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Ikkaku wants to meet the miserable asshole that invented kanji.
Yeah, miserable is right. Because what happy person would come up with ten billion fancy scribbles in their free time? If Ikkaku wasn’t such a nice guy, he would’ve found the asshole and bashed his head through a window. Or at least made him get some fresh air. But no, unfortunately he’s in a living hell with kanji in it, and he’s just gotta deal with it.
So here he is—in the Squad 11 barracks, in a torn up hakama, holding his stupid kanji-infested report and standing outside Yumichika’s door. His friend is one of the few who actually learned how to read this garbage, because The one for wisteria is simply gorgeous, don’t you think? And Ikkaku couldn’t give a shit what it looks like but he needs to know the stroke order because it’s used in the same one for complication— which happens way too fucking often on his missions.
Ikkaku’s already red in the face and fuming by the time he approaches Yumichika’s door. The sunlight pouring in from the adjacent wooden window frame isn’t helping the heat coursing through his veins. He pounds his bruised fist against the heavy wood. “Hey, it’s me—open up!”
There's no answer, and all he hears are the birds outside and the muted shouts of new recruits training in the courtyard. So he knocks a little harder. “It’s Ikkaku. I need help readin’ this damn report.”
Still nothing. What’s the hold-up? It’s late afternoon, and Yumichika doesn’t have any missions today. At least, he doesn’t think so. He tries opening the door, stopping when realizes it’s locked up tight. He shakes it a little, thinking the old thing might be jammed, but pauses when he hears a voice on the other side.
“Stop!” shrills Yumichika from behind the door. “Don’t come in. I’m ugly.”
Ikkaku’s eyes widen. Ugly? Since when did Yumichika call himself ugly? When was the last time he’d said something like that… well, ever? It’s enough to give Ikkaku pause, but he can’t just walk away and leave his friend to wallow in whatever melodrama he made for himself today. He’s got an emergency on his hands.
“What the hell are you talkin’ about? Open this damn door, Yumichika, it’s important!”
“No!” Yumichika shouts back. “Just go away!”
“I can’t do that when you need to work your magic on this report, idiot. I can’t read the fuckin’ kanji!”
There’s a short pause and the muted ruffling of what sounds like fabric. “You should’ve thought of that before you skipped my last calligraphy lesson!”
“I had a freakin’ hole in my chest!” Ikkaku complains. “That mission sucked ass and you know it!”
“That doesn’t matter! Just go pick up a book from the library or something, is that so—“ the rest is cut off by a series of wet, disgusting coughs.
“Yumichika?” Ikkaku calls, pressing one ear to the door. Now he’s curious. “The hell’s wrong with you? Are you okay in there?”
There’s no answer except a few hacking coughs, and more rustling fabric. The wood scrapes against his ear as Ikkaku lifts his head away. Even from behind the door, Ikkaku can tell Yumichika sounds like shit, nearly as bad as the last time he got a punctured lung in the world of the living. The heat from earlier cools in his chest just a bit. Did that mean he really had gone out on a mission today? What was he thinking—crawling back here instead of going to the Fourth? What an idiot.
“Yumichika, you sound like shit,” he says decidedly. “I’m coming in.”
“Don’t— don’t do—“ Yumichika gasps out between coughs. “Don’t do that—“
“I’m coming in whether you like it or not!” Ikkaku warns, taking a few steps back. He glares at the crimson red door from across the hallway and crouches onto his knees.
“I said go away! Wait, are you going to—Oh, if you try and break down my door like some kind of rampaging caveman, I’m going to—“
Ikkaku breaks down his door like some kind of rampaging caveman. The sound of crashing wood reverberates down the empty hall as Ikkaku shoves it aside and bursts into the room. It whips open, easily yielding to the weight of his shoulder blade. He’s not really sure what to expect, laying the responsibility at the feet of his warrior’s instinct, but he finds himself skidding to a halt in the middle of the room.
At first glance, Yumichika looks like a corpse. He’s curled up on his futon at the corner of the small room, lying in between his fancy wooden kiri desk and matching wardrobe. His skin is white as a sheet, pale but not in that pretty ethereal way like a geisha’s. Yumichika glares at him suspiciously—only his nose and eyes visible from underneath the blanket. His eye feathers are all fucked up; the yellow ones bent in half and the reds plastered to his sweaty forehead, along with untidy strands of dark hair. Worse, they jerk and tremble as the rest of him shivers ever so slightly. Ikkaku finds himself, almost mechanically, moving to shut the door he just busted through before padding over to the futon again.
He looks down at his friend. “Geez. You weren’t kiddin’ about bein’ ugly.”
He gets a swift kick to the groin for that, and good gods, Yumichika has impeccable flexibility even when he’s bedridden. How’d he even get his spine to twist like that? The pain flashes white behind his eyes like a midsummer firework and he finds himself doubled over with his face smashed into the cold floor.
“The hell, Yumichika?” he grunts, voice strained. “Kick pretty good for a dyin’ man.”
“Illness does not prevent one from dispensing justice on behalf of the beautiful,” he says in monotone. Yumichika’s voice is jagged, like the words are catching on sharp edges as they come his throat. “Now get out.”
Ikkaku—once he’s certain his balls haven't been obliterated—slowly moves to a sitting position, legs tucked under himself and his knees pointing right at Yumichika’s pillow. “Hey, I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you looking like this. Shouldn’t you go to the Fourth?”
“Over a cold? I’d be the laughing stock of the whole Squad.”
“Oh. Good point,” Ikkaku agrees, scratching the back of his shaved head. He looks to make sure the door is closed all the way before continuing. “Yeah, let’s not do that. Can I get ya somethin’ else, then? Orange juice, or some shit?”
“No. I’m fine,” Yumichika does a strangled, closed-mouth cough and grimaces. He frees his chin from the blanket and makes a show of shaking out his hair, a mere mockery of the elegant swishing he’s going for. “Now kindly remove yourself from my sight. Your hakama is hideous and it’s making me nauseous.”
“Yeah? And what if you kick the bucket as soon as I leave?”
“Then ensure the decorations at my funeral are beautiful.”
“Please, that ain’t happenin’. You’re like a cockroach, you can’t die from somethin’ stupid like this.”
Yumichika’s gaze hovers over him for a moment, like he’s deciding whether or not to exert the energy to fight him on that. “How kind of you to say,” he says through clenched teeth.
”Yeah. You’re welcome.”
His friend doesn’t get out much of a reply before another fit of coughing overtakes him. It wracks through his body, shaking his light frame like a leaf in the wind. Ikkaku wouldn’t exactly describe it as pathetic, but it’s close. He heaves a sigh of his own and reaches for the supply bag around his waist.
“Here, get some goddamn water in you. You’re looking like a dried out orange peel.”
Ikkaku unlatches the water flask from his bag, having left it unused on his mission, and he fills up an empty cup he finds near the futon. Of course, it’s one of those fancy white porcelain cups with purple embellishments on the side, so he has to be careful not to drop the thing. At least it looks clean enough and there’s no mold on it, so it’ll have to do.
“What part of ‘I’m fine’ did you not understand?” Yumichika growls. “Are you having trouble hearing as well as reading, now?”
Ikkaku silences him by shoving the cup to his lips, ignoring the surprised cry as Yumichika has no choice but to swallow the water within. He flashes him a nasty glare but takes it all down, and Ikkaku frowns as he can feel heat against the back of his fingers where they rest against Yumichika’s sweaty chin.
“Yer sweatin’ like a pig, too,” Ikkaku comments through a curled lip. “Here, hold on.”
He ends up tearing some of his hakama to use it as a makeshift wash rag. It already had a bunch of rips in it anyway from his mission, and it’s not like he’s gonna miss it anyway. Yumichika will have to sew it up later, so it’s in his best interest to get him feeling better as soon as he can. Ikkaku uses the water left in his flask to wet the cloth. “Here, let me—quit squirming, dammit! Tryin’ to help your sorry ass!”
Yumichika grips his wrist and digs his nails in like thorns. “Help someone who needs it! I said I’m fine!”
Ikkaku grits his teeth. “Your hand’s fuckin’ clammy, you’re not fine! And you’re shakin’ like crazy, too. How do you think you’re gonna hold a sword with this, dumbass?!”
When Ikkaku easily peels his friend's hand away from his wrist he knows it’s bad. There’s no way he’d let him do that normally. It’s worrying how Yumichika's grip is way too weak to keep a good grip on him. Yumichika lets his hand fall down palm-up next to his unkempt splay of dark hair. His violet eyes are so intense they’re like piercing daggers, brightly standing out against his flushed skin. But it seems like the only thing he’s up for right now is staring, so Ikkaku carries on. If he doesn’t get a commendation from the Fourth after this shit, he’ll be pissed.
Ikkaku drops the cloth over his friend’s forehead, giving it enough height to make a wet slap! across his forehead because, well, he pissed him off and he kinda deserves it. Yumichika flinches subtly, and Ikkaku would have missed it had he not known him so damn well. Why’d he look so frail and weak just now? Was he actually affected by all this? Maybe the fever really is getting to him.
“There,” Ikkaku huffs. “Was that so hard?”
Yumichika makes a displeased noise and glares like he’s trying to burn a hole in Ikkaku with just his eyes.
“And at least get some more damn blankets on ya. Trying to freeze yourself to death or something?” Ikkaku grunts as he hefts himself to his feet and pads over to the wardrobe. He rummages through it and fishes out a floral patterned blanket that looks decently warm, at least. Yumichika stops him with another displeased noise.
“Not that one. It’s unsightly and reminds me of a funeral,” Yumichika says unhappily. “Get the orange one.”
He’s practically dying on his futon but he’s picky enough for that? Fine, whatever. Ikkaku finds it and throws the soft, orange blanket on top of him, because damned if he’s going to do the whole ‘tucking him in’ thing. Fuck that. He’s not getting close enough to Yumichika’s snotty nose to catch whatever he has.
“Anything else, Princess?” Ikkaku says with a frown.
Suddenly, the icy glare melts and Yumichika looks away. There’s a familiar pout on his lips that Ikkaku knows all too well.
“Yumichika,” he presses. “What.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Just tell me.”
It takes another tense minute of silence, and after Ikkaku stands over him menacingly for a good few moments, Yumichika eventually yields. He turns his head again and looks up at him through a messy curtain of dark hair. “Would you mind… staying for a while. Until I fall asleep?”
“Eh? What the hell for?”
“Fevers make for fitful sleep,” he says quietly, eyes suddenly glued back to the wall. “At least in my case. Just… I’d feel safer. As ridiculous as that sounds.”
Ikkaku’s bedside manner is apparently fucking impeccable, so he shuts up and sits down. He sits cross-legged on the floor, partway facing sideways so he can keep an eye on the door. He almost hopes some sorry sap tries to come in so he can beat the shit out of him. He deserves some kind of reward after this whole thing, and a good fight would be a stress-reliever. If it was a newer recruit, even better. Teach ‘em some manners about entering places they shouldn’t be fucking entering. However, no one comes to the door, and after several minutes he’s pulled away from his thoughts when he hears shifting underneath the blankets.
“Remember when I got sick at the Twisted Mackerel in the 65th?” Yumichika asks suddenly. It comes out so meekly and quietly Ikkaku wonders if he imagined it.
Ikkaku swivels his gaze over, thin brow arched. “That old inn with the fish head out front?”
“That’s the one,” Yumichika agrees, and his voice sounds strangely far away. “They had a bad shipment of tuna and I was the only one foolish enough to order it that night.”
Ikkaku fidgets with the ends of the ruined black fabric on his hakama. “Yeah. You were throwin’ up so much it almost had me going.”
“I’m glad you were there with me for that,” he says in almost a whisper. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
Now he knows he’s really sick. No fuckin’ way he’d ever admit to that if he was right in the head. Ikkaku’s about to tell him as much, that he’s being ridiculous and can’t believe he’d let a miserable cold mess with his head, but it dies in his throat when he looks down at Yumichika’s flushed face. His violet eyes have lost their angry spark, taking on a more cloudy periwinkle color. His gaze drifts above, unfocused and staring. He wouldn’t say it, but if Yumichika could see himself now, he’d comment how pathetic he looked. So Ikkaku just shrugs and says,”Yeah, well, you’re welcome. Who else was gonna put up with you puking everywhere? Had to make sure it didn’t get in your long-ass hair.”
Tears rapidly form at the corners of Yumichika's eyes. “I miss my hair. It was beautiful.”
Ah, shit. Now he went and made him cry. He wishes he could kick himself in the balls right now. “Goddammit, your hair’s fine. Doesn’t matter if it’s long or short.”
Yumichika’s face scrunches up, the tears spilling down his pinkish cheeks now. “I shouldn’t have cut it. Now I’m ugly.”
“Hey, hey, that’s the fever talkin’. It’s making you say weird shit,” Ikkaku rushes to assure. “Just rest up now. You’ll be beautiful again in the morning. Like that bird story… The chicken, or some shit.”
“The swan?”
“Look, just go the fuck to sleep, alright?” Ikkaku snaps. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, so hurry up and rest. Okay?”
Yumichika seems satisfied enough with that, and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand before closing them.
It turns out Ikkaku doesn’t have to wait long. He only sits for about fifteen minutes more, idly tapping his finger on his knee, hoping for that new recruit to open up Yumichika’s door, before the blankets shift again. As soon as he hears Yumichika’s strained, shallow breaths turn into deep, heaving sighs, he looks over. Yep. Sleeping like a log. He’s not sure what possesses him—maybe it’s that fever dream of a commendation from the Fourth—but Ikkaku gently takes the orange blanket and tucks it tightly around his friend’s sleeping form. He doesn’t wake, but some of the creases on his sweaty brow relax slightly.
Surely Ikkaku’s report—and his torn hakama—can wait a little while longer while Yumichika dozes.