This was inspired by Nothing by The Script. Listen to it, it's a really touching song. I basically followed the plot of the song, but the ending is my own. I really need to write something other than angst.
"C'mon man, you need a drink."
"Yeah, let's head over to the bar. It'll do you good."
I offer a tiny smile, something weak and sickly-looking that barely passes for a grimace. Hands latch onto my shoulders, guiding me, pushing me down the sidewalk blanketed in snow. Cars flash by, shining their headlights in our eyes. The darkening street passes by without my notice. I just feel…nothing. I feel empty, as if I've had my soul ripped out, but there's no pain. There's no fear. There's no sadness. Just nothing. Am I dead? Phrases bounce around my skull, as if replacing the emotions that should be there.
Gone.
Alone.
Hate.
Without.
Cold.
Unloved.
"Shiro."
The tone of Grimmjow's voice tells me he's called my name several times already. I jerk my gaze up from the frozen concrete, my mind still locked in its void, vacant of emotion.
"…and it's better being single, right? He just dragged you down." I only catch the last part of what he's said. Nnoitra gruffly mumbles something that makes Grimmjow chuckle and punch his arm, but I can see it's strained. I can see the way they glance at me when they think I'm not looking. I give another smile, putting some more force into it.
"Hey, I'm okay. Let's just go to the bar." Brushing past them, I take the last couple strides into the heat of the tavern. Rather than accepting the warmth seeping into my body and relaxing, as I would any other night, there's a cold ball of ice growing in my stomach. It clenches my insides, chilling me to the bone. Once again, a grip finds my forearm and steers me to the counter. Words fly between Grimmjow and the bartender as I study the nicked and abused texture of the wooden table. Something brown in a tall mug slides in front of me. It takes my lethargic brain a second, but I recognize the liquid as a beer, quickly grabbing it and swigging it. The glass is taken away from me, and I start to protest, but it's replaced by a full one.
As I plow through drinks, my friends sit around me, conversation easily flowing between them. I wonder what it's like to be able to speak freely, be able to talk without fearing accidentally saying something that will trigger a slew of unwelcome memories. I wonder if I'll ever be able to exist properly again without spending my every waking thought on bright orange hair, a temper equally as fiery, and tender honey eyes. As I close my own heavy eyelids, the emptiness returns, throwing his voice and his scalding words at me.
I'm leaving.
Can't do this.
Moving out.
We're over.
Don't call.
My grip tightens around my mug, squeezing it so tightly my fingers turn white. I choke something out, my friends turning and pausing their laughter to look at me. I repeat what I said, with more conviction, but my voice is shaky.
"I…I still love him. I still love him," I mumble, more to myself than anyone else.
Grimmjow and Nnoitra glance at me incredulously, my head lowered over my god-knows-what-number beer. Grimmjow murmurs something I don't catch to my other friend, but Nnoitra gets up and leaves the table.
"Hey, Shiro, don't say that. Don't trick yourself into thinking that. It'll just make it harder on you," Grimmjow mutters sympathetically, leaning over his own drink towards me. His cerulean eyes swim with pity for me and my pathetic state.
"But it's true," I slur, the words barely getting past my swollen-feeling lips, "I still love him." It comes out sounding as if I don't believe it myself, but I know it. I know it's the truth.
"I think you need to go home, man. I'll get your coat." Grimmjow starts to get up, carefully eyeing me for grief-driven insanity. He puts a big hand on my shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, but I'm out of it. I'm standing, but I don't remember ever leaving my seat. My hands are digging through my pockets, some subliminal urge pushing them. I don't realize what I'm doing until I'm dialing the all-too-familiar number. Grimmjow's eyes widen and he reaches for me in alarm, but I bat his hands away.
"Shiro, you're drunk, don't do this to yourself! It's a bad –"
The phone clicks as the person at the other end picks up. A harsh voice growls, "I thought I told you–"
"Ichi," I mumble, a hearty warmth heating me to the core at the sound his voice. I want to let him speak, just so I can hear his voice. But I can't bear to hear the cruel words that will come from that perfect mouth.
"Ichi, listen to me," I say, my tongue feeling heavy with the weight of the alcohol. I cut off his protests.
"I love you, Ichi. I still love you." My words are slurred, my mind is muddled, and it's not the most convincing confession, but it's said. Ichi heard it. He has to take me back now.
The line crackles with static. No smooth baritone soothes my fears. Panic bubbles up. Why isn't he saying anything? I would rather he yell at me than stay silent.
"Ichi. Ichi, answer me!" I beg, desperation obvious in my tone. I want a reply, I need it! Why doesn't he at least scream at me?
Click.
And then I'm gone.
I'm out the door, on the street, stumbling. Voices yell my name somewhere behind me, but I push on, tripping over my own feet and grabbing onto railings to keep from falling and not being able to get back up. Hoarse cries ring out in the chilled air, crying out his name, but the voice is foreign to me. It doesn't sound like me.
Someone tries to hold me, stop me. I roughly shove away, staggering forward with renewed vigor. If Ichi sees me, if he sees my face, he'll have to take me back. He can't say no.
The heartbreakingly familiar house comes into view. The modest pastel yellow reminds me of so many locked away feelings of comfort and happiness. So many smiles and fond eyes that I can't bear to remember. I stumble forward, pressing on. I must be operating on sheer willpower. My battered heart should have given out much earlier. I finally reach the door after dragging myself across what seemed like miles of a front walk. My pulse hammers like an angry drum staccato against my chest. I lift my hand to knock. But I don't. Can I really do this? Can I face him? I have to. He needs to know how I feel. I need him to know.
I bring my knuckles down on the hard wood once, the movement seeming to drag all the energy from me. I wait with bated breath for what seems like a century. And the door opens.
My soul itself melts into a puddle on the ground, my hands shaking in happiness. Ichi looks exactly the same, with furrowed eyebrows and a sunburst of orange hair. I can feel all my worries slipping away as a numb warmth overtakes me. He has to take me back. There's no way he won't.
"Ichi..."
He flinches at the sound of his name, and that stabs me through the heart like an icicle shoved through my chest. For the first time, I notice his expression. I can see sadness, longing, irritation, joy and so many other emotions that overflow silently. He hesitates, as if he's about to slam the door on me. I open my mouth hurriedly, the dumb happiness gone as quickly as it had come.
"Ichi," I murmur, willing the words to make a difference, "I still love you. Please."
I can feel something in the air between us, something not-quite-there and fragile. And I can't bear to break it. The shreds of what we had, the remains of long summer days spent together and winter evenings by a roaring fire, of those precious moments I'll never forget; I can't lose that. I can't. And I'm begging, begging with all I have that Ichi won't take a sledgehammer to all, and crush what's left of my frozen, twisted heart.
But he does. With a movement as simple as a shake of his head, he shuts the door and disappears forever from my life.
On one side of the door, an orange-haired figure slumps against the wood. His eyes are distant, fondly remembering something. He heaves a sigh like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It's a sigh that tells of better days, of anguish, of pain. It's a sigh that holds regret, uncertainty. As he rubs his eyes, pushing his fingers into overly-long bangs, the moonlight reflects off of a soundless tear that slides down his face.
At the same time, it could have been — it felt like — miles away, someone with silver hair leans back against the same door. He cries freely, silently. Nothing will ever bring back what he's broken. Nothing will revive what he once had. He will never, ever forget this moment. He will never forget the moment he lost everything. Because now, all he feels is nothing.