A.N.: Set in a universe where Ichigo and Orihime are married, but Orihime has been diagnosed with a mortal illness. This is Ichigo dealing with this predicament.
Second point of view, Ichigo-centric.
Warning: Implied mature themes.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
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And she's standing in the middle of a field of dead grass and withered, blackened wild flowers.
And you can't help but think how pretty those flowers would have looked, still vibrant and bright, tucked away within her hair; so vibrant and bright.
And she's wearing these slate gray pajamas. And you can't help but notice how they fit her, like cardboard pulled over sunspots; it doesn't make any sense at all.
And the breeze that combs its fingers through her hair scatters ash and dirt and all things unpleasant. And you want to tell her that she still looks brilliant enough to burn the whole world down three times over—to a crisp, really, the way it should have all along.
And all you can manage to say is, "You shouldn't be out here," even though you know you don't want to ruin this moment, singular and so sweet, for her.
And yet she still turns this smile, so vibrant and bright, to you; asks you, "Can you hear it? The world is still alive."
And you pretend you do, because that look in her eyes is the same thing keeping you alive.
.x.
What's keeping her alive is both machine and unfeeling, pumping quick and restless and desperate through her—breaking system.
What makes you want to scream is the same thing that makes you want to cry, and you can't remember the last time you have; it comes as a sigh, reminds you the tears should have all dried out, too.
What sign pinned outside her door proclaims inevitability, an unstoppable force coming in roars and shrieks and snarls. What makes you want to slam your fist into walls and break your own knuckles—for her.
What words people offer lie flat and limp and useless at your feet. What you want to say is pressed back into your throat, this look in her wide, wide eyes quelling all curses, all shouts, all roars and shrieks and snarls, that dare cut their way out of you.
What cuts its way into you is the same thing that cuts into her; or you tell yourself it does.
What sleep she gets, you keep losing.
What promises she offers, you cling onto like a lifeline.
What you know won't be followed through.
.x.
"Don't look at me like that, Kurosaki-kun. I'm still here."
.x.
Sometimes, she pulls you right into her arms and does not let go.
Sometimes, she tells you, "Break me," and you know exactly what she means by that.
Sometimes your touch will make her writhe and hiss and grit her teeth in only the right ways. Sometimes your hands on her won't burn their way into the back of your mind, won't fester there and rot you from the core. Sometimes her mouth won't whisper goodbye into your skin. Sometimes you'll take in air and know it won't be the last.
Sometimes you both pretend the future will stretch, straight and smooth edged and crystal clear, before you. Sometimes you both can dance in that thought for a while, that immortality is right at the tips of your fingers and you're almost there, just a little bit longer—hold on just a little bit longer—
Sometimes, she wrap her arms around your neck and says, "Kinda like breathing," and you know exactly what she means by that.
.x.
"I can feel when you're crying, Kurosaki-kun."
You press a kiss to the backs of her knuckles and do not meet her eyes. "I don't cry," you say, like you always do, and swallow hard when she smiles oh so gently back at you.
"You're only human, Kurosaki-kun. It's okay to cry."
You don't know how to tell her you wish you weren't sometimes, that you kinda want to not be anymore.
But then you wonder what she would be, and the thought snaps apart before you can cultivate it into anything.
.x.
Your mother smiled like that, too.
At least, your old man says she did; "All vibrant. All bright."
You know this is meant to make you feel better somehow, like it's something you should grasp at and hold onto and turn about in your hands when you have nothing else to fall back on. But your mother is dead, and this keeps ringing and ringing at the back of your mind, incessantly repeating what you pretend not to know: "She'll go the same way, too."
So you try not to see it—how soft her eyes become and how her lips curl so sweet at the ends—and that almost makes it not true.
But that also tears you up inside.
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And you can't help it; her cheeks are full and flushed and soft, and her laugh is just as hearty as ever.
And you can see it, there's a way out of this; you just gotta look harder.
And you keep thinking—it's just around that corner, this bend, waiting to be found.
And it only falls together, a puzzle being solved before your very eyes.
And your old man tells you, "When you hope, you look like the boy I raised."
And you wonder if you look like the man she married.
.x.
"Maybe we got married too young."
You don't believe that.
It's more like, "Maybe we didn't get married soon enough."
Or, "Maybe I'm just so greedy when it comes to you that I don't know how to let you go anymore."
.x.
When you kiss her, it's almost like it's the very last time you ever will, and it always comes in two ways.
So faint, so soft, so feather light—the barest brush of your lips across her skin, catching on what imperfections it can.
Or so deep, so very much like you're trying to devour the remaining bits of her left to have—hands buried just so in her hair, like you haven't quite grasped the concept of letting go yet.
Laced with an understanding of just how much time you have left, or a bitterness of just how unfair this all is.
Both drenched with something a lot like heartbreak.
.x.
She says your name with something like conviction, the same way she says, "I love you."
And you kinda figure that makes it okay.
And at the same time makes it not okay.
(But, you know, it's never actually been okay. More like, fucking awful, fuck everything, fuck this life—)
.x.
"You told me you'd never hurt me, Kurosaki-kun," she murmurs one day, takes your hand in hers and does not let go. "You told me, 'As long as you will have me, I'll be right here,' right?"
There's a lump in your throat and it makes it hard to swallow—bitter medicine rolling down to fill you with ice. "Yeah," you manage. "Yeah, I did."
And she smiles like she gets it, like she's right there in your mind, and she says, "I'll always want you, Kurosaki-kun. And I think that's the most selfish thing."
"It isn't," you say, and all of a sudden you just want her in your arms, you just want to bury your face in her shoulder and never move from there—because you get it. "It's isn't."
.x.
Your old man says, "There's still a chance."
There's a taunting voice at the back of your mind, telling you, "You don't get it. This is it for you. You couldn't do shit for her and now look at her—can't even leave the bed most days. There is no chance."
You know which voice is louder, but a whisper is just as effective as a shout.
.x.
"Stop looking at me like that, Kurosaki-kun. I'm still here."
.x.
As a child, your old man used to tell you that he fell in love with your mother all over again every single day.
You get it now.
Rediscovering the smallest things—how bits of food stick to her cheeks or chin as she eats, or how she turns this pretty pink when you tease her about it—brings about this revelation, this dawning realization that you still have so much, so much, left to learn about her—
And you don't even have the time anymore.
The fluttering in the pit of your stomach fluctuates, and you're not sure what that means. Only that you've noticed how sharply your heart tugs when you remember—oh, hey, you'll probably never see this again.
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"Stop, Kurosaki-kun. Please stop torturing yourself like this. I'm still here."
.x.
Some nights you're torn from sleep by the image of her—gray and still and unmoving.
Crying doesn't quite do it justice, because your throat is sore and your face is buried in the pillow and something inside of you is collapsing.
"Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't—don't take her from me—"
.x.
So what sleep she gets, you keep losing.
And you're mostly, perfectly fine with this.
.x.
"Make love to me," she says, and you decide that now is the time to pour all of yourself into her.
And maybe, just maybe, she'll consume enough to go on.
You roll your hips down into hers and move around the wires, the tubes, the small little blaring reminders—the fact of the matter—and you hope you're giving her what she wants. Her hand fists at the back of your shirt and she tips her head back into the pillows, strings your name up in what sounds like prayers, like promises, like lifelines the both of you cling onto.
She is restless and writhing and when she starts to sob, it's all in the right way.
When she finally comes apart, her eyes are wide, wide open and she's looking right at you and yet not at you at all. She's seeing something you haven't yet and for a split second your heart is ready to drop—forever out of reach—and then she sighs, so sweet, "I love you."
Or maybe your name, you can't tell. The relief is deafening.
.x.
And she's standing in the middle of a field of dead grass and withered, blackened wild flowers. And she is spinning around, so graceful, to smile back at you; so vibrant, so bright.
And she asks you, "Can you hear it? The world is still alive."
And you say you do, because suddenly everything looks so brilliant.
And she is the reason why.
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"You told me you'd never hurt me, Kurosaki-kun," she murmurs, takes your hand and does not let go.
"Yeah," you say, press a kiss to the backs of her knuckles. "Yeah, I did."
"You know I'll never hurt you, too, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"As long as you'll have me, I'll be right here for you."
And something like hope wraps up close around you both.
.x.
"I'm still here, Kurosaki-kun. Don't ever look at me like I won't be."
.x.
A.N.: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.