fata morgana [1/1]
she walks with her ghosts looking over her shoulder. [ishida/orihime, ulquiorra, ichigo, tatsuki, chad, sora]
bleach; drama/supernatural; pg13; 3000 words
It’s beginning to happen more and more often now. She’ll be walking with Tatsuki or Chad or Chizuru, passing by houses she’s seen all her life and people whose faces are etched in her memory. They’ll be talking about some menial thing - Tatsuki’s new job or gossip Chizuru overheard or, in Chad’s case, nothing at all. And suddenly Orihime will feel a distance open up within herself - a great, yawning chasm, like part of her has suddenly gone missing. She’ll stop and press a hand to her heart, like she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart.
And when she looks up at the sky it will be black like dark velvet, and the world around her will turn a bright, sterile white (a sickening, heartwrenching contrast). The back of her neck will prickle, like she’s being watched, and she will turn around to see a fleeting glimpse of haunting green eyes before -
“Orihime?” Tatsuki will say. “Snap out of it!” Her face will be pinched with concern, but her eyes will be flinty and cold.
or
“Hime?” Chizuru will say, tilting her head quizzically. “Are you alright? You look so pale today!”
or
A strong, warm hand like an anchor; weighing her down, dragging her back to reality. An expression that says how much he understands, and yet how little.
Orihime will smile. Shakily, perhaps, but a smile all the same.
“I’m fine,” she’ll say. “No need to worry.”
--
Whenever she’s alone, she feels a strange sensation.
It’s as if someone’s about to touch her, icy fingers hovering just above her skin, sending shivers of expectation down her spine. It’s as if someone’s leaning in to whisper a secret in her ear, and she can almost feel their breath against her neck.
But when she turns around, the room is empty, as quiet and still as the grave, and she’s left with a feeling of longing for something she can’t quite put a name to.
Orihime has taken to sleeping with all the lights on.
--
--
“What do you think, Kurosaki-kun? Which club should I join?”
Silence.
She looks up at him and finds him staring off into space, beautiful eyes clouded with memory. He’s been this way since they came back - a shadow of his former self, trapped within his own reminiscence. When he smiles there’s a tightness that wasn’t there before, and his laughter seems forced and trite, and even his sarcastic quips have turned dull and half-hearted, like he’s lost the will to be Kurosaki Ichigo and is merely play-acting the role.
Orihime wonders what part of himself he lost in Hueco Mundo. They all left something behind, of course, buried in the harsh white sand of the desert, but Ichigo’s missing piece is far more obvious. Its absence is glaring, like a jagged scar across his soul.
Orihime wonders sometimes how he doesn’t fall apart.
“Kurosaki-kun?” she murmurs, and touches his hand. He startles, and blinks down at her like he’s seeing her for the first time. “Do you think I should join the Student Council? I heard one of the members saying that they needed a new Treasurer.”
Ichigo smiles sadly.
“You’d be a great Treasurer, Inoue. You should go for it.”
And as he turns away, she notices how he walks in a strange manner, like he’s waiting for someone to fill the small, empty space beside him.
--
Ishida smiles at her when she shows up to her first Student Council meeting. It’s refreshing to see such a genuinely happy expression, after Tatsuki’s tight-lipped anxiety and Ichigo’s distant eyes. But despite this, she’s nervous, and her hands flutter madly around her face, brushing the hair from her eyes.
She takes a deep breath. Hums a few notes from her life’s theme song, and feels her nerves settle.
“My name is Inoue Orihime, Class A, Year Three!” she announces, and bows to the Council members. “I hope to do my best as class Treasurer!”
They welcome her warmly, and Ishida looks pleased, and for a moment Orihime thinks that maybe, just maybe, things might be returning to normal again. She will go back to her everyday life, as if her time in Las Noches was nothing but a nightmarish intermission. Ichigo’s old self will be restored. Chad’s silences will no longer sound painful. Tatsuki will stop looking at her with concern creasing her brow.
Perhaps, Orihime thinks, they can return to what they once had.
Perhaps the halcyon days aren’t lost after all.
--
On her way home that evening, she sees a man staring at her from across the street. His skin is porcelain, and his hair is black, and his eyes are a sad shade of green. Something about him seems strangely indistinct - the edges of him are smudged and blurry, fading into the scenery like a hastily-painted watercolor. (Stretched thin between this world and the next.)
Orihime stops and stares at him; feels the emptiness within herself ache once, in warning.
He lifts one pale, elegant hand and reaches out to her. She cannot help but do the same.
A car passes by, blocking him from view, and when she looks again the man has disappeared, like he was never there at all.
--
--
Orihime forgets her science textbook in the Council room one afternoon. When she returns to look for it, she finds Ishida sitting alone at the table, his head bent over something she can’t see.
“Ishida-kun?” she murmurs. “Are you alright?”
He glances up at her, surprised, and she glimpses what it is he’s working on: a pair of lovely handmade gloves with a pattern of blue and white stripes. The needle gleams like a tiny sword between his fingers.
“You startled me, Inoue-san,” he says, and takes a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid I tend to get overly absorbed in my stitching.”
She laughs quietly. “I’m sorry, Ishida-kun. But… why are you still here? Everyone else has gone home already.”
He stares at her for a moment or two, needle poised in his hand, thread taut and trembling. The afternoon light is slowly fading into evening, and the classroom is drenched in shades of orange and red. His eyelashes cast long, intricate shadows, darkening his gaze beneath his gleaming lenses.
“If I told you,” he says, each word slow and deliberate. “If I told you that I disliked the loneliness of my own home, would you think me foolish?”
Orihime’s eyes widen, just a fraction. In her mind, Ishida Uryuu is many things. Lonely is not one of them. Lonely has never been one of them. She wants to say something, anything, but no words will come. Instead she merely shakes her head, and hopes that he will know: you’re not the only one.
She takes the seat next to him, and he continues his sewing, and she watches his sharp, lithe hands as they weave and pull the thread. They sit like this, hardly speaking, until the evening has almost slipped away.
“Can you teach me how to sew, Ishida-kun?” she asks, as they walk home side by side. Lamplight pools softly around their feet, and the darkness tugs at their ankles.
Ishida smiles at this. “I suppose I could. Sewing with needle and thread should come easily to you, Inoue-san. After all, you’ve mended things far more delicate than cloth.”
--
Karakura Town, Ishida says, is situated at the crossroads of the worlds. Even without Aizen’s influence, Hollows congregate en masse, always waiting to feed off of the darkness that lingers in every soul. And now that Ichigo’s powers are gone, Ishida is often left alone to fend off the hordes of demons that threaten their home.
Still, one day a week, Ishida always tries to put aside a few hours to sit and sew in the peaceful quiet of the Council room. At first he shows Orihime the basics: how to thread a needle with expert precision, how to stitch up a torn skirt and make it look brand new, how to embroider small things like hearts and stars and flowers. But as time goes on they progress to more complicated maneuvers: the infamous invisible stitch, the art of delicate needlepoint, the application of patterns and lace and gold filigree. After they returned, Orihime had wondered why Ishida spent so much time sewing.
Now, she thinks she understands. It’s so easy to forget when your hands are more preoccupied than your mind.
She sits and watches her own fingers weaving and pulling the thread, and when Ishida finally touches her shoulder and whispers, “Time to go,” she is startled to find the room dark with shadows. Night has already fallen without her noticing.
Outside his house, Ishida hesitates.
“Inoue, would you… Would you care to…?” The question withers on his lips, and he shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “Nevermind. I… I’ll see you tomorrow, Inoue-san.”
Orihime walks home with her ghosts looking over her shoulder.
--
--
The Council meeting is cancelled today, and Orihime sits in the park on the rusty old swing, humming the soothing melody of her theme song. It’s an overcast afternoon, tepid and muggy, with the promise of a storm scarring the horizon. A lazy wind whips her hair into her eyes. Pinpricks of electricity seem to dance across her skin.
“Inoue,” a voice says, and she turns to see Ichigo standing there. Her chest tightens, just like it always does when she’s near him, but it’s not so painful anymore. These days it’s more like a dull ache that mocks her, provokes her, saying this is what you could have had.
He sits on the swing next to her, and the old chains groan in protest. It seems so long ago that they were children together. (Now there is a weight on all of their shoulders, and it presses down, suffocating, grinding them into dust.)
“How are you, Kurosaki-kun?” Orihime asks.
He doesn’t seem to hear her. Or perhaps he doesn’t wish to. In the distance, thunder rumbles across the sky, and she feels the reverberation spreading from the soles of her feet to the marrow of her bones.
“Have you… Have you seen Rukia?” Ichigo asks. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice wavers with desperation and uncertainty, and Orihime wishes (not for the first time) that she loved anyone but him.
She lies.
“Yes. Once. A few days after… after that. It was only for a moment, but she was definitely there. I’m sure of it.”
Ichigo has known her far too long and seen far too much to believe her earnest, unconvincing words. He can hear the lie in her voice, plain as day. And he knows just as well as she does that Rukia will never come back to this world, and that he may never return to hers. But all the same, he nods and smiles and tries to pretend, if only for a moment.
“Thanks, Inoue. That’s good to hear.”
It begins to rain. Droplets fleck the dusty pavement, and lightning flickers between the clouds. Neither Orihime nor Ichigo makes a move to leave, and instead tilt their faces towards the sky, letting the rain sluice their cheeks and wash away all their burdens.
--
There’s something unspoken between them. Whenever they’re alone, it hangs like a curtain of miasma, separating them from one another. Neither of them wants to say it. Neither of them wants to think about it. But it’s always there, on the tip of her tongue, or caught in his throat, or written in the depths of her eyes.
The truth is thus:
It’s easier to watch someone die than it is to watch them fade away.
--
--
When she opens her eyes, she sees a spiderweb of white against a pitch black sky.
She stands up on unsteady legs and surveys her surroundings. The floor beneath her is smooth marble and bone-chillingly cold against her bare feet. The bars that make up her prison are pure white, and they form a concave dome above her. She shivers and wraps her arms around her torso, and it is only then that she notices her own nakedness.
Orihime’s throat tightens as she gazes out at the desert beyond her cage. Her pulse quickens, and a cold sweat breaks out along her brow. Why is she back in this place? How did she get here? This shouldn’t be possible.
But wait. There it is again. The feeling of being watched.
She turns slowly, already knowing who she’ll be faced with, and finds herself trapped in his green, green eyes. He is still and unblinking, like a statue, and when she reaches out to him his skin is the same cold marble as the floor beneath her.
“You’re gone,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Through the empty place where his heart should be, she can see the moon. Sadness envelops her, and she lifts her hands to trace the dark tear tracks beneath his eyes. No sooner have her fingertips brushed his skin than it begins to fracture, cracks crisscrossing along his lips and throat and hands. In moments, his porcelain white skin is marred by tiny fissures.
He is splintering into a thousand pieces, and there is nothing she can do.
“No,” she breathes, and hot tears sting her eyes. “No, please… I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry… I tried my best to save you. Really, I did… Please, don’t go… Don’t leave me alone.”
But once again, he crumbles away into dust, and all that is left is -
“Kurosaki-kun?”
Ichigo’s accusing brown eyes stare at her. His lips are twisted into a disapproving grimace. Orihime takes a step back, confused, and tries to stop her body from trembling.
“I’ll never love you,” Ichigo says. There is no remorse in his voice, only icy, unforgiving honesty. “You’re too weak. Crying for an enemy? Pathetic. You’ll never compare to her.”
“Kurosaki-kun,” she pleads. “What are you saying?”
His eyes grow stormy, and he lashes out, knocking her into the bars of her marble cage.
“You’re so useless,” he hisses. “I feel sick just looking at you.” But as he advances towards her, something strange begins to happen. His flesh begins to melt and twist and reshape itself, until his hair is brown instead of orange, and his eyes are grey instead of brown, and his terrible scowl has been replaced by a gentle smile.
“Orihime,” Sora says. “How was your day at school? Did you learn something fun today?”
The tears are falling for real now, sliding down her cheeks and dripping from her chin. “Brother,” she whispers. “Is it really you?”
Sora laughs. “Of course it’s me, Orihime. Who else would it be?”
He smiles. His smile grows wider and wider until his face is split in two by a terrible, gaping mouth, and his skin peels away to reveal a mask of bone, empty eye sockets gleaming a sickening red.
“Oh, Orihime,” the creature rasps. “I miss you so much… Don’t you want to be with me? Don’t you miss your big brother?”
Letting out an inhuman shriek, it lunges.
--
Orihime wakes with a jolt.
It takes her a long moment to remember where she is. The ceiling is different from what she’s used to, and she’s slumped awkwardly across a hard tabletop instead of lying in her own bed. Fear is still lingering in the back of her mind, despite the calm morning sun stretching its fingers through the window.
But then it all comes back to her in a sudden rush: Ishida inviting her over for tea, their conversation about dreams (or the lack thereof), his blush as she wrapped her arms around him, her eyes drifting shut of their own accord as she browsed Council expense reports…
And then the nightmare. It had to have been a nightmare - her fingernails are digging into her palms, leaving tiny crescent moons behind, and her breathing is still shallow and abrupt. But try as she might, all she can remember from the nightmare is a bright, pale moon suspended in an inky sky.
Orihime lifts her head groggily and rubs the sleep out of her eyes. Someone has draped a blanket over her shoulders, and she pulls it closer, inhaling the lovely scent of fresh linen. A hastily scribbled note is on the table in front of her, and she squints at it drowsily.
Inoue -
I have gone to the store to buy more milk and tea. I hope you slept well, despite your awkward positioning. I may be absent for an hour at the most, so please feel free to make yourself at home.
At the bottom of the note, Ishida-kun has signed his name (as if someone else might have written it). Above his signature, there is a crossed-out phrase that she can’t quite make out, but something about it makes her smile all the same.
Orihime gazes out the window, and finds the sky to be a most beautiful shade of blue.
--
--
The halcyon days are gone.
Once upon a time, this very thought brought tears to her eyes. Once upon a time, she kissed the boy she loved and said goodbye forever. Once upon a time, she left her soul at a crossroads and sent her body forth into a world she could not comprehend.
But life, Orihime thinks, has a way of enduring.
Now is the time to create a new life from the ashes of Hueco Mundo. To remake the dust that was once Espada. To mold and shape the emptiness in her companions’ eyes. To forget those missing pieces, and find something new to make them whole.
“Welcome home, Ishida-kun.”
bleach; drama/supernatural; pg13; 3000 words
It’s beginning to happen more and more often now. She’ll be walking with Tatsuki or Chad or Chizuru, passing by houses she’s seen all her life and people whose faces are etched in her memory. They’ll be talking about some menial thing - Tatsuki’s new job or gossip Chizuru overheard or, in Chad’s case, nothing at all. And suddenly Orihime will feel a distance open up within herself - a great, yawning chasm, like part of her has suddenly gone missing. She’ll stop and press a hand to her heart, like she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart.
And when she looks up at the sky it will be black like dark velvet, and the world around her will turn a bright, sterile white (a sickening, heartwrenching contrast). The back of her neck will prickle, like she’s being watched, and she will turn around to see a fleeting glimpse of haunting green eyes before -
“Orihime?” Tatsuki will say. “Snap out of it!” Her face will be pinched with concern, but her eyes will be flinty and cold.
or
“Hime?” Chizuru will say, tilting her head quizzically. “Are you alright? You look so pale today!”
or
A strong, warm hand like an anchor; weighing her down, dragging her back to reality. An expression that says how much he understands, and yet how little.
Orihime will smile. Shakily, perhaps, but a smile all the same.
“I’m fine,” she’ll say. “No need to worry.”
--
Whenever she’s alone, she feels a strange sensation.
It’s as if someone’s about to touch her, icy fingers hovering just above her skin, sending shivers of expectation down her spine. It’s as if someone’s leaning in to whisper a secret in her ear, and she can almost feel their breath against her neck.
But when she turns around, the room is empty, as quiet and still as the grave, and she’s left with a feeling of longing for something she can’t quite put a name to.
Orihime has taken to sleeping with all the lights on.
--
--
“What do you think, Kurosaki-kun? Which club should I join?”
Silence.
She looks up at him and finds him staring off into space, beautiful eyes clouded with memory. He’s been this way since they came back - a shadow of his former self, trapped within his own reminiscence. When he smiles there’s a tightness that wasn’t there before, and his laughter seems forced and trite, and even his sarcastic quips have turned dull and half-hearted, like he’s lost the will to be Kurosaki Ichigo and is merely play-acting the role.
Orihime wonders what part of himself he lost in Hueco Mundo. They all left something behind, of course, buried in the harsh white sand of the desert, but Ichigo’s missing piece is far more obvious. Its absence is glaring, like a jagged scar across his soul.
Orihime wonders sometimes how he doesn’t fall apart.
“Kurosaki-kun?” she murmurs, and touches his hand. He startles, and blinks down at her like he’s seeing her for the first time. “Do you think I should join the Student Council? I heard one of the members saying that they needed a new Treasurer.”
Ichigo smiles sadly.
“You’d be a great Treasurer, Inoue. You should go for it.”
And as he turns away, she notices how he walks in a strange manner, like he’s waiting for someone to fill the small, empty space beside him.
--
Ishida smiles at her when she shows up to her first Student Council meeting. It’s refreshing to see such a genuinely happy expression, after Tatsuki’s tight-lipped anxiety and Ichigo’s distant eyes. But despite this, she’s nervous, and her hands flutter madly around her face, brushing the hair from her eyes.
She takes a deep breath. Hums a few notes from her life’s theme song, and feels her nerves settle.
“My name is Inoue Orihime, Class A, Year Three!” she announces, and bows to the Council members. “I hope to do my best as class Treasurer!”
They welcome her warmly, and Ishida looks pleased, and for a moment Orihime thinks that maybe, just maybe, things might be returning to normal again. She will go back to her everyday life, as if her time in Las Noches was nothing but a nightmarish intermission. Ichigo’s old self will be restored. Chad’s silences will no longer sound painful. Tatsuki will stop looking at her with concern creasing her brow.
Perhaps, Orihime thinks, they can return to what they once had.
Perhaps the halcyon days aren’t lost after all.
--
On her way home that evening, she sees a man staring at her from across the street. His skin is porcelain, and his hair is black, and his eyes are a sad shade of green. Something about him seems strangely indistinct - the edges of him are smudged and blurry, fading into the scenery like a hastily-painted watercolor. (Stretched thin between this world and the next.)
Orihime stops and stares at him; feels the emptiness within herself ache once, in warning.
He lifts one pale, elegant hand and reaches out to her. She cannot help but do the same.
A car passes by, blocking him from view, and when she looks again the man has disappeared, like he was never there at all.
--
--
Orihime forgets her science textbook in the Council room one afternoon. When she returns to look for it, she finds Ishida sitting alone at the table, his head bent over something she can’t see.
“Ishida-kun?” she murmurs. “Are you alright?”
He glances up at her, surprised, and she glimpses what it is he’s working on: a pair of lovely handmade gloves with a pattern of blue and white stripes. The needle gleams like a tiny sword between his fingers.
“You startled me, Inoue-san,” he says, and takes a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid I tend to get overly absorbed in my stitching.”
She laughs quietly. “I’m sorry, Ishida-kun. But… why are you still here? Everyone else has gone home already.”
He stares at her for a moment or two, needle poised in his hand, thread taut and trembling. The afternoon light is slowly fading into evening, and the classroom is drenched in shades of orange and red. His eyelashes cast long, intricate shadows, darkening his gaze beneath his gleaming lenses.
“If I told you,” he says, each word slow and deliberate. “If I told you that I disliked the loneliness of my own home, would you think me foolish?”
Orihime’s eyes widen, just a fraction. In her mind, Ishida Uryuu is many things. Lonely is not one of them. Lonely has never been one of them. She wants to say something, anything, but no words will come. Instead she merely shakes her head, and hopes that he will know: you’re not the only one.
She takes the seat next to him, and he continues his sewing, and she watches his sharp, lithe hands as they weave and pull the thread. They sit like this, hardly speaking, until the evening has almost slipped away.
“Can you teach me how to sew, Ishida-kun?” she asks, as they walk home side by side. Lamplight pools softly around their feet, and the darkness tugs at their ankles.
Ishida smiles at this. “I suppose I could. Sewing with needle and thread should come easily to you, Inoue-san. After all, you’ve mended things far more delicate than cloth.”
--
Karakura Town, Ishida says, is situated at the crossroads of the worlds. Even without Aizen’s influence, Hollows congregate en masse, always waiting to feed off of the darkness that lingers in every soul. And now that Ichigo’s powers are gone, Ishida is often left alone to fend off the hordes of demons that threaten their home.
Still, one day a week, Ishida always tries to put aside a few hours to sit and sew in the peaceful quiet of the Council room. At first he shows Orihime the basics: how to thread a needle with expert precision, how to stitch up a torn skirt and make it look brand new, how to embroider small things like hearts and stars and flowers. But as time goes on they progress to more complicated maneuvers: the infamous invisible stitch, the art of delicate needlepoint, the application of patterns and lace and gold filigree. After they returned, Orihime had wondered why Ishida spent so much time sewing.
Now, she thinks she understands. It’s so easy to forget when your hands are more preoccupied than your mind.
She sits and watches her own fingers weaving and pulling the thread, and when Ishida finally touches her shoulder and whispers, “Time to go,” she is startled to find the room dark with shadows. Night has already fallen without her noticing.
Outside his house, Ishida hesitates.
“Inoue, would you… Would you care to…?” The question withers on his lips, and he shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “Nevermind. I… I’ll see you tomorrow, Inoue-san.”
Orihime walks home with her ghosts looking over her shoulder.
--
--
The Council meeting is cancelled today, and Orihime sits in the park on the rusty old swing, humming the soothing melody of her theme song. It’s an overcast afternoon, tepid and muggy, with the promise of a storm scarring the horizon. A lazy wind whips her hair into her eyes. Pinpricks of electricity seem to dance across her skin.
“Inoue,” a voice says, and she turns to see Ichigo standing there. Her chest tightens, just like it always does when she’s near him, but it’s not so painful anymore. These days it’s more like a dull ache that mocks her, provokes her, saying this is what you could have had.
He sits on the swing next to her, and the old chains groan in protest. It seems so long ago that they were children together. (Now there is a weight on all of their shoulders, and it presses down, suffocating, grinding them into dust.)
“How are you, Kurosaki-kun?” Orihime asks.
He doesn’t seem to hear her. Or perhaps he doesn’t wish to. In the distance, thunder rumbles across the sky, and she feels the reverberation spreading from the soles of her feet to the marrow of her bones.
“Have you… Have you seen Rukia?” Ichigo asks. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice wavers with desperation and uncertainty, and Orihime wishes (not for the first time) that she loved anyone but him.
She lies.
“Yes. Once. A few days after… after that. It was only for a moment, but she was definitely there. I’m sure of it.”
Ichigo has known her far too long and seen far too much to believe her earnest, unconvincing words. He can hear the lie in her voice, plain as day. And he knows just as well as she does that Rukia will never come back to this world, and that he may never return to hers. But all the same, he nods and smiles and tries to pretend, if only for a moment.
“Thanks, Inoue. That’s good to hear.”
It begins to rain. Droplets fleck the dusty pavement, and lightning flickers between the clouds. Neither Orihime nor Ichigo makes a move to leave, and instead tilt their faces towards the sky, letting the rain sluice their cheeks and wash away all their burdens.
--
There’s something unspoken between them. Whenever they’re alone, it hangs like a curtain of miasma, separating them from one another. Neither of them wants to say it. Neither of them wants to think about it. But it’s always there, on the tip of her tongue, or caught in his throat, or written in the depths of her eyes.
The truth is thus:
It’s easier to watch someone die than it is to watch them fade away.
--
--
When she opens her eyes, she sees a spiderweb of white against a pitch black sky.
She stands up on unsteady legs and surveys her surroundings. The floor beneath her is smooth marble and bone-chillingly cold against her bare feet. The bars that make up her prison are pure white, and they form a concave dome above her. She shivers and wraps her arms around her torso, and it is only then that she notices her own nakedness.
Orihime’s throat tightens as she gazes out at the desert beyond her cage. Her pulse quickens, and a cold sweat breaks out along her brow. Why is she back in this place? How did she get here? This shouldn’t be possible.
But wait. There it is again. The feeling of being watched.
She turns slowly, already knowing who she’ll be faced with, and finds herself trapped in his green, green eyes. He is still and unblinking, like a statue, and when she reaches out to him his skin is the same cold marble as the floor beneath her.
“You’re gone,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Through the empty place where his heart should be, she can see the moon. Sadness envelops her, and she lifts her hands to trace the dark tear tracks beneath his eyes. No sooner have her fingertips brushed his skin than it begins to fracture, cracks crisscrossing along his lips and throat and hands. In moments, his porcelain white skin is marred by tiny fissures.
He is splintering into a thousand pieces, and there is nothing she can do.
“No,” she breathes, and hot tears sting her eyes. “No, please… I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry… I tried my best to save you. Really, I did… Please, don’t go… Don’t leave me alone.”
But once again, he crumbles away into dust, and all that is left is -
“Kurosaki-kun?”
Ichigo’s accusing brown eyes stare at her. His lips are twisted into a disapproving grimace. Orihime takes a step back, confused, and tries to stop her body from trembling.
“I’ll never love you,” Ichigo says. There is no remorse in his voice, only icy, unforgiving honesty. “You’re too weak. Crying for an enemy? Pathetic. You’ll never compare to her.”
“Kurosaki-kun,” she pleads. “What are you saying?”
His eyes grow stormy, and he lashes out, knocking her into the bars of her marble cage.
“You’re so useless,” he hisses. “I feel sick just looking at you.” But as he advances towards her, something strange begins to happen. His flesh begins to melt and twist and reshape itself, until his hair is brown instead of orange, and his eyes are grey instead of brown, and his terrible scowl has been replaced by a gentle smile.
“Orihime,” Sora says. “How was your day at school? Did you learn something fun today?”
The tears are falling for real now, sliding down her cheeks and dripping from her chin. “Brother,” she whispers. “Is it really you?”
Sora laughs. “Of course it’s me, Orihime. Who else would it be?”
He smiles. His smile grows wider and wider until his face is split in two by a terrible, gaping mouth, and his skin peels away to reveal a mask of bone, empty eye sockets gleaming a sickening red.
“Oh, Orihime,” the creature rasps. “I miss you so much… Don’t you want to be with me? Don’t you miss your big brother?”
Letting out an inhuman shriek, it lunges.
--
Orihime wakes with a jolt.
It takes her a long moment to remember where she is. The ceiling is different from what she’s used to, and she’s slumped awkwardly across a hard tabletop instead of lying in her own bed. Fear is still lingering in the back of her mind, despite the calm morning sun stretching its fingers through the window.
But then it all comes back to her in a sudden rush: Ishida inviting her over for tea, their conversation about dreams (or the lack thereof), his blush as she wrapped her arms around him, her eyes drifting shut of their own accord as she browsed Council expense reports…
And then the nightmare. It had to have been a nightmare - her fingernails are digging into her palms, leaving tiny crescent moons behind, and her breathing is still shallow and abrupt. But try as she might, all she can remember from the nightmare is a bright, pale moon suspended in an inky sky.
Orihime lifts her head groggily and rubs the sleep out of her eyes. Someone has draped a blanket over her shoulders, and she pulls it closer, inhaling the lovely scent of fresh linen. A hastily scribbled note is on the table in front of her, and she squints at it drowsily.
Inoue -
I have gone to the store to buy more milk and tea. I hope you slept well, despite your awkward positioning. I may be absent for an hour at the most, so please feel free to make yourself at home.
At the bottom of the note, Ishida-kun has signed his name (as if someone else might have written it). Above his signature, there is a crossed-out phrase that she can’t quite make out, but something about it makes her smile all the same.
Orihime gazes out the window, and finds the sky to be a most beautiful shade of blue.
--
--
The halcyon days are gone.
Once upon a time, this very thought brought tears to her eyes. Once upon a time, she kissed the boy she loved and said goodbye forever. Once upon a time, she left her soul at a crossroads and sent her body forth into a world she could not comprehend.
But life, Orihime thinks, has a way of enduring.
Now is the time to create a new life from the ashes of Hueco Mundo. To remake the dust that was once Espada. To mold and shape the emptiness in her companions’ eyes. To forget those missing pieces, and find something new to make them whole.
“Welcome home, Ishida-kun.”