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petroniaOf varying age and degree of exposure. Some of this stuff I need to post here before I forget I wrote it. XD
Futures
Mizuiro imagines what the people he knows will be like, will be doing, in ten or twenty years. He thinks Ichigo will be a doctor, like his father. His little sisters will be nurses. Keigo's sister on the other hand might be a journalist. Ishida Uryuu will be a fashion designer. Kunieda will attend Toudai and become a scientist, or a political secretary. Arisawa will go all the way to the Olympics - they'll watch her on TV - and then she'll retire and open a dojo. Inoue will be famous too, but he doesn't know how yet. Maybe she'll invent something. Maybe she'll become famous just for being Inoue. He imagines Inoue Orihime-themed hairclips, toasters, carry-all bags, alarm clocks.
Chad will own a restaurant or a bar here, in Karakura, maybe just around the corner. They will always meet each other there for drinks if they're in town; if they stay.
He pictures Keigo as a normal salaryman - exactly the same except in a suit and tie, not even any older - blissfully unaware of how unusual that really is in the grand scheme of things, a normal salaryman. He'll be in the corporate line himself, he thinks. They won't drift too far from each other. Maybe sales; he's good at convincing people.
He wonders if Inoue will ever need a marketing director.
He's surprised when all this is blown out of the water; he's not surprised when he's not sorry.
Spark (An Abandoned Tape)
Ichigo doesn't smoke. Yuzu thinks it's a filthy habit, and any image he might want to project would be undercut in his own mind by the handwashing and gargling and consumption of breath mints necessary to keep his little sister from (literally) sniffing him out. So he figures there isn't any point to it. Other people might not realise, but who cares what other people see?
Here's the thing: he can't lie to himself. His reaction time is too fast.
Of course he's tried it. Enough to know what the fuss is. For about a year in junior high he went through a pack every three weeks, one cigarette a day. Chad would wait for him on the legal side of the hole in the chain-link fence, ostensibly on the look-out though there was never anyone, cops nor guards nor even yankees from self-styled rival gangs; he would light up with a match, take two puffs to make sure it burned and stand the cigarette carefully in an indentation on one of the concrete blocks. When it rained he propped a piece of corrugated plastic board over it so it wouldn't get wet. That's how shrines come about, he thinks, not wanting something to get wet. He remembers the way smoke coiled thinly in the cool, humid air, and the taste of fresh tobacco intermingled with rain.
The man had died in a freak accident. He had taken a shortcut through the construction site and a board had fallen on him, had driven a six-inch nail into his skull. It's the sort of horror story someone's mother might tell when lecturing on behaviours to avoid. Afterward he hung around because he couldn't find his way. He had a theory, that man: he couldn't get to the afterlife because he had no one to meet. No pressing urge. There was no one he wanted to stay close to on earth either. Cigarettes and newspapers were the old friends who had kept him company in life, but the latter no longer seemed so important.
This was certainly not true of all or even most of the spirits Ichigo encountered, but maybe it was true for that man. He has no way of saying. The man himself disappeared at the turning of the year, from one day to the next, so probably he found a way after all.
Ichigo likes to think he remembered an appointment.
Rubicon
He is hardly unarmed, and his establishment is well-protected. Whoever I might be, it is obvious that I cannot risk a frontal assault: not because I have no chance of overwhelming his defenses, but because it would lay bare my involvement.
So many of us have something to hide in Soul Society; I, Aizen Sousuke, do not rank high on his list. He must deduce that I cannot give up that advantage.
Another man might have been content with a stalemate. But he is a scientist.
Who I am does not matter. What matters is this: what would I do?
Caught by the River
"Hey," said Renji, "are there fish in this river?"
Ichigo cracked open an eye. Everything had that blue tint that comes from dozing supine in the midday sun, seeing nothing but the beat of blood in one's eyelids: Renji's hair, the tanned sheen of his forearms, the air itself. He was sitting up and blocking Ichigo's view, so Ichigo had to lift his head to see what he was looking at. Not like he couldn't tell.
It had rained for seven days straight, torrential then drizzling, until the riverbanks were soaked through and moisture rose from them like steam. Then the sun had come out and it was no cooler, as if the past week had been a lie. But the grass was damp still, and the river ran high – churning and brown with mud – lapping at its confines.
Rukia walked along the river's concrete edge, taking long, dainty steps with her arms out, balancing for fun. She wore an egg-yellow sundress that exposed the backs of her knees; her feet were bare. She kept her head down, watching the water's surface.
"I don't know," said Ichigo. A memory of something tiny, silvery and darting. "Maybe? Little ones. Not like anyone would fish here."
"Where do you fish, then?"
"...Dude. I don't know about you people, but when we need fish we go to the fishmonger counter at the supermarket." The concrete was getting over-warm. Ichigo sat up as well, squinting.
Rukia had crouched down and was craning forward, intent on something he couldn't see. Ichigo thought the addition of a lashing tail would pretty much complete the image.
"Besides, you wouldn't want to eat anything that came out of this water unless you felt like growing a second head and puking your—"
Rukia tipped forward neatly. There was a splash.
"Holy shit," said Ichigo. Renji was already on his feet and bounding down toward the water.
"Idiot!" he yelled. "What the hell!"
"Whatever, stupid," Rukia called back cheerfully. She was treading water against current, drifting slowly. Ichigo was in time to see her kick upward and pitch from the shoulder, water polo-style. Renji squawked and clutched at the projectile; it flopped wildly between his hands.
"I'll be damned," said Ichigo. "Only one head."
Renji spared him a glare, then back at Rukia. "Do the Kuchiki not feed you or something? That would explain a lot."
"What's the matter, vice-captain – let your skills go to rust?" A ladder ran along the side of the embankment several metres away, leading to a currently submerged ledge. Rukia caught the rail easily and hauled herself up. "Try it. I dare you. The water is just. Fine."
"Idiot," Renji said again, with less heat. He had a look on his face Ichigo had learnt to recognize some time ago (what Ichigo wanted to do about it was a different matter; gods help them all, he thought, as befit fools and babes). "This guy here says you can't even eat—"
Rukia caught his ankle and tugged, putting all her weight behind it.
"—AHHHHH!"
Ichigo backed up a step.
There were two splashes.
Ichigo approached the edge again, squatted and peered down.
"This is retarded," he called. "I'm going home, if it's all the same to you."
A splutter was the only response he received. Ichigo wandered back up the riverbank and flopped down on the concrete again, closing his eyes. The weather was too beautiful to waste indoors.
It's never the same river, he thought. Not for one second.
Some indefinite span of time later the sun dimmed, and a raindrop fell on his nose. Ichigo opened his eyes.
"Oi, Ichigo," said Rukia, "get up." She was leaning over him, her head blocking the sun, and the ends of her hair were dripping on his face. He couldn't see her expression.
"You smell like fish," he said. "Dead fish."
"What did you say?"
But she moved out of the way so he could see her again. The yellow dress was sodden to transparency, such that the light shone through it in places where it refused to cling, but Rukia stood as if her attire's decency or lack thereof were beneath her notice. Behind her Renji had taken his shirt off and was surreptitiously wringing it out.
"I said, the two of you have an appointment coming up with a garden hose." Renji paused in the act and gave him a dirty look.
A Friendship
Atobe doesn't take people for granted. It's not his way.
Kabaji, for instance, carries his bags (as well as sundry necessities such as his singles two player), serves as a reliable practice partner and competition regular, and provides a comfortable surface to lean and doze against during long limousine rides. He obeys Atobe's every order unhesitatingly, without question.
In return Atobe pays attention. He knows, though Kabaji says nothing and demonstrates little, and others overlook. It doesn't take any effort, because he wants to.
In someone else it might be termed gratitude.
His father is a man who had to prove himself before the world. Atobe is a worthy heir to the throne: he passed every test with flying colours, for as long as he can remember. But some sets of expectations are lower than others, and Kabaji wants nothing from him that he can't deliver as easily as breathing. Nothing, other than being.
If he were given to introspection he would know this means he tires – sometimes. But Atobe does not waste time examining the irreproachable.
***
I think Ichigo is like Shindou Hikaru for me - the characterisation that appears when I write is not entirely within my control. "My" Hikaru is more teasing, and "my" Ichigo more... introspective? distanced?... than I think they are in canon, and usually I'd nudge them as close to my idea of canon as possible, but it's like what wants to be, is.
Futures
Mizuiro imagines what the people he knows will be like, will be doing, in ten or twenty years. He thinks Ichigo will be a doctor, like his father. His little sisters will be nurses. Keigo's sister on the other hand might be a journalist. Ishida Uryuu will be a fashion designer. Kunieda will attend Toudai and become a scientist, or a political secretary. Arisawa will go all the way to the Olympics - they'll watch her on TV - and then she'll retire and open a dojo. Inoue will be famous too, but he doesn't know how yet. Maybe she'll invent something. Maybe she'll become famous just for being Inoue. He imagines Inoue Orihime-themed hairclips, toasters, carry-all bags, alarm clocks.
Chad will own a restaurant or a bar here, in Karakura, maybe just around the corner. They will always meet each other there for drinks if they're in town; if they stay.
He pictures Keigo as a normal salaryman - exactly the same except in a suit and tie, not even any older - blissfully unaware of how unusual that really is in the grand scheme of things, a normal salaryman. He'll be in the corporate line himself, he thinks. They won't drift too far from each other. Maybe sales; he's good at convincing people.
He wonders if Inoue will ever need a marketing director.
He's surprised when all this is blown out of the water; he's not surprised when he's not sorry.
Spark (An Abandoned Tape)
Ichigo doesn't smoke. Yuzu thinks it's a filthy habit, and any image he might want to project would be undercut in his own mind by the handwashing and gargling and consumption of breath mints necessary to keep his little sister from (literally) sniffing him out. So he figures there isn't any point to it. Other people might not realise, but who cares what other people see?
Here's the thing: he can't lie to himself. His reaction time is too fast.
Of course he's tried it. Enough to know what the fuss is. For about a year in junior high he went through a pack every three weeks, one cigarette a day. Chad would wait for him on the legal side of the hole in the chain-link fence, ostensibly on the look-out though there was never anyone, cops nor guards nor even yankees from self-styled rival gangs; he would light up with a match, take two puffs to make sure it burned and stand the cigarette carefully in an indentation on one of the concrete blocks. When it rained he propped a piece of corrugated plastic board over it so it wouldn't get wet. That's how shrines come about, he thinks, not wanting something to get wet. He remembers the way smoke coiled thinly in the cool, humid air, and the taste of fresh tobacco intermingled with rain.
The man had died in a freak accident. He had taken a shortcut through the construction site and a board had fallen on him, had driven a six-inch nail into his skull. It's the sort of horror story someone's mother might tell when lecturing on behaviours to avoid. Afterward he hung around because he couldn't find his way. He had a theory, that man: he couldn't get to the afterlife because he had no one to meet. No pressing urge. There was no one he wanted to stay close to on earth either. Cigarettes and newspapers were the old friends who had kept him company in life, but the latter no longer seemed so important.
This was certainly not true of all or even most of the spirits Ichigo encountered, but maybe it was true for that man. He has no way of saying. The man himself disappeared at the turning of the year, from one day to the next, so probably he found a way after all.
Ichigo likes to think he remembered an appointment.
Rubicon
He is hardly unarmed, and his establishment is well-protected. Whoever I might be, it is obvious that I cannot risk a frontal assault: not because I have no chance of overwhelming his defenses, but because it would lay bare my involvement.
So many of us have something to hide in Soul Society; I, Aizen Sousuke, do not rank high on his list. He must deduce that I cannot give up that advantage.
Another man might have been content with a stalemate. But he is a scientist.
Who I am does not matter. What matters is this: what would I do?
Caught by the River
"Hey," said Renji, "are there fish in this river?"
Ichigo cracked open an eye. Everything had that blue tint that comes from dozing supine in the midday sun, seeing nothing but the beat of blood in one's eyelids: Renji's hair, the tanned sheen of his forearms, the air itself. He was sitting up and blocking Ichigo's view, so Ichigo had to lift his head to see what he was looking at. Not like he couldn't tell.
It had rained for seven days straight, torrential then drizzling, until the riverbanks were soaked through and moisture rose from them like steam. Then the sun had come out and it was no cooler, as if the past week had been a lie. But the grass was damp still, and the river ran high – churning and brown with mud – lapping at its confines.
Rukia walked along the river's concrete edge, taking long, dainty steps with her arms out, balancing for fun. She wore an egg-yellow sundress that exposed the backs of her knees; her feet were bare. She kept her head down, watching the water's surface.
"I don't know," said Ichigo. A memory of something tiny, silvery and darting. "Maybe? Little ones. Not like anyone would fish here."
"Where do you fish, then?"
"...Dude. I don't know about you people, but when we need fish we go to the fishmonger counter at the supermarket." The concrete was getting over-warm. Ichigo sat up as well, squinting.
Rukia had crouched down and was craning forward, intent on something he couldn't see. Ichigo thought the addition of a lashing tail would pretty much complete the image.
"Besides, you wouldn't want to eat anything that came out of this water unless you felt like growing a second head and puking your—"
Rukia tipped forward neatly. There was a splash.
"Holy shit," said Ichigo. Renji was already on his feet and bounding down toward the water.
"Idiot!" he yelled. "What the hell!"
"Whatever, stupid," Rukia called back cheerfully. She was treading water against current, drifting slowly. Ichigo was in time to see her kick upward and pitch from the shoulder, water polo-style. Renji squawked and clutched at the projectile; it flopped wildly between his hands.
"I'll be damned," said Ichigo. "Only one head."
Renji spared him a glare, then back at Rukia. "Do the Kuchiki not feed you or something? That would explain a lot."
"What's the matter, vice-captain – let your skills go to rust?" A ladder ran along the side of the embankment several metres away, leading to a currently submerged ledge. Rukia caught the rail easily and hauled herself up. "Try it. I dare you. The water is just. Fine."
"Idiot," Renji said again, with less heat. He had a look on his face Ichigo had learnt to recognize some time ago (what Ichigo wanted to do about it was a different matter; gods help them all, he thought, as befit fools and babes). "This guy here says you can't even eat—"
Rukia caught his ankle and tugged, putting all her weight behind it.
"—AHHHHH!"
Ichigo backed up a step.
There were two splashes.
Ichigo approached the edge again, squatted and peered down.
"This is retarded," he called. "I'm going home, if it's all the same to you."
A splutter was the only response he received. Ichigo wandered back up the riverbank and flopped down on the concrete again, closing his eyes. The weather was too beautiful to waste indoors.
It's never the same river, he thought. Not for one second.
Some indefinite span of time later the sun dimmed, and a raindrop fell on his nose. Ichigo opened his eyes.
"Oi, Ichigo," said Rukia, "get up." She was leaning over him, her head blocking the sun, and the ends of her hair were dripping on his face. He couldn't see her expression.
"You smell like fish," he said. "Dead fish."
"What did you say?"
But she moved out of the way so he could see her again. The yellow dress was sodden to transparency, such that the light shone through it in places where it refused to cling, but Rukia stood as if her attire's decency or lack thereof were beneath her notice. Behind her Renji had taken his shirt off and was surreptitiously wringing it out.
"I said, the two of you have an appointment coming up with a garden hose." Renji paused in the act and gave him a dirty look.
A Friendship
Atobe doesn't take people for granted. It's not his way.
Kabaji, for instance, carries his bags (as well as sundry necessities such as his singles two player), serves as a reliable practice partner and competition regular, and provides a comfortable surface to lean and doze against during long limousine rides. He obeys Atobe's every order unhesitatingly, without question.
In return Atobe pays attention. He knows, though Kabaji says nothing and demonstrates little, and others overlook. It doesn't take any effort, because he wants to.
In someone else it might be termed gratitude.
His father is a man who had to prove himself before the world. Atobe is a worthy heir to the throne: he passed every test with flying colours, for as long as he can remember. But some sets of expectations are lower than others, and Kabaji wants nothing from him that he can't deliver as easily as breathing. Nothing, other than being.
If he were given to introspection he would know this means he tires – sometimes. But Atobe does not waste time examining the irreproachable.
***
I think Ichigo is like Shindou Hikaru for me - the characterisation that appears when I write is not entirely within my control. "My" Hikaru is more teasing, and "my" Ichigo more... introspective? distanced?... than I think they are in canon, and usually I'd nudge them as close to my idea of canon as possible, but it's like what wants to be, is.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-28 10:29 pm (UTC)(Chess! Mind games! EEE!)
no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-28 10:39 pm (UTC)"Rubicon" is amazing. But of course it would be.
Thanks for these.
no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 09:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-29 02:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-29 03:03 am (UTC)Also, it's comforting to know that other folk have to deal with the uncontrollable character-voices thing too. My Touya Akira has very clear ideas about his own mental voice, and is being as imperturbable about it as you might expect.
...I just roll with it when he gets like that. Not much else to do!
no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-29 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 09:58 pm (UTC)Thanks!
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Date: 2006-07-29 11:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 09:58 pm (UTC)