Somewhere Between the Lies and Watermelon Seeds…
Prologue
Seeing you believing
Us adhering
We're the power struck.
Believing, then keeling,
Appeasing,
The power struggle.
We're left with no arms,
Right in the power struggle,
We're left with no arms,
Right in the power struggle.
Left with no arms,
In the power struggle,
Left with no arms,
In the power struggle.
System of A Down - Bubbles
I knew her before I knew what it meant to know--before time was tangible and our innocence began to hamper our growth. When I knew her--truly knew her--we were ignorant to the cruelty and capriciousness of fate--living each day as if it were our first and last--contently oblivious to sordid workings of the world. We were pure when I knew her, unmarked and far from jaded to (…and by) the ways of the world.
Life was simple then--pleasant shades of gray--where cold nights were followed by warm days, and the rainbow always shone when it rained. I think it was the only time; I've ever truly been content.
I was awkward then, though some would say I've always been--my brain, too big for age, and my heart, too cold for my soul--but to her, it didn't matter in the least; I was a playmate and a confident. I was the keeper of her dreams (…and self-proclaimed guardian of her heart). She didn't mind--and/or didn't notice--the sarcastic drawl of my voice, the caustic bite of my words, or the cold, condescending air I breathe with ease. She was the only one to break through my defenses without ever declaring war.
Before I could even comprehend in depth the meaning of loyalty and commitment, I was hers. I loved her in abstract thoughts and inarticulate phrases I couldn't put to words, but that was okay, because we were on a completely different wave-length all together--we got each other without even trying--as if we were something out of a symposium by Plato; even if our bodies were split …we still shared a soul.
…But then, that was when I knew her--
"Hinamori…" Her name rolled off his tongue with deceptive ease, crossing the divide as if miles weren't between them. He stood, stoically in front of her, but the hurricane in his blue-gray eyes raged with a ferocity he could barely wane--the ebb and flow of emotions almost too much for the young man to bear.
He knew they cut quite the picturesque scene, standing the way they were--his arms akimbo, hair restlessly blowing in the wind in a way that almost made him look heroic, if not for the sneering smile engraved in his face; and she, with enchanting eyes dancing with mad mirth, and lips grinning like the Cheshire cat. For a moment, he wondered if he should call her 'Alice'. Her aura spoke in volumes of demented innocence; but he was quick to shake such idle thoughts from him.
He had to stay focused.
Her lips were broken, bleeding, and his eyes surreptitiously traced the lines as if they'd led him to her Telltale Heart. He let his eyes fall into the dip of her dimples and around the lines of her face tracing, no …memorizing each and every curve and contour as if he could devour her, but his desperation fled as he noticed something in her eyes. The beautiful dancing, light he saw shining--mesmerizing--was actually nothing more than twitching. She was terrified, he realized, visibly agitated and hyper-sensitized; she looked broken and he couldn't help wondering how he could fix her.
She had a dull, blade in her hand--gripping it, so tight her hands were red--pointing at him with barely concealed …rage? He couldn't pinpoint the exact emotion, but whatever it was, it was powerful and there was a lot. Tumultuous, he thought, …Hinamori's rage is tumultuous. The word fit rather well when he thought about it (…when he thought about her).
"…W-we don't--" She croaked. It surprised him that she was the first to break through the oppressive silence, but not as much as he would have thought. She's …very much in character, he was chagrin to admit. She was always the first to fill the long gaps with conversation; speaking, avidly about seemingly nothing at all, but it mattered to her at the time, so he'd listen …even if he wouldn't admit it.
"We don't have to do this, you know?" Her voice was fuller now and she spoke with, what he could only guess as, self-assurance. "You only need to give me the--"
"You can't have both!" Hitsugaya interjected. He suddenly looked too young for his burden. His small frame was shaking, and his eyes were hallowed; he swallowed a lump in his throat, and wondered if it was his resolve. It'd have been sooo easy to give in. He could almost taste the remnants of his shattered convictions fade.
It would have been soooo easy.
"…You can't--"
"Hm."
She clucked her tongue in that stubborn way of hers, and he was lost again. Her eyes had turned bored and her pink tongue darted past her lips moistening them. He wondered why this was so hard, but the answer was simple: It was Hinamori. The same Hinamori who thought him stupid games, and kept him up-to-date on all the latest gossip--as if he really cared--, it was the same Hinamori that brought him watermelons in the summer and cried on his shoulder when the spider killed the butterfly.
It was so hard because he knew somewhere beneath the madness lay the fragile, and overemotional girl he swore to protect before learnt that swords were meant to kill …they didn't save. They didn't heal.
"Aizen-dono will be disappointed." She said, suddenly. There was a slight frown on her face--it was cute--almost as if she hadn't noticed she spoke out loud, too enraptured in her own thoughts.
"Aizen-dono?"
"Hm? Hai." She said with a distracted nod. "Aizen-dono was prepared to make you a lucrative offer. He'll be surely disappointed." She frowned and Hitsugaya had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
Really though, Aizen-dono? He snorted.
"…Though I'm sure Ichimaru-san will be delightfully amused--he loves to play his games."
"Che, bastards…" he sighed, suddenly finding himself extremely irritated; thinking of Aizen and Ichimaru had a way of doing that to him. Just the thought of them alone was enough to make his skin crawl. "What makes them think they have anything I want? The cowards… I, I…--Uugh!" His hands flayed the entire time he spoke, punctuating his thoughts. As he reached a crescendo, his grunt of disgust, his hand flew over his head, and a maelstrom of emotions swirled caustically in his eyes.
He hated the bastards!
The corners of her lips were curling, as she witnessed his uncharacteristic outburst. He was so out-of-sorts; his careless façade was crumbling before her eyes. She watched; almost transfixed, his face flushed with anger, and unexpectedly, she was assaulted by a memory she'd lost, long ago. Her eyes closed slightly and glazed, falling into a nostalgic embrace; her hands coasted the smooth skin of her cheeks, making her appearance seem fragile, and Hitsugaya watched, perplexed. When her vision cleared, she looked lost again; Hitsugaya took a hesitant step towards her and froze.
Was this a trap? How could he trust her?
In the end, he decided his voice was the only comfort he could and was willing to offer. He called out her name, in hesitant tones, hoping to reach the girl that felt so far away. Encroaching on her momentarily astray recollections, his voice cut through the miasma of conflicting emotions like a swathe of moonlight on a particularly gloomy evening, letting a little light shine in.
She inclined her head to his voice, and smiled. She was so temperamental these days--it put him off balance--he never really knew what she was going to do next, so he treaded carefully, walking on metaphoric eggshells whenever she was near. He wanted to save her, but somewhere deep down he knew he couldn't… Helplessness struck his very core as he swallowed her name. It felt thick, viscous, and he nearly choked.
How could he save her--if he couldn't even control himself?
"Who are you?"
"Hn. How like you…" he sneered. "--To forget!"
"…" Her eyes narrowed, but she refused to reply, waiting for his answer with the raise of an immaculate brow.
"…I am…"
She sighed at the dramatic pause. Waiting…
"I am--" His agitation was visible. His eyes were narrowed, almost pupil-less, and burning. "If you don't remember--you don't need to know." He said, turning his back to her. He knew he was being bratty, but he couldn't help it; he was …hurt. How could she not remember?
"…No…" he repressed, yet another sigh, "the question is: Who Are You?" he whispered lowly to himself.