A/N: The title of this story was taken from the song that inspired it: "Colder Weather" by the Zac Brown Band. Zaraki might be somewhat out of character here, but remember that he is younger in this story than he is in the series.
"Zaraki, where are you going?" The dark-haired woman gripped the doorframe hard.
"Heard about a fighting tournament over in 75th in three days. I'll be back in a week, tops." Yachiru sighed and bit her lip hard, trying to fight back the quip that desperately wanted to escape her lips. He said a week, and that's what he intended, but she knew from prior experience that one week would turn into two, which would turn into a month, then three months, maybe longer before she saw him again. She watched Zaraki's longish hair sway against his broad back as he walked away, sword slung carelessly over one shoulder. He raised a hand in farewell without turning to look at her.
"You don't have to stay," she whispered. Zaraki whirled around at that and Yachiru cursed mentally. She had forgotten how sharp his ears were.
"Whaddaya mean, don't have to stay," he growled, stalking back toward the small hovel the two shared, looming over her like an elm over a wildflower, "I said I'll be back in a week, probably sooner 'less somethin' comes up."
"Oh, just ignore me, it was just a passing thought; I didn't even realize I said it out loud." Zaraki gave her one of his glares that let her know he knew she was lying. Yachiru sighed and bit her lip, breathing deeply and looking at her feet to keep from crying.
"It's just that...you never seem to be happy here. When you stay, you're antsy and irritable, like you'd rather be somewhere else. You're always haring off to other districts in search of another fight, something exciting. If you're happier off fighting in other places, then that's what you should be doing. I'll...I'll wait for you, as long as it takes for you to decide you want to settle for a while, if you ever do. You're a rambler and a gypsy at heart, always have been, probably always will be, and I understand that. I couldn't live that way myself, but I do understand. I'll always be here, but you don't have to stay with me. Don't make yourself...miserable...on my account." The last sentence was whispered to Zaraki's feet as Yachiru tried hard to keep the tears burning her sinuses from falling. The man hated it when she cried. A large, callused hand gently grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.
"Hey," he rumbled, using his thumb to wipe away the tear that had escaped despite her best efforts. His grey eyes were as soft as she had ever seen them. "I promised you I'd always come back, didn't I? I wouldn'ta made a promise I didn't mean to keep. I'll come back to you." Yachiru's eyes brimmed and the tears spilled over without her permission. Zaraki pulled her into a hug and her arms came up around his waist as she burrowed her head into his chest. He let her go after a minute and she reluctantly pulled away, discretely wiping her eyes on his yukata. He threaded his fingers through her hair and rested his forehead against hers. Yachiru closed her eyes against the urge to break down and weep. She didn't know understand why it was so hard for her to let him go this time. It hurt every time, of course, as if he was ripping a piece of her heart out and taking it with him, but this time was worse than usual. She got the strange sense that she wouldn't see him again if he left this time. She didn't say anything because she knew it would only make him angry, thinking that she was calling him a liar and it was a ridiculous notion anyway. If Zaraki made a promise, he would keep it or die trying. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Don't cry for me, Yachi, I'll be back soon," Zaraki murmured into her hair before kissing her forehead and turning to walk away.
"I love you," Yachiru whispered to his retreating back. He didn't even turn to look at her. She stood at the door of their hut and watched him until she couldn't see him anymore. She went back inside; heart aching as if a chunk of it was missing.
Zaraki arrived in District 75 dusty and tired three days later around midday. He stopped in the local ale house, which was a shack on the verge of toppling at the slightest breeze, smelled of stale sweat, soured ale, and unwashed human bodies, and served alcohol strong enough to strip paint, to find out more about the rumored tournament. On hearing the details, he made his way to the described location, paid the entry fee, and sat against a wall to wait his turn, a feral grin on his face.
The man who hosted the tournament, which Zaraki won handily, was so impressed with Zaraki's performance that he offered the mercenary three times his winnings, a considerable sum itself, to stay on for a while as his bodyguard. Zaraki agreed. Yachiru hardly crossed his mind. She had been with him long enough to understand his mercenary, wandering ways. He couldn't stop the pang of guilt he felt when her last, unacknowledged words to him crossed his mind, but he shoved the thought away hard whenever it occurred to him. He felt something for her, something more than friendship, but couldn't put it into words. He hoped that Yachi understood that. He was, after all, a "gypsy" as she put it, and wouldn't come back for much of anyone, but he always came back to her, and he always would.
The rumors reached him a month later. He was sitting in the ale house (which still smelled awful) sipping his sake and thinking about nothing in particular, when his eyes drifted to the hut across the street. A man stood in the doorway with a pack on his back embracing a woman who clung to him fiercely. The man pulled back and gently pried the woman's fists from his clothing before turning and walking away. The woman sagged against the doorframe and put her fist up to her mouth with tears streaming down her face. She looked directly at Zaraki and he jolted as he saw her eyes. They looked terribly familiar and it took him several minutes to figure out why. They looked just like Yachiru's eyes had the last time he saw her. She hadn't been crying when he left, although he could tell she wanted to and was holding back for his sake, but her eyes had been so sad, even a bit hopeless, as if she'd never see him again, just like this abandoned woman's. Zaraki tossed back his saucer of sake and immediately poured himself another. Yachiru said she'd wait for him, why was he so upset? She'd been with him for a couple of decades now and was used to only seeing him once every few months unless he had an injury that kept him there in their hut in Eastern Zaraki for longer. His ears pricked at the conversation from the next table over.
"…raid in Zaraki. A lot of the slums, especially the farthest part of it closest to the border, caught fire and the Soul Reapers are still counting the dead. From what I heard, the women were captured alive and the rest left to burn." Zaraki stood up quickly, chair falling over backward with a clatter. He was at the next table in a step and lifted the speaker by his collar.
"When," he growled. The man's face paled.
"T-t-two, three weeks ago, I'm not really sure. Please don't hurt me!" Zaraki huffed disgustedly and tossed the man gently—for him, at least—toward the bar. He slapped a few coins down on his table and stomped out of the ale house. As soon as he reached the street, he took off into a run. His heart was frozen in his chest. Yachiru would be alright; she had to be. If she wasn't, he would bathe in the blood of whoever dared harm what was his. A bloodthirsty leer bloomed on his face at the thought of violence, and he ran on faster.
Two days later, he arrived back in 80th. Just like the man had said, the eastern part of it was a burned out wreck. Zaraki pelted on until he reached the gutted, charred skeleton of what used to be his and Yachiru's hut.
"Yachiru!" he bellowed. No one answered. He entered what was left of the hut and sifted through the rubble. He lifted the blackened remains of what had been one of the roof beams and his knuckles brushed something soft. He flipped the beam out of the way to see Yachiru's crimson hair ribbon, burned on one end but mostly intact. He clenched his jaw and grabbed the ribbon, tucking it into his yukata before resuming his digging, his heart in his throat. He remembered buying Yachiru that ribbon after he won his first tournament. That had been ten, fifteen years ago, something like that, and he had never seen her without it since. If she wasn't wearing it in her hair then it was around her wrist or tucked into her obi. She wouldn't have left it behind had she left their hut voluntarily.
"Yachi, answer me!" he roared again. Again, only silence replied. A rusty chuckle came from nearby and he whirled to see a withered old man leaning on a cane.
"Your lover isn't here, boy. They took her with all the other girls." Zaraki stalked over to the man, who was swaying alarmingly.
"Which way," he grunted from between clenched teeth. The old man pointed westward, toward Kusajishi and then collapsed in a heap, coughing heavily. Zaraki hauled him up with a hand fisted in the back of his ragged garment, then propped him up against a wall.
"Thanks," he mumbled as he started walking west.
"Good luck, lad, I hope you find your Yachiru," the old man called feebly. Zaraki waved absently as he trotted away.
A week later, sometime after moonrise, Zaraki found the warehouse where the raiders were keeping the women stolen from 80th. He killed the guards as quickly and quietly as he could and snuck inside through the gap in the doors. Neither of the guards was worth wasting his time fighting. He would've drawn it out further, drawn more of the raiders to the battle and perhaps have gotten a half-decent opponent, but he was more worried about finding Yachiru. The interior of the warehouse was too warm, dimly lit, and reeked of human waste and unwashed bodies. The women were sleeping. Zaraki found the nearest body and shook her shoulder roughly. The woman's eyes flew open and she inhaled to scream, but was prevented by Zaraki's big hand over her mouth.
"Don't scream, woman," he rumbled, "I ain't gonna hurt ya. I'm lookin' for a girl; short, dark hair, dark eyes, named Yachiru. You seen her?" the woman shook her head and Zaraki grunted, letting her go and moving on. By the time he had asked six different women, the whole warehouse-full had woken up and were eyeing him nervously. Zaraki growled, frustrated, as the seventh woman also answered in the negative. Zaraki stood to his full height and raised his voice. If he drew more of the raiders then so be it; he could use a good fight anyway and if the guards were any indication, it wouldn't take him long to finish them off.
"Alright, you lot: I'm lookin' for a woman named Yachiru, short, dark hair, dark eyes. Anyone seen her? Yachi, if you're here, speak up." The women were silent for a minute, and then one near the center of the room stood and wove between bodies to reach him.
"She's this way, but…she's in a bad way and…" the woman said quietly, trailing off into silence. Zaraki nodded slightly in acknowledgement and followed the woman to one of the back corners where a single candle was barely burning, on the verge of guttering out. A woman lay on a pallet composed of cloaks and outer garments while three other women sat beside her, one wiping her face with a scrap of filthy cloth. The corner stank of sweat, sickness, and festering wounds. The woman on the pallet moaned and turned her face toward Zaraki, eyelashes fluttering. It was Yachiru. He knelt by the pallet, sending the other women scurrying back.
"I got her, you can go now. Guards outside the door are dead. If you're quick and quiet you can get outta here before the watch changes. Ain't much left of East Zaraki, so you're gonna want to find somewhere else to live, but get outta here while you can." The women thanked him enthusiastically until he growled and sent them away to gather the rest of the women—nearly a hundred in all—and get them out. They did as they were told, the one who had been wiping Yachiru's face pressing the rag into his hand before squeezing his shoulder sympathetically and scurrying off after the others. Zaraki looked Yachiru over closely and his heart stopped at the bloodstained bandage wound around her abdomen. He peeled it back gingerly and cursed at the sight, his face paling. "In a bad way" was an understatement. Gut wounds were hard enough to heal with proper care and a healer in attendance. In a filthy warehouse with nothing more than a ragged cloth bandage and less than a cupful of tepid, stale water… he re-wrapped the bandage the best he could and brushed a hand through Yachiru's filthy, matted hair.
"Hey Yachi, wake up; it's time to go." Yachiru stirred with a disgruntled sound and her eyes fluttered open. When she saw who was hovering over her, her whole face lit up with joy and she raised a weak, trembling hand toward his face. He caught it and laced their fingers together, squeezing lightly. Not for the first time, he was astounded by how tiny and delicate her hand was in comparison to his own. It seemed to be an even greater contrast than it had the last time he saw her. This time her fingers were small twigs, nothing but skin and bone.
"You came for me," Yachiru croaked, and Zaraki clenched his jaw at how weak her voice was. She shouldn't be so happy to see him. She should be mad at him for not being there to protect her when she needed it, not looking at him like he was an angel just for showing up after she needed him and he hadn't been there. Why wasn't she mad at him?
"I promised I'd always come back for you, didn't I," he rumbled gruffly, "Yachi, what happened?" Yachiru's face fell slightly, her beatific expression replaced by a small, wry smile.
"You would've been proud. I fought with everything I had when the raiders came, but it didn't do any good; there were too many of them and one got me with the butt of his sword from behind. I got three of 'em before I went down, though. Did you find my ribbon? I made sure to drop it so you would know I was still alive." Zaraki pulled the crimson ribbon from his yukata and Yachiru sighed with relief as he handed it to her, rubbing the silky material between her fingers as she talked. "After they brought us here, they left us alone for three days with no food and just enough water to keep us alive to make us more docile. On the fourth morning, the leader of the raiding band came in and grabbed little Sakura, who is only thirteen. He was going to…do something awful to her in front of us to scare us into being obedient. I helped deliver Sakura and her mother is…was…a very good friend of mine, so of course I stepped in. I killed the brute with his own knife, but he got me good first." Zaraki's low, rumbling growl filled the warehouse and he had to concentrate hard in order to form words.
"Good girl," he said tersely, "I'm gonna get you outta here. There's a pretty good healer over in 75th, so we'll head there. There's nothing left of the hut." Yachiru nodded, but gasped loudly and fought back a whimper when Zaraki jostled her torso trying to lift her. He decided they could stay what was left of the night in the warehouse and leave for 75th in the morning. Zaraki laid down next to Yachiru, still holding her hand, and fell into a doze.
He had been drifting in and out of sleep for maybe two hours when Yachiru started shifting restlessly, crying out in pain whenever her torso moved. Zaraki bolted awake and sat up. Yachiru's face was flushed and when he put his palm on her forehead, she was running a very high fever. Cursing, he grabbed the rag the woman had pressed into his hand and dipped it in the tiny cup of water and started bathing her face with it. The water ran out just after sunrise, but when Zaraki tried to get up to get more, Yachiru grabbed his hand and begged him not to leave her again with tears running down her face.
"Yachi, I'll be right back. I'm just gonna step outside and get more water. I've gotta get you well enough to travel. Be smart, girl. C'mon, lemme go." Yachiru was delirious enough she couldn't hear him and kept crying and begging softly for him not to leave her. Zaraki couldn't stand her tears, never had been able to, so he sat beside her for several minutes and wiped the sweat from her face with the dry cloth. Slowly, slowly, the sun rose higher and he checked her wound again now that he had better light. He cursed continuously under his breath the whole time he was unwinding the bandage, which was more stained than it had been the previous night, and when it finally came free and he saw the extent of Yachiru's wound, his cursing turned to silence. He had seen enough men die that he knew Yachiru didn't have long.
"No, no, no, no, no," he muttered under his breath, "Yachi, hang on, ya hear me? I'll get you to 75th and that healer. It'll take a day or two, just hang on that long, girl. I won't let you give up on me."
"Zaraki," Yachiru whispered, and his head jerked up to look at her. Her face was still flushed, but she was awake and lucid. She reached for him and he scooped her into his lap as gently as he could, all but cringing when he jostled her enough to make her cry out softly. "Zaraki," she whispered again, "it's your turn now."
"Whaddaya mean, my turn?" he asked, doing his best to untangle her hair with his fingers.
"It's your turn to let me go." Zaraki frowned for a moment, and then he understood what she meant.
"Yachi…"
"No, both you and I know that I'm not gonna make it. I'm on my way out now as it is. For once in your life, let something go peacefully." Zaraki clenched his jaw so hard his teeth creaked, but nodded nonetheless. He knew Yachiru was right and he didn't want to waste what little time they had left arguing with her. After fighting alongside him and waiting for him while he fought for so many years even though she hated it, Yachiru deserved to spend her last hours in peace. He held her a little tighter and kept running his fingers through her hair, untangling it as best he could. Yachiru fell quickly into a doze, humming contentedly. Zaraki felt a pale, feeble ghost of a grin cross his face. She had always reminded him of a cat the way she loved to be petted. For the next several hours, she alternated between dozing and talking softly, reminiscing.
The sun climbed higher in the sky, and Zaraki was vaguely surprised that the murdered guards hadn't been discovered yet. When the sun was almost directly overhead, Yachiru's breathing changed, becoming short and shallow. She woke quickly from her doze and she grabbed blindly for Zaraki's hand. He took it, feeling like he was going to be sick, and she pressed her ribbon into it, curling his fingers around the slightly ragged strip of red silk. She whispered something faintly, and Zaraki leaned in closer to hear.
"I love you, and I'll be waiting," she murmured. Zaraki nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that interfered with his speech. "Will you do something for me?" Yachiru asked, sounding almost afraid.
"What," Zaraki grunted.
"Kiss me, please, just once before…" her voice trailed off as she gasped for breath. Zaraki's eyes widened, but he leaned in and pressed his lips gently to hers. It should have been awkward and rather embarrassing, it was the first time either of them had ever kissed anyone, after all, but it wasn't. It was bittersweet, flavored with smoke, dust, and tears, and utterly, tragically perfect. He pulled back after an endless moment and Yachiru let out a long sigh.
"Thanks, love," she breathed, and didn't inhale again. Her eyes closed and her hand went slack in his. Zaraki trailed his hand from her hair down to her throat. It was perfectly still. She was gone. His Yachi was gone. He gathered her tightly to him and buried his face in her hair, which smelled of smoke and sweat with a hint of the pine trees she loved. His eyes were clenched shut and his breathing was ragged. He pressed his lips to her hair, then laid her down gently and let out an animalistic roar of fury and despair. The noise went on and on, echoing in the confines of the otherwise-empty warehouse. Before long, he heard the sound of shouts and pounding footsteps and a terrifying, feral grin split his face in two. He tucked Yachiru's ribbon into his yukata and stood, drawing his sword.
He kept his earlier promise to himself and bathed in the blood of his enemies, but it didn't do a thing for the ragged hole in his chest where Yachiru had been.
He buried her in a grove of pine trees near where their hut had been in Zaraki and put a stone marker over her grave. He barely knew how to write, but even if he could, he wouldn't have had a clue what to put on it, so he simply wrote her name.
Just over a year later, he heard rumor of some bandits causing trouble in Kusajishi. He caught up to them in short order and dispatched them in even shorter order, but wasn't quick enough to spare the family he found murdered in a small clearing. He sat on a rock, bloody sword propped against his knee, thoughts wandering aimlessly, when a small cooing sound by his feet snapped him out of his musings. He looked down to see a small girl, too young to walk, even, reaching for his sword.
"Where'd you come from, little one," he growled, "and why are you lookin' at my sword?" Most children would have been frightened of his craggy, scarred face and gruff growl, but this tiny, pink haired girl just looked at him, giggled, then frowned in concentration as she reached for his sword again. He pulled it out of reach. "This isn't a toy; it's a tool I use for killing people." The knowledge didn't deter her and this time she managed to touch it and smeared crimson all over her hand. She seemed fascinated by the color and giggled and cooed in wonder and she spread the sticky substance all over both hands and a good portion of her yukata. Zaraki chuckled.
"What's your name, little one?" the girl just looked at him in confusion, then went back to playing with her 'paint.' "Don't have one, huh? Well neither do I." The girl giggled up at him, still smearing blood all over everything within reach. Zaraki stared at her smiling face for several moments, frowning deeply. This girl…her lack of fear and the way she smiled at him reminded him almost painfully of his Yachiru. He thought she would've liked this little one; she loved kids in general and he was pretty sure she wouldn't mind one borrowing her name. He knew what that felt like and he didn't want this fearless little one to go through the same thing he had.
"You've gotta name now, girl," he rumbled. "It's pronounced Ya-chi-ru. This is how it's written." He scrawled her name into the dirt with the tip of his sword. "It's the name of the only person I…ever admired." The newly-dubbed Yachiru giggled again, looking up into his face.
"Ya-chi-ru?" she chirped. Zaraki nodded and scooped her up, setting her on his shoulder and striding off toward District 78. Yachiru squealed delightedly and started yanking on his hair with hands still smeared with blood.
Yachiru, what have you gotten me into now? Zaraki thought, and could have sworn he heard her chuckle in his ear.