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Spring in Karakura is a slow warmth, with an edge of humidity creeping in that will become stifling in the coming weeks. The Sakura blooms are well under way, soft pink petals drifting in the stray breeze like some cheesy scene out of a romance anime. It’s almost picturesque, but Kisuke has never been much impressed with the town’s little charms.
Not even now, with the war ended and Aizen defeated, Shinji and the others reinstated, a century’s worth of scheming come to fruition—at a time when Kisuke should most be able to appreciate the little details of life moving onward, when the coming of spring should feel poetic, or at the very least, a welcome relief, he’s just…restless.
An itch in between his shoulder blades whenever the Shoten is too quiet. An imagined glimpse of a shadow moving in too dark a corner. A pressure behind his eyes and a twitch in his fingers whenever someone walks too close behind him.
(An inconvenient sense of wrongness every afternoon that passes without Ichigo barging into his shop with only the barest grumbled niceties, making himself at home as if it’s his right.
As if he knows Kisuke would never try to stop him. Would never want to.)
The Sakura petals flutter past, but the brim of his hat keeps most of them from his face. It’s his first time out of the Shoten in two weeks, but he was out of groceries and with Tessai and the kids back in Seireitei—
There’s a brief, flickering thought of returning to Soul Society and the Gotei, too, but only for half a second. The idea dissipates easily, immediately, just as it had when Yamamoto offered him the 12th again after the final battle. For one, he’s sure they just want to limit Mayuri’s power more than they really want him back. The resources he would have at his disposal are tempting, but there’s very little he can’t truly get his hands on if he really wants it. The authority of being a captain has never held any appeal to him, and after a hundred years living free of Central 46 poking their noses in every aspect of his business, he’s disinclined to put himself under their heavy-handed control again.
The 46 that replaced those that Aizen slaughtered are almost certainly just as corrupt and out of touch as their predecessors.
No, the only way he’d ever go back is if Yoruichi asked it of him, and she won’t.
(He’s glad for it, but it stings too, in its own way. Digs up an old hurt he’d thought was long behind him.)
(He’s being left behind, pushed away, traded for something newer and shinier. Again.)
The grocery bag feels too light in his hand. Three and a half months, and he’s still not used to shopping for one. There’s always a chance someone might stop by, but he considers it particularly unlikely. Of the Shinigami he would welcome, most of them are too high ranked to be sent to the mortal world on a whim or too busy to come on their own time, and Ichigo’s band of teenage crusaders have little reason to bother him these days, self-sustaining as they are.
As for Ichigo himself—
(“He doesn’t want to see you.”
It’s a startling enough statement that Kisuke can’t help but flinch. “What?”
“He’s had enough,” Isshin says, uncharacteristically serious as his voice crackles down the phone line. “He doesn’t want to deal with Shinigami stuff for a while.”
It’s a week after Aizen’s defeat with no word from Ichigo, and Kisuke is worried anxious concerned curious enough to call up Isshin for an update. He can’t say what it is he expected, but it’s not this.
“Not even well-wishes from his friends? Rukia-chan and Renji—”
“The adjustment to losing his powers will be bad enough,” Isshin says, a touch harshly, but Kisuke supposes that’s some latent paternal instinct finally kicking in. It’s well overdue, though that’s not really Kisuke’s business. “Being reminded of the war…” He trails off, sighs. “After everything he’s been through—everything you’ve put him through—don’t you think the least we can offer him is a chance at a normal life?”
Kisuke’s not ignorant of the blame being placed at his feet. He doesn’t try to deny it or argue that the fault lies with both of them. No matter that Isshin is the one who taught Ichigo the final Getsuga Tenshou. That Isshin agreed, unreservedly, to use his own son as a weapon before the boy was even out of diapers. Kisuke has done plenty—has used and manipulated and lied to Ichigo, has led him into danger and barely brought him back out again—and he’s thought about worse in the depths of his planning.
If Isshin is finally stepping up to be the protector that Ichigo needs—and if that means protecting him from Kisuke—
“If that’s what he wants,” Kisuke says.
“It is.”
And that’s that.)
Kisuke turns on his heel, away from the direction of the Kurosaki house and back towards the Shoten. He did buy real food, as prompted by an uncomfortably realistic image in his head of Tessai scowling at him to eat properly, but the instant ramen will be quicker, easier, and less likely to result in an unintentional fire.
It doesn’t sound particularly appetizing, but then nothing really does these days.
March slips past and April arrives with rain heavy enough to knock the rest of the Sakura blooms down, wash them away into a storm drain. Kisuke tries and fails to create some sort of new routine, tries and fails to lose himself in any number of projects—not least of which is finding a way to restore Ichigo’s powers, in case he ever wants them.
(It’s a tricky project. A compelling one. But with no clear answer making itself known despite Kisuke’s research, it often serves to make him feel more useless than ever.
Even the thing he’s best at, he cannot do well enough to make a difference.)
Some days are worse than others.
Maybe it’s a result of his time in the 2nd Division, when he’d run mission after mission with hardly a breath between them. When even the “rest” periods in the barracks were fraught with petty rivalries and murder attempts, every single recruit trying to get ahead, trying to find some way to stand out and eliminate competition so that it might pave the path that much smoother for them. When death—the permanent kind—clung so tightly to everything around him that you couldn’t help but expect it constantly.
Or maybe it’s a holdover from growing up in the Rukongai, where the idea of safety is a fleeting fever dream and living is synonymous with fighting. Where Kisuke had clawed and scraped and scavenged for everything he had, only to know he could lose it all in a second if he let his guard down.
He’s not made for peace, he often thinks. Benehime is the purest representation of his soul, and she’s as monstrous as she is elegant—a creature who thrives on blood and destruction and the thrill of the fight.
(That’s not all she is. Not by far. But he won’t deny that the bloodlust is half of what makes her, her. Half of what makes him, him.)
(Can’t deny that the bloodlust is the part of her that is easiest to see reflected in what he knows of himself.)
He’s not made for peace, but Karakura is at peace now. Aside from the routine hollows and the sporadic gang violence, neither of which are challenging enough to be interesting. Neither of which soothes the vicious edge that lurks in the back of his mind.
There’s nothing and no one to dull that edge in him now.
Plotting against Aizen did, if only because Kisuke had to stretch himself in a thousand new, exciting ways just to try to keep up. Captaining the 12th had served as a decent enough distraction before that. And before that was Yoruichi and the 2nd and staying alive and impressing her so that he could stay alive, stay important, stay—
He should be happy. Or at least content. The satisfaction of having won against Aizen is still fresh enough to be sweet, and he’s been given permission to keep operating as he has been, so long as he doesn’t cause too much trouble. He can study what he wants, research and develop whatever catches his fancy. And oversight is blessedly limited.
It’s more than he has any right to ask for.
It’s not enough. He wants more. He always has.
(Why steal one apple when he can carry two just as easily?
Why settle for the spare change that falls out of a passing traveler’s pocket when their unguarded wallet is practically begging to be taken?
Why content himself with merely getting away from the harsh life of the outer districts when a little more effort can secure him a spot as Yoruichi’s right hand?)
Greedy, greedy, greedy, a part of him chides.
In the back of his mind, Benehime turns her nose up, imperious in a way that Kisuke has never dared to be. He’s more connected with his zanpakutou spirit than most Shinigami, and he doesn’t need to meditate to hear the faint echoes of her derision.
It is not greedy to take what we deserve, she says.
But it is. This time it is. Because now, with nearly everything he could want well within his means, Kisuke is still grasping for more.
And what he wants—
(Ichigo’s unimpressed scowl, a too-casual call of Geta-boushi—almost as intimate as if he’d used Kisuke’s given name—a slumped figure studying at his kitchen table, reading at the kotatsu, Ichigo’s eyes rolling at Kisuke’s teasing, teeth gritting when their blades cross, the easy camaraderie and trust and forgiveness that makes Kisuke feel like he’s unraveling at the seams.)
—what he wants, he can’t claim to deserve.
He owes Ichigo more than he’ll ever be able to repay. If he had a thousand more years, if he could lay down his own life for Ichigo’s sake…it still wouldn’t be enough.
If what Ichigo wants is to be left alone, then that’s the least Kisuke can do.
.
.
.
But perhaps a glimpse won’t hurt, Kisuke thinks. Ichigo doesn’t have to know.
The younger Kurosaki twins are busy with club activities most evenings—soccer and a baking club, respectively—which Kisuke knows because he made a promise to himself to keep an eye on them now that Ichigo can’t. At least when it comes to threats of the spirit variety. He doesn’t really have to avoid either of them. Yuzu won’t see him without his gigai, and Karin, at worst, will give him a Kurosaki-special stink-eye. It’s more for his own convenience that he plans his visit for when they’re not around.
Isshin, though, Kisuke does want to avoid. Isshin has already warned Kisuke off of showing up uninvited, and because the man is, ultimately, a Shiba in every sense of the word, Kisuke choosing not to heed that warning is likely to come to blows before he can offer his perfectly sound, logical reasoning as to why he’s checking in on Ichigo regardless of the boy’s wishes.
(If it comes to a fight, Kisuke can wipe the floor with Isshin. But that feels rather extreme given the circumstances. A last resort.)
Besides, Kisuke has a reason for his visit, should anyone ask.
The justification comes as easy as it always does whenever he wants something more than he cares about the rules that stand in his way:
Shinigami powers or not, Ichigo is a trouble magnet. Kisuke is just making sure he hasn’t inadvertently drawn in some new megalomaniacal lunatic in the months since Kisuke last checked. He’s like catnip for psychopaths, and really, it would be negligent to assume he’s safe just because he’s lost his reiryoku.
It takes until the first week of May for Isshin to run off to visit friends in Soul Society again. Five months since Ichigo lost his powers, and Kisuke hasn’t laid eyes on him even once. Hasn’t let himself step onto the street where the Kurosaki house sits. Hasn’t let himself wander close to the school.
Kisuke kept his distance, did what he was asked.
And now he needs to see for himself that Ichigo is fine. That Isshin was right and Ichigo is happier like this. That things are better because Kisuke stayed away.
If that’s true, then to hell with what Kisuke wants. He can live with it. He will make himself live with it.
The street is quiet and empty. Without Aizen’s interference and without Ichigo’s barely controlled reiatsu serving as a beacon, there aren’t nearly as many hollows loitering about these days. Kisuke exercises caution anyway, but in the end, he’s able to walk right up to the house and slip inside without encountering a single problem.
The lack of security is concerning, to say the least. Isshin should know better. Kisuke shakes his head. That’s not what he’s here for right now.
His first thought is that the Kurosaki house is quiet in the same way that the Shoten is quiet: empty, solemn, like it’s missing something essential. Of course, three quarters of the house’s residents are out at the moment, and Kisuke is self-aware enough to know he’s projecting his own issues where it’s not yet warranted.
Focus, he reminds himself, then drifts through the first floor, taking note of little things here and there. It’s clean, tidy, but very much lived in. The blankets on the back of the sofa are in disarray, a kitchen chair is busted to the point it would be better used as kindling, and there are a few dishes in the sink. There’s also a bizarre poster of Kurosaki Masaki that both does and doesn’t quite look like her, and it is, admittedly, a little unsettling.
Upstairs, he finds Ichigo.
Correction: he finds what’s left of Ichigo.
Alive? Yes.
Well? Certainly not.
Leaning over his desk, scribbling what must be his homework, he looks so little like himself that Kisuke is half-convinced that somehow this is one of Aizen’s illusions despite the fact that Aizen is sealed very, very thoroughly.
Ichigo has always been lanky, lean, but now he’s thin to the point of his t-shirt hanging loose from his shoulder, his collarbone too sharp, wrists too narrow. There are dark circles under his dull eyes, and his skin is three shades paler than Kisuke is used to. Like he hasn’t been outside lately. Like he hasn’t slept in even longer.
He looks ill, and there’s a sudden stab of worry in Kisuke’s chest because while Isshin might run a clinic, he’s only a doctor by human standards—and those credentials are mostly forged.
If there’s been a complication with the Final Getsuga Tenshou—if Ichigo is suffering—if it’s some sort of soul sickness—
Isshin said he was fine, Kisuke thinks distantly, and the worry churns until it turns to anger, hot and sharp and familiar. Isshin lied.
Or else Isshin is too stupid to see what’s in front of him, which isn’t entirely out of the question. There is a part of Kisuke that wants to wring the man’s neck, shake him hard until some sense scrambles its way into his brain.
But that’s not important, easily shoved aside in favor of the true priority. Ichigo.
Kisuke leaves the house, returns to the Shoten and gets to work.
Because Isshin was wrong. Ichigo isn’t doing well. Ichigo isn’t better off this way.
And that means Kisuke can do what he wants.
It takes him three days to get things in order. He hadn’t realized quite how dusty the Shoten had gotten without Ururu sweeping all the time. He hadn’t realized how stale the unused rooms were until he aired them out. And then there was the grocery shopping to do—he won’t offer Ichigo the same cup noodle Kisuke has be subsisting off of. Ichigo will need something of substance if he’s going to put the weight back on.
Kisuke is not much of a cook, but surely he can figure something out.
After that, there’s nothing to do but watch and wait for the opportune moment. He holds back until Ichigo is walking home from school—alone, because Ishida and Inoue and Yasutora are barely acknowledging his existence, apparently—and then, easy as anything, as if Kisuke has been doing this for the past five months, he falls into step beside Ichigo.
Ichigo’s shoulders stiffen slightly, but he otherwise gives no greeting. So he will require a gentle approach, Kisuke thinks.
“Ah, Kurosaki-kun! I was hoping you might join me for some tea.”
Ichigo’s eyes narrow sharply. “You’ve come an awful long way just for my company.”
His voice is raspy in a way that suggests it doesn’t get much use. Anger and guilt spark at that, but Kisuke shoves it down.
Instead he pouts. “The Urahara Shoten isn’t that far.”
He expects Ichigo to huff but acquiesce, or else scowl at him and ignore him entirely—it depends on how much Ichigo doesn’t want to see him, how much he’s willing to put up with—but he doesn’t account for the way Ichigo stops dead in his tracks, staring at Kisuke with some mix of disbelief and indignation.
“You know damn well that’s not what I meant,” he says, and the frustration in his voice is almost a relief because at least it’s not that blank, empty look he’s been wearing near constantly these past few days. Kisuke would prefer not to have it aimed at himself, but he can’t say he’s surprised either. Then Ichigo sighs, and the fight leaves him all at once. “Look, if you bothered to come all the way from Soul Society and put on a gigai, you must want something, so if you could just…get to it, Urahara—”
Kisuke blinks. “I didn’t come from Soul Society.”
Where on earth did Ichigo get that idea from? Kisuke supposes all the work he put in to defeat Aizen and clear the Vizards’ names—and his own as well—may have given Ichigo the impression that returning to Seireitei was the end goal. And if he’d heard Yoruichi returned, along with Tessai and Shinji and the others, he may have assumed—
“Goat-face said you’d gone back to being a captain, or whatever.”
—or there’s that.
In the back of his mind, Benehime calls for blood loudly enough that Kisuke can practically taste it on the back of his tongue. He doesn’t let it show—doesn’t need Ichigo to think Kisuke is mad at him—and merely tilts his head, slowly, to the side.
“How curious. I would think Isshin would know that I refused, seeing as he visits his Shinigami friends twice a month, and most of them are captains or lieutenants now.”
He has the pleasure of watching the words sink in, watching how Ichigo’s expression flattens as the understanding hits. His eyes go dark with something deeper and more lasting than simple anger. It’s beautiful, reminiscent of the way Ichigo looks in battle.
Kisuke is aware—in a detached, scientifically curious sort of way—that he is at this very moment driving a wedge between Ichigo and his father. Not that there was much of a good relationship there to ruin, as far as he knows, but they’ve been holding on by a tenuous, familial thread. This may be the breaking point.
Kisuke doesn’t feel guilty about it. It’s Isshin’s own fault. He lied to Ichigo about Kisuke’s whereabouts, lied to Kisuke about Ichigo’s well-being—and most likely about Ichigo’s alleged wish to be left alone. If the worst thing Kisuke does in retaliation is steal away the last of Ichigo’s good will towards his father, it will be a mercy.
“You didn’t…you didn’t go back.”
Kisuke shakes his head.
“You’ve been here, in Karakura. The whole time?” Ichigo asks. There is something raw about the way he says it—pain and hope and a question all wrapped up in one. Kisuke can guess what he really means. Where have you been? If you were here all along, why didn’t you come sooner?
“I was told,” Kisuke says, seeming to pick his words carefully, “that you would not want to see me.”
There’s no need to say who told him that. Ichigo has always been smart. He puts the pieces together instantly.
(That last, tenuous thread—the only reason Ichigo still thinks of Isshin as family when the man has been either absent or negligent or useless his whole life—snaps.)
“Son of a bitch.”
The tea is not good by any stretch of imagination—Kisuke is too impatient and distracted to devote himself to what Tessai had once told him was the only correct tea-making method—but Ichigo doesn’t seem to mind, sipping it without waiting for it to cool. He looks more alive, here, in Kisuke’s kitchen, than he has all week.
He still looks terrible. It will take more than a cup of hastily brewed tea, a genuine apology, and a quiet-but-eager conversation to fix the damage. Ichigo will need sleep—proper sleep, in a place where he can feel assured he is safe—and regular meals, and a gentle exercise regimen to get back to health.
Kisuke still wants to take him down to the lab, run a few tests to be sure there isn’t something wrong on a soul-deep level, but—
But if the problem is that Ichigo has been alone, isolated and miserable and left thinking all of his friends were happy to leave him behind the moment he was no longer useful to them…
Well. That’s something Kisuke can fix with time and care and consistency.
“It’s getting late,” Ichigo remarks, still quieter and more subdued than Kisuke is used to. A quick glance out the window reveals a sunset almost as orange as Ichigo’s hair, indicating more than a few hours have passed.
A pleasant way to spend the time, Kisuke thinks. The restless, rough-edged energy that has plagued him ever since Aizen’s defeat is little more than a blip in the back of his mind. This is the best evening he’s had in a long, long time. He’s not ready for it to end.
Not when he finally has what he wants, here, sitting right in front of him.
Benehime, too, is pleased. It is as it should be.
A part of his brain registers Ichigo’s hesitance even as he stands up, carries his now empty teacup to the sink and rinses it.
Like he lives here, Kisuke thinks, a little amused. But that’s what he wants: for Ichigo to make himself at home in Kisuke’s space. For Ichigo to be here. To keep coming back.
Or better yet, to stay.
The greedy part of him—the little thief from Rukongai who never quite knew when to stop reaching for more—latches onto the thought, whispers, Keep him. Keep him. Keep him.
Ichigo sets the cup on the counter. He eyes the darkening sky again, mouth flattening. Inevitably, he says, “I should get going.” A pause. More hesitation.
See, the greedy thief hums. He doesn’t want to leave either.
“It is late,” Kisuke agrees, and for a split second, Ichigo’s shoulders slump. Too easily defeated where he once was immovable. It reignites the fury in his gut, but he soothes himself with the reminder that he’s fixing it. “Perhaps too late to be walking about. These streets can be dangerous at night.”
Ichigo’s head jerks up, eyes wide.
It’s nonsense, of course. They both know it. Even without his powers, Ichigo has nothing to fear from the local gangs or any would-be criminals, and Kisuke would protect him from anything he couldn’t see.
It would be just as easy for Kisuke to offer to escort Ichigo home.
He doesn’t.
“You’re welcome to your old room,” he offers, baiting Ichigo by calling the guest room his. It is, though, in Kisuke’s mind at least. Ever since that night Byakuya nearly killed him and Kisuke worked until the early hours of the morning to make sure Ichigo survived.
Ichigo swallows, wets his lips, before shrugging. “Probably a good idea. You know, since I can’t see shit now.”
Maybe it’s because he sounds so bitter. Maybe it’s because Kisuke is slowly realizing there is very, very little he wouldn’t do for Kurosaki Ichigo—and because Ichigo deserves to know that, after everything.
“Hm. Then it’s a good thing I’ve been speculating on how to return your powers to you. If you want that, of course.”
Ichigo looks at Kisuke like he’s offered him the keys to the universe. It’s a heady thing, to be at the center of Ichigo’s attention like this.
Kisuke is already calculating what he would have to do to put that expression on Ichigo’s face again. What he would have to do to make sure Ichigo always looks at him like that.
“You would do that?” Ichigo asks.
“If I can.” There’s still plenty to work out, like figuring out if Ichigo’s reiryoku will replenish itself given enough time, or if it needs a jumpstart, and if so, how to go about doing that without killing Ichigo’s mortal body—
Ichigo snorts, and his eyes are warm. Bright. Fond. “If. Hah. Knowing you, you’d break the laws of the universe if they got in your way. I’m not worried, Geta-boushi. You’ll figure it out.”
He will. Of course he will—that was never a doubt in his mind.
But Ichigo’s faith in him is still staggering. Still precious. Something to be treasured.
Keep him, the greedy part of him insists.
But Kisuke doesn't need to be told. He doesn't plan on letting Ichigo go again.