Once upon a time, begins this story, because the idea behind it is so fantastic and far-fetched that no one would believe it as true. It is of two men who are like princes in a foreign land, wearing faces that aren't their own. One smiles too easily, the other not at all. And yet, here they are, week after week, every Friday night, sitting at the same booth in the same bar in lower Kakakura, talking and telling stories like long-lost brothers.
But then again, what do I know? I'm just the guy who works in said bar. I'm no philosopher, but I know alcohol. And I know alcohol can make a person rather loose with their words. In fact, if it weren't for the drinks, I doubt they'd be talking to each other in the first place. Maybe it's the only thing protecting them from their words in this place. But again, I overstep my boundaries.
Everyone here calls me 'drink boy' when they come in here. "Oi, drink boy, pass over a couple of beers!" I'm just the man with the mugs.
Not these two. The tall, thin one with the glasses, he calls over for me as soon as they've sat down. "Kisuke-san," he beckons, and that's all he needs to say. I've known what they've wanted to drink for several months now, it never changes: a brandy sour for the man with glasses -- Ryuuken Ishida, a doctor at the local hospital -- and a white whiskey on the rocks for the man with the black hair and loud voice -- Isshin Kurosaki, doctor and owner of a private clinic.
(Did I ever ask their names? I didn't have to. They addressed each other by their family names; asking around the local scene told me everything else. I'm probably too interested in them for my own good, but there's no one left to care.)
Tonight is different. Isshin and Ryuuken come in, sit down at their table of choice, he calls me over (Kisuke-san; always soft but loud enough for me to hear) and I set their drinks down.
Except they both look tired, as if they haven't slept for days, only deeper. There's a new, thin wrinkle forming on Ryuuken's face, and Isshin's smile does not reach his eyes. I turn and clutch my work apron tightly as I walk back to the bar; I'm afraid, just a little.
The bartender looks me over, tells me to take a break. He mistakes the look in my eyes for exhaustion, since I'm doing this and also taking classes. I don't bother to correct him, just thank him and walk around discreetly in the shadows of the overhead lamps until I'm sitting in a booth directly next to those two, overhearing every word.
"We'll have to stop meeting like this, soon enough." It's Ryuuken, and the melancholy in his voice reverberates through every word.
Isshin sighs. "Can't argue with that. Guess I'm not the only one who has noticed. Speaking of which, when is--"
"Soon," Ryuuken says in a clipped tone. "I have it under control. If only I could say the same for you."
I hear the sound of a body reclining on leather vinyl with an audible squeak. "Yes, well, my boy's getting there by himself, it seems. He doesn't need my help in realizing what's there."
If only, I wonder, I knew what they were talking about! Throwing around non-descriptive terms because they obviously know enough about what they are talking about, well, it doesn't make great eavesdropping material. I slowly take a sip of water from a glass I had managed to get from the bar before heading over, feeling beads of sweat dot my forehead in spite of it.
"I cannot deny what he's become, or what I am. But you -- you could stop it." Pain edges into Ryuuken's voice.
Isshin gives a low laugh. "Ah, so we are to stand atop history and yell stop?"
"Ugh," Ryuuken says with mild disgust. "Have you no shame in freely quoting a man like Buckley?"
"I wasn't quoting him because he was right," Isshin says teasingly.
"I'm not going to treat this like a joke," Ryuuken says, "and neither should you."
I hear the groan of the cushion as he stands and realize it's ending too soon.
"So you're going to leave me here with these two drinks?" Isshin asks with a laugh. He adds darkly, "Are you going home?"
Isshin clears his throat. "Yes. I advise you do the same. I have a bloodline to protect."
"You have a son to protect," Isshin growls.
"Yes, I remember now. You were always the sentimental type. But emotions don't right the wrongs between us."
"Wait a --"
Something happens, I can't hear it, but after a couple of seconds, Ryuuken speaks again.
"If a rope is cut in half, cleanly, it becomes two ropes and no longer needs to rely on the other half to survive. We are two halves of a rope long divided. Let's not make the cleaver come down between us a second time.
"This is good-bye."
I hear his shoes tap their away across the floor and out the front door, hear Isshin take a huge drink from his glass of whiskey. He leaves a half-hour later, paying an overly large tip like usual. I clean his table of dishes to find the glass of brandy sour is untouched.
It's only when I'm lying on my futon at home, watching the lights from outside shine across the ceiling in different patterns, that I realize I will never see them again.
Once upon a time, begins this story, because the idea behind it is so fantastic and far-fetched that no one would believe it as true. It is of two men who are like princes in a foreign land, wearing faces that aren't their own. One smiles too easily, the other not at all. And yet, here they are, standing together at the edge of the world, wearing the uniforms of their fathers, gripping the weapons of ancient societies (one dead, one barely breathing). They're about to jump into the lion's den with only their wits and their strength to guide them, unaware of what dangers lie in store. There's no one in sight to hold their hand up to history and yell stop when no one is inclined to do so, because they are making history with their own hands.
I've never seen Ichigo Kurosaki or Uryuu Ishida with my own eyes, but I've seen their fathers, listened to their stories. And one night, in a house in West Rukongai, the spirits of small children at my lap, I tell them the story of the first nights of those two fathers in a darkened bar years ago, about to turn the wheels of fate themselves.
I look over the innocently curious faces around me and smile before starting: "Once upon a time . . ."