And another chapter is out~ this was a little rushed because I want to get some things in my fanfics updated before exams get closer (they're in two weeks ;n;), but it's another theme, another chapter. .w. Enjoy, fave, review, do what you like!

II. Complicated

He was bleeding.

The gash in his side burnt him to the core, spreading white hot fire through his veins and eating at him. He thought he saw—rather, he felt—a hateful snarl curl those chapped lips before a metal blade slashed forward.

It was nothing more than a whirl, a blur of deadly silver glistening in the air at an inhuman speed that he shouldn't have been able to dodge, but somehow he managed to duck aside, clutching at his wound, and roll to the ground before it hit his neck.

He couldn't attack.

It was strange, because that was what he was built to do; what he had lived to do. Ever since his awakening in this boy's body, the only instinct that should have been able to grasp him fully was the instinct to invade. To destroy. An instinct to take everything that Ichigo loved and to smash it to the ground; to shatter it to pieces; to throw it into a flame that would consume and eradicate anything that the shinigami had once loved or treasured.

It was the best way of seeking revenge. It was what flowed through his blood and the only thing that made Shirosaki the hollow that he was.

The natural instinct to kill and to murder.

The natural instinct to attack and to tear everything to pieces.

Where was that instinct that he had once preached to his King? Where was the instinct that was supposed to be engraved inside Ichigo's soul—inside his? The very impulse for the thrill of blood and war that he had wakened inside the shinigami brat?

Why, why, couldn't he fight against this boy that he was once so convinced he had the upper hand over?

He didn't feel the urge to fight anymore. It was a conclusion he had long ago reached and long since denied, even as he watched the sharpened edge of Ichigo's black Zangetsu rush towards him, and instilled in its deadly curve was a craving for the touch of flesh and the dripping of blood.

Shiro felt the metal of the zanpakuto tear through his abdomen; blood flowed up his throat and spilt onto his lip, and he choked. It was burning hot, like molten iron crawling under his flesh and splashing onto the walls of his stomach. His pale hands went down towards the blade, and he grasped it, feeling the cool of the katana and wondering how something so cold to the touch could feel so hot.

It was ripping him apart on the inside. It hurt and was sheer pain, a pulsing of sharp agony inside his body that was tearing away at him, and somehow, for some odd reason even he himself could not comprehend, he couldn't help but welcome it.

He looked down and saw, stretching long and cold in its heartless grip, the black shine of Ichigo's black Tensa Zangetsu.

"Why won't you fight back?"

Shiro's hand gripped at the blade that had impaled him, his touch lingering on hot—no, he had to remind himself, it was cold—metal and trailing along, following the gentle curve of the metal until he found his eyes upon a large tanned hand, with its long, callused fingers gripping at the hilt.

There was dirt and blood under Ichigo's fingernails. Did the boy notice that? His eyes followed the path of the arm, up the elbow and over the shoulder, until he was gazing into narrowed amber eyes. Surely the hatred in those usually kind eyes was not meant for him… after all, wasn't he a part of Ichigo's soul?

… No. He doesn't care about me.

But some part of Shiro wished otherwise, a fragment of his own soul yearning for something he simply couldn't understand. A piece of his spirit that wished that Ichigo would care about him, would speak to him with care and fondness in his voice like he did Zangetsu—or at least the strange entity that had taken Shiro's name for itself.

Didn't Ichigo know that the Zangetsu he knew wasn't his Zangetsu?

Didn't he know that Shiro was there, unable to say otherwise because he knew that his King had no reason to believe a treacherous hollow like himself, because he feared death by the hands of his own master?

Didn't King know who he was?

"K-King…" Tensa Zangetsu's blade was long, and half of it had stabbed right through his stomach and out his back. It hurt to lean forward, but he had to. He wanted to. "King…"

He reached forward and grasped, in his colourless fingers, the darker tan of Ichigo's fingers, and to his surprise the shinigami didn't back away or flinch back. Shiro tightened his grip on Ichigo's hand, and he let out an exhausted sigh before letting his head fall.

He couldn't look his king in the eyes.

Ichigo's eyebrows had been furrowed. In concern? No, that was much too much to hope for—Ichigo didn't give a damn about his well-being. Perhaps pity for a heartless creature of the likes of Shiro was the least the hollow could even hope for.

Somehow, looking at those knitted eyebrows and those soft lips that parted as if words were lingering dead and lifeless on them made Shiro feel empty.

"Shiro… Why?" Ichigo's voice was quiet. Soothing to his ears, a something to relieve the pain. "Why didn't you fight back? I didn't want to hurt you. Not like this."

Why? Because it wasn't fair? His King was an honourable man. He knew it when the boy had offered to allow Ulquiorra to cut off his arm and leg because Ichigo had done the same to the Espada under unfair circumstances. He had admired Ichigo's will. His strength of mind. But he had raged at the thought that Ichigo would allow himself such injuries when Shiro had inflicted them upon the Cuatro for him, when he couldn't bear to see even a scratch on his precious King.

But Ichigo was young. Innocent. He didn't realize just how unfair the world was.

Just how quickly one's identity and name could be stolen away, how just a person's mere being could twist their fate. Shiro had long ago been resigned to the fact that he was a hollow, and that was the way it would stay.

He just wished his King wouldn't hate him so much for it.

"I couldn't fight." And in the end, only the truth was left, and he was sure that the moment those words left his lips, he would be hated even more for them. For the words that betrayed his weaknesses—Shiro knew full well that a nameless, strengthless horse would be useless to a king like Ichigo. "I just… couldn't."

"Why?" Those young eyes were filled with curiosity, with something akin to pain that Shiro didn't understand. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Why would Ichigo feel anything for him? And why had the boy come here in the first place? To control him? To confront him? He wasn't sure anymore.

He opened his mouth to speak: "I…" and then he trailed off there.

Shiro thought about it. Why couldn't he fight? Why couldn't he lift a finger against the king that he had once been so eager to tear down and kill? The king that shouldn't mean anything to him? Didn't he want Ichigo's body? Didn't he long for his freedom?

Then why couldn't he take the steps necessary to take what he knew, albeit wrongly, belonged to him?

"I-I… I just..."

What did he feel for his King? What had made him stop? What had cured the raging instinct inside him that had once made him want desperately to burn down his weak, pathetic, kind king?

Was it affection? Could a hollow even feel such a thing? There was an odd fire burning inside him. Inside the heart that shouldn't even exist. Was it love?

All he could offer to Ichigo was a half-crazed, weak grin: the last of his efforts to keep a shred of the being that he was. To keep some shard of the remembrance of his old self before his Ichigo.

".. I-It's kinda complicated, King."

Poor Shiro doesn't understand his feelings for his king... hehe. .w. I'll update when I can! Until then, please fave or review. :)