I own nothing, the shortness is intentional and this will never be updated. And yeah, totally cryptic and a bit stilted, I know.

When he pushes open the door, so quietly that Ryuuken doesn't hear (absorbed in his work as he is his hearing's not prone towards acuity), Uryuu's gaze doesn't shoot upwards to his face. Instead, on eye level are his father's hands, and blue eyes see them and not the face.

His writing is swift but stilted. Ryuuken's hand flies over the paper with practiced skill but the process is noticeably laborious, painstaking to make the characters neat, of uniform size and easily read.

Uryuu watches, silent, on the edge of his father's world and on the edge of his own as the spectrums of both overlap for a moment.

Ryuuken's hand seems to ill-fit the pen it grasps. Whether it's too small, too large or something else entirely Uryuu can't tell. What he sees is that, at some point, Ryuuken appears to have forced his hand to fit the pen, and as a result the words are only written with effort.

Hands are stiff from long disuse. Not disuse in the way hands are disused if they lose feeling, but disuse in the way of one who forces himself not to use them anymore. The calling they once perhaps had has been abandoned. Signs no longer present on flesh.

Uryuu closes the door—Ryuuken never looks up when door hits frame—and he leaves his father to his world.

He doesn't think he could breathe the air there.