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hashtagartistlife · 4 years

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Maybe fate was called fate because some things weren’t choices; some things were simply written into his DNA, woven into the very fabric of the universe. World orders. The sky is blue. The sun is hot. He is in love with Kuchiki Rukia.

Kuchiki Rukia is dying.

Ten years after the defeat of Yhwach, it’s time Ichigo and Rukia started facing some truths— about the world, about themselves, and about each other.

this is all i have of this fic for now (this and a tiny little bit of chapter 3), i guess it’ll be updated when i woman the fuck up and wrack up enough nerves to keep writing which im hoping will be sometime this decade :’/ but i might post chapters i have for other unfinished fics i have over the next few days so if you’re into unfinished fics (read: literally nobody) then stick around!!!

premise for this fic | chapter 1 here | this is chapter 2

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f r a y

by hashtagartistlife

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Two

9:12 am

Kurosaki Clinic

When Renji wakes up the next morning to find Rukia safely asleep beside him, he feels the tension across his shoulders ease somewhat. They’d both been a little worried about how her sleepwalking habit might fit into this visit (even though neither of them had voiced their concerns out loud), he more so than she for reasons he had yet to disclose to her. Her breathy sigh of ‘Ichigo?’ rings in his ears. He hadn’t seen a point in telling Rukia about that, not when she was still refusing to admit she had a problem in the first place. She’d just feel needlessly guilty and isolate herself even more. Renji knows how Rukia works. What he doesn’t know is how to break through that shell she builds around herself, how to draw her out of it and get her to face her problems head-on.

No, he admits (and he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in the way he thought it), that’s always been Ichigo’s specialty. He looks across the rowdy breakfast table to his friend, who is sitting uncharacteristically silent with a mug of something dark and unappetising in his hands. His eyes are shadowed, tired, and when he meets Renji’s gaze he starts almost guiltily before curving his lips into an uneasy smile.

The hell’s all that about? Renji thinks, but then Ichika slams into his knee, shoving a glass of orange juice into his face, and he puts the moment out of his mind. The rest of the morning is filled with trying out some godawful beverage called ‘coffee’ at Orihime’s behest, wrangling Ichika into human world clothes, and sending the children off, along with their mothers, to go meet Sado. He and Ichigo stay back, Ichigo to tend to his clinic and he to go see Urahara. Since gensei visits were so few and far between, even on what was ostensibly a holiday they had been saddled with checking in on the shopkeeper to exchange news and technology. Renji figures he might as well get that out of the way first, and catch up with Sado later.

At least, he figures that until Ichigo corners him just before he walks out the door, a dark expression on his face. He looks uncomfortable, standing in the doorway of his own house, a hand on the back of his neck, and Renji notes with a kind of detached surprise that if Ichigo hadn’t been slumping, they’d be more or less at a height now. He raises an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

“A— about Rukia—” Ichigo stumbles over the syllables in her name, and stops, wetting his lips, looking nervous. A sense of foreboding settles into Renji’s gut; Ichigo hasn’t looked this worried in— well, a decade. He stays quiet, letting Ichigo finish his question. “Has she ever— has she ever sleepwalked before?”

He freezes in his tracks; frantically, Renji rewinds last night in his mind. It’s no use; he’d been out for the count for a solid eight hours. If he hadn’t been so tired lately, he’d have thought someone had spiked his drink. Try as he might, he can’t remember Rukia slipping out of bed at all. But she’d been back in bed by the morning, so someone must have intercepted her—

Ichigo. Rukia’s voice, ghostly in his mind, calling his name. Ichigo. Ichigo. Ichigo—

His breath leaves him in a long, long sigh, and Renji closes his eyes before gesturing for Ichigo to sit.

6:53 am

Ichigo doesn’t go back to his bed after the kiss. Instead he sits outside the clinic, on the cold hard asphalt, for one eternity— two— til the sun starts lightening the end of the street and the moon grows paler in the sky. He can still feel Rukia on his skin, in his veins, lingering like a drug that refuses to clear. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be empty of her touch now that he’s known it.

When the moon finally disappears and the sun well and truly risen, he picks himself up from the ground and stumbles back into the house, feeling like he was the sleepwalker now. The sight of their children sprawled out together in their blanket fort brings the reality of what he’s done rushing back to him. He can’t help the reflex that brings his fingers up to ghost over his lips, like a lovesick teenager. The breath leaves his lungs like he’s been punched, and he turns away from the kids, sleeping angelically side-by-side. He can’t bear the thought of facing either of them, of facing anyone in this household any more.

What does he do now? Does he go back to bed, pretend nothing ever happened— slip into his place beside Orihime and forget the fact that his heart is beating again for the first time in ten years? Does he come clean to her and beg forgiveness, tell her he loves her and it won’t ever happen again, or does he lock this away in a dark recess of his mind, just like he’s done with his shinigami powers and everything related to her for the last decade? His mind casts around frantically for excuses — he was tired. It was the middle of the night. Hell, he doesn’t even know if it really happened anymore — was everything a fever dream, triggered by the immense relief of seeing Rukia again? But his blood is thrumming in his veins, and the power he’d spent his entire adult life crushing down is once again swirling and eddying just under his skin, exactly like it had when he was seventeen. His hands are shaking, and his skin feels hot. He can’t lie to himself. Rukia was here. Rukia’d kissed him. He’d kissed her back.

He drags his trembling hands over his eyes, down his face; slumps into a chair in the kitchen and attempts to evade the question that becomes more pressing with every second. What now? It was clear that Rukia had no idea what had happened. The weight of this transgression was his alone to carry. Even if she had remembered, the fault lay with him— she’d been asleep, but he’d been wide awake and had pulled her towards him.

A part of him— the good part, the noble part, the part that had once forced its way through layers of hollow to tell his zanpakutou to fuck off out of his fight with Byakuya— is yelling at him to confess, to lay himself at Orihime’s mercy and take whatever comes from it. But a larger, more insistent part of him is asking, for what? What does telling Orihime accomplish, but the breaking of four hearts? He has never deserved Orihime, with her soft smiles and kind words to his rough edges; the fact that he is, once again, an awful person to her— for her— is not news. What is the point of ruining her spun-sugar smile with something that will never happen again—

liar

—especially when it doesn’t just involve him? If he confesses, it’s not just his head on the line; it’s Rukia’s, too, no matter the fact that she was asleep at the time. And he might be willing to risk everything he ever is or was for far less than this, but there is no way in hell he will do that to Rukia. Not for some one-off sleepwalking incident that she had no control over, and if it happens again he’ll just push her away—

liar

— and oh, god, was this a thing that happened often? Rukia’d always been a deep sleeper; she was, despite everything she insisted to the contrary, very clearly not okay if she was sleepwalking like this.

As his thoughts spiral back to the cause of his turmoil, Ichigo becomes acutely aware of her reiatsu upstairs, thrumming rapidly like a hummingbird’s wings. It seems lighter and more unsettled than he remembers it being, and the tinge of instability to it as it flares and retreats irregularly unnerves him. Rukia’s reiatsu control has always been top-class, so this distinct lack of it triggers alarm bells in his mind. He swallows, and attempts to smooth down the ragged edges of her power with his; but wherever his reiatsu brushes against hers, it just flares brighter and more powerful and he has to give up, lest it disturb Renji or the kids.

It's been a while since he's felt someone else’s reiatsu like this, but he knows this isn't normal; concern eats at him even as it wars with an urge to ignore it and bury everything about this incident as deep as possible. Rukia isn’t an idiot, she would have gotten help if it was something serious—but would she, really? He knows better than anyone how stubborn she can be when she thinks she’s being a burden. She’d die before she let someone else take the fall for her.

He closes his eyes.

He scowls; ten years it’s been, and she’s still so— so— so her. Longer hair, a husband and child, a Captain’s haori, and nothing matters; she’s still stubborn, still a bitch who lives to help everyone else but won’t let anyone help her. It's evident in the way she refuses to say she’s tired, the way that Renji’s eyes follow her around everywhere, worried. She’s still the self-sacrificing idiot she’d been from day one, and he—

He is still the coward he’d been twelve years ago, when he’d watched her bleed out on the concrete before him and only then been spurred into action.

This isn’t about him. If Rukia is ill, then he has to let someone know— someone who can actually do something about it. His feelings — whatever they are— does not factor into the equation. This is about Rukia—

— so, he needs to talk to Renji.

10:18 am

“Has Rukia ever sleepwalked before?”

A moment of tension across Renji’s features, and then a long, long sigh; he gestures for Ichigo to sit, and the two of them shuffle over to the recently vacated kitchen table. Renji rubs his face tiredly, and Ichigo’s sense of foreboding grows.

“... Last night, huh?” Renji says, and Ichigo almost jumps out of his skin; did he know? Could he see— was the mark of Rukia's lips on his visible, indelible, the way it felt like to him? Could everyone read it on his face, that he and Rukia—

Renji’s voice is weary as he continues. “Yeah. Yeah, she's sleepwalked before. The past few years, actually. What did she do last night? How did you find her?”

— kissed— “She— she walked out of the clinic and I heard the door open. Renji, is she— is she okay—”

Renji leans his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands. “I don't know,” he breathes, frustration dripping from every syllable. “I don't know, she won't tell me, you know how she is—”

Did he ever. Ichigo remembers with vivid clarity the time she'd sustained a stomach wound, back in the days before Soul Society; she hadn’t told him for three days, and had only agreed to go see Urahara when she'd finally collapsed in his arms.

“ — don't think I've tried—? God, doctors, healers, we've tried everything, Kuchiki-Taichou’s worried out of his mind. But she won't have any of it, says she won't let us waste time fussing over her when there are better things to worry about—”

“That fucking idiot,” Ichigo mutters, and Renji barks out what is almost a laugh.

“Right? Drives me up the fucking wall. Wouldn't be Rukia if she didn't.”

“Guess not.”

Renji cracks a strained smile before it fades away into seriousness again. “It wasn't this bad before,” he says, and Ichigo sits up straight.

“Recent thing, then?”

“Depends what you'd classify as recent. I mean, she's never been a heavy sleeper—”

At this, Ichigo interrupts. “Wait, really? She's always slept like the dead—”

Renji gives him a look, and Ichigo remembers who it is that is sharing her bed now. He shuts up.

“ — as I said, she's never slept too well, even during our Rukon days, and it got pretty bad after the war, but it wasn't— wasn’t to this extent, you know? At least, not till she had Ichika. And then— it was like a switch flipped. She couldn't get to sleep at night, and she could barely keep her eyes open during the day. It started interfering with her work, and you know how that would have killed her; we started to go see a bunch of people for it but nothing seemed to help. And then she started sleepwalking—”

Something cold crawls up Ichigo’s spine.

“She— at first, we didn't know where it was that she was going in her sleep. she wandered the Kuchiki Manor gardens a lot, sometimes she just paced around inside the house. Sometimes she got out of the Kuchiki property and was well into the streets before we found her and brought her back. I didn't know where she was trying to go—”

Renji breaks off, and looks Ichigo dead in the eye.

“— till one morning I woke up, and found her at Sokyouku Hill.”

Ichigo’s blood turns to ice.

“It was bloody Sokyoku Hill, Ichigo. Every single time— inside the Manor, in the gardens, on the streets. She was always trying to get to Sokyouku Hill. North-north west from the Kuchiki Manor. I—”

Renji’s expression turns supplicating, as if asking him for an answer, but Ichigo has none to give; he’s rooted to the spot by the sheer horror he’s feeling, Rukia strung up against the Sokyouku vivid in his mind. That collar around her neck, a red slash splitting her throat open; her eyes, glazed over with tears. Her skin dyed orange and yellow from the heat of it all.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Ichigo, for fuck’s sake I can’t even get her to admit that there’s something wrong. I just—”

Renji drops his head into his hands. Very softly — so soft that Ichigo is sure he isn’t meant to hear these next words— he says to himself:

“Ten years. Ten years, and I’m still not enough.”

Ten years. Enough to fell mountains; enough to dry rivers and move oceans.

Not enough to change a heart.

When Renji looks up at Ichigo again, his gaze is edged with steel.

“She says your name.”

“I— what?”

“She says your name, when she walks out to Sokyouku Hill. She says your name.”

A memory, in his mind: Rukia, ethereal in the moonlight. Ichigo?

Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.

Ichigo doesn’t know what to say.

Eventually, Renji breaks their impasse; he sighs and raps the table before getting up. “I’m not such a small man as to beat you to a pulp over that, Ichigo, stop looking like you think I’m going to bite your head off.”

“I’m not—” he protests automatically, but Renji shushes him with a wave of his hand.

“You are, but that’s not the point.” He ambles over to the door and looks over his shoulder at him, one hand poised on the handle. “If— if there’s anything you might be able to do for her—”

“Renji—”

“Please,” Renji says, and even though this time, he isn’t on his knees half-dead before him, Ichigo knows what it’s costing him to make this request. “Please… help her.”

Of course, Ichigo wants to reply, She’ll be fine, I’ll save her. Rukia’ll be safe—

But he isn’t fifteen anymore.

“I’ll— try,” he says, lamely, and that is the best they can do. Renji nods.

“Gonna go see Urahara. He might have some tricks up his sleeve,” he says, but he doesn’t look like he believes what he’s saying. Ichigo waves him off, and Renji slips away.

The sound of the clinic door swinging shut echoes in his wake.

3:02 pm

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Click.

“...Hello?”

“Kurosaki-san?”

“...... Urahara-san?”

“Ah, Kurosaki-san, thank goodness you picked up. If you aren’t busy, I’d appreciate your presence at the Shoten as soon as possible.”

“What? Me? Why?”

A pause; Ichigo finds, for no good reason whatsoever, that he is holding his breath.

“Ah, well. You see, that is—”

Between one accelerating heartbeat and the next—

“Kuchiki-san has collapsed.”

#bleach #ichiruki #kurosaki ichigo #kuchiki rukia #bleach fanfic #writer life #f r a y

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