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Mourning Ophelia
Author of 14 Stories |
Sitting Downwind From Flowers
Her birthday.
The money in his pocket seemed to be burning a hole out of sheer necessity to be spent. Surely the fabric would cost more than the money he had been allotted for that month, but at the moment he didn't care. You don't really need all that much food to survive, anyway.
He lifted his foot, shifted his weight, moved his hand to reach for the door handle—
"Stop staring at that store like some little girl!" Ishida received a punch directly in the side of the head via an annoyed Kurosaki Ichigo, "We still have to finish shopping for Inoue-san. You can come back and pick up your womanly supplies later!"
Ishida's face flamed in what appeared to be some mixture of humiliation and anger, "Kurosaki!" But he never got to finish what would most likely have been a poorly executed retort; another passing glance was giving to the fabric before he quickly moved to catch up to the others.
The whole afternoon had been torture to him; he watched as everyone somehow found one gift or another for Inoue that she would absolutely lovethough he was fairly certain she would appreciate and cherish just about anything, even a three-eyed, six-legged dog. Rukia found some stuffed animal set (that Ichigo tormented her about buying—with his money—until she dropped him to the ground with a well-placed kick), Chad had bought a variety of flower seeds so that she might finally be able to start her own garden, and Ichigo had gotten her every type of protective body armor he could find (including, but not limited to, a hard helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and some strange type of vest which he had gladly laid down a small fortune for). By the end of the day, the only person who had nothing to show for their efforts was none other than himself.
"You didn't see anything you wanted to get for her?" Ichigo gave him a look of disbelief. They were walking back in the general direction of the Kurosaki Clinic with the sun setting behind them. Chad had already split up with them, having to head in an entirely different direction.
Ishida calmly pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, but said nothing.
From Ichigo's side Rukia gave him what he considered to be a kind, but pitying look, "I'm sure you'll find something. We can always go out looking again tomorrow."
He gave a small disdainful snort, "I don't need help. I'll find something later when I don't have Kurosaki whining about his tired feet in my ear."
Ichigo paused, holding the door open. There seemed to be some underlying hardness behind the look, as if he was somehow trying to be threatening and encouraging at the same time. The look, Ishida decided, didn't suit him at all.
"You'd better." He grumbled under his breath, pulling Rukia in after him. She looked as though she had wanted to say something else, but was silenced by the slamming of the Clinic's door. The little bell at top seemed to be mocking him in its cheerful jingle.
Just now was evidence of what had changed over the past months. When they had first met, Ishida had not doubts that Ichigo would have knocked him around for making that type of comment…
He shoved his hands into his jacket's pockets, internally debating whether to go home or go directly back to the store. Such a luxurious fabric wasn't likely to stay very long, but he had to be absolutely certain of what he was making before he could buy any of it. He would also have to invest in similar fabrics to make the different layers… or maybe not? Ishida's feet had finally begun moving in the direction of his apartment, and in that moment he wished he had some type of paper and pencil. Would the dress be too… clingy (his face instantly flashed red hot) if he didn't try to stiffen the fabric or too see through (his hand clutched the nearby wall in support) if he didn't add layers beneath the skirt of it? When had he decided he was going to make a dress as opposed to a skirt or blouse?
No, it would have to be a dress. Inoue… Orihime, had taken to wearing more of them lately, or at least since returning from Soul Society. He had been worried at first that that part of her might have been destroyed with all they had seen or done, that the "new" more powerful version might cause her to act and dress in a different matter.
The painful truth was that it had been at least a month since he last saw her smile—not that empathetic, pseudo-cheerful one—a genuine one. Ishida had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with the way Ichigo and Rukia had been acting around each other lately (less fights, but more concern and jealousy… which was highly annoying in most situations) and that Orihime, who had fought so hard for Ichigo, loved with such an ardent passion, worried with every fiber of her heart, had somehow burnt herself out on it. At first, there hadn't been a day at school in which he didn't catch some form of a lingering glance towards the orange haired Shinigami that was laced with both sadness and hope. But more recently, within the past few weeks, she had simply resigned herself to be as far away from Ichigo as she could—as if the distance could somehow alleviate her heartache and disappointment.
Sometimes he just wanted to kill the bastard.
It wasn't just Ichigo, Rukia, and Orihime. Ishida had suddenly become aware in the changes in himself since returning home. They all went through a time where they wanted to be alone in the solitude of their own personal havens. The weight of everything that they had seen and done at Soul Society seemed to rapidly mature them all to the point where he no longer felt or thought he looked fifteen anymore. In that world he had found the inner strength he had denied himself for so long, and only lately had he come to the conclusion of who was responsible for bringing it out. But how can you go back to the world of the living and expect to feel the same way about things? Surely Lazarus didn't keep his mouth shut out of sheer reverence for God—he probably just didn't know how to explain it or describe it. And besides, Ishida was still confused about Soul Society's connection to the afterlife and/or God. (Actually, Ishida was still confused about a lot of things.)
The dress had already finished itself on the notebook paper by the time he broke out of his trance. Pencil markings had swirled themselves into a flowing design that even he, the Four Eyed Sewing God, felt proud of. It was simple and modest since that tended to be her style, but it was also very… her. Happy, optimistic, hopeful. He didn't even realize a stupid grin had plastered itself on his face until he saw it's reflection in the money jar he was breaking open. After counting the change and sorting them into little piles he organized the bills and neatly folded them.
Once the woman handed him the bag of fabric with a familiar smile he could hardly contain himself. Everything would have to be perfect—not that everything he didn't make wasn't perfect—right down to making sure the stitches were all of equal length and the thread was perfectly matched to the pink fabric. He had sat down to begin the dress around six o'clock PM, setting the goal of simply just tracing the dress pattern onto the fabric, but at eleven, he came to the conclusion that his hands were simply possessed and nothing could stop them. Ishida watched, almost as if detached from his own body, his fingers working the needle in and out, in and out, in and out.
How curious it was that at four o'clock AM he didn't feel the slightest bit tired, or that at 8 o'clock AM, when he was supposed to have been at school, he was still at home sewing in his nightwear. There was some knocking at his door which in his slight daze sounded something akin to Ichigo's voice, and then even Inoue herself! But he kept the rest of his lights out in the apartment save for his single desk lamp. He felt like some insane genius who hid himself away in a cave of darkness never-ending invention, but that didn't stop his fingers.
The only time he took a break was to get a re-fill of his glass of water and to stretch his cramping fingers and back. Ishida would have gotten something to eat if he wasn't so painfully aware that it might result in spilling on the soon-to-be dress. And while he could have eaten it in the kitchen and washed his hands (as his mind was screaming at him), Ishida really had no desire to separate himself from what had become a representation of its intended owner. Every stitch became a memory of her, an image of her, a saying of hers; she was completely wrapped up in the dress and it almost felt as though he was pouring every secret and hidden confession from his heart into the thread, guiding it carefully and steadily with the needle.
Somehow, or rather, somewhere between 3 AM and 4 AM, he let his head drift down, eyes glide shut, brain turn off… but at 5 AM he awoke with a sudden start, feeling the needle stabbing into his opposite hand. His eyes widened, but his first thought was to check to make sure no blood had dripped on the dress. (Damn his lack of control over his body! Damn mankind's need for sleep!) Another band aid, another glass of water, and he was back on track.
He fretted over if he should have finished it so quickly, but holding it out at arm's length he could find nothing wrong with its shape. No unevenness to note, or even lose threads. By anyone else's standards it was perfect, but even in his zombie-like state he could pick out what the untrained eye couldn't see. In one place he had pulled the thread the slightest bit too tight, in another, the knot he had tied was a fraction of a millimeter smaller than all the others. As he lay in bed, the dress hanging directly across from it, he found himself unable to sleep.
It had been two hours since he first climbed into bed, and never once had he taken his eyes off of the gruesome thing. With his glasses off, the lines of the dress seemed to seep into the wall, leaving him with nothing but a swell of burning anger rising up inside of him. He hated it. He hated the shape of it. The length of it. The color of it. Even the fabric had soured so much that he pushed himself out of bed, ripped it off of the hanger, and slammed it down as hard as he could into the nearest trash can.
His anger and frustration seemed to seep from him now as he calmly settled himself into bed. What had he been thinking anyway? A dress was so personal and intimate… you had to know every aspect of a person both inside and out for it to really fit them. Ishida really wasn't prepared for the backlash that would come with everyone seeing it. The mere degradation he would face from Ichigo's mouth alone…
He wanted to get up—to pull it out and hang it back up with the utmost care—but he couldn't bring himself to. How would she even receive it? Surely she would notice everything that was off; from the tension in the stitches to that one microscopic spot where the fabric didn't line up correctly on the left shoulder. She meant… so much to him now that he wasn't sure he could take the humiliation of her not liking it.
So, in the end, it was better just to sleep her birthday away and feel guilty about it later.
If Kurosaki Ichigo had let him.
"Hey, Ishida!" The door banged hard enough for its frame to rattle. It figured the idiot wouldn't even realize his own strength, "HEY! Are you in there!"
Ishida closed his eyes and pretended he had been swallowed up by the floor.
"ISHIDA! YOU KNOW WHAT TODAY IS!"
Silence.
"…Are you dead? HEY!" He took a deep breath, "H-E-L-L-O-O-O-O!"
Ishida reached over for his glasses just as the door splintered and swung open. Ichigo stood there, dressed in his normal attire of a tight shirt and jeans and with a familiar scowl on his face.
"You're one big piece of shit, did you know that? We've been waiting for you for over an hour!" Ishida looked away, but Ichigo continued, swinging the broken door shut behind him, "And poor Inoue-san is sitting in that restaurant thinking that you're dead on some street corner! And you're just sitting there! Are you even going to say anything, you asshole?"
Ishida glanced back at him, mustering up the best glare he could.
Ichigo's scowl deepened, "You aren't going to scare me with that dumb ass face, get dressed and let's go."
The Quincy looked away, back to the plain carpet of the floor. Ichigo knew in that instant what was wrong.
"Just because you didn't get her a stupid present… do you think that that's what she really wants? Or that it matters to her?" The orange haired teen stormed over grabbed the other by the collar of his shirt and lifted him to his feet, "Don't tell me you're going to be such a selfish bastard and not come at all!"
"Yes." Ishida snapped, pushing Ichigo away a little more violently than intended, "That's it exactly. Get out."
The shinigami gave him a startled look, as if he hadn't expected the reply. What did he expect of him, anyway? Didn't Ichigo know him better by now?
"… you look like shit, what the hell have you been doing these past few days?"
"Nothing." His voice dropped to a low pitch, "Get. Out."
"How can you do this to Inoue-san! She's!"
"It doesn't matter!" Ishida shouted, snapping his head back around to face Ichigo. He had never seen him so… riled up. It was almost unnatural on the boy.
"Ishida…" Ichigo took a step back, trying to wipe the astonished look from his face. It wasn't often that he back away from anything.
"She won't miss me being there; in fact, I'm sure she'd be content just to have you, Kurosaki." There was something so defeated and scathing in his voice, "Get out."
"Sorry, I'm not going anywhere." Ichigo crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, "I promised Inoue I'd bring you back with me."
"Fine," Ishida stalked over to the wall behind him and ripped a coat from the wall, "Then I'll leave."
"I-i-idiot! This is your house!"
Ishida didn't respond, merely brushing by. "Give Inoue my regards."
"Yeah, I'll give her something all right! Your sorry ass on a!" The door slammed shut before Ichigo could finish and then swung back open on its broken hinges.
Ichigo huffed, scowling again. Half of him expected Ishida to come walking back and the other half believed him to be gone forever. If he walked out so easily not only on him, but Inoue, that implied that everything he, Rukia, and Chad had been seeing was all their imagination. It hadn't come from Inoue's end at first, but there had somehow always been a reflection of the flower girl in lenses of his glasses. Even Rukia, who he felt certain was slightly emotionally retarded, seemed to have picked up on it. It was her who had kicked him swiftly in the shins under the table, muttering for him to go retrieve the Quincy.
Without him, Inoue had looked so… upset. And when Inoue was upset, everyone was upset.
"Ishida, you idiot!" he all but snarled, kicking his trash can over. Didn't he see how the girl felt about him now? Sometimes he just wanted to kill him!
In all of his huffing and pacing it took Ichigo a good ten minutes to notice something out of the corner of his eyes. (After all, how long had it taken him to find Rukia's note? Had he even found it without Kon's help?)
Surprisingly enough, he recognized it from their shopping adventure. An eyebrow arched slowly, rising with a smirk.
When he lifted the piece of fabric, he was sorely disappointed to see that it was only a dress (not that he would have been able to have handled it if it had been anything more… intimate). It didn't surprise him in the least that the boy had obsessed over the project and, save for being thrown in the trash, it was perfect. He couldn't help but shake his head. Judging by the… proportions… of the dress, it couldn't have been for anyone else.
Gathering the dress up carefully in his arms he couldn't help but mutter under his breath again. A plot was beginning to work itself out in his head.
"Ishida, you idiot."
If he went back, it was likely that Ichigo would drag him back to see Orihime (not without a fight, though Ishida didn't tend to kid himself about Ichigo being more powerful these days) and even if he remembered to grab the dress from the trash can on the way out he would have to find some way to make her think that it wasn't from him—that that wasn't his stupid present for her. She had a pretty wild imagination… maybe she would believe that in the struggle against Ichigo, he had tried grabbing onto a clothing wire and had ripped the dress from it?
A sigh.
He finally pushed himself out of the hole in the sand he had dug under the jungle gym. A couple of wary mothers pulled their children towards them, wondering why a teenage boy would be hiding in a playground in his pajamas.
And if he didn't go? He knew that would probably hurt her more than anything. But the fact of the matter was that he really didn't have much pride left as it stood. His rival was more powerful than him, his Quincy powers had returned only slightly and in various waves, he had let himself slip to second ranking in class for approximately ten minutes and twenty three seconds point two seconds…
She was so important to him now, though. Her giving him even the slightest bit of a confused look as he handed it to her would probably destroy him emotionally for at least a quarter of a century.
He all but dropped himself onto the nearest metal park bench, its warmth seeping in through the thing cotton of his pajama pants. Pressing his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose, he craned his neck back so his head was resting upon the top of the bench. It was the first time the exhaustion of his dress making marathon had hit him—he felt tired both physically and emotionally.
'This is pathetic,' he told himself, 'you're getting angst-y over a dress.'
What few clouds there were in the sky above him were brilliantly white and puffy, the kind, his mind whispered to him evilly, that was perfect for her birthday. Ishida pushed the voice aside, letting his eyes slowly droop shut. A deep breath in… a deep breath out.
The first warning sign should have been the soft padding of feet behind him. His mind automatically went to work—someone light, probably woman, probably wearing sandals, probably mother of one of the hellions that were throwing themselves at the plastic swings and slides with unmatched squirrel-like fury and enthusiasm…
The moment he felt the warmth and light of the sun leave his face, his eyes slowly crept open.
"Hi, Ishida-kun!" Orihime's trademark cheery face and voice sent his heart into spasms of speed, his head slamming against metal (twice), and his body off the bench completely.
"Oh! Are you all right!" She walked around the bench to where he was painfully sprawled out against the sidewalk, "I'm so sorry, I just wanted to surprise you!"
"Well, you did that much at least…" He was still rubbing his head as she helped him to sit down. Orihime still stood before him, a worried expression marring her pretty features. Without thinking twice, he looked her over to make sure she hadn't been hurt in anyway.
A shrill shriek bubbled up in his throat, but he quelled it by pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and remembering that he was, indeed, a man.
"Wh-where… did you get that?" Ishida finally asked, pointing an unsteady finger at a very familiar article of clothing.
Orihime looked down innocently at the dress and then back at his face, "Kurosaki-kun gave it to me when he came back from trying to find you—I was so worried you know, I thought maybe that you had been kidnapped by vengeful fairies or amazons, or maybe even Two Buck Bill the pirate—and he told me to put it on and go try to find you. He told me that you were just probably lost and had fainted somewhere from dehydration, that that was the only reason why you wouldn't have come to my birthday party. They're all out looking for you too! Even Tatsuki-chan!" By the time she had finished her long-winded story, Ishida realized that her cheeks had tinted slightly pink.
'Damn you, Kurosaki...!' His mind was mentally shaking a fist at the orange haired Shinigami… why had he covered for him? Was it because he didn't want to see Orihime hurt, or because he wanted to give him a second chance?
Ishida shook his head, "You should take it off. It's no good. It shouldn't be seen by anyone, let alone worn."
Orihime was already reaching for the back zipper of her dress and pulling it down before Ishida realized his mistake, "I-I-I-I didn't mean here! Just keep it on for now!" His hands were wildly waving, drawing attention from the already startled mothers.
She slid gracefully on the bench besides him, "You really don't like this dress, Ishida-kun? I can tell you spent a lot of time on it and put a lot of heart into it…" Her voice got very quiet for a moment, "Was this why you weren't at school these past few days?"
Ishida nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond, "You don't… hate it?" Even Orihime could sense the uncertainty that was underlying his voice.
"No! No! Of course not!" She stood up and wagged a finger in front of his face as if to emphasize her point, "This is one of the best, one of my favorite, presents I have ever gotten! The fabric is so shiny, so soft, and look! It sparkles in the sunlight! Ishida-kun, you certainly have a good eye for fabric and design! You even guessed my right sizes!"
Ishida's ego rapidly began to expand in epic proportions. There was even the slightest smile that he allowed before pointing out, "But look, the stitches right here are uneven…"
"If you had matched them, then I wouldn't have had enough support…"
"But the flower right here doesn't match…"
"It's so tiny, and besides, if you had adjusted it, then the rest of them wouldn't have lined up…"
"… but it's wrinkled a little…"
"That's because Kurosaki-kun said that when the burglars broke into your house they threw all your clothing into the trash can!"
Ishida blinked.
"Look, Ishida-kun… there's nothing that you can say to me that would make me believe that this isn't the best, most beautiful dress I've ever seen."
Ishida blinked again. Then again. Then again.
She scooted over close enough that he could pick up that flowery scent that was so distinctly her—it was like he was sitting downwind from a flower field.
Thin arms wrapped around his neck, and he brought up a shaky hand to touch them—to make sure that they were, indeed, real. An undeniable warmth spread through every vein and bone of his body and blood rushed soundly to his face.
"Thanks… Ishida…"
It was strange, he decided suddenly, how familiar, and yet, how new she seemed to him in that moment. The exaggerations and whimsical imagination had returned to her as if they had never been gone in the first place (repressed, his mind whispered, under the oppressive weight of maturity and battling death). Her recent smile, which had waved somewhere between fake and depressing had been decimated, eradicated—the only thing that seemed to remain was undiluted happiness. Ishida, however, was not so naive as to think she was the same girl he had meet all those years before in the handicraft club. How could he? Orihime no longer saw herself as a victim; she parted her hair, clipped it back, and let the quietly beautiful strength of her new powers overtake her entire being. How could he have brought her back out of her shell? How could one dress be so powerful to a girl?
How?
Her whole being seemed to glow ethereally, but he could no longer believe that it was just the sunlight playing tricks on him.
She released him slowly and stood up, taking the time to carefully brush out any dirt or new wrinkles, "Everyone is still back at the restaurant, so we shouldn't keep them waiting. They'll be so happy that I found you before the man-eating ants did!" Ishida was still so fazed by the hug that he completely missed what she had just said.
"Come on, what are you waiting for?" She smiled brightly and held out her hand.
He took it, not with a lingering second thought, but instead with a mind numbing happiness he'd never fully experienced before.
What are you waiting for?
(end)
