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Chad finds him standing in the middle of a deserted corridor, the wooden walls on either side large and intrusive in the dark, closing in on the hunch of Ichigo’s shoulders and the anxious, guarded stance the substitute has twisted into to protect himself. One of Ichigo’s hands is splayed across the wall, his touch ginger in its comprehension of the firm reality he is leaning against. His other hand is clenching reflexively at his side, occasionally winding into the folds of his yukata in a nervous motion, but he doesn’t appear aware that his actions are fruitless in achieving the sensibility needed to ground him. His mind has wandered too far to appreciate that he is tucked away in the depths of the Sixth Division per his (and Rukia’s) request. They are safe here, Chad knows, or as safe as they can be, and though he can see the shuddering tremble to Ichigo’s shoulders in the slight of the moonlight that isolates them, the silent teenager is mindful that it is not fear that has taken hold of Ichigo’s body.
Not yet, at any least.
Chad had woken to the sound of normality with nothing to rouse him; nothing to suggest that something was amiss, but now, as he approaches his friend with the resolute gait of a tiger and the hush of a mouse, he feels relief in his ability to trust his instincts. How long Ichigo has been stumbling around the empty corridors is not a thought Chad wants to dwell on. The sheer lack of sentience the substitute typically expresses in his vibrant, hap-hazard manner is enough of an answer. It is disconcerting to see Ichigo like this – vulnerable in a way that he cannot help. The weakness shadowing his form screams defiance against his nature.
It’s painful to witness.
As he reaches the weary bearing of his friend, Chad supposes idly that such is probably why Ichigo is out here by himself in the first place, instead of knocking down doors and causing mayhem enough to attract the attention he desperately needs.
Ichigo would not want someone he did not trust to see him in such a state.
Luckily for Chad, he doesn’t fall into that category.
“Ichigo,” he says, his grumble soft as it shatters through the dazed fog that has surrounded the ginger shinigami. Ichigo startles and blinks dozily through the dark – his extravagant reiatsu flickers like a waning candle in preparation for assault; his sunlight hair is dim as it shadows the ghostly death to his expression. His body doesn’t cease its quiver even as Chad reaches out and rests a supporting hand on the sticky clamminess of his skin, but wild cognisance appears to flash across the substitute’s face at the motion.
“Chad?” the ginger replies weakly, reinforcing Chad’s relief that there is at least some rationality in his friend’s behaviour. The responding mumble is still grave in comparison to his standard level of reason, but Ichigo straightens a fraction at the question when the hefty shadow of Chad’s dark figure nears. “Eh – what?”
It’s painstakingly obvious from his outside point of view what is wrong, but Chad cannot be certain that Ichigo has enough energy to rationalise the situation. “Ichigo,” he repeats, just as softly and calmly as before, though the thick gruff behind his tone reveals that he is growing concerned with his companion’s sluggish behaviour. Though Soul Society is not against them anymore, Chad doesn’t feel secure about bringing up the topic of Ichigo’s diabetes with their relations with the shinigami being so fragile. If he can avoid alerting anybody about Ichigo’s current predicament, then he’s going to do everything in his power to do so.
Cautiously, he asks, “Are you having a hypo?”
“Hypo?” the other teenager repeats lethargically, crinkling his brows as his lips stutter around the word. He sounds as if he’s never heard the term before, which is frankly a ridiculous level of ironic given the circumstances. “Hypo – yes – maybe? Chad?”
“Do you have any of your glucose tablets on you?” Chad asks, ignoring the confused mumble of his name in favour of guiding Ichigo to the floor. The substitute grumbles a protest at the action, feebly swatting the larger hands, but it has to be noted that once his huddled figure is crumpled against the wall, he doesn’t move an inch to rectify his new position. A simple hum is all that he replies with, then his heavy head droops towards Chad’s shoulder and he groans at the weight of it.
Although Chad has witnessed hypoglycaemias of various severities before, the illogical muddle of symptoms that Ichigo is reduced to still distresses him, and each experience is just as unsettling to watch as the one prior. Usually, Ichigo is capable of recognising the earlier warning signs and adjusting his behaviour accordingly. It is rare that his blood sugar would fall so low in the middle of the night, but Chad presumes with the unexpected chaos of Rukia and Soul Society in their lives, all thoughts of Ichigo’s dietary requirements and strict exercise regime had been tossed out of the window and wholly forgotten about in favour of more pressing matters – namely, not getting hacked to pieces by madmen.
He presses his lips together, a subtle frown. The blubbering substitute seems to gain three more shades of his sickly white colour at the sight of it, which probably isn’t a bad thing since it actually implies he’s starting to realise that something isn’t quite right with his glucose levels. Chad hopes Ichigo will stay awake to successfully treat himself, because otherwise he’ll have to go and hunt the Seireitei for somebody with the medical capability of administering a glucagon injection.
(He’s assuming the doctors here already know about diabetes, of course. There’s going to be trouble if they don’t and Chad’s left as the only conscious individual with any sort of knowledge of what to do with Ichigo’s lifeless form).
(When they return to Karakura, he’s going to insist that someone teach him how to help in situations like this. He had promised that he would always stand by Ichigo and he’s not going to let something as easily manageable as diabetes hold him back).
“I’m going to check your pockets,” Chad announces, unwilling to frighten Ichigo further into his incoherent state. The auburn teenager is sweating fire. “Was your stuff not in your room?”
Ichigo’s diabetic kit follows him everywhere. Or at least Chad assumes it did, but given that the substitute is stumbling around without it suggests he either completely forgot about it in his confusion at waking wretched and pale in an unfamiliar environment, or it wasn’t where he expected it to be.
“Uh, kitchen,” says Ichigo, wiggling when Chad rummages through the baggy pockets of his yukata – not particularly practical for storing the little tablets they need. His voice is slow, slurred with the gasps of his cells frantically trying to scour his body for glucose. The scowl on his face deepens in agony. “I couldn’t find it.”
Chad translates the fragmented drone to a despairing rumble of some arsehole moved my stuff that Ichigo would ordinarily respond with, and feels the dark skin around his eyes crinkle in amusement despite himself. (Ichigo really doesn’t have the temperament to be diabetic – it’s just as comical as it is exasperating). Still, if the jabber is anything to be believed, that someone has intentionally or unintentionally taken Ichigo’s equipment away from him is concerning. It might be that it has just simply been misplaced in the disarray of their relocation from the Fourth to the Sixth Division, Chad reasons, but finding an excuse doesn’t change the fact that Ichigo doesn’t have any of his medication on him.
Or glucose tablets, as Chad subsequently discovers when he fishes through the last of the yukata’s pockets and returns empty-handed.
Alright, he thinks, taking a deep breath to force himself to remain serene in face of this mounting dilemma. It’s probably best that he goes and finds the kitchen. He doesn’t know where it is, and since he doesn’t want to leave Ichigo sitting here alone when he’s at risk of losing consciousness, the substitute will have to be carried.
Ichigo is boneless when Chad lugs him onto his feet. So boneless, in fact, that he doesn’t make a single movement in dispute when the giant teenager decides he might as well make his life even easier and hurls Ichigo into a firearm’s carry. The substitute does offer a grumbling complaint to Chad’s ear at the termination of his tough-nut heroism, but since it’s half a squawk and half a yelp and not anything even remotely convincing enough to put Ichigo down, Chad ignores it without a speck of shame.
He takes a moment to ensure that he’s holding Ichigo securely before deciding that forward is the best way to go. The layout of the Sixth Division is a labyrinth of corners to him, but Chad reasons there must be some practicality in the maze – why would someone build quarters for guests without giving them somewhere to eat, after all? Ichigo seemed to be inclined that there is a kitchen around somewhere, and Chad’s definitely the more equip of the pair to locate it.
“Hate you,” Ichigo adds a minute later – it takes that long for him to register that he’s still flung over his friend’s shoulders like a rag.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Chad mumbles without a hint of insult, and he means for more than just that comment.
Ichigo knows this. His senseless giggle – it’s really not anything else – is sluggishly followed by a heartfelt thanks. Chad almost doesn’t catch it in his haste to unwind the endless hallways, but even though he does, he feels no need to comment on it. Spoken gratitude is the last thing he desires from Ichigo – it’s not in his nature to ask for thanks for displaying behaviour he considers common courtesy. He’s Ichigo’s friend, and that’s enough for him.
Chad would say he hopes it’s enough for Ichigo too, but the substitute’s warm, somewhat flustered, smile when he devours a glass of fruit juice and starts to rage about his own ineptness and the idiocy of the moron who took my stuff – seriously where is it, I’m going to kill someone – is sufficient a sign.
Ichigo does have to be informed of the path back to his quarters once he has perked up enough to register where he is, but Chad doesn’t mind showing him the way.
They’re friends.
He wouldn’t ever complain about it.