Pairing: Kisuke Urahara x Ichigo Kurosaki
Music: How Far We've Come, by Matchbox Twenty
Word count: ~ 1,400
Rating: M
Prompt 2: Metaphor
Romeo and Juliet, Urahara thought, was a particularly good metaphor for them. Not that they were overly emotional, hormonal teenagers from warring families who turned to friend-assisted suicide at the first sign of opposition, but…
Well, maybe it wasn't the best metaphor, except for the part about forbidden love. And their love wasn't exactly forbidden, just frowned upon, seeing as Urahara was several hundred years older that Ichigo and a good bit more experienced. That would have been the case with any of the shinigami, though, and the Powers That Be could hardly expect Ichigo to pick a normal human (like that Inoue girl, he inwardly sneered, conveniently ignoring the fact that she was not a normal human and his fear at how she had come dangerously close to securing his fierce, beautiful lover's attention) and be happy with them. Ichigo was powerful, and ferocious, and unstoppable, and had more power than any three captains combined, and he was Urahara's.
Of course, Urahara himself was brilliant, cunning, sly, witty, handsome, and modest to a fault. It could be equally said that Ichigo had him.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and Urahara turned his head to look at his lover, lying curled against him in their bed, naked and sweaty and far more beautiful than he really had any right to be. The near-permanent scowl was gone, replaced with a lazy expression that reminded Urahara vaguely of Yoruichi when she got into a particularly good batch of cream—which should, admittedly, have been a terrifying thought, but somehow failed to produce any reaction beyond a contented grumble.
"Must you look so exhausted?" he complained good-naturedly. "I seem to recall that I was the one doing all the work."
Ichigo huffed softly, though his languid expression didn't change, and dropped his head back to the pillow. There was the shadow of a smile lurking somewhere around the corners of his mouth. "And I seem to recall that you only did half of it, over an hour ago." Then the maybe-smile faded, and his topaz-honey eyes turned slightly worried. "Are you all right, Kisuke? We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
Urahara wondered, distantly, how he could have gotten so lucky. How many lovers would be content to remain a dirty secret, just because their partner was a little nervous? But he wasn't willing to do that to Ichigo. They had been hiding for a long time already, ever since the beginning of their relationship after Ichigo's seventeenth birthday. Ichigo was twenty-five now, in medical school to become a cardiologist, still protecting the people of Karakura from Hollows, and Urahara ached to be able to hold his hand in public, to put an arm around his shoulders and claim him whenever those silly girls stared at him like something edible and available.
He didn't want them to be a secret anymore, and if that meant facing Isshin and a possible gruesome death by vivisection, so be it.
With a grin, he wrapped his arms around Ichigo's shoulders and rolled so that he was on top, staring down into golden-brown eyes that flared with sudden, smoldering heat. "How long do we have?" he asked, his voice growing deeper and huskier, and was delighted to see Ichigo shiver at the sound of it.
Pupils dilating, Ichigo cleared his throat. "An hour and a half," he whispered, and the words were hard to get out. "More, if we use shunpo to get there. You're going to—?"
Urahara's wandering fingers cut off the question, and Ichigo moaned into his mouth as their lips met. Urahara fought of his own shiver, feeling the linger wetness inside Ichigo from their last round, and how he was so soft and pliant under the shopkeeper's hands. Greedy, greedy, greedy, something inside him taunted. Wanting him, possessing him, taking advantage of a child and using him like this. How could you?
I love him, was all Urahara could think in response. He's my everything.
Ichigo stared up into the grey eyes that held so much warmth and adoration, so much emotion that he couldn't believe was directed at him. Urahara was the enigmatic genius who had proved Aizen's foil, who had overcome banishment and fear and hatred and thrived on the opposition. And he had chosen Ichigo, out of all the people in the world.
Ichigo wasn't under any misconceptions about himself; he knew how he looked and how powerful he was, but he also knew his shortcomings. He had a temper, he didn't know when to stop, and he threw himself headlong into suicidal situations that seemed unwinnable. Why anyone would waste time trying to help him, trying to save him, was something he couldn't comprehend. Especially since Urahara was probably the only one who saw him as he actually was—someone young, with more power than they could understand, who needed help no matter how well he seemed to do in single combat with god-beings and monstrous creatures from mortal nightmare.
That, more than anything else, was precious.
Urahara hitched one of his legs up, pulling it around his hip, and they slid together with an ease that Ichigo still found somewhat ridiculous, even after all this time. How could any two people be as perfect for each other as they were? It defied all probability, all reason and logic. Nevertheless, he was incredibly grateful for it, for this man who was so warm and wise and wonderful, who kissed him like breathing and filled him perfectly. He gasped out a word that might have been Kisuke or might have been more or even move, and arched up as Urahara did so, sliding slick and easy so deep inside him. It wasn't storybook perfect—Ichigo was still sore from earlier, and Urahara was breathing a little too hard for it to be incredibly romantic, and they were both too eager (as they almost always were, it seemed) for it to last very long between them. Still, it was them, and Ichigo hardly needed to touch himself before he was coming, back arching and eyes fluttering shut, Kisuke's name tumbling into the overheated air between them like a prayer. With a groan, Urahara came as well, slumping over him and gasping for breath, muscles quivering in the aftermath.
After a few moments of being crushed into the mattress, Ichigo wriggled out from under the heavier shopkeeper and rolled his eyes, shoving Urahara to one side and curling up against him with a contented sigh. He flicked a cursory glance at the clock and nearly winced. "We have a bit more than half an hour. Shower?"
Urahara attempted a leer, but it was too exhausted to do much but fall short. "Share it?"
Ichigo snorted. "Of course. You'll need me to hold you up, old man."
Rolling over, Urahara levered himself to his feet and stuck out his tongue. "I do not!"
He barely refrained from rolling his eyes again, instead joining the blond in his stagger for the bathroom. "Right, I constantly forget that you're an infantile five-year-old, trapped in a geezer's body. Are we going to my dad's for dinner or not?"
Urahara shuddered. "Don't remind me; I'm pretending that if I ignore my looming death by way of Engetsu, it won't happen."
"Idiot," Ichigo said fondly, supporting him into the shower stall.
A moment later, steam whirled out into the cool air, along with the irate demand, "And how come you still look so chipper? I swear, I'm doing all the work!"
The roll of Ichigo's eyes was almost as audible as his sigh, and he used the only method he knew to shut up Urahara Kisuke: a kiss.
They seemed to be kissing more and more often these days, Ichigo reflected.
Not that he minded in the slightest.