Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lamplight outside. Shadows within. Shades of blue, grey, the colours grainy, desaturated.

Ichigo sits at his desk, his back curved over the smooth surface like a circle saw. Ugly, unergonomic. There’s a single page of paper torn from a notebook sitting in front of him, a pencil in his hand. On it is a list of words with no heading, the strokes of his characters sharp, unforgiving.

The first item on the list is: A good for nothing loud-mouthed dirty-minded toy

1: KON

He still remembers, even now, his first look at Urahara Kisuke. Tall, blond, lanky, with wide shoulders, comically expressive eyes and a self-satisfied smirk. The first words that had come to Ichigo’s mind had been: Well fuck, this guy is a whole parade of flaming shit.

That impression moves sharply to the back of his mind, though, when he realises the man – a greedy shop keeper, as Rukia calls him, is here to take back the mod soul. A thing brought into existence to serve Shinigami, and then heartlessly abandoned for an eternity in a state of semi-existence, forever fearing discovery.

He finds himself bracing for a fight against this bizarre spectacle of a man in a striped bucket hat and geta, but before he has to act Rukia is there, grabbing back the pellet from the stranger.

“You act outside the law,” she says. “You’ll turn a blind eye to this.”

And the shop keeper, to Ichigo’s shock, agrees. In spite of the illegality of the mod soul, in spite of the fact that it was just on a semi-rampage. He takes his bizarre circus – two kids and a giant – and simply leaves, disclaiming all future responsibility.

The only person Ichigo’s ever met, apart from Rukia, who can see him as a Shinigami disappears as quickly as he arrived, and just as silently.  

Who is this guy?

***

The second item on the list is, A sharp shove in the skull.

2: DON KANONJI

He doesn’t come out to the live TV event expecting trouble. He comes expecting puke-tastic drama and a cringe factor capable of separating his brain from his skull, but that’s another story.

What Ichigo realises far too quickly is that Don Kanonji is, in one sense, the real deal. He has power, he can see spirits.

In another, much more relevant sense, he is an absolute unmitigated moron. Ichigo tries to stop the disaster that’s about to unfold, and eats gravel as three burly guards pile onto him. Somewhere in the distance, Rukia’s shouting at him to get his ass over to her. As if.

He makes it to his feet eventually, just as on the building above, the plus rematerializes in its new mask – a nice fresh hollow ready to wreak havoc. Rukia is meters away, the crowd is surging, and Don Kanonji is posing for pictures.

A moment later Ichigo’s falling forward, tumbling down onto his knees and then up again in a bumpy roll. Only now he’s not wearing his street clothes, he’s wearing a shihakushou, and a familiar steely weight is on his back.

Ichigo turns around and sees Geta Boushi standing behind him, his cane in hand, smiling his usual shit-eating grin. “Hi-ya, Kurosaki-san.” He radiates pleased amusement, even as his hulking colleague sweeps up Ichigo’s now-unconscious body from the ground. “I’m like, so here to help.”

“Where the heck were you before, when that idiot was masticating that soul?” demands Ichigo.

“I’m not here in a position of authority, Kurosaki-san. I’m simply a helpful passer-by.”

“Yeah, so helpful. Why don’t you –”

Up above the hollow screams. Ichigo grits his teeth. Urahara raises invisible eyebrows, his eyes widening with innocent curiosity under the shadow of his hat. “Are you going to do something about that?” he asks, tone liltingly inquiring. Ichigo grits his teeth.

“Just – just – arg. Never mind.” He turns his back on the asshole and strides towards the building, no longer inhibited by the guards who don’t even notice him passing.

Later, when everyone is safe and the crowd’s dispersed and Don Kanonji has finally left, Ichigo looks around for Geta Boushi to ask what he was really doing here. Why it was he showed up just at the nick of time. But of course the bastard is no where to be found.

***

The third line reads, A sky full of stars

3: MENOS GRANDE

Overhead, the sky is ripping apart, an enormous black void slowly blacking out the stars.

Ichigo is so focused on the absolute barefaced fuckery of Ishida that, to be honest, he hardly notices Geta Boushi’s appearance. He’s vaguely aware that some other fighters have shown up to tackle the remaining hollows attracted by Ishida’s bait, and slowly comes to realise that it’s Urahara and his weird shop crew. That’s not what he needs to be focusing on.

Later though, when he’s lying on the ground so full/too full/bleeding/bursting with reiatsu, when Ishida is peeling sliver after sliver of his power from him and firing it up to the heavens, he realises that shop owner is still around. A pair of geta are standing off to the side, just within Ichigo’s blurred periphery.

“Tessai, fix that hole in the sky, okay?”

“Yes, Tenchou.”

Ichigo blacks out for a while. When he wakes up, Ishida is splayed in an exhausted heap beside him, and Rukia is standing by looking pissed. No one else is nearby.

Up above, stars are shining in the sky, perfect pinpricks of white. All traces of the damages, the near disaster they caused, have been smoothed away.

***

Four is simply: An umbrella.

4: RAIN

Water in his hair/clothes/skin/mouth. It’s doing nothing to wash away the taste of blood that lingers on his tongue, hot and metallic.

Everything is cold. So cold it’s almost numb. No. Empty. That’s what he is. Empty.

Rukia is gone, taken captive by the two Shinigami he couldn’t defeat. Her face so small in their shadow, her form fragile. Her head bowed by her sacrifice, her life for his.

He’s worthless.

Rain falls and falls, water streaming down, rivulets running down his face.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, the rain stops.

Ichigo tries to turn, to lift his head, to open his eyes.

Can’t.

“Well, Kurosaki-san. I don’t suppose this would be a kind time to say I told you so. But I did. And now, perhaps you’ll be willing to listen.” The voice is cool, slightly reprimanding. Eminently memorable.

Ichigo, with intense effort, with what little of his fiery rage hasn’t frozen and fallen away, scrapes his fingers over the pavement.

“You’re angry. That’s not a bad thing.”

“Rukia…” he can barely manage that one word, his voice broken.

Soft, warm fingers slip beneath the curve of his cheek and turn his head. He opens his eyes to see Geta Boushi squatting beside him, an old-fashioned umbrella held above. “So determined,” murmurs Urahara. “That’s not a bad thing either. I can work with it. But for now… sleep.”

Ichigo stares up, puzzled, as Urahara rests a finger on his forehead.

Darkness.

***

After An Umbrella comes The dumbest-ass thing I ever did.

5: RUKIA

He trains. And trains. And trains. In the open, weatherless, dusty expanse of Urahara’s underground world Ichigo learns to control his Shinigami powers. He learns the name of his blade, he learns to respect it.

He learns that Urahara is stronger than he had ever imagined.

At night he sits in the shouten’s soaker tub, the room old-fashioned with wood surrounds and a smooth-stoned floor, the water piping hot and perfect to ease bruised and injured muscles. He stares up at the ceiling and reflects.

He understands his mission and his resolve. What he doesn’t understand is who the hell Urahara Kisuke is. The man beats the shit out of him, then turns around and heals him and teaches him how to avoid the attacks. He throws Ichigo in a pit that’s designed to make a hollow of him, then cooks him a feast and eats it while getting gently drunk on umeshu. He has a lair that would make an evil villain weep with envy, and as far as Ichigo can tell doesn’t seem to use it for anything other than to help a random highschooler prepare to go to Soul Society on a hot-headed rescue mission.

Ichigo hauls himself out of the tub, putting the wooden cover on top of it to seal the heat in for the next user, and dries and changes into the sleeping yukata Urahara provided – complete with Ura insignia on the back. 

Although the soak in the tub was healing, Ichigo is still sore and feeling mulish. On his way back to the room he’s been assigned, a tiny three-mat room with space only for a futon and small table, he smells tobacco smoke. He follows the scent and finds Urahara sitting in just his jinbei, no hat or slippers, on the upstairs balcony of the house portion of the building. He’s looking out at the starry sky – or what passes for it in Tokyo’s light pollution haze – and smoking a long-stemmed pipe.

“Kurosaki-san,” he says in a polite tone, without turning. Ichigo steps out onto the balcony and leans back against the house’s exterior wall.

“Y’know, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but you’re putting yourself to a lot of trouble. And money, and time, and effort.”

Urahara doesn’t speak, his shadowed form unmoving, the gentle starlight bright on the blond halo of his hair.

“And so I can’t help but wonder – what’s in it for you? Who is Rukia to you?”

There’s a soft sound, and then a louder one. Laughter. Ichigo frowns, and Urahara turns his head to glance at him. “I’m afraid that arrow won’t hit the target, Kurosaki-san. Kuchiki-san is nothing and no one to me. I’ve only known her for a couple of months.”

Ichigo crosses his arms over his chest. “Well then, why? If she’s no one to you, and neither am I, then what do you gain from this?”

Urahara slowly tilts his head back, looking up at the stars. His pale skin is washed by moonlight, smooth as river stones. He looks nothing like the irritating, mocking, self-effacing dumpster fire whose lilting tone Ichigo has come to both welcome and dread. Looks old, and uncompromising, and beautiful. “Maybe I’m just a public-spirited kind of guy. Someone who likes to help out.”

Ichigo snorts. “Yeah, try again. You’re the kind of guy who only sticks his nose into stuff that interests him, not a philanthropist.”

“Maa, I’m wounded.” Urahara’s mouth cants upwards. “Alright, then. Let’s say… let’s say I’ve seen the way Soul Society metes out justice. I’ve seen them to be uncompromising, unwavering, when the better choice would have been compromise and leniency. Kuchiki-san’s crimes don’t deserve execution. I want to see those who end up in Soul Society’s bad graces treated fairly, not punitively.”

“Wow, that’s an answer that raises more questions than it answers. They brought down their kangaroo court justice on you, did they?”

Urahara’s eyes flash to him, and they are cold and hard as forge-blue steel. His tone is still light, but there’s no give in his gaze. “The justice they provide has nothing naïve, uneducated or overtly biased about it. It merely lacks any shred of compassion. As to the ones who received unfair sentences – they were not me, but that doesn’t mean I’m unable to sympathise. You’re not wrong to doubt me, Kurosaki-san. I’m a suspicious person – I realise that. But I do genuinely want to see you succeed. If I didn’t, I would have allowed you to go unprepared and unadvised.”

Ichigo raises a heel to rest against the wall, flexing his foot. “Yeah. I guess I can see that. And I guess you don’t owe me anything. I just…”

“You just woke up and Kuchiki-san was gone, and you realised suddenly you might need to put more thought into the people you trust?” asks Urahara.

Ichigo steps forward, moves to stand at the shop keeper’s side. “Nope. I trust who I trust – nothing could make me second guess that. Not even a battalion of Shinigami with an army of vendettas. But it did make me think – I’ve been focused on the people in front of me. Rukia. Ishida. Chad, and Inoue. And the whole time, you were there doing your best to skulk in the shadows. And you know, I trust you. I do. I just… don’t totally know why.”

Urahara looks up at him and laughed again, this time with nothing but pure amusement. “How kind,” he says, wiping his smile away. “I’m sure I appreciate the compliment. It’s quite a rare one, you know.”

“Why? Aren’t you trustworthy?”

“I would like to think, after my own fashion, that I can be depended upon. I’ve been vouched for by cats and kings, you know.”

Ichigo smiles. “Is that meant to impress me?”

“I suppose not. Never mind. If you go to bed now, it will be morning before you know it, and we can get back to training.”

“I’m not a little kid, Urahara-san. You don’t need to make me promises to get me to go to bed.”

Urahara’s eyes sweep over him again, and his smile now is old, worn. “If you say so,” he says. Then, stretching, he stands. “But either way, I’ll see you then.”

He brushes past Ichigo, smelling of pipe tobacco and mosquito coils, strong evocative smells. And then he’s gone, and there’s only a lingering curl of blue smoke in the air.

***

Sixth on the list is, A fighting chance.

6: BANKAI

“Kisuke developed this,” Yoruichi tells him, as he stares at the cavern in Soul Society, so similar to the one back behind the Urahara Shouten. “A way to achieve bankai not in ten years, but three days. Of course, it comes with its own risks,” she adds, with a toothy smile.

Strangely it’s not her, but Urahara he sees, blond and smiling – not a smirk, but with soft amusement. A man proud of his achievements. A man who Ichigo now knows is so much more than he imagined.

“Then let’s go,” he says, and steps forward.

***

After it comes, An apology.

7: RETURN

It’s strangely silent high in the air above Karakura, the city looking almost like a map stretched out below them. The wind whistles in their hair but it’s much softer than it should be, given their height. Inoue and Chad are pointing out various landmarks; Ishida is pretending not to watch while peeking over the edge at the indicated locations.

Ichigo, seated close to the front near Urahara who is flying this crazy flying-carpet-like thing, is listening to them with one ear while watching the straight line of Urahara’s back.

Former captain of the 12^th Division

Head of the Shinigami Research and Development Institute

Creator of the Hougyoku

Soul Society exile

It’s a long list of titles, all of them shocking in their own way. All of them, even the last, indicative of a level of seniority and power nearing the limit of Ichigo’s understanding.

And it’s that Urahara Kisuke – former captain/director/scientist and current exile – who turns to him now and, as he watches, bends into a low and perfect dogeza.

“I apologize,” he says, as the chatter at the back of the carpet falls into a shocked silence. “I hid my intentions from you, and in sending you to Soul Society sent you to repair the mistake I caused, without request or warning. You lent me your trust, and I broke it.”

Ichigo stares down at him, wide-eyed and tongue tied. For all his ridiculousness, his joking persona and his BS, Urahara has a looming stature in Ichigo’s mind. A place of respect. To see him abased before him is more than surprising – it feels wrong.

“Stop that,” he says, irritated. “I didn’t lend you my trust – I gave it to you, and it’s still intact. So you didn’t tell me about your stupid weird scientist shit. So what? I wouldn’t have listened anyway. You gave me exactly what I wanted, and exactly what I asked for. The opportunity to save Rukia’s life. You mopped up after Kuchiki and Renji, you taught me to fight, you sent me there, you even made it possible for me to learn bankai. That doesn’t deserve an apology. It deserves thanks.”

Urahara looks up, his blond hair wild in the wind, his face pulled long with surprise. Ichigo realises that he’s never before seen surprise on Urahara’s face – it softens him, blunts the sharp edges of his features and makes him look like a young man. “I – you truly are one of a kind, Kurosaki-san.”

“Well that makes two of us then, doesn’t it?” says Ichigo. “Now turn around and drive this thing properly, before we run into a pigeon.”

***

And then, without further comment, The goddamn runs

8: SNACKS

It’s a lazy summer afternoon. Cicadas, dragonflies, black butterflies flitting from flower to flower. The usual insect life, the usual sweaty humidity, the usual blazing hot sun.

Ichigo is sitting under a shelter built for old folks in the local park eating a popsicle while Karin and Yuzu practice their school’s summer festival dance. He watches them bend and twist, raising their arms high and low, swaying from side to side with a tape player that belches out the fisherman’s song they’re dancing to, complete with a teacher’s voice re-recorded over it shouting instructions like Up! Down! Right! Right! Left!

Ichigo is thankful he’s beyond this crap – all their class is doing for the summer festival is a Takoyaki stand and he got off easy with promising to provide cast-iron moulds to cook them in.

He finishes the popsicle and leans back, hands propped up on the bench behind him.

“Maa, Kurosaki-san. For a young man you look very fed up with summer.”

Ichigo leans back even further and, upside down, sees Urahara on the other side of the shelter. He straightens and watches while the shop keeper walks around the perimeter, his geta clopping quietly. “Yeah, well, Karin says I’m 90 at heart, really.”

Urahara smiles. “Surely not more than 85,” he replies. As he comes over he opens the plastic bag he’s got over one arm to reveal a small cache of plastic-wrapped mochi. “Would you like some?”

Ichigo frowns sceptically, looking up at him. “What, are you just wandering around town looking for random kids to feed your wares to? Isn’t that kind of sketchy?”

“I thought you just said you had an internal age of 90,” replies Urahara, taking a seat beside him without Ichigo inviting him. Ichigo shuffles over all the same, making room, and takes a mochi from the bag. “Truthfully, business has been a little slow. The neighbourhood children mostly come in and buy candy and snacks, but with school festival time upon us they’re all staying late at school past closing time.”

“Rough,” says Ichigo, blasé, between chews of the maccha-flavoured mochi.

“It is rough,” laments Urahara. “How will my poor, honest, mom-and-pop shop survive in the face of Karakura’s ongoing modernization? How long will it be before my fairly-priced and wonderfully-fresh products are no longer available to the youth of today? Think of me, Kurosaki-san, and weep.”

“Uh huh,” says Ichigo, finishing the mochi and snagging another from the bag. “And I guess then all you’ll have to do is sell your illegal shit to the Shinigami representatives and hope they don’t snitch on you to their bosses.”

Urahara wipes away a pretend tear. “Truly, the life of a shopkeeper is a thankless one.”

“So what’re you really doing out here?”

“So suspicious,” murmurs Urahara. “But in truth, I too enjoy a stroll in the park during summer. Children at play, the cicadas thrumming, the smell of hot pavement…”

“Okay, now you just sound like a pathetic sentimental grandpa. Pull it together. If you want company so bad, I can stop by the shouten now and then.”

Urahara beams at him. “Wouldn’t that be nice. How considerate you are, Kurosaki-san. Have another.”

Ichigo has a third mochi, and then Karin and Yuzu are calling him and he leaves Urahara in the shade, shoving the wrappers in his pocket and going out to critique their dancing.

That night, he spends four hours in the john. The wrappers from Urahara’s mochi show that they expired last week.

***

Ninth on the list is, A shoulder to cry on.

9: ABSENCE

“It’s just,” says Ichigo, “I miss her, and she’s not coming back. You know?”

It’s late. They’re sitting on Urahara’s balcony looking out over the street, lit in warm glowing globules by the streetlamps, around which moths are beating. Urahara’s drinking umeshu; Ichigo’s drinking cold tea.

“I know what it’s like to leave someone you care for behind,” agrees Urahara. His tone is breezy, and Ichigo almost passes on to continue wallowing in his own misery. And then he remembers that Urahara was tossed out of his world, forcibly cut off from all his friends, family, and who knows who else.

“Right,” he says, chastened.

Urahara’s smile is soft, kindly. “No, no. I don’t mean to overshadow your issues, Kurosaki-san. My broken ties are long in the past. Your wounds are fresh, and fresh wounds sting. Constantly.”

Ichigo nods. They do. “I didn’t even realise how important she was until she was gone, and then all that mattered was saving her and then… and then all there was to do was come home. While she stayed behind.”

“A painful separation,” murmurs Urahara. Ichigo shrugs and says nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I’m sure there are plenty of others who would be happy to bask in the glow of your attention,” says Urahara after a moment. “You’re smart, and amusing, and good looking.”

Ichigo blinks, thrown off-balance by this sudden praise from a man who is parsimony itself when it comes to legitimate approval. Sly jabs of sarcasm are much more his style. But then he re-plays the words and clues in to their real meaning. “You mean Inoue.”

“Well. Her admiration for you is certainly rather obvious. Some people like that.”

“Rukia’s… Rukia was different. Right now, that’s all I can think about.”

“Then remember her with fondness. But don’t forget to keep moving ahead in your own life. Thanks to you, she too has her own path to walk.”

Ichigo tilts back his bottle of tea, drinks deeply before lowering it and screwing the cap back on. “I guess,” he says. “Urahara-san?”

“Hm?”

“Do you ever miss it? Soul Society?”

Urahara turns away so that Ichigo can see only a sliver of his face, the sharp, lean cut of his cheekbone. “Every day,” he says.

Ichigo honestly doesn’t know what to say to that, to the depth of emotion he hears in Urahara’s voice, deep as the sea.

“Don’t be concerned, Kurosaki-san. My life here is pleasant and prosperous. A little loneliness won’t hurt me.”

Ichigo doesn’t think about it, doesn’t even consider it. Just reaches out and puts his hand on Urahara’s shoulder, heavy enough that the former captain can feel the weight of his presence. “You’re not alone,” he says. “Not anymore. You’ve got Inoue, and Ishida, and Chad. They’re all thankful to you – they all care about you. And me. Especially me. I… I guess I’ve come to rely on you.”

There’s a long silence before Urahara turns back, his smile soft, and Ichigo feels something shift low in his stomach. “Thank you,” he says.

***

The next line reads, Insight into my father.

10: ISSHIN

“So,” says Ichigo, sitting on a park bench, one foot raised and his arms wrapped casually around his knee.

“So,” replies Urahara, leaning against a tree opposite, smoking his pipe.

It’s almost a month after Aizen’s defeat, after the Arrancar invasion was foiled and the destruction of Karakura ended. Ichigo’s been busy recovering, and trying to catch up in school, and doing chores for Soul Society as they sweep up the mess. He hasn’t had time for a heart-to-heart with Urahara. Until now.

“You know Goat Face.” It’s not a question. Urahara’s smile is wry.

“Yes. That is fair to say.”

“How?”

“Maa, Ichigo-san. You must realise by now that I keep a close eye on the goings-on of Soul Society members in my community. So often they lead to violent destruction of property! My poor shop might be next. And Kurosaki Isshin-san was… is… very noticeable. I’m sure you would agree.”

“So you knew him when he was a captain.”

“Yes, briefly.”

“But not in Soul Society?”

Urahara’s smile is slight, shallow. “No. Those filling the role of captain generally have one of two paths. A short captaincy ended in violence, or one spanning centuries. There are very rarely those who fall in between. I, of course, am a notable exception. Isshin-san was since my time.”

Ichigo rocks back and forth briefly. “This whole time you knew, and you never said anything. Never even hinted…”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell. Just as I keep your secret, Kurosaki-san, I’ve kept your father’s.”

“I don’t give a shit about – about politeness, or whatever the hell. He’s my dad. I should have known.”

Urahara draws the stem of his pipe across his lips. It’s thin, tapered silver, beautifully engraved; Ichigo follows the line of it without meaning to, watching it dance across those shimmering lips. Urahara has nice features, he realises, something he had known without consciously admitting. “Well then, why should it be up to me to tell you? Surely that was his role?” he says, with a reasonableness that irks Ichigo.

“He knew what happened to Mom, and about Rukia, and about me, and… arg.” Ichigo tears briefly, sharply at his hair, then settles himself. Forces his hands down and his breathing to calm. “Look, you don’t want to get in the middle of this, I get it. But I need – I want – to know. What was he like as a Shinigami? Who was he?”

Urahara tilts his head to the side. “He was Kurosaki Isshin,” he says, plainly. “Just the same as he is today. Perhaps… perhaps slightly more serious, but not by much. His strength as a captain was literally his strength. And, maybe, his kindness. He was loyal to his subordinates, loyal to many. Including your mother. And his children, of course. You must be aware how strongly he cares for all of you. He was a compassionate captain, and I think a respected one.”

Ichigo looks down at his knee, rubs his thumb over the stiff fabric of his jeans. “Yeah. Yeah. I guess I knew that already.”

“Your father keeps you close by playing a buffoon. But he has always held roles of power and prestige – first as a captain, now as a doctor. I don’t intend to tell you how to see him, merely how I see him.”

Ichigo looks up. Urahara’s taking a drag from his pipe, the end flaring bright red. “Thanks,” he says.

“Will you talk to him?”

“Sooner or later,” says Ichigo, and lets his leg slip off the bench. He stretches, then rises. “Thanks, Urahara-san,” he says again.

The shop keeper gives a nod of his head. “Anytime.”

***

The eleventh line, erased twice and rewritten so that the characters are hard to read, says A stupid pointless useless never-to-happen teenage crush.

11: HEART

Dad is out of town for some medical conference in Nagano, leaving Ichigo in charge of the house. Karin’s at a sleepover, so he and Yuzu stay up late watching some dumb baking show Yuzu’s obsessed with.

Afterwards, when it’s past midnight, she decides she wants to try making one of the desserts she saw, a thick chocolate syrup glaze over cream puffs. They already have cream puffs from a shopping splurge earlier in the week, so Ichigo sits at the dining room table while she assembles the ingredients for chocolate syrup and uses their ancient egg beater to mix them together.

What Ichigo doesn’t notice because he spends approximately .001% of his time performing cooking activities, and what Yuzu doesn’t notice because it’s hours past her bedtime, is that somehow in storage the electrical cord for the beater got nicked. And, when she leans over the sink to wash something out, it sparks like blue lightning and she goes stiff, then drops. The lights in the house short out, and Ichigo is left in darkness.

“Yuzu? YUZU?” By memory alone he dashes across to the kitchen, finds her limp form on the floor and feels for a pulse. Her heart’s still beating by the rhythm is wrong, uneven. Ichigo scoops her up in his arms and, without second thought, dashes out of the house and down the street.

He has no idea what time it is when he arrives at Urahara’s shop, knows only that the neighbourhood is dark and silent, even the late-night restaurants closed. He hammers on the door frantically, his whole body shaking. Finally a light comes on, and the sliding door is pulled open.

It’s Urahara, dressed in a loosely-tied yukata that reveals far too much of his strong chest, his hair mussed like a bird’s nest, his eyes sleepy. They sharpen alertly as he takes in Ichigo, though.

“Help her,” says Ichigo – demands Ichigo – holding out the limp girl in his arms.

“This way,” says Urahara, turning his back on him and hurrying into the shop. Ichigo follows.

They cut through the tiny shouten and into the house behind. Urahara brings him to the room that had been Ichigo’s during their ten days of training, and Ichigo lays Yuzu down on the floor. Her face is drawn, her breathing shallow.

“She was electrocuted,” he says. Urahara picks up her hands and turns them palm-up, revealing blackened skin. Ichigo swallows thickly.

Then Urahara is reaching out, his long, elegant hands hovering above her. A soft green light appears, warm with the wash of his reiatsu, the strength of his soul. It’s calming and strangely personal, as if a part of him that Ichigo has never seen before is suddenly on display. His face, unhidden by the hat, is painted by the gentle light – the sweeping curve of his cheeks, the sharp line of his eyes, the clean-cut and smooth line of his lips. Ichigo is suddenly captivated by this man, by the clarity of his control and the beauty of his face.

He swallows and looks down to Yuzu. The tenseness on her face is slowly draining, her muscles relaxing. “There was some damage to her heart,” Urahara says, his voice tight with concentration, and Ichigo feels his own heart constrict in his chest. “That’s being repaired now. The burns, I can’t fully heal tonight.”

“Is – will she be okay?”

Urahara looks up, his grey eyes tinted green by the glow of his reiatsu, his loose hair shifting to partially obscure them. “She will be,” he says. “In an hour, the danger will have passed.”

Ichigo sits back shakily. “Thanks,” he says. “Thanks.”

“I do wonder why you came all the way across town to me,” muses Urahara, his eyes glancing back down to Yuzu. “Why not contact your own father? Isshin could easily have taken care of this.”

Ichigo blinks. The question is one he hadn’t even considered – he had acted purely on instinct. “I guess… I guess I’m used to coming to you for help,” he says slowly, feeling his way. “You always seem to know what to do. And I know you can heal.”

Urahara’s gaze is thoughtful. “I see. I had no intention of taking on such a role.”

“No – I imagine you’d much rather lurk in the background and pop up when it suits you.” Ichigo manages a slight sliver of humour, and the shop keeper smiles.

“Much more my style,” he agrees. “But this… I don’t mind it. If I can be of assistance to you, that’s something you’ve earned, Kurosaki-san.”

Ichigo’s heart speeds, tripping ahead, and he looks away. He doesn’t know what to do with this new, sudden burst of heat, of interest, of awkwardness. So he tries to ignore it. “Yeah, well. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

***

After the smudge on the paper from the previous line, Ichigo has written: A stupid toy that I kept out of pity for your lameness and for no other reason, okay?

12: BIRTHDAY

Ichigo’s seventeenth birthday is celebrated with family and friends, with cake and snacks and candles and a myriad of gifts ranging from the practical – Ishida, a study book – to the impractical – Dad, a basketball in the hopes that his poor son will finally find a popular achievement at school – to the frankly bizarre – Inoue, a home-made recipe book.

It’s not strange at all that Urahara doesn’t show for this event. For one thing, no one invited him. For another, Ichigo is perfectly aware that the shop keeper enjoys being the one to control his movements, when and where he chooses to make an appearance.

He is definitely not disappointed that Urahara doesn’t come. 100%, cross his heart and hope to be reincarnated as Don Kanonji’s apprentice.

They stay up late celebrating, and it’s past eleven when Ichigo goes up to his room to get ready for bed. Although he won’t come of age for another three years, this is really his last year as a kid. Next year he’ll be in university, living alone, managing his food and money and courses. He looks at his gifts, all of them appreciated if not useful, and smiles.

Across the room, someone knocks on the window. Ichigo spins around and sees Urahara Kisuke squatting outside, standing in mid air.

Ichigo leans across his bed and opens the window, and the shop keeper steps in and lets gravity reassert itself, dropping onto the bed and from there stepping onto the floor.

“A little late for a social call, isn’t it?” says Ichigo, excited despite himself. He knows Urahara doesn’t see him as anything other than a kid – a powerful, helpful kid, but a kid all the same. But still, he feels a low thrum of thrill at the man’s sudden appearance. No one ever said love was logical.

“A little late, certainly. But I didn’t want to interrupt the festivities.”

Ichigo looks at him. “You could’ve. You’d be welcome. Everyone knows you.”

“Maa, Kurosaki-san. They know me as an eccentric scientist, and as a man who causes trouble as often as he solves it.”

“They know you as a friend,” replies Ichigo. “At least, I do.”

Urahara smiles, and reaches into his sleeve. He pulls out something roughly palm-sized, wrapped in tissue paper. “As I said, I didn’t want to interrupt. But I thought I should wish you happy birthday.”

Ichigo flushes, and feels a reflexive surge of embarrassment at his intrigue. “That’s – thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“Surely the hero of Soul Society and Karakura deserves it,” says Urahara, as Ichigo takes the gift. It’s quite light, insubstantial.

“Is that how you see me?” asks Ichigo, looking at him rather than the present.

Urahara’s grin is thin, sly. “Mm, caught out again. I certainly acknowledge those titles. But for myself… yes – I think I prefer the title of friend. You’re welcome to go ahead and open it,” he adds.

So Ichigo rips open the tissue paper to reveal a small palm-sized stuffed mascot shaped like some kind of disfigured rabbit that Ichigo vaguely recognizes. “This…” he says.

“Chappy, the most popular of the Soul Society mascots and – I might add – the most difficult to get a hold of! A worthy gift for a worthy man,” adds Urahara.

Ichigo gives him a flat look. “You got me a stuffed rabbit? Do I look like a ten-year-old girl?”

“Kurosaki-san, this is the pride and joy of Soul Society! The wish of every Shinigami, boy or girl! Truly, you can feel your life fulfilled now, and at only age seventeen. Isn’t that marvellous?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Ichigo, putting the weird rabbit down on the back of his desk. “Thanks a bunch. Feel free to let yourself out.”

Urahara, after some more flowery praise of his gift, departs. Ichigo closes the window after him, rolling his eyes, and goes to get changed for bed.

The rabbit, he glares at. But somehow, he never gets around to throwing it out.

***

Next comes a hastily written line, Soul Society.

13: SEIREITEI

“Wait for us,” Ichigo tells Urahara, aware of the crushing threat of Yhwach as he marches across Soul Society, of the fact that what remains of that world may be destroyed at any moment. Up to and including Urahara. “Do whatever it takes to resist. Even if things get tough. I know you can. I’ll be there as soon as I can – but it won’t be right away.”

He’s seen it time and time again, seen Urahara surprise him, overwhelm him with hidden abilities and strengths. He’ll just have to do the same again this time. Ichigo’s counting on it.

Urahara smiles, the sound of it evident in his voice. “But of course, Kurosaki-san. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Later, when Ichigo finally shows up, Urahara and Soul Society are still in one piece. The former captain is waiting for him, eyes bright and eager.

He was as good as his word.

***

Thirteen reads simply: Mom’s safety – Mom’s future

14: MASAKI

Time is precious. They’re losing this war, Yhwach’s army pressing each and every one of them as he drives to destroy every aspect of Soul Society. Ichigo learns about Mom’s history as a Quincy, the loss of her powers, and her rescue by Dad.

Dad and Urahara Kisuke, who made it all possible.

He has only seconds in the rush to react to the latest threat, he and his friends about to be sent to the Soul King’s Palace. But he can’t let this go, can’t be sent to what very well may be his death, without saying something.

He pulls Urahara aside, Chad and Inoue letting the two of them fall back, his hand on the shop keeper’s shoulder. “I wanted to say – I know. About Mom. About what you did to save her. And to be honest, I’m kind of mad you never said anything. But more than that, I’m grateful. You stepped in and saved her when you didn’t have any reason to. Just like you keep stepping in and saving me. So thanks.”

Urahara raises his eyebrows, his hat tilting upwards. “I’m surprised, Kurosaki-san. I thought you would chew me out.”

“In the past, I would’ve. But we don’t have time for regrets now. All we have time for is finding a way to help each other. To save each other. I’m counting on you, Urahara-san.”

Urahara smiles, sharp as sunlight. “Don’t worry, Kurosaki-san. I won’t let you down.”

***

There’s only one more item on the list, one final line. It reads: All our lives My life.

15: ICHIGO

He doesn’t know.

Doesn’t know that Urahara’s gone to fight one of the Schutzstaffel, Yhwach’s strongest guards.

Not until it’s all over, the dust settling on the torn remains of Seireitei, the world of the dead red with blood from this ruinous war. Yhwach defeated, his minions struck down and destroyed.

Ichigo’s in the Fourth, where Inoue is helping to heal survivors and he and Ishida and Chad are resting, when a runner comes in from the Twelfth. He has something familiar in his hand. A green and white hat, torn and stained.

Ichigo’s heart turns to start pounding what feels like an iron nail into his chest. “That…”

The Shinigami comes over and hands it to him. It smells of dust, and blood. And, beneath that, of pipe tobacco and mosquito coil. Ichigo stares down at it and turns it over in his hands. Inside, a piece of paper has been tucked into the band. He pulls it out with dumb fingers, his mind several seconds behind.

It’s a very short note, written in a hasty but old-fashioned hand.

To Kurosaki-san,

I think you’ll be upset, and for that I apologize. But if all plays out correctly, the world will be safe.

You will be safe.

Keep walking forward – that’s your path.

Urahara Kisuke <3

He reads it once, stares down at the characters.

He has no chance to read it a second time – tears have already blinded him.

***

Ichigo doesn’t know what to do with this list. He leaves it on his desk at home and every time he comes into his room feeling adrift and empty it’s there, catching his eye. He takes it in his hands intending to rip it to shreds, but he can’t.

Everyone’s walking on eggshells around him, even Dad restraining from smothering him with physical affection. Voices in the house are hushed, visits with his friends quiet.

So many are dead. So, so many. More names than he knows, more bodies than are recovered, more sacrifices than can be recognized. But only one hangs over him day by day, hour by hour.

He goes by the shouten, the door shut and the lights off, and his eyes start to tear up.

He goes to the park, sits under the shelter, and tastes bile in his throat.

He sits on his bed, staring at the rabbit on his desk, and feels only emptiness.

***

It’s later. Days later, Soul Society regaining its momentum, vacancies in the Gotei 13 being filled and buildings being repaired. In the human world, Ichigo and his friends go back to school, although none of them are very focused on their lessons.

At night Ichigo eats his meal quietly, absently listening to Yuzu and Karin make forced, facile chatter while Dad interjects with over-emotional orders. He finishes early and heads up to his room, throws himself down on his bed and stares up at the ceiling.

From over to the side, there’s a knock on the window.

Ichigo’s heart leaps into his throat. His neck is suddenly stiff, hard as granite, and he has to work to force the muscles to turn so that he can see… can see…

Urahara Kisuke squatting outside, standing on thin air.

For a moment the world blacks out, is nothing but the pounding of his heartbeat in his skull, his vision dark and red and dull.

Then Urahara is pulling the window open. “You okay, Kurosaki-san? You kind of look like you saw a ghost.”

“You… you fucker,” snarls Ichigo. The emptiness in his brain is a vacuum that his emotions struggle to fill, and anger wins out. No, rage, hot and molten and scorching. “How dare you show up here after five fucking days. How dare you just come marching right up with a smile. How dare you convince me you were fucking dead?!”

Urahara steps neatly through the window, and his smile is small, uncertain. “Maa, it wasn’t exactly intentional. I guess you found my letter. I was taken back to Hueco Mundo by Nell and Grimmjow. Only just got back.”

Ichigo’s on his feet now, his body full of fire. “You – you – I mourned you. I sat here and wrote up a fucking list of all the fucking things you’ve fucking given me. Everything I owe you, everything you’ve done for me.” He snatches it off the desk and shoves it at Urahara’s chest, hammers it against him like a stake. Urahara reaches up absently and catches it. Ichigo swallows and pulls away. Quick as his anger came it’s cooling, like magma under volcanic rain, hardening and cracking. He takes a breath, hearing it catch in his throat like a cough. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry,” says Urahara, and he sounds like he means it. “I did intend to come back. Truly. Circumstances got a little beyond my control, briefly. But now, here I am. Let me make it up to you.” He looks down at the list Ichigo shoved at him, mouth turning slightly upwards. “If you enjoy gifts so much, how about another? A companion for Chappy, perhaps? Or a nice scroll for your room? I have excellent calligraphy skills, if I do say so myself.”

“Ichigo,” says Ichigo, suddenly, his face red.

“Hm?”

“Call me Ichigo. That’s enough.”

Urahara tilts his head to the side, considering it. Then nods. “Alright. Ichigo-san. Would you like this back?” he proffers the piece of paper. Ichigo, embarrassed beyond all measure now, looks away.

“Nah. Don’t need it. You can shred it, or whatever.”

“I think I’ll select, ‘or whatever’,” says Urahara, and tucks the piece of paper away in his sleeve. “I’ll see you later, Ku – Ichigo-san?”

Ichigo nods. “Yeah. Yeah – you will. And Urahara-san?”

Urahara raises his eyebrows.

“Thanks. For coming back.”

“Anytime.”

TO BE CONCLUDED

Chapter Text

“It’s dumb, I know,” says Ichigo, sitting on the roof of the Thirteenth, his legs dangling over the edge. Rukia is sitting beside him, her small body sprawled with the usual casualness she affects only around Ichigo.

“Probably,” she agrees. “Tell me more.”

“Jerk,” he says, without heat. “It’s just… as the years go by, I realise more and more how much he’s done for me. And every time, it catches in my chest like a goddamn disease. I feel like I’m wasting away here, like a freaking consumptive, and it’s all Urahara’s fault.”

“Most things are. You could tell him. That worked with Renji.”

“It worked with Renji because he’s a blockhead who hadn’t figured it out for himself. Urahara definitely knows. Are you kidding? He knows the square root of the diameter of the sun. He definitely knows I’ve got a stupid teenage crush on him.”

“You’re not going to be a teenager for much longer. You’re already two years into your studies.”

“Yeah, and he’s two hundred years into his. It’ll never work.”

Rukia leans back, her hands splayed behind her, palms pressed to the smooth porcelain shingles. “I certainly wouldn’t want to suggest that I have any clue what that greedy shop keeper is thinking,” says Rukia. “But you need to understand – age and time work differently for Shinigami. Children are children, although often for a much longer period in Soul Society. But once a person reaches maturity, age largely ceases to matter. If we were to apply concepts like you do of age gaps, the limitations on romantic relationships would be ruinous to us. Whatever his feelings towards you specifically, I doubt Urahara will take issue with the age difference between you. Besides, your power and maturity are extensively proven.”

“Well, thanks for that,” says Ichigo doubtfully. “But I still think it’s weird. And I mean… all we have in common is the fact that we keep coming together to save the world. He lives in his weird-ass house and does bizarre scientific experiments, and I go to university.”

“To study medicine,” points out Rukia. “It’s not such a divergence. Some of his thinking may be beyond you, but much of it won’t be. Understand: I’m not encouraging this. I think he’s a sly, whiny, sarcastic weasel – but I admit we owe him much. And he does have a nice face,” she adds, with a suggestive smile.

“Shut up,” says Ichigo.

“Oho, you’ve noticed that, have you?”

“Not another word.” He stands up and jumps off the roof.

“He has a nice bum too,” shouts Rukia, after him.

***

Ichigo graduates from his undergrad pre-med program near the top of his class with grades that wow his sisters and make his father teary-eyed.

To be honest, after an entire school career of working his ass off for good grades to keep the faculty off his back, it mostly just seemed like falling into an old habit to continue on through university. Dad frequently offered to tutor him on difficult concepts, which Ichigo reliably refused.

Sometimes, though, he did ask Urahara for his advice.

And now he crosses the stage and hears his father hollering from the audience, and smiles as he receives his diploma knowing that all he’s done is sign himself up for another four years of university – med school, this time.

They go out to an expensive sushi restaurant for dinner and Dad gets stupidly drunk and maudlin about empty nests and the three of them have to drag him back to their car, which Ichigo drives home. Karin and Yuzu, almost done high school now, take it between them to give Ichigo a break and put Dad to bed.

So he ends up in his old room where he’ll be staying until his first semester of med school starts, his dorm room already cleared out. The old room seems pretty much the same – the closet Rukia had slept in, his narrow single bed, Chappy the rabbit sitting on his desk.

He swallows, looking at it, then opens his window. Silently, he steps outside and slips away into the cold spring night.

The lights at the shouten are off, but the house behind it is lit up. Ichigo goes around to the back door and is greeted by Ururu, tall and thin and lovely, her long hair now in a single plait. “Ichigo-san,” she says, smiling broadly. “Come in. Tenchou will be glad to see you.”

He smiles back. “Thanks, Ururu-chan.”

She takes him upstairs to where, just like old times, Urahara is sitting on the balcony looking out at the dark sky. There’s a touch of frost in the air and the stars are cut glass, bright and twinkling.

“Fuck, it’s cold out here,” says Ichigo, coming out onto the balcony and closing the door behind him. He slips his hands into his pockets and leans back against the building wall. It feels familiar but different, this house somehow smaller now, and Urahara less distant as he sits and smokes his pipe.

“Ichigo-san. Congratulations. Truly, it’s an achievement to be proud of.”

“I’m still less than halfway there,” says Ichigo, shrugging.

Urahara turns, his face the same as always in the mellow light, his skin smooth and his eyes sharp. “I did take the liberty of getting you something,” he says, and reaches under his seat to pick up a long box with a ridiculous bow wrapped around it.

“This had better not be Chappy’s matching pal,” says Ichigo, taking the box even as his skin tingles, chest warming uncomfortably beneath his coat. He undoes the ribbon and opens it – inside lies a stethoscope. “This is… weirdly practical,” he says.

“I thought something useful would be best. This, you’ll use every day.”

And think of you, thinks Ichigo, aware that his cheeks are dangerously warm. “Thanks. That’s – it’s a kind thought, Urahara-san.”

“Kisuke,” says Urahara calmly, taking a puff of his pipe. “After all this time, don’t you think you should take that step?”

“I…” he swallows, fingers tight around the stethoscope’s smooth box. “I’d like that. But you know, Kisuke-san… I don’t want to bother you,” he says, lamely, hating his sudden timidness, his inability to say what he means.

Kisuke tilts his head to the side, smiling. “You aren’t. You never have. I enjoy your company, Ichigo-san. You told me a long time ago that I didn’t need to be lonely for Soul Society, because you were here.”

Ichigo does flush, now. “That was childish,” he says. “Of course you’d be lonely – and of course I’m not enough to stop it.”

Kisuke’s lips are full, shimmering, smooth in the moonlight. “No,” he agrees. “But you make a difference. More of a difference than you know. Your presence makes this world more interesting than it was without you. That’s a gift you’ve given me. One of many, for all that I don’t tally them.”

“Then… then that’s good,” stammers Ichigo. “I’m glad I’m good for something. I mean – I’m good for plenty, obviously. But – to you.”

Kisuke leans back. “You are,” he agrees easily. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Ichigo smiles, wider than he wants to. “I’m glad I got to talk to you. It’s been a while. I’ve been busy and I guess you probably have been too. We should do this more often.”

“You know where I live,” says Kisuke. “My door’s always open.”

Ichigo nods, holding the stethoscope box tight. “Then I’ll see you again. Soon.”

“I look forward to it.”

Smiling, Ichigo lets himself out. It’s nothing but an occasional chat between friends, colleagues, war buddies. But the warmth of Kisuke’s regard keeps him warm and buoyed all the way home.

***

“I understand Kuchiki-san and Abarai-san are together,” says Kisuke a few weeks later. Ichigo, true to his word, came over for late-night drinks. He’s old enough for umeshu now but doesn’t care for the sweet taste, so he sips a Sapporo beer while Kisuke drinks his plum wine.

“That? That’s old news.”

“It’s new to the Soul Society gossip threads, though,” says Kisuke, leaning back in his chair. They’re outside on the balcony like usual, Ichigo wrapped up in a jacket, Kisuke in just his jinbei and haori. He must run hot, or else be using his reiatsu to keep himself warm somehow. Ichigo has a brief vision of pressing his hand to the shop keeper’s chest, seeing just how warm his naked skin is for himself, and forcibly blinks that thought away.

“What, like Line? You’re following that trash?”

“Maa, Ichigo-san. How else am I to keep apprised of the ins and outs of my former society?”

“I don’t know, by reading the paper like everyone else? I know there is one.”

“I would much rather read the Shinigami Women’s Circular,” says Kisuke, with a lewd smile that makes Ichigo’s heart speed. “More important to know who is dating whom than whatever propaganda Central 46 is pumping out.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, Renji and Rukia have been an item for a couple years now. They’re getting married soon, so whoever you’re getting your gossip from you’d better find a new source.”

“I also hear,” continues Kisuke, ignoring this criticism, “That Inoue and Arisawa are making a go of it.”

Ichigo nods. This is much newer, and untested. “Yeah. I think… I think it might be hard, given where we’re at as a society. But I really hope they can make it work. They deserve each other.”

Kisuke gives him a curious look. “Are you inclined against believing same-sex couples can work in this day and age?”

“No! No – I just meant… they’ve always been friends, and I’m not sure which of them pushed for this new step. If they really felt it, or if they’re just trying it out. Not that either of those things is wrong! But given the prejudice around here, I wouldn’t want to get into a relationship with a guy just to try it.”

“Oh? But would you if you felt committed?”

Ichigo swallows and looks down at his beer. “Of course I would. Love… you love who you love. That’s the way it works. If I loved someone, and they loved me, I wouldn’t let anyone stop us.”

“Brave words.”

“And you?” Ichigo glances at him without raising his head, his look side-long. Kisuke is sipping his wine, the line of his exposed throat long, supple. Lovely in the moonlight.

“I suspect you’ll believe me when I say, I don’t pay any mind at all to what society thinks of me. I walk my own path – and if it meant I had one I cared for walking that path with me, I wouldn’t turn away whether they were a man or a woman.”

Ichigo smiles. “Yeah. I can believe that,” he says. “And you know sometimes I think it’s kinda nuts. But in this? I think you’re absolutely right.”

Kisuke raises his glass. “Kampai.”

***

“I was thinking,” says Ichigo. Today they’re not at Kisuke’s, but out visiting a flea sale in the local stadium, Kisuke with an eye to bargains – whatever that means. Each vendor has set up on a tarp in neat rows on the stadium floor, the space wide and strangely echoing. They wander past racks of old clothes, dusty electronics, even some furniture, Kisuke occasionally leaning in to prod at something. So far he’s bought a craft cactus made out of recycled sweater material, a hair dryer, and a crooked lamp. Ichigo is carrying them.

“Eminently sensible,” cuts in Kisuke.

“I don’t have to be your cart horse,” points out Ichigo, with a glare that carries no heat. He continues, “Like I said – I’ve been thinking. About some of your work on the mod souls. Not the AI aspect, which obviously is impossibly problematic, but the fact that different versions were designed to boost different physical aspects. Speed, strength, endurance, and so on. We’re looking at augmentation to natural muscle fibre in one of my classes, and I started thinking about how that might be done in combination with some of your learnings from the mod souls. Or even how artificial muscle – either for transplantation, or prosthetics – could be developed.”

“An interesting point,” says Kisuke, his tone thoughtful as he leans over to look at a Fuurinkazan scroll before shaking his head and continuing on. “Certainly the mod souls were made to work in combination with gigai, subtly altering their physical abilities which in the normal order of things would be too difficult for an untrained Shinigami to control. The specifics of the augmentation wouldn’t be applicable, but the principles might be.”

“We see so much muscle deterioration, particularly in patients who are bedbound for any length of time. If there were a way to boost muscle strength, that could have amazing opportunities to help with recovery.”

Kisuke glances at him, smiling. “You think like I did, once.”

Ichigo blinks. “…But?” he says, sensing it.

“But that’s not the way the people in charge of deploying such technology think. They think of super soldiers, of pro athletes, of monetization and weaponization. And now, sadly, so do I.”

Ichigo looks around him at the fair full of predominantly seniors selling useless used crap, looks down at the things he’s carrying. This is the last place he would think to find a mad scientist, or even a sane one. “I’ve never seen you act for the benefit of something morally dubious,” he says.

Kisuke’s smile is sad. “No. But the things I’ve done have been used for that purpose, because I failed to anticipate their uses. You know that. So I caution you: dreams are well and good, but take care to think of the consequences. You show a lot of promise, Ichigo-san. Some day you may have to make uncomfortable choices.”

“Well,” says Ichigo, feeling awkward now. “At least I have you to teach me about them – good and bad.”

Kisuke blinks. “I suppose you do,” he says. And then, beaming brightly, “Oh would you look at that!”

Ichigo turns and groans as Kisuke skips over to covet a cast-iron frying pan.

***

Sometimes, rarely, Kisuke visits him on campus. Ichigo has the sense that the former head of SDRI is almost as interested in the teaching and medical facilities as he is in seeing Ichigo during these visits. Inevitably his timing is perfect, showing up just as Ichigo finishes a lab or a class or a round, carrying sometimes a packed lunch or bottles of cold tea or a bag of mikans.

Ichigo is not unaware that here, in his own environment, gossip is starting to buzz about the handsome blond man who shows up to take Kurosaki Ichigo out for lunches. It’s not like that, Kisuke just curious about modern medical teachings, but he kind of likes the gossip. Appreciates the idea that he could be seducing this ridiculous, foolish, genius man.

It doesn’t exactly hurt that Kisuke shows up in a 60s Mercedes roadster, deep navy with chrome trim. A truly shocking vehicle for the man, who Ichigo has always pictured in a boxy kei car – a Kia, maybe. Where this thirst trap came from is hard to know, although it’s entirely possible that Kisuke purchased it when it was new. As if he recognizes that appearing in his usual clothes would cause more commentary than Ichigo could handle, he wears tight jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, which sets heat pooling low in Ichigo’s stomach.

“Your classmates are fun,” he says one summer afternoon in second year, while sitting on an outdoor patio overlooking the campus courtyard. The patio is dotted with large cedars in pots, and here and there small groups of students are planted, many trying to watch him without being noticed.

“They’re just waiting for something gossip-worthy to happen,” grouses Ichigo, drinking the tea Kisuke brought. He’s long since stopped eating packaged food from the shouten, but the drinks are usually safe.

“Oh? Such as?”

Ichigo shrugs, glaring across to a table of girls who look away and titter. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, distracted. “You leaning across and kissing me, probably.”

“Ah.”

Ichigo shoots him a glare. “Don’t say ‘ah’ like you don’t know they’re all talking about you. You come out here to scope out modern technology, but you have no problem letting them all believe what they want about your motives.”

Kisuke leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Aren’t you? You’d love to see the inside of one of the PET scans, or the hospital’s containment level 3 facility.”

“Certainly. I find your new world immensely interesting. But no less interesting than you, Ichigo-san. I could come out here on my own any day of the week and take away a year’s worth of knowledge.”

Ichigo looks at him, unconvinced. “Yeah. You could. I don’t mind being an excuse – really. I just… you don’t need to put one over on the rest of the student body, okay?”

Kisuke raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps I have no intention of putting anything over. Perhaps what you see is solely me – wanting to spend time with you.”

Ichigo colours, angry now at being strung along. “Yeah – perhaps. Why don’t you say what you mean?” he shakes his head. In the nine years he’s known Kisuke, the man’s always favoured obscurity, and he’s just not interested in it. Not now. “You know what – forget it. I’ll see you later.”

He stands, and then stops. Kisuke’s grabbed his wrist, is holding him in a warm, firm grip. “Don’t get hasty,” he says, voice calm. The same calm he’s always possessed – in the face of danger, and death, and disaster. Ichigo turns and feels his mask of indifference cracking. He steps back, close, too close, and leans in, voice harsh.

“Let’s stop pretending, okay? You know how I feel. You must – you’re the most observant person I’ve ever known. And I know that I’m nothing but a boy to you – loud-mouthed and brash and hot-headed. I’m happy to be your friend if there’s no prospect of anything else, but don’t condescend to pretend that I’m something to you. That… I can’t live with that.”

Kisuke reaches out and snaps his fingers. Around them, there’s a sudden silence. Ichigo looks around to see the other students on the patio slumped in their seats, suddenly dozing. “You –”

“I would prefer to have this conversation in private,” says Kisuke, his voice sharp, now. “Ichigo-san, I think you’re labouring under a misapprehension. Namely, that because I’ve known you from a boy, I view you as one. That I can’t, in fact, view you as anything else. But you vouched just now for my observational skills, and they tell me exactly what you are. A grown man, living his own life, making his own way in the world with the force of his intelligence and personality. A man who has saved two worlds, and is now working to take up a career that will allow him to keep saving lives. A man who is brave, and loyal, and intensely driven. And, not very least, a man who once told me he would keep me company while I didn’t have Soul Society to go back to.

“I have Soul Society to go back to, now. I would be welcomed back with open arms – you must be aware of that. I stay because living here gives me autonomy, and because I have interested myself in this world. But mostly, I stay because you’re here. Without my ever intending it, you’ve become my anchor, Ichigo-san. And whether you are my friend, or my colleague, or my lover, I want to keep you in my life.”

Ichigo stares. Kisuke releases his wrist, taking a step back. “I realise I may have been unclear in my motives, and for that I apologize. But believe me when I say – I care.”

“I – I –” he tries to swallow and almost chokes, his throat too tight. “I see,” he grits out.

Kisuke raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“And I’ve been in love with you for years, you irritating, insufferable, duplicitous, impossible –” instead of finishing, he leans in and kisses Kisuke, right there on the centre of the patio. Kisuke, utterly unsurprised, accepts the embrace.

They break apart panting, Ichigo red-faced. “Now look what you’ve done,” he says, irritated and over the moon at the same time. His mouth keeps twisting towards a stupid smile, and he’s not strong enough to repress it.

Kisuke gives him an innocent, who, me? look. “Brought together two loving partners?” he asks. “Given you the gift of my love?”

Ichigo sighs. “Yes, okay, fine,” he says. And then, looking around, “now wake them up!”

“Mm, in a minute,” murmurs Kisuke, and leans in for a second, deeper kiss.

***

Two years later, Ichigo graduates from medical school. In the audience this time, in addition to Dad and his sisters, is Urahara Kisuke.

Later that night, the two of them sit out on the balcony of Kisuke’s house, bundled up again in heavy coats. “Mm, I did have a small gift,” says Kisuke, reaching into his pocket.

“You didn’t have to. I already have everything that I want,” says Ichigo, for once drinking umeshu. The sweet taste is starting to grow on him.

“Nonsense,” says Kisuke, and produces a box. A ring box. Ichigo catches his breath as Kisuke opens it, showing a plain silver ring. “I think this is just about the only thing I haven’t given you,” he says, softly, as Ichigo stares at the wedding band in the moonlight. “As always, it’s yours to accept or reject.”

Ichigo reaches out and takes it. “Of course I accept,” he says, voice thick. “Of course I do.” And then, looking at Kisuke. “But only if I get to give you one too.”

Kisuke smiles. “Deal.”

END