Ch 5. Framing their Relationship
Rukia draws a circle. Then with a few careful strokes, she adds two long ears—one of them flopping over. Next comes the eyes—two ovals lying side by side. She fills in the rest of the details next, adding a ribbon to the base of the raised ear. It's somewhat frilly though, causing her to pause and bite on the end of her pencil until a sudden, better idea replaces the old. The ribbon gets erased. Long lashes and a jumper help to identify the bunny's gender instead.
When finished she looks over her shoulder and rests her sapphire eyes on his sleeping figure, sunk deep into a heap of blankets and pillows. She smiles complacently and turns back to her work, having decided to scribble a few words. Cheer up! See you after work! Meanwhile, a flustered Ichigo chases plushy toy lions in his dreams.
In the morning Rukia wakes up late and alone. She'll have breakfast by herself again. She rises and ambles over to her desk where her eyes settle on last night's doodle; it lies in the same spot but is most definitely altered. Her lonely bunny is now accompanied by an unruly-haired one in a tee-shirt and pants. If the artist was there, he'd have even gloated over how much better the companion for Rukia's rabbit was drawn.
Isshin studies his son from the corner of his eyes, carefully feigning oblivion as he slides his white coat off, one sleeve at a time. Ichigo is hunched over his desk, his face all creases and lines, while sorting through the clinic's files and folders. The stern face on his boy is nothing new to undiscerning eyes. It's easy to miss the undertones of his expressions, such as the added quality suggesting more significance than the usual easily annoyed, nonsense intolerant temperament. Isshin remembers seeing it once before, when standing before the granite monument that bore his wife's inscription. It's the look of regret; one completely unfit for Ichigo. Fortunately for Ichigo, father knows best which remedy to administer.
The flat, hefty object thwacks the side of Ichigo's face and skids across his desk, sending the once organized piles of loose papers sprawling. A startled Ichigo glares at the object in question. A freaking clipboard? His eyes shoot over to the assailant across the room. "What's your prob—"
"You're not my son."
Rubbing sorely at the side of his red face, Ichigo gapes at his old man. "Huh? Make some sense for once, old man!"
"That sullen face of yours, fix it."
Ichigo leans in some more, his mouth only gaping wider. "Huh?"
"Not 'huh!'" The sole of hard rubber shoe smacks against cheekbone.
"Aaaah!" Ichigo shakes his fist violently in the air, his wrath just edging to explode. A freaking boot to the face…old bastard!
But Isshin interrupts by jovially calling out, "Rukia-chan," and producing a bell-like ringing sound on the last syllable of her honorific.
"Oi, you didn't have to come out in this cold weather. I'm a man. A man can walk back home by himself."
"There's no use in complaining now. I'm already here." She smiles radiantly at him with her head tilted, and his body pulsates in waves.
"Give me a couple of minutes to clean up the mess then."
"Just go on ahead. Poppa will finish and lock up alone." Isshin is still grinning at his daughter-in-law.
"Try not to sound so noble. You did make the mess in the first place—"
Isshin cuts him off again. "Scram kid! Don't you recognize an opportunity when it's right there? The full moon's out, perfect for a romantic strol…." He pushes them out the door and slams it before finishing his sentence. He waves exaggeratedly from the other side of the glass and flashes them a cheesy grin. Rukia can't help but smile back.
As soon as they step out of the clinic, Ichigo reflects on how twilight comes too soon. He leaves his house when it's dark and returns home when it's dark. But before Ichigo can lament further on light's decreasing hours in day, his wife tugs at his sleeve, allowing her own arm to slip under his.
"I'm only doing this to stay warm, you know." Her petite nose is scrunched as she looks up to inform him of this important fact.
"Yeah yeah I know already," he says in one breath, his eyes narrowed down at her.
"It's not like I want to get close or anything."
"No need to remind."
Declaration of winter's nearing passage echoes through the first draft that hits them. The full bodied moon hangs in the unmarred navy sky, promising a rainless tomorrow. Meaningful silence falls between them. Discarded foliage rustles beneath their boots. The ruthless, chilly winds bite at their uncovered skin. Ichigo's free hand reaches out to Rukia, who stops for him and patiently allows his gloved but numbed fingers to tighten the lavender scarf around her neck. She peers back at him thoughtfully as he does so, with most of her face lost beneath the mass of wind tossed hair and winter coat's collar. Then they continue again with shuffling steps, side by side, on the noiseless and seemingly never ending stretch of leaf strewn avenue.
Their path treads through an artist's landscape. Their surroundings are filtered into few colors: the lucent blue of atmosphere, the russet leaves glowing gold from street lamps, and the charcoal gray of man made asphalt. It's both vivid and unreal as oil painted scenes on canvas.
Ichigo's senses are drenched with contradictions. His stiff joints move him with precision. His body roasts under piles of clothes, but they nag at him to hurry away from the scorching cold at his earlobes.
Despite everything, there is cause to linger in the way Rukia's arm fit snugly around his. Her nearness soaks him in a comfort akin to sleep. It is the feeling of being immersed in peaceful rest, plush bedding and warm affection. He's glad she didn't permit his walking home alone tonight.
He reflects on their daily ways of exchange. Beyond the bickering, there have been many purposeful touches and meaningful glances, and all that is conveyed yet not conveyed. He supposes their intimate feelings relied not on literal speech as the vessel of communication. Just like themselves, the frame of their relationship was never built on words.
Once inside their home, she asks him, "Hungry?"
"Actually, no," he answers. With a few shakes, his feet are freed from his boots.
"Good." Her gloved hand clasps over his and she leads him off without explanation. He obeys, his curiosity having won over his skeptical nature. They pass by portraits along the stairs. They are blurs of their wedding, family trips, special outings, and other various events in their lives, sequenced without any chronological order on the wall. Ichigo scowls in most of them, but his happiness is evident.
A photo captures his attention half a second longer than the rest. It's one from their trip to Yokohoma. The giant ferris wheel, lit a florescent green, gives the illusion of being in the foreground, where it would sit right between them like a monument of their awkwardness. Ichigo doesn't scowl in that one. The happiness is still there, though heavily guarded, and the more than usual anxiety is evident. His expression in there could have easily labeled the photo "First Date."
He turns his head away from the photos. Takes another step.
The stairs seem endless, the hall seems long, and their bedroom door feels so far away.
One step.
Time drones excruciatingly slow when she lets go of his hand to shed her outer coat, letting it drop to the floor indifferently. He follows in her lead and takes off his own, his eyes still entranced by her every move as they progress down the hall.
Three steps.
His body trembles to connect with her again, but she eludes him with the few paces that separate them. Next, her gloves come off. He peels his off too.
Three steps.
Then her scarf gets unwound and slackens around her shoulders just before slumping to the ground. His own fingers go to unbutton his shirt.
Two.
Her sweater is shed next. He tosses his own shirt behind him. When she reaches the door her lustrous hair shines onyx against her milky white tank top.
Step.
His fingers move to unfasten the string at her waist band while the doorknob turns in her hand. She passes under the doorframe and her trousers collapse to her ankles.
He leaves the door open and the lights off. Lucid light pours in from an unshaded window.
She turns around to kiss him on the chin before pulling back. He plants one on her forehead in return, and then nuzzles her neck. She moans softly against his frostbitten ears and encloses it with the heated wetness of her mouth. Their fingers find each other and intertwine, pulling them away from kissing and into a waltz. They circle around for a bit, moonlight guiding them in music's place.
He wonders why it's always in moonlight that they act like this. Is inhibition better shed in the night? By day they are sparring partners and by night, lovers. Even their first time had been like this. Casting consequence and responsibility aside, they had met under the moon's radiance.
Now that he has her, he can't help but wonder whether she's chosen wisely. He thinks she deserves to be with someone who can prot—
No. Pull back from that thought. His pride can't accept that.
Rukia is looking at him, wide eyed now. "Sorry," he blurts.
"Sorry?" Not good. One of her brow's already arched.
"Never mind."
"Never mind?"
"Yes, never mind. As in forget it so...let's continue."
"Let's continue, huh?" Rukia defies his intentions by breaking away.
"Yes, let's." Irritation digs its way into his voice. Ichigo is amazed at how fast the mood can change; romancing Rukia becomes so short lived.
Definitely her fault and not his.
When she reaches for something on the bed, he spits out, "Wait...what are you doing?" Definitely Rukia at fault again.
She answers by looking at him defiantly in the eye, before she pulls what is, apparently, a nightgown, over her head. It isn't a nightgown from the same collection used in making him acquiesce to her rotten rabbit obsession. That needs to be stressed. Said nightgown has long sleeves and enough big eyed bunnies printed on it to make him feel like a man with a Lolita complex. Her message is real clear, unfortunately.
"You've got to be kiddin'."
"Hmph."
He stares at her, absolutely vexed by her eagerness to pull out any dirty trick anytime. But this time he resolves to teach the midget a lesson by pouncing on her.
"Off of me. Now."
"Even if I do this?" He hikes the skirt up past her abdomen and ambushes her navel with titillating kisses. He grins smugly when she manages, amidst uncontrollable laughter and squealing, to beg him to stop. He obliges and brings his face next to hers. "This better?"
She nods, too exasperated from her laughing fit. There's still a price to pay, she knows, but doesn't mind, because she's already forgotten reasons why they've stopped in the first place. Their lips meet in a kiss and they begin all over again.
When she trails her fingertips softly along his jaw, he realizes how afraid he is of losing—no—push, push that thought away.
He quickly remembers every small gesture she makes. The rabbit sketch left out for him to see...with every intention of drawing out his smile. At remembering, something inside him becomes heavy, trembles and threatens to brim over.
So it is this feeling again.
He's heard of people falling out of love, and he hopes he won't ever come to know it. He appreciates the feelings he has now. But if it were to happen to him, falling out of love that is, he wonders, who would be the first one to pull away? If the one to linger behind was him, would he ever spout the out the kind of lines he'd heard from a melodrama? The kind he'd scorned before? Or would pride command his feelings be sealed in by silence?
Rukia looks him directly in the eyes as she softly strokes his cheeks, making him realize that maybe it's too much for him, these emotions. He's becoming too much of a sappy fool, he thinks to himself, and nearly laughs. Really, what is he doing? What's with this sudden mood? He's just short of crying.
There's an ominous feeling crawling around in his gut. Falling in too deep with her might only hurt him (how strange that he can still think like this about his life partner).
He moves over her with all of his emotions, raw and passionate. She responds in every way. They connect. They express love without saying anything at all.
Afterwards, she rests her head against his heaving chest and listens to their erratic breathing subside. His heart beats rhythmically against her pressed ear. Perhaps lulled by that sound, Rukia suffers a momentary lapse in judgment and voices softly, "You could have loved someone else. Somebody more capable of making you happy."
His surprise is too brief and Rukia fails to catch it. "And so could you." He pinches her nose. "You're being pessimistic again. Cut that out." Play-along words, he thinks, not realizing their communication is crossing, like it sometimes does. He's unsuccessful at leaving the simple statement as it should be. He attaches another meaning to it, albeit an incorrect one. Thought process clouded by insecurity, Ichigo believes the statement is really directed at her own self. 'I could have loved someone else. Somebody more capable of making me happy,' she should have said. He doesn't conceive of the woman, the obvious "somebody" whom Rukia alludes to.
Sudden, indistinct rumbling is heard and the couple immediately looks at one another.
"Ah!"
"I thought you weren't hungry."
"Well, what do you want me to do? I always get hungry...afterwards...for some reason," Rukia argues clumsily.
Ichigo scratches at his head. "It can't be helped. Let's get something to eat."
"Hmm."
"It's yes, not 'hmm."
"Hmm."
"Why do you have such a hard head?" He rolls his eyes at the victory smirk she flashes him.
At their table, he compulsively stirs the warm milk with his spoon (otherwise his hands will shake) as he watches her eat. His jaw is clenching on its own. He stirs. She chews. Stirs. Chews.
The stirring pauses when he can't hold it in anymore. "Why did you say that?"
"That? That…what?"
He continues stirring again, but never drinking. "That I could have...never mind."
"Ichi---"
"Just forget about it." Then after a thoughtful pause and some more stirring, "Please."
"Ichi—go..?" Rukia frowns out of confusion.
"You never mentioned running into Renji." He can't help himself again. He stirs his milk.
Rukia lightly flinches from the statement. "It was...was too brief."
"I guess that doesn't make it worth mentioning then." Stirs.
Rukia stares at him, feeling a bit flustered. "I guess not. But how...did you happen to see him...after I did?" The stirring stops.
The sudden spark in her eyes discomforts him. The spoon clatters against ceramic when he drops it carelessly inside the cup. The legs of his chair screech at his pushing it back. Now on his feet, Ichigo looks down at his wife's seated figure. "I'm going out for a bit." He doesn't leave room for protest as he traverses the kitchen and leaves the dining room.
The slamming of the front door reverberates throughout the house. Rukia shudders inwardly before peeling her eyes away from the walls.
If she is some other woman, she would have asked questions. She would have at least persisted that he wears a jacket out in the cold. But as both Kuchiki Rukia and Kurosaki Rukia, she doesn't do any of that. She simply clears the dishes and cups off the table.
Renji isn't the one who bothers Ichigo. It's what Renji can do and what Ichigo can't do.
Protect. One who couldn't protect would not be capable of providing happiness.
There is also guilt. From tearing her away from all that she knew.
Ichigo kicks all the pebbles in his way. He exhales loudly, watching his hot breath collide with cold air before its white trace disappears.
In all his immaturity, he pushed her to choose him over duty. Making love one time wasn't enough; they'd ventured too far past friendship's boundaries for him to stay content with the borrowed time she spared him. When she didn't yield right away, he went on a self-destructive path, unconscientiously baiting her into coming back. He wasn't any different from a snot-nosed brat stomping and wailing because he couldn't have his way. Because of that, Ichigo was very ashamed. And still, he cannot find the courage to apologize to her, not even to this day.
He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt closer to him, entirely wishing he'd at least thought of grabbing a jacket before heading out.
The next minute, he wishes he hadn't come outside at all.
Dammit. Another hollow.
End Chapter Five
AN: My thanks go out to you guys who have been supportive. You're awesome! Thank you Rukiaprincess for looking over this chapter's draft with me and not minding its state of extreme mess!
P.S. I love the new review reply feature, but I wish I could reply to unsigned reviewers as well. Since I can't, I'll just have to say THANK YOU right here!
---Nov 27, 2005