Waking
Waking
Ishida wakes softly, to a rare moment of silence. The room is bathed in pale yellow light that streams in through the windows. It's warm inside the house, though not uncomfortably so. Orihime's weight presses down on the left side of his body; his right is squished up against the couch. Orihime's cheek is pressed against his, her breath tickling his nose evenly. Her breathing is deep, slow, warm air tickling his nose in a gentle rhythm.
Ishida shifts her body more firmly onto his, wraps his arms around her waist, puts the book he was clutching in his left hand on the ground. Studying can wait.
Kira wakes uncomfortably, stretching out the kinks in his neck before he's even aware of where he's lying. It's bright: too bright, his head hurts, and he shuts his eyes and opens them again. His feet are resting up on a chair rung, his legs numb from the lack of blood flow. The chair is occupied by someone wearing black shinigami hakama, asleep with their head pillowed on the table. A bare arm dangles limply over the edge, fingers clutching an empty bottle. Shuuhei.
Matsumoto is sprawled on her stomach several feet away, her hands splayed out on either side of her head. It looks uncomfortable. Kira slumps back down, and underneath his head Renji's left leg twitches.
Another day, Kira thinks as he blinks at the light and breathes in the smell of sweat and blood and bottles and bottles of sake. Another day, he thinks, and his mind is numb.
Hisagi wakes with Matsumoto in his arms and the smell of her gardenia-scented shampoo filling his head. He curls his arms more tightly around Matsumoto and breathes in, savoring.
"Are you awake?" Matsumoto asks.
"Not really," he says, and curls his index finger around a stray lock of her hair.
She says nothing, and eventually her breathing evens out again and deepens. Hisagi says nothing and breathes in her scent and kisses her hair, and is content.
Ukitake wakes slowly, groggily, as if from a stupor. I am not dead, he realizes as his senses return and he can see, can hear, can feel the hot rumpled sheets crushed under his body. It's dark in his room, illuminated only by the thin slivers of light that brave their way in between the shutter slats, and in the dimness he can make out Shunsui, slumped over, sitting in the visitor's chair, no doubt dreaming of his Nanao-chan. Outside someone is splashing around in the pond, and Kiyone and Kuchiki Rukia seem to be sparring. I am not dead yet, Ukitake thinks, and licks his lips in anticipation. Maybe today he will have strength enough to go outside.
Ichigo wakes with a deep, deep breath, cracking his eyes open to see the light pink glowing in the gray dawn sky, the sun rising somewhere on the horizon. The picnic blanket scratches the back of his neck when he turns his head to look at Rukia.
She's curled up next to him, eyes still closed, eyelashes resting heavily on her cheeks. Her hand is curled up in a fist and lying on her chest, and her shirt collar is bunched around her neck. When she breathes she makes a soft squeaking noise that's not entirely unpleasant.
The November sun is breaking slowly past the tree line in the distance. Ichigo stays lying on the picnic blanket, and Rukia stays curled up next to him. His fingers are tangled in her messed-up hair.
All is as it should be.
Ishida wakes softly, to a rare moment of silence. The room is bathed in pale yellow light that streams in through the windows. It's warm inside the house, though not uncomfortably so. Orihime's weight presses down on the left side of his body; his right is squished up against the couch. Orihime's cheek is pressed against his, her breath tickling his nose evenly. Her breathing is deep, slow, warm air tickling his nose in a gentle rhythm.
Ishida shifts her body more firmly onto his, wraps his arms around her waist, puts the book he was clutching in his left hand on the ground. Studying can wait.
Kira wakes uncomfortably, stretching out the kinks in his neck before he's even aware of where he's lying. It's bright: too bright, his head hurts, and he shuts his eyes and opens them again. His feet are resting up on a chair rung, his legs numb from the lack of blood flow. The chair is occupied by someone wearing black shinigami hakama, asleep with their head pillowed on the table. A bare arm dangles limply over the edge, fingers clutching an empty bottle. Shuuhei.
Matsumoto is sprawled on her stomach several feet away, her hands splayed out on either side of her head. It looks uncomfortable. Kira slumps back down, and underneath his head Renji's left leg twitches.
Another day, Kira thinks as he blinks at the light and breathes in the smell of sweat and blood and bottles and bottles of sake. Another day, he thinks, and his mind is numb.
Hisagi wakes with Matsumoto in his arms and the smell of her gardenia-scented shampoo filling his head. He curls his arms more tightly around Matsumoto and breathes in, savoring.
"Are you awake?" Matsumoto asks.
"Not really," he says, and curls his index finger around a stray lock of her hair.
She says nothing, and eventually her breathing evens out again and deepens. Hisagi says nothing and breathes in her scent and kisses her hair, and is content.
Ukitake wakes slowly, groggily, as if from a stupor. I am not dead, he realizes as his senses return and he can see, can hear, can feel the hot rumpled sheets crushed under his body. It's dark in his room, illuminated only by the thin slivers of light that brave their way in between the shutter slats, and in the dimness he can make out Shunsui, slumped over, sitting in the visitor's chair, no doubt dreaming of his Nanao-chan. Outside someone is splashing around in the pond, and Kiyone and Kuchiki Rukia seem to be sparring. I am not dead yet, Ukitake thinks, and licks his lips in anticipation. Maybe today he will have strength enough to go outside.
Ichigo wakes with a deep, deep breath, cracking his eyes open to see the light pink glowing in the gray dawn sky, the sun rising somewhere on the horizon. The picnic blanket scratches the back of his neck when he turns his head to look at Rukia.
She's curled up next to him, eyes still closed, eyelashes resting heavily on her cheeks. Her hand is curled up in a fist and lying on her chest, and her shirt collar is bunched around her neck. When she breathes she makes a soft squeaking noise that's not entirely unpleasant.
The November sun is breaking slowly past the tree line in the distance. Ichigo stays lying on the picnic blanket, and Rukia stays curled up next to him. His fingers are tangled in her messed-up hair.
All is as it should be.