Bleach Fic: all those heartlines
Bleach. I don't know anymore. This series has officially consumed my life. I mean, it's consumed my life, further deepening my anime kick - you all are awful for not telling me about it. Anyways. Before I continue to ramble on. Fic. Let's just move on to the fic. Which is neither the first or the last one, lol.
all those heartlines
no one actually expects her to say it. she knows it should be easier the second time around. she's still a terrible liar.
bleach | rukia/ichigo | spoilers for the soul society arc | 2,023 words, PG.
-
She does not actually think it:
I am home.
Her nails catch the end of her bandage when he finds her the first time. "Fuck," he growls. "Do you, like, have to be impossible here too?"
"You're an ass," she says.
They are in a clearing behind the Fourth Division barracks. The trees bend towards the rooms; if Rukia looks up, she can pick her brother's room and the open window that catches just the laziest of breezes. It makes her straighten her shoulders. Her jaw locks and she tries not to let out the sigh that she seems to have been holding onto for the last couple of days.
She shifts and sits, her back resting against a tree. She keeps her gaze shaded, turning her legs to the side and then folding her hands into her lap.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" she asks.
"Shouldn't you?" he counters, and she watches as he shoves his hands into his sleeves, craning his head back to look up. His eyes still at the sky. "I should kick your ass too -" she snorts and he smirks. "At least it'll get you back to bed, idiot. Or I could get Renji to do it. He's more annoying than I am."
"True."
It sort of slips, and he makes a dry noise; she tries not to drop a laugh but it happens anyway. Her lips feel cracked and her teeth pick at the skin.
He stays quiet after that, or she does; she's not sure they've ever been this quiet, outside of a reasonable amount of exhaustion when they shared his room in the early days. They are different too, she thinks. He is, of course, but she feels strange and uncomfortable in the vagueness of her own skin. or what should be her skin. She has to relearn herself, her powers, the extensions and limitations of her own abilities. There is a heavy unease with that possibility. He will go. She will stay. They both know this.
"You're sad."
Startled, she looks up. His mouth lines into the slightest of frowns.
"No," she says. "No," she corrects too. "I'm - I'm tired."
"Eh." He shrugs. "You don't have to tell me."
Her eyes narrow. "Ass," she says. "If I'm sad, I'll tell you that I'm sad. If I'm pissed off, I'll tell you that I'm pissed off. Keep up, Ichigo."
"I'm not the idiot who should be in bed."
He wants a fight. She would give it to him; the words aren't there. Everything is half-hearted at best. Her mouth twitches and she turns her gaze away, looking off to the side.
If it surprises her when he sits, she shouldn't show it. She thinks of the human world instead. You are extraordinarily aware, she thinks, of sights, sounds, tastes. Everything is loud and bright and heavy and too entirely there. It only makes sense that he fits there. She thinks she'll miss that most of all.
His fingers touch her knee. Her head bows.
"You'll be fine, of course." Her lips curl and she shrugs. "I imagine no one will be truly comfortable in saying that this is over yet."
He grimaces. "Did you expect it?"
His question comes sudden, but not surprisingly so. Ichigo would be crass asking the others; the question that comes to her is heavier and far from a plea.
"No," she says. "I suppose not, not Captain Aizen at least." Her gaze darkens. Her hand moves to her throat. She lets her mouth twist. "I wish I could give you an explanation. Perhaps, there are others better suited to that sort of thing - I'm, I'm not really here yet, I think. It's funny what certain truths do to you."
"Yeah," he says.
His hand hasn't left her knee though. It's two fingers; the index flexes over the fabric, tracing against the flowers. His nail catches the silk and it tugs, hitching the fabric over her skin.
"Don't beat yourself up," he tells her too. She scoffs and he shrugs. "That shit never helps anybody."
"Is this you trying to be insightful and introspective?" she asks dryly.
"Fuck you."
She turns her gaze away, her hair brushing over her eyes and then her jaw. She feels his palm flatten against her knee.
"You'll be okay."
He clears his throat. "Obviously."
"The others," she says. "They'll be there as well. Try not to be too much of an ass, okay?"
"Ugh." She looks up and he seems well-aware that she's trying to force some kind of goodbye. She tries not to blush when he grimaces. "You're even worse than -"
Rukia hits his arm hard. He groans and she reaches to do it again. But he catches her hand. Maybe she lets him. Maybe she doesn't. His fingers open against her knuckles and she feels the heat spread against her cheeks.
It feels like instinct then, her hand turning into his, her fingers opening and catching the lines of his hand. The bits of bandages are rough though and her throat seems to twist in memory, her teeth sinking into her lip. Hands and swords, she thinks. There's this intimacy that scares her, scares her in a way that it hasn't in a very long time. But then it's over, just as it started; he pulls away from her first, then her hand drops back to her lap.
When she looks away, he sighs. They don't say anything else.
The second time, they walk behind everyone back to dinner, her apology a bitter, tight taste in her mouth. Ichigo eyes Kukaku with a scowl. Rukia bites the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing - the whole thing is just absurd, she thinks with amusement.
But then Ichigo starts to slow, and she follows too; maybe it's just habit. She looks up and he sort of stills, digging his heels into the ground.
"You good now?"
She blinks. "What?"
"You good now?" he repeats, and his arm lifts back, his hand combing through his hair. "Did it help?" he asks too.
She shrugs. She won't lie to him; she just won't tell him things. There's a difference. Or, well, there won't be any need for one any longer. It makes her tired again and she strains back, to meet his gaze.
"Maybe," she says slowly. "I don't know."
"You're, like, the worst liar I know."
She coughs through a laugh, her hand framing her mouth. "Whatever," she says. "We're not talking about me." She eyes him carefully. "Tomorrow then?" she asks.
"Yeah." He stays studying the sky. There's no hesitation and she looks up with him, picking at the strange, lazy blue. Gray, she corrects herself. The sun is splitting, just as it sets, and they watch the orange as it erupts into the sky. She thinks about fire. She remembers fire. Swallowing, she looks down. "Tomorrow," he finishes.
Her hands press in front of her. She tries not to sigh.
"You'll get to see your family."
"Annoying as ever, probably." She's sure she hears his mouth twist. A close smile. "Then there's school, sure. A fucking headache if you ask me."
"You like it," she says dryly.
"You did too," he replies.
Surprised, her eyes widen. Her cheeks flush and she's looking at him, or he's simply caught her. Her mouth opens too.
"I want to hit you," she growls, and he smirks. "I know what you're trying to do, idiot. And it's not going to work. I'm fine. I'm all right."
"Which is not fine," he points out.
"You're going home," she snaps. "You don't need to worry about it. You go home. You go to school. You live your life."
"Easy as that, huh?" he sort of just says it, the words splitting in between the two of them lazily and it takes her back, stopping. The grass hits her knees and legs and she curls her arms around herself as if to protect herself from him. His mouth slides back into a half-smirk and she shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "You worry about me," he says.
"That's different," she says quietly.
"No."
Her eyes squeeze tighter. "Yes."
"No," he says again. "It's not. You don't get to decide and this is a pretty stupid argument. You would, I guess."
"Idiot." Her voice catches and she listens to him step forward. It takes her a moment; she opens her eyes slowly, her chin tilting towards him. "It's still different and I won't hear anything else of it. Leave it alone."
His fingers catch her chin, but she's fast enough so that her hand wraps around his wrist, as if to counter. Her fingers are cool over his skin and she swallows, her gaze unable to pull away from his. She can hear the murmuring of their company, the heavier shouts for them to hurry up. They should listen.
"Ichigo -"
"Shut up," he says quietly. His cheeks flush and he leans forward. Her hand drops. His follows, but he touches her waist. "I'm trying to do this the right way," he says.
"Don't."
He snorts. "Moments, Rukia. Moments."
"That's stupid," she counters. "We'll be fine. You'll be fine. I'll be okay."
He shrugs, pulling his hand back. "Whatever," he says.
She wishes she could understand what happens next, long after dinner, long after the others return to their rooms and there are various claims of rest. There are no outwardly claims of conspiracy; although, she swears that Renji hovers just enough, stuck between watching her like she's here but not here.
There's no knock on the door though. Ichigo walks in like they're back in his house, his room and opening the closet doors are kind of thing. She is standing at the window and her mouth twists, shaking her head.
"You should be in bed," she says with some amusement.
"Shut up," he tells her, and he's walking to her, his hand curling around her arm. The motion is jerky enough to pulling her off-guard; her body twists and she stumbles into him, her fingers curling against his chest.
Her head drops first, but she doesn't cry. Her head frames her fists against his chest. His fingers sneak into her hair too, pulling at the strands. She may or may not exhale, she can barely hear herself as it is, the long, lazy sound of her heart in her throat and ringing in her ears. They're quiet. They're too quiet. Then his fingers begin to draw against the back of her neck, his thumb tracing a long, smooth circle of her skin.
This is not a goodbye, she tells herself. This is not a goodbye. Her eyes are hot and wet and her shoulders start to tremble and oh, she thinks too, it's just him. It's just him and her and it must be appropriate enough. It has to be.
But then he smells like dinner, the sharp spices of the Shiba home, the fire and the air from their walk. She'll miss their walks; it's so strange, for how overwhelming she still thinks of the human world as, she can only attach herself to the simpler things. It seems appropriate too. She lets her hands linger before she moves back, her hands pushing off his chest.
She doesn't mean to catch his jaw with her mouth. Her eyes open and are wide. Her lips part and she is half-kissing, half-sighing against his skin as they both breathe. That second split of time draws his hand to her hip, his fingers back into silk and then away. When he draws back, his eyes are sharp and her mouth twists, just as she manages a nod.
"Idiot," she says, and that's that.
He leaves first, again. She turns toward the window and presses her hands against the glass. Her eyes move to the moon.
She does not stay long after the doors close.
Byakuya walks with her. Renji is not far behind. Her brother reaches out to touch her though, his fingers grazing the back of her elbow.
There is nothing to say.
all those heartlines
no one actually expects her to say it. she knows it should be easier the second time around. she's still a terrible liar.
bleach | rukia/ichigo | spoilers for the soul society arc | 2,023 words, PG.
-
She does not actually think it:
I am home.
Her nails catch the end of her bandage when he finds her the first time. "Fuck," he growls. "Do you, like, have to be impossible here too?"
"You're an ass," she says.
They are in a clearing behind the Fourth Division barracks. The trees bend towards the rooms; if Rukia looks up, she can pick her brother's room and the open window that catches just the laziest of breezes. It makes her straighten her shoulders. Her jaw locks and she tries not to let out the sigh that she seems to have been holding onto for the last couple of days.
She shifts and sits, her back resting against a tree. She keeps her gaze shaded, turning her legs to the side and then folding her hands into her lap.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" she asks.
"Shouldn't you?" he counters, and she watches as he shoves his hands into his sleeves, craning his head back to look up. His eyes still at the sky. "I should kick your ass too -" she snorts and he smirks. "At least it'll get you back to bed, idiot. Or I could get Renji to do it. He's more annoying than I am."
"True."
It sort of slips, and he makes a dry noise; she tries not to drop a laugh but it happens anyway. Her lips feel cracked and her teeth pick at the skin.
He stays quiet after that, or she does; she's not sure they've ever been this quiet, outside of a reasonable amount of exhaustion when they shared his room in the early days. They are different too, she thinks. He is, of course, but she feels strange and uncomfortable in the vagueness of her own skin. or what should be her skin. She has to relearn herself, her powers, the extensions and limitations of her own abilities. There is a heavy unease with that possibility. He will go. She will stay. They both know this.
"You're sad."
Startled, she looks up. His mouth lines into the slightest of frowns.
"No," she says. "No," she corrects too. "I'm - I'm tired."
"Eh." He shrugs. "You don't have to tell me."
Her eyes narrow. "Ass," she says. "If I'm sad, I'll tell you that I'm sad. If I'm pissed off, I'll tell you that I'm pissed off. Keep up, Ichigo."
"I'm not the idiot who should be in bed."
He wants a fight. She would give it to him; the words aren't there. Everything is half-hearted at best. Her mouth twitches and she turns her gaze away, looking off to the side.
If it surprises her when he sits, she shouldn't show it. She thinks of the human world instead. You are extraordinarily aware, she thinks, of sights, sounds, tastes. Everything is loud and bright and heavy and too entirely there. It only makes sense that he fits there. She thinks she'll miss that most of all.
His fingers touch her knee. Her head bows.
"You'll be fine, of course." Her lips curl and she shrugs. "I imagine no one will be truly comfortable in saying that this is over yet."
He grimaces. "Did you expect it?"
His question comes sudden, but not surprisingly so. Ichigo would be crass asking the others; the question that comes to her is heavier and far from a plea.
"No," she says. "I suppose not, not Captain Aizen at least." Her gaze darkens. Her hand moves to her throat. She lets her mouth twist. "I wish I could give you an explanation. Perhaps, there are others better suited to that sort of thing - I'm, I'm not really here yet, I think. It's funny what certain truths do to you."
"Yeah," he says.
His hand hasn't left her knee though. It's two fingers; the index flexes over the fabric, tracing against the flowers. His nail catches the silk and it tugs, hitching the fabric over her skin.
"Don't beat yourself up," he tells her too. She scoffs and he shrugs. "That shit never helps anybody."
"Is this you trying to be insightful and introspective?" she asks dryly.
"Fuck you."
She turns her gaze away, her hair brushing over her eyes and then her jaw. She feels his palm flatten against her knee.
"You'll be okay."
He clears his throat. "Obviously."
"The others," she says. "They'll be there as well. Try not to be too much of an ass, okay?"
"Ugh." She looks up and he seems well-aware that she's trying to force some kind of goodbye. She tries not to blush when he grimaces. "You're even worse than -"
Rukia hits his arm hard. He groans and she reaches to do it again. But he catches her hand. Maybe she lets him. Maybe she doesn't. His fingers open against her knuckles and she feels the heat spread against her cheeks.
It feels like instinct then, her hand turning into his, her fingers opening and catching the lines of his hand. The bits of bandages are rough though and her throat seems to twist in memory, her teeth sinking into her lip. Hands and swords, she thinks. There's this intimacy that scares her, scares her in a way that it hasn't in a very long time. But then it's over, just as it started; he pulls away from her first, then her hand drops back to her lap.
When she looks away, he sighs. They don't say anything else.
The second time, they walk behind everyone back to dinner, her apology a bitter, tight taste in her mouth. Ichigo eyes Kukaku with a scowl. Rukia bites the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing - the whole thing is just absurd, she thinks with amusement.
But then Ichigo starts to slow, and she follows too; maybe it's just habit. She looks up and he sort of stills, digging his heels into the ground.
"You good now?"
She blinks. "What?"
"You good now?" he repeats, and his arm lifts back, his hand combing through his hair. "Did it help?" he asks too.
She shrugs. She won't lie to him; she just won't tell him things. There's a difference. Or, well, there won't be any need for one any longer. It makes her tired again and she strains back, to meet his gaze.
"Maybe," she says slowly. "I don't know."
"You're, like, the worst liar I know."
She coughs through a laugh, her hand framing her mouth. "Whatever," she says. "We're not talking about me." She eyes him carefully. "Tomorrow then?" she asks.
"Yeah." He stays studying the sky. There's no hesitation and she looks up with him, picking at the strange, lazy blue. Gray, she corrects herself. The sun is splitting, just as it sets, and they watch the orange as it erupts into the sky. She thinks about fire. She remembers fire. Swallowing, she looks down. "Tomorrow," he finishes.
Her hands press in front of her. She tries not to sigh.
"You'll get to see your family."
"Annoying as ever, probably." She's sure she hears his mouth twist. A close smile. "Then there's school, sure. A fucking headache if you ask me."
"You like it," she says dryly.
"You did too," he replies.
Surprised, her eyes widen. Her cheeks flush and she's looking at him, or he's simply caught her. Her mouth opens too.
"I want to hit you," she growls, and he smirks. "I know what you're trying to do, idiot. And it's not going to work. I'm fine. I'm all right."
"Which is not fine," he points out.
"You're going home," she snaps. "You don't need to worry about it. You go home. You go to school. You live your life."
"Easy as that, huh?" he sort of just says it, the words splitting in between the two of them lazily and it takes her back, stopping. The grass hits her knees and legs and she curls her arms around herself as if to protect herself from him. His mouth slides back into a half-smirk and she shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "You worry about me," he says.
"That's different," she says quietly.
"No."
Her eyes squeeze tighter. "Yes."
"No," he says again. "It's not. You don't get to decide and this is a pretty stupid argument. You would, I guess."
"Idiot." Her voice catches and she listens to him step forward. It takes her a moment; she opens her eyes slowly, her chin tilting towards him. "It's still different and I won't hear anything else of it. Leave it alone."
His fingers catch her chin, but she's fast enough so that her hand wraps around his wrist, as if to counter. Her fingers are cool over his skin and she swallows, her gaze unable to pull away from his. She can hear the murmuring of their company, the heavier shouts for them to hurry up. They should listen.
"Ichigo -"
"Shut up," he says quietly. His cheeks flush and he leans forward. Her hand drops. His follows, but he touches her waist. "I'm trying to do this the right way," he says.
"Don't."
He snorts. "Moments, Rukia. Moments."
"That's stupid," she counters. "We'll be fine. You'll be fine. I'll be okay."
He shrugs, pulling his hand back. "Whatever," he says.
She wishes she could understand what happens next, long after dinner, long after the others return to their rooms and there are various claims of rest. There are no outwardly claims of conspiracy; although, she swears that Renji hovers just enough, stuck between watching her like she's here but not here.
There's no knock on the door though. Ichigo walks in like they're back in his house, his room and opening the closet doors are kind of thing. She is standing at the window and her mouth twists, shaking her head.
"You should be in bed," she says with some amusement.
"Shut up," he tells her, and he's walking to her, his hand curling around her arm. The motion is jerky enough to pulling her off-guard; her body twists and she stumbles into him, her fingers curling against his chest.
Her head drops first, but she doesn't cry. Her head frames her fists against his chest. His fingers sneak into her hair too, pulling at the strands. She may or may not exhale, she can barely hear herself as it is, the long, lazy sound of her heart in her throat and ringing in her ears. They're quiet. They're too quiet. Then his fingers begin to draw against the back of her neck, his thumb tracing a long, smooth circle of her skin.
This is not a goodbye, she tells herself. This is not a goodbye. Her eyes are hot and wet and her shoulders start to tremble and oh, she thinks too, it's just him. It's just him and her and it must be appropriate enough. It has to be.
But then he smells like dinner, the sharp spices of the Shiba home, the fire and the air from their walk. She'll miss their walks; it's so strange, for how overwhelming she still thinks of the human world as, she can only attach herself to the simpler things. It seems appropriate too. She lets her hands linger before she moves back, her hands pushing off his chest.
She doesn't mean to catch his jaw with her mouth. Her eyes open and are wide. Her lips part and she is half-kissing, half-sighing against his skin as they both breathe. That second split of time draws his hand to her hip, his fingers back into silk and then away. When he draws back, his eyes are sharp and her mouth twists, just as she manages a nod.
"Idiot," she says, and that's that.
He leaves first, again. She turns toward the window and presses her hands against the glass. Her eyes move to the moon.
She does not stay long after the doors close.
Byakuya walks with her. Renji is not far behind. Her brother reaches out to touch her though, his fingers grazing the back of her elbow.
There is nothing to say.