HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALOE- *brick'd*
Yup, as promised here is your complementary FanFiction ^^
This is gonna be based in America, simply to make some things a little easier, but everyone speaks Japanese and has Japanese names. Okay? Yeah, that makes no sense XD
This is going to be somewhat farfetched and overly sentimental in places but… meh. I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT! :D
SOME WARNINGS! This story contains drugs, child abuse, rape, drug abuse and of course some well loved smut. This is a fiction that is sort of based on a novel I plan on writing one day (the plot is totally different though). I thought it might be fun to practise writing something of the sort. Also, we both know that nothing is complete without having Tōshirō in pain ;)
Sadly this chapter does not contain any smut but PLEASE DON'T KILL ME! IT'S A LONG STORY! *cowers*
PS. I advise listening to the second song Tōshirō mentions. I wrote this to that so it'll capture the mood :)
PSS. The title is unoriginally taken from this quotation I like. I like quotations. Lots of them. Most of my titles will be based on quotations now.
Now onto the actual story XD
Momentary Delusion
-TŌSHIRŌ-
We're born alone, we live alone; we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the delusion for the moment that we're not alone.
-Orson Welles
It's quite probable that I might not have been standing outside of some small coffee shop called Benihime, pacing up and down like a lost puppy and shaking the water droplets out of my soaked hair had I not met one particularly alluring strawberry in the months before. It was quite an embarrassing story as to how I got here, moping around like a drowned rat and grousing to myself and plotting how I was going to squish said strawberry when I next laid eyes on him. There was no mature reason as to why I grumbled to myself in the rain when there was a perfectly sheltered alcove by the café door where I could have sought refuge from the torrent; I simply thought that my tirade would look somewhat more impressive if I was soaking wet.
You see; I had been stood up.
Now I wouldn't really refer to it as being 'stood up' because I still had faith that the berry would eventually arrive, grovelling on his hands and knees; throwing me some contrite explanation as to why he was a good hour or two late - but 'stood up' was a phrase that might give me somewhat more leverage when I yelled at him for leaving me out in the rain. It did occur to me that I might appear slightly needy if I waited for two hours in such a heavy shower for a guy who didn't seem to plan on showing up, but I knew the strawberry. He was going to show up, whether he liked it or not.
So I continued the pace on the asphalt by Benihime, grunting and cursing about the man who had half stood me up. Something about griping in a heavy torrent made the whole action seem a lot more intense, like it held a lot more meaning than it actually did. My hair was plastered to my forehead, water dripping down onto my nose and then onto the floor. I pushed the tresses out of my eyes but the heavy rain and gravity only dictated that they would slide back into place. I hugged my torso with numb fingers and shaking arms. My jacket was leather, a material I was glad held some kind of waterproofing qualities seeing as the rest of me felt like I was underwater. Still, in icy temperatures such as this it didn't do much to deter the cold weather. I'd lost all feeling in my toes from striding through too many puddles, most of which were a few inches deeper than I had expected which caused me to stumble and splash myself with yet more water. I looked a sorry sight, and I didn't need the concerned and bemused glances of passers-by to tell me that.
With my trainers completely soaked, it didn't seem unreasonable for me to kick a puddle in my frustration - so I did just that, grunting in annoyance and spraying an elderly couple in the process. The woman shrunk back from me with a horrified yelp and lowered her oversized umbrella so that the man was no longer sheltered from the elements. He let out a much lower gasp of shock then dived back for the woman and the umbrella and scrambled to stand the two upright again. They both hurried away, huddling close to one another whilst probably grumbling about the younger generation and how we were the new delinquents of the twenty-first century. Had I been in a better mood, I might have apologised and offered the lady a hand to try and keep her balance again. Unfortunately, I had been stood up. So I kicked puddles again, cursing quite loudly and causing people to move to the other side of the path and cover their children's ears. It was their fault; who their right mind would be walking around town in such weather as this?
Me: that's who.
With a heavy, defeated sigh I gave up splashing around in the rain and stalked over to the alcove where a conveniently placed step was positioned, so I sat down on it; not really caring if my being there blocked people's entrance or exit. I rested a frozen cheek on a frozen fist and wriggled my equally frozen toes to try and regain some feeling in them, which was a difficult task seeing as I couldn't feel them in the first place but I succeeded in finally being able to feel the sting of the imminent frostbite - so ultimately it was a pointless exercise that left me in more pain than I'd started with. At least it left me with something else to whine to him about.
The door behind me opened with a rather trite little ring from a bell atop the frame, so I leaned to the wall reluctantly to allow passage of a small family. The father walked out first, ducking his head down and pulling the hood of an incredibly neon coloured waterproof jacket over his head. He looked like a duck in that banana coloured coat and the hunching of the wife's shoulder's told me that she was all too aware of that. As she tottered past in her unnaturally high heeled stilettos, she struggled to pull open an umbrella with one hand; seeing as the other one was currently occupied by a swinging child. He looked no less than three years old, yet he still chewed and drooled on his fist and had a thick trail of snot dribbling down to his upper lip. Overall, it looked disgusting and I wasn't sure why anyone would want one. He stared at me with bright eyes, tilting his head to the side for a moment and drooling a little more. I curled my lip and looked at a spot of dirt on the wall. That was cute compared to the kid. He whined in protest at the averting of my gaze, but the wails were quickly suppressed by the woman telling him to shut up. Her voice was nasal and brittle; heavily accented. They were probably tourists. What tourist would come here?
When they disappeared, their annoying chatter fading into the sound of raindrops pelting the tarmac like bomb shells, I allowed myself to relax and rest my head against the white-washed bricks. I could grumble and groan about the rain as much as I wanted, but I couldn't deny the fact that I absolutely loved it. It was definitely not the frostbite or the brain-freeze that I was cursed with when a particularly cold bout hit the town of Karakura, but I liked the sentiment behind it. I could be sappy and say that it drowned out my thoughts, cleansed the polluted land; washed away all my sins which, by God, I needed something to do just that. Maybe putting it into words wasn't going to describe just how I felt about rain. It's kind of sad, kind of melancholic; it makes me want to cry yet sing out my eulogies all at the same time. People always say that rainy days are filled with sadness and gloom… but the light in a stormy evening is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful. I don't know how you could see otherwise. It was the kind of light that made one want to lie under the sky and feel the light patter of water hitting your face.
Sometimes I did this. My parent's house, although lacking in interior space, had a large garden that was on a slight decline. It wasn't totally uncommon for me to lay back with my arms behind my head, sticking my tongue out to taste the sweet flavour of rain. In fact, it was quite a frequent occurrence when the rain was heavy and the mood was right. This act was generally accompanied by some kind of music. I had two songs that I listened to in the rain. The first was the aptly named 'Rain', by 'Zangetsu': a middle aged man who was dark of face with shoulder-length, raven hair and a set of bright orange goggles that he used as a cover for his eyes. He'd only made one song, as far as I could tell, and that piece was an instrumental, but that didn't make him any less of a sensation. The man was quite endearing to the adolescents for some reason unknown to those who weren't quite as youthful themselves. I may have been a boy but I could see that his gruff and shabby face were, undoubtedly, somewhat charming.
The second song was one I saved for much lighter occasions. 'Rain' was a song that played off my emotions, feeding on my anger or happiness and warping it into something stronger. 'Electric Daisy Violin', whilst somewhat of a prettier title, never failed to bring me into a certain mood. What that mood was called exactly was a mystery to me, but it felt great when I was angry. Made me smile like something was ironic. It was the type of mood that would make me involuntarily run my hands through my hair and play with the tresses between my fingers. I'm not sure what possessed me to do something like that but it sent a shiver down my spine that, accompanied with the cold from the weather, left me feeling the perfect temperature - that point where you border on cold and chilled, where your face begins to prickle at the cold.
It was the temperature and emotion that I needed right now.
I dug into my pocket and rooted around for a bit. My hand eventually reached an iPod classic that was half grey and half red from the paint scratching off. I'd found it in a charity shop being sold for £30, and after being assured that it worked fine I forked over what little money I owned for the thing. I didn't regret not eating that weekend.
Scrolling through the list of songs to find the one I wanted wasn't a difficult task, seeing as I could only afford a couple of songs and I'd only held fondness for three of the ten that had been left on the playlist when I bought it. Trust my parents… they would happily let me use the computer in order to buy the music but they most certainly would not give me a measly 50p so that I actually could actually purchase it, nor was I allowed to download it illegally. I got the feeling that they weren't exactly proud of me. Not that I could blame them; I wouldn't be.
After a few laps of the touch-pad that controlled the music player, I finally saw the words 'Electric Daisy Violin - Lindsey Stirling' light up the screen. A smile tugged at my mouth when I thought of how I might look, slumped against a coffee shop door with a Cheshire grin, combing my hair with my fingers. People probably would think something was wrong with me. But I didn't care, so I proceeded to carefully put the earphones in (as not to break them, which I heard happened all too easily) and press the play button. A wonderfully familiar symphony flooded my senses and I instantly leaned back into the door and let that cheesy grin spread across my face. The sound of an electric violin might not be one many considered being in the musical taste of a nineteen year old man, but it never failed to move me in some way.
So I crushed myself into the corner and pulled my jacket around my torso, retracting my hands into the sleeves and balling them into fists. I let the pixie-like melody enshroud my senses, drifting my mind back into some kind of semi-dream state. I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't quite awake either. If anyone left the café I'd be too far gone to move out of the way for them.
I tucked my nose into the jacket collar and allowed my eyes to flutter shut. That was the mood it made me feel - nostalgic. So I happily welcomed memories of that time all those months ago.
Rehab wasn't what you'd call the cheeriest of places. It could have been a cause of the twenty druggies gathered in a room telling sob-stories of how they overdosed for the most part of their lives, but I think the main reason was that this was a support group for fourteen to twenty year olds who were, as they put it, battling with drugs. It was a little disheartening to note how many fourteen year olds came across every couple of weeks due to snorting cocaine, decided to turn over a new leaf then left in the next few weeks to continue with their addiction. I might have found it sick, but to be fair I wasn't one to judge. In any case I was sat amongst said druggies for the exact same reason.
I should probably explain. From what I could tell, our rehab wasn't like normal rehabilitation centres. I'd heard they'd had to write essays and focus on the consequences of taking drugs rather than actually being given help. I'm sure they were more pressured into going off drugs through horror stories and gory pictures instead of being coaxed into reforming themselves. Our rehab group… wasn't like that. It was like fucking church. Like alcoholics anonymous or some other corny group that helped people transform their lives. Every Friday evening we would be forced to attend the vapid meetings that were complemented by a few broken chairs and a table with an odd looking flagon of water in it. It all sounds very homely, save for the fact that it took place in the sports hall of the local high school. I found it a little ironic and a little sad that the guys (which rehab was, almost predominantly, made up of) who had just pulled themselves through another hellacious week of school might have been happy to go home for the weekend… but they still ultimately ended up returning there a few hours later. Again, I could have laughed at them if I hadn't suffered the same fate.
My side of the story probably wasn't as sad as the rest of the guys' there. For starters, I was leaving the group in a couple of months due to the dastardly process which we call 'aging'. I say 'we', the majority of human beings call it aging. I much more aptly called it 'dying', but I wasn't allowed to talk about such depressing things in the presence of fourteen year olds. After all, that was the most miserable thing we could possibly talk about at drug rehabilitation. There was also the somewhat more surprising fact that whenever I told my life story it seemed like I was just bound to end up on drugs at some stage. Born and raised in an abusive home, in and out of A&E every couple of weeks; parents argued and were continually in an affair with what was most likely a fat, unfaithful spouse themselves. Eventually, mother killed father then killed herself; not forgetting to leave toddler with a wonderful array of stab wounds myself. Toddler found bleeding and crying on the floor by an elderly couple who wondered why the house seemed so quiet after years of quarrelling. Apparently it had been a miracle that I was alive, considering my wounds, age and the fact that I'd been in that house for a day or two before anyone found me. Damned bitch couldn't even kill me properly.
But even after I was fully healed nobody wanted me. I was the freak with white hair and teal eyes; son of a bitch and an abuser. After all, I would obviously take after the two of them. That kind of thing is genetic. You can try to hide it all you want, but deep down we are all evil. Every single person has that capability - the aptitude to become a killer. There is no person who wouldn't kill another if it meant they could save themselves. Whether we choose to go down that path, to venerate the evil, is a completely different matter. The genes are what decide that choice. I was bound to murder someone at some point - destined to some nocuous lifestyle of hatred and bloodshed. Sometimes I wondered if it was wrong of me to disappoint them.
I'd heard somewhere that you formed your 'Love map' by the age of six. I don't remember where; probably some TV drama about serial killers I'd watched at my first home. Supposedly, by the age of six you have formed your idea of who your ideal lover will be, have formed sexual preferences and understand just what personality it is you're attracted to. My parents died when I was five and I spent four years in a foster home; yet another reason why I was doomed to fail. I had no-one when I was six; logic suggests I cannot form relationships. It seemed like a shame, but I didn't really care. After all, I didn't need anyone. There was no sense of remorse for the fact that I couldn't bring myself to want to get to know anyone. The only downside was certain things stuck from the years before, some things that I really didn't want to remember or discuss; certain things that left me more afraid of men than any animal could dare to dream.
In other words, I was gay.
At first I rebuked the idea; didn't allow myself to think of such things. I never wanted to believe that I could possibly revel in the gender that provided me such treatment which left me bleeding and crying every fucking night. My body rejected that kind of pain, that kind of resignation. If I was gay, if I was attracted to men, then didn't that mean I liked things like that? That I liked being tied down to the bed and slammed into the headboards? That I liked being stretched to the point of agony? That I liked him? My teeth began to grind at that thought. Liking men meant that I liked my father, and that was a thought that I couldn't stomach. So I constantly denied my sexuality; I allowed myself to date whatever girl might ask me out, despite my lack of self-confidence. It always bemused me how many of those bitches seemed to want to go out with me. It wasn't like I was the best-looking man on the planet; but according to them it was my eyes. Tch… My lifeless, dull eyes that had seen too much and could forget little were attractive to them? They were all bitches; the lot of them. I convinced myself that being gay had to be at least a little more dignified than being attracted to those whining chicks who constantly wanted just more and more and fucking more to the point where I could hardly afford to buy myself food (My foster parents obviously didn't feed me but those bastards aren't even worth mentioning).
I'd had enough and declared myself fully and completely gay after the fifth girlfriend. No-one seemed to mind, or at least not outwardly. If they judged me then they sure as hell didn't show it. Let's just say I had a bit of a temper - it wasn't me taking the trips to A&E anymore. The police station appeared to be more of a routine visit nowadays. That girlfriend (I don't even remember her first name - Himamori* or something like that) didn't seem to take the news all too well either. She wept to her best friend every time I walked past her, saying that it was her that had made me 'play for the other side', as she politely put it. She might've tried to muster up an irritated glare as I stalked past her but I would simply shoot her a cocky smirk, jerk an eyebrow her way and she would end up hysterical yet again. I could have petted her and consoled her, assured her it wasn't her fault… had I really given a crap. She was too quiet, too annoyingly high-pitched and so fucking whiny.
I stopped thinking about my life about then because the harsh trill of a triangle began to sound, being struck every second at first and then becoming faster and faster until the ringing stopped all together. The entire room turned cold as we turned our heads, very slowly, to look at the source of the ringing. Urahara Kisuke - a local shop owner who took pleasure in getting children off of drugs. He always seemed to wear the same garb - a green and white pin-striped hat that cast a dusky shadow across his eyes, what looked like a green karate suit, a black cloak type thing… and an amber-eyed cat who he insisted we referred to as 'Yoruichi-san'. She had that kind of evil glint in her eye that meant that everyone in her field of vision was under constant scrutiny. But it wasn't the harsh, waiting for a mistake kind of stare; it was the 'I want to find something I can laugh at you for' type of stare. She perched perilously upon his shoulder, examining every face and personality in the room with a languid blink of her fluorescent eyes. She would be ready to pounce whatever unlucky soul piqued her interest next. He loved that cat three times more than he loved his job - so if you wanted rehab and you were allergic to cats then it was tough fucking shit.
Urahara set down the triangle next to the jug of water then picked up a thick, paper fan and opened it in front of his face with the skill of a traditional dancer. The paper was just thick enough that it completely masqueraded what was most likely a scathing grin as he glanced at the new attendees of the group. The man was undoubtedly spiteful towards the children he decided to help, but only before he knew them. It may take him months to do so, but if the new kids stuck around for more than a few weeks then they might earn the pleasure of talking to the group leader on equal terms. My several years meant that Urahara was a man I trusted. Not with my secrets or my life, but I trusted that he was honest. He wasn't my friend. He wasn't my acquaintance. He was a man I trusted not to hurt me. That was all.
Yoruichi-san let out a loud wail that signalled the start of the meeting. With a bemoaning grunt, the cacophonic sound of plastic chairs scraping across Padenpor flooring indicated that all conversation was over (what little there was to begin with) and we were beginning to shunt forwards to form a loose semi-circle around Urahara and the cat. There were clear protests of derision from many of the regulars, the loudest from a redhead named Abarai Renji and his follower Madarame Ikkaku, but the complaints weren't quite as strident as usual. I glanced around and did a quick head count. There were twelve this week, as opposed to the usual eleven. I say usual… we hadn't had any newcomers or deserters for the past month. I noted, however, that there were two newbies and one absconder. Without looking at the new people, a practise I generally stuck to until they began to speak, I noted that it was one Yamada Hanatarō who had left. He was fifteen and had been stuck on speed for the past two years without his parent's knowledge. They caught him in the act and sent him here. That was how it was for most the kids here. None of them wanted to get off drugs; they were perfectly fine with inciting an early death so long as they could get that delicious dizziness that came with a drug high. It was always the parents.
Me? I was different. I didn't want to be dependent on crack for the rest of my life. It wore me out, caused a constant drought in my pocket and always left me feeling worse and wanting more. I'd always wanted to make something of myself, but just lacked that motivation to do anything about it. I dropped out of school (unbeknownst to my parents) when I was sixteen and spent the next year dealing so I could pay for my addiction. I didn't have any qualifications so I couldn't get a job. The only work that didn't need a degree in this neighbourhood was drug dealing and prostitution, and my understandable prudishness led me to the former. It was half a year later that I realised what a total prat I was for leaving school, and yet another half year before I could gain the will to change anything. But me being me… I was much too proud to admit to needing help. So instead I made it blatantly obvious that I was skipping school to my parents. I would return home well before school ended with the white powder still stuck to my nostrils. It took the two of them weeks to even notice that something was different, and that was when I had to physically snort the stuff in front of them during school time. Sometimes I wondered if I was any better off here than I was back at 'home', but instantly rejected that thought. Better to be ignored that to have them all over you.
So they begrudgingly sent me here. It wasn't that I liked the place because I didn't. It was a dull, apathetic group of teenagers who stank of drugs gathering to talk about their pathetic lives. It wasn't cheery and it didn't really help at all. Most of the kids who came here left the next week - you were considered strong willed if you managed a month. I was probably the longest attendee, holding a record-breaking eleven months. I'd seen half the kids on street come in and out of here, none of them managing more than three months at best. I didn't forget them, though. I felt as though it was my duty to be their leader, their moral supervisor; the person that cared about them when no-one else did. So I made it my job to remember everything they said. It was for that reason that I didn't bother listening to the dull introductions that had now begun upon Yoruichi-san's mewl. I knew them all by heart. I glanced around the circle and noticed that the two newcomers (whose faces I still hadn't fully looked at) were at the end of the circle, the only exception being Matsumoto Rangiku who sat between them both. I could daydream until then.
But even if I wanted to ignore everyone I still couldn't help that incorrigible habit of mine to go over everyone in the group whilst they introduced themselves. Abarai Renji: Aged seventeen. Was in a severe car-crash at a young age, causing the death of his mother. Was in severe pain and had to be given morphine, to which his addiction grew. Madarame Ikkaku: Aged seventeen. Abarai's protégé. Thought Abarai was cool for taking morphine and joined in. Took it worse than his leader, has been in hospital several times due to his addiction but only left the next morning with yet another handful of stolen morphine. Yukio Hans Vorarlberna: Aged fourteen. Death of parents caused depression; smoked to releave stress. Dokugamine Riruka: Aged fifteen. Started heroin simply for the fun of it. She refused to reveal anything else about herself.
Then it was my turn. I paused for a moment to process my thoughts, then I stood and began to speak. "Hey. Hitsugaya Tōshirō. Nineteen. I took crack to annoy my parents; been clean for five months." I sat down just as quickly as I had stood up, crossed my legs and went back to reciting their life stories.
Ayasegawa Yumichika: Aged eighteen. Family was made redundant so he was left to earn money through prostitution. Had to take Viagra to get himself off, became addicted. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez: Aged nineteen. Rebelled at a young age and began to go clubbing every Friday night. Was pawned ecstasy and needed more and more to achieve his high. Took ecstasy with alcohol and ended up in hospital. Ulquiorra Cifer: Aged eighteen. All time emo and alcoholic of the century.
Finally, my brain perked up as a young man began to stand up. I looked fully at his face, and quite possible the most interesting aspect of it was the number '69' tattooed on his left cheek. My brow furrowed. Even under the influence of drugs, what was the chance of you being insane enough to want to tattoo something like that on your face? I most certainly wouldn't ever attempt to engrave the word 'GAY' across my forehead in some kind of traditional lettering even if I was off my head. But it seemed as though he might have had a thing for the tattoos, as when I looked again I noted the thick blue stripe that drew a line from his temple and over the bridge of his nose. When I looked even further down, he had tattooed a ladder type circle around his neck and forearms. It seemed like a completely unnatural style. I glanced at the ripped-sleeved school shirt that was unbuttoned to his stomach complemented by a red and black tie that was looped in some horrible attempt at a knot. He wore black, ripped jeans that could probably pass off as school trousers if you really squinted and his hips were rimmed with a black, studded belt that didn't seem to do anything other than define his arse. He wore a couple of looped necklaces that weren't at all girly, and I realised that it wasn't supposed to be natural at all; it was rebellion. After all, wasn't that what we were all here for? None of us felt demeaned by the fact that we couldn't seem to go a few hours without some fuzzy feeling of a drugged trance. We did it because it was the right thing to do - it was the statement we needed to prove that it was this goddamned town doing this to us. It was like saying 'I know this offends you, but I couldn't give a shit because I'm doing it.' It was a statement that you could only comprehend if you were part of the guild, one of the people who were rebelling. It was something you couldn't even explain coherently.
He hunched over for a few seconds, scratching his chin and pulling his brows together as he tried to think of something to say, then stood upright and thrust his hands in the pockets of his school trousers, hooking his thumbs into his belt and pulling the material of his shirt back with his elbows to reveal a little more of his stomach and torso. He wasn't at all ashamed of being heavily tattooed and held an abnormal pride for his figure. I might have found that instantly repulsive had I not found him strangely attractive. I also saw a kind of daring, mischievous kind of glint in his eye that said he wasn't looking for specific attention; he just wanted to be noticed. Not by girls, but by adults - a nuisance.
"Hi," he began, and I thought that his voice was a lot softer than I would have initially imagined. "Hisagi Shūhei. Nineteen. 'm here with this bastard." He thrust a thumb to the guy on the other side of Matsumoto… but I was still too busy looking at his appearance to notice who he was gesturing towards. "Been on Heroin for 'past four years and this'n persuaded me to come sort meself out." He tilted his head to the kid next to him again then sat down. He was heavily accented. It sounded British, maybe Scottish. Or there was that place in between… Yorkshire. He came from Yorkshire. It was an alluring, amiable accent that he drawled so easily. It made the rest of us sound so harsh. I liked it, and the raised eyebrows and high-pitched wolf whistle that came from beside me said that Riruka liked it as well. I also noted that Abarai was across the circle pursing his lips and cocking a brow towards the newcomer, most likely admiring the tattoos. The redhead had his own liking towards permanently drawing on his body and sported his own lightning shaped tattoos on his forehead (which emphasized his eyebrows a little too much), neck, torso and God knows where else.
The room still remained awkwardly silent but Hisagi didn't seem to mind. He scratched his sleeve, tugged on his collar and glanced expectantly towards his neighbour. His eyes bulged when he saw Matsumoto; 'Matsumoto' being the loose term for her breasts.
Matsumoto made a point of rising from her seat as slowly and sultrily as she could, leaning forward to present her 'assets' to the men across the room. Most began to mutter amongst themselves, ranging from quite a cheesy 'Hot damn' and 'Woah', to the slightly more appropriate 'Well ain't she showing off her tits today?' She finally stood up to her full height and rolled her shoulders back to push out her breasts just a little more. Not that she needed to - anything smaller than an 'E' would be a drastic understatement. Today, she wore a tank top that was a little too small for her, showing a very prominent dip in her cleavage.
"I'm Matsumoto Rangiku," she began sweetly. "I'm nineteen and I'm just here to watch." Then she sat down just as slowly and leaned forward just as much before turning her head to Hisagi and giving him a quick wink. I hadn't mentioned her yet. Matsumoto Rangiku: Aged nineteen. Inexplicable attraction to druggies. She point blank refused to take drugs herself - claimed that they would ruin her perfect complexion - but she couldn't help but date every man who was high half of the time. Not that many could refuse her with breasts like that.
Hisagi jerked a brow at her and let a crooked grin spread across his face. He slumped back in his chair and brought his leg up to rest the ankle on his opposite knee. He twisted his body towards her somewhat and leaned his elbow on the back of the seat.
"Well aintch'e a reet'un?" He drawled smoothly, making sure he brought out his brogue to the fullest. I felt blood rush downwards at that accent, already imagining how my name would sound on that tongue.
Matsumoto didn't quite have the same reaction. She blushed madly at reason that wasn't just for the silky tone. She wasn't the smartest chick, not by far.
"Hun," she enunciated in a sickly sweet voice. "As much as that voice of yours excites my lady parts, I haven't got a clue what you just said."
Laughter erupted around the circle but Hisagi still seemed unperturbed by it all. His grim simply spread further and he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, as if to say 'Can't blame a guy for trying.'
"He said 'Yer a right one.' Or, in American terms, 'Ain't you a pretty lass?'" A thick, but not quite as heavy, accent cut through the air and stopped all conversation short. All eyes moved to the satin smooth voice of the other newcomer who sat beside Matsumoto - the only man, save from me, who didn't have a nuance of pink across his cheeks from Matsumoto's breasts. It was hard to tell from the fact that he pronounced those previous words carefully to make his point, but I was pretty sure he was a Yorkshire man as well. He'd said 'lass' and 'yer', words I was sure were more of the Yorkshire dialect than any other. Staring at the guy, it was hard not to judge him instantly. I eyed him up and down very quickly just to make sure my conclusion was correct but I hardly needed another confirmation.
The guy was fucking hot.
I'm not quite sure how he did it, but he put Hisagi to shame. I would never look at the former Yorkshire man if I could stare at this one forever more. I had always boasted to have done the best job of bleaching my hair out of anyone I'd met, completely aware that it was a horrible disaster with a tub of bleach which left my hair completely white, but when I saw him it pained me to say that it looked like he had done it right. Orange hair paled slightly by the chemical to give it a sunny, bright look that was all too cheery for the dwelling he was in. He had a couple of frown lines on his forehead that showed that a scowl was all too frequent on his face, but today it seemed to be pulled into a dopey grin that would be fit for a St. Bernard. And his eyes…They were such an intense cocoa that it would be easy for him to dazzle someone into submission like some sparkly vampire one second and then subsequently glare so intensely that said someone would be sent reeling to a corner to rock and hide away. The thought excited me; turned me on even more than what I assumed would be an equally sexy accent. Chocolate eyes boring deep into mine, cloudy with lust and shaded by long, drooping eyelashes. Then I began to wonder what would happen if he breathed my name into my ear and I had to cross my legs to hide myself.
When all chatter stopped, he took the liberty of standing up without confirmation from Yoruichi-san and thrust his hands into his back pockets. Now stood up he seemed a little bit shyer, and I could see him flush faintly when he noticed me checking him out. I raised a brow and felt one corner of my mouth upturn. That wasn't a bad sigh. To prove a point, I raked my eyes over him with taunting lethargy and made sure to pause at every feature of his body. He wore a black cotton shirt - the cut of which I couldn't tell for it was covered by a black, what looked like felt, coat that he had buttoned half way up. The rest of his chest was covered by a scarf that was striped with a multitude of greys, hiding what I assumed was an incredibly long neck. He shuffled around uneasily in plain grey converse and scratched the leg of his grey, straight leg jeans. It was monochromatic, contrasting - only emphasized that shock of orange hair and brought out the colour in his eyes. I looked back up towards his face and, very slowly, licked my lips; nearly laughing out loud when he blushed madly and averted his gaze. But then that blush dissipated just as quickly as it had come to life and he flicked his eyes towards me, the irises becoming blacker around the middle and golden towards the edges that just added a whole winsome quality to his visage.
So I had a pretty high libido and this guy was totally attractive and reacting in a way that screamed he was gay. No biggy.
"Hey," he said. "'m Kurosaki Ichigo, 'm nineteen 'nd-"
"EH?" A falsetto squeak rang in my ears and I almost hit Riruka for interrupting his speech. I glared at her with as much force as I could muster whilst squeezing my thighs together harshly. She had leaned forward in her seat, her legs spreading in surprise as if she was going to run across the room, and her mouth was gaping. Yukio frowned at her when the majority of the room stared up her skirt. "As in, the Kurosaki Ichigo? Like, from the news?"
He offered her a brief smile and scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Um, yeah?"
Conversation started up again. My head whizzed around to look at the people who seemed to know what Riruka was talking about, which happened to be everyone. Several people leaned over to their neighbours, glancing over at the carrot-top every few seconds whilst hiding their conversations behind a gaunt, yellow hand. Urahara was talking to his cat with evident interest, although you couldn't really tell as his face was still concealed behind that irksome fan. Yukio glanced up from his video game to look at the man, pursed his lips in some kind of reaction (though what it was exactly couldn't be discerned, any kind of reaction from Yukio generally entailed an interesting story), then became immersed in his pixelated world once more. Even Grimmjow who was a seemingly hard-to-impress man cocked an eyebrow - impressed. I suddenly felt like this was one of those times when I should have paid more attention to life outside of Karakura.
"Hang on a minute," I began, holding my hands up in a kind of resignation and standing up to prove my authority. "I don't care about all you lot but I dunno who this Strawberry is so someone tell me."
There were a couple of snickers. I was infamous for not knowing things like that, always behind on so-called 'gossip'. The parents never let me watch TV, so how was I supposed to know about things that were on the news? It wasn't like I read newspapers or whatever it is old people lacking in televisions did. I didn't really care; I wasn't a fan of depressing things like news channels that only ever talked of wars and money. It only proved to be slightly inconvenient when it came to discussions like this, when I - the almost unspoken Alpha of the pack - couldn't join in with such things. I glanced around feebly to look for help from someone, then when nobody seemed to answer my pleas I finally turned to Kurosaki; tilted my head a little to the side to imply that he should be explaining something round about now.
Kurosaki grinned. "Hmm… Strawberry. Well tha's a nickname I ain't heard in a while." He tapped the skin by his neck then folded his arms in one fluid movement. His eyes flashed impishly, daringly. "Y'ain't got no right to call me that, 'ave ya, Shiro-chan?"
The laughter that followed was booming and intrusive, causing a vein to bulge just as much as it did with that dreaded nickname. My lips pursed and teeth gritted so hard I felt them shift in places. Shiro-chan. That was a name I hadn't heard in a while - one I would have preferred never to hear again. The backs of my eyes throbbed with anger, pulsed with the memories I had tried so hard to suppress. White hot rage began to creep through me, clinging onto each cell with a vice-like grip, like a parasite trying to take over. My eyes fluttered shut oh so gently… then screwed together when the memories returned. They flashed before the back of my aching eyeballs, causing a bead of sweat to drip down my forehead. Reels and reels of my past flashed before my closed lids, huge with deafening sound like a comedy at the cinemas. I pressed a finger to my temple, trying to drown out the noise of the laughter. It resonated for a while before fading into an annoying buzz. I don't think many people noticed my distress; those who did probably found it funny. I wondered if my boner had grown to be clearly noticeable but I was quite sure that had died down with the headache.
It felt like years, painstakingly prolonged years, before the headache faded to something more manageable. I unscrewed my eyelids and looked straight forwards, finger still at temple and eyes focused on the carrot-top. It didn't surprise me that the laughter still remained heated and raucous; what did was that Kurosaki appeared to have pushed his muzzle forward with interest and blinked at me with glazed, perplexed eyes. Sincere concern appeared to dance in the chocolate orbs… and I wondered why.
"Alright then, everybody!" An overly cheery voice sounded through the chaos and a series of clapping hands eventually turned the racket into a quiet din. Urahara snapped his fan shut and plucked Yoruichi-san off his shoulder by the scruff of the neck to place her in his lap. She let out a loud purr and curled in a tight circle - a sure sign that she wanted to sleep. All noise stopped. Nobody disturbed Yoruichi-san's sleep. That was the second highest reason why people the group (of course, the first being the fact that they couldn't stay off drugs). "How about we let Kurosaki-san tell his story for the sake of Hitsugaya-kun here? Would you be okay with that, Kurosaki-san?"
Kurosaki shrugged with a little too much emphasis. "Sure, m' not bothered."
I decided that sitting down might be a good idea. It could have just been his way of preparing for something that probably was going to be a little ominous, but the deep breath he took gave me a gut feeling that this was going to be a long story.
"Couple years back I lived in England with me Dad 'nd me two sisters. Mum died in some car crash when I were a lad so I dun' really remember her. 'm not gonna go on some rant ab'aht me life 'nd all that crap so, long story short, I got me'self kidnapped. 'pparently 'guy were buildin' up some army of kids or summet stupid like tha'. Dun ask me whut he were fightin' for. Probably a communist or summet."
The few kids who knew what a communist was snickered.
He continued. "So 'guy was a lil' bit off 'is head 'nd starts dopin' us. Heroin. Tha's where I met Shuuhei 'ere." He tilted his head to Hisagi who barely noticed, eyes still stripping Matsumoto of what little clothes she was clad in. "He were there 'longest of us. What were it… four years? Think so… Shuuhei? Nope… okay never mind…" The carrot-top's friend didn't appear to even be listening anymore. "So yeah. In 'end 'Police finds us 'nd we're still all high off Heroin. Dad din't trust England anymore so we move 'ere… and 'ere I am."
The tall man ended his speech with a nonchalant shrug then sat down hurriedly. He looked down at his thumbs and twiddled them nervously. Silent, many refused to even look at him. I stared at him in horror, mouth agape and grip on my chair somewhat slackening. How could he even have told that? Why would he? Weren't there some things that deserved to be kept a secret? I would never… never tell anyone of the things my father did to me. The hateful words, the abuse… the rape…
Before my thoughts could wander any further Urahara's voice came out loud and clear - taking on that unnaturally jovial tone that it did when a situation became too awkward. "Okay then! Let's get started!"
The session had been as dull as it always was; Madarame and Abarai being the only people to do much talking, which was generally some rather violent and crude threats to whatever unsuspecting soul dared to defy them in any way. It was an especially loud and boisterous meeting as Abarai had seemed to have taken a liking to Hisagi and his plethora of tattoos, yelling at the guy loudly to ask him questions as to why and where he got the tattoos from. Whilst the young man remained silent for most of the group, he simply answered a few times with a simple 'I felt like it' then returned to studying Matsumoto, who was skilfully pulling off a hard-to-get act.
Kurosaki also stayed quiet for the rest of the meeting and simply twiddled his thumbs together. I also opted not to speak and instead watched him play with his fingers. He twirled them in and out of each other frequently, sometimes rolling them so the joints probably cracked (though I couldn't hear it from the other side of the room) and other times tying them together in something that resembled Hisagi's tie. At one point the shoved his thumb backwards so it stuck to the back of his hand and I had to cringe when he held it up to the light to take a look. I hadn't even known it was possible to do something like that. Curiosity got the better of me and I took hold of my own thumb to try and see if it was possible. I bent it to the side a little but chickened out for fear of breaking the bone. It was probably something only double-jointed people could do anyway…
The session eventually passed and we were all dismissed. The children who were under around sixteen all hurried for the exit; desperate to get away from the accursed school that they had been in for at least eight hours now. The others ambled away with a little less haste, and I noticed that Kurosaki hadn't moved. His friend appeared to have abandoned him and I could see a length of strawberry blonde hair lying on the floor outside which meant that Hisagi was probably on top of said strawberry blonde hair. I rolled my eyes.
"Well that's a bit of a prick, he's being there," I yelled quite loudly as for Kurosaki to hear.
The carrot-top looked up at me, lips parted in slight confusion as if he was wondering who I was talking to. I met his gaze and let a grin fall across my face. His lips pulled into something similar.
"Nah, 'guy can do wha'ever he wants, can't he?" He stopped playing with his thumbs and opted to stand instead, finally realising that no-one but me and him were in the sports hall now. He rocked around on the balls of his feet uneasily. I wasn't sure why he seemed so tense now, for the utter confidence that played across his features when we first met gazes seemed like something one couldn't fake. It was sincere, I knew that. So why did he shuffle now; playing with his thumbs like my presence just made him feel too awkward. With a long sigh, he finally said, "Sorry about the whole 'Shiro-chan', thing."
My eyes flicked towards him. Sincerity. It was there again. Nobody apologised out of pure sincerity, from the simple desire to act contrite for something. It just didn't work that way. Sure, people apologised because it was the right thing to do or because they were ordered by someone of higher rank to do so… but a pure, candid apology? It never happened. There were apologies that only came about because of guilt, of knowing that what you have said has hurt someone and the only way to rid yourself of that culpability was to apologise… but those weren't real. People don't work like that anyway. They could never say a simple 'sorry' just because they were truly remorseful.
So why was there no nuance of conceit in his voice?
I shrugged. "It's alright."
He shook his head and took a vacillating step towards me, his brows pulling together. "Nah, t'obviously means somethin' to ya', so I shunt'a said it." He reached out slowly to put a comforting hand on my shoulder, something I ordinarily would have jerked away from kicking and screaming. But for some reason I found myself leaning somewhat towards him - to close that gap, even if just a little. When his palm finally landed on my shoulder and his fingers curled around it, it took almost all of my willpower not to sigh into the touch. His fingers were soft around the thin material of my shirt, caressing the fabric in a way that was not customary for two men who had met an hour ago. The feathery touches were so unperturbed in a way that wasn't possible that I could feel the heat pooling just from his certainty. Either customs were different in England than they were here or he really did boast a huge ego.
"It's alright," I repeated. "You didn't know." It took me a few seconds too long to realise that I was leaning a little too heavily so I wrenched a little too harshly out of his grip. It was gone already and I yearned for it.
He offered me a quick smile but then the silence returned; awkward as ever. I'd never been one to have experience an awkward silence. Sure, I rarely talked to people so I didn't generally find silence awkward in the first place, but when the situation arose I'd never found it difficult to fill said silence with some kind of conversation. But now, I wasn't sure what to talk about. Always refer back to any previous conversation was a rule I'd made up myself. It worked for the most part, but I figured this was an exception. What was I supposed to say? 'So, what's it like having some guy dope you with heroin? Is it fun?' I mentally snorted. We were all here due to some kind of drug problem, existing or not. Asking if it was fun would just make me seem all that more off my head. I could get rid of the last sentence but I still doubt bringing up something like that was going to be a fun topic. Besides, asking about drugs hardly seemed like standard conversation.
So I was more than a little relieved when his friend staggered back inside; hair dishevelled and tie managing to look even worse than it had before. The shredded ribbon of his sleeve had slid down his arm to reveal a creamy shoulder, covering one of the tattoos on his arm. He wore a dopey smirk on his face with the clear shape of lips printed sloppily around his mouth like bright scarlet paint. My gaze must have caught his because he wiped it off with the back of his arm, still grinning Cheshire-cat style. He looked like an utter tramp compared to the carrot-top he was walking towards.
"Bitch stood me up," he noted plainly, scrubbing at his cheek with his fist. "She' jus' playin' 'ard to get."
"Sure you ain't just a damn sight uglier than you thought, Shūhei?" Kurosaki nudged his friend harshly in the ribs, lips drawing that same smile that Hisagi donned.
The man scoffed. "Please," he drawled. "Me ego woul'n't allow tha'."
The two laughed for a long time and I just stood there awkwardly. I could have chimed in, offered the two some witty comment that would leave them both in tears but to be frank I couldn't be bothered. That kind of comment took more brain power than I had the motivation to use. I shuffled, somewhat out of nervousness and somewhat out of my feet hurting from standing too long, and waited for the laughter to subside. It was quite a harsh, abrupt sound from the two Yorkshire men but it wasn't completely unpleasant. The lengthy laughter that concurred seemed to have lasted too long for the situation it was in. Possibly an inside joke that I could probably never comprehend.
Wiping a half-imaginary tear from his eye, Hisagi turned to me. He inspected me with full sincerity, only acting dim by stroking his chin and cocking a hand by his hip. "So, this'un's 'one who were checkin' you out, Ichigo?"
I spluttered and stared at them both wide eyed. Hisagi still pinched his chin and looked me over like a dog at a show, but Kurosaki seemed to shrug and concede; completely unperturbed by it. I had not been checking him out. I did not check people out. Sure, I looked him up and down and cocked a brow suggestively… but he did all those things back so neither could complain. Besides, that wasn't 'checking him out'. I was teasing him. Obviously. It never once excited me to think about the way that coat clung to his body and how it shadowed his figure just a little too much, how it made me want to see what was under it all. Never once thought about that.
It took me a second too long to gather my thoughts. Witty comment, Tōshirō, I told myself. Thinking of one was too much effort. Just be sarcastic then. "Oh no," I said quite loudly, allowing my voice to raise an octave. "Not Kurosaki. I'm much more interested in his friend, you see."
Hisagi laughed and completely disregarded his scowling other half. When he spoke again it was much slower, much more enunciated. "Well 'm afraid to say…" And to prove his point he raised a fist, smeared with various shades of reds and pinks, before continuing: "that I don't swing tha' way."
I chuckled somewhat seductively, lowly. A plan had begun to formulate in my head and I was honestly a little too excited to try it out. I smirked archly before stalking towards him, striding with long, lax steps until I was right next to him. I rested a playful hand on his shoulder, only brushing the skin lightly so I could trail my fingers down his skin. Don't swing that way, my arse, I thought amusedly when he shivered slightly. His breathing was still steady though, something which did assure me of his sexuality, but the discomfort that was salient across his features was too tempting to resist. I rounded him whilst dragging my fingers from his shoulder to his neck, gripping on a little before tracing thin lines up to his jaw. I almost laughed at him, almost laughed at how tense his body became when I started towards his ear to whisper something. I stood on my tip-toes (for once glad that my height gave me this kind of advantage) and leaned ever closer to him until my lips nearly brushed by his earlobe.
"Well then," I susurrated. "What about 'tuther Yorkshire man?"
Kurosaki's ears perked as he was mentioned. He raised a brow at me, probably trying not to laugh at my Yorkshire accent that was all too perfect. I jerked an equally teasing brow his way, then tore away from Hisagi to walk towards the young man. Kurosaki stood square and stiff with his arms crossed, but I could see the lack of defence in his stature. It was a cheesy and playful 'Come at me, bro' and I nearly chuckled at him. Hisagi was left somewhat forgotten behind us, still staring after me in confusion. He probably didn't get many men coming onto him where he lived. This part of town, however, was packed with too many people who just didn't give a damn what people think. He knew that and tried to fit in - ripping his sleeves and wearing a feeble imitation of a school uniform but anyone could tell it was a faux. He would dress closer to what Kurosaki wore normally. But he was still a cocky bastard, no doubt.
I was feeling pretty cocky myself that night, however, so it didn't even surprise me when I hooked an arm through Kurosaki's and towed him away. This was out of character for me; abnormally so and what did surprise me was that I didn't mind. I liked being in charge for once. I liked the fact that I was so naturally taking the lead and dragging a young, hot man away from his equally young, hot friend and it seemed to be just something that I would do. Taking control was something I could get used to.
"Can't call 'im a prick if yer doin' the same thing t'me, can you?" His low brogue snapped me out of my thoughts. I glanced over him and had to stifle yet another laugh. I'd been walking pretty fast and my grip was pretty tight, so he was barely keeping up the pace; tripping every few seconds over imaginary sticks and stones. With an unmanly giggle, I let go of him and walked slower and slower until I came to a halt by a small wall. It looked like the entrance to a car park, but I couldn't really tell from the dusk light so I sat down on it anyway. I wasn't sure where we were but I was glad it wasn't by that school. That place was filled with too many memories; stalking the corridors and clinging to the walls.
I shrugged and rested my ankle on my knee. "He's a big boy. I'm sure he'll find his way home."
The chuckle that followed was resigned, so I knew I'd won that one already. He sat down on the damp stone next to me and leaned back somewhat. His chest puffed out with the deep breath he took… then I found myself watching the gentle rise and fall of his ribcage. It was metronomic, relaxing; not so quick that it left me on edge and claustrophobic the way most sudden movements did. When I did realise that I was, in fact, staring at another man's chest, I finally diverted my gaze towards the night before us. The streetlights were flickering to life a little too late for it was pretty dark and seeing further than a few feet ahead was difficult. The breeze was cold, raising Goosebumps on my skin, but it wasn't intolerable. I liked that kind of chill - the kind that left you shivering a little and wanting just that small bit of heat from a jumper, blanket… human. It was then when Kurosaki convulsed in a violent shudder, racking his body and causing his face to twitch involuntarily. It was a little amusing, for the routine happened again a couple of seconds later. He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets.
"Aren't'cha cold?" He nodded towards my thin, though long sleeved, shirt. I instinctively glanced down at it. He was right - the temperature of the night did seem a little too cold for the simple shirt I was wearing, but I liked the shirt. It was fitted and defined my sharp-angled figure a little too much, clinging tightly to my arms and ruffling up in places where it couldn't fall down again. Sure, it led to me readjusting the material every few minutes but I liked it. It was a band shirt: Three Days Grace. It was charcoal and had the logo of one of their new albums on, showing off two men beating…. something…. with baseball bats. Then there were a few crows flying off into the distance, which just so happened to be where the title of the band was printed. Three Days Grace was one of the few bands I knew where I liked every song I heard… but, of course, I only had a measly three on my battered iPod. The only reason I don't like being poor…
I could only shrug. I wasn't cold.
With a shaky sigh, he furled his fingers around the edges of his jacket and pulled it around his torso. It was obviously a cold night for normal people. I looked at the air in front of me and notice white rings of water vapour forming when I breathed. Huh. It must've been cold. I glanced around my person for something that I could give him to warm him up but I wasn't carrying any extra weight. I blatantly ignored the fact that this was going against all my hedonistic beliefs, that I should not be caring whether this man was warm, cold… fucking dead or alive. But I did. It was probably because he was a hot guy showing some kind of interest in me and despite my obvious prudishness my hand would not be enough to satisfy me one day. So instead, I shuffled a little closer. Just a little; not even touching him. Just close enough for him to lean on me if he needed it.
"Why's Hisagi come with you?" I asked a little loudly.
He turned to me with adorably pink cheeks from the cold. "Huh?"
I drew my legs up and embraced them, resting my chin on my knees. "You said that you met Hisagi at that place. So why didn't he go home to his parents? Why's he here with you? I doubt that he coincidently moved to the same neighbourhood as you, did he?"
When Kurosaki didn't answer I felt as though I had pried too far already. His gaze trailed from my eyes to the ground. His legs swung pendulously like a child on a swing. He relinquished his grip on the coat and instead clutched at the wall he was sat on, fingers not working properly from the cold. Silence continued. A single car revved its engine and sped past, but then the silence returned. I opened my mouth to break the soundlessness but he lifted a hand to stop me. My mouth remained agape for a short while before it closed. I opened and closed my lips a few more times, looking like a gormless fish as I did so, but his hand remained steady and unmoving in the air so I closed it for good. I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to answer; that I'd just met him and it was obviously something that hurt him so he didn't have to divulge. But either way he seemed like he was okay with it, or at least as though he was going to tell me whether we liked it or not.
"Hisagi Daichi," he grunted. The name made his fists clench and jaw jut out. Of course it would. It was obvious. He didn't even need to go on but he did for some unfathomable reason. "The man who kidnapped us was his father."
I chewed on my bottom lip, neither encouraging nor discouraging him to continue. The story sounded like something I would enjoy; some sick, twisted tale that I would find all too intriguing. The kind that would leave me squirming impossibly but I still couldn't wrench myself away from its beckoning call.
"He were an abusive man who hit Shūhei whene'er he got mad, like it were 'is fault that 'is wife left 'im and their life were in bits." His voice began to break with anger. Blind rage. Kurosaki was a dangerous man when he was angry; that much I could tell. "So 'guy 'its 'nd 'its Shūhei but it ain't enough. He kidnaps a ton'a kids 'nd starts 'training' us to help 'im kill 'is wife. 'Guy were too much of a wimp to kill 'er 'imself so he has us do it." He paused and swallowed a litreof air. "I killed a chick… Tōshirō, I killed someone. 'nd I did it 'cause I was on fuckin' drugs. Two things. Two things I told meself I'd never do 'nd tha' was takin' drugs or killin' someone. I did fuckin' both of them…"
I wasn't even sure how to react that that. I considered acting a little more surprised but I didn't think that he needed that. It was safe to assume he'd had enough of people gasping melodramatically at his life story. "You said that Hisagi was only there four years," I breathed slowly, carefully.
He shrugged. "Wa'n't plannin' on tellin' 'whole story. We figured we'd just say we both got kidnapped if it ever came up."
I offered him a nervous smile. "You should've figured it'd come up. Should've figured that someone would figure it out as well. "
He didn't bother answering. He turned back to the oh-so-interesting black space in front of him, that coincidently was now slightly yellow with artificial light. There was a dilapidating pub whose name I couldn't make out from the sign being half scratched off and hanging upside down from one nail. Karakura town was a wasteland; a post-apocalyptic style reservation where only druggies and prostitutes seemed to settle. It was hardly the place you would want to escape to, so why anyone would migrate to this place under any circumstances was a matter beyond my ignorant comprehension.
"You should go back to Yorkshire. This place ain't safe," I warned. "Too many druggies."
There was yet more silence. "How'd you know I'm from Yorkshire?"
I smiled without looking at him. "Anyone can tell that accent a mile off."
"Shoul'n't you think tha' if I'm British then 'm some posh twat?"
I laughed out loud. The noise echoed from somewhere and it was slightly disconcerting. "Nah. Maybe some other guy but I can tell you're Yorkshire. So why'd you come here of all places?"
He slid from the wall and plopped down quite ungracefully on the floor, seemingly uncaring of the wet leaves and dirt that would undoubtedly stain his coat. He scrubbed the back of his neck with a fist then rested the hand on his drawn up knees.
"I'm clean," he said. "I got over 'drugs pretty quick. It's Shūhei. He can't go five minutes without 'em. 'heard there was a good rehab centre here so Dad goes 'Great! Off to Karakura we go!" He tilted his head back and rested it on the wall. A chilled breeze appeared seemingly out of nowhere and I watched somewhat dazed as his carroty hair ruffled in the wind. "Had to pull me sisters outta school for it n'all."
His story didn't make sense now. He hadn't planned on telling the whole thing, so hiding little bits was difficult. There were parts that didn't fit; little scraps of information that didn't work together. He wasn't lying to me, because everything he said was true. He was just leaving things out. Things I wanted to know.
"Why?" was the main question that came to mind. "You're clean, so why'd you have to come here? Quit leaving things out."
He chuckled darkly. "You can figure it out, can't you?"
I smirked. Of course I could. I just wanted him to say the words himself. Give me a little credit. I was by no means a genius but I had common sense. Hisagi was the son of a kidnapper stroke murderer who (sort of) killed his wife. Hisagi would have no mother and when caught his father would be taken away. Hisagi was by law an orphan. Nowhere to go, no one to love him; he was a sad child living a sad life of total isolation. I tried to sympathise, tried to empathise with him but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to do it. Sure, I was fostered. Yes, my parents killed themselves and damn nearly took me down with them. I was, myself, a gauche orphan living in this desecrated town; nowhere to go and no one to love him… but how could I empathise? I didn't want to. I didn't want to associate myself with something like that. I'd learned to accept the fact that my parents were… well… what they were. It became the norm, something mundane that seemed just too ordinary to ever seem out of place. His story seemed much, much worse than mine when in reality it was probably only just that little bit more hellacious - simply because more children were involved.
But none of that mattered. Kurosaki's parents had taken it upon themselves to adopt Hisagi for whatever reason and now the two kids were like brothers. Attached at the hip and inseparable. Still, more questions burned my tongue, eager to be asked; wanting to indulge.
No need to scare him away, though. Maybe just a few. "Why do you go, then?"
"Keep him company," he chuckled. "Might not look like it but 'guy's a wuss really. Most insecure guy I ever met. Only dressed like that 'cause I told 'im to. He's 'andsome, just don't see it. Thought if he dressed like tha' then he'd get a girl or somthin'. Looks like he were lucky." He let go of his knees and stuck his legs straight out in front of him. Another breeze induced by yet another car made his hair flutter. He smiled a small smile. "He di'n't get those tattoos by his own choice, y'know. Had those since he were a lad. 'is Dad made 'im do it, mind you. Thought it'd be funny." His voice suddenly brightened with something resembling pride. "'s a miracle he can walk around 'way he does. Must've been terrible for 'im."
I took a note of that uplifting tone of his voice. I don't think I should have even tried to fathom what the two of them had been through. I wondered how they had fared the first few times. Maybe he'd tied them up, subdued them somehow just to deter their feeble attempts to wrench free from his clutches. Maybe he'd gagged them. Maybe he simply just broken them - broke their bones, broke their spirits; broke what little of their will they had until they were just lifeless dolls that he could play with to his heart's content. A puppeteer. Maybe the first few times they writhed and squirmed, trying desperately to evade that needle containing the poison that they would learn to love. Maybe their struggles would have been meagre. Maybe they sat limp while he advanced towards them, quietly begging for him to do anything but that. My thoughts grew darker. I'd been alone; nobody had ever told me when the malevolent thoughts should stop. There was no one to tell me that I shouldn't have been thinking of young men frothing at the mouth, physically salivating at the sight of the syringe that they learned to love so fervently after only a few injections. I shouldn't have thought of the pure ecstasy across their features when the plunger was pushed. After all, I'd been alone. No one told me what I should and shouldn't think.
But just this once I knew that it was wrong. Their body may have welcomed the venom with open arms but their minds screamed that it was wrong. That much I could tell.
Even so, there was no way I could understand the bond between these two. Even if I did own some sort of social skills I could never comprehend just how the two of them worked together. They'd been through a lot and you were an idiot if you said otherwise.
"I wouldn't have thought he was insecure," I stated simply. I gripped the wall and swung my legs similar to how he had done a few minutes ago. I kicked the stone a few times and I could feel my shoes rotting away from the treatment.
"Ooh aye," he said and I felt something melt. "Woul'n't you be?"
I didn't even have to think about it. I most certainly was insecure.
The conversation seemed to have stopped round about there and to be frank I wasn't all too bothered. Not that I didn't enjoy talking to the carrot-top, because I did… immensely so; just my ineptitude to talk to another human being for more than a few minutes was starting to kick in and the pain behind my eyes was returning. It was a bad, awkward habit that I would have to rid myself of one day. So instead I focused on a drunken brawl that had broken out in front of the bar across the road; one I had assumed had been abandoned due to disrepair. Two guys stumbled around apathetically, throwing curses and insults at one another mainly because of the friends egging them on rather than the desire to fight one another. One of them waved his bottle around over his head but ended up dropping it in his current lack of dexterity or soundness of mind. He stared at the broken glass scattered around his feet, giggled and then hiccupped before mumbling something incoherent and falling over. He promptly appeared to fall asleep, curling his arms around himself and pulling his knees to his chin. His inebriated friend stared at him for a long while, before holding his own bottle in the air as a sign of victory and falling over himself. I wondered just how drunk the two had to be to act like that.
Kurosaki appeared to have been watching the same thing and didn't even try to suppress his snorts of laughter. "Drunk guys never fail to amuse me."
I smirked and watched the mob surrounding the two look around helplessly, wondering what to do about the two comatose men. "I know the feeling."
Eventually, the mob dissipated and stumbled away - some into the pub and some onto the streets. Nobody cared about a guy when he wasn't awake. Law number one of Karakura: Survival of the fittest… or at least of the most conscious.
Kurosaki frowned. "Should we help him?"
"Nah," I shook my head. "They'll wake up in a bit. It's their own fault for getting themselves drunk."
The carrot-top made a move to stand up. "Well I dunno about here, but in Yorkshire when ya' see a man down ya' go 'nd help him."
I kicked a foot out in front of him to stop him. "And in Karakura if a guy is down then you leave him down 'cause it's probably his own fault for being there."
He stayed ready for a while, waiting for my leg to tire so he could move anyway. He could have easily gone around my foot but that would have ruined my point. I liked that. Sometimes you have to make a point and even if there's a way round it a person's got to go with it. If you don't then you're just ignorant. Kurosaki seemed to understand that. So when my leg didn't move he gave an acquiescent sigh and flopped back down, an eye still wary of the two unconscious men for any signs of movement. I placed my leg back by my other.
"So were you?"
I turned to him. "Hm?"
He grinned a little. One of the men on the other side of the road lifted his head a little and twisted it around. He emitted quite a loud and vulgar 'The fuck'm I doin' here?' I assumed that 'here' was the ground. "You know… 'checkin' me out'?"
"Oh?" I grinned right back at him. So we were on this topic now? "Your point?"
"Well," he started, putting his hands behind his head and turning to me with that dopey grin that had my innards turning to goo. "'m pretty sure you can tell that Shūhei don't swing that way now, even if you coul'n't from 'is clothes." His smile grew yet haughtier. "And I know that you weren't lookin' at 'im."
"Well," I started in a mock accent which I quickly dropped. "I'll have you know that I was 'checking him out', as you say." I paused for effect. "Just I stopped doing it when I saw you."
"And then you started checkin' me out?"
"Pretty much."
"Well ain't that an ego booster."
I couldn't help but laugh out loud. The ache in my head was gone; evanesced like it had never been there to start with. Kurosaki was an interesting man to talk to, that much was evident. My laughter never even subsided. It bubbled away for a good few seconds, maybe even longer. Laughter. It was an indulgence so many took for granted. When you lived the life I had you grew to appreciate the times when you laughed; when something sincerely made you smile and belt out your contentment. The chuckles did eventually die down, and I ended it with a contented sigh and turned to face him again.
"How so?" Conversation had never flowed this freely.
He smirked and turned on his side, resting somewhat painfully on his hip and propping his elbow up on the wall beside him to rest his hand on his cheek. It did not look like a comfortable position at all, but no discomfort was clear on his face. "Well here's a cute guy like yerself checkin' me out. Bit of a compliment, dontcha think?"
A pink tinge began to creep up my neck. Cute? He was kidding, right? I was repulsive. Bags under my eyes were a purplish colour that made me look like a gaunt, old man with some kind of life draining disease. My fingers were slim to the point of being skeletal, along with the rest of my body. Malnourishment and lack of exercise meant that I had no tone… just bones. Just skin and bones. My hair was rarely combed and looked like that of an old man's. The stupid bleach had ruined it beyond repair, so it was dry and stuck together awkwardly in clumps I turned away from him, the biting retort stuck in my throat and I quickly forgot what I wanted to say anyway. Things like that made me feel uncomfortable; abnormally so, seeing as I rarely heard them. In fact… I never once remembered being complimented.
"Hmph," I finally said lamely. He chuckled and rested a hand on my shoulder. The muscle tensed slightly but I didn't jerk away. I liked the feeling too much. Maybe he didn't think I was as repulsive as I was. After all, he had to have some kind of difficulty comprehending the real world.
"What, ya' don't believe me?" His voice wavered on some unknown line between puzzled and amused. The free hand that had been resting on the ground started to wave vaguely in a circle that seemed to be gesturing to my face. "Yer handsome. Must've been told tha', right?"
I shook my head, half in disagreement and half to try and waft the blush away. "I don't know if you hadn't noticed, but you live in Karakura now. Nobody says stuff like that."
Dropping his hand, he cocked his head towards me. "Well maybe they should."
The blush started to creep back up again. Fucking smooth talker and his English accent…
I hoped he would drop the subject with that said but he didn't seem to. His gaze darted around for a couple of seconds until he stared at me again. He shunted up the wall and sat upright once more, legs crossed and hands resting languidly between them. His head tilted a little and his eyes glistened like a puppy's. "Go out with me."
Well any chance of the blush disappearing was officially gone. "Huh?"
He chuckled lowly. "Go out with me," he repeated. "Y'know. Like, on a date."
I stared at him blankly. He was gay? That was new. English people weren't gay. Well, police officers were. I'd heard of a guy named Banksy who drew some pretty cool graffiti on the walls of London, and one was of two policemen making out. Ever since I'd vehemently believed that all policemen were gay. But that was beside the point. The urge to say 'no' was bitter on my tongue, but also resolute. My head screamed at me that this was a bad idea. That there was no way that he was doing this because he liked me. I felt like such a girl for feeling it but I couldn't help but distrust the guy now he said those four words. Go out with me. It wasn't even a question. He wasn't even asking for my opinion. It was like he was so sure of himself that I would say yes that there wasn't a need for a question. I'd show him. I was Hitsugaya Tōshirō - number one drug addict and rebel of Karakura Town. Nobody told me what to do.
"Sure."
Wait, what?
The answer had come out without me even thinking about it. The moment it left my mouth I instantly regretted it. I didn't want this. Why had I accepted? I wasn't the type of person who went on dates. I had never imagined myself being that kind of person and even now with the offer on the table it was difficult to picture myself in a cinema or some fancy restaurant. I imagined that if I ever had some kind of relationship, it would be purely for the sex. No talking, no kisses; no pretences. Purely sex. The dopey smile on his face and the way he sat bolt upright with something resembling glee told me that I was in it for the long haul. Shit. He seemed happy, inordinately so. But I hadn't meant that. Could I get away with just taking it back? Yelling 'PSYCH' and running away like the crazy, drugged up person I was? I doubted it.
… but I wanted it really. I had been checking him out, after all.
"Awesome!" He cried and I felt a little sorry for him. I'd be a disappointment - without a doubt. He was too nice for someone like me to hurt him like this. He stood up and patted the dirt off his ass, looking around as he talked to make sure he got all of the leaves off his trousers. "You free tomorrow lunch? There's that Café Benihime or somethin' that's s'pposed to be nice. Meet'cha there?"
"Yeah, sure," I squeaked. What was I letting myself in for?
He finished dusting himself off and turned back to me, smiling. "Great. I'll see you at twelve."
"Yup!"
I must have sounded constipated or something because his brows suddenly furrowed and he peered at me intently. His lips pursed and he looked me over like I was a prized dog on display.
"Ya' dun seem as pissed as I thought'cha'd be."
Huh? I didn't remember it like that. He said something else. In fact, hadn't he left after he'd said the time? I clutched at my head as a migraine bubbled up inside my head. It hurt and I whimpered pathetically at the pain behind my eyes. Kurosaki didn't even appear to blink at my discomfort. Why wasn't he moving? Why wasn't he helping? With a gasp my vision wavered and blurred. Kurosaki started to disappear before my eyes. Where's he going? I called his name but no sound came out. I tried again but the words got caught in my throat. Come back! I tried desperately to call to him but his figure simply rippled, smearing across my vision like a reflection in water. I was so confused. What the hell was happening? Was I high or something? The background started to form another moiré pattern that undulated in the opposite direction to the carrot-top and when I called out to him again the noise finally came.
"Huh?"
"Huh?"
"I said 'Ya' dun seem as pissed as I thought'cha'd be.'"
My eyes screwed shut when the voice interrupted my dreams and it took me a little too long to realise where I was. It was cold; cold and wet. But that didn't really narrow it down by much so I started to let my eyes flutter open. Only one earphone was still plugged into my head, so the dulcet sound of violins and harmonising voices only gratified one ear. I blinked a few times when the harsh glare from the street lamps hit my eyes. I couldn't see properly for much too long when I adjusted to the light, but then in a sudden moment of realisation I remembered where I was. A drop of water from my hair fell onto my nose with a quiet 'drip'. I was outside Benihime listening to Electric Daisy Violin whilst waiting for Kurosaki to arrive. When my vision finally cleared I realised that said Kurosaki was stood outside the alcove, looking much like a drowned rat himself. He shivered violently, hair plastered to his forehead and a forlorn, contrite grin on his face. He was stood a few feet away from me, rain pelting down on him so hard and fast that it had to be painful. It was the epitome of sorry sights, a scene straight from a fifties romance movie, but there was no doubt in my mind that I was glad he was there - no matter how dejected and apologetic he looked. But even though he looked like shit, he still managed to pull that smile I loved.
"I fell asleep," I muttered groggily, moving to sit up from my slumped position and pulling the earphone out. I pressed a few buttons on the iPod to turn it off before it got too wet and stuffed it into my pocket. "I was planning on yelling at you but I guess that's not gonna work now."
He chuckled his low chuckle and it was only then that I noticed that he was holding something; something that made me blush quite violently. I stared open mouthed at the object in his hands. No fucking way. He didn't seem to notice the red painted across my cheeks until about a minute of silence, and even then he didn't even understand why it made me flush so violently.
"Y-you actually bought those?" I stuttered, nodding towards the bunch of purple flowers that he gripped in one hand. No way. He was not, I repeat: not, planning on giving me those. That was just so… girly!
He glanced at the bunch of violets and recollection flashed across his features. "Oh yeah!" He stuck them out dumbly in front of his torso, offering them to me. "I figure tha' I were an hour late anyway, so ya' coul'n't get any madder if I went and gotcha somethin' to apologise with." He pushed them forwards a little to encourage me to take them. "Sorry 'm late."
I couldn't seem to do anything but stare at him. I was in the middle of trying to stand up, so I stood with one leg in a crouched position and one stuck out in front of me so it was a miracle I hadn't fallen over yet. I blinked once, twice… before finally giving in and laughing - dropping onto the ground with a thud. The laughter wouldn't stop. It was harsh, cruel laughter and when I managed to look at Kurosaki's face through tear blurred eyes I could see the hurt was clear. I felt terrible; awful even because it was a kind gesture. But his face was just so. Damn. Funny. I clutched at my stomach when it began to ache from laughing too hard. Stop fucking laughing! I didn't mean to hurt his feelings, but the mad laughing just wasn't stopping.
"S-sorry!" I choked between giggles. "It's not… not funny! J-just y-your… y-your face- Oh God…" Then the laughter started up again. I barely heard him sigh from my chuckling. I honestly wasn't trying to make him feel bad. He just looked so expectant, like a puppy begging for treats. In this case, he was begging for forgiveness. So it wasn't funny really. The ache in my chest finally became too much and I began to regain sanity. The harsh laughs faded to low chuckles then, eventually, I could wipe the tears from my eyes with a few amused sniffs. I was bright red and my head hurt. Still, I looked at Kurosaki with all the sincerity I could muster. The disappointment on his features was heart breaking. I bit my lip. That really was mean of me.
"Sorry…" I mumbled. I succeeded in standing up and began to stride towards him. "I didn't mean it." When I stood close to him, I picked up one of his icy hands and held it between mine. I sighed contentedly. It had only been a week but I had forgotten how god damned nice it was to feel Kurosaki's skin. He tilted his head towards me with that stupid grin of his adorning his face perfectly. I loved how happy he seemed when he saw me. It was like his face lit up. It gave me some kind of confidence; some kind of confirmation that I wasn't so pathetic as I always thought - the kind of reassurance I desperately needed. I wanted to be closer to him. With one hand, I held his. Fingers intertwined and laced together in a tight knot that I knew I would be reluctant to relinquish. With the other, I plucked the flowers from him and held them tightly to my chest, mouthing the word 'Mine'. His eyes fluttered shut, still grinning madly. So very nice… A few months ago I refused to touch anyone. A few months ago I would have run away, heart beating sporadically and sweat dripping from my forehead, if anyone touched me.
A few months ago I didn't know Kurosaki Ichigo.
"Come 'ere," he muttered in that brogue I had learned to love and he leaned down to get to my level. Knowing what he wanted, I leaned up and crushed my lips against his. We moved together in sync, my arm curling around his neck to pull him as close as I could. It was awkward, holding his head and the bundle of flora at the same time but neither of us seemed to mind. I still clutched at his hand with numb fingers; still felt the rain drip down my forehead and onto our cold lips. Everything moved so smoothly, so silkily when we were glistening with water. I didn't need to open my eyes to see the slickness of Kurosaki's face as the liquid formed a perfect sheen over his skin, highlighting every bone and every bit of flesh to perfection. He would be flawless; there was no doubt about it. But I didn't want to see it. I'd feel it with every bone in my body; melt into the kiss like it was the first and last thing I ever experienced. I wanted to run my hand through his hair but the flowers were in the way. They were growing on me, these now drenched violets. They denoted everything we had: the apologies, the tenderness - the purity that our relationship still withheld. Kissing in the rain. It was quite enjoyable, wasn't it?
I tore away to gasp for air. I rested my forehead against his and breathed heavily as his breath ghosted over my lips.
"Should we go inside?" I whispered. I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay here forever and kiss Kurosaki until Hell froze over. But then again, I'd fucking freeze over if we didn't get out of the rain soon.
I barely saw the smile through my half lidded eyes. "Mmh."
* Hinamori was spelled wrong intentionally. I was referring to Hinamori Momo, however by replacing the 'n' with an 'm', Hinamori becomes Himamori which means 'spare time'. It's a common pun in 'Shugo Chara' XD (I am not ashamed that I like that show)
Okay, so that's not really where I planned on leaving this. Well, I thought that I would finish this entire thing in 10,000 words but obviously that was a bit of a long shot ._.; So anyway. There's better places I could have put a marker in but here will have to do. I did not get enough time to write this thing XD The ending's a little rushed as well… sorry ^^; I'll edit this later. Now Mum's threatening to turn the internet off.
Why did I decide to make Ichigo and Shūhei Yorkshire? Because I'm Yorkshire and I thought it'd be funny to type like a Yorkshire man. It was. Surprisingly so. I hope you could all understand what I was trying to say, though. Tell me if you couldn't XD I tried not to put too many apostrophes in to make it less confusing… (By the way, the words that have apostrophes in front of them that aren't contracted basically are supposed to have a 'the' in front. I save using "t'_" for 'to the'. I'll stop talking grammar now.)
Just to let you know, I may have over-emphasized on Shūhei just a little. He sounds like a guy off 'Last of the Summer Wine' XD I talk a little bit like Ichigo, if you wanted to know ^^
I will be finishing this before I restart 'Shooter'. Sorry if that disappoints anyone, but I'm finding this rather fun to write :)
P.S. Try doing that thing with your thumb. It doesn't actually hurt and it freaks people out XD