Bleach - Buyer's Remorse - Part Two
Jan. 20th, 2011 10:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: And it's update time in this ongoing mystery. I'm really pleased with how well-received the last part was so I hope that this one intrigues you as well.
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: M
Warning: Non-explicit noncon, foul language, speculation, nonconsensual drug use, flagrant alcohol use, possible slash, het, or femslash, NO romance/no pairings
Description: For all he can't remember, this is something that he'll never forget.
(One)(Two)(Three)(Four)(Five)(Six)(Seven)(Eight)(Nine)
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Buyer's Remorse
Part Two
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It's cold, but he feels fevered all over. He can't stop shivering, and his head is pounding so badly he can feel his pulse in his ear. His heart flutters more than beats in his chest, struggling like a bird that can’t quite stay airborne. His clothes cling to him, sticky with sweat, and he can feel it slicking his skin. He hurts all over, the discomfiting throb of the truly ill. His belly has twisted into knots, and his mouth is dry and tasting like cotton.
He doesn't know what happened to his kenseikan. He's not wearing it; he can't remember if he grabbed it even. He's carrying his scarf; his fingers were unable to wrap it around his neck without choking himself in the process. He doesn't know where his haori is either. It wasn't in the pile of carefully folded clothes that were by the bed where he woke.
The road is uneven beneath him, and Byakuya stumbles, lacking all the grace of his usual walk. The world spins and spins. He's dizzy, mind cloudy. His limbs are so heavy, legs trembling, extremities so unbearably cold.
“Kuchiki-taichou?”
‘I must get home,’ he tells himself. Relieved that home is one of the few things he remembers despite the fog in his brain.
“Are you alright, sir?”
“Sir, are you ill?”
“Taichou, can you even hear us?”
The ground shifts beneath him, and Byakuya pauses, drawing in a labored breath. The world goes silent, sound ceasing to exist, and everything spins and spins and spins. He looks down, sees a street below, and it's racing up to meet him.
o0o0o
“They said he just fell in the street.”
“He's burning up.”
“We have to cool him down.”
Byakuya tries to make his lips move, but everything refuses to obey. His throat is sore, and his stomach clenches, but there's nothing left in him. Not anymore. He wants to open his eyes, but the lids feel weighted down by lead.
“Keep his airway clear.”
“Damn, his heart won't stop racing.”
o0o0o
“Has Kuchiki-taichou been ill recently?”
“No.”
A quiet voice, thick with worry.
Rukia.
Byakuya would know his sister's voice anywhere.
“Has his behavior been strange at all?”
Unohana, sounding concerned and confused, as though she's not sure what has happened.
“He left his haori in the office.”
A deep voice, rough and uncultured, accent that of a stray from Rukongai. Renji then.
“And he actually let me off early to go ta th' festival.”
“But he's not been sick?” Unohana asks again.
“Not that I know of,” Renji answers, just as baffled, just as concerned. “But taichou don' exactly like to show when he's sick, yanno?”
If Unohana says something else, Byakuya doesn't hear it. The darkness quickly reaches up to claim him again.
o0o0o
Byakuya's eyes flutter open, and he finds himself staring at a white ceiling, lying in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable bed, feeling oddly fatigued. There's something on his face, something covering his mouth and pressing into his cheeks. A cool wisp of air puffs across his lips, and his eyes feel gummy, as though he's been sleeping for days.
It's too much effort to lift his hand, but Byakuya can at least look around his room. He's aware enough that he recognizes the fourth division, but he can't for the life of him recall why he's had to come here. He vaguely remembers stumbling into Seireitei, but that's where his memories end.
Rukia sits in a chair at his bedside. Her hand is clasped around his, head pillowed on her arm which rests on the edge of the bed. She looks tired, dark circles around her eyes as though worry has sucked the vigor from her.
But she's not the only one here.
The chair in the corner is also occupied, by his vice-captain no less. Renji's bulk is crammed into the tiny seat, his head propped on his hand while his elbow balances on the arm. He looks uncomfortable, lines of concern etched into his features. He's softly snoring though, a sound which doesn't seem to be disturbing Rukia in the slightest. She's probably used to it.
There is another chair, but it's empty of whoever has been sleeping in it, a blanket carefully folded on the cushion. Something about the cover calls to Byakuya's memory, but it flitters away in the next moment, distracted by the cheeriness that attempts to gleam from every corner.
No matter where Byakuya looks, his vision is overwhelmed by vases of bright flowers and other get-well gifts.
“Nii-sama?”
Rukia's soft voice, filled with relief, calls Byakuya's attention back to her. She has lifted her head, blue eyes swimming with unshed moisture.
“You're awake.”
Byakuya's lips move but no sound emerges, so he settles for nodding his head.
She smiles, scrubbing her free hand over her face in an attempt to conceal her relieved tears. “Hold on, I'll get Unohana-taichou. She can take off that mask, okay?”
Rukia kisses his hand and rises from her seat, making good on her promise. As she leaves, Renji wakes with a wide yawn and a long stretch.
“Taichou!” he greets, rubbing his face. “Aren't you a sight fer sore eyes?”
Byakuya, unable to speak, rolls his eyes.
Renji doesn't seem to notice his captain's reaction. He just plops himself down in the chair that Rukia vacated, looking very cheerful.
“Don't worry,” Renji continues, as though he can't stand the silence. As if he has to talk to fill it because the alternative is something he won't stomach. “The division’s fine. I've been doin' my job.”
‘I knew that you would,’ Byakuya thinks and is glad he can't speak. It saves him from having to come up with a suitable alternative. Even if it is true.
“We were pretty worried,” Renji continues, eyes skittering away as though the sight of his captain in this bed, hooked up to these machines, scares him. He rubs the back of his head and tugs on his ponytail. “For awhile there, we didn't know if ya were goin' ta make it.”
Byakuya stares at Renji, hoping that the force of his gaze will encourage his lieutenant to elaborate more on what happened. Such as how long it's been, why Byakuya was so sick, why he can't remember a damn thing, and why he's so tired it feels like someone is trying to drag him down into the shadows, kicking and screaming all the way.
“It got so bad Ukitake-taichou even called in Ichigo. For... uh... moral support ya know.”
He wants to scream, to demand answers. But all he can do is wait for Renji to get to the point. A thing that his vice-captain keeps skittering away from as though it terrifies him.
“Everyone thinks ya were poisoned,” Renji continues, leaning back in the chair and looking far too large for it. “There are all kinds of rumors runnin' around Seireitei. Some of ‘em are pretty stupid.”
‘Rumors usually are,’ Byakuya thinks.
But he sighs inwardly with relief when Unohana-taichou comes bustling into the room, effectively ending the awkward moment. If he doesn't have to sit through another one of these again, it won't be a second too soon.
Unohana smiles, and Rukia is right on her heels as she walks over. They both look relieved. Byakuya tries for a reassuring nod of his head, but the drag on his eyelids is back and all he wants to do is sleep.
Unohana-taichou is talking, saying something. But Byakuya's ears are muffled. His eyes flutter, and he doesn't bother to fight it anymore.
He sleeps.
o0o0o
He wakes to a soft hand on his forehead and a voice coaxing him out of sleep. He feels a thousand times better than the last time he remembers being conscious. Byakuya's eyes open to a dim brightness, and Unohana smiles down at him.
“Good morning, Kuchiki-taichou,” she says, and her hand moves back from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
He licks his lips with a tongue so dry it rasps over chapped skin. “Thirsty,” he croaks out and grimaces at the hoarse quality to his voice.
She nods in understanding and holds a cup to his lips, one with a straw for easier drinking. Byakuya can't remember tasting something so sweet as the cold water that flows over his tongue and down his throat.
“Better?” she asks as he finishes the cup, and she pulls it away.
“Yes,” Byakuya replies, licking his lips again because they still feel dry and cracked. He swallows once or twice, as though ensuring that he can speak. “What happened?”
Unohana turns away from him. “You were drugged, Kuchiki-taichou. And if not for my lieutenant, you probably would not have made it.”
Drugged?
“What do you mean?”
There's an anger building inside of him, curling nastily with other emotions. Like outrage and despair and embarrassment and disgust and worry. For the first time in many, many years, Byakuya's reiatsu isn't as controlled as he'd like, and it trembles around him like a scared child. A weak, scared, sick child.
He's only consolation is that Unohana-taichou is the only one there to feel it.
She eases into the chair at his bedside, eyes dark with carefully shielded emotion. “You had a bad reaction to a drug you ingested. It left you unconscious for days. If Isane hadn't recognized the signs...” Unohana trails off and tries for a warm smile. “What do you remember, Kuchiki-taichou?”
It seems like such a simple question, but when Byakuya searches his mind, he has shadowy images and a huge blank space where a few nights ago should be. He vaguely remembers waking up in Rukongai and knowing only that he needed to get home.
“I was in my office,” he starts slowly as that memory unfurls inside of him like a slowly blossoming flower. “And then, I woke up in Rukongai. I do not know how I got there or why. And frankly, I'm not entirely sure how I got here.”
Here as in the fourth division.
She nods sympathetically. “That's a common effect,” Unohana explains, and here, she appears to hesitate. “What do you remember from Rukongai?”
He actually has to sit back and think. To concentrate on that wispy memory that's peppered with sensations of intense nausea, a pounding headache, and a fever raging his entire body.
Byakuya stiffens, jaw clenching, as bits and pieces come back to him.
Hands shaking so badly he can't don his kenseikan, so he carries it instead. His scarf keeps slipping from his fingers, so he carries that as well. His haori is gone; he can't remember why. He's cold, and he's hot. Both at the same time.
He's not wearing any clothes when he wakes in an unfamiliar place. The room is clean and well-kept, and the bed is comfortable, but it's not his own. He's so off-balance, mind foggy, that he doesn't have a moment to spare on why he was nude. But Byakuya thinks about it now, days later, and feels a mortified heat creep into his face without his permission.
Byakuya closes his eyes, swallowing again and again. His mouth is drier than ever before, and his throat is thick.
“I was naked,” he says quietly, refusing to call it a weak whisper but also refusing to say it too much louder for fear anyone else would hear. Humiliating enough that he has to admit as much to Unohana. To any woman. To anyone.
Humiliating enough that she probably already knew.
o0o0o
For Byakuya, the last person he would’ve expected to be sitting here in silence with him is Kurosaki Ichigo. Renji has returned to the sixth for paperwork and to ensure that the lower seats don't take this as an impromptu vacation. Rukia sleeps in a nearby room, actually in a bed for the first time since Byakuya was brought there. A well-deserved rest most assuredly. And something in Byakuya's chest squeezes at the thought of his sister sitting by his side for so long, praying and hoping and begging the gods not to take him.
He can sit up in the bed now, something that Byakuya notices with no small measure of relief. The weakness has faded enough that he can feed himself, though his hands still occasionally shake, and he never seems to get enough water to drink.
He hates this weakness. He hates feeling so powerless. He hates that he can't remember.
“Me, too.”
Byakuya blinks as the boy’s voice fills the expectant silence of the room. He turns his head to look at him and sees the boy looking back now. Kurosaki has spent the last twenty minutes staring out the window but now seems to be focused on Byakuya alone.
“It happened to me, too,” he adds quietly. The tips of his ears burn, and there’s a flush to his cheeks. But there’s also a steely determination in his eyes.
Byakuya licks his lips, trying to hide his utter shock. This is the same boy who blasted through Soul Society just a few years previous. Who defeats captains and traitors and Espada as easily as he breathes. And yet, he was taken down just as effortlessly as Byakuya himself. There aren’t truly words for this, but he tries anyway.
“You were also… ill?”
Ichigo shakes his head, fingers restlessly tapping over the arm of his chair. “No. Not that part. Unohana-san said you reacted badly to the drug.” He sighs heavily. “I guess I was lucky then.”
“I don't think anything about this counts as luck,” Byakuya retorts automatically and surprises himself with the bitterness in his tone.
Ichigo, however, doesn't seem offended. He nods again, one leg kicking out across the floor.
“Rukia doesn't know,” he murmurs more to himself than to Byakuya. “Renji neither. I overheard Unohana-san talking to you, so don't think she betrayed your confidence.”
Byakuya turns that over in his head. He weighs implications and new revelations and somehow a part of him is relieved to be able to speak of this to someone. To talk to another who isn’t just sympathetic but actually understands what it’s like.
“When?” he asks and almost dreads the answer. He’s an adult, but Ichigo is barely more than a boy.
“Only a few months ago.” Ichigo winces, looking as exhausted as Byakuya feels. “The last time I stayed longer than a half-day in Seireitei.”
It must take incredible courage for Ichigo to admit as much. Particularly to him. Byakuya doesn't think he has the same nerve. He'd rather no one know. He can't stand the humiliation; it burns in a way that nothing ever has before. Not even when Ichimaru nearly killed him after he'd been given lessons on how to be a good sibling by a human child.
“It's the fact I can't remember anything that's the worst part,” Ichigo adds almost like he’s read Byakuya’s mind. But really, it's more like he blurts it out, as if he is desperate for someone to understand and never had anyone he could tell before. “I can't stand having this fucking blank spot in my memory. I don't even know how I got back to Renji’s place.”
Byakuya nods very slowly, swallowing over the growing lump in his throat. “I did not even wake up in familiar surroundings,” he admits because it seems Ichigo needs this comfort as much as Byakuya himself. “I remember nothing.”
Ichigo's hands rub across the tops if his thighs as he clenches his teeth. The firming of his jaw is a clear indication of his rattled emotions.
“And the weirdest thing…” he grits out the words, forcing them past his lips before he glances up with a confused and lost expression that Byakuya has no idea how to soothe. “They folded my fucking clothes. They wiped me clean as if that’d make it better, make it alright.”
There’s a prickle at his memory with those words. Byakuya is still puzzling that over as he speaks again.
“But it's not.”
“No, it sure as hell isn't,” Ichigo hisses, visibly seething. His fingers curl around his knees, white-knuckled. A similar reaction to the way Byakuya's own hands have clenched and unclenched in his lap.
Something stirs Byakuya's mind. It brings to light a dim and hazy recollection.
His clothes were folded as well. They were set neatly by his bedside but folded nonetheless. He remembers searching his pockets after getting redressed, recalls that some of his money was missing but not enough to explain a possible robbery. But just enough to perhaps cover the cost of the room.
Disgust ripples through Byakuya's core. “I think...” he begins, disbelief warring with humiliation and battling against utter and complete shame. “They made me pay for the room.”
Ichigo comes up short. His jaw works for a moment soundlessly.
“It was my birthday.”
Byakuya's gaze shoots toward him, fighting to keep his jaw from dropping. His birthday? A few months ago he’d said. Byakuya remembers that celebration; Rukia convinced him to help fund it in truth of the matter. He actually attended it himself, and now, that he truly thinks back, he recalls that Ichigo disappeared rather early.
“I can't think of a worse gift,” he comments absently.
Ichigo snorts. “Yeah. You're telling me. Worst birthday. Ever.”
His gaze falls again, as though focusing on the plain white of the walls will provide some protection. Byakuya himself stares down at the white of his sheets, and a silence falls between the two that’s thick with understanding and mutual horror.
He is not alone in this. He isn’t by himself. Byakuya doesn't know words that can express how that makes him feel.
o0o0o
“You will still need to take it easy,” Unohana explains as Byakuya adjusts the fall of his robes and smoothes out the wrinkles. “Your body suffered quite a shock.”
Byakuya nods. He reaches up and feels the familiar weight of the kenseikan in his hair before he realizes what he’s doing.
“Light duty. Yes, Unohana-taichou, I understand. Nothing more strenuous than paperwork until you clear me otherwise.”
He hates that he's still this weak. That his legs want to tremble and it takes great effort to keep his feet. But the last thing he'll accept is being carried or supported out of the fourth division. Byakuya wants to go home and back to work; he doesn't want to be coddled or treated like an invalid.
He will walk out of here on his own two feet, damn it. Perhaps not alone, as Unohana has decided he’ll have an escort with no chance of arguing otherwise. However, it will be under his own power. On that, Byakuya will not bend.
Unohana looks him over with a critical eye before something in her expression softens. “You will recover,” she says lightly. “And soon enough, you'll be good as new.”
But never the same.
Byakuya keeps such thoughts to himself, however.
“Rukia's waiting,” Ichigo reminds them then from Byakuya’s other side. He sounds a little sullen, probably because Unohana tasked him with carrying Byakuya's belongings.
The noble resists the urge to roll his eyes and performs a shallow bow of gratitude to Unohana, his body allowing nothing else. Behind him, Ichigo waits with an impatient scowl that is more familiar than the anxious stressed look he's been bearing as of late. Still, the boy – man – is a comforting presence as they walk through the hallways of the fourth division and out the main entrance. He feels the stares burning between his shoulder blades as he strides down the streets. His head is held as high as he can possibly manage despite knowing the whispers and rumors that echo around him.
He and Ichigo are the only ones who know the complete truth about what happened, but that doesn't make it any less mortifying. The fact that he'd been so sick that he'd collapsed and nearly died, only burns brighter and fiercer in his gut. Perhaps worse is the knowledge that he'll never remember.
And Byakuya hates that he's never been so humiliated in his entire life.
***** a/n: The plot thickens. *grins* Seven more parts to go!
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
On to part three!
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: M
Warning: Non-explicit noncon, foul language, speculation, nonconsensual drug use, flagrant alcohol use, possible slash, het, or femslash, NO romance/no pairings
Description: For all he can't remember, this is something that he'll never forget.
(One)(Two)(Three)(Four)(Five)(Six)(Seven)(Eight)(Nine)
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Buyer's Remorse
Part Two
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It's cold, but he feels fevered all over. He can't stop shivering, and his head is pounding so badly he can feel his pulse in his ear. His heart flutters more than beats in his chest, struggling like a bird that can’t quite stay airborne. His clothes cling to him, sticky with sweat, and he can feel it slicking his skin. He hurts all over, the discomfiting throb of the truly ill. His belly has twisted into knots, and his mouth is dry and tasting like cotton.
He doesn't know what happened to his kenseikan. He's not wearing it; he can't remember if he grabbed it even. He's carrying his scarf; his fingers were unable to wrap it around his neck without choking himself in the process. He doesn't know where his haori is either. It wasn't in the pile of carefully folded clothes that were by the bed where he woke.
The road is uneven beneath him, and Byakuya stumbles, lacking all the grace of his usual walk. The world spins and spins. He's dizzy, mind cloudy. His limbs are so heavy, legs trembling, extremities so unbearably cold.
“Kuchiki-taichou?”
‘I must get home,’ he tells himself. Relieved that home is one of the few things he remembers despite the fog in his brain.
“Are you alright, sir?”
“Sir, are you ill?”
“Taichou, can you even hear us?”
The ground shifts beneath him, and Byakuya pauses, drawing in a labored breath. The world goes silent, sound ceasing to exist, and everything spins and spins and spins. He looks down, sees a street below, and it's racing up to meet him.
“They said he just fell in the street.”
“He's burning up.”
“We have to cool him down.”
Byakuya tries to make his lips move, but everything refuses to obey. His throat is sore, and his stomach clenches, but there's nothing left in him. Not anymore. He wants to open his eyes, but the lids feel weighted down by lead.
“Keep his airway clear.”
“Damn, his heart won't stop racing.”
“Has Kuchiki-taichou been ill recently?”
“No.”
A quiet voice, thick with worry.
Rukia.
Byakuya would know his sister's voice anywhere.
“Has his behavior been strange at all?”
Unohana, sounding concerned and confused, as though she's not sure what has happened.
“He left his haori in the office.”
A deep voice, rough and uncultured, accent that of a stray from Rukongai. Renji then.
“And he actually let me off early to go ta th' festival.”
“But he's not been sick?” Unohana asks again.
“Not that I know of,” Renji answers, just as baffled, just as concerned. “But taichou don' exactly like to show when he's sick, yanno?”
If Unohana says something else, Byakuya doesn't hear it. The darkness quickly reaches up to claim him again.
Byakuya's eyes flutter open, and he finds himself staring at a white ceiling, lying in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable bed, feeling oddly fatigued. There's something on his face, something covering his mouth and pressing into his cheeks. A cool wisp of air puffs across his lips, and his eyes feel gummy, as though he's been sleeping for days.
It's too much effort to lift his hand, but Byakuya can at least look around his room. He's aware enough that he recognizes the fourth division, but he can't for the life of him recall why he's had to come here. He vaguely remembers stumbling into Seireitei, but that's where his memories end.
Rukia sits in a chair at his bedside. Her hand is clasped around his, head pillowed on her arm which rests on the edge of the bed. She looks tired, dark circles around her eyes as though worry has sucked the vigor from her.
But she's not the only one here.
The chair in the corner is also occupied, by his vice-captain no less. Renji's bulk is crammed into the tiny seat, his head propped on his hand while his elbow balances on the arm. He looks uncomfortable, lines of concern etched into his features. He's softly snoring though, a sound which doesn't seem to be disturbing Rukia in the slightest. She's probably used to it.
There is another chair, but it's empty of whoever has been sleeping in it, a blanket carefully folded on the cushion. Something about the cover calls to Byakuya's memory, but it flitters away in the next moment, distracted by the cheeriness that attempts to gleam from every corner.
No matter where Byakuya looks, his vision is overwhelmed by vases of bright flowers and other get-well gifts.
“Nii-sama?”
Rukia's soft voice, filled with relief, calls Byakuya's attention back to her. She has lifted her head, blue eyes swimming with unshed moisture.
“You're awake.”
Byakuya's lips move but no sound emerges, so he settles for nodding his head.
She smiles, scrubbing her free hand over her face in an attempt to conceal her relieved tears. “Hold on, I'll get Unohana-taichou. She can take off that mask, okay?”
Rukia kisses his hand and rises from her seat, making good on her promise. As she leaves, Renji wakes with a wide yawn and a long stretch.
“Taichou!” he greets, rubbing his face. “Aren't you a sight fer sore eyes?”
Byakuya, unable to speak, rolls his eyes.
Renji doesn't seem to notice his captain's reaction. He just plops himself down in the chair that Rukia vacated, looking very cheerful.
“Don't worry,” Renji continues, as though he can't stand the silence. As if he has to talk to fill it because the alternative is something he won't stomach. “The division’s fine. I've been doin' my job.”
‘I knew that you would,’ Byakuya thinks and is glad he can't speak. It saves him from having to come up with a suitable alternative. Even if it is true.
“We were pretty worried,” Renji continues, eyes skittering away as though the sight of his captain in this bed, hooked up to these machines, scares him. He rubs the back of his head and tugs on his ponytail. “For awhile there, we didn't know if ya were goin' ta make it.”
Byakuya stares at Renji, hoping that the force of his gaze will encourage his lieutenant to elaborate more on what happened. Such as how long it's been, why Byakuya was so sick, why he can't remember a damn thing, and why he's so tired it feels like someone is trying to drag him down into the shadows, kicking and screaming all the way.
“It got so bad Ukitake-taichou even called in Ichigo. For... uh... moral support ya know.”
He wants to scream, to demand answers. But all he can do is wait for Renji to get to the point. A thing that his vice-captain keeps skittering away from as though it terrifies him.
“Everyone thinks ya were poisoned,” Renji continues, leaning back in the chair and looking far too large for it. “There are all kinds of rumors runnin' around Seireitei. Some of ‘em are pretty stupid.”
‘Rumors usually are,’ Byakuya thinks.
But he sighs inwardly with relief when Unohana-taichou comes bustling into the room, effectively ending the awkward moment. If he doesn't have to sit through another one of these again, it won't be a second too soon.
Unohana smiles, and Rukia is right on her heels as she walks over. They both look relieved. Byakuya tries for a reassuring nod of his head, but the drag on his eyelids is back and all he wants to do is sleep.
Unohana-taichou is talking, saying something. But Byakuya's ears are muffled. His eyes flutter, and he doesn't bother to fight it anymore.
He sleeps.
He wakes to a soft hand on his forehead and a voice coaxing him out of sleep. He feels a thousand times better than the last time he remembers being conscious. Byakuya's eyes open to a dim brightness, and Unohana smiles down at him.
“Good morning, Kuchiki-taichou,” she says, and her hand moves back from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
He licks his lips with a tongue so dry it rasps over chapped skin. “Thirsty,” he croaks out and grimaces at the hoarse quality to his voice.
She nods in understanding and holds a cup to his lips, one with a straw for easier drinking. Byakuya can't remember tasting something so sweet as the cold water that flows over his tongue and down his throat.
“Better?” she asks as he finishes the cup, and she pulls it away.
“Yes,” Byakuya replies, licking his lips again because they still feel dry and cracked. He swallows once or twice, as though ensuring that he can speak. “What happened?”
Unohana turns away from him. “You were drugged, Kuchiki-taichou. And if not for my lieutenant, you probably would not have made it.”
Drugged?
“What do you mean?”
There's an anger building inside of him, curling nastily with other emotions. Like outrage and despair and embarrassment and disgust and worry. For the first time in many, many years, Byakuya's reiatsu isn't as controlled as he'd like, and it trembles around him like a scared child. A weak, scared, sick child.
He's only consolation is that Unohana-taichou is the only one there to feel it.
She eases into the chair at his bedside, eyes dark with carefully shielded emotion. “You had a bad reaction to a drug you ingested. It left you unconscious for days. If Isane hadn't recognized the signs...” Unohana trails off and tries for a warm smile. “What do you remember, Kuchiki-taichou?”
It seems like such a simple question, but when Byakuya searches his mind, he has shadowy images and a huge blank space where a few nights ago should be. He vaguely remembers waking up in Rukongai and knowing only that he needed to get home.
“I was in my office,” he starts slowly as that memory unfurls inside of him like a slowly blossoming flower. “And then, I woke up in Rukongai. I do not know how I got there or why. And frankly, I'm not entirely sure how I got here.”
Here as in the fourth division.
She nods sympathetically. “That's a common effect,” Unohana explains, and here, she appears to hesitate. “What do you remember from Rukongai?”
He actually has to sit back and think. To concentrate on that wispy memory that's peppered with sensations of intense nausea, a pounding headache, and a fever raging his entire body.
Byakuya stiffens, jaw clenching, as bits and pieces come back to him.
Hands shaking so badly he can't don his kenseikan, so he carries it instead. His scarf keeps slipping from his fingers, so he carries that as well. His haori is gone; he can't remember why. He's cold, and he's hot. Both at the same time.
He's not wearing any clothes when he wakes in an unfamiliar place. The room is clean and well-kept, and the bed is comfortable, but it's not his own. He's so off-balance, mind foggy, that he doesn't have a moment to spare on why he was nude. But Byakuya thinks about it now, days later, and feels a mortified heat creep into his face without his permission.
Byakuya closes his eyes, swallowing again and again. His mouth is drier than ever before, and his throat is thick.
“I was naked,” he says quietly, refusing to call it a weak whisper but also refusing to say it too much louder for fear anyone else would hear. Humiliating enough that he has to admit as much to Unohana. To any woman. To anyone.
Humiliating enough that she probably already knew.
For Byakuya, the last person he would’ve expected to be sitting here in silence with him is Kurosaki Ichigo. Renji has returned to the sixth for paperwork and to ensure that the lower seats don't take this as an impromptu vacation. Rukia sleeps in a nearby room, actually in a bed for the first time since Byakuya was brought there. A well-deserved rest most assuredly. And something in Byakuya's chest squeezes at the thought of his sister sitting by his side for so long, praying and hoping and begging the gods not to take him.
He can sit up in the bed now, something that Byakuya notices with no small measure of relief. The weakness has faded enough that he can feed himself, though his hands still occasionally shake, and he never seems to get enough water to drink.
He hates this weakness. He hates feeling so powerless. He hates that he can't remember.
“Me, too.”
Byakuya blinks as the boy’s voice fills the expectant silence of the room. He turns his head to look at him and sees the boy looking back now. Kurosaki has spent the last twenty minutes staring out the window but now seems to be focused on Byakuya alone.
“It happened to me, too,” he adds quietly. The tips of his ears burn, and there’s a flush to his cheeks. But there’s also a steely determination in his eyes.
Byakuya licks his lips, trying to hide his utter shock. This is the same boy who blasted through Soul Society just a few years previous. Who defeats captains and traitors and Espada as easily as he breathes. And yet, he was taken down just as effortlessly as Byakuya himself. There aren’t truly words for this, but he tries anyway.
“You were also… ill?”
Ichigo shakes his head, fingers restlessly tapping over the arm of his chair. “No. Not that part. Unohana-san said you reacted badly to the drug.” He sighs heavily. “I guess I was lucky then.”
“I don't think anything about this counts as luck,” Byakuya retorts automatically and surprises himself with the bitterness in his tone.
Ichigo, however, doesn't seem offended. He nods again, one leg kicking out across the floor.
“Rukia doesn't know,” he murmurs more to himself than to Byakuya. “Renji neither. I overheard Unohana-san talking to you, so don't think she betrayed your confidence.”
Byakuya turns that over in his head. He weighs implications and new revelations and somehow a part of him is relieved to be able to speak of this to someone. To talk to another who isn’t just sympathetic but actually understands what it’s like.
“When?” he asks and almost dreads the answer. He’s an adult, but Ichigo is barely more than a boy.
“Only a few months ago.” Ichigo winces, looking as exhausted as Byakuya feels. “The last time I stayed longer than a half-day in Seireitei.”
It must take incredible courage for Ichigo to admit as much. Particularly to him. Byakuya doesn't think he has the same nerve. He'd rather no one know. He can't stand the humiliation; it burns in a way that nothing ever has before. Not even when Ichimaru nearly killed him after he'd been given lessons on how to be a good sibling by a human child.
“It's the fact I can't remember anything that's the worst part,” Ichigo adds almost like he’s read Byakuya’s mind. But really, it's more like he blurts it out, as if he is desperate for someone to understand and never had anyone he could tell before. “I can't stand having this fucking blank spot in my memory. I don't even know how I got back to Renji’s place.”
Byakuya nods very slowly, swallowing over the growing lump in his throat. “I did not even wake up in familiar surroundings,” he admits because it seems Ichigo needs this comfort as much as Byakuya himself. “I remember nothing.”
Ichigo's hands rub across the tops if his thighs as he clenches his teeth. The firming of his jaw is a clear indication of his rattled emotions.
“And the weirdest thing…” he grits out the words, forcing them past his lips before he glances up with a confused and lost expression that Byakuya has no idea how to soothe. “They folded my fucking clothes. They wiped me clean as if that’d make it better, make it alright.”
There’s a prickle at his memory with those words. Byakuya is still puzzling that over as he speaks again.
“But it's not.”
“No, it sure as hell isn't,” Ichigo hisses, visibly seething. His fingers curl around his knees, white-knuckled. A similar reaction to the way Byakuya's own hands have clenched and unclenched in his lap.
Something stirs Byakuya's mind. It brings to light a dim and hazy recollection.
His clothes were folded as well. They were set neatly by his bedside but folded nonetheless. He remembers searching his pockets after getting redressed, recalls that some of his money was missing but not enough to explain a possible robbery. But just enough to perhaps cover the cost of the room.
Disgust ripples through Byakuya's core. “I think...” he begins, disbelief warring with humiliation and battling against utter and complete shame. “They made me pay for the room.”
Ichigo comes up short. His jaw works for a moment soundlessly.
“It was my birthday.”
Byakuya's gaze shoots toward him, fighting to keep his jaw from dropping. His birthday? A few months ago he’d said. Byakuya remembers that celebration; Rukia convinced him to help fund it in truth of the matter. He actually attended it himself, and now, that he truly thinks back, he recalls that Ichigo disappeared rather early.
“I can't think of a worse gift,” he comments absently.
Ichigo snorts. “Yeah. You're telling me. Worst birthday. Ever.”
His gaze falls again, as though focusing on the plain white of the walls will provide some protection. Byakuya himself stares down at the white of his sheets, and a silence falls between the two that’s thick with understanding and mutual horror.
He is not alone in this. He isn’t by himself. Byakuya doesn't know words that can express how that makes him feel.
“You will still need to take it easy,” Unohana explains as Byakuya adjusts the fall of his robes and smoothes out the wrinkles. “Your body suffered quite a shock.”
Byakuya nods. He reaches up and feels the familiar weight of the kenseikan in his hair before he realizes what he’s doing.
“Light duty. Yes, Unohana-taichou, I understand. Nothing more strenuous than paperwork until you clear me otherwise.”
He hates that he's still this weak. That his legs want to tremble and it takes great effort to keep his feet. But the last thing he'll accept is being carried or supported out of the fourth division. Byakuya wants to go home and back to work; he doesn't want to be coddled or treated like an invalid.
He will walk out of here on his own two feet, damn it. Perhaps not alone, as Unohana has decided he’ll have an escort with no chance of arguing otherwise. However, it will be under his own power. On that, Byakuya will not bend.
Unohana looks him over with a critical eye before something in her expression softens. “You will recover,” she says lightly. “And soon enough, you'll be good as new.”
But never the same.
Byakuya keeps such thoughts to himself, however.
“Rukia's waiting,” Ichigo reminds them then from Byakuya’s other side. He sounds a little sullen, probably because Unohana tasked him with carrying Byakuya's belongings.
The noble resists the urge to roll his eyes and performs a shallow bow of gratitude to Unohana, his body allowing nothing else. Behind him, Ichigo waits with an impatient scowl that is more familiar than the anxious stressed look he's been bearing as of late. Still, the boy – man – is a comforting presence as they walk through the hallways of the fourth division and out the main entrance. He feels the stares burning between his shoulder blades as he strides down the streets. His head is held as high as he can possibly manage despite knowing the whispers and rumors that echo around him.
He and Ichigo are the only ones who know the complete truth about what happened, but that doesn't make it any less mortifying. The fact that he'd been so sick that he'd collapsed and nearly died, only burns brighter and fiercer in his gut. Perhaps worse is the knowledge that he'll never remember.
And Byakuya hates that he's never been so humiliated in his entire life.
As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
On to part three!
