title: new ways to fall apart

summary: "And there she is, prettier than words; your seven percent cure." Seventeen months, before you know to count.

notes: My first foray into the fandom. Many, many thanks to the incredibly talented mylasia, who is a force-an inspiration-and makes me want to be a princess and a person who writes good (ho lord!) all at the same time.

When it is all said and done—the world saved, Karakura happy, whole—the homework is all that remains. It accrues like past due payments on a car you no longer own. You are a student—this is what you're supposed to do. But you think, what is the point? The world will turn whether you do it or not. The world would not turn at all, if—

You will not.

Goat Chin does not make you go. Yuzu makes breakfast in the morning, does not ask why you are not in uniform, why you are always home when she returns. Karin doesn't ask anything. But there is an awareness to your sister that scares you, that makes you wonder at what she sees, her eyes open to the subtleties of the world. You want to ask, but where do you begin? Karin is not like Yuzu, or Goat Chin. You remind yourself that your father is more than you think, more than you will ever touch again.

If you asked, would he answer? So much has happened, but you wonder if the important parts have truly changed. To your father, once, you said, 'I don't have a method of stepping into the depths of your heart without getting it dirty.' It is filled with the painful flash of memory, that girl—fine-boned in a yellow dress. Once, you were her sword. Once, she taught you the intricacies of death and duty, that feeling deep in your chest—

You can't.

She has been gone for three days when you put your fist through someone's front teeth. The reason is negligible: yes, you are Kurosaki—who the fuck are you?

You don't care.

Goat Chin patches up your hand, says that it is these decisions that are the makings of a man. But your father has been saying this since you were thirteen, getting into fist fights at the drainage pipes near the river. Bloody collars and swollen lips are a revelation—your son, they seem to say, is going in all the wrong ways. But you haven't called him touchan since mom passed and how in the world are you supposed to explain? You've got sisters with no mother and dad is crying in front of a poster and everything about this is. You're burning inside. All the rage, the self-hatred. You see the spirit of the kid killed in that hit and run on the corner and why, why can't you see mom?

When Goat Chin cleans your hand, he uses the stuff that burns—a lesson, perhaps, were you not too old to learn. Again, he says, it's these decisions, but Goat Chin doesn't understand. It's never a decision, not until she comes and changes so much.

How long had you waited for her to come?

Don't misunderstand. You hate her aplomb, her ability to twist the world until you're barely hanging on. You hate that she saves you and she builds you into the man who doesn't decide, only breathes. There is a heartbeat, and then one more. These decisions are the making of a man but it was never a choice to choose. If you had the power, if you could—again, once more. It would not change. You would give anything—

And there, you think. Perhaps. You would like to ask; look at her, touch her hand.

But it is in this that you find the inevitable. Her eyes are blue in the sunshine, violet beneath the stars. The last time you look at her, they shine with tears. You have always touched her and it has never mattered. You have a scar over your heart, the metal of her sword against your soul. She has made you into this man. You wouldn't change a thing.

There are still notes in your pockets and a third bed remains in the room shared by the girls. In your room, you smell her, still, and over lunch, Yuzu sometimes draws Chappy with ketchup, her efforts as dismal as the girl you do not mention, the phantom presence in your home.

You wonder if she realizes what has happened, think to yourself, where have you gone?

You do not measure her absence in minutes but in moments: changing jackets for the winter and the homework you must do. Yuzu retrieves the heavy blankets from the closet and there, you think, this is where she has been. Until your sister puts the blankets in the wash and it's away with the dust and the vestiges of her that have managed to remain. Yuzu is a good girl. She changes the bedclothes for the winter months, leaving you with the blanket you have only thought of as hers since she lived in your closet those fateful two months.

She has been gone for two days, two weeks. You do not count. Goat Chin spends the mornings away from the house, the clinic closed. You stand, poised, before the closet door; waiting, hating that she never comes.

You return to school. Your seat is the same but everything is different. You feel too large for your limbs, as if you have shrunk—somehow become smaller than everything you used to be.

You think, so I have. You sit in class with your books closed, fingering your bangs. They were longer, once. The memory teases along your periphery, the haircut that never was. You were asleep for a month. How much have you lost?

According to Ochi-sensei, you are the same sullen delinquent, perpetually behind in class. Quieter, perhaps. When she calls your name in the mornings, she grins. She says, "Ne, Kurosaki, how nice to have you back."

Beside you, the seat remains unfilled; a memorial to everything you have lost.

You stares endlessly at the window instead, ice frosted across the surface like a web of glass.

It has been one month, three. It is January. You think, the fourteenth—

At the front of the class, Ochi-sensei catches you in your daydreams. She says, "Ku-ro-sa-ki." There is a fission of laughter from the class. It is not the first time; it will not be the last. You can feel Inoue's eyes on you, worried and grey; Keigo and Mizuiro do not understand, and Chad will not explain. Ishida does not turn at all, but it is just as if he had. You hate Ishida. You hate that he knows but doesn't turn and you wouldn't want him to regardless and, then, Ishida is gone. He makes excuses about a stomach ache but Inoue's eyes are on the window and then they are on you and of course, of course. She wants to help Ishida but she doesn't want to hurt you.

You still aren't paying attention. Ochi-sensei swats you with her book.

"Shall I see Kurosaki next year?"

Pride still has its place, you think—somewhere. You will not repeat a year. Still, it will take you months to catch up. Ishida recommends himself as a tutor; you politely tell him to please fuck off. You can't justify the statement when Inoue offers the same thing. You don't want her help, but Tatsuki will be on you if you don't accept. You aren't afraid of Tatsuki but you don't want the hell. Inoue only wants to help, even if she doesn't know how, and in so many ways, she's the same girl who raced into Soul Society with you and the others, painfully earnest, innocent; oblivious to the ways of the world.

She helps, in a sense. She's good with numbers, equations that lead to a logical end. You think she is like Ishida, that maybe she would like Ishida. But you don't understand Inoue and even the hours she spends in your room—helping, or whatever it is she would like to call that you do—have done nothing to bridge that distance that exists between her and you.

One night, Inoue asks you, "Kurosaki-kun, what will you do after school?"

You have not thought in such concrete terms since this all began. Unconsciously, you touch your chest. Your scar burns, a psychosomatic representation too trite for even your mind to comprehend.

But you will have a future—this is the important part. You are alive and your family is alive and Inoue is alive and she—

She would want you to live.

Perhaps he will become a doctor, like Goat Chin. Inoue's eyes widen in wonder. "Oh, Kurosaki-kun!" she titters. "That's wonderful! But you have so much to catch up on. Oh, we have so much to do."

Perhaps he will still save souls.

The though hurts, like a twisting and twisting. You read too much to be a doctor, to save anything but that hopeless part of yourself that you actively attempt to lose in someone else's words.

There is new tragedy to Othello, Lear. What is the dissolution of an empire to the death of everything within? Ochi-sensei lets you write your papers, does not comment on your missing assignments in math, or other things that count. She lets it be enough.

You catch up, halfhearted efforts at most in the ennui of what will become seventeen silent months. At night, you would lie in bed, lights off, homework abandoned hours and hours before. You wonder, where is my seven percent solution?

You close your eyes, and you see her there—fine-boned in a yellow dress. You would move mountains for her, give up everything you have. And here is your tragedy. This is now your life.

When you can, you keep your eyes shut. But between school and work and the sweet smelling breads Inoue brings from the shop, the seasons turn. The cherry blossoms bloom; you visit mom. Your birthday—you're seventeen years old.

You close your eyes—how many months?

But there she is, prettier than words; your seven percent cure.

You call her name, a quiet exhale.

"Rukia—"

Your heart chokes you, lodged somewhere deep in your throat. Still, her head turns, and her eyes—purple and blue—are yours.

end notes: Reviews are love.