Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time they speak of it, is when the loss is still young, merely at the conception and the prospect of victory is not less plausible than the inevitable demise. 

It comes up as a nonsensical that borders on a joke of some kind; a fickle thought which simply arrives and departs between one heartbeat and another. 

"Time travel? Is that another human pop–culture reference?" Urahara asks absentmindedly, not looking up as he meticulously writes down the calculations on his notebook. 

They are alone in his lab, strangely enough. 

With his chin perched on his left hand, Ichigo nods in assent, grunting out, “...you could say that, yeah. Anyway, what I wanted to say is that the shape of Byakuya’s Senkaimon just reminded me of how they make the, like, portals or time machine shit look in the movies or comics, that's all."

Urahara halts his scribbling, peering at him from underneath the edge of his hat, indulging amusement twinkling in his gray eyes. "I see."

Ichigo only scoffs in affront and the waters of conversation’s topic swiftly begin flowing in an entirely varying direction, leaving it to be utterly forgotten. 

That's it, for a while. 

Few days later, Orihime is kidnapped into the depths of Hueco Mundo and he rushes to her rescue with his heart on the blade. 

This is when it all begins to rot away; the moment the clock starts ticking. 

☆☆☆☆☆

It's not entirely hopeless, at first, when what they think the final battle with Aizen is, begins. 

They seem to be rather on par, both forces equal in their strength and desperation, Aizen's hougyoku or not. 

Either side suffers casualties, earns both victories and conquests, and hurts and joys, as it is natural for wars and battles of all kinds. They heal their injuries and bury the fallen. 

Then the world dies with the sunrise. 

They lose the Captain-Commander quite early on. The mark of the sixth month of the war hits and this scorching, ceaseless flame of his soul extinguishes as the dawn breaks. 

It's a quick end, utterly unfitting of a man of his calibre; how he has always carried himself with this larger–life–itself presence, yielding to the whims of none. Two blinks, maybe two and a half and all that Yamamoto Shigekuni was is gone with the next gust of wind, leaving one to wonder if perhaps he wasn't just a figment of imagination after all. 

This occurrence puts a permanent strain on their morale, though they make do as there is really no other choice. 

Kyouraku is decent as a successor. He has both the authority and charisma that is necessary if one wants to lead people, and his might is not to be questioned either. 

Yet, he cannot fill up the space he was not made for, the shape of him rather different to that of his predecessor. He is lax where Yamamoto was stern and that just appears to baffle quite a few. 

Kyouraku still manages to gather their loyalty and trust and lives into his steady hands and he guides them with the resolve of a better man Ichigo will ever hope to be. 

And they are faring rather well for a while after that, determined not to allow this break their resolve, the core of their spirits. 

Things take a drastic, nearly catastrophic turn for the worst when it becomes clear that creating a key to Soul King’s palace is not at all possible, god–like powers notwithstanding. 

It angers him, awakens the deepest and most primal of desires and instincts alike as the absurdity of tremendous insanity takes over the throne of Aizen's mind. He settles for the next best thing then that might just satiate his unquenchable need of destruction and change and regality. 

He strives for utmost cruelty, the most pure form of this viciousness. Deus ex machina strikes and nearly half of them fall, unmoving and with a scream dead on their lips, in what must have been much less than a heartbeat. 

Karakura turns into the picturesque landscape of rubble, gore and despair all at once with only a small wave of Aizen's hand. 

The Sun itself, dies that day too. 

This is what it means to battle a God. 

☆☆☆☆☆

In a rare moment of clarity among the suffocating clouds of excruciating fury, Ichigo wonders if it's odd, to feel gratitude that it was Tousen who brought them to their end. 

That he granted them the mercy of making it quick, although doing so solely in the name of his self–proclaimed justice. 

That Tousen did it so soon into the machinations of war. That they did not get to see the undeniably odious, monstrous creature Ichigo became while relentlessly hunting after the survival of all he holds dear. 

The problem with love is, that Yuzu and Karin would still see him as their beloved older brother. They would not begrudge him, forever compassionate in their understanding just like he used to be. They would not even be disappointed and isn't that the most terrible of all? 

Because shame and self–deprecation are there but they would both take a single look at him and forgive him for it all even though he does not deserve it. 

He killed Tousen, baptising what little was left of his childish innocence in the blood of a man who had no qualms about devouring lives of harmless, defenseless children, daring to name the act righteous. 

Vengeance, as it turns out, is a delicacy Ichigo has not anticipated it to be. Maybe he was not only born for this war but for the skin of a monstrosity as well. 

Maybe, all people are meant to forever be famished wolves in sheep's clothing. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Teenage days appear so distant now. 

Ichigo longs for those times more than he has courage to admit; times when fear and hurt and grief were only words that he simply knew definitions of, not a set in stone daily routine that he consistently completed every yesterday and tomorrow. 

He yearns for moments where he still understood what it means to laugh blithely or to even smile without an omnipresent shear surrounding his lips. 

Where the slumber did not play the game of evasiveness with him, where Morpheus was still mellow and allowed him to sleep without all those screams ringing in his ears so vibrantly. 

Where the most pressing of his worries was comprehending the nuances and treasures hidden in between the syllables of Shakespeare's pen and avoiding an incoming assault from his sorry–excuse–of–a–father. 

Trivialities; Ichigo misses them so terribly. 

Now, it is all a blur of attack–kill–protect–avenge–mourn–defeat–survive, a neverending cycle of pain, continuously given and received, swapping recipients back and forth. 

Weeks melt into each other, conversations and feelings tangling into an unsolvable mess and so the days and minutes become indistinguishable, especially now with the sun gone. 

He has not visited his mother's grave in a long time, he thinks. Or perhaps he did just the day before, it's impossible to tell. 

(Maybe, the time has stopped and he has not aged a day over fifteen. 

Maybe, the time is rushing and he is thirty, going on forty.)

The sole, unquestionable precarity is that he is drowning, drowning, drowning, drowning in the unhalting rain, every droplet cutting into his skin. 

Neither Zangetsu nor Ossan make a comment or a remark about it. 

Maybe they too, have already died, strangled on unforgiving waves of water. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Chad is the first to go, only a year after the war has truly started, his corpse mutilated nigh beyond recognition. 

Ichigo had to hold back the urge to retch more than once as he carried what little of him was left with trembling, yet still careful hands to the small grave he dug up in the hard ground to allow the other at least this last one honour. 

It is another nail in his coffin of self–inadequacy, an indisputable proof of deficiency. 

It does not matter how much he scrubs his hands clean, and then red and pulsing and even to the point of bleeding profusely, he can wash neither the scent nor the sight of Chad's blood from his palms. A fitting punishment, for all that he has failed to be. 

Ishida follows soon after him, the nerves in his fingers numb, hackneyed by the constant of fight–fight–survive. It goes from non–stop ache to a complete paralysis where even the slight bend is a herculean task, not to mention drawing and shooting an arrow. 

So he takes his life before it can be stolen from him, a picture of tranquility hanging from the lonely, half–dead tree near their base. 

Orihime is the last one, murdered by the only flaw she had — her love for him.  

She was exhausted, they all were, battered up, clothes torn, barely at the shores of consciousness but they had to run if they wanted to survive. And they were so close too, their designated meeting point perfectly reachable. 

Her reiatsu was too low for the shields to rise and so she did the next best thing her instincts led her to — she threw herself to intercept an upcoming blow to his back and before Ichigo could fully registered what was happening he already had an armful of Orihime and everything in his sight was red, red, red, red, red—

She lifted up her delicate hand and cradled his cheek with the most tender of smiles. A solitary tear slips down her porcelain skin as she says, “Please live, Kurosaki–kun,” like he might be the good that still can be — or perhaps already is — the greatest. 

It is a promise they were both aware he would not be able to keep, not even if he gave his damndest to try. He simply cannot help his nature that commands him to throw away his everything for what he put on a pedestal. 

“I will,” he swore anyway, his quivering palm covering hers. “Just don't leave,” not you too he didn't add, though perhaps he should have screamed it at the top of his lungs for the divinity to hear it loud and clear. Maybe then, it would have concluded differently. 

Why do you keep taking them away from me? Why let me love with all that I am when you were just going to take it away all along? he inculpates the sky, but the sky remains silent, unmoved by all the harsh imputations and woeful pain he throws at it. 

It is not within its right to acknowledge nor interfere. 

Ichigo ponders if it is simply the penalty for committing matricide. It is a hefty sin, after all. 

It must be, otherwise it would mean that Ichigo was born to endure heartache only. 

Wouldn't that be just so cruel? 

☆☆☆☆☆

Weeks pass in a bleak haze after that. 

Then, the last thread connecting him to the core of his humanity perishes as well. His frail, human shell gives up on him, overwhelmed with overabundance of his spiritual energy and weight of bereavement. Ichigo feels the slow decay of it so horribly vividly and then how it rejects his soul. 

And so his body is gone, and only the overwhelming coldness and his tattered soul are left. He is but an open wound that oozes of bitter contrite. 

Fatum’s joyous laughter is jingling in his ears softly, mocking and taunting. 

Ichigo will never be anything more again than this; a tragedy. 

☆☆☆☆☆

His newly acquired status of one of the other side seems to serve as an acceptable excuse for Kyouraku to put a heavy, forsaken captain’s haori into his scarred, bloodied hands. 

Ichigo concedes, in a spur of what was a definite case of lunacy. 

Terrible, awful, witless mistake it is, that he undertook this crushing duty, this oppressive obligation. He could not prevent the deaths of his loved ones, what in the seven hells made him think himself apt for grasping even more fragile beings into his digits? 

Desperation is devastating when you have nothing to bargain with and everything to lose and Ichigo has never been much of a materialist to begin with. 

He tries, he breaks his bones and tears himself apart, pushing to the far margins of what is feasible. 

But ultimately it is all just meaningless. 

Because they slip through his fingers the way grains of sand do and all Ichigo can do is helplessly watch them lose their slippery hold on life and be so, so, so afraid, because he is just not enough. 

Like wildflowers are spread on a field in the middle of the woods in spring, the bodies cover the muddied lot under Ichigo's feet in its entirety. 

Do not forget us, the windchimes carry the choir of their voices but how could he ever, when their words have already carved themselves into the facture of his very being, the core of his soul. 

He will bear them until his last exhale. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Kisuke is dying.

On the tenth anniversary of the beginning of their end, Kisuke set out on a patrol along with some lower ranked Shinigami — not that ranks matter all that much as Tanatos has always bestowed his children with love evenly —  to gather necessary Intel. A simple reconnaissance mission, nothing more, nothing less.

Of course it wasn't, they never are. 

Hundreds of Aizen's goons were waiting for their arrival, bloodthirst thrumming in their veins. And while yes, they were all more than capable of holding their own, even the strongest steel is bound to break into shards when facing the onslaught from cannons. 

Kisuke puts his all into ensuring that they will not be left to rot without a casket. But he is only one man and regardless of how truly good of a fighter he is, he could not keep them all safe from the gruesome end in fear, not even at the price of his own life. 

They put a see–through hole in his body, half of his intestines turning to dust almost immediately. 

By a miracle, he does not die, though Ichigo thinks that it might be another one of Fatum’s cruel jokes. 

Because Benihime's powers are mighty, one of a kind, but they are not sufficient to restore what has been damaged so severely. After all, it is impossible to bring something into being from less than nothing as the universe’s law, the equivalent exchange demands it. 

So Kisuke is dying, withering away every single blink of his continued existence and there is not a single thing to be done about it. Atom by atom, particle by particle, he turns into reishi in front of their own eyes and all that they can do is watch with perhaps an eerie sort of fascination. 

Oddly enough, where Yoruichi’s reiatsu burns in abhorrently lethal wrath, Kisuke appears rather at peace with his predicament, taking it with grace and nigh immediate acceptance, in spite of the coughs that rattle deafeningly in his chest. 

It is almost as if he is content with this turnout and with how he wears remorse like the latest fashion’s trend scarf, Ichigo supposes that it might even be veritable. 

The clock begins its final countdown. 

☆☆☆☆☆

The losses only remain on piling up at rapid pace with no breath of a respite in between one death and another, sparing none. The noble and the plebeian, the living and the dead — they disappear behind the dark veil, guided blind by the affectionate hand of Death herself. 

Sometimes, they do not even get to retrieve the corpses to perform a proper interment with either how scarce what the remnants of them are or how it is a choice between one's demise. 

Ichigo sits at the edge of the world, his feet dangling frivolously right above the void below and he wonders if it would not be more sensible to just give in and let it engulf him in its arms. 

What are they even fighting for at this point? 

It seems to be an inseparable thought, the one that he cannot and he's uncertain if he even actually wants to get rid of. 

Until one day, that is. 

“I have been… working on something,” Kisuke professes during one of their daily meetings regarding strategies, next steps and whatnot. 

Kyouraku stares at him curiously. “Go on. Do not keep us guessing.”

“It might be a fool's errand but upon recalling one of the conversations I had with Kurosaki–san a few years ago I think there could be a solution to our, ah, megalomaniac predicament.”

“Which is?” Shinji prods impatiently. “Are ya allergic to gettin’ to ta point or what?”

“Getting rid of the problem by getting out the problematic factor from the root. And to answer your question, Hirako–san, that is certainly a possibility.”

Kyouraku lifts his hand up to stop whatever was going to come out of Shinji's mouth in retort as it would surely lead to yet another verbal match. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

The answer dawns on him faster than Kisuke can reply. 

“Time travel,” Ichigo blurts out, incredulous giggle threatening to spill from his mouth, startling a few of the present. “You want to travel to the past?”

Kisuke gives him a pleased look as the rest stares in apprehension. “Precisely!”

It's what incites them all to go off on a tangent, one hypothesis following another, arguments and shouts thrown in exchange. All the whats and hows mingling with each other in a disordered kind of chaos. 

“It would have to be someone who could be on par with Aizen's combat but at the same time it would be best if it were someone who does not exist back then yet as we do not know what, if two versions of the same person were to meet, could do to the time–space continuum—” Kisuke suddenly stops mid–rant as something must click in that big head of his and Ichigo knows what it is. 

It's only confirmed when Kisuke gazes at him the way the miscreants beg for absolution of sins when faced with the gallows. 

He looks like he wants, no, like he needs to apologise. 

A useless sentiment, among many others. Especially when he is so fed up with apologies. 

"I'll do it," Ichigo proclaims with his head high. It's an oath worthy of a king and it causes everyone at the table to turn their stares to him as if he were the bright North Star on the night firmament. 

Ichigo doesn't know what pushes him to utter the words. 

No, that's a lie. He knows exactly what it is. 

Hope is a tricky thing, prone to acting on a fancy and steering its believers to utmost devastation of suffering. 

Hope has never saved them before. It's quite doubtful that will change now. 

(He himself has never saved them before, not really. 

Yet, even a broken pot can still hold water, he reckons.)

Ichigo takes in their keen, vulnerable expressions, momentarily liberated from the enslaving shackles of despair and it feels like he has no other choice but to let the world lean on his shoulder once more.

They are reaching for faith so eagerly but the leap is too large so Ichigo settles on being their bridge if only to alleviate the misery. 

They were all meant to be more than what they became, destined for things far greater and happier, he has always known that. 

“I'll do it,” he repeats just to hear himself say it, quiet but with no less brave conviction than previously. 

“Thank you, Kurosaki–san,” Kisuke replies softly, bowing slightly, the others soon falling behind him in their gratitude. “If we are all in agreement then let's get to planning, shall we?”

That is what they focus on after the words and promises are made. They plan, speaking of all that has been and everything that will not be. Every detail, shortcoming, victory and what–if — they think of them all, outlining each and every single one in chronological order. 

They teach him how to speak in tongues of subtleties and doublespeak, how to dress in deception and all that is hidden, to wear them like they are a pair of gloves made for his hands only. 

Ichigo has to strip himself bare of the sincerity that made him who he is. 

That's alright. 

Only scraps of him are left after all. 

(Later, Ichigo will wonder, although quite briefly, if there is a possibility, reality, universe, a world, where he does not relinquish all that he is not and will not ever be so that people he cherishes get to breathe tomorrow's air.

Where he doesn't rip his skin apart, break up the soils of his flesh and roots of his tendons and veins just to dig up the silver of his bones so that he can exchange it for another dawn for them.

Foolish thought, that.

Love will always be his ruin.)  

☆☆☆☆☆

Rukia seeks him out after the meeting, on the eve of the last of their days. 

"Are you mentally unwell?" she inquires, barging into his quarters without so much as by–your–leave because when have either of them cared about such trivialities as etiquette? 

“Hello to you too, Rukia. How am I today? Great! How nice of you to ask!” Ichigo snarks with faux–cheer from where he is seated at his desk, mountains of paperwork threatening to topple over because apparently fighting for your life daily does not make the responsibility of filling up documentation disappear. 

Ludicrous, truly. 

Rukia scoffs, irritated. “Who cares about that, I'm asking you if you are deranged?”

"Duh? And your drawings still suck, what is it? ‘State the obvious’ day?" he responds, trying to incorporate levity into the heaviness of the situation. Judging by the flat stare it earns him, Rukia does not find it amusing in the slightest. Sighing, Ichigo grumbles out gruffly, “It's fine, Rukia. If it means that we can finally end this whole shit–show… Well, someone has to do it.”

"You were never meant to be a part of this war," Rukia insists, firm in defiance rooted in human fragility, dark eyes glistening with determination and so much worry that might just as well be fear. 

Ichigo squashes the urge to quibble. 

How can that at all be veritable when this was how their hands shaped him to become; they bred him as a weapon, means to an end; a paintbrush crafted with a sole purpose of painting a masterpiece. 

How can that be true, when the vanquishing weight of burdens of all three realms fits so perfectly into the mould of my hands?

“Is anyone ever?” is what he responds instead, because how could he ever begin to outline the turmoils of his mind without contouring them with the blunt edges of accusations. 

Rukie presses her lips into a thin line, resigned. “No. But it wasn't even supposed to be your war and now you…!” she trails off with a trembling breath. She tightens the unrelenting grip on her sword, knuckles bleach–white from the exertion. “We killed you. We killed you and you still insist on carrying the world on your shoulders like a madman— so are you insane?”

Ichigo has no good answer to that. 

So he goes for the next best thing and tugs Rukia into his arms, a comfort that no one dares to indulge in too often. She doesn't fight it. She doesn't return it either and Ichigo wonders if it's her mercy to him or herself. 

"Idiot, don't you see?" Rukia whispers into his sternum and it echoes amid the fortifications inside his soul like the loudest of cries. She lifts up her head to pin her eyes to his. "You will be giving us everything."

He pulls away from her and gathers her palms into his, smoothing over the rough, scarred texture of her skin with his thumbs — a testament of it being forced to pass through far too many limits. The pinky finger missing on her sword–wielding hand, sight of it never failing at making him queasy. 

Guilt rises to his throat, making itself known by digging its ruthless claws into his vocal cords. The repugnance towards his own weaknesses follows soon after. 

Because despite his prowess in distribution of the easy forgiveness and kindness, Ichigo has never been particularly skilled in expanding that towards himself as well; his very own Achilles' heel that feels a bit akin to a divinity's whim, an ironic paradox.

The hard lines engraved into his features soften. He bestows a gentle look at her and counters simply, "Isn't this what friends do?" 

Rukia snorts, an ugly and humorless sound. “Ridiculous. Who even does that shit like that for a friend?”

He feels the corners of his mouth quirk up in a rueful smile. “Insane idiots, apparently.”

“Right, of course… find me again?” she asks and Ichigo despises how it borders on a weeping plea just so. Rukia wasn't made for shedding those tears. 

“Always, Shinigami,” he promises, allowing a slight teasing tilt to it. 

“It's Kuchiki Rukia, moron,” she retorts with an eyeroll but it holds no bite, only mild fondness. 

Then she offers him a gift as she returns the slight upturn of her lips, sorrowful but so overflowed with hope — the most exceptional rarity of them all, ever since Renji took an integral part of her with his parting. 

She's so alive and so beautiful it hurts. 

Ichigo wants to die by her side. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Rukia dies, merely two days after their conversation. 

They find her carcass among the canvas of gore and bits and pieces of what must have been Shinigami troops — people, subordinates, friends, family, lovers, children, they are always children — once upon a time. 

She's kneeling, head turned upwards in the direction of the sky as if in a prayer, her own zanpakuto driven into her lithe body being the only anchor keeping her posture upright. 

It is as though her executioner thought allowing Rukia to keep the remnants of her dignity would be too much of a leniency on her deathbed, opting to strip her of it in the final act of humiliation.

Ichigo returns to their hideout, nauseous from how his stomach is full of anguish and wistfulness and just pain. 

(Senbonzakura’s petals turn the darkest, most pitiful shade of black after Byakuya buries his sister with his bare hands, all while begging, begging, begging for her forgiveness, uncaring of the scrapes on his knees from the hard stones beneath his limbs.

Pride is worthless, modesty is a virtue.

 But then again, all that is noble crumbles when faced with unjust greed of warfare.)

Ichigo urges Kisuke to work faster. 

☆☆☆☆☆

In the end, it takes only a few more weeks for it to be finished. During this time however, Aizen finds out about their intents and schemes and like all the great men intoxicated on their hubris, he settles upon leading the siege to claim his final victory over the Shinigami whose frailty he oh so despises. 

The siege begins when Kisuke has three days left, three and a half at most. 

It starts when Ichigo's time is up. 

He stands in front of the Senkaimon but it looks different than usual, a bit more unpredictable and sinister in the sensations it emits. 

He gulps through the bile in his throat and looks at Kisuke who comes up from behind him. “If I go now, if I— when I change everything, then you all and this—”

“It has all already happened, Kurosaki–san,” Kisuke chastises, voice hoarse from coughing, but it's gentle, not even approaching the harsh and sharp territory. “We lost. We are falling to his hands as we speak. But you can change what will happen and the moment you do that, the timelines are going to split. You can save and build what could have been.”

He can feel, as if in slow–motion, how their small lights of life are dissipating, one by one, leaving this stifling darkness behind them. 

“What if I fail?” Ichigo inquires inexorably. 

“I'm positive you won't,” Kisuke counters, a little bit peremptorily but it holds so much faith that it is nearly unbearable. “You have always had this knack for defying the most improbable outcomes. This time it's no different.”

“But—”

“You can change it all,” Kisuke commands with so much certainty that it might just break him, the sole belief he grants him like Ichigo is better than what he is forever doomed to be. 

"This is not a farewell yet," Ichigo croaks out, tone somewhat brash. The moment this sentence leaves his mouth, he feels the saccharine flavour of a lie flood his taste buds. 

It's foolish, he knows, to refuse the luck he has in his palms. So very few have a chance to say their goodbyes. The war made it a privilege, an extravagant luxury of sorts with how rarely one has the opportunity to speak the parting words. 

And Ichigo can say them at least to someone, has a person to speak them to and enough time too. He has two minutes, maybe three. 

But how can he do that, when all that keeps on playing in his head on repeat is I want to stay, I want to stay, I want to stay. 

(Could I please stay with you a little longer? he almost asks, petulant in the way children wish for their mother's warmth after a nightmare but it seems a little too close to could I just die with you here? and he did swear to change their future.)

It's a pointless belief. 

Kisuke doesn't call him out on it. After all he too, is a grieving man. "Is it not? When will it be then, Kurosaki-san?"

"The day you drop the honorific, Kisuke," Ichigo quips, a little bit challengingly, trying to bring out the recklessness of the days long gone, cold and forgotten in the abyss of his being. 

Kisuke is stunned for half a heartbeat, blinking at him and then he bursts out laughing. It's mirthless despite its vibrant brightness. 

"Are you suggesting I ought to change now? At the end of this line?"

Ichigo snorts. “You could make it your New Year's resolution," he grumbles out in response with a shrug, breath tight in his lungs. He pivots on his heel and closes the distance to the gaping hole of reiatsu in front of him, stopping only one step away. 

A tiptoe, really. 

Twisting his head to cast one last glance at what will never be again, he sings in a casual cheer, "Don't wait for me with dinner, I'm gonna be back late tonight!"

Kisuke catches his eye. "Ah, well, be careful!" he responds with equal buoyancy. Then, a smidge more quietly, he adds, "See you on the other side, Ichigo.”

Asshole, he doesn't get to call out as he makes the last move towards the unfamiliar. Trust Kisuke to not listen to his last wish and say his goodbyes anyway. 

The world fades away into white nothingness, and it embraces him with its eager arms, affectionate and tender, the way he thinks his mother must have used to do when he was a child. 

It tugs him somewhere far beyond his comprehension, wrapping him in comfort and tranquility that seem so completely foreign, a novelty in their own right. He lets it, too exhausted to fight it. 

And so, everyone he has dared to love is gone and only Kurosaki Ichigo is left. 

Chapter Text

The sight of the ceiling, dull, pearly–white and solid, is what first greets Ichigo when consciousness arises. 

A bleary, cautious blink. 

Another two do not cause the ceiling to dissipate into the familiarity of the gnarled vault of their base, which should be quite baffling, but Ichigo cannot for the life of him recall exactly why. 

Another blink, albeit slower this time. 

The sounds of voices and unidentified noises are what comes to him next, a tinge belatedly, all of them slightly muffled and indistinguishable, as if coming from behind a wall. 

Blink again. 

Reiatsu signatures, an overabundance of them, all of different flavours and stages of sweltering intensity, overlapping with one another hit his sensitive senses and he is so overwhelmed by them because when was the last time so much life surrounded him?

Half a blink. 

Ichigo's heart rate accelerates, adrenaline seeping into his veins not unlike a lethal poison. 

Alarms are blaring loudly in his mind and something nudges at him insistently, a primal, feral little instinct, commanding him to run, the way preys do when catching the barest of hints of a whiff of predators on their tail. 

Blindly, as if on a reflex, he scrambles up and reaches for his zanpakuto, only to feel the panic take over the steering wheel when he is unable to find it. 

Disoriented, he scans the room in search of it with frantic, unseeing eyes but the rhythmic thumping of blood in his ears is all he can focus on. 

Then, an approaching presence registers somewhere in the back of his head and the objective of finding his sword becomes secondary, nearly utterly forgotten for the sake of runrunrunnownownow—

So Ichigo does just that. 

With the last scraps of clear thinking he takes a note of a window on the wall opposite to the bed where he awakened. Ichigo closes the distance with a Shunpo even Yoruichi would be in awe of, not bothering with opening it but crashing through the brittle surface instead, not feeling the small, sharp stings of pain from the cuts that are now littering his body. 

Logic and rationality have entirely abandoned him, leaving only inborn urges to guide him away from the immediate danger. 

Ichigo jumps out, feet hitting the tiled ground almost painfully so, but he pays it no mind and proceeds with his escape. 

His ambiance appears to be familiar the way your favourite childhood swing at the nearby playground is; faraway, somewhat unreachable and yet capable of completely overflooding with all the sorrow of melancholia because you know exactly how the metal will creak when faced with carrying your weight once more. 

The answer to this puzzlement is right at the tips of fingers but Ichigo is too consumed by the greedy hands of amok to see it dangle in front of his eyes. 

He stumbles around like that, unsure where to run as the signs of probable peril are coming from every single direction he can take, making him terribly dizzy and since when does catching a breath feel like a Sisyphean sort of task? 

Ichigo halts his scurry for a heartbeat, settling on lurking in the conveniently shaded niche in the wall he has been standing next to that happened to be close by. 

A whoosh of air resonates above him merely a heartbeat and then a voice, full of nervous energy, curses loudly before it orders firmly, “I think I saw him run in that direction! Come on, we have to catch him before he somehow escapes from Seireitei!”

They are hunting you, something dark, not entirely human growls protectively at the pit of his soul and his bones go cold with terror, heart momentarily seized in his ribcage by its deathgrip. 

They will kill you. You have to run. 

They will kill you. 

You have to run. 

You have to run. 

Run. 

Run. 

Run. 

The very second he senses the threat pass farther enough, Ichigo throws himself in the opposite direction. 

Which turns out to not be the wisest of choices but it is not like there were many better ones to pick from. 

Later, when there will be time to process this whole fiasco with an unfogged head, Ichigo will think that it was a rather cliché occurrence, something taken right out of those lower quality movies Yuzu enjoyed watching so much. 

Ichigo halts himself barely a few strides away from what must be an illusion of sorts, created with the sole purpose of tugging on the strings of heartache rooted in the cracks of his ribcage. 

“Kaien? Ta hell happened ta yer hair? Kuukaku’s playin’ hairdresser on ya again?” an amused voice drawls lazily and it's so achingly bosom that—

Wait. 

“Oi, are ya alright? Ya ain't gonna hurl on my sandals, are ya?”

And Ichigo stops for a moment, raking his eyes over everything that is around him. In a flicker of clarity he manages to not only recognise he is in Seireitei, but also that it looks near identical to what it was during his first arrival here; a boy armed in naive bravery and determination a size too big for him that, in hindsight, may have just been plain stupidity fueled by teenage recklessness. 

Wrong, is what rattles in his mind like  a litany or mantra or none of those things, this is wrong. Because The Seireitei he saw for the last time was the shambles of lost dreams and lives and loves. Not this pristine, untouched marble flooring under his feet and blue sky over his head. 

It hits him then, all at once; how he felt them all wither away so vividly, how he was embraced oh so gently and thrown through the unforgiving tangles of time. 

How Kisuke said a farewell to him. 

It worked, Kisuke’s deranged idea worked and Ichigo has become another cog in the clock of halcyon days that he has only ever heard of before in the recounts that were far too hesitant or methodical in their form to be considered a classical sitting–around–campfire experience, always underlaced with either too much shame or nostalgia. 

His knees buckle under his weight and he chokes on the incredulous, hysterical laugh that threatens to bubble out of his chest. He wraps his arms around himself, the blunt edges of his fingernails digging into either fabric of his shihakusho or skin with too much force. 

There are panicked words and questions delivered his way — even cautious, tender touches a few heartbeats later — but none of them quite manage to reach him, too frail to cut through this haze. 

Because Kisuke’s craziness has paid off and now Ichigo has to live now in a universe where people he cherished might not love him, where all he craved was for him to end in a world they did. 

Darkness, warm and soft, his only certainty, pulls him into its loving arms only to envelope him like a blanket, temporarily soothing the despair. 

☆☆☆☆☆ 

Contrary to what could be a semi–popular belief — or more like a campaign single–handedly led by his darling sister, Kuukaku — Kaien is not a halfwit. Admittedly, he does have a tendency for slightly inane behaviors at times, he will give her that. 

However! 

One does not get classified as a prodigy just by belonging to one of the main four clans, after all. Neither does one make a lieutenant in merely a decade after joining the Shinigami corps — that just does not happen. 

So when he is first informed of an unidentified Shinigami Shiba clan member located at the barracks of the Fourth with various, unexplainable injuries, Kaien finds himself being more than just a tad bit sceptical.

(It wouldn't be a first for some nobility–thirsty freak to try claiming a relationship only for them to end up a fraud. 

Many such cases unfortunately occur.)

Kaien does not expect much when he arrives there, especially not to be told that he was found in the far outskirts of Rukongai, dressed in tattered Shinigami uniform, exhausted of his reiryoku and with far too many wounds to spare. That he was clutching an asauchi in his hands like a lifeline and was completely unaware of where and who he is, eyes quick with disorientation. 

Being put face to face with a kid who might just as well be his twin, with how paltry the differences in their appearance are, save for the shoulder–length, angrily bright hair is an equally bemusing experience. 

Even the delicate murmurs of his reiatsu that swim leisurely here and there somewhat protectively in the air around him, carry the undeniable traces of Shiba–certified wildness. 

Well, that should be sufficient enough to rule out any possible fraud accusations, he reckons. 

Kaien has always thought heart failures to be impossible to experience by a soul but his new cousin is apparently dead set on proving him wrong. 

Because the one moment he has decided to leave the room where he was resting, one unmonitored breath, his newly acquired family member has suddenly vanished, leaving only fragments of what once used to be a glass window behind him. 

Cue a wild chase after him through half of the Seireitei that ends up with finding him passed out at the feet of one confused Hirako–taichou, whose only reaction to the whole thing is Holy fuck, there is the two of you now? and wrangling a rushed promise out of Kaien to inform him about whether his cousin survived or not, clearly more out of nosiness rather than genuine care. 

This is certainly not the way he usually likes to go about his Mondays but hey, at least it's not boring, he supposes. 

When the other does finally wake up it's hours later and the small cuts from glass are neatly patched up, making him into a more–bandages–than–a–person sort of picture. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living dead, Sleeping Beauty,” Kaien says brightly with a slight tease at edge, because what kind of self–respecting Shiba doesn't appreciate some good humour? 

The other offers him an unimpressed stare once he sits up, blinking away the last traces of sleep. “You look like shit,” he adds, managing to earn a fatigued huff. 

“Thanks, I worked really hard on this look,” comes a somewhat snarky retort in a hoarse, a bit shaky voice and Kaien focuses on him again, taking note of all the details and aspects he has not registered before. 

The younger man is pale, almost eerily so, with various scars scattered around the uncovered planes of his skin. He is skinny and thin, not to a malnourished or dangerously starved degree, but definitely very, very hungry for quite some time.

The wry humour he has expressed only a moment ago doesn’t quite touch his eyes. Eyes, which while directed right at him, appear to be etched with a distracted type of distance, the one that speaks of something earth-shattering; an echo of loss. 

He looks like the scarce nothings that are the sole remnants of children when they go to war and that is—

“The hell are you staring at?”

Realising he has been rudely staring for an awkwardly long minute, Kaien clears his throat and presses on, “So, wanna tell me your name?”

“I don't know, are you gonna tell me yours?” he parrots back with a raised eyebrow and Kaien winces, because yeah, that is fair. “Who the fuck are you anyway?”

“Ah, right, sorry. The name’s Shiba Kaien,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck gawkily. “Yours?” 

The other warily scrutinises him for a short heartbeat, before mumbling out a small, “Ichigo.”

Oh. 

“First Protector, huh? Lovely name,” he remarks with a nod and Ichigo— well, he does not preen exactly, but there is something pleased in the delicate hum of reiatsu around him. 

Another tired huff and then, “Not that this isn't fun and all, but… what exactly is happening here?”

“I'm getting to know my new baby cousin.”

“Great, and how did we establish that?”

Kaien scoffs in affront, arms crossed over his chest. “I'm the head of the clan, Ichigo, and besides there is no way you are older than me—” And Ichigo pinches the bridge of his nose in a way that so vividly reminds him of Kuukaku it is nearly uncanny. 

Talk about being blood–related, huh. 

“No, I meant— how did we get to the point of us being cousins?”

Kaien gazes at him with incredulity, but then perhaps Ichigo has not seen a mirror in a while. 

Or ever. 

“I don't know how to break it to you but… I'm pretty sure we could pass as twins if we dyed your hair black,” he says as a matter–of–factly,” so there is no way we aren't related. My guess is we are cousins, once or twice removed, now the question is which uncle is the most likely to have a bastard child… Say, do you know your father's—” he trails off as Ichigo's face twists more and more into a picturesque grimace, like the idea of a family is somewhat causing him discomfort, “—name,” he finishes, guilt and regret flooding his senses. 

Kaien is just about to murmur an apology for his lack of sensitivity, but Ichigo beats him to it, “I don't… I can't—,” he starts but he keeps fumbling for the words and awkwardness aside, it is still a rather painful sight to watch. It seems as though there just simply isn't a language adequate enough to decipher all that Ichigo's scarred hands and soul have seen, not yet or not ever. 

“Hey, it's fine. We'll get there, don't stress it too much,” he says comfortingly and Ichigo only gives him a stiff nod in response. The lack of information makes things… a bit complicated, but not overly so. He knows what he needs, after all. 

It may be unfortunate at times, but Kaien’s heart has always been on the softer side. 

Silence befalls them after that, tense and with a dose of heaviness, staying there for a while, both of them engrossed in their own thoughts. 

Normally, Kaien would have no qualms about indoctrinating Ichigo into the insanity on wheels that is the Shiba clan, never the one to grapple with unnecessary semantics. But Ichigo's eyes whisper of eternal winter and Kaien cannot help but wonder when was the last time they sang of spring. 

Perhaps that's why he finds himself saying the gentle but sincere words instead, “Ichigo,” he approaches carefully, the way one would when coaxing out a startled animal, “We’re family, no doubt about that. But, ah, we’re also strangers? So, as far as familial relationships go and as much as I’d love to be a family to you, we all would, I won't force this on you.”

Ichigo gives him this bug eyed look that reeks of uncertainty and something like disbelief. “I'm not sure I still know how to be a family,” the boy murmurs back and Kaien thinks that his heart shatters just so in that moment. 

He can fix that, though. 

This is something he can repair and teach and change; Love. 

“Don't worry, us, Shiba, are the experts at that,” he assures with a smile that he hopes is warm and open and kind but without being cloying. “Let me show you?” he prompts, holding out his hand and it's a promise, or something that falls just close enough, at the very least. 

And when lightly trembling fingers meet his somewhere in the middle, an unspoken oath lodges itself between his heart and his blade. 

One day, I will find just the right way to bring you home, Ichigo, he swears to no one other but himself. 

☆☆☆☆☆ 

Coming to terms with this new reality is... not a tiny struggle, to say the least. 

Because yes, this is the exact outcome they have been aiming for when the idea first arose so by all means, Ichigo should not be that shaken by it. 

And yet... 

Look, it's not that he had any doubts regarding Kisuke’s abilities of pulling off the most improbable — Ichigo has long since learned to know better than that. But he would be insincere if he claimed that he fully believed himself to come out of this one fully intact.

But alas, here he is, approximately two centuries in the past and it sounds so absurd, so purely insane but this is the immutable truth. 

And because he has never been a coward, his clutch on courage unflinching even as he was broken into pieces again and again, Ichigo will push forward, as he has been repeatedly doing until now. Defiance is written into the fabric of his very being, he can neither deny or renounce that.

So he will adjust and adapt and melt himself into a shape that fits just right because flexibility is the one real key to survival, always has been. Only this time, the hands moulding the clay of his being are solely his own. He cannot count on guidance from the off–screen manipulations, condemning as they sometimes were. 

Things happen slowly and change can take extraordinary amounts of time. 

Neither empires nor thrones nor crowns are built in a day, not even in months or years. So Ichigo will chip away at Aizen's plots, schemes, grand objectives and ideals, bit by bit, until it crumbles the way houses of cards do, and only this hopeless devastation is left. 

Ichigo is not so full of himself as to believe he can change everything. No man can well and truly alter the very intricacies of destiny, but he will save them or at the very least, he can give them a chance. 

Just one, single chance.

Sometimes, that’s all it really takes in the end.

☆☆☆☆☆

The original plan of staying on the low and not drawing too much attention to himself is abandoned rather quickly when Ossan points out that his arrival has already caused quite a ruckus. 

Becoming a part of one of the main noble families in Seireitei is not exactly working in his favour either. 

(In that aspect at least, it is not. It does help him keep an eye on Kaien and prevent his death, which Kisuke emphasized the importance of but never exactly explained how it played out in the grand scheme of things, especially since it happened much later than the exile… though who is he to doubt Kisuke’s words?) 

It was already hard enough to fumble through the explanations to Kaien the specifics of how exactly he got a hold of an asauchi. 

But his abilities could cause a few problems down the line and he would rather not create any issues where it can be evaded. The Shibas are already kind enough by taking him in without conducting any more in depth interrogations and he is not about to jeopardize their reputation by careless mistakes. 

Noble status can only take you so far — even in a society centered around it as immensely as Soul Society is — before someone will actually start asking the inconvenient questions and both Onmitsukido and Central 46 adore using the most interesting, underhanded methods in gaining knowledge, after all. 

So, a year after his arrival in The Past, Ichigo announces to both Kuukaku and Kaien his desire to attend The Academy which they take with… varying reactions. Kaien especially takes it upon himself to become a personification of five stages of grief, with the extra addition of absolute pride and delight as a cherry on top. 

Kuukaku simply raises her eyebrow at him, the gesture dripping with skepticism and reluctance. She does relent at the promise of Ichigo coming back every once in a while to visit. 

The Academy turns out to be a rather underwhelming experience. Ichigo does not necessarily learn anything new, save for somehow improving his lacking skills at kidou to getting them to a point where they are mediocre, which he supposes is more than good enough for him. 

He excels at all the other subjects, passing through them like a breeze, which unfortunately earns him both tearful delight from Kaien and insults and shoves delivered his way from fellow students that stem from irritated jealousy and prejudice. 

Ichigo pays no mind to either. 

There are things that make for a pleasant surprise, though. 

None of his peers — or even teachers, for that matter — make for a challenging opponent, the overwhelming majority of them too wobbly and unsure of their feet on the ground. 

And yet, Ichigo finds enjoyment in it. 

He loves, with this wonderfully tearing, lurching ache, that he no longer has to kill those who cross his path in cold blood, that fighting can be — though shortlived as it is — a thrill again, because they still have time for mercy and simple relish. That, if he plays his cards right, it will not have to stop ever again. 

Another aspect of The Academy that Ichigo hoped he could use to his advantage is that it would be somewhat helpful at keeping his distance from both the Shibas and the phantoms of past–future–that–won't–be. 

Ichigo does not outrightly push them away, denying any prospects of possible bonds but neither does he try particularly hard for forming them. 

It seems... safer that way, to keep more than just a simple semblance of distance and always be those few steps away, never too far, never too close. 

It proves partially fruitless, seeing how Kaien (and most likely the majority of the Shibas) has a knack for being a persistent nuisance and how after the whole passing out fiasco Sh— Hirako decided to make himself a permanent menace in his life as well. And where he goes, Hiy— Sarugaki tags along rather often too and then she drags everyone else with her so—

So really, maybe it is just unavoidable. 

Maybe, that is okay too. 

It's not easy on his soul at first, breathing with them within his line of sight. Which is to be expected when the melody of their last gasps for air and how the warmth of their blood filled up the crevices in his skin, still haunt the darker corners of his nights like a plague. 

But it does get better. 

Slowly, day by day, conversation by conversation, the constriction around his lungs lessen and he feels lighter. 

Some days, Ichigo still catches himself turning around with a sharp quip prepared at the tip of his tongue to throw back at Sarugaki or Hirako or any of the others, but then his eyes meet theirs and his heart remembers that these are the things he should not know about any of them; it remembers that they are not his people who have always ridiculously believed in him, gruesomely getting reminded of it by how they still gaze at him sometimes like Ichigo is just a tiptoe away from being a stranger, pleasant companionship and bickering notwithstanding. 

They do resemble his, in the way that a stream is akin to a river or a gust of wind to a tornado. There are foundations, raw and bare, of the barren shells they became by the time Soul Society morphed into this graveyard of unfulfilled hopes, that Ichigo left behind. 

But they are not them and in the end, that is the only thing that makes this bearable or something that falls close enough. 

It terrifies him, to have them close; to let himself love them again. Because Love, at its core, is fear, a mantra of please don't let it be too late and all the pleas of don't leave me. 

It is the fright of heartache that inevitably comes when good things tear off their mask of sanguinity to reveal their true nature of heartbreak and desperation and longing.

The privilege of loving them is not affordable, not yet. The bestowment of their affection to him is not really permissible either. 

☆☆☆☆☆

The time of graduation arrives sooner than he expected it to. Well, sooner for him specifically, because despite his vocal protests, Ichigo is graduating early, after barely two years of attendance. 

That, consequently, means a plethora of extremely significant choices to make, starting with the very basic one — which division should he pick. 

The Thirteenth is an immediate no–go. Kaien’s mother hen tendencies were bad enough during his limited stay at the family compound. Ichigo can only imagine how much they would amplify if he were to actually join his squad—

Ugh, no, that is not happening. 

The Fourth is also out of the question, the same as the Second and Eleventh, for reasons that are more than obvious. 

Beyond that however… 

Ichigo has no further clue as to which division he ought to choose, momentarily wishing to have Kisuke’s brain because he would not have those struggles. 

He does ponder giving in to Hirako's uninterrupted pestering about joining the Fifth, considering how proximity to Aizen might be advantageous in the future for him but something nudges at him, telling him that it may not be the right decision. 

Thus Ichigo has been jokingly turning him down by saying that it counts as nepotism, Hirako. 

Which is how he finds himself in an unsolvable dilemma, the constant onslaught of inquiries approaching from left and right, up and down, diagonally— every single direction, really — doing nothing to soothe the gnawing of anxiety and paranoia. 

It stays that way until the Tournament, organized mainly as a showcase for the students of higher grades, especially those graduating; a chance to show off their skills in front of the captains and other ranked officers that may be attending. 

Ichigo obviously partakes, not so much as to show off, he has never been the type to indulge in boasting all that much, but Academy classes are not anywhere close to being ample at allowing him to use up his restless energy. 

To Ichigo's surprise, many captains and their lieutenants do actually make an appearance, quite a few of them being completely unfamiliar to him. Kaien is present too, standing right at Ukitake's side and waving wildly in his direction the moment he spots him. 

Ichigo, to his own bafflement, is rather thankful he did not make good on his promise of bringing a banner along with him to show his support. Utterly embarrassing vision, that. 

The whole thing is over almost as rapidly as it started and before he knows, Kaien is next to him rambling his ear off about how proud he is to have a such talented baby cousin and that Kuukaku had already prepared the feast and the booze so they are definitely celebrating later that night and—

“Call me your baby cousin again and I will shave off your eyebrows in your sleep.”

“What else am I supposed to call you then?”

“My name? Like normal people do?”

“Hirako–taichou calls you Ichi–chan, though.”

“Yeah, and I drew him a mustache with a sharpie when he blacked out after drinking with Kuukaku at the compound for that, don't you remember? You were literally giggling right next to me.”

“Oh, right… still, you are being far too mean to me.”

“Want me to follow Kuukaku’s example and dye your hair hot pink instead?”

Kaien stares at him in wide–eyed horror. “This is abuse!”

Ichigo is just about to bite out another response filled with dry humour when—

“Sorry to interrupt your… quarrel, but I wanted to say that it was quite a performance you put there, Shiba–san. You should consider joining my division, dear,” a pleasant, feminine voice says from behind him, only a mere introduction or greeting in sight to precede her words. 

Ichigo pivots on his heel slowly, away from Kaien and is met with a sight of an unknown woman with violet hair, donning a captain’s haori. 

“Oi, Kirio–san! Some of us have been tryin’ to convince him ta join theirs first! Get in line!” Hirako yells out after her — and Ichigo wonders belatedly when did he even get there — but the woman completely ignores him. 

Hikifune Kirio is someone Ichigo only vaguely recalls being mentioned in the passing, which could be most likely attributed to the fact that she was long gone by the time Aizen's experiments came to light. He doesn't know all that much about her, save for the fact that she was Kisuke’s predecessor—

Oh well. 

That might actually solve the problem. 

“Sorry, but I have no idea who you are,” is what Ichigo blurts out in response, with the typical bluntness of his, which somewhat puts the minor chaos surrounding him on pause. 

Kaien, who Ichigo has forgotten standing nearby due to his precious musings, squawks in indignation and begins to scold him in a whisper–yell. Hirako on the other hand, is leaning on an agitated Sarugaki while he's trying to catch breath through the wheezing chortles that keep tumbling out of his mouth. 

“Please forgive him, Hikifune–taichou, we found him in a dumpster, he's been raised by the wolves and we are still trying to teach him some proper manners—” 

(Ichigo resents that. His mother has taught him all about politeness and manners. 

That he doesn't make use of them often enough to meet society's standards is an entirely different story.)

Hikifune, who until that point was only staring at him blankly, far too stunned to respond, begins to chuckle blithely. She waves off Kaien’s stuttering apologies dismissively with a flick of her hand. 

“Ah, aren't you a funny one?” she remarks once her titter dies down, wiping off a one lone tear from the corner of her eye. “It's alright, Shiba–fukutaichou, it's my fault for assuming,” Hikifune says before shifting a bit to address Ichigo. “I'm the captain of the Twelfth Squad, Hikifune Kirio at your service,” she chirps with a wide, cheerful grin, her palm stretched out for him to shake and oh, there it is. 

This is the right choice or at least he hopes it is. 

Ichigo becomes the fourth officer of the Twelfth Division only a week after graduating from The Academy. 

☆☆☆☆☆

The first time Hikifune offers him the lieutenant's seat, Ichigo curtly refuses, calling the responsibility of it far too bothersome of a hassle for him to undertake and leaves, swinging the doors to her office shut a tinge too harshly behind him. 

Kaien laughs himself silly during one of the dinners at the clan compound — that thankfully only consist of him Kaien, Kuukaku and Ganju — when he catches wind of it, saying that if the resemblance appearance–wise wasn't enough to prove their blood relations, then this most certainly would. Kuukaku only shakes her head and calls them both morons and Ganju nods sagely in agreement, though probably mostly to appease her, Ichigo thinks as he notices the faint twitch of the corner of the other's lips. 

Ichigo hopes that will be the end of it, and it is, for a while. 

Then Hikifune spends a better part of the decade throwing the rank at him every other week and Ichigo keeps on tossing it back at her, like it's some sick imitation of the badminton game. Even Sarugaki gets on his case about it, berating him to finally accept the damn promotion, baldy. 

Neither he or Hikifune back down, both too stubborn to just relent. Somewhere along the way, it becomes more of a matter of principle — and something roughly similar to a habit and isn't that so strange? — rather than the actual politics of the division. 

Ichigo does eventually give in to what is clearly inevitable, though not without his somewhat trademark bad grace and an impolite grumble, which Sarugaki whacks him over the head for. 

Hikifune gazes at him then, an epitome of utmost shock painted on her face until her expression schools itself into something kinder, softer— grateful, he would say, but that makes no sense when compared to the bigger picture. 

They work well with each other but it is not that surprising, considering that his captain is one of the very few who does not seem to be too allergic to paperwork to fill it out not only correctly but on time as well. 

She complains about the load of it but so does Ichigo so he cannot really fault her for that. Turns out filling out documents is just as much aggravating during life–threatening circumstances as it is when done in the times of relative peace. 

(Li– Yadomaru makes it a point of sorts, to bemoan pitifully about how envious she is of him to have a captain that doesn't just laze around all day, every time Kaien chivvies him into going to drinks with other lieutenants. Which is not to say it happens frequently as Ichigo does his best to evade his cousin when he can. 

However, Ichigo too, is thankful for small mercies.)

Conveniently, Hikifune also does not bat an eye at his consistent escapades to far districts of Rukongai. At the beginning, there was this look on her face, like she wanted to stop him and ask, concern ebbed into her eyes, eventually transitioning into an occasional glance at him adorned by her lips pressed into a thin line and a frown on her forehead.

It becomes an open secret of some kind, where at one point most everyone — save for probably Kaien who remains astonishingly oblivious, for whatever reason — is mildly aware of it but they do not speak of it. 

There are only so many times one can come staggering through corridors of the barracks of their squad in the late nights and early mornings, battered up and stinking of gore, death and dirt before someone will make a correct assumption. 

It may not be much, but if it keeps Aizen's daring at bay, if it will make him more desperate, uncertain and prone to slippery mistakes or taking one step less while also allowing Ichigo to prevent unnecessary disappearances and deaths, to be of help to those who need, then it is good enough for him. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Ichigo does question her, one evening when they both stay at the barracks after hours to sort through documentation, about this unperturbed insistence of hers, too jittery with anxiety to let the nagging of whats and whys go completely.

Why choose me, why, why, why, why, why—

"Because you know duty and yet, you still care," Hikifune replies with a shrug as if it's simple like that, scribbling away on the documents in front of her; as though it is virtue, not a curse. 

Then she pauses, peering at him with those perceptive eyes and adds teasingly, "And Hiyori–chan is a bit too explosive in her anger.”

She smiles a little too smugly when Ichigo's poorly smothered snort of amusement reaches her ears. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Some fires are meant to burn, and no amount of prevention can stop them from occurring. 

The day Hirako makes Aizen his lieutenant, Ichigo finds him in the bar the other frequents and promptly throws himself onto the unoccupied stool next to him. He does not wait or beat around the bush. 

“Are you certain about this?” 

“What, sake? Yeah, been wantin’ ta put ungodly amounts of alcohol in myself for weeks, y’know?”

A scoff escapes him before he even has a chance to stop it. “You literally tried drinking Kyouraku–san under the table last weekend and then ended up debating the state of Seireitei’s politics with a damn chicken, which I still don't know where you even got from.”

Hirako throws back the rest of his liquor and makes a motion for the bartender to hand him another bottle. He has not even an ounce of decency to look abashed at the mention of his shenanigans. 

Sometimes Ichigo wonders if he has any shame left at all. 

“That chicken had some fucked up things ta say.”

“It was a chicken, what opinions could it possibly have?”

“See, that's what they want ya ta think but—”

Ichigo rubs his temples, feeling suddenly exhausted. “We are not having the conversation about chickens being secret sleeper agents again. And quit trying to distract me, you know very damn well this is not what I was asking about.”

“My, my, are ya worried about the little old me, Ichi–chan? Why, I'm honored.” 

When Ichigo does not rise to the bait, Hirako sighs tiredly. “He's a one shifty bullshitter and ‘s easier to keep an eye on him tha’ way,” he mutters, letting out an indignant huff after glancing at Ichigo for the first time that night. “Don't make that face, Ichigo. I'm a big boy, I can handle myself. This haori ain't just for show.”

Feeling the faint prickle of guilt at the back of his neck, Ichigo ducks his head. “I know you do, just… be careful?” And it's said with a bit too much vulnerability and desperation than he would have liked. 

“Finally ready to admit we are friends? Took ya long enough,” Hirako teases, lifting the newly opened bottle of sake to his lips. 

This, bantering and quick quips of wit, has always been easy with Sh— Hirako. He has this knack for goading reactions out of people, with this push and pull of atrocious phrases and humorous remarks. 

The selfish, terrible, awful, no–good greed in his chest rumbles in discontent each time he pulls away, but it must be done. Everything is too young and feeble still, too much is at stake for him to try any deeper attachments, regardless of how much he craves with a thirst of a starving man for what once was his, theirs. 

This time too, his need raises a sound of protest as Ichigo flattens his smile down by a notch and lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah right. I don't make friends with suicidal idiots, Hirako.”

Hypocrite, Zangetsu sing–songs tauntingly in the back of his mind. Ichigo orders him to kindly stuff it, which only makes the hollow cackle. 

“Meanie,” Hirako whines out with a petulant pout. 

Ichigo rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, and you suck,” he snarks back, which in hindsight may not have been the best choice of words. 

Hirako nods solemnly but there is a glint in his eye that speaks of mirth. “That I do. Why, ya interested?”

Ichigo cringes and feigns a shudder of disgust running down his spine. “Ew, no? I'm telling Kaien what you just said to me.”

“Wait no, Ichigo, please—”

☆☆☆☆☆

“Ah, Shiba–fukutaichou, may I please have a minute of your time?” rings out just as he is about to follow Hikifune and take his leave after a fortnightly captain meeting. 

Ichigo breathes through the vicious, but no less self–righteous, rage that rises like a living thing in his chest and strings each and every of his muscles taut; it's a part of him that Zangetsu has always especially favored, this more vindictive and less forgiving side of him. 

Coaching the tense lines of his face into a picture of tranquility, Ichigo turns to face Aizen with a smile of his own and says, “What can I help you with, Aizen–fukutaichou? And please just call me Ichigo, Shiba–fukutaichou is my cousin.”

Aizen eyes him a tinge bewildered but his friendly demeanor does not dim in the slightest. Pity. “Of course, Ichigo–san. I was simply wondering if… you wouldn't fancy a spar?”

Ichigo hums and tilts his head to the side. “I'm not that good of a fighter, Aizen–san. I'm afraid you may find my skills a bit… disappointing.”

Aizen's eyebrows furrow at his admission in clear disagreement. “Nonsense. You graduated from The Academy rather early and the rumors surrounding both your combat and tactical genius are—”

“Wildly exaggerated, I assure you. People just love to talk, unfortunately,” Ichigo cuts in wryly, his usual scowl set firmly in place. 

“Well, I'm certain there is something you could surprise me with,” the other insists, absentmindedly adjusting the pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. If Ichigo were any less attentive or attuned to the subtleties of Aizen's tells, he would have missed the condescending note in his voice, with how nearly untraceable it is. 

(It does make sense in a way though, that Aizen was capable of misleading most of everyone into thinking him harmless with this role–mode image he appropriated and his superiority complex hidden away providently. It is rather easy to overlook monsters when they wear the brightest of faces. 

It is as impressive as it is mildly terrifying. Ichigo loathes to admit either of those things.) 

Ichigo's teeth grind together and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up uncomfortably so. He wills his hands to stay still through the urge of being clenched into fists. 

But this is good. 

Being underestimated is the very result he has been seeking. 

So Ichigo will toss his head back and bark out a laugh instead, canines bared and eyes crinkling with a hint of this acrid shade of yellow in them, the sound saccharine like honey but equally poisonous if given a proper chance. 

“You make me out to be more interesting than I really am, Aizen–san. Truly, I'm an open book, there are no secrets to uncover here,” he will say and then before well and truly departing for the night, he will add with an aftertaste of finality a quiet, “Have a goodnight.”

Can we really not just beat his ugly mug into the next week? Zangetsu complains in his head the second the doors close behind him with a soft click and it's a sentiment Ichigo very much agrees with. 

☆☆☆☆☆

The movements he makes towards thwarting Aizen's ambitions are small but not without a certain amount of forethought; careful, as he tries to keep them as inconspicuous as it is physically achievable. It would do him no good to be discovered prematurely, after all. 

Weeks, months, years and then even decades go by like that, running through his fingers not unlike the torrents of a river, ruthlessly unstoppable. The vastness of his grief and remorse does not diminish, but it becomes quieter, more dormant — and consequently, manageable — and sometimes this can be equally sufficient. Ichigo still thinks about all those that he lost, never willing to make their tragedy forgotten but it does not rule over him or his life anymore. 

And because it is utterly inexorable, Hikifune's promotion to Royal Guards comes and it does so earlier than Ichigo would have liked it to happen. 

Ichigo has never quite known what's good for him so he visits Hikifune on the Eve of her final departure. 

“So, you've been promoted? Congrats, taichou,” he says in lieu of greeting from where he sits atop of one of the walls surrounding the small backyard by her quarters. 

Hikifune herself is seated on the deck and she preens a bit, gentle chuckle dancing on her lips as she inclines her head in gratitude. “Thank you, Ichigo–kun.”

Humming, Ichigo jumps off the wall and inches closer. “So, when are we getting rid of you?”

“Tomorrow.”

Ichigo does not bother to conceal his astonishment as he grumbles out, “Fast.”

“Is it? Feels like an eternity,” she jokes, stretching her arms above her head before patting the place on the deck next to her invitingly which Ichigo acquiesces to with a grunt. Only to suddenly register a pair of arms engulfing him, but it's too late so he ends up trapped with no route of escape. 

"Ichigo–kun," Hikifune chastises playfully when he tries to push her away anyway, his efforts proving futile as she only tightens her hold even further, "let the old woman have this."

Ichigo only heaves a faint sigh of quasi–annoyance but makes no moves to pull away again. He does not permit himself to melt into her either, regardless of the burning temptation of the warm comfort urging him to do so. 

It's better not to encourage this side of him. 

He has always had a hard time letting go of those he loved, after all. 

“I'm going to miss you, dear,” she whispers and it's affectionate, though a tinge rueful. Ichigo squeezes his eyes shut on the lone tear that demands to slip down his cheek. 

“...I'm gonna miss you too,” he mumbles out into her soft hair in a bout of unexpected sincerity. 

The vast majority of his heart will forever belong to all those he left behind in another lifetime, dead but never truly gone, but there are several smaller bits — many of them already claimed by the counterparts of his people, even though he tries to keep the illusion of it being untrue to no one other but himself — still available to take. It is really of no surprise that she too, has her own fragment. 

Slowly, Hikifune removes her embrace and out of a sudden Ichigo feels so utterly small and cold again. It takes nigh all of him to halt the desire to reach out for it once more, especially when he knows that Hikifune would not hesitate to grant him this comfort. 

She must know though, because only a moment later she cradles his face with her delicate hands. "You've grown so much Ichigo–kun. I'm proud of you,” she muses wistfully. There's a pause, a singular beat and then, “I can't imagine a better successor than you.”

“I'm sorry, what?” he squawks out incredulously, causing her palms to fall away at the action. He thinks he must have misheard her somehow because there is no way she just implied that—

“Oh, I took the pleasure of recommending you for the captain seat," she admits with a soft smile, shrugging it off with a casualness more suited to conversing about the weather than to a prospect of a new rank. 

Well, maybe there is a way.

“You may be a bit young but your accomplishments are plenty and you are one of the most skilled Shinigami I have ever met—” 

"I decline."

The woman blinks at him slowly. "Why?"

Ichigo shrugs, the gesture a bit more on the abrasive side. 

Hikifune puffs out her cheeks, arms crossed over her chest. “You know, many others would have jumped at the opportunity.”

"I'm barely fit to be a lieutenant. Captaincy is not for me," he bites out, tone honest yet with an underlying thread of bitterness of self–deprecation. “I haven't seen a sufficient amount of bloodshed for this masochism.”

Liar, Zangetsu whispers but it's faux–mockery, more caring than the hollow would have wanted him to recognize it is. 

Hikifune tuts, cocking her head to the side a bit. "Stupid boy, don't you know? The greatest of victories have always been in people and how you love them.”

“My love has only ever killed,” Ichigo demurs, though it seems a bit frail on his tongue. 

Hikifune's eyes narrow a bit and she protests soberly. “Your love has brought our people home more than once.”

“Taichou—”

“Ichigo–kun,” she swiftly cuts him off in a tone that suggests an incoming reprimand. 

Or simply a truth that he would rather not be told. 

“What?” 

Hikifune's stern look softens a shade, flickers into something that might be pitying or perhaps just simply understanding. 

It's warm and not unkind, is what is certain. 

“You need to learn that sometimes heartache cannot be avoided, that you may not be able to save everyone,” she says quietly, momentarily aging by a century with how her eyes fog up with contrite. “Sometimes, the best you can do for others is bring yourself back home to mourn. And that is okay, too.”

There is a story, a lesson taught by what could have only been an indescribable loss inwoven in the wisdom she shares. 

Ichigo does not think himself brave enough to prod and so he only nods in assent, having settled to take the words at face value for once. 

Hikifune eyes him in quiet contemplation from underneath her bangs and he feels a little bare, with how it appears that she can see all he tries so hard to keep hidden, the jagged scars and the ugly sins laid out openly for judgement to be passed. 

Only for her to snort, a helpless smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“No, that's not it,” she says, shaking her head and Ichigo blinks at her, confused. “The reason you refuse captaincy. Or at least it's not only that. You are… still waiting, aren't you?” she inquires, though it's less a question and more a statement, with how she phrased it to be leaning towards a rhetorical nature of things. 

“Yeah,” he responds anyway, though it is not even remotely close to adequate in conveying everything that could be said; all that he cannot let be heard. 

“Sometimes I wish you would just trust me, truly I—” she starts, with so much intensity but then she halts abruptly as if deeming it pointless. 

“Hikifune–san—”

“Ah, no, nevermind me, Ichigo–kun. It's too late for that anyway,” she says, waving him off. “They must be a special person, then,” she mutters after a beat, full of this neverending compassion that he so admires. “I hope that whoever you are waiting for, will know how to tell you what you are worth. Soul King knows I never succeeded.”

With ashes in his mouth and the sardonic tone of his voice, Ichigo counters, “I'm a weapon, Hikifune–san. That has not changed since we first met.”

Hikifune only shakes her head again as if she wants to grab his head between her hands again and yell at him about all the good he is worth; how he is so much more than this tainted garb of skin and bones. 

You are brilliant, the air around her nigh hollers at him and it's unbearable. 

She doesn't let any of those things fall from her lips.

It's impossible to decide if it is cruelty or kindness. 

Instead, she slaps him boisterously on the shoulder with an ounce too much of strength and exclaims, “Ah, enough of the wallowing. This is a special occasion and I will not spend the last evening with my favourite lieutenant on the sad things,” before she gets up and disappears behind the doors of her room to presumably rummage through her cupboards in search of liquor. 

“I'm your only lieutenant,” Ichigo deadpans drolly with an eyeroll as he massages his now sore shoulder, aware that she will hear it loud and clear despite not seeing it. “And I really don't think that meeting with your new squad members while hungover is the best idea.”

“Humour me and quit being a sourpuss for one night, would you?” Hikifune counters as she steps back onto the wooden panels of the deck, two bottles of sake in her hand. 

One night of respite won't kill ya, y’know, Zangetsu grumbles in the back of his mind just as Ichigo tries to come up with a plausible excuse as to why he absolutely cannot drink. And I'm fucking sick of the rain and this woman makes it stop sometimes. So either take the damn bottle or I will get behind the damn wheel and do it myself. 

Joy has always been far too fleeting of a feeling, for Ichigo. 

Which is how despite his scruples, Ichigo finds himself conceding with a soft, “Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you.”

That is how the rest of their night goes, spent on quiet conversations, cheerful reminiscences of slip–ups and embarrassments and all the everythings and nothings that speak of the sweetest hurts of nostalgia. 

But the night is not ceaseless and so the dawn inevitably breaks and Hikifune Kirio is gone, taking all the motherly affection and warmth with her and leaving only this timid yearning in his heart in her wake. 

Ichigo pushes it to be buried beneath all else that he cannot have and goes on about his day, the same he has done yesterday and will repeat tomorrow. 

Merely one week later, Urahara Kisuke becomes the new captain of The Twelfth division. 

Chapter Text

Kisuke did not sign up for this. 

Admittedly, it is not as if he had much of a choice in the matter, seeing as Yoruichi–san would not blink twice at his refusal to become a captain, the same way she did not hesitate to recommend him for the said vacant seat due to Hikifune Kirio’s promotion to the Royal Guards. 

(Anything to get you out, Yoruichi–san said the day she informed him of the recommendation with a haunted, grim resolve, teeth gritted and fists clenched.)

It is, however, nice to pretend that he still has at least some semblance of both dignity and freewill. 

Wishful thinking, that. 

Kisuke stands right in front of the gates to his new Division's compound, shifting from one leg to another not unlike a child on the verge of quite literally peeing their pants, nigh buzzing with the sheer nervous energy coursing through his veins. 

How come meeting his new subordinates is more nerve–wracking than other captains is a query that will probably forever remain unanswered. 

“A bit difficult to meet your new squad while standing outside, you know,” a voice says dryly to his right and only the years of rigorous training and around Yoruichi save him from startling like a spooked stray. 

Casting a glance to the side, Kisuke notices the same man he has seen earlier during the meeting. Shiba Kaien’s near identical twin watches him with moderately bleak interest, the curvature of his shoulders speaking of strength and confidence, though more as a fact rather than an aspect of self–glory. Near identical, because the slope of his nose is varying and his sunset warm hair is worn longer than that of his cousin. 

“Ah, well, yes,” Kisuke muses lamely, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward laugh. 

Truly, he did not sign up for this. 

His new lieutenant simply raises a scarred eyebrow at him which only appears to serve to darken his scowl even further, if that is at all feasible. Kisuke absentmindedly wonders if this expression of utmost annoyance is simply a default one or if he truly is that much irritated all the time. 

(He can quite sympathize with the latter.)

This is simply spectacular. 

Not only did he make a fool out of himself in front of his new second–in–command but has also managed to undeniably set him off, seeing as the other appears to be quite… pissed off, as Yoruichi–san would say. 

“Right… Um, since we haven't been exactly properly introduced during the captain meeting I guess we could start here so—” the man says, unfurling his arms from where they have been crossed over his chest until that point. “I'm Shiba Ichigo, lieutenant of the Twelfth. Pleased to make your acquaintance or whatever,” he grumbles out with not quite a bow but rather a polite incline of his head. 

It is definitely the least enthusiastic introduction Kisuke has ever experienced, which is actually not saying a whole lot if his past as Onmitsukidō's watchdog is taken into consideration. Not at all professional either, unless brusqueness is the new norm but still a more cordial one than what he usually finds himself on the receiving end of. 

With a stiff nod of his own he offers a mild, “Urahara Kisuke.”

Shiba—dono’s lips twitch in a quasi—smile. “I know,” he says wryly, a flicker of unexpected wistful softness flashing through his eyes that seems rather out of place in the current circumstances. 

But then Kisuke blinks and it's gone, leaving him to wonder if it wasn't just a figment of his imagination. 

Odd. 

“C’mon, I'll introduce you to the rest of the Division. Unlike the Eleventh, we do not bite here,” the man throws over his shoulder as he steps through the gates with a speckle of humour, apparently not bothered enough to check if Kisuke follows. 

His back is stupidly open to him that way too, and Kisuke can think of six different ways to take him down quietly. Seven, actually, though…

An instinct, an old killer’s instinct etched deeply into the fabric of his soul, tells Kisuke the other man would only be as easy of a target as he allows himself to be, his spiritual pressure a barely tangible, cool whisper or not. 

This interaction however, filled him with far too much of a fool's hope for things to work out remotely decently for him because, as it turns out, his new third seat is less than fond of him. Although he has no one other than himself to blame for that. 

“Didn't know we were so pathetic in Gotei’s eyes that they had to give us an Omnitsukido’s dog as a captain,” the short woman spits out after slapping his hand away in a rather impertinent manner when Kisuke reached out to introduce himself to her. 

A murmur of disaccord passes through the mass of Shinigami gathered in the division’s mess hall, several voices whispering critique but it's a weak, lukewarm protest at best. 

Sarugaki–san twists her head towards the crowd and scoffs angrily. “Don't act like none of you think the same. Out of all the people out there they had to give us the fucking worst of trash—”

“I think,” the lieutenant chimes in from behind her, calm but with a promise of a threat floating underneath, “that's quite enough from you.”

Everyone's heads turn in his direction as if on command, the room turning eerily quiet and unbearably tense. Even Kisuke himself goes rigid, waiting with a baited breath. 

Sarugaki–san stares at him in scathing disbelief, fuming with simmering rage before she precipitously spins on her heel, dealing Kisuke an unanticipated, swift kick to his shin and yells out, "I'm never going to accept you as our captain!" before storming out, slamming the doors behind her. 

The rest of the squad follows her suit soon after, offering gauche apologies and goodbyes as they pass by him. 

“That went surprisingly well,” Shiba—dono pipes up once they are the only ones remaining inside, his tone dripping with an astonishing amount of genuity. 

Despite himself, Kisuke does nothing to hide his wince nor halt the somewhat peevish words that tumble out of his lips, “I don't suppose our dictionaries have the same definition of the word ‘well’, Shiba—dono.”

Just as he is about to excuse his manners — he is, after all, in the presence of someone from a renowned clan, and the other's own gruffness aside, he may still expect a more dignified reply — the lieutenant huffs in quiet amusement. 

“Any interaction with a pissed off Sarugaki where it doesn't end with all of the buildings in the five miles radius burned down to ashes and me filling out another form about property damage is a good one in my books,” he explains placidly with a shrug, and if Kisuke didn't know any better, he would say that the man sounds almost… cheerful. 

And here he thought that the Second is full of lunatics. 

But then again, eccentricity comes with the job and it is rare to find a Shinigami with no quirks — impossible even. It is what keeps them all at the edges of sanity or at the very least something that has an ambition to be it, after all. 

With crude bluntness that Kisuke is convinced by now must be a trademark characteristic of his, Shiba–dono adds, “But it will be both awkward and a pain in the ass if you insist on the honorifics. Just call me Ichigo.”

The years of forging in the etiquette of higher spheres raise to a protest inside him and Kisuke allows them to be voiced out loud, “It would be inappropriate of me—”

“It will be a pain in the ass,” Shiba–san curtly cuts him off, his scowl deepening once more as he puts a heavy emphasis on the second part of his sentence. 

Feeling both exhausted with this entire day and a tad devious, Kisuke replies noncommittally, “If you say so, Shiba–san.”

The other only stares at him before he sighs a tinge resigned, shaking his head. “Give her some time,” is not what Kisuke expected him to say after a brief pause. 

Shiba–san is not looking at him, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the window on the opposite wall, yet his tone is soft and steady. Kisuke cannot read his expression, not from that angle and most likely not even if he stood directly in front of him. “Give all of them time. She— We all loved Hikifune–san and this is a rather abrupt change, considering that she still has been around only a week ago, so— time.”

What is there left for Kisuke to do but nod his understanding with another blank smile to back it up? “I— Of course. I wouldn't dare to do anything less, Shiba–san.”

Shiba–san searches him for a solid minute and seemingly satisfied, nods to himself. “Right. If you need any help moving your things or well, with anything at all actually, feel free to ask, Urahara–taichou,” he says but there is something reserved about him now, much less warm than just a moment ago. A shift so sudden that Kisuke cannot for the life of him figure out where it stemmed from. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mountain's worth of paperwork to go through. You wouldn't believe how much stuff needs to be signed when a new captain is appointed.”

“I could—”

“Appreciated but not necessary. I've got it handled, Urahara–Taichou,” he interjects succinctly. With that, he skirts away too, leaving Kisuke to his own musings in the Division's mess hall. 

One of these days, Urahara thinks wearily as he leans down to rub his still aching limb, I will end up exiled and it'll be all Yoruichi–san's fault. 

Kisuke did not sign up for any of this at all, yet it seems that the only thing he can do is let himself be pulled along for this madness of a ride and have faith for the best. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Kisuke is not cut out for this, for captaincy. 

He knows how to utilise underhanded and illicit methods in order to perfectly puppeteer, be it coquetry or blackmail alike, how to cause even the most resilient of mountains to crumble with little to no compunctions afterwards. It is what this unkind, vicious world taught him — to be a predator before they can sway you into a trap for the preys. 

But while Kisuke has those in spades, the deception and lies and manipulation can only get you so far when you are missing all the other crucial bits. 

He is not afraid to admit he knows nothing of the inspirations of leadership, the required compassion or comprehension of others’ needs or hearts because that is not how Omnitsukido worked, solitude and ruthlessness forever on a pedestal of virtues. To be built, faithfulness demands for genuity as its foundations after all. 

He does not know it, not in the way his lieutenant appears to be subconsciously doing as he keeps the division running smoothly, leaving Kisuke to ponder his rightful place as the head of the food chain while he sulks through the corridors of the barracks with barely anything to do. 

Even drowning in his own research does not hold its usual appeal to him. 

Each and single one of his new subordinates are amiable enough — excluding Sarugaki–san of course — to put a half–hearted effort into listening to him but it is more than abundantly salient where their loyalties lie and it is not as though Kisuke can truly begrudge them for that. 

He is the stranger in someone else's house here and it would be more than simply ridiculously unmerited and borderline juvenile to feel slighted by not being welcomed with open arms. 

It does, however, lead him to wonder if there was ever truly a necessity for the Division to have a captain when they are far more self–sufficient than the Second could ever even begin to dream to be, not to mention any of the other squads. 

The answers to his ruminations — brooding, Yoruichi-san taunted the other day with a playful grin, sharp canines on display, ever the caring friend — comes about a month later with a late night visit from one of his now colleagues. 

Or well, the actual aspect of answers is debatable. 

“Ya look like ya are about ta combust with all those thoughts cookin’ in yer head,” Hirako–san calls out to Kisuke in jest as he draws nearer to where he is seated at the edge of the deck in Division's backyard. 

“Ah, Hirako–san!”

“Now don't sound too excited. And just call me Shinji, Kisuke,” the other man says. Really, what is it with all of these people and hatred towards the respectful forms? "So, how's Hiyori? She a handful, eh?" Hirako–san asks, a slightly teasing lilt to it. 

Kisuke musters up what he hopes is a friendly smile and replies, "Ah, no, not at all. Shiba–san manages most of her angry outbursts.”

"Angry outbursts is one way to call it," Hirako–san drawls with a hint of a snort, mirth clear as a day in his voice. “What about that lieutenant of yers?”

Kisuke’s breath catches in his throat a tad too audibly to go unnoticed. “He has… certainly been helpful. I'm rather thankful for his assistance.”

Hirako–san hums something meaningless and watches him with hawk–like eyes, the stare calm yet calculating, approaching even the scrutinising category. Kisuke is unsure what to make of it until the other captain chooses to speak again, voice colored with pensiveness despite its mirth. “Right, and ta actual answer?”

The truth is much more of an intricate matter. 

The friendliness Shiba–san has initially expressed has mellowed out completely into this facade of guarded expression and reserved coolness. 

Oh, he is perfectly polite — as applicable as that term could be in case of someone who appears to view social norms and reverence towards the authorities as a mere suggestion rather than obligation they ought to be taken as — and decidedly charitable with keeping Sarugaki–san sufficiently occupied to not spout insults towards Kisuke anytime he so much as breathes in her direction, even willing to crack a crooked smile here and there but—

There are situations where while Shiba–san is undoubtedly friendly, his general attitude speaks of everything but. It feels as though even the shortest of heartbeats in Kisuke’s proximity is a tremendous chore to him; like seeing the sight of his continued existence is nothing short of painful. 

That it does not seem to be a conscious habit is what rubs the additional salt into the wound.  

Finding himself exceptionally daring, Kisuke inquires, “I— Do you think my presence here may be causing him any, ah, let's call it— discomfort?”

“What, ya mean like for Hiyori?” Hirako–san asks incredulously as if he has just heard an absurdity be spoken, before he barks out a short laugh. “Ichigo's not so shallow as ta judge ya fer any of that. We are all killers here, Kisuke,” he says, something dark with remorse gleaming in his eye, years old guilt that Kisuke can understand a touch too well. 

Not like me, he thinks resentfully, palms of his hands momentarily collapsing by the weight of blood on them, the kind that never quite washes off. Never like me. 

“Neither is Hiyori, for that matter, so doncha let her words get ta ya,” he continues, not allowing Kisuke to get another word in. Not that he would particularly know any adequate response. “She worshipped the ground Kirio–san walked on so that's just her missing your predecessor. And she probably expected Ichigo ta take over after her. We all did, if ‘m bein’ honest,” he admits and this tidbit of information is certainly surprising to Kisuke because he had no knowledge of that at all. “Don't get me wrong, I'm sure ya are gonna be a great captain and shit but y’know, it felt sorta obvious that it'll be him. Even Kirio–san herself has recommended him but…”

That… brings clarity, in a way, in the matter of his rambunctious third seat’s continued resentment towards him and that she latched onto his less than exemplary past. 

It also, would be an obvious assumption to draw, that Shiba–san's cool courteousness was born from an acrimony of a stolen chance, especially when it was something of a given that it would be his. It cannot be easy to witness someone else living your life. 

Yet, that vision does not exactly fit the bill, not into the person that Shiba Ichigo has has proved himself repeatedly to be in the relatively short amount of time they have known each other. He is kindness tinged in blunt words and even more benign deeds that are more than just a meagre afterthought, that much is clear. 

It's quite a nagging contradiction so Kisuke has to ask, if purely for his own benefit. “Did my nomination take away his chance of promotion?”

Hirako–san huffs a small chuckle. “Ha, that woulda been funny, but no, not at all. Ichigo got ta recommendation revoked, said he's fine where he's at.”

Now that is far better of a match into the little definition box that Shiba–san has carved himself in Kisuke’s dictionary. The explication gives the footing for the new questions to arise however. 

“Why? Shiba–san already fulfills most of the responsibilities of a captain. He would've been a much more sensible choice for this.”

“Maybe he would, maybe not,” the man says equivocally with a leisure shrug. “Who knows. Ya are forgettin’ ya are their captain now, not Ichigo. No point in wonderin’ about ta what–ifs.”

“I'm hardly a captain at all,” Kisuke murmurs out, and it's a bitter and tight thing. “Any insightful thoughts about that?

Hirako–san eyes him carefully, all assessment, his eyes calculating but the curve of his mouth whispers kind. 

“A few,” he responds with a nod. “One of them would probably be somethin’ about how replicatin’ what was has never done a favour to anyone. Ya cannot be another Hikifune Kirio to them and ya cannot bend to their will either, no matter how much Hiyori yells at ya. Just do what ya want and screw anyone who doesn't like it.”

Urahara gives him a look that falls somewhere near cynical. “Isn't that a bit extreme?” 

The older captain lifts his hands up defensively. “Hey, I'm just sayin’ what worked for me. No one said ya need ta do that too. Find what works for ya.”

Kisuke… can do that, actually. He has had an idea for a while, knocking around the cogs of his brain, too hesitant to consider implementing it but not capable of forgetting it due to the an incessant presence of it. 

“As for Ichigo… he'll warm up ta ya. Eventually,” the man says with a light grimace, scratching his cheek, not bothered by his lack of reply. “Think of him as a stray wild cat and ya should be fine,” Hirako–san concludes as he stretches out his arms above his head, bones cracking with an audible pop. 

“Well, I think that's enough of gosspin’ for tonight. Better head back before my cute lieutenant gets worried about me. Later, Kisuke,” he says and with a salute that is the next best thing to lazy, he scurries off, most likely to torment another poor, innocent soul. 

“Goodnight, Hirako–san,” Kisuke says to the night’s crisp zephyr, mind filled with answers and bugging inquiries in equal measure to a point where he has to physically shake himself out of this chucklesome stupor. 

Ludicrous notion, really, to wring one's heart with worry over such things. Kisuke has never wanted for approval of others, not unless his life was completely dependent on it. It's of no matter to him, whether his second in–command carries any animosity; there are no obligations of feeling a certain way about one's superior, after all. 

It's just curiousity, that's all, he tells himself because quiet kindliness aside, Shiba–san is so profoundly shrouded in mystery and all the arcane things alike that the boffin in him just cannot resist. 

If Benihime appears to be inexplicably diverted after that, well, it is not like she is going to gift him with a straightforward response when asked anyway. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Ki— Urahara is at the doors to his quarters at what could be considered a witching hour if it wasn't far too generous of a stretch. 

Between the neverending night terrors and the deeply entrenched habit of constant vigilance, Ichigo never sleeps much anymore but this is far too early — or perhaps too late would be a more accurate term of description here — for functioning even by his fucked up standards. 

Ichigo sweeps a careful, sleepy eye over Urahara's appearance, taking a belated note of how his blond hair resembles a bird's nest and eyes glint with a tinge of mania, which has never boded well for him in the past. There is a pile of papers clutched under his left armpit and the sleeves of his white haori are carelessly stained with ink which is also not a harbinger of a good time. 

“Your quarters are down the hall, taichou,” Ichigo points out dryly for the lack of a better thing to say, eager to break the quiet and awkward staring match. 

Urahara eyes him somewhat curiously. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make the title sound like an insult.”

“I— what?” he repeats, opening his mouth to follow it up with another query for clarification, but Kisuke is already waving him off, apparently not interested enough to continue the topic. 

“Nevermind, I have something more pressing to discuss,” he confesses and then on a sharp inhale, he looks Ichigo soberly in the eyes and proclaims, “I have decided what sort of division I want the Twelfth to be.”

“And you wrote a whole damn novel about it instead of sleeping like normal people do?” Ichigo prods, tipping his head towards the documents, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Calling it a novel may have been on the wilder side of an exaggeration but Hirako's flair for the dramatic has been rubbing off on him as of late. 

Urahara blinks at him a bit dazedly and Ichigo is half–tempted to persuade him into giving in to the grasp of slumber which the other seems to be in an evident need of. 

“What? No, no, these are documents for founding a research department here, in our division,” Urahara explains, passing him the stack of documents with a visible tremor in his clammy palms, which Ichigo gingerly accepts. 

“...Shinigami Research and Development Institute?” Ichigo reads aloud from the front page, arching one of his eyebrows. 

“That would be the name of it, yes.”

Ichigo tilts his head to the side, peering at Urahara after taking a half–hearted glimpse through the pages. “You need me to sign it?”

“It does require your approval, of course, but I was also hoping you could check if they are not lacking anything crucial in it. While I genned myself up to the best of my abilities, I'm afraid you may still have a better understanding at filing this sort of forms so—”

“You want me to look it over?”

“If you would be so kind.”

“Sure. When do you want this done?”

“Ah…”

“...it's right now, isn't it?”

“Well, I wouldn't want to impose but—”

It is probably a good thing that Ichigo is able to keep most of his screaming internal, these days.

Begrudgingly, he peels himself away from the doorcase and steps a bit to the side so that Urahara can walk inside. He is not discussing such things over a threshold, thank you very much. 

“So bothersome,” Ichigo murmurs with a click of his tongue. And because he is a weak, weak man there is not much he can do but agree. “Fine. You owe me for that, though,” he grumbles out, all bad grace and plain irritation, because it is the middle of the damn night and Ichigo will not be acting civil when not on payroll.

Sitting down at the small desk in the corner of his room after offering Urahara to occupy the edge of his bed with a flimsy wave of his hand, Ichigo turns the small lamp on and proceeds to read, his mush of a brain protesting with every single word it is forced to process. 

Just when he is about to grunt out his agreement and reach for ink to carve his signature in its designated place, Ichigo notices the small fine print at the bottom of one of the pages and an umbrage flares in him like a blaze. 

Sick fucker, resonates in his head like a tide and Ichigo is not entirely certain whether this particular thought belongs to him or Zangetsu. 

Perpetual frown in place, Ichigo levels Urahara with narrowed eyes, the muscles in his jaw tightening just so.

Kurotsuchi did end up being more than useful a dozen times, his inventions — undoubtedly of questionable morality — becoming an advantage on the battlefield on more than just one occasion, before he too inevitably died. That is a fact, plain as the sun returning at dawn. 

Perhaps, his decision can cause more harm than good, may even damage this tentative relationship he and Urahara have going on and yet. 

Ichigo thinks of broken families and young Quincy boys with a foibles of awkwardness and reverent, gentle hearts, who never truly healed despite attaining the desired revenge. Who pushed through the bitter avalanche of grief and fought alongside the hangmen of a beloved grandfather with the gallantry many better men aren't capable of. 

(He misses them — Ishida, Chad, Inoue — so horribly, the gaping holes in his soul that their loss left incessantly seeping and it tears at him so much he—

They would know what to do. They would be so much better than him. So much more.) 

Ichigo breathes through the sting of ache in his ribcage and mentally braces himself against any incoming any of Urahara's wheedling or arguments.

"No. You are not taking Kurotsuchi out of Maggot's Nest. Everything else is alright, but not this. Not him."

"He's perfectly harmless!" Urahara argues, his face adorning a grimace of discontent of its own. 

With an exasperated scoff, Ichigo counters, "People do not get put in Maggots Nest for being harmless, mister ex–Maggots–Nest–officer."

"It's called a Detention Unit, Shiba–san. And I was the Commander. "

Ichigo merely quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at him, leaning back in his chair and his arms cross defensively over his chest. "Saying crap like that is not really working in your favour, you know," he retorts waspishly, but his resolution remains limpid. 

"Shiba–san—" 

"No. I can compromise on Akon, but no Kurotsuchi."

Judging by the stormy aggravation painted on Urahara's face, he is nowhere near ready to back down. Neither is Ichigo and he is nothing if not formidable in his stubbornness. 

(Bullheaded, Rukia once deemed him, somewhere rather far away now, but it held too much tenderness of affection and humour to be anything but fond, so awfully bullheaded.)

“Shiba–san, Kurotsuchi–san would be a truly valuable asset.”

“No. You do it, you get him out of there and I will challenge the existence of this department in front of the damn Central itself if I have to,” Ichigo threatens, hitting the bullseye right where he knows it will hurt but he cannot bring himself to be contrite. 

One of Ishida’s sparse smiles flashes through his mind and Ichigo is not actually sure if the claim he just made is a fluke of the heat of the moment. Regardless of the likelihood of their friendship coming to be once more, Aizen's misdeeds are not the only tragedy deserving of prevention. 

The poorly–concealed bug–eyed look Urahara appropriated after his threat sours into something much more sullen. “I could have you demoted,” he remarks darkly, clearly taking offence, which Ichigo cannot fully fault him for. 

“You could,” Ichigo concedes easily with an incline of his head, even though he is quite sure both of them are aware it would not make for the smartest of choices. 

The hostility in Urahara's eyes softens, but his determination does not crumple as he settles on a different approach. “I would not let the Twelfth suffer because of my decisions.”

“And I believe you, Urahara–taichou,” he reassures kindly. With a rueful twitch of the corner of his mouth and far more desolate sorrow than he probably should allow to the surface, Ichigo adds gently, “But being part of Gotei requires us to protect more than just our honour.”

In the quiet moments that follow right after his words, the only sound is the echoing resonance of utmost puzzlement, filling the space between them with its presence. Urahara regards him then, as if he is seeing him truly for the first time, unflinchingly solemn and studious. Ichigo bristles uncomfortably under his gaze, practically feeling the way it bores into the top of his head. 

When Urahara speaks again, the line of his mouth looks like understanding and he gives a polite murmur of resigned agreement. “You can cross that print about him out.”

Ichigo offers him a small, thankful upturn of his lips. “I'll have the documents delivered to the Ninth by noon. I'll go over our budget, too, to see if we need to request extra funds for it. Actually,” Ichigo adds after a second of consideration, “you might wanna write me a list of all the equipment that nerd cave of yours is gonna need.”

Urahara bows slightly, wearing a smile of his own. A genuine one, it seems and nearly entirely so as well, surprisingly enough. “Thank you, Shiba–san. My apologies for disrupting your night.”

Ichigo shrugs him off dismissively. 

He is more than acutely aware he is going to regret not stuffing his damn foot in his mouth in the long run, but he is tired and a bit of a masochist too so he says the words anyway, condemning as they are. “As long as you get me lunch, I consider us even. And it's Ichigo, not Shiba–san.”

“Of course,” Urahara affirms and it tastes a bit like a promise, and isn't that a petrifying thought? Because to make a promise is to invite closeness, to weave your life with someone else’s in a way that can never truly be undone and it is not something he can afford to have. 

Clearing his throat, Ichigo looks away back to the documents in his hands, expecting to hear the sound of the door sliding open. When it doesn't reach him after a longer minute, he turns to its direction only to see Urahara hovering with his hand pressed against it. 

“Something’s wrong?”

Urahara startles and twists his head to face him. A moment of hesitation and then, “I— do you think this is the right choice?”

Ichigo blinks at him, caught off guard. “How the hell would I know?” 

“Right, silly of me to ask, my apolog—”

Ichigo does not even try to restrain the heavy eye roll he gives Urahara at the words. “Stop doubting yourself, taichou. If anyone doesn't like it, they are more than welcome to ask for a transfer. Thirteenth is always accepting of those, as far as I know,” he mutters, stern yet soft. “Though, I think there are a few who might share your interests. Hikifune–san liked to do her own research too and she had a few officers who usually assisted her so I'll talk to them about it.”

And as if the night itself were determined to peel away their defenses, Urahara chuckles the bemusement at his response away and says lightly, “Maa, just when I think I unraveled you, you manage to twist the threads into something new, Shiba–san.” 

Always full of surprises, aren't you, Kurosaki–san? he nigh hears his Kisuke’s words reverberating in his ears and and for a fleeting moment, it’s as though the air has turned to ice. His breath catches in the stillness, a suffocating pressure that leaves him teetering on the edge. His lungs constrict, tightening as if the very room has drawn in around him, too small, too close— 

Averting his eyes as he swallows through the grief, Ichigo manages a wobbly, “Someone's gotta keep things interesting around here. And it's Ichigo, damn it.”

Urahara hums approvingly. “And they say chivalry is dead.” 

“Oh, fuck off.”

Then, because he is a bastard with the ambition of morphing into a dead man, Urahara says, “As you wish. Goodnight, Shiba–san.”

“Goodnight, taichou,” Ichigo replies sunnyly, hoping the underlying asshole is sufficiently detectable. 

Going by the sound of a muffled, suppressed laugh from behind his door, the message has been successfully delivered. 

☆☆☆☆☆

It is awkward, at first, when they do get to the actual part of eating together and Kisuke is one step away from calling the whole thing away. They are not unlike two strangers sharing the same space but never quite meeting. Silence hangs between them, thick and unsure, as if they are both adrift in waters they don’t yet know how to navigate.

But as the days wear on, something shifts — the quiet stiffness, once heavy, becomes fluid, like the tide turning at twilight, subtle and inevitable. Before he knows it, Shiba–san pulling him out of his lab is no longer an oddity, but an unspoken certainty, woven into the rhythm of his days.

Throughout all of this, Kisuke has become quite accustomed to his lieutenant's particular brand of humour, prone more to engage in the dry flavours of sarcasm, often punctuated by deadpan delivery rather than loud flames of mischief. 

Which is why Kisuke did not exactly expect to become a part of… whatever it is that he is witnessing at the very moment. 

It starts in a bit of an extraordinary way with Shiba–san bursting through to the door to his office in the late evening, his eyes slightly wide with panic which causes a whisper of alarm to stir in Kisuke’s chest. 

It is one of those rare days where Kisuke is actually at his office, meticulously filling out his paperwork in order to avoid his lieutenant's anger instead of three–feet–deep–into–research–and–still–digging. 

And so he hurriedly gets off his chair and begins inching closer to the man, an inquiry at the tip of his tongue. 

Kisuke does not however get to utter a single word as Shiba–san gets sidesteps him, darting toward his now abandoned desk with surprising urgency. 

"If he asks," Shiba-san hisses in a stage whisper, "you have no idea who Shiba Ichigo is," and promptly makes the desk his new hideout.

Baffled to the core and no less intrigued, Kisuke decides to prod in quiet tones, “Shiba–san, who are you—?”

“Shut up.”

Just as Kisuke opens his mouth to ask more, a knock at the door interrupts him—sharp, clear, and not at all what he expected. He opens it, preparing himself for something drastic, perhaps even a bloodthirsty Kenpachi — though, on the second thought, it feels like a bit of a ridiculous notion because the man in question would never knock even if his life depended on it — on the other end but is met instead with the familiar figure of Shiba-san’s cousin, the head of the Shiba clan, standing there with a grin that seems too bright for the occurring circumstances. 

"Good evening, Urahara-taichou," he says cheerfully. "Could you please tell my dear cousin to come out from under your desk and face me like a man? And don't say he's not here, I know he is, right, Ichigo?”

In a true petulant fashion, his dear grumpy lieutenant groans loudly from underneath the piece of furniture but makes no moves to actually crawl out otherwise. “How did you know?”

The older Shiba rolls his eyes. “You literally did the same thing with Hikifune–san all the time.”

“I did not.”

“Did too. Don't make me drag you out from under there Ichigo, you promised Lisa you would go out with us today.”

And at that, like the release of a spring wound too tightly, his lieutenant from his temporary cavern as he peers indignantly at his cousin from above the edge of his fortress. “It's not a promise if she is blackmailing me.”

“Sounds like a personal issue.”

“Then why are you even here?”

“Because I enjoy your suffering,” he replies with a careless shrug. “And I want to spend some time with my favourite cousin.”

“I'm telling Tomoe you said that.”

“Alright, that's it—”

It is certainly an interesting experience, to observe two of Gotei’s most known prodigies bickering like nothing more than two unruly children. It is especially curious since they do not seem bothered by his presence in the room, on the contrary — they do not appear to be noticing it all. 

The scientist in Kisuke takes note, savoring every shift and nuance. 

Because Shiba–san has that very specific air about him that he has noted while in presence of some of the older captains or noblemen, the one that proclaims I have seen the darkness of this world and it will not break me again and how it commands you to venture being a fool that proves him wrong. 

(More than once, Kisuke has wondered how many fell for that, only for Shiba–san to be all he claimed to be and even startlingly more.)

Yet here now, in the low, warm sunlight of his office this war veteran–like heaviness he carries is nearly gone. There’s an ease here, a rawness that comes from the easy trust flowing between the two of them and—

The lines Shiba–san wears in his face, the very same that make his features nearly match the age of his eyes, that turn him into something so brittle and devastatingly sorrowful, into this worthy to be written about in sonnets and ballads alike creature — those lines smooth out too and all Kisuke can think is oh because he cannot truly manage anything else that won't be so lacking. 

Shiba–san is a worn around the edges sort of kindness and to see it glow in content unadulterated if only for a split second is… humbling, astonishingly enough. 

This way, with mischievous laughter bright in his eyes and with the sun rays enveloping him so lovingly, he looks somehow both strange and completely suited to this place, this feeble space between one heartbeat and another inside of time.

The conversation continues, words falling in and out of Kisuke’s awareness, the space between them easing. As they prepare to leave, Shiba-san’s cousin mentions something about his chicks asking about him, and Kisuke barely suppresses a smile as Shiba–san lets out an undeniably impressive groan as he opens the doors and then steps over the threshold. 

"Stop calling them my chicks, it’s weird."

"You deny it, but that Gin kid would follow you around like a little duckling if you let him," his cousin teases, clearly taking great entertainment in Shiba–san's annoyance, as he follows right behind. 

And with that, they’re gone, their voices fading into the distance as the door clicks shut. The room feels emptier now, quieter, as if something intangible has shifted — something that Kisuke knows he won’t fully understand yet, but something that, in this moment, feels as necessary as air.

☆☆☆☆☆

“Ichigo, the idiot has almost blown himself up in the lab. Again,” Hiyori complains, barging into his office without so much as a by–your–leave. She doesn't clarify which idiot and neither does Ichigo ask for it as it is, unfortunately, very obvious. 

Slowly, Ichigo sets his pen to the side and peeks at her with a frown. “Shouldn't you be with the newbies right now?”

“I was until that bastard caused an explosion that made half of them shit their pants.”

Ichigo stares mournfully at the stack of papers on his desk. 

Sighing long–sufferingly, he reaches to the second drawer on the left that he repurposed solely for storing the forms about property damage, taking out one sheet to place on his desk. “It's the third damn time in the last two weeks.”

Hiyori snorts at his words but it's an ugly, humourless sound as he sluggishly moves up from his desk with the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows. “You are telling me that? I told you he's gonna turn our division into a freakshow with that institute of his but did you listen? No—”

“You say that as if you aren't half the reason I have a drawer dedicated to the forms about property damage,” Ichigo cuts her off wryly, when he gets to her. “Thanks for informing me about what happened at the lab, I'll handle it. You can go back to training whatever is left of the new recruits.”

“Ichigo—”

“I'll handle it,” he repeats firmly, keeping his voice steady. He truly has no desire to revisit this conversation again and judging by the timbre of her voice, that was where she was heading. 

“Fine,” she grunts out, stomping off in the direction of the training grounds. 

When he arrives at the lab, Ichigo expects to witness a far worse sight than an entirely intact room that is just full of still escaping white, choking smoke and an Urahara whose bangs are now shorter, scorched to black at the ends and half of either of his eyebrows gone. 

“Ah, Shiba–san! To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence here?" Urahara exclaims at the sight of him with a small cough due to accidentally inhaling some of the still present vapour. 

“Sarugaki said something about an explosion so I came here to see what to write in the file to the Ninth. For the third time in the last two weeks,” he grouches, but there is a lingering thread of fondness buried underneath that he doesn't try particularly hard to hide. 

Urahara pouts. “I'll have you know it was a perfectly controlled explosion. Nothing to note here.”

“Your eyebrows would beg to differ.”

“Actually it's a new fashion trend that I'm trying out to look even more handsome. What do you think, Shiba–san, is it working?”

Ichigo eyes Urahara suspiciously. "How much sleep have you had in the last week?" he deadpans, even though Ichigo is willing to bet that the mound of documents that keeps growing on his captain's desk could offer him a more accurate estimation than a sleep–deprived scientist running solely on questionable humour and research–induced mania. 

Urahara glares at Ichigo with a scornful kind of incredulity. "Sleep? I had a breakthrough on my newest invention, I wasn’t about to sleep, Shiba–san,” he grumbles out as if the idea of getting a good night's rest gravely offended or disgusted him. It rings with such genuine disdain that Ichigo can't help the helpless laugh escaping him before he can think twice.

Urahara's fatigued gaze softens just a hint at the action, staring at him with something like a mix of gentle fascination melted with indulging amusement and it's so very Kisuke — his Kisuke that he left in a future that will not be his or theirs anymore, he won't let it — that it just feels not unlike a hard punch to the gut. 

Misdirections and schemes are utterly Shihouin–ingrained, his mind honed by years of evasion and wit and yes, that fox–like cunning may be a nature of his, what defines him, but this is who Kisuke was at the core of his being, always has been, even tangled in Aizen’s webs of machinations. 

And that's the heart of the matter, isn't it?

The reason he kept himself at a far larger canyon of a distance from Urahara than from any others; the moments like these, when Ichigo has the biggest difficulty separating them from one another, the walls slipping and he finds himself wanting to reach out, that are the hardest to control. 

And then Urahara addresses him as a Shiba but fondness of recently gained kinship aside, that family name means little, even if he has been carrying it as his own for much longer than he has ever been a Kurosaki. Their whole friendship was built when he was still a Kurosaki and perhaps it is uncharacteristically craven of him, but there is only so much heartache he can bear. 

It's indisputably the most hilarious joke Ichigo has ever heard the universe speak and he is the punchline. 

So Ichigo chuckles, because it's either that or breaking down into a sob, slanting an exasperated look his way. Then, with a firm hand he tugs the sputtering Urahara by the elbow, telling him to go shower and change into something more suitable because he bets Urahara has not seen food in the last forty eight hours so he is taking him out for dinner and no, crazy nerd inventions can actually wait—

Later that day, with Urahara seated across from him and cheerfully chattering his ear off about this latest invention of his, Ichigo will allow himself a half heartbeat of optimism to ponder if maybe, just maybe, it could be alright that he has this. To wish with equal parts desperation and futility that it is okay for him to have something that feels like it might be real, might be enough.

Everyone wants to be loved, Ichigo, Ossan mutters in lieu of providing solace when shame coils balefully in his stomach as selfish rings through his head deafeningly. To want this, to want something as simple as warmth and laughter, feels like a betrayal—a betrayal of the vow he’s made to keep those he loves safe, no matter the cost. The ache of it is sharp, almost sweet, like a wound that won’t heal because he can’t let go. 

Not yet, he responds plaintively, trying to keep the bile of pungent taste of decay at bay while he nods a smile to whatever inquiry Ki— Urahara has thrown at him just a moment ago. Not yet. 

Ossan makes no further arguments but his concern remains painfully tangible until the night slips away. Ichigo knows not how to tell him it's too much. 

☆☆☆☆☆

"A spar?" Shiba–san asks, skeptical. "Why with me though? I'm not that strong nor interesting."

Bullshit, Kisuke wants to immediately call, because Shiba–san is nothing if not lethal poise in each and every move he makes. Given that, according to the records, the lieutenant was taken into the clan when he was already an adult this controlled grace cannot stem from noble upbringing the way it does for Yoruichi–san. 

He must have obtained a bankai as well, or else he would not qualify for a recommendation for captain's seat, though the documents Kisuke dug up were scarce in information in that regard. 

There is his zanpakuto too and how it sings of darkness. Not malice, no, and neither is it akin to Benihime's call for blood, but there is this undercurrent of something more tainted that one would expect at the first glance. Something, that feels nearly like a hollo—

“Even better, then. I must admit I'm quite rusty due to long hours in the lab,” Kisuke says brightly with a crinkle–eyed smile, ignoring the I wonder why that Shiba–san mumbles out under his breath. “The person who loses buys lunch?” he adds as an incentive, a touch too hesitant to manage nonchalance but it is close enough. 

And Shiba–san blinks at him before he huffs a half–laugh and with a crooked smile, he replies, “Should have just started with that.”

Hand to hand combat only, Kisuke’s haori discarded to the side of the training ground next to their swords — not too close but never too far, only a reminder of their limits — in a careless manner that would be considered more than simply unbecoming by the standards of the Kuchiki family. 

There is no beginning to it, at least not one that Kisuke can easily pinpoint but soon enough they are weaving and dodging across the ground, the rhythm of movement of their bodies feeling somewhere more akin to a dance than a battle — light-hearted and free. Each step is a question. Each strike, an answer.

He aims a well–timed attack to Shiba—san’s left side that the other counters with a chuckle, shifting his weight with a fluidity that reminds Kisuke of a gust of wind—unpredictable, but never truly threatening. Not right now, at least, it is not. Yet, he’s not just a man, but a force that should not be underestimated. 

“You, Shiba–san, are what we scientists professionally call a liar,” Kisuke breathes out pointedly as he ducks under the kick directed for his head, but despite the wording, it is more a simple tease rather than an outright accusation. 

“I haven't the faintest clue what you are talking about, Urahara–san,” his lieutenant shoots back, a note of something feral in the playful smile he gives him — dangerous, inviting, and entirely real.  

Shiba-san twists in a movement so swift that for a moment Kisuke is lost in it, his eyes tracing the lines of a well–known pattern. It sends a pulse of recognition through him because suddenly all he see is Yoruichi–san, the movement so familiar that Kisuke’s body reacts on its own to par it. 

Not simply a Shihouin attack, though it derives from the very same inborn elegant agility. No, it is specifically Yoruichi’s maneuver, a perfect blend of flexibility and speed. A move that Shiba–san used with the same grace, but with an undertone that is different; a wildness beneath the control, a darkness hidden in the simplicity of it. 

His body moves on instinct to counter it but just as it had done before in the past, it sends him flying to the ground, defeated. 

"Where did you learn that?" Kisuke asks in bewilderment as he lifts his head from the ground to stare at the other's form looming above him, his voice barely louder than a whisper, his heart racing not from the fight, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.

"A certain talking cat taught me," Shiba–san quips with a wink and ah, there it is, this quiet laughter in his eyes as if sharing an inside joke that Kisuke should understand unguided; like Shiba–san is waiting for him to join in on the titter but Kisuke has not yet discovered how to laugh. 

One would say that it is a deflecting answer, that he jests to avoid telling the truth but Kisuke can recognise it for what it is at the core; a slip–up, a moment of vulnerability, a crack in the armor Shiba–san wears so rigidly. Has to be, with how it is said with too much good humor to be anything but veritable.

For a slow heartbeat, this invisible but still palpable wall dividing them withers away, and Kisuke can nearly see both him and this terrifying beauty of his soul. 

But then the deep woods of his eyes fog up again, and his smile becomes a little tight as he puts a steel–like lid on his heart, so that Kisuke cannot see right through it nor hear the mutterings of his fears. 

It scares him a little, because it has been barely two decades and sentiments are, by far, the last thing Onmitsukido wanted its weapons to cultivate as a value of any sort. It took an immense amount of time for him to be truly comfortable around Yoruichi or Tessai, to know that it is more than acceptable to covet for more. 

Yet, Kisuke finds himself with his palm outstretched and reeling it back in is what actually feels wrong in this scenario. 

It’s a wild thing, this connection, unexpected and raw, like a river carving its way through stone, unhurried but unyielding. Kisuke can’t quite make sense of it, this new force in his life. It’s untamed, yet it feels right, as though it was always meant to grow alongside him, and though he can’t quite grasp how or why, he doesn’t feel the need to question it. 

Instead, he lets it be, letting it sink deep into the soil of his heart, strange but soothing, a good thing in the way the first rain after a drought feels — unexpected, but exactly what was needed.

You were never meant for this, Yoruichi-san had said more than once, her voice laced with both angry frustration and quiet truth, speaking of a world steeped in shadows and silent killings. 

But now, for the first time, Kisuke feels the weight of her words settle into him, not as a passing thought, but deeper comprehension, blooming within him like an untended seed. 

Still, a wiser man, would dig and jab to unearth the reasons and the answers. Kisuke doesn't feel particularly smart about this when he decides to only file it away for later. 

“Thank you for the spar, Taichou,” Shiba–san says and Kisuke nods his head in acknowledgement as he accepts the offered hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. 

“Lunch? I believe it is my treat.”

“Yeah. Meet me at the front gate in an hour? I still have to file that form about property damage to the Ninth.”

“Hiyori–san lost her temper again, I presume?”

Shiba–san groans. “She was chasing Hirako around and made a hole in the wall of the Fourth’s mess hall. Unohana–san was less than happy about it.”

“I can only imagine why,” Kisuke retorts and when it gains him another small chuckle, the sound warm and unguarded, it feels a bit too gratifying. Kisuke allows himself to lean into it and to savor it anyway. 

It's a novelty, this thing between them, unfamiliar and frightening in a way that feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Chapter Text

The office remains utterly still, save for the soft shuffle of papers and the scratch of pens. Ichigo’s eyes skim over the stack in front of him, but his thoughts drift swiftly not unlike errant clouds. 

The quiet is not exactly breaching uncomfortable, but it is still hefty, pressing down on him like the weight of far too many days crammed into one. He doesn’t mind being here, not really — Urahara’s company has always been a kind of refuge, be it now or back in the times of war — but the paperwork, this constant and unending chore of it, pulls at him, draining the energy he cannot seem to shake, even more so than it usually does. 

Urahara, on the other hand, is a picture of calm. His focus is steady, undisturbed by the monotony of forms and schedules which is more than solely uncommon; it never happens when paperwork is involved. Ichigo has even taken it upon himself to check if the other man has not sneaked in some of his research papers to work on instead, but unless Urahara has somehow gained hypnosis abilities overnight, he is diligently working on the documents. 

He is sitting across from Ichigo, and there is even a slight curl playing on the corners of his lips as he writes, as though there may not be other place he’d rather be, oddly enough. 

Ichigo lets out a frustrated sigh, his gaze dropping to the pile of paperwork in front of him once more. While he certainly does appreciate the tranquility of this reality, this life, there are times when he would much rather be out there, training, fighting, planning— doing possibly any other existing thing but this. Some days, it is the idleness that makes a continued existence so frustrating. 

Despite himself, Ichigo feels his mind wander to the upcoming Shiba family gathering that Kaien has somehow successfully managed to pester him into attending — a loud, chaotic affair that he would rather steer clear of, thank you very much. His fingers twitch against the edge of the papers, itching for some different form of distraction.

It is then that Urahara shifts, glancing up from his work toward the clock on the opposite wall. His eyes narrow delicately, a subtle glance that tells Ichigo he is aware of the time, though he doesn’t say anything for a tense beat. But then, in that knowing voice of his, Urahara speaks. “Shiba–san,” he says, “if you want to be on time for the family gathering, you ought to make your leave soon.”

Ichigo groans, swiping his hand over his face. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters, perhaps a little too roughly due to the annoyance creeping up. “But I really don’t want to go.” He slouches in his chair, the words spilling out with a mix of affection and frustration. “It’s the Shibas, Urahara–san. They’re loud. I don’t do loud.”

Urahara smiles at him then, the upturn of his lips that just reeks of amusement, the one Ichigo’s gotten so used to seeing again over the years. “You do not like loud, but you do like them,” he says, the teasing undercurrent clear in his voice, but it is soft, perhaps even fond. 

Ichigo sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Maybe,” he mutters, his tone softened by the truth that lingers behind his complaint. “But they’re exhausting, you know?”

Urahara chuckles quietly, a low sound that seems to fill the space between them. “I'm sure it is not the toughest battle you had to survive before, Shiba–san,” he says, as if he’s already seen it all play out before. And he has. So many times. “And you’ll have plenty of stories to tell me when you get back.” 

Ichigo raises an eyebrow at that. “You mean you will make me tell you,” he corrects dryly, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips, in spite of his discontent. He looks at Urahara for a moment, his gaze subconsciously lingering just a tinge too long, but the smirk he wears does not diminish. “Never pegged you for such a gossip.”

Urahara’s smile widens a little as it colours with mischief. “Well, I can't help what I find entertaining, Shiba–san.”

And because it is easier to simply throw his head back and laugh than to examine this not exactly unpleasant ache that tugs at strings of his battered heart, Ichigo does just that. He then lets himself almost automatically blurt out, “Is this your way of escaping the paperwork? You know, trying to make me leave so you can ditch it onto some other poor soul in our division that is just too scared to deny you or else you will commit oh so scary experiments on them?”

Urahara hums somewhat approvingly while the unfading, playful glint in his eyes sharpens as if he has expected the question, leading to yet another parallel. Those can be still far too unsettling at times, especially with how their frequency increases with each passing year. 

“If only it were that simple, Shiba–san,” Urahara retorts with another smooth chuckle, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “No, I would not dare dream of using my subordinate’s personal obligations as an excuse to dodge paperwork.” He pauses for a moment there, letting the words hang between them before adding, with a wink, “but, ah, I'll make sure to keep that in mind for the next time.”

Ichigo gives a mock groan, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms in a gesture that’s far more fatigued than he means it to be. “Yeah, right. I’m sure you’ll remember next time I’m stuck doing your paperwork for you,” he grumbles out, but he still cannot help the bantering grin that crawls its way onto his face. If it's a  tad bit too warm for something so trivial, Ichigo refuses to acknowledge it. 

But then Urahara stares at him something quiet and brittle in his eyes as he replies gently, “I’ll make a note of it,” and Ichigo has to look away. 

Still, he gets up from his chair, rolling his shoulders in an exaggerated stretch. “Alright,” he mutters, trying to push the warmth back down with a grunt as he cleans up his desk, putting and organising everything into neat piles to have them prepared for tomorrow's delivery. “I’ll go. But you better have some decent place for dinner in mind because I’m not doing this family thing for nothing.”

Urahara is still watching him and it is tinged with unquestionable understanding. “Of course,” he responds simply, and the words feel like another promise hanging in the air and Ichigo wonders if this is their thing of sorts now, this continuous exchange of those trifling covenants. 

He hesitates, one hand on the door, and then — without much thinking involved — he glances over his shoulder at Urahara and just for this small beat of a moment, the world outside the door dwindles away, and all that remains is this small space, the tender hum of the office, and the mellowness of Urahara’s far too amused smile. 

Startingly, a thought approaches that nudges at him with a whisper. Like this right here, might be just enough to fill the gaps between his ribs. Just for now, for this crumble of a moment. 

Forcing foolish musings aside with a shake of his head, Ichigo steps out of the office, the door clicking softly behind him along with all the things abiding. 

Time to face the music. 

☆☆☆☆☆

The music of the Shiba clan's celebration fills the air, a rhythmic pulse of laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. Ichigo cracks a wistful smile, leaning against the side of the room, a quiet observer in the middle of all the noise. 

He watches the others — Kuukaku, always with a fire in her eyes, her laugh a loud burst that shakes the room; Ganju, his usual boisterous self, throwing himself into the festivities without hesitation. And Kaien, of course, grinning like an idiot, dragging everyone into one ridiculous game after another. 

Ichigo makes a joke here and there, throws a few sarcastic comments that bring out grins and chuckles, but mostly he keeps to the sidelines, never on the receiving end of the call for a party. He’s used to this by now — the Shiba clan is nothing if not passionate in their enthusiasm, and their celebrations are always louder than any of them seem to realise. 

For all his complaints that he made Urahara sit through, it is fun, in its own way, if still a little overwhelming at times. The energy is undeniably infectious, and for a heartbeat, he feels like he’s a part of something. Like this might be what family is supposed to feel like, though he can barely recall the feeling anymore, buried deeply as it is. 

But then, there’s a shift in the air, a sense of foreboding disturbs the currents of the night, though only for him, it would appear. It’s not dramatic — nothing about the room changes outwardly, after all. The music doesn’t stop, the laughter does not falter in either its volume or fervour.

But Ichigo feels it. 

The door to the main hall opens, and in walks Shiba Isshin, yelling out a greeting to everyone present. 

At first, Ichigo doesn’t even entirely recognize him. 

The man standing in the doorway is younger — stronger, full of life. He’s smiling, that wild grin that Ichigo remembers all too well, but it has been an echo from the past for a while now. His past, the future that will not happen anymore; the one he’s been trying to outrun so fervently. 

He stops dead in his tracks. 

Everything freezes in that moment. He can hear still the melodic laughter ringing in his ears, feel the pulse of the party, but it all sounds muffled. Faint, like the world’s just a little too far out of his reach, behind a veil of some kind. 

His breath catches in his throat, lungs constricting inside him. 

The younger version of his father is there, standing in the middle of the room like a goddamn fool, a beacon of life, loud and brimming with a presence Ichigo could never forget. 

And yet, he does. 

Somehow, unexplainably for a split second, he forgets. He forgets the smell of blood, the agony of watching the man he called father crumble in front of his very eyes, lifeless as his body hit the ground with a thump, the words of regret left unsaid. 

Ichigo doesn’t know how to react. 

Because perhaps, it should not matter. 

Perhaps, it should not be capable of shaking him to the core of his being so tremendously but oh it does, vigorously trampling through the foundations of himself he has rebuilt and they may have as well not existed in the first place. 

Because grief knows no limit, always greedy for the feast of consuming time. And souls age so, so, so slowly too.

His feet move before he even realizes it, and he’s slipping out of the crowd, moving through the maze of people, his mind a fog of heat and confusion. Ichigo doesn’t stop. Doesn’t think. 

I need air, he tells himself, I just can’t breathe here. I need air, air, air, air—

Blindly, he finds his room, the small, dim space he has occupied all those decades ago when he first arrived in the past and has been welcomed in by the Shiba clan. He shuts the door behind him with a tinge of too much strength behind it, but he cannot bring himself to care as the noise of the festivities still echoes deafeningly in his head, mixing with the image of his father. The real version of him. Alive. And it stings and it is unbearable. 

Because for all of Isshin’s fumbles and failings, for selfishness and all the secrets he kept securely under his mask of a rambunctious, annoying idiot, and the general neglect due to the call of the bottle — despite all of that, he is the only father Ichigo has ever known and by Soul King, did he love him. He still does, and he grieves and he mourns and he longs. 

A wave of nausea hits him suddenly, and before he can stop it, he’s bent over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor. The sound of his retching fills the room, the bitter taste in his mouth a reflection of how he feels inside — sick, twisted, like he’s been betrayed by his own body. 

Once it passes, Ichigo slumps against the wall, hands clutching his knees, and everything unravels.

It was too much, he thinks, pondering for any masochistic tendencies he may have not uncovered yet. It’s always too much. I shouldn’t be here.

But he is. He’s been here for decades, living in the shadows of a past he cannot change. A part of the Shiba clan, but never truly one of them. Not like they are. They laugh, they love, they fight, and all Ichigo can do is watch, a little helplessly.

He lets out a ragged breath, pressing his face into his hands. 

The door creaks, and Ichigo stiffens, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

Kaien stands in the doorway, eyes narrowing as he takes in Ichigo’s disheveled state, the way his shoulders are hunched, the hollow look in his eyes. Kaien doesn’t speak, just steps into the room slowly, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. Like this might just be the last thing that keeps Ichigo tethered to this brittle shell of sanity and he cannot say for certain that it isn't. 

“You disappeared without a word," Kaien says quietly, his voice a soft edge against the tension. "Everyone’s looking for you. Well, me and Kuukaku are, actually. What happened?”

Ichigo just shakes his head, trying to steady his breathing. He doesn’t have the energy to lie, but he can’t bring himself to explain either. 

Not to Kaien, even if he knows that no judgement would await him. 

Kaien stands still for a moment, watching him, before sitting down beside him, close enough that Ichigo can feel his presence but not too close to intrude. Kaien doesn’t ask any more questions. He doesn’t push. He just stays there, his silence an offer of comfort, his understanding quietly pressing in. 

“Can I?” he inquires after some time and Ichigo does not stop to consider just what he is asking about as he nods his agreement. 

Then, there is an arm looped around his shoulders that pulls him tight against the warmth of the other's skin and love, a pressure tangible enough to be grounding but not anywhere close to strong as to be oppressing. 

Ichigo clenches his clammy hands onto him like the other man might just be his lifeline. 

There are words too, sweet, comforting but meaningless in the grand scheme of things, that fall in a whisper around them. 

"I'm not leaving," Kaien murmurs.

Ichigo snorts bitterly. "That's a nice thought."

Kaien makes a tsk–ing sound of displeasure. "It's not a thought. You are family and I care. I'm not going anywhere. I am right here.”

Ichigo cannot bring himself to answer, stifling in another sob that threatens to spill. No demand comes for it either, only quiet understanding. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters finally, pulling away from the touch, though his voice sounds hollow even to his own ears. 

Kaien retracts his arm, letting it fall beside him and doesn’t respond to that, lost in thought. 

“Hey,” he says after a long beat and Ichigo can quite literally hear the lazy grin that is spreading across his face. His voice is bright, like he’s about to do something reckless. “I know where Kuukaku’s secret wine stash is.”

Ichigo snorts, even if it’s faint. “And you wonder why she keeps on dying your hair a new color every other month.”

“Never have I ever heard truer words be spoken by someone who is a pussy.”

“I think you are having identity issues because that is your middle name, not mine,” Ichigo quips back and it doesn't feel as crushing anymore.

“So? You wanna ditch the party and get stupid drunk?”

“You realise that she will kill both of us when she finds out?”

Kaien shrugs as he stands up and holds out his hand, his grin widening. “Maybe, but it’ll be a hell of a time.”

Ichigo pauses for a moment. He looks up at Kaien, at the easy jauntiness in his smile, the incessant warmth in his eyes. Thank you, he thinks, but the words don’t come. They never might, though somehow, he thinks that Kaien knows.

What else is there for him to do then but nod and put his palm into Kaien’s to let himself be pulled to his feet. The weight of the world doesn’t wane, but for this fleeting heartbeat of provisional joy, he can feign the lack of it. 

For a moment, he can breathe.

☆☆☆☆☆ 

Kisuke is waiting at the doorway, a shadow stretching across the walls, watching the captains and lieutenants alike spill out after the fortnightly meeting. The conversations hum, soft but insistent, like a tide’s retreat after a storm, each wave of chatter crashing and receding.

Waiting, because there is this seemingly never–ending stream of people who appear to have a sudden desire to discuss something with his lieutenant. 

Perhaps that's why he thinks nothing of the interaction, at first. 

Because before Shiba–san can even approach the threshold to reach him after having finished yet another conversation, there’s a hand on his shoulder that intercepts him.

It's the Fifth’s lieutenant, Aizen? Kisuke vaguely recalls. For all his time spent as the Twelfth’s captain, Kisuke has never paid too much attention to Aizen. He’s always been a figure that seemed to drift along the edges of everything, the quiet officer who was perfectly cordial with everyone, an epitome of tranquility, a role model of Shinigami to a point that it bordered just on this side of unnerving to Kisuke. It was the kind of demeanor that made him the ideal foil for the more overt personalities around him. Smooth as silk, but with edges that never quite glinted in the light.

No, Aizen wasn’t a man who drew Kisuke’s attention, not in the way others did. He filed him away in that mental catalog of people who were... simply there, unremarkable, in their own way. Aizen’s polite smile, his serene gaze — they didn’t inspire tremendous amounts of suspicion, but they always felt off, like the last note of a song that never quite reaches its crescendo. 

Almost as if it couldn't because the true melody is not there, merely the notes and lyrics being present. 

Still, nothing worth losing sleep over. 

Or so he thought. 

The conversation begins, the words flowing like a flutter of a quiet stream between them, but something shifts in the air. Kisuke feels it before he sees it: a change that’s subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else.

“Ichigo–san, you are always so quick to leave. It seems there’s never enough time, is there?”

Shiba–san groans tiredly in this typical tone of his and Kisuke can feel the corners of his mouth twitch. “There is never enough time with all the paperwork. You know how it is when the time of Academy graduations rolls around, Aizen–san,” he replies and despite the general amiability of his attitude, there is something strange in the phrasing. 

An unconscious manner, that accompanies the way he accentuates the lieutenant’s of the Fifth name, like it might have as well altered the structure of his bones. Not fear, no, but something darker, colder and much less forgiving. 

Kisuke feels something odd stirring in his gut. 

Doubtlessly, he would have missed that. Has it not been for their budding relationship, he would have not taken a note of this at all but for all that it is a curious revelation, Kisuke knows not the reason it seems so important. 

The rest of the conversation carries on with similar friendliness, nothing else appearing to be out of ordinary. Aizen, for his part, doesn’t even react all that much. He simply listens and offers responses of his own, utmost polite. 

“Ah, well, don't let me keep you, Ichigo–san. It would be, after all, rather unfortunate to lose track of a few souls and allow their potential waste, wouldn't it?” Aizen says, giving Shiba–san a slight bow as he pivots on his heel and departs for the night, offering the same courtesy to him by the door that Kisuke barely manages to return in time, his gaze still glued to his lieutenant that has not moved an inch. 

The words landed like a weight, it would seem. 

The smile that accompanied them was knowing, like Aizen had already seen the end of this conversation, already knew how it would play out.

Shiba–san takes a step back, belatedly, as though he’s been struck by a sudden realization. His eyes flicker to where the Fifth’s second in–command has just disappeared through the door, landing on Kisuke for the briefest of moments but it is as though his eyes are unseeing, as if he is looking right through Kisuke and not at him. 

That flicker — Kisuke knows it for what it is. The alternation is subtle, but it’s there. It’s like a glass breaking just below the surface, a crack that will not be seen by anyone else.

Without another word, Shiba–san spins, his footsteps sharp and fast as he moves, the echo of his retreating pace cutting through the room like a storm's first gust. 

Kisuke stands there for a moment longer, the weight of what just happened sinking into his mind along with the all–encompassing silence. He can’t fully make sense of it — not yet. But something in Shiba–san has changed, shifted beyond feasible recognition. Something that was not there before for Kisuke to see, something that has come alive beneath the surface, buried deep in between the way he uttered Aizen’s name and his abrupt departure.

Kisuke’s eyes narrow. 

Whatever had just transpired between them, it wasn’t just a simple conversation, regardless of what has been showcased. It was a warning, must have been, perhaps even a threat. 

It is another piece of the professedly unsolvable puzzle that Shiba Ichigo makes, one that does not exactly fit everything he has known until this point. 

For now, however, all he can do is helplessly and somewhat witlessly watch as Shiba–san disappears into the distance, his pace still hurried, like the air itself might be too heavy to breathe. 

☆☆☆☆☆

It's a rare instance, for him to regret not being more of his father's son than his mother's child. 

See, the thing is, Ichigo was not born into this particular repertoire of deceit. 

A puppet cannot just simply become a puppeteer, no matter how desperately it wishes to break free of its strings, he realises that now. He has always been an actor, the main performer in the play of divinity's Theatrum Mundi. But now, in the heart of this endless storm, he is expected to take the pen. How could he? How can he shift from playing a role to commanding the play, when all he knows is to follow?

A chess piece does not belong on the board of checkers, a king of a land forgotten by time cannot lead the kingdom of cadavers. 

And yet, here Ichigo is, broken shards of something that once mattered, surrounded by people who are little more than a seed of the ones he put his life for on the line more times than he is capable of counting and he is just so, so tired of it all.

Of holding onto those gruesome, twisted secrets when this contradicts his nature so greatly. Ichigo cannot even lie well for Soul King's sake. He cannot scheme, cannot pull strings in the shadows. His heart is not built for deception, yet here he is, buried beneath it. All the secrets, all the lies, all the manipulations he has to wear like a mask, and none of them fit him. 

He knows how to offer them his shoulder to lean on when they find it too taxing to stand on their own trembling legs, how to stretch out his fatigued arms to catch them when they stumble; knows how to love each and every one of them with everything he is and ever had. 

The first news of Shinigami disappearances reach them barely a few days after the meeting, causing a tidal wave of unease to travel through the entirety of Gotei’s corps. The whispers ripple through the ranks like a cold wind, unsettling the air. 

Ichigo cannot even fault Kaien for hovering around him, regardless of how aggravating he finds it. 

Another team of lower seated officers is dispatched to discover the potential threat or cause of the inexplicable vanishing. Ichigo already knows that they will not find anything. 

What he did not expect however, is that they will not return either, consumed into nothingness, with only scraps of clothing to be brought back to their families as the last remnants of their loved ones. 

They were from his division. They were of the Twelfth and he was so sure that it would be an easy one too, judging from the description of it, as he passed it on without so much as a thought. And perhaps it was but it is not the mission that took them away. 

Ichigo feels the ground underneath his feet crack, Aizen’s words to him playing in his mind on constant replay. 

He was so convinced he has been making a true difference, changing what appeared to be forsaken and condemned that he has allowed himself to slip. Let himself bask a touch too long in the ephemeral warmth of Urahara’s friendship, in the quiet moments that have whispered oaths of peace. 

But peace is a lie, always has been. 

Ichigo knows what it means to be a soldier on a battlefield where everything is hopeless but duty is the only certainty you have; it's in your hands and you have to carry it out until the very end. 

And yet he has forgotten the taste of it, the sting of responsibility, and now those he could not protect are scattered like ashes in the wind. The guilt wraps around him, cold and unyielding, like chains that won’t loosen no matter how much he wills his lungs to grasp at air. 

It’s my fault, he thinks self–deprecatingly, a hollow truth that rings through him with a merciless resonance that will just not fade. 

He should have stayed sharp, kept his eyes on the horizon, but instead, he had let the calm lull him into a false sense of security. Now, the faces of the lost flicker like stars that will never burn again, and the silence presses in around him as the knowledge of what he didn’t do scratches at his insides. 

With a detached sort of finality, he sends a Jigokuchō to Urahara. He cannot return to his duties. He cannot. Not like this, a complete and utter mess of a person he makes in that moment. 

And isn't it so strange, that the first instinct leads him here to this place. It's a haven, almost, though the word catches the essence of the significance only partially, briefly even, scraping at the surface of depth of worth it holds in Ichigo's heart. 

(Home, clings to his thoughts ridiculously enough, but it cannot be, he lost it along with his sisters’ blood, soaked into the arid ground.

There is no home for him, not yet. Not ever, perhaps.)

He spent all of a handful of years actually living at the compound which may as well be close to nothing when compared to the literal decades spent inhabiting the division’s barracks but it is still the closest thing to holding a significance to what his house, his home in Karakura held.

So Ichigo wallows, lost in the mire of everything he’s failed to save, everything he has lost. His hands are stained with it — the blood of those who trusted him then and now. He has never been enough. 

He yearns for his mother's grave more than ever before, the comfort of this hard, rough, inexorable, voiceless stone that he begged for forgiveness until he could not speak anymore. 

Kuukaku, however, appears to have very little tolerance for self–piteous behaviours. "Alright, out with it, brat," she says, her tone like a crack of thunder, cutting through the fog of his thoughts as she approaches him on one of more secluded decks of the Shiba clan compound. 

Ichigo makes a questioning vague noise, not lifting his head to meet her gaze from where it is perched on one of his folded knees, his other leg swinging over the edge of it. "Out with what?" 

"Don't play cute with me, you know exactly what I'm talking about," she retorts in a no–bullshit tone, her face pinched in a frown as she takes a seat next to him on the hard wooden panels.

He doesn't know why the words fall from his mouth. 

But they do and oh if it isn't a spectacular catastrophe. 

“People from my division died. I could’ve saved them... and they—” he wavers, his throat tight. “They died,” and it tears out of him on a sharp exhale, just a tiptoe away from a sob.

Kuukaku takes one long look at him. She's assessing him, Ichigo realises, searching for something rather specific with her steadfast stare that does nothing to betray the nature of her pondering. 

Yet, before Ichigo can backtrack, pass this vulnerability off as a whim of not a lofty importance with a blithe chuckle, Kuukaku’s slender hand wraps itself around the back of his neck and she pulls his head down to rest against her chest. 

"Stupid boy," she chastises with her lips against his forehead, but it's not unkind. "You are too young by a millennia to be a hallowed martyr," is what follows right after, so terribly tender that his chest collapses and all the acid of secrets that lie beneath his tongue nearly unfurls. 

Ichigo wants to laugh with the ugliness of mania and hysteria all at once, because he has never known how to be anything more than that; how to be more than the haunting weariness in his bones and permanent cracks in the porcelain of his soul. 

“What if this is all I can be?” he utters, the words more a question to the void than to her. 

“No one is born just to die for others,” she demurs sternly, her hold on him tightening. 

“Aren't they?”

“No, and Ichigo look at me when I say this— you don't have to be perfect," she adds quietly, her voice now almost a whisper, like speaking any louder would just disperse it all into something unsalvageable. "You don't have to save everyone. Not today. Not tomorrow. You just have to keep going. For yourself. For the ones still here.” 

"But," he protests weakly, his voice trembling on the edge of breaking. "What am I supposed to do? If I can’t protect them, if I can’t—”

“No. I don't care. You are one of mine, just as much as Kaien and Ganju are,” Kuukaku continues, her hand still resting on his neck, her eyes searching his face as if looking for the crack in his armor, the part of him that’s still willing to believe in what she’s saying. “You're here and you are a part of this family and you will not play a hero or Soul King help me, I will figure out how necromancy works and I will bring you back to life just to kill you myself.”

“That makes no sense,” he gasps out in an incredulous laugh. 

“Oh, you trying to tell me you want to try this out right now?” she mocks and Ichigo vehemently shakes his head which causes her lips to twitch in a weak smile. “Promise me,” she says a moment later, “promise me I will not see you in a casket,” and it's desperate. 

And the most cruel thing of all is that Ichigo will lie to her as well, as he has done before to many others. 

Maybe, he is his father's son more than he thought. 

So Ichigo swallows it down. The fear. The doubt. The guilt. The what–ifs. He shoves it all back down into the pit of his stomach where it cannot be seen, where it cannot tear her apart the way it is devouring him.

It's the most callous kind of mercy he can offer. 

“I promise,” Ichigo rasps out with ash in his mouth and this might just choke him because it's the greatest curse of love. 

Kuukaku says nothing to this, giving him a mere nod of her head in acknowledgement and a sweet kiss to his temple that feels a bit too much like grief, like a farewell or perhaps just a fool’s hope. Ichigo cannot help but wonder if she knows it is not an oath he can keep. 

She does not let go, her grip not relenting even when Kaien stumbles upon them hours later, the sun nearly gone from the sky. He gazes at them mutely before he too joins them into this quasi–cuddle pile, occupying the free space on Ichigo's other side. 

The cold is biting into his skin but it's the warmest, the most homely Ichigo has felt in a very long time. 

Home, the twilight’s wind sings but he is not close to brave enough to bestow it with that name. 

You cannot change the world if you don't try, if you don't throw your back into it, bleed out your worth for all to see as you stand there ready to fight and die for the streets you dare to call your own. 

Ichigo has done a lot of bleeding, forever devoted to his mother's greatest gift, his name and his role. This is who he is as a person, always has been and will not ever cease to be, not then and not now. 

And Ichigo knows in that moment just what he needs to do, even if it will be his ruin, because each and every single one of these people are all the last fucking bits of Ichigo's heart and he will not lose them. 

☆☆☆☆☆

Kisuke sits in his office, the soft golden light of the late afternoon spilling across the room like liquid, catching the edges of scattered paperwork and forgotten ideas for inventions. He swirls his tea, lost in thought, the quiet hum of the Seireitei beyond the window, a distant murmur that only deepens the silence within him. 

Yoruichi–san is settled effortlessly on the windowsill, watching him with an amused smile, her amber eyes glimmering with mischief. 

"You’ve been brooding a lot lately," she observes, her voice light and teasing, a sudden interruption to his musings. "What’s got you so tangled up this time?"

Kisuke’s gaze lifts to meet hers, and in a spur of momentarily insanity, he nearly considers deflecting with a nonsensical of some kind. But this is Yoruichi and he may be more than simply decent in the deception department, it is not exactly possible for him to outwit her. Pitiful, truly pitiful. 

But then again, blurting out that Shiba–san has been avoiding me and I don't know what to do, falls a tad bit too closely to sounding like a true petulant nature of a child. 

Then he wonders if he should mention all these times he has caught — though the word feels a bit inadequate in terms of description but for the lack of a better choice it shall do — Shiba–san sitting on a windowsill on the far end of one of the division's barracks corridors, zanpakuto clutched in his hand tightly as if he was keeping vigil.

How he seems to be slowly but steadily withering away, his skin turning from the delicate tan to the most awfully sickening shades of white, nearing the state of transparency more and more every single day.  

How barely a week ago he noticed that Shiba–san is walking around with an impressive limp in his step that is most definitely not a side effect of actions more amorous and lustful in their nature, if the scent of gore that persists on his skin is anything to go by. 

How it all began after more and more reports of missing officers have turned up, how it becomes no less than glaringly obvious that someone has exceptional amounts of teremity in conducting experiments or tests of some kind, and they appear suspiciously similar to his own research. 

How this all has to be related but the intricacies of it are still bloodcurdlingly unknown and it is just hopeless. 

With a quiet sigh, Kisuke settles on something that falls closer to the former and counters with an inquiry of his own, "What steps should one take when you are certain someone has been deliberately avoiding you, and the reasons for their behavior remain unclear?”

Yoruichi–san’s eyebrow arches, interest clearly piqued, but her playful tone never dithers. "Avoiding you? The master of all schemes and subtlety, outwitted by a mere mortal? Who may this great sorcerer be?”

"Shiba–san," he says, the name coming out like a quiet confession. 

The mirth cedes to bemusement. “Kaien? I didn't know you were close like that.”

“What? No, my lieutenant, Shiba Ichigo,” he clarifies and belatedly realises he fell trap into another one of Yoruichi–san’s jests as she must have known who he meant, just wanted him to say it out loud. Ridiculous, Kisuke thinks as he adds, "He’s been avoiding me. For almost a month now."

Yoruichi–san hums thoughtfully. “Isn't it Academy graduation time? Most of the lieutenants are busy during that time of the year. How do you know he's been actually avoiding you?”

Kisuke sighs, the weight of the question settling heavier than he expected. “I am unsure how else I ought to interpret him bolting out of the room whenever I walk in. I mean it quite literally, this is the fastest shunpo I have witnessed, besides yours. He does not even force me to do my paperwork and does it all himself,” he laments and the room feels impossibly still. 

“Honestly, Kisuke, I think you might just be the only person in a whole wide Seireitei that would complain about someone not forcing them to do paperwork,” Yoruichi–san taunts but her gaze softens, the mocking edge fading into something more understanding. She slides off the windowsill, moving toward him with her trademark elegant grace. 

Kisuke offers her an unimpressed grumble. “I'm serious, Yoruichi–san.”

“I know,” she quips back. “I don't think I have ever seen you like that. He's good for you, you know.” And it is so soft in its genuity, Urahara has duck his head as he averts his eyes. 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he says, “Thank you, but that does not quite solve my problem.”

"That's because you’re gawking at it like it’s a puzzle that can’t be solved, Kisuke," Yoruichi says, her voice light but steady. "But you’re forgetting the simplest answer.”

“Which is…?”

“I swear, for someone so smart you are rather emotionally inept, you know?” She responds instead and Kisuke makes a vague noise of protest that she blatantly ignores. “Talk to him, Kisuke. With words.”

Kisuke’s eyes flicker with a brief, uncomfortable hesitation. "But what if he doesn’t want to talk?" His fingers absently trace the edge of his cup, as if trying to find an answer in the porcelain.

Yoruichi’s lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, like that ever stopped you before.”

“Excuse you, I am nothing if not courteous—”

“Are you? Need I remind you that one time you—” 

“No, I'm good, actually, thank you very much for the advice, I hope we shall never see each other again.”

Yoruichi watches him, her grin softening once more, and she makes herself comfortable on the side of his desk, her tone no longer playful but earnest. "Kisuke, you’ve been waiting in silence, expecting him to come to you.”

Kisuke looks away, his eyes distant, caught somewhere between doubt and frustration. "It’s not that simple. I’m afraid that if I push him too much, he’ll just... drift away for good."

Yoruichi leans forward, her gaze sharp and unwavering. "And if you don’t reach out, Kisuke, you might never know. Sometimes, you have to be the one to break the silence. Not with schemes, not with masks— just with words."

Kisuke lets her words linger in the air between them, and it is nigh vanquishing on him with all the things unspoken. His fingers stilled on the cup.There’s a long silence as Kisuke finally lets out a slow breath, his gaze returning to the window, as if searching for something beyond the glass. The weight of her words presses on him, and for the first time in days, he feels the stirrings of clarity.

"I don’t want to lose him," he admits, his voice quieter now, a soft admission of a truth he’s been reluctant to face.

Because isn't it so peculiar? To admit loss as a fright. It has not been a problem before, the prevention of it not anywhere close to the list of priorities and now it seems not unlike a part of survival.  

Yoruichi’s smile returns, but it’s gentle, like the glow of the evening sun. "Then don’t," she says with a shrug, like it is simple just like that. “It will take some work but if he is at least half as worth it as you make him out to be then all you have to do is try.”

It's not a solve–it–all solution. But it is a start, a something that he may be capable of utilising and if it can restore what he and Shiba–san have had before then it might as well be the greatest invention humankind has ever seen. 

"Thank you, Yoruichi–san," he says sincerely, and it's calm yet filled to the brim with something deeper, something new.

Yoruichi watches him, the playful glint never fading from her eyes. "Just don't screw it up. I can’t promise I’ll be around to bail you out.”

Kisuke gives her a wry smile. “Your faith in me is truly inspiring.”

“See, it's almost like you want me to remind you of that one time—” 

“Yoruichi–san, I swear on all that you hold dear, do not—”

☆☆☆☆☆

Of course he got swamped with a wave of hollows that is just on this side of overwhelming, and while they were not the perfected version of monsters of Aizen's creation that he had battled every other breath a lifetime ago, not yet, their thirst for blood and reiryoku was no lesser. 

So here he is, not for the first time staggering his way through the silent corridors, his movements sluggish, blundering. His left arm hangs loosely at his side, blood soaking through what is left of his uniform and dripping onto the floor, a slow, steady rhythm that doesn’t quite match the beat of his heart. His body trembles, every step taken like a struggle to even remain standing.  

The moon hangs low in the sky, its pale light seeping through windows of the division’s barracks and it serves as his only source of light. 

Zangetsu has been yelling warnings in his head for the past few minutes but his voice is nothing more than a distant murmur in his head, drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He can feel the pain in his shoulder like an inferno, searing deep, but the haziness of fatigue clouds everything — his thoughts, his senses, everything except the certainty that he has to keep moving. 

He should have listened to Zangetsu. 

Ichigo stumbles again, a hand shooting out to catch the wall for balance as the world tilts dangerously and he barely manages to catch himself in time. 

"What on Soul King happened to you, Shiba–san?"

Well, fuck. 

This what I have been trying to fucking warn ya about, ya stupid fuck. Next time I'm the damn driver. 

Ichigo cringes at Zangetsu's shouts before he tries to school his expression into something a bit more indifferent, hoping the shadows are capable of providing enough coverage. 

"I'm fine, Taichou. It looks worse than it really is," he says as nonchalantly as it is possible to do so while doing his damndest to reign in the trembling. Somewhere, in the more conscious part of his mind, a question arises of why Urahara is there at this time. Unwonted occurrence, but the shreds of awareness he clings to by a thread are not remotely enough for a conclusion of any kind to form. 

“Oh, really?” Urahara asked dryly, eyes narrowing as he glanced from Ichigo’s shoulder to the small puddle of blood that has pooled on the floor. “You mean to tell me that the fact I can nearly see through your shoulder is just a play of light?"

“Yes?”

Urahara steps closer. Instinctively, Ichigo makes a small move backwards. 

“Shiba–san—” Kisuke starts in reprimand, but Ichigo quickly interjects. 

“I'm fine, taichou, no need to worry. It's just a small nick, really. You should go back to sleep.”

Urahara scoffs and it feels somewhat strange to witness that. “And wake up to the sight of your fresh carcass? I think not.”

“It's not that bad—”

“Pardon my bluntness, but there is a quite literal hole in your shoulder, how is that not bad—”

“I'm fine, really, it's nothing that I cannot handle by myself,” he insists, forceful in his denial. But then he leans away from the wall and one wobbly step later he comes crashing down into the floor once more. 

Moron, Zangetsu hisses in the back of his mind. 

A swoosh of shunpo and a pair of cool palms, one on the small of his back and the other just a silver above his left hip are what saves him from landing onto the hard wood face first, gentle yet firm enough to not even touch the territory of wavering. 

“Would you perhaps be willing to accept the help now?” Urahara asks in dry tones as he maneuvers him so that his good arm is now draped over his shoulders. 

The hand on his left side has not moved an inch. Ichigo shouldn't be this aware of it.

Probably. 

It must be delirium hitting him. 

Ya should accept it, y’know, Zangetsu murmurs.

Why? You won't be able to heal this on your own in a few hours?

Normally I would be, but some damn moron decided to reach new heights of stupidity by stopping both eating and sleeping on top of overworking and fighting himself to exhaustion every damn night so I'm sorry if my hands are a bit busy trying to keep ya fucking alive—

Alright, alright, message received. 

“Shiba–san?”

“Alright, fine, yes. Knock yourself out,” Ichigo mutters, surrendering with a sigh, allowing his muscles to relax into a slump. Urahara's hold on him only appears to strengthen at the motion. “Just don't drag me to the Fourth.”

“I would not dare help you to the place where you could receive proper medical attention,” Urahara replies mildly as he slowly moves them through the hall. Ichigo chooses not to dignify him with an answer. 

“Do you have what is needed in your room or should we head to mine?” the other asks once they finally reach the door to Ichigo's quarters. 

“Yeah, I should have everything.”

Urahara inclines his head in assent. “Very well.”

Once inside, Urahara helps him to carefully descend onto the soft mattress of his bed so as to not aggravate his wound even further. Then he leans towards Ichigo's desk and flickers on the small lamp standing on it. Immediately, the room is bathed in the soft light, casting long shadows that stretch like specters across the walls.

Urahara turns and with Ichigo's guidance, he moves across the room to crouch by one of the cabinets, rummaging through it as he searches for what will be required to properly dress his injury. 

“We will need to remove your shihakusho, I think, and clean that wound before anything else,” he says as he draws nearer and Ichigo’s breath hitches. “Shiba–san…?”

Ichigo clears his throat awkwardly, averting his eyes. “I— yeah, but— you are not allowed to be weird about it, okay?”

Urahara blinks at him, clearly bewildered but he slowly nods his understanding anyway. “Of course,” he reassures and Ichigo offers him a faint, feeble smile in return before he shifts around. 

With that, Urahara settles on the bed behind him, moving careful, deft hands as he pulls the torn fabric away from his skin. His touch is swift, but precise, never wavering even as the tremors in Ichigo’s body betray his weariness. Despite the affirmation, Ichigo still anticipated any, even the slightest and smallest of indications of mortified surprise at the sight of the mosaic of scarred flesh painted on his back, the undeniable testament of fought battles and losses borne alike, but none of it ever comes. 

Urahara simply works undismayed, meticulous and efficient, tending to him with care. 

"I don't suppose you would care to share what happened?” Urahara prods, his voice smooth and light but with a detectable thread of concern underneath. “Before the Shiba clan head decides this must be somehow my fault and makes hunting me for sport his new favorite pastime?" 

Ichigo clicks his tongue in distaste. "Kaien won't do shit."

Urahara lets out a low hum in his throat of mirth. "While you sound awfully sure of that, Shiba–san, I'm afraid I cannot take your word for granted. It would do no good to underestimate Shiba–sama’s protective instincts."

Ichigo grimaces. “It gives me hives when you speak of him like that.”

“Shiba–san.”

Ichigo moves to turn, to argue his dissent, "Taichou," but the touch on his shoulder suddenly halts and two firm hands settle on his waist keeping him from moving. 

"I’ll be very cross If you undo all of my work," Urahara scolds but it's quiet, almost gentle, before he removes his palms and continues, "I still do not know how you manage to make this title sound like an insult."

"Says the guy who makes most random words sound like euphemisms," Ichigo retorts with an echo of a snort, face pulling into a wince when Urahara's hands wander into a particularly tender area. "It should be linguistically illegal, what you do."

Urahara hums again as responds in a somewhat absentminded tone, "I know all of the escape routes out of the Maggots Nest. I would escape and continue committing linguistic crimes anyway."

“Right, Detention Unit. But would you know how to escape from Muken?”

“What makes you think they would be able to catch me, Shiba–san?”

Ichigo only snorts and shakes his head in amusement. He wants to loathe it, how easily is to just fall into this banter, despite the month's worth of radio silence on his part. 

The quiet hangs between them, thick like fog, broken only by the steady rhythm of Urahara’s hands. There’s no hesitation in his touch, yet something about his movements speaks of an underlying worry even louder than his previous enquiry — something that Ichigo wishes he could ignore, but it’s there, woven into the older man’s every action.

Urahara finishes, the wound is wrapped now, the tight bandages a stark reminder of the fragility of his body. Ichigo flinches only slightly when he pulls away, wondering if the way Urahara's fingers linger just a heartbeat too long on his skin can be attributed solely to his imagination and then scolds himself for stupid thoughts. 

Delirium, it has to be delirium. 

Still, Ichigo can feel the rawness of the moment hanging in the air as he cautiously moves around to face him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, the words coming out far more awkwardly than he intends.

“So,” Urahara’s voice is quieter now, more contemplative as he cleans up the supplies from the bed, "do you want to tell me now just what is it you are doing in the Rukongai that gets you beat up this bad?" 

"It's nothing. I just... help out the locals from time to time. It's the least I can do."

Urahara's brows knit into a frown at the admission and with a sick sort of fascination Ichigo observes how the lines of his face arrange into grim variance. "We have team assigned missions for that. You need not risk yourself so much."

"They wouldn't approve that many missions out into the Rukon,” Ichigo shoots back, frustration rising to the surface, making his words sharp.

“Then we will find another way,” Urahara insists. 

“There is no other way.”

“You expect me to idly watch you waste in front of my eyes for what? What is there that makes you so willing to throw yourself away?”

Ichigo sighs, a soft resignation to it all. "Urahara–taichou…"

"Ichigo," Urahara counters and all of the fight in Ichigo freezes. The other’s hand is fisted in the material of his bed sheets, the clutch unrelenting. 

There are two separate times that Ichigo can recall his given name passing through his Urahara's lips, and each of them has been the nearest to death either of them has ever come. 

Urahara inches nearer and Ichigo's soul demands he run. 

His ceaselessly bleeding heart stays stubbornly in place instead. 

"Do I truly need to beg for you to see value in yourself?" Ura— Kisuke pleads, the weight of something unspoken in the air. 

Ichigo’s smile is hollow, as bittersweet as it is apologetic. "There are things bigger than you or I."

"Of course there are.”

Ichigo turns his face away, his breath caught. “So no need to worry. Not about me.”

“I don’t think that’s for you to decide,” Kisuke demurs, his voice low, a quiet river of apprehension pushing its way through the dam of his frustration. 

Ichigo’s eyes flicker briefly toward Kisuke, like a bird unsure of its perch. He shrugs, the motion jagged. “I can handle it,” he retorts like a broken record. The lie hangs in the air like smoke, curling and twisting, suffocating whatever space might have been left for understanding. 

“You don’t have to carry this weight alone. Whatever it is, it is not something you have to shoulder by yourself.”

Ichigo feels something sharp press against his chest — an unbearable weight, a vulnerability he refuses to acknowledge. His heart thrashes beneath the walls he has built, but he will not let it show, no matter how gut–wrenching it feels. Somehow, Ichigo manages to find it in himself to harden. Just enough to meet Kisuke’s gaze steadily, but with no softness left in his eyes. Only a coldness that morphs the atmosphere between them into pure ice. 

Maybe this will ruin them. 

Maybe, there is no coming back from this point once he takes that step.

Maybe, it's the only thing he can do to successfully protect both Kisuke and all the people he cherished if everything goes to shit because he refuses to be the reason for their downfall. 

“I’m done,” he proclaims, the timbre of his voice coloured with finality and hostility, as though the mere act of saying it will erase everything else. “I appreciate your help but I am done with this conversation and with whatever the hell you think we have going on. It's none of your damn business what I do in my private time as long as it doesn't compromise our division so get the fuck out.”

And for what feels like an eternity, Ichigo almost suspects that Kisuke will fight him on this, that he will not budge, choosing to continue their quibble instead. Hopes for it even, in some more traitorous fragment of his foolish heart, because that's what the future Kisuke would have done. 

But then the other man scrambles away as if burned, his eyes clouding with hurt that goes deeper than just this moment, because the same soul or not, they can still be quite different at times. 

Especially after a century long banishment. 

This turns out to be one of them apparently. “Alright,” Kisuke concedes, terrifyingly vacant. The guilt gnaws at Ichigo. “If that is what you truly wish for.”

Through the lump in his throat, Ichigo presses on. “Yes, for the love of Soul King, get a damn hint and do fuck off.”

“Very well then. I apologise for forgetting my place and overstepping, Shiba–dono,” Kisuke utters and then promptly pivots on his heel. Without casting him a parting glance, he leaves the room with Ichigo's heart in his hands, his sunken shoulders steeped in the shadows that Ichigo has not seen embrace him in over two decades and heaviness of regret settles into his bones in an instant. 

Stay, Ichigo wants to beg of him but the words die in between the crevices of his mouth, too large and pricey to be uttered. Stay forever, please.

The vile thing about love is that, at its core, it's fear. It's all the equal parts desperation and helplessness as his soul reaches for that which he cannot have. 

Ichigo sags, and the pain in his shoulder suddenly feels far greater than it did before — like something else is cracking inside of him, something more fragile than his body, something that could never heal. 

The rain remains howling in his ribcage for the remainder of the night. 

Chapter Text

"I don't like you," Hiyori–san says loudly, no other greeting in sight as she kicks the doors to the lab open with a resounding bang, causing more than just a few heads to turn in her direction, the majority of them adorned by a picturesque wince. 

Kisuke too, turns in her direction and blinks at her as she rapidly approaches, before offering her a slow, unsure nod of his head. "I– well, yes, I would not dare to assume otherwise. And good morning to you too, Hiyori–san," he says, turning back to the vials with liquid in front of him, letting out an approving hum when he gets the anticipated effect. 

"I don't like you,” she repeats with an edge of a sneer and Kisuke takes a short glance at her, “so don't you dare think this changes anything. You are still an ass and I want you gone but—" she grunts out, taking a brief pause as she averts her eyes, suddenly coming off as somewhat bashful. “I have a favour to ask.”

Kisuke makes a confused sound in the back of his throat. “A favour? What could a humble scientist such as myself possibly offer you?” 

"It's about Ichigo."

And how can it be fair, that just syllables can make everything in him freeze, clutching at his longing? 

Kisuke hums again, leaning down to turn the page of the small notebook on the table, scribbling down his observations, if only to have something to do with his restless hands. "What about him?" he asks once he finishes writing, giving her another sideways glance. 

Hiyori gapes at him not unlike one would at a particularly inept person. Rude. "Are you seriously trying to tell me you didn't notice?” she inquires, but it is more of a half–demand, really. “That stupid fuck has been running himself into the ground and you—” 

Kisuke’s tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, his hand subconsciously tightening on his pen before he interjects, maybe a touch more sharply than he intends. But this wound is still raw, merely a few days old so the sting of it at the mention is still actue. "I'm uncertain what sort of action you would like me to take regarding this situation, Hiyori–san. Shiba–dono—” 

Hiyori–san’s face twists into a grimace. “What the hell, why are you calling him such a stuffy geezer name—” 

“Shiba–dono,” he emphasises, unable to hold back the scornful thread that lies underneath, “is a fully functional adult. Not only that, he has also made it abundantly clear that my interference is undesired."

"If you really think that he meant it then you are an even bigger idiot than I thought," Hiyori replies with a scoff. 

“Perhaps he has not,” he concedes with a slight incline of his head in assent, because it could be true. Because sometimes, words do not carry any value at all. But then sometimes, words are the only thing that has ever truly mattered. “Yet, I only know what he has told me and I cannot force him into confiding in me. Neither can I play a guessing game of whether a subordinate is sincere in their dislike of me or not, Hiyori–san,” he explains placidly and it is a disgusting lie. 

Or well, maybe it is not a lie, but it is not even remotely close to the truth either. 

This only scratches the surface of the true reasons behind his hesitation, a tiny fraction of a much larger issue. Revealing it would be reckless and foolish, likely leading to too many uncomfortable questions that Kisuke would rather avoid. It’s not that he doubts Hiyori's reliability; rather, he simply doesn’t trust her.

The disastrous conversation he had with Ichi— Shiba–dono, he mentally corrects himself — has only solidified his suspicions that someone has found themselves daring to conduct experiments on actual Shinigami. 

(He tries to steer away from the gnawing of thoughts of the orb of energy hidden away from the most curious of eyes, the thrum of its power that gives life but appears to be just as willing to take it and how it entices you to intertwine your heart with greed for power, consumption, to devour—

How it petrified him to hold it in his hands and to think someone must have been utilising something similar to satisfy their ambitions?) 

They are trial runs only, as far as he can deduct, but it will not be long before the hunger for knowledge strikes again and the preliminary tests won't be capable of providing satiety anymore. 

Kisuke can't dismiss his lieutenant's increased activity in the areas of Rukongai where shinigami have gone missing as mere coincidence. 

He wishes to believe that the Shiba Ichigo — full of blunt kindness, witty mischief, and this quiet, dependable strength — is not a mirage of sorts but a true, living breathing thing. Yet, the harsh facts remain; this man could be entangled in horrific deeds, possibly cleaning the blood from his hands even now. 

In the past, the choice would have been obvious. Duty has always laid above nearly everything else, loyalty to the higher power instilled in him back in the days where each day was a battle of survival. 

But Kisuke has become a selfish, selfish man and the mere, bare thought of confrontation feels not unlike staring into an abyss; entirely gruesome in its devastation. 

So, he clings to silence, an unwilling guardian of the illusion, hoping to preserve the image of a man he so desperately wants to put his faith in, even as the truth waits, a tempest just beyond the horizon. It looms like a jagged knife, ready to sever the tender threads of affection. And Kisuke has learned over the course of those past two decades, that love, can be a quite fragile bloom. 

He has already made the mistake by misjudging his relationship with Shiba–dono. He does not want the knowing — loving — Shiba Ichigo to turn out to be another one. 

“Oi asshole, are you listening to me?”

Shaken out of his stupor, Kisuke blinks slowly at Hiyori and gives her an apologetic smile. “My apologies. I seem to have lost myself in my musings.”

“So that lab coat of yours is just for show. Figures that you would be both stupid and useless.”

“Oh my, it appears my terrible secret has been discovered,” Kisuke says, voice nigh reeking of faux–cheer as he offers her a wide smile, “I do quite enjoy dressing up.”

Hiyori–san looks positively murderous and Kisuke is quite convinced that if looks could kill, he would be at the Fourth pushing up Unohana–taichou’s beloved gardenias yesterday. "Just— do something. You two made our division into a parody of literal fucking children of divorce so at least fix that." As absurd as it sounds, this is a rather accurate comparison of their current predicament, he has to give her that. 

Kisuke heaves a fatigued sigh. “I already told you, Hiyori–san, that there is nothing I can do.”

“So you are a coward,” she snaps back with an echo of incredulous laughter bubbling up. And while it is not entirely a sentiment he disagrees with because yes, he is craven, even if her conviction has its source in different conclusions, but he still rises to a protest. 

“Hiyori–san—” he starts but she doesn't appear to be wanting to listen to him any longer. 

“You are a coward,” she repeats, unrestrained in her blazing fury. "And you don't deserve his love.”

Distantly, something shatters. 

“That,” Kisuke grits out, his mind barely registering how the pen in his hands breaks just so from the pressure, “is enough.”

“No,” she demures derisively, arms crossed over her chest and there is fire in her eyes too, “you will never be good enough for him and you need to fucking realise that.”

In any other circumstances, perhaps he would have stopped to calculate his next move, to resolve this in a way that is not calamitous in its vulnerability. But a wounded animal only knows how to viciously bite in order to protect itself and so Kisuke leans down to be more on her level, if only to spare himself even more shame. 

He hopes that his eyes do not show the hurt that is naked in his soul. 

“I can accept your dislike of me, Hiyori–san, and your insults. But I will not take you being so cruel and lying to me,” Kisuke utters far too calmly for such open admission, allowing a tinge of Benihime’s less than amicable animus to breach the surface of his reiatsu, relishing the flicker of faltering in hers. 

But Sarugaki Hiyori may just be the most contrary person he has had the unfortunate pleasure to meet. “Who the fuck do you think you are calling a liar fuckface—”

“It was lovely to speak with you, Hiyori–san. Same time next week?” he cuts her off jovially with a blinding smile as he straightens his back, inch by inch, each of them excruciating.

“Fuck you,” Hiyori bites out and promptly pivots on her heel, stomping towards the door, causing every person in her path to quickly shuffle to the side. 

But just as her hand lands on the door handle, her shoulders sag and she speaks quietly, almost gently, and it is so uncannily out of character that it borders on eerie. "He's always been like this, you know, it's how he tries to protect others because he is a moron. I thought—” she stops for half a heartbeat, though it seems somewhere closer to eternity. “I thought you would be at least smart enough to realise that,” she murmurs, shaking her head lightly, “but I guess not. Maybe it means that I'm the idiot, for letting you get so close to him."

It is terrible, awful, no–good, how her words are carrying whispers of improbable implications, sweet things that can never aspire to be more than wistful wishes; it is unbearable but somehow, Kisuke cannot find it in himself to make his chagrin be heard once more. Even he owns more dignity to not just outright beg for mercy again. 

The doors shut with a barely audible click after her, yet somehow, it feels nearly deafening as it rings in his ears along with the heavy thumps of his heart. 

A shattered breath that rattles his chest, quick sweep of an eye on the room and then a hushed, pleading, “Please get back to work everyone,” is all Kisuke can bring himself to do. 

If anyone takes a note of the slight tremor in his hands, well, they are either kind or not brave enough to make a mention of it. 

☆☆☆☆☆

“Are ya dying?” Shinji asks from where he is perched on the windowsill in the office. His office, which is the exact place he should not be. 

Ichigo closes the door slowly before turning around to grace Shinji with a raised eyebrow. “Don't you have a division to run?” he counters dryly instead of replying, sauntering over to his desk to drop the pile of reports in his hands. 

Shinji gives him a lazy shrug. “Sousuke seems ta be doin’ a pretty decent job without me.”

“That's a lot of words for admitting to be lazy,” Ichigo quips back, gracelessly falling into his chair, feeling every single cell in his body. His back is one whole crick, his eyes ache, and there's a persistent pressure beating against the inside of his skull as he slumps over his desk. Still, he leans towards the drawers and pulls out a pen, mentally preparing himself for an evening full of filling out page after page of the same old bureaucratic bullcrap. 

“I like ta call it bein’ motivationally challenged. And I, at least, don't look one gust of wind away from topplin’ over.”

Ichigo glares at him and it is not because the jab is inaccurate. “No, I'm not dying,” he grumbles out, heaving a tired sigh. “Why are you here, Hirako?” he inquires, and it comes out with too much vulnerability for his comfort. Getting a good hold of his emotions has been challenging at the very least after his falling out with Kisuke and it's— 

No. He will not think about it. 

Ya do realise that there is no escaping from it, right? Zangetsu taunts from the back of his mind, but it is far more caring than the hollow would have likely preferred him to realise. 

Ichigo chooses to ignore that comment as well. 

Hirako stares at him, unflinchingly scrutinising. But then he flashes a shit–eating grin his way and Ichigo already knows that he will most definitely not like whatever it is that the man is going to say next. 

“Kyouraku challenged me to another drinking contest and someone—” Yep, he hates it. 

Ichigo pinches the bridge of his nose with an aggrieved groan, feeling how the pounding in his head increases by tenfold in a span of milliseconds. “No, I will not—”

“—someone needs ta escort me on my way back. Ta ya know, protect my virtue ‘n all.”

Ichigo makes a politely skeptical noise. “You mean you need a babysitter that will drag your sorry wasted ass back afterwards.”

Hirako winks at him playfully. “Ah, ya know me so well.”

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “And here I thought you were actually worried about me.”

“Ha? Who would be worried about ya when ya are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself?” he drawls and it is unmistakably sarcastic but to deny it would mean he has to incriminate himself. Asshole. 

A quick glance to the papers in front of him and Ichigo can feel himself crumble like a house of cards. “Alright,” he agrees begrudgingly but it is tinted with enough mirth to not come off as mean. “But if you start your rant about chickens again, I will dump you in Kuchiki’s koi fish pond.”

The other waves him off dismissively. “Don't worry, it's gonna be about geese this time.”

“Hirako,” he grumbles out sternly, scowl darkening just so. 

Hirako gives him a completely undignified pout. A very impressive one as well as definitely unbecoming of a captain. “Fine, no theories about bird–like creatures.”

“Thanks.”

“So?" Hirako prods as he leaps off the windowsill and approaches his desk, feigned impatience painted across his face. 

Ichigo blinks. “What, you wanna go now?” 

“Oh no, we can wait until ya finish, if ya need ta do everyone’s work before ya feel satisfied.” 

“I know it's a strongly unfamiliar concept to you but some of us do actually work,” Ichigo bites back. 

“Yeah, work, not overwork. That's just plain masochism,” he retorts. “Although, ya know, I’d never judge anyone's kinks—”

“Shut up,” Ichigo grumbles out with a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips, more hollow than anything, and gets up, heading towards the doors. Hirako is right on his heels, his presence obnoxious in a way that can only be described as a blissful distraction. “Let's go.” 

The bar itself is a quaint little thing, an almost forgotten nook in the wall that whispers of an older era. The floors are wooden and uneven, showing their age with every creak underfoot. Patrons are sparse and familiar, each of them as much a fixture as the rickety furniture. They are all of the kind that wear duty like status to show off, never capable of taking it for what it truly is; a burden. Only a few of them have achievements impressive enough to back this attitude up too. 

Kyouraku is of course already there, as is Ukitake and to his surprise, Yadomaru as well. Ichigo slips onto the chair next to her and without so much as a hello, he inquires, “What are you doing here?”

Yadomaru looks at him with a sardonic smile as she adjusts her glasses. “Someone has to make sure there will still be something left of the Eight’s reputation after tonight,” and well, it is a rather fair point. Ichigo says as much. 

“Lisa–chan, you are so cruel to me,” Kyouraku complains. 

“You did that to yourself,” she throws back, unperturbed, and they launch themselves into a bicker match that causes Hirako to excuse himself to get the drinks. 

“What about you?” she asks a moment later, once the exchange dies out. 

"Same as you, though I am designated guardian of the Fifth's honour," he says and feels the corner of his mouth quirk up at the not entirely subtle snort Ukitake lets out. 

“Hey, I resent that,” Hirako says from behind him as he puts a bottle in front of him. 

“Doesn't make it any less true, though. Now shut the hell up and drink your poison,” Ichigo replies and does not bother to question the contents of his bottle before taking a hefty swing of the liquor, the others following his example soon after. 

He expects the familiar delicate burn of it, to find himself grimacing ever so slightly at the flavour the way he usually does. But the alcohol tastes like charcoal on his tongue and so Ichigo pushes it back towards Hirako who accepts it without any query whatsoever, even as Ichigo offers him a wobbly smile along with the bottle. 

“Are you alright, Shiba–san?” Ukitake asks and Ichigo blinks at him slowly. 

“I will never understand how the two of them can drink this damn swill on a regular basis,” Ichigo grumbles out in response and wishes he could admit to something more than that. And he knows that this is not what Ukitake was getting at but at least being awkwardly allusive about it is one thing he can still manage with relative ease.

Ukitake chuckles lightly and gives the sake in his cup and leisured swirl. “Hm, it does taste like a paint thinner, doesn't it?” he says with an amused twinkle in his eye before lifting the cup up and swallowing a mouthful in tandem with the two drunkards next to them. 

Ichigo and Yadomaru exchange wry glances of exasperation. 

The rest of the night is entirely uneventful, spent mostly on him occasionally chiming in whatever intellectual discussion — gossip, actually, though he doesn't feel like pointing it out loud — Ukitake and Yadomaru are having at the moment and looking over to the captains to see if either of them have reached the floor yet. It doesn't take Hirako and Kyouraku exceptionally long to become equally plastered despite the disparity of their intake and the disparity of their physiques. The sight of them babbling intelligible nonsense between one another with an additional teenager–like squeal or giggle will unfortunately forever remain engraved in his memory. 

It's not… the most terrible way to spend his evening. 

Definitely more enjoyable than running around like a headless chicken trying to figure out the ways to break into Aizen's lab without him suspecting anything or filling out paperwork that seems to be a bottomless pit while trying to ignore the gnawing of guilt. 

He says as much to Ukitake when the man inquires about his fettle again, wisely leaving out the part about Aizen because well, you might never know who's watching after all. 

Hirako lets out a tipsy cackle at that, pointing at Kyouraku who has passed out at some point and is now lazily draped around Ukitake’s shoulders. “At least ya don't got a sleeping beauty on yer hands,” he snickers and everyone lets out embarrassed laughs. 

More talking and some not so subtle jabs later, Hirako and Ichigo leave the bar. The former sways heavily as they walk down the empty street; Ichigo supports him with disgruntled grace.   

“Y’know,” Hirako announces, like he’s just hit upon some great revelation, “I've been thinkin’ about cuttin’ my hair.”

Ichigo lets out an amused huff. “Yeah, get yourself a fuckass bob, why don't you.”

“Ya think it would suit me?”

And Ichigo couldn't be probably more thankful for the cover of the night as he says a soft, “Sure,” his heart thumping in his chest heavily. 

“Wanna help me do that then?”

“Wouldn't you wanna ask someone else?”

Hirako tuts in discontent. “And who else would I ask, Hiyori? She’d leave me bald just for ta shit and giggles. And Sousuke can't be trusted with anything, especially not scissors!”

Ichigo winces. “I— yeah, fair. The hair incident.”

Hirako makes a wounded noise. “We agreed ta never speak of it again.”

“You are the one who brought it up,” Ichigo points out and before Hirako can make another argument, he adds, “And fine, I'll cut your damn hair. You gotta sober up first, though.”

Silence befalls them for a few slower heartbeats afterwards, serene and comforting in its emptiness. The sounds of their shuffling feet become more pronounced and the quiet appears nearly tangible, alive. 

“Why did you drag me out here today, Hirako? Like, the actual reason,” Ichigo prods, unable to withstand the urge to know. 

“Because I knew ya’d never deny a damsel in distress. Like a good gentleman.”

“Hirako.”

“Ichigo,” Hirako parrots back right at him, equal parts inane and petulant. 

“Fine, don't tell me then.”

“Aw,” he coos, “ya are so cute when ya pout.”

Ichigo blanches, affronted, putting them to violent halt. “I do not pout.”

“Ya so do. But okay, fine, I'll tell ya,” Hirako says placatingly. A deep, theatrical intake of breath and then, “I just missed my best friend.”

“I didn't go anywhere.”

“Well, it ain't like ya were all here either. Too busy overworkin’ yourself to death and all.”

Inwardly, Ichigo knows that he has had too little sleep and too many hours of worrying which in turn resulted in too many nights absent, too many days gone that he's now hardly a part of any of his friends’ lives at all and someone is bound to finally notice that. Way too many people probably have, and he cannot decide whether to feel blessed or cursed for such lovely friendships.

Outwardly, Ichigo scoffs. “Says the suicidal idiot.”

Pot, kettle, Ossan murmurs. 

Shut up, old man. 

“Honey, ya just know how to make a woman swoon,” Hirako sings with an air of coquetry and Ichigo squashes the urge to instantly drop him to the ground. Barely. “Oh my, looks like we're here.”

Face pinched in a frown, Ichigo looks up and starts to protest, “No, we are not—” but his voice dies in his throat the moment he realises they are right at the familiar gates of the Shiba compound. “What the hell?” he asks once the bafflement wears off, twisting his head to look at Hirako who has swiftly pulled himself away from his grasp in the meantime. 

Hirako dusts off his clothes as he straightens his posture and this way, he barely seems to be intoxicated at all. Which makes zero fucking sense. 

“I— what?”

“Me and Kyouraku had a bet on how long it'd take any of ya ta notice we switched ta juice after the first hour. None of ya did, which is disappointing. I was countin’ on ya, Ichigo,” Hirako faux–sniffles out, dramatic to the brim. “Meant what I said, though. I really did miss my best friend.”

Gulping through the acid in his mouth, Ichigo croaks out, “I really didn't go anywhere.”

And despite his knack for all the inane behaviours, Hirako does not exactly do platitudes nor banalities, choosing to go for a kill instead. “Maybe not. But, as I said, ya weren't here at all either. Not with that martyr bullshit ya’ve got goin’ on,” Shinji retorts with a scoff. “And it's gettin’ old, too. Lean on us sometimes, wouldja? I can promise ya, I did actually earn that haori.”

“Could've fooled me,” he retorts but it falls flat even to his own ears. 

“I trust ya,” Shinji says, not bothering to address his comment and he speaks like he doesn't know it's the greatest gift he could ever give Ichigo. “We trust ya. So trust us some too. Ya can talk to us.”

But Ichigo doesn't really do talking, not anymore and it is doubtful he ever will again. Not the kind where you pour your guts out to other person and let them sit there to pick through the mismatched pieces while you watch, awaiting the judgement. 

So with words long dead on his tongue, Ichigo watches Shinji give him one last look, the one that always eats at him in the quiet of nights. The look he became far too accustomed to back in the days where hopelessness was the only certainty he had.

“Take care of yourself, Ichigo,” is all Shinji says with a mournful sort of affection yet he does not appear to be surprised by the lack of answer. And then he goes his way, most likely back to his division’s barracks, hands tucked away in his pockets and back hunched. 

Left with nothing else to do, Ichigo shakes his head and muttering a quiet, rather colourful curse under his nose, he walks inside. Feet silent on the well–known wooden panels, he measuredly pads his way towards his room. 

The doors to the common area are slightly ajar, letting out a slim snoop of light that lights up the dark walls of the corridor. He can hear two feminine voices exchange hushed giggles, belatedly recognising that it must be Kuukaku and Yoruichi talking.

Unable to deny curiosity, he takes a small peek inside and yeah, there they are, leaning against one another with bright smiles and eyes that speak of mischief absolutely catastrophical to those in their vicinity. 

It stings, a bit, that Yoruichi is not as much of his friend anymore. They have spoken of course, a handful of times at most and it mainly consisted of an exchange of pleasantries. Yoruichi does frequent the Shiba compound, sometimes even managing to wrangle into coming Kisuke with her, but Ichigo has never been by often enough for them to meet before Kisuke took over the Twelfth. 

Yoruichi laughs boisterously at something Kuukaku has said and Ichigo aches with longing.

She is not his friend, not yet or not anymore, not in any way that truly counts, and mere acquaintanceship through Kuukaku — their friendship being equally strong and beautiful to what he remembered it like —  is definitely not one of them. 

But the shared history is enough to drown in regardless. Ichigo lets himself be swept by the rain just so as he forces himself to pull away from his spot and turn to clumsily stagger back to his room. 

A pair of gray eyes meet him there, a shade that he would have recognised at any time, anywhere, but there is bleakness in them now, utterly strange. It nearly manages to make him stumble because the sole reason he has half–moved in to the Shiba compound is standing right in front of him, visibly tired and devoid of any warmth. 

Kisuke gives him a top notch bow, perfect in the angle of how his body inclines and dressed in reserved kind of cordiality, the propriety of it brutally polite and so distant that there might as well be an actual, physical chasm separating the two of them.  Not once does the eye contact falter, Kisuke holding his gaze even as he utters a low, "Shiba–dono."

Tardily, Ichigo returns the gesture with a stiff and flimsy bow of his own, murmuring a small, “Urahara–taichou,” of acknowledgement. 

They are at an impasse, Kisuke and him, standing there in that shadowed corridor. It has been barely a handful of days but Ichigo has somehow missed him more dearly than he has ever done in decades under Hikifune's command.

Ichigo can feel the crushing burden of his stare and how everything, everything, everything aches. 

The urge to reach out comes, of course it does, because Ichigo has never known what's good for him. He craves to fess up, to just let it all spill, confession after confession. But he knows not how to express the vastness of oceans and seas combined when all he can summon is less than a drizzle.  

They stare at each other, caught in a flurry of emotions locked safely underneath rivers of treacherous secrets until Yoruichi's cheery voice breaks them out of this tense spell of muteness. "Oi Kisuke, did you get lost? I want my sake."

As if on command, the man moves, walking by him like Ichigo might just be a phantom, their shoulders brushing against each other with the barest of touch. 

Ichigo doesn't reach out. It is not his right anymore. 

☆☆☆☆☆

In the before, there were blades that gleamed in the moonlight with foolish ideals. Problems almost always were met with courageous action, never the careful, thought out calculation. Not on his part, at least, they were not. 

At some point during the war however, Kyouraku has introduced him to the wonders of shogi and when the times for more lined out strategies and tactics came, this made for a perfect board of visualisation. It has been ages since Ichigo has turned to the game, yet here he is, feeling the weight of each choice like the fate of a kingdom resting on his shoulders.

“Which ones are yours?” Gin inquires from the doorway, his eyes dancing curiously over the shogi board, startling him from the depth of his musings. Ichigo hesitates, stealing a quick peek at the boy before drawing his gaze away, pushing it back toward the pieces that shimmer like tiny warriors. 

“Which ones do you think?” Ichigo’s own response is quick, a phantom of a smile teasing at the corner of his lips, there and then gone. 

"The black ones," Gin answers smoothly, the words slicing through the air like a precise strike.

Ichigo can't stop a wince from crossing his face, and Gin’s expression brightens, a snicker bursting out and poorly smothered by the fabric of his sleeve. 

Ichigo shakes his head, the hint of amusement in his glance. “That's… an astute observation,” he acknowledges with a resigned sigh.

Gin sidles closer, slipping into a comfortable seat at the far end of the low table. He hunches forward, pointing with unabashed enthusiasm. “You should move the rook there,” he suggests, his voice a mixture of innocence and mischief. 

“You know how to play?” Ichigo asks, lifting an eyebrow. There’s a note of genuine interest there, entangled with skepticism. 

"I've seen people play here and there," Gin replies with a casual shrug and a playful laugh, a secretive, knowing smile curling his mouth. Ichigo snorts, a sound that spills out much more cheerfully than he feels inside. 

"It's a risky move," he murmurs, taking hold of the game piece. He slides the rook across the board slowly, calculatingly, a thoughtful furrow etching itself against his brow. “Losing the rook could leave the king exposed,” he adds, tapping his finger twice against the rook's smooth, carved surface. 

"Is there a victory with no loss?" Gin counters, his eyes glittering with something that could be understanding or challenge. 

Ichigo offers a smile in return, hoping it doesn’t resonate with the hollowness he feels creeping in at the edges. He switches gears suddenly, changing the subject as he lowers his voice almost conspiratorially. "Where did you lose Rangiku?"

Gin leans back. "She went with Kuukaku–san to the market. Something about wanting a new hairpin," he mimics the excitement with which Rangiku had left with an exaggerated wave of his hands. 

Ichigo lets the short bark of laughter escape him while he shakes his in disbelief, before nudging the board towards the boy. “You wanna play?” 

The board shifts, pieces moving back and forth as strategies are drawn and discarded. Around them, the light of late afternoon is slowly turning into evening, draping the room in a warm, languid glow. 

Gin grins like a fox and captures the last silver general on the board, leaving an already grim-looking Ichigo with little more than foot soldiers, though his expression is fully exaggerated, as are his mistakes, if only to make the game more entertaining to the boy. He remembers again why Kyouraku liked this game so much — and how much he himself has hated playing against people who are so damn good at it. 

“It’s still an even match,” he claims, managing to sound truly unconvincing and getting a giggle out of Gin. He moves a pawn forward only to watch Gin immediately take it with a knight, Ichigo’s chances growing bleaker. 

They are both deep in thought when voices and footsteps echo from the hallway.

"We're back!" Rangiku’s voice rings out like wind chimes, her energy filling the space long before she reaches the doorway. 

They hear her more clearly as she approaches, the door sliding open to reveal her with a broad, unapologetic smile stretched out on her face. "Ichigo–san! Look at the new yukata Kuukaku–san got me!" Rangiku yells out upon entering the room, stopping a few steps away from him to do a slight twirl. 

Kuukaku follows soon after her but she stops by the door, leaning against its frame with arms crossed on her chest. The twitch of the corner of her mouth betrays her fondness as she observes silently. 

"It's lovely," Ichigo replies and it is tender in its utmost genuity. Rangiku beams at him even wider than before, bright and lovely, a rose flush gracing her cheeks elegantly. 

She then immediately turns to Gin who gives her an approving nod as well and she jumps at him, looping her lithe arms around his neck.  “Did you miss me, Gin? We bought treats and trinkets, I've got them in my room, c’mon!” she proclaims. 

And Ichigo watches them go, hand in hand as Rangiku drags the boy by the hem of his yukata’s sleeve, chattering his ear off happily and Gin allows himself to be pulled by her warmth. 

“They are good kids,” Kuukaku says quietly, as if by the way of nothing, once they are the only ones left. 

“They are,” he concedes carefully. 

“Rangiku has said she and Gin want to go to the Academy next year,” she continues, deceptively mild. “Said she wants to be a cool Shinigami like Ichigo–san is,” and it comes out more teasingly than not. There is something like pride mixed in it, too. 

It is not surprising in the least, that the carrier of Shinigami is what they both want in this time as well. But to hear that he has been one of the factors that motivated this decision is something else entirely. 

To know that he has been enough to change things for them, if only a little, is— well, more gratifying than it should be, probably. 

It was not planned, him taking in both of them. Ichigo hasn't had much of an idea how to solve the Gin issue in the slightest until the so–called problem has simply stumbled into him along with a girl attached to his arm and a handful of stolen goods from one of the stands in the far outskirts of Rukongai. 

To this day he is not completely certain how he ended up quasi–adopting them and bringing them to the compound but well, here they are and Ichigo does not regret it one bit. He was able to give them a chance. Those can be worth more than the world's greatest treasures, he knows that better than anyone else. 

So with a voice laced with far too many emotions he replies, “They will be brilliant.”

Kuukaku arches a questioning eyebrow at him. “You think?”

He still remembers a touch too vividly, the Ichimaru Gin who semi–willingly became Aizen's gold general and then his unexpected yet still astoundingly chivalrous sacrifice and how Rangiku held him so close to her heart. How the weight of his loss had chipped away at her, permanently etching this echo of a missing piece into her eyes; how there was this ceaseless undercurrent of emptiness to be found in her smiles. 

But now both Gin and Rangiku have time, so much more time for stumbling around and sharing soft laughs and his heart aches for this beautiful, beautiful joy that they have. 

“I know,” he replies softly, full of unbridled yet steady conviction. 

Kuukaku watches him wordlessly for a longer minute and then snorts. “Alright then. You eating with us tonight? Ganju is making a feast for a whole legion and someone's gotta eat all of that.”

“I guess I'll have to.”

Later that same night, he sits on the hard wood of the room's floor, a piece of shogi clutched in his palm and it is nothing short of a miracle that it still remains fully intact. 

The shogi board lays in front of him, nigh glaring at him mockingly with each of the pieces only adding to the gruesome taunt. It takes almost all of his restraint not to throw the damn thing against the nearest wall if only to relieve some of the incessantly simmering helpless umbrage that coils in his veins not unlike a particularly nasty poison. 

Perhaps it would be a wise choice to disclose the truth to your friends, Ossan murmurs in the back of his mind and Ichigo grits his teeth, feeling the frustration bubbling up. Or at least to your captain. 

I told you I cannot do that. Knowing will put them in danger. 

The lack of knowledge has not saved them before, Ossan remarks pointedly and like he knows no leniency, he adds, The lack of knowledge has almost killed you. 

It is a hypocrisy, Ichigo realises that. 

He knows far too well the foul taste of loathing that he could never quite rid his mouth of when the time for yet another crucial secret to be revealed has come. How it always lodged itself in between his teeth as they grinded against each other in silent rage, because aside from offering Kisuke a punch to wipe off that stupid smile of his or his father a swift kick to the face, time was mainly reserved for the sword of duty in his hands, never for holding petty grudges. 

(That it was never in his nature to hold onto those is another thing, though the bitterness still built up regardless.) 

He knows better than anyone, how sometimes the most difficult choices to live with, are the ones other people make for you. It is beyond question that they will feel betrayed or simply angry when— if they ever find out all that he kept secret from them. That there may be hurt feelings wrapped in fiery anger but those are only as burning as the love that runs beneath it. 

It is as selfish of him as it is kind or perhaps it is neither, because no thing in the world is ever purely something, not when humans are involved. And Ichigo will most likely forever be a human more than he has ever been a soul. 

He will forever grieve the people they became, he will remember them, the last pulse of their reiatsu before it joined the cycle of the world simply because he loved, of course he did.

But Ichigo loves them now too and he can no longer feign ignorance that the line of those that were or would be his and those that he met when he first came to the past hasn't been blurred a long time ago. That maybe, just maybe, it has never truly been there at all.

Is there a victory with no loss? And of course there isn't. Not when the world demands for balance, when it wants for exchange to keep things even because nothing is for free. Knowledge and victory, among other things, have a price tag attached to them too. 

He misses Rukia, in moments like these.

Rukia, who was hardly the one for gentle words and it may just be what he needs now. 

He misses the woman who would hit him upside the head while chiding him for being a self–pitying wimp, for letting the hunger of doubts be louder than his love. She would have told him to grasp the hilt between his teeth if his arms could no longer hold and to crawl, if his legs had abandoned him as well — to do everything and anything but not nothing, not to just give up because that's the coward’s way out. 

"I think," he confesses with a sardonic smile and there will be no answer, "I have finally gone nuts, Rukia.”

Because victory means close to nothing, if gaining it you lose everything that has ever mattered, if it is bathed in blood of what and who you were supposed to save. 

☆☆☆☆☆

It goes like this;

“You’re both acting like spoiled brats!”

“You have no idea what happened. You’re jumping to conclusions!”

“Jumping?” Hiyori spits out, her gaze slicing through the tense air. “I’m watching two so–called leaders drag their feet while the whole division feels the fallout! Do you even give a damn?”

Ichigo storms away from the desk, closing the gap between them as his rage simmers. “Of course I do! Ki— Urahara–san and I need time to cool our heads!”

“Cool off?” Hiyori scoffs, disbelief edged with fury. “What you both need is a fucking reality check! You think moping around will fix anything?”

“I don't know why am I even arguing with you about any of this when it's none of your business, Hiyori.”

“Funny,” she says, baring her teeth, “how you only seem to remember my name when you are being a fucking pussy.”

Ichigo’s calm shatters; he steps forward, his anger poised to erupt, but then the door slams open with a violent crash. A junior officer stumbles in, wide-eyed and choking on frantic breaths. “Shiba—fukutaichou! Hiyori–san! I—I—”

“Not now,” Ichigo grunts out, his irritation near exploding like a firework.

“Seriously, can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?” Hiyori snaps, swatting the officer away as though he were nothing but a bothersome insect.

The officer gulps, his anxiety marring his features as he tries to force his way through their wrath. “But it’s crucial! I really must—”

Hiyori interrupts, her voice rising again. “Can’t you see we’re busy? Just come back later!”

Ichigo crosses his arms, a frown deepening on his face and he wills himself to calm down and appropriate an apologetic smile as he says, “This isn’t the right time for whatever you want to say, but I will help you later.”

The officer hesitates, beaten down yet stubbornly pressing on. “But I—”

In a moment when frustration and exasperation collide, Ichigo and Hiyori blurt out simultaneously, “What?!”

The officer’s face drains of color, voice trembling as he stammers, “There’s been a mishap at the lab… Urahara–taichou is injured and—”

An oppressive silence smothers the room, dread seeping into every corner. Ichigo’s heart plummets, a bone-chilling dread gripping him as panic sweeps away the last remnants of his irritation.

Without a moment's hesitation, Ichigo bolts from the office, urgency propelling him forward, the earlier argument evaporating like mist in the sun. Horror is eating through his chest like acid and he cannot think, can only run, can only remember watching a familiar body crumble, the dull eyes, bloodied neckerchiefs hidden in the sleeves and this ceaselessly lung–rattling cough and—

Distantly, the — now nigh completely overshadowed by the despair of irrationality — logical part of his brain registers Hiyori’s concerned call out of his name after him but he is far too gone to pay it any mind because he has to check, he has to know, he has to see him.   

He bursts into the lab, Hiyori hot on his heels, where chaos has erupted like a dark, relentless tidal wave. Scattered equipment and the grating wail of alarms churn the air into a sinister symphony. Ichigo’s breath hitches when his frantic eyes immediately lock onto Kisuke sitting on one of the chairs. There is an officer of the Fourth Division attending him with a focused intensity as he spreads the gentle, greenish hue of kaido. 

Hiyori, who thus far has been hovering behind Ichigo, demands resolutely, “What happened?” as she surveys the devastation.

Upon her inquiry, one of the assistants working at the lab acknowledges them both with a curt, almost robotic bow before she explains hesitantly, “One of the new compounds turned on us. It reacted… violently, though we are still unsure as to the exact reason for such reaction.”

“Maa, looks like I got a bit too carried away with my experiments,” Kisuke interjects with an awkward laugh and automatically goes for scratching the back of his neck, only to be stopped by the healer’s reprimanding glare. 

“Urahara–taichou has been the closest to the vials when it occurred,” the woman adds, “which is why he is the one most hurt.”

Ichigo's mind barely registers any of that, the sole focus of it centered around Kisuke's wounds. 

The burns are savage — a cruel reminder of whatever the hell has happened in that stupid experiment of his — running down from his elbows to the very tips of his fingers. The sleeves of his haori and shihakusho are nearly fully torn up, the fabric clearly smoldered in various places. 

Ichigo takes a deep breath, once, twice, thrice and then he lets the practiced ease of muscle memory speak for him. Kisuke is fine, he tells himself and it is true enough. Aside from battered upper limbs that appear to be getting better minute by minute, he is undeniably alright. 

Kisuke is fine, he screams at the omnipresent fear, and he locks all the memories down, shoves all of it away where it can't touch him. He clutches onto the mantra of reassurance to his own heart and mind because he doesn't think about grief and loss and the days where he half–expected to be greeted by the sight of Kisuke's fresh carcass. Cannot because if he does right now or ever really, then he might never be able to do anything. And it is not this broken shell that they need here, now, no. 

Another deeper intake to keep the quiver away and then he speaks, composed and with his head high because if the captaincy has ever taught him anything, it's this. 

“Alright, here's what we're gonna do,” he announces loudly, slashing through the waterfall of scolding insults Hiyori has been throwing at Kisuke until now and every head turns to his voice, anticipating. “Those of you who have been hurt and have not been treated yet, either get assistance from the officers here or report directly to the Fourth Division. I want no one back on duty until fully cleared. The rest of you, try your best to clean up this mess without any more casualties and let me know later what equipment will need to be replaced. Nakamura,” he calls out to one of the lower seated officers, “Please escort Urahara–taichou to his quarters once Hanataro is done.”

The man gives a brief nod before turning away to help another officer with the cleanup. Ichigo watches them move about, tidying up the mess, feeling far too detached. 

He watches how after a while, Nakamura carefully assists Kisuke to his feet and tries to make the departure easier for him. He watches how a stubborn expression paints itself on Kisuke’s face as he attempts to wave the man off as they move through the door, and Ichigo wishes he could follow. 

He remains rooted firmly in place instead, fulfilling the role of an overseer and aiding with a few of the tougher parts to clean up where it is needed, choosing to leave only when he is certain that the rest of the officers present can handle it on their own. 

However, just as Ichigo is about to leave, Hanataro stops him in his tracks. The young healer pushes a small jar of salve into his hands, and while Ichigo stares at it blankly, he explains how the application of it to the burns is necessary despite the kaido he had already used. 

It is only as Hanataro keeps talking that Ichigo realises he had been clutching the thing too tightly, and with a labored exhale, he relaxes his fingers. Nods his head along in understanding to the given instructions and then, once the man is finished, he needs one more pause to gather himself. His grip tightens around the small object once more, a rueful smile playing on his lips as he forces it back into place, and he utters a soft, “Thanks for your help, Hanataro.” 

“It was no problem, Shiba–fukutaichou,” Hanatar replies lightly. Then, as if hit by a sudden realisation, he asks, “Wait, how did you know my n—”

But Ichigo has slipped away long before Hanataro gets to finish his question. 

It goes like this;

By the time Ichigo manages to wrestle both the lab and the division into something resembling order — and fills out all of the endless reports, coding every bit of the damage into their budget — it is way too many hours later. The sun is sinking below the horizon, its dying light streaking through the compound windows with a bitter, warm glow.

Stretching his body weary from hours of relentless hunching, Ichigo sinks back into his chair. The small jar pushed into his hands earlier now stares at him mockingly from the corner of his desk and he doesn't bother resisting the urge of banging his head against the surface of his desk with a pitiful whine. 

No rest for the wicked, it would seem. 

Which is how he finds himself striding through the familiar corridors toward Kisuke's quarters, heart in his throat, prepared to leap out at any given moment. As he approaches the door, he glances down at the small jar of salve in his hand and then with a deep, brave breath, he knocks softly.

“Come in,” Kisuke's voice calls from inside, tinged with fatigue yet maintaining its characteristic calm.

Ichigo opens the door, stepping inside to find Kisuke seated on the edge of his bed, his bandaged hands resting in his lap. The room is dimly lit, the soft light casting shadows that dance along the walls, and Ichigo can see the strain in Kisuke's posture.

“Good evening, Shiba-dono,” Kisuke says, his tone formal, eyes glancing at the jar in Ichigo’s hands but never to meet his. “I appreciate your visit, but you really don’t need to trouble yourself with that.”

Ichigo feels a pang of discomfort at the honorific. “It was no trouble, I—”

“Please, allow me to manage on my own,” Kisuke continues, a hint of formality still in his voice as he attempts to reach for the salve, but his movements are slow and labored, the pain in his arms evident. “I appreciate your concern, but you need not force yourself to endure my presence out of obligation.”

“Force myself to— what no, stop,” Ichigo interrupts, frustration rising up. “You need this. Just let me help!”

“The way you have allowed me to help you?” Kisuke throws back immediately, nearly as if in reflex, looking equally as bewildered as Ichigo feels. Clearing his throat, he lowers his gaze to the floor and says, “My apologies, that was unnecessarily petty of me.”

“No, that was a valid response. I will leave you to it if that is what you would prefer, Ki— Urahara–taichou,” Ichigo replies but makes no move to leave otherwise, awaiting the verdict. 

Kisuke hesitates, a flicker of resistance crossing his face, but the ache radiating from his bandaged hands seems to make him falter and Ichigo feels his heart pang with something foolish like hope. Stupid, he chides himself, I should not want to be here. 

Finally, Kisuke sighs, the weight of exhaustion noticeably settling in. “I… I suppose I could use the assistance.”

Ichigo steps forward, relief washing over him. He sets the jar down on the bedside table and uncaps it, the scent of the salve filling the air. 

“This might turn out to be a bit unpleasant,” Ichigo says, dipping his fingers into the salve. He glances up at Urahara, who watches him with blank interest and it's more than simply unnerving to be paid this much attention after days of silence. “You’re going to need to keep this on for a while, so we might as well get started.”

As Ichigo begins to apply the salve to Urahara’s wounds, silence envelops the room. The only sounds are the faint rustle of bandages and the gentle, rhythmic application of the balm. Ichigo concentrates on his task, but the weight of unspoken words hangs heavily in the air.

Minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity. Ichigo’s mind races, the earlier argument replaying like an unwelcome echo. He remembers his words, how he had insisted that he and Urahara weren’t friends, that their bond was merely professional. The thought gnaws at him, tightening his chest.

Eventually, the quiet becomes absolutely unbearable and Ichigo pauses, his fingers hovering over Urahara’s hands. “I… I need to say something.”

Kisuke tilts his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” Ichigo utters sincerely, his voice barely above a whisper, “I'm sorry for saying that we’re not friends. That was—” he shakes his head, frustration mixing with remorse. “That was stupid and untrue. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Shiba–dono, you don't need to—”

“No, let me finish,” Ichigo interjects, the words pouring out of him. “I was so caught up in my own damn head, and I just— screwed it all up. You are my friend and you are important to me.”

And he knows that simple apologies and reassurances don't magically solve things nor erase what has occurred from existence, because sometimes, words do not carry any value at all. 

But then sometimes, words are the only thing that has ever truly mattered.

A quiet understanding settles between them, and Kisuke's lips curl into a gentle smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your honesty,” and it is as much of an admission of forgiveness as he will ever probably get, so Ichigo lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

As Ichigo finishes applying the salve, a playful spark ignites in Kisuke's eyes. “I did not expect you to be quite skilled at this.”

“This?”

“Wound tending, though perhaps playing the role of a nurse would be more, ah, accurate.”

A quick, bitter memory flashes through his head but Ichigo doesn't let it show too much on his face as he quirks an eyebrow at Kisuke. He morphs it into something sweet instead, and pretends to be schooling his expression into something unamused in spite of a huff of laughter that threatens to breach the surface. “Well, it is a vital skill for those who have reckless morons for captains.”

Kisuke whines out, “That, Shiba–san, is terribly mean of you to say,” and Ichigo has never suspected that hearing a change of honorific could make him want to weep tears of happiness.

It wafts again, this delicate, faint thread of something, a truly dainty, visceral thing.

Cradle–robbing aspect of it notwithstanding, Ichigo does not think it would have ever happened in his future. There was very little time for anything of that particular nature to grow roots, let alone bloom entirely into the beauty of its potential. Chances of softness were few and stretched far in between the chords of trumpets of apocalyptic doom.

Memories, after so many decades, are wispy things at best — especially those that speak of the rare flashes of absurds like hope or joy — but he is quite certain that aside from his rather short–lived infatuation with Inoue's laugh that brought a sprinkling of stolen kisses under the tender moonlight, Ichigo has never viewed anyone in that light before. 

Kisuke and him were good friends back then; they had a comfortable sort of camaraderie that was bereft of hesitance that prohibits you from jumping in front of an approaching blade but knew how to treasure a crack of a smile equally as much. 

This, however, creeped upon him, inadvertently but never unwelcome, remaining natural despite the sense of bewilderment it brought along. It is undeniably different to before, yet somehow, he does not think he would have had it any other way. 

It twirls in the air and Ichigo wants to clasp it in his grasp, and he wonders if it is a sin of gluttony, to crave so desperately; to love so desperately. 

What is the veritable testament of love? To protect them from falling or to shoulder their weight when they do? To wrap their limbs in the finest of silks or to break their bones so that they will grow correctly this time? 

Perhaps, it is all about the moments, those right ones and how they never come. 

So after tightening the last loop of bandage on Kisuke's pinky finger, Ichigo just pulls away, because he does not know what else to do. “And we are done. The next portion should be done in the morning but I think by then you'll be able to actually manage it on your own,” he says, trying to keep the previous merry lightness of his tone. Feigning a surprised look to the window, he adds, “I should get going, it's getting late and… yeah, it's getting late.”

He doesn't get very far, however, as Kisuke does not seem exactly ready to let him leave yet. 

"What am I doing wrong, Shiba–san? Why are you running away again?" Kisuke implores earnestly, and it is quiet in its firmness. 

And oh, Ichigo cannot do this again. He cannot hurt Kisuke for his own good once more, not when he has just asked for forgiveness. He cannot become so much colder than any blade. Yet, tough love might just be the only viable choice he has. 

"It's Ichigo," he chokes out instead, just to prolong the inevitable, and even this feels too large for his mouth, in spite of the feeble speckle of humour it holds; like a confession, almost. 

"Why are you running away again, Ichigo?" Kisuke perseveres, unperturbed, and Ichigo shakes his head vehemently, taking a step back. But Kisuke has already lurched up to his feet and took two more so they are still closer than before. 

"Stop," he utters and Ichigo doesn't know whether it is a plea or a command. "I can't do this to you."

Kisuke lowers his head and twists it away to the side before he murmurs out, "Then I'm afraid I cannot accept your previous apology." 

Ichigo smiles at him helplessly because he can understand it, really. "That's fine. I, uh, I'll leave this here. That officer of the Fourth said that you need to put salve on those every few hours and by tomorrow you should be alright, I think," he spits out in a rapid jumble of words and Kisuke only nods mutely, not dignifying him with a single look nor a response. Clearing his throat, he continues, "I'm gonna go now. Goodnight, Ki— Urahara–taichou."

His hand does not reach the door handle as both a  palm on his wrist and another inquiry halt him. 

"Is this related to Aizen–fukutaichou? Is he forcing you to aid him with his experiments in Rukongai?" 

Ichigo stops dead in his tracks, each and every cell and blood vessel stilling in him along with his shuddering breath. He turns, slowly, heart ready to beat out of his chest to run. With the last rationally thinking part of his mind he casts a quick, frantic glance over the room, ensuring that none of those damned fly cameras are nearby, but thankfully, they are somehow not present. 

Soul King apparently has a special providence for fools, drunkards, and reckless time travellers, he thinks a rush of relief. 

"How do you know about that?" he asks finally with a tremor in his voice as something cracks. 

"So it is true," Kisuke says as if it dismayed him but the loose grip he has on Ichigo's wrist only tightens. “How—”

"No," Ichigo whispers hoarsely, shaking his denial, forceful as he wills Kisuke to believe him. Even asking for his faith in him might just be demanding too much and Ichigo has no right to it. "No, not entirely. I'm not helping him, I would never help him, I—" he says, but the words tangle over his tongue in a disgraceful sort of dance before dying in his throat all together. 

Kisuke inclines his head in understanding and the singe of hurt and something like fear mellows out into gentle fondness, as if Ichigo has just proved something vital right and he does not even realise it. "I was hoping you wouldn't," he responds and there it is, this infuriatingly knowing look in his eyes. "But that can only mean you are working against it."

“Please,” and this time it is a plea, though Ichigo knows not what it is that he is asking for.

Kisuke's eyes narrow and there's utterly immovable steel in his gaze now. “You are destroying yourself for other man's ambitions,” he says, inching closer as Ichigo tries to put distance between the two of them until there is no escape anymore. “I asked you before, do you expect me to sit idly and watch you waste away? If so then I apologise, but I cannot do that.”

One step, perhaps one and a half, and they would be pressed against one another with far more planes of skin than just Kisuke's hand wrapped around his wrist. 

This way, Ichigo subconsciously notes the inch difference in their height, how the line of Kisuke's eyes falls just a sliver below his. He thinks about how Kisuke's hands must ache, with how insistently he still cradles his wrist with tenderness like Ichigo might just be something precious.

As if all he is, is not solely a sword. 

“Fuck you,” he mumbles out, scowling darkly. “You are a bastard.”

“I— I'm sorry?”

“Yeah, you better fucking be. You are making me choose between keeping you safe but losing you or losing you but getting to keep you and you—” he grumbles when an epiphany hits him, unexpected and strong, knocking the air out of his lungs. 

Sick asshole. 

“...Ichigo–san?”

“Hold up, did you—” Ichigo chokes out, filled with too much of pure incredulity for anger to arise, “please don't tell me you blew up your damn lab on purpose.”

Kisuke blinks at him innocently. “Then I won't,” he says cheerfully, “however if I did tell you, the reason I would give you would most likely be something along the lines of, ah, expediting our reconciliation.”

It is truly a blessing that he manages to keep all of his screaming internal these days, to all of the involved. And those inhabiting this area of Seireitei too. 

“You manipulated Hanatarou into giving me that stupid jar too, didn't you?” he asks, even though it is more rhetorical than not.

“Who?”

“The Fourth’s officer? The one who healed you?”

“Is that his name?”

“Yeah?”

“Then I may have, yes.”

A heartbeat of stunned silence and then, "Do you have any idea how much damn paperwork I had to fill out today because of your stunt? Seriously, you—” Ichigo breaks off on an exasperated groan, feeling suddenly exhausted as he leans his head against Kisuke's shoulder and the hand on his wrist falls away. “You, mister, are making it very hard for me not to punch you right now," he grumbles out into the material of the other's haori, using his hand to poke him just below sternum. 

Kisuke stiffens for a heartbeat before slowly moulding himself around him as he lets out a low hum. "Would you like to know what else could be ha—" 

"Someone,” Ichigo begins, jerking his head up to meet Kisuke's gaze and letting his lips curl into a sweet smile that speaks of danger, “is about to start counting his lost teeth on the floor along with a nice print of my fist on his face if he finishes that sentence. Three guesses as to who and how many teeth he will lose.” Once finished, he resumes his previous position, this time allowing for his weight to sag into Kisuke even more. 

Kisuke doesn't waver. 

The chuckle the other man lets out is anything but repentant. If the body heat and the whisper of Kisuke's breath that grazes his neck send a shiver down his spine, Ichigo refuses to acknowledge it. 

“Maa, Ichigo–san, your prowess for violence is truly astounding.”

“Yeah, yeah, flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Will it get me the truth out of you as well?” he inquires conservationally, the tone of it casual because of course momentary sidetracking is not enough to make him forget about it. 

Ichigo bites at the inside of his cheek. “Why did you do it? Why did you risk yourself?” he asks instead and somehow, the weight of importance it carries must be sufficiently tangible as Kisuke indulges him without a moment of reluctance. 

"It was, ah, suggested to me by both Yoruichi–san and Hiyori–san that I ought to speak with you, though both recommended it for slightly varying reasons," Kisuke admits easily, "However, the method was of my own choosing."

Ichigo could make his chagrin known now, he could possibly scold Kisuke for picking so reckless but he respects the other man a bit too much to deny the necessity of picking the drastic measures because the chances of anything lesser working on him well enough to not run away immediately are pitiful. The by chance meeting in the Shiba compound is a proof of that. 

Well that, and he is probably the last person who should reprimand anyone for stupidly risky behaviour. 

So Ichigo snorts instead, fond and not completely humourless. "Because you are a bastard."

"Because I trusted you to be the man I believed you are," Kisuke counters and if Ichigo's breath stutters in his chest, if his eyes are wet ever so slightly, well. He can always blame allergies and he blinks it all away before it becomes relevant anyway. "But yes, I suppose that too," he adds with a playful glint in his eye. 

Later, he will wonder, if that was set up to fail from the start. He will wonder if the other Kisuke, the one that sent him back, if he knew that Ichigo would not be able to keep it all under the wraps from his younger counterpart, not entirely. 

Once it starts though, the words will gush out of his mouth not unlike a flood, unstoppable and utmost devastating in their consequences but Kisuke will not waver under the weight of it all. 

He won't say time travel because that may just cause more problems than solve. 

Ichigo won't tell him about the days of war, about the grief that hasn't happened yet, about the losses and buried hopes and ideals. He will speak nothing of the future that is not going to happen because this is not the bereavement he wants to share nor does he need to, not now or ever, really. 

Ichigo will tell him of all the vile things Aizen has done, instead. All the things he has proofs for, even though Kisuke doesn't demand them, believing him as if it is only right. All the things he knows can occur simply because they have before and that is sufficient to make their danger terrifyingly feasible. 

He will talk until his throat is raw, until the words run out, until the dawn threatens to break because he won't be able to stop and even then, there will still be one thing more left to be said.

Right now though, Ichigo pulls away from the warm temptation of Kisuke's touch and thinks that perhaps it is high time he chose to trust someone too. That maybe, he should start talking and pouring out his guts along with all the complicated things attached to them once more. 

And so he looks into Kisuke's eyes with hardened resolve as he says, “I hate you,” then, with a resigned sigh he adds, “We’re gonna need a plan. A bit more solid than blowing up labs and manipulating random, innocent officers.”

This, could be all the wrong choices combined, he imagines. It could be the worst of the moments and an utterly fool’s decision in its entirety all at once. But then, what a better reason is there to be stupid for than for love? 

Kisuke gazes at him something gentle as he replies, “How terribly exciting. You know, I do quite enjoy planning,” and Ichigo forgets all of those precarities. 

Perhaps, they may have just enough time.