It was one of the most difficult things Ichigo had ever done. Remaining with the tips of his fingers barely brushing against the tips of Urahara's fingers required an effort of will that left him literally trembling like a leaf in the wind. His nerves were raw and his hearing was hyper-sensitive. Even the smallest shift of his sandals on the dirt beneath him made him flinch and shake anew.

Urahara, true to his word, remained infinitely patient and benevolent as Ichigo's fingertips stuttered in and out of contact with his fingers. Even more importantly, in some ways, he stayed still and allowed Ichigo to set the pace. That minuscule concession to respect the new boundaries created by trauma was the tipping point.

After some time had passed, his fingers ceased their movements and steadied, even as he slowly inched his hand forward until his palm rested squarely across Urahara's palm and his fingers lightly encircled the other man's wrist.

And still, Urahara remained motionless. Although the other man's eyes watched him with great clarity, Urahara said nothing. So Ichigo found the strength to croak, "Now what?"

"You tell me, Kurosaki."

He blinked. Obviously something needed to change, but what? What concessions needed to be made and what boundaries could remain? His mouth clamped shut and his fingers resumed their shaking. How could he possibly tell one of his first mentors that he could not even do such a simple thing as locate his inner world? He did not know how long he stood like that, too afraid to say anything and yet too worried to say nothing.

"Ichigo."

Even spoken quietly, Urahara's use of his first name immediately broke his reverie. His gaze refocused on the eyes that glowed under the brim of the striped hat.

"How far and how fast we go is up to you. Just remember that there is no judgment here. The past does not matter in this moment, but what the future holds in store for either one of us depends on the now."

The words were like a fragment of his sanity coming back to roost in the nearly empty cavern of his soul. As Urahara said the words, they seemed like the kind of advice you gave to a toddler afraid of the dark, and yet they were so much more. Such a simple thought; the future depending on the now. How had he forgotten? His fingers steadied once again. "Truly?" His query was hardly a whisper, and his voice sounded as though he had been eating a steady diet of broken glass for months. Not that he really wanted to delve into those particulars at the moment.

"Yes."

That single syllable was like a secret password allowing him to move a little beyond his mental barriers. Very slowly and gently, he gripped Urahara's wrist before withdrawing his touch and slowly backing away to gather the sad puddle of crimson from the ground near his original seat. Allowing his eyes to dart around the room, he moved back towards Urahara, small clanking sounds accompanying each step as the blade shards struck each other. Yet he still hesitated when he was once again within touching distance. Would Urahara laugh, scold, or be somber when he explained the missing connection? Or would Urahara react in some other way? He hoped the older man would not pity him. He would rather be ridiculed than pitied.

He gently laid the cloth bundle of blade pieces on the ground in front of Urahara and forced himself to sit just behind it. He was still well within the other man's ability to reach, but just far enough away that any movement to lean forward and touch him would be obvious and seen well in advance. Urahara, of course, continued to sit quietly and wait for him to make the first move. He felt weak and ridiculous that the concessions being made for him were necessary. He loathed himself a bit more every time he trembled around others, especially the people who he had once fought alongside.

Sighing internally and doing his best to still his shaking hands, he reached forward and untied the bundle of blade pieces. He gently unfolded the fabric and let it flutter to the ground.

The pile of shards looked even more lackluster than it had the last time he'd looked at it, and radiated an aura of despair that was nearly palpable. The normal black metal had acquired a filmy greenish gray tint, and each edge seemed to be blunt rather than sharp. His conviction to get help with the blade was reaffirmed as he looked at the sad heap of metal.

He was sick and tired of being scared all the time. He would follow this first step back to normality through to the end, even if he had to hang on to his sanity by a mere thread to do so. If for no other reason, at least he would feel slightly less helpless once he had Zangetsu firmly in hand once again.

…

It had felt as though a knife had been stabbed into his heart as he watched the carrot-top engage in a mental battle to stay in barest contact with his skin. Fingers that were closer to a skeleton than to either human or shinigami all but rattled against his skin. What the hell happened to the Ichigo he had known?

Even the effect of even his seemingly obvious statements were much greater than they should have been. With his quiet words, Ichigo's features had visibly relaxed a little. The ever-present furrow between the orange brows smoothed and the shaking had noticeably decreased.

The depressed and shattered blade in front of him, though, he was not sure how to handle. He knew that only severe trauma could break a zanpakutou in the first place, and only the worst of traumas or severe neglect could dull the edge of a zanpakutou. In all the time he had spent studying and handling the blades, however, he had never seen one lose its color. Change color, certainly - especially if the form of the blade changed as well, during ban kai for example, but never like this.

It almost looked like a thin layer of gray pond scum had built up on the blade sides, but leaning in for a closer look showed that the discoloration was actually inside the blade itself. As if part of Ichigo's soul being broken wasn't bad enough, something was wrong with the pieces.

"May I?" he asked, looking up from the blade shards to meet Ichigo's gaze. After a tiny nod of the carrot-top's head, he slowly reached forward and touched the closest piece.

An sickening jolt coursed through his reiatsu when his fingers brushed the metal, and he mentally swore as he was forced to immediately turn to the side or spew vomit on Ichigo. His stomach clenched as his reiatsu reeled in a way that left him retching until there was nothing left to bring up. Then, calming his reiatsu by force of will and doing his best to compose himself physically, he pulled a kerchief from inside his sleeve to wipe his face as he turned his head to look at Ichigo - who was once again several feet away.

The redhead had curled into a miserable-looking ball with his knees pulled up to his chest and his face buried in his arms. Slowly, still feeling wobbly from dry heaves, Kisuke gathered the edges of the abandoned red cloth and the blade pieces it held. He kicked dirt over the disgusting puddle he had created. Then, careful to leave the same distance between his feet and Ichigo's body as there had been when he collected himself, he moved in an arc around Ichigo a quarter of the way around the invisible circle.

"Ichigo? Ichi?" he called out softly to the curled figure. At the sound of his voice, the younger man hunched further into himself. "It's not your fault, Ichigo. It isn't. None of this has been. I'm sorry if I scared you - I should have known better than to touch it without testing it with some of my machines first. I have things in the shop that might have helped. Ichigo? Please. Give me another chance?" After saying what he needed to, he quietly settled into his cross-legged position in the dust.

AN: Where did two YEARS go? I'm sorry.