.
He frowns, getting a bad feeling. Urahara would only call if it were serious.
—Busy signal when he calls back, and the bad feeling gets worse.
He hangs up and walks back into the bathroom to brush his teeth, feeling uneasy.
(He'll try again in a few minutes.)

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:33 JST)
The line's open. Ishida slides on his pants, phone between his cheek and shoulder.
"…Urahara-san."
He says it admonishingly—rolls his eyes, but his face settles into a grim expression.
"Cut the crap—what's going on? What do you want?"
Ishida takes the phone in hand again and sits on the edge of his bed.
(Folded shirt lying in his lap.)
He looks at the floor searchingly, but it's interrupted—he blinks.
"…Wh–"
(Processing, his eyes scrunch, disbelieving.)
"…What–? NO!"
His face flares with opposition.
"NO!"
With his free hand, he touches his forehead. Shakes his head.
"Even if– Even if it wasn't—"
He brings his hand down, as if making a point to the space around him.
"…Urahara-san, I live in a 1K. You can't just… dump him onto me. I can't—"
Taken aback, he purses his lips.
Furrows his eyebrows.
His hand drops to his lap, resting on top of the shirt.
"Really. I think we both know Kurosaki wouldn't come here willingly—"
He looks irritated at being cut off, but also sobered.
He sighs away from the receiver.
—Stands up, shirt hanging in hand.
In a purely mechanical way, he looks at the floor. (He's not really seeing it—too absorbed by the call.)
His face deadpans.
"No, Urahara-san. Urahara-san. I don't have the resources, and even if I did, I don't…"
He narrows his eyes.
"You're asking me to take care of him."
(Not allowing for much of a delay, he raises his voice slightly.)
"By him staying here—effectively—you're asking me to take care of him, and… I don't know how to do that–"
(Skeptical, critical face.)
"That's bullshit."
He looks to the side, annoyed. Shifts on a foot.
"Urahara-san, I don't know how to take care of a rape victim—"
Ishida's eyes widen—almost in astonishment.
But it's short-lived; the look disfigures with sympathy.
He tiredly stares at the desk-side wall, pained.
(Taking pause.)
Puts the shirt down unconsciously—over the back of the rolling chair.
"Urahara-san…"
He's wandering to the kitchen, now.
(Propping a hand on his own back, arm bent.)
He slows, face incredulous.
"'Left'? You mean he ran away?"
His tread falters.
(Sluggish half-pivot.)
Suddenly, he stiffens—like he's staving an impulse to attack.
"What did you do?"
The air around him vibrates with accusation. Anticipation.
He waits.
A second's time, and the tension begins to dry up.
His shoulders slump.
Lost in thought, he continues to walk to the kitchen.
His gaze flickers from the tile to the entry light.
He sighs, resignedly.
"…Alright, then."
Pointlessly, he opens and closes one of the hanging cupboards.
(Then he distantly realizes that he pointlessly opened and closed one of the hanging cupboards.)
He turns, leaning back against the counter.
"So…"
He holds his elbow.
It's bright out—light through the apartment balcony door.
(He remembers that he's not fully dressed.)
"Why me…? Why not Sado-kun, or…?"
He goes back to the bed—doesn't see his shirt.
—Consults his dresser, opening one of the drawers.
Paws around.
Takes out a sweater. The one he wore on New Year's Eve.
(A confused frown.)
"…'Best choice'? I would think Sado-kun would…"
He holds the collar, flips his wrist so the sweater sits on his forearm.
How is he going to maneuver this on the phone?
(At least the material is stretchy.)
He shakes the folds out.
It hangs in his hand. He blinks.
"Oh."
His eyebrows crease and he gives the sweater one last shake—a little violent.
"So I'm non-threatening. That's nice."
—Puts it down momentarily on the bed, picks it up by the bottom opening.
He locks his phone-arm to his side, slides his free arm through the sleeve.
(The correct sleeve—he references the orientation of the collar.)
He pauses, head and phone through the neck of the sweater.
He frowns again. Transfers the phone to the hand of his clothed arm.
"…–Well, that doesn't change the fact that I don't have space, Urahara-san. It would be ridiculous—"
(His non-sleeved arm is stuck, now.)
Sighing, he shrugs the side of the garment over his shoulder, freeing himself.
The fabric sits awkwardly like that for a moment—grouped between his neck and shoulder, sleeve dangling.
Then, with his fingers a blind guide, he tunnels his arm into the sleeve.
(Flexes his wrist, gives his forearm a twist to straighten it all out.)
"I highly doubt that—"
A sour look.
Dressed, he pulls out his desk chair.
He sits, crossing his legs. Reclines and feels a lump behind his back.
(With both amusement and irritation, he realizes it is the shirt he was originally going to wear.)
He closes his eyes.
"Fine."
Hard tone.
"But I'm not going to be your backup every time you mess up."
His face softens, though.
Brief glance at the clock, then at his desk lamp.
The glower returns.
"…I don't see any elders."
(Snappishly.)
"—'Hear.' I meant 'hear'! …–You are incorrigible; I'm being serious!"
He huffs.
Exasperation. Pious bearing.
(But it dies.)
Instead, he seems to hold the phone delicately, like it's something not meant for him to hold.
His eyes drop, mouth tightens.
It's grief, but not grief for the self.
He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't.
With a careful breath, he regains himself.
(Collectedness.)
"Okay. So…?"
Renewed impatience.
"Okay."
Another glance at the clock.
(Feels like he's forgetting something.)
He now looks uncomfortable, awkward.
"Okay, bye."
Ishida hangs up.
He leans heavily against the chair, tilting his head back to its full extent.
(Hands folded over his eyes like a mask.)
"Ugh…"

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:41 JST)
Karin moved onto literature homework.
She's lying on her stomach on her bed reading the assigned pages when she hears Yuzu sniffling across the room.
Karin feels bad, but mostly—maybe it's because she's been brushed off all day—she feels annoyed.
'Like we need one more person crying in this house.'
She's able to control her irritation, though.
"Yuzu, what's wrong?"
Yuzu shakes her head.
"I just…" She sniffs. "—Feel so bad, for everyone…"
Karin frowns.
(She feels the same way, but…)
"C'mon, Yuzu… Don't cry…"
Yuzu wipes her eyes and nods.
"And go get something to eat. Your stomach's growling."

(Yumisawa Children's Park, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:48 JST)
"Earth to Kurosaki."
Ichigo doesn't acknowledge him. He's on the bench, inert, staring vacantly at—or seems to be staring at—the ashtray next to the opposite bench.
He looks like shit.
Real skinny—his clothes seem to hang on him. His face is drawn, the telltale dark circles of an insomniac under his eyes. What's more is that, looking closely—Ishida wants to wince—Ichigo looks like he's cried hard enough to regurgitate his fucking soul.
All this has Ishida feeling unreasonably pissed off.
(Initially, he feels surprised at the extent. Then he figures it's because he hasn't eaten anything yet, along with all of this.)
He walks a bit closer—making sure to stay outside 'The Bubble.'
"Earth to Kurosaki," he repeats.
Ichigo responds by looking in his direction owlishly.
It's creepy, honestly. Does he even recognize him?
"Ishida," he says.
(Sounds like he's reciting a phone number or something.)
It dawns on Ishida that he has no idea how this interaction is going to play out—not even an educated guess—and something between insecurity and childish disinclination blooms in his brainstem as an almost tactile sensation.
"Kurosaki," he replies unintelligently, mostly for the sake of sound.
Even so, it seems like it makes the lights come on in Ichigo's head. He looks slightly more present.
But now, Ichigo averts his eyes, attention detouring to the ground.
"…What're you doing here?" he asks, softly.
"I was just in the area," Ishida lies. After a second, he adds, "—I live around here."
"Ah." Ichigo shuffles his feet.
With a shrewd gaze, knowing he's being unfair, Ishida says, "I could ask the same of you."
At first, Ichigo is silent at the remark; Ishida believes that he's not going to get a response, until—
"I just felt like getting some fresh air."
(An obvious lie.)

Ishida stands. Ichigo sits.
They don't talk.
A (new) bicyclist—red backpack—careens by them through the park, a little close, the air around them tearing with the speed.
Ishida notes how Ichigo's eyes dart, target the movement dead-on.
(Audiovisual reflexes up to par with how he used to fight.)
He finds it strange how Ichigo seems to be caught between absentmindedness and hyper-attention. He chalks it up to PTSD, and as his imagination tries to stir—attempting to localize the concept—he finds (with a small jolt) that Ichigo is actually looking at him.
The expression is eerily evaluative—resentful.
At the same time, though, Ichigo looks grateful. Embarrassed, even.
Ishida comes to an abrupt understanding.
Ichigo knows he's lying. Ichigo probably has guessed that he's talked to Urahara—knows that he knows what's going on and that their conversation so far has been meaningless nonsense. His eyes practically scream, 'Urahara put you up to this, didn't he?'
It makes Ishida feel nervous—he's unsure of whether he should continue with the original pretense or not.
Does Ichigo want him to avoid the topic of his running away, or would that be insulting?
(Ishida settles for a happy medium.)
He takes two steps as if he's walking away, and he looks over his shoulder at Ichigo.
"Are you coming?" he asks, making sure he sounds indifferent enough.
(Annoyance impinges a little on the endeavor, though.)
He doesn't wait for a response—starts walking. He knows Ichigo will follow.
Just in case, though, he takes another glance behind him when he gets a block away.
Sure enough, Ichigo's there, about ten paces behind, looking dispassionately to the side.
Ishida sighs and slows down, feeling strangely like a dog owner.
Trust that idiot to get run over by a car.
'That's not funny.'

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 11:55 JST)
Yoruichi wipes her brow. Not from sweat—just the motion.
"Craters," she says. "To the naked eye, it looks like only physical impact, but I also took samples of the sand. Unstable reishi."
Urahara hums passively. "And not naturally occurring."
"No, I don't think so—epicenters."
She blinks, and then narrows her eyes.
"Kisuke, where's Ichigo?"
He closes his eyes, and puts pressure on either side of his nose with his fingers.
"Can we not talk about that right now? Can we talk about that in… an hour?"

(4th Dist. 11-8-201, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 12:08 JST)
Chad is preparing lunch when he notices a blinking light on his answering machine.
He checks. Urahara.
Worried, he dials the number of the Shouten.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 12:08 JST)
When Ishida unlocks the door, holds it open from inside, Ichigo's still lagging behind—four meters or so.
Probably from the stairs. (Ichigo has been sedentary for months.)
"Kurosaki," he says, trying not to snap. "Hurry up."
It's like Ichigo doesn't think he's talking to him. He's looking out over the railing of the running balcony.
(At the pavement?)
"Kurosaki," he iterates.
Ichigo graduates from a distracted amble to a walk.
"Sorry," he mumbles, stepping inside.
The door closes.
"Shoes," Ishida says. He turns on the kitchen light.
"Yeah…"
Without untying his shoes, he slips them off into the tray—walks toward the main room of the apartment as Ishida hangs up his long coat (Ichigo forgets to take his off).
Toward the natural illumination.
The apartment is small—very small. The kitchen is tiny, the bathroom is probably the same, and the main room is essentially a bedroom, "office," and living room tucked into a space only slightly larger than his old room.
(His old room… He'd liked his old room.)
"Kurosaki, I'm behind you," Ishida warns.
"I know," he says neutrally.
"…Get out of the way."
He turns, looks over his shoulder.
"Oh… Sorry."
He moves, and Ishida steps through.
"You can sit on the couch."
He indicates the fairly small loveseat next to the closet and bookcase.
Ichigo doesn't say anything—he's looking around and absorbing the surroundings as he goes to sit.
Clothes scattered on the floor. Unmade bed. Towels in various places. Desk piled with messy stacks of paper, educational refuse, empty drink bottles.
"Wow," he says unwittingly.
"What?"
Ishida looks at him, and Ichigo looks away.
"It's… –It's nothing," he says.
"It's what?" Ishida prompts.
Ichigo shifts uncomfortably, deprived of the option to evade.
"It's, uh… I just… thought it would be… cleaner?" Ichigo says, honestly.
"Why is that?" Ishida asks tartly.
Ichigo rubs his head.
"I don't know… 'Cause… You're you?"
"And what is that supposed to mean—"
"Ishida!"
(Ichigo gives him a 'What is up with you?' face.)
Ishida is about to search for a remark when it strikes him just how unfair he's being.
"—Your apartment's cool, really!" Ichigo says, aimlessly trying to diffuse whatever's going on.
Ishida sighs, trying to force his irritation with the whole situation out of his voice.
"…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to jump down your throat."
Ichigo looks at him, impassive.
"I just… I…" Ishida starts.
He decides to censor his thoughts.
"—haven't eaten… yet," he finishes. "I think I need to make myself some food—low blood sugar."
(Which is true enough, he realizes.)
Ichigo 'Ohs' and seems to let it go.
Ishida walks back into the kitchen, bending down to access the fridge.
"I have the things for nanakusa-gayu. Want any?" he asks, reaching inside.
Ichigo looks at him suspiciously, unsure how much Ishida knows about the situation.
"Would you like any?" Ishida repeats, not knowing whether Ichigo heard.
Something sparks in Ichigo's head.
"…It's Jinjitsu?"
"Yeah," Ishida says, putting the ingredients out on the counter. "…What day did you think it was?"
Ichigo doesn't answer, and Ishida wants to hit himself.
(He'd completely forgotten that time was a sensitive subject for him.)
"I don't know," Ichigo tries to say unconcernedly, but he feels embarrassed.
Ishida drops it and gets a pot out from one of the bottom cupboards.

(Arisawa-ke, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 12:08 JST)
Tatsuki quirks an eyebrow at her. She leans back on her palms, relaxing a full stomach.
"Like in Miyazaki-sensei's movies," Orihime continues, hands animate. "Laputa is so amazing!"
"Yeah," Tatsuki says.
She smiles in a fond, humoring way.
"But how would you get food? Water?" she quips.
"Water?" Orihime parrots. "Hm… I'd have a pond. And rain catchers, just in case."
Orihime pauses, thoughtful.
"I'd grow my own food—an orchard would be nice…"

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 12:11 JST)
"Moshi-moshi. Urahara Shouten—how may I help you~?"
Yoruichi frowns as she watches him strain to smile into the receiver.
(It's not like anyone would be able to see his smile through the phone, but she knows it helps him do 'the voice.')
"Ah," he says, eyes briefly—nervously—flickering over to Yoruichi. "It was… just a false alarm~!"
Urahara laughs forcefully.
"Everything has been taken care of… You don't need to worry…"
He's quiet for a second, eyes shining. (The shine is shocking to her.)
"Nope~ …something entirely different," he says.
He's making the face he does when he's lying outright, and her frown deepens.
"Well… In any event, I'm sorry to have bothered you. Have a nice Jinjitsu~"
He hangs up the phone and doesn't look at her.
"Kisuke."
"An hour, Yoruichi."

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 12:36 JST)
Water's at a rolling boil.
Click, simmer, the raining sound of rice.
Ishida is wearing an apron—which Ichigo thinks is unnecessary (and really odd, because Ishida is apparently a slob at home), but he's not going to say that.
He's imposing enough as it is.
Feeling like he's staying on borrowed time, Ichigo sits on the couch very still, as if corralled in by an invisible electric fence.
He wonders if he'll actually eat here—he'd never answered Ishida. 'Maybe the weirdness of being here will cancel out the weirdness of eating,' he thinks.
He looks over at the pot on the stove.
'Or maybe not.'
Ichigo crosses his arms, closing his eyes, head inclined.
It's not a bad sound, the cooking. He usually doesn't hear it—he avoids the kitchen at the Shouten, because it makes him feel guilty.
Maybe… Ishida won't be a nag about his eating…
Ichigo snorts.
The day Ishida is not a nag—
"What's so funny, Kurosaki?"
Ishida doesn't sound irritated now as much as he sounds bored.
(Perhaps it's concentration. He seems to be more focused on cooking.)
"Nothing," Ichigo says. "I was just thinking about… how weird all of this is."
Ishida gives the rice a careful stir.
He doesn't know what Ichigo means by 'all of this,' so he chooses not to comment.

(3rd Dist. 12-3-403, Sakurabashi, 7 Jan. 2007, 12:48 JST)
Coat hung up, back in an empty house, Orihime decides she'll take an early bath before she returns to homework.
She's going to the clothesline—getting the towels she'd washed the other day—when she sees that she has a message on her answering machine.
At first, she's excited. But when she sees where the call came from, the excitement turns to worry.
She calls back immediately.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 12:50 JST)
Urahara's essentially hiding in the water closet when the telephone rings.
(He doesn't care how immature it is; it's been a hell of a day.)
Tessai finds him to alert him of the obvious—opens the door, knowing very well that Urahara doesn't need to use the toilet.
Urahara shakes his head, mouthing 'no'—he puts his hands behind his head to mimic cat ears.
Tessai looks at him reprovingly.
Urahara gives him a withering look and walks back into the sitting room to get the phone.
"…Moshi-moshi~?"
(Yoruichi is still there, and Urahara just wants to go sleep.)

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 13:26 JST)
Without asking Ichigo, Ishida serves two bowls.
"Kurosaki."
He indicates Ichigo's designated bowl of kayu and finds himself under scrutiny.
Ichigo's unconcealed wariness is unsettling, insulting, and a little sad.
(He didn't used to be like that.)
"It's not poisoned or anything. You were here the whole time I was cooking, and I'll be eating the exact same thing as you," Ishida scoffs.
Ichigo seems to relax a little at that—wasn't what he was concerned about, and that's good.
(Ishida doesn't appear to know what he'd fought about with Urahara.)
"Come eat," Ishida says.
It's more of a demand than an offer.
"I'll feel uncomfortable if I'm eating and you're not. Even though you're you, you are a guest."
"Ah…"
Ichigo gets up, does an eggshell walk to the kitchen, and Ishida decides he hates humans in general.
Ichigo has a faraway look.
"Kurosaki, reel yourself in. I'm hungry."

(4th Dist. 11-8-201, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 13:39 JST
Chad opens the cupboard beneath the sink and grabs household cleaners. Paper towels.
Oosouji wasn't… "Oo" enough last year.
He starts with the windows.
(They squeak when he wipes them down. It's satisfying.)
(It would probably be good for him to dust before he does the floors.)

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 13:39 JST)
Ichigo eats three bites. Total.
In Ichigo's books, that's a compliment, but Ishida isn't quite sure what to feel.
Insulted? Flattered? Irritated?
…Guilty?
It's Jinjitsu, and he's having nanakusa-gayu with the unhealthiest, unluckiest, and unhappiest person he knows. It's so ironic that he's having a hard time focusing on actually eating rather than just thinking about how ironic it is.
He wishes Ichigo weren't staying with him.
Ishida understands that Ichigo's problems are probably worse, but it's so uncomfortable that he just wants to… jump out of his skin or simply push him out the door.
But Urahara had begged him—literally begged.

And he agreed.
(Which just had to be the cherry on top of this insane, bizarre sundae.)
While he's not going to go back on his word, it's very nearly unbearable. He needs some sort of out.
So Ishida makes a decision.
With concerted effort, Ishida wolfs down his kayu, and says—to an Ichigo who's currently playing with the remains of his food in some sort of trance—
"I need to run a few errands."
(Not a lie. But certainly not without motive.)
Ichigo looks up at him in a newborn kind of way. "Oh."
Ishida puts his dishes in the sink, gets his keys, and goes to the coat rack.
"I'm going to lock you in, okay?" he says.
Ichigo doesn't say anything.
Halfway out the door, Ishida adds, "…Don't touch anything."

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:12 JST)
"It's been over an hour," Yoruichi states.
Urahara feels his headache get worse.
"I know."
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"
There's a patience about her that makes him feel guilty.
But even so, he's not in the mood to further expose the soft underbelly of his feelings.
(He's done enough of that, today.)
"…Do I have to?" he asks, wincing.
"You're acting like a kid, Kisuke," she says evenly. "I'm not going to bite. But if it's important, I need to know."
"…But you will," he whines. "And I know I'm acting like a kid, but let's please not do this right now… I'm fragile~"
He's doing 'the voice' and making a silly face, but Yoruichi can tell he's not joking.
She sighs. "Kisuke—"
His eyes widen.
"—I'm sorry. I need to go do something."
He runs to the kitchen.
"…Kisuke–" she calls again.
A few seconds later, he's running out the door.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:17 JST)
Ichigo's back on the couch.
In light of Ishida's impossible instruction to 'not touch anything,' he thought he'd go to the one place that has proven 'safe' so far. (He really doesn't want to be yelled at. He's fucking sick of being yelled at.)
He wonders if he did the right thing by putting his bowl of kayu in the fridge. Ishida would know if he dumped it out—he'd find out somehow with his stupid Ishida powers—and leaving it out just seemed… weird.
But he didn't use any plastic wrap or a container—he didn't know whether he was allowed to find any.
(It's Ishida's own damn fault for being so vague.)

…It's been such a bad day.
He sighs. Leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs.
It's nice not having to talk to Ishida, but it's awkward being in his apartment alone.
The change of scenery is so surreal. Feels like it's putting a stopper in his normal cycle of thoughts.
Clock ticks—it's loud. (Ishida must've gotten used to it or something. Driving him nuts.)
He still can't get over how messy the place is. Not a bad thing—just surprising.
While it's not dirty, it's extremely cluttered; even he tends to be neater than this.
(—Last few months don't count, though.)
He's bored, and his eyes stray.
Literature textbook on the floor. Sewing machine tucked away in the corner. Paper towels on his desk.
Paper towels—it's odd, imagining Ishida using paper towels. Or imagining any of his friends using paper towels.
(Not that he thinks they wouldn't use them. It's just hard to picture for some reason.)
There's also a pair of grey sweatpants, sitting in a heap by the desk chair. Which is also odd to think about—he can't really imagine Ishida wearing anything like sweatpants. (They're a lot like an old pair of his, actually.)
A surge of dread screams up his spine.
Impulsively, he takes a quick inventory for a threat—the front door, the balcony. Walls, floor, ceiling—
There's no sign of legitimate danger, and, glumly, Ichigo comes to the conclusion that it's just his instincts fucking up. Again.
His body doesn't seem to know that, though. His blood is still trying to run cold, his breath is still trying to cut itself short, and his heart is still trying to race.
(There's a feeling of impending unreality lurking in the periphery of his mind.)
"Oh, shit," he says. "No. Nonononono—I am NOT doing this today. Not doing this."
He doesn't know what brought it on and doesn't care; right now, he searches the room for anchors—something, anything to root him into the present.
The ceiling fan, his bedroom didn't have a ceiling fan.
Ishida's area rug. That stupid loud analog clock—two-ish, which seems reasonable enough when he looks outside. (Not that he'd really know.)
The lamp. Oh—perfect! Next to it, Ishida has one of those tear-off day calendars (and it's Jinjitsu).
He freezes.
It says "9.1.2006."
Ichigo closes his eyes. Laughs a little—the day has gotten so bad that it's just funny. Complete overkill.
(He can just see a little bar next to his head with negative HP or something.)
He counts to ten, and when he opens his eyes, the room is dark.

"Figures," he jokes.
His next lucid thought occurs as he's hugging the toilet.
Ishida is going to be pissed.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:17 JST)
Yoruichi steps into the blistering hot water of the furo, unflinching.
(People have told her that it's a gift—the heat tolerance—and she'd just shrugged at them.)
"Idiot," she says aloud, and the steam consumes the sentiment.
Might as well wash while she waits. The sand of Hueco Mundo leaves some sort of residue—a little like salt from beach sand.
Irritates her skin.

(Himawari Sewing, Mashiba, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:17 JST)
Ishida's gotten several things.
New bobbins (metal, his plastic ones broke). Pins (his apartment eats them; he probably should've warned Ichigo about that). Beige thread (for his khakis). Damask (because it was there). Pattern book (also because it was there).
He's probably getting more than he should, but he really aims to stall.
(With that, he goes to check out the new arrivals in the lace area.)
"Ishida-san."
His heart skips a beat—he turns around, and then he realizes it is one of the last people he wants to see.
(Ishida is usually good at keeping his inner narrative to himself, but—)
"Where the hell did you pop up from?" he asks, alarmed. (He hadn't sensed any reiatsu.)
Urahara scratches his head.
"Why, the door, of course~!"
The false cheeriness makes Ishida want to strangle him.
It expires quickly, though, and 'Urahara-san' is suddenly replaced with that vulnerable stranger he'd heard on the phone.
Who also looks like shit.
(…What is wrong with all these people and why is he associated with them?)
Urahara is looking to the side guiltily (with a different face, it might look like he's preoccupied with the rolls of ribbons), and he's reaching under his haori, much in the way of a drug dealer.
"As much as I hate to bother you any more than I already have…"
His hand emerges—flash of orange, white—and he actually procures drugs.
Well, Ichigo's prescriptions. Two bottles.
Ishida fidgets uncomfortably.
It feels like he's breaking common etiquette (or possibly healthcare regulations) by just looking at them—it's such a private thing.
"…These, I believe, might make things a little easier—for all of us." Urahara laughs—awkwardly, because the truth of his words overpowers the humor.
Ishida can't formulate words, and Urahara takes the opening.
(Talking lowly. They're in a store.)
"This—" He holds up the thicker bottle. "These are his antidepressants—dailies. He… missed today's, but don't have him take any now. Too late in the day—he'll have a… –harder time sleeping. Just make sure he takes one tomorrow morning."
He holds up the narrower bottle.
"These are benzodiazepines—anxi–"
"Anxiety medication," Ishida finishes for him, impatiently. (He's in a bad mood.)
Urahara looks embarrassed. Openly. (It's like his stoicism filter broke.)
"…Yes. Yes, these are… These are—fairly powerful, and he only takes them… 'as needed.' They're 0.5mg sublinguals—"
"Sublinguals?" Ishida crinkles his eyebrows. "…I'm not going to have to—"
"—No, you won't. You can just give them to him—he's usually coherent enough to administer them himself."
"Only 'usually'?" Ishida scowls.
"Usually."
Urahara quiets.
"On that note, I would… advise not having the heat turned up too high—"
"It's winter, Urahara-san!" Ishida yell-whispers.
"I know, but it's just an adviso—"
They're interrupted by the sound of a baby crying. A mother apologizing profusely to the clerk as she carries her distraught daughter out the door, store bells ringing.
(…Mild Schadenfreude. That kind of day—Ishida struggles to smother a smirk.)
(Turning back to Urahara, he's able to extinguish it completely on principle.)
"…Anything else?" Ishida says—in a tone that makes it clear that he doesn't want an answer.
"No," Urahara starts, "but—"
"Good," Ishida says.
"But–"
Ishida makes a contemptuous face, eyes flaring open.
"Oh my god, stop talking to me! Leave!"
(Urahara smiles bitterly inside at his utter decline of authority over these kids.)
He gives a polite, miniscule bow.
"Thank you, and best of luck."
Urahara turns head. Leaves through the door with the mien of a normal customer.
Ishida feels a pang of self-reproach for being short with him.
After taking a few halting looks around the aisle (and telling himself he doesn't need anything else), he goes to stand in line.
He still doesn't want to go back to his apartment.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:30 JST)
Swells of voices in the sitting room. (Again.)
The walls are thin.

"—not trying to pick a fight with you."

"Yes, you are."
'No, she's not,' Karin thinks as she jots something down.
(She'll figure it out herself, what this science homework is asking.)

"—you're just saying that. What you really mean is—"
'He needs to stop sounding so defensive. Hopefully, Yoruichi-san won't get mad.'

"Don't put words in my mouth. I'm not your enemy here; all I'm saying is that—"
Karin sends a dirty look in the direction of their voices. It is so hard to focus—she's tempted to go out there and yell Nobody cares! Shut up!

"—would YOU have done? Honestly, tell me what you would have—"
"Ugh, this day needs to END!" Karin groans, pulling her pillow over her head.
Yuzu looks over at her.
The pillow moves, and Karin stands.

"—need to relax. I don't think that—"
"I'm going to the park to play soccer." She stretches, pulls a wrinkle out of her shirt. "I think the guys are at Tsubakidai today… Oh—and tell Urahara-san I'm going out, okay? So he doesn't freak out or anything."
"Mm."
After a second, Yuzu adds, "Are you inviting Jinta-kun?"
Karin takes the hint. "Yeah. I will. And I'll buy something to eat when I'm out."

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:48 JST)
The first thing Ishida notices is the smell.
Once he understands what the smell actually is—a matter of a second—his immediate thought is 'You HAVE to be kidding me.'
He wrinkles his nose as he shuts (refrains from slamming) the door.
(This is just unbelievable.)
Bathroom light's on.
His keys hang from his middle finger, soft jingle as he walks—plastic bags rustling like a curiously late-winter, broadleaf forest of "Thank yous," "Come agains," iconic smiley faces.
He doesn't put them down.
Next to the tub shower, Ichigo's sitting on the floor with his head between his knees. He's shaking, and his breath is audible.
The fairer part of Ishida accolades Ichigo for at least having the decency to vomit where it could be flushed, but the greater part of him has never felt an urge so strong to "kick a man when he's down."
He doesn't bother to curb his displeased sigh—he can't find it in himself to greet Ichigo cordially.

(Not that he would on a normal basis.)
Ichigo doesn't lift his head to engage him, but he acknowledges his presence with a very burnt-sounding—
"Shit, I'm so sorry…"
(If Ichigo weren't so pale with infirmity, his embarrassment would be a visible conflagration.)
Ishida closes his eyes, cocks his head back, and takes a deep breath (while trying not to employ his nose) in an attempt to restore his patience from critical levels.
"…Are you done?" he asks quietly, unable to fully keep the edge out of his words.
Ichigo doesn't answer. As much as he'd like to say yes, there's a distinct chance that the statement could be compromised within minutes of his making it, which is just not cool.
Ishida caves to impulse.
It's a base thing. Rigid, he walks past Ichigo (shy of his feet), reaches under the sink—the plastic bags swing in suspension as he leans—and grabs the air freshener. Then, in a garish, exaggerated gesture, he sprays the entire bathroom with the primary intent of guilting Ichigo.
It works.
For a second, Ishida is hit with a perverse sense of pleasure as he watches Ichigo crumple just a little bit more in shame, indulging the agitated thought of 'That's how he SHOULD feel.' But it's only a second—the guilt flies back at him like a boomerang, and he feels terrible.
Ichigo can't help it.
None of this is Ichigo's fault, and what he just did could only be characterized as meanness.
While he's too proud to apologize, Ishida gulps with obvious self-consciousness, feeling the recoil of his behavior.
He's not quite sure how to remove the foot from his mouth.

(Arisawa-ke, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:52 JST)
Algebra can wait.
Tatsuki tucks in earbuds. Does the Velcro band for the MP3 player.
It's a good day for a run.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:52 JST)
The silver lining is really fucking hard to see right now.
—No way he's going to break down in front of Ishida, though. He's decidedly sick of breaking down, anyway. In general.
Crying all the goddamn time.
He hates it—being a basket case—and he just doesn't want to do it anymore.
All he needs now is for his life to stop sucking. This crying embargo thing would be so much easier if he met the minimum parameters of feeling "okay" once a month.
(Like eating, sleeping, and being able to do at least something right.)
He's not asking for much. One, one fucking reprieve a month—or even two months—and maybe he'd be able to carry off the stiff upper lip with some regularity.
Helplessly, the image of himself splattered on the tarmac outside Ishida's apartment—by that huge, weird potted plant—litters his mind suggestively, but Ichigo scolds himself for the thought.
He's not "suicidal-suicidal." They're just ideas; it's not like he'd act on any of them.
Although he wouldn't object to being offed by some fortuitous accident.
(Like being crushed by a wayward train somewhere.)
(Oh, new image.)
But, then again, it's not like it would be much of an escape, anyway. Nearly everyone he knows is spiritually sensitive, and knowing them, they would somehow track him down in Rukongai and care at him in the fucking afterlife.
Ishida's shifting and doing something now, and Ichigo thinks that all these people really need to just piss off—

Familiar sound.
Ichigo looks up. (With dull satisfaction, he notes that Ishida at least looks shamefaced for being such a prick.)
It takes him a second to process what's happening.
"Here," Ishida says. He holds Ichigo's medication out to him, looking away from it as if he could pretend it didn't exist.
(It's oddly courteous, in a way.)
Ichigo reaches to grab it, mindlessly, but then he pauses, apprehensive.
While he had suspected that Ishida was interacting with Urahara… With this, there's no way he could be wrong, and he doesn't know how he feels about that.
But damn, he would give anything to not be "awake" right now.
He eyes the Lorazepam. The worst of his anxiety was flushed down into the sewer system, but Ishida doesn't have to know that.
Wordlessly, Ichigo takes the bottles.
Wordlessly, Ishida lets go of the bottles.
At least they understand each other on some level; the transaction—the silent passage of an Urahara-related thing—was a tacit agreement that they would not talk about Urahara.
(Or so Ichigo's pretty sure.)
Ichigo sets the antidepressants on the floor—presses, twists the cap of the Lorazepam.
Ishida's still standing there. That's uncomfortable. Do they all have such little faith in him?
He's tilting the bottle to dispense into his hand—three tablets accidentally slide out—and he shoots a biting look at Ishida, who looks like he's on the verge of mentioning it.
"Hey, I know the drill," Ichigo says.

(Tsubakidai Park, Sakurabashi, 7 Jan. 2007, 14:59 JST)
"Kurosaki, what're you doing?"
Karin is ducking behind a bush.
"Shut it, Toba. I'm not here."
"What—"
"I'm not here."
She looks at him menacingly, soccer ball under her arm, and he closes his mouth.
Once Tatsuki has jogged a safe distance away, Karin lets out a sigh of relief.
She really didn't want to have to talk to her.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 15:16 JST)
Yuzu pauses sweeping. Pads over to Yoruichi, who's nursing a large mug of tea.
"Ano…"
"Ah, Yuzu-chan!" Yoruichi looks up at her, making sure to truly smile.
(The girl needs some good vibes, today.)
"…Is Ichi-nii going to be okay?"
Yoruichi's smile drops a little, but not into a frown.
She just looks thoughtful.
"…He will be someday," she says. "Don't you worry—he'll come back soon."
Yoruichi realizes idly that what she said could have more than one interpretation.
Yuzu nods, face still drawn with concern.
"Is… Urahara-san going to okay?"
Yoruichi blinks.
(The way Kisuke was talking, she would have thought that everyone was after him with torches and pitchforks.)
'Idiot.'
She looks down into her tea as if she could see something in it.
The mug is too dark in color.
"He will be," she says, sighing. "I prescribed him a bath and a good night's rest. He hasn't been taking care of himself."
Yuzu looks a little sour. (Boy, does she know.)
Yoruichi has a soft, bubbling laugh.
"Well… he's always been like that. Always up in here—"
She points at her head, making a fish face.
She almost gets a giggle from Yuzu—almost. But Yuzu still looks preoccupied, and it has Yoruichi feeling… a little miffed.
—Not so much with Yuzu, but with the crazy dark cloud that is just sitting on top of the Shouten like it belongs there.
"Yuzu-chan."
Yuzu looks at her timidly.
"Come here." Yoruichi opens her arms.
Yuzu shakes her head. Karin thinks she's a crybaby, and she needs to be strong for—
"…Come here," Yoruichi repeats.
Yuzu seems stuck in place.
Yoruichi scowls. "What if I wanted a hug?" she clucks.
As she expected, Yuzu gives in.
(She smirks a little to herself; she's lived too long to have not seen a Yuzu or two before.)
She holds the back of Yuzu's head, fingers braced in the light brown hair—holds Yuzu against her heartbeat.
"It will all be okay," she murmurs, shifting Yuzu in her lap.
Yoruichi feels the orange fabric of her overshirt wetting, but other than that, she doesn't notice any outward sign of crying.

She wishes she could take all the hurt away from this wonderful little girl.
"Oh, Yuzu-chan… You're doing more than enough."

(3rd Dist. 12-3-403, Sakurabashi, 7 Jan. 2007, 16:01 JST)
"Yatta~…"
Arms over her head—holding one of her elbows—Orihime stretches with a sense of personal victory.
(She likes to pretend that her homework is an evil foe and that she battles it with her pencil.)
She gathers her notes and worksheets, arranges them neatly inside her binders, and tucks everything into her book bag.
She wonders what she'll make for dinner.

(4th Dist. 11-8-201, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 16:01 JST)
Chad lifts and moves his furniture.
There's something that bothers him about sweeping (and mopping) around them.
'Best to be thorough,' he thinks.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 16:01 JST)
Faucet running, Ishida washes and his soup bowl from lunch.
He dries it—white hand towel—and listens to the recording of Sekiguchi-san on the TV.
The New Dotch Cooking Show had a special on Thursday—he was thrilled; it'd been on hiatus for so long—but he'd suspected he wouldn't be able to watch it live (first Sewing Club meeting of the year).
He slows, pauses in the middle of drying to look at the screen. Over Ichigo.
Which is the weirdest thing in the world.
Ichigo's situated on the couch, now—one leg hanging over the arm of the too-small loveseat—very nearly asleep. He's using one of Ishida's quilts.
(Ishida had decided to surrender it just so they wouldn't have to actually talk about it later. But not without misgivings.)
So bizarre.
Ichigo being at his apartment is just bizarre. And now that Ichigo isn't in any condition to uphold interaction (a little glazed over, calm but not present), it's like Ichigo's just a really strange…. object amongst all his stuff.
A massive, unseemly throw pillow.
『今夜のご注文はＤＯＴＣＨ？』
Ishida sighs and puts away the bowl.
He looks around for Ichigo's. It's not on the counter—brief onset of confusion, but then he checks the fridge and sees it. Doesn't look like Ichigo ate much more of it.
—Not wrapped or anything, but the fact that Ichigo saved it is a surprisingly polite gesture.
Ishida takes the bowl out (refrigerated porcelain)—pulls the plastic wrap out of the drawer next to the sink. (The box is really too long for a drawer; he really ought to keep it in the cupboard.)
He rips a sheet, tries to get it from sticking itself, and he thinks about September and how much easier it is to be nice to Ichigo when he's doped up.
(Because, doped up, he doesn't act like Ichigo at all.)

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 15:36 JST)
Urahara leans back in the tub, starting to feel a little bit more like himself.
'Yoruichi was right.'
It's the first time he's felt remotely good within the last couple of days.
(He thinks that, if he were allowed to have alcohol in the house, now would be a really great time for a drink.)
(He wonders how Ichigo is doing.)

(Mashiba, 7 Jan. 2007, 15:36 JST)
She's familiar with the area—close to Mashibachuu—and she knows the best takoyaki place. While it looks like there are some stands trailing behind from Oshougatsu, she feels like she and Jinta need something "tried and true" today.
(She's a bit worried about the time. She'd promised Yuzu to get something to eat, but soccer ran late and she hopes it won't spoil dinner.)
Jinta has his hands folded behind his head, looking somewhere too high to be a building but not high enough to be the sky.
Telephone wires?
"Today sucks," he says. His eyes then temporarily refocus—he realizes he didn't really mean to start speaking.
Karin shrugs.
They're standing behind a man in his late twenties, maybe. Disheveled, ungainly movement—looks like a real deadbeat.
(Well, of course she doesn't know that, but he sure looks like it.)
He seems pretty caught up in himself. He quite can't seem to navigate his wallet, and then he's dropping change—butterfingers, shaky hands. Flustered, he apologizes to the cashier for being a nuisance.
(While the cashier doesn't say he's being a nuisance, he doesn't say he's not being a nuisance, either.)
"I'm sorry for holding you up."
Karin finds herself taken from her observations as she is directly addressed.
She doesn't know what to say at first. She opens her mouth for her customary noncommittal grunt, but, instead—she doesn't know what makes her do it—she says,

"Don't worry about it. I have the time."
Deadbeat-san looks at her curiously, slightly awestruck, and it strikes her that she might have said something weird.
(She feels a flush threatening to rise to her face.)
"Thanks," he says earnestly, turning back to the cashier—who, by now, actually looks just a little impatient.
Karin doesn't reply.
When he leaves, she briefly wonders what his deal is.
She steps up to order.

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 16:10 JST)
Five minutes after Ichigo falls asleep, it occurs to Ishida that he can actually go take a crap without feeling awkward.
(He hadn't this morning, and he's really not used to other people being in his living space.)
He pauses the recording, even though there's not much left to watch. Flicks on the bathroom light—the kitchen light, too, before he shuts the door.
Winter sun—it's close to sundown.

(3rd Dist. 12-3-403, Sakurabashi, 7 Jan. 2007, 17:23 JST)
Stovetop warming, she sings.

(4th Dist. 11-8-201, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 17:23 JST)
Chad props the long handle of the mop in the corner.
He feels hungry.

(Arisawa-ke, South Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 17:23 JST)
In the kitchen, Tatsuki insists to her mother that she finished her homework a while ago.

(Urahara Shouten, Mitsumiya, 7 Jan. 2007, 17:23 JST)
Freshly bathed, clean clothes. Hat.
Urahara walks aimlessly into the sitting room, feeling cleansed and a little empty—like an immaculate 3DK up for rent.
Not quite "lived-in." A peculiar sensation.
Yoruichi said he wasn't allowed to do anything. A part of him really jumped on board with that idea, and it seems to have rendered the rest of him unable to think of what he would consider doing, anyway.
He feels lighter, but restless and ungrounded. Slightly brainless.
He wastes ten minutes just standing. (It's kind of nice, but also a little alarming.)
Voices in the kitchen—Jinta and Karin are home, sounds like. Actually, they all sound like they're in there—Yoruichi, Tessai, Jinta, and the girls. Urahara finds himself gravitating to the entrance.
He's met—blocked—by Yoruichi, who walks up to him with her arms crossed. She smiles amusedly.
"You don't even know how to do nothing, do you?"
He laughs a bashful laugh and scratches an itch behind his ear.
"It seems so."
He takes a measured pause.
"…May I come into the kitchen?"
Yoruichi looks at him warily. "You're not going to try to help out, right?"
"Iyaa~" He waves his hand. "Not at all, not at all… Can I not have company while I do nothing?"
A few seconds, and then she concedes.
"Al-right…" she says with showy exasperation, stepping to the side. "—But, if I see you doing one thing…"
—Trails off warningly.
"Understood," he chimes as he passes her.
He joins Karin and Jinta, who are sitting off to the side at a small table.
(It makes him feel somewhat childish.)

(7th Dist. 16-1-103, North Kawase, 7 Jan. 2007, 17:55 JST)
TV's off—first thing Ichigo sees when he opens his eyes, blearily.
The memory of being at Ishida's apartment floats back to him.
Behind him, there's the sound of something boiling again. He's tempted to believe that he's still asleep and his mind is trying to recreate the last… –however long it's been, but it's different.
It's gotten dark outside. The apartment itself isn't dark, but it's not extraordinarily light, either. Lamp's not turned on in the main room—illumination mostly supplied by the kitchen, things in the main room all lit on one side. (The side facing him.)
It could be kind of freaky in that flashlight-under-chin way, but it's not. More like it's… warm.
Ruddy.
Ichigo suspects it's the mainly the Lorazepam lingering in his system, but he actually feels pretty relaxed.
Slowly, he tries to reconfigure his sprawl into an upright position. He's careful about rolling over; he doesn't want his vision to take a dive and make him feel nauseous again. Feet back on the floor—his back is a bit stiff and everything still looks a little "crawly" (like some large entity is pinching and pulling the side of the room), but he's not feeling too bad.
He's squinting the slumber out of his eyes, rubbing a hand through his hair.
"You're up."
Ishida's voice.
"Mmuh," Ichigo grunts, not quite able to gain enough control over his speech faculties yet.
Ishida doesn't attempt to continue the conversation.
(Which is fine, because the existence of a conversation didn't even occur to Ichigo.)
Ichigo pushes the—now twisted—quilt off his lap, massages the inner corner of an eye, bridge of his nose with a few fingers.
Boiling really is a nice sound.
"It's really nice here," Ichigo states (trace of slurring).
Ishida is hesitant to take it as a compliment. Ichigo's very… not with it.
More than anything, it's awkward—especially because he's (probably) the only one clearheaded enough to see Ichigo's impaired social filter.
"I'm… making miso," Ishida says.
"Cool."
.
.
.
.

A/N: …
*cricket cricket*
I'm not (and will never be) the person to hold a story hostage for reviews. However, I would really, really appreciate it if you left feedback for this particular chapter. This was 13,000 words' worth of work, which is just… a really long speech to give to a wall, lol.
WELL. Other than that…
Jaa. The arc continues.
- 8
- 9
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A Grudge's Decision