The following drabbles are for a writer's block challenge. They all will have not been read over, edited, or anything of the sort. As the title suggests, (if I ever get down to writing them) there will be three.

(The cause)
Prompt No.1: Verbal

-X-

He should have expected this. The silent treatments, the unnatural avoidances within his own home; he should have realized that such occurrences would lead up to this point.

But he hadn't, and he was a fool.

The moment in which he came to realization, in pulling back the mask – in viewing the inevitable with his own eyes, he should have understood. Uryu was his son, a mere child, no less; just because he sought so foolishly to destroy hollows more than ten times his own size did not mean he would remain unaffected to witnessing such horrors which would include death. Ryuken knew – as much as he loathed to admit – that his son was nowhere near as strong as he claimed to be. Although he stood tall in front of his presence, the refusal to meet his eye – the shaky form which he took on, upon facing him head-on; he knew the boy was far less capable of handling grief than he sought him to be.

And that's why he was facing this now.

"Eat." Voicing the word silently, though holding within his tone – a slight amount of disdain, the very response of an unaffected shifting of metallic silverware brought with it a sudden breath, emitted slowly, through parted lips.

"Uryu—"

"No thank you."

Listening to the quiet voice, however murmured and slightly shaken, azure optics slowly but surely, lifted their gaze. Arching an inquisitive brow, as if demanding an answer to an unspoken question; the silence he's met with is almost suffocating as the tension within the room increases ten-fold.

So that's how it's going to be.

"If you're finished here then clean your plate, finish your homework, and go to bed." Keeping his voice stern and unwavering, his expression the same in retrospect; blue irises, seemingly aloof and clearly disinterested glance back down at his plate, in order to avoid the young infant. However…

"N—No…"

Lifting not only his gaze, but his head this time – cerulean optics glance down at the child, inquisitive and slightly irate. "No?" The word is spoken, repeated in a tone that's nearly dismissible; though that's hardly the case, in this very moment.

"No…"

Watching tiny hands, smaller than the average press curtly at their plate, thin eyebrows press towards one another as an unimpressed expression begins to grace the elder's features.

As lips begin to part and eyelids begin to lift, the abrupt scratching of wood against the flooring has the doctor glancing downwards, and at his only son. As those small, miniature hands press tightly to the table, the subtle tremble to the smaller form does not go unnoticed, though it isn't remarked upon.

"What are you doing?"

"I-I'm going to bed," Is the stuttered response, similar blue irises avoiding his gaze entirely as the boy's face becomes veiled by a curtain of black. "I finished my homework earlier, and the teacher said it was going to be early again, but I—I don't want to do any more."

Watching the child quietly, however curious yet more so unhinged; the moment in which his lips part once more to speak – the visual wince to the younger's form comes naturally with his tone of voice, despite him not understanding why.

"You will finish, then." Is the unmistakable answer, pale fingertips reaching idly for a packet of cigarettes. As it dawns on him that such things are left discarded in his coat pocket, no longer on him – but in the opposite room, the hand instead lowers to a jean-clad thigh; gliding against the material as he continues to speak. "Completing tasks early allows you more time to brush upon your studies; rather than begin research on foolish, Quincy subjects." Watching as a wince yet again happens, once more, the very fact that Uryu now knows that he's well aware of what he's been up to in his free time, might, perhaps allow them to avoid this subject in the near or distant future. "If you've completed those tasks and wish to learn more, retire for the evening instead of wasting your time with such unnecessary things."

Brushing from his seat and shifting from the table, a thin piece of china is taken into his grasp. Walking in the silence which engulfs them soon after, long strides are taken – if only to halt. The cause of their stop in movement, however, is not his inability to continue. But the soft, nearly unnoticeable whisper which then comes from an unmoving form.

"What was that?" Ryuken questions, glancing down at the child who seems almost scared in his very presence, despite not needing to be. Although just as he pauses, moves to continue in thinking that nothing more will be said – it's then that the first ever verbal, shout of defiance escapes pale lips as those childish hands clench.

"I-It's not unnecessary! And you're wrong! Sensei might not be here to teach me, but I will learn!"

Watching the rapid rise and fall of the startled one's chest, the almost apathetic gaze which the younger is met with is perhaps the thing that sets him off.

"You're no more my family than Sensei was! I wish he was here, and not you!"

Parting his lips to voice a protest, to speak what is unthinkable within a child's presence, the sudden movement of the child running elsewhere is perhaps what's best for the both of them, at the moment, as a sudden unknown, suppressed amount of anger flitters through the elder's system.

He supposes he should run after him, correct this misunderstanding and strengthen whatever ties have been left behind. But for some reason, the distant sound of footsteps that only seems to grow quieter hinders him from doing so, keeps him rooted in-place as his fingers become loose around the objects they hold. And then, as if unthinking—the plate is dropped. Into the sink with an inaudible splash—left there, discarded, momentarily forgotten. Gliding his hand along the sink and pressing himself away from it, the soft slamming of wood against its hinge echoes faintly throughout the empty home, holding within it, no more than two.

Despite the knowledge within him, being aware of what he should do; go to the child, reassure him, fix what's been broken. His footsteps seem to lead him elsewhere, unwavering, as they ignore the current situation. And instead of facing what could be considered the first, of many fights to come; he does something else.

Searching for his jacket and finding where it's been discarded, a single cigarette is placed between pale lips as the doctor moves to do instead, what he knows best: distract himself from the reality which he no longer desires to live in.

Moving elsewhere, and heading out; leaving the child behind in their seemingly abandoned home - the first of many nightshifts is taken, since the eldest Ishida's passing. Though certainly, it won't be the last.

God only knows which direction this path will lead them.