Characters: Rukia, Ishida
Summary: "I knew you were a fellow masochist! Welcome to the club!" "…God, you really are drunk." Rukia and Ishida, on masochism and rejection.
Pairings: all hinted at or alluded to; whether you think the interactions of the two featured characters constitute this is entirely subjective
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Timeline: some time in the future; no specifics needed
Author's Note: Nothing, really. As ever, feedback would be greatly appreciated. I leave it to you to work out the situation.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.

"Why the hell are you here? I didn't call you."

"Well you must have dialed in the wrong number, because you got me, and now I'm here. Come to think of it, I don't even know how you got my phone number."

"Yeah… So about that, why did you come here anyway?"

"To make sure that you'll still be conscious in the morning and, if necessary, get your stomach pumped so you won't keel over on me and lapse into a coma. I'd have a very hard time explaining that to your brother."

"Oh, thanks for that. Always the gentleman, huh?"

"I have my moments."

Ishida looks as though he hasn't slept in two days and nights, as he sits down by Rukia on the bench in front of the establishment from which she has emerged (kicked out, as it happens, by the disgruntled proprietor), and Rukia doesn't have to guess exactly how long it's been since Ishida last slept. They haven't slept in the same time.

Rukia knows why.

Ishida frowns up at the night sky, filled with icy fog and the steam made by the breathing of every occupant of Karakura Town; light refracts off of the fog and mist from the stark white floodlight overhead. "God, it's cold out here tonight." He shoots a half-critical, half-concerned look at her. "Didn't you bring a coat?"

She shrugs. "No. I don't mind the cold; when I was little I was always stuck in the cold without a coat." She immediately shoots an irritable look at him. "Don't worry about me."

Immediately, Ishida changes the subject, eyes glinting hard behind his glasses, arms folded around his chest. "Okay, why are you here?"

This strikes an uncomfortable chord in Rukia, and she squirms uncomfortably on the wood bench, looking up at the sky and—even though it is starkly clear and she can see each and every star clearly, or at least as clearly as possible through all the smog—hoping it won't rain. "Oh, because I really don't want to look at life right now." Her voice is sharp and bitter. Ironically, she adds, "And because the sake here just tastes so good."

He tilts his head, and the gleam in his eyes is not unsympathetic. "Kuchiki-san, there are better ways."

"You've got no room to talk. You hardly ever come out of that apartment of yours now."

Ishida's face sours. "Point taken."

They fall into silence; both are quiet by nature and aren't really given to idle chatter. Then, Rukia asks the question that everyone who has a clue would like to know, and no one in their right mind would ask, and if she were at all sober, then she wouldn't be asking. "You're still in love with her, aren't you?"

"You have absolutely no room to talk." Ishida's voice drips venom and irony, throwing Rukia's own line back at her.

For the moment, Rukia chooses to ignore this. "And…" Her face, slackened with drink, is now lined with skepticism. "…You're not going to do anything now?"

"Once again, Kuchiki-san, you have absolutely no room to talk." Ishida stares, with narrowed, strangely blank eyes, at the frosted ground. "And what is there to do, except let her make her own choices?" he asks quietly.

Rukia nods as though this all makes perfect sense, and in a way, it does. They've both been given heartache as bitter gifts. "Okay, okay." Then, she smirks, and in a move that elicits an absolutely hilarious (to Rukia's inebriated mind, anyway) reaction out of Ishida, she throws her arms around his neck and laughs caustically. "I knew you were a fellow masochist! Welcome to the club!"

"…God, you really are drunk." He's right; Rukia would never do something like that sober, but then, she didn't get drunk to completely bury all her inner urges. Then, after a moment of awkwardly patting her back, cheeks red, he gingerly asks, "Kuchiki-san, would you please let go?"

Rukia only lets go when she feels her stomach shift, and she kneels over on the bench away from him, groaning and clutching her stomach, white face contorted in pain.

Ishida sighs and stands up, putting an arm under the crook of Rukia's arm and looping it over his shoulder. "Come on, Kuchiki-san. Let's go to the hospital—" Ishida must be really concerned, Rukia decides, if he's willing to risk an encounter with his father "—and see if you need to get your stomach pumped."

It was going to be another long night.