The sunlight bled onto the tatami in heavy yellow lines. Though the shutters promised to bar its passage, light had a way around darkness' best acclaimed defenses. Kisuke Urahara felt the warm tendrils touch his naked back. He withdrew into his quilt, the comfort his futon offered seemingly diminished following the sun's intrusive behavior. He breathed deeply through his nose, smelling old pine and jasmine tea. The familiarity of his surroundings soothed him.

Urahara brushed the straw colored hair out of his eyes and pushed himself up onto his palms. Mornings made him feel older, somehow care-worn and depressive. Thus, he overslept; he always did. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he reached for the familiar teapot on the low standing table situated at his bedside. Tessai never forgot his morning tea, delivering it silently--faithfully--before his master woke each day. He breathed in the fragrant steam above his cup, taking a long, unabridged drink. The hot beverage was one comfort he allowed himself among many, though by far, this one he enjoyed the most.

He rose to don his black haori, his mind pacing over the day to come. Realizing such insignificant things were trivial, he regardless consigned himself to the dolorous fate of his thought process. His hat grinned at him from the corner, its faded green and white lines suddenly seeming much too lively. He wore it everyday, however, as it kept people guessing, kept them from asking too many questions.

Atinomy was as much a part of him as the air he breathed. He was a contradiction--a sauntering, smiling guise that hid his feelings and regrets, his shame over exile. In all truth, Urahara hated himself. He realized this often, though strove against correcting this misalignment. Many people would see self-loathing as crippling; Urahara used this to conquer each day. He despised his own slow smile, his aptitude to lateness, his perverse jokes, and his sometimes uncouth remarks. More, what bothered him was his inability to change. He had always been a coward, a cockroach hidden in the caulking, making a living off of the Spirit Realm's table scraps. Even now, he could not separate himself from his dependence on his former lifestyle.

He sighed, touching the bloated dark skin beneath his eyes. Sleep did not come easily to him anymore. Because of this, he suffered immensely. At least his unconscious dreams were an escape from reality--from himself.

As he stepped into the foyer of his shop, he caught sight of Jinta's red head motioning wildly. He was undoubtedly harassing his sister Ururu for scolding him. Urahara felt he had done right by hiring on the pair. Perhaps, he thought, this was an attempt to make up for his carelessness towards all but himself. It reminded him of his subtle disregard for human life and all it represented. To know what those like he knew left his heart barren towards the majority of mankind. He saw himself more a hapless bystander, bound to watch the fruitless dance of the living. Whatever the reason he felt this way however, he cared for the children, though Jinta was often more a hindrance than a help.

Tessai approached him casually, his arms comfortably folded over his chest.

"Good morning, sir. I trust your tea was well?"

"Very. Anything new on the frontlines today?"

"Nothing unusual. They're mopping up the latest mess. Seems like lately they've had nothing but trouble, the Soul Society."

"So it would seem."

Urahara smiled, though inwardly he couldn't help but visualize the pain his once-friends suffered. Somehow, this brought to him a morbid delight, though at the same time he yearned to comfort his past comrades and ached at their distress.

He felt as though he was abandon, though his memory was put to death upon his exile. To be condemned for a crime he did not commit upon evidence that was so inconclusive offended and angered him deeply. He was cast away by his own companions. All but Yoruichi and Tessai had remained loyal friends. He understood that his difficult exterior was incompatible for those seeking friendship--this entailed allowing one's facade to fall. He yearned for something he could not allow himself to have. This frustrated him almost to the point of madness.

As Urahara stared unflinchingly at his associates, one arm at his side, he let the conversation drift into reverent silence. But beneath his serene appearance, lurking just beyond his heavily shaded eyes, his soul screamed and wept in self-indulged isolation. Kisuke Urahara was pained at heart, tortured by himself and the memories of the life he had once sworn to love. Kisuke Urahara was alone, truly and completely and for once, he felt sorry that he was doomed to walk the path of aloofness forever.

Author's Footnote: I feel Urahara is a very misunderstood character. Most people see him as carefree and permissive, but I see him as a person who bathes in the loneliness of his past. I think he hides himself behind his jokes and sarcasm. His negativity is to drive those closest to him away.
To me, I feel he's lost and has trouble moving on. He doesn't have a problem lending people his help, but he struggles allowing their thanks to sink past his frozen interior. I think Urahara is a tragic character; for that reason, I love him the most out of all the Bleach cast.

This was written as an entry to the Anime Banzai 2009 Fan-Ficiton Contest.