Disclaimer: No. I don't own Bleach. I apologize for the absurdly long wait and ask that you hear me out in my Author's Note before you guys get on my case about updating and whatnot.
Important! erased my URL for Hitsugaya and Rukia in the last chapter. There's supposed to be an underscore between hitsu and ruki.
Tension and the Spark
-Those coastal lights, blinking, whirling, flashing by-
It's during a break from practice that Hitsugaya bothers to even engage in an attempt at conversation with the silent girl. It's a question that's bothered him for a long time—and one that he secretly admits has been worrying him for just about as long. He watches as the smoke from Renji's cigarette trails lazy and obscure designs in the crisp, fresh air, eyes focusing on the bleary visage of the moon. He isn't stalling for time, just enjoying the moment as it comes. He's a man of few words, much preferring the quiet of solitude than the noisy hustling and bustling that comes with being shoved together with three other guys in a garage band. But enough is enough, and he wants his answers. Now.
"That day when Grimmjow was harassing you…" He trails off, grimacing at the memory, as if a bitter aftertaste is still lingering in his mouth. She cocks an eyebrow at him in surprise and acknowledgment, her profile half shadowed by the darkness on the balcony. He's not one for poetry and sweet, flowery words of praise. She's not one to enjoy flattery. And they both ignore the way the other seems to stand out in the waning light of the waxing moon. "You flinched after kicking him and avoided me when I tried to see if you'd harmed your leg. You were limping." His words are blunt, cut and dry, stated so matter-of-factly that Rukia's surprised from the sheer blandness of his tone.
But he isn't the only one who can play this game. She's been playing it for a little over two years. That game where he pretends he knows something and she pretends that the 'something' doesn't exist. "Exhaustion, plus he was a bit more well built than I'd anticipated." The lies roll smoothly off her tongue as she turns back to the hazy moon, the motion a clear dismissal.
Histugaya doesn't take the hint. His brow furrows in a clear sign of displeasure and he straightens from his previously relaxed position. "I don't appreciate it when people lie to me." His words cut through her effortlessly, like a spear of ice impaling her where she stands—frozen and completely immobile. She has never been accused of lying, has always despised liars herself. But she deceives him with her glib words and smooth verbal maneuverings. She deceives him and he allows her to continue deceiving him. "If you don't want to tell me, than that's fine. But don't you dare lie to me." He flicks open a lighter, bringing it closer to the Marlboro stick before deciding against it. His shoe crushes the tiny flames underneath his heel as he turns to go back to the garage, the sound of Matsumoto's laughter reaching the previously quiet balcony.
She eyes the dying embers of the fire and the dark smear of blackened powder with silent anticipation. For a moment, just a silly and fanciful moment—nothing more, never anything more, she wants him to turn around and listen to her story. But like all moments in life, this one passes as easily as the wispy trails of smoke in the wind. It's a dream, she thinks for an intensely philosophical moments. Everything about her world is a dream; one easily conjured up in the presence of denial. She knows she won't be able to keep up the charade, keep being the charlatan of the group, but she knows damn well she'll try to make it last as long as possible. "Sometimes, a white lie is better than the truth." She answers somberly, her violet eyes gazing far away, though they never leave his back. He stiffens underneath the look in her irises, intensely aware that she is no longer in the same semblance of reality as him.
She exhales a breath, and the world is righting itself again, shards and fragments falling into place like a puzzle at long last finished.
"We should go back in." She announces, almost as if to herself. He's fine with that; god knows he does that often too. A wry smile quirks up the corner of his lips, a mockery of anything benign and recalls the phrase, 'first sign of insanity, talking to yourself.' "Oh, and who wrote that song I sang for my supposed audition?" Her voice breaks through his train of thought and he scowls, more out of general annoyance than at her. It's a random question, but he fancies that he knows enough about her to realize that Kuchiki Rukia simply doesn't ask meaningless questions.
"Ichigo." He answers succinctly and she gives him that penetrating and glassy-eyed stare again. It unnerves him and he turns away for a moment to regain his sense of balance in this twisted situation. "Why?"
She shrugs, her thin shoulders rising gracefully before falling back down again. The motion is deliberate and graceful, two terms he can already associate with her. "Curious. It seems a bit too raw for someone like him to write." She doesn't elaborate on her words, but she doesn't need to either. He understands. She shoulders past him easily, mind set on returning back to the garage for some more practice. His eyes latch onto her legs, looking for the slightest tremor, the slightest upset of rhythm to provide an explanation for her unnatural fear. It is then that he sees it, barely visible, like a tiny smear of paint on a black shirt. She limps just a bit when she walks, her weight favoring her left leg.
"You won't get your answers that way," she calls back, well out of sight already. "So I suggest you just drop it."
He flinches, as if scalded by a vat of boiling water, and hurries to catch up. The issue floats to the back of his mind, all too ready to resurface at a more appropriate time. But he hasn't forgotten and Hitsugaya knows—knows better than anyone else that not all secrets can be kept. She will tell him, he is sure of that fact. "You win, for now," he murmurs and steps back into the garage to face the noise (white noise) once more.
Matsumoto isn't quite as stupid as everyone always seems to think she is. Her eyes slant discreetly to the white-haired bassist before scanning over Rukia's carefully nonchalant expression. What is it, she thinks, a finger tapping on her chin thoughtfully, what is it about them that tells me something's just happened? Hitsugaya, of course, offers no help whatsoever with his customary frown and an aura that practically radiates for any sane person to stay the hell away from him. Rukia is only marginally better, and only because five years of friendship has taught the blond to read her best friend's every single movement and gesture. Gray meets with sleek violet and Matsumoto heaves a sigh of disbelief as Rukia shakes her head before going back to staring vacantly at the microphone.
Matsumoto isn't stupid, but she's the loyalist person on Earth. And this is what ultimately makes her stop her thoughts and direct her attentions to far more ordinary threads of conversation. "So you guys have a gig tomorrow, huh?" She smiles and tugs playfully on Shuuhei's sleeve to get his attention. She doesn't need to, of course, because no matter what she does, Shuuhei's attention will always be on her. It makes her feel pleasantly surprised and mildly devious—the things she could do to him!
"Yeah. I'm still not sure what we should wear though. Obviously, since we're a band comprised of guys and one girl, we need to choose what we wear with some taste. On one hand…" Shuuhei trails off thoughtfully, gesturing at the bickering drummer and the second electric guitarist before tilting his head to Hitsugaya's position against his precious electric bassist. "We, the guys I mean, can just wear some torn jeans and ripped shirts. Throw in a spiked collar and some gothic or punk jewelry and we'll be set to go. Not to mention, Hitsugaya's got a wicked tattoo on his left shoulder blade that'll drive the girls nuts. But Rukia's a different matter."
Matsumoto nods sagaciously and tilts her head suddenly, gray eyes darkening in displeasure. She doesn't dare to think of what Shuuhei will say next, doesn't want to think about it. But none of the guys know and if Rukia remains as mute on the subject as she has always been, than Matsumoto has a bad feeling that something ugly will rear its head in the near future. But she keeps her mouth shut and hopes for the best even as she knows that the story will not resolve itself happily.
"She can't wear something trashy. I suppose if she wears a pair of skinny jeans and a white tanktop, it'll work. Or she could wear a short skirt with some kind of comfortable layered shirt on top. Something that'll interest the guys in the crowd without killing her reputation." Shuuhei finishes, surprise taking over his expression as he spares a glance at his love interest.
Matsumoto's perfectly glossed lips part, ready to offer a demure negative to both options, ready to lie to one of the only guys she's ever truly had a spark of interest in. But Rukia's voice breaks into their conversation like a small thunderclap. "I'll be wearing what I want to wear and you'll just have to trust me on that." There's a rush of red flooding the petite woman's cheeks, flushing her skin a rosy shade. Her eyes are bright, overly bright, as if possessed in the throes of an all-consuming fever. There's a shifting of cloth in the corner of the garage as a pair of teal eyes spark with interest, slim fingers dropping from bass strings to brace against the cold wall.
"Chill, I was just suggesting some stuff you could wear. I mean, it is going to be our first gig and we don't want to look bad on stage. Most rocker girls go with a distressed skirt and some combat boots, but it's really your decision in the end. What's the big deal, anyways?" The electric guitarist raises a thin eyebrow at her and shifts so that his arms are uncrossed and hanging loosely by his sides—a gesture of surrender. "Just wear something that will match the rest of us and doesn't look too dull. Ask Matsumoto to help you, I'm sure she'll give you a good outfit or two if you're not going to listen to my advice."
"Oy, Rukia. Just wear a skirt. There's nothing to be afraid of," Renji shouts from the back, a grin stretching across his face. "You'll look great in it!"
Rukia's stare is blank and lifeless as she turns to Renji, an answer slipping venomously through her lips. "I will not wear anything that I do not wish to. Don't push your opinions on me. There are plenty of other women out there who will be more than happy to wear a skirt for you, but I am not one of them. Don't make that mistake of assuming about me again." The temperature seems to plummet drastically in the garage, a mixture of surprise, pain, and interest stirring in the atmosphere. Only Matsumoto sees Rukia's words for what they really are, a last-ditch defense against further questioning. She sees them for what they really are, a double-edged sword that cuts Rukia as she says them just as much as it cuts Renji when he listens to them. The gray-eyed woman purses her lips in annoyance at her own inability to help resolve the situation. Sooner or later, she's sure, Rukia's problem will come out. Matsumoto only hopes that the guys will be forgiving and kind when that time comes.
With an awkward laughter, Renji breaks the tension. "Uh, hey. Alright. Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it. Let's start rehearsing guys. I guess we can trust Rukia to get her own stuff." But there's a flash of pain in his eyes that's echoed in his uncertain movements around his guitar.
"It wouldn't kill you to be a little nicer," Hitsugaya throws in casually, glittering eyes staring straight into amethyst orbs. "They were only trying to help." The electric bassist isn't one of those nice guys found three houses down from you in a cookie cutter neighborhood. He isn't kind and he isn't particularly understanding. He sets his own standards and expects others to keep up with them. And Kuchiki Rukia is keeping up. How impressive. He says nothing more after that, but the predatory look in his eyes (like one who has found a trace of hidden knowledge and intends to fully discover the rest of it) warns her that their game is far from over and far from being finished.
"I don't need help," she replies and takes her position in front of the microphone, legs planted firmly apart and her head held high. There is no trace of the semi-passive singer that they'd auditioned merely weeks ago. Her confidence fills every crevice and sends adrenaline pumping in their veins. Immediately, there's a flurry of motion as hands grab guitar picks and drumsticks. Within seconds, they are ready to head straight into the most unpredictable practice they've ever had with a female who won't take shit from anyone.
"From the top." Shuuhei declares and watches as Rukia's hands clench around the microphone in anticipation.
"Let's go," she whispers.
And out of anger, comes passion of the greatest kind.
"Hitsugaya seems like he knows," Matsumoto presses gently, throwing a cashmere sweater at her best friend's head. Rukia catches the article of clothing with ease and grace born from years of dancing. Her violet eyes glow in anger and frustration, a thousand emotions seeping through her irises like water through a shattered dam. "You can't keep on putting them off like that. They're good guys and they deserve the truth. You should tell them before a company decides to give your band a contract and exposes the truth in a far more ugly manner. Here, never mind about the sweater. You look too prim and proper." Manicured hands hold up a pair of baggy black cargo pants, slashed in places artfully with red crosses, and toss them over to the singer.
"Hitsugaya doesn't know. He can guess. But he doesn't know. He just thinks there's something weird about my leg." She gives a half-sigh, half-laugh and slips on the comfortable pants. "I wish it was something that simple. It's taken away two years of my life, Matsumoto. Two years. I can't dance any more and I can't even wear clothing that I'm supposed to wear these days. It hurts to walk and it always feels like I'm about to lose my balance and fall over every time I so much as take a step forward." Deft and agile fingers fasten the belt securely before resting at her side. "I like it. I forgot how soft these were and at least I don't look completely male."
"You're too pretty to ever pass off as a sweaty, hulking guy." Matsumoto replies calmly, eyes dissecting the girl's closet in disappointment. "Really, you hardly have anything that is the slightest bit edgy or unique in here. I'd lend you this cute top of mine, but I'm not quite as petite as you. Hmmm…" She murmurs, trailing off in thought before leaping forward and snatching a crimson, strapless top. "This'll have to do. It's creased, which makes it look somewhat distressed. Just take a couple bracelets and slip on your onyx earrings and you'll be good to go. You're going for a fierce and commanding look. Just think about the bastard who screwed you over during the surgery and pour all your anger out on stage. They'll love you." The blond turns and winks, unable to resist slipping in one last teasing comment. "After all, if Hitsugaya's interested, there won't be a single person who'll be able to resist your charms."
Rukia rolls her eyes, smoothing down her outfit and slipping on a pair of dainty, black ballet flats. "He's interested in my leg. Not me. And I am most certainly not interested in his blunt attitude. But speak for yourself. You can't take your eyes off of Shuuhei these days."
"Uh huh," Matsumoto replies, twisting and twirling her car keys. "Come on. Show starts at ten and it's already nine fifteen."
It's a quiet ride; different from the other times they get into a vehicle together—always with Rangiku behind the wheel. Rukia bites down the flare of disappointment, envy, and bitter hatred that engulfs her at the knowledge that she will never be able to drive again. Your reflexes will be slower after the surgery, so you can't drive, the doctors had told her with apologetic looks on their faces as Byakuya took her hand in silent reassurance. It'll feel uncomfortable for a while, but we think you'll feel normal within a couple years. Bullshit. All that they'd said back then had been meaningless bullshit to try and make her feel better. It hadn't back then and it still didn't now. "I'm going to dance again," she announces abruptly, watching the street lights pass them by in the darkness of night. It's an absurd idea, she knows. But she wants a part of her life back. She needs to get a part of her old life back.
Matsumoto doesn't take her eyes off the road as she replies. "It's going to be difficult. Before the surgery happened, you left the dancing crew in the best condition possible. They've disbanded now and no one knows what's happened to you. You were lucky Byakuya took you in when he did. If you even try to go back to them, they might turn you down." She sighs softly, pulling smoothly into an empty parking space by the A.I. nightclub. Already, the music's hard and heavy bass beats are penetrating the outside space. "You haven't danced in two years and you might not be able to with your legs like that. I don't want them to see you struggling when you were absolutely stunning before. I don't want to see you get hurt if they laugh at you. There were a lot of people who envied and hated you, Rukia."
Silence. And then softly, ever so softly, a quiet and weak whisper. "I know."
Matsumoto's eyes soften in sympathy and she reaches over to engulf her best friend of ten years in a tender embrace. "There's always singing for you. And I know you love to sing. You wouldn't be doing this otherwise. Now come on, wipe that look off your face and show everyone that you're ready to be back in the spotlight again. We wouldn't want dear Hitsugaya getting worried over you, now would we?"
"Yeah right. You mean you want to see your lover boy as soon as possible. Alright. Let's go. We're backstage."
They pass security easily, even though Matsumoto isn't technically supposed to be backstage at all. Rukia's secretly betting that the bouncer is still seeing stars after the trick that Matsumoto just pulled. The guys are already assembled around the couch, adjusting a stray thread here or dusting off a random food crumb there. The stage is already set up, she knows, and so there is nothing better to do than wait. They all clean up nicely, she admits to herself with no small amount of surprise. Ichigo's wearing a black muscle shirt and a pair of denim jeans, with a spiked collar fastened around his neck. She can't resist snickering a little bit as he reaches up to fiddle with the collar for the fifteenth time in a single minute. "Uncomfortable, strawberry head?" She teases and watches as four pairs of male eyes turn to stare at her.
She frowns at the attention and crosses her arms. "I know. It's not a skirt and it isn't even close to tight fitting. But you know what? Screw that. This is comfortable and Matsumoto says it's fine for our first gig. So if you guys are going to keep on staring like some idiots, then I can just leave and you can find yourself a new singer in the next seven minutes."
"It's not that." Hitsugaya answers suavely, teal eyes glittering from beneath his gelled bangs. Dressed in a white jacket with a transparent blue shirt inside and a pair of bleached jeans, Rukia realizes just how much the bassist's eyes stand out. Unfortunately, it also has the unwanted effect of making him just that much more imposing and commanding. Her frown deepens at that realization.
"Oh? Then what is it?"
"We were just surprised that you could find an outfit that was both girly and hardcore without resorting to skirts or fishnet stockings. It's nice." He says simply, shrugging his powerful shoulders before turning away to gaze at some other object in the room. He doesn't tell her that the red of her outfit clashes with her dark purple eyes, making the flickering violet glow deep crimson in the lighting, or that she looks fantastic. He's not the type to say stuff like that anyways.
But apparently, Ichigo is.
"For a shrimp, you sure can dress."
"Thanks," she replies sardonically and cuffs him on the head for good measure. Her stride is confident, if not slightly off-center, as she makes her way over to the couch. "Any important people in the crowd tonight that we should know about?" She says the words with flippancy, as if it doesn't matter to her who comes and who doesn't. But she's nervous inside. Nervous and anxious about a million different things, the biggest of which centers around her leg and the suspicious look Hitsugaya keeps on giving it.
"There's going to be five or six recording labels and I heard the CEO of a producing company, Kuchiki, is going to be dropping by." Shuuhei replies from his position by Matsumoto's side, one arm draped casually around her shoulder.
But the words are like a bucket of ice-cold water on her fire and she reels backwards, struggling to control her breathing. She doesn't want him here tonight, doesn't want him to see her on the stage selling herself to the masses of gyrating bodies on the dance floor. She knows he'll be ashamed and disappointed. He let her choose her own path after the surgery and she doesn't want to let him know that this is what she's chosen for herself—a lowlife existence. Her steps slow and she sinks to the ground.
"She looks really sick, are you sure we should be doing this?" The words are so Ichigo that it almost makes her want to shrink further into herself. She doesn't though, remaining lackluster and curled up on the wooden floor backstage. From here at least, the crowd's anxiety and anticipation is muted. From here at least, she can pretend that it's just any other performance and that her night won't end in disappointment from the one person she can't afford to have it come from.
"She'll be fine." Hitsugaya breaks in gruffly, eyes struggling to read her every thought and every motion.
No, she wants to say. No, she's not fine…and she never will be.
The performance goes well, but she passes her every waking hour waiting for the phone call from her brother. The phone call that will throw her back to days of feeling worthless and useless—a disappointment, a shameful mark on society. Even Matsumoto's friendly teasing and kind presence can't erase her anxiety. She feels hunted, trapped. Her pains are growing worse in her leg and it takes everything she has just to show up to work and pretend everything's just fucking fine.
But it's a different sort of phone call that ends up changing her.
"Hey Rukia, this is Shuuhei. We've got an offer from MG Studios. They want us to meet for an examination next Monday, can you make it?"
An examination. She swallows and feels her heart sinking into her stomach. An examination, done by every single company before hiring anyone. It's a simple physical check to see if the talent is marketable and appealing or not. It's the one thing that she knows will drown the band's rising hopes and dreams. Not because of them, oh no, because they are attractive—every single one of them. But because of her. Because there's no way she'll be able to pass the test, not with her condition. She should tell them to get a different singer now, she thinks, as Shuuhei calls her name from the other end of the line. She can't afford to ruin them.
But something, some tiny fluttering of hope inside her forces a set of different words from her mouth.
"Yeah. I'll be there. Three in the afternoon, right? I wouldn't miss it for the world."
She hangs up and buries her head in her hands, the phone dangling from the cord.
The pain takes her under and away.
Author's Notes: I'm sorry for the ridiculously long wait. But I ran up against a huge writer's block and couldn't break out of it until I finished typing the huge 11,000+ word chapter for Punishment. Shameless advertising here, but go check it out if you have the time and don't mind Ichigo/Rukia or Grimmjow/Rukia. It's not very romance-based, but I guarantee you that if you like my style of writing and plot, you'll love Punishment. I basically reset Bleach in a WWIII scenario. Anyways, I digress. Next chapter, you guys will finally find out what's happened to Rukia and what's wrong with her leg. So far, no one's guessed it right although one of you came ridiculously close. Uncomfortably close, as a matter of fact. Haha.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter (even though it's about two months too late). You may wonder about the band name, well…it'll be revealed next chapter as well. Rukia's past will make a scene too. So basically, hang around if you want to have an answer to your burning questions. I'm sure you guys will enjoy the next chapter of Tension and the Spark. Expect the next chapter to clock in at around 6,000 words (this one was 4,500 + words). I really feel extraordinarily touched at the amount of reviews I've received. There are no words I can say to express my gratitude to everyone. So I guess I'll just have to make the next chapter absolutely stunning. Please continue supporting me with your kind comments! As always, have a summary and sneak preview of what's to come.
Sneak Preview and Summary of Chapter Four
Summary: The entertainment industry is brutal. As Rukia's secret is forced out from her, the band's future grows dimmer and dimmer. Talent means nothing in the face of disfiguration.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Ichigo demands, eyes flashing amber even as Hitsugaya refuses to meet her eyes. "We had a right to know! But we don't even find out from you, we find out from some MG Studios lackey! I thought we were worth more than that, Rukia. I really did."
She bites her lips and looks away from him, her eyes going to her splayed out hands and then to the cursed leg. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I…"
"You don't need to tell us." Hitsugaya says calmly, waking up to her and gently laying a hand on her shoulder. She flinches from surprise and guilt and he quickly removes his hold on her. "We're all angry and hurt by what you did, but that doesn't mean you should spill everything out to us. Wait until you're ready. I don't want to take advantage of your confusion."
She watches as he walks out the door and wonders what more she has to lose.