i do not own bleach. soc.
guest july 1: thank you, your recent review alert made me remember this story and i am actually pretty easy to persuade. you are sweet.
hopelessromantic, yuiyuki, guest and guest and guest: thank you, and you are all sweet, too. (you made me write in past tense again)
odium
by appleschan
No other shade of red burned redder and brighter than fresh blood, and no other form of secret was the most alluring and intimate but those guarded by the soul.
Ichigo long contemplated these two.
His victims. When the soul prepares to leave the body and blood is drained and there is nothing else to cling on: secrets are spilled, in thoughts or in words, quietly or loudly –a sinner begging for his sin or a person smiling peacefully on his death- and Ichigo thought this time is one of the highest points of life. Ichigo stayed to observe, thinking of their taste.
He paused, and thought of Rukia and summer nights and her choice of coming here.
A blood moon was set to rise, and myths said demons will be on parade and ghosts will visit their love ones. By his dark humor, though, he –as a demon of a particular sort - had been on parade for centuries, albeit a bolder one, unafraid of light and living, but in malicious motives and actions and eventual doom, these demons were his family.
(and miracles and compassion and kind words and being saved –they were lies)
Ichigo stayed in the island for days, he watched her walk around small houses and patios, turned corners and travelled to old places in her little province. On her downtimes, she plucked out weeds on her small ancestral home; she kept it meticulously clean. Her brother had left her immediately, and Rukia did not look so distraught.
Curious, Ichigo followed her.
(but the sky was a swirl of blue and white, and there were birds and light breeze from the ocean and the daffodils were colored rich yellow, maybe it was a good day; Ichigo could not define what constitutes a good day)
Ichigo followed Rukia to an island rocky shore line. She was quietly perched on a tree branch overlooking the ocean –a skill she was quietly adept at: scaling trees like a cat and disappearing so easily, her legs swinging lazily back and front. Her trip had been quiet and uneventful –Ichigo wondered if this what she exactly hoped for. He stood beside a large trunk, a shadow at the corner.
Somehow, she looked solemn and peaceful, and he thought of death.
Perhaps, it had been a dream.
And there was never a reality in dreaming (they were lies, too). Lies told on one's head.
Ichigo clearly felt the creeping dusk, all smoky and stark in visibility broken by smudges of red and peach. There were light traces of afternoon breeze in the air, the row houses on the other side of the shore were already lit; night was upon them.
"I knew," Rukia said softly. She was back on the ground, a little thing in a nice, blue dress.
"I always knew you were a kind of," Rukia trailed, there weren't so many words to describe him. "…predator."
Secrets. Oh how foolish.
"That afternoon," she said, but Ichigo did not have to hear what else: that tedious sunny afternoon when the played the universe as a puzzle, the stars are in pieces and he was winning and he kissed her.
I felt something different.
"I felt something different."
"Ah," was his only answer. A neutral answer that will give none away –he thought.
"I don't know what you are." She said, and Ichigo thought, of course. "But you are dangerous and sharp."
"Ah," the second time, though, there was a visible curve on his lips.
He thought, will this end tonight?
Perhaps the answer was in Rukia's next words.
(but he truly meant to give her a good dream, a good lie: he is sort of kind)