Work Text:
Prompt: Seeing in black and white
.
Ichigo dreamed in color.
Bright, vivid and radiating energy in every frequency of the spectrum, his dreams were the only place he ever saw color.
Every inhale felt like new life, and in his dreams he felt alive, and more importantly, his mother is alive.
In his dreams, he's a boy again.
Chubby-cheeked, shaggy-haired and wearing a smile so broad it takes up most of his face, Ichigo thinks that in that moment, he is the embodiment of the word carefree. His eyes are bright and hopeful, and they're looking up adoringly at the woman he calls his mother.
Her hair is the same color as his, her eyes the same shade; and he thinks he's the luckiest kid ever.
Orange hair gets you beat up, his older self bitterly retorts, but the younger him refuses to care because his mom has orange hair too and no one would ever hurt her.
The older version of him wants to say something, anything at all, maybe warn him, maybe harden him in some way, protect him – but he can’t, and their mother smiles regardless, her warm butterscotch eyes crinkling at the corners.
The older-Ichigo borne from a black and white world just can't bring himself to ruin it for either of them, and he plays pretend and lingers in their world of color, watching them stroll from place to place, and he thinks this world is too pretty to be real.
Everyone smiles from their eyes, the flowers that grow in their neat little beds reach for the sun and the grey sidewalk glitters with tiny diamonds embedded within it. The sun warms his skin, the moon cools the night, the stars wink in the heavens and the earth anchors him to the ground; the wind that blows feels like a caress and the water that laps at his ankles feels like a balm.
Somewhere there's laughter that's rich and full, and happy, and everything feels real - the clarity of the world; the breaths he takes, the caresses from the breeze – it feels good –
Until it's not; and his mother is lying face down in her own blood and all he can do is stand there and watch.
He feels the icy touch of the water, and the last color he sees is the glittering of the river as the sun sank into the horizon before the world of color is slowly sapped of its life – like a flower that has wilted and died – his dream fades to black and white, and he wakes to shades of grey.
It's not something most people think about; how important color is in one's world, how utterly disconnected and alienated you feel without it…
Everything looks and feels like grey to him, and the closest thing to that is a numb sensation that fills his body and forces him forward, on and on.
His mother's death hit him the hardest, and for nine years he wandered in a world of black and white and shades of grey until the day he died for real – when a death butterfly not meant for him flutters through his window and is the only thing thus far in his world that is purple…
He rushes at the giant creature woven together by shadows and black threads with eyes that are large and grey and empty; the numb feeling that usually fills him recedes until it pulses instead: thump, thump, thump…
His mind is clear with his intention – his sisters are still in the house – they could be hurt – I need to protect them –
And then a girl shows up, and the thumping turns into pounding and though he doesn't notice it at first, actual colors slowly flooding into his vision; flashing in bits in pieces as his world is reborn: with the silver of her sword, the brown of her sandals, the stark white that borders her haori, the red logo on Karin's shirt, the pink of Yuzu's sneakers –
There's a glare from the sword as she blocks off an attack from what he’ll later learn, is called a Hollow, putting herself in his path to take a hit she isn't entirely prepared for, and then he sees it: redredredredredred; it's clear and bright, and the world he has inhabited in his waking hours shifts – as if the gears that make up the fabric of his existence have finally found purchase against one another.
As she leans against the wall, her breath coming out in shallow pants, she raises her head to get her bangs out of her eyes, and it's the second time he's seen purple, and there’s nothing in the world he can compare it to.
"My name isn't Shinigami, it's Kuchiki Rukia."
Her small hands hold the hilt, guiding it to its intended destination while he holds the length of the sword itself, the tip against his grey uniform.
Though her eyes are hard and glint with the same silver wink of the sword in his hand, he can read the question in her gaze, and his lips quirk. "I'm Kurosaki Ichigo" and you're going to change everything.
The sword met his heart, and from there – under the shadow of a screaming Hollow – a burst of light from within his ribcage sets loose an explosion of color, and the gears within whirred to life.
The only coherent thought that goes through his head is thank you, Rukia.