He just stares at her, like he’d been wishing for his mom but she appeared instead. This belief - in wishing, in divine intervention, in fate - is probably the reason why he chooses to believe in her.
BLEACH / AU / ICHIRUKI • [← PART 1 ○ PART 2: A study of Rukia Kuchiki]
III.
Of all the things Rukia considers herself as, fortunate is not one of them. Though the echoes of fortune haunt everything she sees and touches, she considers she’d rather do without it all. When she looks in the mirror, she recognizes herself, but it’s in a vague way. She knows what she looks like, but she doesn’t actually know who she is.
It isn’t that she’s ungrateful for what she has.
Her parents love her as much as any daughter; her childhood with them is filled with memories of picnics in the park, trips to museums… the annual cherry blossom festival where she’d walk down the rows of trees, warmth on her face and always two hands to hold.
They have always been kind, giving, and extremely passionate about their work. It seeps into her blood, as if they were related, to work twice as hard, to shine twice as bright. Rukia wears her last name like a medal she’s won and lets it define her completely.
Her father is her pride. He works tirelessly at the Kuchiki enterprises, recently inheriting the company from their now-retired Uncle. She learns importance of proper etiquette and strategy from him. Her mother is her heart, working at a non-profit that finds shelter for the homeless. Rukia used to ask her why she worked, not really in need of anything given their status, but her mom just ruffles her hair, and tells her there’s more to life than money. Rukia understands, because what else had she ever wanted besides the two of them?
Adjusting the hem on her black dress with a tug, she takes one last look at herself before leaving her room.
She is thirteen when she attends her mother’s funeral.
Her mother looks asleep in the coffin, make-up caked on, her giving her an artificial glow like she’s just sleeping. Rukia thinks it’s a pointless gesture, but she appreciates it anyway. She’d like the last look of Hisana not to be the pale image she used to visit in the hospital to say goodbye. The cancer came quickly, too late when they found out. They’ve already been grieving for months.
The event is small and intimate, mostly filled with family and friends. Her grandparents and cousins hug her and keep her soft, reminding her of everything her mother was. When they share their stories of Hisana, they reveal sides of her mother that she’d never known: when she and her friends got lost traveling around Japan during their last high school summer, her first big win gaining a successful client at the office, one of her first dates with Byakuya retold by her best friend. She was adventurous, determined and loved fiercely, they say; she will be missed. Rukia cries. It’s the first time she’s cried since she’d been adopted.
Her dad takes it the worst. After the funeral he floats around like his gravity’s been taken from him, no longer tethered to Earth. To counter this, he chains himself to his desk, focusing on his work to keep himself grounded. She comes home from school to an empty house.
If this is the cost of having a family, Rukia thinks, she isn’t sure it was worth the price. The loss she feels in her chest is too heavy; six years of happiness ending so abruptly that no fortunate person could ever experience.
So Rukia lets herself float. She skips classes and spends the day in arcades, in parks, talking to homeless people and stalking cats.
It takes her back to another time, hazy infinite summers sneaking out of the orphanage and playing by the river. It gives her the idea.
On a fair winter morning, Rukia takes a train to Karakura. The ride itself doesn’t take too long, and she hides her school uniform with her coat so as not to seem suspicious.
Walking around the streets, the town is quiet and serene. It feels like a dream. The buildings don’t seem as tall as they used to, the distance of things having shrunk between her steps. The river flows beside her at a constant ebb that floods her with nostalgia.
When she reaches the hill, she takes a moment to take it all in. Overgrown foliage and forest trees surround the Torii, weathered and dulled by time. It welcomes her like the arms of the birth mother she never met, but she ignores them in favor of the off-beaten path to the side of it, leading to the gate of a traditional-style house.
The laughter she hears from the children stops her cold on her feet. Rukia hides behind the gate and stands there, watching. The boys are running, all pranks and belly laughs with one another and the girls are gathering the toys to fight back at them. They were playing house when the boys had usurped the game with a declaration of war. There’s one kid, a little too scrawny and too short, who joins in the fight anyway, scrappy and unwavering.
She watches till she realizes her cheeks are wet, tears coming undone at the sight of it all, guilty for everything she’s built up in her head. These kids are tenacious, hoping for a better life that’s out of their control as foolhardy as it is. She was once that child, until fortune smiled upon her and gave her everything she wanted. Who was she to refuse it now when it was all she had asked for?
Rukia’s family may be broken, but it doesn’t mean she can’t try to mend what she has, to be grateful. Her mother was everything to her - to them - and she doesn’t regret anything about her life with her. She thinks of her mother, her ferocity for living, and keeps the spirit close to her heart.
Stepping away from the orphanage, she walks back to the station with renewed energy. The town itself seems to come alive with her. It’s the late afternoon and there are kids playing by the river, others biking past her in their school uniforms.
She deep in thought when a glint of orange across the street that catches her eye. She knows him, she realizes. He looks a little menacing, with a crinkle between his brows and a frown that’s permanently taken residence on his face. The look doesn’t suit him, too angry for someone so young. She doesn’t think she’d recognize him if it wasn’t for his hair. It has to be him though, right?
Rukia thinks she should say something. Hey. Hi. It’s been too long. Didn’t we used to write to each other? …it’s been years. Do you even remember me? The thoughts spill into her head all at once and jumble into a pit in her stomach.
What should she say? What would he think?
She stops walking and settles for a polite wave and a firm “Hello” deciding not to yell across the street. Panic calcifies in her chest when she can’t remember his name.
In the end, he doesn’t notice her. He’s got his earbuds on and when he’s closer she swears she can hear him humming a fast tune. They cross each other on the street with little fanfare.
The moment it’s over, Rukia just laughs, the sound foreign as it escapes her lips. She thinks herself silly for even trying.
Rukia’s mind wanders as she watches the landscape from the train windows morph from open fields back to the compact buildings she’s familiar with. She wonders what happened to him. She wonders if she’s changed as much as him.
-
Back home, she cooks a dinner big enough for two and waits for her dad to come home. He finally arrives two hours past his usual office hours. If he’s shocked by her gesture, its marginally expressed. The stovetop ticks to a lively fire as she reheats the food while he hangs his coat in the foyer. She’s laid the dishes out onto the table into a traditional setting she knows he’d appreciate.
“We can’t do this to her,” Rukia breaks the silence during the meal, fire in her words. “She would hate what you’ve become.”
“She’d hate what you’ve become too, skipping classes all the time.” He responds with ice, eyes low. “Don’t think I didn’t know. Your school’s called me every day this week.”
“You’re right and I’m sorry, but—” She grimaces, gesturing a slight bow to apologize.
“It’s hard to lose someone, isn’t it?” He says softly. “I don’t blame you for taking some time for yourself, but tell me next time… I know your mom usually handled these sort of things better, but…”
Rukia’s eyes are wide, her heart gutted at seeing her dad this way.
“I’ll make a deal with you. No more skipping classes but you have to come home for dinner.”
“I can’t help the office has been busy lately—“
“No excuses.” Rukia interrupts, strengthening her resolve, but her voice cracks. “I hate coming home to this empty house every day.”
There’s no response from him then, but his brows lift slightly in an expression she’s not used to.
“I visited the orphanage today.” Rukia says, the implication unfolding before him. She looks at him and his brows are still raised. “I just - I just wanted to see… to remember that time. I’m grateful for everything you’ve both done and given me, but.”
She takes a breath. There’s no fire in her now, just the calmness of knowing. “I forgot what it was like. Not to have parents. Or anyone. I don’t want to lose it again.”
The chopsticks clink against the porcelain of her dad’s bowl as he puts it down. He looks at her with a warmth that she’s never seen from him.
“I’m sorry… You have a deal.”
They don’t shake on the agreement and neither really speak much after the talk, but she feels the shift in him after dinner. Over the weekend they buy a frame and candles and set up a shrine by the dinner table. They buy flowers every week for Hisana. It’s not a lot, but they’re trying, and it’s enough.
Still, sometimes, she’ll take a train every once in a while back to Karakura.
