Disclaimer: Not mine, okay? Really not mine. If they were mine, UraIchi would be the canon pairing, and Kisuke would have transformed Aizen into a pair of dirty socks or something via his latest invention and our favorite shopkeeper and his berry would hardly ever leave the bedroom. The idea and story, however, ARE mine – I don't mind if someone wants to play in this 'verse, but ASK ME FIRST, please.
Come Nightly To The Sky
Urahara Kisuke attended flea markets with surprising regularity.
He loved hunting through bargain bins and scrounging through the junk piled on cheap plastic tables. Most of the items on the roadside booths were worthless pieces of trash, but there was always the possibility of coming across something that would make the long search worthwhile, of retrieving a genuine find from the scattered heaps of rubbish. It reminded him of nothing so much as a gigantic treasure hunt. You never knew what you might find, and the uncertainty was the main part of the attraction. It was that, more then anything else, which drove him to browse the flea markets every other weekend. The former captain seldom bought anything, but the hunt alone was worth the price of admittance.
Even if other people's definitions of priceless tended to differ from his own.
Kisuke was in the middle of smiling politely at a young woman thrusting a pair of cracked plastic dolls in his face lovely, certainly, yes, yes, what a find, excuse me for a moment, please when he felt it.
Reiatsu. Faint, but unmistakable.
Curiosity compelled him; Kisuke utilized all his considerable skill to trace the taste of night and sky back through the labyrinth of booths. The power was muffled to the extent that it was nearly indistinguishable from the unrelenting thrum of human life about him; he sidestepped shouting vendors and anxious customers, making his way through the crowds.
Kisuke was somehow unsurprised when his steps led him to the scrap bin. Even professional browsers such as himself didn't visit this part of the market all that often; it was the wash-up pile, the ultimate destination for items passed from market to market until abandoned as worthless. The power drew him onwards; teetering stacks of plastic and cardboard loomed above him as Kisuke sifted though the piles of rubbish, pushing aside old linen handkerchiefs and chipped plastic tea sets as he followed the elusive scent/taste of reiatsu through compressed layers of trash.
His fingers brushed a cast-iron handle. The former captain bent forward, grunting slightly as he dragged a battered chest out into the light. Clever fingers unlatched the simple brass lock and flipped open the lid. Kisuke shifted aside layers of faded tablecloths and the dry, musty husks of old moth eggs to uncover a sword.
Not just a sword. A Zanpaktou. The black haft was battered and scarred, dull with age and corrosion, and a grimy patina encrusted the blade - but the steel was sharp as ever. The reiatsu taint was unmistakable. This was a shinigami weapon, born to hunt hollows and assist the transition to the afterlife. One that bore all the hallmarks of long neglect.
But no shinigami would ever, ever abandon his zanpaktou. The idea was, quite simply, unthinkable.
It was a mystery. And mysteries, Kisuke reflected, as he reached out a hand and grasped the dented iron haft, were what made such trips worthwhile.
*
The sword was a puzzle. It appeared to be a perfectly normal zanpaktou (for a given value of the phrase) save for its apparent lack of an owner. The man had to be alive; zanpaktou disintegrated with their master's death, but no shinigami, no matter how demented, would ever abandon what was essentially a fragment of their soul.
Urahara obtained the sword for a pittance. He'd felt vaguely insulted at the price; battered or not, the sword was still of significant value. Beyond price, actually, for one specific set of hands. Yet it had been abandoned in the human world, stuffed between alternating layers of musty tablecloths.
He subjected it to a battery of tests over the course of the following weeks, managing to discern that the blade radiated various anomalous reiatsu frequencies before tiring of the matter. The data was interesting, but unproductive; he set the puzzle of the mysterious zanpaktou aside in favor of more productive concerns. He did, however, buy a new sheath for the blade, and polished the steel until it gleamed. Despite his best efforts, a faint patina lingered on the sword, shimmering like oil across a pond at night.
Benihime was silent on the matter, pointedly ignoring both him and the other blade. He spent some time reassuring his sword that she was the only zanpaktou he had eyes for, eventually resulting to bribery. Kisuke sacrificed six hollows to her bloodlust before she deigned to speak to him again.
He stashed the nameless sword in a corner of his room and promptly forgot about it.
*
Urahara's usual dreams were a scattered panorama of discordant actions and images. Though the former captain had long since mastered the art of lucid dreaming, he preferred the chaotic mishmash permeating his slumber to regular sleep. He was quite fond of walking inside neutrons or riding merry-go-rounds of carnival faces through orange shores populated with looking-glass pies.
Needless to say, it was a rare night that he got much actual sleep.
It started about a month after he bought the sword, though he didn't realize the significance at the time. A vague sensation of being watched penetrated his sleeping mind, a gentle presence subtly intruding on the edges of his awareness. Over time, the Other (for so he thought of it, in the rare moments that he pondered it at all) slowly began to congeal into an indistinct form. It lingered on the borderlands between sleep and fantasy, just beyond the edge of sight, making no attempt to help or hinder the shopkeeper as he ran through kaleidoscope corridors laced with plastic pipes or sifted through strands of sticky bubblegum in search of the moon. Kisuke paid it no mind, acknowledging its presence in the strange, passive logic of dreams before attempting to blow bubbles of hourglass sand.
The presence became gradually more distinct over time, as did the passive sensation of observation. Though the Other's physical characteristics remained obscure, the sensation of watchful presence grew closer every with every dream.
One night, he dreamed of being a captain again, feeling the heavy white haori draped over his shoulders as he led his division in battle against hazy foes. It was a good dream for once, and he laughed with the sheer vivacious joy of life as he called his princess to attack.
One of the shinigami fighting at his side had bristly orange hair. He was young – scarcely more then a teen - but fought with the deadly precision indicative of long experience. He wore a ragged black coat (decidedly against regulations) that billowed with his movements as he guarded Kisuke's back, working in tandem with the older shinigami to carve a path between nightmares. Kisuke was unable to place the redhead at first, despite a gnawing sense of familiarity, recognizing him only when they smiled at each other, grins blade-sharp and savage as they stood over a decimated pile of corpses.
The redhead started to show up a lot more often after that.
The Other - for he offered no name - was young, and though his clothing tended to shift from dream to dream, he always wore a ragged black coat that hung from his form in lanky tatters. His physical attributes were likewise subject to change. His hair, for instance, would sometimes spill down his back almost to the level of his waist, though most of the time it was cut short, falling endearingly in front of his eyes.
Aside from the coat, his eyes were the one thing that never changed.
Nights came and passed, and Kisuke became accustomed to the strange figure that played an increasing role in his dreams. He began to compile a mental list of miscellaneous facts about the individual. For instance, the shopkeeper learned that the redhead absolutely hated kidou one lazy afternoon as they sipped cups of fruit juice from the surface of a polychromatic river, marshmallow trees waving lazily to either side. Kisuke couldn't help but laugh at the face the other man made at the thought demon magic; the ragged black figure dismissed the shopkeeper's offer of tuition with a wry smile. I don't really need it anymore.
A trip on a raft made of styrofoam paper clips taught him that the redhead could swim, albeit with a great deal of flailing and spluttering. It was a fortunate discovery, as the youth happened to be wearing iron sandals for some strange reason. It also revealed that the redhead actually had a very nice musculature - not that Kisuke was looking, or anything. He had simply… happened to notice the way the wet robes clung to the redhead's lanky frame as the soggy teen glared death at him from beneath sopping bangs, water spilling in rivulets across pale, shivering skin
Kisuke blinked up in the darkness, abruptly jolted awake. Fuck.
Dreams were all well and good, but he knew with bitter certainty that they weren't really real. Not in the way he wanted them to be. Never in the way he wanted them to be. They were fantasies, plain and simple, fragments of an overactive imagination, and Kisuke rather fancied he knew the precise value of dreams. To the decimal point.
Perhaps his subconscious was trying to tell him something. His libido, rather – it had been a long time since he'd taken a lover. It was plausible that his unconsciousness was attempting to relieve this by creating an idealized version of a suitable partner. The regularity with which the redhead appeared certainly indicated the severity of the situation. Kisuke smiled almost smugly at the ceiling, snuggling deeper under his covers. His brain was so formidable that it anticipated his needs before they intruded onto his conscious mind.
Still, one could not live by dreams alone – no matter how appealing the thought might be. Urahara's search for proper (physical) companionship was gleefully taken up by his employees. Tessai was delighted to help his employer find suitable female (or male, as the case may be) company, trolling the Internet in search of individuals with suitable qualifications. The giant somehow managed to accumulate a sizable pool of candidates - Kisuke didn't ask what qualifications Tessai had put on his resume. There were some things that even he, genius extraordinaire, had no desire to know.
He suffered through two interminable blind dates before refusing to cooperate with Tessai's schemes. Though the women were physically appealing (from a certain point of view), reasonably intelligent, and very interested in getting to know him (really, just what had Tessai put down on that form?) neither managed to capture his attention to any significant degree. Despite his best efforts, his mind increasingly turned to thoughts of orange-red hair and a crooked smile.
He was fairly sure he knew the reason why.
His dreams were oddly lonely. The familiar presence in the ragged black cloak was nowhere to be seen; Urahara might almost have thought that he'd driven the other away, were it not for the fleeting, familiar press of unseen eyes. Try as he might, he could not catch sight of his watcher. The shopkeeper received only scattered impressions of night and sand and the Other standing silently on the boundaries of his mind, gazing at him in dejected resignation.
He was surprised at how much he missed the figment of his imagination.
*
Three nights after his last, disastrous date (which would never be mentioned again. Never. He meant it!), he fell prey to a (thankfully) rare nightmare; such horrors were rare, but frighteningly intense. He'd stood, shivering, on the cold tiles of the chamber of the 46 as cold white light blinded him. And he'd known, to the depths of his soul, that this time Yoruichi would not come to save him, that this time, he'd be left alone with the light and the sentence and Aizen's gleeful triumph. Tessai was gone (another mark on his soul, and god, there were so many) but all guilt was drowned beneath the stark terror rising in his throat (You're next). He tasted bile in his mouth, and they were shouting at him, accusations, pleas, condemnations as white masks dripped across their faces and it was his fault, it was all his fault even as the shouts flowed into screams and -
And suddenly the Other was there, roaring in rage and catching him the crook of one strong arm. The redhead's long coat swirled about them both like ragged wings as he drew Kisuke to his side, slicing through the jumbled mass of masks and bone with a strangely familiar blade. The nightmare split about them like rice paper, tangled shards of night and screams falling to either side as the other pulled him forward, leading him to the hazy margins of a familiar meadow where they'd had lunch together once upon a time. He was tugged down onto a mossy outcrop, the redhead wrapping him in a hug as his hands gnarled in the youth's robe, shaking from the sheer ferocity of the nightmare. That rough, familiar voice muttered soothing nonsense in his ears and Kisuke let himself relax, burying his face in the other's chest and relishing the delicious privilege of being held.
His shudders slowed, and he opened his eyes to find the redhead biting his lip as he stared down at him in obvious concern. The youth's hand rose; Kisuke flinched back slightly as calloused fingers hesitantly ran through his hair. Kisuke's eyes closed involuntarily before jolting open, catching the Other's gaze. The former shinigami found himself entranced by the worry in those brown eyes, the obvious concern - Kisuke had had lovers in his time, even had those who professed a certain amount of affection for him, but few had ever looked at him like that and fewer still had been…
To hell with it.
Kisuke seized the redhead's chin, his other hand curling around the back of the youth's head. Dark brown eyes widened as the shopkeeper jerked the younger man forward, pressing their lips together in one rough movement. Kisuke traced the counters of the unfamiliar mouth with greedy ferocity; the other stood frozen for a moment before his mouth came to life, bruised lips hot and desperate as they moved against his own.
They tumbled over backwards, Kisuke's hands fumbling with the lacing of that odd black coat as he hastily diverged his soon-to-be lover of his clothing. The shopkeeper bit back an involuntary moan as hot fingers brushed against his skin as the youth clumsily attempted to reciprocate, trembling from the shopkeeper's constant barrage of kisses,
It was just a dream, Kisuke reminded himself, as a long, pale expanse of skin came into sight. He shuddered at the sensation of hands sliding underneath his hakama, catching the other's lips in a long, slow kiss.
Just a dream.
*
He'd woken, feeling surprisingly refreshed; every muscle in his body was relaxed and sated, seeped in languid pleasure.
His good mood had vanished the instant he caught a glimpse of the unknown zanpaktou propped in the corner. The black sword was wreathed in a penumbra of blue-white power that burned away all shadows; it shuddered, collapsing in on itself even as he watched with astonished eyes, faint afterimages of a larger blade flickering from sight.
The sword itself shone sleek and true. Shadows chased the sword, black ribbons winding around the dark hilt in a twisted caress; the blade itself was a sliver night, burning with the merciless radiance of an abyss older then stars or moon. Age and time had crumbled away, leave the blade sharp and streamlined and hungry; all signs of neglect had faded, blade shining with deadly promise.
Something decidedly odd was going on, Kisuke decided.
The bite marks he found on his neck clinched the issue.
*
Benihime had been waiting for him when he arrived in his inner world, placidly seated at the edge of her domain. More shocking, however, was the fact that she had not been alone. Kisuke's eyes had widened at the familiar outline of black and orange vanishing in a quick swirl of color; he'd rounded on his zanpaktou, face intent. Benihime had stared at him, unimpressed and curiously resigned.
"Are you sure you want to know?"
He nodded.
*
"I first became aware of the presence about a year or so ago, shortly after you acquired the sword. It was nothing tangible, simply a feeling, and a presence lingering on the edges of my realm. I was wary, properly guarded, but after a time - I became curious, I suppose. There was no hostility, after all - just wistful hunger and a need like a physical thing." She had paused, fixing him with an imperious gaze. "And pain. Desperate pain, such as I never hope to see again."
"So I parceled off a corner of my realm, and let it in."
"He was so - so incredulously joyful simply at being able to speak to me. It was as if a starving child stared through a window at a feast. To feel the earth beneath his feet and see a sky overhead brought him such ecstasy that it was nearly unbearable to behold. He has told me… a little of who and what he is. "
"He came across… something he shouldn't have. I'm not sure of the details - perhaps he overheard a conversation, rounded a corner at the wrong time, but - he saw, he heard, he knew more then Aizen Sousuke could permit."
"They thought of simply killing him, but Aizen had a better idea."
"He has no name. Not anymore. A name is integral to the self and he – he is no longer what he once was. Aizen - he's not sure of the details, but - well... If a zanpaktou is broken, its power returns to its wielder until it can be re-made; Sousuke wanted to see if he could reverse the process."
"That is not a sword-spirit. That is the soul of a shinigami, coherent and whole, bound into his own blade."
"He has no master. He doesn't even have an inner world; he exists in a bodiless confusion of sheer nothingness, bordered only by the physical boundaries of his blade. He has nothing, and though he would deny it, he's frightened. Even the awareness of his own zanpaktou was reintegrated back into his self; he's been alone for a very, very long time."
"Until you found him."
"He was slowly going mad, with sensory deprivation and needs he didn't have the context to understand. And then you came. You're not his master, but you're his owner. You have a claim to him, but it's different. He cannot talk to you, save through your dreams - you are not One, not in the manner that we are."
"But still, he longs for it. For a connection, any connection. I am here, but I am not enough. You are the one person who has any contact with him, and he craves that on a level you cannot possibly understand. He needs a - if not a partnership, at least some form of recognition."
"I have tried to help him, but I am a sword myself. I am your blade. I am not what he needs, not what he craves."
She paused. "I was harsh with him, when we first met." The blade admitted slowly. "I – greatly regret my initial reactions." She had fixed him with one ruby-bright eye. "Take that into consideration when you face him."
*
Urahara Kisuke stood in his training room, eyes grim, unnamed blade in his fist as he faced the tenshintai propped upright on the rocky soil.
("I was very angry with him at first, but I gradually came to see that it was not his fault. Not entirely.")
A quick step forward and he thrust from the shoulder, blade sighing in his hand as it was absorbed into the cardboard silhouette. The homunculus shivered, shifted form and falling in folds of ragged black cloth that hugged a form that Kisuke could have traced in his sleep. And he had, caressing every inch of pale skin with lips and hands, coaxing those long legs wide and… Well.
It was the naked fear on that familiar face that brought Kisuke up short, dashing all his carefully prepared words. Terrified brown eyes stared at the blonde, the sword shrinking back from him in outright dread.
The realization that the redhead – the sword – was afraid of him was like a bucket of ice-cold water.
"I'm sorry." The unnamed blade spoke into the silence, words spilling from his lips and adding to Kisuke's hidden confusion. Sorry? What - "I know - it was wrong of me to do that and I took advantage of you when you weren't in your right mind and that's unforgiveable and I'm sorry." The redhead's face matched his hair as he stared dully at the ground.
"Why?" Kisuke asked, covering the whirl of jumbled thoughts his mind had become. The redhead backed slowly away from the former captain, hands upraised as if fearing reprisal. He didn't meet the former captain's eyes. "You're 'sorry'?" The sword flinched as Kisuke's voice rose. "If you knew it was wrong, then why – why did you do it? Any of it?" He paused. "Why did you let me use you like that?" Kisuke's voice was soft as he stared at the blade.
("You hold the power of life and death over him, Kisuke-sama. The power to send him back to the dark, the cold, away from the light and the air… More then that - you are the only thing, literally, that connects him to this world. You are - his everything.")
The sword's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I - you were touching me." He winced at the feeble excuse, hands knotting in his coat.
"Do you know how long it is has been since someone touched me?" For a moment, he looked older, exhausted with years and strain, fear forgotten. "I don't. I can't touch anything. I can't touch Benihime – I pass through her like a ghost. I can't touch anything in her home, and there isn't anything in mine to touch. I don't have an inner world. I can't touch anything, but you - you were touching me. And it felt so good to just have someone, anyone, just - just know that I was there, be able to know that I was there, and touch me..."
The yearning on his face was much as Benihime had described, that of a child faced with an impossible, unattainable dream, a need past description almost to the point of physical pain.
Directed at him. Focused squarely on the personage of Urahara Kisuke.
Such a simple desire. Such a little thing. Touch.
"Was that the only reason?" Urahara's voice was very quiet, laced with unexpected pain.
The sword flushed (rather prettily, truth be told) and refused to meet Kisuke's eyes. "No." He darted an appraising glance at the shopkeeper from beneath lowered lids, dark eyes frank.
Kisuke felt a twitch of unaccustomed happiness; his mouth curved into a gentle smile. "I've been meaning to ask you - what's your name?"
A faint tinge of bitterness flowed across the redhead's face. "I have no name."
Urahara winced. "Well, what was your name… before?" His hand made a vague gesture roughly encompassing half the training room.
The sword shrugged. "Ichigo." He glared at Kisuke's snicker. "Don't you start!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Kisuke flapped his hands apologetically, still grinning like a loon. "It just seems so perfectly fitting." He sobered slightly, smirk still lingering on his lips.
"Well then, why don't we have your new name be Ichigo?" He smiled gently at the youth. "There's no reason your new name can't be the same as your old."
The newly-named Ichigo blinked.
This time, Kisuke's smile held a hint of nervous fright. "Besides. I should know the name of my – I should know your name." Gently, gently. Like soothing a frightened bird.
Slowly, hesitantly, Ichigo smiled in response.
The stars come nightly to the sky
The tidal wave comes to the sea
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high
Can keep my own away from me.
-John Burroughs