Brown Leafed Vertigo #2

[foxflare]

Story Title: Brown Leafed Vertigo
Chapter Title: Slim Pixie
Author: foxflare
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens & brightens all.
Chapter Summary: Izuru decides to take his life in his own hands. Someone else ties them behind his back.

II. Slim Pixie

Alone.

Izuru turned the concept over in his head as he stood blankly in the newly silent room.

Alone: to be isolated from others; lacking companions or companionship; without anyone or anything else.

He was alone. Exclusive.

Your proficiency exam test scores are. . .dramatic. To be frank, I have to wonder what you've been doing in an ordinary school all these years, even in advanced placement classes. Being bored, I expect. In any case, Kira-kun, it is for this reason that we took the liberty of sending your academic records on to be reviewed by a potential candidate for your guardianship. His name is Aizen Sousuke, and he runs a foster home for disadvantaged children with exceptional minds. It's a very exclusive program; Aizen-sama takes in only the best and the brightest, and nurtures them in a progressive environment with close ties to one of the country's top secondary schools. . .

Aizen Sousuke. Izuru had to admit that the man little resembled the mental image his reputation conjured. His social worker's words had painted a picture of a businessman who had never outgrown the need for a pocket protector, not the slightly-rumpled guidance counselor to whom he had just been introduced. Civil service seemed to be a profession of limited personalities. It was somewhat disappointing; Izuru's own father had been a fairly prominent and well-respected economist, and a small, unacknowledged part of the boy might have taken comfort in the familiarity of a precisely knotted silk tie, or the muted gloss of Italian leather loafers.

But Aizen's earthy, eager-to-reassure style only served to further illustrate how far Izuru had drifted from his previous moorings, and how broad the ocean had grown between his places of birth and berth.

He hadn't realized how quickly ninety kilometers per hour could take a person to eternity, or how easily an immeasurable distance of X in an equation could be infinitesimal. But, he bitterly supposed, mathematics had never been his best subject, giftedly intelligent or not, although to be honest, he didn't really believe he was. True, he had always been at the top of his class -- his parents would not have accepted anything less -- but perfect grades were attainable to anyone who spent enough hours absorbing the material. Schools were kinetic institutions: they rewarded effort over potential, and here. . .high standards meant steep competition, which meant pressure, which meant weight, and Izuru. . .Izuru was just so fucking tired.

And angry. Incensed. Absolutely goddamn wrathful that they would try to warp this, of all things, into another opportunity to better his education.

. . .named you as the sole beneficiary of two separate trust funds, both incentive. The first will become accessible to you upon your acceptance into a top tier university, and the second, upon your graduation from that institution. . .

Oh, he wanted to assure them, he was already learning plenty. The average atmospheric pressure on earth is one kilogram of force per square centimeter of matter; the average volume of an adult-sized human brain is 1500 cubic centimeters. One kilo of force multiplied by six sides multiplied by 1500 put the weight of his world at around 9000 kilos -- and that was before the doubling gravity of grief -- all precariously balanced on the thin stilt of his neck, and Izuru was terrified, terrified, that that rickety support would someday snap without warning and leave him, trapped and paralyzed, beneath the rubble. . .

His parents had always complained about his poor posture.

Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers, how dare they? How could they do this to him? How could they rest peacefully while he was struggling to keep his eyes open, to put one clay foot in front another?

Izuru swallowed thickly, his skin prickling with the heat of the suddenly stifling room. He ached. Head, eyes, heart, limbs, everything. And this place. . .it was too much. He couldn't breathe. It -- he -- everything was just too heavy.

He sank to his knees, body bowing forward. The waist of his jeans dug painfully into the sharp protrusions of his hipbones. His vision swam with dizziness. He hadn't eaten in days, fearful of adding even small ounces of food to his overtaxed system. His father would not have approved.

A Kira man does not fail, Izuru; he does not lament his losses because he does not lose. You are my son, sole heir to my name and my honor, and I trust you to remember that fact in every endeavor upon which you embark.

Liar. Lost your life, didn't you?

Do well, Izuru. Could he be done now?

Shake it off, Izuru. Did trembling count?

Make me proud, Izuru. And be the same. Be just like me.

Then so be it. If this what they wanted for him, what they had expected of him. . .

Kira Kagekiyo had, in the end, impressed nothing upon his only son if not the knowledge that men who do not exceed the speed limit may still plow through the guard rails.

"Hey -- oh. Sorry."

Izuru rolled his head in the direction of the interrupting voice to see Renji standing abashedly in the doorway, poised to retreat. He steeled himself with dwindling reserves, the process wearying but mechanical, and managed a shrug of his slender shoulders.

"Come in. It's your room."

"Yeah, but -- it's yours now, too, and I'd get it if you'd rather be alone."

Another shrug, easier this time as the strange, light air of a decision made but not yet acted out gradually blanketed his thoughts like snow, cooling, concealing.

"It's okay. I'm fine." Liar.

Renji hesitated, then -- "Cool," -- stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. "I just gotta feed Zabimaru."

"Zabimaru?"

"Aa." Renji dropped to his knees next to Izuru and dove headfirst underneath his bed. He rummaged. Something made a scraping sound against the floorboards, and a moment later the redhead's upper body reappeared, followed by a small plastic aquarium. It was lined with cedar shavings and contained an enormously fat brown rat surrounded by no less than half-a-dozen wriggling pink offspring.

Catching Izuru's startled look, Renji grinned. "What'sa matter?" he asked. "Don't like rats?"

"They're. . ." Izuru considered his words carefully, ". . .okay, I guess. They wouldn't be my first choice for a pet."

Renji nodded. "Mine neither, but. . .hey, their pellets are in the closet -- could you get 'em? Second shelf down, behind the manga."

"Uh. Sure." Izuru stood and swayed at the sudden rush of blood from his brain, feeling like a dilapidated tower growing impatient for its own demolition.

"Whoa," said Renji. "You okay?"

Izuru groped for something to steady himself, his hand fortunately finding the dresser. "Yeah, it's nothing. Just got up too fast." Liar.

His vision refocused after a few seconds, and he forced the falter from his steps as he made his way to the closet, slid open the door with a quiet rumble of wheels on well-oiled tracks. Second shelf down, behind the manga. . .

"Son of a bitch!" Izuru yelped, staggering back to fall in an ungainly heap on the floor.

Renji roared with laughter, clutching his sides, tears forming in his eyes. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed. "Your face -- you should see your face!"

Izuru's gaze darted between the. . .the thing in the closet and the redhead rolling next to him. "F-fuck you!" he stammered, the expletive fairly foreign to his tongue. "What the hell is that?"

Renji only started up again, his face growing red enough to rival his hair. It was a few minutes before he calmed down enough to speak.

"Shit," he said again, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. "Heh, sorry. You just looked so serious when I came in here, I was only tryin' to lighten the mood. That" -- he got up and went to the closet, unlocked and flipped open the topside door of the aquarium -- "is Zabimaru."

Izuru watched as Renji thrust a hand into the glass cage and held it there, patient and still, until the ribbon of mottled white and pale yellow at the bottom obediently coiled itself around his forearm.

"Don't worry," said the redhead, returning to sit on the floor with his back against his bed. "He's harmless. Pythons aren't poisonous, and he's too little to choke ya. But he will grow, yes he will, he will grow up to be big and strong and crush the bones of my enemies before swallowing them whole and throwing them back up in a big red goopy mess, yes he will," Renji cooed, nuzzling the snake's butterscotch head. Zabimaru's forked tongue emerged to flicker against his master's cheek.

Izuru shuddered. "I hate snakes."

Finally, Renji looked alarmed. "You. . .do?" he asked, as if disliking the creatures was a totally alien idea to his mind. "Crap. Crap. Listen, you won't tell Sousuke, will you? I had to fight tooth and nail to keep him when I got him, and I ain't even allowed to take him out of the room. Matsumoto's so convinced he'll try to eat her precious Ass Cat, as if he could eat something that size yet. As if he'd want to. Che."

"Matsumoto?"

"You'll meet her. Both of 'em. But you won't say anything, will ya? I won't take him out while you're in here, I swear -- here, I'll put him back right now--"

"No!" Izuru cut in, grabbing hold of the other boy's pant leg when he started to rise. "I mean. . .no, I won't say anything to, to Aizen-san. And you can take him out when I'm here. I won't mind." Another lie, but Renji seemed so genuinely scared of losing his beloved pet, and Izuru wondered how rare it was that foster children actually got to have things of their own, things to take care of and feel -- he cast a doubtful glance at Zabimaru's slitted scarlet eyes -- . . .affection towards?

And besides, it wasn't as if it was anything Izuru would have to endure for very long, anyway.

Renji's eyes widened with boyish hope. "Really?"

"Aa. I may not like snakes, but I'm not really afraid of them."

Renji sighed, relieved. "Awesome. I owe ya one, man. I mean it. And Zabimaru means it, too. . ." The conversation again degenerated into one-sided baby-speak as Renji cuddled the serpent to his chest, until the reptile noticed the plastic cage sitting nearby on the floor and began to take interest. Realization dawned for Izuru at a similar time, and he found himself suddenly unable to tear his eyes from the tiny rodents, naked and helpless and driven only by the blind desire to be as close as possible to their mother, to nourishment and warmth and security and family and--

"They're its. . .food, aren't they?" he said slowly.

"Delicious and nutritious," Renji confirmed, selecting one at random after he had replaced Zabimaru in his aquarium. The baby rat squirmed in his hand, confused, frightened.

Izuru looked away. "That's monstrous."

Renji tilted his head at the blond, his expression unreadable. "Hate to be the one to break it to ya, but. . .that's the world."

True to his word, Renji left after leaving the sacrificial snack to the mercy of Zabimaru's coils. The mother rat and her remaining brood had been returned to the dark safety of under his bed, where, Izuru learned, Renji also kept a male rodent in a separate cage, for when the python's food stores needed replenishing. The casual cruelty of the whole thing made Izuru feel distantly ill. But that, too, would soon be inconsequential.

He lay upon his bed and stared at the ceiling, not really listening to the music that filtered through the earbuds of his iPod (still around his neck from the plane flight and almost out of juice, but he hadn't time to recharge it before the scrabbling sounds in the closet had begun -- sounds he definitely didn't want to hear, inconsequential or otherwise).

What fatigue he had managed to peel away in order to interact with Renji had quickly adhered itself again to his mind once the other boy was gone, but now he found it to be a new, different kind of exhaustion, one that was almost. . .pleasant. Relaxing. His anxiety had ebbed. He had made his choice. His choice. He had made a decision about the direction of his life, on his own, without any outside input or subtle steering or suggestions that were nonchalant in tone but never in meaning.

He was alone. By himself.

No mother to hold his hand (and she had had such warm hands--), no father yanking at the back of his hair to straighten his spine ("Integrity, Izuru, in word and in deed."). Integrity. Yes. Yes, he would follow through. He would hold fast to his convictions. He would stick to his guns.

Izuru stretched, feeling a few joints crack in the process, hearing, in the back of his mind, the answering groan of load-bearing metal worn thin, rusted from rain.

A muffled shout pulled him out of his mind, out of an unconsciousness to which he couldn't remember succumbing. For what felt like a long while, he didn't move. The battery in his iPod had finally called it quits, and only grave silence emanated from the closet. He was beginning to think the noise must have been a part of some anonymous dream when it happened again -- a bark of laughter coming from one of the lower levels of the house, followed by the loud chatter of multiple voices.

The room was dark, save for one source of blinking red, and Izuru's eyes swiveled to the digital alarm clock occupying one corner of Renji's desk. 7:04 flashed in large numerals. Dinner in the mess, he figured, and waffled for a minute on whether he should make an appearance or remain in hiding.

Curiosity eventually won out, alongside a peculiar need to be seen, as if it would somehow further validate his decision if it were etched in more minds that it had been precisely that -- his. That they would meet Kira Izuru and know him, however briefly, as being no other, nothing more and nothing less than himself. Whoever that was. It was not much of a memorial -- no more, in any case, than he believed he warranted -- but he had had enough, and it would be the same.

Izuru swung his legs over the side of the bed and willed his body to follow suit. He felt groggy and vaguely otherworldly rising in the dark, like an attic phantom about to stir up the night's first haunting unbeknownst to the happy gatherers downstairs.

Stopping by the boys' communal bathroom to make use of the facilities and rinse the sleepy taste out of his mouth, he scrutinized his reflection in the wide mirror that spanned the length of one wall. He looked like an attic phantom, all translucent, faintly-veined skin, hair so pale as to be almost clear, half-moons the color of bruises hanging beneath dispirited blue eyes. How foreshadowing of him, he ironically mused. But there was nothing to be done for it, and so he dried his hands and followed the string of voices through labyrinthine halls, idly pondering as he wandered, if he was Theseus then who was the Minotaur?

He paused only momentarily as he approached the dining room. Second guesses were for second chances. He was determined to permit himself neither.

Aizen and six other young people crowded around one end of a long table that could easily have seated a dozen or more -- surely there were some absences? Children who were perhaps eating over at friends' houses, or scavenging from cram school vending machines? For a place this size, this couldn't be everybody. . .

The table's spread was traditional and wholesome. A large bowl of boiled rice served as the centerpiece, surrounded by smaller dishes stacked with sheeny baked fish or piled high with spinach and daikon. Izuru's mouth watered despite his churning stomach.

"Oh, good, you're awake. Just in time, too."

Conversation fell away and slunk warily under the table as six pairs of eyes pivoted to fixate on the source of their guardian's attention. At once, Izuru could feel himself being weighed and measured, his clothing, facial features and general bearing all being assessed and interpreted into myriad levels of significance. He should have felt exposed, bare and vulnerable as a baby rat before Zabimaru's jaws; and yet he had never felt more well-guarded, high atop his weakening watchtower, with the knowledge that its collapse would do him in long before the predators would that pawed inquisitively at its rungs.

"Have a seat." Aizen gestured at the empty spaces. "Momo-chan, do you think you could scrounge up a plate and a set of chopsticks for Kira-kun, please? Thank you."

"Oh, no, that's -- that's all right," Izuru protested, slumping into a chair next to a silver-haired girl with dark eyes and a kind face. "I'm not actually hungry."

Aizen only blinked from behind his glasses, and pink-cheeked Momo scurried into the kitchen.

"You've already met Momo and Renji," the bespectacled man continued, unperturbed. "Next to you are the Sisters Kotetsu, Isane and Kiyone--"

"Hi," the silver-haired girl nearest Izuru smiled shyly, while the younger, brassy blonde on her other side leaned back to assault him with a cheerful "Hello!"

"--Yamada Hanatarou--"

A small, dark, meek-looking boy sent him a docile but friendly wave.

"And these," Renji seized control of the introductions with a lascivious smirk, "are Matsumoto." Like a game show co-host displaying a prize package, with a broad sweep of his hand he drew Izuru's gaze to the chest of the girl beside him, where quite the largest pair of breasts the blond boy had ever seen threatened the seams of a much too low-cut, much too tight, and almost offensively vibrant magenta sweater.

"Renji!"

"Asshole!"

"OwowowokayI'msorryowleggo--!"

"Serves you right, pervert. Ahem. Matsumoto Rangiku. And I'm up here, by the way."

Izuru blushed, dragging his eyes up to a startlingly pretty face framed by the sort of luxuriant, strawberry-blonde waves ordinarily reserved for shampoo commercials. She winked one ice-blue eye.

Momo returned and placed chopsticks and plate neatly in front of him. He thanked her, but -- "I'm still not hungry."

Aizen smiled indulgently. "Sorry, but that's one of our rules here," he explained. "If you're home at mealtimes and you're able to, you eat. If I'm going to be responsible for your welfare, you're going to get at least one decent meal a day, even if I have to plug your nose and force it down you."

"It's true, he will," Isane murmured, her voice as lamb-gentle as the rest of her demeanor. "He made Rangiku-san sit on me to hold me down on Kiyone's and my first day here, when I didn't want breakfast."

"A memory I'm sure no one cherishes as much as I do," Renji sighed wistfully from across the table, and was promptly punched in the arm by that memory's top, top-heavy half. "Ow! Fuck, Matsu, it was a compliment. . ."

"Renji, language. Rangiku, violence."

There were mutual mutters of grudging apology.

Izuru studied the deceptively simple food with rising trepidation. He looked at Aizen, who, for once, was not smiling.

It doesn't matter, he told himself. In a few hours, it won't matter at all. . .

He reached for the rice.

Thankfully, Aizen was satisfied with the few small bites Izuru managed from each dish. The dense, thready daikon had been the worst, and the fish, nauseatingly slippery in his throat. . .

Izuru swallowed reflexively and pushed the thought as far away from the forefront of his mind as it would go. He had more pressing concerns with which to deal.

Renji's alarm clock threw 2:01 against the wall, while Renji himself snored quietly in his bed, the messily braided queue of his hair resting like Zabimaru's crimson sibling against his pillow. Other than that, the house was silent.

Izuru got up.

After eating, he had returned to his and Renji's room, pleading a need for more sleep. It wasn't, he reasoned, an entirely false excuse.

He had indeed spent the last few hours in bed, albeit awake. He'd realized that, although the conclusion had been decided, he had yet to settle on a method. Literature: his best subject, much to his genitors' disappointment.

Ends required means. Stories demanded structure. Implosions needed engineering. Izuru knew the construction of his mind was faulty, that somewhere along the line he had missed some key component that might have sufficiently reinforced his psyche to withstand the recent blows it had taken. A failsafe. A relief valve. Or perhaps the problem was intrinsic -- perhaps he'd simply been woven out of poorly tempered steel, or the soft base metal of his infant skull had never properly fused. Hairline fractures could widen into canyons. Ninety kilometers per hour.

That had been the notion to nail it down. He'd debated, at first, using a knife, but he possessed little interest in blades. Anything but a precisely calculated stab would have been too slow, his chances of being discovered prematurely too high, and he knew better than to count on his strength, or the steadiness of his hands. Similarly, drowning, while a more appealing prospect, held the possibility that he would be saved by his own instinctual panic -- there was no pool, no lake close by to provide an adequate depth to guarantee his body's surrender. Ditto poison -- enough of anything could kill a man, of course, but how much of what was enough? How quickly would drain cleaner take effect? How messy would roach killer be, or arsenic, or any one of a hundred household items stamped with skulls and crossbones? How painful would they be, and thus, how loud? Nor did he know how to knot a noose or have the first clue about procuring a gun, and he was too lacking in patience to hoard enough pills for an overdose.

No -- Izuru decided that if he was going to fall, then he was going to fall.

It was the perfect ending. It was the only ending -- poetic, convenient. Achilles had had his heel and the camel its straw and the Titanic its substandard rivets, its too-short watertight compartments; so too would Izuru have the pin of his own undoing be pulled by the same fingers that had drawn up the blueprints. Izuru the orphan, who would slip through the cracks of his own grated floor. A fitting finish to bookend the concise serial of his life.

And so he got up, and crept to the window he had inspected in the time between absenting himself downstairs and the return of Renji some three hours later. It opened now just as it had then, smoothly, soundlessly. A slant of roof rested a couple of feet beneath the sill and, gingerly, Izuru eased himself outside and onto it. He glanced back only once, to make certain Renji still slept, before moving on. The next part would be more difficult. Izuru found himself almost glad he had been made to eat even the scant amount he had; otherwise, he considered dryly, he might not have had the energy.

Grasping the edge of the topmost level of roof was easy. Actually scrambling over it was markedly less so, but he swung sideways and brought off hooking a leg up, and, muscles screaming, gradually managed to haul himself over the edge.

For a while, he could only lie there, exhausted and out of breath. Grit from the roof tiles bit into the flesh of his palms and right cheek and snagged the fabric of his socks. The moon was a sickle-shaped smile in the sky, and he focused on it as a sign of approval.

Ninety kilometers per hour.

Terminal velocity.

He swallowed, and pushed himself up on shaky limbs. Another head rush set the world around him to spinning, sent the stars to mix with the burnished leaves of distant trees. He waited, kneeling, for it to pass.

The air felt a little cooler up here, the breezes a little stronger. It was well into autumn, but an unseasonable warmth had been lingering for weeks. Tonight, however, it seemed as though the winds were finally changing. Izuru closed his eyes and felt the currents curl around him like beckoning fingers.

Now or never, they said.

Now and never again.

He rose and took a step towards the edge.

"Wow. I don' think I wanna know your story."

Startled, eyes snapping open, Izuru twisted around.

"Who's there?" he cast out into the dark, searching the umbrageous roof for the source of the drawl. "Wh-who are you, what are you talking about?"

"Ya know," said the voice, ignoring his questions, "Hinamori-chan's step-daddy put 'er head through a wall when she was five, 'cause she wet the bed."

Izuru frowned in confusion. "What?" Momo's bright cheeks and sunny smile flashed unbidden through his thoughts. He shook his head, shook them away.

"An' Rangiku," the voice went on, "she started gettin' those tits at ten, you believe that? Though her daddy didn't find a use for 'em till she was twelve."

Izuru strained his gaze against the darkness.

. . .there, in a corner where three different planes of roof intersected, a barely visible patch of paleness dispersed the deep shade (the words "attic phantom" nictated in Izuru's mind).

"Who are you?" he asked again.

A reckoning beat passed before the figure shifted and stretched long as it stood, the action not unlike the languid rearing of a snake preparing to strike. A silver head that hadn't been present at dinner earlier bobbed slowly into view in the dim moonlight, all but disembodied by the shadows that continued to swathe its body from the neck down -- was it a ghost?

Izuru shivered, then berated himself. There were no such things as ghosts. It was a boy, only a boy, with a smile so wide it pressed his eyes into sinister slits.

"Yamada-kun," he continued, "he didn't have a daddy. Didn't have a ma, neither. Had a heroine addiction when he was born, though, an' that's gotta count for somethin', right?"

He stepped fully into the light, revealing a tall, rail-thin frame clothed not in the half-expected white sheet, but in ripped gray jeans and a dark red v-neck shirt.

"Isane an' Kiyone found their mama in the garage, after they managed ta push the door past the towels. An' Abarai-kun, he got left on a doorstep, dumped like a dog didn't nobody want no more."

"Why are you telling me these things?"

The boy just kept smiling. "You're right, they ain't really my stories ta tell. But I know 'em. An' all those kids, they're still here. So I don' wanna know your story, if you had it so bad you don' wanna be. If you had it even worse than them."

Izuru stared at the strange boy. Unwelcome images of dinner that evening flipped through his mind -- small, sleepy-eyed Hanatarou, his frailty now explained, picking disinterestedly at his fish; Renji grabbing second helpings of everything with feast-or-famine greed; Rangiku mixing red bean paste into her rice and not taking no for an answer until a reluctant Isane gave it a try -- all between bouts of laughter and good-natured teasing, the atmosphere sprinkled with, if not happiness, then at least the insouciant optimism of knowing that things could be worse, much worse.

Izuru turned away to once again face the ground some twenty meters below. "I know what you're trying to do," he said.

"Do ya?" asked the boy. "What's that?"

"You're trying to shame me into. . .into not going through with this. You think that if you trivialize my circumstances I'll come to my senses and reconsider my decision. But it won't work."

"That so?"

"It is."

"Hmm. Kinda full o'yourself, ain'tcha?"

Izuru faltered, surprised by the response. He glared at the boy over his shoulder. "On the contrary. In fact, at the moment I don't think I could think less of myself."

The boy's smile lessened somewhat. "Really? Naa, guess I was wrong again. But then, so're you."

"Is that so? In what way?"

"Well, if ya can't think less o'yourself, then I can't very well be trivializin' an already trivial thing, now, can I? And tryin' ta shame you outta doin' this seems like an awful big waste o'time, seein' as you must already got shame a'plenty -- either that or none at all -- if you're about ta go an' do one of the most selfish an' stupid things ya could."

"That makes no sense."

"How would you know? You said you were outta your senses."

Frustrated and bemused, Izuru's hands balled into fists at his sides. This boy was. . .absurd. He was wasting his final moments in pointless argument with an idiot -- and what was worse, he was beginning to register the stirrings of a niggling worm of doubt. "Shut up!" he demanded. "Just shut up and leave me alone!"

The boy shook his head. "Nuh-uh. I was here first. You were the one who was leavin', remember?"

Damn it! He was right -- Izuru could end this, this conversation, this. . .everything, right now. He should never even have acknowledged the boy's original interruption, if he was so intent on doing this.

Suicide, he told himself. Say it -- you haven't yet. Suicide. You came up here to kill yourself.

And he wouldn't back down. He refused. He'd been so sure. For a few hours, it had all been so fucking clear. . .

It was still there, that clarity, ghosting along the surface of his brain. If he could just get it back -- he'd been thrown for a loop, but if he could just finds his bearings, he could reach up and grasp it again. . .

". . .so what happened to you?" The question slipped out before he'd so much as gotten wind of its impending escape. Even the strange boy seemed not to have anticipated it.

"'scuse me?"

Oh well. It was out there now, and Izuru was still searching (and not, he was adamant, stalling for time). "You've told me everyone else's story," he repeated, "so what's yours?"

A quiet shifting of fabric whispered behind him -- a shrug. "Ain't got one."

Izuru snorted. "Right. Of course you don't."

Another shrug. "Maybe I do, but it's just as trivial as yours. Maybe I came up here for the same reason you did. Don't matter none, does it?"

Izuru fixated on a specific plot of particularly dark grass. "No," he faintly agreed, "it doesn't."

"Yeah. Nothin' matters anymore." The boy heaved a loud sigh -- and then, with renewed verve, hopped next to Izuru and lunged, cobra-quick, for the blond's hand, pulling him closer to the edge. "Well! Let's go, then!"

"What?" Izuru tried to wrench his hand free, but the boy's grip was vice-like; he was much stronger than he looked. "What the hell are you doing?! Let go of me!"

"I told ya, I came up here for the same reason as you, so we may as well do it together. I dunno if the fall alone'll be enough ta do the job, though -- we'll hafta go headfirst ta make sure. . ."

"Wha-- stop it!" Izuru struggled as much as he dared, socks scraping against the roof tiles as the now manically grinning stranger jostled him towards oblivion.

"Who d'ya think'll find us in the mornin'? Sweet lil' Hinamori? Or Kiyone-chan -- she's had more practice at it."

"Stop! Are you crazy?! Let me go!"

"Crazy? Hmm, yep, maybe. I mean, ya kinda hafta be ta wanna die, right?"

"I don't! I--" Izuru's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. He froze.

Fuck.

Somewhere in the back of his head echoed the clap of a book slamming closed.

Now or never.

Never again.

Fuck.

For the first time, the boy's smile faded completely into a small, puzzled frown. "Ya don't? Huh. Wrong again. I wonder why they ever let me in here. . ."

Without letting go of Izuru's hand, he backed away from the edge, tugging the blond with him. Izuru, too dazed and frightened to do anything else, let him.

"Naa, poor thing, you're shiverin'. 's cold out here, ne? C'mon, let's go inside. I'll make us some tea, an' you can tell me your story now. How's that sound?"

Still reeling from the sudden about-face of the situation, Izuru could only gape dumbly at his would-be benefactor, whose silver head tilted curiously.

"You're gonna hafta say more than that, o'course. Ichimaru Gin."

That last bit, in any case, was out of place enough to catch Izuru's attention. "What?"

"You asked who I was. Ichimaru Gin. That's my name."

"Gin," Izuru repeated. It was prosaically appropriate. "Weird name."

Gin just kept smiling. "Ya know, you're not the first person ta say that. . ."

What do you want of me?
What do you long from me?
A slim pixie, thin and forlorn
A count, white and drawn
What do you make of me?
What can you take from me?
Pallid landscapes off my frown
Let me rip you up and down. . . -- Bauhaus, "Crowds"

Chapter III