Fic: If I were the rain
Title: If I were the rain.
Rating: G
Fandom: Bleach (Ichigo/Orihime)
A/N: Part of the Ichi/Hime arc.
Prompt: #18 - Dishevelled; in the rain; thunder.
*
If I were the rain, could I connect with someone’s heart?
*
The day Sora dies, the sky parts it’s eyelids and cries with Orihime. It’s tears fall with the power and the intention of covering the world with her grief, and Orihime rather likes the sentiment. It’s been years since he died now, but it makes sense that on his anniversary, the sky would deem to cry with her once again.
The park near Orihime’s house is rather petite, the grass greener than anything she’s ever seen. The playground (a swingset, a slide, a set of rusted monkey bars) is usually full of happy children, children that know her name and listen to her stories with enthusiastic ears, but today its empty. The skies tears will always cause strife amongst cautious parents; they don’t want their children to be drowned in liquid sadness.
Orihime flops down onto the rubber swing, fingers looping around the wet chain. The swings were Sora’s favourite, even if he never said it out loud.
“Inoue?” And Ichigo is standing somewhere in the distance, eyes bigger than normal, face somehow less cynical.
“Orihime.” She says, and she can see Ichigo smile as he wanders closer.
“It’s raining.” He states, toeing the dirt under the seat of the swing. He’s very close now, and if she reaches over, she’d be able to touch his arms, his sopping t-shirt.
“No it’s not.” Orihime says, it’s crying, crying for me.
Ichigo just shrugs, rubs wet fingers through his hair. “What are you doing out here anyway? You’ll get sick.”
“The sky needs comforting.” She replies, and Ichigo doesn’t even bother trying to interpret it.
The silence isn’t so much uncomfortable as it is comfortable. Things have changed in the last few weeks, leaving a usual routine without the familiar rhyme or rhythm. Orihime can’t figure out if it’s alright or not, change can be good sometimes.
“It was raining when my mother died too.” Ichigo says, and it’s so out of the blue that at the speed Orihime turns to look at him properly, her neck throbs.
“It was raining the day your brother died, wasn’t it?” Ichigo says, and he isn’t looking at her really, he’s rubbing one of his hands over the opposite arm.
“It was,” she says.
“You’re not wearing your hairclip.” And no, she isn’t. She never wears the clip on Sora’s death-day, she shoves it into the back of the drawer beside her bed, doesn’t look at it for the whole 24-hours. She started not-wearing it the year after his death, when she had almost thrown it into the creek in a fit of emotion.
“Not today.” She says, and she pulls her wet hair off her shoulders, moves to stand up in front of Ichigo.
“Everyone seems to think,” he starts, “everyone seems to think we should give this a shot.”
Orihime cocks her head, “Give what a shot?”
“This.” He says, “Us.”
“Oh,” and she stares up at him (he’s always been taller than her) with wide hazel eyes.
“Oh,” Ichigo says, and, again, he runs fingers through his hair. “I want,” he says, and he’s hesitating a little, running trembling fingers through his hair, “when it rains, I want good memories too. Not just the bad ones.”
“So do I.” Orihime replies, and she bites her lip a little, and…and let’s go. Leans up, kisses him. “Good memories.” She murmurs into Ichigo’s mouth.
His hands have wrapped around her head, long fingers clutching at the strands of gold-brown hair. “Good memories.” He mumbles back.
Rating: G
Fandom: Bleach (Ichigo/Orihime)
A/N: Part of the Ichi/Hime arc.
Prompt: #18 - Dishevelled; in the rain; thunder.
*
If I were the rain, could I connect with someone’s heart?
*
The day Sora dies, the sky parts it’s eyelids and cries with Orihime. It’s tears fall with the power and the intention of covering the world with her grief, and Orihime rather likes the sentiment. It’s been years since he died now, but it makes sense that on his anniversary, the sky would deem to cry with her once again.
The park near Orihime’s house is rather petite, the grass greener than anything she’s ever seen. The playground (a swingset, a slide, a set of rusted monkey bars) is usually full of happy children, children that know her name and listen to her stories with enthusiastic ears, but today its empty. The skies tears will always cause strife amongst cautious parents; they don’t want their children to be drowned in liquid sadness.
Orihime flops down onto the rubber swing, fingers looping around the wet chain. The swings were Sora’s favourite, even if he never said it out loud.
“Inoue?” And Ichigo is standing somewhere in the distance, eyes bigger than normal, face somehow less cynical.
“Orihime.” She says, and she can see Ichigo smile as he wanders closer.
“It’s raining.” He states, toeing the dirt under the seat of the swing. He’s very close now, and if she reaches over, she’d be able to touch his arms, his sopping t-shirt.
“No it’s not.” Orihime says, it’s crying, crying for me.
Ichigo just shrugs, rubs wet fingers through his hair. “What are you doing out here anyway? You’ll get sick.”
“The sky needs comforting.” She replies, and Ichigo doesn’t even bother trying to interpret it.
The silence isn’t so much uncomfortable as it is comfortable. Things have changed in the last few weeks, leaving a usual routine without the familiar rhyme or rhythm. Orihime can’t figure out if it’s alright or not, change can be good sometimes.
“It was raining when my mother died too.” Ichigo says, and it’s so out of the blue that at the speed Orihime turns to look at him properly, her neck throbs.
“It was raining the day your brother died, wasn’t it?” Ichigo says, and he isn’t looking at her really, he’s rubbing one of his hands over the opposite arm.
“It was,” she says.
“You’re not wearing your hairclip.” And no, she isn’t. She never wears the clip on Sora’s death-day, she shoves it into the back of the drawer beside her bed, doesn’t look at it for the whole 24-hours. She started not-wearing it the year after his death, when she had almost thrown it into the creek in a fit of emotion.
“Not today.” She says, and she pulls her wet hair off her shoulders, moves to stand up in front of Ichigo.
“Everyone seems to think,” he starts, “everyone seems to think we should give this a shot.”
Orihime cocks her head, “Give what a shot?”
“This.” He says, “Us.”
“Oh,” and she stares up at him (he’s always been taller than her) with wide hazel eyes.
“Oh,” Ichigo says, and, again, he runs fingers through his hair. “I want,” he says, and he’s hesitating a little, running trembling fingers through his hair, “when it rains, I want good memories too. Not just the bad ones.”
“So do I.” Orihime replies, and she bites her lip a little, and…and let’s go. Leans up, kisses him. “Good memories.” She murmurs into Ichigo’s mouth.
His hands have wrapped around her head, long fingers clutching at the strands of gold-brown hair. “Good memories.” He mumbles back.