Fic: Bleach // HB Drabbles
Arugula! I just felt like typing that word. Anyway, new game, new drabbles.
The second hand finished another slow round of his father's pocket watch, open on the desk, and Izuru touched the folder containing the police report on his parents' deaths for the fifth time in an hour. There was no point in opening it - he had the contents memorized by now, and no amount of staring would change the neat red letters spelling out 'Confirmed Accident' at the top of the page. He needed to return it soon, he knew; his contact at the police office had already complained repeatedly about having got it for him at all and there was really no useful information in it anyway.
So many dead ends. Just thinking about it made the scar tissue on his back itch, and Izuru tugged sharply on the lapel of his suit jacket to distract himself from the sensation, a soft, angry hiss escaping from between his teeth. He felt fragile and a little raw; he hated it. Here he'd been thinking that he was finally in a place where he might finally find the truth behind the tense days leading up to that fatal crash only to find that he was just as powerless as ever. His father would never have stood for it. His father would have -
"Mr. Kira," someone said behind him, and it took all of Izuru's self-control not to jump. He clamped down on his emotions, turning slowly in his chair to see - someone. A clerk; Izuru was too tired to remember his name.
"Yes?"
"It's very late. I'm the last one here and I was told to remind you of the time before I left today."
"Ah." Probably the boss meddling again. Izuru would have said the man worried too much if it wouldn't have made him a hypocrite.
"Are you all right? You look tired."
And you're nosy, Izuru thought, but there was no reason to vent his temper on some poor, random clerk. "I'm fine," he said, forcing a polite, professional smile onto his face. It felt more like a grimace but he knew from experience that it probably looked at least halfway convincing. "I'm perfectly fine."
His 22nd birthday and it's a party - soirée, Izuru corrects himself - with some classmates, but mostly full of people he doesn't actually know. Like the girl currently chatting away at his elbow, dark hair falling in artful curls, diamonds glittering at her fingers and throat. He can't remember her name and he's not even interested in listening but he's got his brightest smile pasted to his face and he nods at appropriate intervals because that's what a gentleman does.
He hadn't wanted this at all, had done his best to talk Margaret out of it, reminded her that he was not a girl and hardly a debutante and wasn't it a bit late for that anyway. Nonsense, she'd said. The point was for him to meet the girls. Izuru isn't getting any younger, she'd pointed out. Wasn't it high time for him to meet a girl and settle down?
Decidedly not. He'll do it, undoubtedly - eventually. But not until after he finds out what really had happened on that night in July, and then. A proper girl, of course, hopefully one that won't drive him crazy. Perhaps one he loves the way his parents had loved one another, but Izuru doesn't have much hope for it. He can't imagine anyone Margaret approves of as being particularly exciting. Society girls are sharp in all the wrong ways.
Not that Izuru has much experience with women. Oh, he's done a little fooling around, a very little, and there was his eighteenth birthday - he still hasn't really forgiven Uncle Robert for that. He'd brought in a pro, heckling Izuru, something about 'becoming a man,' and Izuru had gone through with it simply because everyone, even Margaret, seemed to expect him to. He'd found the whole thing distasteful, dispensed with his first time as quickly and perfunctorily as possible, and determined that, hopefully, he could avoid doing such again until it was time to do his duty as husband and heir.
It's an unpleasant memory, one that tightens his smile around the corners, but Izuru catches it before it cracks, comes to in time to hear his companion nattering on about his name, how unusual, how exotic, and how did he ever come by it?
"My grandfather," Izuru says, and that's more or less the truth. His father had once told him that his grandfather had planned on naming his second son Izuru but had never had the chance, either with naming or another son, so Kagekiyo had done it for him. "My other grandfather," Izuru clarifies, reading the why-would-Thomas- Hamilton-ever clearly on her face.
"Oh!" she titters. "What does it mean?"
"I don't know," Izuru replies, and it's only a faint flattening of tone, the barest hint of an edge on his smile, but this girl, this Marian-or-Estelle-or-something has been playing at this game her whole life; she catches it.
"Oh," she says again, this time complete with sparkling laugh, and after a few more minutes of charmingly vacant prattle she finds an excuse to detach herself gracefully.
Izuru catches Margaret's glance across the room, knows that she hasn't missed it either, knows that he's going to get a good long talking-to later. He holds his breath to keep from sighing, snags a glass of champagne from a passing tray, listens as the hired entertainer starts up a new song on the piano. A waltz; not the sprightly jazz tunes his mother loved, oh no. His fingers itch. Maybe Izuru can find some time to practice the next time he has the house to himself. The maid certainly won't tell.
Your mother is laughing. It cuts through your sleepy haze, a bright sound, clear and friendly. You've always loved it. Your father's voice then, low and rumbling but audible, even above the engine's grumble. She laughs again, and you think they must be busy disparaging the speakers at the banquet you just left. They're worse than children sometimes - a reflected flash in the rear view mirror is all the warning you get and then light is pouring through the back window, swerving; a grating clatter along the side of the car, your parents voices raised in alarm and fear, and then the world is spinning, sliding, skidding, before it explodes.
You hit the ground before you know you're airborne, skull crashing against the concrete with enough force to rattle your teeth. Everything goes white for a moment, a wave of heat washing over your back, a spray of debris. Glass, metal, gravel; you don't know. Can't tell. You should get up. Get up and see if your parents are - your legs won't move. Your head is ringing, your bones are throbbing, your back is one big, wet, burning pain, and your legs won't move. The chill of the concrete is leeching into your skin, your muscles, sirens somewhere are beginning to wail, but you can barely hear them. It's all receding, pulling away to a place you can't reach because all you can feel is the cold --
Izuru shuddered awake all at once, thrashing blindly until he realized it was only his own twisted bedsheets immobilizing his legs. He took a shivery breath, extricating himself with unsteady hands. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he forced himself to his feet - only to go down in a new tangle of shaky limbs. He paused, pressing his forehead to his bedroom floor, the wood cool and unforgiving on his flushed skin.
I'm sorry, he thought, maybe said, wasn't sure, heart convulsing, lungs constricting, hands knotting in the slippery fabric of his pajamas. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'll find them, I promise, I'm sorry -
Izuru tried to breathe, choked on a sob instead, and no no no, he couldn't be doing this now. He pushed himself up on trembling arms, braced himself against the bed frame. Stood up, slowly. Made himself take long, slow breaths. He could fall apart when it was over. Until then, no matter what happened, no matter how many mistakes he made and paid for, he had to keep going. Keep going until he knew, until everyone knew what had happened. What had really happened. Izuru took a careful step forward, then another, and another. He would wash his face and go back to bed.
There was work to be done tomorrow.
So, I think you can kind of see me flailing at different stylistic notions with these? The first one is more or less neutral while the second one is my attempt at something harder and flatter than I normally do, and the last one is... what I normally do. Which is kind of too much, but. IT WORKS FOR ME? Sometimes, anyway. Huh. I don't hate these yet!
The second hand finished another slow round of his father's pocket watch, open on the desk, and Izuru touched the folder containing the police report on his parents' deaths for the fifth time in an hour. There was no point in opening it - he had the contents memorized by now, and no amount of staring would change the neat red letters spelling out 'Confirmed Accident' at the top of the page. He needed to return it soon, he knew; his contact at the police office had already complained repeatedly about having got it for him at all and there was really no useful information in it anyway.
So many dead ends. Just thinking about it made the scar tissue on his back itch, and Izuru tugged sharply on the lapel of his suit jacket to distract himself from the sensation, a soft, angry hiss escaping from between his teeth. He felt fragile and a little raw; he hated it. Here he'd been thinking that he was finally in a place where he might finally find the truth behind the tense days leading up to that fatal crash only to find that he was just as powerless as ever. His father would never have stood for it. His father would have -
"Mr. Kira," someone said behind him, and it took all of Izuru's self-control not to jump. He clamped down on his emotions, turning slowly in his chair to see - someone. A clerk; Izuru was too tired to remember his name.
"Yes?"
"It's very late. I'm the last one here and I was told to remind you of the time before I left today."
"Ah." Probably the boss meddling again. Izuru would have said the man worried too much if it wouldn't have made him a hypocrite.
"Are you all right? You look tired."
And you're nosy, Izuru thought, but there was no reason to vent his temper on some poor, random clerk. "I'm fine," he said, forcing a polite, professional smile onto his face. It felt more like a grimace but he knew from experience that it probably looked at least halfway convincing. "I'm perfectly fine."
His 22nd birthday and it's a party - soirée, Izuru corrects himself - with some classmates, but mostly full of people he doesn't actually know. Like the girl currently chatting away at his elbow, dark hair falling in artful curls, diamonds glittering at her fingers and throat. He can't remember her name and he's not even interested in listening but he's got his brightest smile pasted to his face and he nods at appropriate intervals because that's what a gentleman does.
He hadn't wanted this at all, had done his best to talk Margaret out of it, reminded her that he was not a girl and hardly a debutante and wasn't it a bit late for that anyway. Nonsense, she'd said. The point was for him to meet the girls. Izuru isn't getting any younger, she'd pointed out. Wasn't it high time for him to meet a girl and settle down?
Decidedly not. He'll do it, undoubtedly - eventually. But not until after he finds out what really had happened on that night in July, and then. A proper girl, of course, hopefully one that won't drive him crazy. Perhaps one he loves the way his parents had loved one another, but Izuru doesn't have much hope for it. He can't imagine anyone Margaret approves of as being particularly exciting. Society girls are sharp in all the wrong ways.
Not that Izuru has much experience with women. Oh, he's done a little fooling around, a very little, and there was his eighteenth birthday - he still hasn't really forgiven Uncle Robert for that. He'd brought in a pro, heckling Izuru, something about 'becoming a man,' and Izuru had gone through with it simply because everyone, even Margaret, seemed to expect him to. He'd found the whole thing distasteful, dispensed with his first time as quickly and perfunctorily as possible, and determined that, hopefully, he could avoid doing such again until it was time to do his duty as husband and heir.
It's an unpleasant memory, one that tightens his smile around the corners, but Izuru catches it before it cracks, comes to in time to hear his companion nattering on about his name, how unusual, how exotic, and how did he ever come by it?
"My grandfather," Izuru says, and that's more or less the truth. His father had once told him that his grandfather had planned on naming his second son Izuru but had never had the chance, either with naming or another son, so Kagekiyo had done it for him. "My other grandfather," Izuru clarifies, reading the why-would-Thomas- Hamilton-ever clearly on her face.
"Oh!" she titters. "What does it mean?"
"I don't know," Izuru replies, and it's only a faint flattening of tone, the barest hint of an edge on his smile, but this girl, this Marian-or-Estelle-or-something has been playing at this game her whole life; she catches it.
"Oh," she says again, this time complete with sparkling laugh, and after a few more minutes of charmingly vacant prattle she finds an excuse to detach herself gracefully.
Izuru catches Margaret's glance across the room, knows that she hasn't missed it either, knows that he's going to get a good long talking-to later. He holds his breath to keep from sighing, snags a glass of champagne from a passing tray, listens as the hired entertainer starts up a new song on the piano. A waltz; not the sprightly jazz tunes his mother loved, oh no. His fingers itch. Maybe Izuru can find some time to practice the next time he has the house to himself. The maid certainly won't tell.
Your mother is laughing. It cuts through your sleepy haze, a bright sound, clear and friendly. You've always loved it. Your father's voice then, low and rumbling but audible, even above the engine's grumble. She laughs again, and you think they must be busy disparaging the speakers at the banquet you just left. They're worse than children sometimes - a reflected flash in the rear view mirror is all the warning you get and then light is pouring through the back window, swerving; a grating clatter along the side of the car, your parents voices raised in alarm and fear, and then the world is spinning, sliding, skidding, before it explodes.
You hit the ground before you know you're airborne, skull crashing against the concrete with enough force to rattle your teeth. Everything goes white for a moment, a wave of heat washing over your back, a spray of debris. Glass, metal, gravel; you don't know. Can't tell. You should get up. Get up and see if your parents are - your legs won't move. Your head is ringing, your bones are throbbing, your back is one big, wet, burning pain, and your legs won't move. The chill of the concrete is leeching into your skin, your muscles, sirens somewhere are beginning to wail, but you can barely hear them. It's all receding, pulling away to a place you can't reach because all you can feel is the cold --
Izuru shuddered awake all at once, thrashing blindly until he realized it was only his own twisted bedsheets immobilizing his legs. He took a shivery breath, extricating himself with unsteady hands. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he forced himself to his feet - only to go down in a new tangle of shaky limbs. He paused, pressing his forehead to his bedroom floor, the wood cool and unforgiving on his flushed skin.
I'm sorry, he thought, maybe said, wasn't sure, heart convulsing, lungs constricting, hands knotting in the slippery fabric of his pajamas. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, I'll find them, I promise, I'm sorry -
Izuru tried to breathe, choked on a sob instead, and no no no, he couldn't be doing this now. He pushed himself up on trembling arms, braced himself against the bed frame. Stood up, slowly. Made himself take long, slow breaths. He could fall apart when it was over. Until then, no matter what happened, no matter how many mistakes he made and paid for, he had to keep going. Keep going until he knew, until everyone knew what had happened. What had really happened. Izuru took a careful step forward, then another, and another. He would wash his face and go back to bed.
There was work to be done tomorrow.
So, I think you can kind of see me flailing at different stylistic notions with these? The first one is more or less neutral while the second one is my attempt at something harder and flatter than I normally do, and the last one is... what I normally do. Which is kind of too much, but. IT WORKS FOR ME? Sometimes, anyway. Huh. I don't hate these yet!