Ch 6. Yesterday's Blade, Today's Happiness

If it rusts, it can never be trusted / If its owner fails to control it, it will cut him / Yes, pride is / Like a blade

--Kubo Tite

The sun lifts its body above the horizon and peeks behind thick spreads of cloud; its fragile rays trickle through glass panes to settle on starch-white sheets and the two faint indents left on the bed. Having long given up on sleep, Rukia keeps to the side of their bedroom window. Her right hand is clamped over a trembling left arm, as if one side of her will move without the other half to stop it.

She tells herself to have faith. She tells herself to wait. Ichigo will come home soon and in one piece. Surely, he'll do that on his own.

In that long space of time, she scrutinizes their previous night's conversation, mostly questioning why she had mentioned such a troublesome thing to Ichigo.

You could have loved someone else. Somebody more capable of making you happy.

The answer comes swiftly to her, obvious even. There is fear of incompetence at making Ichigo feel his happiest.

The left arm continues to tremble beneath the firm grasp of the right hand. She remains in that oddly familiar stance even as the first snow begins to fall.

The soft white flakes land on the small puddles of red, become engulfed, and then disappear. More blood weeps from his arms, slowly thinning in its descent and cooling in the mix of snow. For the moment, the pain is numbed and the bleeding forgotten in the wake of the falling, sometimes fluttering, white atmosphere. From the worn down park bench, Ichigo elevates his head to point at the sky with his nose; he heaves slow, foggy breaths and his eyes blink in carefully measured successions.

It's well past dawn and the snow will rouse the children early from their bed, soon nudging them out the doors to play. His leaving the park becomes necessary in saving their bright eyes from the sight of a bloodied up man, and yet, his will is too wan, letting his body rest a little longer in his current position.

In his forced meditation he calls out to his lost friend, but Zangetsu's remote answer cannot reach, is not heard. It's really nothing surprising, just as it hadn't been surprising last night, in how a dull buzzing has replaced the sound of Zangetsu's echoing voice.

Fighting the Hollow last night, bare knuckled and all, had proven to be no easy feat. Seeing the downward swing from the sword, the black sleeves flapping from behind it and the screeching Hollow as it dissipates into the chilly night was not much easier. So while dripping blood onto the nearly frozen ground, he declined the offer from the patrolling Shinigami to heal his wounds. He had slouched against the bench instead, insisting he was fine, and muttered his thanks. The Shinigami then eyed him wearily, his hands hesitating over something—probably a memory modifier—tucked inside of his sleeve. They both passed a knowing look to one another— and it was then that the other man seemed to have come to some sort of realization. He released whatever it was he reached for and nodded respectfully towards Ichigo before disappearing. Soul society, it seemed, hasn't forgotten about the role Ichigo had once played.

Presently, he lets his eyes flutter open and close on their own, blurring the surrounding lines till he perceives nothing but a placid space of white. Blood loss it must be. He comes to the conclusion calmly; there's no energy left for him to mind it. He drifts along instead.

O'san? What is the weather like over there, Zangetsu O'san?

A faint buzzing starts in his head, but soon, next to it he hears a voice, a bit rough, but definitely female and full of concern. It pulls him halfway out of his delirium.

"Ichigo, you're bleeding!" Her black hair is kept in the same style: short and spiky.

A hoarse, "Yeah," rumbles from his throat

"Yeah? That's all you have to say? Well, can you move at all?" His eyelids grow burdensome again. "Ichigo? Ichigo? Let's get you back home."

In the brief switch to consciousness he musters, "Don't let Rukia see me like this." After the words leave his chapped lips, everything darkens to complete blackness and silence.

"It can't be…the other test said I wasn't…" Her hands cinch the edge of her shirt tightly.

"Nothing's free of errors."

She's whispering and doesn't know it. "I had already gotten used to the idea…"

"Look at me Rukia-chan." Wisdom pooled in warm eyes, gaze back at her with assurance and understanding. "This is certainly new for you, but… this is a good thing, isn't it?" Unexpectedly, almost like a blow, "Congratulations, Rukia-chan" comes at her.

The words take time to sink in. Once the meaning is fully absorbed, she smiles a sincere smile. "Thank you, Otou-san."

His lips slant into a smile at his thinking that it is Rukia who should be thanked. "Ichigo will be happy. Definitely. Karin and Yuzu too."

Nodding back with newfound conviction now, she mouths, "Uhm."

"So…do you have an idea of when Ichigo will return, from wherever he went?" is as tactful as Isshin can get at this point. Looking at him is hard, so Rukia shakes her head lightly, insinuating her reluctance at being pressed further. "I see. Well, rest here till we hear from Ichigo; it's unsafe for you to be walking back alone in this weather." Through the glassy doors of the clinic, snow is seen flitting and flurrying outside; on occasion, groups of children scurry by, hoarding snowballs in their little arms.

Then without warning…

"And in the meantime, let poppa think of cute baby names!"

The statement nearly throws Rukia off her chair. The doctor's disappeared somewhere, having switched places with the man in front of her, the one who is brainstorming as he tugs at the imaginary length of his beard. "Hmmm…Billy sounds good for a boy. But then Bob isn't too bad. There's also Mack and Buddy…hmm…both sound equally cool…though we might need a name for a girl…Hmmm…"

Picturing Ichigo's face at finding out she let the fate of their child's name rest in his father's hand is more than enough for Rukia to leap out of her chair. "Haaahahah…I suppose. B-b-but it is a bit early to be thinking of baby names, eheheheh..."

His scratching the back of his head sheepishly seems to be a good sign of damage come under control. "I guess you're right…but…" At 'but' Rukia cringes. "Just leave it up to Poppa! Poppa will come up with a good name for sure!"

It's black.

There's a resonating crackle. He strains his ears to listen and catches another set of noise—conjuring images of recently washed linen stirring dry in the wind. He focuses his eyes. The squinting puts lines and shapes into his perspective. He spots the elongated figure that moves about like a shadow and the coat tail that wisps out like smoke.

The crackling dies down when the shadowed face turns to look at him expectantly. The air becomes still but the coat rustles on crisply. "I've never deserted you, Ichigo. I've been here, calling out to you this whole time..."

"O'san! Zangetsu O'san!"

"Ichigo?"

The immediacy of her voice jolts him and causes his eyes to snap open to an intrusive burst of light; he throws an arm over his eyes to shield himself. Hurrying to register his surroundings, he discovers the support beneath him is a perfect balance between soft and firm. His entire body, excluding the arm he's held out, is wrapped in warmth. "Where am I?" He removes his arm once his eyes adjust. A thin girl—no, a woman—enters his hazy line of vision. "Tatsuki?"

"We're at my place. Oi! Don't try to—" Sitting up results instantly in regret as his abdomen ruptures in pain. The vehement urge to grimace and gasp is held back by the threat of further torment. Attentively Tatsuki stacks up the pillows behind him and gently moves his body to prop back against them. "Really, you're still the same hopeless guy." 'Shut up,' he wants to say, but ends up watching her fiddle with something on the side table instead. "Here, drink this." A seething cup is shoved in front of his face.

Looking skeptically at the dark liquid inside, he asks, "What's this?"

"Medicine."

"This mysterious bubbly stuff is medicine?" The pungent odor hits him.

"Yes, powerful stuff the Arisawas have passed down for generations…and etcetera, etcetera. Now drink."

"You're expecting a guy who works in a medical clinic to just believe that?"

"Just shut up and drink it. And quit grimacing."

It takes one hard gulp to waste the cup of its bitter content. "There. Satisfied?" She takes the cup from his extended hand and checks to see if he's emptied it, finally smiling when that is confirmed.

"It's nice when you listen. Should do it more often."

"Quit grating on my ears already."

"Shut up." The bottom of the cup clanks on the tray, and too abruptly a serious air falls around her. Bluntly she asks, "What happened to you?"

"Nothing much."

"This 'nothing much' doesn't explain your bleeding a dozen gallons of blood all over the bench. You were acting all dejected like some wounded soldier in a melodrama."

He tries to laugh and alternately ends up coughing. "I don't watch melodramas. And if it was a dozen gallons of blood, I'd be dead by now," he squeezes out bitterly.

"It's never killed you before." Her gaze is direct and unflinching. "So you're going to leave me out of the loop again." It's deliberate how she phrases it as a statement rather than a question.

The pained glint in her eyes is recognizable from before. "A Hollow," he offers as way of an apology, for Tatsuki's exclusion both now and back then. But how long since he's actually said that word, 'Hollow', out loud? It is a feeling similar to admitting guilt. Now it is his pride, not Tatsuki's, which suffers from damage.

"A Hollow?" At that her eyes narrow furtively, but she doesn't say much more on the subject; her momentary lapse into self-pity is snuffed out by seeing his shoulders slump apologetically. "You had some deep cuts there. I bandaged them as best as I could, but they're not going to hold for the rest of the night—at least not the places that may require stitches."

For the first time he notices the crude, white plaster binding his arms and torso. He mumbles his thanks, and then after a bit of silence, adds, "It's nothing you need to worry about, Tatsuki."

"You should allow me to worry about you. I'm your childhood friend, aren't I?" Rather than searching his face for an answer, she plops herself down on the ground to sit cross-legged with her back against the side of the bed. "Now that I think about it, I should have taken you to your dad—"

"No, I would have preferred it like this."

"I figured as much." A moment later: "So, not counting today, how have you been? You happy?"

His face crinkles at the odd way she's strung the question. "I have…no complaints…" It is also odd how, by having the back of her head to him, he happens to notice that he's been mistaken in thinking her hair is exactly the same as before. It's a little longer and a little softer at the ends.

"That's good, I suppose. I mean, three months ago, you were happy enough to run off and marry the way you did. Most nineteen year olds don't have that sort of conviction about getting hitched all of a sudden."

Where she's going with the conversation is beyond him, but her sardonic tone brings out the twitching of his brows. "Oi, oi, what do you mean, 'ran off'? We had a proper wedding…YOU WERE THERE!" He consequently grimaces from exerting too much force.

"Orihime was here. She says to tell you and Kuchi—err no—Rukia-san that she's sorry she had to miss the wedding. But she's very happy for the both of you." She's veering off again.

He follows. "Inoue was here? So then…then she went back to America already?"

"She left last week."

"I had no idea."

"Ichigo. You better be happy."

"What the hell are ya talkin' about? Jumping all over the place—"

"I'm talking about being happy! Ichigo, are you happy? Just answer it."

"I already said yes! Yes, I'm obviously happy!" Saying it out loud has a different effect. "What does this have to do with anything…" He begins to catch sight of where their dialogue is headed. "How is she doing? Inoue, I mean." It'll become awkward, he knows, but feels obligated to ask. And more than obligated, he feels concerned.

"Her studies are going well. She's at the top of her class. As to be expected of her."

"That's good."

"She and Ishida-kun split up."

"...I see..."

He notices how Tatsuki proceeds to give him a meaningful glance. "An obstacle sat between them—unmovable." The allotted time expires and her dark eyes shift back to the wall opposite of them. "To be honest, I'm a little disappointed. Had you chosen differently, wouldn't everyone be happier? Does one's happiness come at the expense of another? At least, that's what I wondered while she was here."

"Tatsuki…"

"Ah! Sorry! It's selfish of me, isn't it? In any case, what's done is done. The best decision comes from your own self. So be happy with Rukia-san."

"I…"

"You better be happy, Ichigo. For Hime's sake—"

"I got it already!" His outburst earns him nothing but choked tears and bloody coughs. "Needing to be happy is something I already know about," comes decidedly whispered instead.

In twilight the sky shines amethyst and falls down white. A new pang, different and deeper from the one his body cries, moves him to run through the snow-covered streets. Ichigo passes by children in the midst of their games; they are but whirls of color in this blanketed world.

The front door swings open with all his weight and the wind's force, and is answered by nothing but the echo of its own shrill creak. The stairs answer the same way as he storms his way up them. Door after door he opens to find emptiness on the other side.

A rush of curses is projected at himself and his excessive sense of pride. All of his bleeding, all of her worrying is due to that excess of pride.

For all he knows, Rukia may be out searching for him in this dubious weather. Guessing she can also be at his old man's place gives rise to hope, but is quickly annihilated by his impatience when the phone remains unanswered after three rings. His body is too restless for waiting around, so he slams the receiver down in favor of going there personally. Frantically he changes into clean clothes, keeping his newly dressed wounds specially hidden, before hurling himself back into the cold.

He leaves boot marks as he goes along, pitting one foot competitively against the other in an impossible race. Faster and faster in his dash, the more agony is ignored in his limbs is the more red-dotted the trail behind him becomes. Streets, sidewalks, buildings, and city poles are reduced to abstract shapes and lines.

At the turn of the street his foot hits an icy patch that almost sends him colliding onto the ground. Luckily, the combination of a quick reflex and a nearby pole is there to save him (at the strain of his arms, he feels something tear and hears something drip). In clinging onto the pole, his shallow breaths become apparent and the need for air unbearably obvious. Soon his taking one breath develops into a rapid thirst for more as his lungs feel like it can never gather enough oxygen. He feels caught—breathing too hard wrenches his guts, and breathing too soft tightens his chest.

Somehow he comes to the conclusion that he'd best be moving on; idleness allows for pain to manifest. He shifts his feet. Pries his fingers from the pole's icy surface. The first step forward turns into another loose footing, then left uncaught, worsens to a long tumble down the slope. He rolls and rolls and rolls. When his rolling finally comes to a stop, he's given a view of the starless sky (the stars have lent the sky to snowfall).

Silently, he promises that he'll work on being a more rational, less impulsive person once this night is over.

He tears the loose, white strip of plaster flailing out. One breath, two breaths, and then back on his feet he begins to walk. Walking gives way to jogging. Jogging gives way to running.

Relentless running persists until the clinic appears in sight, accompanied by an outline of the small figure pressed up against the window. Immediately following, glaring light breaks across the shadowed ground to reach where he stands.

He's welcomed by bodies spilling out from the front door. Closer up they transform into the members of his family. His old man, Karin and Yuzu are there.

And Rukia. Rukia is there.

"Fool," his ears receive, superseded by a punch to his chest. It takes all his might not to stumble back or cough out loud. The wife he so worried about appears in close proximity, and is growing a smirk on her lips. "You showed up late enough. Any later and you'd have lost rights to naming our first child, come this summer."

For Ichigo the shock is tremendous.

And the happiness more substantial.

He steps away because he wants to do something he shouldn't: hug his wife. His black clothes don't show it, but his skin knows they are soaked all the way through.

When his vision starts to flicker, Rukia, paused mid-sentence perhaps, is staring at something near his feet. Far in the background, his old man mouths off excitedly about something until he's cut off abruptly—probably by method of Karin's foot. Yuzu's panicking should come next, but doesn't. He concentrates on Rukia again, who is saying something too quietly for him to hear.

It can't be helped, so he leans in to listen better.

And realizes that he's falling.

O'san, I think I understand my pride now. I thought I had too little when I really had too much.

OoOoO

AN: Sorry for the very late update...this chapter was definitely a struggle…Rukiaprincess can probably attest to that. I'd definitely like to thank her for the much needed feedback and proofing that she's provided. It's so much better with help! Rukiaprincess, THANK YOU!

In case anybody is wondering how long this fic will be I'll tell you that I'm aiming for at least 10 chapters. Also, I've roughly sketched out future chapters, so the things that seem ambiguous or vague so far will hopefully become clear by the end.

Oh—almost forgot! Many thanks for everyone's time in reading and reviewing.

P.S. I hope Tatsuki wasn't too un-Tatsuki

—Jan 12, 2006