Foreword: I have chemically altered this Bleach in an attempt to improve on the original flavor and terrible aftertaste. May appear the same upon cursory examination — this is intentional! Leave your preconceptions at the door if you do not wish to be tricked. Semi-AU: same universe but many things have changed. Yes, you'll have to read to find out.
A very special thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to Kuroneko Hikage, The Great Gonzales, and qtar1984. Especially Kuroneko Hikage, who makes time for my dumb, chatty, ass in her busy life no matter what's going on. Without Kuroneko Hikage, this work would not be possible (so be sure to visit her user profile, read her stories, or send a thank you). I am always on the lookout for new beta-readers and collaborators — please send me a PM if you're interested. I'll add your name here and your gratitude will be eternal!
Disclaimer: Contains sodium hypochlorite. Keep out of reach of children. Danger: Corrosive. Eye and skin irritant. Protect eyes when handling. For prolonged use wear gloves. Do not ingest. Use only in well ventilated areas. Avoid breathing vapors. Do not use with other products — may release dangerous gases.
A Man of Few Words
The Way
I
Shinai clapped as two combatants clashed, bellowing kiai from behind the headgear of their black bougu armor. Their stances were disciplined and their angles of engagement opposite, minute drifts in their opponent's striking geometry calculated for at the speed of thought as they each pushed into the bladelock. Bare feet moved with purpose against the polished wooden floor, leading foot flat and back foot high, barely visible beyond their flowing hakama. Arms strained against the force as they each attempted to push an opening in their opponent's guard.
The audience held its breath as tension laid heavily in the air. This match would decide who would advance to the semifinals of the All Japan Kendo Federation: the newcomer University of Naruki, or the reigning champions the University of Tsukuba.
Both men were the Captains for their respective teams, the strongest competitors and therefore last to fight. The young prodigy Ichigo Kurosaki for the University of Naruki; Shuuhei Yamaguchi for the University of Tsukuba, considered by many to be the best swordsman in the nation.
They disengaged and stepped back. Yamaguchi's blade rode Kurosaki's downward, its tip seeking the flared collar of his headgear. A hair's breadth from his neck his tsuba touched the habaki of Kurosaki's blade. It was over in an instant.
With a powerful twist of his wrists Kurosaki locked Yamaguchi's shinai. He leveraged his own tsuba against his opponent, pressing outward and down. The blade went wide and Kurosaki stepped inward.
"Men!"
Kurosaki's shinai disengaged and cut laterally — a blur of motion faster than the eye could track. With no chance to react Yamaguchi was struck in the side of the headgear hard enough to stagger him.
Three red flags went up for the second time. Silence descended as Kurosaki raised his shinai over his head in victory.
Everyone had expected Shuhei Yamaguchi to put an end to this incredible winning streak — to prove that it was only luck or a lack of skilled competitors that had taken the fresh-faced kendoka this far. Freshman student and leader of the University of Naruki Kendo Club, Ichigo Kurosaki, remained untouchable, defeating every opponent flawlessly. Not a single point had ever been scored against him on the national stage.
He was born with a sword in his soul — that's what they said.
The University of Naruki Kendo team made a weak showing in the early matches of the shiai. Their first four members had beaten only two of the University of Tsukuba team, leaving three of them to go up against kendoka Kurosaki.
There was no 'i' in team, but there were several in 'Ichigo Kurosaki'. He defeated all of them, easily.
The court erupted from all sides with wild cheering for the unexpected victory. The two kendoka returned to their starting positions before dropping low into sonkyo and returning their shinai to rest at their sides. They rose, backing to the edge of the court before bowing to one another and exiting.
Ichigo handed off his shinai with another short bow and removed his gloves, placing them under an arm. With his freed hand he tugged desperately at the frustrating tie on his headgear. The heat was stifling. He finally pulled the cord through where it wrapped around his face guard and pulled it off.
Cool fresh air rushed in over his head and neck revitalizing him, though the smell of leather, oil, and sweat stuck cloyingly inside his nostrils. Long orange hair weighed thickly with perspiration fell freely in front of his eyes and down past the nape of his neck. Bright hazel eyes the color of warm honey peered out from a chiseled, handsome face with prominent cheekbones and a sharp, triangular jawline. He shook his head, scattering small droplets of moisture all around. Absently, he handed off his headgear and gloves as he searched the crowd for his friends and family.
They were easy to spot as the oddest and most colorful group in attendance. All wore specially made bright white hachimaki around their foreheads bearing the kanji for "1-5" in support, with the iconic Japanese rising sun between. The two members with the most identifiable hair color, his little sister Yuzu Kurosaki and Orihime Inoue, were linked arm-in-arm and jumping up and down in celebration. The giant frame of Yasutora Sado clapped sedately ensconced between the significantly smaller Tatsuki Arisawa and Karin Kurosaki, who were both smiling and waving his way. His father, of course, was up to his usual embarrassing antics, his face painted in fierce white and red kabuki makeup and frozen in a dramatic victory pose with his eyes crossed. It was something he must have planned secretly in advance or Karin would have put his scheme to a violent end. He gave them all a tired wave.
The moment was interrupted by a hundred camera flashes causing spots to explode in his vision. He squinted against the sudden assault. Scores of reporters clamored courtside for their chance to interview him. Sighing, he thought about the shower he so desperately needed. It seemed so far away now.
Pulling the dō armor off his chest and over his head his customary scowl slid back into place on his brow as if it had never left. He took his time removing the tare armor from his waist. If reporters were going to keep him from his shower he refused to be rushed.
A little over an hour later found the friends and family seated at an upscale restaurant in central Tokyo, within comfortable walking distance of the Nippon Budokan. The amount of greetings he was forced to share with strangers and well-wishers on that walk alone felt more tiring for him than the day long shiai. They raced on foot to stay ahead of the crowd and over the bridge that crossed the nearby river into Tokyo proper. His relief at being within the relative safety of the restaurant and away from the masses was evident to his loved ones who smiled at one another in concealed amusement.
The restaurant's interior was finished in warm earth tones with understated decor. The walls contrasted finely cut geometry and intricate grain patterns of light wood against the intentional roughness of dark gray stone. Precise accent lighting created pools of light and shadow to enhance the ambiance, while a strategically placed bonsai created an asymmetrical appeal that drew the eye. Small, intimate, tables of dark lacquer were arranged in an exacting grid pattern the rest of the room flowed around while the sound of running water and soft music created a soothing atmosphere. A recess-mounted television was playing today's coverage of the AJKF shiai at a low volume that was easily missed in the peaceful surroundings.
Ichigo had finally gotten his shower and changed into a slim-fitting charcoal suit jacket with matching charcoal dress slacks. Underneath was a tight-fitting black dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, and polished black shoes and a belt finished the stylish suit. There was an irreverent slouch to his posture and one arm thrown over the back of his seat. He glanced over his menu and companions, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on the tabletop.
Seated to his left was his oldest friend, Tatsuki Arisawa, dressed in a Western-styled above-knee length burgundy pencil dress with matching heels. The dress was long sleeved but open neck, showing off her attractive collarbone and shoulders. The curve of her hips and bust stretched against the very snug fabric, cinching in at her trim waist; a perfect hourglass. Her legs seemed to go on forever wrapped in dark hose. Her short black hair was as wild and spiky as ever, contrasting alluringly with her velvet red lips. He had known her his entire life and he had never seen her wear lipstick before, let alone a dress and heels. Ichigo wouldn't have been able to give you a truthful answer a day ago if someone had asked him if she even knew how to wear heels. Yet here she sat — stunning. She shifted in her seat and he quickly looked away, aware his gaze had lingered too long.
His father, Isshin Kurosaki, was seated to his right at the head of the table. He cut an impressively sharp figure in his black suit jacket, tie, and pants over a white dress shirt, face washed clean and shaven. His father looked… younger. After so long seeing him with a beard or stubble Ichigo wasn't quite sure what to make of the change. The menu in front of him was unopened on the table as though he was certain of his order from the moment he'd walked in the door. He regarded his son with a cocky grin and a hint of mischief, then quirked an eyebrow as Ichigo met his gaze evenly. Ichigo felt his own lips twitch in response. No matter what, his father always had an infuriating ability to get under people's skin — sometimes he made you smile; sometimes he made you punch him in the face.
To his father's right, across from himself, sat his two little sisters. Yuzu sat closest to their father, in a cream colored blouse and white skirt with clean white flats. She'd gone back to cropping her strawberry blonde hair to shoulder length, and wore a strawberry hairpin on the left side her head. Karin had borrowed from her sister's more feminine wardrobe for the occasion, and wore a red blouse with black slacks, and black flats. She had grown her hair longer and kept it back in a loose ponytail with long bangs free to either side of her face. They looked cute as they chattered while sharing a single menu. Yuzu's face radiated excitement as she pointed out everything she wanted to try while Karin played a dour counterpoint to her enthusiasm.
Orihime Inoue sat to the right of the girls across from her best friend Tatsuki. She looked absolutely dazzling in a deep blue mid-length qipao with silver trim and floral embroidery and matching embroidered flats. Her long strawberry-blonde hair was pinned up in a complicated yet artful arrangement, her customary crystal flower hairpins to either side. It looked very good on her, though he shuddered to think of the amount of work involved in tying up that much hair. She stared at her menu with the single-minded focus of a person who would order everything if they could but limited to a single dish.
At the table's opposite head sat the massive Yasutora Sado, affectionately referred to as "Chad", who took up every inch of the extra leg room. The messy haired man didn't bother with a suit jacket and simply wore a well pressed sky blue dress shirt with the button at the collar undone. His pants were a light gray, with brown loafers and belt. The colors he wore contrasted nicely with his dusky skin, but the cuffs on the shirt were just a bit too short for his arms. Ichigo would bet that his pants were likewise slightly too short. No one had a clue where he found clothes that even remotely fit, and no one had ever gotten up the courage to ask. The larger man smiled without looking up, knowing he was being observed, and easily slipped into the beat Ichigo was tapping on the tabletop with his own fingers.
Ichigo scowled as Chad's superior drumming screwed up his rhythm and stopped. Closing his menu, he turned his head to glance at the shiai playing out on the television. It wasn't that interesting to him, he had just been there after all, but a second perspective on one's own technique was always helpful. He wasn't on yet, so he returned his eyes to the tabletop.
"This is where I took your mother the night I proposed to her, you know."
Everyone at the table turned their heads to Isshin and the gentle smile on his face. He gazed over at a table in a secluded corner with fondness in his eyes. Ichigo turned to look at the small table with only two chairs. It was unusual to hear his father talk about their mother so sedately. Normally, he couched any such discussion in his comedic flare and crazed shenanigans.
"Really?" Yuzu asked, eyes wide. "Do you remember what mom ordered?"
He smiled indulgently. "The motoyaki. She was quite impressed by it." Then he rolled his eyes and grumbled, "Wouldn't shut up for days about it, actually. I think she talked about it more than my proposal."
"That's what I'm having then," Yuzu said sweetly.
Ichigo's mouth twitched in attempt to approximate a smile but faltered half way. He removed his arm from the back of his chair and sat up straight, suddenly tense.
A warm hand rested on his knee and squeezed gently. His eyes darted left and found Tatsuki's concerned brown gaze. She squeezed again before removing her hand and returning her eyes to her menu. It was comforting. Out of all his friends it was she who knew him best. Relaxing again, he let his tension float away by concentrating on the lingering warmth she left behind. He noticed Karin eyeing him watchfully but chose not to return the look.
Their server glided over with a tray laden heavily with drinks. She was a young woman of average proportion, around the same age as the majority of their table with long black hair and a modestly attractive face. She wore a uniform of a black button-up shirt with a Chinese collar and a dark gray and black striped apron around her waist, over a brief black skirt that drew attention to her legs from the back. With skillful balance, she set down a tokkuri of chilled saké and a bottle of Ramune in front of Isshin, then distributed cups and glasses for tea and water to each of the table's occupants. Finally, she set down seven cream colored sakazuki next to the tokkuri and busied herself pouring the tea and water. She lingered over Ichigo's cups the longest, pouring with deliberate slowness as she stood between himself and Tatsuki.
Ichigo shifted uneasily as she brushed herself up against him. It was like this everywhere he went these days. He could feel his father winding up for his first salvo with a spike of dread. As she finished, he prepared to thank her politely.
"Thank you."
It was an aggressive tone, curt and full of warning. He glanced at Tatsuki to find her giving the woman a heated glare. The server smiled apprehensively and backed off immediately, retreating out of sight with her mostly empty tray. When she returned her body language was full of contrition as she readied a pad and pen to take their orders. She homed in on the two youngest at the table with a timid smile, considering them to be the safest starting point.
His father looked even more amused but busied himself for the moment pouring the saké into four of the sakazuki and passing them down Ichigo's side of the table. Two more were filled from the bottle of Ramune and handed off to his daughters. One sakazuki he left empty passing both it and the bottle to Ichigo who accepted them and dutifully filled the last saucer, handing both back to his father.
The server completed the full round of orders, saving Tatsuki for last, then hurriedly retreated from her glare. The martial artist let out a frustrated breath as she left while Isshin looked ready to pop from barely restrained mirth. The man controlled himself and lifted his full sakazuki with unusual solemnity. The rest of the table followed his lead and lifted their own.
"To my undefeated son!"
"To Ichi-nii!"
"To Ichigo!"
"Kanpai!"
"Kanpai," Ichigo repeated quietly, a half step behind the rest, then tossed the chilled alcohol back and enjoyed the pleasantly mild burn of the expensive saké. His father would offer a second toast at the end of their meal "to future victories", as was his custom, then polish off whatever remained of the bottle by himself.
Isshin succumbed to his nature once everyone's saucers had returned to the tabletop. "It looks like my son has finally inherited his father's charm! He's a bit of a late bloomer, I'm ashamed to admit."
So it begins.
Ichigo rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug. Any retort at all would simply give his old man more ammunition to use against him. He knew this game well.
"Stupid Kendo groupies throwing themselves at you…" Tatsuki grumbled. Ichigo winced internally. She should know better by now: don't feed the bear.
"Don't look so glum, Tatsuki-chan! After all, my idiot son needs a woman with sharp edges to truly appreciate her." The old man needled, waggling his eyebrows at her.
"W-what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"That certainly is a nice dress you're wearing tonight, though" he deflected, drawing out his prey rather than going immediately for the kill. Or, so they thought, "What made you pick the color?"
Tatsuki blushed immediately and Ichigo was only a few seconds behind. She had worn a long-sleeved shirt in burgundy to dinner at their family home over two weeks ago and Ichigo had made an offhand comment that the color looked really good on her. He hadn't thought anyone had been paying attention to them at the time, and hadn't made the connection to her current outfit until his father pointed it out.
Ichigo said nothing as Tatsuki's hackles raised in indignation and she fired back. Picking up his teacup, he centered himself by gazing into the middle distance as the verbal tennis match went back-and-forth in front of him. His attempt to control his blush was only moderately successful. Karin continued watching him from across the table with distinct overtones of curiosity and amusement. He steadfastly ignored her; he could tell she already knew too much.
"Ichi-nii! You're on television!" He was pulled back to reality by Yuzu's excited squeal as their table turned as one to regard the flat screen television. It was the post-victory interview portion rather than one of his matches, which must have already gone by. He noted the deep blush on Tatsuki's cheeks from his new viewing angle, and how it extended all the way down her neck and under the top of her dress. The sound of his baritone voice carried well through the TVs small speakers, laden heavily with his lazy Tokyo accent.
"Of course, the question all of Japan needs to know the answer to: 'is your hair color natural'. Idiots," he commented idly.
"It looks so much better long, Kurosaki-kun. I'm glad you grew it out." Orihime said, turning to him with a happy smile. "Soon, we'll be twins!"
"I think it's enough of a pain as it is, 'Hime," He gave her one of his larger smiles, it relaxed his brow but barely stretched the corners of his lips. Her happiness was contagious.
"Yes, Daddy has to unclog the drains for three daughters now," his father replied around his teacup.
Ichigo sighed.
A basso chuckle rumbled from the other end of the table and turned his attention to Chad. "Wouldn't be a party if your dad wasn't breaking your balls, Ichigo."
"He needs a better hobby."
"Or a girlfriend," Karin piped up.
"Oh, Orihime-chan, you remind me so much of my beautiful Masaki!" the old man leered without missing a beat. The girl turned as red as a tomato before covering her mouth daintily with the back of her hand and breaking into a fit of infectious giggles. Saké always hit Inoue first and hardest. The girl could not handle her liquor at all and that particular bottle had potent teeth.
A dull clunk sounded from under the table and Isshin's face bleached white. He carefully put down his cup while Karin scowled at him. Everyone at the table knew she had just launched one of her famous soccer kicks right into his shins.
"Can it, creeper! You're making a scene." Diners at other tables were giving them discrete glances. Whether it was from Isshin's antics or the fact Ichigo's face was just on the television was debatable.
The man pouted and stuck his lip out with watery eyes. "So cruel to your loving father," he whined. Ichigo and Karin were immune, but Yuzu was suckered in and put a compassionate hand on his arm to console him. He put his large paw over his gentle daughter's tiny hand and sniffled theatrically.
Ichigo drained his glass of water and placed it down. Before he could even twitch Tatsuki moved her own glass out of his reach to her other side. She flashed him a cheeky grin and he scowled back, snatching his father's glass instead while he was distracted by being an idiot. While sipping he lamented not remembering to ask for a taller glass. There was no way he'd be the one to summon their server over.
Minutes passed in light conversation about their classes and clubs at the University of Naruki. Ichigo didn't contribute much, not that he ever did during idle conversation, and learned more than he ever wanted to from Orihime's gushing about the Handicrafts Club and the fashion show the upperclassmen were planning before finals.
Chad had his own band, "La Muerte", and was only loosely affiliated with activities on campus, aside from his classes. They were a mix of classic flamenco-inspired melodies and metal, a type of fusion called "folk metal". He told them stories from the gigs he'd played recently and the schedule of some of the shows to come. Apparently, they had a hit song on the local scene called "Brazo Derecha de Gigante", which meant "Right Arm of the Giant" in Spanish.
Ichigo made a mental note to get out to at least one of their shows. It sounded like a lot of fun and he'd been far too wrapped up in Kendo lately. He needed to do better by his friends and it couldn't hurt to unwind a little bit. After knowing Chad for so long, Ichigo shared his amusement for hearing native Japanese speakers attempt to pronounce things in Spanish that extended to mocking himself. Maybe Tatsuki would like to see a show…
The martial artist herself likewise had a lot to say about the Karate Club she captained, and how far they'd gone this year on the college circuit while she'd been dominating women's nationals. Tetsuo Momohara, another Karakura High School alumni, had taken over a lot of the work involved in leading the club while she was traveling, and the two together had propelled the no-name University of Naruki sports program into the spotlight. Tatsuki was being hailed as "the strongest woman in Japan", and Ichigo coming to national attention immediately after her season was winding down was a huge boon for the school. Both had been offered all-living-expenses-paid scholarships with off-campus apartments to keep them there and both had accepted the gracious offer. They were worth every yen in sponsors alone.
They had come amazingly far. It was hard to believe not even a year had passed since they graduated high school.
Ichigo was startled by the passage of time as their server returned with two laden trays full of food.
There was a renewed glint of determination in her eye as she completely ignored Tatsuki's presence to place each of their multiple dishes. As she served him last, she leaned over dangerously close to his face. He leaned his head back reflexively and noticed her Chinese-style collar had been completely unbuttoned, giving him an unobstructed view directly down her shirt. She straightened, a self-satisfied smirk on her face at the sight of his blush and stepped back with a flirtatious wink, then bowed politely.
"Is there anything else I can get for you, honored guests?"
Tatsuki was easily angered but rarely furious. Ichigo could guess which she was now as he felt a black pall descend over their table. He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt her strong fingers thread through his own where his hand hung loosely at his side. She raised their joined hands onto the tabletop and into view and his blush tripled in intensity.
She smiled sweetly at the other woman. His feeling of impending doom intensified.
Karin's grin flashed wide and white.
"Ichigo-kun is out of water," the martial artist simpered in a tone of feigned, guileless, innocence. She leaned into him so their arms pressed together at their sides. Her cheeks raced to match the color of her dress.
"I can't be inattentive and let him go thirsty. He's had a hard day."
She even smelled nice, he noted. A mix of honey, cinnamon, and Tiger Balm; sweet, spicy, and so very Tatsuki. Ichigo's eyes wandered down their joined hands and over her athletic but incredibly feminine curves. His heart bumped against his ribs, hard.
Though the server's smile did not waiver, the satisfaction in her eyes melted away when the woman in red took the swordsman's complete attention away from her so effortlessly. The two women glared daggers at one another. "Right away," she said simply, before storming off.
"Now that, my son, was service! I wonder if she does parties?"
"Bitch is about to do a funeral," Tatsuki replied as she straightened in her chair.
"Tatsuki-chan!" Orihime exclaimed around a mouthful of food, scandalized, covering her mouth with a napkin.
The martial artist glanced to Ichigo's younger sisters, Karin still sporting a wide grin while Yuzu looked strangely disappointed for some reason. "Sorry, Karin, Yuzu."
Karin shrugged lackadaisically as she chewed and swallowed. "Gotta keep 'em in line, Tatsuki-nee. Besides, we're not little anymore." The dark-haired sister's eyes shifted slyly to her twin, who pouted. Whatever silent contest was ongoing between them it looked like Karin was claiming victory.
"That's right! I keep forgetting you two are in high school now."
"It is pretty strange to think about," said Chad with a wistful grin as he slouched down lowly in his seat. "Seems like only a year ago Ichigo and I were walking you home from soccer practice."
"Welcome to being old," said Isshin, dipping a gyoza. "If you think it's bad now… just wait."
The server returned with a pitcher of water and refilled everyone's glasses. This time she was silent and professional, not meeting anyone's eyes before moving off again. Tatsuki sighed in relief.
Ichigo was still fixated on their joined hands. Neither one had moved to touch their food.
Something soft and warm touched Ichigo's ankle, making him start. What was very clearly a foot hooked itself under his pant leg and ran up and down his calf. His mouth went dry and he gulped, gazing down in open wonderment at Tatsuki's shapely legs.
They were perfectly still.
Ichigo jerked as if burned, his knee cracking the underside of the heavy table painfully. "Chad!"
The musician roared with laughter and withdrew himself from his slouch, slipping his foot back into his loafer as he went. Isshin quickly caught on and snorted into his reclaimed water glass. The ladies all looked confused.
"I didn't want your food to get cold. You looked like your spirit took a trip and left your body behind." The scowl the swordsman sent his way could strip paint.
Tatsuki sighed, knowing there was some sort of subtext she was missing. She gave his hand a final squeeze before letting him go, smoothing down her dress with her hands and moving her chair slightly forward to partake of her meal. With newfound confidence she patted Ichigo on the outer thigh and soothed his death glare.
"You owe me one, Kurosaki." She grinned.
He returned it, surprised by how easy it was. "Yeah."
Ichigo dug in and found the food to be excellent, even by the lofty standards Yuzu's cooking set. It was probably twice the calories he'd normally consume in a given day but he'd burned a lot of energy and was absolutely ravenous. He decided to have something with pineapple for dessert if it was available, even if he didn't expect to have soreness tomorrow.
No one at their table was shy about demolishing their plates. A large portion of the food vanished with very little conversation being exchanged as seven hungry people sated their appetites. Only the occasional slurping of soup, and the clicking of chopsticks filled the air between them. Ichigo was once again annoyed to find his water glass empty.
A full glass clinked into his own. Tatsuki didn't look at him and simply went back to eating. He bumped her shoulder with his own in unspoken thanks.
Finally, it was Orihime that broke the silence. Her plates were already cleared. For such a dainty thing she could really pack away food. "You haven't said a word about your match, Kurosaki-kun. Tell us about it! Was Yamaguchi as good as they say? You seemed to beat him pretty quickly."
The swordsman frowned pensively, chewing his words more than his food.
"Yamaguchi is a very skilled kendoka," he replied diplomatically.
They all knew he would elaborate if given time. Ichigo was laconic when he was feeling communicative, and his loved ones knew drawing him out to be an exercise in patience.
He continued after a full minute. "But, that's the issue: there's just… one dimension to him. He can only think like a kendoka because that's what he is." He sighed. "It's hard to explain." He made a meaningless little gesture with his chopsticks, having nothing else to say.
Tatsuki understood him perfectly. She was the national champion in the sport of Women's Karate but she, like Ichigo, had branched out into other styles once she had begun to find her chosen art restrictive and stifling. Ichigo learned Choy Li Fut and its associated sword skills then took up the fun and increasingly popular Korean Haidong Gumdo. She had learned Jeet Kun Do after Karate, branching out over several years to include Aikido and Shaolin Quan. Once she had crossed over, it was like a blindfold was removed. Her opponents in Karate barely even seemed to move their bodies anymore.
The hardest part of cross training was in restraining oneself during tournament. She drilled ceaselessly until her muscle memory was programmed to respond with Karate only before a competition and knew Ichigo faced similar challenges. Sometimes she slipped up but luckily none of the judges had yet noticed.
It was stupefying to her watching Ichigo practice with an iaito. Elliptical motions, foreign to Kendo's planar style, sent his sword in calm ripples and recursive eddies close to his body, suddenly exploding outward into mesmerizing, unpredictable, and hypnotic movements too quick for the eye to track. Sometimes he would spin his sheath into the maelstrom with his off-hand adding a whistling noise into the hurricane of glinting steel. She often felt clumsy by comparison as he danced within the eye of his own storm. Even after all these years he could awe her.
He attracted girls like moths to a flame. Since moving to college he practiced in secret, away from prying eyes. They hadn't sparred in over a year, crossing neither fists nor shinai. She lamented her modest talent with the sword. It ate at her.
"It's lonely… when there's no one who stands as high as you." Tatsuki was surprised by the sound of her own voice, tinged with an uncharacteristic softness.
A somber mood descended at her words, radiating outward from the two competitors.
Ichigo looked thoughtful, placing his chopsticks down on the edge of a long, rectangular, plate and lifting his gaze upward to stare over their heads, as was his habit. They waited, feeling more than knowing from long familiarity he would speak soon.
"Kendo has always been… restrictive, but… I feel like it's worse now than it ever was," he said several long moments later. "I'll never improve competing below my level." Whether he felt like the people or the competition itself was below his level he left unsaid.
Another long silence stretched. As always, in times like this, it was Orihime who spoke first.
"I'm sure you'll find someone to challenge you soon, Kurosaki-kun! Don't lose hope — that's the worst thing you can do. If there's no one who can fight you properly in the national tournament, I'm sure that you'll be competing internationally next year. You never know when you'll find the person you're looking for, or when they could find you. You could even meet them tonight!"
Ichigo and Tatsuki both smiled at her earnest appeal. Her optimism was a force in its own right and neither could deny that she spoke the truth of their situations. Finding the person who would push or pull them to new heights was just a matter patience and dedication to their arts. Either they would forge ahead on their own until that time and maintain their edge, or they would allow themselves to be dragged down to a level where they could be challenged again. Neither desired the latter option.
"You're absolutely right, 'Hime. Thank you." Ichigo picked up his chopsticks with renewed enthusiasm, intent on dismantling the remains of his dinner.
She smiled back beautifully.
His father's voice interrupted him just before the chopsticks could reach his mouth. "Or, maybe, if no one stands as high as you it's because you haven't climbed high enough to see them yet."
He cut his eyes over to his father with a glare of suspicion. Years ago, his father had insisted upon him learning Kendo in addition to Karate. When asked why, he had simply replied that it was "family tradition" and left it at that, never elaborating. When Ichigo had found his calling in the sword, his father had allowed him to quit Karate to focus on it exclusively. The older man had seemed proud… expectant almost. That rare, articulated but never spoken, pride in him had driven Ichigo on to new heights and new arts.
Ichigo knew that his mother never took up the blade, so the only "family tradition" of swordsmanship to preserve would be from his father's side. But, no matter how much he pestered his old man for a spar, or an answer, he had never received one.
Stuffing the morsel in his mouth he chewed and looked away. There would be no answers for him today, either.
Night had fallen by the time they took the high speed train west out of Tokyo, before getting onto the slower local line bound for Old Karakura Station. They parted with Chad when they arrived, as he would be taking the train further into Naruki City and walking back to his dorm on-campus. Ichigo tried to leave a dirty footprint on his pants as a parting gift for his earlier stunt in the restaurant, but the large man proved remarkably agile and laughingly swatted him away with his longer reach. Ichigo was still grumbling by the time he joined the group on the platform and they all began to make their way south.
As they walked between street lamps Ichigo found his gaze drawn to the woman in red walking beside him. The intermittent light and shadow made the color of her dress stand out all the more. Something about her was always confident but she seemed to be unusually so tonight, almost like she could float. The corners of her lips tilted upward in a smile that wouldn't fade as a tipsy Orihime chattered on beside her.
Some minutes later they came to an abrupt stop and she caught him looking.
They had arrived at the bridge over the Karasu River where they would part ways without him noticing. How long had he been staring at her, and how long had she known about it? Her smile widened coquettishly as she returned the look. Pride reasserted itself and he didn't want to look like a fool, so he covered his lapse in attention with a cocky grin.
Orihime, cheeks flushed from saké, barreled into him from the side with a hug. He stumbled a step before righting himself. She squeezed him roughly, bending into it from the waist and keeping his arms pinned to his sides.
"Congratulations, Kurosaki-kun!" she yelled.
"Inoue! You're too noisy!" he admonished. She pulled herself away, cheeks flaming and a chagrined look on her face as her eyes darted between the surrounding homes, looking for occupants she might have disturbed. He chuckled at her. The second toast had totaled her, as expected. It's a good thing Tatsuki was walking her home then spending the night.
Turning, he locked onto the dark haired woman with laser-like focus. She had closed the distance between them while Orihime distracted him and was now simply staring at him from less than a foot away, waiting. Honey and chocolate eyes met and his heart rate increased. He tried to think of something —anything — to say to break the awful tension in the air.
"That's a really good look on you, Karate-girl."
She grinned. "You don't clean up too badly yourself, swordsman."
He ran a nervous hand through his long hair. "So… what's got you smiling so much?"
"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't know a thing about it, would you?" she replied, eyes dancing with mirth. He had the oddly specific feeling he had missed something, that she'd fully expected him to miss it, and that she found this predictability of his amusing.
Unexpectedly she moved forward and wrapped her arms gently around his waist, pressing herself fully into him. Her head rested beneath his chin and her small, leather, handbag slid down to her elbow. Shocked for only a second, he returned the embrace and wrapped his arms around her bare shoulders carefully as if any sort of force might break the fragile moment. He luxuriated in the feeling of her soft, sinewy, curves pressed against his solid, corded, muscle through their thin clothing and rested his cheek on top of her head. They stood there just holding one another for a long moment before she released him and stepped back.
"Congratulations, Ichigo," she whispered gently, like a caress meant only for him.
There was something in her half-lidded gaze that was just so beguiling. His brain couldn't process it but something primal in him understood. Heat exploded across his skin all at once as he recognized what must be behind his own eyes — a hunger. He knew he was blushing terribly but couldn't bring himself to care. They stood together in silence, just taking the other in.
Karin moved in and grabbed her brother's wrist in a vice-like grip. "Come on, Ichi-nii, before you make a fool of yourself," she said, as she began pulling him along in the direction of their home. "Bye, Tatsuki-nee! I'll be sure to get him home before the drool ruins his nice suit."
"Wha— Karin!"
Tatsuki's uncommon giggle was clear as a bell as she waved to the departing family. "Bye, Karin, Yuzu. Behave, Isshin, you old goat!"
"I can walk on my own, you know!" Ichigo protested as he shook his arm free of his sister's grasp, extremely annoyed but now moving along with her to join his father and Yuzu who had stopped across the street. His father was making it a point to ignore everything going on around him, simply studying the sky with his other, slightly bewildered, daughter at his side. Ichigo took a last glance over his shoulder at the two women but found they had already moved out of his sight.
"Moon's going to be bright tonight when it finally breaks free of the clouds," Isshin said once they'd caught up, not acknowledging anything that had happened. Ichigo was grateful even though his embarrassment returned at the thought of his father's merciful misdirection. Yuzu regarded him with a haughty frown, which Karin intercepted by sticking her tongue out at her twin and pulling down her lower eyelid.
"Yeah, sorry for the wait. Let's go home."
The Kurosaki family backtracked a short distance then turned the corner onto their home street. After barely three minutes of walking from the bridge they were waiting at the front door for their father to open it and let them inside.
It was always the smell that hit him first. Ichigo breathed it in and let the nostalgia flow through him as he removed his shoes at the genkan. It wasn't any single smell, like the lingering scent of his sister's curry in the air, but all of them together. The faint aroma of antiseptic from the adjoining clinic, the shoe leather, fabric softener from the laundry, the floor polish… it all blended into a single unifying theme he understood as safety, comfort, and that ephemeral feeling called home.
He toed on house slippers with grippy rubber soles and picked up his dress shoes as the whole family moved together up the stairs to change. Casting his eyes into the family room and kitchen he found that nothing had changed, putting him at ease, and lingered for a few moments on the gigantic mural of his mother's smiling face decorating a large section of the wall. Moving on he ascended the stairs. His room was at the end of the hall on the left, its door marked by a hanging hexagonal badge with the number "15" embossed on its face. The badge remained the only useful thing he had ever created in woodshop during his high school days — he'd broken every bokken he attempted.
Upon opening the door he discovered that Yuzu had come through with the vacuum for his homecoming this weekend. Everything was just as he had left it but there wasn't a speck of dust to be found. The room was vaguely "L" shaped, with an alcove along the rear left corner large enough for his writing desk and television. His bed occupied the opposite corner underneath the window, with a tall chest of drawers at its other side. The closet was mostly bare and the space was empty of his belongings, with most of them moved to his school-funded apartment. From the bottom of the closet he took an empty shoe box and placed his dress shoes inside.
He pulled a plain white t-shirt from his dresser and methodically got undressed. Apparently Yuzu was using his closet to store an excess of unneeded hangers, so he was able to quickly and neatly hang his clothes. Pulling on the shirt he started poking around for something suitably comfortable to wear as pants, becoming frustrated when all he could find were old pairs of jeans or his uniform pants from high school. He settled on an old pair of white and blue-plaid board shorts, deciding they would do in a pinch.
Kicking off his slippers and stripping off his socks, he flopped onto his bed as the sounds of his family, now reconvened downstairs, radiated throughout the home. The old man was shouting about something, likely some inane game or challenge he was attempting to rope his children into that would end badly for him. Ichigo sighed and stretched, gaze wandering to the wall above his headboard where a shinken katana hung on a wall mount. It had been a gift from his father for achieving Shodan in Kendo many years ago. The sword was plain and unadorned, just as he liked them, with the rounded tsuba made of two conjoined rings in a design attributed to Miyamoto Musashi. The slightly uneven tsuka-ito was black with a brightly contrasting off-white samé beneath. All the fittings were a brightly polished brass color, almost golden. It was a nice sword; solid, and dependable.
Considering the blade, he thought back to the words Orihime had said and the likelihood of finding a person he could truly go all out with these days. He was in an awful position: a student of three disparate ways of the sword; a student who was merging three styles to become a master of his own.
While Choy Li Fut was easily the most versatile of the three schools, and not nearly so rigid as Kendo, its practitioners and teachers were not so focused on the blade as he was. The "dao" was just one of the "Eighteen Arms of Wushu" to them; another weapon — a piece of the whole. They were just as likely to throw a sword at your face and use the opening to engage you in hand-to-hand as give a proper spar with one — though, admittedly, it was a lot of fun either way.
Haidong Gumdo was far more open to "freestyle" swordsmanship but he often found many of their ways ostentatious and wasteful. Perhaps it was his long hours spent honing his skill in Kendo and Jujitsu that made him so critical of careless movements, but the maxim of "never cut twice" was always in the back of his mind. The art itself was a liberal blending of Chinese and Japanese swordsmanship techniques with its own unique flare for the dramatic. It walked astride the two disciplines and created something wholly unique from their merger. He was disappointed when he found that in practice it was only peripherally martial and mostly theater. Still, there was a lot of creativity in the style that kept him interested. It felt a lot more "alive" than the other two.
The Kendo of Hokushin Ittō-Ryū was fast and deadly, and every attack was also meant to be a perfect defense; and every defense a perfect attack. The style itself was so rigid compared to the other two! It was maddening… and don't even get him started on the etiquette. Kendo was his foundation: its certainty, its mentality, and its economy of motion were the blocks his way of the sword was built upon. He supposed that is why he found its shortcomings so much more infuriating. Love was supposed to be seeing the flaws and accepting them, after all.
Yawning he rubbed a hand over his eyes, then stood and turned off the light. He laid down on top of his covers again and let his eyes drift closed as the noises from downstairs grew more raucous. Karin was going to have to give the old man a time-out soon.
A sudden clap. A high pitched whine.
Ah… there it was.
Ichigo felt himself drifting off and pulled his top blanket over himself. He didn't much feel like making his bed when he woke up in the morning. As he drifted, his mind conjured images of Tatsuki's legs clad in sheer nylon… and her soft brown eyes giving him that smoky, half-lidded, stare.
He awoke an indeterminate time later to a feeling he couldn't quite define, like a combination of being watched and someone stepping over his grave. A creeping, deathly, chill akin to icy fingers crawled along the curvature of his spine. There was the odd smell of wet ashes in the air, and the chiming of a bell went unheard, but felt. He shuddered. Looking around in the dark for the source of the disturbance he sat up and scrubbed at his dry eyes. There was nothing but familiar outlines yet the feeling did not abate.
Something wasn't right. Beads of sweat accumulated on his brow and his shoulders grew tense and tight. He threw off the blanket, eyes searching the room and finding it the same as before… everything was still.
A tiny flicker of motion caught in the corner of his eye.
He whipped his head toward it with a gasp. A moth? It was all black and the size of a small bird, fluttering aimlessly in the moonlight trickling in through the window blinds. Grabbing his pillow he readied himself to smash it if it wandered too close. Stupid bugs. Now he felt like they were crawling all over his skin in the dark.
On the far wall, in the alcove, a pool of darkness was quickly growing.
Forgetting about the insect entirely Ichigo shot to his feet. He dropped the pillow back onto his bed in disgust and reached out over his headboard, searching the wall by touch while his eyes remained locked on the inky black hole opposite. Hand closing around the saya of his blade he lifted it from its mounting with practiced ease.
A short human figure walked through the wall and into his room.
The shinken moved instantly to taito position at his hip as he lowered his stance, his right hand firmly grasping the tsuka and his left on the saya over the kurikata. Adrenaline thrummed through his blood so quickly he felt dizzy and his limbs started to shake. His left thumb pressed steadily on the tsuba of the shinken until the habaki was nearly clear of the saya and ready to perform sayabiki. He controlled his breathing, completely at a loss as to what was happening.
There was a sword at their hip.
Ichigo goggled even more at the sight of a katana tucked into the figure's… hakama-himo. Yes, he saw that correctly, they were wearing hakama and kosode, not a kendo-gi. The difference was subtle. Just his luck, at some point today he had pissed off a kendoka who could walk through walls and enjoyed samurai cosplay. That was a first even for him, but… Yamaguchi was rumored to have Yakuza ties. Yakuza were supposed to be weird, weren't they?
His mind felt fully awake but he wondered if perhaps this was simply a very convincing dream. He loosened his grip with his left hand and tested the heft of his blade with his fingers one-by-one to make sure. It would have to be a very, very, convincing dream.
"It must be nearby… but where?"
Ichigo was startled by the sound of a deep, yet distinctly feminine, voice. She walked forward from the alcove housing his desk and television and turned toward the door, completely ignoring him. There was a regal bearing and smoothness to her movements, a refinement that spoke of culture and grace. Barely a whisper reached his ears as she moved for the door.
So he kicked her in the rear hard enough to make Karin proud.
The figure toppled, tumbling to the ground in front of his closet to land on her stomach with a squeak of pained surprise, completely failing to catch herself. The sword on her hip knocked loudly against the wooden floor. Her head turned slowly to regard him. Bringing himself back into his stance, he shifted right so she wouldn't disappear into the shadow he cast as he blocked the moonlight streaming through the window.
"Who the hell are you?" he whispered fiercely.
Hard, black, eyes regarded him with complete bewilderment. "Y-you can see me?" The expression on her face quickly changed from bewildered to affronted. "Wait! You just kicked me!"
"I'll do worse if you don't answer me! What are you doing in my room?" Adrenaline rushed through his veins as his heart pounded rapidly in his chest. A building feeling of revulsion took root in his stomach that was so strong he was forced to swallow against it so he wouldn't vomit. A bead of sweat trickled from his brow and dripped onto the floor. His arms and legs were shaking badly now. He felt both sick and overwrought.
Black eyes narrowed in the dim light, warily taking in the length of exposed habaki as brass glittered golden in the moonlight. Slowly she raised her hands in the universal gesture for surrender, and carefully rolled her body supine before partially sitting up. Squinting up at his silhouette, she tried to make out the details of his face. Only the bright color of his hair was visible.
"That really hurt, you know," she spoke up after several seconds.
"Yeah, whatever. What are you — some Yakuza freak?"
The door opened and his father stuck his head in, turning on the light. Ichigo winced against the sudden brightness and took a step back while keeping his hands on his blade.
"Hm? What's all this racket?" the older man inquired. "Are you playing around in the dark, Ichigo? Be careful! That sword's sharp!"
He gave the man the best incredulous glare he could muster while struggling against the harsh brightness assaulting his eyes. "There's an intruder in my room and you're worried about me cutting myself?" Motioning with his head toward the figure on the floor he turned back toward them. Only… she was gone. He had only looked away for a second!
"It is useless. Ordinary men cannot see me."
The voice came from directly behind him. Blood turned to ice in his veins even as his body reacted. His ankles twisted his footwork into a figure-eight as he pivoted 180-degrees in an eye blink. Stepping back and to the side he covered his father with his own body even as he broke the saya's tension with a sayabiki and lunged into a drawing cut from pure muscle memory. He lowered his shoulder and raised his elbow as if in slow-motion and could feel the activation of each individual muscle with absolute clarity. Mentally, he prepared himself to receive a fatal attack at close range from the right. It would be under the arm, he knew; just as he knew he could not move his saya in time to block it. Attacking with his own blade was the empty gesture of a dead man.
He froze.
"Well, I'll leave you to play. Just be safe. Your sisters are watching a movie downstairs and I'm going back to bed, so keep it down."
His door clicked shut. Ichigo stared.
The woman in front of him was dressed in the clothes of a samurai of old, as he had guessed from her silhouette, all black on the outer layer with a white hakama-himo and under layer. Both of her hands were still raised in supplication and had made no move toward her blade.
She was tiny — five-foot-nothing or less — and ethereally, achingly, beautiful. Her skin glowed white like porcelain while thick, silky, black hair fell stylishly around her face and down to her slight shoulders like a curtain of midnight enfolding the moon. A single, unruly, strand crossed over her face, between enormous, magnificent, eyes that were deep, dark, pools of indigo-violet, to touch at the corner of pale pink lips that seemed carved into a permanent frown. The bone structure of her face and body were a delicate work of art, and there was a very feminine curve to her hips that spoke of a maturity that belied her small stature.
She seemed equally stricken by the sight of him. Her eyes widened as she took in every line and plane of his face, as though he were someone she had not seen in a very long time — drinking in the sight of him. A tiny gasp escaped her as her lips parted in an "o," then moved without a sound in a pattern he could not identify. The hands she held in front of her twitched with the need to reach out and touch him, to ensure herself that he wasn't a ghost or some oft revisited dream. She stilled them, placing both over her heart before retreating back a step.
Their eyes met again and the spell was broken. Their voices spoke as one.
"Who are you?"
Neither replied, content for the moment to continue staring at the other. Ichigo found his hand slowly pushing his sword fully back into its saya without his conscious input. If she had truly meant to harm him then she could have cut him down easily, though how she had moved so quickly — or through his wall — brought up its own questions. She lowered her large, expressive, eyes as if no longer able to bear the sight of him, hands still firmly clasped to her breast. So small and fragile she looked now that he felt a pang of regret for kicking her. The twisting nausea in his guts returned as his adrenaline ebbed.
"What are you?" he asked.
Indigo-violet eyes raised to a point beneath his chin, sneaking a glance at his jawline but refusing to proceed further. Momentarily he wondered what she saw in his face that made her fear the sight of him.
"A shinigami," she answered, voice soft as velvet.
"You're… a god?" Another bead of sweat dripped from his brow as he made a conscious effort to control his shaking legs. The air itself felt oppressive. Feeling weak and feverish he gulped in deep breaths. With determination he kept his hands on his blade even as the desire to wipe at his forehead became overpowering. His dizziness was slowly returning.
The dark haired woman scoffed at his question, casting her rebellious strands outward to dance on invisible currents of air. "Let us sit and I will explain." She eyed him briefly before looking away sharply again. "Forgive me… but you look unwell."
Focusing his willpower on pushing the physical feelings of illness to a dark corner of his mind, he grunted to her but remained standing. Watching her carefully he wondered what she would do next.
The movement she made into seiza was so incredibly graceful he was not entirely sure when she had moved at all. Once seated, she ever-so-slowly untied the sageo from her hakama and reached for the sheathed blade in her sash. Making it a point to show him she was not being aggressive she removed the weapon from her hakama-himo and moved the sword out in front of herself, both hands upon the saya, setting it ceremonially between them. Then, she completed the movement with a full za rei bow to him with her hands forming a triangle on the floor. She returned to an upright position and perfect posture, watching him expectantly.
He gawked at her, feeling completely out of his depth. This night had quickly gone straight past weird and deep into completely uncharted territory. Still… he had been far more aggressive to her than it seemed she warranted, and she was showing a lot of openness and trust to a man who had been a split-second from cutting her down just for surprising him.
Knees trembling terribly he lowered himself into seiza. A drop of sweat fell from his chin and stained his white shirt. Repeating her motions he put his blade between them, giving a much more jerky rendition of her perfect za rei bow as low as he currently could without toppling over. He had to admit, sitting down felt a lot better even if his head hadn't appreciated tipping forward.
Something had hardened within her resolve and she met his eyes evenly with approval. There was the strangest sensation that he was laid bare under her penetrating gaze and that those piercing indigo-violets could peer into his every hidden thought. This time it was he that looked away.
He focused instead on her sword, examining it. It was wrapped in red tsuka-ito, vibrant like the color of freshly shed blood, with a pure white samé beneath. The fittings were the color of dull bronze that did not reflect the light. The tsuba was rectangular with inversely rounded corners, positioned lengthwise from edge to spine of the blade. There were two large cutouts resembling magatama on the inferior sides of the tsuba, opposite one another, and perpendicular to the blade. On the superior sides were two finely embossed and stylistically rendered gusts of wind flowing in opposite directions, parallel to the blade. It was all custom work and he had never seen anything quite like it before. There was even an embossed kanji on the bottom of the kashira. No menuki or other ornamentations could be found. It was a blade for function, not form, even as it was a work of art. He respected that a lot. It spoke to him in a way that words simply weren't able.
You could even meet them tonight!
The fleeting thought was pushed away as he refocused. "You have a gorgeous katana, Shinigami."
Surprise opened up her expression and her cheeks became a rosy pink. "Oh? I— Yes, we…" her striking eyes gave away her turmoil, as if she was overwhelmed simultaneously by pride, embarrassment, and some unknown shame, "We have been together for a long time." She swept the sword with a lingering look that was more akin to a caress.
Ichigo felt a pang of envy flare in his chest. The sort of bond a swordsman could forge with a blade over the course of their life was something he had always desired to have for himself; something he always felt he would be without. It was like a piece was missing from his own soul — longed for but never found. He wanted to be arrogant and say that he had never found the blade that was his equal… but perhaps it was he who was not worthy of such a blade. He looked down to his shinken and sighed. It would do… but it wasn't what he was searching for.
Another powerful wave of nausea washed over him and he grit his teeth. Sweat was starting to make his shirt stick to his chest. The hem of his shorts dug into his knees and he shifted uncomfortably. He pushed onward.
"So… what are you exactly?"
"As I said, I am a shinigami. We are the guardians of the balance of souls who guide the departed into the next world."
It took him a moment to process what she said. For as long as he could remember he had been able to see spirits, but had never encountered a "shinigami" before. Seeing spirits was rare for him, usually they lingered on in the place of their death before disappearing days or weeks later. If her explanation were true it would mean she was a spirit of some kind, though she did not have a chain attached to her chest. It would also explain why his father had not reacted to her presence.
He nodded resolutely, having no reason to doubt her though the very idea seemed absurd.
"So… what business does a 'guardian of the balance of souls' have sneaking into my bedroom so late at night?"
A perfectly sculpted eyebrow ticked in annoyance. "Exactly what are you insinuating?" she inquired flatly.
The calm expression on his face was instantly overtaken by something ugly and hostile. Shoulders bunching and hands curling into tight fists on his thighs, he leaned forward toward her and bared his teeth.
"Are you here for us — for my family?"
She was taken aback by his sudden malicious intensity and had no chance to respond.
"Tell me!" he shouted.
"N-no! Please, calm yourself!" she sputtered, leaning away from him and raising her hands between them in a warding gesture. "I'm not here for the departed, but rather..." here she trailed off, a hand moving to her brow and touching lightly there in a habitual stress-induced motion. "I might have handled that better," she said, shaking her head. "I have never explained my duties to the living before." She bowed again in perfect za rei. "You have my sincere apologies."
Slowly he lowered himself back onto his heels, letting go of the tension in his shoulders and laying his hands open on the top of his thighs. He took a deep breath. What a fool he was, acting rashly and making a mess of things… it was completely out of character for him and a testament to how on edge he felt. The glare on his face stayed in place but was directed inwardly now. The small shinigami's eyes expressed her genuine contrition and worry and he felt terrible in a way that had nothing to do with whatever sickness had taken hold over him.
Viciously, he asserted his self-control and burned away every distraction in his mind — feeding them to the hungry flame that was his will. A shutter slammed closed behind his eyes and cut off feeling and emotion indiscriminately as he embraced mushin. There was no more warmth in his honey-colored orbs and they focused somewhere beyond her, as if gazing on a distant mountain.
It made her recoil from him even further. Those eyes were so…
Placing his hands on the floor he bowed over them lowly in dogeza until his nose touched the wood and held there. A bead of sweat trickled down the outside of his nostril causing it to itch but no minor irritant could reach him now.
"No, I am the one who is sorry," he said gravely, his speech at a much slower and more careful meter. "I have been most discourteous to you since your arrival. I have no excuse. Please, Shinigami, accept my humble apologies for my behavior."
Several long moments passed while he maintained his position. When he raised himself again he found her wide eyed and speechless.
"Please, continue," he requested simply, then waited patiently.
Long, awkward, seconds passed as she watched him, coming to terms with his new behavior. From the way he had squared his shoulders and perfected his posture she could narrow down the change to some form of meditation he practiced. The obvious familiarity he showed with a sword narrowed it down further to a martially focused discipline. His skin was still pale, and his shirt clung to his body in several places from dampness, but it no longer seemed to bother him.
Still unnerved she continued haltingly. "Shinigami… have another, arguably more important, duty: the purification of negative spirits called 'hollows'," she explained. "They are a threat to both the living and the dead." Here she paused, moving the stray hair from her fringe and tucking it behind her left ear. "They devour other souls with an unending hunger, becoming more powerful as they do." Reaching out she placed two fingers of her left hand onto the saya of her blade, then met his eyes, tapping on it twice with naturally glossy fingernails. "That is why I am here."
He did not return her look and continued staring through her. A bead of sweat moved downward from his temple.
"One of these… 'hollows' is here? In my home?"
Retracting her hand she returned to formal posture, sighing.
"I do not know," she admitted. "I was pursuing the spiritual presence of a powerful hollow but, upon arriving here… it was as though my senses were occluded by something vast." Troubled, she looked away. "I have no explanation. It is like a veil thrown over my spiritual senses, muting them." She gave him another piercing look — the very kind he had felt laid bare to earlier. "Even though you are seated in front of me I cannot feel that you are there. Not even when I attempt to focus my senses on you."
Orange eyebrows rose in a fake approximation of surprise. She could tell it was theater for her benefit, not an emotion truly felt within his meditative state. "I… think I can feel that," he replied, finally looking at her rather than through her. "When you focused on me, I mean. It's an odd sensation — piercing."
"Truly?" Her own eyebrows rose marginally, impressed. Taking tight control over her reiatsu she reached out to him again, this time in several bursts of varying length.
"Yes." The feeling of being laid bare and closed up in turns washed over him and he closed his eyes to focus on the sensation. His brows pinched together. "Are you doing something different now?"
She nodded, though he could not see it. "I was testing you, though it has left me with more questions than answers. If you can feel my presence then your own spiritual senses, however undeveloped they may be, appear to be unaffected. If that is the case then what could be interfering with my own?"
Opening his eyes again he focused on her. "I don't like it… where is your backup, Shinigami?" His amber gaze raked over her dainty form with such intensity that, had she been a younger woman, she might have blushed. Instead, the look simply brought with it an echo of painful memories. She once again dropped her gaze to his jawline. "This sounds like a trap."
There had been a feeling of apprehension within her ever since the mission had been handed down. It was uncommon for any but seated officers to be issued extended solo-patrol orders.
More uncommon still, the issuing authority on the document had been redacted. The final decision to accept had been her own and the signature of her Captain, a sign of his faith in her, had been the deciding factor urging her to take this opportunity. Without accepting risks, she would never become a seated officer… so she had signed off.
Now she wasn't nearly as confident. Normally a patrol was a quiet, boring, affair, and that was exactly what she had anticipated on this mission. Encountering a random hollow at all was uncommon; encountering a massively powerful hollow on arrival to the living world exceptionally so. Had their sensors not picked it up, or had they known it was there all along and simply not informed her?
The power she felt from the beast had easily eclipsed her own — and it was canny. As she gave chase it was always just a street away or around the next corner. She hadn't managed to catch a single glimpse of it. It hadn't been attracted to her presence at all. Had she not been so focused on catching it she might have found that suspicious.
Then it simply vanished right in this very neighborhood. It was almost as if she had been led… straight here.
She cursed the pride that brought her here; the thirst to prove herself. The responsible thing to do would have been to summon backup as soon as she had identified the enemy's strength. The denreishinki weighed heavily in her pocket.
It was too late now.
"I am alone," she replied evenly, mustering her courage and meeting his eyes again. "But, that is fine. I am shinigami and this is my duty. I will not shirk it." Taking hold of her purpose with her whole spirit she let it fill her with confidence and settle her heart. Firmness radiated outward from her, in both her gaze and her essence, filling the room. Caught up in the sensation and unable to help it, he found himself in awe of the petite woman's fierceness and beauty.
Looking at him then, truly looking at him, she could see him as he was…
He was a young and mortal man, barely out of adolescence with his whole life ahead of him. In spite of his obvious skill in swordsmanship, he was no warrior who had fought while his comrades died around him. In spite of his ability to see her, he had no real place in her world of spirits. In spite of his face, which so effortlessly elicited memories better left in the past, he was not that man.
Coming to a decision she hardened her resolve even further.
I will protect you. This time I will not fail.
Golden-honey met indigo-violet and she was surprised to find her resolve matched within his own eyes. For several long moments she admired how handsome he was for who he was, rather than the memories he evoked.
"You're wrong, Shinigami," he spoke at last as the moment waned. Reaching forward with his left hand he grabbed his sword by the saya, bringing it to rest by his side. "You aren't alone." He stood smoothly even as his legs wobbled, paying them no heed.
Taken aback, she gawked at him in a momentary reversal of their earlier exchange. Retrieving her own blade she stood, sliding the saya through her hakama-himo up to the kurikata as she went. Without thinking about it or even glancing downward her fingers automatically tied the sageo to her hakama as she stared him down, brow tightened and frown severe.
"I cannot allow that."
The blank stare he regarded her with changed to amusement. It struck her just as falsely as the other emotions he conveyed earlier as he walked past her to his bed, toeing on his house slippers.
"I don't recall needing your permission. I'll watch your back."
The rebellious hair she had secured behind her ear fell back down in front of her face as she shook her head. "While you are obviously spiritually gifted, you are still mortal," she paused to gesture toward his sword, "This is not a battle you can fight with mere steel."
Face still infuriatingly impassive he turned toward her. "It's not a battle you can fight with your senses obscured either. Mere mortal I may be, but another pair of eyes and a second's warning could be the difference between life and death."
Steeling herself she crossed her arms over her chest, eyes flinty and expression imperious. "A second's warning means very little when I am forced out of position to protect you." She raised her chin and looked down her nose at him, as if she towered over him instead of the other way around. "Your presence during this battle is a liability I can ill afford."
"And I can 'ill afford' you dying," he returned, a glimmer of heat finally beginning to shine through. "Did you forget I live here with my family, Shinigami? You said that hollows are a threat to the living as well as the dead. What happens to us if you fail?"
Her icy mien cracked and she lost some of her bluster. The arms crossed over her chest so formidably slackened and she held herself with them in a comforting manner instead, seeming to shrink significantly. Damning her own weakness, she looked away from him with a huff that sent her raven strands to flight.
"I will not allow that to occur."
"What happens?" he probed again forcefully.
A long silent moment passed before she spoke in a soft voice. "After it devoured me… it would seek out the largest spiritual presences in the area and devour those as well," she admitted. Unfolding her arms she stared at the floor, hands clenching into fists at her sides.
"So… myself, my little sister Karin, and even my other little sister, Yuzu, can see faint outlines of spirits," he scowled at her with unfeigned emotion. "It sounds like we're wasting time arguing over a non-issue." Walking past without sparing her a glance he went to the door and put his hand around the knob but did not turn it. "Are you ready to go?"
There was no response from her. She continued staring at the floor, brow tight as though fighting an internal war. The fists at her sides opened and clenched again, over and over, concealed partially by her long sleeves. Slowly she blinked and looked up to find him watching her.
He was struck by the look in her eyes… and wholly unprepared.
Faster than even his trained vision could hope to follow her arm shot out directly toward him with index and middle fingers extended. She jerked her wrist sharply from left to right.
"Bakudō One: Sai!"
"What?" he exclaimed in incomprehension. His arms were pulled roughly behind him by what felt like cold, invisible, bands of iron and held fast, sword clattering to the floor at his feet. Resisting the motion, he stumbled backwards with a grunt into the wall behind him and leaned on it for support. He glared at her heatedly with anger and betrayal, muscles at his neck and shoulders bulging against the strain. "What the hell is this, Shinigami?"
"Please," she moved in front of him but refused to meet his angry golden stare, dark hair falling over her face, "Forgive me." The sound of her voice was thready and fragile. A small, cool, hand came to rest on his chest, ceasing his struggles completely. She moved close, so close that he could smell the rich scents of sandalwood, rain, and plum blossoms clinging to her. "I cannot protect you, but I also could not bear..." her voice caught in her throat, unable to name her fear. The hand against his chest fisted in his shirt, bunching the material up between her fingers. She tilted her head upward to look him in the eye. "I am sorry," she whispered, dark eyes glistening.
There was gravity in that look… intensity so heavy it pulled him in. He didn't — couldn't — understand the tumult of emotions that whirled behind her eyes even as he saw them so clearly. Her whispered apology rang with finality… as if she were a confessor going to her death, carrying with it the weight of past sins.
Attempting to plead with her he found his throat constricted and his mouth dry. "Please, Shinigami," he croaked, "Let me help you. You don't have to do this alone."
Releasing his shirt she turned away and visibly marshaled her resolve, drawing her shoulders up and holding her head high again. Poise flowed smoothly from her every movement as she walked to the door without a backward glance. Steel was in her voice again as she spoke.
"That binding is weak and will fade within the hour. If it releases sooner… it means that I have fallen. If this should happen you need to flee."
"You think I'd abandon my family?" he asked incredulously.
Her voice was soft , almost fond, though tinged with a stinging touch of bitterness. "No, I do not suppose you would."
She opened the door.
The hallway was dark and all three other upstairs doors were shut. The home was silent, eerily so. The slight woman cast her eyes down the hallway from left to right, taking in every detail as she moved cautiously. She gasped.
"No…"
A wide trail of blood led from the landing down into the darkness below as if a body had been dragged through.
The world shrugged, an upheaval of her perception as the blanket covering her senses fluttered once then was ripped away entirely. Her spiritual sense went haywire reporting in from everywhere at once. Overwhelmed, she attempted to make sense of the torrent of input. Reiatsu was everywhere, suffusing everything. She knew with terrible clarity exactly why she had been unable to sense anything in this place.
There was a great power here; sleeping and still — unmoving thus invisible. Like a fog it slowly rolled over her, stealing away her sight by degrees until she was blind. It was vast and she was tiny. She had unwittingly strolled into the belly of the beast and it had swallowed her whole.
Primal terror eclipsed her reason. Sweat beaded on her brow and she clutched at her own throat, unable to breathe.
The walls of the home groaned and stretched as if something colossal were straining its bulk through them. Shadows became dark, then darker still, turning opaque and menacing. The very air whipped into a frenzy of billowing hair and snapping robes; a tornado in a teacup. Reality twisted itself around a single convergence as the latent spiritual pressure collapsed inward and condensed.
Wide eyed she turned, finding the mortal man towering over her like a giant. Amber irises were mere golden rings around fully dilated pupils as he stared at the red stained floorboards in growing horror. He wasn't moving; he wasn't breathing…
He was the focal point.
A roar ripped from his throat as his spiritual bindings shattered like glass. Before she could even wrap her brain around this new impossibility he was gone, snatching his sword from the ground and tearing down the stairs like a madman into the gloom below.
Unbridled power washed back in like the tide and she was swept away to inscrutable depths. Drowning in reiatsu her spiritual sense became muted once more, snuffed out like a candle in the ensuing stillness. Lungs burning with the need she gasped her first breath in what felt like minutes. It was only then that she realized she had fallen to her knees.
It was him! This whole time… it was him!
Light headed and dizzy, she fought her way to her feet against the trembling of her limbs. Leaning a hand against the wall for support she forced herself forward and began to follow after him, her strength quickly returning. Upon reaching the stairs she stared apprehensively into the lightless descent. She touched her brow lightly with shaking fingers.
"What is he?" she whispered into the darkness.
But the darkness offered back no answer.