When it rains, the world seems so cold. The darkness that comes with the downpour, the lightning and the thunder, reminds Kenpachi of what it had been like during the olden days. Back in the Rukongai where he had struggled to survive. Back in the 80th District, where he had grew up, where he had met the one person who had taught him how to live.
"Live like you're dying," she always said. Kenpachi had taken her words to heart, tried his best to make it through the gruelling days in the Rukongai. With her passing, her words remained with him. They made up the only anchor he was ever aware of, an ethereal support that he never knew could exist within his blood-soaked world.
With it, he had made it through, gained a rather refreshing, though not too reliable, companion on the way as well. He made it to the Seireitei, with the pink-haired child on his back, and tore the seat of captaincy right from under the old shinigami's feet.
He remembers feeling all the glory when he first slipped into that bloody, torn haori. However messed up it appeared, it still was steps higher than his Rukongai rags.
He remembers all these things when it rains, and always he berates himself for that. He doesn't want to remember; Yachiru told him not to look back. Those were her last words, her dying wish that had been swallowed up by his lips. He wants to grant it, doesn't want her departed soul to worry about him as much as he constantly worries about her spirit.
"Fuckin' messed up," he'll curse himself whenever it rains. He hates the pitter-patter of raindrops as they fall upon the window panes of his office. They sound like echoes of a faraway land, just beckoning him to follow. All he can do to make the sound go away is immerse himself in paperwork - and that too doesn't really block out the annoying patters. He'll curse himself once again, an insult that would make even the saltiest sailor blanch, and make his way up to his living quarters for a nap.
But he can't seem to fall asleep. Only when he's drugged himself on alcohol that he can, but most of the time, he finds that he can't bring himself away from the sound of rain. It's like an odd music to his ears, a melody that comforts and tortures his spirit at the same time.
And when that stupid, sick old man comes over to see him, as if he knows what Kenpachi's going through, Kenpachi distances himself away from him. It's not like he's forced – he just wants to, he needs to. So that he doesn't lash out and hurt him, because he knows that if that thin thread of tolerance snaps, when his memories rush back in drowning waves, he's certain that he won't be able to hold back.
Because the way Jushiro touches him only strengthens the ghosts of the past. Her fingers seem to fleet along his skin behind Jushiro's, gentle and reassuring, yet it pains him. To know that she's never coming back, that she insisted on being forgotten, only burdens him with more guilt. He didn't want to leave her back there, had even thought of taking his own life just so he could join her.
"You're stronger than that," she had said, tears in her eyes, smile on her lips. "You were made for something greater. Why do you think you have such high spiritual pressure? I know…I know that you'll go far."
She had believed in him. Who was he to tear that trust away from a dying innocent?
He's stronger than that. He knows that he won't ever die. He wants to strive to be the best, or at least, be the best that he can be, for her.
But sometimes it's just too much. The weight, the torturous burden, rests upon his shoulders like an ancient mountain. He doesn't want to give in – that would be weak. For his division, for the child, for the late Yachiru, he has to be strong. He has to head the squad he so forcefully ripped from old man Kiganjo, has to feed and bathe and clothe the brat that he, once upon a time, so hesitantly picked up from the carnage. An annoying, candy-obsessed brat with a pension for playing brutal games of hide-and-seek whenever it's bath time; she's his greatest joy.
But Jushiro isn't having any of it. He knows. Kenpachi is certain that he knows what's really going on. Even though he doesn't know what really happened back in the Rukongai, Jushiro seems like he can tell when Kenpachi's trapped within his past.
"Do you love me?" Jushiro once asked him. There wasn't a hint of anger in his tone or his expression. As far as Kenpachi could see through his sudden flare of hatred, there was only concern, even sympathy, in Jushiro's eyes.
Kenpachi couldn't answer.
"I won't force you to, Zaraki. I just want you to come to terms with yourself. I want you to understand yourself before anything else happens between us. Just tell me the truth," Jushiro took a deep breath, and Kenpachi took a step back to the window, "and I'll be on my way. Honesty is brutal, but it's the only option we have."
Kenpachi allowed the silence to speak for itself, and then-
"I hate ye, ye lil' shit."
"What do you want from me, then?"
He still couldn't answer, but in contrary to his hopes, Jushiro didn't leave. Absently, he wondered where his zanpakuto was. The blade that had accompanied him from the very depths of that shithole to his rise to captaincy and to this. He wanted to break Jushiro, wanted to tear him apart. But before he could attempt anything else, the man had left without a word. Kenpachi waited until the hem of his haori was gone and the door came to a sharp close.
And then he reached for the half empty bottle of sake and drank, watching from the window as Jushiro made his way home under the moonlight, an umbrella over his head to block out the rain.
That was the last he'd seen of Jushiro.
And now Kenpachi finds himself once again dwelling in his past. Alone he sits in his bedroom, allowing the moonlight to cast its cold, silver hue upon his being. The rain is as cold as ever, bitter as they land upon the rooftops with a noise that grates on Kenpachi's nerves. And then, as if on clockwork, the door opens with a soft click and Jushiro is there, standing before him in nothing but an old yukata.
"The hell're ye doin' here?"
"I'm worried."
"Fuck off."
"No." Jushiro makes his way to Kenpachi, coming to a halt just a few feet from him. The stern look in his expression only brings to life the moment wherein Yachiru had insisted his strength is more than he can ever imagine. Kenpachi takes a long drag from his pipe, hoping the taste of tobacco can calm his jittery nerves. "I'm not leaving until you tell me the truth. I need to know. We're not going to last if there's no trust between us."
Trust. The one thing that Yachiru had given to him before she left him to the world alone.
"If it makes a difference, I'll tell you that I trust you," Jushiro says. "If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be here in the first place. Please, Zaraki, don't put that to waste."
His words seem to ring in his ears as Kenpachi sits there with the empty bottle of sake on the window sill between his legs. He remembers not trusting Yachiru, how insecure he always felt whenever she went out by herself. Paranoia was his living hell every time she wasn't within his line of sight. He didn't want anything to happen to her, and so he had withdrawn all his trust, had convinced himself that she needed protection all the time. And that had irritated her to no end. She even dared to stay out late and not come home until he went to fetch her from the depths of the dark forest wherein she had been roasting her own dinner.
Stupid asshole thought she knew everythin'.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jushiro turning on his heel to leave.
And then the next thing he knows, the sake bottle is lying in shards on the wooden floor and he has his arms around Jushiro, holding on like there's no tomorrow.
The past - it holds the most significant things Kenpachi never dares to admit.
But still, the present holds wonders that he can never fathom.
"Y'know, Ukitake," he murmurs into Jushiro's hair, feeling his heart race against time, threatening to burst through his chest, "I used to hold her like this. When it was quiet, when everythin' didn't look so shitty. Sometimes when it was shitty, she'd turn 'round, hug me back. And then…then I'd tell her…"
Jushiro swallows and caresses Kenpachi's hands. He brings his right hand up and kisses it, then turns around and rests his head on Kenpachi's chest. Kenpachi feels a shiver running up his spine as Jushiro snakes his arms around his waist and pulls him closer.
"What would you tell her?" It's just a whisper as Jushiro's hot breath falls upon Kenpachi's collarbone, the tips of his fingers fleeting as they slide around the small of his bare back.
Kenpachi looks down and buries his nose in Jushiro's hair. Just like how he used to do to Yachiru's rough, dark strands. "I'd tell her that everythin's gonna be okay."
Outside, rain continues to fall, but as the night wears on, Kenpachi is only aware of Jushiro. His breathing, his soft cries, his touch.
He can still feel her there, but this time, Jushiro's the only one that he needs.
The only one that he wants.