Ninth Symphony
smudged wolf stealing bread
pale cat plays—dashes—tail raised
crisp snow by red hearth
And they are and shall be glorious in ruins.
Majesties, they will say.
Infernal, they go down.
Isshin checks the clock (dial facing due north). It is time. Preparing a grin, wrangling in amiability, he opens the door and says:
"Urahara Kisuke. It's been a while."
"So it has."
Twenty years disappears in half a blink, and they and all their wits are already rotting. Memory is deceiving—but so is seeing.
I.
During the first days of exile, Urahara is distraught (good in the sick) is desperate to reverse this wrong, right this conversion. He stubbornly experiments and fails each time. His track record was never great., but still, he persists faithfully.
This one is no good, that one is even worse.
They are bodies. Souls—
ripped, broken.
He will fix it (them, him). He promised. He will, he will.
Contorting in pain, Shinji shoots him a glare. Despair flickers over Shinji's face and gauged are his eyes—nearing blind. Shinji screams as Urahara injects him with another serum.
This one, this one is certain.
...
Somehow, by dumb coincidence, he is able to repress their hollows. A glimmer (to linger)encased in a hot and smoky cage. The hidden world of souls, the inner sanctum: polluted white and gradual, assiduously rinsed with black sands.
Urahara stands back to admire his work. Limp and sluggish but regenerated, resurfaced. He counts their fingers and toes and adjusts their clothes (good gigais are so hard to come by).
Hiyori is the first to rise and on cue, she beats him with his own cane.
Inside her seal, Benihime shrieks with laughter—is delighted, hysteric.
...
On nights when Urahara cannot sleep, he recalls and old story he knew as a kid. Of a legendary, almost mythic figure. Hero, he hears.
The name escapes him. Yet obstinate, it refuses to relinquish fully. And so, tossing in tangled sheets with sweat choking skin, Urahara tries to remember—
Remember, rewind: the sound of yesterday.
A face abruptly flashes through. Distantly familiar, a wisp of purple and gold and is gone is—
...
He hates the crisp smell of warm sake and the openness of ceilings. The terrible sensation of something foreboding, approaching. Looms, grows, infinite and ringing.
The barren atmosphere of his room swallows him inch by inch. In a loud gulp, Urahara crashes and is sent hurtling forth. He nervously tampers with the dark (fumbling for the lamp switch) and wakes up to the motor of an antiquated steel fan.
Beyond the flimsy walls, Tessai snores, deep and peaceful in sleep. Reassured, Urahara relaxes and wills himself to forget the dream.
Tonight, all is well.
...
It's been more than a hundred years since he turned renegade, and nothing's changed. Except—Urahara meticulously sifts through the notes:
There are buildings trekking toward heaven. Made of glass and titanium, they support behemoths with minimum strength. And snakes and dragons have adopted new names ("an airplane and that one is a train"). Even the language is different.
Short, clipped.
However, strange enough, the humans (and their petty lives and tiny minds) are sure to endure. They are evanescent are pitiful. Soon, their insignificant selves will be lost. But they are proud of their self-deluded resilience.
Urahara watches on in amusement.
...
He decides that he is well suited to play a merchant. And so, he opens up shop. Selling chocolates and bonbons and lollipops will be a delight. He can rot the children and poison the parents all from the comforts of home.
"Oh, that is an excellent choice, ma'am." Urahara beams at the customer.
The woman nods in agreement. "My son loves strawberry candy."
"We received a new order just yesterday."
"Oh, how lucky!" she exclaims and buys another bag.
Yes, luck.
II.
And someday, we will meet again.
Feral and starved, Isshin jolts awake. Standing before him is the most amazing woman on earth, in heaven—possibly hell.
Her hair is tied back, the color of a red fox's supple belly. Sweet eyes and pink lips. She wears her smile easy and free. Her dress is translucent, drenched from the storm. The woman closes her eyes and carefully (almost tender) she brushes fat, rolling droplets off her cheek.
He is hit with a dizzy rush (orange blossoms thick on his tongue). A sense of longing, the dubious attraction of memory.
Tentative, Isshin reaches out, thinking she's here—she's waiting—for him. But when he extends a trembling hand, there is nothing. She does not react.
And all of a sudden, he realizes that she can't see him.
...
His body, this makeshift dilapidation of ossified waste, will rapidly rust and fade. His powers have been siphoned and soul is sliced. But Isshin has no regrets.
Perdition is not so bad.
(Neither is sedition.)
...
Urahara Shop.
Isshin reads the worn, lead-scribbled sign that marks his elusive destination. Grimacing (the summons of fickle courage), he steps in.
"Welcome, welcome!" a voice calls out.
Wary, Isshin inspects the interior. Rather dingy and unimpressive (unassuming). "Is Urahara Kisuke here?" he asks.
A tall man appears, twirling a fan, with cane at hand. He is flamboyant is absolutely the last person Isshin wants to speak with at ten in the morning.
"Urahara Kisuke?" Isshin demands again.
"Yes, yes. How may I help you, shinigami-san?"
—Ah. So he knew.
"I need a gigai and heard that you sell 'em at a moderate price."
"What's your name, shinigami-san?"
"Isshin."
Urahara smirks. "I am happy to be of assistance, Isshin-san."
—Ah. So he is.
...
Isshin has a morbid suspicion that Urahara Kisuke knows far more than he lets on. That behind his smiles and the fluttering, damn rapturous mannerism is something insidious (hideous). Sneaky, dastardly. The bastard is too clever in the game of crucibles.
Of which, Isshin passes through many.
But despite his premonitions, Urahara is all he has—for now. And so, Isshin stays silent, biting back.
...
"How is Kukaku?"
"Just fine," Urahara answers.
"And Kaien?"
"Same."
And they both pretend not to notice the glint in his eye, the prompt scouring of hesitance.
...
On Fridays, Isshin goes out with the flower girl.
Covered in blooded soil (hands grimy from gardening) Masaki teases him out of dour moods. Tonight, as usual, she brings him hyacinths. He casually remarks on their loveliness and how pretty she looks in that dress, is it new? Gallant, Isshin takes the bouquet and her arm and guides them down the street.
On Saturdays, he nurses a killer hangover while ruing over lost opportunities at Urahara's.
Together, fastened to an acrid coffee drip, they reminisce over yesterdays from an eternity ago. Between the first third of an omelette and a second cup, Isshin starts to think that perhaps Urahara isn't so bad.
On Sundays, he swears that one-day-soon he will tell Masaki everything. And on that fated day, he will disabuse Urahara (and himself) of their entangled deceptions.
But today is Monday and therefore, Isshin gets ready for work. He has mastered this banal routine perfectly: blue suit and gunmetal tie.
III.
Urahara attends Isshin and Masaki's wedding as is proper. Safe, distanced, he gazes from high on top—this perch that can't be disturbed (neither can he).
She is gorgeous, teary, radiant, everything a bride should be. And Isshin (Urahara scratches his chin, frowns) is giddy, anticipatory. Sick in love and pathetic-drugged. A fine couple they will make. In their future, there will have three kids and a yellow cat.
No dogs left for old men like them.
Nimble, Urahara leaps down. He hums a tune and pictures neat rows of white fencing and black drapes.
They say that marriage is a curse while divorce is the real boon. He is eager to discover what Isshin thinks.
As Isshin kisses her, Masaki tilts her head a few centimeters to the right and catches a glimpse of green and white. But when she returns for a closer look, the figure has left. Faraway, she hears the echo of getas striking concrete.
It's nothing, she tries to convince herself.
...
Urahara is not present at the births of their children. He is not there for birthdays or holidays. For that, Masaki is relieved. But like an insane mother-in-law, he is constant, an unwelcome albeit integral component.
Obscured, he hangs over her doorstep. A fable, he haunts her—them, her family. He is indefinable, and she is curious. But every time Masaki asks her husband, Isshin would digress until she finally becomes tired of prying. And the subject is dropped entirely. Nonetheless, Urahara remains a hostile dot on the horizon.
Always there yet not.
"Here, Masaki-san." Cheerfully, he passes the bowl to her.
She grudgingly thanks him.
...
Masaki's death is tragic and awful and everything memorable.
As Isshin mourns over her grave, Urahara sighs, raising the umbrella to cover their battered bodies. Morose and remorseful, he lays a hand on Isshin's shoulder and waits for the tears to conclude. The rain falls hard. Incisive, it cuts up flower petals, sinking into fresh dirt.
"How did this happen?"
How did I fail?
Urahara does not respond. They both know it would be futile because grief—like love—is not meant to be shared.
...
Only once, two a.m. Three weeks after the funeral on a Saturday night.
He is drunk and Urahara too, and they understand that everything will be forgotten by tomorrow.
So, inhaling in the fine dust of sake and cologne, Isshin leans back against the cushions. His feet lose purchase (damn the floor) as the weighty warmth of late-summer mist overwhelms him. Lulling, it encroaches, pouring waves into his lungs, shoved forcefully down.
Above him, Urahara's face is caught in shadows. His hat has disappeared, and there's a dim halo threading through his blond hair. Quick before—
"Huh. Nothing there."
"What is it, Isshin-san?"
"I thought…never mind. Thought I saw. Your head dissolving."
Urahara stings him a laugh. Wincing, Isshin is pinned down with nails digging into the soft flesh of his throat. And fangs at his collar. The tatami scrapes his skin clean like a scythe. Slide far past the lower back.
Menace and a leer.
Urahara's hands are raw, bony, and impacting like a flurry of mismatched swords. An explosion fizzing out, threatening to die, and then point blank—
Isshin groans. His cock grows hard in Urahara's hand. Hot, slick. Exquisite.
The mind is a tunnel, going vertigo, is spiraling out of control.
Isshin's shirt is soaked, plastered to his skin. Breath is short, hindered. He can feel it: pulse thrashing to jailbreak out of his chest. And Urahara pressing in. Grip is firm and that infamous smirk is back.
"Fuck," Isshin curses.
Slow, Urahara takes him into his mouth.
...
On the first anniversary of Masaki's death, Urahara is the one who brings her flowers. Devoted, he arranges them around her tombstone. Bitter, he lies to her that everything is fine.
IV.
In the storage room of Urahara's shop, they reflect on everything that has occurred (recanting all their crimes). This place is secure (sterile) is where heroes and monsters come to die. And here, their conversations revert to the same pleasantries and platitudes without fail.
"How did we end up here?" Urahara starts, gesturing to the eggshell paint and cardboard boxes.
Isshin pauses, thinks. Ingenious, the answer will be. He toys with the question this way and that and comes up with: "Dunno. You tell me. You're the one who provoked the devil."
"And you sold your soul to it. I'm surprised that thing hasn't reproached you, now that Aizen's been imprisoned."
"It—they—don't need to. That thing was never in any real danger."
"You know, I never liked the idea of Zero Division. Or that thing, come to think."
"Neither did I. But as you said, it's necessary. So I suppose, by consequence, we are necessary too. No matter how much I hate this whole secretive business."
"How about your son? Will you tell him?"
Isshin grins. "What do you think?"
"I imagine this must be difficult for him. He's not the type to watch on the sidelines while others save the day."
"Don't worry. Ichigo's a tough kid, just like his old man. And one day he'll get back up too."
All good things will come. Eventually.
...
Staring across the endless wasteland of Heuco Mundo, Isshin feels his tongue parching into a coarse coil. He senses Ichigo's reiatsu. Wild, feverish, it scourges against the invincible walls of his prison. In waves, his son's reaitsu spikes. Strong and solid like marble obelisks sharpened at the tips.
Isshin expels his lungs of air (dormant, the oxygen has transformed into toxin). He coughs as the winds attempt to bury him, and a thin line of blood trickles down his chin.
He sprints forward.
He must hurry.
He must not be late.
Hurry. Before everything is gone up in flames.
...
This time, Urahara is the one to find him.
Isshin's vision takes a second to recover. Damn Quincy, that bastard hit without warning. Trembling, he reaches for Urahara's outstretched hand. And starved, he takes. Grasping onto it like the strangled yearning of a child lost, wandering home after centuries.
"Even you are here. So that must mean…" Urahara says quietly.
Isshin nods faintly before blacking out again.
The worst is yet to come.
...
They are not brave (or cowardly).
They are not afraid to cut loses (to forsake).
Observing the parade of corpses, Isshin thinks of how far they have come. How much they have survived and the many they outlived.
Miraculous, astounding. Fate and fortune are conniving. War is ruthless, mercurial in choosing the victors. But in the end, maybe it's not caprice that determines who lives.
—It's in their nature, Urahara realizes.
And one day, there will be no heroes or villains left.
Only them.